Spawn of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  But no one spoke.

  V: THE MAW

  Jasper could have overtaken the gnome easily; he desperately wished to as the screams of Cindra Sandshingle’s victims echoed through the caverns. The dwarven scout, however, relied on Oort’s superior sense of sight to lead the way through the darkness and back to their companions. Oort ran through the tunnels of G’naath as fast as his legs would carry him, equally frantic to outrun the final cries of fellow gnomes. To that common end, the pair ran in vain.

  They did, at least, reach their companions without being discovered by the residents of G’naath, despite the sounding of the pre-dawn horn. Roughly an hour after they had descended Shyla’s crevice, Oort and Jasper found Jade, Kari, and Ferris unharmed and still waiting. The gnomes of G’naath would be waking, and within mere moments the discovery of the infiltrators would be unavoidable. Upon hearing Oort and Jasper round the corner, Jade signaled to Kari and Ferris that it was time to begin their climb back through the crevice. They obeyed in silence and were followed by the rest; within less than a turn, the five stood again in the blowing snows of the Maw.

  “Roll that rope, Ferris,” ordered Jade. “Jasper, what happened? Where’s Cindra?”

  Jasper shook his head, grateful that dawn had not yet come; he would have been ashamed for Jade to see the terror etched on his features. “Dunno exactly, Sarge. It, uh… I mean, she–”

  “She’s lost to us, fer now,” Oort stated simply. “We found ‘er, we cut ‘er loose, and she went after them Elders. If I were t’ guess, I’d say they ain’t around no more. Ain’t nothin’ more to say.”

  “That so?” Jade directed the question to Jasper.

  “Aye. That about sums it up.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” countered Jade.

  “What about the axe?” asked Kari. “Did she say anything about it?”

  Jasper nodded. “She said don’t lose it, Kari. Says it’s a good axe.”

  “Son of a–”

  “Watch it, Ferris,” warned Jade.

  “Well, dammit! I knew this whole damnable journey was for nothin’! We carry this bleedin’ axe across the bleedin’ Maw, like it be some kind o’ magic talisman, then some cursed, bleedin’ gnome witch–”

  A shoulder tore the wind from Ferris’ lungs as Oort tackled the scout into a drift of snow and ash. Jasper barely managed to pull the enraged gnome from atop the breathless dwarf before the thrown fist landed.

  “Easy, Oort. Easy now, friend.” Jasper held the gnome fast.

  “Yeh ever insult Lady Cindra again, I’ll have yeh, dwarf! Mawbottom, but I’ll have yeh!”

  Jade moved to stand between Oort and Ferris. “Ye’ll have none o’ me scouts, Oort Greykin, but I’ll not let ’em insult yer kin neither.” She turned to Ferris, not offering a hand. “Get yerself up and apologize.”

  Ferris made his way to his feet but said nothing.

  “Ye’ll apologize now, scout.”

  Ferris took a breath. “I won’t neither. No disrespect to ye, mister Oort, nor to ye, Sarge. I meant what I was sayin’. This whole damned thing is for nothin’. I don’t know this Cindra woman. Never met her, don’t care to. All I know is this: Nova’s on her way back to Belgorne, tore up and fevered, and if it weren’t for this damn fool mission to get her Cap’s axe, she wouldn’t be. And it didn’t mean nothin’.”

  “Ye don’t know that, Fer–”

  Kari interrupted. “He’s right, Sarge. This was for me. We all knew it.”

  No one spoke for several long moments.

  “Uncle Lat just wanted me outta Belgorne. I’m sorry, Ferris. Sorry about Nova. Sorry about all of it.”

  “Well, that’s just daft,” said Jasper. “Daft as a headless hen. Ye suppose saving Lady Sandshingle ain’t worth nothin’, Ferris? I saw what they’d been doin’ to that poor woman. And ye say savin’ Kari ain’t worth nothin’?”

  “I didn’t say that, Jas–”

  “Mawbottom ye didn’t!” yelled Oort. “That’s just what yeh said!”

  “Quiet, ye damned fools!” hissed Jade. “Enough! Dawn’s comin’! Ye four wanna be caught up here on the ridge? Ye like the idea o’ bein’ stuck full o’ gnome arrows?” No one replied. “Didn’t think so. Now, Jas, which way? I don’t like the idea of goin’ back the way we came, not just yet. Not with Mama still out there. If she ain’t dead, she’ll be plenty mad.”

  Jasper sighed. “Well, I suppose, ’cept that be the way back to Belgorne.”

  Ferris chimed in. “It ain’t the only way. But it be the only way without crossin’ right out front of G’naath.”

  Oort shook his head. “We canna do that. Not now. By the time the breakfast horn blows, all o’ G’naath is gonna know about them bodies–”

  Kari and Jade replied in unison. “Bodies?”

  “Aye,” said Jasper. “Lots of ’em, if the screams told true.”

  “Well, at least two, and two’s enough,” said Oort. “’Specially considerin’ how we left ’em.”

  “Aye,” agreed Jasper. An awkward quiet took hold; despite the vague and ominous declaration, no one chose to immediately press the issue. The solemnity of Jasper’s tone made clear his distress on the subject.

  Ferris broke the silence. “So, what, we head north? Hole up, then?”

  Jade turned to the east, thinking, watching as the diffuse light of dawn mounted a feeble assault against the cold gloom. “For now. For today, at least.”

  Oort protested. “My Thinsel is east. Not north.”

  “Aye, she is Oort. And if ye wish to see her again, ye’ll need to survive this day. We can’t head south, by your own word. Ain’t no way we make it the long way ’round G’naath westways, not in this weather. We can’t head east, not with–”

  Oort interrupted, his tone again taking on an edge. “We canna head east ‘cause o’ what, one injured wolf?”

  Jade stepped forward, leaning into Oort, all patience spent. “Aye, gnome. One mean injured wolf that damn near killed Kari and sent two of me scouts packin’! We will head east, but when we’re rested, and when I say it be time. I’ll hear no more on it.” She turned to her scouts. “Packs on. Ferris, lead the way. The rest of ye, follow close. We’ll march an hour and make camp; I want us well outta sight o’ any sentries that might come callin’.”

  “Aye, Sarge.” Ferris led the way without further comment, trudging north through the blowing snow and between two copses of pines. Kari and Oort kept to his heels, also in silence. Jasper moved to follow but Jade reached for his elbow, holding him back until the rest were out of earshot.

  “What happened in there, Jas?”

  Jasper shook his head. “Oort and I had to take out a couple o’ guards. But that Cindra woman… she killed a dozen gnomes, Sarge.”

  “Ye saw that? Truly? I thought she was naught but an old woman?”

  “I didn’t see it, but I heard it, and before she did it she… ah, Sarge.” Jasper shuddered. “Ferris be right. Woman’s a witch. Right powerful one. She drained what was left o’ life outta them two gnomes Oort and I took out and… well, I dunno if everything Oort and Thinsel said about them Elders be true, but I can tell ye this much: they ain’t gonna trouble no one no more. If she found ‘em, they be dead.”

  “So, she might yet live, then? Should we not do what we can to get her outta G’naath?”

  Jasper shook his head. “She said for us to make for the Grove. As if Belgorne weren’t even worth considerin’ anymore. Like she knew somethin’ we didn’t.”

  “Like she knew Lat wanted Kari outta harm’s way, ye mean.”

  “Maybe. Maybe somethin’ more.”

  Jade began to follow the trail in the snow left by the others. Jasper matched her stride. “We may be named traitors now, Jas. Ye know that. Deserters, at least.”

  “Aye. Which is the real reason ye ain’t takin’ us east.”

  “No. That ain’t it at all. I ain’t takin’ us east because Lat wanted us outta Belgorne.”

  “When ye p
lan on tellin’ Oort? And Ferris? Neither one of ‘em gonna be too keen on the idea. Ye know how Ferris feels ‘bout Nova.”

  “Ferris’ll do his duty. As for Oort… well, I hate to say it, but–”

  “But he ain’t our problem.”

  Jade shook her head. “I was gonna say, he’ll need to make his own choice.”

  The pair marched through the snow in silence for a turn before Jasper replied.

  “That be the same thing, Sarge.”

  ~

  “Ye all right back there, Lady Thinsel?”

  “Oh, yeah, just dandy. Maybe yeh might wanna just hop up and down a bit more, see if ye can’t split me in half?”

  “Sorry. Oughta get easier when we get outta these hills.”

  “That’s what yeh said yesterday.”

  “Hmph. How ‘bout yeh carry me instead, ye squeaky ol’ wheel?”

  “Yer too fat by far. Might be I could roll yeh though, right down these hills, like a big fat ball o’ dough.”

  Thinsel was far more comfortable riding the dwarf’s wide back than she let on, and Lux knew it. It had become a game, the two bickering periodically to pass the time, but more so to distract Nova. She had managed the previous day’s walk well enough, but her arm had swollen and reddened angrily overnight. Her fever had taken her from an agitated state at breakfast to a weary, disengaged attitude as the morning wore on. Since their noon meal, Nova seemed resigned to a sort of barely-wakeful trudge; no amount of squabbling between Thinsel and Lux could elicit a response from the injured dwarf woman.

  “Hey, Nova,” called Lux. She did not reply.

  “Nova!”

  Nova stopped and turned to face Lux. Sweat dripped freely from her brow despite the falling snow and frigid temperature.

  “I need a rest. Just a bit.”

  Nova was still present enough to recognize the ploy. “We got a bit less than a day’s march ahead, if we keep good pace. Ye do not need a rest yet, Lux. Nor do I.”

  “Well, I do!” said Thinsel. “Ain’t yeh hear me? This big oaf got too much spring in ’is step!”

  Lux untied the strap that held Thinsel in place and let her down from his back. He approached his wounded friend. “Ye could do to take some water, and a few more herbs, Nova. Just a short rest now, a few turns.”

  Nova nodded, too tired to argue.

  Thinsel wobbled in place, nearly losing her balance. “Sheesh, Lux, it still feels like I’m bouncin’ on yer back!”

  Nova and Lux immediately widened their stances, crouching.

  Lux called to the gnome. “Tahrquake! Thinsel, to me!”

  Thinsel hobbled over to Lux; she could barely stand even without the quake, the frostbite in her toes being as severe as it was. Lux reached for her and Nova, pulling them in close; the three grasped tightly to one another as the ground began to heave. A terror rising within the three held them stiff and silent; for Thinsel, what they experienced then was the most violent quake she had ever felt. For Lux and Nova, it was nothing compared to the last, the quake that all but destroyed the underground kingdom of Belgorne – but they had no way of knowing if it would intensify, and the thought of reliving the last quake froze their veins.

  To their relief, it did not worsen. Within a turn the rolling of the land relented.

  “Mawbottom, was that what yeh been feelin’ in Belgorne?” Thinsel asked, breathless.

  Nova ignored the question, turning away to hide the tears of grief the quake had shaken loose from her eyes. She moved a few paces away and busied herself cleaning the snow from a fallen tree. Lux joined her and Thinsel limped to his side. The three took a seat upon the log to rest.

  “Lady Thinsel, that were the least of the three so far,” replied Lux finally. “By a long shot.”

  Thinsel spoke after a long moment. “I canna say how sorry I am.”

  “For?” asked Lux.

  “Fer what my people done to your people. Fer the quakes. All of it.”

  Lux shook his head. “Not your fault, Lady Thinsel. Wasn’t you to cast them spells, or whatever them Elders done.”

  Thinsel did not reply, nor did Nova add her opinion. The three sat in silence, quietly battling their own fears and regrets, facing south into the grey-white Maw basin. Where snow did not cover land and tree, the ash of Fang did; no natural color was to be seen, no greens of shrub nor tree, no browns of dirt nor hide, no violet winter flowers to break up the monotony, no red specks of autumn berries left uneaten.

  A tear rolled from the corner of Nova’s eye. She did not bother to wipe at it; it did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. The world of Tahr was dying. This was not the temporary death of winter that allowed the world to rest and prepare for its colorful annual rebirth. This was no mere pause in the natural progression of life, no tragic but necessary recession as part of a virtuous cycle. This was Death, violent, final, and cruel, and it would soon claim the world. It would not even matter if her people invaded G’naath and claimed the tunnels as their own. Nothing would grow upon the poisoned carpet she saw before her. There would be no game nor greenery come spring. Freeze in the snow, die in battle with the gnomes, or starve in the tunnels of G’naath; one way or the other, she and everyone she knew would soon be gone, and the mighty dwarves of Belgorne would become less than a legend, never having found Stonarris, their very kingdom buried beneath a mountain, never again to see light or be seen. Blackness… final, serene blackness…

  “Nova! Dammit Nova, wake up!” Lux shook and slapped at his friend; she would not wake. Thinsel pinched and prodded as well, to no avail.

  “Nova, wake up! C’mon, ye lazy no-good dwarf! Wake up!”

  “Lux,” said Thinsel. Lux continued worrying over Nova.

  “Lux.”

  Lux turned to face Thinsel.

  “The fever’s takin’ ’er. Yeh gotta get her help. Now.”

  Lux shook his head.

  “I made yer husband a promise, Lady.”

  “Yup. Yeh did. And yeh kept it best yeh could.”

  “No! Dammit, one day’s march, Nova! One more day, and ye’ll be home!”

  “She canna hear yeh, Lux. Yeh have to take ’er.”

  Lux looked to the yellow-haired gnomish woman he had only the day before sworn to protect. He then looked to his dying comrade, his companion in arms for these many years, his fellow scout, his friend.

  “I’ll be fine, Lux, sure as stone.” Thinsel said bravely. “I will.”

  Lux shook his head. “No, Lady Thinsel, if I leave ye, ye’ll die, and we both know it.”

  VI: THE FARMLANDS

  The remnants of the farmhouse lay scattered, the possessions of the Hanse family reduced to a field of splintered debris. Those items which had not been drowned by the waters stored within Sienni’s imbued ruby or boiled into pulp by Sartean’s magical retort were utterly obliterated by the subsequent freezing and shattering of Mila’s own desperate counterspell.

  A pang of regret assailed Mila’s conscience as she recalled how she had taken possession of the small house from the elderly Hanse couple those many cycles ago. Mila had paid a fair price for the house, to be sure; she had distributed the gold of Kehrlia liberally to all the farming folk displaced by the Flightfluid operation. Yet her payments did nothing to stem the tide of curses and tears that issued from the angry and heartbroken families. Worse, the conditions under which those families had subsequently been forced to leave was nothing short of cruelty. Once a farm had been taken, the family would then be given a choice: serve as laborers for the Flightfluid operation or be exiled south to the shores of the Sapphire. None were allowed to relocate to Mor; absolute secrecy was required for the phenarril cultivation campaign, and an exodus of farmers seeking new homesteads in Mor would raise too many questions.

  Some had tried to defy the sorceress, pretending to ride south, turning east towards Mor when they believed they were far enough away to evade detection. Those poor souls who doubted the effectiveness of the Promise spells quickly discovered thei
r error. First came the rashes; terrible patches of itchy skin and blistering boils that would respond to no salve. For those who did not immediately make the connection between the inflammations and the broken Promises, a fever would soon follow, bringing awful bouts of sweating, chills, and eventually dehydration. Most turned back west and south when the fevers struck, but not all. The Hanses, for example, were too old and weak to make the journey to the Sapphire, and they knew it. The newlywed Murrs had kin in Mor they could not bear to abandon. The stubborn Tinnith brothers simply refused to believe they could not outrun the binding magic. Eventually, usually within two days of the initial breaking of a Promise, the final phase of the spell would commence. The scores of suppurating blisters that, by then, would have covered a victim’s flesh would burst, permanently disfiguring the spell’s sufferers, often to the degree that even a close family member would be hard pressed to recognize them. Not that it would matter if they did; the smoldering fevers had an uncanny penchant for targeting the memories of one who had broken a Promise. Those fevers would continue unabated until they had burned away any recollection of where the wretched souls had come from, how they had become ill, or even who they had once been.

  Mila had once rationalized those casualties, much as she had rationalized the deaths of those who became terminally addicted to Flightfluid at her influence; she had been upfront about the dangers, had she not? Now, as she knelt in the cold field where the Hanse farmhouse had once stood, weeping in guilt and frustration, she knew once and for all what she had become. Mila Felsin, Incantor of Kehrlia, truly understood the death and destruction she had caused, and in doing so finally acknowledged the futile irony of it all: in her single-minded obsession to never again allow Sartean D’Avers to destroy a life as her own had been destroyed, she had not merely followed in his murderous footsteps. She had, in all ways, surpassed him.

  A large, calloused hand gently grasped the sorceress’ shoulder. Earl knelt beside her.

  “It’s not over, Mila. We almost got ’im.”