Twilight Falling

by Paul S. Kemp

  “That’s it,” Riven said, indicating the hole. “Down there. Caters to gnolls, orcs, and the like.”

  Cale gave a nod. He figured the current owners had bought the charred property cheap, expanded the cellar of the previous establishment, and held it out as a tavern. Shrewd, really. Something a Sembian might have thought of.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and they did.

  Twenty-five or so stone flagged stairs descended to a single large room dug out of the earth. Thick timbers lined the walls and stood at intervals throughout the room to prevent collapse. Some holes had been bored in the ceiling through to the outside to provide ventilation, but smoke still clouded the air and stairwell. The place had an animal stink, like a kennel.

  A huge bugbear wearing a shirt of studded leather and a pair of spiked gauntlets sat on a stool to Cale’s right. His hairy-knuckled hands rested on the leather wrapped hilt of a short, thick club. The bugbear’s pugnacious jaw and the teeth that filled it looked fit to tear raw meat. The creature leaned forward and its bloodshot eyes fixed on Cale.

  “Everyone drinks, manling,” it grunted in Common. “Everyone pays. And no one fights.”

  Cale held its gaze for a moment before nodding.

  “I hear you,” he responded in the harsh goblin tongue, which he knew bugbears to understand.

  The creature’s eyes registered surprise. It leaned back, gave what Cale thought might have been a grin, and waved them in with the club.

  There was no bar in the room, just some swollen, tapped hogsheads set on a table in one corner. The unkempt human “barkeep” slept in a chair beside the table, his hands folded over his ample belly and filthy burlap apron. Tallow candles burned wanly on the five or six thick-legged tables set around the room. Ten or fifteen half-orcs and gnolls populated the tables, each holding drinks in mismatched tankards. Some threw dice; others conversed with comrades in their guttural tongues. Conversation lulled for a moment as hard, bestial faces coldly eyed Cale and Riven, but quickly restarted with renewed vigor.

  Mindful of the bugbear’s words, they headed for the barkeep and the drink table. A few of the half-orcs glared challenges at Cale but he ignored them.

  As they walked, Riven leaned on Cale as though for support and whispered, “How did you speak to that bugbear, Cale? How many languages do you know anyway?”

  “Nine,” Cale answered. “But not the gnolls’.” He looked around the room at the many gnolls. “Are one of these Dreeve?”

  Riven looked out from under his hood.

  “There,” he said. “Alone at the table to our left. Big bastard with the long mane, mail shirt, and piercings.”

  Cale saw him. Dreeve sat alone in the corner, eyeing them with feral black eyes while sipping—lapping, really—from a ceramic tankard. Even sitting, he looked big: a full two heads taller than Cale, probably. Dark, yellow-brown fur covered light green skin. Muscles and veins bulked under his mail shirt and green travelling cloak. Three iron rings hung from each ear and the fur around his canine muzzle was stained black, the telltale sign of a habitual mistleaf root chewer.

  Cale took an immediate dislike to him, but reminded himself that they had little choice.

  “Drinks first,” he said to Riven.

  When they reached the table with the tapped hogsheads atop it, the barkeep, without ever looking up or opening his eyes, said, “Three coppers a tankard. Serve yourself.”

  Cale laid a silver raven on the table—he had only Sembian coins—took two dirty tankards from the haphazard stack near the taps, and filled each with the watered-down swill.

  Without another word, they turned and walked for Dreeve’s table. As they did, Cale surreptitiously whispered the words to a divination spell that detected dweomers. Neither the gnoll nor any of his items showed as magical. Cale felt relieved. Unless the gnoll was warded, he was no shapeshifter.

  Dreeve eyed them as they approached. When they got close, he chuffed the air, as though sniffing for spoor. His lips peeled back from yellowed fangs.

  To Riven he said, “You return, old human.” He put enough emphasis on the last word to suggest it was an insult. He looked at Cale and licked his lips. “And you bring another of your pack, eh? Dreeve’s offer is good, not so?” he asked Cale. His voice was strangely high-pitched, but deep growls punctuated every third or fourth word. “Did you bring the coin? Three hundred gold?”

  Cale ignored the question.

  “You told this granther—” he nodded at Riven—“that you know the Gulthmere?”

  Cale deliberately made himself sound skeptical.

  The gnoll snarled at him, “You suggest that I lie, human? I know the forest.” He growled, low and dangerous. “You leader of your pack?”

  His fetid breath made Cale want to gag, but Cale merely stared at him. The gnoll leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak.

  “You seek the Moonmere,” the gnoll said, “the Lightless Lake. This I know from him.”

  Dreeve waved a huge hand at Riven. Cale held his tongue.

  “No light in that water,” the gnoll continued. “The sky cannot be seen. My pack not go to that place. I only show you where to go. You go alone.”

  “You ask for much and offer little,” Cale said, and made a show of considering. After a moment, he leaned forward. “Done. Three hundred gold, but only if we leave tonight and move fast. We need to be there before midnight tomorrow.”

  “I can get you there then,” the gnoll said, “if you’re ready to run. My pack does not ride.”

  Cale nodded and said, “We’ll keep up, Dreeve.”

  The gnoll smiled as though he didn’t believe it.

  “Payment,” he said, and held out his hand.

  Cale shook his head.

  “You’re paid when we’re there,” he said. “Not before.”

  Dreeve snarled, clenched his hand into a fist, and slammed it on the table.

  “Half now,” the gnoll demanded.

  “None now,” Cale said and dared the gnoll with his eyes to challenge him. He did not.

  Dreeve glared at Cale and said, “How many in your pack? All old, like him?”

  “Three. Myself and two others,” said Cale. “Not him.”

  Dreeve growled, and his eyes narrowed in satisfaction.

  “Nine in mine, human. All warriors.”

  Cale stared at him, as cold as Deepwinter, and said, “Numbers are not strength, Dreeve.”

  The gnoll either laughed or snarled, Cale couldn’t tell. But either way, the deal was done. Cale took Riven by the arm, as though to assist him, and rose.

  “We’ll meet you and your pack after sunset on the road outside of the western gate,” Cale said, “an hour outside of the city.”

  “We will be there, human. Night’s darkness is good time for my pack.”

  Cale smiled without mirth and said, “Mine too.”

  Riven chuckled as they walked out.

  CHAPTER 15

  PACK HUNTING

  That evening, Cale, Riven, and Jak walked through the torchlit western gate of Starmantle. Even at night, the city’s gates stood thrown open. Two lax guards in scale mail and armed with spears watched the comings and goings with disinterest. They didn’t even bother to ask the trio their business.

  Inns, taverns, farms, and tilled fields lined the road in the area immediately outside of town. After only a short while of walking, though, the buildings and worked earth gave way to uninhabited scrub and intermittent copses of gnarled ash. Selûne was waring and nearly new, and though her tears still glittered in the sky, they provided little light. Looking into the star-flecked night sky reminded Cale of the sphere that he still carried, the sphere that had set him on this course. Cale had left his family and home and found himself on a dark road beside Drasek Riven, who served the same god as he.

  Fate was a fickle bitch, indeed, he thought. That, or Mask was more calculating than he could comprehend. Either way, Cale supposed, he was where he was.

  For each of them, Cal
e had purchased bedrolls, road-tack, and two waterskins. The added weight in his backpack felt awkward. It took him the first half-hour of the trek to adjust his balance.

  Jak’s halfling blood allowed him to see the best in darkness, so he took a point position ten strides or so in front of Cale and Riven.

  After about an hour, Jak waved them to a stop.

  “Just ahead,” he softly called back to them. “Nine of them.”

  “We see you too, humans,” Dreeve called out from ahead. “And have for some time. Come forward. Your halfling scout sees no better in the night than the blindest of my pack.”

  Growls and high-pitched yips greeted Dreeve’s taunt.

  With nothing else for it, the three fell back into line together and walked forward.

  “It’s strength they respect,” Cale said to his comrades in a hissed whisper. “Let’s set the rules early. I’ll lead.”

  Jak and Riven nodded, and spaced themselves for combat.

  The gnolls stood gathered in a loose group, watching them approach. They carried no torches, for they obviously saw well at night.

  Each towering member of Dreeve’s pack wore a ring mail shirt, had a bow slung over a muscular shoulder, and carried an axe larger than Jak over its back. They yipped and snarled amongst themselves as the trio approached. Crude tattoos, earrings, and leather vambraces were common.

  Even among his own kind, though, Dreeve’s height and musculature caused him to stand out. He took a step forward and made a cutting gesture with his hand. The rest of the pack fell silent.

  “Humans, I feared the night frightened you away from our deal.”

  At that, the other gnolls yelped with laughter. Cale feigned a smile while he scanned the pack. He picked the gnoll standing to Dreeve’s right, the second largest of the pack, and stalked up to him. He let his smile fade.

  “Amused?”

  The other gnolls’ laughter fell silent instantly, replaced by surprised grumbling. Ring mail chinked as stances were shifted. Beside Cale, Dreeve watched with a grin.

  “’Ware, human,” Dreeve said. “Gez has tasted of manflesh before.”

  The big gnoll, Gez, stared Cale in the face and said, “Step back from me, human, or I’ll tear out your throat and take your gold. The pack will have the scraps of your flesh.”

  Cale needed nothing further.

  He took a step back, drew his blade, and said, “A threat from the mongrel son of a cur bitch? Try what you say.”

  Gez snarled and jerked his axe off his back, eyeing Cale all the while. The big gnoll looked to Dreeve, who barked something in his native tongue. The gnoll looked back to Cale, grinned, and howled into the moonless sky. The rest of the pack, excepting only Dreeve, began to yip in excitement.

  Cale waited, balanced on the balls of his feet. Gez obviously surpassed him in strength, but probably not in skill.

  At least Cale hoped not.

  The gnoll’s hackles stood on end, making him look bigger still. He crouched low, snarled, and advanced. Cale waited, waited …

  The moment Gez reared back his axe to strike, Cale exploded into motion.

  He lunged forward, feinting with his long sword at the gnoll’s throat. Surprised by Cale’s speed, Gez stumbled backward and attempted an awkward parry with his axe haft. Cale pulled the stab up short and slammed a heel-kick into the gnoll’s knee. Gez let out a pained yelp. His leg, backward jointed like a dog’s, buckled. He managed to thump Cale in the ribs with his axe haft, but before he could regain his balance and bring his axe head to bear for another stroke, Cale spun a close half-circle around him and landed a reverse elbow on the back of his neck. The gnoll groaned and toppled to all fours.

  Cale had his blade at Gez’s throat before the gnoll could rise.

  Gez snarled, “I’ll kill you, hu—”

  Cale cut off the threat by pressing his blade edge against the gnoll’s throat—hard.

  “Another word and I bleed you out here and now.”

  The gnoll, breathing hard—whether from exertion or shame, Cale couldn’t tell—said nothing further. The rest of the pack went into an uproar, howling, snarling, gesturing violently at Cale. Dreeve tried to maintain order but failed. Another gnoll, tattooed and missing several teeth, stepped forward from the pack with violence in his eyes.

  Before that gnoll ever got his axe off his shoulder, Riven had sabers at the creature’s throat and Jak had a short sword at its groin. The gnoll froze in his tracks, eyes wide. Cale would have sworn the tattooed creature was holding his breath.

  The rest of the gnolls fell silent except for some muted growls. None drew weapons.

  Cale, Riven, and Jak had made their point.

  Cale eyed Dreeve first, then the rest of the pack in turn. Dreeve returned his gaze with a mixture of anger and respect.

  Cale said in a tone fat with the calm promise of violence, “Any one of you breaks our bargain, any one of you makes a move against any in my pack, and it goes ugly for every one of you. Understood?”

  Dark eyes found the road.

  “Do what we’ve asked,” Cale added, “and you’ll all get paid.”

  With that, Cale removed his blade from the prone gnoll and let him stand. The creature eyed him hatefully but his hackles lay flat. The other gnolls chattered at him with what Cale took to be laughter.

  Dreeve advanced on Cale threateningly, but Cale held his ground.

  “Do not harm another of mine,” Dreeve said. “Or you will answer to me.”

  The other gnolls growled appreciatively at that.

  Cale decided to let the comment pass. He knew that Dreeve had to re-establish his dominance with his own kind. Both of them knew what would happen if it really came to blows between them.

  Cale scabbarded his blade and said, “We’re ready to move when you are. We need to reach the Moonmere by tomorrow night. No later.”

  Dreeve stared at him a moment longer before nodding, turning away, and barking orders to his pack.

  Riven and Jak came up beside Cale while the gnolls shouldered their packs. The creatures eyed each of them with respect as they readied for travel.

  “Guess this makes you top dog,” Riven observed with a hard smile.

  Even Jak chuckled at that.

  Over that night and the next day, the gnoll pack made rapid progress. With great, loping strides, they ate up the miles. Cale, Jak, and Riven kept the pace only with difficulty. Two of the pack always ran point, circling the main body and watching the surrounding area for danger. Cale marveled at the endurance of the creatures. About four hours out of Starmantle, the pack veered off the westward road and headed south for the Gulthmere.

  With the dawn, they rested and took a quick repast. The gnolls, sitting apart from the humans, tore into thick chunks of dried meat. Cale, Riven, and Jak tried to catch their breath while eating handfuls of trail mix and cheese.

  Dreeve separated from the pack and walked over to them.

  “If we’re to reach the Moonmere by tonight, we must continue through the day.” The gnoll looked with disdain on Jak and asked, “Your pack will keep up?”

  Before Cale could answer, Jak said, “You’ll have to do better than this to tire me, you mangy son of a mangy bitch.”

  At that, Dreeve and the rest of the pack barked laughter. The gnoll guide turned and walked back to his comrades.

  Cale merely smiled and chewed his food.

  The next day was a blur of pain and exhaustion. By sunset, Cale thought his legs had turned to stone. In the distance stood the outer eaves of the Gulthmere, a dark line above the plains. Cale watched the sun vanish. He knew they had only hours to stop Vraggen.

  While they ate, Dreeve again walked over to them.

  “In two hours, we will reach the edge of the forest. After that, it is not far to the Moonmere.”

  Cale could hear the dread in Dreeve’s voice when he mentioned the Moonmere.

  “We need to be there before midnight,” Cale said.

  “We will get you the
re,” Dreeve snapped.

  With that, he turned his back to them and walked back to sit among his own.

  “Rude,” Jak said, from around a mouthful of cheese.

  Riven scoffed.

  Cale smiled. Calling a gnoll rude was like calling a halfling short.

  At that moment, one of the two perimeter scouts sprinted into camp. His breath came hard. His tongue lolled from his mouth. The rest of the pack rose to meet him, uttering alarmed growls. The scout stopped before Dreeve and the two held a hurried conversation in their native tongue. From time to time, the scout gestured at Cale, Riven, and Jak. Dreeve eyed them darkly.

  “Stand ready,” Cale said in a low tone, and pulled his holy symbol from his pocket.

  When the scout finished his report, Dreeve quieted the murmurs from the rest of pack and walked over to Cale.

  “We are being tracked,” Dreeve announced, and made it sound like an accusation. “Two humans on horseback, less than an hour behind.” His lips peeled back from his teeth. “You have enemies that you did not tell me of.”

  It was a not a question.

  “No one knew we were in the city, Dreeve,” Cale said.

  “A lie,” Dreeve shot back.

  Cale struggled to keep from punching the gnoll in his muzzle.

  “Perhaps these trackers are following you,” he said, but didn’t really believe it.

  The trackers could be nothing other than agents of Vraggen and the half-drow.

  “I think not,” Dreeve retorted. “None in Starmantle would dare follow this pack. They track you.” His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps we should leave you to them?”

  The rest of the pack voiced agreement. Sensing a fight, they began to creep forward, growling and brandishing their axes. Beside and behind Cale, Riven and Jak spaced themselves and put hands to their weapons.

  Bolstered by his men, Dreeve took another step forward and bent down to put his toothy muzzle right before Cale’s face. His voice was a growl.

  “You did not speak of pursuers, human. The danger is bigger now.” His expression twisted with cunning and he added, “So too is my price. Or we leave you here.”

  Behind Dreeve, the rest of the gnolls growled agreement.