Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Descent into Fury is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  © 2016, 2017, 2018 by Sean Hinn

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America by Bobdog Books.

  First Edition

  Published July 2019

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  www.seanhinn.com

  http://www.facebook.com/TahrSeanHinn

  Email the author at sean@seanhinn.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  I: THE MORLINE

  II: THE DOORS OF NYR AVI

  III: FURY

  IV: WESTMORLAND

  V: THE TEMPLE OF KAL

  VI: THE MAW

  VII: THE LANGUID LADY

  VIII: THE NORTHERN ROAD

  IX: THE DOORS OF NYR AVI

  X: FURY

  XI: HIGHMORLAND

  XII: THE TEMPLE OF KAL

  XIII: THE MAW

  XIV: THE LANGUID LADY

  XV: FURY

  XVI: HIGHMORLAND

  XVII: THE GRAND BARRACKS

  XVIII: THE MAW

  XIX: ELSEWHERE

  XX: FURY

  XXI: THE NORTHERN ROAD

  XXII: THE MAW

  XXIII: DÓMUR ARUNDIR

  XXIV: MOR

  XXV: FURY

  XXVI: THE GROVE

  XXVII: HIGHMORLAND

  XXVIII: THE MAW

  XXIX: DÓMUR ARUNDIR

  XXX: THE GRAND BARRACKS

  XXXI: THE TEMPLE OF KAL

  XXXII: THE NORTHERN ROAD

  XXXIII: THE MAW

  XXXIV: FURY

  XXXV: THE TEMPLE OF KAL

  FROM ME TO YOU

  APPENDIX A: CAST OF CHARACTERS

  To all who have ventured

  Into the dark places

  And have again found the door

  And to those who will.

  THE DAYS OF ASH AND FURY

  PART SEVEN

  CONTINUED FROM

  SPAWN OF FURY,

  (OR ASH: ACT ONE)

  I: THE MORLINE

  SIR BARRIS OF THORNWOOD tore west along the Morline astride the great black stallion Phantom, the pair only just failing to outpace the dawn. On any other morning, the familiar harmony of speed, power, and grace might have been a joy, but on this day, the First Knight carried only dread in his heart.

  Barris had seen the pillar of light. He had sensed the battle ahead, caught the scent of evil on the winds… the scent of death. Men of Mor had died today, he knew, though the cause of his dread was less abstract, more personal. In his deepest heart, Barris knew he had lost something dear to him this dawn. Someone. He knew in the way a twin might know her sibling is in danger. He knew in the way a wife would wake suddenly in the night, knowing her husband had faced his end in some far-off war. He knew in the way an estranged daughter might sense a chill at the passing of her mother.

  Or how a father might know, upon losing a son.

  Phantom broke free of the tree line and the trail widened. The pair accelerated, cold wind pulling tears from the corners of Barris’ cobalt eyes as the carnage before him came into focus. Torn and smoldering bodies lay strewn on either side of the great river. The Morline Bridge was just… gone.

  Phantom needed no guidance, nor could the aggrieved knight have provided any. Barris shut his eyes against what he knew they would soon see, sobbing freely as Phantom came to a halt beside Mikallis’ torn and burnt body. Triumph greeted Phantom with a nudge and a whinny. Phantom stamped and snorted as Barris slid from the saddle, one hand remaining in contact with his horse, the other trembling as he knelt beside the young, broken captain and reached to close his lifeless eyes.

  Mikallis had suffered. The tracks of his movement told the story of his end; he had crawled through the ash and snow as his flesh melted away, dragging himself towards something, or someone. A vile acid did this, Barris imagined. An excretion of the dragon, certainly, for the signs of its rage were everywhere… deep gouges in the muddied ground, burned and shredded bodies wearing the robes of Kehrlia. Barris sobbed and prayed and mourned over Mikallis’ body for a time that might have been a turn or an hour before noticing the faint glow emanating from beneath the fallen elf’s shirt. The Mark. Mikallis had made a great sacrifice this day, and the knowledge filled Barris with both breathless pride and even more profound regret at the loss of the elf he would have named son. The sight of the Mark called to mind Barris’ own duties, and the heart-spent knight finally wiped his eyes. He stood to survey his surroundings in more detail.

  A few paces away lay Redemption, the sword he had carried most of his life until he released it into the care of Lucan not-Thorne. Barris turned, searching among the dead for the young man. He saw instead his mount, Hope, huddled nearby beside Sera, Spirit, and Osraed. The knight released his Bond with Phantom and made his way to the four horses but froze as he neared them and saw: there on the ground lay his oldest friend, Trellia Evanti, Vicaris of the Grove. Barris reached to touch Osraed, Bonding with her grey mare. Images flashed in his mind; he saw her death clearly through the mare’s memory, Trellia cleaved in two by an enormous dragon scale that still jutted from the ground between her two halves. He saw the battle with the dragon through their eyes, saw Mikallis’ heroic sacrifice in a vain attempt to save his friends, saw the four inexplicably vanish as Kalashagon bore down on them. He knew some magic must have whisked them away and could only hope they were safe, somewhere.

  Returning to the present, Barris eyed the dragon scale. Its presence was an affront Barris could not abide. He paid no heed to the black, viscous sheen as he snatched the great plate from the ground, screaming, and flung it a hundred paces across the Morline as if skipping a stone. It stuck a foot deep in the far bank and Barris fell to his knees once more, weeping again from eyes he had thought bereft of tears.

  A tingling in his hands became an intense, burning pain as the acidic residue from the scale ate at his palms. He made no sound, believing that to cry out against the pain would diminish the far greater suffering he knew Mikallis had endured. He made his way down the bank to dunk his hands in the icy water of the river, muttering a prayer that he knew would not hasten his healing but would, at least, prevent the burns from deepening. Large, fluid-filled blisters had begun to form, but his wounds would not worsen.

  A cry from across the river drew his attention. Someone still lives! Barris stood, searching for a way across the Morline, but there was none. He recalled the trick Nishali had taught him and in a few bounds skipped his way across the frigid water of the Morline and onto its southern shore. He climbed the embankment.

  “Who calls? Where are you?”

  “Here! Oh, Father please help me! Here!” A young man’s voice cried out, weak and tortured.

  Barris ran through the ashen slush to the man’s side. A glance told him there was nothing he could do for the dying Incantor.

  “Please. Help me.”

  Barris knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Peace, friend. Tell me your name.”

  The man met Barris’ eyes. “This is my fault. All my fault. I’m… so sorry.”

  “Shh, now. This cannot be your—”

  “It is!” The man coughed as Barris surveyed his wounds. His lower half was mangled, his spine bent at an unnatural angle. The stench of burning flesh brought a gag to Barris’ lips. “I knew! Father forgive me, but I knew! He is a monster!”

  “Who, friend? Who is a monster?”

  “SARTEAN! He’s not dead, you know. Not forever! Kal will call him!” The man coughed a
gain, blood gurgling from his mouth. He grasped at Barris’ cloak as the light in his eyes began to fade. “He is indebted. He will return!”

  Barris blanched. He sensed a power in that word… indebted.

  The knight stroked the man’s forehead. “Tell me your name, sir, so that I may pray for your peace.”

  The man laughed; a mirthless, choking sound. “Jarriah. My name is Jarriah. But there will be no peace for me.” The hand grasping Barris’ cloak went slack, and Jarriah died.

  Barris muttered a short prayer and closed the man’s eyes. He stood.

  Sartean D’Avers is dead. The thought chilled the knight, knowing what power the Master of Kehrlia possessed, marveling at what might have killed him. Barris began checking the bodies, one by one, offering prayers, closing eyes. Why? he wondered, not for the first time in his long years. Why do we trouble to close eyes that no longer see? He found Sartean D’Avers’ body near to noon. The condition of the corpse puzzled him. No injury was visible whatsoever, aside from a hole the size of a fist that went clean through the back of his head and out his mouth. Some projectile had lain him low, but it was nowhere to be found. The accurate placement of the wound implied it was deliberate, and surely not caused by the dragon.

  An Incantor, Barris surmised. A rival. While he was distracted, certainly.

  Barris made his way back across the Morline to Phantom and the other horses. With painstaking reverence and profound sorrow, he wrapped the remains of Mikallis and Trellia in horse blankets and tied them to Triumph and Osraed. He wept as he completed the grim task, considering where Aria, Lucan, J’arn and Shyla might have gone. He decided their most likely destination would be the Grove.

  Barris spoke to the horses. “You must take them home. Home to the Grove.” Barris sent images of the Spring through the Bond to the horses. “Follow Hope, she will lead you. Will you not, Hope?” The chestnut mare snorted in reply. Barris tied Redemption to Phantom’s saddle and climbed atop the stallion. He looked over his shoulder to the eastern skies, seeing the plume of smoke and ash from Fang had slowed, though thick rivulets of lava ran from its mouth. He gave Phantom’s neck a gentle pat. “We must again make haste, my friend.” The declaration brought a choke from deep within the First Knight, but he managed to suppress the sob as he urged Phantom north at a gallop.

  I will not cry twice.

  But he did.

  II: THE DOORS OF NYR AVI

  IMUST NOT open my eyes. Ever. I must not.

  “You may, Mikallis Elmshadow. Do not be afraid.” The deep, clear voice bore an ageless quality, its soothing words carried along on currents of truth. Yet Mikallis did not dare heed them.

  If I look, I will know. I do not want to know.

  “Truth need not be seen, brave elf. It simply is, as it must be.”

  I do not want to know.

  “But you do. You know where you are.

  I do not want to know.

  “You know how you have come here.”

  No.

  “And you know my voice.”

  I do.

  Father.

  “Of a sort. Come now. Open your eyes. They will only confirm that which is true.”

  Mikallis could not resist the gentle, urging voice. Cool white light replaced the dark gloom of death as his eyelids parted. His eyes quickly adapted but saw nothing, for there was nothing to see. Only light. He could not tell if he was in or out of doors. The air was not warm nor cold, humid nor dry. He knew he could stand if he chose, but not upon what, for he floated in place in that sea of luminescence and sensed no floor beneath him. He simply was.

  “May… may I see you?” Mikallis asked, trying his voice, surprised at its strength.

  “You may prefer not to, Mikallis, for you have a choice to make now, and once you have seen me, not all paths will remain open to you.”

  Mikallis frowned, confused.

  “Some truths belong only in their place, young elf. Tell me, where would you go?”

  A warmth spread across Mikallis’ bare chest. He felt at it with his hand, knowing immediately its source and thus understanding the question. The Mark. All his life he had recited the next words he would speak, never knowing if he would be given the chance to speak them.

  “I would go where you will me, Father.”

  “Would you?” The voice laughed gently, a father’s laugh. “I suppose you would, though your heart yearns for a more specific path. Yes?”

  Mikallis stood, nodding.

  “You have earned your choice, Mikallis Elmshadow. Your sacrifice was great. I am sorry for the pain it caused you.”

  Mikallis recalled the last moments of his life, but, mercifully, he could not recall the pain. He understood that to be a gift, and he sensed the words of sorrow the First Father spoke were sincere, yet they begged a question. The question.

  “Why?” Mikallis somehow knew he need not be more specific.

  “Choice,” came the response, and Mikallis understood. He remained still and quiet for a time.

  “I choose to go to Aria, Father. If it is possible. Forgive my selfishness, but I—”

  “There is nothing to forgive, dear Mikallis. Your love is true, and there is no greater thing. But I cannot give you what you ask. Aria… she is lost to me, for now. To us. There is no door.”

  Mikallis had no time to bemoan the thought as five distinct doors suddenly surrounded him, each slightly taller than he, each wide enough for two elves to pass shoulder-t0-shoulder. It was not so much as if they had appeared from thin air, but rather that they had been there all along, somehow beneath his notice.

  Immediately before him stood the first door: a wooden door with a large iron knocker carved in the shape of an elm. It sat within no jamb nor threshold; there were no hinges. As he drew near, he could almost, but not quite, make out the sound of children laughing. To its right stood a stone door, an imposing slab of solid rock, the relief of an axe expertly chiseled into its center. Next stood a thick iron gate, quite nondescript but for a brass latch that seemed embedded into some cloud, holding it fast. Tall grasses leaned through wide gaps in the grille through which Mikallis could not see beyond. The fourth door was a thing of beauty, a glowing crystalline design with intricate cuts and facets refracting every conceivable color of light. It might have been diamond or glass, Mikallis could not tell, but it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  He turned to his right, to the fifth door. There he saw a huge boulder, perfectly spherical, at least on the side that faced him. Thick, damp moss hung from the stone in clumps and strips. The scent emanating from the door was the first aroma he had noticed since his awakening; an old smell, ancient even. If Mikallis were to name it, he would call it the scent of time.

  An empty space stood between the fifth door and the first, and while Mikallis could see nothing there but empty whiteness, he knew there should be a door, and he knew that had there been one, he did not want to go through it. A sickly whiff of sulfur filled his nostrils as he stood before the empty space, and he instinctively turned away. He spoke his fear aloud.

  “There is no door.”

  Silence.

  “I must reach her, Father.”

  “Yes,” the voice replied. “You must. Much depends on it. Perhaps all. Your world is in peril, Mikallis Elmshadow, and your Aria is one of only a few who might save it, but she is lost now, and she must find her way back. When she does, if she does, she will need you, and on that day, you will need to be more than what you are. There are those who might teach you, but as they guide your path, so you must lead them.”

  “I… I do not understand.”

  “No. You would not. Yet it is as it must be, and you must choose, young Mikallis. I can tell you no more, only that you must have faith, and you must choose wisely. Goodbye for now, brave elf. We will meet again.”

  “No, please! Tell me how to choose!” The Mark on Mikallis’ chest warmed again briefly. When the warmth faded, he knew he was alone.

  III: FURY<
br />
  SHYLA GREYKIN HAD never known such pain. A moment before, the young gnomish woman had cowered before the might of Kalashagon’s murderous flame, fearing a horrific, blistering death. Now a new sort of fire seared her from within, intensifying with every vain, excruciating attempt at breath as she knelt upon the rough ground. She could not see. There was no light, not even enough for her keen G’naari eyes to function. She could not speak. She could barely cough, the acidic atmosphere too thin to power her voice. A pitiful croak was all she could manage as poisonous fumes dulled her senses and consciousness began to fade.

  ~Yeh must will the air clean! I canna do it for yeh, I be helpin’ Wolf!~

  Shyla recognized the thought as belonging to Lady Cindra.

  ~Imagine it, and yeh can make it be!~

  Shyla struggled to make sense of her grandmother’s conveyances, but the burning… there was only burning… oh please make it stop it hurts! Please oh please it hurts it hurts it—

  A strong, calloused hand grasped her by the neck, pulling her close. Hot, dry lips covered her own; wiry hair mashed against her face. She would have screamed, but there was no air.

  And then there was.

  Shyla threw her arms around J’arn Silverstone’s neck and pulled him tight as he shared his breath with her. The dwarf sent his thoughts to the frightened gnome.

  ~Breathe with me, Shyla. Ye can do it. Think about sweeter air. Think about the Grove.~

  Shyla could scarcely think at all, but through her embrace with J’arn, she sensed what she must do.

  ~Breathe with me, girl. Breathe now, ’tis all right.~

  Shyla taught herself how to breathe again, but it was most certainly not all right.

  ~Where’s Lucan? Where’s Aria?~

  ~We are here,~ Aria conveyed. Lucan’s thoughts remained his own, though Shyla could sense great sorrow from the young man, and regret.