by Sean Hinn
Mila shook her head in response, too weary to explain what she was feeling.
“Damned close!” Yano agreed. “Blasted luck, that group showing up like it did. You were… well, we were brilliant!”
Sienni nodded. “I have to be honest, Mila. I thought this was a fool’s errand from the start. But I felt so terrible about what we’ve done here… I had to try. Earl and Yano are right. We very nearly defeated him, once and for all, and next time–”
“There will be no next time,” said Mila.
“Say again?” said Earl.
Mila wiped the tears from her face and stood, facing the three. “I said there will be no next time. Not for you.”
The three exchanged looks.
“Ah, Mila I know you’re disappointed that we didn’t succeed, but–”
“Disappointed, Yano? Is that what you suppose I’m feeling right now, disappointment? You know nothing! You… you wretched old man, Incantor under that bastard Sartean for decades, only now deciding you have the stones to stand up to him! And why now? Because a shapely little girl decided to do so first? What happened, did I shame you, little man? Or perhaps you thought you might just impress me with your bravery-come-lately, maybe earn yourself a look under my dress?”
Sienni came to his defense. “Mila, Yano isn’t like that, you–”
“Oh, isn’t he? So, he’s the one man in Tahr who isn’t driven by lust and evil? Please. And look at you. Poor little novice, suddenly growing a conscience. One doesn’t graduate as an Incantor without being a hateful, conniving little witch, Sienni. Stop pretending you’re some noble little idealist, innocently swept up in the machinations of Kehrlia. You’ve known for years what that vile tower is!”
“Mila!” scolded Earl. “These people just risked their lives to help you! What in Tahr is wrong with–”
“Do not defend these people, Earl. You have no idea what they are. I do.” The sorceress’ green eyes brimmed with tears of rage and regret. “And I know what I am. Worse than the rest. Worst of them all. I want you to leave. All of you. Leave me.”
“You can’t beat him alone, Mila–”
“And what would you know of it, wagon loader? Do not presume to explain to me the business of magic!”
“Mila, I only meant–”
“It does not matter what you mean, Earl. You are out of your element. All of you are. I have told you to leave me. Go where you will, do what you like, but go now.”
Earl reached out a hand. “Mila–”
The sorceress waved a dismissive hand at Earl. A gust of power shoved him backwards into Yano and Sienni. The three staggered but kept their feet as a threatening, emerald glow began to emanate from Mila’s watery eyes.
The wagon loader regained his composure and straightened, looking down one last time at the enigmatic woman he had quite nearly called friend.
“He will kill you, Mila Felsin. And you will die alone.”
Mila closed her eyes as Earl turned away. Neither Yano nor Sienni dared speak; they turned as well, following Earl to the encampment where the three Incantors had awaited Sartean’s arrival. The sorceress stood in her tattered silver robes, unmoving in the cold field for several long turns. She held her eyes closed, pinching them tightly against the frigid air from without and against the bitter tears from within, as if by doing so she could somehow prevent time from passing, for she knew: with every moment that did pass, with every step Earl the wagon loader took away from her, she became more truly and utterly alone.
It is for the best, she decided at last, when, finally, her eyes gave up on the idea that crying would somehow change her fate. Tears would not absolve her guilt at spending her miserable life becoming that which she despised and, most recently, cruelly insulting the only allies she had ever known in that miserable life. She therefore opened those eyes, resolving to cry no more, at least not on this day.
Mila took one last look at the remnants of the farmhouse. Almost nothing of value remained intact, but there were a few items she could salvage. First, her gems. A simple spell gathered them to her, a dozen gems of varying size and type floating into her hand from among the debris. She would need a tent, and a blanket, and a change of clothes, but those were in the encampment, where Earl had gone. I will make do, she decided, knowing she could rely on her magic for warmth. She began to make for the Morline, considering the fates of Earl, Yano, and Sienni. She hoped that the three would be wise enough to head for the Sapphire, that they would run as far from Mor and Sartean D’Avers as they could possibly go. The swamps would prove no foil for Yano and Sienni. Earl would hold his own easily against the thugs and thieves of the coastal towns. Yes, they will be fine, if they travel south, and truly, where else could they go? They could never return to Mor, not while Sartean lived. They could not seek refuge in Thornwood, not after the encounter with the princess. What odd luck! The Princess of Thornwood, the Firstson of Belgorne, here!
But... was it luck? Mila frowned as she walked, considering the matter. No, not luck. Luck is not that strange. Mila recalled an elven adage she had once heard, or perhaps read, she could not remember. ‘When events align, seek the design…’
As for odd events… Mila considered that there had been more than enough for even the least paranoid person to begin looking for patterns. Strange omens throughout Tahr. Unnatural fires, seeming to originate within the very ground, burning through roots and trunks of trees yet never catching to ignite into wildfire. The reawakening of Fang and a continuous storm of lightning at its mouth to rival any display of power Mila could have ever imagined. Two violent tahrquakes, rumored to have decimated both Thornwood and Belgorne, only managing a comparatively mild disruption in Mor, and by some accounts, leaving G’naath wholly untouched. And now, at the very moment when the two most powerful Incantors of Mor were facing one another in lethal battle, the Princess of Thornwood and the Firstson of Belgorne appeared to interrupt the fray, with a gnome girl and a young man of Mor in tow.
And they had magic, Mila reminded herself. Not merely elven magic, which, in any case, would not have explained the waves of power emanating from the blonde man, the pigtailed gnome, and the dwarven prince. No, this magic was… familiar. Not unlike my own.
But how could that be? There had not been a sorcerer or sorceress in... well, certainly in centuries. Longer, perhaps. Yet Mila was certain she was precisely that – a sorceress, a natural wielder of magic, one born with an innate ability to control the elements of life and transform one’s will into reality. She had never recognized the scent of it on another, not once, not at any point in her life. Mila had spent all of her adolescence and early adulthood in the company of wizards. No discipline of magic existed that she had not sampled, or at the very least, witnessed being employed. Yet in all those years, not once had she sensed the same sort of innate magic in another as she possessed. Not until today, and then suddenly, an elf, a dwarf, a gnome, and a man, all bearing the same scent of sorcery, all in one another’s company. No, she decided. This was not luck. This was a drawing. How did they find one another? And do they know?
As Mila approached the trail that ran parallel to the Morline, she knew she must make a decision: follow the scent of sorcery to the west and seek answers to these questions, or head east to again confront her foe, for what would certainly be the last time, no matter the result of their meeting.
It took less than a breath for Mila to make up her mind.
VII: WEST MORLINE
Shyla stroked Wolf’s black fur and scratched his head and ears as he rode in her lap, cognizant of the animal’s discomfort and impatience to dismount Spirit. After several experimentations, the three had settled on the current riding configuration as best: J’arn at the reins, Shyla at the rear of the oversized saddle, and Wolf nestled between them. At the beginning of the ride each day Wolf would often be found whining and pawing at Spirit’s hindlegs, anxious to be handed up to Shyla and to begin their journey. Each time they mounted, for the first hour or so, Wolf wo
uld stand in the saddle, his front paws resting on J’arn shoulders, his tongue hanging out, lines of drool sopping the dwarf’s shoulders and neck. J’arn did not mind the drool overmuch. He did, however, soon develop the habit of stuffing his ears with cotton; Wolf took quite seriously the job of barking at whatever needed barking at, and only once he was satisfied that the denizens of the forest were adequately advised to mind their manners and stay clear of the trail would the loud, sharp warnings relent.
Above all else, Wolf took it upon himself to warn the group of the fires. They had come within sniffing distance of several of the odd burning patches that peppered the surface of Tahr since they left the Grove, and Wolf despised the odor. Through their Bond Shyla could tell that, to Wolf’s sensitive nose, the fires were far from ordinary. To Wolf, they smelled very much unlike camp fires, or of cooking food… those were happy smells, home smells, friend smells. These were dark smells, acrid smells, angry smells. They made Wolf angry, which to Shyla was quite disconcerting, for Wolf’s fury was very unlike any anger she had felt in her own heart. It was a murderous anger, a hate-filled ire for whatever the thing was that had lit those fires. Anyone listening could tell the difference in his barks when Wolf sensed a fire, but Shyla felt his rage as if it was her own. When Shyla finally recognized what was upsetting him so and explained it to her companions, the company from the Grove expressed as one that they were glad to have Wolf along for the trip. The thought brought Shyla pride, that her friends would see Wolf’s worth as she did, and in turn, she shared that pride with Wolf through their Bond. She could not swear to it, but if asked how she thought Wolf felt about that pride, she would say that he appeared to feel indignant that it took them so long to come around.
Upon successfully warning the group of danger or warding off whatever potential enemies might dare approach, Wolf would finally cease his barking and begin the ritual of turning circles in Shyla’s lap until he could find a comfortable position within which to settle. When the company took breaks from the saddle, either to eat, stretch their legs, or allow Wolf to relieve himself, the procedure would repeat anew: perching, drooling, barking, sleeping. Wolf’s tolerance for horseback riding was a matter of some awe for everyone in the group aside from Shyla, who had no reason to believe that a dog would not take naturally to the saddle.
Today Wolf’s endurance, however, was finally nearing an end, and Shyla knew it. They had ridden without making camp for a day and a half, and despite the calming effect of the Bond, the animal’s stamina had been stretched to its limits. More than once Shyla had needed to intervene to prevent Wolf from sliding out of her lap, and the gnome was now struggling to keep her own eyes open. It would only be a matter of time before Wolf or Shyla fell from the saddle.
“J’arn. Wolf’s had it. Me, too.”
The prince turned his head briefly to acknowledge Shyla. “Aye. ’Cept we can’t stop, I don’t think.”
“Mawbottom we can’t. I ain’t nobody’s prisoner.”
“No, ye ain’t, but Shyla, if we stop to sleep, we’ll be buried in snow by the time we wake up.”
“So? Then we dig out of it.”
“Aye, and then the ride’ll be slow the rest o’ the way.”
Shyla pinched J’arn firmly in the side.
“Ow!”
“It’ll be a lot slower if I fall off this horse and get stomped on!”
“All right! Hang on, let’s see what Miss Trellia has to say.”
J’arn urged Spirit up the trail and pulled alongside Trellia and her roan mount.
“We cannot stop, Prince J’arn,” Trellia said before the dwarf could speak.
Shyla was unfazed. “Well, maybe you canna, but I’m stoppin’, Miss Trellia, me an’ Wolf. Sure as stone, soon as we get to a clearin’.”
Lucan rode close, as did Aria. Lucan called out. “Finally stopping? About time!”
“Like whining children, fools each of you! Fine, we will camp at the next clearing.” Trellia brought Callan to a canter, hurrying ahead to pass the news to Mikallis.
“She’s the fool, if she thinks we can ride forever,” said Lucan, derision thick in his tone. The riders eased their pace to allow for conversation.
“Vicaris Trellia is no fool, Lucan,” said Aria. “If she is insisting we go on, despite our fatigue, she must have a reason.”
“Aye, she must,” agreed J’arn. “But we ain’t all elves, Princess. Reason or no, if we fall from the saddle, we won’t get to Eyreloch any faster.”
“How much farther is it, anyways?” asked Shyla.
“Few days, I think, yeah?” said Lucan.
“All depends on the weather,” said Aria. “Trellia was hoping we could ride on until we make the Elms, near to dawn tomorrow.”
“Ain’t happenin’,” Shyla said.
Aria shot Shyla a glance. “It would appear not. If this storm that dogs us is as severe as Trellia and I fear, our pace may be cut considerably, by at least two days to the Elms of Eyre. From there, it’s another half day to the Falls. From there… well, that’s up to the Airies.”
“How do ye mean?” asked J’arn.
“I mean… well, perhaps it would be best if Trellia explains it,” said Aria.
A few strides ahead, Mikallis and Triumph waited on the trail.
“There is a small clearing just ahead,” Mikallis said, his tone scornful. “But we are fools to stop now. I suppose it was you that could not maintain the pace, Lucan not-Thorne?”
“No, yeh dungeater, it was me!” countered Shyla. “Me an’ Wolf. Why yeh gotta always be so mean to Lucan?”
“It’s all right, Shyla. No need to defend me. I, for one, am quite impressed with elven endurance. Mikallis, as I understand it, you came down to the Grove from Thornwood at a gallop the whole way, huh?”
Mikallis nodded. “Near enough to it, yes.”
“Yes, definitely impressive,” said Lucan, smiling. “But… didn’t you arrive, what, a day behind Aria and Trellia?”
“Lucan, don’t–” said Aria.
“Perhaps that’s just the elven way, the males being somewhat inferior, I mean?”
Aria’s warning came too late. Mikallis leapt from Triumph in a single, fluid motion.
“Dismount, coward, and I will show you who is inferior!”
Lucan made no move to take the bait, maneuvering Hope around the incensed elven captain as if he were not even worth slowing for. “Ah, you take offense too soon, dear Captain,” he said as he passed, smiling. “I meant only that elven women are a wonder to behold.” Lucan flashed a scandalous wink at Aria. The captain did not miss it, nor did he miss the reddening in Aria’s cheeks. The princess moved Sera between the captain and Hope, her order to Mikallis to stand down issued with only a glance.
J’arn could not suppress a soft chuckle. After they moved out of earshot, he turned to Lucan. “He’s gonna murder you, that one,” said the prince.
Lucan shrugged. “He just might try.”
“No ‘might’ about it.”
“Well, if he does, I guess we’ll see how it turns out. No matter who wins, though, there won’t be a question anymore about who’s the better man, will there?”
“Mawbottom, Lucan, that’s a big price to pay for yer pride,” said Shyla.
“I’ve done him no wrong, Shyla, but he hates me for who I am. For where I come from. For not being an elf. I have no quarrel with him. This isn’t about my pride, it’s about his.”
“Elves have a lot o’ reasons to not like people of Mor, Lucan.”
“Do they, J’arn? Which people, exactly? Because I’m fairly damned sure I’ve never harmed a hair on an elf’s head, all my life, nor so much as had an unkind word for one, save our good captain here.”
“It’s not about what you’ve done, Lucan. Your peoples have warred with one another many a time over the centuries, and from the elves’ perspective–”
“And I say again, what business is that of mine? Or his, for that matter? Gnomes and dwarves have had their wa
rs. Why don’t you just knock Shyla off the back of Spirit next time she falls asleep, and claim vengeance for Belgorne?”
J’arn scoffed. “C’mon, now, that be ridiculous.”
Lucan shook his head in resignation. “You don’t say.”
“Might be we’re all just a bit tired,” Shyla offered.
“Aye, a bit tired,” agreed J’arn.
“Oh, certainly,” said Lucan. “I’ll bet old Mikallis and I will be chums after a nap.” The companions reached the clearing and left the trail. Trellia had a fire going almost immediately. As the company began to pitch tents in exhausted silence, she was about to urge them to gather around the fire when Wolf suddenly dropped to his haunches, the hair on his neck standing up as he issued a low, threatening growl.
“Aww, Mawbottom, not again,” said Shyla, her Bond with Wolf instantly warning her of the danger. “Tahrcracker!”
The third quake rocked the ground beneath the company and swayed the surrounding trees, but gently so, and before anyone had time to remark on how different the quake had been from its predecessors, it was over.
“ ‘Quakes of three,’ ” quoted Lucan in an ominous tone.
“Indeed,” agreed Trellia.
“Is that it, then?” asked J’arn. “That be the third quake? Wasn’t much o’–”
A sudden, plaintive howl from Wolf raised bumps on the flesh of each member of the company, but none was more intensely affected than Shyla, who fell to a knee.
Lucan reached a hand towards the gnome. “Shyla? Are you all–”
Shyla produced a miserable, mournfully inhuman tone in harmony with Wolf. Trellia gasped, appearing to recognize something in the desolate sound. Mikallis covered his ears. The haunting discord of the two notes brought tears to Aria’s eyes. Both J’arn and Lucan joined Shyla in taking a knee, their legs buckling under the weight of an unexpected and terrible sorrow. For several long moments, Shyla and Wolf continued their pitiful, forlorn song, until Wolf lay down beside his friend and began licking his paws nervously.
Trellia moved beside Shyla, whose cheeks were drenched in tears. She lifted her face to the Vicaris, her moist pink eyes wordlessly begging Trellia to put an end to some unspoken agony.
