Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  When her Tenth neared the northernmost tents, she gave the second order.

  ~Down. Wait. Watch. Listen.~

  On command, in total silence, the rangers floated themselves prone, settling upon drifts of snow and ash, coming to rest like so many feathers. Nishali listened. She had expected to hear… something. Snoring dwarves. The crunch of nighttime patrols. Banter among the watch. She heard nothing.

  ~Lyan, report.~

  After a short delay, the captain of the second Tenth, Lyan Swiftspring, issued her reply from across the encampment, from the west.

  ~Nothing, Nishali. Less than nothing. No movement.~

  ~Simmon, report.~

  Simmon Heartwood, the oldest and most experienced ranger under her command, replied quickly.

  ~Same. Nothing.~

  Where in Fury are they? Nishali wondered. She lifted her head towards the encampment. Who is tending the fires?

  A bell rang.

  Nishali sensed the pull of a crossbow trigger just before she heard its distinctive snick, but only just. She rolled to her left, narrowly avoiding the iron projectile that embedded itself in the ground where her own head had just lain. The bolt would have killed her instantly.

  ~We are detected! Find cover!~

  For two members of her Tenth, Nishali’s warning came too late. A hundred bolts flew through the air at her rangers. Only three found their mark, but they found it well. One through the neck of the ranger nearest Nishali, two more in the breast of another.

  Nishali’s mind raced. She ran to take cover behind a tent. She pulled her dagger, the only weapon she had brought along. Kalder and Macon, the two dwarves who had rescued the gnome woman, had begged Nishali to forgo a ranged attack. There would be no way to tell combatants from ordinary dwarves at range, he had argued. Errant arrows could kill innocents. Reluctantly, Nishali had agreed, and now two of her rangers were dead—at least two, for she could only feel the losses within her own Tenth.

  Rage welled within the First Ranger as she issued her next order.

  ~Kill anything that holds a weapon! Meet me in the center of the camp!~

  Inhale.

  Nishali become one with her surroundings. Time slowed. She spun around from behind the tent just as a bolt whipped past. She turned, sensing the direction from which the bolt came. In three powerful strides, she was in the camp and upon the attacker, a dwarf reaching into a quiver for another bolt. Before her enemy could lift a foot to take a step backwards, Nishali struck like a cyclone. In one fluid, sweeping motion, the First Ranger spun, her dagger severing his windpipe on the first pass, embedding itself to the hilt in the ribs below his armpit on the second.

  An alarm sounded in Nishali’s mind. Bolt!

  Nishali ducked low, the bolt striking the shoulder of the dead dwarf who had not yet fallen. She yanked her dagger free, easily, too easily—this dwarf wore no armor.

  Exhale.

  She considered the fact as she raced to the right, towards her next victim, a youngish female dwarf, the panicked woman also hurrying to reload. Nishali caught a glimpse of her face in the firelight as she drew near; there was naught but terror there. The dwarf’s clumsy, trembling fingers dropped a bolt an instant before Nishali’s dagger found its target.

  Again, no armor.

  Nishali turned left, towards the center of the camp, speeding between two tents when a dwarf jumped from behind one, screaming as he swung a warhammer wildly. The weapon was far too heavy for the dwarf; he lost his balance as Nishali easily dodged the blow and buried her dagger beneath her attacker’s chin.

  Absently, Nishali detected the heavy, pungent smell of pitch as she crept towards the center of the camp, cutting through the dwarves of Belgorne as she went. In total, eight dwarves died by her dagger before she approached what she assumed must be the command tent, it being far larger than the others. Distant screams were cut short, the sound of death coming nearer from the west and the east, her second and third Tenths quickly making their way to her position.

  Too quickly. Too few screams.

  Nishali threw back the flap of the tent to find it empty and dark, save one candle sitting atop a long table, burned nearly to the brass.

  Dammit!

  Nishali stormed out of the tent just as Lyan and Simmon approached, each bearing pensive looks.

  Nishali struggled to ask the question. Lyan answered before she could find the words.

  “Four, First Ranger. Please forgive me. We had no warning. The bolts came out of nowhere.”

  Nishali nodded and turned to Simmon.

  “One,” he said, through gritted teeth. “You?”

  “Two,” Nishali replied. “Injuries?”

  The two shook their heads.

  “Something is odd here, Nishali,” began Simmon. “These dwarves—”

  “This was an ambush,” Nishali finished. “Dohr guessed we would come at night. We must have triggered some alarm.”

  “Yes, that, but, these…” Simmon gestured towards a dead dwarf, shaking his head in dismay.

  “These were not regular soldiers,” Lyan continued. “I killed four, and not one stood a chance.”

  “We are rangers of the Wood, Lyan,” said Nishali.

  “Yes. But dwarven soldiers are fierce. These—”

  Simmon suddenly grabbed Lyan and Nishali, shoving them to the ground. “Get down!”

  Nishali fell to the ground, her face smashed into the snow… and pitch.

  Oh, dear Father...

  ~RUN!~

  Nishali pulled Lyan and Simmon back to their feet just as the first flaming arrow struck the command tent. In the span of two breaths, it was fully engulfed in flame. Fire rained down upon the rangers, more than a few arrows striking elves, but most setting tents ablaze. The inferno spread quickly between tents, across the ground, up trees, racing the elves to the edges of the camp. Nishali ran as fast as her legs would carry her, her speed enhanced by all her elven magic, as did her rangers, each as fast as any horse at gallop, but they were not fast enough. Screams came from everywhere.

  Thirty rangers left Jayne’s Valley to avenge Kade Calayaan and his escort on Nishali’s orders. Eight would return. Neither Lyan nor Simmon would be among them.

  ~

  Dawn broke like a snapping twig, its sudden, unwelcome light a vulgarity, an irreverent offense against the grieving elves. The eight trudged north in cold and silence. When they reached Jayne’s Valley, Marchion, Kalder, and Macon stood waiting.

  Nishali told of the battle, such as it was, as the three listened quietly. When she finished her tale, Sergeant Macon moved to speak, but a look from Sir Marchion stayed his tongue. Captain Kalder either did not catch the hint or ignored it.

  “You say these were not soldiers. What does that mean?”

  Nishali glared at the dwarf. “Does it matter? They are dead now, whatever they were.”

  “You’re bloody right it matters!” said Macon. “Where were the soldiers, then? Where were the rest of the dwarves? Do you mean to tell me Dohr had them all just cut south like, like—”

  “Like the craven bastards they are? Yes! I mean to tell you exactly that! Brave, heroic dwarves! Sending your weak against us to die in fire!”

  Kalder took half a step forward. “Now, wait a turn there, Ranger—”

  Nishali’s dagger was at Kalder’s throat before he could finish the thought. Nishali leaned in, whispering.

  “Cowards. All of you. To a one. Deny it, so I can name you liar as I cut your throat.”

  Kalder swallowed. “Says the woman with a dagger to the neck of an unarmed friend.”

  “Friend? Friend? You are no friend, dwarf! Your king brutally defiled and beat a gnome woman, for no reason! Not a soldier, not a hunter… a mother! A wife! An innocent! And what did your people do? Nothing! Your spineless king was then approached with honor, under truce, given time to arrange his affairs before answering to this crime. What did your people do? They murdered seven elves! In cold blood! And now, when we come for h
im… his soldiers abandon their encampment. They send the weak to ambush us, to die in the place of soldiers, while they run south! The blood of cowards runs in your veins, Captain. Your people are my enemy! You are my enemy!” Nishali screamed. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of the dagger.

  Sir Marchion stepped forward. A look from Nishali made clear that a second step would bloody her blade. The knight spoke gently. “Nishali Windwillow. You are better than this. The captain is our guest.”

  Tears welled in Nishali’s eyes at the sound of her full name. The last to speak it had been Kade. The knight had reached some dying part of her, but the effect did not last. She could not let it. She began to shake with wrath, taking notice of the pulsing vein in the captain’s neck. To his credit, he did not flinch, but the rhythm of his pulse belied his fear.

  Marchion’s voice filled Nishali’s mind. ~Do not do this, First Ranger.~

  Nishali grimaced in disgust. ~Look at him. Look! See how his craven heart hammers as dozens of elven hearts are now still forever!~

  ~He is no coward, Nishali. He came to us. He defied his king in the name of what is right.~

  Nishali screamed, long and loud into Kalder’s face. He shut his eyes against the cut that was coming, but it never did.

  Nishali turned to Marchion as a crowd began to form. “They killed your people, knight! Our people! Twice, now! Elves of the Wood! Elves who have committed no evil, in deed nor thought! Fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters of good elves! Until they are avenged, I name you coward as well! Rangers, on me!”

  Nishali stormed away. Her rangers followed.

  XIV: THE LANGUID LADY

  I’D PREFER YOU REST another few days.”

  Vincent eyed the wizard. “I’m not tired, Gerald.”

  “I’d prefer I rest another few days.”

  “And delay a refreshing ride north?” Vincent stood to dress. His knees wobbled.

  “Refreshing! Ha! Which part will leave me feeling so revitalized, I wonder? The fresh air? No, Tahr is choking in ash. The mild temperatures? It’s cold as a witch’s heart out there. Oh, I know, the freedom of the road! Except, wait, no, the roads aren’t free. They’re being patrolled by a flying pair of jaws born of the fires of Fury.”

  Eriks Lane entered the room, closing the door behind him when he saw Vincent struggling to pull a fresh shirt over his head. He slapped Gerald on the back. “Jaws that breathe their own fire, don’t forget.”

  “Yes! Exactly!”

  Vincent managed the shirt and tied his pants closed. “Good thing we have the most powerful wizard in Tahr protecting us.”

  “Protecting you? Vincent, I don’t think you realize—”

  Vincent glared at Gerald with his one good eye.

  “Ah. Well. I suppose you do.”

  “The ride will do you good, Gerald.” Vincent sat on the bed to pull on his boots. He made as if to bend over but winced in pain. Lane took a knee and helped Vincent shove a foot into a boot.

  Gerald’s protestations continued. “I hate the cold. I’m old, Vincent. Look at these wrinkled hands. Feeble, I tell you.”

  “But think of how much you love being on horseback,” deadpanned Lane. He slid the other boot onto Vincent’s foot.

  “Oh, you’re a riot, Lane.”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Come in,” said Vincent.

  Kalindra entered, glancing briefly at Vincent. She averted her gaze, turning to Eriks Lane.

  “Any luck?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

  Lane shrugged. “I’m sorry, Kalindra.”

  “About what?” Vincent asked.

  “It’s nothing,” said Kalindra. She and Lane exchanged a glance. An uncomfortable silence followed.

  “What is this? Secrets? Am I still running this little clique of ours, or not?” Vincent asked, an edge to his voice.

  “Sorry, Vincent,” Lane began. “We’re having a bit of trouble hiring a guard for the Lady.”

  Vincent nodded, thinking.

  “Well, we would, given everything. How are your stores, Kalindra?”

  Kalindra sighed. “Insufficient. But Maris did not want me to—”

  Vincent interrupted her. “Lane, you’ll be staying behind.”

  “What?” asked the others, in unison.

  “We are the Merchants, are we not? What is our code?”

  No one replied.

  Vincent’s good cheek began to redden. The edge in his voice sharpened. “I asked a question! What is our code?”

  The three replied as one.

  “Fidelity. Sacrifice. Justice. In all things, honor.”

  Vincent nodded. It had been a long while since he had heard anyone repeat the words of their code. The effect buoyed his spirits. “Thank you. Fidelity sets our course today. I trust no one to protect the Lady, and its ladies, more than you, Lane. Anyone else would try to rob them.”

  “They might try,” Kalindra said. “We’re no less lethal than you lot, as you well know.”

  “As I well know,” Vincent agreed. “But this is not a time to test yourself. There’s safety in numbers.”

  Kalindra did not relent. “But Vincent, your mission—”

  “My mission is to reach out to the elves. A company of soldiers will make that no easier.”

  Lane shook his head. “Vincent—”

  “He’s right, as usual,” Gerald said. “We’ll be far safer without a company of horse than within one. The only threat I’m concerned about at this point is that damnable dragon, and your soldiers are of no use against it, Lane. Intending no offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Vincent continued where Gerald left off. “All you’d accomplish is making us far easier to spot. Pick your two best soldiers and send the rest back to Slater. But I’ll ask you a favor, Eriks.”

  “Anything.”

  “As soon as we leave, go to Concorde. Release my staff from service. You know where the gold is; give them each a year’s salary. Tell them I’ll find them when I return, and they may then rejoin my household or not, as they prefer.”

  “Not all will want to leave,” said Gerald. “Some have nowhere to go.”

  “Then they can stay. As long as they like. Pay them regardless. Gold may not be worth much these days, but it’s all I have to give.”

  “Food,” said Lane, the word a powerful note, not needing accompaniment.

  Vincent nodded. “I know. And there’s nothing I can do about that, not without the elves. I’ll trust you to keep everyone alive, Lane. Kalindra, share your stores with Lane and his people as best you can. You’ll need to establish rations—”

  “I know what to do, Vincent.”

  Vincent nodded. “Of course you do. But I will ask something of you as well. A favor to me.”

  “I will take care of my sister. I promise.”

  Vincent took a deep breath. “And Chaneela. And yourself.”

  Kalindra nodded, meeting Vincent’s gaze for a brief moment before again looking away.

  “I’ll take care of myself,” Chaneela announced, entering the room. “It’s you two who need looking after.” She threw a cloak around Gerald’s neck and handed him another, for Vincent. “Your bags are on horses.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Gerald leaned in for a kiss. She offered her cheek.

  “Hmph. Save the kisses for when you come back.”

  “We will come back, Chaneela.”

  “I know that, you old fool! I said when, not if!”

  “When indeed,” Vincent said. He gave his friends a long look. “That’ll be it then. Keep an ear to the ground for the others.”

  No one replied, each knowing in their hearts that had the other Merchants survived the past cycle, they would all be in this room.

  Lane offered Vincent an arm, who took it and stood. The soldier offered his friend a drink of wine from a skin.

  “Eyes to the sky, Vincent.”

  Vincent swallowed, handing the wine back. “Eye, you mean.”


  Lane offered a half-smile, uncomfortable. The room fell silent.

  Vincent shook his head. “If you people haven’t come up with some good one-eyed-man jokes before I return, I’m going to have to find new friends.”

  Lane took a long pull from the skin. For several breaths, no one spoke.

  “You’ll need help,” Chaneela said, finally.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Finding friends. Finding anything with one eye is bound to be a chore.”

  A spray of red wine flew from Lane’s mouth, showering Vincent’s fresh white shirt.

  Vincent shot a glance at Chaneela before falling into laughter. “It’s official. If anything happens to me on the road, I’m leaving the crew in your charge.”

  “Hmph. As if it isn’t already,” said Chaneela.

  ~

  The air was colder than even Gerald had predicted, and just as choking. A harsh wind accelerated between buildings, buffeting the pair in sheets of ash as they rode the streets of Mor. Vincent tried to suppress a cough, the act still painful despite how quickly he had healed. The acidic taste and caustic quality of the air was clearly impossible to ignore, however, and he was hacking before they had made more than a few blocks.

  “Sir! A bit of food, yes?”

  The ash-covered boy appeared benign, but Vincent knew his look. Or, rather, the Merchant did. If they stopped, they’d be set upon by a dozen thieves or more.

  “Fresh out, kid. Move along.”

  The boy jogged along beside the riders. “Aw, come on, just a nibble. Look how fat those bags are!”

  Vincent pulled down his hood. The boy came to a sliding stop, gaping. Vincent slowed his horse for effect. “Yes. Fat with the meat of streeters! I said move along!”

  “Aaaaahhh! I’m sorry!” The boy ran like he had been set afire.

  Vincent pulled his horse back to Gerald’s side.

  “That was effective,” Gerald quipped.

  Vincent began to laugh, but his laugh became a cough, then a fit, bending him over the saddle horn.

  “Might want to reconsider this, Vincent.”

  Vincent wiped his mouth. Specks of red dotted his hand.

  “And let you put your feet up at the Lady while the world collapses around us? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”