Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Mila remained quiet for a moment, steeling herself, willing her mind clear. This parlay would go on for some time, she knew, and if she were to gain any advantage, she would need to set aside her terror and sharpen her mind.

  “And if you fail him?”

  ~I will not.~

  “And if you do?”

  It was the dragon’s turn to remain silent. Mila knew she had struck a chord.

  “All I have to do is ignite this gem,” she said, “and he will punish you, won’t he? More decades spent in hunger, more years in pain.”

  ~There is no pain I cannot withstand, witch.~

  Mila laughed aloud. “So what? So you withstand it. Is that the end you seek? Is that to be your great rebirth? How long did you suffer at his hands, I wonder, to become what you are?”

  Kalashagon thrust his head forward. Mila prepared to ignite the gem, but the dragon’s jaws did not open. He stopped within a hand of her face, baring his fangs.

  ~Millenia.~

  Mila blanched. A thing far removed from pity sparked within her, but not wholly unlike it; the feeling tiny, remote, buried by rage and terror and the horrors of her own life, but it was there, begging her heart’s attention.

  Kalashagon withdrew a half dozen paces back and settled onto his haunches. His immediate fury had waned; a game of waiting would now begin. Mila sat, settling against one of the few trees remaining nearby. The two did not speak for an hour. It was Mila to rekindle their parley.

  “You should defy him.”

  Kalashagon lifted his head, turning to his right, squinting his black eye at the sorceress.

  ~You are a fool.~

  “Am I? You said it yourself. I cannot outlast you. I will tire. I will grow hungry. I will freeze. I will not die within your mouth.”

  ~Then you will die by my flames. Or I will pick at your frozen carcass. It matters not.~ The dragon lowered his head again.

  “I swear to you, Kalashagon, before I do, I will ignite this gem. I will not wait until the end.”

  Kalashagon bared his fangs.

  “And if by some chance you survive, a chance I would not count on, there are others you are bidden to slay, are there not?”

  ~There are.~

  “And when you are wounded, when your scales are blasted from your body, when your remaining eye is obliterated and your limbs are shattered, how then will you carry out your task?”

  ~So, then, witch, that is your ploy here? You would have me leave to pursue my other prey?~

  “No. I would have you defy him, dragon. Defy your master. To spite him, if nothing else.”

  ~ You are a coward, Mila Felsin. And you bargain poorly.~

  “I am not afraid to die,” Mila lied. “But you should be.”

  Kalashagon looked intently at Mila for a long turn.

  ~Of what consequence is my fate to you?~

  Mila stood and approached the beast, moving but a step closer. She spoke her next words into the dragon’s mind, where he might sense their truth.

  ~I have suffered much. I have caused suffering in return, much of it in the name of the one who took everything from me. You have endured more, far more, and yet you also do the will of the one who has harmed you most.~

  A quiet moment passed. An insane urge to draw nearer, to reach out and touch the dragon, nearly overwhelmed Mila’s good sense. She resisted, barely.

  ~Perhaps,~ conveyed Mila, ~it is time we choose our own paths.~

  Kalashagon rose. Mila shuddered. The edges of the diamond pressed gouges into her palm. The great dragon unfurled his wings, the immense black sails clearing the area of snow and ash. The orange glow in his throat returned as he towered over the sorceress, his great and terrible magnificence on display.

  ~You have played well this day, Mila Felsin. I will kill you in the end. Upon that you can rely.~

  Kalashagon flapped his mighty wings and launched himself into the air.

  ~But I believe I will save you for last.~

  XXVIII: THE MAW

  WELL? OUT WITH it. How many’d we get?”

  “At least twenty,” Martle replied. “There were four others, Sire… they still lived, but their burns—”

  “An’ ye put ’em down?”

  Martle nodded. “Aye.”

  “Good work. No point in havin’ em suffer, elves or no.”

  “They weren’t elves, Sire.”

  Dohr looked up from the table, meeting Martle’s stare. He popped the cork on a skin of ale and drained it, his fourth for the day. It was not yet noon. Dohr blinked as he tried to focus on his cousin’s face. He was sure he saw an accusation in the dwarf’s eyes. He narrowed his own.

  “Ye must not think on it, Martle. They were volunteers. This be war.”

  “Sire, they weren’t soldiers—”

  “Fury they weren’t! We’re all soldiers now. Every last one. Ain’t enough dwarves left to make such distinctions. I’ll hear no more on it. Where are we on supplies?”

  A grey-bearded dwarf spoke up. “Twenty tents, including this one. We saved the grain and wagons and such, but we’re outta pitch, and—”

  “Whadda they call ye, old-timer?”

  “Name’s Kimber, Sire. Farrion Kim—”

  “We don’t need pitch to march, Kimble. I wanna hear about food. Don’t give a hot heap o’ dung about the rest. Understand?”

  “I understand, Sire, but a bit o’ pitch mighta helped light some fires for folk. Hard to find dry wood this time o’—”

  “And we’re outta pitch, ye said?”

  “Aye.”

  Dohr slammed a fist on the table. “Then what in Fury good is a report about what we ain’t got?”

  Kimber lowered his head. Dohr motioned for Martle to pass his own skin over. Martle took it from his belt, popped the cork, and turned it upside down. “Sorry, Sire. Empty.” Dohr muttered a curse.

  “Sire,” Martle said, “I know ye don’t wanna hear it, but we’re gonna have to do somethin’ about shelter. We got thousands o’ dwarves slept outside last night. Weren’t the coldest, but today’s shapin’ up—”

  Dohr leveled a gaze at his cousin.

  “Listen up, Martle. An’ listen good. You, too, Kibbler—”

  “Kimber, Sire.”

  Dohr flashed a fiery look at the old dwarf.

  “Sorry.”

  Dohr continued. “As I was sayin’. We’re gonna be fightin’ the elves here in a day or three. They might be marchin’ on us right now. They tried to arrest yer king, damn ye! A Silverstone, like… like some common thug! Arrogant bastards thought I’d just go off with ’em, quiet-like into the night. And ye know then what they’da done after? They’da slaughtered the rest of ye, sure as stone.”

  Kimber tugged at his beard. “Sire, I dunno about—”

  “Kimble, if ye say one more word outta turn I’mma have Martle here gut ye. Right here. One more word. Now I was sayin’. They’da slaughtered what’s left o’ Belgorne. Why else arrest your king? So ye’d be leaderless, that’s why! So ye can’t put up a fight! Ye think they give one turn’s thought to that gnome wench? Was a pretense, is all. And before ye ask, I dunno why they want war with us, but if I were to lay a guess, it’ll be the same reason anybody ever goes to war. Food’s scarce everywhere. Hungry folk go to war. Mor’s gonna march north, or Thornwood’s gonna march south, and pickin’ off what’s left o’ Belgorne afore we can choose a side is just cold strategy. They’ll get our grain. They’ll get our iron and steel. Better them than Mor, is what they figure, and ye can bet a bag on it.” Dohr reached again for his skin, forgetting it was empty. He threw it at Kimber. “Dammit! Can a king not get a bit o’ ale, for Fury’s sake?”

  “I’ll go fill it, Sire,” said Kimber, bowing.

  “See that ye do! And rustle up a bottle o’ nightnectar, while ye’re at it. Go on, now, move yer old sorry arse!”

  “Aye, me king.”

  Dohr turned to Martle. “Now, what was I sayin’?”

  “The elves, Sire.”

>   “Aye. The bleedin’ elves. Ye know they’re gonna wipe us out, don’t ye? Every last one of us, young and old. This is the end, cousin.” He pounded his fist on the table. “The.” Pound. “Bleedin’.” Pound. “End. So when I ask Kimble there about supplies, I ain’t askin’ about any damned thing but what we can take with us to the Sapphire.”

  Martle frowned. “But, if the elves are gonna attack—”

  “We ain’t gonna be here! Leastways not me an’ you. When that old geezer comes back, I want the two of ye to get a wagon or two filled with whatever supplies ye can, enough for a couple dozen dwarves to make the trip south. Ye can pick the dwarves ye like, but ye make damned sure ye pick ones that can fight. And ones ye can trust to keep quiet.” Dohr thought for a moment. “Make sure ye grab a few she-dwarves, too.”

  Martle’s jaw dropped.

  “Bah, close yer trap afore ye catch a mouth o’ midges.” Dohr motioned for Martle to sit across from him. The dwarf slumped into the chair.

  Dohr regarded him for a moment before speaking. “Ye knew this was comin’.”

  Martle shook his head. “Can’t say as I did, cousin.”

  “Then ye be a fool. Soon as them elves came creepin’ I saw it. Saw it like I see ye standin’ there. Ah, for Fury’s sake, wipe that miserable look off yer face, soldier. I got plenty o’ reason to weep an’ whine myself. Had the Sovereign for what, half a cycle? King o’ Belgorne I was! Hmph. Try havin’ that taken from ye, see how ye feel. Don’t see me cryin’ about it. Then there’s the shame o’ bein’ me father’s son. Coward, he was, now that I think on it. Ain’t nobody but a coward gonna take his own life. Oh, I hear ’em talkin’, the great Garne Silverstone, heart o’ grief for his people, sorrow for the ages, blah blah blah. They’re already singin’ songs about ’im, can ye believe that? Like he was some bleedin’ hero. Then there’s my fool of a brother. Gonna go to the elves for help! Ha! Good idea, ye damned buffoon. Woulda made one dung-drippin’ king, that one. But ye can bet a bag he’s dead, too, soon as the elves got hands on ’im. Well, Fury take ’em both. There’s one Silverstone gonna survive this mess. Ain’t no reason for us all to die. You, neither. We go south, wait out this mess. Maybe we come back, but more likely we don’t. Ain’t gonna be no food for least a year, all this ash. Farms west o’ Mor’ll go barren. Livestock’ll die. Gonna be nothin’ but war and famine from here on out, cousin. Only place might give a few of us a chance is down by the sea, and better a few dwarves survive than none. Ye follow my lead, keep our company from tearin’ itself apart, and we might just have ourselves some families a few years hence. Fury, if ye like I’ll name ye general. And don’t ye feel a bit bad about it! Any other o’ those out there’d do the same thing if they had a few soldiers to order around.”

  Kimber returned with two full skins. He placed them on the table. Dohr shot him a look.

  “I’m sorry, Sire. Nobody seems to have any nightnectar, or at least they ain’t sharin’.”

  Dohr popped a cork and took a long swig.

  “See what I mean? Won’t even spare a bottle for their king. Rotten, ungrateful lot. Kimby, I want ye to go with Martle. He has orders.”

  “Aye, Sire,” he replied. Both Martle and Kimber glanced at the second skin. Dohr snatched it from the table and tucked it under his chair.

  “Well, go on then! Move!”

  ~

  “Sire.”

  Dohr continued to snore. Martle kicked the cot.

  “Sire.”

  “Huh? Wha… oh, Martle.” Dohr glanced at the lantern his cousin held. “Dark yet?”

  Martle nodded. “We’re ready.”

  “Wait outside while I dress. Leave the light.”

  “Aye, Sire.”

  Dohr’s head rang like an iron bell. He grabbed a pair of dirty leggings from the foot of the bed and stood to pull them on. He fell over before he could get a foot in. Gah. Still drunk. Just as well.

  He managed to dress eventually, though he mislaced a boot twice before getting it right. He tied his dagger to his waist and slung his axe over his back. His armor sat on the ground, leaning against the center tent pole. He stared at his father’s breastplate for a long while, the decision whether to take it somehow striking him as a crucial one. No one on the Sapphire shores would recognize it; the storied steel armor would mean nothing to anyone but the dwarves of Belgorne. Only those who came along would know it for what it was. Dohr considered whether wearing the distinguished piece might enhance his authority among the soldiers he led south. He decided it would, and that in all likelihood his kingly influence would be tested more than once on the journey, and that such a visible reminder of his station might serve to stave off disloyalty, but he could not bring himself to reach for it. Some part of himself, some long-neglected fragment of honor cried out within him, against him, demanding that he leave the breastplate behind, this the battle-dented heirloom of his father, and his father’s father, and his father before him, and try as he might, his arm would not obey his mind’s command.

  Martle stuck his head into the tent.

  “Sire? Need help with anything?”

  Dohr glanced one final time at the breastplate. He reached down, taking only his helm.

  “Grab the lantern.” Dohr stomped from the tent, his gait unsteady.

  He and Martle snuck to the far edge of the encampment, if it could even be called such a thing. Dohr crept past glowing fires, quiet families huddled around them. Most simply sat in silence. Those he did hear spoke in what he imagined were hushed, despondent tones. He saw only one tent as he skulked south, keeping to the shadows and out of the sight of his people.

  Scant twinlight illuminated two wagons, each strapped to a team of two, sitting at the base of a hill. Perhaps a dozen horses huffed clouds of steam, their riders holding the reins. Dohr peered around, beginning a head count. Martle saved him the trouble.

  “Eighteen,” he said, “including us. Ten male, eight female.”

  “Fighters?” asked Dohr.

  Martle shrugged. “They can all work a crossbow and wield an axe. Ain’t a one seen battle, though. Best maybe we don’t look for trouble.”

  Dohr stepped forward into the middle of the small company. He opened his mouth to speak, imagining that he should say something, but nothing came to mind. His head throbbed. He stood silent for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Ready on your order, Sire,” prompted Martle.

  On my order.

  Dohr turned and looked back, towards the fires. Still far from sober, he saw twice as many as were there to see. He squinted, trying to bring his eyes into singular focus, but could not. He looked back again to the assembled soldiers whose faces he could no longer make out after staring into the firelight. Seventeen expressionless, orange ghosts looked back at him.

  “Mount up,” he said finally. Dohr reached for the saddle horn of a nearby horse. He stepped into the stirrup and pulled himself up. He clumsily tried to throw a leg over, but only managed to kick the horse in the flank. The horse stamped and shied, throwing its head. Dohr Silverstone, King of Belgorne, fell flat on his back with a thud and a moan.

  “Oh, for Fury’s sake,” said a female dwarf. “Somebody toss ’im in a bleedin’ wagon and let’s get outta here.”

  XXIX: DÓMUR ARUNDIR

  A.Y. Evanti, 864, The Tenth Cycle

  MIKALLIS WAITED, watching, scanning the eastern sky as he had each clear dusk for the past thirteen cycles. This evening he lay atop the new roof of his cabin, the humble home built hastily a year before to survive the winter but made sturdier each season. Kallar had not quite warmed to Mikallis throughout the past year, but on his last visit, he had taken enough pity on him to spend a day teaching the art of pulping marywood bark and casting tiles. Heavy rains and violent storms would soon herald autumn’s arrival, Kallar had promised, and if Mikallis did not want to “drown in ugly coffin”, he must pay close attention, as Kallar would show him only once. Half a cycle of failure duplicating Kallar’s efforts had finall
y yielded an example of tile resilient enough to use for a roof, but Mikallis’ tiles came out far thicker than Kallar’s—and heavier. When the boughs Mikallis had selected for new trusses began to bow, he was faced with a choice: learn to make thinner tiles or reinforce his roof and walls. He chose the latter, and this very afternoon, the day before Kallar, or perhaps Shem, were due to visit, he had affixed the final tile, completing his prodigious task. Mikallis imagined his home could now withstand anything, save perhaps Kalashagon himself landing atop it, a risk that would not exist for fifty years. Thus, now, he lay proudly across his roof, hands folded behind his head. From this vantage point, he would soon again see Kal breach the horizon in the east just as Lor dipped below in the west.

  The exercise had become a ritual near the end of winter, when the idea first came to mind. Each day, when the sky was clear enough, Mikallis marked the door of his cabin with a white rock, imagining the left and right jambs to be the east and west horizons, and upon these he drew a line marking each day. Above these lines he drew the Twins as they appeared at dusk, careful to represent their positions relative to the chalk-line horizons in the best scale he could depict. At the end of the cycle, if he had made his marks well, he could see the progress of time, each day bringing him closer to the day of his birth, of Aria’s birth, and, eventually, to the day when he would return to Greater Tahr and replace the Mikallis he had once been.