The Big Bastards grunted and beat their chests, roaring into the night. They were dumb and slow, but the same could be said of any battering ram.
The six lumbering beasts charged at the main gate and Karakulak followed closely behind, eager for his blade to taste man-flesh. The orcs already inside the short tunnel pressed themselves against the walls, making way for the two rows of Big Bastards. The humans grounded the ends of their spears, hoping to impale the massive orcs, but their momentum could not be repelled.
Karakulak jogged behind, smiling at the sound of human bones being crushed under the Big Bastards. His living battering ram threw humans around as if they were no more than sacks of fluid, spraying blood across the courtyard. As commanded, they didn’t stop after pushing their way through. They would create a bloody mess from west to east.
Standing inside the city, the king breathed in the air of victory. There were already orcs swarming into Velia from four other locations; it was only a matter of time now.
Looking around, it was clear to see the damage created by the Dragorn. Karakulak ran a finger through one of the many cracks in the stone, noting the circular spread of dead orcs around the entrance. It had been that particular show of power that held Karakulak back after emerging from The Under Realm.
The dragons fought overhead, adding an extra layer of chaos to the battle. It was the first time Karakulak didn’t feel like cursing The Crow. Malliath and his rider were keeping the Dragorn from decimating the orcs, just as he had promised.
The king hefted his blade as his baser instincts rose to the surface. There was an animal in him that very much wanted to challenge a dragon, slaying it with his own might. Karakulak took a breath and focused on the city again. He was king because he was smart, not because he was strong. It was a flaw in his kin that they failed to see the former would always triumph over the latter.
“Let dragons deal with dragons!” he yelled over the horde piling into the city. “Take your bones! Burn the city! Bring Neverdark to its knees!” Every command elicited a cheer from the orcs as they spread out.
Karakulak looked to the sky. “I hope you’re watching Gordomo,” he said softly. “I’m coming for you…”
The king of orcs strode through the city streets. Just the sight of the white V painted over his obsidian armour was enough to send the orcs into a frenzy. It pleased Karakulak. Soon, they would associate him with a god.
The sound of horns drew Karakulak to the south. The pretty beasts the humans rode across their world might serve as a ferocious sight in Neverdark but, to the orcs, they looked like a good meal. The king watched as the tight cluster of horses charged through the street, cutting orcs down with ease. The lead rider wore a golden crown, fixing Karakulak to the spot. The Crow had told him the meaning behind such jewellery.
His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword and he braced himself in the middle of their path. The king of Velia rode on, sure that he was only seconds away from killing another orc. Karakulak roared with all his might, defiant to the last moment. Then he moved. His strength offered him a burst of speed no human could match and he dashed to the right, clearing the galloping riders. At the same time, however, he raised his blade under the jaw of the king’s horse, slitting its throat.
The horse’s dying cry was a garbled moan, but its body tumbled over itself, launching the king of Velia from his saddle. The riders in his wake were brought down with their horses as they tripped over the king’s dead mount. In a matter of moments, the street was littered with fallen horses and crushed riders, all of whom were speared by surrounding orcs.
Karakulak tilted his head, looking down the street at the crowned man. The king of Velia crawled slowly through the blood and dirt, his sword a few feet in front of him. With a wicked grin, Karakulak stalked alongside him and waited for him to grip his sword. A strong boot came down on his hand, breaking the bones therein, and forcing a cry of pain from the man.
With one hand, the orc reached down and picked him up by the back of the neck. Karakulak deliberately laughed, knowing that it would draw the attention of every orc in the street.
“My first king of Neverdark!”
Now was the time to display his brutality and strength. Without magic or steel, Karakulak would kill this king and remind his kin why he was the Bone Lord of The Under Realm.
The pathetic man squirmed in his grip and pushed at Karakulak’s arm with his one good hand. The orc king lifted the man and drove his bony brow into his skull. Again and again he head-butted the king of Velia, only stopping when his face was caved in, no longer recognisable as human, let alone a man. Karakulak made certain the golden crown stayed with the body, a message to all the people of Velia.
The orcs began to chant his name, drowning out the battling dragons above. Karakulak soaked up the praise, deserving as he was.
Proving he was yet to reach the heights of a god, an arrow sank into the muscle at the base of his neck, dropping the king to one knee. The orcs ceased their chanting and Karakulak growled, searching for the origin of the arrow. Then another whistled through the night and buried itself in the king’s thigh. He roared and looked up to the roof tops, where a familiar archer was crouched.
A low growl rumbled out of Karakulak’s throat. It was the archer from Tregaran. This made it three times that the man had drawn blood from the king. He would die slowly for that...
44
A Fiend in the Deep
Doran ran the edge of his axe along the length of his blade. The doors weren’t going to hold much longer; the barrier splitting a little more with every thunderous knock. The Gobbers had retreated by the sound of it, having been replaced by something much larger and far stronger.
“What is that?” Nathaniel asked, his sword already dripping with Gobber blood.
Doran shared a look with Dakmund, the two dwarves well aware of what monster hammered at the doors. It had been a long time since either had come across one, but there was no mistaking its distinctive roar.
“It’s a fiend from the depths o’ Vengora,” Doran replied. “A monster so foul, Grarfath dropped the mountains on top o’ the lot o’ ‘em.”
The doors began to cave in and the barrier almost cracked in half. Five of the dwarves barrelled into the entrance before the hinges came loose. Every blow to the doors knocked them back a step.
“Does this fiend have a name?” the old knight pressed.
Doran smirked. “Ye looking’ to add a beastie to yer list, Graycoat?”
Even in the face of death, the immortal knight could still find a cocky smile. “I just like to know what I’m killing.”
Dakmund lifted his large sword with both hands, his eyes fixed on the doors. “We call ‘em Dwellers, lad. Imagine a Gobber mated with a rock. That’s what’s comin’ through them there doors.”
Doran couldn’t argue with his brother’s description. Its head was as long as a man and its body stood at twenty-feet. Dark red scales blended between the patches of black rock that decorated its hideous form from head to toe. A pair of thick arms ending in four razor-sharp claws were always quick to snatch dwarves out of the dark tunnels and drag them back to its lair. Unlike Gobbers, the Dwellers had reptilian tails as long as a horse.
Just thinking about the nightmarish creature made Doran itch to bury his axe and sword in its hide. “Ha! Wait ‘till Rus hears abou’ this!”
Reyna didn’t share his enthusiasm. “That’s if we ever get back to The Pick-Axe…”
“Fear not, elf!” Dakmund placed himself square in the entrance. “This only ends with me sword in that monster’s skull!”
The doors caved in and the hinges broke free from the stone, throwing the five dwarves backwards onto the floor. A giant lizard-like head poked through the entrance and hissed, its forked tongue tasting the air.
“Basher!” Dakmund bellowed, dropping to one knee in front of the monstrous head.
The dwarf beside Nathaniel charged forward with his mighty two-handed hammer. It w
as a nostalgic sight for Doran, who had invented this particular move to break through the front line of an opposing army.
The hammer-wielding dwarf jumped onto Dakmund’s back and leaped towards the Dweller’s flat snout. His golden hammer came down between the monster’s eyes with all the dwarf’s weight behind it. The Dweller bowed under the strike and its reptilian eyes rolled into the back of its head. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it allowed the fallen dwarves to scramble to their feet and collect their weapons.
“Bring it down boys!” Dakmund bawled in dwarvish.
The dwarves charged with a war cry as the Dweller shook off the disorientating blow. A single roar preceded its own charge. The Dweller barged its way through, tearing down stone and digging its claws into the walls.
The hammer-wielding dwarf was the first to suffer the creature’s wrath. The Dweller picked him up in one claw and bashed the stout dwarf into the wall, then the ground, before bending down and tearing him in half with its jaws.
Enraged, the other dwarves threw themselves at the beast. Two succeeded in climbing up its head before it finished chomping on their dead comrade, but the Dweller flicked its head back and launched them out of the chamber.
Axes cut through the air, though only a couple found their way into the monster’s scales, between the patches of hardened rock. Dakmund swung his silvyr blade and swiped a chunk out of the Dweller’s inverted ankle bone. It roared in agony and backhanded the dwarf into a pillar.
“Dak!” Doran didn’t have time to wait and see if his brother stirred; the beast was upon him.
The son of Dorain dropped and rolled out of the way, missing the descending jaws by a foot. The floor shook under the pressing weight of those jaws and its hot breath waved over his face. Doran came up swinging, landing a satisfying strike from his axe into the Dweller’s eye.
Anger and pain caused the monster to snap its head back, only Doran’s axe was still embedded in its eye… along with Doran’s firm grip. The dwarf was taken from the floor and launched into the air so high he flew over the top of the beast. His flight was brought to an abrupt stop when he pummelled into the ceiling. He did, however, fall onto the Dweller’s back, where his sword scraped along its tough hide until finally impaling its scales.
Doran clung onto the hilt of his blade with both hands and dug his feet into the patches of rock, steadying himself. The unique sound of Reyna’s bow contested with the Dweller’s roars for the dominant sound inside the chamber. Every arrow pierced its rocky hide, devastating its insides before bursting out of the other side. More than one of the missiles exploded through the monster’s back and chipped Doran’s armour.
Nathaniel leaped and rolled to avoid the claws that raked at him. Those same claws tore chunks out of the stone pillars, promising instant death to the old knight.
Doran put his weight forward and buried his sword a little deeper into the fiend’s back. The more the Dweller thrashed about, the harder it became for the son of Dorain to focus his eyes. The dwarves below became a blur of armour and flashing silvyr. Judging by the beast’s irritated hisses, they were slowly but surely hacking it down.
Another arrow from Reyna exploded out of its back having torn through the creature’s chest. The dweller moaned in pain and stumbled, crushing one of dwarves under a clawed foot. The elf dashed out of the way and avoided a snapping bite. Nathaniel took advantage of the lowered head and chopped down with his sword, causing the beast to flinch and fall away. Doran braced himself as the Dweller shoulder-barged a pillar, raining dust and debris down on all of them.
The son of Dorain took his opportunity and rushed over the creature’s back, pulling his sword free with him. As the Dweller straightened again, the dwarf had steadied himself over the monster’s head. He lost count of how many times he drove his blade down, but the clawed hand that reached up to snatch him changed his priorities.
It was a long drop for a dwarf, so Doran took some of his speed out of the fall by throwing himself into one of the pillars. He bounced off and landed awkwardly over his brother, who finally woke up under the sudden pressure.
“Are ye finished nappin’ yet, brother?”
Dakmund ignored the jab and reached for his silvyr sword, his rage renewed. Together, both brothers charged the Dweller, just as they had under the watchful eye of their father, a hundred and fifty years ago.
Their swords hacked and chopped at its legs. Distressed, the Dweller lashed out at anything and decapitated another dwarf with one of its claws. Doran and Dakmund weaved in and out of its legs, careful to avoid getting in the way of its thick tail. The remaining dwarves ran around the Dweller, coming at it from various angles. It worked to confuse the beast, offering too many victims to keep track of. All the while, Nathaniel dived in and out with his precision strikes, never failing to cut through the scales and miss the patches of rock.
The Dweller hissed, stopped moving around, and reached down to grab Dakmund. One of the other dwarves shoved him out of the way and found himself in the monster’s deadly grip instead. The dwarf cried out for only a second before the Dweller squeezed its four fingers and crushed his insides.
With fury as his guide, Dakmund swung his silvyr sword up and impaled the monster in the thigh. The exquisite blade had no trouble splitting the rock and piercing the scaly hide. The Dweller’s hiss morphed into a roar and it released the dwarf’s misshapen corpse. Dodging the falling body, Dakmund yanked his sword free again, removing the only thing that had prevented the stream of arterial blood from pumping out. The Dweller stumbled and fell into another pillar as the floor quickly began to run red with its blood.
Taking advantage of the creature’s distress, Reyna dashed into the gap between its clawed feet and aimed her bow straight up. The arrow impacted the Dweller in the soft pallet under its jaw, but the magic of the bow launched the arrow with enough explosive speed that the monster’s head burst open, decorating the ceiling with its brain matter.
“Watch out!” Doran warned, seeing the big beast sway on its feet.
The Galfreys dived out of the way and the Dweller toppled over, slamming into the wall on the far side of the chamber. The ancient wall was pushed through and reduced to a pile of broken stones under the creature’s weight.
The Dweller dead, everyone took a breath, slumping against whatever was closest. A handful of dwarves lay dead in different parts of the chamber, their bodies horribly mutilated. No one spoke for a minute, happy, instead, to simply catch their breath and thank the gods that they had survived where others hadn’t.
Doran straightened up, cracking his back, and made to retrieve his axe. It was lodged deep in the Dweller’s eye and required a boot to its face and two hands to pull it free. The son of Dorain eyed the arrow in the ceiling, surrounded by a web of cracks and gore.
“That’s some bow…” he said absently. “Hang abou’! Where’s the lad?”
Reyna’s confusion quickly turned to realisation and then guilt. “Petur?” she called.
They all heard the excited squeal in the far corner. Petur Devron was crouched by a series of runes carved into the wall.
“This is fascinating!” he said, though no one was sure who he was talking to. “I’ve never seen runes such as these before!”
Doran gave the man his most indignant look. “How is it he’s jus’ been sat there this whole time?” The dwarf looked from the eccentric fool to the dead Dweller.
Completely oblivious to the question, or indeed the large corpse in the middle of the chamber, Petur replied, “I’m going to have to get a sketch of these runes. Someone needs to catalogue this language!”
Doran blinked hard. There wasn’t a scratch on him. “Lucky fool…” he growled, turning back to the mess.
The four dwarves who had been killed by the Dweller were lined in a row. Dakmund himself went from each one, offering prayers to Grarfath and Yamnomora on their behalf. The dwarf in Doran was looking at their discarded weapons and wondering which would feel better in his hands. T
hey were his old ways, however, and the son of Dorain shook his head, ridding his mind of such thoughts.
His feet detected the subtlest vibration in the stone. It was too subtle for any but a dwarf to notice and looking around, his kin had felt the same thing.
“What’s wrong?” Reyna asked, perceptive as always.
Her question was answered by a cacophony of howls and hissing roars. The Gobbers were returning!
“Ready yerselves!” Doran squared himself in front of the entrance.
Reyna declined to nock an arrow. “We cannot win against those numbers,” she protested.
One of the other dwarves grunted. “Speak for yerself, she-elf!”
That poked at Doran’s temper, but he couldn’t deny the reasoning behind Reyna’s protest. They had already lost dwarves fighting the Dweller, after all…
“Reyna’s right, Dak,” Doran agreed, glancing at his brother. “I love killin’ Gobbers more than anyone, but a pack this size… It’d spell death for us all.”
Dakmund was fixed on the ruined entrance, waiting for the howling Gobbers to descend upon them. “What choice do we ‘ave, brother? It’s fight in ‘ere or fight out there. At least in ‘ere they’re funnelled on the way in.”
“Or,” Nathaniel announced from the back of the chamber, “we could go this way?” The old knight was standing on the Dweller’s head, on the other side of the wall it had brought down. “There’s another passageway here that runs parallel to the chamber.”
Doran shared a look with Dakmund and pleaded with his eyes to make his brother see sense.
“A’right!” Dakmund relented, pretending he had been up for a good fight. “We go that way!”
The Gobbers were almost at the entrance now, their howls and roars echoing off the chamber walls. Reyna collected Petur Devron, ushering him towards the broken wall.
“Where did that thing come from?” he asked, stepping over the Dweller’s head.
Doran grumbled and pushed him through, eager to get them all as far away from the Gobbers as possible.
The Fall of Neverdark Page 53