The Fall of Neverdark
Page 47
Crouched under the assault, Vighon took the force of it as he clenched his other fist. Surprising the ranger from under the concealment of his shield, Vighon punched him in the gut, lifting the elf from his feet for just a second. The northerner jumped up and roughly grabbed Galanör’s belt, over his doubled form, and pushed him into the snow face down.
Galanör’s face lifted from the ground, spitting snow, with red fury in his eyes. “You said you wanted to spar!”
Vighon retrieved his sword from the ground and twirled it once. “I said, let’s see what you’re made of. Sparring is for lords and children.” The northerner hammered his blade against his shield. “Come on then.”
Galanör sneered and picked himself up, shrugging the excess snow from his shoulders. “You should have said spar…”
The elf dashed forward and combined running with some kind of dance, confusing Vighon as to which blade was going to come down first. The northerner turned his body at the last second and raised his shield to catch the edge of one of the scimitars. As he brought himself back around, behind the elf now, he swung his sword backhand only to find that Galanör was no longer standing there.
The ranger had dropped into a roll and come up a few feet away, his blades twirling about him hypnotically.
“Your defence and movements were good,” Galanör observed. “Your counterattack was predictable.”
Vighon cracked his neck and advanced on the elf. A short jump into the air allowed him to come down on Galanör tip first with a skewering thrust. The ranger reacted just as Vighon knew he would and imitated the same defensive spin that he had just used. When the northerner’s feet touched the ground, he had but to push out with his shield and knock Galanör off his balance.
The ranger was pushed back, but he turned his momentum into an unorthodox flip, bringing him back comfortably onto his feet.
“Predictable enough for you?” Vighon grinned.
Galanör stalked back into the centre of the small clearing. “You use your shield as a weapon too, that’s good. But its size also blocks your sight any time you use it. I’ll demonstrate.” The elf matched his grin.
Vighon didn’t wait for the ranger to attack him. The northerner started forward and dropped one knee, swiping his blade low at Galanör’s legs. A simple lift of the leg saw the elf avoid the sword and the slightest shift in his shoulders saw him avoid the next swipe as Vighon reversed his swing.
With reflexes and strength Vighon could only dream of, Galanör gripped his wrist, squeezing the hilt from his hand, and slammed one boot into the northerner’s gut. Vighon rolled back through the snow, gripping his stomach.
Galanör examined one of his scimitars and threw it perfectly into the nearest tree, where it didn’t so much as wobble.
Vighon used his shield to help himself to his knees. His sword shone in the moonlight, half buried in the snow. The northerner feigned his reach for the blade and turned his movement into a forward roll, bringing him directly in front of Galanör. The elf side-stepped the first swing of his steel-rimmed shield and came at Vighon with three strikes of his own, all of which were met by the enchanted wood.
Of course, every time he lifted the shield to parry, Galanör was lost from sight. The elf appeared in a different place every time, coming at Vighon from a different angle of attack. Eventually, he lifted the shield to block an attack that never came. Instead, Galanör had dropped to one knee and tucked his scimitar under the shield, where it now rested against Vighon’s chest.
“Your shield is good,” the elf commented. “But your sword is better. Don’t substitute it for the shield.”
Vighon had a witty response on the end of his tongue when the sound of clapping broke across the clearing. Both elf and man turned in surprise to see Inara Galfrey leaning against one of the trees with a bemused smile on her face.
“The king of Lirian offers you both a place at his table, yet you would prefer to fight in the woods…”
“You mean that big fancy tent of his?” Vighon strapped his shield over his back again and retrieved his fallen sword.
Galanör was inclined to agree. “It is a little… big, considering the circumstances of everybody else.”
“That’s why I convinced King Weymund to turn it over to the cooks,” Inara said with the hint of a smile on her face. “The queues are so long you’ll be lucky if there’s anything left for the two of you.”
“Thank you for your concern, Inara.” Galanör bowed his head. “We are part of a small camp on the southern edge of the caravan for tonight. I’m sure we will find something.”
Vighon heard every word that passed between them, but he barely took any of it in. The northerner was desperately trying to think of something to say to Inara, anything. He wanted to make her laugh and smile.
“Have you eaten?” Galanör asked the Dragorn.
Vighon hid his dismay, deciding that he should have asked that question instead of standing there like an idiot.
“Not yet,” Inara replied in a melodic tone that reminded Vighon of Lady Ellöria. “Athis is patrolling the skies, so we have yet to find anywhere to rest.”
“You can rest with us,” Vighon blurted, drawing an amused look from Galanör. “If you want,” he added. “I’m sure King Weymund has another big tent…”
Inara waited patiently for him to finish his babbling. “I find kings to be a little stuffy,” she said.
The lightest of chuckles came from the ranger as he patted Vighon on the arm. “Let’s make for camp. I can’t feel my feet anymore…”
Vighon waited for Inara to start following the elf before he fell in behind them. He just needed to take a breath and have a quiet word with himself. They weren’t fifteen anymore.
Breaking through the tree line, The Selk Road was entirely hidden from east to west. Small fires had been lit in the middle of the makeshift camps and tents had been erected in every available space. The survivors of Lirian had been taken in by the larger caravan from Vangarth: the people of The Evermoore looked after each other.
This is how it should be, Vighon thought.
Galanör led the way, weaving between the different camps and heading south-west. King Weymund’s tent, easily spotted, had smoke pouring out of it and long queues of people holding empty bowls.
The barking of a dog told Vighon that they had arrived at their camp. “Nelly!” The northerner crouched down and intercepted the running dog. She paced in circles as he scratched and stroked her shaggy fur.
Finding both her and Russell Maybury alive had brought the first smile to Vighon’s face after Alijah left with Gideon. Camping with them had seemed the obvious fit, considering their history… and Russell’s supplies.
“You’ve missed most of the food,” the werewolf announced, “but I saved you both some sausages.”
Vighon felt his stomach lurch at the mere sound of sausages. He rubbed his hand into Nelly’s head and made for the fire.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Galanör said apologetically.
Russell thought for a moment. “Oh, there’s some veggies in the cart! Help yourself, Master Galanör.”
Vighon sat down on one of the logs and tried to subtly glance at the moon above. It wasn’t quite full.
“Fear not, Mr. Draqaro,” Russell said quietly. “If it was a full moon I wouldn’t be here.”
“I meant no offence,” the northerner replied.
“None taken,” Russell said happily, handing over a plate of food to both him and Inara.
The Dragorn sat beside him on the log, ushering in an awkward silence between the two. Russell soon left to help Galanör search for food and the silence stretched on until it became an almost physical presence.
Thankfully, Nelly turned up, though whether she was after more attention or one of his sausages was debatable. Vighon busied himself with the dog until the rangers returned to the fire.
A few others came and went, but the four unusual companions shared food and swapped a few tales. There was
certainly no end of stories between a werewolf, a Dragorn, and an elven ranger with four hundred years on his life. Vighon kept on the quiet side, keeping his own life experiences to himself.
As the moon began to disappear over the top of the trees, Galanör and Russell made for their tents. It was only after they left that Vighon realised there was no one but him and Inara around the fire. Even Nelly had fallen asleep.
“Don’t you need rest?” he asked.
Inara shrugged. “Rest is good, but we don’t need it as often as others. We are sustained, in part, by the strength of the dragons.”
“That’s… handy.” Vighon berated himself immediately. Did he really say that?
Another awkward silence fell upon them.
“You were quiet this evening,” Inara commented. “I don’t ever remember you being quiet when we were younger.”
Recalling those earlier days brought a smile to Vighon’s face, easing the tension he felt. Those days contained some of his best memories.
“I enjoyed listening to all of your tales,” he said, unsure what else to say.
“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”
“Alijah?” Vighon thought about his friend. “Worrying about him is what keeps him alive, usually.”
Inara offered him a warm smile, melting more of his tension away. “You look out for him. You always did. In fact, I remember the first time he tried to use my mother’s bow. She had warned us plenty of times that it wasn’t a toy.” The half-elf let out a little laugh. “He could barely pull back the string, but with that bow it didn’t matter.”
Vighon remembered. “The arrow went straight through the barn doors,” he laughed.
“It destroyed the barn doors,” Inara corrected. “You grabbed the bow off him and said it was you.”
Vighon sniggered. “Your mother was furious.”
“She knew it wasn’t you,” Inara added.
“So did my mother, but I still got punished for lying…”
The pair went quiet again after that. The camps had followed suit, with only the sound of fires crackling and the occasional patrol of knights.
Vighon turned to see Inara watching him intently, her eyes passing over the scar that cut into his right eyebrow and the continuation down his cheek. The scar on his forehead caught her eye too and her features softened.
“What happened to you, Vighon?” she whispered. “I left for The Lifeless Isles and the next time I heard from home you had gone.”
Vighon looked away, deciding the fire was a better place to focus his gaze. There were two things he and Alijah never talked about: the rogue’s family issues and Vighon’s time in Namdhor. Still, Inara’s voice was like honey, compelling him to do anything to hear more of it.
“Shortly after you left,” he began, “my grandfather died. He had a fishing business in Skystead. There was no one left but my mother to take over.” Vighon paused, aware of the story’s final destination. “We said our farewells to your family and left for the north again. A year, maybe two, after we took over the business, the Red Pox hit Skystead. My mother died soon after.”
Inara looked hurt. “I’m so sorry, Vighon. Your mother was a wonderful person.”
Vighon tried to smile, but his memories were resurfacing now. “I had no idea how to keep the business going after that,” he continued. “It all fell apart. By the time I was twenty, I was living on the streets of Skystead. That was a cold and… hungry time.” He tried to say it jovially, lightening the dark tone he had placed over their conversation.
“That sounds awful,” Inara replied, her body turned towards him now.
“I was only on the streets for a year or so. Word reached my father in Namdhor.”
“Your father?” Inara looked confused. “I didn’t know your father was still alive.”
“He’s the reason my mother fled south and ended up in your family’s employ. She didn’t want me growing up around him.” If Vighon could thank his mother for the years she gave him out of his father’s reach, he surely would.
“What happened?” Inara asked before he could fall into his memories.
“I welcomed the warmth and the food without question,” he replied. “Arlon had quite the estate in Namdhor, servants too. He lived like a king and for a very short time, I wondered why my mother had fled from him.”
“Why? Was he that bad?”
“Bad? Bad is too small a word to describe Arlon Draqaro. He’s got wickedness in his bones.” Vighon turned to look at Inara. “My father is the head of The Ironsworn gang.”
Inara looked away for a moment. “I’ve heard of them. Master Rolan has had dealings with them. Vicious by all accounts.”
“They basically rule the north — that is to say, my father does. He used the civil war for the throne to gain leverage and power. Now they have control over every town and city in the region.”
The Dragorn’s beautiful eyes bored into him. “What did he do to you, Vighon?”
The northerner took a long breath and pulled back the sleeve covering his left arm. The underside of his forearm bore a long tattoo of straight lines and sharp angles. The two lines were entwined and ended at his wrist in a spear-like point.
“I joined The Ironsworn willingly at first. I’d been on the streets living like a beggar and before that we had struggled to survive with the business. Arlon gave me power, resources, men at my back. Of course, he gave me the easier jobs in the beginning. Collecting taxes as he called it.” Vighon closed his eyes and did his best to recall everything without the images and sounds.
“Don’t pity me,” he said softly. “I actually enjoyed it for the first few years. I became a regular in the fighting rings. Arlon’s fighting pits. Two enter and only one comes out. I was easily the best fighter he had, but I wasn’t brutal enough for his liking. He started giving me different jobs in the hopes of making me more like him. I did… things. Things that will stay with me for the rest of my life.”
Inara put a gentle hand on his shoulder, though he didn’t feel he deserved it.
“When I refused or failed him…” Vighon licked his lips and gestured to the scars on his face. “He hated that I had enjoyed years with your family.”
“I’m so sorry.” Inara had the beginnings of tears in her eyes.
“I was trapped in that world for ten years,” he said. “Until one day, when Arlon sent me to one of his rackets. He told me there was a young man who had been caught cheating at one of the tables.”
Inara met his eyes with a knowing look. “Alijah…”
Vighon finally smiled and meant it. “They had him in the back, hanging by his wrists from the ceiling. They had already beaten him pretty bad, but Arlon had commanded me to take his fingers and thumbs. Never kill them, he would say. You need them to spread the word.” Vighon shook his head, deeply ashamed that there had been times when he had obeyed that command.
“But you didn’t,” Inara said. “You helped him instead.”
“I just reacted. I couldn’t explain it then and I can’t now. I drew my sword and… well, we walked out of there. He told me what he was doing with Hadavad and I joined them. It was either that or return to Namdhor and face Arlon. Son or not, he would have killed me slowly for what I did.”
“It would seem my family owe you a great debt, then. If it were not for you, my brother would be dead.”
“He’d be dead eight times over,” Vighon added with a mirthless chuckle. He waved her questioning look away. “No one is in debt to me,” he said. “There are families out there that are still broken because of me.”
Inara’s tone took on a firmer edge. “You are a good man, Vighon Draqaro. I know—”
The Dragorn’s words were cut off as panic beset the entire caravan. The ground shook violently beneath their feet, disturbing the horses and collapsing tents in a single quake. Russell’s cart toppled over and the supplies fell across the fire, extinguishing the flames. The people screamed from one end of the camp to the other.
The trees swayed with some of the weaker ones snapping and falling into the road. More screams followed and the snow was shaken from the branches of the pines as if hit by a wave.
Inara looked down and Vighon followed her gaze. The ground had cracked here and there but, thankfully, remained intact.
Galanör and Russell scrambled out of their tents and Nelly barked, adding to the chaotic din.
“What’s going on?” Russell asked, bracing his legs against the rumble.
“The orcs?” Galanör suggested.
Vighon recalled the attack on Tregaran. “The ground didn’t shake like this! This is something else!”
Scared horses galloped through their camp, forcing people to dive out of the way.
Then it stopped.
Vighon joined the others in searching the ground. “Is it over?”
Cries for help spread across the caravan. Vighon knew the sound of people in pain when he heard it. Between their combined strength, Galanör and Russell were able to shift one of the fallen trees, allowing Inara and Vighon to drag two men to safety. Others were bloodied and injured, walking around aimlessly in search of help or loved ones.
Boom!
A collective gasp filled the night air as the sky cracked. Above them, the stars shone over the icy night, not a cloud in sight.
Boom!
Vighon winced every time the sky thundered. “What is that?”
“I’ve never heard anything like that,” Inara said.
“I have,” Russell panted. “Thirty years ago, when Paldora’s Star hit The Undying Mountains. That’s what it sounded like.”
Boom!
Everyone gasped again and flinched. The mighty crack was sharp, startling the senses.
“I’m going to find King Weymund!” Inara declared, making for the largest tent.
“We need to get everyone moving again!” Galanör called after her.
Inara paused, looking back. “I’ll advise him to give the command!”
Vighon watched her disappear into the chaos.
“Come on!” Galanör patted him on the arm. “Let’s help as many as we can!”