Shadow Falls

by A W Tinney

  He sighed and glimpsed at the pier over the side of the ship. Calefort did not possess a proper sky-dock, so they had been forced to make do with an abandoned watchtower that rested over a seldom used dock on the city’s south facing. The rancid stench of swamp dung and other perfidious smells still made the coxswain of the Fire Dawn gag. The sooner they ignited engines and rose from this city the better.

  Yet as he tried to make sense of the gloomy mist cloaked settlement, he saw no sign of the captain or his adventuring crews return.

  “We’ll be here for another night then so,” he sighed.

  “Sah?”

  “Nothing, Dalinor.”

  “Shure you dossen wan a dwink, sah?”

  “I’m sure. No more for you either. Get yourself below deck. Sleep it off. It will be firearm drills tomorrow.” Dalinor slouched, making no attempt to move. “Hop to, wind-rider. That’s an order.”

  “Psst,” she hissed, shaking her head, “you is no my cap-huh-tain.” Despite her grumbling, the youth stumbled away and disappeared below deck where Hurbar was certain she would simply continue drinking.

  The coxswain paced the deck, hands clasped behind his back. He checked ropes and ensured the sails were furled correctly. Neither task was needed, but he did them anyway, eager to be occupied with some task other than waiting. He drew and cleaned his pistols. That killed all of five minutes. He took a whetstone to his sabre. Passed another ten. He did a perimeter check of the ship, making sure no powder kegs had been left opened and near the flickering torches. The life rafts were secure and ready if needed. The captain’s quarters remained undisturbed.

  He went back to stroking his moustache.

  “Where in the wind are you, Captain?” he pondered aloud. Three days, he had been told. Three days into the wilds, and three days back. That had been eight days ago, and the coxswain had received no word from his commander. He could be dead in a swamp, eaten by some foul lizard and Hurbar was none the wiser.

  “That Knight tricked them both,” was what many of the crew had started to say. “Took them all into the fog and let that big cat eat them all.” Other whispered; “You mark my words; we should have left this place long ago.” More again dared utter; “Captain Eresor was a fool to follow the wishes of an elf and a Manzilian anyway. He deserved to die.”

  Hurbar had knocked heads together, yet still the dissenters continued whispering. He may have to resort to flogging, yet that was a Captain’s domain and would do more bad than good, he knew. The coxswain allowed himself a brief chuckle. At least a mutiny would give me something to do.

  Scuffling feet drew his attention. “Ah, Callor. Is it that time already?”

  “Tis, sah,” the gnome said with a salute. Callor was a veteran, having served under Eresor four years longer than Hurbar. He was loyal and proud to continue his duties, even in the Captain’s absence. He would not miss his turn on watch. “There’s a hammock free in the galley, sah.”

  “I have little need of sleep,” Hurbar chuckled. “Idle hands make a coxswain restless. I need the feel of the air on my cheeks again.”

  “Some of the lads broke into the pickles down there; might be you get more wind than you bargained for below deck.”

  Hurbar laughed heartily. He did so admire Callor’s humour. The breaking into rations however, he would need to deal with.

  He stomped down under the deck, pulling open the door to the crews’ quarters with a heave. Inside stank almost as bad as the city. There was mead in abundance; in barrels, in horns, in cups and in bellies. Gnomes danced jigs as tunes were played on flutes. Military rhythms were stamped and clapped with precision. The thud of the ships deck was accompanied by raucous bursts of laughter. Dalinor was there, wrapped in the arms of her lover, the pair exchanging passionate kisses immodestly.

  Hurbar slammed his fist against the door and barked for silence. The festivities ceased immediately, and sheepish eyes looked away.

  “I understand some of you thought you’d be clever and break into the pickles?” His eyes scanned the room. “What air-skull thought on that brilliance?”

  “I did, sah,” called a voice, that was immediately followed by a flatulent burst. The room erupted into laughter, and more rectal choruses sounded.

  “Enough,” Hurbar called, choking on the oniony smog. “Pilfering the supplies is not on, lads and lassies. You know this. Anymore and I’ll start flogging your arses; farts and all. Consider this a warning.”

  “Warnings don’t mean much from you anymore,” came a voice.

  The crowd parted. “Angus,” Hurbar said. “I should have known a Bitterbreath would have something to say.”

  Angus Bitterbreath was tall, for a gnome, and built wide as a horse. His head was shaven, save for a topknot of hair that hung down his back and chest, that was almost always bare to show off a series of dark tattoos denoting his ancient family’s heritage. In place of a right hand he possessed a metal claw, shoved into the wound and sealed with a steel cap. Puss frequently seeped from the ill set augmentation, but if Angus ever experienced pain or discomfort, he did not show. He was, like all Bitterbreath’s, antagonistic at every corner, and made no secret that he coveted Eresor’s position as Captain. “We don’t take orders from you.”

  “No, you don’t,” Hurbar agreed. “You take them from Eresor. And when our good Captain left, he put me in charge. You heard it. As did you, and you, and you, and you.” He pointed to a different crew member on each ‘you’. “Imagine his disgust, and his displeasure when he returns to find you miserable lot in the stocks for disobeying the command of a senior officer.”

  Angus drew himself to full height and shoved his muscled chest into Hurbar’s face. “I’d be more interested to see what he made of your head on a pike atop the bow.”

  The coxswain folded his arms. “One more word like that, Angus, and I’ll shove that claw so far up your arsehole, it’ll be able to scratch your nose.”

  Angus bared his teeth, but the sudden gong of the warning bell stopped him.

  “On deck you maggots,” Hurbar bellowed. “Look lively.”

  He shoved past the milling crew, stomping up the stars and on deck. Callor was clanging incessantly. Once he saw the coxswain he shouted. “City under attack, sir!”

  “Attack?” Hurbar made his way to the side deck and indeed saw flames splitting the encompassing fog. Fear clutched the pit of his stomach and his breath fled from his lungs.

  The flames were deep blue and not of this world. The last time any of them had seen flames like that, another city was under attack and they had barely escaped with their lives.

  Screams sounded in the fiery gloom. The unmistakable sound of steel scraping steel flooded their surroundings. Bells gonged, and orders were barked. With it all came the guttural snarls of Void beasts unleashed.

  “What do we do, sah?” Callor asked.

  “I’ll tell you what,” thundered Angus as he plodded across the deck. “We do what we should have done days ago. Start up the ship and leave this festering shithole on the horizon.” His words were buoyed by shouts and cheers of agreement.

  “Captains orders were to stay here,” Hurbar snapped. “I will not disobey a direct order.”

  “You won’t have to, not for much longer.” Angus grinned and drew his pistol. He fired.

  The crew, stunned, remained prone. There was a moment of stunned silence. Hurbar looked at Angus, his face momentarily wreathed in the fog of powder discharge. To his left, Callor slumped, cradling a bleeding arm. The shot had been a misfire.

  Hurbar rushed to his friend’s side. “Are you alright?”

  The aging gnome nodded, eyes shimmering with pain tears. “I’ll be fine, sir. Just a scratch.”

  Hurbar recovered and snarled. “Stand down, crewman,” he ordered.

  “Or what?” the Bitterbreath growled. “You’ll tell the captain? Huh. Eresor is long dead. That’s what happens when you let an elf and an eastlander dictate our paths. Our way is the wind. Eresor forgot th
at, and now he’s dead.”

  “No, he issin,” Dalinor piped. “Look…his coming s’up the bridge.”

  Hurbar gawped over the ships and saw a hunched figure charging up the ramp. It was a gnome, of that there was no doubt, but in its wake came a hulking brute of a creature whose trunk-thick feet threatened to crunch the plank ramp in two. The figures reached the ship and Hurbar indeed found himself face to face with his captain once more.

  “Captain,” he said with a salute. “The city is under attack. What are your…”

  “Get me the hell away from here as swiftly as possible,” he said, moving to the helm. “Up and away. Let’s go.”

  The crew snapped to attention at his words. Even Angus, realising his moment had passed, stepped back into line, letting his dissention bubble under the skin once again. Hurbar took position by Eresor’s side. “Captain, the elf and the Knight. What became of them?”

  “Dead. Both of them.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, sir.”

  The captain shrugged.

  “What of the staff?”

  “What?”

  Hurbar tried to catch his commander’s eyes. “The staff, sir. What became of it?”

  “Lost in the swamps. The damned Knight lost it, before she got her own head snapped off by a log lizard.”

  “And the crew?”

  Eresor rounded on the coxswain. “Shut up, alright? They are all dead. Like you will be if you don’t stop bothering me.”

  “Forgive me Captain…but, who is this?” Hurbar indicated to the lumbering ogre at the ships centre. The ogre was cowering, clinging to the mast, frightened by the steady rise of the ship.

  “A friend. I owe him one.”

  “I never knew you to consort with ogres…”

  “One more word and I will order that ogre to tear your head from its shoulders. Understand? Now go and do something useful.”

  Hurbar looked at Eresor’s eyes. The Captain was seething, his broad shoulders rising and falling as they done each time he came close to exploding. But his eyes. There was something not quite…

  The he realised. The deaths of the crew. The death of the elf and of the Knight. They would trouble the Captain, and Eresor would never admit that. It was the same when his brother died. Eresor dealt with grief through action. He did not mean his words.

  “Forgive me, Captain. I mean no disrespect. I am yours to command.”

  “Get us out of here,” the Captain said slowly.

  “Aye, sir,” Hurbar said, and shaking his doubts away, pulled the Fire Dawn away from Calefort and off into the eastern horizon. He would deal with Angus and his dissention later. Despite all that had transpired, Hurbar smiled.

  Smiled because his Captain had returned, and he had purpose once again.

  10

  The settlement was in uproar. It made it easy for Octavia to enter without issue. She stomped across the long plank bridge that connected the crannog to the marshland. Beneath her the waters rippled as eels surfaced, snapping eagerly at armoured feet, expecting an easy meal.

  The scant garrison that attempted to halt her were swiftly cowed by her dominating countenance. Some tried to bring weapons on her. They were left babbling on the ground, their minds ravaged by the might of Balar as the Ancient One judged their misdeeds and found them wanting.

  Across her back was the Staff. It hummed with feral power and seemed to draw the shadows closer to her with each passing breath. Part of her felt unease at having such a sinister object so close. Yet better in may hands, than in the hands of a feeble mortal…

  Activity in the crannog emanated from the centre, where a blazing fire burned, and the people had congregated. There was shouting and splashing and the sound of a monstrous roar. Octavia drew her sword.

  “By the Ancient One, what is happening here?” she thundered as she strode into the mess of people.

  The marshlanders gasped in awe as she marched through them, blessed armour shimmering. Many bowed their heads, muttering profane curses and wards, knowing the Vigilant had not come with warm greetings. Others, more vocal in their distaste for the Balar blessed, hissed like snakes, gills flaring. They ringed round her, a sight that would have intimidated many. But not Octavia.

  “I have spoken; you will answer.”

  “Here,” came a deep voice. “Down here.”

  Octavia pushed past the crowd to the edge of the pit, beholding the scene before her.

  A sky-gnome was bobbing in the water, one arm holding a splintered spear, the other wrapped round a naked woman, whose skin shone. The gnome was waving his makeshift weapon. To their flank, the murky waters stained oil black as the blood of a colossal eel seeped from its fresh carcass.

  Octavia turned to the closest marshlanders. “Fetch them out,” she commanded.

  “Mummy!” squealed a portly child. “They killed the dragon. They weren’t supposed to do that. I want to see them split in two. Make it happen mummy.”

  The child clung to the arm of a painted woman, bearing the headdress of a crannog queen. “I assume you are responsible for this barbarity,” Octavia asked.

  Venom glowed from the queen’s eyes. “You have business here, Balar bitch. Be on your way.”

  “My business is my own, barbarian, and you will do well to remember your place. I am about the Ancient One’s work.”

  The queen spat. Octavia wanted to challenge the petulance, but a bustle to her left drew her.

  The gnome and his companion were drawn from the water by marshlanders who were wise enough not to defy the venerable Vigilant. Octavia stomped to them, heavy feet sinking in the marsh. The pair were wretched, covered in cuts and blood of both their own origin and of their quarries. The woman breathed slowly, her unconscious form shivering. Dark fluid oozed down her leg, pouring from a multitude of miniature puncture wounds.

  “She is dying,” the gnome said. “Poisoned.”

  “You are Eresor, the captain of the Fire Dawn?”

  The gnome blinked at the curtness of Octavia’s reply. “I am. And you are too late Vigilant. A trait common to your kind I have found.”

  She plunged her Sceptre into the earth, letting it stand on its own. “You were at Faris-Manzil?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then you would know of my brothers failing.”

  “Hmph. I thought Vigilants were not supposed to fail.”

  Octavia sighed. “Aurelian was old. Even we suffer the ravages of time, the weakness of an earthen mind. His death was untimely, but it will not be in vain.” She offered a hand. “I have seen you deeds, and your noble intentions. I have witness what has happened the steel city. I have come to aid you on your quest.”

  His eyes suddenly widened as he noticed the Staff slung across the Vigilant’s armoured back. He stammered. “The Staff…you have it here…where is…”

  “I have come to help you, gnome. That is all you need to know. Now come with me.”

  The gnome did not move. Instead he continued to cradle the woman in his arms. Something trickled down his cheek, though whether it was a tear or swamp water, Octavia was not sure. “This quest was hers. Revenge for her city.” He bit back a snarl. “You are too late, Vigilant.”

  “Indeed, she is,” the queen howled.

  A sudden flash blinded all. The fire burning in the tower above extinguished, sucked from existence. Octavia reached out for her Sceptre, but something barrelled into her back, sending her sprawling forward. She was flung past the crouching gnome and spiralled into the pit. With a splash she submerged, but instantly regained her footing. With a roar she rose from the murky depth to face whatever had dared to attack her.

  The queen was wreathed in shadow. Her whole form floated off the ground, tendrils of Void magic dripping from fingers. With a gesture, she sent a bolt of azure flame burning at Octavia. The Vigilant dodged at the last second, but not before she felt pain and the scent of burning plate armour stung her nostrils. Without her Sceptre, she was disadvantaged, and the queen knew it.


  “You believe yourself to be so wise, Balar born,” the queen taunted, sending another bolt of fire careening down. “But you cannot see what has always been before you. Morigana claimed this land long ago. It is hers. Its people are hers. It seeps with her power, her will. And you,” the queen let out a long shrill laugh. “You thought you were our saviour. You thought you had a holy mission. We do not need saving, Balar born. We are the children of Shadow.”

  “No,” Octavia bellowed, and threw herself forward. Flames shimmered down upon her, but she pressed on, feeling her armour melt as Balar’s wards were overcome. She needed her Sceptre, needed the power of her god. Heaving, she grabbed at the pits edge and began to haul herself upwards.

  It was no use. The queen cackled and sent another burst of Void magic from an outstretched hand. This blast collided with force, sending Octavia back ten paces, and into the murky waters once again. The Vigilant broke the surface, screaming, her armour and flesh smoking.

  “How kind of you to bring it to me. The Umbral Staff. My brother Tchensar was too weak to wield its might, too narrow minded to see its path. I will not make those mistakes.”

  Flames flew and scorched the Vigilant. “Give to me,” the witch cried, “and I may spare your life.”

  The Staff thrummed against Octavia’s back, drawn to the call of the Void witch. Octavia let a hand fall to it, holding it firmly in place.

  “You shall not have it. You cannot prevail demon. I fight with the might of Balar.”

  “So feral,” the queen chuckled, letting a tentacle of magic snake from her left hand. “Yet so fiercely loyal. Just like your vainglorious deity. And yet…” she laughed again. “Balar never did understand the subtleties of possessing followers. Why fight yourself, when others will do it for you.”

  All to late Octavia realised the queen had breathed new, Void cursed life into the eel. The colossal corpse rose, shadow dripping from every pore and puncture in its dead flesh. The massive beast reared upwards, maw open in a silent scream. It fell on her, jaws snapping. Octavia grasped its mouth and pushed back, stopping herself from being swallowed whole. Her bodily form ached as the Void magic continued to engulf her. She prayed to Balar for strength.