Spawn of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Wolf replied as expected.

  “WOOF!”

  Cheers and musical laughter marked the assent of the Airies present. Lor stood and withdrew to stand beside her sister.

  Lady Kal sauntered towards Lucan and Mikallis. She regarded the two silently for a moment, a leering smile playing at her dark lips. She waved a hand towards the elms; twilight had faded almost completely and so she signaled her people to illuminate the trees. Within a few moments the glade again began to glow. She stood before Mikallis, a hand’s width separating their faces.

  “Mikallis Elmshadow,” she said. “Captain of Thornwood. Husband of none. Yet…” she turned briefly to regard Aria, “you would not have it so.” The Lady let her gaze linger long enough to draw a blush from the princess. She turned back to Mikallis. “It is a rare thing for one to be accepted into our midst,” she purred, “Did you know that?”.

  “I did assume as much, Lady.”

  “But do you know how rare?”

  Mikallis shook his head. “No, Lady.”

  Kal turned from Mikallis and walked down the line silently towards Trellia, then back towards Shyla and Wolf, pausing to observe the expressions on each of the companion’s faces. She moved like a predator, each hungry step deliberately placed.

  “In the course of my life, there have been but three guests in the Eyre from the east.” When she again reached Aria, she stopped.

  “Your mother was one,” she said before turning to Trellia. “Your niece and queen. The other was your First Knight, long ago.” Kal stepped back a pace to meet Shyla’s eyes. “The last,” she said, “was your grandmother. Did you know that, Shyla?”

  Shyla shook her head, her eyes and jaw stuck open.

  “No, you would not have. She had given her vow. If you see her again, you may tell her that I release her from it.” She turned back finally to Mikallis. “Hundreds of others have come. All seeking the same thing. Our magic. For in all of Tahr, you will find no magic as is to be found in Eyreloch. We offered our assistance to a few, to be sure, but none save these three have earned entrance. When you arrived, Mikallis Elmshadow,” she briefly looked over her shoulder towards Lady Lor, “my sister said you would not likely be welcome either, by her standards.” Kal leaned in closely and whispered. “I took that as a challenge.”

  Mikallis remained still, his face impassive, but the vein throbbing in his neck belied his anxiety.

  “You were given a great gift last night, Mikallis.” Again, Kal shared a brief glance with Aria. She turned again to Mikallis. “Have you expressed your gratitude to Larra, wife of Volo?”

  Mikallis’ jaw fell open.

  “Ah, you did not know? Well, no matter. We are generous with our gifts here in the Eyre, to those who please us. And you do please us, Mikallis. And now that you have faced the truth of who you are, and of who you must be, do you believe you are worthy of the Eyre?”

  Mikallis stared into Kal’s grey eyes, unblinking.

  “I am a flawed creature, Lady Kal. As to whether I am worthy of the Eyre, I will leave that for you to decide.”

  Kal smiled, an expression somewhere between victory and satisfaction. She turned to Lor.

  “See? It is as I said.” She turned again to face Mikallis. “Captain of Thornwood,” she breathed, “I find you worthy of the Eyre.”

  The companions each released held breaths, the loudest issuing from Mikallis. Kal stood then before Lucan.

  “Lucan, husband of none. Does our home please you?”

  Lucan nodded. “What I have seen of it is splendid, Lady Kal. And you have been most kind to me.”

  “Yes. Kind. And why would I not be? Ah, poor Lucan. Orphaned so young. Left to fend for yourself in Mor. Such perils you faced in youth, such losses. Yet somehow you have retained… well, if not quite honor, then a thing akin to it. A code, you might call it. Yes?”

  Lucan nodded. “That is what I would call it, yes. Though I admit I have not always kept to it as well as I could have.”

  “No. You have not. Yet you acknowledge your failures. I would say you are a good man, Lucan, but… well, we both know that would be untrue, do we not?”

  Lucan swallowed, nodding again.

  “I will not toy with you, Lucan. You have been made an offer that would either see you welcomed into the Eyre, as you should be, or sent from this place, along with your companions. Have you considered my offer?”

  Lucan tried to swallow again, but his mouth was dry as sand.

  “I have, Lady.”

  “And what say you?”

  Lucan lifted his hazel eyes to meet Lady Kal’s grey gaze. For a turn, silence, but the expressions on their faces made clear that the two were speaking privately, mind to mind. Lucan’s expression softened; Lady Kal gnawed at her cheek. A pleading look flashed across Lucan’s face, but the Lady’s gaze hardened. At last, Lucan’s visage turned to steel as well, and the next words from Lady Kal did not need to be spoken.

  “Lucan, husband of none. You are not worthy of the Eyre!”

  Gasps sounded from the companions and Airies alike as Lady Kal withdrew to stand beside her sister. Lady Lor’s expression was despondent.

  “Visitors from the east,” Kal said sternly before anyone could object, “one who travels among you has shamed himself in our presence. You shall not set foot in the Eyre until such time as this affront is accounted for. You will depart our lands at once.”

  Voices of objection rose from each of the companions, the loudest being Aria’s.

  “Lady Kal! I beg that you reconsider! You do not understand what is at stake!”

  “I know very well what is at stake, Aria Evanti! Do you?”

  Worried voices blended together as the companions pleaded with the ladies.

  J’arn turned to Lucan. “If ye don’t fix this right now, Lucan, ye’ll catch my foot in your arse and worse.”

  Lucan shook his head. “You don’t know what you ask, friend.”

  “I know ye ain’t a friend o’ mine if ye don’t fix this right damned now! What does she want? Just give it to ‘er so we can git on our way!”

  Lucan stood silent.

  J’arn lunged for Lucan. Shyla stepped between them and was batted aside by J’arn swinging arm, the punch meant for Lucan but deflected off Shyla’s shoulder. Wolf jumped up, growling and snarling at J’arn.

  “Stop!” yelled Aria, her voice amplified in both authority and volume by an unintentional magic. “You will all stop now!”

  They did. All eyes were on the princess.

  “Ladies. We will do as you ask. We will leave your lands. But we have come here seeking one to join us in our quest. You must know this.”

  Lady Lor nodded. Kal replied.

  “You will not find what you seek here, Aria Evanti.”

  “Please! I do not ask for myself! None of us do!”

  “AND I DO NOT REFUSE YOU OUT OF PRIDE!” Kal answered, her own voice louder than Aria’s by magnitudes, as dark in its tone as the bones in her hair.

  “I will say this much, and no more! Hear me well! It is not an Alv Leve that you must find! You are already acquainted with the one you seek. You will find her in Mor, traveling by the name Felsin, but that is not her true name. But it matters not, for she will not help you! Your cause is lost, as are your people, and you have only yourselves to blame! Now be silent, and begone from these lands! If you are found within the Elms at dawn, you will die tomorrow, by my own hand!”

  ~

  The shameful trek from the falls and back to the trailhead was not a long one, though to the companions, time stood as still as the great trees through which they passed. Aria had declared that there would be no discussion among them until they had emerged from beneath the last elm, and aside from J’arn, who briefly seemed he might make good on his threat to Lucan, none complained against the silence.

  With each passing moment the air grew cooler, and after a time Aria called a halt to allow the travelers an opportunity to don cloaks and gloves.

&
nbsp; Lucan retrieved the violet cloak he had found in Hope’s saddlebag the night he escaped Mor. Aria watched as his fingers traced the embroidered “T”, marking the profound change in the brash young man she had first met not a cycle before. The Lucan she had met that day would not have remained silent at her behest. He would have made a joke, or picked an argument with Mikallis, or somehow made light of the situation in which they found themselves. This Lucan, the one who now fastened his cloak and sat astride Hope in quiet reflection, did not attempt conversation. He did not try to meet anyone’s gaze, but neither did he avoid them. Despite the shame he had brought upon the company, he appeared quite simply at peace, and the notion infuriated Aria.

  “You could at least pretend at remorse, you know.”

  Lucan turned in the saddle to face Aria. She expected he would quip that she had asked for silence. At the very least, she expected he would reply in his own defense. Yet he only regarded her in silence, his face unreadable in the scant light of the Twins.

  In Aria’s mind, Lucan stared at her accusingly. It was her decision to stop the battle between Mila and Sartean D’Avers. In doing so she had made an enemy of the friend they would need most. It was her fault the encounter happened as it did at all. Had they arrived a bit sooner, had she been more organized as the leader of their company, had she made some small, different decision along the way… Aria knew her anger towards Lucan was misplaced. Whatever offense he had given the Darklady, it likely changed very little. If the Airies were inclined to help do battle against the dark forces that threatened Tahr, they would have done so regardless of what Lucan did or did not do. Capricious as the Airies may be, Aria could not believe a personal slight would prevent them from aligning with the kingdoms of Greater Tahr, if they intended such a thing. She knew also that if what Kal said rang true, they would need to find Mila Felsin, which meant their path would not lead them into Eyreloch at all, but rather back the way they had come. Much as she would have liked a proper target for her anger and disappointment, Lucan’s deeds or misdeeds were likely not nearly as consequential as they might seem.

  Yet, perhaps, had we been allowed into the Eyre, they may have helped us stand against these evils we face, in some other way.

  “And perhaps we still may, Aria Evanti.”

  Aria turned to see the smiling Lady Lor standing between her and Lucan. She reached up to take Aria’s hand, guiding her to dismount Sera. Lucan leapt from Hope’s back as well, and within moments the company stood together beneath the Elms.

  “Lady,” Aria began, “I… I am so sorry. I know Lucan did not mean to give offense–”

  “Do you, Aria? Do you know this?” Lor asked gently.

  Aria looked to Lucan and back to Lor. “No. But I believe it.”

  “There are times, Aria Evanti, when we must believe the things we do not know, and times when we must not. The wisdom you long to possess will be found when you learn to discern between these. So also will be found the strength you seek, by then acting in accordance with your heart, no matter which truth you choose to believe. Now come, Princess of Thornwood. Come, Lucan. Come also J’arn, and Shyla and Wolf, and hold hands with me.”

  The companions formed a circle, hands joined as indicated by Lady Lor, J’arn and Shyla each resting a hand on Wolf’s neck. Trellia and Mikallis stood quietly a pace away. Lor lifted her head to Shyla, smiling warmly as gnome and dwarf fingers interlaced within a tuft of black fur.

  “Now, you must not speak, but listen only,” she said. “My sister believes you cannot succeed against the perils that lie ahead. I believe you can, and in this belief may be found either my own wisdom or folly. But the sands of the glass fall quickly now, and you are opposed by not only dark forces, but by both time and a want for knowledge. Close your eyes.”

  The companions did as asked.

  “To help you combat the forces of time, I shall give you each a ring shaped from the wood of the Great Elm, a tree of solid stone, and old as time itself. You may use each ring once, and in doing so, it will carry you forth to whomever you wish, and you will not need to travel. You need only speak their name with intent and hold fast to one another, as we do now.”

  In the space of a breath, four rings of petrified wood appeared, each on the index fingers of Aria, Lucan, J’arn and Shyla. The sensation was odd, both wondrous and surprising, but as requested, they remained still with their eyes closed.

  Lady Lor took a long, deep, breath. Lucan held her right hand, and Aria her left, and they would each later recall only the slightest tremble. “As Lady Lor of Eyreloch, it is given to me to know of all magics, and against the perils you must soon face, all magics will be required. But you, my brave friends, still want for this knowledge, and there is no time to impart it. And so, with peace in my heart,” Lady Lor’s sweet, smooth voice trembled, “and the knowledge that I have fulfilled my duty to my namesake, I give you now my Gift. You are beautiful to me, Champions of Tahr.”

  Scenes from a life of beauty and marvel filled the minds of the champions; moments of love and joy, of peace and passion, of ecstasy and bliss. Wondrous flashes of magics great and small took root in the memories of the four, countless images of great truths and secrets racing through their collective consciousness, nestling themselves into their proper places as if they had been there all along. In the immeasurable eternity between the last breath and the next, between the instant when Lucan and Aria felt Lady Lor’s hand spark out of existence and the moment when they found their own fingers intertwined, the Champions of Tahr came to briefly understand the deepest mysteries of elven healing, of the science of Man’s incantations, the ancient magics of bone and blood, and finally, the innate and enigmatic powers of sorcery.

  A warm, gentle breeze carried with it the distant echo of children laughing. When that laughter faded to silence, Lady Lor of Eyreloch was no more.

  Wolf moaned a lament, and the others joined him. Each knew that to speak then would be to befoul the great gift they had been given. Trellia and Mikallis approached the others, and the six companions hugged and sobbed in silence for a time, taking turns caressing Wolf’s silky black fur. Even as they all wept together over Lor’s sacrifice, the champions shared another thought, equal in its intensity, and equally as profound: they were sorcerers. More power was to be found within each of them than could be found anywhere in Tahr. Yet this thought did not give them comfort, nor pride, for among the secrets and truths Lor had imparted to them was this: where there is the power to uphold life, there is, for there must also be, the power to destroy it, and if fate saw fit to draw such powers of light together, it could only mean that an equal and opposing power existed, somewhere, lying in wait.

  A whine from Wolf pried open the teary eyes of the companions, and Shyla was the first to observe the leather collar around his neck, dyed a bright red. Tied to it was a small leather pouch. She shook out its contents as the others watched.

  In her tiny hand lay three items: a fifth wooden ring, a thumbnail-sized onyx stone fashioned into the likeness of a hound, and a handwritten note on rolled parchment:

  We know you are sad Shyla. We do not want you to be sad. Lady Lor is always with you now. You and your friends. She will visit you on the winds. You will see and then you will not be sad.

  We have made you a gift too. It is a small one only but Lady Lor said it would make you too sad if we gave you our final Gift. If you place the stone in Wolf’s collar a saddle will appear for you to ride with him. If you remove it the saddle will go away because we do not think Wolf would want to wear it all the time. We do not think he will mind sometimes though and we promise it is very soft and will fit him just right even if he gets very fat. Also if you call him with the stone he will find you. Pado thought that part up but I said I did not think you would need it because you will always be together.

  You are beautiful to us Shyla Greykin.

  Neela wife of Pado

  Pado husband of Neela

  XXXII: THE MAW

  Serg
eant Macon. Give me good news.”

  King Dohr sat across from Captain Kalder in the command tent as Mac arrived and entered, and on the subject of the dwarves’ exodus to the Sapphire, the news to that point been mixed. Working day and night, Captain Kalder had managed to prepare the camp to depart. Foodstuffs had been packed. Arms and armor, such as were available, had been inventoried and stacked in wagons. Arrangements had been made for the weak and elderly to ride, and all those incapable of marching had been assigned to horses and carts. Those who could hunt were given bows and grouped into squads, and those who could not were assigned to crews who would gather whatever else a wintry Tahr would have to offer in the way of food: berries, wild grains, fungi, and roots. All that could be done had been done, and at dawn the next morning, the remaining dwarves of Belgorne would break camp.

  The problem was not one of travel logistics, nor of supply. They would make do with what they had, and in the end, most would likely survive the march, thanks be to the sacrifices of the dwarven army. The real problem became clear when the final census was taken: when they arrived in the cities and towns of the Sapphire coast, there would be likely be war.

  The population of the coastal lands was not known precisely but reports and estimates all agreed: there would be more dwarves arriving than what could be absorbed by the existing towns. The arrival of the refugees of Belgorne would more than double the population of the area, and when the ragged, starving band of emigrants arrived, it would not matter even if the Sapphire peoples wished to welcome them; they could not, for there would be nowhere for them to live.

  As to their welcome, there was little question as to how they would be received. The Sapphire cities were an amalgamation of outcasts, mostly former citizens of Mor, but many dwarves, elves, gnomes, and even orcs made their homes there. They or their ancestors had left their homes – or been cast out of them – for a reason, and the code of the land was simple: the strongest survive. Subsisting almost exclusively on what the sea provided, trading very little if at all with the northern lands, the political landscape was the purest form of oligarchy – those with ships controlled the wealth, and those who controlled the wealth had, over time, recruited their own small armies to protect it. In such an environment, the arrival of the refugees would be considered the gravest threat, and if the historically disparate aristocracy banded together to make war with the dwarves, half would die in the best-case scenario.