The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Hadavad dropped his gaze. “Twice I have been close to death and twice I have been… somewhere else.”

  Alijah scratched his head and felt nothing but pain for his effort. “Are you sure you’re not the one who hit his head?”

  Hadavad offered a wry smile. “I know how it sounds. I’m no more convinced of the gods than you are.” The mage’s expression grew serious again. “But I have seen it. It was as real as you are now. There was a woman, or at least something resembling a woman. Made entirely of light too!”

  “Hadavad…” Alijah was becoming increasingly concerned for his old mentor.

  The mage held up a hand. “I’m not saying it was a god. But perhaps it was something in between. Something above all of this. We already know that such places exist. When Atilan and his wretched lot disappeared beyond The Veil, they were transported to another realm, a place where they could observe us for millennia without ageing.”

  “And you think that, what? This higher being is guiding you to answers?” Alijah hoped his tone conveyed his serious doubts.

  Hadavad sighed. “I don’t know. What I do know terrifies me. The Arid Lands are gone, all three cities wiped out. Lirian has been decimated. Velia… There was no victory to be had there - it’s probably ash by now. Illian is falling into ruin, just as that damn prophecy said it would. The orcs are rising and The Black Hand have yet to reveal their true motivations. We desperately need answers, Alijah.”

  The rogue couldn’t think of a time the mage had steered him wrong, and so he decided to go along with it. “This Bastion, it’s not far from here then?”

  Hadavad perked up a bit. “Yes,” he replied eagerly. “Hidden in the heart of the mountains, but I can find it.”

  Alijah swallowed his disbelief and nodded along. “Then tomorrow, we shall find it.”

  Hadavad offered an appreciative smile. “Thank you, Alijah.”

  The rogue wanted to tell the mage everything he had learned during his time in the Dragorn library, but the brief time he had been awake was beginning to take its toll on him. If they really did find any answers in these mountains, perhaps then he would share all that he knew. But, for now, he would keep the truth of The Black Hand’s power to himself. More importantly, he would keep his bond to Malliath to himself…

  By mid-morning the following day, The Vrost Mountains did everything they could to turn the trespassers away. The blizzard that fell upon the land blew sideways, buffeting the horse Hadavad had taken from outside Velia’s gates. Alijah found the strength to leave the sled and so they abandoned it in the snow, freeing the horse of the extra burden.

  By late afternoon, however, the burden of its two riders, combined with the increasing cold, saw the horse drop with exhaustion. With no way of helping the horse in such elements, Hadavad placed his staff to the mount’s head and put it out of its misery.

  Alijah swaddled his cloak about him and used a torn piece of cloth from one of the blankets to wrap around his face. It would have been easy to give up, but watching Hadavad plough through the snow ahead of him was inspiring. The mage simply didn’t have it in him to give up.

  The Vrost Mountains were unique in their shape, rising highest in the east and gradually descending to the west. It often made for easy navigation when journeying through it, but today, those notable peaks were concealed from view.

  “Hadavad!” Alijah shouted ahead. “How much farther?”

  The mage half turned in the tracks. “It’s in the heart of the mountains!” he replied unhelpfully.

  “Is that close?” Alijah yelled back, unable to discern east from west.

  Despite dire weather and the exhaustion they both shared, Hadavad managed to offer a smile. The mage turned away and lifted his staff into the air, his bellowing voice a distant call in the whipping wind. When his spell was complete, Hadavad stamped his staff into the ground and expelled a wave of magic strong enough to temporarily push the snow, wind, and cloud from their view.

  Alijah craned his neck to take in the mountainous wall that sat a few hundred yards in front of them, completely unseen before Hadavad’s spell. Before the magic ran out of momentum, the rogue caught sight of an unnatural shape against the black rock. There was a broken arch set into the slope at the base of the mountain wall.

  The storm that swirled around them could not be denied and it soon closed in on them again. Any thoughts of abandoning their search were quickly forgotten, replaced instead by a sense of urgency that always stoked the flames of Alijah’s need for knowledge. The explorer that lived inside of him found the much-needed energy to press on and battle the icy veil that raged between them and the arch.

  Following Hadavad, Alijah began to feel the ground under his feet change from that of thick snow to a coarse and rocky incline. With his green cloak billowing out behind him now, the half-elf ignored the burning in his calves and pushed on until the outcropping from the mountain shielded them from the blizzard.

  His breath was ragged and every part of his body complained of ailment, but seeing anything from The First Kingdom made Alijah almost giddy. The rogue pulled down the cloth wrapped around his face and marvelled at the broken arch. The runes carved into the stone were definitely that of The First Kingdom and Alijah couldn’t help but reach out and run his fingers over them.

  “You were right!” he called to Hadavad over the howling wind.

  “This is only the beginning,” the mage replied. “What we seek is up there!”

  Alijah followed Hadavad’s gaze to the curving slope that disappeared behind the mountain wall. It was quite the illusion, as the path could never be seen from the valley unless standing under the arch, which did its best to blend in with the surrounding rock.

  For all his excitement, Alijah couldn’t deny the state of his body. Ascending the mountain began almost immediately to take its toll on him. Hadavad appeared to be suffering equally by the time they passed through the low cloud cover. Their brief pauses to recover their breath became more frequent and the call of sleep grew all the stronger.

  It was finally under the glow of the moon that they saw it. The Bastion. Alijah had discovered several dwellings and ancient keeps of The First Kingdom, but none could boast of holding against the decay of time as The Bastion did.

  Set into the mountain, it was a collection of towers and rounded buildings with steps hewn from the stone here and there. It had all the hallmarks of a First Kingdom design, but its condition was too exquisite to be ten thousand years old. Yet here it was, intact and hidden away from the world.

  “What is this place, Hadavad?” Alijah asked through laboured breath.

  Leaning on his staff, the mage answered, “I don’t know. It’s built high into the mountain, though. We know King Atilan preferred to build high. Perhaps it’s one of his fortresses. Either way; it has answers.”

  Defying his age, Hadavad straightened his back and made for The Bastion. Alijah summoned what dregs remained of his energy and followed the mage. Even if there were answers inside, he hoped they could rest within its shelter for a while before they scoured those ancient halls.

  They passed under another arch, five times the height and thickness of the broken one at the beginning of the path. Beyond, a shallow set of stairs took them to the looming double doors that marked the top. It was tiring to say the least, but Alijah held onto the resolve that Hadavad exuded, believing himself that the answers therein would be worth their efforts.

  It required both of them to shoulder through the doors. A loud creak resounded off the interior walls as they pushed through. Alijah and Hadavad stood side by side, mouths ajar, and exhausted from head to toe. With what little energy they had left, the pair took in the darkened entrance hall that greeted them.

  The doors slammed shut behind them.

  The pair jumped and a series of fire pits began to come to life around the outside walls of the hall, giving shape to two rows of pillars and an arched ceiling. One by one, the fire pits breathed light into the room, reveali
ng its true length. The final pit was much larger and sat at the opposite end of the hall.

  There was a single figure silhouetted against the fire.

  Alijah felt his stomach drop but his exhaustion kept his reflexes from responding with any speed. The figure stepped forward and the light from the smaller pits betrayed its identity.

  “Welcome!” The Crow shouted, his arms outstretched.

  Hadavad gasped gruffly and pointed his staff. A mage of The Black Hand stepped out from behind a pillar and flicked his wand, snatching the staff from his hands in one smooth motion. The tug yanked Hadavad forward and left him on his hands and knees. Only then did Alijah’s hands respond to the threat, retrieving his bow and nocking an arrow.

  A concussive spell slammed into his chest before he could even aim the weapon, launching the rogue back into the closed doors. From the floor, Alijah watched The Crow stalk towards them.

  “Welcome to The Bastion, friends.” The Crow came to a stop in front of them, his wand in hand. “Welcome to my home…”

  49

  Last Stand

  Vighon fell against the ravine wall, desperate for rest as the siege of Grey Stone went into its third day. For three days they had fought the orcs in the narrow streets, keeping the hordes at bay for as long as possible. Most of the city’s inhabitants had fled into the cave network of Vengora now, the kings included, but Vighon and a portion of Jormund’s army had been cut off from the caves.

  The northman watched now as Inara and Galanör used their magic to collapse yet another street. The idea had been the Dragorn’s and so far it had been the only thing that kept the orcs’ numbers from overwhelming them. Together, they cast destructive spells against the high walls, bringing down massive sheets of rock to close up the holes blasted out of the ground.

  It also blocked the only street that led to the caves…

  At the time, there had been little choice but to barricade the street with rock, since a new wave of orcs had been tasked with hunting down the people.

  Only midday offered reprieve, for the light of dawn failed to penetrate the dark maze-like city and its high walls. As the orcs were forced back into the shadows, the remaining survivors went to work removing the heavy slabs of rock that lay between them and the cave network.

  One or two terrified soldiers had attempted to climb over the mountainous debris of jagged slabs, but they inevitably fell prey to the loose rocks and slid back down, marred with fresh cuts.

  To prevent any attack from outside, Athis had raked at the entrance to the city until one of the walls caved in, blocking any from entering or leaving Grey Stone. Now, however, it meant they were trapped inside the city with an army of orcs under their feet.

  Vighon had decided that making strategical decisions while exhausted and under duress was to be avoided. Of course, hindsight was a wonderful thing. Every choice they had made saved lives and snatched victory away from the orcs, but if they couldn’t get back to the cave network, they would be the ones to pay the price for that heroism.

  Vighon had decided that being a hero wasn’t everything the stories made them out to be.

  “They won’t be coming through there,” Inara said, stepping back from the cloud of debris that rushed out of the collapsed street. “We should get back to removing the rock.”

  “Russell is already there,” Vighon said. “He’s got them forming a line to pass the rocks along.”

  “We don’t have long,” Galanör observed, looking up at the midday light. “As soon as there is enough shadow, they will return.”

  Vighon’s head dropped as the will to fight on ebbed away. They had been battling for hours without pause and there had been no aid from the Dragorn Inara promised. Galanör and Inara had the strength of elves, Russell that of his condition, but Vighon was just a man. He gripped his sword, sheathed on his hip, and knew he couldn’t squeeze the hilt as well as he could a few hours previously.

  Trying not to overthink it, the northerner followed his companions through the maze of streets until they came across the long line of soldiers. Rocks large and small went from man to man until they could be dumped elsewhere. At the head of the line, Russell Maybury lifted slabs of rock with ease, his forearms pulsing with thick veins.

  Galanör hurried to the werewolf’s side and began to shift rocks as well. They had to be careful which ones they moved or face another avalanche of rock, burying them all forever.

  Vighon could see Inara looking away from it all, her expression full of concern. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Athis,” Inara said bluntly. “He’s a little… furious, to say the least.”

  “He doesn’t like being separated from you,” Vighon replied, nodding his head absently. “I can understand that.” He regretted saying it as soon as the words registered with his ears. He chalked it up to fatigue.

  Ignoring the comment, Inara continued, “He’s angry that the other Dragorn have yet to arrive.”

  Vighon sighed and had to work at keeping his eyes open. “I wouldn’t say no to a little help.”

  Inara straightened her posture and turned back to the efforts of Grey Stone’s soldiers. “Come, we should offer our strength.”

  Vighon shook his head, thinking of the inevitable fight to come. “I can barely lift my sword. A few of us should conserve our energy for the next battle.”

  Inara looked upon the northman with a critical eye. Vighon didn’t like to think what she saw, aware that he was as haggard and weary as he had ever been. He didn’t want to appear weak in her eyes, but he couldn’t deny his limitations and that of his kin.

  “Here, drink this.” Inara opened one side of her short jacket and removed a vile of red liquid.

  Vighon held it up to the light, noting the sparkle inside the dense liquid. “What is it?”

  “Essence of…” Inara shrugged. “I can’t remember. I just know the red ones will keep you on your feet.”

  Vighon was hesitant to drink a potion that its owner couldn’t describe very well, but he trusted Inara. “Don’t you need it?” he asked.

  “Athis lends me his strength,” the Dragorn explained. “He will keep me going a while longer.”

  The northman pocketed the potion, deciding to take it when he really needed it. Looking up at the faint light, he knew that would be all too soon.

  The monotonous work of receiving and passing along heavy rocks prevented Vighon from keeping track of time. His hands ached and, like many others, he had to take breaks to work out the spasms that tormented his grip.

  Every now and then, word would come down the line reporting on their progress. The last word to reach Vighon was that Galanör and Russell could see the other side of the collapse now. How long it would take to make a hole large enough for a man to fit through was another question.

  Small rations of food and water made their way around the soldiers, helping to keep their energy up, as well as morale. They had what precious light the winter sun had to offer them and they all used every minute of it.

  Only when the torches were relit and the braziers brought back to life did Vighon realise the day had slipped away. Then came the call they had all been waiting for. Russell’s booming voice filled the narrow ravine, informing them all that a hole large enough for a man to crawl through had been made.

  Their cheers were immediately drowned out by the roars of orcs.

  The slabs of rock were dropped by whoever was holding them and replaced by swords and shields. Vighon dashed across the street and retrieved his own weapons, glad to see that the thought of battle had given him the boost he needed.

  Russell’s voice resounded off the walls again, ordering the men to begin their crawl through to the other side. Judging by the sound of their foes, the men of Grey Stone didn’t have time to make their escape.

  Galanör appeared by the northman’s side, his scimitars in hand. “We need to hold them back,” the elf said. “Give them all as long as possible.”

  “Agreed,” Inara replie
d with no lack of determination. Her Vi’tari blade slipped from its scabbard, the enchanted steel perfectly clean.

  Vighon hefted his sword and shield, catching the eyes of the soldiers around him. They were scared. He could see the hopelessness in their faces. The soldiers did their best to form defensive rows, blocking the street from the central courtyard, but most barely had the strength raise their weapons. Those at the front knew their fates were sealed.

  The northman walked out into the courtyard and faced the men. Over the last few days, Vighon had gained their respect, leading charges, stepping between them and certain death. Without a king and many of their captains already dead, they needed someone to bolster them if they were to stay on their feet and face the orcs.

  Vighon paced the courtyard, careful to keep one eye on the men and one on the other streets. “Take heart brothers of the north! The darkest day has come for us all! But no man of the vales was born in the light! You were born with steel in your hands and iron in your beating chests!” He met the eyes of every one of them, being sure to let them see his courage.

  “Monsters have come for your home!” he continued, noting the growing sound of his enemies. “But they will find only the bite of our steel waiting for them! This night is ours, brothers! Will they take it while you still draw breath?”

  A solid cheer came back at him, a roar that came from somewhere deep in their souls. One of the soldiers began to beat his sword against his shield, a drumming that carried back down the street until every man was hammering his shield in time.

  Vighon pointed his sword down the adjacent street, on the other side of the larger courtyard. “Whatever manner of beast comes at us, we will push them back! Protect the man to your side and you will all make it through to the other side! FOR GREY STONE!”

  The soldiers repeated the cry again and again, beating their shields all the while. Inara and Galanör were off to the side, watching Vighon with great interest. Were he not so worked up after his speech, the northman might have blushed.