Spawn of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  “All right. Anything else, corporal?”

  “Yes, sir. But… well I’m not sure what to make of it.”

  Slater stared at the corporal.

  “Ah, well, it’s the Daughters, sir. Word is, they’ve been all around the city, just standing in the middle of one road or another.”

  “What?” demanded Gerald. “Explain, man!”

  “I don’t know, mister. I saw one myself. She was just standing there when I started my shift at midnight, at the corner of Taper and Prospect, hands in the air like she was praying or something. I didn’t make anything of it, you know how odd those–”

  “A Daughter of Kal? You’re certain of this?”

  The corporal nodded. “They’re pretty easy to spot, mister. No mistake.”

  “Dammit! Anything else?” Gerald asked.

  “That’s it,” the man said. He turned to Slater. “Nothing else to report, sir.”

  “General, we must speak in private,” Gerald said, his tone severe.

  “Very well. You’re dismissed, corporal. Good job.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Gerald waited until the man left.

  “This is bad. Real bad,” Gerald said.

  “Bad how? Worse than a beast out of nightmares breathing fire and eating the Incantors of Kehrlia? Worse than famine?”

  “At least as bad as those, General. Listen to me. The Daughters of Kal… they’re no charlatans. I know what everyone thinks, but those women are at least as powerful as Kehrlia. And if what your corporal said is correct… oh, this is bad.”

  “Explain, Gerald,” Vincent said. “Get yourself together.”

  “Yes, please do,” said Slater.

  “All right. You’ve heard of bone magic?”

  Slater scoffed. “You mean the nonsense pouches of ‘remedies’ those hooded fanatics peddle in the markets? Please.”

  “No, not that. That’s just for show, General. And to earn gold. But those remedies don’t fail because they’re fake. They fail because the Daughters want to be dismissed as frauds. Those women are among the most formidable and talented Incantors ever to be trained at Kehrlia, and they’re led by one who’s as dark and powerful as they come.”

  “The Red Raven,” Vincent said.

  “Thomison, ask your wizard to get to the point, please.”

  “Dammit, General! You must listen to me! Do know who she is? The Red Raven? She’s Sartean D’Avers’ mother!”

  “Fury she’s not,” Slater said.

  “No, he’s right, General. On that point at least.”

  “You’re damned right I am. And the point, General, is this: if she had her crows out on the streets tonight, they were gathering power for something. That’s how it’s done. Don’t bother asking more about it, just take my word for it. You don’t want to know.”

  “I’ll trust that much,” Slater said.

  “Power for what, Gerald?” asked Vincent.

  “Gah! I don’t know! Let me think, just… just let me think a moment!”

  Gerald walked away, pacing, muttering to himself.

  “We’ve got bigger problems to worry about, Thomison. You must know that.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, General. I’ve known Gerald for thirty years. I’ve never seen him this riled.”

  “I know you think we should wait this thing out. I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “What do we do then?”

  “You do nothing, if that’s what you please. I can’t keep my army in hiding, cowering while Mor is terrorized by this thing.”

  “You can’t fight it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But you do. It’s not cowardice to save your men for when they can do some good, General. It’s strategy.”

  “Don’t presume to lecture me about military strategy, Vincent. I’m listening to all you have to say, because I owe you that much. But until I hand over my army to you, it’s still my army.

  Gerald rejoined the conversation. “And if you want them to live another day, General, you’ll stand down. I think I know what they were up to.”

  “Go on,” Slater said.

  “Sartean wouldn’t dare go into battle against a foe such as this without believing he would win. I believe the Daughters were helping him tonight. Nothing else makes sense.”

  “Unless they were acting against him,” said Vincent.

  Gerald shook his head. “I thought of that. Doesn’t carry water. The Daughters like their obscurity. They’d want Sartean ruling Mor. He’d make just their sort of king.”

  “Well, that and the fact that their leader is his mother, for Tahr’s sake,” said Slater.

  Gerald scoffed at the idea. “The Raven would roast her son on a spit if she thought it would honor Kal, General. Whatever those hooded witches might be, they are fanatics. You had that part right. And besides, if they had sided with the beast against Kehrlia, the tower would be a pile of rubble right now. Since it’s not, we can only assume they sided with Sartean. And if I’ve got that part right, you need to send your men into hiding. And fast.”

  “Because?” asked Slater.

  “Because if the combined powers of Kehrlia and the Daughters of Kal couldn’t defeat that thing, it can’t be defeated.”

  The general turned to Vincent.

  “I believe him, General. He knows Kehrlia, he knows the Daughters, and he knows this… this bone magic as well. I don’t doubt a word.”

  “Then what in Fury do we do? I’m not giving up on the people of this kingdom, Thomison.”

  Vincent shook his head. “No, we are not.”

  “If my soldiers die defending them, then we die.”

  “If it comes to that, General, I will die alongside you.”

  Slater locked eyes with Vincent for a long moment.

  “I believe you would, Thomison.”

  Vincent turned to Gerald. “So, you heard the general. What do we do?”

  “The only thing we can do. We need to ally with Kehrlia. And the Daughters, if they’ll join us. And the elves. And the dwarves. And whatever gnomes see the right of all this.”

  Slater shook his head. “And if there are any orcs left in the west, should we seek them out, too? Why not gather up some trolls, while we’re at it? An alliance like you’re talking about… it’ll never happen.”

  “It has to, General. Or we all die. And the trolls… that’s not a bad idea.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You think that one beast is going to kill every man, woman, and child in Tahr?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “We don’t know it’s just the one,” said Vincent.

  Gerald and Slater turned to Vincent in horror.

  “Well, we don’t. There could be more. If not today, perhaps soon. What? You both know I’m right. What reason do we have to believe that this is the last of the disasters we’ll be facing? The world has gone to Fury. You’re right, Gerald. We need to unite the kingdoms.”

  Slater shook his head. “It’ll never happen. Not after the way Halsen dealt with the other kingdoms. We’re hated by all, and rightly so.”

  “Halsen’s dead,” said Gerald.

  “And Mor has no king,” said Slater. “With whom will the kingdoms treat, then? You, Vincent? You expect to just climb the dais, sit the throne, and wait for someone to come plant a crown on your head? Why? Because you’ve got a pile of gold and a heart full of ideals? You’re a convicted murderer, returned from the dead. I’m sorry, Vincent, but right now, as far as the rest of Mor is concerned, that’s what you are.”

  Vincent nodded. Gerald started to speak in his defense; Vincent raised a hand to stop him. After an extended pause, Vincent spoke.

  “To the Mawbottom with thrones and crowns,” Vincent said. “Same with treaties. You said it yourself. This is about people.” Vincent stood. “Get some sleep, Gerald. You’re going to need it. General, will you spare me a squad of men?”

  The ge
neral eyed Vincent. “I might. What do you intend?”

  “Well, first, I intend to take a nap. When I wake, I intend to see about making some new friends.”

  Slater shook his head. “That thing out there is going to eat you, Vincent.”

  Vincent shrugged. “Then you’ll probably want to give me your best men and make sure that doesn’t happen. I haven’t yet told you where all my gold is.” Vincent extended his hand.

  “Good point.” The general clasped Vincent’s arm. “You’ll have your squad. Go find Captain Perris. She should be upstairs. She’ll arrange quarters for you.”

  Vincent and Gerald headed for the stairway.

  “You’re going to make me ride a horse, aren’t you?” asked Gerald.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Bastard.”

  XXX: THE GROVE

  Asoft, glowing light emanated from the Speechstone at Pheonaris’ bedside. She woke instantly.

  Aria.

  The Mistress of the Society of the Grove briefly considered putting on a kettle before listening to the message but decided against it. If the missive from the princess was urgent, a reply could be required immediately. She reached for the stone and threw her legs over the bed. She focused her mind and thought of Aria. The stone began to warm, and soon the voice of the princess emerged within Pheonaris’ mind.

  ~If you are awakened by this message, forgive me. Do not be alarmed. I am unharmed, as are those in our company. We are safe for now in the Elms of Eyre. Much has happened, much that I feel you and my mother must know. The first matter is one that does not yet overly concern Thornwood, though I cannot but guess that it is of importance.

  In our travel to Eyreloch, we encountered a trio of Incantors attempting the murder of another. We intervened, not knowing the cause of the battle, only that one man was about to die. That man was the Master of Kehrlia, Sartean D’Avers. Our intervention allowed him to escape, though in hindsight, I do not know that our interference was wise nor just. In any case, it was my decision, and I could not have made another. I would have arrested them in the name of our treaty with Mor, and in fact declared to, but one of the Incantors in particular, a young woman named Mila Felsin, was beyond doubt the most powerful practitioner of magic I have ever seen. To attempt a forcible arrest would have endangered us all, and so I decided to warn them from Thornwood or face trial. It was her contention that their assault was just, that Master D’Avers was an evil man, and perhaps her cause was indeed moral, but that is not for me to decide. In her company was a great-sized man named Earl, an elderly male Incantor named Yano, and a young female named Sienni. Let it be known that Mila Felsin and her companions are wanted in Thornwood and are to be arrested on sight, but I urge you to convey that all due caution should be exercised in executing the warrant.

  The remainder of our journey was without incident until we reached the Elms. Pheonaris, you will suspect what I say next is fanciful, but I give you my oath, I do not exaggerate.

  We were set upon by a great black flying beast, a thing we believe to be called a dragon, and but for some unknown magic that called it away, we would all be no more. The dragon has a name, which I did hear, and perhaps it will do our people some good to know. Its name was Kalashagon. I do not know if you can sense my feeling in these words, but if you cannot, know that to tell you its name was to defile my own spirit.

  The beast was, to my estimation, as large as the Yard of the Citadel. Its fangs and claws were as long as an elf is tall. And this is the part you may think I exaggerate: it breathed fire at will. Not merely a flame – a torrent that nearly incinerated us all, but for a shield Trellia erected, much like the one you cast at the Trine Crossing. Even with my Link to add to her magic, we had but moments to live before the dragon was called away by a voice on the winds.

  The beast is intelligent. It can speak telepathically. And it was malevolent, Mistress. You must warn our people. You must warn the other kingdoms. I do not know from where it came, but it will take all the power of the elves to defeat it, if even it can be defeated.

  I must share with you more news of great importance, news that I fear is terrible indeed. The King of Belgorne has died. I do not know how, only that the Airies could sense his passing on the winds. J’arn is beside himself with grief, and I do not know that he will remain in our company long. He has already stated that he intends to make for Belgorne after we wake and discuss our purpose for this embassy.

  I am hopeful that when we wake tomorrow, we will be allowed into the Eyre to petition for the assistance we came for, though we are being tested this night, and they have refused to discuss our purpose here until it is determined whether we have earned their trust. The Airies seem to me a kind and whimsical people, but they are also rigid in their customs and beliefs, and I cannot yet say whether they will assist us. The moment I know more on this, I will message you again, but I felt it was necessary to deliver the news I have while I lie here in quiet and prepare to rest.

  I wish you were here. I am doing my best to honor Thornwood and to ensure this quest is successful, but I am always afraid, always unsure, and if I am to be honest, I know that I am simply unprepared for leadership. The others know this as well, though they have been kind enough to defer to me. To this point, at least. As the perils ahead become clearer, I cannot say whether they will continue to. I know our people rely on me, Mistress. I will do my duty as best I can. But I do not trust the decisions I make. Without Trellia, I would be lost.

  Do not tell my mother of my doubts. She has enough to concern herself with. Tell her only that I am well, and that I am her daughter, and I will serve our people as I am expected.

  Give her my love but save some for yourself. I miss you, Pheonaris. I miss my home in the Grove. You need not reply unless you have word you must send. I know the magic in this stone is precious, as are you for giving it to me.~

  Pheonaris wiped away tears as she listened to the last part. The glow of the stone began to fade. She cast a light into her lamp and carried it to the kitchen to make tea. There would be no more sleep this night, she knew.

  She would need to share Aria’s news with Terrias immediately, but she could not provide the same level of detail Aria had in a single message; the magic in the stone was collected over time, and far more powerful than the ordinary magic of the Speech. She could Speak a brief message only without assistance, and even that would take time to arrive in Thornwood.

  In any case, much was already known. The existence of the dragon – though not its name – had been conveyed by Nishali’s rangers to Marchion, and in turn his knights had ridden hard to warn the Grove. She could perhaps share its name with the queen, which might bear some importance, but decided she would not do so; Aria’s terror and revulsion upon uttering it had been clear as day. The Mistress sensed a power within the name she did not wish to rouse.

  The battle between the Incantors was of little consequence. It was known that the throne in Mor sat empty, and it stood to reason that when a struggle for power began, Sartean D’Avers would be in the thick of it. As for Aria’s warrant against the would-be murderers, that could be conveyed on horseback.

  But King Garne, dead in Belgorne? What a tragedy, thought Pheonaris, knowing all too well what was portended by the news. But how? she wondered. A coup in Belgorne was unthinkable. Had a terrible accident befallen the king? Had the whole of Belgorne been laid to waste?

  What do I say? And to whom?

  A knock sounded at the door, just as Pheonaris decided she would need assistance to send a second message.

  “Come in, Petahr,” she called.

  The door to Pheonaris’ cabin opened and closed. “Did you know it was me, or did you Look through the door?” he asked.

  Pheonaris shook her head. “It is always you, Petahr. Tea?”

  “Yes, thank you. I hope I am not intruding, I saw your light–”

  “From your bed?”

  “Ah, well, no.”

  Pheonaris offered Petahr a cup
and saucer. She sat at her small dining table and motioned for him to sit across from her. “So, were you lying awake Listening to my thoughts, or did you just happen to be walking past my door at this hour?”

  “Neither, Mistress. I sensed the message from Aria. I assume it was from Aria, yes? It came from the west. Is she well? Is the Vicaris well?”

  Pheonaris sighed. “The device we used to communicate was made in secret. You should not have known of this message.”

  Petahr bowed his head. Pheonaris shook hers.

  “Never mind. And yes, they are well enough. But I do need your assistance.”

  “Of course.” Petahr perked up, pleased to be of use.

  “Can you Speak as well as you Listen?”

  Petahr nodded.

  “Good. You must use your Speech to contact Nishali. You must tell her the king of Belgorne is dead, and she must be wary in the Maw.”

  “King Garne! No!”

  “Peace, Petahr. You must do this now. I must send my own message to our queen, and I have not the strength to do both without resting between.”

  Petahr stood and moved to set the tea down, though there was nowhere to set it for the clutter on the table. Pheonaris stood and accepted the cup.

  “I will prepare the message immediately, Mistress. It will take me a few turns to gather the magic–”

  “A few turns? It takes me near to an hour.”

  Petahr blushed and bowed his head. “I did not mean to boast.”

  “No, by all means, boast. If you ever turn spy against Thornwood, Petahr, we are all doomed. Now go.”

  Pheonaris placed the cups of tea in her sink and made her way back to her small bedroom. She climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged in the dark. She began to chant softly.

  Near to an hour later, Pheonaris sent her queen a message of three words, words that only those privy to the meaning behind the Oath of Ya Di would comprehend:

  ~Judgment is sealed.~

  XXXI: THE FALLS OF EYRE