Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  “My lady, I know another thing now.”

  Cindra stilled.

  “I know yeh are me Grandmama.”

  XII: HIGHMORLAND

  Lucan awoke to the meager overcast light, shivering and aching, wincing at the stinging stab of pain in his right side as he gingerly rolled himself upright to a sitting position. The root upon which he had lain his head the night before was covered in dried blood, but he thought with gratitude, at least it was dry. He felt behind his ear at the wound, but his hair was too matted with gore to allow him to evaluate it thoroughly. He could tell, however, that it was hot and swollen, and he would need to wash it soon or risk infection.

  He stood slowly, rubbing his arms in a futile effort to warm himself, and accepted that he would need to get moving, and quickly, if he wanted to stop shivering. He was too nauseated to be hungry still, but found he was quite thirsty, and he considered walking along the road back towards the Morline briefly, then quickly dismissed the notion.

  Won’t be going back south anytime soon, Luc, that’s for certain. His options were limited. North lay the elven Wood, safe yet far from civilization, and making the trek all the way to Thornwood without a mount was out of the question. The elves would likely not turn him away, but nor would they wish him to stay overlong in any case, and the walk would take the remainder of autumn and much of the winter besides. To the East, the Maw, completely out of the question. A day’s ride or so to the west of his position lie the farmlands of Mor, and he felt his best chance might be to take on work as a farmhand in some dale, but the thought of slinging horse manure and sleeping in a barn was more than offensive.

  Where exactly to you plan on sleeping otherwise, smarty? He asked himself. He looked at the forest surrounding him, trying to discern any sign that might help him find his directional bearings, and felt his thirst deepening. First things first, then. Water. No sooner did he have the thought then did a crack of thunder resonate around him. Well, that little problem might just take care of itself, he thought, and at nearly the same moment he heard the whinny of a horse not far to his right.

  He swiveled his head at the noise, then instinctively stilled himself. Through a thicket of trees he could barely make out the swinging tail of a horse. How about that, he thought, certain that this was his mount from the previous night’s frantic ride. He made his way slowly, careful to avoid sticks on his path but to no avail, for he could see the horse start at his approach. The mount remained in place, however, and he neared within a few paces of the animal.

  “Easy now, friend, easy…” a report of thunder made him cringe, as the horse reared in protest, but remained upon the spot.

  “It’s alright now,” he began his approach again cautiously, humming softly to soothe the spooked mount, his left arm out, back bowed, taking first note of the gender of the animal, his fingers now brushing the reins…

  Ha! Lucan thought to himself, grasping the reins, and as he did, the horse shied away from him, suddenly uncertain of his intent.

  “Shh, shh, easy girl, it’s alright, shh…” He reached up to stroke the horse’s neck, and over the course of a few moments, the chestnut mare began to settle and accept Lucan as its companion, for the moment at least.

  Lucan knew that he needed to climb the mount now, before the next stroke of lightning sent her racing into the forest. He grasped the horn of the saddle painfully, his rib insistent that he not do so, yet he stepped into the stirrup and somehow threw his leg over without passing out from the agony.

  He swore upon and against the whole of Tahr then, trying to combat the pain with vulgarity, or at least offend it, failing miserably. Son of a whore, but this is unbearable! Yet bear it he did, and he turned the mare around, facing what he believed to be the direction of the northern Road.

  His instincts were correct, and he and the mare reached the trail, for beyond the Mor it was no longer much of a road, just as the first of the rains began to fall. Lucan considered his choices then. North or south?

  He could not recall passing a trail leading to the western farmlands since passing the Morline Way just this side of the river, and he had no intentions of heading that far south if he could help it. He was certain, or at least terrified, that his pursuers would be out in earnest again this day, and it was just his luck that he would pass them on the road. Lucan had not been this far north, however, and did not know how long it would be before a western route became available.

  “Well, I believe we’ll choose the devil we don’t know this time, my great friend,” he said, turning the mare to the north. The rain was falling heavily now, and he knew that it would be rough going this day, if his analysis of the black skies was correct, but he did not consider finding a place to wait out the storm, for now he had cause for hope that he may get far enough ahead of his enemies to survive the day.

  They ambled on for some time, and Lucan reached for the saddlebag on the mare’s left flank. He had hoped it would contain something useful, perhaps even food, but he had been afraid to look before now, fearing disappointment. His growing hunger finally took hold, however, and to his utter joy, his fingers recognized the shape and texture of dried meat, and he held a slice before him, letting the rain moisten it a bit before he devoured it. Oh, but that’s good, he thought, and considered reaching for another piece, but knew that it may be some time before he would find another source of food. He felt around then in the bag on the right of the horse, this one containing a skin, among other objects he could not immediately recognize. He found the strap, and hoisted it out of the bag, discovering that it was nearly full, and stained purple at the mouthpiece. Wine! He opened the spout and took a long swallow, and his mouth tingled with the sweet flavor of fermented green grapes, oranges, and some other berries he did not recognize.

  “Damn. Good stuff,” he said aloud, and good it was, better than he had ever had occasion to sample, certainly. Perhaps my luck changes, he thought to himself, the notion immediately followed by the reminder that he was without coin, roof, nor even clear direction. He sighed in resignation, taking another drink of the fine wine. I’ll take what I can get.

  The soggy day wore on, the rain mercifully halting just past noon, and Lucan became aware that his mount was beginning to act a bit disorderly, clearly filled with her own thirst and hunger. “Alright then, friend, let us find you a place to drink, and perhaps there are some oats in one of these bags…”

  They continued for another hour, the sun beginning to shine again, and Lucan caught the sound of a nearby brook. He did not need to direct the mare, for she was already pulling at the reins to the left. They left the trail at a muddy crossing, and Lucan worked up the courage to dismount, knowing that it would renew the pangs of agony in his side.

  It did, and the young man fell to his knees as he slid from the saddle.

  The mare continued without him to the creek a dozen paces ahead, and Lucan rose from his crouch slowly, the pain worse than it had been the entire day. His vision began to narrow, yet he fought against the dizziness that had tried to overtake him, knowing that at the very least, he would need to tie the mare up before he allowed himself to collapse. He made his way clumsily down to the waterline, and searched the saddlebags for something for the horse to eat. He found three small apples and, to his joy, a spare empty skin. He eyed the apples greedily, but knew that he would not make it far without the horse, and fed them each to her when she finished her drink. The horse nuzzled against Lucan then, perhaps in gratitude, perhaps to coax more apples from the young man, but shied away fearfully when her nostrils neared the wound on his ear.

  “It’s alright girl, here now, I’ll wash it.” He leaned down into the trickling stream, dunking his head as best he could, washing the dried blood from his scalp. It stung deeply, but not nearly as bad as his rib as he bent low. Satisfied that he had washed the wound as best he could, he drank as much as he was able from the brook and filled the waterskin. The cool rinse had refreshed him somewhat; he felt a bit more human with
out the globs of dried blood in his long golden hair.

  A thorough inventory confirmed that he was not suddenly a wealthy man, unwittingly carrying a bag of jewels and coins. What he found, however, was somewhat encouraging: enough food to last at least another day, two if he rationed it. Along with more of the dried meat, he found a wax-wrapped wedge of goat cheese, still fresh, and a small loaf of bread to go with it. The merchant was on his way somewhere, he reasoned, wishing wholeheartedly that the man’s intended destination would take him south, not north. There was nothing more for the horse to eat, however, so he knew he would have to find somewhere for her to graze no later than the next day, for the healthy mare was clearly used to eating regularly. A blanket was also packed neatly within the bags, sized for a horse, as well as a fine violet cotton mantle. Lucan examined the cloak, and saw that it was embroidered with a large “T” upon one breast. Well, that won’t do, lamented Lucan, for wearing the Thomison family emblem would certainly not earn him any friends. To his dismay, he found no flint nor tinderbox, and began worrying about how he would light a fire that night. He sat to eat some cheese and bread and considered the problem, pausing to admire the fine mare that had brought him here.

  “What shall I call you, horse?” Lucan asked, through a mouthful of bread. She ignored him, sniffing a plant. Lucan chewed and mentally listed off a series of horse names he had come across, and it came to him. “Ah of course, none other would do. I shall name you Hope, for that is truly what you are to me, my hope to live another day. How does that strike you?” The horse raised its head and eyed Lucan, suddenly disinterested in its meager leafy meal. Hope snorted loudly, stamped one hoof, and then returned to her snack.

  If I didn’t know any better, I would swear that silly horse just answered me, Lucan thought, smiling despite the absurdity.

  ---

  A few miles ahead down the path from where Lucan and Hope rested, Sir Barris of Thornwood and Phantom were taking it slowly. Phantom had finally gained a bit of rest the night before, the Highmorland air refreshing his spirit, though Barris knew that it would not be until they reached the Grove that Phantom could truly be renewed. The Grove served as the first significant landmark that indicated one had passed from Mor territory into Thornwood, and was still five days ride ahead at a normal pace, three for Phantom in his current state, and two, or even less, were a murderous tempo required. Fortunately such a pace was not necessary, for he was not in a hurry to bring the news of his audience with Halsen to his queen. She was present there in his mind at the parley, and had heard all that he had heard. His task was not to deliver news, but to receive it, and report back to Mor. Part of him had hoped that Terrias Evanti would send a messenger to meet him, saving him and Phantom much of the ride, but a greater part of him hoped otherwise, so that he could see his beloved queen again sooner, if only for a day or two.

  Fool, Barris chided himself. You must not entertain such notions. Yet he could not help himself, for Barris, First Knight of Thornwood was hopelessly in love with his queen. Hopeless, for he did not sense his emotions reciprocated, and nor could he be the first to engage the queen romantically, for to do so unsuccessfully would result in a necessary resignation of his position. Queen Evanti would never ask it of him, nor would she willingly accept it if he were to resign, Barris knew. Yet he could not continue to remain in service at her side, day in, day out, living with the knowledge that she did not love him, knowing that she had left him unrequited after he had lain his heart bare.

  Is it not nearly the same now, nearly as unbearable? Barris asked himself, the circular argument beginning in his heart again, but as always he came to the same conclusion. No, it is not the same. I need not possess Lady Terrias to love her. To serve her is enough, and should I not remain silent, I may forgo even that honor. The possibility of that was beyond unacceptable to Barris, so silent he remained, and would, unless the unlikely day came that the queen approached him with love in her eyes.

  Barris had fantasized about that day a thousand, thousand times, and doing so did not sadden him, but brought a warmth to his heart. Elven lives were long, and many a romance had sprung between two elves well into their second century of life. Barris was barely a century and a half old, Terrias Evanti born not three seasons past the day of his own birth. An elf of Thornwood could bear children as late as two and a half centuries into their lives, and so Barris took heart, knowing that Order would guide their lives as the First Father permitted, and to give in to despair before its time was to choose to disregard the joys present in the here and now.

  Phantom brought Barris out of his daydream, tossing his head in eagerness for the knight to pick up the pace now that the rains had ended. “Impatient to reach the Grove, my friend? I can appreciate your enthusiasm, but we must take it slow, today at least, for you are not as invincible as you would pretend.” Phantom whinnied in response, Barris sensing the great stallion’s offense.

  “Just today, friend, and I will give you your head tomorrow, once the ground has dried a bit.” Barris looked up at the skies, clearing now, and took note that the wind had turned southerly, warming the air more quickly than he would have expected after the brief storm. “The Father favors us Phantom. With luck we may not suffer a freeze until after we have started our journey home from Mor.” Barris knew this was possible, but not likely, for the Reapmoons had set during his ride to Mor, signaling the waning of autumn and the coming of winter. But, a southern breeze this time of year could do much to lengthen the season, and to whatever degree that might be true, Barris was pleased.

  They continued at a lazy pace and made camp early that evening on a grassy bed they had camped at many times before, surrounded by a thin copse of trees, before dusk had set. Phantom was grazing, or should have been, as Barris was cooking water for tea when the horse stamped anxiously. Barris had not heard anything to give reason for the steed to be so alarmed, but trusted his companion’s superior senses. He stood and walked back to the trail, facing south as Phantom had been, listening intently.

  Hearing nothing, Barris was about to dismiss the horse’s behavior as a false alarm, when he glimpsed what he thought was movement far back along the trail, though even with his acute elven vision, the day’s light was nearly gone, and he could not be sure. Closing his eyes and centering himself, Barris attempted the ranger’s trick he had learned from Nishali years ago, listening not with his ears, but with his bones. He was never particularly good at it, his innate abilities more attuned to horsemanship and weaponry, but he felt as if he could almost sense a presence…Two perhaps? Beast and man? He continued to listen, with bones and ears alike, and could not make out more detail.

  He returned to his camp and began his ritual of protective enchantment nonetheless, for even if only one or two approached, if their designs were malevolent, he would prefer to avoid conflict if possible. He would scout back along the trail after his meal, and determine if it were best for he and Phantom to break camp and continue, or remain and rest.

  ---

  “Shh, easy Hope, we’ll not want to alert anyone.”

  Lucan had noted the smoke rising up ahead, and now as it darkened, he could see the glow of the campfire. Hope was clearly uneasy about something, and that was all the warning Lucan needed, for he was not expecting to make friends along this trail.

  It could very easily be your pursuers, Luc, he thought. He believed it unlikely, for they would have had to pass him either at morning’s light or when he and Hope had rested for their noon meal, but it would not hurt to be overly cautious.

  He climbed from the saddle, wincing with agony as he did, but he had managed to discover a method of dismounting that at least left him able to draw breath. He led Hope into the wood on the left side of the trail opposite that of the campsite ahead, silently pleading with the mare to tread as softly and quietly as she could. It seemed that the horse was familiar with the game, for she stepped gracefully and gently through the leaves and deadwood at his side until they found a suitab
le patch of grassy ground upon which to camp.

  Not exactly camping, thought Lucan. No tent, no fire…he forced himself to see the positive as he ate a bit more cheese and bread, and drank a bit more wine. He brought Thomison’s cloak from the saddlebag, and covered Hope with the blanket. His stomach no longer growled, there was a bit of grass for Hope to graze on, he had fine wine still to drink…it could be much worse, he decided.

  As the light of the day finally faded to black, Lucan lay snoring upon the still damp ground, and neither he nor the sleeping Hope took notice of the elf that had approached from the north, watching.

  XIII: G’NAATH

  “Mama, Papa, come in, hurry!” said Shyla, opening Cindra’s secret door upon Oort and Thinsel who were standing in the center of the tunnel, nearly startling her parents out of their shoes.

  Shyla took their hands and pulled them into the small room, Cindra closing the door behind the three.

  “Hello, dear Thinsel. It has been so, so long.” The smiling Cindra reached over to embrace the uncertain gnomish woman, and pulled her in despite her stiffened demeanor, whispering gently into her ear: “Do not be angry with me, child, it was necessary to keep my distance.”

  Thinsel replied at normal volume. “I be not angry yet with yeh Lady, but yeh’ll have some explaining to do, sure as stone.”

  “Of course. Please, all of you, let’s sit. Tea?”

  Oort began to nod as he took a seat, and a glance from Thinsel changed his mind. “Not fer us, Lady. Maybe Shyla.” He regarded his daughter, who was already pouring herself a cup. Oort looked around the room, confused, failing to see how the tea could have possibly been heated…there was no fire…

  Cindra sat at the table on Shyla’s left, who had settled across from her mother and father. Her little wrinkled fingers caressed the rim of her teacup as she looked up at Thinsel.