Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  “Nia.”

  General Slater regarded the woman. “Just Nia.”

  Nia nodded. “Or Nia of the sea, if you prefer.”

  “Thought as much.”

  Nia frowned. “Why?”

  “Your accent. East or west?”

  “East,” Nia replied. “Far as the crags.”

  Slater’s eyes widened. “The crags? Damn. Rough country.”

  Nia shrugged.

  “Fishmonger’s daughter, then?”

  Nia was already tiring of standing and answering questions, but she understood.

  “My father was a bait man.”

  Slater nodded slowly. The implication was clear: she was the daughter of a seaslave.

  “Was?”

  Nia sighed. “I’m not sure anymore.”

  “Under whom?”

  Nia shrugged. “No idea. Some waterlord.”

  Slater waited. Nia took a breath, steadying herself.

  “Kehrlia took me when I was eight, maybe. After that—”

  Slater interrupted, relenting a bit. “Your father should be well off then, miss Nia. As should your… mother?”

  Nia nodded. “And four siblings.”

  “I’ll guess you were the oldest.”

  “I was. I am.”

  Slater chewed a lip for a moment. “They’ll be well off,” he repeated eventually. “Whatever might have been true about Kehrlia, the bastards weren’t cheap.”

  Weren’t. The word stunned Nia, and Slater saw it.

  “You don’t know.”

  Nia did her best to hide her shock. She failed.

  “What do you know?”

  Nia chose her next words carefully. “I suppose not much. I’ve been in fasting.”

  Slater frowned. “I thought you said you didn’t serve Kal.”

  Nia’s expression hardened. “I don’t. But neither can I conjure food from thin air.”

  “Hmph. Funny you bring that up.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Later. Before I say more, how do I know this isn’t all just some elaborate swindle?”

  Nia offered a thin smile. “I guess you don’t.”

  “I guess I don’t. Sit.” Slater motioned towards a chair and waved to a soldier. “Sergeant, some breakfast for our guest.”

  The man replied crisply. “Right away, sir. Anything for you?”

  “Just more tea. Maybe an egg.”

  Nia watched as the soldier quickly moved to follow the order. “Well disciplined,” she commented.

  Slater frowned. “Unlike you, clearly.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My staff follow orders. You say you were ordered here to carry out a mission. You didn’t. Why should I trust a woman who betrays her orders?”

  Nia glanced downwards, then back to the general.

  “Well?”

  “All right. You shouldn’t. But I’m not asking you to, General. You can do what you like with what I’ve told you. My reasons are my own.” Nia shifted in her chair. “I appreciate the offer of breakfast, but—”

  “But you’ll sit there and eat it. As I said, I’m going to need you to stay here.”

  Nia’s lips thinned. “You cannot hold me here, sir.”

  “This is my barracks, miss. I most certainly—”

  “You misunderstand. You can not. I graduated Kehrlia at the top of my class. If what you say is true and the Incantors are no more, there’s no one in this building that can keep me from leaving.”

  Slater sat back, crossing his arms. The two glared at one another for an uncomfortably long time.

  “That’s the problem with you lot,” he began. “You think you’re above regular folk. Just because—”

  “No, I did not mean—”

  “I’m not finished. Just because you can do a thing does not mean you have the right to. You spell my men. You come here into my barracks with this… thing. You throw it down here like I should be grateful you didn’t use it to enslave me. Young lady, I’m a general. I’ve earned my seat at this table through a lifetime of dedication to Mor. And you sit here like you belong here. Why? Because you can? That’s no reason. I lead an army. What do you think I could do with it, if I saw fit to misuse it?”

  Nia was taken aback by the tirade, but she answered the rhetorical question.

  “Anything you wanted, I suppose.”

  “Any damned thing I wanted. That’s exactly right. Especially now. And you know what? It’s about damned time I do. Halsen dies, Sartean wants the throne. Sartean dies, now the Daughters want it. You spell weavers are a blight.”

  “Now, wait a turn, General, I came in here—”

  “Yeah, you came here to warn me. Maybe. Well, let’s find out. You want to help me? Then you sit there, you eat your breakfast, and you answer my questions. After that, you go where in Fury I ask you to go, and you help where I tell you we need it. Otherwise, you can slink your hungry arse back to Mother, and I’ll see you soon enough. I might not have the men here in the barracks to stop you from leaving, but you can bet your last scale I’ve got the men to take the Temple.”

  Nia sat deflated. Not since her first year at Kehrlia had she been spoken to in such a manner by anyone but a more senior Incantor, or later, by more senior Daughters. In her world, for so many years, power dictated authority. Magical power, specifically. She could burn this man to ash, snap his bones like twigs. She knew it, and he knew it. Yet there he sat, glowering at her, waiting for her to act without a shred of fear.

  “Well?” he pressed.

  Nia straightened. “Do you mean to?” she asked.

  “Do I mean to what?”

  “To take the Temple?”

  Slater hesitated, nostrils flaring. “Is everything you told me today true? I swear to Lor, if you’re lying—”

  “It’s true, General. Every word.”

  The general’s eyes held Nia’s fast as the sergeant returned with two plates, one with a single boiled egg, the other near overflowing with fried eggs, sausage, and fresh bread. He held her gaze as the sergeant poured the tea. He did not blink when asked if there would be anything else. The sergeant moved on, and Slater nodded. “Then yes, Nia of the sea. I intend to take the Temple. In fact I have little choice.”

  Nia returned the nod. “Then let’s have breakfast.”

  Slater narrowed his eyes.

  Nia smiled. “By your leave, of course.”

  The two ate a long breakfast, longer than Nia would have had it. She was starving, but she stopped to answer Slater’s questions as he asked them. Soldiers came and went, Slater issued various orders, few of which she understood. When she had satisfied him with answers, he brought her up to speed on much that had happened in Mor in recent days, the first battle with the dragon at Kehrlia, the second at the Morline. There was a plan, Slater said, to address the food scarcity in Mor, but it was magical in nature, and he admitted understanding little of it. Now that Kehrlia had fallen, the help of the elves would be crucial, he said. Nia nodded, agreeing that whatever the plan, elven magic would certainly be useful.

  “It’s a damned shame your lot want to use this chaos for their own ends,” he said. “They could be a lot of help.”

  Nia shook her head. “You really don’t understand the Daughters, do you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “They’re fanatics, General.”

  “I gather that much.”

  “I’m not sure you do, or at least you don’t understand what they’re fanatical about. They worship Kal. The god of death. With all sincerity, most of them. To them, there’s nothing more divine than a good famine. Or a dragon. Or chaos itself. They believe their power stems from the degree to which they serve him—”

  “Does it?”

  Nia hesitated.

  “Don’t beat around it. Are the gods real? Do you know, one way or the other?”

  Nia recalled a spell she had once seen, cast by the Mother, just after another Daughter had gone missing. The Daughter was out of favor.
She was never seen again. But the power of that spell… and then the amulet, the sheer weight of the thing…

  “I cannot say. Not for certain. But I suspect they are.”

  Slater nodded. His manner remained sure, though his complexion paled.

  “I’ve seen things, General. Even participated in them. There’s power out there that’s beyond what I can explain.”

  “Well, that’s not saying much. I can’t explain a bit of what you snake charmers do.”

  “But you know it’s real.”

  Slater nodded. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

  Nia recognized the expression on Slater’s face. She had felt it on her own once, years before, when she came to realize there truly was more to life, and to magic, than what she had learned at Kehrlia. Far more. The recognition was sobering, as it bore repercussions about one’s own mortality, one’s standing in the world, how one’s life might be measured on Lor’s ethereal scales, and what might come after. The idea of it all chilled her even then, and as uncomfortable as Slater seemed, she supposed he still had little appreciation of just how much power the gods—if they existed—might wield. The thought queued another.

  “You say the Incantors are gone. All of them?”

  “Far as I know.”

  Nia shook her head. “I just… it’s so hard to believe. The power it would take to kill so many. Have your men counted bodies?”

  “Some. Near to a hundred at last count, though plenty were just… well, partial remains.”

  “That’s not enough. There should be twice that number.”

  “I’m sure there are a few house wizards—”

  “No,” Nia said. “Not just house wizards. The call went out before Sartean made his move. Most would have returned to Kehrlia. Any within Mor, certainly. There are a few unsanctioned wizards here and there, but only a few. Hmm…”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Nia shrugged. “There should be more. Lots more. Several dozen, at least.”

  “Maybe the dragon ate them.”

  Nia nodded. “Maybe. But maybe not. Do you have a room I can use? Preferably on the top floor?”

  Slater frowned. “I do. Why?”

  “Well, there’s a spell I learned at the Temple—”

  “I don’t know—”

  Nia held up a hand. “It’s not dangerous. I promise. But it takes a bit of time to prepare, and I’ll need absolute quiet.”

  “What sort of spell?”

  “The sort of spell that will tell me if there are any Incantors within a hundred miles.”

  “All right. But why?”

  “If you’re going to go after the Mother, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  “From Sartean’s pups? You must be joking. No, thank you. The last thing we need is more magic mucking things up.”

  “Exactly. Which is why you need to know if there are more magicians out there before you act. I’m not suggesting you need to recruit them, but at the very least, if I’m right, you had best make sure they don’t side with the Mother, or you’ll be slaughtered.”

  “Hmph. But you think I should recruit them.”

  Nia smiled. “At least for the farming operation you mentioned. Certainly, that would be wise, would it not?”

  “Hmph.”

  “How about if I first see if there’s any ‘them’ to recruit?”

  Slater nodded, standing. “Fine. But if you blow up my barracks—”

  Nia stood as well. “Then none of this will matter, and we’ll soon know the answer to that question you asked earlier.”

  Slater threw a napkin over the gold ring and shoved it into a pocket, shuddering. “You’re a morbid bunch, you know that?”

  “You have no idea.”

  The pair made their way to a stairwell. On the second landing, Slater turned to Nia.

  “How long did you have to complete your task today?”

  “If I’m not back by nightfall, they’ll assume I failed.”

  “And how long does this spell take?”

  “A few hours, if I want it to work.”

  Slater stood back, gesturing for Nia to pass. “Top of the stairs. First door on the left. I’ve got work to do.”

  Nia nodded and started back up the stairs. A hand grasped her arm just above the elbow. She turned.

  “I’m trusting my gut with you, Nia. I have a son your age. Near where you grew up, as I understand it. I’d like to see him again.”

  Nia placed a hand over Slater’s. The unexpected warmth of his hand, its leathery texture, his kind eyes…

  “I’d like to see my family again, too.”

  Slater gave her arm a fatherly squeeze. “Then get to work.”

  XVIII: THE MAW

  RAK AND ARGL would not shut up. They had begun arguing when Lux and Oort secured Thinsel to the sled. The topic then had been the tunnels: how would they be dropped? What if they collapsed? Who would be in charge of such a job? They continued squabbling as they built a fire for lunch, a task such a company would ordinarily skip in favor of a walking meal, or perhaps a brief snack and a rest. But Thinsel could eat nothing but broth, and the thought of feeding her cold soup had never even crossed Oort’s mind. The topic had barely deviated throughout the morning and early afternoon, Rak insistent that the engineers of G’naath had surely planned for such circumstances, Argl convinced that too many generations had passed since such plans, if they existed at all, were originally laid. They quarreled through the afternoon and into evening as they helped Lux raise tents at the base of the icy hill they would need to ascend at first light, Rak then bent on persuading a skeptical Argl, and perhaps himself, that the gnomes would not succumb to starvation before winter’s end. They were still arguing when Oort fell asleep beside his wife, his fingers intertwined with hers as the newly minted king whispered words of love and encouragement to his queen, she occasionally awake but ever silent, still too injured to speak. Oort woke to hear them bickering at dawn, awakened by a squeeze from Thinsel, the two speaking then in more hushed tones as Lux gathered wood. Had enough of G’naath accepted Oort’s authority? Could the backbiting, gossipy lot of them be brought to heel without the political power of the Elders? Could violence be avoided? The topic changed quickly when Oort emerged from the tent, a new debate begun as they broke camp and ascended the hill.

  Oort understood. More, he was grateful. Rak had disobeyed his initial order to depart for G’naath days before, as had Argl, and had they not, his own trek would have been a lonely one, if not a violent one. Their relentless yipping served as a useful diversion; perhaps, Oort considered, Rak and Argl understood that their roles on this journey were, chiefly, to prevent the Wolfslayer from shoving Lux from the top of a cliff if the dwarf dared speak.

  Lux, for his part, clearly understood his role as well, and while Oort despised acknowledging as much, even to himself, he was grateful to the dwarf. His rage had not diminished, not by a finger, but the fairest part of his heart knew such anger was misdirected at Lux. The dwarf had taken Oort’s worst, yet here he was, lugging Thinsel across the Maw, not for recognition, not for gold, not for any reward but that which came from within when one’s sense of duty was being fulfilled.

  Oort’s position in the procession was third, behind Lux and Thinsel. As they marched, he spent as much time gazing into his wife’s bruised and battered face as he did on the path ahead. She slept mostly, a sedative draught given them by the elves easing her pain and hastening her healing, but when her grey eyes were open, they were locked with Oort’s, and he was loath to look away. He had come so close to losing her, so close, and he counted every moment in which he could measure life in her eyes as sacred.

  The climb was far less difficult than what Oort had imagined, Lux demonstrating impressive skill in selecting their path to the top of the rise. The snowy tops of trees which had draped their camp in shadows at dawn were now well beneath them, and here the sun and the glare were blinding, at least to the gnomes whose eyes had rarely b
een exposed to more than the auburn flames of candles and torches.

  The wind picked up when they crested the rise. Oort had grown steadily more accustomed to the cold but had not yet learned to enjoy it, if such a thing could be enjoyed. The climes of the tunnels were constant; a bit of labor kept one warm enough, and even in the peak of summer one could sleep with a blanket or not as they preferred. Here atop the hill, the air again became a cruel, biting thing, and Oort was about to call a halt to better wrap his wife when Lux stopped of his own accord.

  “Smoke ahead,” Lux said, not turning. His voice struck Oort as no less cold than the air, and just as brittle. A new chill took hold within Oort as understanding dawned.

  Oort squinted to see what Lux saw. “How far?” he asked, his own eyes inadequate to the task.

  “Not very. An hour’s walk, maybe less.”

  “We’ll go around.”

  Lux turned, meeting Oort’s eyes for the first time since they had left Jayne’s Valley. “I don’t think we can. Not without losing a day, maybe more.”

  Oort looked down at his wife, hoping to find guidance in her expression. She slept.

  “I know these dwarves,” Lux said. “They’ll not harm ye.”

  “So yeh say. Forgive me if I don’t take yer word.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Argl, he and Rak catching up to the sled.

  “Smoke ahead,” Oort repeated. “Dwarves.”

  “I told yeh!” Rak said to Argl. “No way we make it to G’naath without—”

  “Don’t the two of yeh start,” Oort said, startled upon hearing his own tone, noticing for the first time that an air of royal authority had begun to take hold. “We canna lose a day,” he said to Lux, this said with gentler manner.

  Lux nodded. “Let me speak to ’em. Hatchet needs to know what Dohr’s done, and when he finds out, this whole mess might get straightened out.”

  “Just like that? A starving army heads back down the hill and puts the world right?”

  “I’d bet on just that.”

  Oort shook his head. “Yer a fool. Or a liar.”

  Lux gnawed his tongue and took a breath. He took a step around the sled towards Oort. Rak and Argl reached for weapons, but a look from Oort stayed their hands. Lux closed the distance between himself and the Wolfslayer, not quickly but with purpose. He stopped just short of stepping on Oort’s boots and looked down at the gnome. What Oort saw there might not have exactly been anger but was no doubt a near cousin. Oort did not budge.