by Sean Hinn
He heard the scuffle, such as it was. Ten men with crossbows had walked brazenly into the dwarves’ camp, leveling them at his fellow scouts. The dwarves had no opportunity to arm themselves; they were left with no choice but to willingly surrender to the bandit crew. Protocol required that the sergeant return to Belgorne and report the incident, allowing one of his superiors to decide upon a course of action. But Flint knew what would happen next; this was not the first time these outlaws from Mor had kidnapped unsuspecting dwarves. Each time before, the written demand for ransom had been accompanied by a severed dwarven appendage: a finger the first time, a hand the next. Belgorne paid both ransoms to secure the release of those held captive but, as Flint had repeatedly said later, “A dwarven finger be worth ten men of Mor, and no mistake.”
One by one, those ten men died. As the night wore on Flint stole into the camp repeatedly, each time finding a throat to slit silently, a sleeping heart to puncture, or an exposed neck to snap. He fought the last three in open hand-to-hand combat; his captured peers watched Flint’s twin daggers deal death, slashing through the men effortlessly in the flickering campfire light. When the mêlée ended, Flint stood alone, glistening in the bandits’ blood, breathing heavily but completely unharmed.
Upon his promotion, Flint was given his choice of assignments. Without hesitation, he told General Brandaxe what he wanted: five scouts of his choosing. Full autonomy. Only the most dangerous missions. His request was granted, and the legendary company was assembled.
The quintet of scouts that accompanied Kari were not the original “Flint’s Five.” Jasper was a relatively new addition, having served with the crew for less than two years. His predecessor had been a lethal dwarven female named Nali Slate. Nali had married and later, upon learning she would become a mother, she requested reassignment to a role that would allow her to serve Belgorne nearer to home. She had once intimated to Jade that she could not bear to allow her child grow up without a mother, and serving in Flint’s Five was widely considered to be the most hazardous assignment in Belgorne. As fate would have it, Jade remained very much alive, while Nali and her young family had been lost in the recent quake.
“Ready to move out, Sarge.” Nova addressed Jade, breaking the silence as she and a newly outfitted Kari joined the rest of the company.
Jade sprang to her feet. “Jasper, take point. Lux, rear guard. Kari, with me.”
“We’re not making camp?” Kari asked.
“Camp? We just left. We’ll camp tomorrow night.”
It was too dark for Jade to see the distress on Kari’s face, but her tone was unmistakably glum. “Wait, so, we’re gonna march all night and all day?”
“Who said anything about marching?” said Jasper cheerfully, bounding northwest into the darkness.
Jade moved behind Kari, testing and tightening the straps that secured Lat’s large battleaxe to the new scout’s back. “Armies march, Kari Flint. We’re scouts. Keep up; if I have to drag ye I’ll not be pleased.” The brusque sergeant broke into a jog behind Jasper.
Kari followed on her heels, silently vowing to keep pace with her new company.
Nova and Farris followed at a slight distance.
“Think she makes dawn?” asked Farris.
“Hope not. I need a nap,” Nova replied.
XXVIII: G’NAATH
Cindra waited for death, chained to the ground, listening in the near dark through the barred door.
“Her lífda runs dry.” Quari.
“I’d not be so certain.” Sledge.
“I tell yeh, the witch is used up. If she had a drop left in ’er, she’d yank them pins right out the wall. That’s why she killed Heina. Needed a boost.”
“And Shabi’s gonna make ’er suffer fer it, sure as stone.”
“Gypstone won’t let her. Savin ’er fer the ceremony, he says.”
“Ky’rl canna hold her off. Shabi’s in a froth.”
“And ain’t that somethin’. She hated Heina.”
“Hates Sandshingle more.”
“Don’t we all.”
The voices grew faint as the pair of elders made their way down what Cindra believed to be a long hallway, though she could not be sure. She had awoken in cold shackles, hands and feet bound, chained to a thick iron ring secured to the floor in the center of the large cell. The thick stone door of her prison was solid but for a small hole at its base through which food and water could be offered, though none had. Faint torchlight filtered through that hole; if she strained she could barely see the ground beyond the door, though not enough to provide any clues as to her location. She concentrated, listening for footsteps, for variations in echoed sounds, desperate to gain some clue as to where she was being held. Not that it matters, she supposed. Cindra knew her life was near its end; Quari was right. Her lífda was no more, the last of it spent lifting Oort to the surface. She tried to take comfort in the fact that she had saved the Greykins from death, but she could not deny the truth. Winter was soon upon them. Without weapons, food, or shelter, the two would not last long in the Maw. There was nowhere they could go, no one they could rely on for help or refuge against the bitter winds. The Elders would have set a price on their capture, and any gnome hunter they came across would try for the bounty.
Yet even if they managed to survive, it would not be for long. There was no longer any way to stop the Calling. Cindra had miscalculated. Somehow the elders had detected the stone Thinsel had sewn into Ky’rl’s cloak, which could only mean that they had gained possession of magic. Such power could only have been gifted them, and the Old Ones did not give such gifts frivolously, nor without ensuring recompense. Such was the moral of the Or’d Vi G’naar.
No, whatever demon with which they bargained would have bestowed such power only to safeguard its own ends – to make certain that the Calling proceeded undisturbed. Which in turn meant that the Elders had proven themselves capable, Cindra reasoned.
Cindra contemplated the condition of things, conceding that the Old One had chosen its acolytes well, selecting the leaders of an isolated and disregarded people. The deep tunnels of G’naath were perhaps the most remote and inaccessible location in Tahr. Any of the major armies of Tahr could attack G’naath in full force, slaughtering the g’naar to a one. But it would take time. Cycles. Years, perhaps. The tunnels of G’naath were a labyrinth that extended deep into the mountains of the Maw, and deeper. There were no maps. Weapons, water, and dried foods were hoarded throughout the gnomish lair. In the event of an invasion the gnomes would fight to hold a tunnel only until it became clear that doing so was futile, and then would simply collapse the tunnel, retreat within, and wait.
The g’naar had fought in many an ancient war. The people of G’naath were under no illusion; militarily, they could not survive long in open combat. The diminutive gnomes were easily dispatched. Thus, the military strategy of the gnomish people did not rely on strength or prowess in battle. They relied on alliances, historically with the orcs and trolls that inhabited the Maw. But the tribal races of Tahr were long gone, most lost in the days of the Strife. The few trolls who survived had fled to the far south, to the swamps that lay between Mor and the steamy shores of the Sapphire Sea. The orcs had migrated west, to the barren deserts far beyond Eyreloch. The gnomes necessarily had devised a defensive strategy against attack, and fortified it during the course of the past three peaceful centuries.
The Old Ones would know these things, Cindra knew. They would know that the gnomes cowered fearfully in G’naath, and that no people would be content to cower long. A promise of power, of restoration to a position of strength… a whisper of such things from the denizens of the Mawbottom, in the right ears, would plant the necessary seeds, and Cindra knew that among those who were now Elders of G’naath, those seeds had been incubating for decades.
The Calling could not be stopped. Not anymore. Perhaps, Cindra considered, if she had retained a part of her lífda, perhaps if she had discovered the intentions of her peers sooner�
�� but she had not. No army from without G’naath, be it comprised of men, dwarves, or elves, could penetrate the tunnels in time to stop the Calling, assuming that they had even yet discovered the source of the threat. From within, Cindra had been the last with the power to stand against the Elders. And now that power is gone, she lamented, and soon I will die.
Keys rattled outside the door. Blinding torchlight replaced the darkness; Cindra recoiled.
“I have been instructed not to kill you.”
Cindra attempted to stand, but her chains provided only enough slack for her to kneel awkwardly. She looked to the voice, pupils straining to filter the suddenly bright light from the hall. The sorceress could barely make out the silhouette of her enemy.
“Since when de yeh do as yer told, Shabi Ridge?”
“Oh, do not worry, witch. Yeh’ll die. But not yet. We have five long days to play together.”
Cindra swallowed, but spoke bravely. “Yeh should be glad I killed that vile sister ’o yers. A stain on the g’naar, she was.”
Shabi laughed wickedly. “Yeh think I be here to avenge Heina? Ah, Cindra, yeh always were a fool.”
“What then?”
The door closed behind the elder.
“As I said. To play. Yeh won’t believe the things I’ve learned. Well, no, I s’pose yeh will.”
Shabi’s eyes began to radiate in the dark cell, bathing Cindra in their demonic yellow glow. The sickly-sweet reek of sulfur emanated from the Elder as she pointed a ringed finger at Cindra.
The auburn ring brightened, and Cindra Sandshingle began to scream.
XXIX: THE GROVE
“Will you come, Bear? Please say you will, and I know we will be safe.”
Barris frowned, shaking his head. “I am due in Mor, songbird. It is not for me to refuse you, but the queen set me on this path, and I would counsel–[B1] ”
Aria nodded. “Of course, I had forgotten. You must return to Halsen.”
Boot spoke up. “Well, ye can bet a bag I ain’t leavin’ your side, me prince.”
“Nor I,” added Rocks. The dwarves nodded their agreement, all save Garlan. J’arn eyed the forgemaster.
“We cannot all go. I be here to seek knowledge to save the forge. ’Til I hear there ain’t no more forge to save, that be me duty.” Garlan looked to J’arn. “Unless ye see it different, me prince.”
Prince J’arn considered the matter briefly, then nodded. “Aye, ye should go north to Thornwood, Garlan. Rocks, Narl, and Fannor, ye should accompany him–”
Narl stood. “Now wait just a minute, me prince, Fannor and I ain’t gonna let ye head off without help!”
Rocks shot the dwarf a glance. “Sit, Narl. Ye’ll do as your prince commands.”
Fannor joined his brother. “But what’re we here for, if not to protect–”
Prince J’arn interrupted, not unkindly. “Ye be here to serve Belgorne, Fannor.” He turned to Boot. “The people of Thornwood could use a good engineer right about now, I’d suspect.”
Boot regarded his friend. “Ye mean to go alone.”
J’arn nodded. “I do. If this be my path, I’ll walk it. But the rest of ye… ye’d be wasted in Eyreloch. Ye can do Tahr more good by stayin’ behind, and ye know it.” J’arn held Boot’s gaze. “Do ye not?”
Boot sighed. “I do. Though I don’t like the idea of lettin’ ye go alone.”
“He won’t be alone!” said Shyla, more cheerfully that what J’arn felt proper, given the gravity of the circumstances. “He got us three, and we all got magic! Plus Wolf.” Wolf wagged his tail upon hearing his name.
“Plus me,” said Trellia plainly.
Eyebrows rose. The eyes beneath them turned to the Vicaris.
“What? You think me too old to be of use?” No one responded, though Pheonaris attempted to hide a smile. “Ha! Look at you four. Clueless. Tell me, who will teach you how to use that magic of yours, if not me?” Trellia looked to Pheonaris, apoplectic. “Can you believe these whelps?”
“They do not know you as I do, Vicaris.”
“Hmph.”
Pheonaris turned to the princess. “I agree with the Vicaris. She is proficient with the magics you will need to learn, and no one is a better instructor.”
Aria nodded. “You will be most welcome, Vicaris.”
Mikallis could hold his tongue no longer. “I would come as well, if you will have me, Princess.”
Aria froze. She had expected no less, but had not yet decided how she would respond. She looked to Barris, who took the cue.
“Perhaps you should consider returning to Thornwood, Captain. I am sure Queen Evanti needs you in this challenging time.”
“Sir Barris, with respect, Queen Evanti is surrounded by her entire Guard. I cannot make her safer than she already is.”
“All the same,” pressed Barris. “Perhaps you should return.”
The two elves stared at one another, Barris bearing an expression of warning, Mikallis one of rising defiance. Aria sensed that the next words spoken would not be polite.
Trellia broke the tension. “We could use a good soldier in our party, Barris.” She turned to Mikallis. “Know any?”
Mikallis reddened.
“Well, do you? Because it wasn’t a good soldier that came down from Thornwood with Aria. It was a lovesick pup. Which are you?”
“Trellia,” Barris chided.
“Don’t ‘Trellia’ me, Knight. Listen up, Captain. This isn’t some romantic getaway. If you can’t put your duty first, I’ll send you packing myself.” Trellia looked up. “What? You all know damned well what I’m talking about. Am I being clear, Captain?”
Captain Mikallis swallowed, but nodded. “I believe so.”
“Well, believe this. All of you,” she said, looking to the four young would-be heroes. “If this prophecy is to be accepted as true, no less than the survival of Tahr is in your hands. You’d best be ready for what’s coming next, because if you’re all that stands between this world and the power of Fury, Father help us. Not a one of you has the first idea about battle magic, or war, or death. I can promise you this: your childhood ends today.”
“I am no child, Vicaris,” said Prince J’arn, a cool edge to his voice.
Trellia turned to face him. “No, Prince J’arn, I do not believe you are. But you are young. And you yet lack wisdom, though I have no doubt the deficiency will be soon remedied. As for the rest of you,” she continued, “say your goodbyes today. Rest tonight. At dawn, we ride.” She looked to Princess Aria. “If you approve, Princess.”
Aria nodded, standing. “We ride at dawn.”
~
Barris turned to Mikallis as the others made their way from the table. He placed a hand on the young captain’s shoulder, pulling him away from the gathering. He spoke in a whisper as the two made their way to the cabin they would share for the night. “Do not be angry with Trellia, Mikallis. You must leave your friendship with Aria here at the Grove, and serve as her captain only. And that means you must protect J’arn, Shyla, and Lucan as dutifully as you would your princess. You understand this?”
Mikallis nodded. “Of course, Barris.”
“You don’t like Lucan much, do you?”
Mikallis remained silent.
“You are jealous. Do not deny it; say it to me.”
Mikallis nodded. “I am. They shared a dream together. I have known Aria all my life, and we have never had such a profound thing between us.”
“Ah, what you have is far more profound. She is your friend. Truly.”
“I do not wish to be her friend, Sir Barris.”
“Then you do not love her. For love is friendship, above all else.”
Mikallis shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
Barris laughed as they turned up a wooded path. “I am closer to two centuries old than to one, Mikallis. Perhaps I understand a great deal more than you give me credit for.”
Mikallis stopped, turning to face his mentor.
“Barris,
I can think of nothing but Aria. I do not want for food, or sleep. Only to be near her. I…” Mikallis chose to speak the words aloud. “I feel as if I am cursed. I have the Fever, don’t I?”
Barris shook his head. “The Fever is a dark thing, Mikallis, and exceedingly rare. No, what you have, my young friend, is likely no more than the common pangs of desire. Nothing more, nothing less. I know the feeling well, but it is not love. Surely it is a part of love, an important part. But you will know when you truly love Aria. It will be clear as day.”
“And when will that be?”
Barris turned them back down the path. They walked several paces before Barris replied.
“When it no longer matters whether she loves you in return.”
Mikallis knew better than to speak his next thought, lest his words reveal the extent of his appetite.
She will love me. In time.
~
The Grove fell into silence as the elves and dwarves finally sought rest. Even Wolf was exhausted, choosing to nap beside a restless J’arn in the cabin the elves had prepared for the company from Belgorne. Shyla was not yet tired, however, and took the opportunity to spend the late afternoon walking the winding paths between the cabins. Despite the ominous portents, despite the dark shadows cast by the clouds of volcanic smoke and ash, despite the loss of Starl and Jender, despite the danger that the world soon faced and Shyla’s unlikely role in the events to come, she could not help but feel an awesome sense of wonder, even excitement.
Take that Spring, she thought to herself as she approached the steaming waters. Now that’s about as odd as anything. Magic water. Heals some, does nothin’ fer others. She considered the matter. What a marvelous puzzle! She had overheard the Vicaris and Mistress Pheonaris discussing the matter. The Spring somehow knew when an injury was caused by violence, and somehow knew that the quake was not natural, but rather caused through the intention of some being, or beings. So, it refused to heal those injured by it. Refused! she thought. How could water refuse anything? Shyla was certain that, somehow, the waters of the Spring held a clue to the existence of things, to the creation of Tahr, to the very currents of life and time and chance that flowed through the world. She vowed to herself that, someday, if she survived what was to come, she would return to the Spring and study its mysteries.
