Spawn of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  More. Men. Women. Old. Young.

  Sartean sobbed freely. “Please! I cannot bear this!”

  ~I was to be wed.~

  ~I had a family.~

  ~I was with child.~

  ~I was a child.~

  Sartean slammed his head against the floor, desperate to stop the voices. They did not relent. Vivid recollections of his deeds flooded his mind’s eye. He saw it all again, every detail. Every scream. Every plea. Every final gurgling breath. He smelled the coppery odor of leaking blood, tasted the sweat that would run down his face as he worked himself into a murderous lather. He watched himself proudly practice at the task of disintegrating the bodies.

  I will be a body soon.

  I am going to die.

  And I am going to burn.

  ~

  Incantor Mannith stepped into the threshold, blocking Jarriah’s path to the storerooms. “Oh look, it’s the lapdog,” he said. “Hello, lapdog.”

  “Get out of my way, Mannith. I’ve been sent here–”

  “Of course you’ve been sent here,” said Incantor Tithia, moving to stand at Mannith’s shoulder. “And with a good cuffing, by the looks of your cheek. I suppose you don’t use the privy without being sent these days. Do you, lapdog?”

  Several other Incantors drew near, some from inside the storeroom, some coming down the steps behind Jarriah.

  Jarriah quickly assessed the situation. Action would be needed, and quickly. He reached out to Mannith and touched his forearm. The Incantor collapsed instantly. Tithia quickly took a step back.

  “He is asleep, but he is breathing. For now. He will stop breathing if I wish it. Let me pass, Tithia.”

  Tithia glared at Jarriah. Jarriah lifted a threatening hand towards Mannith.

  “Fine! But you’re wasting your time. There is no more.”

  “There had better be,” Jarriah warned.

  “Or what?” said a man from behind him. Jarriah turned to see the elderly Incantor Orrin, quartermaster of Kehrlia. “Do you think to put us all to sleep, lapdog?”

  Jarriah sighed. “No, Orrin. But if there is no more, Sartean will be dead within hours.”

  “Let him die!” Orrin said. Several others joined in, sharing the same sentiment.

  “Don’t be fools. We still need him. There are secrets in his possession that may yet save us. He has greater power than all of you combined, even weakened. If we hope to kill that…. that dragon thing–”

  Tithia interrupted. “Which he just failed to do this morning, despite the amulet given him by the Daughters.”

  “Yes. He did. We all did. But now we know several things we did not know before.”

  “And what’s that?” Orrin asked.

  Jarriah shook his head. “You really are daft, all of you. How in Tahr did you graduate Kehrlia?” Jarriah began pacing, speaking in turn to each of the dozen Incantors present. “We know the beast can fly faster than any being ever to exist. We know he possesses great and innate magic. We know he can breathe fire. We know he is invulnerable to fire – in fact, he seems to have a fondness for it. We know some form of acid drips from his scales. We know the beast is intelligent. And above all, we know he is arrogant.”

  Tithia laughed cheerlessly. “And why should he not be, with such power?”

  “Tithia, if you were to be asked to douse a fire, how would you do it? Think. If this dragon is vulnerable to anything, it would be water. Or perhaps cold. Or perhaps cold water.”

  “Ice,” Orrin replied. “Which is all well and good, except that none of us can produce ice. If such magic exists, we do not possess it.”

  “Which is why we need Sartean! If such magic does exist, he would know of it. And if it does not, we will need all the power we can muster to drown that black bastard in the Morline.”

  A young Incantor named Wil chimed in. “We might be better off with the dragon,” he said. “D’Avers has lost his mind. I say we open the door, let the beast inside, and let the two of them battle it out in the vestibule. I’m fairly certain I can make it out of Mor before they finish with each other.”

  “The dragon won’t fit through the door, you imbecile,” said Tithia.

  Wil smirked. “Well, you get my point.”

  “We need them both dead,” said Jarriah. “Sooner rather than later.”

  “Oh, would you look at that,” Orrin said, “the lapdog is growing a spine.”

  Jarriah turned on Orrin. “My spine is intact, I assure you. And it is connected to a brain, which is more than I can say for the rest of you. While you all have been gossiping like hens, lamenting your lot, I’ve been working to save Kehrlia. Why do you think I rescued Sartean, while you all huddled in terror here in the tower? Because I am a lapdog? Idiot. We need his power. And why do you think I’ve been feeding him Flightfluid? Because we also need him to die when we are through with him.”

  “And I suppose you think you’ll win yourself a seat in that library when it’s all said and done, then, Incantor?” mocked Tithia.

  Jarriah stared at Tithia in disbelief. “Yep. Daft as a brush. I haven’t even graduated, Tithia. I’m a novice, no matter what title Sartean bestows on me. But I intend to live long enough to remedy that. And for that to happen, we need him alive.”

  No one spoke for several moments. Jarriah sensed he had turned the tide.

  “Good. Now if that’s settled, will one of you please tell me what in Fury happened to all the Flightfluid?”

  “You know damned well what happened to it. We sold it. No reason not to,” said Tithia. “Every laborer in Mor has been begging in the streets for that pigswill.”

  “And now it’s gone,” said Jarriah. “Unbelievable.”

  “Nearly,” said Orrin. “I may have squirreled a couple bottles away.”

  “Get them. And hurry, before he does die.”

  ~

  “Master. Here. Drink. Just a bit, now.”

  Sartean was barely conscious. Far too weak to reach for the bottle. Jarriah poured a thimbleful into his open mouth.

  “More,” Sartean croaked. “Please.”

  Jarriah felt momentary pity for the man, for the look of him was indeed pitiful. No one should suffer like this, Jarriah thought, until he remembered that Sartean was the one responsible for the abominable potion to begin with. Well, not no one.

  “Thank you. Oh, Jarriah, thank you. I am so sorry.”

  Jarriah blinked. Sartean moved to sit up.

  “Easy, now. Take your time,” Jarriah said.

  Sartean shook his head as he sat upright. “I mean it, Jarriah. I have been so cruel to you. To everyone.”

  “You are weak, Master. You will feel better shortly.”

  “No, Jarriah, I will not. Not unless…” Sartean trailed off.

  “Master?” Jarriah was sincerely confused.

  Sartean met his eyes. “You must only give me what I need, no more. Promise me.”

  Jarriah frowned.

  “Promise me, Jarriah. Only what I need. I must be redeemed.”

  “Redeemed?”

  Sartean coughed. “I cannot die like this. As this… thing. Promise me, Jarriah.”

  Jarriah nodded slowly, uncomprehending.

  “I promise, Master. Come, let me help you to the couch.”

  Jarriah laid Sartean on the couch, gagging, wiping his hands on the wizard’s robe as he withdrew. The Master of Kehrlia’s flesh was practically soggy, a putrid mix of sweat and bile coating his skin. Jarriah took a seat in a chair by the desk and quickly evoked a minor enchantment to combat the odor. He turned the chair to observe the wizard; Sartean immediately began to snore.

  Redeemed? Jarriah thought, unable to imagine what nonsense the Incantor might have meant by the word.

  XXVII: THE MAW

  Barris Listened.

  Had his knights been near, he would have known it, and they were not. Yet the scent of magic drifted on the winds, elven magic, and thus he could surmise that Nishali’s rangers had beaten his knights to the rendez
vous point. They would be arranged in Tenths, in constant communion with one another, and their thoughts would be audible to a fellow elf who chose to attune themselves to the Speech.

  “I’m tired, Sir Barris,” Nikalus said, his first complaint since dusk had fallen several hours before. “Can’t we–”

  “Silence, Nikalus. For a moment now.”

  A crunching footstep just off the trail to Barris’ left drew him around. Had the sound indicated a threat, Phantom would have alerted him. As he did not, Barris knew.

  “Hello, Nishali. I did not hear you.”

  Nishali and Kade stepped onto the twinlit path. Nishali cast an orb of soft blue light.

  “We dared not Speak. How do you fare, First Knight?” Nishali asked.

  “I fare well, but my friend here is in need of attention. Nikalus, meet Nishali Windwillow, First Ranger of Thornwood, and her Second, Kade.”

  “Whoa. First Ranger? Uh, hello, miss, or ah, ma’am–”

  “Nishali will do, Nikalus. Well met. You are injured?”

  “His leg,” Kade replied. The ranger had already taken Champ’s reins and Bonded with the animal. “When the beast emerged.”

  Nishali nodded. “Kade will care for you, Nikalus. Go with him, now. Barris and I must speak.”

  Nikalus turned to Barris. The knight nodded his assent. Kade led Champ up the path. When they were out of earshot, Barris spoke.

  “Why did you dare not Speak?”

  Nishali shook her head. “I do not know if the thing can Listen. I did not wish to attract its attention. Barris, it is a horror.”

  “You saw it?”

  “We all did. My Tenth. It overflew our position just after the last quake.”

  “Tell me.”

  Nishali described the beast in the best detail she could. Barris listened in silence until she concluded.

  “You are certain of its size?”

  Nishali nodded. “Of that above all else. I am not ashamed to say, Barris… I cowered. And I have never cowered before a thing in my long life.”

  Barris nodded but remained silent.

  “You do not seem surprised, First Knight,” Nishali observed.

  Barris took a long breath and dismounted Phantom. “You know of our oath. Of our duty.”

  “I know only that you have one. It is this?”

  Barris nodded. “I believe so. Pheonaris and I conducted the Rite of Provari at the Grove.”

  “Oh, good Father. It is as Sir Marchion said.”

  “So he fulfilled his duty, then? In my absence? Good. Very good.”

  “We did not take him at his word, Barris. It was too implausible.”

  Barris nodded and began walking Phantom in the direction Kade had taken Nikalus.

  “Hence the need for the Rite. Whoever saw this future, they saw it well.”

  “Did they? Barris, I fear your knights cannot stand against this beast, oath or no.”

  “No,” Barris agreed solemnly. “We cannot. That will be a task for others. But it is an omen of what is to come, and against that, we must stand.”

  “Others? Who?”

  Barris shook his head. “That I do not know. Well, I do not know for certain.”

  “Tell me what you do know.”

  They walked in silence for several moments before Barris replied.

  “It is as Marchion would have told you. In his recitation of Ta Spen ah Ya Di.”

  “Five, then. Which five, Barris?”

  “I know of four. One of which is your princess.”

  “Good Father! And the others?”

  “I fear to tell you, Nishali. You may not believe.”

  “I will believe anything you impart as truth, First Knight.”

  “Nü glahr ni, First Ranger. Very well. I will tell you what I know.”

  And he did. Barris told of the Firstson of Belgorne, of Lucan not-Thorne, of Shyla Greykin. He described to Nishali their demonstrations of magic, of Lucan’s unlikely Bond with Hope, of Aria’s maddened ride to the Grove.

  “As extraordinary as this may seem, Nishali, the inherent magic I sensed in these four, in Lucan and Shyla in particular, was beyond anything I could have ever imagined in a mortal being. It is a wild magic, unrestrained, untaught, completely innate. They do not know it, not yet, but the power they wield is beyond reckoning.”

  “They will need every drop, if they are to stand against the beast,” Nishali replied. “And what of Aria? Does she possess this power as well? She seemed a gifted young novice of the Order, by all accounts, but–”

  “As I said, she does not yet realize the power she carries. But there can be no doubt. Pheonaris’ vision urged her to the Grove, and she arrived just in time to meet the others. When events align–”

  “Seek the design.”

  “Indeed. And the fifth then? An Airie? It seems that part is a speculation, yes?”

  “It is. But naught else would make sense. In any case, the Airies must be warned, and brought into alliance, if possible. A parley with our friends in the West was required.”

  Nishali and Barris came to a halt as they neared the clearing where her rangers waited. Soft, magical light bathed the snow-covered valley in blue.

  “I do not doubt the wisdom of sending them West. Only, the trip is long, and I fear that if they are to confront the beast, they will need training in their talents. Do you not agree?”

  Barris nodded. “I do. Which is why I must return to the Grove. I did not know the omen would arrive so quickly. Sir Marchion will need to lead the knights in this… what is this, Nishali? What does the queen intend?”

  Nishali regarded Barris intently.

  “You did not ask how our queen fares.”

  “She fares poorly, I expect. The loss of our people in this way… I know her heart. It is breaking.”

  Nishali nodded. “It is, Barris. But she is strong. She will not see the elven people fall to this horror.”

  Barris locked his gaze with Nishali.

  “So she will attack, then.”

  “My orders were to attempt a parley, together with you, and seek a peaceful resolution.”

  “If G’naath is indeed behind this, Nishali, it cannot be the whole of their population.”

  “Can it not? We do not know that, Barris. I assume nothing. Neither should you.”

  Barris looked away, towards the clearing.

  “You are angry.”

  “Of course I am angry. But do not dismiss my judgment as clouded. I will do as my queen demands of me and seek a peaceful end to this.”

  Barris turned to Nishali again. “There can be no peaceful end here, Nishali. But I do not believe G’naath is our enemy, for I know too well who our true enemy is.”

  Nishali sighed. “I hope you are right. I have no desire to slaughter innocent families of G’naari. It is not me you should worry about, in any case. Belgorne marches.”

  “Oh, for Tahr’s sake. You would think Garne Silverstone has enough problems without starting a war.”

  “I doubt he thinks he’s started it. In any case, they may not have any choice. My scouts report all of Belgorne has emptied into the Maw. The city may have fallen.”

  “You will need to send an emissary, find out what the king intends.”

  “I intend to go myself at dawn. You should stay until the parley, Barris. You are well suited to negotiate a peace.”

  Barris shook his head. “Sir Marchion is older and far wiser than I, Nishali. I am First only because he would not be. Trust him. Is he near?”

  Nishali shrugged. “I cannot be certain. I gave the order to cease using the Speech until we knew more about this beast. I felt it prudent to assume the abomination possesses magic.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I do believe he is no more than a day behind, however.” Nishali’s tone became tenuous. “He skirted the foothills on his route.”

  “Do not fear for the knights, Nishali.” He patted the wooden emblem of his station that fastened his cloak shut. “My brooch
has not warned me. Sir Marchion has not faced battle.”

  Nishali nodded. “Very well. Will you at least rest before you go?”

  Barris shook his head. “I fear I am late as it is. Will you care for the boy? He is dear to me.”

  “Of course.”

  “He will be upset by my leaving.”

  “We will care for him, Barris.”

  “If it comes to war–”

  Nishali placed a hand on the knight’s chest. “Barris. I promise.”

  Barris nodded and took Nishali’s hand. “And you are dear to me as well, Nishali Windwillow. Be well. Take no undue risk.”

  Nishali reached up to stroke Phantom’s muzzle. “Take care of our First Knight, Phantom. He pushes himself too hard.”

  “It is Phantom that I push too hard. But we will do our duty, will we not, old friend?”

  Phantom snorted in reply. Barris alighted the saddle.

  “I will send word on the winds when I reach the Grove. When your parley has concluded, will you do the same?”

  Nishali nodded. “I will. Hopefully it will be a good word.”

  “All will be as it must be,” said the knight.

  “As it must be,” replied the ranger.

  XXVIII: THE FALLS OF EYRE

  You need not tie them, Mikallis, husband of none. Truly.”

  Mikallis turned towards the young, masculine voice. A muscular Airie male, dark-skinned and bald of head, stood passively before him.

  “I would prefer to not look for them at dawn, sir. They will need feeding, and–”

  “They will be well fed, I assure you. Do you fear they will abandon you?”

  Mikallis frowned. “Well, no, I–”

  “Captain, you are our guest. You are welcome. You need not deceive.”

  Mikallis sighed. “You are right. Forgive me. Yes, I fear the horses may run off, and–”

  “You fear that Triumph may run off.”

  The captain met the Airie’s dark eyes.

  “I do.”

  “Because you misused him on your journey to the Grove. You carry much guilt for this.”

  A moment of quiet passed.

  “I do.”

  “Triumph knows this. He knows you are sorry. He feels guilt as well. He fears that he has let you down, but he also fears your anger.”