The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  With his companions joining him in the centre of the courtyard, ready to slow the approaching horde down before they slammed against the soldiers’ defensive wall, Vighon rested his sword over his shield and dropped low into a fighting stance. His muscles ached and his head throbbed from lack of sleep, but all he had to do was draw blood - then everything but the fight would be forgotten.

  “Here they come,” Galanör commented under his breath, dual scimitars twirling by his sides.

  The orcs poured out of the adjacent street and spread out to fill the courtyard. Those who charged ahead found three stubborn warriors in their way. Galanör whipped his blades up and down, cutting through four of the beasts in the first couple of seconds. Inara flicked her Vi’tari scimitar, slicing through the necks of two orcs, before exploding into action. Every limb became a weapon as she danced around her foes, dispatching them with grace.

  Vighon matched his enemy’s roar and dug in. His shield blocked the obvious attack and his sword shot out, thrusting through one orc then another before he had the room to raise his blade and come down swinging. Orc blood went everywhere.

  It was only a moment later when he heard the pale beasts crash into the soldiers behind them. The three companions had taken out the point of the orcs’ spear-like attack, but those who spilled around wasted no time, leaping into the men of Grey Stone. They could only hope that the men at the other end were busy crawling through the hole Russell and Galanör had made.

  Vighon dashed left and right, raising his shield and swinging his sword in time with the battle. It was a rhythm he was becoming accustomed to.

  An orc shoved its way through and surprised the northman. His shield deflected the jagged blade, but a backhand caught him across the face and knocked him back, where he tripped over a dead body. Vighon was able to turn his fall into a backwards roll and return to his feet, but it came at the price of his shield. Leaving it at his feet, he rushed back at the orc with a two-handed grip. Vighon hammered the orc’s defence with heavy downwards strikes until he overwhelmed the beast and buried his blade in its skull.

  Without a shield, Vighon adapted his style of attack. Gone were his firm stances and heavy attacks, replaced now with quick movements on the balls of his feet. His sword had to work twice as fast to parry and strike. Only once did he note that Galanör’s blades extended to slay an orc that would have killed Vighon. The northman didn’t doubt it wasn’t the only time the elven ranger had saved his life; he could feel himself getting slower.

  The three companions retreated towards the soldiers, adding their unique talents to the melee. When the orc bodies began to pile up, the beasts showed their first signs of caution. Vighon liked to think that he was the cause for their slowed approach, but with Inara Galfrey and Galanör Reveeri either side, he knew the real reason.

  A distant chanting sounded from the back of the orcs. “Algamesh! Algamesh! Algamesh!” The beasts cheered and howled and the chanting became louder. “ALGAMESH! ALGAMESH!”

  Vighon was almost doubled over with exhaustion. “I don’t suppose… that’s their word… for ‘I surrender’.”

  Panting beside him, Inara winced from some unseen pain. “I don’t think so…”

  Vighon stood up straight to see the surrounding orcs thrusting their spears and swords, but remaining several feet away. It might only be a brief pause, but it would give a few more the time needed to escape this hell.

  The ground shuddered under their feet and the chanting came to a stop as the largest orc Vighon had ever seen strode out of the narrow ravine. A double-sided axe rested in both of its meaty hands and a pair of thick horns curved around its face to point at its square jaw of yellow fangs.

  “I think that’s Algamesh,” Galanör said tiredly.

  “Right…” Vighon popped the cork on his gifted vial and downed the red liquid with little thought to its sour taste. He threw the bottle away and twirled his sword, wondering if he was in the final moments of his life. If any of these foul monsters was going to claim his life, it would be the mountain of muscle that stood before him now.

  The northerner inhaled one deep breath and prepared to throw himself back into battle, when the magic of the ingested potion came alive in his veins. The shadowed streets became a hue lighter, his reflexes sharpened with better vision and his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles matched the white of the orcs themselves. All aches and pains abated and Vighon felt light on his feet again. Every breath he inhaled felt like the world was filling him up with energy.

  “Whatever this is,” he said to Inara, “I need more!”

  Inara, sword held into form two of the Mag’dereth, offered Vighon a coy smile. “Too much will kill you. Use it well.”

  Vighon eyed the giant orc. He fully intended to.

  Algamesh unleashed a roar that shook the occupants of the courtyard to their bones. It also kept the other orcs rooted to the spot.

  “Come on then!” Vighon yelled, charging forward.

  Galanör and Inara were a couple of steps behind him, leaving the northman to break through their front line. And break it he did. His strength renewed, Vighon came down hard on those first orcs. He kicked one back and cut through the neck of another before parrying and killing a third. A fourth came at him, but his initial attack had enraged Algamesh, who swept the fourth orc aside with the flat of his axe.

  Now there was nothing but air between the northman and the behemoth.

  That double-sided axe went high and then came down with the full force of the orc’s mighty strength. It wasn’t an attack Vighon could defend. Rolling to the side saved his life and the quick swipe of his sword ended that of another orc running past him.

  Vighon sprang back onto his feet and Algamesh turned to face him, shoving its kin aside wherever they got in its way. That devastating axe came down again and again, scarring the bear sigil carved into the courtyard stone. Vighon weaved between the smaller orcs and rolled out of the axe’s way wherever he needed to. A quick kill here and a dive there were the only things keeping him alive.

  Algamesh roared, becoming frustrated with its prey’s continued survival. The behemoth began swiping its axe across the field of battle to reach him, taking orcish lives with every swing. After a particularly hard downwards strike, Vighon dashed in and swung his sword at the beast’s face, cleaving a chunk of its horn off and drawing a red line down its face.

  The axe came out of the ground immediately and Algamesh assumed its towering stance again. The lion-like roar was painful to hear up close, but the curved blade cutting through the air promised a lot more than just pain. Vighon ran towards the incoming axe and skidded on his knees to slide under it. The northman leaped forwards from his skid, deliberately rolling over his fallen shield before jumping back to his feet.

  Spinning about with his shield and sword ready, Algamesh was already upon him. That heavy axe looked to come down on him again and Vighon decided that even with the shield the crushing weight of such a blow would break his arm. With nowhere else to go, the northerner dashed forwards, inside the behemoth’s reach. The axe overshot him and Vighon was presented with an exposed gut of muscle.

  Using both hands, he thrust his sword up into the beast’s gut, twisting as he did. He didn’t stop until the hilt guard pressed against the pale flesh. The behemoth’s yelp turned into a pained growl when Vighon yanked the blade out, spilling blood all over the ground.

  Algamesh didn’t go down, however. The beast hefted its axe and bashed Vighon’s head with the blunt end. The northman blacked out for a few seconds, recalling nothing of his fall or hard landing. With Inara’s potion still coursing through him his senses returned faster than normal, gifting him the extra second to see the axe coming down over his head.

  A strong hand gripped his gambeson and dragged him sideways as the curved blade dug deep into the ground. Vighon felt that same hand pull him up before he finally turned his head to see Inara. The Dragorn had saved his life while simultaneousl
y parrying a group of swarming orcs. She said nothing, but simply released him from her grip and dived straight back into the fight.

  With Algamesh turning on him once more, Vighon had no choice but to do the same.

  The giant orc killed three more of its kin trying to remove the northman’s head, leading Vighon to wonder if it would be better to keep the behemoth alive at the rate it was killing orcs.

  Wiping the fresh blood trickling over his left eye, Vighon went to work. Steel flashed left and right, hacking through the orcs between him and Algamesh. If today was the day he met his end, he would make certain that monster left the world first.

  Algamesh’s erratic movements had turned their fight around, placing Vighon in the middle of the courtyard now. The orcs flooding in behind the northerner would have been a concern, were they themselves not too concerned with interfering in Algamesh’s fight.

  The giant orc raised its axe high into the air over Vighon’s head. The beast’s attack never came, however, when three spears were launched from the soldiers of Grey Stone, all of which impaled Algamesh’s back. The giant orc swung about in an attempt to rid itself of the spears, its recklessness bringing an end to so many orcs. Vighon ducked and dropped to the ground more than once to avoid its wild axe.

  Galanör skidded past the behemoth, whipping both of his scimitars across its legs. Algamesh roared and one of its thick legs buckled, forcing the orc to support itself on its axe. The soldiers foolishly thought they saw an advantage and charged out from their defensive line with a war cry on their lips.

  Algamesh grunted, finding its reserves, and rose up to meet the men with its axe gripped horizontally. The first four were shoved back by the haft and taken from their feet. It was enough to give the soldiers behind pause, but those on the ground found themselves at the beast’s mercy.

  Vighon bashed the nearest orc around the head with the hilt of his sword, clearing his path to the back of Algamesh. The northman had no plan - he simply reacted.

  A twirl of his sword saw him grip the blade like a spear and he threw it without delay.

  The steel ran through Algamesh’s back as the orc was lifting his axe, preparing to hammer the fallen soldiers.

  Vighon burst into action before the hilt guard had even sunk to the skin.

  He knocked one orc aside with his shield before dropping it, reaching now for the dagger on his hip.

  With determined strides, he bounded up the wide back of Algamesh and used the protruding hilt of his sword to steady himself above the monster’s head.

  The dagger came down in the side of the orc’s neck and was twisted. Vighon held on to the unbroken horn and plunged his dagger again and again until Algamesh’s gargled cries died away.

  First it dropped the heavy axe. Then both of its legs buckled. Finally, it fell face first into the ground and Vighon jumped forward, staggering to his feet. His breath ragged and face splashed with orc blood, the northman looked upon the blank faces of Grey Stone’s soldiers.

  They let loose an almighty cheer and charged into the fray.

  Vighon was happy to take a moment to catch his breath and retrieve his sword from Algamesh’s back. He wanted to sit on the monster’s tremendous bulk and marvel at his works, but the sound of Inara and Galanör dominating the courtyard drew him back into the melee.

  There were still a few more orcs to kill.

  50

  The Bastion

  There was only darkness. Rough hands grabbed at Alijah’s arms, dragging him down cold halls, and over wet floors. His feet could do nothing but follow in his wake, his every muscle still aching and desperate for a reprieve.

  A foot went into the back of his leg, forcing him to his knees. His hands were already shackled behind his back but, now, someone out of sight lifted his arms back and connected his shackles to another chain bolted into the wall.

  The sack cloth was torn from his head and the world returned to the half-elf in the blinding light of a roaring fire. The rogue blinked in the contrasting light, trying to orientate himself in a chamber of flickering shadows.

  This new chamber appeared to have a single purpose - housing a large fire pit built into a circular chimney. Above the flames rested a wooden plank, chained at the corners to the curved walls. Alijah craned his neck to see the circle of white light at the top of the chimney.

  Was it daytime?

  Had he been unconscious?

  He remembered being dragged down several corridors and through various opening and closing doors, but there were fuzzy parts of their journey inside The Bastion that he couldn’t hold on to.

  Since he was still alive, Alijah decided it wasn’t important. He, instead, examined his surroundings and discovered Hadavad beside him, similarly chained. The mage was wounded with a plethora of cuts and gashes on his face and blood dripped down his long dreadlocks.

  “Hadavad?” he hissed, noting the absence of the dark mages now.

  “I’m here, boy…” he rasped.

  Alijah tensed his muscles and strained against his chains. He sighed, bereft of strength, and gave up.

  “What happened?” the rogue asked, tasting blood on his lips.

  Hadavad couldn’t bring himself to lift his face. “I… I was…” The mage choked on his words, unable to answer.

  “Hadavad?” Alijah prompted.

  “He’s broken.” The harsh voice came from the shadows.

  The Crow emerged, walking out in front of the crackling fire that rose over his head. Draped in his usual dark cloak and crow feathers, the leader of The Black Hand came to stand before them. His expression wasn’t smug, however, but apologetic. The harsh lines and creases of his pale face furrowed around his brow as he looked down on them.

  “For five hundred years,” The Crow continued, “Hadavad has stood up to The Black Hand. Every victory brought with it the confidence that he would inevitably win.” The Crow flexed a delicate finger and lifted Hadavad’s chin. “I am sorry, mage. You fought for what you believed to be right. And you fought hard. But you could never see what we were fighting for…” Cold eyes settled on Alijah.

  “How did you know we were coming here?” the rogue asked. In truth, he cared little for the answer; he just needed to buy some time to figure out how they were going to survive this.

  “I knew because I told him to come here,” The Crow replied boldly.

  Alijah stopped inspecting the chamber and turned to Hadavad, confused. “The visions…”

  “Yes,” The Crow whispered. “Dreams are easy to manipulate when the person has been forced into sleep. A knock to the head is usually adequate.”

  Hadavad finally lifted his face and fixed The Crow with a glowering stare. Tears filled his bloodshot eyes but the mage still couldn’t find any words.

  “The future is a fickle thing,” The Crow explained, unfazed by the mage’s scowl. “The smallest of things can knock everything out of alignment. Here and there, I must occasionally apply pressure to keep everything on course.”

  “You’re mad!” Alijah spat. “You and all of your fanatics!”

  The Crow tilted his head. “Fanatics? What is it we’re fanatical about exactly?”

  Alijah felt as if he had been asked a trick question. “You worship Kaliban,” he answered, ignoring the pain creeping into his knees on the stone floor.

  The Crow crouched in front of the rogue, his gaze intense. “There-is-no-Kaliban.”

  Those four words turned Alijah’s world upside down. It was the foundation of the entire order. If nothing else, it was the only thing they knew about The Black Hand for sure. Even Hadavad’s scowl softened into surprise.

  The Crow stood up and turned to the fire. “Ten thousand years ago, The Echoes, an order of mages, created Kaliban to maintain order over a growing population of magic users. During the time of The First Kingdom, magic was an everyday tool for humans, or at least those educated enough to use it. Control was needed. And so religion was born.”

  “You’re lying,” Hadavad f
inally blurted. “I’ve seen The Black Hand worshipping at secret shrines to Kaliban.”

  The Crow turned to them again, his expression one of regret. “I hate what I am, what I have become. I am fooling them just as the priests of The Echoes did so long ago. It wasn’t what I intended for The Black Hand. I gave them a new vision, a new order with which to live by. In my absence, however, the old ways returned, over time. Now they are slaves to their beliefs. Still, I have seen firsthand how the faithful can be herded. Though blind to the truth, I can still use them to better the world.”

  Alijah was sure he was hearing The Crow’s words correctly, but it didn’t make any sense. “Who are you?” he asked.

  The Crow ran his hand slowly over his scarred scalp. “My name… is Sarkas.” He paused as if tasting the name in his mouth. “It has been a very long time since that name has reached my ears.” The Crow briefly closed his eyes and tilted his head with a pained expression. “Who I am is not important. It never was. Acknowledging that you’re no more than a pawn in destiny’s hand is a hard truth to come to terms with.” The Crow looked down at Alijah. “But when I saw you… When I saw everything you’re going to accomplish…” The old man crouched down again and cupped Alijah’s face in his hand. “I will do anything I have to, be anything I have to, to see that future realised.”

  “You’re mad!” Alijah spat again, shaking The Crow’s hand free.

  The lanky man straightened and stepped back. “No. I have seen madness. I saw the madness that corrupted the most powerful man in the world. King Atilan plunged his empire into chaos and death because of his insanity and insatiable hunger for immortality.”

  Alijah shook his head. “Have you heard yourself? You’re the insane one! You’re talking about events from ten millennia ago!”

  The Crow’s gaze grew distant and he looked through them. “Ten millennia… It only feels like a handful of years to me.”

  The Crow pulled on the knots of his cloak and shook the material free of his shoulders, leaving him bare chested with only a long skirt to hang from his waist. Alijah scanned his pale body, taking in the patchwork of scars that marred his flesh. It was easy to understand why The Crow was insane when he had obviously been subjected to a staggering amount of torture. The most obvious of his scars was the thick line that ran diagonally over his heart.