Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  The glow encircled Pheonaris, Mistress of the Society of the Grove; it descended her body to her feet and abruptly grew brighter, then brighter still as it began to climb her form again, peaking in intensity as it reached her hands and the hilt of the sword.

  Without warning, Pheonaris let out a blood-curdling yell as she spun towards Barris, the sword slicing through the air as she brought it down, with all her might, to strike at her friend’s unprotected head.

  The silvery light flew down the ancient blade towards its tip as the weapon took aim for the knight. Trellia screamed in protest. Captain Mikallis drew his own sword as the dwarves’ hands sought their axes. Aria, Lucan and Shyla stood frozen in fear and shock.

  Sir Barris knelt passively as the vicious, perfectly aimed blow struck the crown of his head. The strike did not wound him. Instead, the silvery source of light exploded upon impact, its hue turning quickly to bright white, then to yellow, then gold as it blasted out a hundred paces in all directions. For the briefest of moments, Barris emanated a faint coppery glow of his own, and the profound experience was complete.

  “Furious mother of demons, what in Tahr was that!?” exclaimed Boot; his curse was the loudest, but there were others.

  In response, Pheonaris laid the sword upon the table before them. A faint crimson radiance blazed from within the etched recesses of an inscription that had not been seen by human eyes in three millennia: Ta Mêl ah Ya Di.

  The assembly took turns leaning in to gawk at the inscription as Barris stood and embraced the trembling Mistress.

  “I am sorry, friend,” she said. “I could have killed you.”

  “No, you could not have, Pheonaris. And you knew as much, otherwise you would not have struck me.”

  She held the knight at arm’s length. “I knew no such thing, Barris. But I could not forsake my oath. Ni hanna farhadi.” My honor forbade it.

  “Well, now we know,” pronounced the knight.

  “Now we know,” agreed Pheonaris.

  “Now yeh know what?” Shyla’s voice shook with rage. “Fer Mawbottom’s sake, will yeh speak plain? What in Tahr is going on here!”

  “What indeed!” shrilled Trellia, quivering.

  Voices began to rise, and Barris looked to Aria. The princess was as shaken as the rest but knew her duty.

  “Everyone, please, sit down! Barris, explain this. Please, and do so quickly,” she pleaded.

  “I must speak first,” said Pheonaris.

  “Then speak!” demanded J’arn, his fist hammering the table. “My people be dyin’, and if ye have answers, speak plain!”

  “Very well.” Pheonaris turned to Mikallis briefly, then to Barris. “Sir Barris Elmshadow of Thornwood, I see you as you are. I declare you the true First Knight of Ya Di, and I give you leave to commence your duty.”

  “Pheonaris Ayliea of Thornwood, I see you as you are. I declare you the true Mistress of Ya Di, and accept your charge.”

  No one spoke for a moment as Pheonaris took her seat. Trellia broke the silence.

  “Well, that was dramatic,” she said.

  “Very,” agreed Lucan.

  Barris frowned in derision, regarding Lucan and Trellia in turn. “More than dramatic. Necessary.” He addressed Princess Aria. “Princess, what you have just witnessed is the elven Rite of Provari, a ceremony that has been performed only twice before in the history of Tahr. Its purpose is fourfold. First, to establish that the sword you see before you is, beyond doubt, a sword named Redemption. It was forged three thousand years ago and given to the first knight of Thornwood, by which I mean, the very first. Without the true sword, the rest of the ritual cannot continue. You saw the silvery glow.” Barris pointed to the weapon. “If this were not Redemption, it would not have illuminated.

  “The second purpose is to ensure that the one wielding it, in this case Mistress Pheonaris, is one entrusted with its secret, which I will share with you in a moment. Before today, there have been but a few in each generation who knew what I am about to share with all of you. First, the monarchs of Thornwood; in particular, the ruling monarchs, not even their spouses. Second, the Mistress of Ya Di, who, today, is Mistress Pheonaris of the Society. And lastly, the knights of Thornwood.

  “The light traveling down the blade and enveloping the Mistress verified that she was one to whom the blade’s secrets were known. Her strike verified the third truth; that I am the First Knight of Thornwood, and that it is my given duty to decide when it is time to reveal the legends that are sacred to my order. If I were a pretender, seeking to take the sword for my own, or to learn its secrets through deception, Pheonaris’ strike would have slain me.”

  “Lastly, the inscription. ‘Ta Mêl ah Ya Di.’ It means, ‘To Fight on The Day,’ and if all that I have said to this point is true, it means that The Day is upon us. Were it not, the inscription would not have revealed itself, and I would be expected to remain silent.”

  “Why all the ceremony?” asked Lucan. Barris eyed the young man. “Listen, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be discourteous in such regal company. I understand that you believe this is a sacred thing we all just saw, but if the whole idea is just to figure out whether this Day is upon us, whatever that means, wouldn’t it have been a lot easier for the sword to just light up in your scabbard, or vibrate, I dunno, something obvious, so you knew you were supposed to do whatever needs doing?”

  “The ceremony ain’t fer him, yeh dimwit. It’s fer us,” said Shyla.

  Barris nodded. “Go on, young miss, please.”

  “Well it’s plain as stone, ain’t it? Mister Barris here is about to tell us something we’re not gonna be inclined to believe. Ain’t that right, Mister Barris?” Barris nodded, bidding her to continue. “Thought as much. So the point is this: he just put his own neck on the line on naught but blind faith, and I mean his neck. We all saw it. Anyone here think it were a trick, some ruse?” Shyla looked around the table. Heads shook. “Me neither. So what he be asking is that yeh listen from here on in, and stop yer yappin’ about whether or not he be speakin’ true.” She turned to the knight. “Go on, Mister Barris. I trust yeh, and I’ll take what yeh say as stone. Yeh proved yerself t’me.”

  Barris waited before speaking, attempting to gauge whether the gnome’s statement of logic had taken root. In his best estimation, it had. He continued.

  “You speak with intelligence and wisdom, Shyla Greykin. In the elven language, ‘provari’ quite literally means ‘evidence.’ The purpose of the Rite of Provari is as you say: to establish trust among those who are to hear what I am about to say next.” Barris took a breath.

  “The Knights of Thornwood are charged with training and preparing for Ya Di, ‘The Day,’ but it is not so much a specific day as it is a time, a time we now live in. The Oath of a Knight of Thornwood is a long one, spoken in whole only during the actual ceremony in which a knight is given title, and only before those who already know it. Even when we are learning the words, the Oath is never spoken in its entirety, only in parts. The reasons for this are not relevant to our discussion today.

  “I will share with you now a translation of the first part of the Oath in the common language of Tahr. It is not a perfect translation, as it is set in rhyme so as to not be easily forgotten, but great care has been taken to ensure that it remains true to fact, and does not take liberty with the subtleties of the original verses. I would suspect many of you already know it, or some version of it. It is a story of a time long ago, a time of darkness in which foul spirits from the pits of Fury took form and broke free of their imprisonment to make war on the world. It begins thusly:

  “When sorrow roots the bended knee

  and torn are hearts, and bleeding free,

  and Justice hath no word to say

  beware, for these shall warn The Day.

  Thy venal nobles primp and preen

  as kingdoms fall, and mothers keen;

  Thy children starve as fathers see

  the fruits of false nobility.
<
br />   The Day shall come as men of hate

  Call down to Fury. Devils wait

  in patience, wrath, and vengeful ire

  until The Day they rise in fire.

  For rise they shall, and drink thy tears,

  a draught withheld three thousand years.

  Let none protest with final breath;

  judgment is sealed by Honor’s death.

  Scores of flame and quakes of three,

  ash will portend thy fate to thee.

  On fiery wings, thy doom shall dive,

  thy ramparts held by only Five.”

  Boot could hold his tongue no longer. “A fairy tale. A bleedin’ fairy tale, this is the great secret of your knighthood? Tell me ye jest, Sir Barris.”

  Barris looked to Boot, then to J’arn. The prince did not signal disagreement with his engineer.

  “It’s true,” said Lucan, his face pale, his tone sober.

  “Pardon?” said Trellia. Every head turned to face Lucan.

  “It is. All of it.” He sought Aria’s eyes. “You know it too, don’t you?”

  “I… I am not sure.”

  “Fury you’re not sure! You were there!”

  “I had a dream, Lucan. That’s all I know.”

  “What is this?” demanded Mikallis. “What dream does this boy speak of, Aria?”

  “I’ve had about enough of you calling me a boy, elf,” shot Lucan. “I don’t need pointy ears to hear when I’m being talked down to, and unless you want to test my skill with a blade, I’d suggest you not say it again.”

  Mikallis began to stand. Garlan spoke next.

  “Captain Mikallis.”

  The young captain turned in his seat to the dwarven forgemaster.

  “Has this man wronged you?”

  Mikallis reddened. “I suppose he has not. Though I do not trust him.”

  “And I don’t trust you. Call me a boy, or any of my company, and see what happens.”

  “Gentlemen, let’s not do this,” said Pheonaris, looking to Aria. Aria caught the glance but remained silent, watching.

  “I have no quarrel with you, sir.”

  “But a young man, on his own, with none to back him? Easy target, seems to me.”

  No one spoke. Mikallis eyed the forgemaster.

  “You don’t need to back me, Mister Garlan.” Lucan turned to Mikallis. “But he’s right. I’ve done you no wrong, Captain. Now listen. All of you. I know what Sir Barris is saying is the truth. I’ve had the same dream, over and over, hundreds of times. And I knew while I was having it – I was watching that stupid poem play out, over and over. Except I was there. And you were too, Aria.”

  “I was there once, not hundreds of times like you. I cannot be sure.”

  “Wait,” said Pheonaris. “You two both had the same dream? Not a similar dream, but the same dream?”

  “No, not exactly,” said Aria. “We… well, we shared the dream. We were in it together. We woke up at the same time, and knew one another.”

  Barris shook his head. “There is no doubt, Pheonaris. None.”

  “Doubt o’ what?” asked Rocks. “I might not be the brightest star in the sky, but I ain’t followin’ a bit of this. Can we just skip to the part where ye tell me where this axe goes, so I can start swingin’ it? Because if ye can’t, I don’t see as how we have more to talk about.” Narl and Fannor nodded their agreement with the sergeant. “Beggin’ your pardon, me prince.” J’arn did not protest.

  “Oh, I think supper’s about all laid out,” said Shyla. “I ain’t sure I can swallow every last bite of it, but I can smell dessert cookin’.”

  “Wait, what?” said Lucan.

  “She means she has put the pieces together, Lucan. Let us see if she has. Continue please, Shyla,” said Pheonaris.

  The little gnome cleared her throat. “Alright. So, yeh got this old story, knight’s legend, Oath, whatever yeh wanna call it. We all know the story; Mawbottom, even me, though it ain’t exactly as yeh told it. But never mind that. So what Barris is gonna tell us next is that the world has gone to Fury, what with everybody hatin’ everybody and such, and Mor bein’ run by a greedy so-and-so of a king. We got these stonecrackers…ah, tahrquakes as yeh call em, there’s been two of ‘em, and there’s a third comin’. The ash part, well, that’s easy, look up. There’s yer ash. I canna say about the fiery wings, could just be a riddle, but the last part’s pretty obvious. Five of us here gotta figure out a way to stop it all. Oh, and it’s our own damned fault, because there ain’t no honor left in Tahr. That’s the part I ain’t so sure about.”

  Barris cocked his head at the girl. “Why’s that, Shyla?”

  “Why’s that? Whaddya mean, ‘why’s that’? Yeh just sat there and let that Mistress lady swing fer yer gems through yer brainbucket, just so’s yeh could make sure the next thing yeh said carried weight! There’s honor right there. And then there’s Prince J’arn, and his dwarves.” She looked to her traveling companions. “’Nuff honor between ’em to choke a troll. Then yeh got the princess here, scared witless but doin’ her duty, then the Mistress, ready to lop off her friend’s head fer the sake of th’ others. Miss Trellia’s a healer, ain’t no more honorable job than that. As fer you two,” she looked to Lucan and Mikallis, “I canna say much, ’cept yeh could stand to learn some manners, but could be yer just havin’ a bad day.”

  A moment of stunned silence passed, broken by a muted laugh from Trellia.

  “What’s so funny?” demanded Shyla.

  Lucan knew the joke. “‘Swing for yer gems through yer brainbucket,’ ” Lucan repeated, mimicking the gnome’s accent and high-pitched voice as he struggled to contain himself.

  “Illustrative,” deadpanned J’arn.

  “Very,” agreed Pheonaris.

  Shyla reddened. Aria snorted as she tried to stifle a giggle. The dam broke. Several turns later, when no one could breathe any longer, the raucous fits of laughter finally died down. Barris was the first to compose himself.

  “You know, Shyla, we may just yet have hope.”

  “Aye,” agreed J’arn, wiping tears from his eyes. “We may just.”

  After a quiet turn, Aria asked the question.

  “So, which five?”

  “Well, I have a theory on that,” said Pheonaris.

  “Do tell,” said J’arn.

  “It stands to reason that if only five are to stand against this threat we face, they must be quite extraordinary. I believe they are here–well, four at least–else why the vision demanding that Aria make the Grove in such haste? It would also stand to reason that, since four of the races of Tahr are represented here, the five would certainly include Shyla. Since my vision was focused on Aria, that would make two. Lucan, you would be the third. I do not know much about you and your company, Prince J’arn, but it would appear that you are nearly the same age as Shyla, Lucan, and Aria. Am I correct?”

  J’arn replied. “Well, I was born in the tenth cycle, and I just turned twenty-and-three years of age.”

  “I be twenty-three as well,” said Shyla. “Eighth cycle.”

  “Twenty-three,” confirmed Aria. “Tenth cycle.”

  Lucan shrugged. “I can’t be sure. Thought I was around twenty-four, twenty-five, but can’t be sure.”

  “Don’t yeh celebrate yer life day?” asked Shyla.

  “My birthday, you mean? I, ah… no, I don’t.”

  “He’s about twenty-three, so far as I can discern,” said Trellia. “And he’s the only man of Mor here, so if your theory holds, Mistress, we have four.”

  “And the fifth?” asked Aria. “Assuming I accept everything said to this moment, which I do not yet.”

  “The fifth would not be here,” said Barris confidently, setting aside the princess’ skepticism for the moment.

  “No, they would not,” agreed Pheonaris.

  “Why’s that?” asked Lucan.

  “Because we must go to Eyreloch to meet them,” said Barris. “Or rather, you must.”


  “Eyreloch? The Airies?” asked J’arn, clearly displeased.

  Pheonaris replied. “None have more power. None. And we will certainly need to unite with them to defeat whatever force is powerful enough to shake the very world.”

  “Uh…not so sure about that,” said Lucan. “The Airies keep to themselves.”

  “Rightly so,” agreed Boot. “Troublesome lot, those.”

  “Yeah. Troublesome. If by that you mean, ‘prone to flaying unsuspecting men alive,’” said Lucan.

  “Oh, those are just tales,” said Trellia. “The Airies are fine, just a bit different.”

  “Too different,” said J’arn. “And too far. My kingdom lies in the other direction. I’ll not trudge off to Eyreloch in the hopes of meeting some fated Airie with whom to join forces. I came here for practical solutions to real problems. We have a forge that needs saving, and we lack the skill to do it ourselves. We have holes tearing open the very foundation of our kingdom. We’re bound to be swallowed whole if we can’t find a way to stop what’s happening.”

  Trellia and Pheonaris exchanged a look. “Prince J’arn,” said the Mistress. “There is no stopping this.”

  J’arn nodded. “I gathered that’s what I hear ye sayin’. Destiny says there’s a third quake comin’, and we’re all doomed. Well, magic sword or no – no disrespect, Sir Barris – my people will be needin’ me in any case.”