Darkness Falls (Tales of the Wolf) Read online

  Righting his tray, he knelt down and began collecting the broken pottery. He knew that his face was red with anger and embarrassment but he would not give Garoth the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper or beg for the townsfolk’s forgiveness. He only slightly heard the argument that was going on around him. Gray had only one goal at this precise moment, clean up his mess and get out of sight. He hesitated for a second when he realized that was actually two goals. With a simple shrug, he turned back to his task and felt his anger melt away.

  That is when he noticed that he had helpers. His friends Annabelle, Abban and Razbron had jumped in to help him clean up the mess and to his surprise, Rhea Nightingale had joined them.

  Looking up, Gray locked eyes with the bard and did a double take. Her left eye was sapphire blue while her right was emerald green. They were the strangest and most intoxicating eyes he had ever seen. He tried to stammer an apology but his tongue was frozen to the roof of his mouth.

  Rhea Nightingale reached out and gently caressed his forehead.

  Graytael noticed that she mumbled a few words but he was unable to make out even one thing she said. He was about to speak up when an immensely strong grip latched onto his tunic and lifted him up.

  “Well now laddie, what’ca think you’re doing breakin’ me pottery?”

  Graytael began to stammer an apology but stopped when Rhea stepped in front of him.

  “No worries Master Silvershield, the interruption is fine.”

  Much of Rjurik’s bluster faded when he locked eyes with the beautiful bard but it was still there and he tried to object. “But…but…”

  “It wasn’t his fault.” Rhea winked at Graytael before she turned and pointed at Garoth. “I saw that young man deliberately trip Graytael as he was clearing away the dishes. When he began to move, the blacksmith’s son stuck his foot out and caused the spill.”

  Rjurik and the villagers, which had been close enough to hear the bard’s accusations, turned their gaze on the large teenager.

  Garoth knew that he had gone too far. He had only intended to embarrass the half-breed and did not think that anyone would ever openly accuse him. Nor did he think that the bard would even notice him. But then, he didn’t really know anything about bards and their magic. At first he thought about denying the accusation however when he glanced at his father, he knew it was over. No matter what happened at this point, the blacksmith had been embarrassed and Garoth would feel his wrath.

  Now that everyone was looking at Garoth and not him, Graytael had a chance to take in the whole situation. He too could see the way Gaspar the Blacksmith was looking at his son. Everyone had heard rumors of his volatile temper. From the redness of his face and the tight grip he had on the table, Gray feared that he would take out his anger on his son, right here and now. It was at that precise moment when Gray felt that he understood Garoth. He was not malicious on purpose. He was acting in the same manner his dad acted, using his strength to bully those around him to make himself feel better. Graytael had seen it firsthand throughout the village. It was not the blacksmith’s lack of skill that hurt his business, it was his temperament.

  Rjurik was furious, as were most of the villagers. He was about to storm over to the blacksmith’s son when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Graytael. The young half-elf was standing straight as an arrow and spoke in a loud enough voice that everyone could hear.

  “No uncle. It was my fault. I was too busy watching the magical display to pay attention to where I was walking and tripped over a chair.” Gray turned to face the bard. “I must disagree with Miss Nightingale. I take full responsibility for the accident and ask for her, and everyone’s, forgiveness.”

  Rhea Nightingale cocked her head to the side and favored him with a brief smile. “Perhaps you are right. The crowd was in my way and I only saw flickering shadows which lead to my accusation.” Turning her attention to Garoth she added, “Please accept my humble apologies.”

  Garoth had no idea why Graytael was taking the blame or why the bard would go along with him. They both knew he was guilty but they were giving him a way out and with it, a chance to deflect his father’s anger. Garoth stood up and bowed low. “Apology accepted mistress bard.”

  Returning to his seat, Garoth tried not to look directly at his father but cast him a sideways glance. Sure enough, he was still angry but no longer looked as if he would explode at any moment. Maybe, just maybe, the bard’s apology would deflect his temper.

  Chapter 9

  It was a few hours before dawn when Gray heard the trapdoor to the loft creak open.

  Instantly awake, he clutched the hilt of his dagger and peered into the darkness. The darkvision granted to him by his mother’s elvish blood allowed him to see the variance in heat patterns given off by all living creatures. He knew it was not as strong as those of pure elven blood or anywhere near as powerful as the dwarven darksight but it was enough for the young half-breed to see in the dim light of his room.

  Gray relaxed his grip on his weapon when he recognized the intruder to be Anasazi. Careful not to wake Abban or the other children, he moved to the open hatch and whispered, “What is it uncle?”

  “Get dressed in your hunting clothes. We are going on a journey.”

  Taken aback by the abruptness of the command he asked, “What? Where? How long?”

  “All your questions will be answered in time. Hurry. We need to be gone before the rising of the sun.” Without another word, Anasazi disappeared down the ladder.

  Knowing that his uncle rarely did things without a purpose, Gray did as he was told and gathered his hunting gear and traveling clothes. It was not difficult. He always kept a travel bag packed with all of his necessities. It was a learned response from dealing with Rjurik over the years.

  Occasionally, the old dwarf would decide to go hunting or traveling to outlying villages or any number of places without a warning. If Gray was not ready in a short amount of time, he was left behind. He had missed a trip to Asylum once because he was not packed and ready to go in time. The young half-elf had vowed never to be caught unprepared again and kept his travel gear packed.

  Within minutes, Graytael was in the kitchen fully armed and ready for travel.

  Rjurik met him at the counter holding a small backpack of supplies and a bundle wrapped in tanned rabbit fur. Handing the items to his charge the old dwarf grumbled, “Here…these are for you.”

  Throwing the backpack over one shoulder, Graytael held up the fur wrapped bundle. “What’s this?”

  “Your birthday present.”

  “But that’s not until the full moon, five days hence.”

  Rjurik nodded. “I know but the odds are that you will still be on your journey and I want you to have it. Open it.”

  Graytael carefully untied the leather straps until the fur coverings fell away to reveal an ornately carved warclub. Made entirely of ironwood, a rare tree found only in the Highlands, it was red in appearance and when properly cured had the strength of iron. This particular warclub was only about two feet in length and carved in the shape of an eagle’s claw holding a large ball. The haft was wrapped in leather with three eagle feathers, their tips dyed red, hanging from the base.

  Before Graytael could say anything, Rjurik explained. “It was your father’s. He once told me that it was one of his most cherished weapons since it had belonged to his father.” The old dwarf shrugged. “I’ve also heard that he used it during the Trial of Blood when he fought to unify the Highland Nations.”

  Gray gripped the shaft of the warclub and took it through a few practice swings. Its balance was perfect.

  “I…I don’t know what to say.”

  Rjurik turned away to wipe away a stray tear and said gruffly. “There’s nothing to say. I just thought it was time for you to have it, that’s all.”

  Graytael tucked it into his belt. “I will cherish it forever.”

  Rjurik turned back to face his adopted son. “Forever is a long time but I
understand what you mean. Just promise to use it wisely.” Stepping forward, the old dwarf gave him a hug before nodding to the old shaman who was waiting patiently in the doorway.

  Anasazi stepped forward. “Come. We must be off.”

  Seeing his adopted father turn back to his chores, the young half-elf shrugged and followed his uncle as he disappeared into the foggy morning.

  * * * * *

  When they had left the Inn, they headed south into the plains.

  Homestead was a mixed community, mostly humans but there was a strong halfling population that lived in the southern section of town, which was known as the Burrows for obvious reasons. Even more unusual than the Burrows was the centaur village. Technically, it was several miles south of town and moved with the seasons. The winter camp was the closest to Homestead and where the majority of the centaurs could be found.

  Graytael guessed that was where they were heading but asked anyway. “Where are we going?”

  Anasazi spoke quickly, clearly irritated for having to point out the obvious. “I find myself in need to speak with Matanza. We will enjoy the hospitality of the Centaurs tonight.”

  Gray had been to the winter camp several times but never in the company of Anasazi. Every centaur, young and old, paused and bowed as the old shaman passed. Gray had always been treated with the utmost respect but this was different. They seemed to be in awe of the ancient spellcaster.

  By the time they had reached the center of the village, the Centaurs Elders were there.

  Centaurs are the children of Cheiron the Fleet-footed, the god of nature and harmony. As a hybrid creature, the blending of horse and man, they have the upper torso of humans joined at the horse’s withers, where a horse’s neck would be. Their horse colorings range as far and wide as any horse can be, from palomino to buckskin to pinto. The centaurs have kept the herd mentality and tend to roam the plains of the Southland.

  Matanza stepped forward and knelt down on his forelegs. This was an awkward position for such a majestic creature and several of his counterparts gave the chieftain a hard look. However, Gray appreciated the gesture. Even kneeling down, the Centaur Chieftain was taller than him but now only inches instead of feet.

  Matanza placed his left hand over his heart and his right hand on Gray’s chest. “Greeting Colt, it has been too long since you have graced our village. You are looking well.”

  Graytael copied the hand gestures and chose his words with care since he knew the other chieftains did not approve of the free rein that his parent’s friend had given him inside their realm. “Well met Chief Matanza. Many thanks for the compliment.”

  Matanza climbed back to his hooves. “How goes your archery practice?”

  Graytael blushed. “Ummm….”

  “Okay, let me ask you this, how may shafts have you loosened in the last week?”

  When Gray answered the tone of his voice went up several octaves. “Fifty?”

  Matanza shook his head. “Before the moon rises tonight, you shall shoot ten times that amount.” The great chief turned to a nearby stallion. “Cazador, take this colt to the paddock and watch him. He does not eat tonight if he doesn’t hit the center at least fifty times.”

  The young buckskin centaur nodded his head. “It will be done my chieftain.”

  Graytael bowed his head and followed the young centaur out without speaking a word. Once they were out of earshot, Matanza turned his attention back to the ancient shaman. “Now old man, what is so important that you have asked for this summit?”

  “I fear the next stage of the prophecy is about to come to pass.”

  The seven other elders glanced at him and then at each other. Matanza silenced them with a wave of his hand. “Come. We must speak of this in more depth but in private.”

  * * * * *

  Since Gray only had his longbow and twenty arrows, he opted to use one of the Centaurs short bows. These were actually a recurve composite bow made of wood and horn. There were two major differences from his own longbow. First, they were much smaller. Nearly half the length but they packed a powerful punch. Secondly and more importantly, was the draw. On his longbow, he would notch an arrow and draw it back to his cheek. Sighting down the shaft, he would fire between breaths. There was no way to do this with the Centaurian short bow. The pull of the bow was too great. With these bows, you would notch an arrow and push out with the hand holding the bow and release the arrow as your arm became completely straight. It was an odd firing method but allowed several arrows to be fired at once or in such rapid secession that it seemed nearly magical. This also forced the archer to fire more out of instinct and habit than out of sight.

  Gray fired shaft after shaft down range to the targets. Cazador was not overly friendly but was not rude either. He just was not talkative. He would answer direct questions but refrain from any form a small talk. The only thing Gray gained out of the conversation was that several herds of centaurs had gone missing and did not return to the hereditary winter camp. Gray really did not know what to make of the information but filed it away for a future discussion with Anasazi.

  Cazador chastised him for his lack of concentration since he had missed the target completely with his last ten shots. Taking a deep breath, Gray cleared his mind and focused on the task at hand.

  * * * * *

  Anasazi sat crossed legged in the great lodge of the Centaurs but he was not the only two-legged occupant. Broun the Wanderer, Matanza’s traveling companion from days long past, sat beside the centaur chieftain. He was the sole representative of the Burrows, the halfling community, to attend. Primarily because he was the only one interested in the events beyond their little community, even his wife and son failed to really care about worldly events, which was the typical sentiment among the haflings, unfortunately.

  Matanza waited until everyone of importance was seated before speaking. “You say that the dark times foretold are upon us. How does this concern us?”

  “I cannot completely explain all that I know but you and I know full well of what the prophecy says.”

  Broun interrupted. “And that time is now?”

  Anasazi nodded. “I believe so.”

  Matanza rubbed his chin. “Not that I’m doubting your word but,” he gestured to his counterparts, “the Elders need more than just your words.”

  Anasazi took a moment and gazed at each of the elders. They were old and weathered. Each had led their particular herd for many, many seasons. Matanza was, by far, the youngest of the chieftains but he was also the most respected. “Let me ask you something first. I noticed that there are only eight of you here. According to my sources, the Great Herd numbers fifteen. Where are the rest?”

  The buckskin Chief Jerarca, Cazador’s father, stammered and began to make excuses.

  Anasazi forestalled him with a wave of his hand.

  “No need to explain, I know the truth. They have gone rogue. While they have not joined the forces of darkness, they will not fight on the side of the light either. They have forsaken Cherion and all of his teachings.”

  Jerarca’s surprise was clearly written on his face. “That is right. How did you know?”

  “I have my sources. The animals bring me news from all over Terreth. However, you should know that this is not an isolated event. All across Terreth similar fates have occurred among men, minotaurs and even elves. Very soon we will learn the truth of the line; brother will face brother when the darkness falls.”

  Jerarca asked, “What can we do?”

  “Survive.” Anasazi became deadly serious. “What one cannot change, one must endure. I have long contemplated every prophecy and poem concerning the fall of the Dhyana and no matter which culture or century they were written in, they all foretell of a time of great darkness. Just like the seasons, before the spring there must be a winter. This has been our autumn, winter is upon us.”

  Matanza nodded. “As always your advice is welcomed. We shall contemplate on it.”

  “Your fate is yo
ur own. I can do naught but pass on simple words of wisdom.” Anasazi stood up. “Now if you will excuse me, Graytael and I will get some sleep and be gone before first light. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  The ever-inquisitive Broun asked, “Where are you two heading?”

  “This I know to be true, Graytael must visit the homelands of his parents before the rising of the full moon.” Without further explanation, the old shaman walked from the great lodge of the Centaurs and left them to discuss the implications of the coming darkness.

  * * * * *

  They had departed the winter camp of the Centaurs an hour before sunrise and reached the canopy of the forest even as the sun broke the horizon. This section of the forest was well known to the young half-elf. It was here that he did most of his hunting for the Inn. However, by noon, they had entered an area of the forest that had been off limits to him his entire life.

  The old shaman set a blistering pace all day long that the young half-elf had to struggle to keep up. Any questions he had been able to ask were answered with the same response of “later.” After the third attempt, Graytael had given up and quietly followed his uncle through the long day. Experience had taught him that when Anasazi was like this, patience was the key. He would explain what he needed to know at his own time.

  The sun was setting when Anasazi finally stepped off the path. Once Gray realized that they were making camp for the night and he began gathering firewood that was along their path. He only picked up dead or fallen branches but in this section of the forest, there was plenty to be found. When they reached the spot Anasazi had picked out for their campsite, he dropped his backpack and laid out the fire. Within minutes, he had a roaring blaze going.

  By the flickering firelight, Anasazi seemed much older than normal as he stared into the dancing flames. “With the rising of the full moon, you will enter your twelfth year. This is a notable time for both of your parent’s people. To an elf, twelve years is naught but a drop in the bucket of time but it is still an auspicious time. To the Highlanders, it is the time of choosing.”