Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Tremors of Fury is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  © 2017 by Sean Hinn

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America by Bobdog Books.

  ISBN 978-0-9980960-3-2

  www.seanhinn.com

  http://www.facebook.com/TahrSeanHinn

  First Electronic Edition

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  MAP OF GREATER TAHR

  THE DAYS OF ASH AND FURY, PART THREE

  I: MOR

  II: THE GROVE

  III: BELGORNE

  IV: G’NAATH

  V: THE GROVE

  VI: THE FARMLANDS

  VII: THORNWOOD

  VIII: THE GROVE

  IX: BELGORNE

  X: G’NAATH

  XI: MOR

  XII: THORNWOOD

  XIII: THE GROVE

  XIV: THE FARMLANDS

  XV: BELGORNE

  XVI: MOR

  XVII: G’NAATH

  XVIII: MOR

  XIX: THE FARMLANDS

  XX: BELGORNE

  XXI: MOR

  XXII: G’NAATH

  XXIII: THE GROVE

  THE DAYS OF ASH AND FURY, PART FOUR

  XXIV: THORNWOOD

  XXV: MOR

  XXVI: THE FARMLANDS

  XXVII: BELGORNE

  XXVIII: G’NAATH

  XXIX: THE GROVE

  XXX: THE MAW

  XXXI: MOR

  XXXII: THE FARMLANDS

  XXXIII: THE MAW

  XXXIV: THE GROVE

  XXXV: BELGORNE

  XXXVI: THE MAW

  XXXVII: MOR

  XXXVIII: THE GROVE

  XXXIX: TRAIL TO THE MORLINE

  XXXX: THE MAW

  XXXXI: MOR

  XXXXII: THE FARMLANDS

  XXXXIII: MOR

  XXXXIV: THE MAW

  XXXXV: MOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  APPENDIX A: CAST OF CHARACTERS

  MAP OF GREATER TAHR

  Get an exclusive copy of The Merchants of Mor, a thrilling companion series coming soon.

  The Merchants of Mor will be made available only to members of my mailing list at http://seanhinn.com/contact/.

  For my Father.

  Tremors of Fury, The Days of Ash and Fury Volume Two is the second book in a continuing series, and not intended to be read as a standalone book.

  For the best experience, please read Omens of Fury before beginning this book.

  Visit http://www.seanhinn.com to obtain a copy of Omens of Fury.

  THE DAYS OF ASH AND FURY, PART THREE

  CONTINUED FROM OMENS OF FURY

  I: MOR

  Sartean D’Avers sat silently in his library. He would make Thomison wait. The merchant had been called from his manor to attend Sartean at the Keep and had arrived fully an hour earlier, covered in ash and incensed at the summons. Sartean knew this. Master Vincent Thomison, de facto ruler of both the legitimate and underground markets of Mor, certainly would have learned of the violent demise of Barrington and Fennar earlier that day. Unexpected mortality had a way of causing one to evaluate one’s place in the pecking order, and so the Master of Kehrlia seized the opportunity to unbalance Thomison with the subtle display of power.

  The masters of Trade and Treasury had failed at the Game, and their failures had proven fatal; in the throne room of Mor, the Game was all. While the wizard did not personally strike the fatal blows, Thomison would nonetheless suspect that it was Sartean who had orchestrated their deaths.

  And he would be correct, in a sense at least, Sartean considered. Though Thomison would not begin to fathom the complexity of Sartean’s course. Not yet. First, Sartean surmised, his guest would be hard pressed to see beyond his own indignation at being kept lingering at the wizard’s pleasure in the grand vestibule of Kehrlia, where no seating was to be found. He will be pacing now, Sartean imagined. Deciding whether he should seek out an apprentice to remind me that he has arrived, or perhaps he is considering leaving. He will be–

  A booming knock at the door to the library interrupted the thought.

  Interesting, thought Sartean.

  “Enter.”

  An apprentice stumbled through the heavy door, shoved roughly from behind. “Master, I tried to tell him–”

  “He tried to tell me that I must wait at the bottom of your damned stairs, wizard. I grew tired of waiting.”

  Sartean raised his eyebrows, looking up from a book on his desk. “That will be all, Criss. You may leave.” The apprentice bowed and hurriedly departed the library. “Master Thomison, how good of you to come. Please sit.” Sartean motioned to the indigo velvet chairs that sat before his imposing black marble desk.

  Thomison removed his crimson cloak and unceremoniously tossed it onto the chair on the right, ash billowing from the garment in a cloud. He sat in the chair to the left.

  “You play games with me, wizard. I am not one to be kept waiting. Only one in Mor has the power to summon me.”

  Sartean nodded. “Yes, only one. As for your wait, I was unaware that you had arrived.”

  “You lie.”

  Sartean made no effort to hide a smirk. “Do I?”

  “Your apprentice told me that you had been notified of my arrival an hour ago.”

  “Ah. Well, perhaps he did; I have been engrossed in my work. Surely you dismiss much of what your own subordinates report.”

  “I dismiss much, wizard, though I overlook nothing. Why am I here?”

  Sartean regarded the man. The merchant was a contradiction. Fine garments, the finest, his silken white shirt immaculately clean, leggings of a most luxurious black material, nearly iridescent. His clothing had been tailored perfectly to fit his lean muscular frame, his boots dirty with ash, but clearly of premium quality. Yet the man beneath the fine clothing had the look of one who worked much of his nearly fifty years out of doors. Deeply tanned skin, rough hands, eyes pinched by the sun, salt and pepper hair trimmed neatly but not overly short, no jewelry visible aside from a single platinum band on his right hand…Vincent Thomison appeared to Sartean as a lifelong soldier, suddenly come into wealth.

  “I asked you a question, wizard.”

  Sartean’s tone carried a hint of shadow. “Master Thomison. Perhaps we have started off poorly. Let us begin with an understanding, then.” A pause, for effect. “As you only allow one to summon you, I only allow one to address me as ‘wizard.’ I shall address you as Master Thomison, or Vincent as you prefer. Am I being clear?”

  Thomison’s lips pressed together, though he continued to hold Sartean’s gaze, pausing a moment before replying. “Very well, Sartean, we have established our nobilities. First names will do. Now, I have much business to attend to today, and I would very much like for you to get to the point. Perhaps you might have noticed; Mor has gone to Fury these past days.”

  “Not quite Fury, not yet, but I agree. It is a dangerous time we live in.”

  “For some, perhaps. I see nothing but opportunity.”

  “As do I. You have no doubt heard of today’s audience in the throne room.”

  “How did you pull it off?”

  Sartean demurred. “I am sure I do not know what you mean.”

  Vincent’s lip curled. “Sartean, we are men of power. You have invited me here for a reason. Clearly you have business to discuss. Let us dispense with deception and wordplay, agreed?” A pause, then a slight nod from Sartean in response. “Good. Now, Barrington and Fennar died today as much by your hand as by the halberds of the Defenders.” The merchant did not phrase his statement a
s a question.

  Sartean allowed a slight grin. “Ah, you are certainly too perceptive. Although, if we are to speak freely, I feel it only fair to warn you of the consequences of violating my trust.”

  “And I feel it only fair to warn you that I would not have visited you today without precaution. If, today or at any time in the foreseeable future, something unpleasant should befall me, there is a standing bounty of ten hundred thousand scales on whomever is found responsible for my death, to be administered by my estate, and my instructions are to suspect you, chiefly. If I die, Sartean, the killer will find himself the target of an army of assassins from within Mor, and many from without. My personal safety mechanism is layered and secure, I assure you.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Sartean responded, waving his hand dismissively. “It would seem that we are both well protected. Yet I still require your assurances. What we discuss now is dangerous, despite our precautions. How do I know I can trust you?”

  Thomison laughed. “Well, obviously, you cannot. No more than I can trust you. My assurances, like yours, are empty words. We are not moral men. We are not bound to promise. However, I will say this: so long as our objectives align, you will not find a more loyal ally. I will add that I enjoy confidences: they beget power. I do not break them without due consideration. Your reputation implies the same.”

  Sartean studied the merchant. Yes, he will do nicely.

  “Very well. Let us then continue from where our conversation today began. You had mentioned that only one here in Mor has the power to summon you.”

  “Only one in Greater Tahr, Sartean. In all of Tahr.”

  “Yes. And only one may call me ‘wizard.’ That number seems a bit high to me.”

  Thomison sighed. “I know what you mean. Yet Halsen is the devil we know. My business interests have flourished under his rule, and I need only bow and scrape on occasion. I have no desire to upset the order of things.”

  “Business. Yes, that is the point, is it not? We measure success differently, you and I, but it comes down to business, in one sense or another. Tell me, how has business been for you lately? Most recently, I mean?”

  Thomison frowned. “You’ll know of course that gold doesn’t flow like it once did in Mor. Though I glean my share.”

  “It hardly flows at all, Vincent. There is a reason Fennar and Barrington are no longer with us, and their insolences before the king were merely a punctuation to their failures.”

  “Failures orchestrated by you, no doubt. Yet you still have not told me how you accomplished it. Nor why.”

  “The ‘why’ should be easy enough to discern. The two held more power than they were entitled to, by my measure.”

  “There is more, Sartean.”

  Sartean smiled. “Of course. You will also know that the work of repairing the walls has begun, yes?”

  “Oh, definitely. Quite a job, that. And the rumor is that the laborers assigned to the task are working eighteen hours per day, at an inhuman pace. Your doing? I suspected as much; only magic could make men work like that.”

  “More specifically, a magical potion. I call it–”

  “Speedsap, then?” Thomison shook his head. “Impossible, not stable enough. They would be dying in droves.”

  “A derivative of Speedsap. I call it Flightfluid. Much more stable, albeit quite addictive.” Sartean’s smile deepened.

  Thomison did not immediately reply. The men regarded each other silently for a moment. “Who’s distributing it? Who’s manufacturing it? I would have heard about this by now if it were happening in scale. A test, then?”

  “No, come now, Vincent. Would I be so foolish as to make such a move without an endgame already arranged?”

  “I would not assume that, no.”

  “The manufacturing process is well under way. I do, however, require a more efficient mechanism for distribution.” Sartean let the idea settle.

  “I’m listening,” replied Thomison.

  Sartean stood and began to pace behind his desk as he spoke, the scarlet hems of his midnight robe grazing the floor. “How would you like to assist me in achieving my own objectives, Vincent, while simultaneously solving the two biggest problems you yourself face?”

  “Still listening,” said the merchant.

  “We will need to work quickly. I have already secured the support of the throne in beginning immediate distribution of Flightfluid. The kingdom of Mor is in dire need of solutions, Vincent. The ash of Fang falls. The city crumbles as Tahr quakes. The treasury is nearly empty, and we have no trade; Halsen has thoroughly succeeded in alienating every race and kingdom in Greater Tahr.”

  “And you do not care a fig about any of it, Sartean. Don’t try to sell me on the idea that you do.”

  “Oh, but you are mistaken there. I care a great deal. Who would want to inherit a broken kingdom?”

  “As I suspected. You eye that gaudy seat in the throne room.”

  “Not exactly. I like my tower. Though certainly I would make a far better king than Halsen.” Sartean mused. “Hmm. Perhaps I could install the throne here, in my library, yes? I don’t see why not…”

  “Why in Fury would I deliver the throne to you, Sartean? I already made it clear: I like Halsen in charge. He is pliable and predictable.”

  Sartean stopped his pacing, and turned to face Thomison. “And a complete and total failure. You pretend these days, you and I both know it. Ah, no need to be offended, Vincent. I offer no insult. The truth is what it is. Like you, I am not without sources of information. Your own coffers are emptying, not filling. There is simply no more gold to go around. While you have considerable reserves, they are not bottomless. You want Halsen replaced as badly as I do; pretending otherwise implies that you have ambitions of your own.”

  “If you believe I seek the crown, you could not be more mistaken. I have absolutely no desire to wear that uncomfortable piece of metal, nor attend to the duties its wearing requires. I enjoy my comforts as they are.”

  “As they once were.” Sartean waited.

  Thomison shifted uncomfortably. “Very well, Sartean, I admit that things have been difficult of late. But you have no idea how much wealth I possess. I could outlast a hundred Halsens.”

  “Oh, I am sure you could. But you do not strike me as a man who is content with survival, no matter how comfortable that survival may be. And you are also astute enough to know that it is not Halsen of whom you must be wary, but rather the people of Mor. When the army’s salaries stop, and they will by spring, it will no longer be gold that serves as the currency of Mor; it will be blood, and the blood of the wealthy will be spent first.”

  “And you can ensure otherwise?”

  “I can. And I can ensure that you are at the very center of it all, providing the people with a potion that reduces hunger, increases productivity, and, of course, is available at a reasonable margin of profit.”

  “You have enough of this potion, Sartean? And you will continue to?”

  “I do, and I will.”

  Thomison shook his head. “I’ll assume you do, although I have my doubts. But the fact remains, we’re still just shuffling cards. We’re not increasing the flow of gold into Mor, but rather redistributing it to ourselves. The well will run dry, and we’ll be right back where we started.”

  “Now, Vincent, don’t be so shortsighted. The men of Mor are not the only people of Tahr that would benefit from such a marvelous concoction.”

  Thomison raised his head at this. “Your ambitions run deeper, then.”

  “Wider, Vincent.”

  Thomison thought for a moment. Who? The dwarves? Unlikely. Elves? Never. G’naath…perhaps…ahhhhh. Thomison realized. He thinks to expand to the south…perhaps even the west? Does the evil bastard plan to enslave the world?

  “Assume I see your logic on all points. What of Halsen, then? You seek the kingdom, yet he has an army. I do not relish the idea of civil war in Tahr, even if I am enriched by it. The result is far too unpredictabl
e. And I don’t see you dirtying your own hands in this. You’re no assassin.”

  “Oh, we are in agreement on those points, Vincent. Although, didn’t you say something earlier about having access to, how did you put it, ‘an army of assassins’?”

  II: THE GROVE

  Lucan Thorne knew that he had returned to his own world, to his own time. This is real, he thought to himself. I’m back, and I’m alive.

  What he did not know was whether the elf who lay on the cot beside him had caused his dream, or if his dream had brought her into being. Perhaps it was neither. Perhaps both, somehow, but here she was, impossibly, looking back at him. He could not decide if he was happier to discover that he was alive or more joyful at her presence. She spoke first.

  “Who are you?” the slight young woman asked, rubbing her sapphire eyes and working to sit upright. “I dreamed of you.”

  Lucan tried his voice; he managed a breathy sound, but no words came. He had been lying near death for several days, his tongue dry, his throat hoarse, his mind foggy. The elf woman was sitting now, and reached for his hand.

  “Water?” she asked. “Would you like some water?”

  Lucan nodded, looking down at the delicate hand now holding his own. She moved to stand but was woozy herself. Lucan tried to support her, managing only to weakly squeeze her fingertips as she sank back onto her cot. She withdrew her hand to her brow, massaging a pain from her head.

  Into the cabin strode Sir Barris, First Knight of Thornwood, accompanied by the elderly Trellia Evanti, Vicaris of the Grove.

  Barris spoke. “Aria, you should be resting still, do not– What is this? Well, if it is not the thief of Mor, returned to the world of the living.”

  Lucan tried to protest, though speech remained impossible.

  “He is thirsty, Vicaris,” said Aria. “He needs water, perhaps of the Spring–”

  “Hush now, Princess. I know what he needs,” replied Trellia. The Vicaris had already begun pouring a clear liquid from a carafe and brought it to the young man, who feebly reached for the glass. “And I know what you need, as well. Lie back now. You are not through resting.” Aria lay back obediently.