Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Thinsel had convinced Oort that they should not descend directly into the Maw; better, she had suggested, that they make their way east, and then south, to avoid the gnomish patrols and hunters that would certainly be keeping an eye out for them, if not searching in earnest. They could not expect warm welcome in Belgorne, but it was a certainty that the Elders would have placed a bounty on their lives; the dwarves, at least, might give pause before condemning them.

  Thinsel was adamant: they must reach Belgorne. They must tell the dwarves what they knew: that the terrors they had endured were not caused by the g’naar as a whole, but rather had been brought about by the evil machinations of the Elders, and that the Elders were but a few of the people of G’naath. Oort reluctantly agreed, though he felt they must reach the basin of the Maw as soon as possible, lest they freeze in the mountains. He had argued that if they froze to death, they would do their people no good. Thinsel had argued that if they were discovered, they were worse than dead: they would fall into the hands of the Elders, and if Cindra’s assessment was correct, a death caused by the elements would be far preferable.

  So, they walked east. They walked, they grew colder, they stumbled, they helped one another to their feet, and they walked some more. They eventually turned south and began to descend the foothills, but they had no idea whether they had walked enough to avoid the gnomish patrols. They were scarcely certain that they had indeed walked east to begin with; they had assumed that, if they traveled east, the tallest peaks would be to their left. But they could not be sure.

  Oort’s strength was fading. He had spent the day mining before Cindra had called them, and was exhausted even then. Now, as the bitter winds sapped what was left of his strength, he began to lose his wits. He continued to place one foot in front of the other, altering course as his wife commanded, but he had lost track of where he was going, or why he was going there. He was, above all else, cold. Cold to his very core. He had stopped shivering hours before; the cold was no longer an enemy, but had simply become a part of him. He knew that to stop walking was to die, but death began to seem an acceptable outcome. A tinge of shame assailed him; his wife led the way, uncomplaining. He should be protecting her, leading her, yet increasingly, it had been she to drag him to his feet when he faltered.

  “Thinny,” he announced finally. “I canna go on.”

  “Yeh can, Oort. Yeh will.” She grasped his hand. “Dawn is near. Yeh stop, yeh die. And I need yeh.”

  Oort knew she had taken his hand, but only because he felt the pull on his shoulder. His fingers had gone numb long before. He staggered, barely keeping his feet.

  “Thinny.” He stopped walking. Thinsel turned to him. “Yeh must go on without me.”

  “Oort Greykin, yeh will not leave me alone! Do yeh hear me!” Thinsel pleaded, her voice marked with desperation.

  Oort nodded, too tired to reply. He took a few more steps, but his legs would carry him no farther. He fell to the cold ground. Thinsel went down with him.

  “Oort, my love. Yeh canna give up. Please. I need yeh.” Her eyes were too dry to form tears, but her chest heaved with sobs.

  “I love yeh, Thinsel Greykin. Yeh be my heart. But I canna go on.”

  A sliver of light breached the horizon.

  “Look, my love. Dawn comes. We need only find shelter. Please, Oort! Do not leave me!”

  Oort had lost consciousness. Thinsel shook him, slapped him, screamed his name, but he did not wake.

  I must warm him, she decided. She looked around; there was nothing. No trees. No grass. Only black and grey rock as far as she could see in the dim light of near-dawn.

  Thinsel climbed atop her husband, wrapping her tiny arms around his frame, rubbing his arms, his face, trying frantically to warm him. As she lay upon him, she heard a faint keening, a sound she did not recognize yet knew to be the cry of predators.

  “Oh, my Oort. I love yeh. I loved yeh all me life.” Despite the dryness of her eyes, her tears began to fall. “Yeh are the best gnome in G’naath. The best father in all o’ Tahr. Yeh be me own hero, Oort Greykin.”

  Oort’s breathing began to slow.

  “If yeh die here, Oort, I die with yeh. Ain’t no life without yeh.”

  Oort did not respond. Thinsel cried, for a time. She was not frightened; she was simply sad. The cold had reached her bones; there was no more physical discomfort. An odd warmth enveloped her as the sun crested the mountain line. Her sobs subsided, replaced by shallow breaths. She managed one last kiss on the lips of her husband, one final declaration before the cold stripped her of cogent thought.

  “Yeh made us a life, Oort. Saved our Shyla. Gave her a good home. I love yeh, Oort Greykin.”

  Thinsel Greykin fell asleep to the howls of winds and wolves.

  XXXI: MOR

  “It’s a risk, Vincent.”

  “So is doing nothing.”

  Gerald shook his head. “What if he tells the wizard?”

  Vincent shifted his eyes, casting a brief glance at the glowing violet stone. “Sartean is going to be a problem either way.”

  “More so if he’s warned.”

  Vincent sighed. “We need James on our side.”

  Gerald refilled his glass. “Vincent, the whole city will hear your confession. They will pass judgment as they see fit. Whether James is on your side is immaterial. You want to speak to James because you think you need his forgiveness.” He offered more wine to Vincent, who declined.

  “Maybe I do. But that’s not the point.”

  “It’s exactly the point. This is bigger than you, Vincent. Bigger than your conscience. Besides, when James learns why you killed his father, what do you think he’s going to do? Bend a knee? Embrace you in forgiveness? Swear fealty and rise up against Sartean? Against the throne? He’s going to name you a liar, and probably try to kill you on the spot.”

  “He hasn’t yet.”

  “Because it’s an old wound! Tear it open, and you’ll do nothing more than awaken an enemy, one who now leads hundreds of drug-addled citizens of Mor.”

  “When he gets word of my confession, that wound will tear open anyway.”

  “Except that by then, it will be too late for him to warn Sartean. You will have already made your play.”

  “So maybe I don’t tell him the whole truth. Maybe leave out the bit about overthrowing the kingdom.”

  “Then why tell him at all?” asked Gerald, agitated. “I thought the whole idea was to gain his support against Sartean!”

  “Dammit, Gerald! Because I owe him that much! I killed his father!”

  “Bah! His father killed himself when he chose to be a rapist.”

  “I can’t do it. It’s cruel. I can’t confess publicly, knowing that James will find out the truth about his father through the vines of gossip.”

  “You’re full of dung, Vincent Thomison.”

  Vincent leveled a hard gaze at his friend. Gerald was unfazed.

  “Full to the rim. Your problem is that you don’t think you’re worthy of the throne until James grants you clemency.”

  Vincent did not reply. He reached for the decanter and refilled his glass.

  “You didn’t cause James’ woes, Vincent. You didn’t set him on his current path. His father did. His mother did, by covering for the bastard. Halsen pardons you, it’s over. You can put it behind you.”

  “Now that’s a load of dung. My pardon is being arranged. It means nothing.”

  Gerald pounded his palms on the table. He rose from his chair. “What do you want? You want the Father to come down in the flesh and tell you you’re a good man? That your spirit is pure as driven snow? You want absolution, Vincent, go find a priest.” Vincent moved to speak, but Gerald held up a hand. “I’m not finished. You listen to me, Vincent Thomison. I know you as well as anyone, and I’ll tell you straight: you’re not a bad man, but neither are you blameless. You killed that man. He had it coming. You did the world a favor, but yes, you’re right. You’ve been right all along. You are
a murderer. Or rather, you were. What are you now? Because we need a king, and a king is nothing if not a killer. And I’m not talking about our late-night excursions. You’re going to send men into battle. You’re going to pronounce judgements, order executions. And you know what? You won’t always be right. You’ll make mistakes. Innocents will die. Their blood will be on your hands. You need to decide, right now, whether you’re strong enough to accept that. Because if you’re not, Mor will pay the price for your weakness.”

  Gerald stormed from the dining room without another word. Vincent made no move to stop him. He’s right, Vincent thought. He’s right and he’s wrong.

  He was right, foremost, about the risk, Vincent knew. Telling James before his confession could devastate their plans. What did he expect? That James would discard his hatred on the spot and forgive him? That would not happen. Men do not forgive easily. And no man would be willing to accept that his long-dead father was a rapist. If he confessed to James personally, the man would do one of three things. Quite possibly, he would try to kill Vincent on the spot. That would end only one way, and Vincent could not bear that outcome. Or he would plot to kill Vincent later, and with hundreds of men and women in his employ, he might just manage to succeed. And certainly, if he told James of his plan to depose Halsen, he would run directly to Sartean. He relied on the wizard for his potions, in any case – he would seek to protect his supply, and would expose Vincent’s scheme without a second thought. No, Gerald was right. He could not secure James’ support. He would gain nothing by telling the truth himself, and stood to lose much.

  But neither could he make his confession publicly and allow James to hear about it later. The notion sickened Vincent. The news would devastate the man, humiliate him, make him a pariah. He would be mocked and despised, shamed as the son of a rapist. James had done nothing to deserve such unjust punishment. To Vincent’s mind, death would be a better fate.

  He could not tell James the truth. Nor could he do nothing. There was but one course of action remaining.

  ~

  The Merchant left Concord on foot after the last bell of the day. Cloaked in black, features hidden beneath a dark cowl, he made his way up Southern Road to Kings Way. The night was darker than most, the Twins obscured behind the enormous, pervasive column of ash pouring from Fang, but the darkness only simplified his task. He could have made the journey blindfolded; decades of practice had ingrained the shadows of the city of Mor in his mind. Sprint between these manors, wait silently within this alcove, listen here for footsteps, scale this wall. In the dark of night, the Merchant could assault any point within Mor, completely undetected, whether the Twins cowered beneath the horizon or blazed brightly at their zenith. Night was the Merchant’s one true companion; together, they ruled Mor.

  Intermittent lightning threw shadows on the ash-covered street as the Merchant turned east, flitting between buildings, down alleys, arriving finally at the Commons an hour after he had begun his prowl. Here the impoverished laborers of Mor kept residence. Dozens of long, squat dormitories lined both sides of Prospect Street, though the name was anything but apt. This was where prospects came to die, where those without name, without wealth, without skill or education could trade days of soul-crushing labor for nights of dubious shelter and an occasional meal. Each dormitory was run by a different labor bloc; this one for the sewage crews, beside it, a dorm for masons. Across the way from where the Merchant crouched stood the largest hall, a residence for general laborers. Within, hundreds would sleep on rickety cots, though a bed was not always assured; only the most senior laborers could claim a cot as their own; the rest were vacated in the mornings and reassigned on a first-come, first-served basis in the evenings. A competitive hierarchy of factions contested nightly for the better cots, the ones farthest from the privies, nearest to the kitchens. Such contests often turned violent, occasionally deadly. No city guards patrolled Prospect Street; if a man or woman died, whether by murder or malady, their body would be covertly discarded; life, such as it was, would go on.

  The Merchant’s quarry would soon arrive, likely alone, while his crews—at least those who had coin to spare—visited the city taverns. If his information was correct, James Thallinson’s crews would have coin, coin supplied by Kehrlia each day along with their ration of Flightfluid. That coin allowed James’ crews to arrive at the Commons whenever they liked, assured of a cot, for Sartean expected long days from his laborers, and it would not do to have his workers sleeping in the streets. For these reasons, the laborer’s dorm was empty at present, reserved exclusively for James Thallinson’s people.

  The Merchant crossed Prospect and scaled an adjacent fence, alighting on the roof of the building and descending the far side into a blocked alley. A single locked door allowed entrance to the rear side of the dorm. The Merchant had never been particularly skilled at lock picking, but a few drops of acid from a vial in his cloak made short work of the aged mechanism. He entered the dark building and quickly found what he believed was the best of the cots in the expansive hall. He slid beneath it and waited.

  His timing proved itself exact; he was rewarded in less than a turn with the sound of an opening door and the light of a candle. He heard a distant and brief conversation, and shortly thereafter, the light of the candle drew near. When the boots of his quarry came within a few paces of the cot, the Merchant silently climbed from beneath it and addressed the man.

  “James Thallinson.”

  James lifted the candle. His hand shook. A man in black, face hidden by a dark cowl, stood before him.

  “Do you know me?”

  James nodded, swallowing. “The Merchant.”

  “I knew your father. I would speak to you about him.”

  James frowned, taken aback. “My father is dead. Long dead.”

  “Yes. And I know who killed him.”

  “Thomison. Everybody knows that.”

  “Yes. But they do not know why. I do.”

  “Because my father bedded his bride! Everybody knows that, too.”

  The Merchant took a breath. “Your father did not bed Anie Thomison. He raped her.”

  “You lie,” James spat.

  “Do I? Have I the reputation of a liar?”

  James did not respond.

  “Have I?” The Merchant pressed.

  “No.”

  “You know what I am. You know what function I serve.”

  James nodded reluctantly. “Justice.”

  “Your father’s sins will soon be exposed. Vincent Thomison intends to confess to the murder at the next court.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re mistaken. My father was a good man.”

  “Nevertheless, I speak the truth, as I know it to be.”

  James voice shook with rage, with pain. “Why are you tellin’ me this, Merchant? Whaddya want from me?”

  “I want nothing. There are those that will hate you for what your father did. You are blameless, and you deserved to be warned.”

  James remained silent for a turn, staring at the dark man. He found his voice. “Fine. Ya warned me. Now go to Fury.”

  “I would warn you of one more thing.”

  “Say it and go!” James’ anger was boiling.

  “The poison you drink is killing you. If you do not stop taking it, you will die.”

  James laughed nervously. “So, you’re twice a fool, then. Anything else, or can ya find your way to Fury from here?”

  The Merchant turned from the distraught man. “I think I know the way.”

  XXXII: THE FARMLANDS

  “He’ll come.” Mila was adamant.

  “He won’t. He’ll summon you back to Kehrlia.” So was Yano.

  “He will not. It would waste ten days, and he’s desperate.”

  “Sartean D’Avers is not desperate. The man is devoid of fear.”

  “No one is devoid of fear,” countered Sienni.

  “Sartean is. What does he fear? An uprising of addicts?”

  “Hal
sen,” Mila said.

  Yano scoffed at the idea. “He could kill Halsen with a thought.”

  “Then why hasn’t he? Why all this?” asked Earl.

  Mila answered. “Because he needs the army. He needs the people of Mor in his pockets. If he simply murdered Halsen, openly or covertly, the throne would be filled by another.”

  “Who?” probed Yano.

  “Certainly not Sartean,” said Mila. “He’s thoroughly despised.”

  Yano shook his head. “And this whole Flightfluid operation was to change that? Doubtful.”

  “Wouldn’t matter at that point,” Earl reasoned. “Once the people of Mor are hooked on the stuff, they’d have no choice but to follow the bastard.”

  Mila nodded. “Exactly. So, he’s desperate. Without phenarril, his plan is sunk, and Halsen will be furious. He may not be able to kill Sartean, but he can strip him of his title and exile him from Kehrlia. And you better believe there are plenty of wizards who’d help send him packing.”

  “Alright. Say he’s desperate,” Sienni allowed. “When does he come?”

  “Soon,” said Mila.

  “How soon? Hours, days, a cycle?” Yano queried.

  “Not a cycle,” Sienni speculated. “Not if he really is desperate.”

  Mila agreed. “I would guess days. He doesn’t travel by horseback, or even by wagon. He prefers teleportation, and it would take a few days to prepare his stones.”

  “What stones?” asked Earl.

  “An emerald and a sapphire. Teleportation stones.”

  Earl frowned, uncomprehending.

  “He needs powerful magic gems to blink himself here, and they take a few days to prepare,” said Yano, impatience undisguised. He turned to Mila. “If you’re right, that solves one problem.”

  “Which?”

  “The question of whether he’ll come alone.”

  “Good point.”

  “Still, how do you know he’ll come at all?” asked Sienni. “He wouldn’t be expecting a shipment quite yet. Who’s to say he’s even concerned?”