Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Behind him the remaining generals, captains, and trade masters of Belgorne awaited his address. He would be expected to offer condolences, to listen attentively to their reports, to vow a bold course, to rouse those who remained into action with some inspirational declaration.

  And why should they listen to me? he asked himself. I did not listen to them.

  Prince Dohr grew impatient and approached the dais. “Father.” The word was a dagger of ice.

  The king turned to face his son. No exchange was required as the old and young Silverstones looked upon one another; Garne knew that Dohr loathed him, blamed him, wanted only for him to address the audience so that the assembly could be quickly adjourned and he could turn from his father’s presence.

  Garne whispered to his son, reached to him. “Dohr, I–”

  The prince took a step back, replying with a hiss. “Save it, Father. Address your kin.”

  King Garne nodded in resignation, turning to his generals and captains.

  “Dwarves of Belgorne,” he began, his voice dry and splintered. In the eyes of the men and women before him, he could see only disgust. He cleared his throat and began again, his tone suddenly resolved.

  “Dwarves of Belgorne. As ye must know, it was I who chose to delay an attack on G’naath. My son, Dohr…” he looked to the prince, who did not meet his eye. “Your prince saw more clearly than I. When I pass from this world, ye must follow him.”

  At that, Dohr did turn to his father. The declaration was more than unexpected; for one, J’arn was the heir, the eldest of the brothers, and had been groomed for the kingship since his birth. Second, and more importantly, a king of Belgorne served for life, and Garne was in good health.

  The king surveyed the great room. Nearly all the axes that had adorned the walls of Shan’s Hall had fallen during the quake. This, to Garne’s mind, was the worst tragedy of all, for the spirits of Belgorne most certainly did not drink mead in Stonarris on this foul day. Yet still the axes fell. There is no Stonarris, the king lamented. Even if there were, I would not be welcome.

  “The blame for your suffering rests upon me own heart,” King Garne Silverstone declared, as he reached behind his back and withdrew his axe. “And me heart cannot bear it.” He straightened himself and turned to his son.

  “Dohr.” The king’s eyes swam in a flood of tears, but his voice remained clear and steady. “When this axe strikes the ground, you will pick it up.”

  Garne Silverstone, King of the Dwarves, lifted the Axe of Belgorne to his throat.

  Realization dawned too slowly. “Father!” Dohr lunged to stay the king’s hand. He was not nearly quick enough.

  The king slumped to his knees, life spilling from the gaping wound in his neck. The pain of the wound and sudden loss of pressure within his veins immediately darkened his vision; he did not remain lucid long enough to see Dohr dive towards him, to recognize that some measure of love still existed between father and son. Dohr caught the king as he collapsed, cradling his dying father in his arms, crying unintelligible laments that echoed in the hall and chilled the hearts of those present.

  Grim turns passed as the prince worried over his father’s lifeless body. None of the dozens present in the great hall spoke, though many wept quietly. None dared approach too closely until Prince Dohr reached to close his father’s eyes for the last time.

  General Mason Brandaxe, leader of the dwarven infantry, stepped forward. “My king,” he said solemnly.

  Dohr turned, screaming at the general. “Your king is dead, General!”

  The general looked down for a moment in deference, then to the axe that had fallen beside the senior Silverstone.

  “Only until you take up his axe, Sire,” the dwarf said, his tone reverent.

  Dohr held the general’s eyes for a moment, blinking. Grief delayed comprehension. After a time that he would later remember as an eternity, his confusion cleared. He looked to the ancient axe, its wooden handle darkening, saturated by the blood of his father. Its keen twin bits gleamed in the meager light of the hall. In its polished cheek shone a wraithlike reflection of his father’s face. Dohr raised his gaze to the assembly, assessing the mixed expressions of the dwarves before him. He grasped the revered axe and stood, hefting it before him. The blood-soaked weapon felt much heavier in his hands than he remembered it.

  General Brandaxe knelt before Dohr. “Long life, King of Belgorne.”

  The assembly knelt as one, though not all spoke the refrain. Dohr noted the volume of the response with passing ire. He looked to the general, his most senior officer, and handed him the axe. Stepping over his father’s lifeless body to climb the Sovereign, the new monarch barely kept his footing as a boot briefly slid in the dead king’s blood.

  Dohr turned as he reached the top of the dais.

  “Stand, dwarves of Belgorne,” he commanded loudly. The assembly stood.

  Dohr looked briefly to his father’s body, then to the crimson boot prints on the steps of the dais.

  “Take the day, arrange yer own affairs. There will be no funerals, not for me father nor yer own kin.” The crowd muttered disapproval. Dohr ignored the whispers. The new king of Belgorne bent to sit upon the fractured throne, his expression and tone equally dark. “Not until the last gnome in G’naath tastes dwarven steel.”

  The hall fell silent.

  “General Brandaxe.”

  “Aye, me king.”

  “How long to outfit and assemble our army?”

  Hatchet considered for a moment. He could only venture a guess. “Given everything…ten days, me king. At least.”

  “We march at dawn, five days from now. Ye will make it so.”

  Hatchet swallowed. “Aye. As ye command.”

  “Remove me father’s body, and clear the hall. I wish to be alone.”

  “Aye, me king.”

  The assembled dwarves turned to leave, all save one, a silver-bearded captain who approached the dais purposefully. Reaching behind him, he pulled a double-headed axe free. Dohr rose from his seat; Hatchet prepared to toss his king the Axe of Belgorne.

  “Ye can stay your hand, Hatchet,” the captain said dismissively as he knelt beside the late king. Dohr held up a hand to the general, recognizing the dwarf.

  The elder captain dipped one bit of his axe in the late king’s blood, turned it, and dipped the other. He stood and faced King Dohr.

  “Ain’t no blood o’ me own kin left,” the captain said as he returned his axe to his back. He nodded curtly at Hatchet and turned, walking from the hall without another word.

  ~

  Kari approached the Hammer to see five battle-dressed dwarves standing at the door, customers she recognized as those who served under her great-uncle Lat.

  “What are ye all doin’ here?” she asked as she set down her lantern and unlocked the tavern door, confused as to why anyone would have assumed she had survived the quake.

  “Lat sent us, Kari,” said Jade, a formidable infantry scout whom Kari called one of her few friends. She reached to embrace the barkeep. “I be so glad to see ye, me friend.”

  Kari returned her embrace, joyed to discover that her friend still lived, and to learn that her uncle had survived as well. “As I be, Jade.” Kari ended the hug before she allowed her heart to soften. She regarded her friend, afraid to ask the question.

  Jade shook her head, looking away. “They be gone, Kari,” the woman said, referring to her husband and young daughter, whose first year they had celebrated only a cycle before. Kari reached to embrace the woman again. She stepped back and held up a hand. “No. Don’t ye dare. Yours?”

  Kari crossed her arms and took a breath, looking away. “Same.” She looked to the other scouts. They all shared the same expression.

  “Well, let’s get in here and see what’s what.” Kari retrieved her lantern and opened the door, letting the small company in. She locked the door behind them. Jade spoke.

  “Ferris, listen in case he comes.”

  “Aye,
” he replied, leaning against the door.

  The tavern was dark as night and smelled of spoiled mead. Kari lit a candle from her lantern, and another, handing several more to Jade. She distributed them among her company and gradually the condition of the Hammer presented itself.

  Kari was shocked. A few hundred paces away, the Tahr had opened up and swallowed nearly everyone she knew. Yet the tavern looked better than it did after a typical brawl. A cask of mead had split, leaking its contents on the floor. A few tables had been knocked over. A few bottles of stronger fare had shaken loose and spilled behind the bar, but for the most part the bar was intact. She looked at Jade, shaking her head.

  “How do ye account for it?” she asked.

  Jade shook her head, having no response. Another of the company spoke.

  “Magic,” said Jasper, a light-bearded, light-fingered dwarf Kari did not particularly care for. “Can’t be nothin’ but.”

  “Ye think everything be magic, Jasper,” she replied with derision.

  “Well, how else can ye explain it? It’s magic, I tell ye, dark magic. Can, uh…” he gestured to a cask, “can I get me a horn o’ that mead?”

  “Surprised ye even asked,” she said from behind the bar, setting out six horns. “Go on. Pour us all one.”

  The dwarf regarded Kari, his mouth opening, appearing to want to say something. He thought better of it. “Aye,” was all he said, walking to the end of the bar with the mugs.

  Jade leaned in and spoke quietly. “Go easy, Kari. He’s lost everyone, too.”

  Kari sighed, regretting her harsh tone. “S’pose we’re all gonna be different dwarves from here on out. No sense holdin’ grudges.”

  “None,” agreed Jade soberly.

  “Hey Jasper,” Kari called. “Ye want a shot o’ nightnectar to go with that? Got plenty.”

  He looked back to the barkeep, his surprise evident. “Aye, Kari, but only if ye’ll have one with me.”

  “Aye, two nightnectars, comin’ up.”

  “Make it three,” called Ferris from across the room.

  “Four,” said Nova, the female medic of the scout company.

  “Five,” said Lux, the largest of the troop.

  “Fine, I’ll take six,” said Jade, “but I don’t know what the rest of ye plan to drink.”

  They all nearly laughed at the going joke, but only nearly. The company, Kari included, shared the same thought; it would be some time before they would allow themselves a laugh again, if ever.

  Kari passed the half glasses of nightnectar around as Jasper distributed the mead. “Give this to Ferris,” she said to Jade. “Who’s he listening for, anyways?”

  “Your uncle. Said he’d be here by now.” She took the glass and brought it to Jasper.

  Ferris took the glass from Jade as she raised her own. The company waited in silence for her toast, a brief but meaningful moment.

  “To our fallen,” she said.

  “Our fallen,” they agreed.

  Kari downed her glass and refilled it immediately. “Bring ‘em back. Bottle’s half full.”

  “Can’t have that,” said Lux. “Wouldn’t be proper.” He walked to the bar.

  Nova cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, her tone serious. The dwarves gave their attention.

  “In me learned medical opinion, we’ll be needin’ several more doses each for this treatment to be effective.”

  At that, they did laugh.

  “Agreed,” said Kari, retrieving a second bottle. The group emptied the first, and then the second. Stories were shared about lost kin. Theories were debated about the possible causes of the quakes. Terrors were voiced about what was to come. But Kari and her guests remained remarkably upbeat as they shared the drinks and one another’s company, and the occasional joke unraveled the terrible undercurrent of tension.

  Had an uninformed observer walked in just then, it would have appeared that six friends had just cleared out a tavern brawl, and were perhaps celebrating their pugilistic prowess. But the one who did walk in knew better.

  “Kari. I knew ye were well, I just knew it.”

  “Uncle Lat!” exclaimed Kari, vaulting the bar and running into the old dwarf’s arms, tears running down her face before she reached him.

  Her embrace with Jade had been joyful, and welcome, but this was her last living family member. The two cried with abandon in each other’s arms, whispering words of pain and comfort the others could not hear, yet fully understood. The company turned from the two and either emptied or stared into their mugs. They all shared the same thoughts: happiness that Kari and Lat had each other; sorrow for all who had been lost; envy, for they had no family left of their own; guilt, as they recognized their envy.

  Jade could take no more of it. “Cap, come have one with us,” she called, waving her horn in the air.

  Captain Latimer Flint released his great-grandniece and shooed her gently towards the bar. He wiped the tears from his face and steeled himself. “One at most, Jade. We’ve got things to discuss.”

  “Hmph. One at least, Cap,” argued Jasper.

  A look from the captain ended the argument.

  Kari made her way behind the bar and reached for another bottle of nightnectar to pour the next round. She dropped the bottle with a yelp as she saw the blood on her hands. It fell to the floor and shattered.

  “Uncle Lat…you’re wounded!” she exclaimed.

  The five members of Lat’s company rose and reached for their weapons. Jade ran for the door, bracing against it.

  “Huh? What the… Ah, sorry lass, it ain’t me own blood. Stand down, scouts.”

  “Whose blood is it, sir?” asked Jade, instantly sober.

  Lat walked to the bar and removed the war axe from its place on his back. He set it on the bar and gestured for his company to gather around.

  “It be the blood of King Garne Silverstone, Jade. As I said, there be much we need to discuss.”

  XVI: MOR

  Sartean awoke with a scream, the nightmare again concluding with its expected grisly end. The dreadful vision of the future was the same as it had been so many times before: Halsen torn to pieces in the square by the people of Mor; Sartean watching from the stocks, awaiting his turn. He sat upright in his bed, sweat dripping from his body despite the cool early-morning air. The wizard could no longer simply scorn the vision as that of a possible future; its inexorable consistency was unambiguous. The dream had seemed less ethereal this time, more substantial. More certain, he thought as he attempted to compose himself.

  “I am no fool,” Sartean declared aloud. He would no longer attempt to deny the future he faced; to this point, he had comforted himself with the belief that his machinations would eventually prove sufficient to alter his path. Control the people, kill Halsen, ascend the throne, he had thought. This will stay your fate. But as he sat in the dark, he could not pretend that this most recent vision was anything but a final warning: his future was nearly etched, and if he did not alter it soon, it would be unalterable.

  He refused to accept that his scheme was to blame. The problem was merely a matter of execution, he was certain. With a thought, his chambers grew bright, the shadows of night dismissed by the petty magic. He closed his eyes and sent his awareness through the stone walls, taking measure of the air outside of Kehrlia. It would be cold today, he sensed. He threw off his blankets, stood, and walked to his wardrobe, holding his arms above his head. A thick grey robe slipped from its hook, floated in the air above the wizard and descended around Sartean’s pale, naked flesh.

  Sartean exited his bedchamber and climbed the stairwell that spiraled within the exterior wall of Kehrlia, bypassing his library. He reached the upper balcony of the tower and stood at the rail, his bare feet kicking up small cyclones of ash as he walked on the cold stone. A continuous shower of gray and black flakes danced and swirled in the air around the tower, the ash and soot blown gently by a cool wind from the east. The Incantor looked to the north; he could see little
in the still-dark morning. The Twins were barely visible, the night orbs seeking refuge beyond the horizon. The only light came from below, from Mor: scattered lanterns on streets, candles set within closed windows. He knew what daylight would expose, however. The quake of the night before had crumbled many buildings and homes. Oddly, few in Mor had died, though he suspected that Thornwood and Belgorne fared much worse.

  Sartean was not unaware of the rumors regarding G’naath. The few dwarven traders that still did business with Mor had brought news after the first quake; Belgorne had suffered, G’naath had not. Rangers from the north had brought their own news: the first quake had been severe near the Trine. How could G’naath, which lay between those two points of the map, not have suffered damage? There was but one explanation to the wizard’s mind: the gnomes were meddling again with powers best left alone.

  The Incantor was a learned man. He knew the histories of Tahr as well as anyone alive, save perhaps the elves. The gnomes had not always been a peaceful people. Many had carried significant dark power within their blood, power they had bargained for, power bestowed by the very Hand of Disorder. That blood had perhaps been diluted throughout the centuries, perhaps made dormant. But if the Hand chose to reawaken that blood…

  The thought angered the wizard. This is the fly in the soup, he decided. His plot to ascend the throne and assure his survival was without flaw, save for the interference of the quakes. He did not care what the gnomes were up to; their foolishness would surely spell their own doom. What he did care about was more immediate: he suspected that he would soon receive word from Mila. The containment fields would have certainly fallen, and the season’s crop would have been lost. And so close to harvest, he lamented. He had expected the next caravan within half a cycle; once the phenarril was harvested, making the potions was a simple thing with so many Incantors dedicated to the task. This would have been their largest harvest yet, large enough to ensure the success of his operation. But now, there would be no harvest, no phenarril, and no wagons filled with Flightfluid.