Paul Kemp - Twilight Falling

Cale held its gaze for a moment before nodding.

"I hear you," he responded in the harsh goblin tongue, which he knew bugbears to understand.

The creature's eyes registered surprise. It leaned back, gave what Cale thought might have been a grin, and waved them in with the club.

There was no bar in the room, just some swollen, tapped hogsheads set on a table in one corner. The unkempt human "barkeep" slept in a chair beside the table, his hands folded over his ample belly and filthy burlap apron. Tallow candles burned wanly on the five or six thick-legged tables set around the room. Ten or fifteen half-orcs and gnolls populated the tables, each holding drinks in mismatched tankards. Some threw dice; others conversed with comrades in their guttural tongues. Conversation lulled for a moment as hard, bestial faces coldly eyed Cale and Riven, but quickly restarted with renewed vigor.

Mindful of the bugbear's words, they headed for the barkeep and the drink table. A few of the half-orcs glared challenges at Cale but he ignored them.

As they walked, Riven leaned on Cale as though for support and whispered, "How did you speak to that bugbear, Cale? How many languages do you know anyway?"

"Nine," Cale answered. "But not the gnolls'." He looked around the room at the many gnolls. "Are one of these Dreeve?"

Riven looked out from under his hood.

"There," he said. "Alone at the table to our left. Big bastard with the long mane, mail shirt, and piercings."

Cale saw him. Dreeve sat alone in the corner, eyeing them with feral black eyes while sipping-lapping, really-from a ceramic tankard. Even sitting, he looked big: a full two heads taller than Cale, probably. Dark, yellow-brown fur covered light green skin. Muscles and veins bulked under his mail shirt and green travelling cloak. Three iron rings hung from each ear and the fur around his canine muzzle was stained black, the telltale sign of a habitual mistleaf root chewer.

Cale took an immediate dislike to him, but reminded himself that they had little choice.

"Drinks first," he said to Riven.

When they reached the table with the tapped hogsheads atop it, the barkeep, without ever looking up or opening his eyes, said, "Three coppers a tankard. Serve yourself."

Cale laid a silver raven on the table-he had only Sembian coins-took two dirty tankards from the haphazard stack near the taps, and filled each with the watered-down swill.

Without another word, they turned and walked for Dreeve's table. As they did, Cale surreptitiously whispered the words to a divination spell that detected dweomers. Neither the gnoll nor any of his items showed as magical. Cale felt relieved. Unless the gnoll was warded, he was no shapeshifter.

Dreeve eyed them as they approached. When they got close, he chuffed the air, as though sniffing for spoor. His lips peeled back from yellowed fangs.

To Riven he said, "You return, old human." He put enough emphasis on the last word to suggest it was an insult. He looked at Cale and licked his lips. "And you bring another of your pack, eh? Dreeve's offer is good, not so?" he asked Cale. His voice was strangely high-pitched, but deep growls punctuated every third or fourth word. "Did you bring the coin? Three hundred gold?"

Cale ignored the question.

"You told this granther-" he nodded at Riven-"that you know the Gulthmere?"

Cale deliberately made himself sound skeptical.

The gnoll snarled at him, "You suggest that I lie, human? I know the forest." He growled, low and dangerous. "You leader of your pack?"

His fetid breath made Cale want to gag, but Cale merely stared at him. The gnoll leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak.

"You seek the Moonmere," the gnoll said, "the Lightless Lake. This I know from him."

Dreeve waved a huge hand at Riven. Cale held his tongue.

"No light in that water," the gnoll continued. "The sky cannot be seen. My pack not go to that place. I only show you where to go. You go alone."

"You ask for much and offer little," Cale said, and made a show of considering. After a moment, he leaned forward. "Done. Three hundred gold, but only if we leave tonight and move fast. We need to be there before midnight tomorrow."

"I can get you there then," the gnoll said, "if you're ready to run. My pack does not ride."

Cale nodded and said, "We'll keep up, Dreeve."

The gnoll smiled as though he didn't believe it.

"Payment," he said, and held out his hand.

Cale shook his head.

"You're paid when we're there," he said. "Not before."

Dreeve snarled, clenched his hand into a fist, and slammed it on the table.

"Half now," the gnoll demanded.

"None now," Cale said and dared the gnoll with his eyes to challenge him. He did not.

Dreeve glared at Cale and said, "How many in your pack? All old, like him?"

"Three. Myself and two others," said Cale. "Not him."

Dreeve growled, and his eyes narrowed in satisfaction.

"Nine in mine, human. All warriors."

Cale stared at him, as cold as Deepwinter, and said, "Numbers are not strength, Dreeve."

The gnoll either laughed or snarled, Cale couldn't tell. But either way, the deal was done. Cale took Riven by the arm, as though to assist him, and rose.

"We'll meet you and your pack after sunset on the road outside of the western gate," Cale said, "an hour outside of the city."

"We will be there, human. Night's darkness is good time for my pack."

Cale smiled without mirth and said, "Mine too."

Riven chuckled as they walked out.

That evening, Cale, Riven, and Jak walked through the torchlit western gate of Starmantle. Even at night, the city's gates stood thrown open. Two lax guards in scale mail and armed with spears watched the comings and goings with disinterest. They didn't even bother to ask the trio their business.

Inns, taverns, farms, and tilled fields lined the road in the area immediately outside of town. After only a short while of walking, though, the buildings and worked earth gave way to uninhabited scrub and intermittent copses of gnarled ash. Selune was waring and nearly new, and though her tears still glittered in the sky, they provided little light. Looking into the star-flecked night sky reminded Cale of the sphere that he still carried, the sphere that had set him on this course. Cale had left his family and home and found himself on a dark road beside Drasek Riven, who served the same god as he.

Fate was a fickle bitch, indeed, he thought. That, or Mask was more calculating than he could comprehend. Either way, Cale supposed, he was where he was.

For each of them, Cale had purchased bedrolls, road-tack, and two waterskins. The added weight in his backpack felt awkward. It took him the first half-hour of the trek to adjust his balance.

Jak's halfling blood allowed him to see the best in darkness, so he took a point position ten strides or so in front of Cale and Riven.

After about an hour, Jak waved them to a stop.

"Just ahead," he softly called back to them. "Nine of them."

"We see you too, humans," Dreeve called out from ahead. "And have for some time. Come forward. Your halfling scout sees no better in the night than the blindest of my pack."

Growls and high-pitched yips greeted Dreeve's taunt.

With nothing else for it, the three fell back into line together and walked forward.

"It's strength they respect," Cale said to his comrades in a hissed whisper. "Let's set the rules early. I'll lead."

Jak and Riven nodded, and spaced themselves for combat.

The gnolls stood gathered in a loose group, watching them approach. They carried no torches, for they obviously saw well at night.

Each towering member of Dreeve's pack wore a ring mail shirt, had a bow slung over a muscular shoulder, and carried an axe larger than Jak over its back. They yipped and snarled amongst themselves as the trio approached. Crude tattoos, earrings, and leather vambraces were common.