From every ravine-like street, the city’s population was steadily evacuating through the ancient cave network that connected Grey Stone to the southern curve of Vengora.
Vighon paused and looked up the high walls of the mountain that encased the city. The zig-zagging stairs were occupied by the lords and ladies who had no choice but to join the commoners. They marched down the stairs with their servants in tow, carrying the many useless sundries they couldn’t bear to be without.
The northerner had briefly inspected these tunnels and knew it would be hours before they were all safely inside. Whether they had that time remained to be seen. The presence of a particularly ferocious red dragon had kept the orcs at bay for the rest of the night and Inara had assured them the sun would halt any further attack.
Eager to get out of the crowds, Vighon scanned over the hundreds of heads in search of Galanör. The elven ranger was always above it all, never failing to find a high perch that separated him from the population. True to his nature, Vighon spotted the elf sitting atop one of the few stairways that wasn’t packed with people. With his legs hanging over the edge of the first platform, between the stairs, Galanör surveyed the humans with intense scrutiny.
Vighon bounded up the steps carved out of the mountain and came up behind the elf. The view was narrow thanks to the high walls, but the central courtyard could still be seen at the head of the street. Soldiers were stationed at every corner, guiding the populace into the depths of the city.
“Where do the tunnels lead?” he asked the elf.
Without turning to face the northman, Galanör replied, “They go north as far as I could tell.”
Russell Maybury’s heavy steps sounded from above as he descended towards them. “They’re as old as Grey Stone itself,” the werewolf explained. “Built as a last resort in case of a siege.”
“A last resort, eh?” Vighon considered that phrase from King Jormund’s point of view. “The orcs only attack us once and we’re turning to the last resort. I bet the king is thrilled.”
“I believe Inara was quite persuasive,” Galanör added. “King Jormund agreed to evacuate his people into the caves, but no farther. If… when we are next attacked, there will be time to evaluate the need for complete abandonment of the city.”
Vighon turned his head to the sky. They were running out of time. When the sun finally found its rest, the orcs would rise.
“Where’s Inara?” the northerner asked. When violence ruled the day, he wanted to know exactly where the Dragorn was going to be. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t because he liked keeping her close.
Russell lifted his chin. “Still in the upper city. She’s helping the kings to coordinate both of their forces.”
Vighon hated the waiting. He was restless, but it would be foolish to ask Galanör to spar with him when they needed to conserve their energy. The northman wondered what Alijah was doing. Had they already found a way to break the spell that bound him to Malliath? How long would it be before they saw each other again?
Russell hefted his pick-axe and hammered it once into the stone plateau, where it remained perfectly still. “I don’t think it’ll come to a complete evacuation. Grey Stone is going to get bloody for sure, but the people will return. This city is just too hard to invade.”
Vighon was happy for the distraction. “One way in, one way out. Narrow streets. You’d think the smell would be enough to send the orcs packing.”
The elf, man, and werewolf remained above the din for some time, watching the people slowly gather their belongings and idle down the streets. Only when the last rays of light faded away did they turn back to the main entrance and the fields of white snow beyond. Stood square in the middle was Athis the ironheart. The dragon was perfectly still, his red scales dulled without the light.
The sound of marching boots and armour filled the narrow streets. The soldiers of Grey Stone filed down the main street in neat rows of lancers, shield men, and archers. The Black Cloaks were a tough group of fighters. Raised in the tundras of The Ice Vale, their skin was more akin to hide and their resolve as hard as steel. Tonight, they would be tested.
Vighon descended the last flight of steps with Galanör and Russell in tow. Donned in his black fur cloak, the northman blended right in with the soldiers of Grey Stone. He looked around, ascending one of the steps to better see if Inara was among them. Her red cloak would allow the Dragorn to stand out among the sea of black.
Captains barked orders over the marching boots, directing their men to take up their positions. The lancers stood aside and three rows of archers walked through the human tunnel. They were commanded to take position beyond the main entrance and line up along the cliff wall. Athis moved for the first time and walked towards the jagged holes blasted out of the ground.
“Only fire when the dragon is clear!” one of the captains yelled.
The lancers and shield men formed rows in the street, bridging the gap between the two walls. There weren’t many soldiers, but in the narrow passage the orcs’ numbers would count for naught.
It wasn’t long before everyone was in place and an eerie silence fell upon Grey Stone. The light of the sun had well and truly gone, leaving them at the mercy of the long night. Vighon had always preferred the cold, and indeed winter, but right now he could wish for nothing more than the short nights of summer.
The northman struggled to see over the helms and spear tips of the Black Cloaks. “Can you see anything?” he asked the others.
Galanör nimbly climbed up the scaffold of a nearby stall and focused his elven eyes. “Athis is investigating the breaches. I see no sign of any orcs.”
Russell sniffed the air. “There’s not so much as a scent on the breeze.”
Vighon didn’t like it. He had seen what the beasts had done to Tregaran and heard of the ruin they left Calmardra and Ameeraska in; there wasn’t a hope that they would simply give up now.
“Maybe it isn’t dark enough yet?” Russell suggested.
Galanör let go of the scaffold and dropped back down without a sound. “Something isn’t right…”
Vighon was used to the overly dramatic expressions on the elf’s fair face, but this time he was inclined to agree with the assessment. The orcs had to know that there was a dragon barring the way.
A feeling of dread crept into the northerner’s bones. What if they were waiting for Malliath to arrive? He would take care of Athis and Inara, leaving the city exposed.
He was wrong.
Somewhere deep in the heart of the city, the ground shook and a thundering boom blew grit from the walls, filling the narrow streets with thick clouds. Another explosion resounded through the maze-like city, then another and another.
Vighon reached out to balance himself against the wall. “They’re in the city…” he rasped, struggling to breathe through the debris.
The Black Cloaks turned around and ran back into Grey Stone. Galanör dashed up the first flight of steps and leaped out into the main street, using the market stalls and discarded wares as platforms to avoid the rushing soldiers. Vighon didn’t even have time to call the elf before he had disappeared into the distance.
Behind them, Athis clawed at the walls of the main entrance and roared. The dragon was simply too large to fit through the ravine and his fire was useless when the streets were filled with soldiers.
“Come on!” With his pick-axe in hand, Russell charged after the soldiers before the archers blocked their way.
Angry that the orcs had no doubt spilled innocent blood already, Vighon drew his sword and gripped his shield.
By the time they reached the central courtyard, bloody battle had broken out in every ravine. The howl and roars of the orcs came from every direction, accompanied by the sound of steel clashing with obsidian. Being attacked from all sides, the people yet to escape into the caves ran for their lives, creating chaos.
Vighon left Russell’s side and jumped between a young couple and a trio of orcs. His shield bash
ed the closest, knocking it into the beast beside it. Before they hit the floor, the northman was bringing his sword down on the third, preventing it from lashing out at the couple. A clean downwards strike scraped over its dark armour and into its pale arm. The beast yelled in pained outrage, but Vighon shoved his boot into its chest and kicked it back into the wall. Without losing any momentum, the northman advanced and thrust his blade into the orc’s gut, pinning it to the wall.
“Run!” he shouted at the couple.
Leaving his sword to keep the orc pinned, Vighon turned on the recovering beasts behind him. The first to rise was struck in the throat by the steel edge of his enchanted shield. It gargled for breath as it was launched backwards, soon to die from such a blow. The last survivor of the trio swung at Vighon’s legs as it found its feet, forcing the northman to retreat.
A feral snarl preceded the orc’s attack with a slash to the left then the right, each strike forcing Vighon to step back. When the opening presented itself, no matter how small, he took it. Dropping to one knee, the northman hammered the edge of his shield onto the orc’s foot, eliciting a howl of pain from the creature. Lifting the shield with all his strength, Vighon drove it up into the beast’s jaw, a strike that put the orc on its back.
He fell upon the creature with a lust for violence that had been born in him years earlier. Using both hands, Vighon brought the shield down on the orc’s face again and again until it stopped moving.
Another orc dropped dead in front of him to reveal Galanör and his bloody scimitars.
Vighon pushed himself up, keeping his eyes on the elf. “Looks like I do just fine without a sword, eh?”
Galanör rolled his eyes before a flash of imminent danger crossed his face. Vighon whirled around to see a pair of soldiers be cut down by a pack of orcs that had their sights set on the northerner. Vighon regretted his quip to the elf and dashed for the sword he had left pinned to the wall. The orcs were upon him, however, and he was forced to throw his shield at them to slow the pack down.
Sensing the proximity of the nearest orc behind him, Vighon yanked his blade free and continued to swing it around, ducking low as he did. The beast was stopped in its tracks by a length of steel slicing across its gut. The northman came up with a rage-filled cry and a swinging sword. One orc after the other missed him, but every one of the pale creatures tasted his blade. After the last of the pack fell to the ground, absent half of its head, Vighon dropped into a roll and scooped up his shield.
Ready to fight, the northman unhooked his fur cloak, leaving him free to move around in his padded gambeson. Galanör didn’t appear hindered at all by his flowing blue cloak - in fact, the elf often used it to his advantage, misdirecting his foes and hiding his form.
Stuck in the central courtyard, Vighon turned on his heel this way and that, parrying and attacking any who strayed within reach of his sword arm. As more orcs poured out of their holes, the narrow streets became all the harder to fight in. More than once, Vighon was forced to alter his swing at the last second to avoid killing one of the soldiers.
“This is chaos!” Vighon shouted over the din.
Galanör, close by, yelled back, “We need to plug their entry points! Stem the flow!”
Vighon pushed one orc away with his shield and slashed another across the throat before turning back to the sound of Athis’s roar. “What we need is a dragon!”
A shadow fell over the pair as Russell Maybury launched himself across the courtyard. Using his supernatural strength, the werewolf easily leaped over the heads of many soldiers, bringing him, and his pick-axe, down on the orcs in front of Vighon and Galanör. His years as ranger shone through. The pick-axe was buried in the skull of the central orc being torn free and swung around with mighty power. The next three orcs all found their chest cavities caved in and their jaws shattered by the wooden haft.
Together, the three fell in, back to back, and faced the next horde. Vighon sighted a pair of orcs advancing from the northern ravine, their combined width almost filling the entire street. They stood at least three heads above the rest, though they wore less armour. Vighon cricked his neck and squeezed the hilt of his blade. He fancied plunging his sword through one of their heads.
The monstrous orcs added their roars to the pitch of battle, easily drowning out the growls of their smaller kin. Spotting the trio slaying orcs in the courtyard, the pair set into a jog, barrelling through orcs and humans alike to reach them.
“Come on then you big bastard!” Vighon yelled, resting his blade over the top of his shield.
Russell stepped ahead and threw his pick-axe with both hands. The weapon, as it was in his hands, spun end over end until it found rest in one of the orc’s face. The sudden impact and instant death launched the orc backwards and its legs high into the air. Vighon quickly forgot about that orc and focused on the remaining behemoth. The northman braced his legs and prepared himself to meet the rushing wall of muscle.
Galanör moved like a cat, using the nearby orcs as stepping stones to attain height until he was able to leap off the curved walls and across the behemoth’s path. Either Stormweaver or Guardian, Vighon didn’t know which, cut a neat red line from one side of the beast’s neck to the other. As it fell to its knees, the elf landed back on his feet, where he had the audacity to slay another orc before the larger one finally hit the ground face first.
Vighon’s expression froze into that of a disrespected man. “One of those was mine!”
Galanör flashed Vighon a cocky smile. “It’s not your fault you were cursed with the speed of a mere man!” The elf fell back into the rhythm of battle, his scimitars dancing hypnotically around him.
“Less talk and more killin’!” Russell warned as he yanked his pick-axe free from the dead beast. He dashed down the next street, claiming orcish lives with every swing.
“Right,” Vighon hissed under his breath. He twirled his sword and charged down the street after the elf and the werewolf.
The upper city of Grey Stone had fallen into disarray. The lords and ladies in the process of descending the stone steps or waiting for their turn on the lift were trying to return to their large homes where they could hide. The soldiers turned them back around wherever they could, forcing the noblemen into the battle below.
“Get them down!” Inara shouted over the howling winds. “We need everyone in those tunnels!”
Looking around at the collection of grand houses and even The Black Fort, there was nowhere for them to escape to and their homes wouldn’t keep out the orcs once they took the city. The ancient cave network was their only hope of surviving now.
King Jormund stormed out of The Black Fort in the finest armour. His hammer, as tall as any man, was carried easily in one hand by the mountainous king. His knights followed after him, having formed a natural shield around the king’s family. Behind them came King Weymund of Lirian, his arm still in a sling. He didn’t have nearly as many knights to protect him or his family, but a complement of soldiers had been assigned to them by Jormund.
“We will not run, you hear!” The hardy king bellowed at Inara. “My people will find shelter in the mountain, but we will not hand Grey Stone over to these monsters!”
The Dragorn didn’t have time to listen to the belligerent king. As long as he encouraged his men to fight while others took refuge in the caves, Inara didn’t care what words spouted from Jormund’s mouth.
Turning to the east, beyond the edge of the cliff, Inara searched the black skies. Can you sense the others yet? she asked Athis, hoping the Dragorn Gideon had promised were close.
The red dragon sounded frustrated and furious. No, he replied curtly. Nor could they help. This city was not designed with dragons in mind.
Inara could feel Athis clawing at the walls of the main entrance, desperate to get inside the maze-like city and slaughter some orcs.
Then pain exploded across Inara’s left leg and hip. The Dragorn screamed and dropped to one knee under the strain. If it weren’t fo
r the relentless wind, she would have heard Athis roar like thunder.
What’s happening? she managed.
Orcs! Athis growled deep in her mind. They’re flanking me from the holes outside the city. I have a spear in my leg…
Inara felt blood soaking through her trouser leg. I’m not going to disagree.
The Dragorn grunted through the pain as she put weight on her injured leg. Opening the right side of her jacket, Inara examined the vials that normally lined her ribs. She quickly pulled free an orange tonic from its tight pouch and popped the cork with her thumb. It was spicy running over her throat, but the horrid taste was worth the immediate pain relief. The wound would heal before long, but for now, her thigh was numb, allowing Inara to break into a sprint.
I’m coming! she promised, running for the edge of the cliff.
No! Athis warned, halting her in the snow. I can handle them out here. Get as many people into the caves as you can.
Inara wanted to be by her companion’s side in a fight, but she couldn’t argue with the dragon’s wisdom. She never could. As always, her duty would come first and, right now, that meant saving as many lives as possible.
Kill them all, she said determinedly.
Athis unleashed his primal fury upon the orcish horde, a fury that ignited a fire inside Inara. The half-elf drew her Vi’tari scimitar and made for the steps. The wooden lift was already halfway down the ravine and a queue had formed at the top.
“Behind me!” Inara commanded, grabbing the attention of the two kings and their lords. “We make for the caves!”
There were only a handful of people still journeying down to the lower city via the steps, with most preferring to wait for the lift. They didn’t have that kind of time. Trusting them to follow her, the Dragorn jumped down the steps two or three at a time.
Just over halfway down, those same steps were now thronged with orcs. Inara glanced back, looking up to ensure that the king and his people were following. She would clear the way for them.
The Fall of Neverdark Page 56