Spawn of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Lux swallowed a pull of water from the skin. “Aye. ‘Spose not.”

  “Well, don’t see how it matters much, in any case,” Kalder reasoned. “They ain’t comin’ out, and we can’t get in.”

  “Wouldn’t bet they ain’t comin’ out,” said Lux. “All that power… whatever them Elders done, musta been for a reason, dontcha think? They already rule G’naath. Must be somethin’ else they want.”

  Kalder nodded. “I s’pose that follows.”

  “Just ye wait ‘til we hear from Jade. She’ll get answers from that Cindra lady, I know it.”

  “We don’t need answers, Lux. We need food. We march for the Sapphire in two days, maybe less. Soon as we can break camp. And… well, yeah, two days.”

  “‘And’ what, Cap? What aren’t ye telling me?”

  Captain Kalder stared at the ground.

  “Cap?”

  “Hatchet already took the army to G’naath.”

  “What? Why in Fury would he do that? Ye said it already, we can’t get in!”

  Kalder shook his head. “Ain’t about getting’ in. There ain’t enough food, scout. Not by a sight.”

  The frown on the scout’s face became a scowl.

  “So they mean to die. To save rations for the rest.”

  Kalder nodded.

  “Then why in the name o’ Blackhammer ain’t Dohr leadin’ em?”

  The captain sighed. “Flint tied him up ‘fore they left. Said we’d need a Silverstone in the days ahead, no sense in the king sacrificin’ himself.”

  Lux eyed Kalder with suspicion. The captain looked away.

  “Then why ain’t he gone after ‘em since?”

  Kalder did not reply.

  “Why ain’t ye gone yourself, Cap?”

  Kalder sighed. “I got me orders, scout.”

  Lux shook his head. “My arse ye do.”

  Kalder stood, changing the subject. “Nova’s gonna come ‘round, from what I understand. Nasty infection, but they can treat it. Best I can do for ye is try to get Dohr to change his mind, so the two of ye live through this mess.”

  “And Thinsel?”

  “The gnome? For Tahr’s sake, scout, worry about your own–”

  “She ain’t done nothin’ wrong, Cap. Nothin’.”

  Kalder sighed. “King Dohr’ll not suffer her to live much longer. As I said, best I can do is take up for you and Nova–”

  Lux shook his head. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, that ain’t the best ye can do,” Lux sneered. He leaned back onto the cot, as far away from the Captain as his shackles would allow. “When ye opened the gate for Kari Flint, I thought, now that’s a dwarf with guts. And now, here ye be, huddlin’ with the old folk while the army goes off to die, talkin’ about ‘orders’, and ‘the best ye can do’. Get outta me sight, Captain Kalder. Lemme know when ye got that rope ready for me.”

  XXV: THE BARRACKS OF MOR

  General Slater and Vincent Thomison spent the next several hours poring over maps and record books, discussing troop levels, and above all, bemoaning the lack of food and other provisions. Unless something changed, the city of Mor would be starving well before the Spring thaw, and nothing was likely to change. The topic they avoided, however, became more and more insistent as the evening wore past midnight and later, and finally Slater ordered his captains to leave them in privacy.

  “So, it was you.”

  Vincent regarded the general for several moments before nodding.

  “The Merchant. You’re the bloody Merchant.”

  “I am. One of them, at least.”

  “There are more?”

  Vincent cleared his throat. “There are several of us. I was the first, but in time… well, I suppose we just got busy.”

  Slater folded his arms. “Busy.”

  “You know what it’s been like, General. Thirty years. If it wasn’t for the Merchants–”

  “If it wasn’t for the Merchants, my son would be under a mound of dirt. I owe you my son’s life, Vincent. My life. More.”

  “You owe me nothing. We did what we did because it needed doing.”

  “I’ll decide what I owe, and to whom. But I don’t owe you Mor. It’s not mine to give. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Vincent nodded. “I do.”

  Slater considered Vincent quietly for a turn.

  “Was it you? Specifically, I mean?”

  Vincent nodded. Slater held his gaze. The old soldier’s eyes grew moist. Slater cleared his throat.

  “He’s a good boy. A fine man now, as I understand it.”

  “You don’t speak?”

  Slater shook his head. “Haven’t dared to, though I get word, now and then. That bounty still hangs over his head, and there are plenty in the Sapphire cities who’d trip all over one another to collect it. Though, I suppose now with Halsen gone, there’d be no one to pay it.”

  Vincent nodded. Moments passed.

  “Doesn’t matter what we do, Vincent. We don’t solve the food problem, we’re just shuffling cards.”

  A mirthless laugh escaped Vincent’s throat.

  “Funny?”

  “No. I just remember saying something similar to a bastard of a wizard not long ago.”

  “Sartean.”

  Vincent nodded. “He’d have poisoned the whole of Tahr, General. He’s a madman. Evil as they come.”

  “No disagreement here. But now you’ve seen the numbers.” Slater waved a hand at the stacks of parchment strewn across the table. “Food is one problem. Kehrlia makes two. That damnable winged horror makes three. You tell me. How do we do it?”

  Vincent waved to Gerald, who stood patiently out of earshot. The wizard moved to join them.

  “If I can figure out two out of three, will that suffice for now?”

  It was Slater’s turn for a laugh. “Depends on which two.”

  “How may I be of service, Master Thomison?” asked Gerald as he approached.

  “You can skip the airs, Gerald. We’ll be using fair scales with the general.”

  “Oh, thank Lor.” Gerald turned to Slater. “Can you imagine what it’s like to prostrate myself to this one?”

  “I’ve never made you prostrate yourself, Gerald.”

  “You make me call you ‘master’.”

  Vincent rolled his eyes.

  “And carry your cloak.”

  “Enough, Gerald.”

  Slater watched the spectacle with amusement.

  “Old man like me. You should be ashamed.”

  “Oh, I’m ashamed. Don’t you worry.”

  Gerald pulled up a chair, making a show of taking his seat gingerly, pausing to ensure the general was watching. “My back. Aches something terrible in this cold.”

  Vincent’s patience wore thin. “Are you quite finished? If so, we’d like to discuss the fact that the world is ending. If you can fit us in, that is.”

  “See? Temperamental, too.”

  “Gerald!”

  “Hmph.” The wizard winked at the smiling general. “Very well. It would seem that we have three major challenges to discuss, yes? I can solve two certainly, three if we are very, very lucky.”

  “Were you eavesdropping, Mister Longstock?” Slater asked, no longer amused. “You’ll not use that magic nonsense around me, unless you feel like being thrown out on your arse.”

  “Oh, certainly not. But the situation is clear, to any who would see. Food, wizards, and foul beasts, yes?” Vincent and the general nodded. “Well, as I said, two of three should be solved easily enough. And if we are very lucky, perhaps the third as well.”

  “Go on,” Vincent prodded.

  “Well, the first two – food and wizards – those should be easy enough. Have the wizards grow the food.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” asked Slater.

  “The wizards. They can grow the food. Quite quickly, in fact. You’ve seen my chrysanthemums, Vincent?”

  Vincent covered his eyes with his palm. “N
ot this again, Gerald.”

  “See! You young pups think you know everything. I’ll have you know, general, that I have managed to breed and grow checkered chrysanthemums.”

  Slater blinked. “Checkered.”

  “Yes. Checkered. Of any color you might imagine. Tell him, Vincent.”

  “Yes. You can grow checkered chrysanthemums. I don’t see how–”

  “Checkermums, I call them. Clever, yes? And how quickly, Vincent? Go on, tell him.”

  Vincent rolled his eyes again. “Quickly. Fastest checkermums in Tahr. But I still don’t – ahh.”

  “Ha! See!” Gerald exclaimed, jumping from his seat. “I told you it would matter someday!”

  Slater eyed the wizard. “Back feeling better?”

  “Much!” Gerald danced around the chair.

  “You can stop gloating, Gerald.”

  “Oh, not anytime soon, Master Thomison! I shall relish this moment for all my remaining days!”

  “What say we get to relish it with you, then?” Slater asked. “Out with it now. What’s your plan?”

  Gerald took a seat. “I have discovered a way to grow a crop of any plant I choose in an accelerated fashion. Well, I think any plant. Maybe not some plants. The phenarril plant, mind you, now that’s a piece of work. Hmm. Never thought to consider how Sartean had managed–”

  “Gerald. Please. The point,” prodded Vincent.

  “Ah. Well, the point is this: it’s really not all that difficult. It’s a matter of proper nutrition, of course; the soil must be fertile, and of the right composition, and the environment must be conducive–”

  “Mister Longstock. Please.”

  “Gah! Light! Don’t you see? The limiting factor is light! But you cannot simply shine a bright light on a specimen, day and night. That would kill it–”

  “I think I understand, General. May I take it from here, Gerald? Translate your genius, as it were?”

  “Huh? Oh, well, yes. Of course, yes. Genius! That’s what it is!”

  “What the good Incantor is struggling to say in his excitement, General, is that with the application of some sort of magic, he can grow a plant to maturity in a quarter of the time it would typically require. And, I believe, he is saying he can train others to do the same, solving our food shortage. Yes?”

  “Well, other Incantors. It’s not quite as simple as–”

  “Hold on, now. There are three hundred thousand people in Mor,” the general said. “Have you considered the logistics? And even if you could manage it, it’s nearly–”

  “General. If I can grow a checkermum from seed to flower in a half cycle, I can certainly manage to grow a potato in the snow.”

  “And ash,” Vincent added.

  “And ash,” Gerald conceded. “Well, perhaps I’ll need to do away with the ash. But that’s not–”

  “Be quiet a moment. Let me think.” General Slater chewed on the idea in silence for a turn before he spoke again. “How many wizards would you need?” he asked.

  “Oh. Well, all of them, I’d suspect. Can you imagine? Oh, what a wonderful thing! A new age of magically modified agriculture, the end of all hunger, all the Incantors of Tahr working in concert–”

  “Oh, yes. Sounds utopian,” mocked Vincent. “I am sure the wizards of the tower will just be lining up to become farmhands. In any case, that brings us to Sartean,” said Vincent. “How do you intend to sort him out and gain access to the Incantors?”

  “Yes, there is that. I suppose I’d need to become Master. Not forever, mind you. Perish the thought. I hate that bloody tower.”

  “You? Master of Kehrlia?” asked Slater. “I mean no offense, but–”

  Vincent interrupted, a grave tone matching his expression. “General, there is no more powerful Incantor in Tahr.”

  Slater folded his arms. “Truly?”

  Vincent leaned in, speaking softly. “You were right, General. The first thing you said to me.”

  “About you being a dead man?”

  Vincent nodded.

  “You said it didn’t take.”

  Vincent nodded. Slater shot a glance towards Gerald, who avoided meeting it.

  “I don’t think I want to know this.”

  ‘You do not,” said Vincent.

  An awkward silence took root for the span of several breaths.

  “Look,” said Gerald finally, “I said I could solve two of our three problems. The matter of growing food is within my area of competence.”

  “Very well,” Slater said. “The other problem, then?”

  “Well, if I were a betting man, General, I would say that either the black beast will soon defeat Sartean, or Sartean will defeat the beast.”

  “And how did you come to that?” asked Vincent.

  “Simple. There is a power vacuum in Mor. Sartean wishes to fill it – we already knew that, given his Flightfluid scheme. Now that Halsen is dead, he should be able to walk right into the palace and take a seat. But he would be ruler of naught but a slaughterhouse, thanks to our black-winged friend. Sooner or later – most likely sooner – Sartean will hunt the beast. Until he does, we wait.”

  “I will not order my men to stand down while this beast rampages the city, Gerald.”

  “Then what will you do? How will you fight it?”

  The general shook his head. “Dunno.”

  “You cannot, General. If the descriptions I’m hearing have merit, this is a foe only magic can fell. For the time being, you can serve your kingdom best by preparing for an agricultural operation that will feed its people. Magic or no, this undertaking will be a logistical quagmire.”

  Vincent frowned. “Say you’ve got it right. Sartean battles the beast. What if he wins?”

  “Then we’d better hope he sees things our way. He just may. I would imagine the Incantors of Kehrlia would like to eat as well.”

  “But then we have Sartean for a king,” said Vincent.

  “True,” Gerald agreed.

  “And if he dies?” asked the general. “We’ll still have a beast to contend with.”

  “As I said, General. I can solve two of our three problems.”

  “You said three, if we are lucky.”

  Gerald shrugged. “Maybe they kill each other.”

  Slater shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like much of a plan. Seems more like cowering in a hole, hoping it all sorts itself out. How can you be so sure Sartean will fight the beast?”

  The sound of hammering footsteps stopped the conversation short. A breathless soldier came to stand before the general, clearly distressed.

  “Good morning, General. Forgive the interruption,” he said.

  “What news?” asked Slater.

  “Sir… something’s happened at Kehrlia.”

  XXVI: KEHRLIA

  Sartean flung the empty flask across the library at Jarriah, striking him square in the face.

  “FILL IT!”

  Jarriah stumbled from the blow, barely keeping his feet. A hot bruise began to form on his cheek as he continued to rummage through his master’s desk.

  “I will have to see if there is any more below, Master. There is none here.”

  “Then look below! We must have barrels more still!”

  Jarriah shook his head. “The quartermaster tells me the barrels are empty. I will try–”

  Sartean stormed his way around the desk. Jarriah cowered, expecting another blow. The Incantor towered over Jarriah, trembling in rage and withdrawal.

  “You will refill that flask, Jarriah, or you will die this day. GO!”

  Jarriah bent to retrieve the flask and hurried from the library. Sartean waited until the door closed behind him and fell to his hands and knees, wracked with pain. Every muscle, every bone, every tooth and joint cried out in longing. The power of the amulet had imbued the Incantor with a sense of absolute power, more than he had ever felt or known, and the sudden absence of that power left him scraped hollow, bereft of vitality, aware only of his insatiable need, of the terri
ble thirst that threatened to tear his soul loose from his flesh.

  Sartean’s tortured mind spared no thought for his failure to subdue the dragon, no attention to the carnage he had just witnessed. It did not matter. His Incantors did not matter. Kerhlia did not matter. The throne did not matter. Only his thirst. The trembling in his hands worked its way upwards; his arms began to convulse. He gnashed his teeth together and gnawed at his tongue, hoping the pain of it would distract him, if only for a moment. It did not, but the taste of blood triggered a gag in his throat, and soon he began to retch, dry, painful heaves that bore him the rest of the way to the ground.

  A distant but growing panic began to take root in his mind as he writhed on the floor of his library: he would die without another drink of Flightfluid. Soon. He supposed he had an hour left, at best. If Jarriah did not return…

  He has more. I know he has more! He is stealing it… selling it to the rabble of this wretched city. Why does he do this to me? I have elevated him above all others! Others… to Fury with the others! No, not to Fury. Dear Mother, why did you not warn me? But you did. You said Kal was real. You said Fury was real. You warned me. You said I would burn. You warned me.

  A great roar from outside shook the tower. Distant screams met Sartean’s ears as another of his Incantors died.

  This beast… this dragon… it is beyond me! It is not my fault! I tried. If only I had a few moments more!

  Another series of heaves interrupted his thoughts. He lay bent on the floor now, curled tightly. Tears fell freely from his reddened brown eyes, tears of pain, tears of shame, tears of terror.

  I cannot die! I cannot go there! Oh Mother, please come save me, please please please please PLEASE! I am so afraid!

  “I am sorry!” Sartean called aloud.

  It hurts. Oh, it hurts, so bad.

  A woman’s voice spoke in reply, but it was not his mother.

  ~Yes. It hurts. Like you hurt me.~

  Millie. Mila Felsin’s mother.

  ~And me.~

  Shane. Her father.

  ~And me. ~

  ~And us. ~

  More voices.

  “Stop. Please. I’m sorry.”

  ~And me. ~

  ~You hurt me, Sardine Cadaver. ~

  ~You laughed as I screamed. ~

  ~You killed me. ~