Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  The wizard sent a sliver of his consciousness to his attendant. He was pleased to discover that Jarriah was again on duty. A few moments later, a knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter.”

  Jarriah entered the room, looking around. “I… I had thought you were entertaining a guest?” he asked, confused.

  “Guests come and go, Jarriah. I need you to retrieve someone for me.”

  “Of course,” the apprentice replied. “Who?”

  Sartean sat behind his desk, smiling to himself. Perhaps I might slay three birds with one arrow, he thought, satisfied with the tidiness of the idea.

  “James Thallinson.”

  ~

  “It’s near to noon, Vincent. Get up.”

  Vincent grunted. “Go away.”

  Gerald would not. “Four empty decanters. Four. Get up.” The wizard threw open the drapes to Vincent’s bedchamber with a thought. The light from the window was dim, but bright enough to cause discomfort the hungover merchant.

  “Gah! Let a man sleep, you jackass!”

  “Vincent, I will conjure a barrel of cold water and dump it over your bed if you are not in the dining room in five turns.”

  “Piss off, wizard.”

  “Ah, good idea. Cold piss then.” Gerald left the room.

  Vincent pulled the covers over his head briefly, until he decided that the wizard was likely not bluffing. Vincent had struggled in the past with drink, and Gerald had been there. The wine the night before, however, had been necessary, to Vincent’s tortured mind. Confronting James, even in the guise of The Merchant, had proven beyond painful. On returning to Concord, Vincent found himself in a deep melancholy, recalling the dark days surrounding his wife’s passing. He had rationalized the night before that the relapse would be forgivable; the dark memories had reawakened, threatening to drive the merchant mad. He cried, and he drank, and he punched the walls, and he drank, and finally, mercifully, he had crawled to bed as the terrors assaulting his mind gave way to stupor.

  Vincent sat up, his head pounding, his stomach in knots. He could smell himself; the sickly reek of fermentation issued freely from his pores, suffusing the room with the familiar scent of self-loathing. No, he vowed to himself. We’re not doing this again. He stood unsteadily, stripping off his soiled clothing. He walked to his dresser and saw an unhealthy, pale phantom staring back at him in the large mirror. Nope. Not again. He ran a comb quickly through his salt-and-pepper hair and withdrew a clean set of clothing from his wardrobe. Moments later he stood before a seated Gerald in the dining room.

  “Won’t happen again,” he said plainly.

  Gerald beheld his friend. “It can’t, Vincent.”

  Vincent nodded. “I know. Hard night, but I’m past it.”

  “We’ll see. What happened?”

  Vincent sat. “A little help, wizard?”

  Gerald eyed the man. “I should let you suffer.”

  “But you won’t,” Vincent said, hoping.

  Gerald sighed. “No, I won’t. But only because you need your wits today. Here.” Gerald handed a vial to his friend. Vincent drank, choking back a heave as he swallowed the disgusting brown liquid.

  “Ugh. So bloody awful.”

  “No less than you deserve. Better?”

  Vincent nodded. His hangover was gone.

  “You could get rich selling this stuff, Gerald.”

  “You’re already rich, and I steal you blind.”

  “Oh, I know.” The two shared a laugh as Gerald poured his friend a cup of strongly brewed tea.

  “So, what happened?”

  Vincent relayed his encounter with James, omitting the aftermath.

  “Well?” asked Gerald. “Satisfied?”

  Vincent shook his head. “You were right. We gained nothing.”

  “What did you gain?”

  Vincent considered the question, remaining silent for several long moments.

  “Something,” he said. “Not what I had hoped for, but something.”

  Gerald nodded. “Then I suppose that’s enough. Time to put this mess behind you, Vincent. All of it.”

  Vincent was not sure he agreed, but did not argue the matter. “So, now what?”

  “We wait. Plan your words. Gather support. The Merchants are already collecting votes. Seems to be going well, from what I hear.”

  “I worry about security,” Vincent warned. “The more who know what we plan–”

  “That’s been handled. The Merchants all carry stones.” The wizard referred to an imbued set of memory stones; should the Merchants suspect that any of the voting councilors they consulted with would not support Vincent’s ascension, the stones would erase any memory of their conversations.

  “Have they had to use any?” asked Vincent.

  “One. Master Alton. He was quite adamant; he would abstain his vote.”

  “Abstain? Odd.”

  “Kalindra got the impression that he was somehow under threat or duress. Something. Dunno. Yet he swore he would not vote against you.”

  “Hmm,” Vincent said, lacking anything substantial to add.

  “I think you’ll be fine, though, assuming we make it to a conclave. It’s going to be tricky, maneuvering through your trial in the throne room. You’ll have to keep your wits.”

  “I’m not worried about the trial. That’s been handled.” Vincent glanced to the violet stone in its cradle between them. It did not glow. Gerald took the hint and activated the object.

  “Sartean was more than happy to help. The trial should go off without a hitch.”

  “Happy? Sartean D’Avers? Unlikely. That madman doesn’t feel emotions like happiness.”

  “He feigned it well, then.”

  “That’s what worries me. Don’t trust that bastard, Vincent. He’ll burn you into oblivion before you have time to break a sweat.”

  Vincent nodded. “I know. But he needs me right now. I’m useful in his plans for the potion. He’ll go along.”

  Gerald shook his head. “I still think we should just kill the devil.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “True enough,” Gerald agreed.

  “What I’m more worried about is that crystal. What if it doesn’t work?”

  “Well, if it doesn’t work, you’re gonna look like an idiot standing there with a shiny rock in your hand. But that’s about it. Just make sure you don’t pull it out before you’re pardoned, or you’re sunk.”

  “I know. But… what will it do? I mean, how will it actually work?”

  Gerald sighed. “We’ve been over this.”

  “Go over it again. Can’t muck this up, Gerald.”

  The wizard nodded. “I know, you’re right. But it’s simple. You hold out your hand and say, ‘dream.’ That’s it. The stone is keyed to that word, and as soon as you say it, it will unlock the vision.”

  “And everyone will see it? Everyone in the whole room?”

  “Well, not exactly, but close enough. They won’t see it so much as they will experience it. The memory of the event will splash outwards, and instantly, everyone will remember the event as if they had been there to witness it.”

  “But there could be hundreds of people in the palace. What if it misses some? What if–”

  “It won’t, Vincent. It has an area of effect. More than wide enough to cover the throne room. I wouldn’t be surprised if a tenth of Mor takes it in.”

  Vincent marveled. “All that power! How did you make it? Where did the energy come from?”

  Gerald sighed. “Well, in this particular case, it came from a lot of things.”

  Vincent frowned. “I thought you don’t practice that sort of magic anymore, Gerald. You promised.”

  “I know! I’m not proud of it. But it was necessary. No one was harmed, I assure you that much. Just let it go; it’s over and done.”

  “Fine. But if I have to give up drinking wine, you have to give up drinking souls.”

  Gerald rolled his eyes. “I don’t drin
k souls, Vincent.”

  “Close enough. You’re really a twisted bastard, Gerald. Scary, really.”

  “At least I can hold my liquor.”

  “At least I have a soul.”

  “A pickled one.”

  Vincent laughed. “Maybe.”

  XXXVIII: THE GROVE

  “No way. Not gonna happen. I’ll walk.” Boot was insistent.

  “Ye lost, fair and square,” Garlan said.

  “Ah, to Fury with ye. Was luck, is all.”

  “Well, yeah. That’s what flipping a coin is, ye daft old buffoon,” countered Garlan.

  Rocks, Narl and Fannor were laughing hysterically.

  “Ye shoulda picked another game, Boot,” said Rocks.

  “Then we’ll pick another game! How ‘bout we play ‘engineer swings his axe’? Who’s up for a game o’ that?”

  “Ye lost, Boot. Ye’ll ride behind me.”

  “Bah!” Boot stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

  “I suppose I could just let him take me horse,” offered Rocks.

  “Fury ye won’t! Ye won, fair and square,” said Garlan.

  The five had engaged in a series of coin tosses, first to decide who among them would be allowed to ride solo on one of the three horses they were being lent by the elves. Rocks had won the first round, the first to reach five Kings. Boot had tossed five Horses in a row. The next round was to decide who would pair with whom. The first to five Kings would choose his riding companion. Narl won that round, and chose to ride with his brother. The last round would decide who took the reins and who sat behind. Again, Boot had lost against Garlan, one King to Garlan’s five.

  “Ye just want to see ’im suffer, Garlan,” said Narl, still laughing.

  “Aye. Warms me cockles.” Garlan laughed, grinning ear to ear.

  “I be surprised the two of ye would even agree to ride together at all,” Rocks added.

  Garlan glanced at the sergeant. “That be behind us now.”

  Fannor chimed in. “’Cept ye still take pleasure in watchin’ ’im squirm,” he said, smiling.

  Garlan nodded. “Ye can bet a bag.”

  After a few turns Boot returned, red-faced beneath his beard and breathing heavily.

  “Damn elves won’t give us another horse.”

  “We left ’em but two, Boot. Can’t take all their mounts,” said Narl.

  “Boot, ye can take me horse,” said Rocks.

  “Fury he can!” Garlan protested.

  “Ha! See, Garlan? That there be respect for one’s betters. Ye could take a page from Rocks’ book!”

  “Don’t push it, Kelgarr,” said Rocks, only partially in jest.

  “Ah, I mean, thank ye, Rocks. I owe ye one.” Boot bowed dramatically to the sergeant.

  “Fine, but I still get the reins,” said Garlan.

  “We can trade off,” Rocks responded. “I won the first toss, after all.”

  Garlan shook his head. “Fine, I don’t care. Let’s just get goin’, not much daylight left.”

  “Ye got the gear ready?” Boot asked Narl and Fannor.

  “Aye. Two new tents, too. Gift from the Mistress lady.”

  Boot nodded, his expression unpleasant.

  “Still don’t care much for the elves, do ye, Boot?” asked Garlan.

  “It ain’t that. They been kind to us. I just don’t like bein’ indebted.”

  “Well, we are,” said Rocks. “They been more than kind. Three horses, all the food we could want, two tents, and these charms.” Rocks dangled the wooden pendant that hung from a leather strap about his neck.

  “Quite a gift, these,” agreed Narl, touching his own.

  The hand-carved pendants were each fashioned in the shape of a horse, allowing the dwarves to rely on a basic variety of the Bond as they rode. They would not be able to share strength with their mounts, as the elves did, but the charms would allow them to convey their will while riding, making steering and pace control easier by far. The pendants would also allow the dwarves to sense when their mounts were tired, hungry, thirsty, or otherwise stressed.

  “Gives me hope,” added Garlan. “Magic like this, we might just be able to figure out a way to save Belgorne.”

  Boot shook his head. “I be not so sure, Gar. I get the feeling they know more than they let on about what kind o’ shape Belgorne be in.”

  “I get the same feeling,” Rocks agreed.

  Garlan stood. “Nothin’ for it. We ride, we see what happens. One foot in front of the other.”

  Boot agreed. “Naught else we can do. Let’s mount up, dwarves. Fannor, hand me one o’ them saddlebags.”

  The five made their way from the cabin and towards the stables. Garlan pulled at Boot’s sleeve.

  “Ye dodged an arrow, Kelgarr,” the forgemaster whispered, smiling wickedly.

  “Aye? How’s that?”

  “This elf food don’t quite agree with me.”

  Boot sneered. “So that’s why the cabin smelled like rotten eggs. That be disgusting, Garlan.”

  “Aye,” Garlan suppressed a laugh. “Rocks’ll be regrettin’ given ye that horse in short order, I’ll bet a bag.”

  Boot caught up to Garlan, Narl, and Fannor. “I’ll take point!”

  ~

  “Must you leave immediately?” asked Pheonaris. “It is yet many days until the zenith.”

  Barris nodded, completing his inspection of Phantom and initiating the link of the Bond. “I would join my knights, Pheonaris. They should not go to war without my leadership.”

  “Sir Marchion is more than capable.”

  Barris turned to face the Mistress.

  “What troubles you? You know I must go.”

  Pheonaris smiled faintly. “I suppose… I just feel helpless here, in the Grove. Aria has gone, Trellia has gone, now you are leaving… I understand we all have our duties. But I feel wasted sitting at home while the elves of Thornwood all make for distant lands.” Pheonaris paused. “And, I suppose, I will miss you.”

  Barris blushed, but did not respond.

  “Oh, do not look at me so. I know your feelings for our queen. But you and I have shared much.”

  Barris nodded. We have, he thought warmly. The Knight and Mistress had enjoyed one another’s intimacy on occasion throughout the decades. The lives they led were lonely, Pheonaris only ever in the company of initiates, Barris rarely in anyone’s company at all, traveling often as he did. Rare, happy trysts between the two had brought them comfort over the years, but Barris’ heart remained ever unavailable.

  The knight took his friend’s hands in his own and looked into her bright hazel eyes. “Pheonaris, you are one of only two women I have ever cared for, in all my years. You are as beautiful as the morning sun, brilliant in every way.”

  “Yet,” said Pheonaris, allowing the next words to go unspoken.

  Barris took her in his arms, whispering softly. “I cannot help what I feel for Terrias. I have loved her since we were children. But what I feel for you is no less precious to me.”

  Pheonaris stiffened, bravely ending their embrace. “Except that it is, Sir Barris. But I assign you no blame. We love who we love. But promise me something.”

  Barris nodded. “Anything.”

  The elf ran her fingers delicately through Barris’ black hair, walking behind him. She adjusted the tie that bound it and brushed the ash from the light-brown cloak that adorned his strong shoulders. “Promise me you will be safe in Mor, and in the Maw. I could not bear to lose you.”

  “I could not bear to be lost, Pheonaris. Calm your heart, I will be fine. And I will return to you.”

  The Mistress nodded, unsure whether he would remain safe, unsure whether she would want him to return if he did.

  He planted a soft kiss on Pheonaris’ cheek and mounted Phantom. He saw the dwarves approaching, and chose not to linger.

  “Tell the dwarves good-bye for me.”

  “I will.”

  Barris’ cobalt eyes pierced t
he heart of the sullen Pheonaris. “Be well, Mistress of the Grove.”

  “Be well, First Knight.” She turned away.

  Barris allowed himself a final look at the ash-covered Grove. He had never seen a sadder sight, except perhaps the look on Pheonaris’ face a moment before.

  Phantom sensed his companion’s misery and stamped, not impatiently.

  “Very well, great beast. Let us ride.”

  XXXIX: TRAIL TO THE MORLINE

  “It be no use. Can’t do it.”

  Trellia sighed. “Try again, J’arn. You have to want it.”

  “Aye, so ye keep sayin’.”

  Shyla, Aria, and Lucan shared a look. The sweet scent of burning oak filled the air, but the log would not ignite.

  “Except that you don’t want it,” Lucan said, his tone blunt. “You didn’t want to try, and now you don’t want to succeed.”

  “And how can ye know that?”

  Lucan shrugged. “It’s plain, J’arn. You’re afraid.”

  J’arn glared at the man darkly.

  “I am inclined to agree,” Trellia said. “But do not let it trouble you. Magic is foreign to you; I would have been surprised if you succeeded on your first attempt.”

  “Shyla did. Lucan did,” J’arn countered.

  “Ya, but I been practicin’ a bit,” Shyla said.

  “And I find it fascinating,” Lucan added. “You don’t seem to be very enamored with the idea of having magic.”

  J’arn shook his head. “I ain’t.”

  “That is likely the problem,” Aria said gently. “This… this is different magic than what I am used to. It is rooted in will. I do not understand it.”

  The Vicaris nodded. “Do you want to try, Aria?”

  “I do.”

  J’arn stood. “I’ll be off, then. Night.”

  The three sat silent as J’arn retired to his tent.

  “He’s frustrated,” Aria said.