Cloudfyre Falling - A dark fairy tale

by A. L. Brooks

  Melai noticed the flow of blood had ceased, and the wound looked healed over, as if the patch of grafted flesh had merged somehow into the surrounding skin. It were a most intriguing and curious sight to behold.

  After that she watched as he padded himself down. He checks for more wounds, she thought, wondering if and when the flesh worms would wriggle up and find him. He pulled something from a pocket. And as he held it in his lap, she watched as he studied it at length.

  It were too small or too distant for Melai to make out. A stone tablet, she guessed. And what were inscribed upon it she could not see. When he put it away he gazed away into canopy, his hand shading his eyes from the glare of the suns. Does he sense me here at last? Melai wondered.

  He pointed and spoke something to his horse. Melai heard him not. Except he pointed westways. Then he climbed down off the mound of deadfall and slowly, as if in acute pain, mounted up.

  4

  They pressed on through forest, the sound of his steed’s heavy splashing as it waded through crystal clear lagoon echoed loud, obtrusive, conspicuous. Melai spread her wings, leapt, and followed, gliding soundlessly from tree to tree. Every now and then the horse’s four ears flickered, troubled, wary, its two noses snorting, and it would halt against the wishes of its Rjoond master, and turn its noses in her direction. When it did she would press herself up against bark, or hide back within foliage, and her skin would take on the pigment of her surroundings.

  She heard the Rjoond speak for the first time here. She were not surprised to learn that his words were not that of her own tongue, but Valeyen. The language of the Greater Vale. A tongue she had mastered long ago, a tongue taught to her by Mother Thoonsk through her home tree; better to recognise and understand the language of the enemy to better defend against them.

  ‘What do you see?’ Rjoond asked his steed, following its gaze into the crown of the woods. ‘What be it, pray tell?’

  Of course the steed could no more answer him than it could fly, she saw. Except every so often, when the water were shallow, the Rjoond would dismount, face the horse and place his forehead against one of those of his steed. It seemed to belie everything she had heard about these Rjoond giants. Too delicate an act, it appeared, too intimate. Tales told of an oafish and warlike race. Clumsy and half witted. And bereft of emotion or feeling. Incapable of sentiment or warmth or delicate physical touch.

  She could only guess at what he were doing during these moments. Some sort of communion with his steed, by the looks of it. Tapping into the steed’s mind perhaps, hoping to learn why it keeps stopping and searching these treetops.

  They passed further mounds of deadfall and sunkwood snags, and blue lilies covering water’s surface. Enormous lily frogs, frogs that stood as high as the Rjoond’s knee, jumped and flopped about. Tadpoles as big as his fist swarmed about the steed’s legs, sucking at its skin.

  ‘Perhaps we have left the epicentre behind at last,’ she heard the Rjoond say elatedly to his mount. ‘Life goes on here. Thriving. Look.’

  Thriving? she thought. The frogs normally croak all day. Or grunt, grunt, grunt in the throes of courtship. None are engaged in such games, as you can clearly see. None make a peep these days. The tree cats might normally be hunting, clawing fish and forest squid from the depths of the lagoon. Instead the cats languish about the tree tops, panting, enduring the illness you have sent us. And in parts, I have observed the fish floating more than swimming, gulping desperately for air. The flesh worms should emerge to feed upon your flesh each time you take to another pile of deadfall, but they do not. The mighty basilisk should have by now vacated its den to seek you out, but where is it? Life here does not thrive, as you believe, Rjoond oaf, it is dying. Dying, I say! By your hand!

  5

  It were early afternoon when she reached a point where she had observed enough. She could watch no more of this fiend and his beast traipsing through her water-forest home. Normally mother Thoonsk would have sent killer waves through the woodland to crush intruders, but Melai feared mother Thoonsk were caught too in some untimely and tragic demise. So, Melai would set about bringing on the Rjoond’s death herself, the parasite, the disease that he were. She were undecided about the steed. Whether or not to allow it life over death. She would decide in time. Meanwhile, whether he sensed settlement or not, this Rjoond were beginning to stray too close to her village. And she would not have him discover it. For he would surely bring it down.

  She flew on ahead, calculating the route he and his mount would likely take, and perched herself in a bough directly above which Rjoond and steed might trek. She removed her bow and selected a Barb of Insanity from her macabre arrow collection. Filled with Black Moonlight, once lodged in Rjoond’s stinking flesh, once the misty black poison had entered his blood stream, he would lose his mind and begin a slow process of self-harm. Slicing off his fingers and toes. Cutting his face free. Incising a hole in his belly and dragging out the ropes of his guts. Before he bled to death he would try to saw off his legs, maybe an arm. Or dig his eyes out. But generally they did not get so far.

  For a while Rjoond and steed were lost from her sight. But not from her ears; their approach were noisy and conspicuous to the point of annoyance. Finally she spotted them amidst red and green foliage where sunbeams cut through in brilliant golden swathes and a thousand white moths burst up from rotting trunks leaning against a copse of trees forming a natural arch under which Rjoond and his steed came stomping heavy and loud, water frothing in their wake.

  ‘Meet death, dear Rjoond,’ she whispered to the air, and nocking now her Barb of Insanity, she drew back on the chord. ‘Meet it well and pray to meet it without pain, for, trust me, pain you most certainly shall feel. And for the sake of my dear sisters, I shall gladly watch.’

  She stared down arrow’s shaft, waiting… waiting… the big ugly head of the Rjoond in her sights. ‘For my sisters,’ she whispered and let her arrow loose.

  6

  Gargaron saw not the death dart fly toward his face. But he did feel the sudden jolts of pain rip through his ankle. As he reached down swiftly to tear off whatever swamp beast were assailing him, the arrow zipped pass his neck, missing him by naught but the breadth of a feather. He never saw it, never even heard nor felt it rush by as it speared itself silently into the water beyond.

  He tore off his boot. And set his eyes on some strange segmented creature coiled about his ankle. He had not noticed it climb up. Nor had his steed, for that matter, that much were obvious for his steed had given him no warning. Nor had his Nightface. He had not even felt the thing infiltrate his footwear. No doubt some ambush parasite, waterborne, quick striking, stealthy.

  Dizzy, Gargaron pulled his steed to a halt and hefted up his leg and rest it across the horse’s broad shoulders to get a closer look at the little monster. Its little toothy mouth had clenched onto his ankle.

  A lamprey of some kind, he wondered. For lampreys were common in the waterways around Hovel and possessed similar mouths.

  He lifted his arm and touched it with his fingers. Its shell were rigid and as coarse as rock. If this were indeed a lamprey then it were obviously of a different species, being black and rough, where the kind he knew were white and slimy.

  He closed his hand about the creature and attempted to simply tug it free. But its teeth dug deeper and a jarring pain shot through his foot. Grimacing he released his hold upon it. And saw blood. His own, a purplish rivulet streaming down his heel and dripping away onto horse’s sweating hide.

  He twisted his leg about, lowering his face to it to gain an overall picture of this little beast and the manner of its assault upon him. He watched its lips suck at his skin, small teeth grinding into his flesh. But he saw also that a bony tongue had penetrated his leg, had come through the other side, backwards facing barbs clamping it in place.

  Gargaron sighed—there would be no simple way of removing this thing. He studied the barbs. Perhaps he might snap them backwards and break them, and simpl
y drag the creature and its godforsaken tongue from him. He took one between thumb and forefinger and levered it backwards…

  He grimaced as it sliced layers of skin from his fingers. He sucked off the blood. He tried the same trick using leather cloth as padding. But that too were soon cut through.

  He withdrew his dirk. He wiggled its glistening black blade beneath the tip of the little beast’s bony tongue. When he tried snapping off the barbs, excruciating pain zapped up his leg and a second tongue suddenly and inexplicably shot from the creature’s mouth, driving through his ankle and thrusting out the other side in a little coughing explosion of blood and meat. The pain of the impact made him howl, even startling Grimah who bucked and knocked Gargaron from saddle.

  Gargaron splashed heavily into the lagoon, and went under…

  7

  When the first arrow failed to meet its target, Melai nocked a second quickly; another, like the first, loaded with Dark Moonlight. She were determined to see this Rjoond bring on his own demise in the most gruesome and humiliating fashion. Yet, when she saw that a Soulsucka were assailing him, she stayed her hand, choosing instead to observe the show for a little while.

  She relaxed the bow chord and watched his attempts at extricating the Sucka from his person. She watched as he roared in pain, spooking his mount. She watched him drop down into Mother Thoonsk’s cool embrace and she knew then this Rjoond of Never would fail to rise. That he would naught breathe again.

  Soulsuckas were Werms of the Deep, waterborne predators, no more at home than when submerged in the deep pools and underwater valleys of Thoonsk. Rjoond had not yet surfaced. And nor would he. For by now his Soulsucka would have shot out its dozen bony arms which would have clung to underwater deadfall and rock and submerged root, holding its prey down, preventing its subject from resurfacing. Right now the Rjoond would be doing his best to hold breath as he struggled frantically against his bonds. But it would be of little use. For as the Soulsucka drank the life essence from him, the Rjoond would in turn begin to lose will and strength of mind. Already the fight would be seeping from him, his desire to rid himself of his assailant waning. Soon he would be drown and the Soulsucka would be done with him and he would drown be would be eaten up by lagoon shrimp and snapper crabs.

  A bitter sweet end, Melai thought. For she had planned to bring on this oaf’s demise herself, or, at very least, desired him see her, allow him to know that his death were punishment for all the suffering and pain he had brought down upon Thoonsk and her daughters.

  Well, then, he dies, she thought petulantly. What care is it of mine? With his death I have my retribution, and the world is rid of one more murderous Rjoond!

  8

  Bubbles and ripples and swirls and splashes became of the water’s surface above the drowning Rjoond. She had watched these attacks before and knew this Rjoond were wild with panic. She wondered if the Soulsucka would release him once it had drunk its fill of his soul, whether or not she would see him rise to surface… Maybe there would be just enough time, a fading moment in the final stage of this Rjoond’s pitiful life, when he would look back at her with death already creeping through his eyes, and see her, distantly acknowledge her presence, and know his death were payment for all the death and dying he had visited upon this woodland.

  Just as she were pondering this, the lagoon’s surface above where the Rjoond had sunk, erupted suddenly in a tremendous flurry of water and the vile giant thrust upward, surfacing, gasping for air and scrambling frenziedly for a copse of weeping oaks whose great trunks hung low and horizontal over the lagoon.

  He dragged himself up into their fold, his weight causing them to sag, and their canopy shook wildly. She were disappointed, but glad that she might yet have her fun with him. Though she remained perplexed as to how he had managed to free himself from the Werm’s watery hold.

  It were still clung to his ankle she saw. Not dead as she had feared. And for many moments Rjoond sat there gathering his breath. Gasping. Gagging. Coughing. Water and snot and spittle burst from mouth and nose as he did so, dribbling down chin and neck and chest. It took him some while to calm himself, gather his senses. When he did he looked around wide of eye, searching for his steed. He caught sight of it some distance away, standing there gazing into the treetops.

  Melai realised she had at last been spotted. The steed had sensed her all along but had so far failed to pinpoint her. Now, even through her camouflage, he stared dead at her.

  Rjoond, obviously intrigued, followed his steed’s steely gaze. But he saw either nothing, or were suddenly distracted again by the little monster around his lower leg that his attention were not long on the subject of his horse’s interest. Quickly his mind and sight reverted to the thing driving pain through his ankle.

  Melai watched as he brought his foot to rest on the great oak trunk, and watched as he gripped the body of the Soulsucka and stretched what he could of its strong, truncated body out across thick gnarled bark, positioning it like a lump of meat on a chopping board, and he pinned it there with his fist.

  9

  With his free hand Gargaron moved to fetch his dirk from its sheath. But find it he did not possess it; the last occasion he had seen it were before he had been tossed into the drink. No doubt it had sunk to lagoon’s leafy, sandy bottom.

  Undeterred he reached his free arm over his shoulder and extracted his mighty greatsword. Carefully he lined up his fearsome blade with the beast, and then drew back his arm in a tall arc…

  10

  Swift were the attempted execution, swift and sudden and true, hammering down his blade with all his considerable Rjoond strength.

  The surprised look on his face as his glistening blade bounced wildly off beast’s armoured hide were priceless. And by his grimace and grunt, Melai guessed the action had sent another lightning surge of pain through his leg and foot.

  He fell back, apparently exhausted, as if a great inebriation had suddenly engulfed him. He fell back against tree trunk and leaf, panting.

  11

  Gargaron had not anticipated the complete and utter debilitating pain that rocketed through him upon the strike of his sword on his attacker. It had brought on nausea and a deep pounding throb up his leg and through his groin and lower belly and up into his torso. And now, as if to compound all matters, he were losing his strength.

  Not for the first time since the downing of the airship did he wish his satchel were with him; he were sure if he could deploy a wee drop of liquid Helfire upon this little beast then the thing would burn and release its hold on him. But satchel and Helfire were gone and lost.

  As he lay there he felt something nudging him, nibbling at his forearm. When he looked he found Grimah trying to heft him out of bough and trunk. The horse looked concerned, as if he knew there were danger afoot, for he kept turning its gaze to the canopy, as if something out there were watching them.

  Gargaron looked, but again saw nothing… and found he did not care anyway. He suddenly wished to sleep… his exhaustion now causing him to lose consciousness. His thoughts began to drift. And the pain left him… and he almost forgot the critter clinging to his ankle.

  The horse gnawed on his arm. He shoved it aside. He knew not whose horse it were now anyway. Nor from where it had come, nor what it were doing there. He wished it would leave him be.

  And then as if his wish rang true the horse turned and dashed away through the swamp.

  Good, he thought, be off with you. He felt awfully sleepy and a long rest would do him some good. He stretched out along the trunk of the oak. And he gazed up into the tree tops where golden sunbeams slanted down, illuminating bug and birds as they darted to and fro.

  It were here that he saw her. The beautiful winged angel perched in the boughs above. Simply watching him. At first she had the colouration of the woodland about her, and thus particularly difficult to pick from her surroundings were she. But once she leapt from her perch and swooped toward him, hovering there with wings beating in a bl
ur, he saw her skin take on the colour of limes and her long hair the hew of lush summer grass. He realised then that she held a bow, with an arrow aimed directly at his face.

  He could barely keep his eyes open however. And wondered if she were not part of some beautiful waking dream.

  12

  Melai hovered there. It were just she and this giant now, her Grunt arrows having drawn his beast away. ‘Before you die, hear me, oafish Rjoond,’ she spoke to him, tip of arrow mere inches from his face. ‘You have brought a plague upon mother Thoonsk and her daughters, and this shall not go unpunished. So hear me and heed me, this be why you die.’

  She drew back her bow string and waited for Rjoond to meet her eyes, for the very moment she felt he had understood. That moment would see her release the cord, and Rjoond would find an arrow lodged through his face and its nectar of insanity pumped directly into his brain. Then she would fly back to treetop and watch him self-destruct.

  Just as she made to fire the barb, there came the most infernal squeal. It echoed away through the woods and she saw the Soulsucka suddenly thrashing about Rjoond’s lower leg. The Rjoond stirred, lifting his heavy head in an attempt to sit up. With somewhat detached eyes, he watched the critter attached to his leg whipping back and forth, as though it were trying to grind his foot free with its teeth. He seemed however to feel no pain.

  Suddenly, inexplicably, the thing gave up its hold on him, slid from his ankle, plopped onto the wooden bough and fell still. Never to move again. Its bony white tongues lay across the bark like barbed spears. Its hidden limbs, those deployed when holding prey beneath water, now unfurled as its body relaxed in death.