Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  Sartean pulled himself from his musings, and looked down to the base of the keep…to see a young woman curled up in a cloak, sleeping on the steps of the entrance to Kehrlia. With a thought, he stood beside her.

  “Good morning, Mila.”

  Mila opened her eyes and smiled at Sartean, stretching slowly and tossing off her cloak. “Well good morning, Master D’avers.” She stood to face him. “Pardon me please for not rising immediately, it has been a difficult–”

  “I see you are alone,” Sartean interrupted.

  Mila stood and bowed her head convincingly. “I am sorry to say, Master, that dear Kynneth may not make it back in time for dawn.”

  “Tragic, I’m sure. How?”

  “How, Master?” she asked innocently.

  “How did you do it girl? Spare no detail.”

  “Certainly, Master. As you saw, when we departed on our journey, Kynneth and I took a potion…”

  Mila wove a tale of how she had, over the course of the past two years, managed to discover a manner to combine Speedsap with a variation of a common sleeping potion, in just the right proportions to predictably stabilize the volatile concoction. She had tested it over time, initially in small doses on herself, then eventually shared it with Kynneth, who for all practical purposes, had acted as a voluntary human laboratory for her experimental potions. How he had been persuaded to volunteer was not discussed, but the implication was clear. He was not privy to her recipes, only allowed to enjoy the benefits of the alchemical formulae she created. Mila claimed she had been preparing for this contest, a rumored event among senior apprentices, since she had first been accepted into training and learned of the challenge. Gaining access to highly secret information about the fourth year challenges was “not overly difficult,” as she delicately put it.

  “I do not care how expertly you altered the Speedsap potion, Miss Felsin. Stabilizing it sufficiently to complete this task is not possible, for like all potions, it is limited by the strength of the user, and the energies required to travel such distances are beyond the capabilities of mortal man. There is much you are not telling me.”

  “You are wise, Master D’avers, and correct as to the science. However, with the right combinations of rest and exertion, it is possible for one person to cover the distances required.”

  “Except that one cannot rest enough to complete the task, and still meet the prescribed deadline. You must be moving at all speed, at all times, to even have a chance.”

  “Also true, Master. However, if one spent a portion of that travel time resting…”

  Sartean stared at the young woman, losing patience. “Enough, Mila. Tell me how you did it.”

  “It was simple, Master. After reaching our first objective – the Book of Silence you had hidden near the Morline – I had, ah, suffered a minor twist of my ankle, and had persuaded Kynneth to carry me on his back to the second objective–”

  Sartean interrupted her. “There is no way I will believe that you could have convinced that young man to carry you thirty miles on his back, potion or no. He would have known the risks to his health. More to the point, Kynneth is nearly as ruthless as you, and he is certainly intelligent enough to know that your plan required an exertion of energies much too great to succeed in the first place.”

  “Convince him I did, Master, and it did not even require the use of my, ah, most special talents. A simple alteration to the Flightfluid left him quite eager to be of assistance.”

  “Flight…fluid?”

  “Yes, that is my name for it. Clever, is it not?”

  “Hardly. So, this...alteration…there is no such thing as a mind control potion, Mila. And any concoction that would make him so mentally pliable would also make him too physically weak to carry you.”

  “Yes, Master. But a love potion would not.”

  “Foolishness. A love tonic must be given continuously over the course of many seasons, and it cannot in any case create love, only enhance…”

  Mila smiled mischievously.

  Sartean’s eyebrows narrowed skeptically. “So, you would have me believe that you have been courting the infatuation of this man for three years, and perfecting the Speedsap potion–”

  “Flightfluid, Master,” Mila corrected cheerfully.

  Sartean sighed. “Flightfluid then. In any case, you would have me believe that this little plot of yours has been in the works…for years?”

  Mila straightened, and leaned in closer to Sartean.

  “I very much wish to be an Incantor, Master.”

  Sartean narrowed his eyes at the young apprentice. “Your tale has gaps, Miss Felsin.”

  “Oh?” she asked, her tone innocent.

  “Yes. Why not simply return back directly to Kehrlia once you had obtained the Book? Why the charade of seeking the ring that Kynneth was tasked to find, when you knew his strength would never persist long enough?”

  “Oh, Master! I am not entirely wicked! Here, I have brought the Sight Ring as well. I had hoped that once you had seen the industriousness of our efforts, especially since no student team has ever successfully returned both items, you would declare our tasks complete, and allow dear Kynneth to advance. I promised him I would do my very best to persuade you.” Mila beamed at Sartean expectantly.

  Sartean laughed at this. “Child, you are a fool. You know very well that I do not grant exceptions. Ever.”

  Mila Felsin leveled her gaze at the Master of Kehrlia, all impishness and innocence vanished in an instant.

  “Pity.”

  ---

  So it was that Sartean discovered the manner in which he would usurp the throne of Mor. A guarantee of graduation to Incantor, given to Mila Felsin, ensured her cooperation in further development of the Flightfluid, with particular attention to certain properties. First, the rarest of ingredients must somehow be synthesized, or the manufacture of vast quantities of the substance would be impossible. Second, the potency must be further refined to a fully predictable and reliable measure, though Mila’s efforts had nearly solved that difficulty already. Third, one of the more undesirable effects of the potion, its addictive nature, must be addressed.

  Mila was shocked – at first – to learn that Master D’avers did not wish to eliminate the addictive properties of the drug.

  No, not eliminate. Sartean wished to enhance them.

  XVI: HIGHMORLAND

  Barris stood silently within the darkened forest watching the young man slumbering upon the damp ground, loosely wrapped in a cloak. Black as the moonless night was, Barris’s vision was extraordinary, and he could clearly make out the details of the man’s campsite, or lack of campsite, as it were. No fire, no tent, two small saddlebags, no weapons beyond a small dagger. This was the thief from the night before, he was certain, and he had somehow narrowly escaped capture by his three pursuers. Barris was not one to suffer thieves, but nor could he afford to take the time necessary to question the man and bring him to justice.

  You do not know that he is a thief Barris, the elf knight thought to himself. More than once he had found himself pursued unjustly by men, and he did not have the necessary evidence here to shape an informed opinion. Satisfied that the traveler was no threat to Barris, thief or otherwise, he quietly made his way back north to his own camp.

  The two travelers slept in their respective camps, and Lucan awoke just before dawn, shivering. He assessed himself quickly, and decided that his chill was not simply due to the conditions; the morning was mild enough that sleeping without a tent should not have been so unpleasant.

  “Damn it all to Fury,” Lucan cursed to no one in particular as he rose, aware now that he was certainly suffering from an infection. He felt beneath his scalp at the wound behind his ear, noting that the swelling had subsided somewhat, and the warmth had faded. The cut felt dry; he could not feel nor smell any discharge, which meant that he had either come down with the world’s most untimely cold, or the injury to his rib was more serious that he had feared.

&nb
sp; Got to get moving, he told himself. He was much too stiff, and it was much too early, and all he wanted to do was climb back beneath his cloak and sleep away whatever sickness he was experiencing, but he knew better. There was no guarantee that his hunters were not still looking for him, and if he was in fact internally injured, he would need to find help, and soon. He fastened the mantle around his neck and approached Hope, who was alert and had already grazed bare the patch of ground near where she had been tethered. Lucan himself did not feel hungry, but knew that he must force himself to eat something if he was to maintain his strength. The notion did not last long, however, as he soon discovered that he could not hold down the dried meat he attempted to eat for breakfast.

  After a brief bout of retching that left him breathless with pain, he abandoned the idea, deciding that the best he could do was mount up and ride on. He gathered up his meager supplies, saddled Hope, and led her to the brook for a drink.

  “I surely cannot thank you enough, Hope,” he spoke through gritted teeth to the mare as she drank her fill. “I’d be a goner already if it wasn’t for you. I’m gonna need you a bit more though, friend. I’m not feeling so great today.” He waited in painful silence as the horse finished watering herself, and cautiously began to climb into the saddle. It took more than a few tries; his rib protested fiercely, but Hope was tolerant of his clumsiness, and eventually he made his way atop the horse, just as the sun had fully crested the horizon.

  Each stride Hope took was agonizing; Lucan felt as if his insides were shattered, being shaken like a cup of dice. Still, after a few miles he managed to again find a way to sit the saddle that was not so punishing, though a ride at more than a trot was out of the question. He drank his water, ate tiny amounts of bread, and looked desperately for a path leading west, so that he might find his way to the farmlands. Midday had come and gone when he began to feel himself lose consciousness for the first time, yet he was unsure still if he had just dozed off for a bit, or if in fact he was becoming more ill.

  It was then that he first saw what appeared to be a fork in the path up ahead. He resisted the instinct to urge Hope into a more hurried pace, but allowed himself to feel optimistic. As he approached the fork, however, his mood diminished, as the two paths seemed to both veer off at merely slight angles to the road behind him, both roughly still heading north, at least by his estimation. The one on the right had clearly been taken by a rider recently, but as he had determined earlier in the day, his trio of pursuers had most certainly not come this far north, not yet. He had at least that much to be thankful for.

  A decision then. By his calculation, he had come too far north for there to be a simple western route leading to the farmlands. If he were to take the path to the left, there was no guarantee that he would find a trail back southwest. It was clear, however, that the path bearing northwest had been untraveled in some time, at least since before the recent rains, and perhaps longer still. It was entirely possible that the path would taper and disappear into the dense forests, where he could not hope to find help, let alone keep his bearings.

  The northeastern path would certainly not bring him any closer to the farmlands, but it was possible that he would encounter the rider who had passed that way today. That was an idea with both threat and promise, as he could not know the nature of that rider, his destination, nor his disposition. At least there is a destination that way, thought Lucan, for the rider before him must have been heading somewhere.

  A closer look at the tracks leading up the northeastern path left Lucan discouraged, however, as he could tell that the length of the horse’s stride was much longer than his own tracks, leaving Lucan to reason that the rider had come this way at a gallop, or at least a considerably higher rate of speed than his own.

  “Ah, don’t be downhearted, Luc,” he said aloud. “At least you figured that much out. Look at you, never tracked a thing in your life, and you’re already calculating the traveling speed of a rider long gone. Hah!” I’m talking to myself. That can’t be good, he thought. Nah, you always talk to yourself Luc, you’re great company! Lucan laughed at himself then, and decided quickly that he would be better off taking the northwestern path. His original plan had been to make for the farmlands, why change it now?

  Lucan began to urge Hope to the left, but she was having none of it. “Hey girl, come on, we’re gonna find you some food and a nice place to rest.” He gently kicked at her flank and pulled at the reins, but the mare wouldn’t budge.

  “Now listen here Hope, we can’t stay here arguing about this all day–whoa!” Hope reared slightly, took the bit in her teeth, and began to trot up the path leading northeast; there was no amount of coaxing Lucan could do to stop her. Finally, after they had gone about half a mile, he finally gave up the argument. “OK horse, you better know what you’re doing.” Hope whinnied in response. I swear this damned beast understands me, he thought for the second time.

  Hope continued on, and Lucan fought to stay alert. It was a comfortable afternoon, yet his shivering had returned, and he was certain now that he had developed a high fever. The more they rode, the more he shivered, his pain and nausea increasing. He felt his strength leaving his body with each mile that passed, yet he would not leave the saddle, for he was certain that if he did, he would not be able to mount up again. Dusk drew near, and Lucan began to lose all sense of time and direction, only distantly aware that he was riding a horse, until suddenly, Hope stopped in the middle of the trail.

  “Oh, come on girl, we can’t stop here…” Lucan objected weakly, but Hope just stamped and snorted, having gone as far as she was willing this day. Lucan sat there in the saddle for a long while, wishing he were somewhere else, wishing he was someone else, feeling utterly alone and terrified. He knew that if he dismounted Hope, and she took it to her mind to abandon him, he did not have the strength to stop her.

  It’s not much better than you deserve, Luc, he thought to himself ashamedly. It’s not like you’re some great boon to the world anyhow. Resignedly, he decided that if Hope wanted to go, she had earned the right, and so be it. He had the presence of mind to first untie the saddlebags, then dropped from the saddle like a sack of beans, crumpling on the trail in agony, and began to sob, not altogether from the pain.

  The light of day was just beginning to fade as Lucan lost consciousness.

  ---

  After a hard ride for a half day, less than a mile after passing Widow’s Fork, Barris had noticed Phantom start in midstride and begin flagging a bit, quite unlike the great stallion. Many a rider would not have noticed the stress the horse had been experiencing, but Barris was no typical rider, and Phantom was no typical horse. They had shared more miles together than perhaps any rider and horse alive, and Barris had always been possessed of an acute connection with all animals, foremost among them his great friend Phantom. He eased the pace, brought Phantom down to a walk, and eventually dismounted, speaking gently to his companion.

  “You are not yourself today, Phantom. Are you yet weary from our ride south?” He walked around the animal, inspecting him from hoof to mane. “No, not that. You are far too strong.” He continued his inspection, and finally saw what he believed to be the cause of his friend’s distress. An insect of some sort had stung the horse, on the inside of the hock of his right hindleg, and the bite had begun to swell. “Ah, that must pain you so! What foul creature dare sink its stinger into you, mighty beast?” Barris continued to speak to his friend, the encouraging tone of his voice more important than the words, he knew. On closer inspection, it appeared that it was not a stinger that had pierced the great horse’s flesh, but rather the fangs of a large spider, or perhaps a small snake. A spider seemed more likely, and preferable, for as a general rule, the smaller the snake, the deadlier the poison, whereas larger spiders could pack a punch, but their venom was rarely lethal.

  “Let us get off the road, friend, and I will make you a poultice. We’ll rest the remainder of the day, and I’ll have you back to yourself in
no time.” He led Phantom off the path, then stood listening carefully, with his ears and his bones, for sources of water, quickly locating a small brook. Slowly they made their way through the foliage, and as Phantom drank, Barris went off in search of the plants he would need to lessen his friend’s discomfort.

  The search took most of the afternoon, and by the time Barris had returned, Phantom’s wound had swelled considerably, though it was apparent that it the venom was not sufficiently strong to cause the stallion more than discomfort. “There now, friend. Just a few moments, and we’ll have you on the road to recovery.” Barris lit a small fire and boiled the roots and leaves of the plants he had found, then carefully laid them upon a stone to grind them into a poultice. Tearing off a piece of Phantom’s blanket, he prepared a bandage, and moved to massage the poultice into the injured leg.

  Barris began softly chanting as he worked the mixture into his companion’s flesh. “Fah ni yef Da, tah Nü herra ni.” As we serve you Father, so you heal us. Much like the incantation he used to protect his camp, Barris had no doubt in the effectiveness of the prayer, nor the poultice. While the medicine alone would heal the wound in a matter of days, Barris knew that the power inherent in his prayer would hasten the healing, and by morning, there would be little if any trace remaining of the bite, nor its venom. Unlike the prayer of protection, however, the power of this spell would not come as a gift from the First Father, but from Barris’ own life energies. No less a gift, though, thought Barris, as he marveled, not for the first time, at the grace his people had been given to be able to accomplish such things. Barris was not simple, by any means, and he knew where the limits of science ended and divinely granted power began. Perhaps this is merely science of another sort, thought Barris, but he did not doubt that it was a science rooted in faith and devotion, for among the elves, the degree of each had always determined the power of such things.