The Fall of Neverdark Read online

  The three who emerged from the tunnel were walking walls of muscle, though The Crow felt a comparison to stone would be better. Their pale flesh was pulled tight against their frames, easily seen with exposed chests that revealed a patchwork of scars, resembling cracks in a statue. Their trousers were roughly sewn with little care for their appearance, except for the random plates of armour, which told of their mastery over iron and steel.

  At least they hadn’t lost all of their skills under the mountain.

  The closest approached him with cautious steps, torn between examining his human features and that of the stars twinkling above.

  The approaching orc had a strong jaw that formed the foundation of a face made from angular features. Its straight jaw gave way to sharp cheekbones and pointed ears. Its nose and mouth were not dissimilar from any man or elf’s - even its hair was dark, flowing over its slab-like chest.

  A quick glance at the others informed The Crow that all three of the orcs possessed a head of horns, bony protrusions that began just above the eyes and flowed over the back of their heads. Despite being similar at a glance, their horns were unique in shape, size, and pattern, a distinction far more notable to their own kind, he assumed.

  With a brow of solid bone, The Crow could only imagine what knocking heads with an orc would do to one’s brain.

  The orc’s cautious behaviour ended the moment it thought The Crow was within reach of its sword arm. The inquisitive face stretched into one of pure aggression and the orc lunged at him with a dull serrated blade that had been hidden in the dark. The other two attacked at the same moment, their roars closer to that of a lion.

  The Crow had only to lift his wand and end their assault with a whisper.

  The orc to his left was folded in half and sent flying across the hard ground, its body leaving track marks in the sand. The orc to his right found it hard to move at all when its blood turned to ice, converting most of its body into a solid block.

  The last orc, in front of The Crow, was lifted from its feet and suspended in the air. Its responding growl soon became a yelp when he used a spell to heat up the creature’s sword. The glowing orange hilt sizzled in its grip before the orc relinquished it to the ground in favour of saving its pale skin. A quick flourish of his wand tilted the orc in the air, forcing it to lie flat and float before him.

  The Crow approached the prone orc and removed an arcane translator from within his robes, a spinning top no bigger than his thumbnail. The orc writhed about in an effort to break free of the magic, forcing him to tighten his spell and prevent the creature from moving at all. With nimble fingers, he twisted the spinner, using the orc’s chest muscles as a surface.

  “Hear my words,” The Crow said, noting the recognition and surprise on the orc’s face. “You will take me to the one who owns you.”

  The orc bared its sharp teeth. “Release me!”

  The Crow lifted his chin. “Very little is known of your kin.” He leant over the creature’s head. “But, I know more than most.”

  Beckoning Morvir with his bony finger, the first servant scurried over with a large sack. The Crow placed a hand inside and lifted out the skull of a man, perfectly intact without a single mark to ruin its features. The orc’s eyes lit up.

  The Crow continued, “Your people trade in bones, yes? The bones of monsters from the deep, even the bones of your own kind. That type of currency must be limited down there. Hard to come by too, I imagine, what with you all being so… strong. The world I have come from is not so strong, and it is full of bones like this one. Take me to your master and you can be rich.”

  The orc had yet to take its eyes off the polished skull. “Give me the skull,” it demanded, “and I will take you.”

  The Crow could see the hint of a smile on the orc’s face and knew of the creature’s treacherous intentions. “You shall receive payment when we meet your master.”

  The orc didn’t agree. Frozen in the air, the creature thrashed, testing the strength of the spell. The expletives leaving his mouth became unintelligible the moment the spinner became unbalanced on its chest, much to The Crow’s appreciation.

  Wasting no more time, he dropped the orc onto the hard ground and cast a binding spell around the creature’s wrists, tying them behind its back. A thin gold leash ran from the binding to The Crow’s wand, giving him complete control. It took three of the wizards to get the heavy orc back on its feet, but a twist of the wand had fire shooting through its veins, an encouragement to cooperate.

  “Keep the light behind it,” The Crow instructed.

  Morvir stamped his staff into the ground and created a globe of soft white light, careful to keep it away from the sensitive orc. As they entered the dark tunnel, the other wizards released orbs of light to float above them and follow their route.

  The orc grumbled for the first hundred yards of their journey; being a captive was far worse than being dead, apparently.

  They travelled through the hidden world, buried beneath The Undying Mountains, for some time, though it was impossible to track day and night in perpetual darkness.

  Just as fatigue was beginning to set in, The Crow noticed the rock change from its smooth, natural formation to hewn stone. Where there had once been nothing but a gradual decline, there were now steps and engravings marking the walls. If these telltale signs hadn’t been enough, the foul odour attacking his nose certainly would.

  They were finally entering the home of the orcs.

  Shining eyes appeared in the darkest depths of this new world. What started as a few quickly became dozens, then hundreds. The gloom from their magic wasn’t enough to pierce the orcs’ dwelling, exposing only that which they passed. Whispers and grunts echoed from high above, telling The Crow that they had entered a large cavern within the mountain.

  Before entering another, smaller cavern, they saw buildings chiselled from the mountain stone. As fascinating as it was to see a culture that had been buried and long forgotten, The Crow was only interested in one of them.

  The king…

  The prisoner spoke something in its guttural language and two double doors were opened by lumbering orcs, much bigger than the three they had encountered so far. The great beasts protected their eyes from the approaching light and retreated into the next chamber, stumbling over themselves to find comfort in the dark.

  The roars that greeted The Crow and the other wizards were offensive to their ears. It was hard to determine exactly how many orcs were inside this new chamber, but he knew that any one of them posed a threat right now.

  This is not how I die, he thought.

  Where the orcs found comfort in the dark, he found comfort in magic. The orcs had the advantage of numbers over every race, but magic would forever be their weakness.

  The Crow strode into the chamber, following the path cut out by his tethered prisoner. When the orc finally came to a stop, its demeanour somewhat diminished since its attempted assault, the leader of The Black Hand assumed he was now standing before the king.

  The roars died away as suddenly as they began and the prisoner flinched. The Crow couldn’t see far enough beyond the gloom to witness what had transpired, but he knew an order when he heard it. A jarring language that was harsh on the hearing filled the chamber, its volume forcing a wince even from The Crow.

  He didn’t have time for this. There was work to be done.

  He twisted his wand again and the prisoner screamed in a single moment of agony as its arms were lifted high behind its back, pushing it down on its knees. Another twist sent lightning bolts of controlling, yet painful, magic through the orc’s muscles, commanding it to bow the head and remain there, frozen in place.

  The Crow came to stand over the orc, where he carefully placed the spinning top on the crown of its head, between the gap in its horns. Using his middle finger and thumb, he spun the top and gestured for Morvir to release his glow of soft light into the air. The orcs protested and the sound of weapons being drawn from scabbards bou
nced off the walls.

  “What are you?” the leader spat.

  The Crow narrowed his eyes to better see the figure sitting on the throne of bones. Having only seen three orcs in detail, he didn’t consider himself an expert, but it was easy to see that the leader was old. Despite retaining his muscle and bulk, his body was as marred as the desert floor and cracked from top to bottom. There was no crown to speak of, allowing The Crow to examine the long horns that had grown and sloped over the leader’s head and down his back.

  What was more interesting to The Crow, however, was the tall orc standing beside the throne. It was the same orc he had seen in his vision, the one he had come so far to meet.

  The tall orc possessed broad shoulders and a solid build that made an offensive sight to behold. White hair flowed over his chest and two thick horns curved over his head and flicked up at the back. Tucked under them were two extra horns, mirroring the shape of the larger ones above. For all of his features, The Crow found his expression the most telling. Where those around the throne looked on him with anger and disgust, this taller orc was curious.

  Curiosity he could work with.

  The older orc dipped his head, keeping the light from his eyes. “You’re no elf.”

  “I am a man,” The Crow replied, boldly.

  The orc sneered. “You are from Neverdark…”

  “An apt description,” he consented. “You are the king of the orcs?”

  “The tribes have no king. I am chieftain of the Born Horde, greatest of the nine! What are you doing in The Under Realm, man-thing? Other than filling my nose with your vile magics.”

  The Crow turned to glance at Morvir, who threw the sack of bones before the old chieftain. More whispers erupted from every corner of the throne room when every piece of a human skeleton scattered across the cold floor.

  The Crow could see that the two armrests of the chieftain’s throne were made from similar-looking skulls. Elven skulls, at least five thousand years old. In orcish society, that would make the Born Horde a very rich tribe…

  “After five thousand years, you must be tired of the same old bones.”

  The chieftain grunted. “Years? What is years, man-thing?”

  The Crow blinked slowly, chastising himself for the oversight. “It’s been a long time since your people have set foot above The Under Realm. A new race has claimed Neverdark as their land.” He put a hand to his chest. “Humans. They have allied with your mortal enemy, the elf. The orc has been lost to history, forgotten by all.”

  The chieftain leant forward in his throne. “And what of the dwarf?”

  The Crow replied, “There is peace with the dwarves of Dhenaheim. They have grown fat and complacent in their halls of stone. The Great War is but a memory.”

  The chieftain considered his words while his eyes took in the variety of different bones. The Crow knew of their unusual trade system, but he had no idea what the value of each bone was.

  “You have come a long way to tell us this,” the old orc said. “What is to stop us from flaying you all and adding your bones to my throne?”

  The Crow briefly met the eyes of the curious orc beside the chieftain. “I have knowledge of the world above. Their kingdoms. Their allegiances.” He put his hand to his bald and scarred head as glimpses of his vision flashed before his eyes. “I even know of the old burrows dug beneath Neverdark by your ancestors. I could show you how to navigate the world without fear of the sun and take back what should always have been yours.”

  The orc chieftain laughed. “You may not be an elf, but your tongue is just as forked as theirs! Our kind has conquered The Under Realm. It is our home. We have no place under the wrath of the sky fire.”

  Growing tired of the exchange, The Crow announced, “I can make you king.”

  The chieftain puffed out his cracked chest. “There has been no king since The Great War, man-thing. I do not see how such a scrawny creature can make such a claim. I will, however, accept your skull as payment for bringing magic into my domain.”

  The Crow sighed. “I wasn’t talking to you…” The statement drew a quizzical expression from the chieftain.

  The curious orc, beside the chieftain, took a threatening step towards the leader of The Black Hand. It was happening just as he had envisioned. The tall orc drew his wide serrated sword, much to the chieftain’s amusement.

  “Bring me his skull, Karakulak.”

  What came next was almost too fast to make sense of. Only when the orc chieftain’s head slid from his body, did The Crow note that the curious orc, Karakulak, was now facing away from the wizards, his serrated blade held out to his side with thick red blood dripping off the edges.

  The Crow expected the assassination to have some effect on the surrounding orcs, be it a shuffling of feet or the reach for a weapon, but the chamber remained silent, the transition of power as absolute as the old orc’s death.

  “My father was weak,” Karakulak said with his back to the wizards. “We have been on the brink of war with the other tribes for most of my life. But…” The orc slowly turned around to face The Crow, his pale features and sleek horns speckled with blood. “A king would unite the tribes under one banner. Our banner!” he shouted.

  “THE BORN HORDE!” the chamber erupted in a deafening cacophony.

  It was clear to see that Karakulak had allies not just within his tribe, but closer to the throne. There was every chance this exact scene would have played out in the not too distant future.

  The tall orc beat a hand against his solid chest. “I am Karakulak. And I would be king of the orcs.”

  The Crow bowed his head. “My name is of little consequence, only my knowledge can serve the Born Horde. We are The Black Hand.”

  Karakulak lifted his chin, taking the wizards in. “Generations have come and gone since The Great War, yet still we remember the enemy. Elf. Dwarf. They drove us from Vengora, our home! I would have them remember us.” The new chieftain displayed a cocky smile, a disturbing sight on an orc. “And a throne entirely of elven bone wouldn’t hurt,” he added, eliciting a cheer from those in the shadows.

  Changing his behaviour in the snap of his jaws, Karakulak took a single stride to plant himself only a foot away from The Crow. “My father may have been short-sighted, but he spoke a truth that cannot be ignored.”

  The Crow twisted his mouth, careful to conceal his smile. Everything was happening just as he had seen, right down to the very words.

  “The orc has no place under the sky fire,” Karakulak continued. “Besides spilling our enemies’ blood, what would we want of Neverdark?”

  The Crow made to speak, but he felt it better to show the would-be-king. Dropping to one knee, he placed the flat of his hand against the chamber floor. He could feel the heat radiating up, the source of The Under Realm’s warmth.

  Another quake rippled through the stone and rained debris from above, something the orcs appeared to have become accustomed to.

  “Come Chieftain Karakulak,” he beckoned. “Feel the wrath of the earth.”

  The orc raised an eyebrow until it became squashed against his bony forehead. Still, Karakulak relented and crouched beside The Crow, placing down a much larger hand. The heat was undeniable.

  “If the orc goes to war with Neverdark, the earth will go to war with the sky fire,” The Crow proclaimed. “It is written…”

  “It is Gordomo’s breath!” Karakulak stated proudly, slapping the floor.

  “Gordomo…” The Crow repeated the name, testing it out in his mouth.

  “The All-Maker, creator of orcs!” Karakulak thumped his hand into his chest.

  “GORDOMO!” The orcs’ reverberating praise was grating to his ears.

  Knowing that the orcs, like every other race, worshipped a god that simply didn’t exist only made them all the more malleable.

  The Crow took a breath before responding; he wanted to deliver his tall tale just right with the perfect inflection rather than, Once upon a time…
/>   “In a realm above our own, the gods conspire to change our world. My god, Kaliban, has shown me the end of the sky fire and the beginning of a new Age. An Age of the orc,” he lied.

  Karakulak stood up, peering around the chamber at his tribe. “An Age of the orc?” The chamber erupted into cheers and beating chests.

  “You would rule above and below,” The Crow embellished his lies.

  “Your god has shown you this?” the orc asked.

  “This and much more,” he replied. “Knowledge is power, King Karakulak. And I have knowledge that will see the nine tribes bow in your shadow or perish under it. Then the world is yours.”

  The new chieftain tilted his head, searching for any sign of a lie. “You would see the Born Horde rise above all others and have the orc rule over Neverdark?”

  “That is Kaliban’s will.” What harm was another lie? he thought.

  Karakulak spat on the floor. “I care little for the will of your god. Let Gordomo and this Kaliban deal with each other. I concern myself with the thing standing before me. Every living creature has wants…”

  The Crow looked away as if considering his answer. “I have no wants. But, there is one thing I will need of you. After I help you to become king, that is.”

  Karakulak’s eyes shone as they caught the light. “And what would that be? Besides your life, I mean.”

  Ignoring the threat, The Crow replied with calculating words, “It is said the orc was once Verda’s greatest hunter, that no beast could elude you.”

  “If its heart beats, we can trap it,” Karakulak said confidently, the bait taken. “What beast from the deep would you have us capture?”

  “The beast I desire cannot be found in The Under Realm.” The Crow uttered his next words with as much clarity as he could muster. “I need a dragon…”

  2

  Old Bones

  Six Years Later

  Atop the slopes of Vengora there was no place a man could call home, especially for a tired old man with five hundred years under his belt. For thirty days and thirty nights, the howling wind and the weight of a heavy pick-axe had been Hadavad’s only companion, but under the shadow of the whip masters, the mage had little choice in the matter.