Darkness Falls (Tales of the Wolf)

by A. E. McCullough

  Galvorn was grateful to have something else to talk about and nodded. “Yes Kënnári. The Dôminus wants us to embarrass the Kingslayer if at all possible.”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult. Remember your training and demonstrate to them what a true Sicárii is supposed to be. I have faith in you two.”

  Gray grinned. “Thank you Kënnári.”

  “However, I must warn you about the Blade.”

  Galvorn snickered. “Zivën? I hear he’s gained at least forty pounds in the last three years.”

  Once more Darnac shrugged. “Possibly but that doesn’t negate the fact that he is still the Blademaster of Timgâd and a member of the Council of Shadows.”

  Even if his half-brother did not understand that their teacher was trying to warn them about something, Gray did. “Do not worry Kënnári. We will not underestimate the Blade.” He elbowed his brother in the ribs. “We will Gal?”

  “Oww. No, no we won’t.”

  “Good.” Darnac nodded and thrust a small ebony box into his Onus’ hands. “Then give this to the old bastard.”

  Galvorn looked down and knew the answer before he even asked the question but could not help himself. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Aye…I will be traveling on the anniversary and I don’t want him to think I’ve forgotten.”

  Both Galvorn and Gray laughed. There was little doubt that Zivën would ever forget that the years were closing in on the day that Darnac would be free to enact his revenge.

  “Just be careful. I don’t trust the Kingslayer any more than I trust Zivën. Both are snakes that would just as soon bite you as look at you.” Darnac slapped his favorite students on the shoulders and grinned. “I must get going. I have a lot of ground to cover in my investigation.”

  The three warrior-assassins exchanged their farewells and the two Sicárii watched as their teacher walked over to the closest gate, cut in line and stepped into the glowing darkness. One moment he was there, the next he was thousands of miles away.

  Gray tugged on his half-brother’s sleeve. “Come on. We have our own mission to complete.”

  Galvorn nodded and the two friends flashed their credentials and stepped in front of the waiting spellcasters. Before they had a chance to really complain, the two assassins were gone.

  Chapter 32

  Even as Grunk took his nightly walk through the fabled gardens of Jotenhiem, he was once again impressed by their construction. Legends had it that his great-grandfather built the gardens to impress his soon to be bride. She was from one of the southern tribes of Jotens and he realized that she would miss all the greenery, so he ordered his subjects to build the greatest gardens on the face of Terreth.

  Since Jotenhiem was tucked away on the western side of the Dragonfang Mountains and space was limited, the Joten engineers came up with the ingenious idea of building the gardens up instead of out. To accommodate them, they added a new wing on the south side of the palace which included high arches, numerous pillars and thick walls; thick enough to hold the deep soil firm and undisturbed even when walked upon by the towering Jotens. After which they imported numerous broad-leafed plants, fruit trees from the south and many varieties of flowers were planted; in short, everything that would be joyous and pleasurable to their future queen. They also designed aqueducts to bring life sustaining water to the plants from reservoirs higher in the mountains. However, the aqueducts were ingeniously designed to allow the water to flow freely downhill but also to course through the roots ensuring proper hydration for all the plants. Needless to say, the Hanging Gardens of Jotenhiem were one of the unknown wonders of Terreth.

  Originally kept as the secluded haven for the Joten nobility, Grunk had opened them up for the pleasure of all of his subjects and had quickly become a popular place to relax for everyone. It was two hours before midnight and even now, there were at least twenty jotens in sight. Grunk paused at the tree he had planted in honor of his father. It was a simple northern fir, the only one in the garden, but it had been his father’s favorite tree. His two bodyguards had stopped several yards back to give their Jarl some privacy as Grunk dropped to one knee and lowered his head.

  “Father hear my plea. I am in need of your council, there are events moving in this world that will affect our people, this I know. I’m not sure how I can guarantee their safety….”

  Grunk paused in his prayer. The gardens had become quiet, too quiet. He glanced over his right shoulder and was reassured when he spied his bodyguards standing absolutely still. So, why did he all of the sudden feel uneasy? He kept one hand on his ever present axe and one on the medallion of Gaul, Lord of the Underworld and quickly reviewed the last few moments of peace before the uneasy feeling overcame him.

  The breeze was coming from the south and he could hear the murmur of the citizens nearby. Then, there was a series of thumps and everything went quiet. If he heard it, then why didn’t his bodyguards hear it?

  Grunk glanced at them as he considered all options and unfortunately one of them was that they were a part of whatever was about to happen. That was when he noticed that they had gotten closer, not a lot closer but they were slowly creeping forward. Grunk tightened the grip on his axe and stood up. If it was a fight that they wanted, then he would give them one they would never forget. He turned to face his bodyguards and brought his axe into the ready position. “With Gaul as my witness, I’ll make you pay for betraying your Jarl.”

  As the bodyguards stepped into the light, Grunk realized that he did not recognize them. They were wearing the proper uniforms but they were imposters. Then a voice came out of the darkness, one that the Jarl thought he would never hear again.

  “Wow…not only does he think we are betraying the throne, he invoked the name of the Forsaken One.”

  Grunk turned to face his true adversary. “Tarax, I was wondering when you’d show up.”

  The outcast Joten took a small step forward and raised both hands as he gestured to their surroundings. “You know, this is just one more reason that you aren’t fit to wear the medallion. This garden was built for the nobles, not commoners. But you obviously don’t care about the past of our people, especially now that you have the throne.” Tarax paused, “I misspoke, had the throne. After tonight, we will have a new Jarl.”

  Grunk had counted twelve Jotens plus Tarax. Even as skilled a warrior as he was, those were not good odds. But he wasn’t going to back down, not to this damn pretender. “Somehow you might’ve made it back inside the city but don’t worry, you won’t be leaving here alive.”

  Tarax and his thugs laughed. They held all the cards and they knew it. The Jarl was surrounded and outnumbered. To top that off, they had men positioned at all the entry points into the garden. Grunk would die before this night was over and they knew it.

  “Ah Grunk, I’ve missed our arguments. No, wait….no I haven’t. You were always a pompous boor when we were growing up.”

  Now it was Grunk’s turn to laugh. “You’re still upset about that wolf hunt.”

  “You stole my kill!” roared Tarax before remembering where he was and forced himself to calm down. “Never mind, after a few minutes you’ll be food for wolves.” Tarax grinned. “Get him.”

  And the thugs began to move forward.

  Grunk had been stalling in hopes that his palace guards would notice that something was wrong and would investigate. However, he had also taken the time to study his opponents in those brief moments before combat.

  Luckily for him, none of the attackers had any missile weapons. They were all wearing chainmail armor, which was bad. Even so, the most unnerving sign was the simple fact that every thug was carrying a sword with a well-worn leather hilt. A sure sign that they were all veteran warriors.

  Grunk figured it was time to play his last card.

  Every Joten was haunted daily by the vision of their death. Legends state that in ages past, a greedy Jarl wanted great power and swore his allegiance to the Arachne in exchange for the gift of p
rophecy for him and his people. At that time, Jotens had two eyes just like every other race on Terreth but had to give up one eye to the spider demoness. In a dark ritual, the pact was made and the proud Jotens became the sulking Cyclops. However when the Arachne were overthrown at the end of the first Godwar, Gaul was unhappy with his followers but even he couldn’t undo the magic that had been done on them since they’d agreed to it of their own free will. Instead, he used his own magic to twist the spider-god’s gift of prophecy and limited it to one event, the day of their own death.

  “Know this you black-hearted bastards, I have seen the day of my death and it isn’t today. Can you say the same thing?”

  His outburst did exactly what he had hoped it would. It caused them to hesitate, which negated their greatest advantage, overwhelming numbers. It was not much of an advantage but it at least gave him a chance. The fact was he was not lying. According to his vision, this was not his day but that did not mean he could not be maimed or injured.

  Grunk forced those thoughts aside and tore into the thugs. Swinging his axe left and right, he scored wicked gashes on the two Joten thugs that stood between him and Tarax. Not enough to kill them or even take them out of the fight for long but enough to give him an opening at the betrayer.

  Tarax leapt forward and met him claymore to axe.

  Their fight was brutal. No quarter was asked or given. They had grown up with each other and trained under the same warmasters but that was many years ago. Since the last time they crossed blades, Grunk had wandered the lands of Terreth, fighting wherever and whenever his god directed him. Tarax had stayed in the military until Grunk ascended to the throne after which Tarax defected with the entire southern army.

  Tarax’s claymore scored a wide slash on the Jarl’s shoulder but Grunk responded with a gash across his opponent’s thigh. It was obvious that at this moment, head to head, they were equally skilled but Tarax had brought help and that had Grunk worried. The whole time he was fighting, he expected a blade in his back but it never came.

  Suddenly, he saw his opening.

  Tarax dropped his guard and shifted his attention to someone behind the Jarl.

  Grunk was not going to waste his chance and took his shot. With both hands on the shaft of his axe, the Joten Jarl thrust it straight up and connected with Tarax’s chin with enough force to stagger the outcast backwards and he fell to the ground.

  Even though his nose was bleeding, Tarax still had his attention on someone behind Grunk and the look on his face could only be called fear. “You can’t be here!”

  The smooth voice of Darnac cut through the silence. “Why not? My orders are very broad for this mission. I’m here investigating an attack. A better question is why are you here? The Dark Lady did not authorize this attack.”

  Grunk had turned at the sound of his friend’s voice and smiled. He should have been surprised to see the pile of bodies scattered about but he was not. He had crossed blades with the Blademaster before and had only glimpsed at the level of his skill. It had been humbling.

  “I’m curious, why do you Dark Elves always sneak up on people? I know you can make noise but all of you seem to do nothing but creep about. Why is that?”

  Darnac grinned broadly at his friend’s comment as he realized that Grunk was paraphrasing the first comment he had had made to the Cyclops all those many years ago. Now it was his turn to quote the past.

  “Why rock the boat?”

  Tarax tried to take advantage of their distraction, rolled over and got his feet underneath him. He was about to make a break for it when a wave of pain washed over him and out of the corner of his eye, he spied one of his legs flying off to the left. He knew he was screaming but the pain was more than he could stand and he blacked out.

  Darnac nodded at the clean cut the Jarl had made. Tarax would bleed out in a matter of minutes. As the dark elf began to clean his blades, he nodded toward the maimed Joten. “It would be best that he doesn’t regain consciousness. The ring on his left hand would allow him to contact the Dark Lady.”

  Grunk nodded his understanding. “And your part in this massacre needs to be kept quiet. Correct?”

  “It would be best.”

  Even as they were talking, Grunk walked over to the unconscious form of Tarax and calmly beheaded him. “I never did like him. He was always too arrogant for his own good.”

  “I always found him to be a blowhard, almost as bad as Blackfang.”

  “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a few years.”

  Darnac shrugged. “He went rogue from the Dark Alliance a few years back. No one has seen him since.”

  “Not true. I saw him not five days hence.”

  “But you just said you haven’t heard his name.”

  The Joten Jarl nodded. “That’s true but when the would-be assassins tried their best to kill me, we had reports of an orc incursion down near the Graveyard.”

  Darnac shook his head. He was confused. “What? What graveyard.”

  “The Dragon Graveyard.”

  Darnac raised one eyebrow in silent question.

  Grunk grinned. “To the south of Jotenhiem, where the Dragonfang Mountains meet the Wall, there is a small gorge that winds its way through the mountains until it finally exits into the Southlands near Krantos.”

  Darnac chewed on the inside of his mouth for a moment before asking, “And where does Blackfang fit into this tale?”

  “As I said, we had reports of a band of orcs coming through the pass and heading toward Jotenhiem but they never arrived. So I led a unit to investigate but all we found were bodies, actually I should say body parts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The orcs had been butchered, literally ripped apart.” Grunk paused and sat down which brought him closer to eye level with his friend. “Now, I’m not the greatest tracker but even a blind dwarf could’ve followed the tracks. One thing was certain, they were lycanthrope tracks but it was a mixture of wolf, puma, boar and bear prints in the trail, the likes that I haven’t seen since the fall of Hawkeye.”

  Darnac nodded. He remembered Hawkeye. Even though the Blademaster had served the Dark Alliance in their attack against the Wolflord and his loyal Highlanders, he had respected the canny warrior.

  Grunk continued speaking. “We followed the tracks to the crevasse which lead to the hidden valley and that’s where I saw him.”

  “Blackfang?”

  Grunk nodded. “Blackfang. I’ll never forget the look of that disfigured black-furred bastard.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. We locked eyes. I nodded and withdrew my men.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? I could tell he had a veritable army in the mists behind him but more than that, he had destroyed a small army of orcs that had been threatening my homeland.” Grunk shrugged. “As the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my ally.”

  The sound of pounding feet filled the garden. Grunk turned towards the noise expecting another attack only to find the royal guards rushing to the aid of their Jarl.

  “Just my guards,” added Grunk as he breathed a deep sigh of relief. Not hearing a snappy comeback, he turned toward his friend only to find darkness. If it were not for the dead bodies of the twelve Joten attackers, he would have thought that he imagined the dark elf’s visit. Knowing there was no way that he would have survived that encounter without his friend’s help, Grunk took a moment to kneel down and pray to his god.

  For some reason, Gaul had seen fit to save him. Only the Dyhana could have guided Darnac to be here at the right time to intervene. It was humbling to see the gods at work.

  Chapter 33

  Khlekluëllin paused in his questioning. He was in a quandary with no clear path out. He needed answers but his prisoners refused to speak. Khlekluëllin knew he could make them talk, he had a wide variety of spells to choose from or he could call in the Túlkur. It had been a sobering revelation that his mother even had an Interpreter, which was what
the elves called someone skilled in the art of torture and interrogation. Khlekluëllin’s dilemma stemmed from the fact that even though he could make them talk, the question was should he. He was still haunted by the memories of the time he spent as Blackfang’s prisoner. He and his brother had been tortured day after day. It was not a pleasant memory.

  Khlekluëllin looked down on the young assassin. He was young. If Khlekluëllin had to guess the would-be assassin was not any older than seventeen, which to a human was a young man at the beginning of manhood but to an elf, he was naught but a child. However, this prisoner seemed to be the leader of the assassins. He had lost his left arm during the failed assassination of the Queen. The gnome in the next room had not fared any better, he had lost both legs.

  Khlekluëllin decided to try another approach.

  Pulling out a chair, he reversed it and sat down. Folding his arms and resting them on the back of the chair, Khlekluëllin cocked his head to the side and took a deep breath. “You know, I don’t know why you just won’t answer my questions. We both know I could compel you, either magically or by force.”

  “Why haven’t you?” whispered the prisoner.

  Khlekluëllin stifled a small smile but rushed to keep him talking. “Many years ago I was the prisoner of a foul beast of a man with delusions of grandeur.”

  “Bl…Blackfang.”

  Khlekluëllin nodded. “Yes, I see you’ve met him.”

  The prisoner shook his head. “Before my time but I’ve heard stories.”

  Khlekluëllin tried his best to digest that tidbit of information while not letting on that he had let slip something important. He was determined to keep him talking but Khlekluëllin was tired of calling him prisoner. “You know this would a much easier conversation if I knew what to call you.”

  The young man opened his mouth but closed it without saying a word as his eyes flicked to Khlekluëllin’s left as a soft and very feminine voice came out of the darkness. “Go ahead, Weasel. Keep talking.”