Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  “Elves of Thornwood!” she cried. “I assault this false king at dawn! You may join me if you choose, but I will do so myself if I must! I will avenge our fallen if I must slay every dwarf of Belgorne with my own bow and knife! I swear it on the waters of the Grove!”

  “You will not do so alone!” a ranger cried in response.

  Nishali sought, and found, the source of the voice. A youngish ranger, no more than fifty years. She knew this woman, had trained her. Lithe, fearless, stoic. Not unlike herself. Nishali moved to stand before her. The two locked eyes as Nishali silently vowed to remember this moment of fidelity, to someday return the grace.

  The First Ranger took a knee.

  “Nü glahr ni, Lanna Arbarri.”

  Every ranger in earshot answered in refrain.

  “Nü glahr ni.”

  Nishali stood and turned to face Marchion. She watched as he met her eyes, the two sharing a brief, silent exchange over the duration of a single breath before Marchion turned his attention to his knights. Nishali turned as well, watching their faces. Jaws clenched. Hands tightened on sword hilts. The knights of Thornwood straightened their spines, widened their stances. There was no mistaking their hearts. These elves wanted to fight, but they would do as their Second commanded.

  Nishali understood Marchion’s position. He did have other duties. Duties passed on to the knights of Thornwood over the course of generations. The world was ending. If it was to endure, Marchion’s knights would play an irreplaceable role in the battles to come. Marchion was right—she did not fully understand that role. The secrets of Ya Di were only recently revealed to her, and only in part. Yet, Nishali hoped he understood that if they did not put down the threat of the Belgorne king, and soon, they would be facing hardened enemies on too many fronts. Whether the great winged menace could be defeated was a question she dared not attempt to answer, but she knew this: if the elves had to face the beast, the looming perils of Ya Di, and an organized Belgorne, they would surely be lost. Yet Marchion was also right in his accusation: her own heart’s motive had nothing to do with tactics.

  Marchion ran thick fingers through his greyed locks. Exasperation and anxiety deepened the lines in his aging brow. His voice, however, carried the authority of his station. “Knights,” he began. “What has been done to your kin is an abomination.” Murmurs and nods of assent in reply. “King Dohr must be put down. In time.” Nishali’s shoulders drooped. Marchion paused, offering her a glance, before continuing. “But the people of Belgorne are no threat to us. They are starving. Freezing. Turned out from their home. We were ordered by our queen to confront the threat of G’naath. By all accounts, that threat is no more. The Elders are dead and gone. Those who have begun this terrible chain of events are no more. But this was all foretold. The fall of the Citadel. The fall of Belgorne. The fires, the quakes, the awakening of Fang, and yes, even the beast. That is our true enemy, and not only our enemy. It is the enemy of Belgorne, of Mor, of even G’naath. All the peoples of Tahr. We will not see the other side of this threat if we make war amongst ourselves.” Marchion paused again. Nishali read the expressions of his knights. There was no question, they would obey his order, whatever it might be.

  Marchion faced Nishali and her rangers. “I grieve for your Second. I will grieve for my knights until my dying day. But, in the absence of orders to the contrary from our queen, I will not commit us to war.”

  Nishali’s manner darkened. “You will not impede my rangers, Sir Marchion.”

  Marchion shook his head. “No, I will not, Nishali Windwillow. In fact quite the opposite. Knights! You will provide the rangers with anything they might ask of you. You will assist them in preparation for the attack. And we will await orders from our queen while we fortify our position here in the valley.”

  “Sir!” a knight protested. “With respect, sir, we cannot stand idle while our brothers and sisters go to war!”

  “I did not command you to stand idle, knight! And the elves do not go to war! Nishali, you wish to bring Dohr to justice, yes?”

  Nishali nodded. “I do. And I will.”

  “That, and only that?”

  Nishali hesitated but nodded again.

  “There are perhaps a hundred starving soldiers guarding him. Young, inexperienced dwarves, if our reports are correct. Not a combat-hardened veteran among them. They are led by a coward. Do you require all the knights of Thornwood to apprehend him?”

  Nishali smiled. “No. I most certainly do not.”

  Marchion nodded. He did not return her smile. “I did not think so.” He addressed the elves as a whole. “This is a ranger operation. It should be conducted in stealth, if possible. Dohr Silverstone is the target, not the innocent dwarves of Belgorne, nor his misguided soldiery. Knights, you will assist the rangers in any way their First commands! Rangers… Thornwood counts on you to see this done. Bring the coward to us alive, so that he might face justice for his crimes. That is the law. But… if he forces your hand—” Marchion gave Nishali a knowing look “—then he has sealed his own fate. On behalf of our fallen, rangers, we thank you for carrying out this duty. Nü glahr ni!”

  The knights roared as one. “Nü glahr ni!”

  Marchion walked towards an empty tent, inclining his head towards Nishali. She followed him into the tent.

  Nishali spoke first. “Thank you. That was well handl—”

  “What in Fury is wrong with you?”

  Nishali was taken aback. “Excuse me?”

  “I swear to you Nishali, if you ever address my knights without my permission again, I will arrest you on the spot. What in Fury’s name would you have done if I hadn’t found a way to support you?”

  “My second is dead! I require no permission—”

  “To lead your rangers? No. To rally my knights, while I stand there with my arse in my hands? You damned well do!”

  Nishali bowed her head. She had overstepped, shaming Marchion. And herself.

  “You grieve. I understand. But put your head together, First Ranger, or you’ll be leading your elves to their deaths.”

  Marchion threw back the flap and stormed from the tent.

  Nishali stood alone for a turn, shaking in rage and humiliation. Marchion was right. She must collect her thoughts and set aside her grief. She would bring Dohr to justice. She would do her duty.

  Dohr. The cowardly wretch.

  You will die tomorrow, King of Nothing. I swear it.

  VII: THE LANGUID LADY

  SCREAMS ECHOED throughout the empty brothel. Kalindra reached for her sister, offering a comforting hand. Maris recoiled, shaking. Half a day had passed since Vincent Thomison’s agony had begun. The screams had not diminished. Maris was at her end.

  “He should just let him die,” Maris croaked, not for the first time, the declaration whispered like a prayer. “This is… this cannot go on.”

  Kalindra replied, her unsteady voice as soothing as she could make it. “Trust Gerald, sis. Trust Chaneela. They are skilled—”

  Another scream.

  “Oh, yes, quite skilled!” Maris shot her sister a dark glance through red-rimmed eyes. “Does that sound like a man being healed to you, Kalindra? They are torturing him to death!”

  Eriks Lane quietly entered the living room. He sat on a plush scarlet velvet chair across from the two sisters. Kalindra looked up, hope and fear balanced in her expression. Maris would not meet his eyes. Her shoulders heaved as another horrid cry split the silence.

  “They’re nearly done,” said the soldier.

  Maris looked up, managing a reply. “And?”

  Eriks paused, seeking words. “There will be… scarring.”

  Maris looked down again.

  Kalindra prodded the soldier. “And his sight?”

  Eriks offered a half-shrug. “Couldn’t save the eye. The other… well, we’ll know when he comes to.”

  “Comes to?” Maris replied, aghast. “If he’s not awake, who in bleeding Fury’s doing all the screaming?”
/>
  Eriks stood, understanding there were no words of comfort he could offer. “He’s not going to remember this, Maris. He’s not conscious, not in the way you or I would think. He’s… well, it’s just a reflex. I’ve seen it before…” the soldier trailed off and his gaze changed, hazel eyes now staring intently through the wall, backwards in time.

  Kalindra stood and embraced the soldier. “Thank you, Eriks.” She kissed his cheek. “How are you holding up?”

  Another scream, quieter and more pitiful than the last.

  “I’m fine. Need to see about my soldiers, though.”

  “Speaking of,” Kalindra added. “Could you recommend any who might be in need of gold? One or two?”

  “Every soldier in Mor is in need of gold right now. But they’re all on alert. I can’t spare any, and I know Slater can’t. Why?”

  “Well, we’re going to close up shop until this beast is defeated.”

  “Closed shops invite trouble,” Eriks replied.

  “You see my point.”

  “Hmm.” Eriks looked around, noting the rare empty interior of the Languid Lady. “I would think you’d be drowning in business. Not today, obviously, but generally. War usually keeps brothels full.”

  Kalinda took Eriks’ arm and led him toward the door, away from her sobbing sister. “But this is no typical war, is it? Like you said, there’s no coin to be had. Even if there were, half the soldiers have abandoned Mor.”

  Eriks nodded. “Those without families.”

  “Exactly. I think the Lady has had her last fling, for a while at least. I’d hate to see her ransacked, though.”

  Eriks turned and glanced towards Maris. He lowered his voice. “It’s inevitable. I give it another day, maybe two. People will run out of food. There’s no wagons coming, not from the west at least.”

  “Not from anywhere. We won’t see merchants from the Sapphire again until spring.”

  “If then,” Eriks said. “With General Fallon’s army heading south, I doubt there will be anything left to sell.”

  Kalindra leaned in, resting her head in against Eriks’ chest. “What will we do?”

  Eriks cradled Kalindra in his arms, resting his chin on her head. He ran his fingers once through her dark, silken hair. The two old friends stood quietly together for several breaths.

  “We’re working on something, Kalindra. Gerald has a plan to grow food, but we need the elves and any wizards we can find. It will take some time.”

  “And in the meantime? We’ve got enough in the cellar to last Maris and I a cycle, but not if we can’t protect it.”

  Eriks nodded. “I’ll see if I can find a man or two. I assume you’ll be staying here?”

  Kalindra nodded.

  “Chaneela?”

  “She’ll stay.”

  “Good, maybe one man will do, then. The four of you can trade keeping watch. You’ll need to pay in food, though. Gold has little use these days.”

  “That’ll cut our rations by a quarter.”

  “Assume a third. A guard will eat more than you three will, and you won’t want to be stingy. Not if you don’t want to wake up one morning to empty stores.”

  “You’re full of good news, aren’t you?”

  “You know people’s nature better than I ever will, Kalindra. I doubt I’m telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  Kalindra nodded. “Yeah, but I was hoping you’d tell me I’m wrong.”

  Eriks shook his head. “You’re not wrong. It’s going to get bad, and soon. I’d tell you to just head south and follow the army, but—”

  “Not with that dragon thing flying around. No, thank you. I’d much rather starve than die as that thing’s breakfast.”

  Eriks nodded, though the look on his face made clear he could not decide which manner of death he would prefer.

  Kalindra leaned in, whispering. “Do you hear that?”

  Eriks listened. “I hear nothing.”

  “Neither do I. I think Gerald is finished.”

  ~

  Gerald wiped a layer of sweat and blood from his brow. Chaneela offered him another handkerchief. He did not bother taking it. The wizard fell back onto the sofa, exhausted.

  Chaneela sat beside him, the two silently watching Vincent Thomison’s chest rise and fall in the meager lantern light. Gerald reached for Chaneela’s trembling hand, noticing for the first time in all his many years how truly frail the human hand is, how thin and bony and insignificant. Such delicate things, he considered, from which all the great and terrible things of life are wrought.

  As if in reply, Chaneela squeezed his fingers. “You saved him, Gerald. I’m proud of you.”

  “We saved him. But… Fury, to what end?”

  Chaneela took a moment before responding. “It is not a man’s face that makes his measure.”

  Gerald scoffed. “Maybe not. But that’s barely a face at all anymore. You think Maris will still want—”

  “Maris is more woman than that, Gerald Longstock. And it doesn’t matter anyhow. Vincent…” She trailed off.

  “Go on.”

  Chaneela took a breath. “I never thought I would say such a thing. I’m a practical woman, you know.”

  “Oh, I know,” Gerald teased.

  “Lucky for you. But Vincent… so help me, I believe he is meant for something more.”

  Gerald frowned. “More? More than what?”

  Chaneela rolled her eyes. “Don’t be daft, Gerald. Or funny, or whatever it is you’re being. You know full well what I mean.”

  “Say it anyways, dear. I want to hear how you see it.”

  Chaneela shifted in her seat to face Gerald. “Well, look at his life. Look how he’s changed. You’ve known him as long as I have. He was a bratty, self-entitled little aristocrat before Anie.”

  “That is certainly true,” Gerald agreed.

  “Then… well, there were the dark times, of course, but then he becomes The Merchant. Comes to lead all of us. You ever notice how easily we fell in step with him? All these years, all of us… every single one of us would have died for him.”

  “That’s easily enough explained. He saved all of us, from one devil or another. Some more than once.”

  “Not you, though. He never saved you, did he?”

  Gerald considered the question before answering. “Not in the way you mean, no.”

  “But you followed him. All these years. I can’t imagine it was for the money.”

  Gerald laughed. “No, not that. A wizard hasn’t much need for gold, as you well know.”

  “Well, it wasn’t for power. Any of a dozen influential families would have retained you.”

  “Several tried.”

  “Exactly. But you followed Vincent. Why?”

  Gerald had pondered this very question more than once over the years. He knew the answer. He had always known. But he could not yet say it aloud.

  “Like you say, I suppose. Something more. But enough about the mighty Merchant. What about you? You’ve served Maris and Kalindra for two decades. Why?”

  Chaneela offered a mischievous smile. “Isn’t it obvious? All those virile young men coming and going?”

  Gerald laughed. He leaned in and kissed Chaneela on the forehead.

  “And you could have had your pick, my dear.”

  Chaneela placed a hand on Gerald’s chest, leaning him back in the sofa. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  “I did, you old fool.”

  Gerald smiled, closing his own eyes, listening to Vincent’s rhythmic breathing. By the time that breathing had stopped, the wizard had already drifted off to sleep.

  ~

  The pain came in endless waves, crashing against Vincent’s mind like molten lava. Consciousness would fade, giving way to the unbearable agony, only to be ignited again by Gerald’s ministrations. Vincent was no stranger to pain. He knew what pain was: his flesh warned his mind. You must flee! You are on fire! Run, find water, you burn! Run now now NOW YO
U MUST RUN NOW! Knowing made no difference. There was only the terrible, constant emergency, the insatiable urge to escape from within his own skin as Gerald scrubbed and prodded and cut… until it was too much. Then his mind would flee on its own, to a dark place where the pain was not gone, nor even diminished, but a place where his mind could say “Thank you, pain, but I am occupied at the moment,” and close the door. The pain knew the back way in, of course, and would not be kept out long.

  Every breath was a horror, his lungs seared by dragonfire. Vincent knew his eye was gone. He knew one side of his face was gone, burned to the bone, teeth and tongue exposed. He could sense the dry heat in his mouth on the right side. Even the wizard’s breath as he tended to Vincent’s wounds brought agony… nerves never before exposed to air sent currents of strange, unfamiliar agony into his head. A ringing, whistling sound in his right ear would not cease; surely his hearing in that ear was gone forever.

  Burns ravaged the rest of his body. Some were minor, he could tell. These Gerald and Chaneela ignored. Others… Scrub. Rinse. Cut. Sew.

  Finally, after what must surely have been days, Gerald began to chant and the pain began to recede. This, above all else, told Vincent how near he had been to death. He had seen Gerald heal men before. He knew that to withhold relief was to keep the mind functioning… his pain had been, quite literally, the only thing keeping him alive.

  Gerald’s voice carried a heavy hint of resignation. “That’s all we can do for now.”

  It was not until then that Vincent considered the dragon. A part of himself had refused to acknowledge how he had come to suffer as he was, not until he felt he might survive it. Now, however, he could think of nothing else. How can such a thing come to be? What drives it? Who controls it? How can we kill it? Can it be killed? Are there more? Will there be?

  Conscious thought faded, giving way to exhaustion. Scenes and recollections of the dragon’s attack flashed in Vincent’s mind, fragmented images of fangs and fire. A terrible, inhuman scream… no, Steelwind! His faithful, constant friend these many years… gone. A young female soldier, whose name he did not know… gone. The scenes faded to grey, then to black. Vincent stood dreaming in a sea of nothing. He cried out, to everyone, to no one. What can stop such an abomination? Nothing! Nothing at all! It is our doom, and if it is not, then its creator surely is! Damn you both! Damn you to Fury!