Down the tunnel, not a single dwarf had fallen to the beasts. They sung from deep in their barrelled chests and ploughed through the Gobbers with glee.
“We need to fall back!” Nathaniel advised mid-swing. The Gobber’s head flew through the air and hit Petur Devron in the arm, ushering him back.
Reyna fired arrow after arrow, never slaying less than two Gobbers with each bolt. As the antechamber began to fill with the scaly beasts, the elf swapped her bow for the scimitar resting on her hip. The blade sliced through Gobber flesh as easily as it sliced through the air.
“Retreat!” Nathaniel shouted over the gore. “There’s too many!”
Guarding the defenceless Petur between them, the three companions and Captain Adan made their way towards the dwarven battle. Reyna kicked out and sent one monster into the other, opening them up for Doran’s axe. The dwarf chopped them down, but one of the prone Gobbers lashed out and bit down on Adan’s thigh, dragging him to the floor.
“Captain!” Reyna flicked her scimitar upwards and left the Gobber with nothing but a few tendons between its head and neck.
“Pull him back!” Nathaniel jumped out of their retreat and cut down two more who threatened to attack Adan.
Doran and Reyna did their best to get the captain to safety, but they were soon at the back of the dwarven battle, where the Gobbers from their side were beginning to break through. Petur pressed himself to the wall, abandoning his scrolls.
“Hello, brother!” Dakmund hailed, his sword gutting two Gobbers at once. “Are ye havin’ fun yet?”
Doran growled and backhanded the nearest creature with his axe. Battlefields weren’t for talking.
Captain Adan tried to stand up, but his torn leg gave way, dropping him to his knee. Reyna and Nathaniel did what they could to keep the monsters at bay, but in the chaos of flaying limbs and raking claws, they missed the Gobber bursting from the swarm. Its jaws wrapped around Adan’s leg with a vice-like grip and the captain screamed in agony.
“Nathaniel!” Reyna called, but the old knight had been separated, placing him too far to be of any help. The elf dashed to the captain’s side but it was too late.
“Help me!” he screamed in terror. There was nothing any of them could do to prevent the Gobbers from dragging him into their clutches. Teeth and claws pulled him in every direction, quickly tearing through his leathers and flesh until he was scattered across the tunnel.
Doran cared little for the captain of Namdhor, but he hated that the Gobbers had claimed another life; the ranger in him couldn’t live with the injustice.
A war cry to Grarfath exploded from his blood-soaked lips and he charged into the monsters. His bulk alone saw him push through their attacking line, hammering them under his boots. Reyna’s and Nathaniel’s warning calls were impossible to make out between the dwarves’ singing and the Gobbers’ screeches. Doran ignored it all and swung his axe and sword.
Through the entanglement of their nightmarish bodies, the son of Dorain caught flashes of an elven scimitar and silvyr blades hacking, chopping, and slicing. Doran charged the Gobber in front of him and flattened it against the tunnel wall, adding a headbutt for good measure. Carnivorous claws hooked around the back of his armour, however, and dragged him back into the thick of it.
“Brother!” Dakmund called over the din.
Doran swung his sword back and twisted his body to throw the Gobber off his back. The sword continued its arc, cutting through three more of the beasts and spilling their insides.
“Brother!” Dakmund’s silvyr sword chopped down enough Gobbers to open a path back to the rest of them.
“We need to get out of here!” Nathaniel shouted, pushing Petur Devron away from the Gobbers crawling along the walls.
Doran stepped behind the fighting line of Heavybelly dwarves and panted for breath, safe within their perimeter for a moment. The Gobbers numbered a hundred at least and there seemed to be an endless supply of the monsters.
The way back to the workshop was cut off.
“There’s only one way we’re to be goin’!” Dakmund bashed in a Gobber’s head with the hilt of his sword before decapitating it with a single swipe.
Doran dashed out between two dwarves and added his axe and sword to their efforts. The Gobber bodies were piling so high now that the rest of the beasts were struggling to crawl over their own dead.
The dwarf beside Doran turned to Dakmund. “The northern tunnel is clear, First Commander!” he said in their native tongue.
Dakmund glanced at Doran with a question on his face; stay and die fighting or retreat north, to Dhenaheim?
Doran buried his axe in the next Gobber and looked to his friends. The Galfreys were still on their feet, which was something, but even they couldn’t keep this up. Petur Devron would most likely die in the next minute if they didn’t leave now.
“Go!” Doran barked. “Get out o’ the tunnels!” He put himself between the Galfreys and the oncoming Gobbers, ushering them north. “Be on with ye!” A swing of his sword and a chop of his axe cut down two more monsters. “Go!” he ordered, retreating with them.
Reyna exchanged her scimitar for the enchanted bow and sent a single arrow through four Gobbers unfortunate enough to be in line behind the other. It gave Doran some breathing room to turn around and sprint after them as they were led out of the tunnel by the dwarves.
The howling Gobbers chased them relentlessly, scaling the walls and ceilings to attack from all sides. Reyna released two orbs of white light to follow the fleeing band overhead. Dakmund assumed the lead, taking them back through the passage used as a camp by the dwarves. Together, they sprinted, stumbled, and scrambled through the ancient halls of Vengora, desperate to stay out of the Gobbers’ shadows.
Reyna was the only one with a ranged weapon. Her arrows flew past Doran at the back and never failed to miss.
A wide set of stairs slowed them down, or at least the dwarves, allowing the Gobbers to catch up. Doran kept his eyes front and concentrated on ascending the stone steps as Reyna fired her arrows from the top. Every twang of her bow prevented a Gobber from harming a dwarf.
They ran through great halls and several intimate chambers that Doran would have loved to explore, but the cracks in the walls and shadows were coming alive with more Gobbers.
“How much farther?” Petur asked with a hoarse voice. The man clearly wasn’t built for running for his life.
“In here!” Dakmund made a sharp right and barrelled his way through two very tall doors.
The dwarves followed him in and the Galfreys made sure Petur joined them. Doran blinked through the sweat dripping into his eyes and jumped sideways through the closing doors, barely making it before his kin slammed them shut. The Gobbers crashed into the doors, pushing the dwarves back a step.
“Bar the way!” one of them commanded, gesturing to the alcove beside the doors.
The nearest dwarf reached up and yanked on the thick column of wood stood upright inside the alcove. The wood fell into place across the doors and took the brunt of the next barrage. Every hit the doors took elicited a creak from the old wood.
“That ain’t goin’ to hold…” Doran commented between laboured breaths.
The screeches and howls stopped and the doors stood still for the first time since being closed. Doran knew better than to hope they had become bored, especially since they had all stopped their assault at the same time.
An ear-splitting roar carried through the stone walls and settled in their bones like death’s icy grip.
Doran sighed and looked at Nathaniel, recalling his words from their reunion in The Pick-Axe. “Are ye ready for another adventure, old friend?” he repeated sarcastically, shaking his head.
That same monstrous roar came again, just beyond the doors.
Doran hefted his axe and sword. “We’re all about to die…”
Part IV
10,000 Years Ago
Sarkas rushed to his master’s window. From the highest towers of
The Citadel, he was offered a view of Ak-tor that very few ever got to see. Judging by the dragon’s fire that consumed the city now, it seemed likely that even fewer would have the opportunity to see it from this vantage ever again.
To the east, King Atilan’s magnificent palace had already become a smouldering ruin. The Dragon Riders, or what remained of their hunted order, had targeted the king first, ensuring his legendary talent for magic didn’t put a stop to their invasion.
This war had dragged on for years, though Sarkas only heard of it through The Echoes’ council meetings. The servants of Kaliban had been spread thin during the war, their prayers required on every battlefield.
Thanks to the hearing he wasn’t supposed to have, Sarkas had heard his masters complaining no end about the Sermon strategies they had been forced to devise in order to keep the masses and soldiers under control. Sarkas had grown to pity his own people; taken in by a greedy religion and their faith used to enslave them. Kaliban was no more real than the love his parents had pretended to have when he was born.
A black dragon with glistening scales soared past the window and Sarka’s master jumped back and gasped with fright. For all the magic possessed by The Echoes, they had never used it for anything other than amassing wealth and tricking the empire into following their beliefs. Fighting a dragon was entirely beyond them.
“What has that fool of a king done?” his master muttered to himself.
Unlike his master, Sarkas didn’t cower in the shadow of a dragon. This wasn’t how he died.
“Atilan has doomed us all…” the master continued, sweat building upon his brow.
“Not all,” Sarkas replied boldly, speaking aloud for the first time in thirty-four years.
His master whipped his head around and stared dumbfounded at his slave. His mouth fell open but not so much as a syllable came out.
Sarkas always thought he would be beaming when this day came, but now that it had finally arrived he could only look back at his tormentor with a focused gaze.
“You are right to some extent,” Sarkas continued casually, wandering away from the window. “Atilan has doomed most of you. After today, The Echoes, this entire kingdom, will cease to exist. Our kind will return to our savage ways and what grows from the ashes won’t recall any of this. Today, the empire dies… and you with it.”
His master’s contorted expression began to smooth out as he composed himself. “Impossible! You shouldn’t even be able to talk!”
Sarkas sighed. “I just told you the end of days has arrived, yet you are still too narrow-sighted to understand that which lies beyond your very nose.”
The master’s face screwed up into rage and his eyes watered. “Silence, whelp! You will be punished beyond comprehension for this!” The old man was frantically patting his robes down.
“Looking for this?” Sarkas presented his master’s wand from across the chamber.
“How dare you even touch that! You will suffer before you die, wretch! It will be slow, I promise you that!”
Sarkas slowly shook his head. “Look outside, Master. Do you think there’s time to do anything slowly? As we speak; Garganafan and Malliath, the most ferocious of their kin, lay waste to Ak-tor with a dozen dragons behind them. I have seen how this ends and I promise you, your end will be that of suffering. But fear not, your death will serve a purpose.”
The master sneered. “You wouldn’t know what to do with that wand if you read every book in The Citadel.”
“Oh, but I have,” Sarkas replied, relishing in the sound of his own voice. “At least, the books that matter anyway. There is enough knowledge in this tower to have usurped King Atilan years ago! If only you and those other leches hadn’t been clouded with greed and lust.”
Sarkas considered the wand in his hand and decided to give the master a taste of his studies. A quick flick of the wrist ripped the master’s tunic from his body, shredding the fabric before it fell to the floor. The old man jumped back, his bony body quivering. Sarkas thrust the wand out and cast a spell to push the priest over his own desk. The blast of energy knocked everything from the surface and the master tumbled off the edge, bleeding and bruised.
Another strong flick of the wrist and the desk was cast aside and broken to splinters, revealing the cowering master. He crawled across the floor, confused and terrified. It had been a state of living that Sarkas had come to understand all too well over the decades.
The Citadel shook under his feet, but Sarkas knew he had until sunset before the tower was brought down. In his vision, he had seen Garganafan’s fiery breath and Malliath’s incredible bulk snap the tower in half, its tall walls orange in the dying sun. Until then, he had all the time in the world to exact his revenge.
An intricate flourish of the wand and a little spell was all that was needed to pick the master up and pin him to the wall. He yelled as his head slammed against the cold stone. Sarkas closed the gap between them and cast a new spell to create a scorching furnace at the tip of the wand. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly dragged the wand tip up the inside of the master’s thigh, enjoying every squeal and shriek. He stopped before he could do any damage that would see the old man pass out or die. He still needed him, after all.
“While you slept, I studied,” Sarkas boasted. “I read the forbidden books from cover to cover, many times in fact. You’ve spent all these years fearing their content, when really you should have seen them as tools. Written in the temple at Mount Kaliban, the very birth place of magic! How could you not see them for what they are?”
Sarkas stepped back and looked out of the window, where giant clouds of ash dominated the horizon. “I was always careful,” he continued. “I only killed the lowest of priests, those who could disappear and no-one would really care. But every life I claimed showed me a little bit more of what is to come.” Sarkas stepped in, bringing his lips close to his master’s ear. “I have seen a future where all can prosper. A future without greedy kings and make-believe gods. A realm where children aren’t abandoned for coin and used by men like you.”
Recalling the images of that future kingdom almost brought tears to Sarkas’s eyes. In the beginning, he had been fighting for his freedom and that of his brothers, but now… now he had a world to build.
“There’s only one piece of the puzzle missing,” he said, meeting his master’s eyes with a hunger that could only be satiated by magic. “I need to see who will lead this new kingdom.”
Sarkas stepped back and lowered his wand. The spell he muttered was among the earliest he had learned, but never had he had the opportunity to use it. Four glowing tendrils grew from the end of the wand and wormed down to the floor, where they ended in hooks. The magic whip cracked and sounded like thunder when he tested it out on the floor.
“In order to see this new world, Master, I will need some of your blood.” Sarkas smiled for the first time. “I’ll try not to take too much…”
Only when the sun began to kiss the western horizon did Sarkas allow his master to fall to the floor. His body was a canvas of horrors, making the old priest almost unrecognisable as a man. With laboured breaths, the wretch clung to life. Good, Sarkas thought. He needed him somewhere between life and death; too far either way made the old man useless to him.
With little time left, Sarkas drew the runes onto his master’s stomach, using the blood from one of his many wounds. When six interlocking circles of runes were painted around his navel, Sarkas began the incantation, drawing up more blood until it overflowed the priest’s stomach and spilled across the floor. The ancient magic took a hold of him, as it had done many times over the years.
The future was laid out before his very eyes, as real as the world he lived in right now. He felt as if he could reach out and touch those he saw.
When the vision ended, his master having finally succumbed to his wounds, Sarkas opened his eyes to see his six brothers. They were all standing in the chamber with bloodied knives in their hands. Sarkas looked upon them all, proud
. Just as they had planned, the other high priests of The Echoes had been slain by their slaves. He hoped the wretches had seen his brothers before they died.
“Well done,” he signed, picking himself up from the floor.
“We don’t have long, Sarkas,” Edun signed quickly as The Citadel began to rumble. “The dragons will bring the tower down soon!”
Sarkas held his hands up to calm them. He had seen exactly how they each died but, more importantly, he had seen how they all survived.
“Did you bring it?” he signed, asking Edun specifically. He could have stated it rather than ask the question, but Sarkas had learned years ago, when he first began his ventures into the future, that his brothers didn’t like the way he spoke to them when he already knew what they were going to do or say.
Edun removed a small wooden box from inside his robe. Sarkas glanced out of the window, where the sun was slowly but surely fading. They didn’t have long.
Sarkas took the box and wasted no time in removing the glowing crystal that resided inside. It was beautiful, hypnotic even. Its potential was so much more.
“We must hurry,” Edun signed. “Word has spread that everyone is taking refuge in—”
“The Wild Moores,” Sarkas finished. “Yes, I know. That too is our destination.” He met the eyes of his brothers. “From there we shall plant a seed that will grow into a new tree of life. The Echoes are gone. Atilan’s empire is gone. We, brothers, we will build something better.”
Sarkas launched the crystal across the room and conjured a portal of pure darkness. His brothers jumped back but he soothed them and quickly ushered them through the gateway. They all gasped when a single step took them from The Citadel to the mossy ground of The Wild Moores. Before them sat a cave, quiet and unassuming. There were no dragons laying waste and no screams to fill the background. It was peaceful.
He turned back to his brothers as the portal disappeared. “This is where we shall change the world…”
The Fall of Neverdark Page 49