Cloudfyre Falling - A dark fairy tale

by A. L. Brooks

  ‘Master Stormcrake knew they would not accept this lying down and anticipated their offensive to recapture the settlement. Thus the witches organised a counter attack which saw battle wage for barely a day before it were retaken. Thus the siege of Rabbit Flat were over.

  ‘However, in that time, the sorcerers had slipped into Vantasia undetected, and run off with their prize. And that is when it all changed. With Mama Vekh in the hands of the sorcerers, the sorcerers had claimed themselves much political capital. Threatening to slay the Goddess the sorcerers handed the witches a list of demands. They were to immediately release all sorcerer prisoners and their sympathisers. They were to divulge all their magical secrets and lore. They were to divulge location of all secret bases and hideouts. And last of all, they were to be banished from Godrik’s Vale, never to return.

  ‘Well, as things have it, folk don’t much like being told what to do. And the witches, quite rightly I might add, threw all demands back into the faces of their enemy. And here they ordered the immediate return of Mama Vekh. And if she were not returned then their retaliation would be to “burn Cloudfyre from the skies”.’

  7

  It were here in the telling of his story that Hawkmoth sat back and took a long pull on his pipe. He gazed into the tree tops as he let pipe smoke fill his lungs. When he let it out, it came in narrow streams that drifted away on the breeze like soft grey tendrils. He took a breath and again spoke. ‘The witches promised to create what they termed Boom Weapons. Bombs so powerful that a single one could level an entire mountain range and the shockwaves be felt far and wide. But that were not all. These bombs would also carry a dire curse, the Cropps, which would ensure that any sorcerer fortunate enough to escape the initial blast, would regardless, soon and in turn, be struck down with instantaneous death.’

  Gargaron could not help but think of the Creep Mounds he’d seen. The piles of skulls, victims of some foul disease.

  ‘That were not all,’ Hawkmoth went on. ‘The witches promised also to send out armies of foul beasts to mop up any soul who had not perished under the force of the shockwaves, all those who proved immune to the Cropps.’

  ‘Dark Ones,’ Gargaron said.

  ‘Dark Ones, Harbingers, call them what you will. But they are here. And so be the Boom bombs. The witches have indeed kept their promise to wipe out all sorcerers. Sadly though, their campaign cripples more than sorcerers alone. And it must be stopped. So, here be my quest: I shall take back Mama Vekh from my old brethren and return her to her own kind. Only then, do I fear, shall the witches cease their detonation of these Boom weapons and call their Harbingers to heel. And only then can our world return to some semblance of peace.’

  Rishley Locke were tossing stones down into the plunge cave, perhaps having already heard this tale. (The plummet of his stones into water echoed up and about the steep rocky walls.) Hawkmoth were staring into the fire pit. Grimah nibbled at chaff alongside Razor. Zebra were submerged somewhere in the depths of the plunge hole. Melai looked from Locke to Gargaron then finally to sorcerer.

  Watching Hawkmoth, Gargaron were first to speak. ‘Where then be this Goddess, Mama… Mama…’

  ‘Mama Vekh.’

  ‘Where be she held prisoner?’

  ‘At a secret location,’ Hawkmoth informed him. ‘A place known as Sanctuary, a place that has lain hidden from the witches and much of the world for an age.’

  Gargaron looked keenly and with intrigue at the sorcerer. ‘What be this place?’ he asked as if he had heard something of its like before but could not place where he had heard it nor recall what it might be.

  ‘A fortress,’ Hawkmoth told him. ‘The mountain fortress of the sorcerers. A stronghold. Our home. Lying atop the Bonewrecker Ranges. And no easy place to reach.’

  Gargaron mulled this over. ‘And say we find our way there, how easy will it be to liberate this witch Goddess from Sanctuary?’

  ‘That depends on whether or not my brethren still inhabit it.’

  ‘And do they?’ Melai asked.

  Hawkmoth shrugged. ‘I have received no word from them for over a week now. Though that does not mean they have perished. It could just mean that their avenues for communication have been diminished. Or that they have gone to ground to avoid further witch attacks.’

  ‘So if this fortress remains fortified and defended,’ came Locke’s voice from where he sat at the edge of the plunge hole, ‘will your brethren be likely to give up this Mama Vekh?’

  Hawkmoth grinned. ‘Over time my brothers have grown rather arrogant and pig headed. Well, more so than ever they were. If that be possible.’ Here he retreated into his thoughts for a moment or two, smoking his pipe, again his eyes on the embers of the fire pit. ‘In my younger day, when Sanctuary were still my home, I made it my secret agenda to make peace with the witches. I saw no point in waging a never ceasing war with ever mounting casualties. My first step in reconciliation would be to return Mama Vekh to her kind. I brought one or two sympathisers to my cause but none were willing to go up against the might of the Order. Thus I were a lone voice. When I decided to go public with my idea I were laughed at and ridiculed by my senior Brothers. Undeterred I tried to rally support for returning Mama Vekh to her people, arguing that if we were to do such a thing, the witches would be more likely to desist in their guerrilla and terrorism tactics. “Sometimes, in order to turn tides, it be better to swallow your pride,” I told them, “and your arrogance and your sheer pig headedness.” But the leaders of my Order, a stuffy, pompous lot, would not relent and could not see that their actions were prolonging an already protracted conflict.’

  He looked up and across at Locke. ‘So, in answer to your question, crabman, if my brethren still reside within Sanctuary, if she be guarded still, then gathering Mama Vekh into our possession shall be no easy feat.’

  Gargaron nodded. ‘How far?’ he asked finally. ‘How far are we from this Sanctuary?’

  Hawkmoth glanced around at his downed and ruined zeppelin. ‘On foot? From our present location? Eight days. Give or take.’

  Gargaron felt slightly deflated. ‘Eight days may see the end of Cloudfyre.’

  ‘That it may,’ Hawkmoth admitted. ‘And eight days may see the end of the protection enchantment I placed around my hill and home. But we have little choice, my friend.’ He toked back on his pipe. As he exhaled, smoke drifted away on gentle breeze and he said, ‘Anyway, whatever the case, we ought push off as soon as we can. If you so choose to accept the mission and accompany me, of course. Yet, if I am to go on alone, then all’s well.’

  8

  Gargaron pondered this. And all that Hawkmoth had said. He pondered his own home, and his girls. He pondered his village dead and all the death, dying and destruction he had witnessed since that first shockwave had swept over him on the banks of Buccuyashuck. He pondered Melai and her Mother Thoonsk and the passing of her sisters. This were not solely Hawkmoth’s fight. This Ruin, as the sorcerer put it, were killing all without discrimination, and if he himself did not do his part to end it then the deaths of his wife and daughter would be for naught.

  Gargaron looked from Melai to Hawkmoth. ‘Then I am with you.’

  Gargaron waited for Melai and Locke to give their own vows to this undertaking though he saw Melai smile. And guessed she and Locke must have offered similar pledges whilst he had been held in slumber.

  Hawkmoth gave a reserved look of gratitude. ‘And I shall be glad to have you along, giant. All of you.’ He knocked out the ash from his pipe, and nodding at Melai, and at Locke the crabman, he said, ‘And should more catch us up on our journey and choose to join our fight then we shall welcome their company in turn. Now, what say we get riding from here without delay?’

  DARK SKIES

  1

  THE woodland and its plunge holes persisted for much of that morning, and the going were steady enough. They trotted their horses where they could, with that enormous serpent, Zebra, always slithering on ahead, Locke mounted in
its saddle. Often they got up to galloping pace where the way forward were flat. Though at one stage before the woods ended the trees grew thick and their pace were slowed to a walk. Gargaron took this moment to pull Grimah alongside the mighty grey horse of Razor.

  ‘I must thank you,’ Gargaron said, ‘for rescuing me from that Skinkk. And for my subsequent care. Without you I would surely be dead.’

  Hawkmoth smiled kindly. ‘I have seen more than enough death lately, giant. Where I can, I try to sustain life. Think nothing of it.’

  ‘Still, my gratitude goes out to you.’

  Hawkmoth nodded.

  ‘Oh, and also allow me thank you for the use of this scabbard.’ It were a snug fit across Gargaron’s broad shoulders but his greatsword hung nicely across his back.

  ‘Well, it be worthless to me now,’ Hawkmoth told him. ‘I still have my staff, aye, but my enchanted sword, Starfyr, were lost down in that depthless plunge hole. And no amount of searching by myself, Locke, or that serpent had it back. So, keep it. A gift from me to you.’

  Gargaron nodded. Though as they filed between the woodland trees there were still things on his mind. ‘Tell me, sorcerer. I don’t suppose you happened to tap a portion of that Skinkk’s blood before it passed on?’

  Hawkmoth glanced across at him. ‘Fortunately, giant, I am not in the process of exploiting my animal brothers. So, no I did not.’

  Gargaron had suspected as much.

  ‘May I ask why you seek such a substance?’

  Gargaron sighed. ‘No reason. It matters not, I guess.’

  Hawkmoth eyed him for a short while. But said no more.

  2

  By midmorning they had left the woods behind them and came across a plain bordered southways by steep hills and bluffs. That soon changed to barren hilly terrain. As they pressed on, Gargaron searched for any sign of these Bonewrecker mountains northways, but lost were they beyond the horizon.

  Not long after, they passed through a deserted, somewhat miniature, settlement of tiny mud huts with grass rooves and mud-walled animal pens. A stink of rot hung here thick as soup. Livestock lay dead and scattered. Settlement’s inhabitants, small folk, smaller than Melai, lay dead also, and scattered. Another sad and pitiful sight, and it made Melai think of her sisters. She could not look. Tears welled in her eyes.

  No-one spoke as they continued on their way, their mood having turned somewhat. To help lighten things, Locke began regaling them with often humorous tales of his home village, Barnacle-On-Sea, a settlement hewn from rock and coral on the Vale’s southern Stromness Coast.

  ‘Of course, my full name be Sir Rishley Locke the Impregnator,’ he told them after a lively, and rather raunchy, story about his first love. ‘Oh, and incidentally, I hold the record amongst my people for most females impregnated in one night. No easy feat I assure you. Though such an accolade does not come without its ongoing responsibilities. My society be matriarchal, and any involvement with females by males must mean that a crab-lady’s pleasure and enjoyment be seen to first and foremost. Lest you wish to be banished from the clan. And should a male impregnate a female, well that male must, whether he likes it or not, until his dying day, remain loyal to that particular female and, if she so chooses, provide for her, or until such time as that particular female grows tired of him and kicks him out.’

  Gargaron could not help smile at the way this crabman spoke. His energy and his enthusiasm and his warm easy going spirit belied the dead and dying world about them. He wondered more than once if this crabman were in fact constantly drunk. ‘And what of your knightly title, sir?’ Gargaron enquired.

  ‘Oh aye, for my services to my people, and to the kindness with which I have treated my eighty three wives, I were knighted.’

  Hawkmoth almost choked at hearing this. Gargaron were simply struck dumb. When he found his voice he said, ‘Eighty three wives?’

  ‘Aye,’ Locke said proudly. ‘Eighty three. I can name them all if you’d like.’

  ‘No,’ Gargaron told him. ‘I believe you.’

  Hawkmoth were still contemplating the prospect of having to serve eighty three wives. He shook his head, incredulous but impressed. ‘I find both hands full with but one wife,’ he declared. ‘Let alone eighty three.’

  ‘So, do you sing to them?’ Gargaron asked, indicating the peculiar instrument strung across the crabman’s back.

  ‘Sing?’ Locke held a heavy frown. ‘I do not take your meaning, giant.’

  Gargaron pointed again to the instrument. ‘The lute upon your back. Be you some bard that keeps your wives and village entertained?’

  Locke laughed and glanced at Hawkmoth, as if to ask where did you find this imbecile? ‘Aye, if that is what you wish to believe, giant, a lute it be.’

  Melai, seated there upon Grimah’s shoulders, looked curious. ‘Someone tell me,’ she said, ‘What be a wife exactly?’

  3

  They pressed on throughout the day stopping briefly at a stream to dismount, stretch their legs, and collect water. Their horses drank. And splashed playfully together downstream. Zebra the serpent slithered into creek, swishing below the waterline where the way were deep enough, gobbling up mouthfuls of sickly frogs. Hawkmoth remained ashore, seated upon a large rounded boulder, supping on his pipe, showing no interest in immersing himself in the brook—content he were with keeping look-out for Harbingers. Though Melai, Locke and Gargaron did not hold back. Gargaron and Locke stripped off their shirts and raced each other into the deeper parts. Melai followed, content with kneeling in the shallows; though seated there it were the happiest she’d felt since Thoonsk.

  Locke removed his helmet, dunked it and drank from it. And tipped great gushes over his head. ‘Wondrous,’ he kept saying. ‘Simply wondrous.’

  Melai were intrigued by the pictographs etched on his two horns. They were beautiful in design. Though Gargaron when he eyed them thought they looked a tad childlike.

  ‘Locke, be it your custom to decorate your horns?’ Melai asked.

  He looked around at her from where he stood nearby upon a shallow bed of stones. Water dripped down his face. His torso were bare for the first time since Melai and Gargaron had met him; his jerkin and shirt piled on the bank. His skin were patterned in beautiful designs of ink.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said, taking another healthy draft of river water. He swallowed and went on. ‘Be my custom if any. Which many of my fellow crab folk have mimicked. I let my children draw their pictures there and I were proud to display their efforts. And after they had all sadly perished I etched via looking-glass a unique piece by which to remember each one of them.’

  Gargaron listened to their exchange and quenched his own thirst. ‘They are exquisite,’ he said, ‘and a wonderful way to remember your family.’

  Locke looked away downriver, watching Grimah and Razor lazing about the shallows, lost to his mind for a moment. ‘I thought so too.’

  Midstream, Gargaron proceeded to fill his gourds. As he did he happened to catch his reflection in the water; for a moment his breath left him for he did not recognise the face gazing back at him. ‘By Thronir,’ he murmured. Gone were much of the hair that had once framed his face, gone were much of his beard. Parts of his nose and ears were blackened. He reached around to the rear of his head. He swallowed when his fingertips contacted the area. Wet, tender, inflamed skin, skin that were blistered and hardened. The Nightface he had never seen with his own eyes but which he were familiar with by touch were no more; its eyes burnt and burst, leaving holes in his flesh. He sighed and for a few moments studied his visage in the water as it looked back at him. His girls would not recognise him, he thought. I would be a stranger to them if they were to see me right now.

  He straightened and concentrated his thoughts on the world around him. It were dead to bird and bug and to any other critter likely to utter sounds of life in daylight hours, but it were still a beautiful world. He bent and splashed water over his head. Many have lived without their Nightface, h
e reminded himself as water dripped off his chin and nose. He smiled despite himself. Many too have lived without their hair.

  He did not know it, but from the shallows, Melai watched him in silence.

  4

  By midafternoon the troupe traipsed through hilly ground where mighty rock profusions jutted hither and thither from the earyth, each and every one carved in the form of some ungodly sly-eyed face. Each of them towered above Gargaron astride his mount. Their mouths were not only carved, but caves, and inside, bones and teeth lay wrapped up in bundles of dirty, flaking cloth.

  While most of their attention were on these strange stone formations, Gargaron noticed Hawkmoth peering off into sky. And it were not the first time that day he’d noticed Hawkmoth doing as such.

  While Melai and Locke inspected the insides of one of these “caves”, Gargaron pulled Grimah nearer Razor. ‘Do you search for the Bonewreckers?’ he asked of the sorcerer, following his gaze out into heavens that had grown more and more grey and dark and overcast as the day progressed.

  Hawkmoth answered several moments later. ‘Not entirely, my good giant. I do not expect to see the Range for at least a hundred miles yet. No, presently I am testing a theory.’

  ‘Oh? And what theory would that be?’

  Hawkmoth shifted his staff where it were suspended in its brace across his back. ‘Well… we have not experienced a boom-shock for some days now. And whilst I would dearly love to believe the witches have ceased their bombing, I suspect there be more to come. Thus, detecting a boom-shock before its arrival might be a way to forearm ourselves against its shuddering effects.’