Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Thomison rolled back to his right, pulling his dagger, and ended the horse’s misery with a kind strike and twist. The man continued to scream for help as the quake finally subsided; Thomison looked to the injured man in the dim light of the streetlamps and saw the bones of his lower leg protruding through his leggings. He glanced briefly at his dagger before sheathing it.

  “You’ll need healers, mister. Damned good ones. Stay here, I’ll send my own.”

  The man looked pleadingly to Thomison, tears streaming down his face as he whimpered. “Your own? Who are you?”

  “Never mind that. Don’t let anyone move you. A man and a woman will come for you in a few turns. Ask no questions, and do as they say.”

  Thomison ran nearly a mile down Southern towards Concord, relieved upon reaching his home to see that it had not fallen to the quake. It was difficult to know for certain in the dark, but the sounds of collapsing stone he had heard implied that several others had.

  The gateman lifted his lantern, recognizing his lord. He rushed to meet him. “Master, are you well?”

  Winded, Thomison leaned on the wall to his estate. “Run inside, get Sam and Katrina. There’s a man with a snapped leg that needs help just up the road. He is not to know I helped him, is that clear?”

  “Ah…yes, master, but are you…”

  “MOVE! And then send everyone you can muster to find Steelwind, he bolted when the quake hit.”

  The gateman sped away towards the house. Thomison walked back into the road, looking south first, then north. Everything was unnaturally quiet; it seemed to Thomison that after such violence there would be some sort of reverberation, some evidence of what had happened.

  The ash muffled the cries of the injured, he knew. The night veiled the sight of cracked and crumbled construction. Soot stifled the echoes of boots on stone as men and women raced around Mor, looking for loved ones, returning to their homes or shops. It did not matter that he understood why everything was so quiet. The effect was as eerie as a graveyard on Shadownight. The merchant shivered.

  And a graveyard it will soon be, thought Thomison, if Sartean has his way.

  No, Thomison vowed to himself. Not while I live.

  He walked the flagstone path towards the entrance of Concord, barely making it halfway before being passed by his healers and the contingent of riders he had ordered. He reminded himself to discover the name of his gateman; a small reward would be in order. He climbed the steps to the main house and was greeted at the door by his head of household.

  “Fury of a night, sir.” Gerald took his master’s cloak, vainly attempting to shake it clean on the porch.

  “My thoughts exactly. Never mind the cloak; have it cleaned as best you can and be sure it makes its way to my gateman. What is his name?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir. But I’ll find out.”

  They entered the home together and shut the door. Thomison looked around.

  “How fares the household?”

  “Well, master. No major damage. Better than our neighbors, I would expect. The stables, however…they’ll need rebuilding–”

  “I meant the staff. Anyone hurt?”

  “A few bumps and bruises. Really, we’re all fine. The horses as well, only the stables took damage.”

  “That is a relief. See to the stables at dawn, please. And your quarters?”

  “Luxurious as ever, Master Thomison.” Gerald smiled. Thomison laughed and cuffed the man gently. They walked together to the dining room, already bright with candlelight.

  “I mean it. Any damage? I’ll not have my staff living in squalor.” A plump older woman set two silver bowls of hot stew and a crystal decanter of wine at the head of the long, polished oak dining table. She nodded kindly to Thomison; he returned the nod. “Thank you, Miranda. You never fail to anticipate my arrival.” The woman smiled warmly.

  Gerald replied to Thomison’s query. “A few broken windows from what I hear, nothing major. Really, Master, everything is well. Within a few days, all will be back to normal.”

  “I doubt that, Gerald.”

  The housemaster sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Thomison sat before the steaming bowl and poured the wine.

  “Can I get you anything else, sir?” asked Miranda.

  “The stone. Gerald and I will need some privacy, please.”

  “Of course.” Miranda withdrew, closing the door to the kitchen behind her.

  Gerald sat beside his friend. “Now, about your damned fool idea of going to Kehrlia alone–”

  “You know why I did.” He passed Gerald a glass of the fine vintage.

  “I do know, and I know you’re a damned fool.”

  “I wasn’t about to risk my guards to the whims of that mad wizard.”

  “So instead, you go alone? Unprotected? Why not demand he see you here?”

  “Because that’s not how the game is played, Gerald, and you know it. I go, pretend to be angry at being summoned, and let him believe he’s had a small victory. And if I show up with a cadre of armed men, I look the fool. A few swords wouldn’t protect me from that devil in any case.”

  Miranda returned and balanced the violet crystal stone in its silver cradle between Thomison and Gerald.

  “Thank you. Have you eaten? You’re welcome to some stew if you like.”

  “Fury no, master. I’ve got to get some boards over those windows or we’ll be sleeping in ash.”

  “Very well.”

  Miranda left the dining room, and Gerald muttered something quietly as he passed his hands in intricate patterns around the stone. It would not do to have the Master of Kehrlia overhear their conversation. The stone began to glow faintly.

  “We may speak freely now.”

  Thomison nodded. “It never ceases to amaze me, Gerald.”

  “The magic?”

  “No, the fact that you would choose to be my head of household when you possess so much power.”

  “Bah. Even a wizard needs a job.”

  “But this one?”

  “Shut up, Vincent. You won’t make me say it.”

  “Say what?” Thomison smiled mischievously.

  “That you are oh-so-wonderful and benevolent, and I am humbled to serve one such as you.”

  “See, now was that so hard?”

  “Piss off, sir. I didn’t say it. I merely stated what I would not say.”

  “I love you, too, Gerald.”

  “Seriously. Piss off.”

  The two friends fell into a moment of laughter, followed by a period of quiet as they ate their stew in silence.

  “Gallows humor,” said Thomison.

  “Sorry?”

  “Laughing while the world ends. Absurd, when you think about it.”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Thomison shared all he had learned at the meeting with Sartean. Gerald listened attentively, saying nothing when Thomison concluded his story.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, what do you think I should do?”

  “Kill them both, obviously.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am, Vincent. Listen, I know you find it distasteful–”

  “No, not distasteful. Immoral.”

  “What in Fury is the difference? Everyone thinks you’re a cold-blooded killer in any case.”

  “I am.”

  “How many times am I going to have to tell you to piss off today?”

  “At least once more, it would seem.”

  “Look, sometimes the greater good needs to be considered.”

  “And you would have me be the one to decide when the ‘greater good’ justifies murder?”

  “If not you, who? No one else has the means to make it happen.”

  “Having the means to do a thing does not make it right.”

  “No. But having the means to do a thing that needs doing, and choosing not to… what does that ma
ke a person?”

  Thomison sighed. “Assume I agree. And I do not agree. And assume I could pull it off. Which I doubt. Who then takes the throne? There is no one.”

  “Dammit, Vincent, we’ve been over this.”

  “Yes. We have been over it.”

  “You’d make a fine king.”

  “I’d make no such thing. There’s no point in rehashing this; you know my mind on the matter.”

  “The people would rally to you if they knew the truth about–”

  “NO!” Thomison’s fist slammed the table. “And never say it again.”

  Gerald shook his head. The two sat quietly for several turns. Gerald broke the silence.

  “What then? You’re going to help Sartean distribute this…this abomination?”

  “You know better.”

  “How long did he say until the next shipment arrives?”

  “Apparently one just arrived, and another comes before the next zenith.”

  “That’s… that’s nine days. You don’t have much time to come up with a plan.”

  Thomison thought for a moment.

  “What do you know about Speedsap?” Thomison asked.

  “Only that it’s a difficult thing to concoct, and that it’s as deadly as it is volatile. We made a batch once in academy; we fed it to a rat and watched it chew its own legs off.”

  “How difficult?”

  “Well, very. The primary ingredient is terribly rare, only found at the mouth of Fang.”

  “So, this Flightfluid, a ‘derivative of Speedsap’ Sartean called it. It would also use that ingredient?”

  “One would assume so, yes. It’s called phenarril; it’s what gives the potion its kick, so to speak. If Flightfluid is in fact derivative, it must contain phenarril.”

  “Yet the wizard says he has loads of the stuff, enough to enslave Mor.”

  “Impossible. Not if phenarril is required.”

  “Yet you say it is required.”

  “A puzzle,” said Gerald.

  “Yes. The only explanation would be that he has found a way to make a large quantity of this phenarril.”

  “I cannot imagine how. Truly, I cannot.”

  “Doesn’t matter, really. If a caravan of this stuff is coming from somewhere, it can’t be too difficult to discover where that caravan is coming from.”

  “Well, not once it has arrived, but by the time the next batch gets here, it will be too late.”

  “Perhaps,” said Thomison. “Perhaps not. It may be time to call in some favors.”

  “From whom?”

  “Everyone. Call a merchant council, right away. To be held tomorrow, at dusk, here.”

  “So soon after your meeting with Sartean?”

  “He would expect some movement, given the quake. It will not arouse suspicion.”

  Gerald stood. “As you wish. But, ah…which merchants?”

  “Which do you think?”

  Gerald nodded. “It may be all for naught, anyway.”

  “You mean the quakes.”

  “I do. And the fires. And the mountain. What’s happening, Vincent? I mean, really, what in Fury is going on?”

  Thomison swallowed a spoonful of stew. “Like I know. You’re the wizard, and twenty years my senior. You tell me.”

  Gerald shook his head. “Something. All these odd events, I cannot help but feel like they portend something larger.”

  Vincent scoffed. “You’re beginning to sound like the gossips in the servant’s quarters.”

  “Being a servant does not make one a fool, Vincent.”

  The merchant regarded his friend for a moment, then nodded. “No, I suppose not.”

  “In any case, being that I am, in fact, the wizard, you might do well to trust me when I say that you need to be careful. Strange times we’re living in.” Gerald stood, clapping Vincent on the back as he moved to leave the dining room.

  “Ah, one more thing?” asked Thomison.

  “Yes?”

  “Any word about the boy?”

  Gerald’s head sagged as he replied. “No, sir. Nothing. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “I know what it means and doesn’t mean. I want him found, Gerald. Whatever it takes. My brother–”

  “Your brother is a damned fool, Vincent. And he hates you. I don’t trust him.”

  “A fool, yes. But he is my brother. He does not hate me, he envies me. There is a difference.”

  “Is there? Samuel Thomison has tried to undermine everything you’ve ever built. If his men found the boy–”

  “Do not say it. Just find him, Gerald.”

  XII: THORNWOOD

  Dawn came late to Thornwood, the sun’s rays straining pitifully to penetrate the thick veil of ash and smoke separating land from sky. Beneath the pale canopy, the elven people toiled to heal their wounded and identify their dead. The casualties were inestimable; no family had been unaffected. The quake had proven itself indiscriminate in visiting its violence on elves young and old, strong and frail, moral and ignoble.

  Terrias Evanti had Linked with three other elves, the four tending to a young elf no older than five years. Her tiny feet had been shattered by a falling stone from the Citadel. It had missed smashing the life from her body by the narrowest of margins, though the elven queen could not name the near miss a mercy. Her shrill, terrible cries had ceased an hour prior – not through the efforts of the four, but rather from sheer exhaustion and shock; her pain and agony was unfathomable, a horror beyond anything the queen had ever witnessed. There was nothing they could do to ease her suffering. The magical energies of even the most powerful elves were depleting rapidly; among all the magics, healing extracted the heaviest toll, and in cases such as these, they could treat pain or injury, but not both.

  The young elf’s flesh stitched itself back together as Terrias and the three healers chanted and prayed continuously, pouring their life’s energies into the young girl’s body. They had barely managed to fuse the bones before the healer to Terrias’ left collapsed from fatigue.

  “We have done all we can. Bandage her feet, get a litter and find her some shelter. Keep her as comfortable as you can.”

  The young healer looked to the queen, his expression incredulous. “Lady, there is no shelter.”

  “Then build one, damn you! Keep her warm and do not let her die!”

  “I… yes, my queen.”

  Terrias knew she had been overly harsh with the elf, but her spirit was too broken to muster an apology. The screams of the girl had mingled with those of elves all around her throughout the night; the few injuries she had managed to treat were but a drop in an ocean.

  She had spent the night wishing for dawn, believing that at least in sunlight, she could more clearly see what she was doing, could help more effectively. As she surveyed the devastation around her in the meager grey light, however, she found herself wanting nothing more than to shut her eyes against the dreadful scene.

  Queen Evanti witnessed trains of elves carrying litters, unceremoniously piling bodies atop one another. Children wandering in a daze seeking their parents. Parents cradling their dead children, vainly sending their life’s energies into broken bodies that would never again draw breath. Trees snapped in two, homes and buildings reduced to ruins. The Citadel…gone. Just…gone. A chasm had opened beneath where it had once stood and swallowed it whole, only the rubble at its fringes offering evidence that the great stone castle had ever existed at all. The fires had been doused, a task easily enough accomplished with elven magic, but the steamy smell of burned, wet bodies hung thickly in the air, a grisly reminder of lives extinguished in flame.

  But some yet live, and you must be their queen, Terrias reminded herself. This is not the time to dwell on the horror of what has happened. You must act.

  Terrias turned to the imposing Sir Marchion, who had watched over her silently throughout the night as she tended to the wounded.

  “We must gather the council, Sir Marchion. Immediately.”

/>   “They await you at the fountain, Lady. I sent elves to locate whomever they could hours ago.”

  Whomever they could. “Have they… are they all…”

  Sir Marchion looked away for a moment, taking a long breath before he replied. “We could not locate Neral, Malkren, nor Margris, Lady, those who held residence in the Citadel. I… I am sorry. Nishali is expected shortly, if she has not already arrived; she will be returning from the south. The Sword is building temporary shelters. Tobias will attend at your command.”

  Tears welled in the queen’s eyes as she reached outwards from her bones to listen for Neral, Malkren and Margris. She strained to reach them, to call to them, to sense even a whisper of their spirits. Her efforts were rewarded with only a great feeling of emptiness, of finality. Malkren and Margris had been dear to her since childhood, close friends, reliable councilors, true servants of the Wood. Their loss was staggering. But Neral…oh, my dear Goodfather, we are lost without you… I am lost without you…

  The queen choked back a sob; she could not yet allow herself to grieve. Her leadership was needed. Her knees, however, had a different idea on the matter, and presently refused to hold her weight. Sir Marchion rushed to support her; as his arms embraced her, Terrias Evanti’s efforts at stoicism were washed away in a flood of tears.

  The Second Knight held his queen in his arms, silently absorbing her racking sobs. Turns passed before her weeping relented. She withdrew from his embrace, took his hands in her own, and looked him in the eyes; they were as wet as her own.

  “I will remember this kindness, Sir Marchion. For all my days.”

  The knight nodded solemnly, wiping his tears. “May they be long, my queen. If…if I may speak freely…”

  “Always.”