Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  The sea of devils between Shyla and the tower began to part. Two hundred paces separated Shyla from the base of the tower, the only light coming from the eyes of the horde and Cindra’s orb. Her G’naari eyes could make out only shadows, but she did not need eyes to know who emerged; Lady Lor’s gift had opened a conduit among the champions of Tahr.

  J’arn spoke first. “No! It cannot be.”

  Shyla placed a trembling hand on his shoulder, which he grasped. Lady Cindra stepped forward to take position beside Shyla, but Wolf nudged his way between them, edging Cindra aside. He stood low, panting, his fangs bared, drooping ears as perked as they had ever been, black tail curling between his legs. His head swiveled at every sound in the great chamber. Shyla reached up to place a hand on the scruff of his neck. He let out a huff.

  A turn passed. Wolf growled, a deep, rumbling snarl as a squad of demons came into view, a new sort of enemy they had not seen before. Heads like goats with long, twisting, bone-white horns sprouting from the sides of their heads… bodies the same blacker-than-black hue of the dragon, scaled but slick, vaguely human in shape. Each brandished long, wicked scythes, handles and blades as black as the demons which wielded them. As they closed to within fifty paces, the leading rank parted to display two shackled prisoners.

  Lucan not-Thorne and Princess Aria Evanti had been poorly used. Lucan walked hunched, his face purple and swollen. Aria bled from a dozen wounds; wounds Shyla could see were not taken in battle.

  “We’ll free ’em,” Shyla whispered. Wolf growled his assent. “On my signal.”

  “Shyla, we canna—”

  Shyla scowled at her grandmother, pink eyes gleaming.

  ~FAR ENOUGH.~

  The demon guard came to a halt.

  ~SPEAK, DAUGHTER OF LIES.~

  Aria looked down but said nothing. Lucan fell to a knee, gripped by some unseen pain.

  ~SPEAK!~

  Aria screamed. “Release him!”

  ~YOU DO NOT COMMAND ME!~

  “Then I beg you! Please, release him and I will speak!”

  Through her Bond, Shyla felt an anguish take hold within Wolf. His animalistic mind was simple, primitive, but far from dense, and he knew what he saw. He could not abide Lucan’s suffering. He cared for Lucan. Knew him to be a friend. He knew he could do nothing. He knew Aria could do nothing. He was tired. Pained. Afraid. He longed for home, though he did not know the way. These and a hundred other desolations were given voice as Wolf emitted a long, doleful, rising howl. The harrowing tone found a pitch which resonated within the hollow iron cavern, setting a harmonic note alive to resound throughout the tunnels, amplifying down one tunnel, returning through others, here an octave higher, there an octave lower, the tones fusing into one continuous, heart-rending chord.

  J’arn’s pain before had cracked a dam within Shyla. Wolf’s howl now released a river. She sent a thought to her friends.

  ~Cover yer ears.~

  Shyla Greykin, daughter of Oort and Thinsel, indolent outcast-of-G’naath-turned-sorceress, opened a font within herself, and lent her Wolf her power.

  Wolf understood. He howled again, louder this time and with intent, quickly finding the resonant pitch to which Shyla added not merely the force of sorcerous magic, but the power of her very heart, the power of her pity, the power of her righteous fury at the discovery that the world she once so longed to glimpse was naught but a cesspool of death and horror.

  The effect was terrible. As the note grew in volume, the host of scaled and iron horrors sought to flee, but there was nowhere to go. They ran in circles, flailing, moaning. All of Fury thrummed. The demons surrounding Aria and Lucan fell to all fours, wailing in pain. Further into the cavern, nearer to the tower where the power of Wolf’s howl was most intense, yellow lights went out, minions of Fury reduced to quavering piles of death. Shyla could see J’arn screaming something, but she did not hear. Half a turn went by before she realized she could hear nothing at all.

  Wolf’s howl had deafened the companions, but the voice of the Hand came from within.

  ~ENOUGH!~

  Shyla bore down, preparing to intensify her efforts. She tightened her grasp on Wolf’s fur—but sensed him trembling. Shyla probed his mind, seeking to calm him. He responded to her, not in words; such was not the way they communicated, but in loyalty, and in love. He would help Shyla. Always. For all the days and nights and days. He was her Wolf. He was good. He would do as Shyla says. But he was afraid.

  Shyla cut her flow of magic. Wolf whined and turned, bending to lick Shyla’s outstretched hand.

  Shyla replied silently to the Hand.

  ~Why should I not end yeh, devil? End yeh and all yer wretched lot!~

  A low, rumbling laugh sounded within the companion’s minds.

  ~YOU CANNOT END US, WITCH. WE HAVE NO END. SUCH IS OUR CURSE. BUT… I WILL YEILD THIS DAY.~

  ~Then release Aria and Lucan! Yeh canna—

  ~NO! THE DAUGHTER OF LIES IS MINE! YOU MAY HAVE THE IMPOSTOR; HE IS OF NO USE TO ME. BUT THE ELF I WILL NOT SURRENDER!~

  J’arn asked the question. ~Impostor? What’s he sayin’, Luc?~

  Lucan responded to Shyla. ~It doesn’t matter.~ He turned to the princess. ~I won’t leave you, Aria.~

  Shyla could see Aria turn, reaching shackled hands to Lucan’s face.

  ~You must. Go. I will return to you. This is not our end.~

  ~Ain’t nobody leavin nobody!~ J’arn’s words, though silent, conveyed his great desperation. ~We came together, we leave together!~

  ~No.~ Lady Cindra’s declaration carried a finality to it.

  Shyla turned, appalled.

  Cindra continued. ~This is Aria’s debt to pay. We will accept your bargain, Darkest One. For today.~

  ~What? Grandmama, no!—~

  ~VERY WELL, SLAVE. YOU HAVE ONE DAY.~

  Shyla screamed aloud in protest as the horde withdrew.

  No one heard.

  XXI: THE NORTHERN ROAD

  Barris sent desperate word along the Winds. Pheonaris would hear or would not. She would come in time or would not. The waters of the Spring would serve, or they would not. If the waters were good and sentient as he and his people believed, they could not allow his friend to die, this majestic, devoted servant of Thornwood, of Tahr, of goodness itself. But these times were dark. All was corrupted. Why not the Spring? It mattered little. The Mistress of the Grove would come, she who loved Phantom nearly as much as Barris, but he could not imagine what magic might bring her quickly enough.

  The night had been cold. Cold enough, Barris had hoped, to slow any infection that might insinuate itself into Phantom’s wounds. An inspection of the sutures Barris had sewn the day before revealed no superficial taint, but Barris had seen the dark purple hue in many a horse’s gums. He had felt the thumping heart, seen the shivering. The fever had struck quickly and from within. Barris’ own heart pinched in frustration and sorrow. He could do nothing. He would have run for help, but Mor was too far, and no cure could be found there in any case. The Grove was even farther; a flat-out sprint, even enhanced by all Barris’ magic, would take two days at least, and a day riding back at full gallop. Phantom had a day, no more. Perhaps less.

  Barris spoke to his friend through panicked tears. Quietly, in a voice ill-suited to melody, he sang songs of love, of battle, of great deeds and valor, cradling the great beast’s black head in his lap, stroking his mane. Lucidity came and went; Phantom thrashed now and again. When he did not thrash, he moaned, an awful, unfitting sound to come from so great a beast. His great soulful brown eye met Barris’ gaze when the knight used his name, and the Bond between elf and stallion carried currents of fear and affection between the two dear companions.

  The day wore on like a march. Barris left Phantom’s side only long enough to tend the fire. By afternoon, Phantom would not take water. By dusk his breath came in gasps. His body began to cool. As night fell, the Bond grew quiet. The First Knight of Thornwood could sense only his own sorrow.

&nb
sp; Barris cried out as his arms tightened around his dearest friend’s head.

  “What is my sin!?”

  The forest gave no answer. Nor did the Father.

  “What terrible crime, what grave offense that you should punish not me, but those who have loved me? Tell me!”

  Silence.

  A river of tears cascaded down the knight’s tortured face. “TELL ME! Oh Father, please tell me! I will repent! I swear it!”

  “Hello?”

  The voice came from nearby. Barris lifted his head. Hooves crunched through snow a dozen paces west, from the road. The knight sent a tendril of himself outwards, sensing. Two riders. From these he detected no wicked intent.

  “Here!” Barris cried. “Here! Please, come here!”

  Feet struck the ground, the pair dismounting. Hushed voices shared words he could not make out; words, no doubt, of caution. Boots approached.

  “I am alone! Do not be afraid! I am Barris, First Knight—”

  “First Knight of Thornwood,” a male voice continued. The two men came nearer, one older, one hooded but younger. They stepped to within the glow of the fire. “I recognize you,” said the hooded man.

  “Please, you must help me. My horse… he will not drink.”

  “The great Phantom. Nasty wounds. Here, let me.” The older man moved to kneel before the horse.

  Barris held up a hand. “Tell me your name.”

  The strangers eyed one another. The hooded man spoke.

  “This is Gerald Longstock. I am Vincent Thomison. We are from Mor, and you can—”

  “Thomison? I saw your trial. I… I saw you die.”

  “Didn’t take,” said Gerald, not quite flippant. “Will he thrash out?”

  Barris shook his head. “Not since this afternoon.”

  Gerald lay his hands on the great stallion, inspecting his wounds. After a turn he stood.

  “He is dying, friend.”

  “He cannot die. He cannot! He is Phantom of Thornwood, do you not understand?!” Barris cried like a boy, all pretense at bravery abandoned. “Do you carry any herbs? Anything? Please, I will give you all I have, and more—”

  “I have some magic, First Knight. I might be able to ease his suffering, but—”

  “You can do more than that,” said Vincent.

  Gerald turned. The two men shared a silent exchange.

  “What do you mean?” pleaded Barris. “What more? You… you are an Incantor?”

  Gerald turned back towards Barris. “Nearly. As good as.”

  “And you can heal? Then heal him, please! My magic… I was never good at these things. I will give you anything, on my honor as a knight—”

  “It is your honor I would not impeach, friend. My magic… the magic I can use to heal him… you may not approve.”

  Barris blinked. Recognition dawned. He had heard of such magic. Phantom’s breath began to rattle.

  “No. Another way. There must be another way.”

  Gerald sighed. “None that I can provide. As I said, I can give him comfort, but—”

  “From where?” Barris interrupted. “From where would you take this power? There is no one for miles.”

  Barris watched as Gerald looked around, at the ground, above and into the canopy of trees. The man was taking an inventory, like a librarian of so many books. Barris wiped tears from his eyes.

  “There may be enough,” said Gerald. “I cannot say for sure.”

  Barris swallowed. He tried his Bond again. Nothing. He nodded.

  “Take it from me.”

  The man called Gerald frowned. “Sir, that… that could kill you.”

  And so I will repent, for whatever great sin I carry in my heart.

  “Then I will die. Do it. Take it from me.”

  Gerald shook his head. “I… I’m sorry. I cannot do that, Sir. I will not.”

  “Do it! Please, do you not understand? This is my penance! He has given his life to me! All these many years! I will give it back! It is mine to give!”

  Gerald took a step back.

  “Please. I beg of you. Please.” Barris pleaded. “You must.” Barris stroked his friend’s muzzle. “It is mine to give,” he repeated pitifully.

  “Gerald,” said Thomison. Gerald turned.

  Thomison addressed Barris. “Would you give us a moment, sir?”

  Barris nodded weakly.

  ~

  Vincent put an arm around Gerald and led him away from the fire.

  “You’ve done this before,” said Vincent.

  “Not like this. Never like this. I’ve pinched a bit, here and there, from many. No one died, Vincent. I’ve never taken it all from one source.”

  “Then take only what you need to. If it comes down to it, cut the spell. Spare the knight’s life.”

  Gerald shook his head. “This isn’t like mixing some street cure. I choose the sources and open the channels. If I do it, I do it with the intent to get the job done, and once the veil is ripped…”

  Vincent nodded. “It’s out of your hands.”

  “For the most part, yes.”

  “Your best guess. Will it kill him?”

  Gerald shrugged. “Possibly. Elves are a sturdy lot, but the horse is far gone. Awful infection.”

  Vincent nodded.

  “It’s a horse, Vincent. A great horse, but its life is not to be traded for the First Knight of Thornwood.”

  Vincent took a moment to reply. “You’re right, of course. But we can’t just do nothing.”

  “You heard him. He doesn’t want the sort of help I can give.”

  “So he says.”

  Gerald shook his head again. “You know the elves as well as I do. Say what you like about the pointy-eared folk, but they do value life.”

  “True,” Vincent agreed, taking another moment to think. He could hear the knight speaking to his horse. He could not make out the words, but the tone of grief was unambiguous. “Poor bastard. We have to help him.”

  Gerald sighed. “I just told you, he doesn’t want—”

  “I get it. He doesn’t want to take life. Not from the squirrels or the birds or the little baby bunnies. That doesn’t mean we can’t give it.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Vincent shrugged. “Take half from me.”

  “Please. Take half of what from you? You’re half-dead already.”

  “Maybe, but only half.” Vincent threw Gerald a wink. The wizard was not amused.

  “You want to go the rest of the way? This isn’t kid stuff. It’s not worth it. Not for a horse.”

  “What about for the First Knight of Thornwood?”

  “For the First Knight’s horse, you mean.”

  “Think about it, Gerald. Why are we here?”

  Gerald rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to launch into some existential sermon—”

  “No, I mean here.” Vincent lifted his arms, indicating their setting. “We’re here to beseech the help of the elves. What better way?”

  Gerald shook his head. “Dunno. Can’t think of a worse one, though.”

  “I can. How about a man with half a face riding to the Grove, begging for Thornwood’s help after letting Sir Barris’ horse die on the side of the road?”

  “Oh, to Fury with that,” Gerald said. “You didn’t wound that horse.”

  “You know I’m right.”

  “I know you’re delirious. I’m not doing it, anyways. Think of something else.”

  Vincent took a step forward, lowering his voice. Gerald looked down.

  “Oh, no you don’t. Look at me.”

  Gerald stood still.

  “Look at me Longstock. Come on.”

  Gerald looked up, irritation warping his features.

  “I’m a ghost. Worse. I’m a ghoul. If we’re going to win Thornwood over, my charisma isn’t going to cut it.”

  Gerald huffed. “You are one ugly bastard. I’ll give you that.”

  “Good. It’s settled, then.”

  “Fury
it is. Vincent, you could die.”

  “Ho, hum. That’d be what, three times now?”

  “Not funny.”

  “Didn’t mean it to be. Listen. No—just shut up and listen. You stole this life for me. But it’s mine now. You don’t get to decide—”