Spawn of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  “Don’t look at me like that. I know what a wizard needs on a journey.”

  Gerald nodded. “Of course you would. Thank you,” he said with sincerity.

  Chaneela seemed to have a sharp retort prepared but repressed it.

  Vincent took Maris hands in his own, searching for words. Maris understood.

  “Just come back,” she said quietly.

  Vincent nodded.

  “The others?” he asked.

  Maris shook her head. “Nothing yet. Not from any of them.”

  “Not even my brother?”

  Maris shook her head.

  “Vincent,” Lane implored. “Time to go.”

  The three men made their final goodbyes and made their way to the stables.

  Twenty-three riders in loose formation rode through the still-dark streets of Mor, keeping to the less-traveled back streets until they had passed Kehrlia.

  When the tower was well behind them, before they turned onto Northern, Gerald said something to Lane, who held up a fist. The formation came to a halt.

  “Odd,” Gerald said to Vincent and Lane. “Nothing. Not a wisp of magic from Kehrlia.”

  “Preparing?” Vincent asked.

  Gerald shook his head. “If they were, I’d have expected the opposite. Kehrlia is empty, Vincent.”

  “Can you sense where they went?”

  Gerald again shook his head. “Doesn’t work like that. Near or not, that’s all I can tell.”

  “So, not near,” Lane said.

  “Not near.”

  Vincent sighed. “Well, so long as they didn’t head north.”

  “And if they did?” Gerald asked.

  Vincent reached for the helm tied to his saddle and stuffed his head into it. “Then we’ll have to hope your silver tongue saves the day, old friend. Sartean will be more than suspicious to see you leaving Mor with a squad of horse after today’s meeting.”

  “We’re going to die,” Lane said.

  “Hey! I’ll think of something,” Gerald said.

  “Think as we ride, wizard. Dawn comes.” Lane urged his horse forward and turned their company left onto Northern. The rest followed as the eastern sky turned a shade of plum, but on that cold morning in Mor, dawn broke from the north.

  The riders pulled their horses to an abrupt halt on the cobblestones. “What in Fury is that?” Vincent cried.

  A brilliant white light illuminated the sky up ahead, seeming to come from near the Morline. The glow saturated the sky in all directions before narrowing into a single beam, directed straight into the sky.

  “I think I found our Incantors,” Gerald quipped.

  “You think? What in Fury are they doing?” Vincent demanded.

  The beam suddenly shifted, pointing no longer towards the sky, but northeast, towards the mighty plume rising from the mouth of Fang. The gleaming ray easily carried the distance, casting a glow against the side of the distant mountain.

  Gerald lifted an arm and pointed. “Dragon hunting, looks like,” he said.

  A shadowy black form emerged from the mountain, barely perceptible at first, quickly growing larger. The dragon did not head towards the source of light; it instead quickly closed on Mor, far too quickly. The beam traced its path; in less than half a turn, the dragon had reached the city walls and appeared headed directly for Kehrlia. Its path would take it directly above the riders.

  “Take cover!” Lane shouted, but no one heard him. A roar thundered from the dragon, drowning out all other sound. His order was followed regardless; nearly every horse in the unit sought an awning or alley to hide beneath or within, heedless of their riders’ commands. Two soldiers, a man and a woman, were thrown from the saddle. The man’s life was cut short by a hoof to the head; the woman lay screaming, injured by the fall.

  Vincent jumped from Steelwind’s back and ran to pull the woman to safety, but her scream had attracted Kalashagon’s attention. A gout of orange flame issued from the maw of the beast as it flew overhead, raking the street. Vincent tried to run but managed only to slip in the ashen street. The torrent engulfed Steelwind first. Gerald’s yells of warning mingled with screams from the horse as searing flames rolled across the cobblestones and into Vincent’s prone body from the right. A flash of pain like he had never imagined threatened to tear his mind open as the flesh of the right side of his face roasted on the bone. His right eye boiled in the socket; his ear was no more. A moment of agony that lasted an age passed, but soon both the pain and the heat had gone, awash in Gerald’s magic. Vincent lost consciousness as several strong arms lifted him from the street.

  ~

  “Why does he circle? Why does he not come?” Jarriah asked Sartean.

  “He will come. He is clever. He senses a trap.”

  “Rightly so,” Incantor Orrin agreed.

  Sartean covered his eyes as the beam of light again turned his way. Four Incantors stood on a small rise beside the Morline river, pointing gemmed staves at the sky, following the dragon across and around the horizon as he circled, south into Mor, then to the east and north, then back again, each pass a bit closer than the last.

  “I must admit, I am impressed your idea worked,” Orrin said to Jarriah. “I’d not have been surprised had he ignored the light, preferring to attack at his leisure.”

  “Because you are a fool, Orrin!” Sartean shouted. “Arrogance! It is the downfall of all great beings.” I should know, he thought, recalling his battle with Mila Felsin.

  Sartean held his hand out to Jarriah expectantly. The young Incantor placed Sartean’s flask within it, his expression indicating that he noted the irony.

  “That is the last of it, Master,” Jarriah said.

  Sartean downed the remaining Flightfluid in a single gulp and threw the flask to the ground.

  “But, forgive me Master, why would the light even trouble him?” Orrin pressed.

  Sartean continued his lesson. “The light does not trouble him. My audacity does. It offends him.”

  ~No, never that, little magician.~

  “Did you hear that?” Sartean asked. Jarriah shrugged.

  A dark laughter sounded within Sartean’s mind.

  ~I speak only to you, little magician. Do not worry, your audacity does not offend me. It delights me.~

  The deep, shadowy tone of the dragon’s speech sent chills through the Master of Kehrlia.

  ~What have you in store for me, I wonder? A lovely game, perhaps? I do so love games.~

  Kalashagon reached as far north as he would and reversed his path again. The beam of light traced his path through the dark western skies.

  ~I have death in store for you, Kalashagon. Come and see!~

  ~Patience, little magician. I will come. I wait only for the light of day, so that your little magician friends might see you more clearly as I roast your skin from your bones. We will play a long game, you and me. You will not die quickly. It will hurt, Sartean D’Avers. But not so much as what will come after, I fear.~

  Sartean shuddered.

  ~Hmm hmm hmm!~ Kalashagon’s dark, mirthless laughter rattled Sartean’s bones. ~Yes, you know of what I speak! How delightful! You will know then that my master enjoys games as well. He will play with you. Painful games. Breaking games. Burning games.~

  Sartean clutched his hands over his ears. He glanced longingly at the discarded flask.

  ~You burn even now, do you not? I sense it. An unquenchable thirst within you. But you do not know true thirst, little magician. You have not tasted the exquisite flavor of your own tongue baking within your mouth. You have not vainly lapped at puddles of your own blood to douse the flames. But you will, little magician. You will. Soon.~

  XXXVII: THE MAW

  Oort’s trembling hand pulled a strand of blood-caked yellow hair from the corner of his wife’s eye.

  “Thinny. Can yeh hear me, my love?”

  She did not move. An elven ranger named Cloudia stood quietly to Oort’s left, at the head of the cot. He looked to her.

/>   “Can she hear me?” he asked, his tone a tragedy.

  “Perhaps,” Cloudia replied. “But she cannot reply. We have dulled her senses, and she will sleep for a time.”

  “Will…. will she…” Oort could not finish the thought.

  “She will live, and she will heal fully, Wolfslayer. Her wounds were painful, but minor.”

  “Minor! Mawbottom they are! Do yeh see her? Do yeh see all the… oh, the blood! I shoulda never let yeh go!” Oort wept freely, deep, convulsive sobs rocking his diminutive frame. He cradled his wife’s head in his arms. Cloudia knelt and placed a delicate hand on his head, willing a small, comforting magic into his tortured mind. She spoke in soothing tones.

  “Shh, peace, good gnome. Your wife will be well. She feels no pain. She feels only your love. Be at ease, now.”

  Turns passed before Oort’s sobs quieted. He placed Thinny’s head delicately on her pillow and kissed her on the lips. He whispered into her ear.

  “I’ll avenge this awful thing, Thinny. I swear it to yeh.”

  Oort stood and wiped his face, nodding his thanks to Cloudia. Before she could return the nod, the Wolfslayer had left the tent.

  Standing quietly waiting for him to emerge were Rak, Argl, Nishali, Marchion, Kade, Kalder, Mac, and Lux, each bearing the same solemn manner. Oort marched straight up to Lux, balling a fist and swinging for his chin. Lux closed his eyes but made no move to deflect the blow. It landed with force, staggering the dwarf. Lux went to a knee. Oort swung again. Still Lux did not defend himself. The second punch hurt gnome and dwarf in equal measure, knuckle to cheek, laying Lux prone. Oort drew his foot back, aiming for the dwarf’s midsection.

  “Oort! Enough!” cried Kalder. Lux raised a hand, not to defend himself, but to quiet the captain. The first kick stole half the wind from Lux’s lungs, leaving just enough for the dwarf to croak two pitiful words.

  “Forgive me.”

  “Bastard! Yeh promised! Yeh promised yeh’d keep ’er safe!”

  The second kick stole what air remained. Lux coughed and drew his knees in. The third was aimed for the dwarf’s head, but Oort slipped in the snow, landing on his back. As he clambered to his feet, Rak moved to stand between the enraged gnome and the shamed dwarf. He held out his hands.

  “He’s had ’nuff, Wolfslayer.”

  Oort eyed the gnome, breathing heavily. The two shared a long look before Oort spat and turned away.

  “Oort Greykin,” Marchion called as Kalder helped Lux to his feet. “We must speak.”

  Oort turned back. In the flickering light of the fire, one could be forgiven for mistaking the fuming figure for an imp out of Fury. None present then doubted that the slight, middle-aged gnome had slain the great dire wolf.

  “We would give you justice, Wolfslayer,” Nishali said.

  “Justice?” Oort hissed. “Justice? Do yeh plan to strap that foul dungheap of a king to a chair, and lemme get to work on ‘im?”

  “Not that,” said Argl. “But close. They mean to arrest ‘im.”

  “Arrest ‘im? He’s a bloody king! How yeh gonna arrest a king?”

  Marchion and Nishali clarified their intentions in great detail, explaining their obligations and rights under the Treaty of Greater Tahr. In witness of a crime, particularly between the races, no officer of the four kingdoms could turn a blind eye. Dohr would most certainly protest that he had committed no crime, but against the law compelling his arrest and trial, there was no defense.

  “That don’t mean yeh can make ‘im come quietly,” Oort argued. “Bastard like that, yeh canna expect ‘im to follow law!”

  Lux spoke up. “He ain’t got a choice, Oort. I’ll put ‘im in chains meself, I swear it.”

  Oort scoffed. “Hmph. Yer word ain’t for shite, dwarf.”

  Kalder stepped forward, addressing Oort. “Listen here. It ain’t his fault, and ye know it. Lux was arrested. He carried your wife outta the Maw on his back–”

  “Shut it, Cap,” Lux said. Kalder met his gaze and took a step back.

  “You may trust my word as Second Knight of Thornwood, King Greykin,” Marchion offered.

  “And mine as Second Ranger,” said Kade.

  All eyes turned to Nishali. “And mine as First.”

  “To the Mawbottom with your words,” Oort said after a breath. “Only justice I can count on is that what I make my own self. Simpler just to drop th’tunnels and let that bastard freeze t’death.”

  Lux stepped forward. “Would ye pronounce the same sentence to me people? To the old folk, and what children yet live? If ye would, ye ain’t no better king than Dohr.”

  Oort frowned, no less angry, but his gaze fell to his feet.

  Nishali moved to stand before the gnome.

  “The dwarves of Belgorne have lost much, Wolfslayer. More than you. There is anger. What King Dohr did to your wife is abhorrent, but what has been done to Dohr and his people is an abomination. Only right action can put an end to this horror. Will your first act as king be one of misguided vengeance? To sentence a neighboring people to death? Would your wife even wish to be avenged thusly?”

  Oort lifted his face to the First Ranger.

  “No. She’d not.”

  Nishali nodded. “I did not think so.”

  Oort took a breath. “Do what yeh will. See if yeh can arrest the cowardly bastard. But I’ll be sendin’ word to G’naath.” He turned to Rak. “Head for home, Rak. If our sentries see an armed dwarf afore yeh see my own two eyes again up close, drop the tunnels.”

  Argl objected. “Wolfslayer, we canna leave yeh out here–”

  “Ye ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me and Thinny, I know my way in. Go with Rak.” Oort turned to Nishali. “I trust yeh, First Ranger. But if yeh canna get it done, I ain’t gonna let that coward slaughter my folk.”

  Nishali nodded. “You make a wise decision, Wolfslayer.”

  “Go take a piss, elf.”

  “Dawn approaches, General,” Sergeant Macon said. “You would do well to send your messenger now before the king discovers his prisoners have gone.”

  “Mac’s right,” said Captain Kalder.

  “Very well,” said Marchion. “I will ask for a volun–”

  “I will go,” Kade announced.

  Nishali frowned at her Second.

  “None can outrun me, save you, and if I am captured, I assure you, I will escape. You know this.”

  Nishali nodded. “I do. But as you say, I am faster.”

  “And you are First. You cannot be risked.”

  “I agree with your second, Nishali,” Marchion said.

  Nishali chewed her lip a moment before nodding.

  “Have you a white flag, General?” Kade asked.

  A moment passed before Marchion replied. “I do. But it is mine.”

  Kade cocked his head. “I do not understand.”

  “It is my flag, Second Ranger, and I will not let you carry it without a troop of my knights to guard it. I have carried that flag in my saddlebag a very long time. I would not wish to lose it.”

  Kade smiled. “Of course.” The Second Ranger turned to face the king of G’naath, intending to offer assurance that he would carry out his duty, but Oort was no longer there. Nishali nodded towards the tent where his wife lay.

  “You will be careful, Kade Calayaan,” she said. “Inform him of our strength of numbers, but do not threaten. Assure him that he will be treated fairly, with all respect due a king.”

  ~And return safely to me, future husband,~ she added.

  ~As you command, future wife.~

  ~

  “Blast it to Fury, I knew somethin’ was afoot!”

  The light of dawn crept slowly into the Maw as Dohr swore, pacing back and forth before the command tent. He stopped to face his cousin. “How’d ye let ‘im get the best of ye?”

  Martle lowered his head. “I just caught on too slow, cousin. Then that big scout had me and weren’t nothin’ I could do.”

  “Fury! And a dozen horses gone
! Gather up who ye can, Martle. Get ‘em mounted and armed with crossbows. I want every soldier we’ve got after ‘em!”

  “Sire, they been gone hours, I don’t think–”

  “Dammit, then move! If they make G’naath we’re sunk!”

  “Aye.” Martle turned to run and ran smack into a dwarven soldier who had run up from behind. The two barely kept their feet.

  “King Dohr!” the soldier exclaimed. “Elves approach under white banner!”

  “What? Elves?”

  “Aye! Six knights and a ranger. They wait for ye on the northern side.”

  “Run ahead, Martle. I want a show of force. Twenty dwarves, fully armed. Axes and bows.”

  “Sire, the elves ain’t enemies,” Martle argued.

  “Aye, they approach under truce, me king,” said the soldier.

  “If either of ye think ye can tell friend from enemy better than me these days, say so now and throw a gauntlet! Otherwise do as I command ye!”

  Martle and the soldier offered no further argument, sprinting to heed Dohr’s order.

  King Dohr entered the command tent and quickly shrugged his chain shirt over his head. He then, for the first time, donned his father’s breastplate. The polished steel armor gleamed brightly despite dozens of small dents. Worn by kings of Belgorne during many battles over the course of generations, the armor was far from ornamental. No relief was cut into the thick metal. Little effort had been made to flatten its many dimples, each a testament to the resilience and courage of kings. Dohr found that the straps were a bit loose. He strapped his axe to his back and loaded his crossbow. He decided to forgo his helm, lest he appear paranoid.

  He made his way across the camp as the dwarves of Belgorne emerged from their tents, lighting fires and setting kettles for breakfast. He could not help but notice that he did not warrant the warm and reverent greetings his father might have, walking alone through such a camp. In fact, he received no greeting at all. Upon seeing him, most dwarves returned to their tents. Those that did not averted their eyes.

  Finally, he passed the last of the tents, and arrayed before him stood twenty armed dwarves. They parted to let their king pass. A single elf stood ten paces beyond the dwarven soldiers, holding a lance upright, a white flag tied near its point. Twenty paces behind him, six knights sat upon horses, the reins of a riderless bay held by one.