Spawn of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  “This dagger,” she had said, handing him the small knife, “won’t kill Mama. But it’ll end the battle all the same.”

  Oort poked the snow with his staff and took another cautious step, listening.

  XI: THE MAW

  Your dwarves are ready, Sire.”

  King Dohr offered Hatchet a pensive nod and rose from his chair. The young dwarven monarch stroked his beard as he gave the maps laid out before him a final glance for the evening. He lifted his gaze to his second, General Brandaxe, the gruff and grizzled leader of the dwarven military. The general’s apt nickname, “Hatchet”, was widely considered to be well earned, not merely for his prowess with an axe, but his incomparable facility to hack away at an undisciplined dwarf until all that remained was the soldier underneath.

  The expression Hatchet wore beneath his ash-caked grey beard would have been difficult to make out in daylight, let alone in the dim lanternlight of the command tent, but Dohr could read his eyes well enough. It was said, at least by dwarves, that a dwarf could read another’s eyes like a scholar could read a scroll, owing to the fact that most dwarves wore beards that concealed every feature but their eyes. Thus, any unspoken communication between the men and women of Belgorne involved the eyes chiefly. In Hatchet’s eyes, King Dohr saw only despair, and the physical manifestation of Hatchet’s hopelessness was evident on his entire frame. The general stood a half head taller than most dwarves, but as he stood at loose attention before Dohr at that moment he appeared smaller, as if he had suffered a hacking of his own. His spine was not bent, but neither was it straight, and the intimidating presence Hatchet was so well-known for was, to King Dohr’s mind, wholly absent.

  The demeanor of one dwarf, Dohr knew, was not typically a thing worth noting, but Dohr had spent the day walking through the camps, giving orders and inspecting preparations. In truth there had been few orders to give; Dohr knew little enough about how to prepare for a siege, and even less about how to erect outdoor housing suitable for twenty thousand dwarves. As far as the former went, Hatchet could be relied upon to prepare the men and women of Belgorne to the degree possible. As for the latter, the engineers who had survived the quakes were doing all they could; no amount of barking on Dohr’s part would improve the result. Yet despite his apparent uselessness, Dohr had felt it necessary to be seen, and to see his own people, on this the eve of war, and in doing so, the new king had quickly learned that the morale of Belgorne was a thing too meager to measure.

  King Dohr decided by midafternoon to retire to the command tent and wait for the day to end, and since then had been waiting for Hatchet to arrive and issue his report. Dohr had hoped, beyond good reason, to see something in his general’s eyes when he did so; some flicker of optimism, some cause for courage, anything but the same dour, despondent expression worn on the faces of the men and women he had encountered that day. That he did not was unsurprising; what the general said next, however, most certainly was.

  “We cannot win, Sire.”

  Dohr narrowed his bushy eyebrows at the general.

  “We cannot infiltrate G’naath. We will die here in the Maw for our efforts.”

  “I hope to Stonarris there be no one standing outside this tent to hear you say that, General.”

  “Why? Would ye have me lie to our people? After all this? We haven’t the dwarves. We haven’t the horses. We haven’t the food. And we sure as stone haven’t the time.”

  Dohr’s expression darkened. “Sit,” he ordered. Hatchet obeyed. Dohr took a seat across from him.

  “Be not a fool, General. It may be that a lie is all we have left to offer.”

  “To Fury with that, Sire. Ye can tell the lie if ye want to, but I’ll not.”

  “Dammit, Hatchet, what would ye suggest then? Poison the mead that’s left, and have done with it?”

  “Better that, Sire. No, do not look at me so. I do not jest. If we move to take G’naath, we’ll beat ourselves to death against them tunnels and come spring, won’t be a dwarf alive, not at the gates o’ G’naath nor here in the camp. Ain’t enough food, simple as that. A freezin’ death ain’t quick. A starvin’ death ain’t quick. Ain’t neither dwarven.”

  Dohr nodded, knowing the general’s words to be true. “How many could live?” the king asked.

  Hatchet frowned. “I just told ye, me king, not a one–”

  “If not all were to eat, Hatchet. Ye know what I say, do not make me elaborate.”

  The general shook his head. “I cannot say, Sire.”

  “Ye mean ye will not.”

  “Aye! I will not! It is not me own place to decide who lives and who dies! Nor yours!”

  “Yet ye just said it would be better if we all poisoned ourselves!”

  “Aye, and it would! Would ye want to be one o’ the dwarves that lives, knowin’ the rest starved? I’d prefer death meself over that, and ye can bet a bag so would any good dwarf! There be but one option open to us. Only one.”

  Dohr shook his head. “Dyin’ on a march as we run from our enemy ain’t dwarven, neither, Hatchet.”

  “It ain’t a retreat less ye call it that, Sire. We make for the Sapphire, and when our people regain our strength, we come back.”

  “How many’ll make it, General? A third? A fifth? And who’s to say when we get there that the Shorefolk let us stay? And if they don’t, do we go to war with ’em? After marchin’ all winter?”

  A gloved hand pulled the tent flap back and a sentry entered.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Sire, but Captain Flint would like a word.”

  “Not now, soldier,” replied Hatchet.

  “Ah, sir, he ain’t alone. And I think he intends to be heard.”

  Dohr and Hatchet exchanged a glance. The king stepped from behind the table and made his way outside into the night, Hatchet on his heels. Before the tent stood Captain Latimer Flint and no less than two dozen other captains, many bearing torches. As far as Dohr could see, every captain of the three corps were present; scouts, army, and cavalry.

  Captain Flint spoke first. “Forgive the intrusion, Sire, but we’ll be needin’ your attention for a few turns.”

  “Will ye? So ye demand your king’s attention, now?” replied Dohr.

  “Aye, well, just this once, Sire, beggin’ your pardon.” Captain Flint’s tone carried a hint of sarcasm. “So, we done the math, we captains, and looks to me like we can’t take G’naath. Looks that way to us all.” The dwarves nodded as one. “Not that we mind beatin’ our heads against a mountain, mind ye, but if we can’t win, we’d as soon not die tryin’.”

  “So, ye intend to desert?” demanded Dohr. “Commit treason? I should have had ye executed the first time!”

  Flint held up a hand. “Don’t go tuggin’ yer beard over it just yet, Sire. Beggin’ your pardon. I said we’d as soon not die tryin’, but that don’t mean we won’t try, and it don’t mean we won’t die. If ye get my meaning.”

  Dohr frowned. “I do not.”

  “Then let me spell it out for ye. If we were to be tryin’, that’d mean we expect we might succeed. And we can’t. And if we can’t, but we go on fightin’ as if we can, well, all that’ll do is make sure can’t nobody, and don’t nobody want that.”

  Dohr turned to Hatchet. “Do ye have any idea what he’s sayin’?”

  “Not a clue, Sire.”

  “Bah! The two of ye be daft as donkeys! What I mean to say is, we’ll all make for G’naath, and make like we’re gonna fight to win, but since we can’t, we’ll go light, then ye can take the rest south!”

  “Go light?” asked the king.

  Hatchet understood. “Ye cannot do that, Flint. Can’t you captains make that decision for your dwarves.”

  “Make what decision?” asked Dohr.

  Hatchet turned to his king. “They mean to make for G’naath without provisions, Sire. Without food. So those folk as ain’t fightin’ can make it to the Sapphire.”

  Dohr blinked.

  “And they cannot make that de
cision for their dwarves,” Hatchet repeated, again facing Flint.

  “Hatchet, do ye think any one of your captains would do such a thing? Every dwarf in every company has already agreed to it, else we’d not be here.”

  “Aye,” several captains agreed.

  “To a one!” one said.

  “To a one!” others repeated.

  King Dohr stepped forward. His voice was quiet, but no one failed to hear his words.

  “Ye know ye’ll be dead in quarter cycle,” the king said. “A half, at the outside.”

  “Aye,” said Flint. “And we’ll take as many o’ those gnome bastards with us as we can!” he exclaimed.

  “Aye!” the captains shouted.

  “Won’t be many,” said Hatchet. “Not if they drop the tunnels. And they will.”

  Flint shook his head and stepped in, lowering his voice. “Don’t matter. Point is, our people need to see us go off to fight. They gotta believe we’re goin’ to fight for real. Gotta have a reason to make it south. And Sire,” he turned to Dohr, “ye need to make ’em believe. The whole way. Ye cannot let ‘em despair. Ye’ll need to inspire ‘em, Sire. Somehow.”

  King Dohr shook his head. “Has to be another way. Ye expect me to allow these men to starve to death in the Maw? I cannot do that!”

  Captain Kalder moved beside Flint and addressed the king. “You misunderstand, Sire,” he said. “Ye be not allowin’ it, nor disallowin’ it. This decision has been made. If ye wanna hang us all for treason, well, I checked with engineering. Ain’t enough rope.”

  Dohr turned to his general. “Hatchet, help me talk some sense–”

  Hatchet shook his head. “It was always bound to end this way, Sire.” He turned to Flint. “What about the young ones?”

  “Already handled, General. The youngest in each company have been ordered to guard the eastern side of the civilian camps ’til dawn. We’ll be leavin’ ye just over five hundred dwarves. They think we’ll be marchin’ at dusk tomorrow, but soon as we be done here, we’ll break west and then north. Plan is to see if we can scale our way in somehow, sneak in from the west, where we won’t be expected. Long shot, almost certainly won’t work, but I’ll take the scouts up first and we’ll see how far we get.” Flint turned his attention back to the king. “Sire, most important thing… ye gotta inspire the rest. Keep ’em goin’, no matter how bad–”

  “Well, if ye think I intend to let ye go off and die without your king, ye can bet a bag that ain’t–”

  Flint nodded. “Kalder. Bag.”

  “Aye, Cap.”

  Kalder reached behind him as a burlap sack was handed forward. Hatchet needed no prodding; he wrapped his arms around the king as Kalder and Flint dropped the sack over his head.

  “Sorry, Sire,” said Flint.

  “No, ye ain’t,” said Hatchet.

  The king struggled and kicked and swore as his captains dragged him back into the tent. A makeshift mattress was brought in; the soldiers did the best they could to make sure their king would be as comfortable as possible during his brief captivity.

  When King Dohr was finally securely tied to the mattress, Captain Flint took a knee beside him, leaning close to whisper. “Listen up, Sire,” he said. “There be an axe with your father’s blood on it on the way to the elves, so your bloodline ain’t gonna die no matter what happens to you or your brother. Them pointy-eared folk’ll make sure there’ll be another Silverstone, someday. They got the magic for it, or so’s I been told, at least. But it weren’t supposed to be you on the throne to begin with, not by a long ways. If you wanna be king, Sire, ye’ll need to make sure there’s some dwarves left to be king of. Get ‘em to the sea, so’s your men don’t die in vain. Don’t cock it up.”

  XII: SOUTH MOR

  Gerald.”

  The wizard continued to snore.

  Vincent raised his voice. “Gerald, you have to wake up.”

  Nothing.

  “He’s been like this since… since yesterday.” Miranda carefully avoided Vincent’s gaze.

  “You mean since he brought me back. You can say it, Miranda.”

  Miranda swallowed, wiping a damp rag across Gerald’s brow. “I know. I just… I don’t like to.”

  Vincent moved to place a comforting hand on Miranda’s shoulder. She recoiled as if struck.

  “I’m sorry. Excuse me.” Miranda left the damp cloth on Gerald’s pillow and hastily left the room. Vincent sat in the chair at his friend’s bedside.

  “You really did it this time, you stupid bastard,” said Vincent, taking up the task of mopping his friend’s brow. The wizard had been in the throes of a high fever for near to a full day, though Vincent missed most of it. Well healed as Vincent was, crossing over and back the Veil had left the merchant mentally and bodily exhausted; he had only just awoken again himself. “They all think we’re both bloody evil, now.” Vincent sighed. Maybe we are.

  A feminine voice answered from behind Vincent. “Well they can all piss off, then.”

  Vincent turned and stood, overjoyed to see his friends.

  “Kalindra! Maris!”

  “Sit your arse down, Vincent,” Maris scolded. “You’ve got some explaining to do, mister.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, you do!” answered Kalindra. “Why in Fury would you stand before Halsen without wards? Are you a fool? What if his Defenders took a swipe at you! What if... well, what if some knuckle-dragging laborer decided to stick you!”

  Vincent shook his head. “Couldn’t risk it, Kalindra, you know that. If Halsen’s wizards detected the enchantment–”

  Maris leaned in, red-faced, her voice shaking. “Well then what about a bit of armor? You really are a bleeding fool, Vincent Thomison!”

  Vincent blinked, surprised to see the depth of Maris’ concern.

  “Well, not bleeding anymore,” he said with a wink.

  Maris slapped him, a stinging blow across the cheek. Vincent moved to stand in protest, but a look from Kalindra held him fast. The women then embraced their friend, and for a time, no one spoke. When Maris pulled away her eyes were moist. She wiped them quickly and straightened, folding her arms across her chest.

  “So, are you, well, are you alive, then? Or are you some sort of wraith?” Maris demanded.

  “I’m alive, Maris. Heart beating like a drum.”

  “Oh, so you have a heart now?’ Kalindra teased, seeking to diffuse the tension. “Quite a spell Gerald came up with.”

  “We have to help him,” Vincent pleaded. “I don’t know what to do. He won’t wake.”

  “Chaneela is in your dining room.” Maris referred to the wizard of her house. “She agreed to help however she can.”

  “I will get her now,” Kalindra said, shooting a look at Maris as she departed Gerald’s bedchamber.

  “What was that?” asked Vincent, catching the thrown glance.

  Maris turned to face Vincent.

  “I made Kalindra a promise.”

  “What’s that?”

  Maris took a breath.

  “That I would tell you I love you. Right here, right now. And so help me, Vincent Thomison, if you respond I will slap you again.”

  Vincent’s eyed widened. He moved to speak but had no doubt that Maris would indeed make good on her threat if he were to utter a syllable.

  “I am not asking for your love in return. I am telling you for me, not for you. Do you understand?”

  Vincent nodded. He did understand. Maris would know he had not yet released his Anie, or rather, Anie’s memory had not yet released him. She would know that he could not profess feeling for another, and she would not wish to hear as much. Yet Vincent had died, felled in the throneroom of Mor for Maris to see. He knew more than anyone what it felt like to love someone and have them stolen from your life. If Maris truly loved him – and Vincent could see, now, that she surely did – the previous day would have been the worst of her life, and her greatest regret would most certainly have been her years of silence.
<
br />   Vincent reached for her hand. The sad, beautiful brothel mistress let him take it. The two shared a look, a moment, until footsteps behind them signified Kalindra’s approach with Chaneela. Maris squeezed Vincent’s hand and released it.

  “Vincent,” Chaneela said with a chill.

  “Chaneela,” Vincent replied, glad to see the elderly Incantor, despite the cool greeting.

  “You know what he did, don’t you?” Chaneela asked in the condescending tone of a schoolmarm.

  Vincent shook his head. “Honestly, I do not. Not really.”

  “Oh, well, I suppose you wouldn’t, now, would you? Then I will educate you. What your wizard did is forbidden. By law. By all rules of decency and morality. You should not be alive.”

  “Chaneela–”

  “Do not interrupt me, Maris! I will speak my piece, and you may dismiss me from your service if you like! This is an abomination! Do you know where your new life came from, Vincent? Well, do you?”

  “No idea.”

  “Quite probably from your own staff!” Chaneela wagged a finger at Vincent. “Those bottles Gerald used, they weren’t medicine. They were filled with the life and healing forces of people! Most likely those closest to you! How does that make you feel?”

  “Yeah, well, not a damned thing I can do about it now, is there? Do you intend to help Gerald or not?”

  “I do not know that I should!”

  Maris had enough. “Chaneela. You have spoken your piece. Help Gerald and shut your bread hole, or I’ll shut it for you.”

  “Hmph. Like to see you try. Get out of my way, then, I can’t help him with you three hovering like hens!”

  The Incantor began making a series of gestures with her hands over Gerald’s unconscious form, muttering foreign yet vaguely familiar words that Vincent had heard spoken before by Gerald in his own incantations. Gerald briefly stirred, the first movement he had exhibited that day, then returned to stillness.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” scolded Chaneela. “You come back here!”

  She placed a hand on his chest, repeating the phrase she had spoken a moment before, more forcefully the second time. A grimace spread across Gerald’s face, as if the wizard had tasted something foul.