Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  “A fool I may be, but a liar I ain’t.”

  If it truly came to it, Oort could not fight Lux, and he knew it. Even with Argl and Rak’s help, a weapon drawn would end with grievous injury or worse, and likely not to Lux. Yet Oort was not afraid, and not because he did not fear death, but because he trusted the dwarf.

  Oort nodded. “No, I suppose yer not.”

  Lux returned the nod. “I’d sooner die than lead ye to harm, King Oort. Twice for Lady Thinsel. I’m a Scout, and I don’t expect ye to know what that means, but it means more than ye know, and ye don’t get named such by speakin’ lies an’ breakin’ oaths. Whatever that might mean, whatever poor honor I might carry in my whole heart, it ain’t but a sliver of what Hatchet carries in a finger. I swear to ye, if it be in his power, he’ll put an end to Dohr’s reign when he hears what’s been done.”

  Oort knew without question that Lux believed what he said, but Oort did not. Could not.

  “If yer wrong, maybe your Hatchet goes north. Maybe he gets to the gates afore we can drop the tunnels.”

  “And if I’m right, ye won’t need to drop the tunnels at all.”

  Oort leveled his gaze at Lux. “I’ll be droppin’ the tunnels. I said I would, and I will. If yeh hope to change my mind, it’ll take more than words, and I hope things between you and me don’t come to that.”

  Lux held Oort’s eyes for a breath. The gnome knew the dwarf was sizing him up, no doubt marking the same differences in tone and demeanor Oort was beginning to notice in himself. “Aye,” Lux said finally, taking a step back. “Then ye’ll drop the tunnels. But might be we can keep what’s left of Thornwood and Belgorne from paintin’ the Maw red. And there ain’t all that much left of either. Enough innocent people have died, Wolfslayer.”

  Lux did not need to say that they died by the actions of gnomes. The weight of that truth hung heavily in Oort’s heart. He wanted to tell himself it did not matter, that those who had committed such atrocities were dead and gone, but the argument fell flat as a slab of shale. It had been gnomes to bring this cataclysm, setting in motion events whose reverberations still rung across Tahr, relentless waves of death and destruction; no matter how Oort might wish to lay the blame squarely upon the Elders, the truth of such things was never square. The Elders had been named by the gnomes of G’naath. Perhaps no one knew of the dark magics in which they meddled. Perhaps no one knew the horrors they planned. But all of G’naath knew of their pettiness and contemptible character, and none demanded better. G’naath had been content to be led by a miserable, power-hungry cabal of wretches, and if blame were to be laid, it fell at the feet of all gnomes.

  “Ain’t got much choice here, do we?” Oort asked, though not quite asking.

  “We double back or talk to Hatchet,” Lux said. “And if we double back, we might run into ’im anyways.”

  Oort glanced to Rak and Argl. Both nodded.

  “All right,” Oort said. “We’ll find a place to tuck in. Two hours?”

  “Call it three,” Lux said.

  “Three, then. And if ye don’t come back?”

  “Then come get me, if ye please, ’cause it means I broke a leg.”

  Oort stared at Lux.

  “Or not,” Lux added soberly. “As ye prefer.”

  Oort reached for the reins to the sled. “Don’t break a leg.”

  ~

  The four gnomes were warming themselves around a small fire when Lux returned in the company of two armed, grizzled-looking dwarves. Rak and Argl looked up, the pair obviously too cold to bother reaching for weapons. Oort stood. He felt Thinsel’s hand on his calf as the red-bearded one spoke.

  “Oort Greykin?”

  Oort nodded. The black-bearded dwarf moved to the other’s side. They each took a knee.

  “An honor, Wolfslayer,” said the first. “The general asks that ye join him beyond the next ridge.”

  Oort looked to Lux, who did not speak.

  “Ye’ll come to no ill in our company, King Greykin,” said black beard. “On me honor.”

  Oort nodded but did not reply. He looked again to Lux.

  “Was just as I said, Sire.” Lux, too, took a knee.

  A squeeze of his calf decided the matter. Oort turned to Rak and Argl.

  “Take up the sled,” he ordered.

  Lux rushed forward before the two could rise and took the reins.

  “That’d be my job.”

  THE DAYS OF ASH AND FURY

  PART EIGHT

  XIX: ELSEWHERE

  BEAMS OF GOLDEN LIGHT shone through a thin canopy of maple and oak. Leaves the color of washed carrots and overripe tomatoes danced to the tune of a breeze, casting restless shadows across a clearing of pickle-green, wide-bladed grasses, these yielding in waves to gentle currents of cool air. An unmistakable scent of autumn rode the wind, almost sweet, not-quite-musty, redolent of windfallen apples and freshly harvested wheat, the exquisite yet subtle fragrance that visited each year, only once, to thank the summer for its sunshine, the trees for their shade, and the land for its bounty.

  Where am I?

  Mikallis stood, a squish of mud and grass between his toes alerting him to his nakedness. He turned quickly, modesty in mind, but saw no one. What he did see defied logic.

  Far in the distance, the silhouette of a mountain range serrated the horizon. Mikallis thought he recognized the tallest of the peaks towering at the far left of the range, but no, it could not be. The sun shone above his left shoulder. The cool wind came from behind. The mild air… it had been winter, before.

  Where am I?

  The trees would tell.

  Mikallis turned and walked towards the edge of the clearing, the sun now to his right, each step tentative, high grass making it difficult to see where he stepped. He approached the trunk of a young maple… nothing, on either side. He walked deeper into the forest, the grasses replaced here by a blend of roots, clovers, and fallen leaves. A great, gnarly oak stood proudly beneath its crimson crown. On the side facing him, nothing. On the other…

  Odd.

  The Knights of Thornwood spent a year in tutelage with the Rangers before earning their brooch, and that year had taught the lesson: one tree may lie, but a forest speaks only truth. After inspecting a dozen trees of varying size and species, the truth was told in moss, and that truth was this: it was morning. The sun climbed in the east, the forest was north of the clearing, and the mountain range to the southwest was not supposed to exist.

  What should have existed was not there. The stone boulder, the door he had gone through, was nowhere to be found. This Mikallis could accept. He had returned to the world of the living, and such a thing was nothing if not magic. Where magic plays, Barris had once taught him, logic slumbers. But this… Mikallis imagined a map in his mind, imagined the mountain ranges he knew. The range to the southwest could be neither the upper nor lower jaw of the Maw; if it were, the clouds of ash and soot from Fang would be visible, somewhere. They were not. He could not be within a hundred miles of the Maw, he decided; the air was too sweet, the ground too pristine.

  The weather… Mikallis might have imagined such warmth far to the south, nearer to the Sapphire, but there was no sea between his position and the mountain range, and there was no mountain range between Thornwood and the Sapphire Sea.

  A gust of wind rustled the trees, loosing a cascade of leaves from above.

  It was, most certainly, autumn.

  Mikallis struggled against the most obvious idea as he wandered the forest looking for signs of human life, but he kept returning to it. There could be only two explanations: the first he ruled out, that he was dreaming; no dream had ever been so vivid. The second and most obvious he could not shake, that he had come to a place far, far from the lands he knew, and he had arrived there at least two cycles earlier than he had left. It could not be later; time pressed upon his friends, and Aria needed him; the Father would not send him forward.

  But back! The thought filled Mikallis with hope. I
f he had been sent backwards in time, if such a thing were even possible, he could warn Aria, change the events that led her to… to wherever she might be. More, he could warn Barris and the queen! He could save his people from the collapse of the Citadel, save the dwarves of Belgorne…

  … if I can find my way home.

  A great sense of purpose filled the captain then, and with it the weight of duty. He stopped his wandering, realizing that he had walked well into the forest; the clearing was no longer visible. He would need to choose a direction. Not south; whatever range lay at the western edge of that horizon, it was not one he recognized, and would not lead him home. Not north; if he did not recognize what lay south, home could not be north. East or west, then. But which?

  A rustling sound to his left interrupted the thought, the noise a dozen paces off. He turned, peering into the shadows, listening.

  Nothing. But there had been something.

  Perhaps it is a sign, Mikallis decided. West it is. He began to walk.

  He kept the moss to his left and walked carefully, but not overly so. Time was his enemy. Wherever he was, home was far off, and there was no telling just how far. He would need boots, shoes of some kind. Clothing. He was not cold, but he could tell he would be once night fell. His elven magic could keep him warm, could help him keep his feet, but to sustain such magic for long would take its toll, a fact he discovered astride Triumph on the road from Thornwood.

  How long ago was that? he wondered. A cycle? Even that long? Feels like a lifetime ago.

  Mikallis laughed at himself. It was! You died!

  His mood was high. Not even the memory of his death could darken his disposition. He had a purpose now. A mission! He could make amends for his reckless declaration at the Council. He could take back the harsh words he had exchanged with Aria. He could prevent those events from ever—

  Again, a rustling. Now, a dozen paces behind. Mikallis froze, not frightened, but wary. Again, he listened. Again, nothing. He turned—

  “Hve nü?”

  Had Mikallis been wearing boots, he would have jumped out of them. A fat, bald elf stood before him in long, brown woolen robes, leaning on an oaken staff. His flesh was as smooth as Mikallis’ own, but his eyes reminded the captain of Goodfather Neral.

  “I… hello. You startled—”

  “Hve nü?” the fat elf repeated, fingers tightening around the staff. “Vy nü haih?”

  Mikallis recognized the language as Old Elven. Who are you? Why have you come? He tried a response.

  “Em Mikallis, öhr… öhr Rattüs bus. Hva nü nahm?” I am Mikallis, son of Stinky wood. What do you eat?

  The elf cocked his head, furrowing his brow. Mikallis frowned in return. He assumed he had misspoken and tried again.

  “Em Mikallis, öhr Rat…”

  The elf reddened as Mikallis labored over the pronunciation, but not in anger. By the time Mikallis repeated Stinky wood for the third time, he could take it no longer. He laughed long and loud and hard, holding his belly as he bent forward, leaning on his staff. It was Mikallis’ turn to redden.

  “Shem!” the elf called, waving to someone who approached behind Mikallis—another elf, also bald, also fat, dressed identically but female. “Hlaj er min! Mikallis, öhr Rattüs bus!”

  “Rattüs bus?” the woman replied. “Öhr? Ha!” The woman fell into laughter as well.

  “Hva nü nahm?” the first asked between howls. “Rattüs bus?”

  “All right, very funny. Do you speak the common tongue or not?”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” said the male. “But you do not speak the Alvi!” The elf’s accent was foreign to Mikallis; he had never heard its like. Before he could say as much, the male reached forward, fast as a striking viper, and tugged on Mikallis’ left ear. “From where you get this?”

  Mikallis slapped the elf’s hand away. “From my mother, I assume. Now, what’s so funny? What did I say?”

  “Was she stinky?” the woman asked. The two again fell to laughter.

  “Not so far as I recall,” Mikallis deadpanned. “I meant to say that I am Mikallis of Thornwood, and I asked your name in return.”

  The laughing elves grew silent and exchanged a glance.

  “Thornwood? No,” said the male.

  “Surely no,” agreed the woman.

  “Surely yes,” Mikallis insisted.

  The female stepped forward, looking Mikallis up and down. “Then you come very long way without clothes, Mikallis.”

  “Very long,” the male agreed. “You should no be here.”

  “Which is where, exactly?”

  The woman frowned. “You not know?”

  “I do not.”

  The two traded another glance.

  “We believe you no,” said the male.

  Mikallis would suffer no more. “Sir, I care not whether you believe me. Much depends on my return to Thornwood, and I do not know the way. Will you aid me or no?”

  “No.” The woman replied before the male could.

  “No?”

  “No,” she repeated.

  “And why not?”

  “Because you speak lies,” said the male. “You will come, speak to Ronun.”

  Mikallis seethed but kept his tongue civil. “Who is Ronun?”

  “Ronun is Ronun. Come.” The female grasped Mikallis’ arm above the elbow. He yanked it away. The male raised his staff.

  “I will come! You need not handle me.”

  “Then come,” said the male, pointing north. Mikallis nodded and began to walk.

  The march north was near to the pace Mikallis had set going west. The day had not grown colder, yet his nakedness began to trouble him. His captors avoided the clearings they passed, keeping to the shadows of the forest; the canopy thickened, and the forest grew cooler. Eventually the trees did thin, but by then the shadows had lengthened and the warmth of the day began to fade. Mikallis could tell they were going uphill, though the incline was subtle, and knew they had been walking steadily north, but beyond that much, he saw nothing he recognized. They stopped only once, at what must have been suppertime. The elves shared a meal of nuts and dried fruit with him, but they did not speak, not to each other nor to Mikallis, and neither did Mikallis attempt to engage them. He could see little point in doing so; they would not believe what he had to say, and they would not say anything that might help him. He considered making a stand more than once; he could, perhaps, snatch a staff from one or the other and fight his way free, but to what end? He would need help, and clearly these elves were part of some remote sect; if he offended them, he could not expect help later from their friends, nor this Ronun, and there was no telling when he might come across others who might assist him. This logic was not, however, what decided the matter. It came down to faith. He knew, in the deepest part of himself, that the door he had chosen was the right one, and thus he was exactly where—and when—he was supposed to be.

  The “where” became more confusing when the three emerged from the trees at dusk. This was no remote tribe. They passed the first cabins, these as well-built as any elven home of Thornwood, dozens of elves in their own brown robes milling about. Pens of goats, swine, and black, flightless birds Mikallis did not recognize filled the spaces between homes. A pair of elves busied themselves lighting lanterns hung on poles which lined a narrow street paved in grey stones. Wide eyes began to fall on Mikallis as his captors took this path, murmurs and pointed fingers marking his passing. Soon he noticed a procession of gawkers forming behind him as he walked, each step taking him deeper into the more densely populated city.

  A city!

  The narrow stone path opened into a square as grandiose and immaculate as any village square in Thornwood, save perhaps the market that once stood at the foot of the now-destroyed Citadel. Lush, tended gardens lined the perimeter. Vendors closing up stalls for the evening stopped their work and stared at Mikallis, but none dared come too near. Perhaps his captors were revered in some way? Not necessarily, he decided: two kn
own locals escorting a naked foreigner could only be a prisoner walk, in this or any other city.

  On the opposite side of the square, Mikallis could not help but stop. The light had dimmed considerably, so he could not be sure of what he saw, but before him towered a steep cliff face, as tall as a score of elves, taller, and from its very face, or so it appeared, was carved what he could only describe as one half of a castle. A prod from behind got him moving again, and as he neared the immense structure, his first impression was confirmed: this was indeed a castle, and it was indeed carved from the solid grey mountain behind it.

  As the three ascended the first of three flights of stone stairs, Mikallis gave voice to his marvel.

  “How…”

  “Walk,” said the female.

  Mikallis walked, his neck craned, his jaw hanging open.

  His captors spoke in clipped tones to sentries posted at the entrance. One took off at a jog, ahead, into the castle. The other replied, pointing inwards and to the left, no doubt explaining where Mikallis should be taken. Another prod from behind got him moving again as he wondered at the enormity of the grand foyer. Light was sparse, and he could make out little detail, but the echo of the jogging sentry’s boots on stone resonated as they might in the Citadel of Thornwood—no, he decided, listening to the echoes. This structure was larger by no less than half.

  Mikallis was shuffled into a room to the left, empty but for a stone table and four wooden stools. “Wait,” said the male, neither taking a seat nor offering one. Standing still for the first time in hours, Mikallis then realized how weary he was, his aching feet covered in mud past the ankles, his knees beginning to quake as his muscles tightened. And now, standing on hard stone with the sun gone down, he was cold to the bone.

  He would not ask for comforts, he decided, believing that his strength of resolve somehow mattered here. He had been named a liar, and in Mikallis’ experience, liars complained and pleaded when they were made uncomfortable. Those who were honest and honorable accepted their fate without protest. Perhaps his captors would see this, perhaps not, but he could withstand far worse and resolved to do so with dignity, at least as much as one could muster while standing naked before strangers.