Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Fortunately, that problem was soon resolved. The woman returned with a thick grey robe and a pair of fresh sandals. She tossed them at his feet.

  “Thank you,” he said, meaning it.

  “Dress. You see Ronun now.”

  Mikallis did as he was bid. As he knelt to lace his sandals the sentry returned and nodded towards his captors, who turned to Mikallis. Another prod was unnecessary; he stood and followed the guard as expected.

  Mikallis counted his steps and noted the turns as he was led down a series of hallways. If he found himself in trouble, recalling the way out could make all the difference. Or not, he admitted. He was alone here. Friendless. He had been marched naked to this place. No one in this city would give him succor. Even if he could escape, even if he could evade detection while doing so, he did not even know where to run. Yet, he counted his steps, for Barris would have him do so.

  Mikallis reached a count of one hundred forty-seven steps when he rounded the last corner, the hallway not opening into a grand throneroom as he expected but rather a humble office, not unlike the one in which his queen spent many an afternoon teaching him to read. This one was even more modest, in fact; no dark exotic woods nor handmade chairs, only a rough wooden table with a bench on either side, suitable to seat no more than ten. Old tomes lined wooden shelves along the walls. The room smelled of ancient inks and leathers. A single lantern sat upon the table.

  “Wait,” said his male captor, pointing to a spot on the floor. Mikallis obeyed, eyeing the bench but remaining on his feet. The sentry and his captors left him there, stepping back out into the hall. They whispered among themselves for a turn until slow, deliberate footsteps drew near in the hallway. Mikallis steeled himself, preparing mentally for the confrontation to come. The steps grew closer, a short conversation ensued, and Mikallis soon found himself facing an elderly elf, he also bald but far thinner, also attired in brown wool.

  “You must be tired, Mikallis of Thornwood. Sit, if you will.”

  The elf’s gentle voice shattered any defense Mikallis might have put up. His was a fatherly tone, mild and kind, familiar, bearing no accent. It might well have been Neral speaking.

  “Thank you, Good—” Mikallis nearly said “Goodfather”—“good sir.” Mikallis sat, immediately regretting that he had not waited for the elderly elf to sit first.

  “You may call me Goodfather, if you like. It is not unlike the title given me by my people.” The elf rounded the table and took his own seat.

  “Ronun,” Mikallis said.

  The elf nodded. “It means ‘king’ to some, ‘father’ to others. In truth, it only means that I am old.”

  “I will call you Ronun then, if you please. The name Goodfather is dear to me, reserved for another.”

  Ronun nodded with a knowing expression.

  “You will have questions of me,” Mikallis said.

  Ronun shook his head. “No, I do not. Shem and Kallar told me all I would know.”

  “They think me a liar.”

  Ronun nodded. “They do.”

  “And you?”

  “And I what?”

  “Do you think me a liar?”

  The elf pursed his lips and looked down for a moment, then back up to Mikallis. The tone of his next words, still gentle, still kind, did not pair with his sharp declaration.

  “If you are not from Thornwood, then you are a liar. If you are from Thornwood, then you are a liar. Thus, I do not have questions for you, Mikallis, for I do not expect true answers.”

  Mikallis fumed. “You impugn me, sir. And I have done you no—”

  “From your point of view, perhaps. But your anger is misplaced. And vain, I might add. Indignation will not avail you, and thus it is of no value. Set it aside and ask me what you will.”

  Mikallis took a breath, no less indignant but seeing the wisdom in setting his pique aside.

  “There is much I would ask, if you will allow me.”

  Ronun nodded, saying nothing.

  “I suppose I will start with the obvious. Where am I?”

  “Where do you think you are?”

  Mikallis shook his head. “Nowhere I have ever heard of. I know the land and how to read it… but I am lost, as lost as I have ever been. Everything is… out of its place.”

  “I see.”

  Mikallis knew he was expected to continue. “When I… when I awoke—”

  “You were sleeping?”

  Mikallis immediately regretted his choice of words. He had proven his captors’ accusations true in barely more than a turn.

  “No, but I do not think you will believe me if I tell you the truth.”

  A look of disappointment crossed Ronun’s face. “Then why speak at all? Look around you. I have plenty of tales in this room to entertain me.”

  Mikallis nodded. “I am sorry. Will you forgive me, and allow me to begin again?”

  “My pardon will bring no truth to your words, but continue, if you wish.”

  Mikallis told all, barely taking a breath for an hour, sparing only inconsequential details, beginning at the Council at Thornwood, ending when he arrived in… wherever he was. Ronun listened intently, never speaking, never frowning, never giving a clue as to whether or not he believed a single word of Mikallis’ narrative. When the captain completed his account, finally, Ronun spoke.

  “Your tale is well spun, Mikallis.”

  “It is true, Ronun. Every word, at least as well as I can relate it.”

  “I believe that you believe so, though how you could, I do not understand. But it is impossible.”

  Mikallis slammed a fist on the table. “How can you say that? Which part do you not believe? And why?”

  “I did not say that I do not believe you. Only that your tale is impossible. Truly, completely impossible.”

  Mikallis waited.

  Ronun waited as well. A silent turn passed before the old elf shrugged. “Very well. You speak of Ya Di.”

  Mikallis nodded. “As it was explained to me by Barris, in the poem—”

  “I am quite familiar with the verse. To your credit, you recited it nearly perfectly, though you missed much if its meaning. But Ya Di is not upon us.”

  “It will be! This winter! Listen to what I am telling you, I have to get back to—”

  Ronun stood, turning to the shelves behind him. Mikallis stopped speaking, waiting politely as the elf perused the wall of leather-bound tomes. A turn passed, and another, but Mikallis remained silent.

  “Ah. There. Would you care to reach that for me? It is just a bit too high.”

  Mikallis stood and did as he was asked. The egg-white volume was a thin one, comparatively. Many were as wide as Mikallis’ hand; this one was no wider than two fingers. He handed the book to Ronun and the two sat again at the table. Ronun began thumbing through the book, his movements delicate, taking care not to damage the binding nor its faded vellum pages. He settled on a page and turned the volume sideways.

  “Do you read Alvi?” he asked Mikallis.

  “Poorly,” Mikallis replied.

  Ronun shook his head. “A shame. Then let me tell you what it says. Here, you see these lines?”

  Mikallis nodded.

  “This is the first verse of the Oath of Ya Di. You recognize the cadence at least, yes?”

  Mikallis nodded.

  “This next verse...” Ronun turned the book to face himself again. “I will not read it to you, as it is not for me to do so. But I will tell you one part, so that you might understand. In the third stanza, it says that Ya Di will come when the Twins become one. Do you understand this?”

  “I think so. When the Twins appear to merge in the night sky.”

  “Just so. Understand, the verses of Ya Di are not strictly prophecy. You know this, yes?”

  Mikallis shook his head. “I thought that is exactly what they were.”

  “No, young captain. The Oath is, in part, merely a calendar. A special one, to be sure, a magical one with extraordinary detail, but
a calendar nonetheless. This section about the Twins tells us one thing and one thing only: the year in which Ya Di will come.”

  “Exactly!” Mikallis said. “Have you seen the night sky? The Twins grow nearer at their zenith each cycle. This is why I cannot delay! By winter’s end, at the very latest—”

  “Mikallis, you are mistaken. The Twins have barely shared the night sky in two seasons. Kal will not eclipse Lor for another fifty-one years. Yes, this will happen in winter, but many, many years from now.”

  Mikallis felt his mouth go dry. “No. That cannot be.”

  “Fang has not erupted. Stand upon the battlements with me at dawn. Look to the southwest. You will see for—”

  “To the southwest? No, I saw the range, that is not—”

  “Ninety-three miles to the southwest lies Fang. Almost due south, in fact. I assure you; it has not stirred in an age. Do the elves of Thornwood still keep to the royal almanac?”

  Mikallis felt his breath catch. “We do.”

  “And the Evanti family still rules?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what year is it, to your mind?”

  To my mind? “Come, now! It is the year nine hundred and fourteen!”

  Ronun shook his head. Mikallis felt lightheaded. He knew what came next. He knew it in his bones.

  “If your tale is true, young captain, the Father has sent you much further into the past than a single season. By the Evanti almanac, today began the tenth cycle in the year eight hundred and sixty-three. So, you see, your tale cannot be true. If it were, you would not have yet even been born.”

  XX: FURY

  WAVES OF DEVILS swept the four through the tunnels like a gale. The battle raged on without respite for what felt to Shyla like days, the unending dark yielding no reference by which to mark the passage of time. Each turn they took, each new tunnel they chose to escape a pursuing horde only brought them to face another.

  There were those that swarmed, great, black masses of surging rage and claw. There were the longskulls, iron beasts which only Cindra could destroy, these given a wide berth by the hordes. There were others, unnamable things, some headless, some all jaws and teeth, all inventions of depravity. Cindra, J’arn and Shyla had long known they were being herded, but the knowledge made no difference. They fought, for they could do no more, protecting one another, protecting the defenseless Wolf, he whose bravery was not in doubt but whose own fangs and claws could open only superficial wounds in their enemies… wounds which leaked a vile residue. Shyla tasted the acidic ichor through her Bond. The foul liquid burned her companion like liquid fire, and she felt Wolf’s pain as if it were her own. The exhausted gnome had nearly fallen to the horde trying to heal him. She had succeeded, pouring all that she was into the spell, but only just, two longskulls converging on them from either side as Cindra and J’arn fought with all that they were.

  That might have been an hour ago. Or a day.

  The bones in Shyla’s hands felt molten. Jets of flame had been pouring from her fingers for as long as she could remember. Her mouth was a desert. The heat of flaming torrents had long evaporated all sweat from her pores. She had so far avoided injury, but soon it would not matter. Soon she would collapse. As they rounded another corner, Shyla fighting enemies from the rear, her flame faltered.

  “Fight, Shyla!”

  The warning from J’arn was not the first. Shyla redoubled her efforts. The result was far from impressive. She was flagging, and they all knew it. Cindra pushed her aside.

  “Help J’arn!”

  Shyla met her grandmother’s eyes for only an instant. What she saw there was no less terrifying than the horde.

  Each time Cindra had slain a longskull, her power had grown. There could be no doubt of this. But Shyla could not help but feel that each kill had taken a bit of Lady Cindra’s soul, replacing it with some darker force. It was a ritual each time, Shyla knew. She did not merely kill these enemies. She devoured their lives, such as they were, their power, their very being. The mustard-yellow glint in her grandmother’s eyes left no question: that which she consumed was beginning to consume her.

  Shyla nearly tripped over Wolf as they made the corner. A frightened whine warned of some new terror. Cindra kept the horde from behind at bay, but when Shyla raised her eyes to peer into the darkness, she knew they would advance no further.

  Here lay a cavern no less than five hundred paces wide, twice as long, its ceiling too high to make out. A tall, rusted iron peak rose from the center of the cavity, a winding path curling up its exterior. The spike—a tower, Shyla decided— was as wide as the Morline at its base, taller than what Shyla could estimate. Thousands upon thousands of shimmering yellow eyes, like so many hateful stars, lined the walls of the cavern on all sides, peering out from tunnels that led to the iron hollow, these too soaring high into the dark. Hundreds more pairs of eyes looked down upon them from the iron tower.

  This was an army.

  A blast from behind turned Shyla’s head as Cindra obliterated a throng of devils. When she turned again to the cavern, the glinting stars had become a roiling sea, and the waves descended. A new orb of light from Cindra illuminated the fate before them.

  At least I won’t die in the dark.

  Shyla knew. She would die here, and soon. She was not afraid; fear served as an alarm, warning one to fight or flee, and neither tactic would avail them now. She was angry. Angry that the world could be so vile as to allow such a place to exist. Angry that she would come to know such joys as her friend Wolf, such beauty as that which she enjoyed in Eyreloch, such friendship as she had experienced with her companions, with Trellia, even with Mikallis… and with J’arn… such love as that she had seen in her grandmother’s eyes, before, only to have these stolen from her by these mindless, hateful monsters. She blinked away a single outraged tear, perhaps the last drop of fluid her dehydrated body could produce.

  I shoulda stayed inside. I’m sorry, Mama.

  As the scrambling, baying host worked its way around J’arn’s flames—her brave prince, fighting to the end—Shyla did not bother raising a hand. She faced the tower of iron, balled her fists, and screamed, demanding an answer to the only question that mattered.

  “Why!?”

  As Shyla’s final lament rang across the cavern, the hordes came to a sliding halt, heeding the silent command of their master.

  ~WHY? YOU DARE ASK WHY?~

  The voice still resonated from within her mind, but she could now sense its source: the tower.

  J’arn dropped his hands, turning to Shyla.

  “Ye need not answer.” J’arn tried to spit at the ground. Nothing came out. “He ain’t but a dev—”

  J’arn’s words were cut short. He clawed as his throat. His heels came off the ground.

  Something within Shyla cracked. “You let ’im go!” Shyla screamed, raging, sorcerous power amplifying her command, cowing the front line of beasts. “Come face me yerself, coward!”

  J’arn’s face began to purple. Thick veins bulged on his forehead.

  ~ANSWER, LITTLE WITCH. DO YOU TRULY NOT UNDERSTAND?~

  “I don’t understand none o’ this! I ain’t never hurt yeh!” Shyla’s pink eyes began to shine, a new sort of power welling within her. “Ain’t J’arn, neither! Let ’im go!”

  J’arn fell to his knees, gasping, released by whatever force had been choking the life from him.

  ~AND WHAT OF YOU, PRINCE-THAT-WAS? ARE YOU AS IGNORANT AS THE LITTLE WITCH? WHAT DO THEY SAY IN BELGORNE? WHAT LIES ARE PASSED DOWN THE SILVERSTONE LINE?~

  J’arn came to his feet, coughing.

  “I know ye were evil in life!” J’arn coughed again. “An’ ye be evil in death! Liars, killers, and thieves, to a one! An’ cowards, looks like! Come out an’ face—”

  ~AND YOU, MY FAITHFUL SERVANT? TELL YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER THAT WHICH YOU MUST NOW KNOW.~

  A hush fell before Cindra answered. “I’ll not be yer servant, fiend!”

  The hesitation in Lady
Cindra’s voice was unmistakable. Shyla turned.

  ~Grandmama?~

  Cindra’s smoky, yellowed eyes met Shyla’s for half a heartbeat before she looked away.

  Shyla’s heart shattered.

  ~OH, BUT YOU ALREADY ARE. LONG AGO YOU CALLED TO ME.~

  “Once only!” Cindra yelled. “And I gave yeh nothin’!”

  ~NO. BUT YOU TOOK WHAT I GAVE YOU, DID YOU NOT? LOOK AT YOUR GRANDMOTHER, LITTLE WITCH. SEE HER BEFORE YOU, A CENTURY OLD YET YOUNG AS A MAIDEN. AND SUCH POWER! POWER CLAIMED IN BLOOD! YOU WILL BE SECOND AMONG MY SLAVES, CINDRA SANDSHINGLE. SECOND ONLY TO MY GREATEST CREATION. YOU HAVE MET KALASHAGON, LITTLE WITCH, HAVE YOU NOT? AS HAVE YOU, PRINCE-THAT-WAS. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN HIS LIKE?~

  “An abomination!” J’arn hollered. “Born o’ filth and bile!”

  ~MMM. AN ABOMINATION, YES. I DO NOT DENY IT. BUT BORN OF LIES, PRINCE THAT WAS. BORN OF THE LIES OF HUMANITY.~

  Shyla turned from her grandmother and towards the iron tower. “Yeh speak in riddles, coward!”

  ~I DO NOT! YOU HEAR ONLY RIDDLES BECAUSE YOU KNOW ONLY LIES! YOU WILL DIE YOUR SECOND DEATH THIS DAY, LITTLE WITCH, BUT FIRST YOU SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH! NOT FROM ME, BUT FROM SHE THAT KNOWS! BEHOLD! I GIVE YOU THE PRINCESS OF LIES!~