Darkness Falls (Tales of the Wolf)

by A. E. McCullough

  The dwarf tried to wipe away the tears but they were flowing freely. “That is true lass…that is true. How did one so young learn such wisdom?”

  Aleena favored him with a smile. “By listening to all the old women who used to spend their days at my mother’s cottage.”

  Rjurik pulled out a handkerchief, turned away and loudly blew his nose. Turning back to the old shaman, he noted that his shoulders were slumped forward in defeat. “What? What is it?”

  Anasazi lowered his gaze to the lost medicine bag he had recovered from Annabelle’s lifeless hands. When the ancient shaman looked up, only he could see the ghostly figures of Eldath and Red Crow standing beside him looking south with long faces.

  “Gray is beyond our help now. He is approaching the shores of the Crystal Sea and soon he will be on the water and on his way to confronting his destiny.”

  Rjurik asked, “But he’s alive?”

  Anasazi nodded. “Yes but his journey is long and dark. Only the Trôika know for certain if he will survive.”

  Rjurik moved over to the brigand with the tomahawk in his forehead. Unceremoniously, the dwarf wrenched it free. “I’ll just keep this safe for him, just in case.”

  Aleena reached down and closed Annabelle’s eyes. “We should make sure they have a proper burial.”

  “Aye lass, that we will.”

  Aleena swallowed hard. Now that the nervousness of impending battle was fading and the unshakeable reality of death surrounding her, so did the uncertainty of the future rush upon her. “And then what?”

  It was the shaman who answered. “We survive, just as Graytael must. We train and plan for the day when we are needed once more.”

  Rjurik nodded. “Aye. That we will.”

  “But where will we go? What’s going to happen to me?”

  Now it was Rjurik’s time to comfort her. “You will always have a home with us.”

  Anasazi nodded. “He’s right. We shall go to Asylum and set up shop there. One day in the future, the Chosen One will need our help once more. We need to be ready.”

  Aleena had no idea what they were talking about but they had offered her a home. More than that, they seemed to accept her for just who she was and that meant a lot to her.

  * * * * *

  Graytael did not really remember the next few days. He only knew two things. If he was awake, it was time to walk. If he was not walking, try and sleep. Somewhere in between he knew that the slavers fed them. On occasion, they got some dried meat and water but it was mostly waybread.

  Waybread was a type of pastry that was basically a combination of meat and fruit baked together into a bread-like substance in such a way that it would last for many days. There were an untold number of recipes throughout Terreth but they all had two things in common, the use of salt in baking and they were tasteless. Even so, it had become the standard staple for warriors and travelers due to the cheap cost and length of storage.

  One morning, Gray forced himself to take in his surroundings. They were far to the south of Homestead and seemed to be following the river. He knew from his lessons that the Draken River emptied into the Crystal Sea. There was a small port city there but he could not remember its name at the moment.

  Taking a hard look at his situation, he noted that he was just one of a thousand slaves chained at the neck and forced to walk. There were actually three lines of slaves, men, females and kids. Since none of the orc slavers or mercenaries were nearby at the moment, Gray turned his head to look behind him.

  About three kids back was Garoth. The Blacksmith’s son face was purple and black from his encounter with the mercenaries. He had his face cast down like every other child in the line and like Gray had his for the last few days. Looking forward, he spied Razbroun and Abban about ten kids up. Both were stumbling as they walked. This was not unusual for the slaves, since they were always tired and hungry. Hearing the slavers approach, Gray returned his face in the normal downcast position and forced himself to keep walking.

  It began to rain sometime around midday but the slavers did not slow down. If anything, they lashed their whips more often. They spent a cold night lying in the mud still chained in their long rows. When the dawn broke, they were already on their way. The mud made walking more difficult. Slaves would slip, only to have the collar and chains keep them from completely falling. Occasionally, one would fall and not get back up. The slaves around them would have to carry the weight of the dead slave with them until nightfall. Then and only then, would the slavers unhook the corpse and toss it aside. One day that was what happened to Abban. He fell and did not move again. Since he was in front of Gray, he had to watch as Annabelle’s brother was dragged through the mud until nightfall.

  One by one, he was losing his childhood friends. As far as he knew, only Razbroun was still alive and the halfling did not look to be in good shape.

  Gray looked up and watched as Raz stumbled again. He knew it would not be long before he fell and did not get up. He was expecting it. He had watched at least fifteen slaves drop this morning alone. Not all of the slaves were kids. The line of adults was only a few yards away and they too were stumbling with exhaustion.

  All of the sudden, they stopped.

  Gray had not noticed it but they had reached the coast. The town that used to straddle the mouth of the river was gone, burned to the ground. All that remained, other than smoldering ruins, were dozens of crucified townsfolk and the city docks. Three huge ships lay moored to the piers and one by one, the slaves were unshackled and thrown aboard. All of the menfolk were herded onto one ship, the women on a second and the children to a third.

  Gray had one last look at the Southlands before being pushed below decks. It was not a pleasant sight. As far as his eyes could see, there was smoke. He could only imagine how the invading armies would react once they breached the walls of Asylum.

  The world he knew was over.

  As the lid to the cargo hold slammed shut, so did the hope of any rescue. From this moment on, he was on his own.

  Chapter 14

  Graytael spent the next month doing one of three things; cleaning, rowing or sleeping.

  Their original slavers had passed them off to a completely different group of captors with the exception of one huge half-orc. Gray had seen him several times during the long trek south in chains. He seemed to be the leader of the slavers and even over the pirates. He did not interfere with the day to day workings of the ship but he did make sure that the slaves were properly cared for and evenly divided into three groups.

  Gray rarely saw Garoth during this time since he was in a different group. The half-orc had divided the slaves into the larger kids, the smaller kids and those left over. Gray had found himself with the smaller or youngest kids, which was fine with him. It gave him a chance to reconnect with Raz.

  The one thing about this portion of his captivity, Gray was seldom hungry. There was always an abundance of fish to eat, most of it was rather tasteless but it was sustenance and they ate it with relish. The pirates did serve them hardtack and bumbo to supplement their diet. Hardtack was a harder, less favorable version of waybread if that was possible. While bumbo was rum mixed with water, sugar and nutmeg.

  Gray unknowingly took on an alpha role within their group. He made sure that everyone had plenty of food and drink, while shifting duties around so that no one was overworked. In the process, his group became more efficient, eclipsing the other crews with the one exception of rowing, the older crew still held the lead there but then, they were bigger and stronger.

  One morning, Gray and Raz found themselves scrubbing the poop deck, which was basically the roof of the sterncastle or rearmost cabin on the ship. The poop deck had the advantage of being the most elevated position on the ship not counting the masts. It was from here, the helmsman steered the ship. On this particular day, Xiphos the pirate captain was at the helm when the huge grey-skinned half-orc climbed up the short ladder to the poop deck.

  Kralm looked o
ver the ship, to him it seemed disorganized but then he’d only been at sea a few times. “How long until we reach Lagash?”

  Xiphos looked down at his charts and then back at the empty water. “Two months, at a minimum.”

  “Why so long?”

  “We have to skirt the northern side of the Maelstrom.”

  Kralm cocked his head to the side. “What is that?”

  “The Maelstrom is a giant whirlpool that will suck any ship foolish enough to sail too close to it down to its doom.” Xiphos looked over at the half-orc and could tell that he had not heard of it before. “Of course you’ve heard of the Atalanta, the legendary city of the Gods?”

  “Yes…but what does that have to do with the whirlpool?”

  Xiphos pointed to an area of the sea chart marked with a rune for danger. “Somewhere in this vicinity is Atalanta, or so the legends state. But the entire region is covered with low flying clouds that hide an untold number of reefs and shoals. No ship that has sailed into that area has ever returned. We just call the whole area, the Ruins.”

  Xiphos pointed at another mark on the chart. “This is the Maelstrom. When Atalanta was still the home of the gods, they built a second, smaller city on a nearby island. This was Ancyra and it was the first home of the mortal races. After the first Godwar, Ancyra was cursed with mortals forbidden to trespass on its soil and Atalanta was doomed to the bottom of the sea, which created the Maelstrom in the process.”

  Kralm studied the sea chart. Their original starting point and Lagash, their destination, were almost exact opposite of each other on the Crystal Sea and between the two lay the runes for the Maelstrom and the Ruins. The half-orc spied a small strip of water that seemed to be navigable. “What about this strip?”

  Xiphos shook his head. “We call that, the Dead Man’s Passage. Only a fool or a dead man would try that route.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you would find yourself choosing between the sure death offered by the rocks of the Ruins or certain destruction of the unpredictable currents of the Maelstrom.” Xiphos shook his head. “I will not expose my ships to such danger.”

  * * * * *

  Gray had paused in his cleaning duties to eavesdrop. He and Raz were supposed to be scrubbing the deck but the half-elf was curious and wanted to get a better look at the pirate’s charts. Gray stood up slowly and shifted positions to get a better view. To maintain his cover, he pretended to polish the railings.

  Xiphos the pirate captain was oblivious to his actions but not the wily half-orc. When the head slaver turned to leave, he looked directly at the half-elf. Gray thought for certain he would yell or at least say something to the pirate. But no, he just winked at him and went below deck.

  Gray was shocked and confused but turned back to his duties before the pirate captain noticed him and broke out his infamous whip.

  * * * * *

  The next few weeks were almost exactly the same; clean, work, sleep. The only break in the monotony came a week earlier when the ships had come in sight of the Maelstrom. It was just a constant darkness of rolling waves that was still several leagues off their starboard side.

  This was something Gray found confusing. Nautical terms. Sailors used different terms for everyday items. Stairs become a ladder on a ship. A wall was now a bulkhead, the floor was a deck and doors were hatches. However, the most confusing were port and starboard or left and right. But aboard a ship, port and starboard always refer to the side of the ship. For example, port is the left side when you are facing the bow or front of the ship and the reverse is true, port is the right side if you are facing the stern or back of the boat.

  Gray shook his head and silently corrected himself.

  Ship…ship…ship, not boat. Never call the Sklavin a boat, at least not in earshot of one of the pirates. He made that mistake once and still had the welts on his back to prove that it was a bad idea. He had learned several things in that moment. One, he hated being flogged. It hurt. Two, he could take a flogging if he had too. Three, make sure that it was worth it before being flogged again.

  After the novelty of the Maelstrom wore off, it became the same dreary routine from sun up to sun down; clean, work, sleep. About the only difference in their routine was that once the pirates had figured out how useless the smaller children were at rowing, they sent them aloft to work the sails. This was both liberating and hard work but also dangerous. Liberating because they were high overhead the ship, running along spars or climbing masts and lines. Pulling in or letting out the sails was hard work, especially for a child.

  On this fateful morning, Gray was in the Crow’s Nest, which was a small platform for lookouts built on the highest point of the main mast. Just last night, the Sklavin had lost its first slave. One of the smaller boys had been in the Nest and fell to his death. No one was certain if a rogue gust of wind had knocked him off or he had fallen asleep. Gray really did not care, dead was dead. Either way, the kid had screwed up and paid the ultimate penalty. Gray was not taking any chances and had tied a short rope to the main mast to his left ankle. If he fell, it would stop him. He realized that it might hurt a bit but he was certain that falling the whole distance to land on the deck of the ship would hurt a whole lot more.

  Gray scanned the horizon. He did not expect to see anything, which was why he had to do a double take when his eyes roamed across the region toward the Maelstrom. If his eyes were not deceiving him, there were three or four sets of sails skimming the deadly whirlpool. He quickly scanned the entire surroundings once more but did not see anything out of the norm. Standing up, Gray shaded his eyes from the early morning glare of the sun and stared long and hard at the distant objects. Yes. They were sails. But now he could make out five distinct sets.

  Leaning out over the Crow’s Nest platform, Gray cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled at the top of his lungs. “Sails ho!”

  Seeing the crew look up to him, he pointed at the distant sails and watched as the sailors first stared in amazement, then burst into a flurry of activity. Whoever or whatever those sails represented, the pirates did not want them to catch up.

  * * * * *

  Both Xiphos and Kralm ran to the poop deck and looked aft. The lookout had called out that he had sighted sails out toward the Maelstrom. The half-orc did not really know what the excitement was all about but since the pirate captain was concerned, he was concerned.

  Xiphos pulled out a brass spyglass and trained it in the direction his helmsman pointed. After a few seconds he cussed, “Dreck!”

  “What? Who is it?”

  “Longhorns,” replied Xiphos and began calling out orders to his men.

  The sailors began scurrying all over the ship, securing loose items and preparing the ship for battle. More rowers were added to the trireme and the captain called for more sail. Whatever Kralm’s reservations were about the competence of the captain were laid to rest as the crew sprinted to carry out his orders. The strangest thing that he witnessed though was watching as one of the sailors move to the railing that was closest to their sister ships and began signally with two brightly colored flags. Within seconds, both ships broke formation and began tacking to different courses.

  When Xiphos paused long enough to check the sea charts, Kralm stepped up closer. He had questions. “Okay, what do you mean by Longhorns?”

  Xiphos looked up. “You really are a land-lubber. Minos, you know minotaur raiders. They are the bane of all sailors on the Crystal Sea.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Their ships are extremely maneuverable, especially for ships that size. Our only hope is to outrun them.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Tribute. We are moving through their so-called territory, without prior arraignment.”

  Kralm nodded. “How much do they want?”

  “Twenty-five percent of whatever we are carrying.”

  Kralm looked back at the five chasing ships. Even as much of a novice as he was on the seas, he could tell
that the minotaur ships were closer. Not only could he see all five of them without the spyglass, he could tell that they were much bigger than any of the ships in their caravan. “Can we really outrun them?”

  Xiphos snickered. “In theory? Yes. But it doesn’t happen that often. They were already at speed when we saw them. And they are foolish enough to skirt the Maelstrom, which will give them extra speed.”

  “So?”

  “So…we can run but eventually, they will overtake us.”

  “Won’t that make them angry?”

  Xiphos laughed. “Hell no, this is our typical dance. They chase and I run. Eventually the Longhorns will overtake at least one of my ships, there will be a brief skirmish then one of us will call for a parley and we will pay our tribute. This is nothing personal, just business.”

  Kralm shook his head. “It sounds like poor business to me.”

  Xiphos scoffed at him. “What would a damned half-orc know about business?”

  If the pirate captain was trying to get a rise from him by pointing out the obvious, he did not know Kralm Soleus. His father was once a great orc chieftain known as the Uniter. Through his uncanny intelligence and cruel nature, he gathered all the orc and goblin tribes under one banner, his. Pledging his allegiance to the Dark Alliance, he was killed in battle on the Day of Fire. This was the day that crippled the Dark Alliance but solidified their hold on the Highlands. Kralm did not witness his father’s death, having been sent away by him. His father had been forced into an unwinnable situation by the same union of orcs he had organized and led.

  Even at a young age, Kralm had recognized the tactics of the Knights of Asylum that they had been fighting and said so. His father had seemingly punished him by not letting him in the final battle but in fact, had passed on his family spear and sent him to safety. For when he died, his half-human son would not be safe with the savage clans of the orcs. Kralm’s mother had been forced to return home to the hills east of Krantos to raise her son.