Spawn of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Somehow, Lucan had known what was to happen before the wicked flames blew forth from the beast’s belly. A scene from his dream broke briefly through to the surface of his awareness, a flash from the ever-repeating nightmare within which he lingered for days at the Grove. I have seen this. Lucan knew that he must act. And so he did.

  Before the beast inhaled, Lucan took a breath of his own, knowing somehow that he must. As the beast exhaled, great streams of flame issuing from its maw, Lucan dashed with inhuman speed for Shyla and Wolf. His collision with the pair was violent. His collarbone snapped in two when he struck Shyla, but Lucan was in the throes of a great magic then, and he kept his feet, snatching Shyla and Wolf from the clutches of a fiery death, the three tumbling safely beyond the tree line before the flames could singe a hair on their heads.

  The three rolled apart; Wolf and Shyla each had the wind knocked from their lungs by the impact and lay feebly on the ground, frantically sucking bits of air back into their bodies. Lucan knew he was injured severely, suffering more than just a broken bone. A sensation of hot wetness spread within the right side of his chest; his collarbone had punctured his lung. He was out of this fight, magic or no.

  J’arn armed himself with the second axe he carried, Starl’s axe, and ran towards the elves. “Where is she! I can’t find her! Shyla!”

  “Lucan!” Aria called out into the night, suddenly aware that the man from Mor had disappeared as well. She did not have time to lament his loss, however. A cracking sound from above announced the demise of another great elm. The four looked up just in time to see the beast tuck its wings and drop through the canopy to the ground before them.

  Trellia acted quickly, clapping her hands above her head. A golden, shimmering dome enveloped the four and their mounts. The ground shook as the beast stepped forward, one terrible black eye leaning in to gain a closer look at the beings trapped within the glowing globe.

  “I cannot hold this long,” Trellia whispered, struggling to speak at all. “Mikallis, untie the horses. Aria, J’arn, when I release the spell–”

  A shower of sparks cascaded down the exterior of the globe as the creature probed it with a terrible claw. The strain on Trellia to maintain the spell was amplified, ever increasing exhaustion evident on her face. Aria reached for the Vicaris to again help sustain her, but a look from Trellia gave her pause.

  “When I release the spell, you must run. Mikallis and I will cover your escape. Find the Airies. Tell them–”

  “I’ll tell ‘em I killed this blasted thing!” J’arn hollered. He turned towards the beast, readying his axe. “I ain’t leavin’ ye! Don’t ask again!”

  “Nor I!” said Aria, terrified but buoyed by J’arn’s defiance.

  ~Trellia! Can yeh hear me?~

  “Shyla!” Aria and J’arn exclaimed.

  ~Luc’s hurt somethin’ bad, I dunno what to do!~

  Trellia responded silently. ~Feel for his wound, use your magic! Stay out of sight!~

  A dark and dreadful laugh filled the minds of the companions as the beast joined the conversation.

  ~I know where you are, little morsel. I will put an end to you soon. By all means, heal your friend, so that I might play with him.~

  More than the fangs, more than the claws, more than the mighty swinging tail and the sheer size of the beast, the sound of its voice in the minds of the companions inspired terror. It was not that its voice was so foul, though it was. It was not that its thoughts were so loathsome, though they were. More than these, it was the knowledge that the horror that had come to them was not a mindless one, but rather a being of intelligence, of cunning, of intent.

  The four would have screamed then if yet another voice had not stolen its way into their minds.

  ~I Name you, Kalashagon! I Call you, Slave of Disorder! Obey my summons! Come to me!~

  XIX: THE MAW

  Afool, a liar, or a coward?

  King Dohr Silverstone was tired, exhausted to his bones, as were all from Belgorne, but he did not sleep. The question would not let him. He was not uncomfortable; the mattress upon which he was tied was soft. His captor regularly offered him food and drink. Dohr refused both. He knew he must make it until at least morning, perhaps midday, before he would be cut free. Perhaps he would be allowed to relieve himself, perhaps not – but he would not put himself in the position to ask for permission.

  He was a king.

  He did not struggle, he did not cry out, nor did he rail against the soldiers who had been assigned to guard him. He understood wholly the gambit Flint had arranged. For the surviving civilians of Belgorne to stand a chance, the soldiers needed to do exactly what they had done: march off to die in a war they could not hope to win, leaving their own allotted rations of food and other provisions behind for their loved ones to share in their absence as they made for the sea. Yet it would not do for a king of Belgorne to send his men to war without him; if he had done so, staying behind by choice, the Silverstone name would forever be tarnished. Trundling him up, tying him to the mattress… these treasonous acts guaranteed that the story of the heroic dwarves of Belgorne would be one of noble mutiny, the tale of a righteous coup designed to preserve a dutiful, honorable king who might lead the survivors of Belgorne to safety.

  In the dark, quiet hours that night, Dohr knew better. He struggled with the question of what he would have done, had he been given a choice. Would he have truly demanded to accompany the army, youthful pride overriding good sense at the expense of leaving his people without a leader? He had said as much, but would he have relented in the face of argument? Would he have acquiesced to the logic of Flint’s plan, staying behind begrudgingly, pretending before his people to have done so under duress in order to preserve the illusion of courage – and if he did so, would it have been a selfish deception, perpetrated for his own pride’s sake, or an honorable one, carried out for the sake of his people? Or, worst of all, would he have simply embraced the opportunity to save his own life and accepted the scheme to stay behind with relief in his heart?

  A fool, a liar, or a coward, Dohr again asked himself, which would ye be?

  He supposed Captain Flint knew what he was doing, saving not only the people of Belgorne from the fate of serving a king they could not respect, but protecting Dohr’s conscience as well, for whatever decision he might have made, it would have been a guilty one, as no option was without dishonor.

  Yet ye do not cry out, Dohr reminded himself. Ye do not struggle against your bonds. Would not a king continue to demand release? Would Father have lain here docile as his dwarves marched willingly to certain death? Is your silence anything but tacit cowardice, then? Does it not make ye complicit in this farce?

  The quarrel in the king’s mind continued for several hours, as did the disquiet in his heart, as he listened through the tent walls to the sounds of his kin departing for the northern jaw of the Maw. They were quiet enough, aiming to keep their departure a secret until dawn; the absence of wailing spouses and children indicated that they succeeded. There will be wailing enough come dawn, Dohr knew.

  It was when he could no longer hear the boots of his dwarves, scant hours before dawn, that Dohr decided he must accept the harsh truth. He was a liar; his silence made him one, and he would have no choice but to take that lie to his grave. He was a coward; his passive compliance as he lay there made him one, no matter the logic of Captain Flint’s scheme.

  But he was not a fool.

  “Soldier,” he called to his guard.

  “Aye, my king?”

  “It is time to cut me bonds. I have work to do.”

  “Uh, Captain Flint said–”

  “Captain Flint was doin’ me a favor, tryin’ to spare me conscience. He failed. I will not flee, nor chase after the army. But I need to review our provisions and decide on a strategy for the morning.”

  “Sire, I–”

  “What be your name, soldier?”

  The young dwarf cleared his throat. “Macon, Sire. Sergeant Kyle Mac
on, but folks just call me Mac.”

  “Young for a sergeant.”

  The dwarf nodded. “Aye. Field promotion, as it were.”

  King Dohr nodded back. “Mac, ye have me word. I will not make trouble for ye. But come dawn, when the survivors of Belgorne realize their loved ones have gone off to die… if we fail to get ’em all marchin’ before grief and despair sets in, we’ll be sunk. Do ye understand?”

  “Aye, I think so.”

  “Good. And if we’re to begin that march, I need to review our inventories and prepare orders. Cut me loose, Sergeant. I ain’t servin’ Belgorne by lyin’ here.”

  The sergeant hesitated for an instant, but quickly saw the king’s logic.

  “King Dohr,” he said as he sawed at the ropes, “I know ye wanna go with the army. Shames me to stay behind, too. But it be like Flint said to me ‘fore he left, we each got our parts.”

  Dohr sat up, rubbing his wrists as Mac cut away the ropes that secured his ankles. The king stood and glared at the young sergeant. “Aye, ye speak true. Now go do your own part and gather up whatever officers Hatchet and Flint left me. Move!”

  They had not left him many. One captain and four sergeants returned with Mac to find King Dohr deliberating over a map. The king recognized the captain; Flint’s choice, no doubt.

  “How many fighting dwarves have we, Kalder?” Dohr asked, not bothering to ask the names of the sergeants.

  Captain Blythe Kalder shook his head. “Few enough. Maybe a company, between those on guard duty and the ones assigned to the camps. But Hatchet left most of the crossbows, so’s we can arm the citizens, if need be.”

  Dohr nodded. “I don’t expect we’ll encounter much trouble between here and the Sapphire, but I’ll bet a bag Mor’s got its own troubles. We may just run into refugees and might not all of ’em be friendly.”

  Kalder nodded. “Flint said as much. He said–”

  Dohr slammed a fist on the table. “I don’t give a hot piss from this point on what Flint said. Listen up, all of ye. We all share a terrible thing between us. Dwarves are goin’ off to die so we can live. Count ’em gone and let the bards write the ballads. Do ye understand me?”

  Blank faces stared back at the king.

  “All right, then let me speak plain. Do any of ye wish to be king?”

  Heads shook.

  “None of ye? Not a one?”

  No one replied.

  “Well, I’ll let ye in on a secret: me neither. I did, once. Hated me brother for bein’ born first. But me father made me king, ye all saw it, and so a king I will be. And as your king, I ask for an oath from ye, here an’ now, on your seats in Stonarris. Will ye hear it?”

  “Aye,” the dwarves replied.

  “Ye shall never tell our people what happened here tonight. Don’t be so quick to agree, now. Ye’ll want to. Some will challenge ye, name ye cowards for stayin’ behind, liars for claimin’ ye didn’t mean to. Worst part is, they’ll be right. We be cowards and liars all. Ye know it. It’ll gnaw at ye. Ye’ll feel the need to come clean. But ye can’t. Not ever, ‘cause if ye do, ye’ll break the spirit of our people, sure as stone. I know ye dread lyin’ to your kin. Ye think it makes ye twice a coward. But it’ll be far worse for ’em if ye tell the truth, and the lie ain’t for the lot of ye… it be for them. It don’t matter what happened here. Only matters what’s remembered. Do ye understand me?”

  Kalder and the sergeants exchanged silent glances. They all shared the same guilt, but so did they share the same sense of responsibility. One by one, nods affirmed to King Dohr that the secret would be kept.

  “Then it’ll be as I said. Who has a hammer?”

  Mac stepped forward and pulled a hammer from his belt. He set it on the table before his king. Dohr grasped its head; the others leaned forward, grasping its handle.

  Dohr spoke their oath. “Let the bards write the ballads.”

  His dwarves repeated the words, a chorus of cowards binding a lie to a promise.

  ~

  When the light of dawn fell on the remnant citizens of Belgorne that next morning, it was much as Dohr predicted. There was shock, and anger, and much grief as the realization spread that the army of Belgorne had gone on to G’naath and would likely not return. The snows had stopped, and the sun was out again, but a north wind raced across the basin of the Maw, a cold wind, and the sheets of drifting snow blown before it cut through any comfort sunlight might have offered. There was, however, also much to do. Captain Kalder and his sergeants did as King Dohr commanded, busying the survivors with the task of breaking camp and preparing for the march west and south.

  In addition to the five hundred infantry dwarves Flint left behind, two thousand civilians would be making the march to the Sapphire, a fraction of those who had survived the collapse of Belgorne. Dohr and Kalder spent the last hours of night reviewing the inventories; if their calculations were correct and nothing spoiled during their exodus, there would be just enough food. If there was not, they would hunt and forage as best they could. If that did not suffice, they would eat the horses, of which they were bringing near to a thousand. All of which they would need; they had few enough wagons, barely enough to transport the ill and invalid, a group whose membership would certainly grow on the march. Their weapons, gold, food, and other provisions would largely need to be carried by their mounts, reducing the highly-trained dwarven steeds of war to common pack mules.

  King Dohr sat at his table in the command tent, dozing. There was little for him to do but wait until Kalder reported that it was time to march, and that would not be until dawn the next day, at the earliest. Dohr did not want to be seen lying in bed as his people toiled, however, so he caught what sleep he could in his chair. He had just drifted off when Mac pulled back the tent flap.

  “Sire! Ye’ll want to see this!”

  “Aye,” Dohr said, rising quickly.

  Dohr emerged from the text to find one of the largest dwarves he had ever seen being held up by two soldiers. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he recognized the scout as one of the fabled Flint’s Five.

  “Corporal Lux,” Dohr said icily. “Decided against desertion after all, did ye?”

  “Sire, please. Nova needs help,” Lux croaked. He could barely say the words, exhausted as he was. “She be dyin’, got a fever somethin’ awful–”

  “That so? And why might that be a concern o’ Belgorne?” Dohr asked with disdain. “The lot of ye turned tail on your kin!”

  “Let me go, damn yeh!” hollered a female voice from behind Lux. Dohr looked past Lux and saw two dwarves struggling to maintain their grip on a thrashing, middle-aged gnome woman.

  “What’re yeh lookin’ at?” Thinsel snapped at Dohr. “Ain’t yeh never seen a gnome?”

  “Ye’d do well to watch your tongue,” Mac warned. “This be the king o’ Belgorne.”

  Thinsel frowned. “This is yer king? Surely not. My Shyla is older than this one.”

  Dohr ignored the comment, moving past Thinsel to examine a woman tied to a sled. A wisp of steam escaped from between her chapped lips. “This be Nova, then?” Dohr asked.

  “Aye. Please Sire, get ’er to a healer,” Lux begged. “Please.”

  Dohr nodded to Mac. “Get her fixed up best you can. Secure Corporal Lux. We’ll execute them before we depart.”

  Lux hung his head, too tired to argue.

  “Execute?” Thinsel asked. “Execute fer what?”

  Dohr turned to the gnome, a flare of hatred in his eyes. “Desertion. But ye need not worry about it. Ye’ll be long dead before the ropes claim these two.” Dohr addressed the soldiers holding Thinsel. “Get this one into me tent. Tie ’er to a chair. It be long past time for some answers.”

  XX: WEST MORLINE

  Mila convinced herself the first two bodies had been ravaged by wolves. It was early. She was tired. She had spent the previous two days walking with little rest, pouring energy into her gems, which she used at night to camouflage and warm her as she sle
pt. She did not imagine that wolves would dismember their prey and leave it to rot, but in truth she had never seen the remnants of a wolf attack. In any case, she allowed that perhaps her weary, snow-blind eyes had played tricks on her. She was not frightened. Not really. Her magic would protect her.

  Where another might have been alarmed at the prospect of spending several days walking headlong into freezing winds and blinding snows, Mila Felsin was not. Neither was she daunted by the challenge of beginning such a trek without provisions. Melting the continuously falling snow to feed her thirst had proven simple enough. Finding food had not been much more difficult; lessons passed on by the vile man she had come to trust after Sartean took her parents from her were well ingrained. Loathsome as Mila’s memory of Darrin may have been, he had taught her well. The skills of tracking, hunting, cleaning and cooking game were still second nature to her, and her magic made hunting effortless. She had managed two filling meals of rabbit in as many days and carried with her enough dried leftovers to last another, should she not encounter more. Between her boundless magic and considerable survival expertise, Mila Felsin could endure most anything, certainly a blizzard.

  When she encountered the next dispersal of human remains, however, a trace of fear fouled her otherwise illimitable self-assurance. It was impossible to know how many men, women, and children she saw scattered before her in the snow. A bloody distribution of parts of what had once been living beings, clumps of torn flesh and broken, unidentifiable body fragments lay strewn across her path. The snow obscured much, and she might have missed the scene of devastation, were it not for the horses.

  This was no wolf attack. This was something bigger. Much, much bigger.

  Mila could not imagine a beast large enough to bite a horse clean in two, but as she stood in the blowing snow analyzing the carcass of what had once been a large bay, she had no doubt something had. She also knew that, whatever it was, it had not come from within the trees on either side of the trail. Anything large enough to have committed the horror she saw before her would have left a path of destruction through the foliage, from whichever way it had come, and such a path did not exist. Which left two possibilities: either the creature followed these people along the trail itself, and waited somewhere up ahead, or it had attacked from above.