The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Then he tossed it away and sneered. Alijah was sure it was a smirk.

  The crowding orcs cheered and beat their armoured chests. Alijah didn’t care; let the stupid orc think it could kill him without a weapon. One way or another, Tauren’s killer was about to become acquainted with a blade of silvyr.

  It was tempting to lunge at the orc, weaponless as it was, but Alijah moved cautiously, taking the measure of the beast. Its pale skin was pulled tightly around its muscles. Its face was all angles and its bony brow formed up into a pair of thick curving horns that flicked into the air at the end. Everything about their breed was the stuff of man’s nightmares.

  Still, the orc didn’t possess anything that would prevent silvyr from opening up its insides.

  The orc roared with the bravado of a lion and lashed out at the rogue. Its meaty hands ended in sharpened nails designed to tear through flesh, or in this case, the leather of Alijah’s light armour. The half-elf dashed back before those nails could pierce his leathers and open his chest, but the orc was relentless, coming at him again and again in the narrow alley.

  Alijah dodged and weaved between the clawing hands, using the blade as a threat to keep the orc from pinning him. Twice he batted one of the pale hands away with the silvyr, drawing red lines across the orc’s arms and hands. One particular cut pushed the beast back a step, luring Alijah in for a killing thrust.

  The rogue unleashed a roar of his own and advanced on the orc, so sure was he that his blade was a moment away from ending the fight. The tip of the silvyr pierced the obsidian armour over the orc’s heart and tasted but a single drop of its monstrous blood. Alijah grunted under the exertion of his thrust, his blade only an inch from slaying his foe, but the orc’s vice-like grip around his wrist saw his efforts go to waste.

  The orcish hand had snapped around Alijah’s wrist with such speed that the half-elf couldn’t say he saw the beast even move. The more he pushed the harder it squeezed. The orc’s free hand shot up into the rogue’s throat and five thick digits coiled around his windpipe. Taken from the ground, Alijah was slammed against the alley wall and pinned. One hard shove from the orc forced his hand into the brick, causing him to drop the silvyr blade.

  Alijah struggled in the monster’s grip and kicked out, desperate to be free if only to breathe again. The orc held him firm and drew closer until his hot breath stung the rogue’s sense of smell. It looked to be struggling with something in its mouth before a single word found Alijah’s ears.

  “Elf…” it growled.

  It was a strange thing to see such a beast conjure a word from the common tongue, but Alijah’s lack of air prevented him from dwelling on it. The rogue kicked out, pushing his boot down on the arrow protruding from the orc’s thigh. The bolt didn’t snap straight away, forcing the beast’s leg to buckle in the direction of Alijah’s foot. It was just enough pain to see the orc release his grip.

  Alijah’s fists were swinging before his feet hit the ground. He didn’t have the strength of his elven heritage, but he did have its speed. The rogue planted four fists into the orc’s face before it had chance to recover from the pain in its leg. Unfortunately, Alijah’s last punch went wild and struck the beast across its bony brow.

  Cursing, the rogue snapped his hand back to discover bloodied knuckles and numb fingertips. The orc gnashed his fangs and retaliated with a backhand to Alijah’s face, a strike so hard it knocked the half-elf back into the wall and down to the ground. With a beard stained red with his own blood, Alijah crawled across the ground hoping his disorientated sight would correct itself as soon as possible.

  Through the slush and snow, his hand nudged the hilt of his short-sword. His grip was strong and his swing true, but the orc snatched his wrist mid-strike and pulled the rogue back to his feet before hammering a solid fist into his chest. Alijah felt the air rush from his lungs as he was launched down the alley. He rolled and tumbled over himself, between the parting orcs who didn’t dare interfere.

  Forced to crawl again, Alijah gasped for breath as he entered the main street. The Red Cloaks were dying in the streets, outnumbered by the swarming orcs. Innocent people lay strewn over each other, caught in the middle of the battle. Alijah was desperate to help them; he wanted nothing more than to solidify his bond with Malliath if for no other reason than to decimate the orc legions.

  A strong hand gripped the back of his neck and easily lifted him from the ground. The half-elf swung his arm out, breaking the hold, and threw all of his weight behind his fist. The orc took the punch, its nose bloodied, and brought his forehead down on Alijah’s face. The bony brow cut his cheek open and sent an impact through his skull that caused him to temporarily black out. When his eyes snapped open again he was back on the ground and blood was trickling across his cheek and over his nose.

  The orc was relentless. It picked Alijah up again and thrust its fist into the rogue’s gut. The assault lifted Alijah from the ground and he vomited. The orc’s triumphant roar sounded distant despite his close proximity. The feel of his bow and quiver on his back reminded Alijah that he needed to put some distance between him and his foe; only then could he put an arrow in his eye.

  Staggering to his feet, Alijah looked about, hoping to see a way through the melee so that he might turn back and fire his bow. But the orc was upon him. One back-hand followed by another threw the half-elf around. His hair was gripped in one orcish hand while the other pounded him in the face. Alijah fell backwards and crashed into one of the orcs fighting a Velian soldier. The Red Cloak took the advantage and stabbed his enemy in the ribs before turning to defend Alijah against the pursuing orc. The rogue wanted to warn the Velian but the soldier lunged at the pale beast.

  The orc side-stepped the soldier’s thrust and trapped his head in a vice-like grip. One quick tug snapped the man’s neck.

  Alijah watched hopelessly as the Red Cloak fell to the ground, dead. Looking around, more Velians were falling by the second. There was no sign of any Dragorn and even the sky was clear of warring dragons. No one was coming to help him. No one was going to save Velia.

  The orc with a V painted on his armour stood over the rogue and looked down on him. Another of his kin arrived by his side and handed the fiend his rectangular blade. Alijah lay on his back, his body exhausted and beaten. In his last moments, the rogue wondered what would happen to Malliath if he died. Would the dragon suffer the same fate or was their bond not strong enough?

  He hated the thought of never knowing.

  The orc roared and lifted his blade, ready to plunge it down into Alijah’s chest. Had he not been so wounded, Alijah might have spared an amusing thought for the moment. To think of all the time he had wasted being miserable about his mortality when it didn’t really matter. He was still going to die in his twenties.

  The orc stabbed down with his black blade but the deadly edge never touched Alijah’s skin. A blinding light erased the night and the orcs were hurled from where they stood in a cacophony of roars and clattering armour. Behind the great clamour, Alijah could hear a familiar voice casting spells at the top of his lungs.

  Hadavad leaped into view with his staff twirling and spells firing. All manner of destructive magic erupted from his staff, blasting orcs into walls and severing limbs with ease. The mage launched an orb of brilliant light into the air, creating a miniature sun over the street. It highlighted the death that surrounded them in stark contrasts, but it also kept the sun-fearing orcs at bay.

  “Come on!” Hadavad crouched over him and helped the rogue to find his feet.

  Alijah could barely stand, let alone walk. The ground failed to register under his feet and he was forced to lean on Hadavad for support. The mage wielded his staff in one hand and continued to unleash a magical torrent of death upon the orcs. Any Red Cloaks that still survived had taken to the side streets, desperate to escape the nightmare.

  “Quickly now!” Hadavad turned Alijah around and guided him down the street. “We need to get out of here. The city is
lost.”

  They were half way through the city before Alijah’s mind caught up with the fact that he was being supported by Hadavad. Were he able to string a sentence together, he would have asked the mage what he was doing in Velia.

  Everywhere they turned, every street and alley they traversed, the orcs were winning. The Velians were being slaughtered and between them all there were dragon corpses littering the city. Velia was dying.

  Hadavad hurled orcs every which way when they chose foolishly to get in their way. The end of the mage’s staff was smoking from all the discharged spells, but every one cast ended in a dead orc.

  Alijah did his best to stay alert for their escape, but when the eastern gates came into view, the half-elf found his vision finally fading at the edges as his head pounded with every beat of his heart. He felt Hadavad’s grip on him falling away and the ground rushing up to meet him. The sound of another orc being cut down by magic was the last thing he registered before oblivion swallowed him whole.

  Gideon Thorn groaned deep in his chest, the pain in his leg too sharp to even utter a word. Lying awkwardly across a broken collection of boxes and barrels, the Master Dragorn looked up the outer wall of Velia’s defences, unbelieving of his survival.

  He had let go, avoiding Asher’s killing blow, and slid down the stone wall until his hands gripped a protruding block. The snow on the wall and the blood on his hands had prevented him from maintaining his grip, but the brief pause had taken some of the momentum out of his fall. It had been just enough to stop the fall from killing him. But it hadn’t been enough to stop his right leg from breaking.

  Hidden within the debris of his own making, many orcs had passed him by without notice.

  Ilargo… Gideon called out across their bond.

  I am here, Ilargo replied, his voice equally strained by pain.

  I’m sorry, Gideon apologised. I couldn’t beat him.

  That thought haunted the Master Dragorn. How many more would die because Asher and Malliath were still enslaved to The Crow? He was the head of the Dragorn; he should be able to defeat any foe!

  Nor could I beat Malliath, Ilargo added.

  Where are you? Gideon asked.

  When you let go of the wall, I abandoned my attack on Malliath and turned for the coast. I’m on the beach now, just north of the city.

  How’s your leg? Gideon glanced at his own and knew Ilargo’s would be similarly broken.

  I can’t use it, but I’m not the one trapped inside the city.

  Gideon peered over the splintered boxes and inspected the street. It was clear since most of the fighting was taking place in the centre of the city.

  Where’s Malliath now? he asked.

  I saw him and Asher take to the sky, but Malliath appeared to be in some distress.

  Gideon remembered Alijah then. He had left the young man on the wall. Where was he now? Was he still alive?

  Calm your mind, Ilargo bade. Alijah Galfrey has a knack for surviving and he is bonded with Malliath. If he were dead, we would know about it.

  I need to find him, Ilargo. I brought him into this mess.

  No, what you need to do is survive. We must find our way back to each other and recover.

  Gideon disagreed, but the jolt of pain that shot through his leg was overpowering. He wouldn’t be helping anyone in his condition. Looking around, the Master Dragorn discovered an arching storm drain at the base of the wall, not too far from his position. If he could make it through there, he could crawl all the way through to the fields of Alborn.

  Gideon struggled to contain his agonised groan. I’m coming, Ilargo...

  Karakulak blinked hard several times before his vision returned. The king was flat on his back and under the weight of a dead orc. The sound of fighting continued around him, but it was distant now. Rolling the dead orc away, Karakulak found his feet and shook off the after effects of the spell.

  Magic…

  The king sneered, searching the street for any sign of the elf or the mage who had dared to interrupt his kill. He discovered only more of his dead kin and his rectangular sword, now broken in two.

  A deep growl rumbled from within his throat, but the effort sent searing pains through his chest where the spell had struck him. Still, he was alive. Even magic had failed to bring him down.

  Sighting their king, more orcs appeared from the side streets, their pale flesh coated in blood. The dying screams of the Velians seemed distant now.

  “The city is ours, my King!” one of the orcs declared, oblivious to the fight Karakulak had just lost.

  The king shoved the orc aside and strode through the street, checking the bodies again. The elven archer had escaped death and not for the first time. It took Karakulak another moment to realise the sky was empty of any dragons, the only creatures that posed a serious threat.

  Surprising them all, the ground thundered under their feet and the corpses that littered the ground shook. Karakulak turned around to see his kin backing away from a black dragon whose bulk filled the entire street. Its mighty wings spread over the buildings on either side and its horned head dipped low to reveal a man on its back.

  The Crow’s puppet…

  Asher climbed down from Malliath and paused by the dragon’s neck. The man had taken a beating by the looks of him, the wyrm too. Karakulak was convinced the Dragon Knight was going to fall over as he weaved through the bodies between them.

  Finally, Asher stopped in the middle of the street, taking no care of the orcs that watched his every move. Karakulak could see their caution and he shared it to some degree. This man had been brought back from the dead, his bones reforged and his body made whole again. It was unnatural, as all magic was.

  With Malliath behind him, the Dragon Knight wasn’t a foe to challenge, though The Crow had assured the king that he was an ally, or at least an ally of The Black Hand. The distinction between their order and the orcs was something Karakulak was growing to see more clearly every day. He didn’t like the fact that they had a dragon on their side.

  Without a word or so much as a glance at any of them, Asher crouched down and retrieved a short-sword that had been poking out from under one of the bodies. It was the elf’s blade, and an exquisite one at that. Though too small for Karakulak to wield, he wanted it as a trophy.

  “That is mine,” he demanded in his guttural language.

  Karakulak presented Asher with a wall of muscle and determination, not that the Dragon Knight took any notice. Malliath, on the other hand, raised his head and exhaled a sharp hot breath, warning the king not to take another step.

  Asher, ignorant of the exchange, held the hour-glass blade in both hands, transfixed. The Dragon Knight deftly twirled the sword in his hand before returning to Malliath. The man’s dark cloak billowed out behind him and the short-sword flashed a brilliant silver as he ascended the dragon’s scales.

  They were all buffeted by those mighty wings. Malliath lifted off, revealing more wounds on his thick legs and tail. Karakulak watched the dragon disappear, wondering when and where the two would show up next.

  “My king!” one of the orcs called. “The dawn is coming!”

  To any creature of the Neverdark, the approaching sky-fire would not become apparent for a short while, but to eyes of The Under Realm, the subtle changes in the night sky were obvious.

  “We still need to secure the northern wall,” another orc pointed out.

  Karakulak considered the state of his victory over Velia and found himself displeased with retreating before every human was dead. How many bones would escape the city while the orcs waited in darkness?

  The smell of magic and man-flesh carried on the breeze. The orcs parted to allow one of the mages of The Black Hand to stand before their king. There was blood on the mage’s robes but none of it belonged to the man. At least they were adding their spells to the cause of the orcs…

  “My master made you a promise, king of orcs; one that has yet to be fulfilled.” The mage’s command of
the orcish language was commendable, considering the rigidity of his tongue.

  “What promise is that?” Karakulak asked.

  The mage eyed the top of the southern wall, behind the king. “See for yourself.”

  It wasn’t an answer, and so Karakulak decided that if he was displeased with what he discovered atop the southern wall, he would remove the man’s spine with his bare hands. He couldn’t, however, deny his curiosity.

  Meaningful strides placed the king of orcs on the southern wall only minutes later. Those that accompanied him were clearly becoming agitated with the idea of ascending rather than returning to the shadows of The Under Realm, but no one would disobey him.

  The sight that greeted Karakulak was perhaps the most expansive vista he had ever seen. Having lived underground since birth, the orc had never looked upon so much of Verda. Laid out before him were the snowy fields of Alborn and choppy waves of The Adean to his left. That horizon went on and on for more miles than his eyes could fathom.

  For all of Neverdark’s majesty, it was that which approached across the sky that rooted the king to the stone. The orc laughed from a place deep in his belly as The Crow’s words echoed in his memory.

  If the orc goes to war with Neverdark, the earth will go to war with the sky fire…

  Karakulak looked from the black smoke choking the sky to the rising sky fire in the east. How The Crow had achieved such a feat was beyond the king, but what he did know was undeniable.

  “A new Age has laid siege to Neverdark!” he bellowed over the ramparts. “THE AGE OF THE ORC!”

  46

  The Long Night

  Vighon Draqaro kept one hand on the hilt of his sword and one on the strap of his shield, keeping it slung over his back. He did his best to push through the dense crowds of Grey Stone without knocking anyone over.