Read Cloudfyre Falling - a dark fairy tale for Free Online Page A

grew from the flesh
rug living on the wall, several lengths of which he pulled off and
attached to his belly. And the potentially dangerous
Zombeez, little beasts ordinarily used
solely by the town druids except they were often given to Hunters
who were afforded special dispensations simply due to their line of
work — availability
of Zombeez in the field were most often crucial to survival.
Gargaron’s kind were immune to zombiism. But other races were not
so fortunate and history were littered with horror stories of dire
outbreaks. Thus a Hunter were trained in their usage, and where and
when to utilise them.
    Once he had
packed, Gargaron went to fill his gourds;
he considered Hovel’s village well, but, thinking of the blackness
that had stricken Buccuyashuck River, he did not altogether trust
the health of its water. Instead he drained water from the large
ceramic tank at back of cottage. Once done he stood back and
considered what he had packed thus far.
    He had traveled
the route to Autumn many times over the years, mostly on drays
hauled by gorbuls. Once or twice on horned horse. A journey to
Autumn would normally tick off a full day’s travel, provided you
possessed some manner of transport. Hound and cart could take you
half that time. Yet, he feared that after what he had seen since
the first shockwave, transport might be hard to come by. He feared
his entire journey might thus be conducted entirely on foot.
Therefore he would need to pack enough provisions for a three or
four day hike. He reminded himself that if all were well in
surrounding shires and vales, there were places to trade for food and
wine on route. And he dearly hoped this remained the case… yet he
could not help feeling pessimistic. Of all he had seen since the
shockwaves four days gone, well, he had met no-one else, heard from
no-one. It were as if the entire world had fallen
silent.
    Alas, he packed provisions enough
for a foot mounted expedition to Autumn.

    7
    He slotted Drenvel’s hilt in his
pack then secured his greatsword and belt. A sword given him by his
father, passed down from the early days of his grandwuns. It were
unremarkable, had not been blooded in any war or battle like
Drenvel’s Bane, did not possess some grand knightly name. But it
had served him loyally against bandits and cutthroats over the
years and many and more Hoardogs.
    He equipped himself also with his
hunter’s dirk; a nifty little blade, good at close quarters if a
fight drew too near for comfort, but it had also proved itself
handy in skinning and gutting beasts, and slicing meat. Oh, and
more than useful for cutting apples.
    He stood one last moment in
cottage’s cold empty quiet. Looking about. Memories tugged at his
heart. No more would this little abode ring out with sounds of his
daughter singing or laughing, or his wife humming, no more would he
know the odours of crispy fried moorhen or succulent roast
Farthington lamb drifting deliciously upon the air as he cooked for
his small family, no more would he sit and watch his girls in
slumber and think of how happy and complete they had made his
life.
    A small portrait etched in stone
sat on the mantel over the fireplace. An image frozen in time. It
depicted himself with his dear girls. They had all sat for the
portrait etching not four months ago. It seemed inconceivable that
he were all that remained of that small family unit. He fetched it
and held it before him, tears trickling from his eyes. He wiped his
face and jammed it in his pocket and with heavy heart.
    He stood by the front door,
casting his eyes one last time across the cottage’s interior. He
sighed and left, and strolled away down Saden’s orange
grove.
    He would never see his cottage
again.

CHANDRY’S STEPPE
    1
    HE took the Canning Road north
where it trailed the snaking course of Buccuyashuck River. But
eventually both trail and river parted ways. And it were something
Gargaron felt quietly pleased with. He’d had quite enough of