“I left strict instructions,” The Crow continued. “When The Black Hand was born in the ashes of The Echoes, I left them with a map of sorts. When Paldora’s Star fell from the heavens, thirty years ago, they were to come here, to The Bastion. This place used to be one of Atilan’s laboratories. Can you not feel it? The magic of the place rolling over your skin.”
Alijah had been too exhausted to register it, but now that he thought about, he could feel something pressing against his skin. There was certainly magic permeating The Bastion.
“I had to be vague, of course. It was paramount that they found it at exactly the right time. Along with my body, buried in The Wild Moores, they were to come here and grant me new life. Astari!” The Crow declared with his fingers resting over the scar on his chest. “Don’t you see, Alijah? I died for you, long ago, before your ancestors were even born. I plunged a blade into my heart and rested in the ground for ten thousand years! All so that I might guide you. I couldn’t leave such a task to any other.”
“Shut your mouth!” Hadavad growled. “You lie with every breath!”
Alijah could feel his heart pounding in his ears. He looked upon The Crow’s chest again. The truth of that mortal wound couldn’t be denied.
“It’s hard to hear, I know,” The Crow purred. “For ten years I have walked this earth again, hardly believing myself that events have truly unfolded as I foresaw. But you should see it! The world that is to come… It’s beautiful!”
“What does this have to do with me?” Alijah asked, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.
“Don’t Alijah,” Hadavad warned. “Don’t get pulled into his lies! This is what Crows do!”
Ignoring the mage, The Crow focused on Alijah. “Verda has endured many rulers, empires, kingdoms. All were corrupted by individuals, fractured by meaningless wars, and left to spiral out of control. Because of these individuals, the many have been made to suffer for the lavish lives of the few. What Verda needs is something new! Kings and queens don’t work, emperors are weak, lines on a map create only division. Under one banner, the banner of one strong enough to maintain peace, the people of Verda could live in harmony.”
Alijah couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “And you think that’s me?” he asked incredulously.
“Not alone,” The Crow replied cryptically. “But with the wisdom and power of a dragon… there would be nothing you cannot accomplish.”
“Malliath…” the rogue uttered.
“I have already seen it, Alijah. Together, you will bring peace to this world.”
The half-elf looked away, shaking his head. “No, no you… You brought Asher back. You bonded them and turned them on the world! You’re allied with the orcs! You talk about peace and harmony for the many, but you’ve started a war that will set the world on fire!”
With a soft tone, The Crow replied, “It will not be an easy road for you, Alijah Galfrey. You’re not nearly strong enough yet. No one is simply born with the power to do all that I have seen. That type of strength is forged! There is no better forge than war. There will be pain and suffering before the end, but you will emerge as something new, something the world sorely needs. When I am finished with you…” The Crow smiled. “You will be reborn!”
Hadavad lunged forward with gritted teeth, but his chains held him firm.
“Ah yes, the mentor…” The Crow turned away and looked to the plank of wood above the blazing fire.
With a closer look, Alijah thought he could see something lying on the plank, but the details were impossible to make out from such an angle.
“There can be no attachments,” The Crow said. “No bonds to your old life that bring you down and stop you from realising your potential.”
“What are you talking about?” the rogue asked, fearing for Hadavad’s life.
The Crow paused, considering his words, before looking at the mage. “Five hundred years ago, before old age could truly claim you, you used the Viridian ruby to transfer your soul into that of another. But whatever became of your original body? You had but one friend, one friend you trusted with the most precious thing.”
Hadavad looked from The Crow to the plank of wood above the fire, his expression growing terribly concerned.
The Crow waved his fingers in the air and his wand appeared in his hand, plucked from an unseen pocket dimension. “Rupert Flint, I believe his name was.”
Hadavad’s eyes glazed over, his eyes locked on The Crow. Alijah could see everything the mage clung to unravelling with revelation after revelation.
“You tasked Rupert Flint with taking your body and burying it where none would ever find it.” The Crow had a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You should have had him burn it…”
“Impossible!” Hadavad hissed, tugging at his chains.
“That’s always been your problem, Hadavad. Impossible is simply a thing that the narrow-minded cannot fathom. I found Rupert Flint’s grave in Longdale. I dredged him from his eternal rest and put sharp things into his body until he told me where you were hidden. A glacier in The Lonely Wastes, if you were wondering.”
Hadavad appeared to have lost some of his bluster. The mage stared at the plank, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I’ve had to go to some lengths to see this happen,” The Crow explained. “That ruby around your neck is troublesome. I could kill you with a spell but the magic of the stone would spit your essence out and you would assume another host. But,” The Crow said, holding up his wand, “if your original body was to become whole again, if it was to have life breathed into it… It would drag your soul back kicking and screaming.”
Hadavad growled and struggled in his chains. “It won’t work! I will end you! All of you!”
“I’m afraid it will work,” The Crow replied. “I did tell you, mage; I have seen your end.” The ancient man looked back at the fire. “And it is not a good one.”
Just as he had in Paldora’s Fall, The Crow began to chant in the ancient language, his arms outstretched and his wand glowing at the tip. Alijah and Hadavad fought with what little strength they had left and twisted their bodies into every position, hoping to free themselves of their bonds. The chains held.
The Crow continued his spell and a light was sparked on the surface of the plank. The bones rattled on the wood as the magic coalesced, bringing the broken form back together.
Hadavad’s every muscle tensed. The mage was in pain and it wasn’t from the chains digging into his skin.
“Alijah,” he said, ceasing his struggle. “Don’t…” Hadavad clamped his jaw shut for a moment, mustering whatever he had left. “Don’t give in to him. Don’t become what he…” The mage’s final words grew into a pained scream.
“NO!” Alijah raged, pulling on his chains.
Hadavad’s body went limp, suspended in the air by his chains. His eyes remained open, staring into the abyss.
Alijah’s breath was ragged as he slowly looked from the dead body beside him to the plank of wood above the fire. An old man sat up with white scraggy hair around the side of his head and a beard that fell below his chest.
“Hadavad?” the rogue whispered.
Returned to his original body, Hadavad looked down at his wrinkled and bony hands. Horror and shock contorted his face.
“No,” Alijah urged, seeing what was to come. “No, no, no! Don’t do this! Don’t do this! Please! You don’t have to do this!”
The Crow looked back over his shoulder at the rogue. “Your journey begins here, Alijah.”
A single flourish of his wand lifted the flames of the fire, engulfing Hadavad’s ancient body. The mage’s dying screams were drowned out by the roaring of the flames, its light concealing his final moments.
“NO!” Alijah cried through tears.
The fire dropped back to its natural height, revealing a single arm hanging over the plank. It was charred black.
Alijah gasped for breath with tears streaming down his cheeks and into his beard. His despair t
urned into raw anger when he looked from Hadavad to The Crow.
“I will kill you!” he snapped. “I will kill you!”
The Crow knelt down in front of him. “I have seen my end, but it is not you who stands over me. Fear not; this rage you feel will have its day. There are those who will stand in your way, who don’t understand the importance of what you’re going to do. That anger you share with Malliath, soon it will become yours alone. You will learn to control it, to wield it even. Inside these walls, we will work together.”
Alijah spat in his face. “If you let me live, I will kill you.”
The Crow stood over him again. “Let you live?” he echoed. “You don’t know what it is to be alive. Not yet…”
Alijah stared down the length of the wand pointed at his face. First there was pain. Then there was nothing at all.
51
The Fall Of Illian
Inara thrust her hand out and cast a destructive spell into the attacking horde of orcs. Tired as she was now, the spell did nothing more than push them back, offering the Dragorn a few extra seconds before they renewed their assault.
Vighon was beside her, his shield held low and the grip on his sword becoming tentative. The northman had proven his courage and great skill in battle over the last three days, but never more so than the last few hours. How much longer he could stay on his feet was uncertain, however. The elixir she had given him wore off soon after his victory over Algamesh.
Galanör’s angular face glistened with sweat and streaks of orcish blood. Even the hardened ranger was showing signs of fatigue, his shoulders hunched and all form forgotten. Still, the elf wielded his scimitars with deadly accuracy, always finding his foe’s weak points.
Together, the three companions had been pushed away from the street that led to the caves. The soldiers of Grey Stone had steadily disappeared down the narrow ravine, escaping through the hole in the barricade one by one. Inara hoped they had all found safety on the other side, Russell included, but the likelihood was that the street now possessed a lot more human bodies.
There were just too many orcs…
Inara couldn’t believe their never-ending numbers. They were a plague that had no cure, a swarm that couldn’t be satiated. She could see it in their eyes, that hunger for blood and war. The orcs wouldn’t stop until the surface of Illian was wiped clean of life.
Not while we breathe! Athis exclaimed deep in her mind, bolstering her.
Inara levelled her Vi’tari blade in front of her face and presented the orcs with a face of fury. Grey Stone was lost, but the Dragorn would only relinquish the city when it was buried under a mountain of orcs.
The enchanted scimitar embraced her intentions towards the pale beasts and had Inara strengthen her grip. The blade slashed across the oncoming wave and cut down three before jabbing and swiping to claim the lives of two others. Their jagged swords and axes came at her from awkward angles, but the Vi’tari blade parried them all before opening them up. Blood spilled across the ground and the three companions continued to retreat down the street.
“Where are we going?” Vighon asked through laboured breath, his sword flashing in front of them to slay any orc that jumped out of their line.
Galanör held the right side of the street, making sure their enemies didn’t get around and flank them. The elf’s dual scimitars couldn’t be denied their taste of blood.
“This street just leads us deeper into the city,” Vighon continued. “We’ll hit a dead end soon.”
Inara dashed forward and chopped down on a spear aimed for Vighon’s chest. The Vi’tari blade went down, through the spear, and out to the side, whipping across the orc’s throat. The northman yanked her back immediately as a cluster of the beasts looked to stab her in the back. Together they paved the street with more orc corpses.
Where are we going? Inara asked inside her bond with Athis.
The red dragon was above them, at the top of the ravine. His bulk was too large to crawl down and so he was left with following them from the upper city. Inara knew Athis had considered exhaling a breath of fire down the narrow ravine, but in such a cramped environment, there was a chance the fire would spread and engulf them all.
I’m looking, Athis assured.
Inara craned her neck and stole a glance. Athis had disappeared from the pale sky above.
Pale sky!
“The sun is rising!” Inara exclaimed.
“Not nearly quick enough!” Galanör replied, thrusting his scimitar through two orcs at once. “Only the light of midday can reach these streets!”
Inara’s hope faded fast. Midday was hours away. They would reach the end of this maze before then and be worn down by the hordes.
One particular roar drowned out the others and an almost naked orc burst through the line. Painted in black and yellow, the orc was a solid build of pure muscle and rage. Its head was a crown of small horns, four of which pointed out from its forehead. In its frenzy, the beast took no heed of the four blades between them and lunged at the three companions.
Vighon’s steel tore a mortal gash across its ribs and Inara’s Vi’tari blade opened up an artery in its arm, but the orc’s momentum couldn’t be stopped. A brutish backhand knocked Vighon back and Galanör was forced to step in front of the fallen man and protect him from the others. Inara, on the other hand, was thrown back when the painted orc barrelled into her.
Trapped under its body and her scimitar out of reach, Inara was at the creature’s mercy. With blood pooling out of two severe injuries, the painted orc attempted to headbutt the Dragorn with those devastating horns. Inara shifted her head to the right and the horns slammed into the ground instead. Abandoning the search for her blade, the half-elf thrust her forearm up into the orc’s neck, preventing it from getting any closer.
Looking down at her feet, Galanör was stemming the flow by himself, allowing Vighon a moment to get back up and add his blade to the fight.
Had she not been so exhausted, Inara knew she would have possessed the strength to simply throw the painted orc off her. That strength had left her a whole day ago. The orc looked her in the eyes and growled, baring its fangs. Then its breath became ragged, its limbs dead weights, and its gaze distant. Due to blood loss, the beast finally died… on top of her.
Inara dug deep and grunted as she pushed the orc up and to the side, rolling its corpse off her. Galanör and Vighon were about to step on her in their continued retreat. The Dragorn rolled aside and retrieved her Vi’tari blade on the way up. Her addition to the trio saw the end of three more orcs who had Galanör in their sights.
The lift! Athis declared without warning.
It took Inara a moment longer than normal to understand her companion’s words, but when they finally registered the Dragorn felt her hope rising once more.
“We need to reach the lift!” she told the others.
“The lift?” Vighon questioned, raising his sword to keep an axe at bay.
Galanör kicked his foe away and faced Inara with revelation. “The upper city,” he said. “Where is it?”
There is an alley that leads off the street you are on, Athis explained to Inara, hearing the elf’s question through her mind. It’s on your left, Inara. Follow it to the end and turn right. Keep going until you see the lift on your left.
Is it down? Inara asked desperately.
Yes!
“Follow me!” she barked, turning and sprinting away.
The trio ran as fast as they could, or at least as fast as Vighon could. Galanör deliberately slowed down and stayed at the back while Inara took the lead. Putting some distance between them and the orcs gave Athis the opportunity to unleash his awesome breath.
Inara didn’t need to be bonded to the dragon to know a jet of fire had been spat down the ravine. They turned the corner into the alley as the flames scorched the ground behind them. The orcs screamed in agony and the fire gave the trio more time to escape, rushing down the adjacent ravine.
The li
ft was ahead of them, on the left as Athis had said. Beyond the lift, at the end of the street, a wall of orcs were running past. It took only one of the pale beasts to notice the three companions before they charged towards them, howling with glee that there were still people to slaughter.
“Run!” Inara shouted, despite the fact that they were already running. If they didn’t make it to the lift before the orcs met them in the street, they would never get out of this hell.
Galanör, the fastest among them, ran ahead and began investigating the mechanisms that controlled the lift. “It’s too slow!” he called back.
Inara chastised herself for only thinking of it now, for she knew the lift was on a counter-weight that had to be cranked by someone at the top or bottom. The orcs would swarm them before the lift was raised even a foot into the air.
The elven ranger hopped over the railing and confronted the orcs with Stormweaver and Guardian. Every slash and swipe of his magnificent scimitars ended the life of an orc. It wasn’t long before a handful slipped past him and continued their charge towards Inara and Vighon. The Dragorn dropped to her knees and skidded down the street with her blade out to the side. She cut down two orcs before jumping back to her feet and planting her boot in the chest of another.
Vighon used an abandoned crate to leap into the fray and come down with his sword. The northerner followed his swing with a punch from his shield, lodging the steel rim in an orc’s throat. He yelled out in pain when one of the beasts caught his arm with its blade. Having none of it, Vighon kicked out and snapped the orc’s knee, bringing it to its knees - the perfect height to thrust the tip of his sword through the monster’s face.
The Fall of Neverdark Page 60