Cloudfyre Falling - A dark fairy tale

by A. L. Brooks

  6

  Hawkmoth returned to Razor. He unhitched two things from saddle: a leather sling, and a rough blanket. He positioned the sling so that it hung down Razor’s flank. Then he spread blanket across floor at Mama Vekh’s side and gently he lifted her wet and wrinkled body onto it. Slowly then, as if preparing her for some mummified after life, he wrapped her.

  Once done, he carried her back to his steed and rest her within the sling. A set of straps held her snug in place. Just as he were finishing there came a sudden noise from across the hall.

  Hawkmoth’s company whirled about, weapons readied. They saw to their surprise one of the scattered bodies lift its head from the cold stone floor, as if it were some Undead stirred by their activity.

  In a weak rasping voice, it spoke. ‘Ah, I sssee you. Hawkmoth Lifegiver, I ssseeee you.’

  Hawkmoth turned and stared at the talking corpse. ‘Who speaks?’ he asked sternly.

  ‘Why, you do not recognise me?’

  Hawkmoth drew a little closer. ‘No.’

  ‘Lord Skitecrow, I be.’

  Hawkmoth walked cautiously toward him. Melai had a Crink arrow aimed directly at the thing’s head; the moment it tried something it would find its face crumpled inwards. Hawkmoth reached the corpse and gazed down at it, studying it for several moments, trying to discern this old withered ghoul-like soul from the powerful sorcerer he once knew. ‘Skitecrow?’

  ‘Lord Skitecrow to you,’ it rasped.

  ‘Oh, I think not. You have not been my Lord since the day you ordered my banishment. Though I am pleased to say your face does not look as smug as it did the last time I saw it.’

  ‘Why have you returned after all these years, Hawkmoth, witch lover?’

  ‘I come for Mama Vekh.’

  This Skitecrow spluttered, spit flying up and landing on his cheek. ‘Mama Vekh? Ha, my suspicions have rung true! You return to us a witch’s thrall!’

  Hawkmoth smiled. ‘If I return here of my own free will, then I do not see how I could be named a witch’s thrall.’

  ‘Then why do you come?’

  ‘I have just told you. To fetch Mama Vekh and to deliver her back to Vantasia.’

  ‘You fool.’

  ‘Fool?’ Hawkmoth laughed. ‘Ha, you call me fool? You be fool for keeping her. You be fool for not sending her back years before this time. Now look at you. You reap what you have sewn, Skitecrow. This silly pig-ignorant war with the witches has finally seen the end of Sanctuary. And the end of yourself. This be the legacy you leave, this will be how you shall be remembered, I will see to it. Now, time for me to return Mama Vekh and put an end to this mess that you have helped perpetuate.’

  ‘By conceding, damn you?’

  ‘Conceding?’ Hawkmoth asked. ‘Is that what you believe? And to think I actually once held you up as the wisest of us all. Well, alas, wise you are not. In the end, you are just another sad clown. Look around you, all is lost. The witches have finally had their way with this place. With all the Vale too as far as I have ascertained. Because of your blind arrogance and pride they have lain waste to our world with their accursed boom weapons, doing untold damage, killing untold millions. After all this time, after all these countless years, after all those pointless deaths, this is what it has come to. And for what?’

  The emaciated, dying figure laughed then. But weakness overcame him quickly and he fell silent. For a while he lay there simply breathing, as if that were all that were left to him, his weakened, dying breath. But it appeared he had some final words to speak. ‘Hawkmoth. I… I need tell y-you something. You m-must listen carefully to me. For cir-circumstances be… be not what you might th-think.’

  ‘I have heard enough. I shall leave you here to your death.’

  ‘Listen to me, this one last time.’

  ‘I know well your schemes, Skitecrow. You wish to stall me. Nothing more. Are my Brothers due back soon to arrest me?’

  Skitecrow winced, swallowed. ‘Shut up and listen. In your absence, we… we excavated the ancient city of Ghartst.’

  Hawkmoth sighed, done now with this conversation. ‘This I know.’

  Skitecrow grunted weakly. ‘So, you were maintaining contact with Brothers on the inside.’

  ‘Aye, and their names will come with me to my grave. Are we done here?’

  ‘No. Did you not hear what I said? We excavated Ghartst.’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘We found something most, most strange. A legend. A portent. A warning. Call it what you will.’

  Hawkmoth looked around. He knew Skitecrow were trying to delay him. But for what? Were sorcerers on their way? To capture and incarcerate him?

  ‘They were buried below ground. In deep secret vaults. Stone tablets we believe that… that predate even that of the Ghartst civilisation. Back to Cloudfyre’s empires of Men.’

  Hawkmoth gazed down at him. ‘Why? Why do you tell me this?’

  ‘I… I urge you to see them for yourself.’

  ‘Why should I waste my time?’

  This Skitecrow laughed again weakly and coughed, green phlegm dribbling from his cracked, wrinkled lips. ‘What lay waste to Sanctuary were not witches. What lay waste to us were spirits of Cloudfyre. And return they will.’

  Hawkmoth looked puzzled. ‘Spirits of Cloudfyre? What, by Ravenblack, are you talking about?’

  ‘I thought I had read and studied all there were on Cloudfyre’s history. But rarely do you find anything describing life beyond ten thousand years. And here they were, tablets inscribed in a language I have seen only once before. The language of Ghartst.’ Skitecrow, summoning the last of his strength, went on. ‘This is what they told us: every ten thousand years Cloudfyre’s children throw out the old world. Killing every living thing, be that plant, animal or spirit. We are here on the precipice of the last great age of this Epoch. You shall see, the witches are suffering as much as we.’

  ‘These old tablets tell of this, do they?’ Hawkmoth asked, with a skeptical grin. This were some trap. He felt it more than ever now. The witches were cunning. The real Skitecrow were likely a carcass in a ditch somewhere by now, for all he knew. And this thing on the floor, some imposter.

  ‘They tell it, aye.’

  ‘And where be these mysterious tablets then?’ Gargaron asked.

  ‘In our Halls of Yore. Placed on my desk.’

  ‘Halls of Yore?’ Hawkmoth laughed. ‘How might I access such a place? I were removed from this institution before given access to the Great Hall.’

  ‘All… all enchantments are lifted now.’

  ‘Do not take me for an idiot, Skitecrow. Those enchantments are never lifted. Even I know this. For they are governed by Vhada’s spirit.’

  Skitecrow coughed and lay there catching his breath. ‘Vhada’s spirit has gone. She has left us. Chased off by Cloudfyre’s children. The Great Halls are thrust open, vulnerable now to exploitation and violation. But it matters not now for there be naught left to commit such heinous acts. This world be dead.’

  Hawkmoth smiled. ‘Here be some trap to lure me into the confines of Sanctuary, to imprison me like Mama Vekh, for supposed propaganda crimes. I’m aware of the bounty you placed on me, Lord Skitecrow. But I assure you, I have given no falsehoods about this place. I ignore the mistreatment I experienced from your like and defend this place at every argument I encounter. I still have friends here after all. Why would I jeapardise their safety and welfare?’

  The figure on the floor lay there, head down, weak, tired eyes gazing up at Hawkmoth. ‘There be no trap… please, believe me.’ His voice were mostly a whisper now. ‘The bounty be waived. Ra-return the Hag if that be your plan… but I implore you… read the tablets…’

  ‘To what end?’

  Though Skitecrow would speak no more. His last breath crawled from him, a green vapour in the form of a barrow gremlin dragging itself from his cracked and gaping mouth. It resembled something climbing from a grave pit, small clawed fingers pulling itself from wi
thin. After it had emerged, it hesitated and looked about, momentarily watching Hawkmoth with its large gloomy eyes before scurrying away. After a dozen feet, while still scurrying, it dissipated upon the air like mist on a plucky wind.

  7

  Outside they stood, Hawkmoth, Gargaron, Melai, Locke, the snow falling heavier now. Mama Vekh were wrapped in her bundle, strapped to the side of Razor, her body concealed, her dignity maintained.

  ‘Who was he?’ Melai asked.

  ‘If it were he and not some witch manifestation, then he were an old mentor.’ Hawkmoth looked distractedly off toward the westward end of Sanctuary where the towers looked like wraiths amidst the mists. ‘Though not one favoured by myself. He has been Lord and Supreme Brother of Sanctuary for too many years, and drunk by his position of power.’

  ‘What were that grub that squirmed from his face?’ Locke enquired.

  ‘His totem,’ Hawkmoth answered, though still his eyes gazed eastways. ‘A life force some sorcerers attain which can keep them alive for a time beyond death.’

  Gargaron kept his eye on Hawkmoth, knowing the sorcerer were caught in two minds about something. ‘What eats at your thoughts, sorcerer?’ he asked. ‘We have what we came for. Let us leave this place.’

  ‘I ponder the Halls of Yore.’

  ‘And these stone tablets?’ Gargaron asked.

  ‘The stone tablets do not exist, giant. If they did, my contacts here would have informed me of such a find from their excavating.’

  ‘Then let us leave this place behind,’ Gargaron insisted. ‘Strike out for Vantasia and end the Ruin now.’

  ‘We shall,’ Hawkmoth told him, ‘nonetheless I intend to conduct a small detour in the Halls of Yore first.’

  The others were confused. ‘But you said it yourself,’ Melai said, ‘these tablets do not exist.’

  ‘It be not the tablets I seek,’ he told her. ‘The Halls of Yore are home to some of sorcery’s most formidable weapons. There are things there that will aid us in our quest. Particularly if the witches prove testy, or take exception to Mama Vekh’s demise.’

  ‘Well, let us have at it then,’ Locke said. ‘My claws are freezing over sitting here discussing it.’

  ‘Aye, have at it we will,’ Hawkmoth said, pulling Razor about amidst the quiet snowfall. ‘Though, bear this in mind. My old lord and master were not a soul in whom I placed much trust. For many a year he has been out to get me so this could be his final ploy to snare me. So, we must tread carefully.’

  THE SWARM

  1

  THEY made their way swiftly toward the westward parts of Sanctuary, Razor and Grimah galloping quietly through deepening snow, with Zebra slithering swiftly, leaving deep zig-zagging trails in her path, her tongue forever flicking, tasting the air. As Hawkmoth lead them toward one of the bending towers they slowed. Parts of its lower walls had been blown inwards, as if some monstrous concussive blast had torn into it.

  ‘Gargaron,’ Hawkmoth called out. ‘Locke. Would you stand guard here?’ He tossed Gargaron a war horn. ‘Blow this if you spot anything. Oh, and care little should you not hear it; it be tuned to me specifically. No point alerting enemy to our whereabouts if we do not desire it.’

  Gargaron caught it one handed. Shaped like the head of an eel it were. ‘How long do you expect to be?’

  ‘No more than ten ticks of the clock,’ Hawkmoth replied. ‘Enough time to gather up whatever I am fortunate enough to find.’ He dismounted and began unhitching the bundle that were Mama Vekh from Razor’s flank.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Gargaron enquired.

  ‘Take her. If there be some trap I walk into then I would do well not having her with me.’

  It were Locke who offered his serpent. ‘Grimah hefts giant and nymph while my steed has ample room.’

  ‘Very well,’ Hawkmoth said, hitching the witch mother to serpent’s saddle. As he remounted Razor he said, ‘Melai, for you a task if you wish it.’

  ‘Name it,’ she said.

  ‘I need you to prep the westward gate for our departure.’

  She frowned. ‘So I would if I knew its procedure.’

  Hawkmoth pulled Razor alongside Grimah, extending his arm, touching Melai’s forehead with his fingers; his hand almost engulfing her entire head. Moments passed, mere moments, but for Melai it felt like an entire sweep of the clock. When Hawkmoth withdrew his touch, Melai looked up at him, blinking, her eyes, somewhat glazed. She looked then out across the snowy grounds toward yet another tower lingering in the gloom. It were situated on Sanctuary’s most westwun point. ‘That one there be it?’

  Hawkmoth nodded.

  ‘I shall see what can be done.’ She spread her wings, leapt away and were gone into foggy sky.

  Gargaron watched her flight path, anxious. He felt Hawkmoth’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Rest easy, giant,’ he urged. ‘She be well. We shall join her soon enough.’

  Hawkmoth turned now for the rounded doorway at base of tower. Before he disappeared into tower’s darkened belly he turned and spoke to crabman and giant. ‘If I am not returned by ten clicks of the clock, do not come for me. The Hall of Yore be a most venomous place for even sorcerers, let alone those with no knowledge of magical lore. Instead, ride to Melai. The tallest point of that tower be the westwards gate. Melai will instruct you. Head southways’n’west from here. Vantasia you shall find inside Dark Wood beyond the southways roads. Return Mama Vekh and pray the witches halt their campaign. My wishes go with you.’

  ‘And ours with you,’ Gargaron told him.

  With that, Hawkmoth were gone.

  2

  It had been some years since Hawkmoth had been to Sanctuary, let alone this tower. But he still knew the way to Lord Skitecrow’s offices. Six levels up, ninth set of chambers along the corridor. He supposed they still bragged grand vistas of surrounding crags, but he could not tell that day, not with all the clouds.

  He dismounted Razor; it would have been an offense to bring such a beast into these Halls had Sanctuary been operating as per normal. But all normal operating procedure were finished. He gripped his staff. He remained alert for possible strikes by hidden witch raiders or malcontent sorcerers. The place rang empty however, nothing but the howl of the mountain gales and biting cold snow and air flurrying through shattered glass windows.

  Hawkmoth stepped up to Lord Skitecrow’s wooden desk. The famed Orrery were broken and pulled down across the floor. Ancient tomes had been pulled from book shelves and strewn about the floor. But as Hawkmoth had suspected, no matter where he looked, there were no sign of these alleged Ghartst Tablets. ‘I were right to mistrust you,’ Hawkmoth said as if his old Lord were seated smugly at desk.

  He set to work pulling open wardrobes, drawers, old chests. Fetching out phantom scrolls and arcane gadgets, medicines, rummaging through weapon’s hordes. Hawkmoth loaded as much as his side-pack would carry before fetching himself back to Razor.

  That’s when he heard it.

  A sound so faint at first it might have been naught but some moan of the wind. But it persisted. Noise of some disturbance coming from beyond Sanctuary. A screech. A cry. A moan. He strode with haste to nearest window and peered out.

  At first he saw naught but snowy grounds stretching out into the gloom toward Sanctuary’s curved perimetre wall. Anything beyond the complex were lost to the mists. Yet, he caught glimpses of faint shadows moving about the fog banks.

  ‘What be this?’ he murmured to himself, leaning closer to window.

  And when he saw it his bones turned cold.

  Pale-skinned figures. Bizarre, unsettling things, with pale plasteec limbs that held neither blood nor feeling; with long matted locks of hair, and plasteec alabaster faces, dark soulless eyes, fixed unmoving lips, bare grubby plasteec and their clothes in the forms of torn dresses and skirts. They did not laugh nor smile, they did not freeze yet held no warmth. They existed only for their masters and hated as their masters hated.

  The Bewitched.

&nb
sp; 3

  It had been many a year since Hawkmoth had set his eyes upon these damned creatures and he did so now with a sense of dread fascination.

  He pulled out his spyglass and watched them come. They moved like ghosts. One moment here, the next there. And every voice in his mind screamed at him to flee the tower, to put Sanctuary with haste at his back. But he hesitated, waiting… needing to see this. For, somehow, in the days and hours before Hawkmoth and his company had arrived in the Bonewreckers, the witches had executed a vicious attack upon Sanctuary, infiltrating the stronghold without suffering the wrath of the Shadow Guard. Signs showed they had stormed the complex in a frenzied attack, evidently catching the sorcerers off guard. And judging by the amount of frozen bodies beneath the snow, the sorcerers had suffered enormous casualties. A counter attack had obviously taken place after that, the sorcerers having rallied, no doubt gathering their wolves, perhaps their ranks even strengthened by Snow Beasts, and the witches slaughtered or chased off. But one question still intrigued Hawkmoth above all others: how had the witches found passage into the complex?

  Thus it were here Hawkmoth witnessed it.

  Vast numbers of Bewitched bore down on Sanctuary. The Shadow Guard rose up from their dens to meet them. An instant later their far reaching spikes shot forth, skewering the dolls through chest and belly, neck and limb. Hawkmoth knew that it would not matter if the Bewitched could feel no pain for the spike of a Shadow Guard could remove limbs, could turn a being to ice, or to flame, or to dust.

  But none of that happened. Despite being punctured and penetrated and stabbed, the Bewitched were not rendered to fire nor ice nor dust, they were not dismembered nor torn apart. Instead they advanced, slowly but surely, a wall of moving pale skin with their vacant, staring eyes, their long grubby fingers void of weapons. And as they bore down on the Shadow Guard, a hundred swords piercing them at each moment, a curious thing took place. And Hawkmoth were certain it were some foul magic.