Cloudfyre Falling - A dark fairy tale

by A. L. Brooks

  The dolls appeared to bewitch the Shadow Guard.

  The attacks were suddenly without potency, without speed, as if an extreme fatigue had gripped the Guard, as if they were but ensnared in some temporal trap, where time for them had slowed. It did not affect the dolls; in their ghostly ethereal way they pushed on through the Guard like young women dancing amidst beds of flowers, flitting, shifting, like wraiths. And then as they reached the wave wall, jerking like insects, they began clambering over the top, dropping down into Sanctuary’s grounds.

  At the sound of his blaring warhorn somewhere below, Hawkmoth finally broke from his reverie, turned quickly, remounted Razor and took him galloping down stairway.

  4

  Melai had reached the top of the Eighth Tower. It were scooped out like an eagle’s nest, though shallow. Here, as if merely nesting, were four giant metallic black birds, their bodies hollowed along their backs like rowboats, each with room enough to accommodate two or three riders of Gargaron’s and Hawkmoth’s size.

  Hawkmoth’s instructions had been to prepare but two of them. His thoughts had told her there ought be a steel rack containing vials of chemical matter. Liquids of red, yellow and blue. She were to take the blue chemical, pour it into the yellow. Mix. She were then to pour this mixture into each bird at the same time as she poured the red. As to where to pour it? Hawkmoth’s mind had shown her pictures of a receptacle in the top of each bird’s metal skull. The liquid were to be poured into each one.

  If the birds were still fully functional they would then come to life. His thoughts had told her to stand back. The birds would stand, walk to the edge of the platform, and await further commands. Here Melai would hold her position and wait for the others to reach her.

  5

  Gargaron blew the so-called war horn again, once more looking at it puzzled when it produced no sound. ‘Hope he heard it!’ he said, hooking it over his belt and reaching for his great sword.

  Pale forms were scrambling over the distant wall, rushing toward them. Nightmarish humanoid creatures with long knotted hair and faces like dolls.

  Locke removed his blow-flute. And taking in the situation he said, ‘Right then,’ as if facing the prospect of naught but some fairly robust gardening.

  Their attack were almost imperceptible. It were the way they moved that caught the giant and crabman off guard. For they could shift almost unseen, sweep across a stretch of ground as quick as a gale. Gargaron were almost unaware of the mouths of teeth at his ear and neck. He brushed aside what he thought were a bee but when his hand hit something solid he gasped and whirled about, finding doll creatures attached to his flesh.

  He snatched at them, yanked them free, chunks of his skin still knotted in their teeth. They hissed, mewled, scrabbling at him with their plasteec claws, dragging skin from his arms and face. He managed to toss them to the snow and as they clambered back to hands and knees he cut them to pieces.

  There were no blood but a creamy yellow ooze that seeped from the centre of their limbs. Still, he had not the time to catch his breath for they were upon Grimah, clinging to his horse’s hide, biting out chunks of meat.

  Gargaron hacked at them, stabbed at them, kicked at them while Grimah himself did a fine job of tearing them from his flanks with his two mouths.

  Nearby, Locke were well inundated. Zebra whipped her large body, sending dolls flying. But Locke had been dragged off his mount and his helmet snatched free and he had been set upon like a rabbit by hounds. Buried beneath them Gargaron heard him laugh and yell, ‘Ha, come and have me you accursed fiends!’ and he saw Locke’s moonblade swishing back and forth dicing these creatures to bits and when Locke found his arms pinned down he dug his horns into his attackers, head-butting and puncturing them… head-butting and puncturing, repeatedly, whenever he had the chance. He stabbed at them too with the spiny tips of his crab feet.

  6

  Hawkmoth emerged at last from the tower and saw his friends were in some peril. He snatched a Hornet from his pocket, an item he had only just snatched from Skitecrow’s office and let it loose.

  Gargaron happened to see it. Something leapt from the sorcerer’s hand, a tiny green fairy and a mighty squeal erupted from its jaw and a concussive thud swept over all before her, taking Gargaron’s hearing for a moment, and every non-living critter about them blasted away as if hit by a thunderous wall of water. It left Gargaron, Locke and their steeds suddenly free of attackers. With that the fairy crumbled.

  ‘Right then,’ Hawkmoth called. ‘Let us away from here!’

  6

  Melai watched them from the top of tower. They had several hundred yards to cover. She scoured the perimetre wall. More of those strange fiends were clambering over the top. She unslung her bow but she were too high for her arrows to be any use.

  Hawkmoth, Gargaron and Locke made their charge for the tower. ‘More Bewitched,’ Hawkmoth called. Gargaron had already spotted them. Piling over the walls like bugs. ‘Behind us too,’ Locke reported.

  Gargaron glanced over his shoulder and saw a mighty horde a hundred feet behind them. ‘Marvelous.’

  In front of them, the Bewitched were swarming about the base of the tower, surging toward them.

  ‘They shall cut off our path,’ Gargaron observed.

  ‘So don’t lose your pace,’ Hawkmoth called. ‘Charge them, cut them down, bash through them!’

  Gargaron held high his sword, and Locke spat more impotent darts from his blow-flute. Though Razor did something Gargaron had never witnessed from the horse: its glowing eyes shot bolts of searing green fire punching holes straight through the plasteec torsos of those dolls, melting them from the inside out.

  Both fronts crunched into each other: horse, serpent, giant and crabman piling headlong into this horde of Bewitched. And from there it were utter bedlam. The dolls were ravenous, frenzied, cutting, scratching, biting; chewing off chunks of horse flesh and of serpent, of giant and crabman and sorcerer. The horses squealed and kicked and stomped, the serpent hissed and gnashed and sent swathes of fiends flying with wild slashes of her mighty tail.

  They dragged Hawkmoth from his saddle and gone were he in an instant, buried beneath them, his staff torn from his grip. Gargaron, believing Hawkmoth’s magic were likely their best chance of ridding themselves of this mess, struggled getting to him, hacking at the dolls with his great sword, pushing Grimah through the pack of dolls who were like ravenous rats on a corpse. Grimah bit at them with both his heads and kicked at them, rearing up and stomping them down. But broken, or bent or twisted, they rose again.

  Locke slashed his moonblade, measured but frenzied in fashion; at first from his saddle but after Zebra had raked away huge numbers of the Bewitched and Locke were hauled from his mount he found ground to stand and expertly carved up the Bewitched as they clambered toward him.

  Gargaron hauled Grimah as close as he could to where he saw glimpses every now and then of Hawkmoth struggling to free himself from beneath the ravenous dolls. Razor became some sort of berserker steed, springing about as wild as any horse Gargaron had ever seen, firing off green bolts of flame that were so powerful, so searing hot, they cut through dozens of Bewitched at a time. Gargaron dismounted, his sword hacking at the enemy as they bit at him, their plasteec mouths covered in blood and rent meat. They crowded him but he outmuscled them, throwing them off as he would children, slicing them up with vast two-handed sweeps of his sword. But they were far too numerous and no matter how much he struggled, he got no nearer Hawkmoth.

  He caught sight of the wizard’s staff and dove for it. Grabbing it but losing it again under the mass of writhing fiends piling on top of him. Despite his strength he were being pulled to ground. He grit his teeth and heaved his way back to his feet, throwing off his offenders. Grimah were near him, and he grabbed a handful of saddle and used the horse’s bulk to help pull him free of the Bewitched.

  But he were leapt upon and clawed at. And Grimah now, despite his brute strength, despite his bulk
, were pulled down by both heads to ground. Then he were lost beneath mounds of the swarm, and Gargaron lost the cloudy sky from his sight as a mass of Bewitched closed over him, the sound of hundreds of munching plasteec fangs all about him, like dogflies at meat, a constant noise, eating at him.

  He struggled and kicked and punched but he were tiring and he were outnumbered and ultimately he were outmuscled. He no longer had his sword; lost to the Bewitched it were. He were being turned over and pulled and hit and bitten, he were thrown upside-down, and tossed this way and that. Still, he were determined not to succumb, would not let them beat him. He felt his anger rising, felt rage building in his chest. He hadn’t come this far to be eaten alive by this horde of abominations. He hadn’t fare welled his girls at the Great Precipice just to be torn apart here without having done anything to avenge their deaths, anything to reverse the Ruin that had scorched the world’s living. In the mayhem, in all the mass of writhing, ravenous dolls he caught glimpses of Grimah, heard him squealing, saw him kicking his mighty legs. And he spotted the hilt of Drenvel’s Bane still held in his pack, strapped to Grimah’s saddle.

  Even a hilt be better than naught, he thought.

  With enormous effort he pushed his hand down amidst bodies of monsters. He growled with the effort, his anger giving him strength. If I die here, then I go down fighting, he thought furiously. And I shall take as many of these devils with me! And as he curled his fingers about the haft of Drenvel’s Bane and dragged it free something curious stole over him.

  Instantly he felt his vitality return. Instantly he felt he were filled with the strength of gods. He felt out of his body somehow. Felt as light as a bird. And most curious of all, he saw the head of Hor’s mighty and legendary hammer suddenly appear.

  7

  Locke were laughing, hurting but laughing. He had heard warriors tell how they had never felt more alive than when close to death. He were feeling it now and he were relishing it. And hoped not to give this sensation up so readily. Though he wished he knew where his Zebra were. For he could see naught, lost beneath this horde as he were. Though every now and then he heard her squeal or hiss. So he fought. He could no longer get his blow flute to his mouth so he cut through these Bewitched with his moonblade. He could hear it humming as it sliced through them, as their burning “flesh” gave off a stink like molten rubber.

  He heard something new then. As of a behemoth descending upon this mayhem. And when he managed a chance he saw it, a brute wielding a mighty war hammer. At first he believed it a mirage, an apparition put out by his dying mind. But dying mind or no, he wished to watch it. For formidable it were, a colossus, awe inspiring, a god walking amongst them.

  It had no eyes but searing orbs of yellow light. It had a horned helmet and looked clad in the Vyking armour of old, black steel plate. And it wielded a mighty hammer that flamed blue. And it were with this hammer, in mighty sweeping arcs, that it were casting Bewitched aside, dozens at a time, to the far corners of the sanctuary.

  It roared as it clubbed them, laughed wickedly in deep sonorous tones as its hammer scattered them, spread them, dozens upon dozens hurtling through the air. It appeared unfatigued by its actions and godlike in its fury.

  The Bewitched were undeterred though. They did not flee, they did wane, they showed no fear. They swarmed it. And bit into it. Clambering up its legs. Still, with each stomp of its mighty feet it shook them free like lice. And swiped them away in enormous clods. And those that were hit stayed hit; they did not rise again. And for now at least, it began to trim their numbers.

  This afforded Locke more room to fight, finally gaining his feet, slashing his moonblade at Bewitched who still came at him, and spitting darts from his blowflute that now cut searing, smoking holes through them. He saw Hawkmoth arise like a resurrected soul from a pile who were still upon him, still assailing him. Without his staff his fingers worked like vast nets of weed, raking his offenders aside in clumps. Razor and Grimah both battered the Bewitched, finding the fight now far easier with the horde thinned out. Locke whistled and called Zebra to heel, and he leapt upon her as she slithered by, blowing darts at Bewitched as they alternatively flew at him or chased him. But nowhere could he spot Gargaron.

  Hawkmoth spotted his staff and held his arm in its direction and to him it flew and he snatched it up into his grip as it came at him in a blur and waved it skywards, uttering a spell, ‘Makus eet rayn doon wit fyrr!’ and beads of flame spurt by the hundreds from Lancsh’s gaping jaw into the air, shooting out in every direction, digging into the witch dolls before turning them into walking infernos that then blew apart in wild explosive blasts.

  Locke kept Zebra mobile and at speed, lessening the chance of the Bewitched attaching themselves to her. He fired darts, and slashed his blade, and the colossus roared laughter and smashed his way through the soulless dolls.

  ‘More coming!’ Hawkmoth called. ‘We must get to the tower!’

  Locke looked and saw numbers of Bewitched clambering still like bugs over Sanctuary’s outer wall.

  ‘How many be there hiding in these mountains?’ Locke called back.

  ‘More than I imagined,’ Hawkmoth shouted, grimacing, bleeding. ‘The witches must have been amassing them for years!’

  ‘Where be Gargaron?’ Locke yelled.

  ‘I can only surmise that be him,’ the sorcerer said, pointing quickly at the behemoth still thumping and bashing the Bewitched. ‘For that there he wields be Drenvel’s Bane!’

  And still the great colossus dealt with these witch dolls, grunting, and laughing, seemingly no end to his fury. But they swarmed him again, and as Locke raced Zebra for the tower he saw the mighty hammer glimmer in and out of existence.

  And here the mighty behemoth fell to his knee.

  THE WARDENS THREE

  1

  GARGARON felt his strength falter as he collapsed. And a weakness suddenly enveloped him. He understood none of this. Moments prior he had stood taller than he had ever stood, felt bigger than he had before, felt more powerful than anything ever to have lived. He had been wielding a mighty warhammer, he had been knocking the Bewitched hither and thither as though clubbing naught but mere ducklings. And now this… a momentary dulling of his rage and he had lost all of it. As he gazed down at his hammer he saw that it were again but a shaft and naught more.

  He felt Grimah at his side, nudging his ribs, encouraging him to stand and Gargaron held up his hand to his steed’s noses, as if saying Yah, I hear you, give me a moment.

  He heard Locke at close quarters. ‘Seems you threw your blade away, giant.’

  When Gargaron looked up he saw Locke presenting Gargaron’s rescued great sword. And Hawkmoth nearby.

  ‘Oh, and let me say,’ the crabman went on, ‘a fine show you put on just now with that wee hammer of yours. A true spectacle to behold!’

  Gargaron found not the strength to muster a verbal reply. He grimaced and took his sword from Locke and with Grimah’s aid he climbed to his feet. As he slotted his sword into his scabbard he surveyed the grounds of Sanctuary. Masses of busted, twisted Bewitched lay crumpled in the snow. Several hundred. It seemed inconceivable that he had created such carnage.

  ‘Come now,’ Hawkmoth told them. ‘Let us not lose this advantage. More Bewitched are on their way.’

  Through the mists Gargaron saw them, waves of these witch’s devils piling over the walls, scrambling out toward them, their limbs clicking like bone.

  Locke pulled Zebra into motion. Gargaron struggled into Grimah’s saddle; Hawkmoth remained close in case the giant needed his aid. But Gargaron were soon mounted and set off after the crabman.

  From top of tower Melai watched. Though she did not understand what she saw. More monsters rushed for her friends but while Zebra, Grimah and Razor sped on, Hawkmoth were not with them. He had dismounted, perhaps without Locke and Gargaron knowing it, and were standing there amidst the snow covered grounds, staff held at the ready as if waiting to take on the coming hordes all on
his own.

  2

  A chain shot out from some unknown point so fast it struck Hawkmoth in the back, punching through his flesh, yanking him back violently.

  As he thumped heavily into the snow, a series of spiked metal poles began to rise from the ground in a wide circular area around him.

  Hawkmoth wore a deep grimace on his face as he pushed himself to his knee. He had had expected the spiked poles but not the projectile. The chain protruded from his back, effectively tethering him. It were heavy but he managed to stand. He had to be ready. For the wardens were on their way.

  3

  Hawkmoth’s predicament came to Gargaron’s attention after he noticed Locke glance around and suddenly pulled Zebra to a halt. ‘What be his?’ the crabman asked.

  Gargaron slowed Grimah and when he turned he saw Hawkmoth trapped inside a pen of tall spikes, spikes that were fifty feet from ground to tip. And spaced so close together it would have been impossible for Hawkmoth to squeeze his way out.

  ‘Hawkmoth?’ Locke called, as Razor trotted around the pen’s perimeter, angry, snorting, baying. ‘What be this?’

  ‘Press on!’ Hawkmoth demanded. Bewitched were drawing closer and closer. ‘There be naught you can do. Skitecrow’s little pets come for me now. Wardens of Sanctuary. They shall not permit me leave here alive.’

  Gargaron saw then inside Hawkmoth’s pen, the ground open up and three separate pits appear. And from three separate stairways down into Sanctuary’s undercrofts they came, three silver armoured figures. Tall, ominous. They strode out into the snow, one carrying a mace, the other a morning star, the last a far reaching halberd. Here they advanced upon Hawkmoth.

  ‘It be a farewell reception for any Brother who turns his back on this place and has the gall to return,’ Hawkmoth called out, blood dripping from his chin. He reached behind and worked the chain from his back. He cast it aside, a pronged spike attached its end. He bled, but ignored it. He took his staff into grip, holding it before him with two hands like a sword. He took up a defensive stance. Carefully he watched the three Wardens. They stood so still and so calm. ‘I have news for them however,’ Hawkmoth said with a grin. ‘I shan’t let them take me down without a fight.’