by A W Tinney
He drained his mead, knowing the lingering irritation would soon pass. He would get his money, one way or another. Hrothnar would be informed, and his pockets would be lined with more coin before dawn. With any luck.
Mead-drunk, Gondolin staggered from the bar and out into the marsh city.
Calefort stank. Even to marshlanders native to the noxious northern mire, the city possessed a nefarious odour. The stench was born of the myriad of stagnant ponds, lakes and bogs that littered the meandering streets. Waste gathered in these puddles, fermenting and breaking down into sludge that was picked at idly by newt-hounds, swamp-rats and other amphibious rodents. Gondolin, for one, was glad of the sobering stench, as it served to rouse him from intoxication.
The bard took a western route, heading for the centre of the city. Above his head, ravens circled and cawed, seeking a roost to weather the coming mist storm. He trudged along winding plank paths swiftly. His feet were well accustomed to the slippery moss coated timbers that topped sodden streets. Rushes and reeds brushed at him, bursting from the ground in sporadic clumps. Most of the stalk hedges housed a snoring street urchin, or the unconscious form of a shroom addict. One such addict approached Gondolin, her eyes darting manically under the influence of the hallucinogenic fungi.
“Got a hit, sir? Just one to see me through the night?”
The bard shoved the woman aside with a curse. Though he was fond of soliciting the affections for narcotics in exchange for his baser desires, Gondolin had no time to deal with her sort. Perhaps on the journey home…
The buildings of Calefort were a medley of mismatched constructions. Some sank into the swamp ground, with thatched reed roofs woven together. Others were built on long timbers driven into the ground, and accessible only via ladders or if the occupants are wealthy, a set of simple wooden stairs. There were even residents who had hollowed out the trunks of ancient trees and set their homes within. Then there were the shacks built atop stout rafts, able to traverse the swamp city when the worst of the spring flooding arrived.
Among all this, the mist gathered. Calefort was infamous for the mist fall, a deep shadow that coated the entire region periodically and without warning. The dense fog made travel impossible, and all manner of sinister predators hunted in the impenetrable haze. Gondolin noted wispy tendrils creep along the clumps of shrubbery by his feet, heralding the arrival of a particularly thick storm.
Ahead, a guard was striding, his mouldy bell droning a dreary clang. “Fumes!” he wailed. “Fumes coming.”
Billowing ivy fumes had indeed sprung from a nearby stink hole, gliding skyward from a sudden rent in the street. Those few citizens travelling the night heeded the mire guards warning and shied from it. Some stink holes were harmless, though many contained poisons that were deadly to even the toxin resistant marshlanders. It would be cordoned off and sealed by the watch in due time, if the mood within the guard was favourable.
Gondolin cursed as the way ahead was suddenly impassable, flooded by people avoiding the fume leak. It was fast becoming a night saturated by hinderances.
He turned to his left, where the street suddenly dropped into a pond, that stretched westward and disappeared under a jungle of reeds. With an irritable grunt, he plunged into the murky waters.
Gondolin traversed the slimy under-way of the city, feeling the gills of his neck bristle and adapt as he changed environs. The under-way was a less travelled, and slimier means one could use to navigate the labyrinth of Calefort. Above the swimming bard, a toad-guard was on duty, perched atop an errant branch. The bugling armed figure surveyed the marshlander’s passing with a look of bulbous arrogance. His beady eyes flashed open and shut, but he remained on his seat, one webbed hand stroking a swollen belly, the other clutching a rusted, moss coated trident.
Gondolin swam through narrow crevices and under thick lilypads. He slithered through rock formations, pushing aside tadpole mutts that slobbered and bubbled at him. A sting-eel wriggled close, but he swatted it away with his hands before it could unleash its stabbing pulse.
Finally, he reached his destination. Surfacing, he took a breath of stagnant air and floated to a nearby ledge before hauling himself onto the plank street once more.
He had arrived in a narrow alley, occupied only by a single building of ancient stone. Within came the orange glow of flames, casting shadows against the lichen streaked slabs. No guards walked that alley. None would dare, for its occupant would not tolerate it. Gondolin approached the massive door and knocked.
The was a bustle inside, then a huge lumbering figure yanked the plank door open, regarded Gondolin, and snarled.
“Hello, Svet,” the bard greeted the ogre.
The huge humanoid barked, beating a bulging fist against a wide chest. Large eyes focused on the bard much in the same manner a bird regards a worm.
“I am well, thank you for asking,” the bard said. He knew well that was not what the ogre had tried to communicate, but Gondolin did like to toy with the brute, as much as he dared. “Is he in?”
A purple tongue, riddled with boils, slapped out to lick a droplet of ooze that dangled from the ogres flaring nostrils. The moss coated ogre snarled again, pointing a meaty finger at the bard. A finger Gondolin knew could pull his scaled head from his shoulders in a second.
“Yes, I am here to see him. I have news he will want to hear.”
The ogre swallowed the mucous with a gloopy pop, before grunting indifferently and stomping away, leaving the door open. Gondolin took that as an invitation and entered.
Inside was a single room. It was deceptively lavish, a contrast to most of the huts and hovels of Calefort, yet simple when measured against the ornate sunken halls of the feuding crannog kings. Tapestries lined the wall, a thick carpet draped the floor, and above his head, the soft hiss of marsh spiders blew from a maze of undisturbed webbing.
Gondolin stepped in, aware suddenly that his boots were sodden and squelched on the fine carpet. Svet stomped to the hearth, mewling quietly to himself, before standing guard beside a table, at which sat a flame-silhouetted figure.
“You stink,” came a voice. Boots were resting on the table with languid ease, and flowed to a skeletal body, dressed in foreign leather riding armour. A sword, long and double edged, was sheathed across a back that looked like it may buckle at any moment under the weight. Narrow yellow eyes glared at the marshlander, and a row of fangs snapped wearisomely. One hand was clasped over the stump of the other, as if to hide the deformity. A wound the owner was rumoured to have earned in his youth and repaid tenfold.
“Greetings, great Hrothnar,” Gondolin hailed. He bowed. Unnecessary, but it never hurt to add a bit of flourish when addressing the unspoken ruler of a city.
The hobgoblin continued to stare. “You stink.”
“You have mentioned it.”
“More than usual. Why?”
“The streets were blocked. A stink hole burst. I had to take a short cut.”
“You swam here.”
“I did.”
Hrothnar scoffed. “Why the gods ever felt the need to create a race of water-breathing worm-folk idiots I’ll never know.”
“Must have been the same day they decided to make sour-arsed half-breeds.”
At that, Hrothgar laughed. “Always admired your nerve, marshlander. But never your smell. That’s something I’d rather not admire. Besides, this carpet is worth more than you by far, and I doubt you have the coin nor the skills to clean it. I’ll not have you stain another inch. You can stay where you are.”
“Your hospitality never ceases to amaze me, Hrothnar,” Gondolin said.
The hobgoblin pulled his legs down from the table and leaned forward, scarred, hollow face illuminated by the low fire. “What is it you want?”
“I have news. For a price.”
Hrothnar scoffed. “There is always a price with your folk.”
“Coin fixes many a problem,” Gondolin explained, “and I find myself in need of it.”
/> “Indeed, you do. Tell me, how does King Aelrun’s daughter fare these days?”
Gondolin smiled. “News travels fast. Which is why I come to you, great Hrothnar, with words you will want to hear.”
The hobgoblin nodded. “Go on.”
Gondolin inclined his head. “I will need coin, you understand?”
“First, you shall tell me. Then I shall judge it’s worth.”
“Very well,” the bard sighed. He leaned closer to the fire, seeking to absorb whatever heat he could from the flickering flames. He had to choose his words carefully, spin a tale that was tantalising enough to pique Hrothnar’s interest and make good the promise of coin. “There is a sky-gnome come to the city.”
Another scoff. “You’re about two days late with this information. Not that I needed it. The sight of an airship is not so common that it would go unnoticed by any in these parts. I even have its name; Fire Dawn. I hope you did not come here expecting easy coin, bard?”
I did expect him to know that much at least, The bard conceded. No matter, next tactic. “I know the owner,” Gondolin went on. “Of the ship.”
“Oh?”
Good. “A fellow by the name of Eresor. He’s an explorer. A trader of sorts.”
Hrothnar shook his head. “Just another sky-gnome come to see what pathetic business he can glean from the northern lands. You have nothing of worth to me.” He turned his attention back to the fire, folding his arms.
“I do. He carried an important item. One of great worth.”
A brow arched. “What is it?”
“It’s a staff,” Gondolin said triumphantly.
“A staff?”
“Yes.”
“Of what variety? Walking, hunting, poking? There are many. And be assured all fit up the arse of a timewaster as well as the next one.”
The bard swallowed. “In truth I, er… do not know what it does.”
“You test me, worm.” At those words Svet stepped forward, square teeth chomping eagerly. “I do not like my time being wasted.”
Gondolin took a step forward, his sodden feet staining a fresh patch of the fine carpet. “You know that I do not waste your time, Hrothnar. I came to tell you that this artefact they were carrying is important.”
“Important how?”
“It shimmers. One moment gold, the next silver.”
“It’s a shiny walking stick then. You bore me.” He clicked a finger. “Svet,” he ordered.
The ogre trudged forward in three short strides and lifted Gondolin off his feet by the collar of his soaked shirt. The marshlander protested. “Please, listen to me.”
“You have always been fond of tales, Gondolin, but tonight is not the night. No coin for you.”
“Please, Hrothnar, please listen.” Svet almost had him at the door, and the bard had no desire to be tossed out onto the damp street like a sack of turf. “This staff…It is the thing that destroyed Faris-Manzil.”
At that, the hobgoblin froze. He barked a sudden order and Svet halted, turning quizzically to his master. Yellow eyes glared at Gondolin. There was fury hidden behind those pupils, fury that Gondolin knew was what had made Hrothnar the undisputed leader of Calefort. He did not wish that fury to fall on him but feared it may be fast approaching.
“Speak,” he commanded.
“Let me down?”
A swift signal of the hand. Gondolin fell to the floor.
“There was a Knight with the sky-gnome. A woman in steel.”
“A Manzilian,” Hrothnar confirmed. “My many eyes have seen; my many ears have heard.”
“And an elf too? You heard that also?” The hobgoblin nodded, and Gondolin continued. “They had the staff hidden under the table. The Knight said it had been used to destroy her city, if that rumour is to be believed. Irregardless, it was one the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It shimmers, as I said, but unlike any natural light.”
“Magic?” Hrothnar asked.
“Yes, it would seem so. I know your interest in such items, and I considered stealing it then and there. To bring it to you of course.”
“Do not lie, worm. For a bard you have little skill in it. Why did they show this thing of power to you?”
“They thought I would know what it is. Being a bard, one hears many tales of many things.”
“And did you know of it?”
“No. But I told them who may know.”
“And who is that?” the hobgoblin asked.
At that, Gondolin smiled. “That, I’m afraid, has a further price attached.”
With unmatched speed, Hrothnar sprang from his chair and drew his sword. His shrunken frame masked a strength and a speed that was characteristic to the full-bred goblins of the midlands. The point pressed against Gondolin’s throat before the bard even knew what was happening. He swallowed hard. “I jest, Hrothnar. I jest.”
The hobgoblin’s eyes burned. There was no mercy in them and with a sickening churn of his stomach, Gondolin realised he had perhaps gone too far. Hrothnar flashed his fangs and signalled to Svet, who moved between the bard and the door, an impassable mass of sheer muscle.
“You will tell me everything,” Hrothnar demanded. “And if you lie to me, I will know.”
“I never lie,” Gondolin said.
The sword nicked his throat, just beside his gills, making him flinch. Tears formed on Gondolin’s eyes and streaked down his swamp-damp cheeks.
“That’s one,” the hobgoblin said. “Let us start again, shall we?”
And Gondolin sang for the hobgoblin, sparing no detail.
3
Octavia, Vigilant of the Dawn Tower, could only survey the ominous approach of the mist. The blanket of grey came from the northern sea, swallowing the earth with ponderous claws that snaked out and groped the swamp land. The squawk of ravens could be heard in the distance, as they swooped and served, seeking shelter. Through her helm Octavia could smell the change in the air, the sudden suffocating dampness that preceded the mists. The cloak of growing shadow was a hinderance to her Vigil and made the god-warrior uncomfortable.
Would that I possessed the power necessary to dispel such gloom…
Atop the Dawn Tower, Octavia was privileged to see all, when the land and sky was clear. It was a fine citadel, built centuries ago, and untouched by the ravages of time through powerful wards etched into the very stones themselves. It was a proud structure, and as such was the ideal station for a Vigilant to hold her watch.
When the damned shadows do not fall, she lamented inwardly.
By her side was the hollow altar that once housed the Spear of Dawn; a relic forged by Goannus able to cast light upon even the darkest corners. Th altar was cracked, ruined and overrun by moss and snaking ivy weed. The Spear should have rested there, resplendent in all its glory. Once it had been used to guide ships, both of air and sea, home, but that had been another age, when Balar had watched the world and Titans had not ravaged the heavens.
Time and war had seen the Spear lost to the shadows, and Calefort suffered for it.
Her gaze fell back to the tome in her hand. Its pages were cracked and ruined, crumbling under her heavy mailed gauntlets. Carefully, she followed the next passage with her finger, reading aloud.
“In that time, there were ships from all corners of the earth sailing the seas and coming to Calefort. Cultures of all kinds consorted in the streets. Calefort sang with songs, rang with the tune of lutes, and rumbled with the booming drums of travelling troupes. The Manzilian’s brought their gold and silver; the Midlander’s brought their food and ale; the elves brought their skill of war; and the gnomes brought law and the code. All prospered in the port city, and many considered it the capitol of the world.”
She turned the page, beholding a faded charcoal image of what she could only assume was a scene of hellish desolation.
“Then, shadow fell, heralded on the wings of great silvered Void ravens. With it the seas rose and a great flood blighted Calefort. No more did her streets
sing. No more did her people rejoice. Balar had forgotten them, and they were lost in the encapsulating darkness for centuries.”
Octavia sighed, closing the book. “Nothing of the Spear.”
The Vigilant placed the tome back on the table and returned to contemplating the approaching mist. Her nature was that of curiosity, particularly when it came to fragments of history. When Morigana had assailed the world, clouding it in the shadow of the Void, seeking to conceal it from Balar’s sight, mankind had written very little down. The Silent Era, it was known as, a time when daemons roamed free, and portals to the Void were rent in the very fabric of reality itself.
Then Balar’s eye had been torn, and his Vigilants came to watch in his stead.
Yet the mysteries of the Silent Era intrigued Octavia. Indeed, when she had first come to Eiru with her brother and sister Vigilants, she had relished in her assimilation within the northern cultures. The marshlanders were a curious race; amphibious, but undeniably human. Their desire for coin out even the miserly gnomes to shame. Then she had met elves, haughty and solemn, with long and silent memories. Gnomes of all varieties too; those of the sky and those of the meadows in the midlands, both markedly different despite their shared heritage.
And she had learned that alongside the gods, the mortals had crafted great items of power. Manzilian’s, in their shimmering skin, forged weapons with the blessing of Goannus. Helwyn blessed bow staves so that they would never miss, nor break. Most interesting of all these artefacts was the fabled Gesila, more commonly known as the Spear of Dawn, a weapon blessed by Balar that could harness the power of the sun to dispel any darkness.
“A weapon that may be needed,” she mused, glancing at towards her Sceptre. Though powerful, she knew there was only so much darkness she could hold at bay with her Balar blessed staff. She would need something akin to the Spear to muster that strength.
Strength she could use to defend the world against shadow.
As she contemplated the words she had read, there came the sound of careful boots treading on the stairs that wound up to her viewpoint.