Shadow Falls

by A W Tinney

  Shadow falls

  A Story of The Thousand Paths

  By Andrew William Tinney

  ©Andrew William Tinney

  Andrew William Tinney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author/publisher. Cover art and design by Laura Douglas, Ronnie Roo NI

  “And then the world under raven wings

  Shadows rose and fell

  There came the schemes of dying kings

  And dreams of endless hell…”

  Extract from the Song of Shadows, A popular Bardic Lament

  1

  “Most good tales start in a tavern,” the marshlander bard quipped, saluting the sky-gnome with the horn he held in his scaled hands. “And the best ones always start with a cupful of mead, hah!”

  A splash of the honeyed wine proceeded to spill over Kasela’s lap, making her growl. A slender hand fell on her shoulder.

  “Let it be, Knight,” Nymida whispered. The elf was sat to Kasela’s right, her lanky form awkwardly positioned in the corner, a covered parcel hidden by her feet.

  Kasela reluctantly complied, swallowing a growl with a mouthful from her own horn. A child of the Goannus-blessed eastlands, Kasela had no taste for the sour mead that the northern marshlanders seemed unceasingly fond of. Still it was better than nothing and did serve to dull the irritation she harboured towards their newfound companion.

  “To all the gods, and their war in the heavens,” the bard declared, brandishing his horn once again. “May it reign forever so they trouble us no more.”

  He was answered by a thundering of horns on tables and murmurs of assent from all within the confined tavern who heard him.

  “To the gods and their absence,” Eresor echoed, “and to your health, Gondolin.” The gnome smiled mechanically and sipped at his mead. Kasela noticed the captain was frugal in his drinking, no doubt eager to keep his wits about him. She too had not been oblivious to the eyes that bore into them at regular intervals, nor the scaled hands that slipped to the hilts of swords and daggers with every sudden outburst the marshland bard was subject to.

  Gondolin drained his horn and called for another. “Tis fate that has drawn us together once more, my friend,” he said, wiping his dribbling mouth with a scaled hand. “Of that I have no doubt.”

  “It was promise of coin that bought your compliance,” Kasela moaned, and earned a dig in the ribs from Nymida.

  The bard guffawed, his gills flaring. “The metal Knight is a sour bitch, isn’t she?” he slobbered. “Maybe she’d like a drop of mercury to lighten her mood? I hear eastlanders are fond of the silver spoons.”

  “I do not dabble in narcotics.”

  “Fair enough. Maybe it’s a spread of the legs you desire? You Goannus-blessed must have a fire that needs to roar every now and again.”

  Kasela shot a cutting glare. “I would rip out your throat before you could even try, worm.”

  A slender, newt like tongue darted out between the bard’s lips. “I don’t like being called that.”

  “No, and the Knight apologies,” Nymida said, with the air of diplomacy her people were known for. “Let us put her foul mood down to a long journey.”

  “Hmm,” was all the bard said, and quaffed another deep mouthful of mead. The amber fluid dripped down green tinged scales and splashed over the damp table at which the four sat. Eresor had ordered food, but what had arrived looked like anything but. Eels, too fresh Kasela noticed, wriggled ever death throes atop a tin plate. The marsh snakes were covered with a mossy like dressing that seemed to crawl with gods only knew what. Then there was the fried centipede, charred chitin still twitching in agony. It was one of these foot-long insectoids that Gondolin grabbed and tore open with his maw, chewing loudly as ichorous innards joined the mead drooling across his chin.

  Eresor broke the silence. “So, my friend, how have you fared?”

  “Well enough,” the bard responded between mouthfuls. “Considering. The mist, you understand. Damn near ruins everything in these parts. Courts and ferries outside the city are closed. Only a madman would traverse the swamps until the gloom passes and the waterways open again.” He frowned, falsely. “Doesn’t do me any good. Damned hard to earn decent coin when all you can get into is dingy inns and swamp taverns.”

  “You seem well at home in this dingy inn,” Kasela jibed. Another dig in the ribs, followed by an earnest glare from the elf. Kasela resolved to bite her tongue. For now.

  “I am not here by choice, Knight,” the bard explained, before belching loudly. Another gulp of mead drained his horn. He simply took Eresor’s and drank without invitation or etiquette. “You find me at the end of a tether. Fell into a spot of trouble recently.”

  “Trouble?” the sky-gnome asked.

  “Anything we need to be ready for?” Nymida added.

  Gondolin shook his head. “Nothing major. I hope.” He smiled, drinking more. “I may have…borrowed some coins that from a vinegar-faced crannog king. Not so many, you understand. Only fifty sovereigns. Lost them in a game of snatch with some shady sorts. I should have known better. Rigged from the start, that game. Had to make a quick getaway upriver. King’s been on the look for me ever since.”

  “Unfortunate,” Eresor agreed. “Yet I doubt any would come looking for you this far over a few measly coins?”

  “Unless he was a gnome,” Nymida pointed out.

  Gondolin giggled. “Hah, she has the measure of you, this one. Fair, you have the right of it, gnome. He may want my neck in regard to…other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “I may or may not have bedded his daughter. And stolen his raft.”

  Eresor grumbled. “You have a nose for trouble, Gondolin.”

  “And a knack for fortuitous fate, good friend. For look where I find myself; in your company once again.”

  “That is fortunate?” Kasela asked wryly.

  “Well that is why you have come, is it not? Seeking me out to join you on whatever adventure you have next lined up for yourself.” He swallowed the last chunk of centipede and gave a wolfish grin, fragments of brown chitin sticking to his yellow teeth. “I unreservedly accept. Will do me good to get out this mangy city for a while. Even we marshlanders do so like the freeing scent of fresh air. Now and again.” He laughed, to himself, and clapped his hands together. “So; what is it you need? A distraction? A means of getting into a crannog fort, perhaps? Maybe you need me to woo the shee’s of the wind? Hah. I’m good, gnome, but I’m not that good.”

  “Believe it or not, I simply need information, Gondolin.”

  The bard winked. “That I can do. For a price.”

  “We’ve already paid for you to fill your belly and drink yourself senseless,” Kasela rasped. She slammed a fist on the table, mail rattling with the force. “Let us be free of this worm and continue with what we came here to do. The drunken cur offers nothing of use.”

  Gondolin pointed a scaled finger. “This one I really don’t like, Eresor. Used to be a time I could talk freely with you.” He paused, for effect. The performer was at last coming out in him. “Used to be a time I considered you a true friend. True friends would tell one another everything.”

  “For a price,” Eresor said, “the right information can be got even from your
enemy.”

  “Indeed. However, that price is much, much higher.”

  “I told you to shush,” Nymida hissed. Kasela scoffed and sank into her chair, which in itself was a concerning affair as the rickety thing groaned with every movement of the armoured Knight.

  “Whatever it is,” the gnome captain said, “we shall pay.”

  “I am happy to hear that,” Gondolin replied. He took another drink.

  “Well?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  He spent the better part of ten minutes thinking. And drinking. A wry twinkle crept across his narrow eyes. “For information in these arduous times…One hundred.”

  “One hundred?” Eresor spat.

  “Sovereigns?” Nymida said.

  “No, eel lengths. Yes, sovereigns. And I want it tonight.”

  “You thief,” Nymida barked, forgetting all her previous chastisement of Kasela for being rash.

  “Do not insult me, elf,” the bard sneered. “I am not a thief; merely an opportunist. Nothing more.”

  “I thought you were supposed my friend?”

  The bard tipped his horn at the gnome. “When the opportunity permits.”

  Eresor sighed and pulled a drawstring pouch from his belt. It rattled as he threw it at Gondolin. “There is eighty. You will receive the rest if the information is good.”

  Greedily the bard snatched the pouch away, giving it a few testing shakes. Satisfied, he pocketed it in one fluid motion. “Very well; what is it you wish to know?”

  Eresor nodded at Nymida, who brought the wrapped parcel from under the table. They cloth was fine Manzilian wool, shining with silver thread.

  Within was the Umbral Staff, still mutating from one metallic form to the next. Gondolin beheld its malevolent majesty and whistled.

  “That,” he said softly, “is simply magnificent. What is it?”

  “It’s evil,” Nymida corrected. “And we need it destroyed.”

  “Why by all the gods would you want to do such a thing? This looks as if it’s worth more than any crannog hoard. You could be a nobleman, Eresor. Hells, a king even. Granted you’d be a gnome king, but a king nonetheless.”

  The captain shook his grey head. “As the elf says, we need it gone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it destroyed my city,” Kasela said. “And claimed the life of a Vigilant.”

  Gondolin nodded. “I had heard rumour of the attack on the steel city. Some wandering troupe had spun a lamentation on it that was doing the circuit in the midlands. News travels fast, particularly tragedy. As for the Vigilant; good riddance I say. Never cared much for the god-warriors. Too pious.” He gave Kasela a flash of ire on the last word.

  “Never mind all of that,” Eresor continued. “Can you tell us what it is?”

  The bard regarded it for a moment, his mind thinking. “No, I can’t say I can. I know a few stories and ballads of Sceptres gone missing, found again by wily adventurers and used for their own gain. But never something powerful enough to level a city. If that is indeed true.”

  “It is,” the Knight said.

  “It is no Sceptre,” Eresor added. “We found it hidden away in an abandoned castle in the eastlands.”

  “Heavily guarded,” the elf added.

  The bard made several contemplative sucking sounds, lips pursed and drooling mead. “I have no knowledge beyond what whispered in the streets and courts of the land, I’m afraid. Even a bard’s knowledge is limited.” He threw back his head, swallowing the last of his mead. His words had finally begun to slur. “Sorry, but I have never heard of nor seen anything like this before. Not in my travels anyway.”

  “Perhaps we should wait until he is sober,” Nymida offered.

  Gondolin laughed. “A true bard is rarely sober, my dear.”

  “Then you’ll give us back our money,” the elf sniped. She placed a hand on the dagger by her flank. Kasela noted men from a table across the dank room regard her movement, their own hands straying to their weapons. “Or maybe it would be easier and save us a lot of coin to simply hold a knife to your gills and see what secrets you recall then?”

  “Be still,” Eresor warned.

  Gondolin held up a hand. “I didn’t say I couldn’t help you. I only said I don’t know what this thing is.”

  “That isn’t helping,” the elf lamented. “If you don’t know, you don’t get paid.”

  “You’re not listening, she-elf. I said that I don’t know what it is. But I know of someone who may.”

  Eresor brightened at that. “Good. That’s a start.”

  “It may well be. Then again, it may not. The person I’m thinking on may not even be alive anymore. It’s been…a decade or so since I last saw her and even then, she was a grey scale. Gods alone know what has become of her.”

  “And who exactly is she?” Nymida said slowly.

  “A crone, living in the marshes beyond the city.”

  “A crone,” Kasela huffed. “That’s all we need; a bloody earth witch.”

  “Mind yourself, Knight,” Nymida spoke, “many of my kin follow the teaching of Helwyn.”

  “Pity she’s not listening,” Kasela retorted.

  Gondolin giggled. “Now this is fun, watching the pair of you quarrelling. I can see why you tolerate their sour pusses, Eresor. Great entertainment.”

  Eresor gave the two a stern glare. “She should still be in the wilds?”

  “She should. Crones are not prone to moving about a lot. Especially one as old as her.”

  “How far from the Calefort is she?”

  The bard shrugged. “Tough to say really. I was drunk when I was last there, in the company of a particularly attractive reed craftswoman…”

  “There’s a surprise,” Kasela moaned quietly.

  Eresor leaned close to the bard. “Have you no recollection at all?”

  The bard shut one eye, as if the action accelerated his memory. “South. It was most definitely south, and close to the Glower Wood.”

  “How far?”

  “Three days, maybe. Not that you’ll make it anytime soon. As I said, the mist is coming in. We’ll be shadowed until moons end, no doubt. Only a fool would travel the swamp roads in the mist. Best to wait until the air clears and go then.”

  “That’s not an option,” the sky-captain said. “Time is not our ally.”

  “Suit yourself. Not my business. As I say, the poor old hag may be dead, but if she lives, you’re probably in luck. She has a memory like no other. Used to be a bard herself. Can recite any tale and song from all the realms. Was once a great beauty, though that wasn’t the case anytime I ever met her.”

  Nymida covered the staff and swiftly secreted it back under the table. “We have our heading. Time to go.”

  Gondolin slammed the table with his horn, drawing the attention of most of the tavern. His eyes blazed drunkenly, yet full of intent. More of a performance. “You’re forgetting the rest of my pay,” he snarled.

  “You’ll get it,” Eresor promised.

  “I will,” the bard said, licking his lips. “I’ll get it now. I’ve told you all I know. The deal was one hundred. Pay up.”

  “You’ll get it,” Eresor said again, “when we return from the marshes.”

  Gondolin pounded the horn against the table repeatedly. A rallying rhythm. Tavern patrons were rising from their chairs, circling, seeking an excuse to draw their weapons and fight. Kasela realised Gondolin was playing the room, using his influence as a native marshlander to draw his inebriated countrymen to his side. Hired muscle without having to pay a penny. Clever.

  “I want it now, gnome,” he warned. “Now, or else my friends might take you all a walk out on the marshes. Might be tricky finding the crone with your head at the bottom of a pond and your guts in the belly of a log lizard.”

  Eresor sighed once again and shook his head. “You really never learn, Gondolin, do you?”

  There was the sudden sharp snap of a pistol hammer being drawn back. Eres
or sat back on his chair ever so slightly, revealing his pistol that was still hidden from the view of the room, but trained precisely at Gondolin’s stones.

  “Ah…” the bard said. “Shit.”

  “Shit indeed. I’ve paid you eighty. I promised one hundred. You will get the remainder on our return. You have my word.”

  “Words are iron,” Nymida quoted.

  “I give an eels turd for your code, gnome,” Gondolin mewed.

  Eresor’s eyes narrowed, wrinkling his grey face. “My code is the only thing keeping me from pulling the trigger right now.”

  “Very well.” The bard drained his mead. “I’ll be in the city. If you’re not back before seasons end and if I still don’t have my money, I will find a hag to curse you, gnome. Mark me.”

  “I have no doubt you will.” Eresor extended his free hand. “We have an accord, friend?”

  The bard shook it, reluctantly.

  “Good. Now get out of my sight. You’ve taken enough of my coin and my time for one night.”

  Gondolin smiled falsely and staggered off, joining another table, where he promised to recite tales in exchange for mead.

  “Thank the forger,” Kasela breathed, glad the scaled newt was gone.

  “Can we trust him?” Nymida asked.

  Eresor shrugged. “Who knows? Bards know the world, but they also know how to lie. That is their craft. Doesn’t help that Gondolin’s also a slippery marshlander.” He sighed. “What choice do we have?”

  Kasela nodded. “I say we find this crone and get the truth of it.” She rose from the table. “Best get your crew in order, captain. It shouldn’t take three days with an airship under us.”

  At that Eresor and the elf shared a knowing look and a chuckle. Kasela went crimson. “What is so funny?”

  “Knight, where we are about to go, there will be no use for a sky ship.”

  2

  Gondolin watched the gnome and his two towering companions depart. He frowned, sneering in their wake. Despite the coin now weighing down his pockets, the scaled marshlander harboured a disgust for the sky-captain and his manner. Who were they to demand anything of me? Who were they to short-change me when I gave them what they wanted?