Cloudfyre Falling - A dark fairy tale

by A. L. Brooks

  So he remained there for hours at the fringe of the woods using the Brawny Twisters as cover, surveying the ongoing Steppe from safety of hill and copse.

  But half the morning came and went and there were no renewed sign of these strange dark things. Still, all the death he had witnessed since leaving Hovel gave him cause for much suspicion. Perhaps they are out there somewhere hidden. Hidden and waiting for me to emerge.

  He wished, not for the first time, that he knew how to wield Hor’s old hammer. He might feel a tad more at ease if he’ had the power of such a famed weapon at his disposal.

  ‘And yet, Drenvel’s Bane or no, I cannot stay here day and night,’ he reminded himself.

  Keeping an ear open, and eyes peeled, he packed up his camp and with greatsword in hand, made to finally strike out for Autumn. It would be his final leg before he reached possible salvation. He would have the eyes of his Nightface to aid his trek. He would remain vigilant, alert, and lash out at anything that came at him. But as he were about to depart, a sudden snort came from somewhere behind him.

  He spun about, gripping his sword in both fists, and ducked down behind the Brawny Twister; its writhing arms squirming about his face, shoulders and legs. He peered between its wormy limbs and, alarmed, saw a shape in the rain across the opposite edge of the copse.

  Ha, he thought, I were wise to wait. Whatever those black demons are, they have lost their patience and come for me now!

  He remained poised where he stood, frozen in a defensive stance, legs ajar, one planted slightly forward of the other, thick fingers curled tight about the haft of his sword. He were alarmed that his Nightface had not alerted him to the beast sneaking up on him. Had it not recognised the creature as a menace? Had it not seen it?

  Whatever the case, there it stood, the monster, tall, black, unmoving. Watching him.

  6

  The figure remained unmoved. As if it waited for Gargaron to make first play.

  Ha, it knows nothing of my resolve. Indeed his father had observed in Gargaron at an early age such resolve. When out hunting gorse and fleim, his father had been impressed by Gargaron’s determination, steadfastness, doggedness, tenacity. Even as a young boy, Gargaron had possessed the ability to wait, with the stillness of a stone, watching, stalking a gorse or a fleim, or some other beast, for long stretches, with greater concentration to the task than his father had known in other boys of similar age.

  They were soon locked in stalemate it seemed, Gargaron and this demon thing. Gargaron dared not take his eye from it. And yet, he were conscious of the fact that this were perhaps another ploy, to distract Gargaron whilst another beast snuck up silently from behind him. Regardless of his Nightface’s recent failing, he put faith in it to inform him if and when something did.

  It were scantly lit beneath the copse; the rain had turned away at last but clotted, thunderous cloud clogged the sky and thus Gohor and Melus remained veiled. Gargaron dared not move, crouched where he were, clasping his sword in both fists. His eyes focused primarily on the shape that hung there in the morning gloom; still, impulses had his sight flicking left and right, on the lookout for any more of these hidden creatures.

  As it were, he would’ve had trouble seeing anything crouched in amongst the remainder of the copse but when he removed his eye from the creature it shifted quickly. As if it had been waiting for that exact moment. And when he looked back, it had gone.

  His hearts beat loud in his ears, his eyes darted to and fro, nervously scouring every shadow, every beech tree.

  Suddenly there it were, half the distance closer to him.

  He gasped.

  But then frowned. And blinked. And ultimately lowered his sword.

  7

  It were no more monster than he, it seemed. It were but a giant’s horse. With two heads like those used by the Autumn Guard. Yet, that were not all. A rider hung from its saddle, caught by his leg, dangling there, his arms and fingers dragging through sodden grass, sodden hair covering his face.

  The horse snorted. Gargaron straightened to his full height. He looked around, still suspecting a trap. As such he did not yet sheath his sword. He kept it gripped in hand. Though he hoped the steed would not be spooked by it. If this were no trap, if this animal sought friendly company, then he did not wish it to bolt. It were, after all, the first living horse he had met since before this blight fell. And besides, there were someone in its saddle, someone who looked in need of help. And someone who potentially carried information about what had become of this part of the world. And crucially, may have knowledge of how it might be rectified.

  When the horse made no move toward him, Gargaron felt he had no choice but to sheathe his sword. Though he sent a clear mental message to his Nightface: Keep vigilant. This may be an ambush. Watch for anything approaching.

  He raised his hand to the twin-headed horse, gesturing that he were no threat. The horse whickered from both mouths, but did not retreat, nor turn away. All its ears flickered, listening, listening…

  Gargaron looked about, wondering if the steed had heard something. He saw nothing. Nor did his Nightface. He gazed back at the horse and tread slowly to it. ‘Be calm,’ he spoke to it softly, ‘be calm, I mean you no harm.’

  As he drew closer he reached out his fingers and gently touched the long smooth snout of the head closest him, patting it softly, murmuring to it the way his father had done to calm the wild stallions of Chayosa. The second head swung in his direction, and all four eyes focused on his for a while.

  ‘I mean you no harm,’ Gargaron told it softly. ‘Hear me now, I speak true.’

  The beast did not flinch at his touch, not even after he lifted his free hand to the other face. Indeed the majestic creature demonstrated signs that it accepted Gargaron, bowing its heads in almost a gesture of affection.

  Gargaron took this moment to place his forehead first against one long sodden snout held gently in his palms, and then the other. As he did the steed’s eyes closed softly. Gargaron projected a mental impression of friendship, of peace, and of good will.

  When he removed his head from the steed’s it lowered both its noses and nuzzled his neck.

  Its swift affection toward him surprised him. He had apples in his sack with which he supposed he might use on gaining its trust, though it seemed almost unnecessary now. Still, he removed two and offered them. As the steed sniffed the offerings and then took them, crunching them heartily and noisily in both its mouths, Gargaron stood there ruminating on what he had presently “seen” within the steed’s minds. Delving into the thoughts of animals were akin to deciphering an unlearned foreign language. And there were much hidden there in the minds of this majestic creature that he could not decipher. Yet what he had interpreted with some confidence were that this steed had indeed come from the Watchguard. A destrier, it were, a warhorse. It had seen battle, and it would not flinch in a fight.

  He had also learned its name.

  ‘Grimah,’ Gargaron said and both heads of the steed swung about to look at him. ‘So, that be your name. Grimah.’ He rubbed its noses and it lowered its heads enjoying the attention.

  Still, Gargaron remained puzzled. If this were indeed a destrier of the Watchguard, be that Autumn’s or some other garrison, then it should have been suitably trained, which meant it should have displayed a healthy distrust of strangers.

  Were Gargaron to believe that the current circumstances had driven this steed to loneliness? That it had actively sought company?

  He tried not think too much about it. Besides, the fate of its rider tugged increasingly at his curiosity.

  Slowly, he reached out and took hold of the reigns. And found the steed Grimah willing to be lead back toward the bed of glowing coals where last night’s flames had roared.

  8

  He tethered the horse to a tree and untangled its rider, dragging him down upon the grass at fireside. This rider, although having mounted a giant’s horse, were not of the giants, Gargaron now discovered. The
rider were tall and fair, with pale white skin. And it were not until Gargaron had smoothed the hair from his face did he realise two things: the rider were no male. It were a woman. And she were an elf, born and grown.

  Is this why my Nightface did not react with alarm? he wondered. It did not sense her as a threat?

  ‘Do you hear me?’ he asked her closely. ‘Come now, do you hear me, pray tell?’ He put his ear to her chest. There came back the slow tick of her heart. He took her hand and patted it, lightly slapping her cheek. He even took his gourd and poured water upon her face. ‘Come now, awaken please.’

  Nothing roused her. He peeled back her eyelids, her soft green eyes blankly gazing up at him. He poked a firm twig at them, a trick he had watched his father perform on the Liilaal, beings who could trick you into thinking they were all but dead. The elven woman however did not flinch, did not react one bit.

  Gargaron turned to campfire, stoking its embers, dropping on dry kindling. When flames licked up about the crisp wood he heated some Lyfen Essence into a revitalising broth, something that ought chase off death and rouse her. He lifted it to her lips. He crouched, gently held back her head, pushed her mouth open, tipped a few drops of the tincture upon her tongue. She did not need swallow it. The healing properties would be absorbed though her mouth. Gargaron had seen this brew work on many who had lost consciousness in battle, those who had been injured whilst hunting, those stricken with sickness, those who were suffering from the crushing effects of advancing death.

  He lay her back down. She breathed still but nothing more. He touched her forehead. The backs of her hands. She felt biting cold. He dragged her closer to fire’s edge, let its warmth reach out and drape her.

  Often the brew could take its time. So he waited.

  9

  He inspected the steed. Despite the death of nearly every creature he had come across since Hovel, this animal looked in fine health. It confirmed his suspicions. That he had come to the edge of this death zone. That beyond here the world went on as it always had; by now folk would surely be gossiping about the strange phenomenon that had stricken his part of Godrik’s Vale.

  He leafed through the saddle bags for any note as to the elf woman’s identity. Except for a handful of provisions, the bags were empty. So who were she? How had she come to be here riding this war horse? Perhaps she had been part of a ranging mission. Come to inspect the Steppe, dispatched by her leaders to search for survivors, to build a picture as to exactly what had happened, to ascertain what were going on in case the greater realm might be under similar threat.

  But by all appearances, whatever had stricken all living things had stricken her too.

  Yet… for some reason it had not effected the steed…

  The cloud mass began to clear, though it did not break up entirely; whilst Gohor and Melus remained concealed, their muted radiance managed to filter through somewhat and illuminate some patches of the Steppe. But as time drew on, the elf’s condition did not improve. Her breathing slowed. Gargaron listened to her heart again. She should have come round by now, lifted to consciousness by the brew of Lyfen Essence. Yet he feared her heart had slowed far too much.

  As a last resort he placed his forehead upon hers. Not something he were entirely comfortable doing. Many folk looked upon mind delving as a violation. And such an act could sometimes hinder and retard the delver. But perhaps this elf were now beyond offending or afflicting. Yet, if Gargaron learned through mind delving what ailed her, and if that knowledge in turn lead to her recovery, then she may prove forgiving.

  However, as he sent his thoughts out into her mind, he saw nothing but blackness. A sorry sign. For it meant her spirit were already leaving her body and did not wish to return. He wondered if a Vannandal might help her at this point. If so, she were out of luck. He had not thought to pack one.

  10

  He watched her take her last breath three hours after she and her mount had found him. And as she passed on, grass sprouted up around her, flowers grew from her chest and face, and her entire body turned to stone.

  There were no obvious injury or wound to tell Gargaron what had killed her. Naught but a simple abrasion to the side of her head. And only blankness from her mind when he had searched her thoughts.

  Gargaron sat there and watched her where she lay now, forever entombed. He eyed her for a long while. He felt a sadness for her, a pity and a strange sense of emptiness. That she had come here and would not return alive to her kind and kin. He would notify the authorities in Autumn, of course. Her family would want to know what became of her. He would inform them of where she lay, he would tell them that if she had been part of a ranging mission then it had come to grief and that perhaps more members of her party had suffered the same fate.

  Gargaron packed up his camp. Kicked out his fire. Then stood regarding his new friend, the horse. ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘I’m for Autumn. Do you wish to accompany me?’ As if understanding, Grimah stepped to him and affectionately nibbled his cheek. ‘Should I take that as a yes?’

  He unhitched his bull-hide pack from his shoulder and tied it to the side of Grimah’s saddle. The steed did not object. Gargaron straightened the bridle and tightened its straps. Then he placed his boot in the stirrup, gripped the pommel and pulled himself up into saddle.

  For some reason he half expected the horse to rear up and buck him off. But Grimah remained placid, content. Gargaron reached forward, patting him on the backs of both necks. Then with one last look at the elf tomb he pulled the great steed around and trotted down out of Eastbourne Hills.

  AUTUMN

  1

  STICKING to Far Trail, the upper heights of Skytower, distant though it were, soon came into view. Buoyed by the sight Gargaron rode on with haste through Toadstool farms, where toadstools stood taller than even he. Gigantic looming fungal plants they were with immense canopies of purple and green. He looked up as his destrier trotted beneath them, their undersides lined with bumpy blue ribs. Gargaron wondered if toad worms still lived inside them, wriggling their shining blue bellies around the moist dark beds of toadstool flesh. The folk of this region farmed the nectar produced by those fat stinking worms. The most powerful aphrodisiac called Elluur it were and it fetched grand prices in the cities of Seagarrd and Ingarra.

  He were half tempted to call out as he passed by farmsteads. To see if any folk still lived, to see who might respond. All farms hereabouts seemed far too quiet he felt. But he stayed his mouth for fear of alerting any of those peculiar Dark Ones, the sort of which he had spied howling about in morning’s deluge. Ultimately, the fate of these farmers lay about him in plain sight. Some lay stinking, gathering flies and grass crabs on their porches. Others lay in their fields, their lips and eyelids already pecked off and eaten.

  He knew then he had not yet freed himself entirely of this accursed death zone.

  2

  On Autumn’s outskirts, where the view of Skytower stood ever prominent, Far Trail curved north and away toward the distant frontier post of Cidertown. Here Gargaron took the branching regional road for Autumn. Yet his hopes that he might have finally reached the outer fringe of his death zone soon looked dashed. For even here he should have come across signs of commerce, of road side stalls, cheap Inns, seedy brothels. But the living had deserted the roadway. Only the dead populated it now. As they did, he discovered, all the way to the centre of Autumn. Menfolk, womenfolk, children of countless numbers of species. Big and small. Rich, poor. No distinction, no discrimination. All equal now in death, all perished, all decaying. Some only half eaten, some mostly eaten, some torn from their shawls and dresses and breeches by greeps, mankks, skorks and every other known crawling, wriggling, slithering scavenger and carrion muncher that dwelt in sewers and drains and ditches on the outskirts of these larger towns.

  In some of the waterways he saw dead folk floating, black gutfish busy feasting upon them.

  The stench in the air barraged him, as if invisible ghosts thrusted it upon hi
m, determined to turn him away, this living encroacher trespassing upon their newly established land of dead. He fetched his lavender cloth from his pack, dabbed it in fresh lavender oil, and tied it around his nose and mouth. Instead of raw stench of dead now, he could smell raw stench of dead over-laced with sweet musk of lavender. He were not certain the compromise were worth the effort.

  Still, he pressed on, trying his best to ignore the reek. Perhaps beyond Autumn, there lies the edge to this death zone. It were an optimistic forecast at best. But a new notion came to him: What say Autumn be its epicentre?

  This revelation made him pull Grimah to a halt. Did this make sense? he wondered. Nothing had survived in Hovel. And little else had survived anywhere else that he had seen except for this end of the Steppe. If Autumn proved its epicentre then would it not stand to reason to find everything here perished? This were not the case as Gargaron had witnessed. Swimming gutfish, crawling greeps, slithering mankks, scrambling skorks, all alive and by all appearances thriving.

  He had no explanation. None of it made sense.

  He cast his eyes across the settlement to the Skysight Tower that dominated the townscape where it loomed far into the heavens like a tall untouched pinnacle. He felt it watched him in return somehow, watched him with quiet suspicion, how he, the realm’s wandering survivor, standing there oh so conspicuous, still stood, still walked, while every other sentient soul rotted in the streets.

  If this death zone includes Autumn, he thought, then that tower may tell me what I need to know, and might allow me to see how far this blackness spreads, allow me to discover how far I need yet traverse to rid myself of this corruption, to find some soul with an explanation as to what has happened here.