Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  “Ye’ll stop all nonessential work immediately. That means housing and mining. Support the forges as ye must, but no more. Find out how much ore we’re needin’ for the smiths to continue workin’, and that’s all we’ll be refining, until further notice. Pass the word to Thurn–no more weapon work. The smithy is to be devoted to building materials and nothing else.”

  “Father!” Dohr exclaimed. “Garlan would strongly disagree–”

  “Dammit, Dohr, Garlan ain’t here neither. He’s with J’arn, and he’s tryin’ to find a way to keep Belgorne stable while this all goes downhill. There’s no way o’ knowin’ when he’ll be back, and we need to worry more about shelter now than we do refining ore and crafting weapons. Stonarris knows we be armed to the teeth.”

  “And what shall we trade with Mor then, Father?” Dohr asked, his tone petulant.

  “What has Mor to trade with us? They are starving. Halsen’s run the kingdom into the ground. We’re on our own, Dohr. Jensen, yer to take every dwarf ye can spare and begin work on building us shelters outside of Belgorne. Ain’t no point in keepin’ it quiet anymore. The whole o’ the Maw knows what’s comin’. It’s time to prepare.”

  “Not the whole o’ the Maw, Father.”

  “We will not discuss that, Dohr.”

  “Father, we must! G’naath be untouched by these… these fire holes. If this whole mess were natural, then the gnomes would be feelin’ it too. If it ain’t, then they are somehow behind it, or a part of it, and ye know it. All o’ Belgorne knows it.”

  “All o’ Belgorne is too damned scared to know anything, Dohr! Jensen, help me talk some sense into my son.”

  Jensen looked to his king, then to Dohr. He spoke after a moment. “King Garne, I know yer mind on this. But Dohr has a point. Now I ain’t sayin’ we need to march over there and start trouble, but–”

  “We start nothing, Jensen. They started this. And if those little curs think they can lay Belgorne low without a fight, they’ll find out different when we kick ’em out of G’naath and claim it as our own!”

  King Garne stood, his voice booming. “Dohr, ye do not know that! Would ye have me murder a race of people just because they might be causin’ trouble? Use yer mind, son, or yer heart at least!”

  Dohr replied darkly. “I use both, Father. Me heart is the heart of a Silverstone, same as yours, and it be a warrior’s heart. Ye can bet a bag Brenn Silverstone wouldn’t sit here cowering under the rocks, worryin’ about what did or didn’t happen to the gnomes. And as fer me mind…it be sharp enough to know ye’re a fool if ye think the gnomes ain’t a part o’ this!”

  At that, Dohr abruptly turned and walked out of Shan’s Hall. Gritson examined the floor, waiting for the king to order his son to return, but he did not.

  “Me king,” Jensen broke the silence.

  “Aye, Jensen.”

  “If this be the first time one of yer sons called ye a fool, yer doin’ better than most fathers, I assure ye.”

  “Aye, I know it. But I know he’s right, too. This ain’t natural, none of it.”

  Gritson sensed his input would be welcome. “Me king, no matter what, we need to work on shelters, and prepare the dwarves of Belgorne. It ain’t my place to say, but maybe we need not decide on the matter of G’naath today.”

  The king nodded. “No, not today Gritson. But soon.”

  IV: G’NAATH

  Thinsel Greykin woke with a start. The eerie voice seemed to come from far away, faint yet insistent.

  ~Come to me.~

  The gnomish woman sat upright, frightened, and shook her husband awake forcefully. “Oort!” she whispered. “Wake up!” The gnome batted her hand away. “Yeh lazy old gasbag, Oort, wake up!” She shook him again, speaking louder now.

  “Wha… what yeh waking me fer, woman, ain’t no horns yet–”

  ~Come to me.~

  Oort heard the haunting message this time.

  “What in Fury–”

  “It be Lady Cindra, Oort. Come on then, git yerself dressed!”

  “How do yeh know… Thinny?”

  Thinsel had already left the nook, and was shuffling around in their stony kitchen. Oort rose from their small bed and felt around in the dark for his trousers. He heard Thinsel striking a flint in the next room as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. The curtain between the rooms parted, and Thinsel entered, lit candle in hand. “Damn yeh, Oort, move yer hide! Ain’t no time t’be messin’ about!”

  Oort had already dressed and was ready to leave, but he knew better than to argue. Thinsel was frightened, as was he. The message from Cindra could only mean there was news about Shyla, as the old sorceress had promised she would send for them if she could divine anything about the girl’s condition or whereabouts. Oort took his wife’s hand and they moved quietly through the tunnels of G’naath to Cindra’s library.

  Oort could not be sure of the time; the tunnels of G’naath were well underground beneath the Maw, and the torches in the passages had not yet been lit, meaning dawn was still at least an hour away. It felt to his body that it was nearer to middlenight, though there was no way to know.

  The pair made their way to the tunnel where Cindra Sandshingle’s clandestine library lay. The door would be impossible to find, Thinsel remembered, in candlelight or torchlight; it did not matter. The entrance was magically concealed, and would only materialize when Cindra wished it to do so. More often than not, the sorceress would simply appear–

  “Hello there, Oort.” The Greykin couple jumped out of their skins. “Hello, Thinsel. Do come in. Hurry now.”

  “Dammit, Lady, must yeh do that every time?” moaned Oort.

  “Ayup. Delights me to no end. Now git on in here.”

  The pair could not help but notice Cindra’s cheerful tone as they entered the small subterranean office, Oort closing the door behind them. “I know yeh must be tired; please, have some tea. Gonna be a long day.” Cindra sat on the far side of the stone table, Thinsel and Oort taking their seats opposite her. They were both staring at the hole their daughter had punched in the table as Cindra poured tea. Thinsel’s eyes brimmed.

  “Do not be sorrowful, Thinsel. I have news yeh’ll be happy to hear. It’s not all good, but it’ll do.”

  The couple sipped their tea, waiting for Cindra to continue.

  “Yer daughter is alive, and safe, and she’s made the Grove.”

  Thinsel grasped Oort’s hand and the tears from her eyes spilled immediately, relief flooding her heart. Oort trembled, exhaling for the first time since entering the room.

  “How can yeh know, Lady? I mean, are yeh certain?”

  “I am, Oort. Let me show yeh somethin’.”

  Cindra reached beneath the table and brought up a large rolled parchment, flattening it on the table before the Greykins. “This here be a map of Greater Tahr, and a special one. ‘Twas a gift from the Vicaris Trellia herself, near a century ago. Do yeh see where we are, here?” The elderly sorceress pointed on the map to the peaks indicated at the throat of the Maw, her tiny finger circling an area. “That be G’naath, under them peaks, and this here be the path our Shyla took. Watch me finger now…”

  Cindra told them of Shyla’s path after her trial and expulsion: out of G’naath, down to the Morline in the south, then riding the great river west, past the volcano Fang, turning northwestward at the Boiler, and up to the Grove.

  “But how did she make it so fast, Lady?” Thinsel asked. “Yeh said yerself it would take a cycle at least.”

  “Yup, I did, but looks as if our Shyla figured out a way to cut that time in more than half. Can’t say I’m surprised, she’s one bright girl.”

  “But how do yeh know, Lady? How can yeh know?”

  “Watch now, you two, do not be afraid.” Cindra sat upright, closing her eyes, appearing to enter a trance. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. She passed her hands over the map and lifted them up slowly to shoulder height, and as she did, the map came to life, dark shades of night repla
cing the parchment’s yellowed hue, drawn lines now shadows. The map was also no longer flat; it had assumed the true relative topography of the land of Tahr.

  “I… Lady… what is this?” asked Thinsel.

  “It is Greater Tahr, my dear. Truly, as it is.”

  “But… but it’s so dark…” added Oort.

  “Well of course it’s dark, yeh old daft fool! ’Tis middlenight!”

  Oort frowned. “So, during the day…”

  Cindra shushed him. “Look now, look here…” Cindra pointed down at the map, then made another gesture with her hands, the map again reforming, focusing, enlarging the area to which she pointed. “This here be the Grove, and that…” the map focused further, “that little light there be yer Shyla.” Cindra waved her hands again, and the image withdrew, the map returning to its original parchment form.

  “Wait, Lady, no, bring it back!” cried Thinsel.

  Cindra closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, releasing her breath slowly. “I cannot, my dear. It takes more than yeh know to do as much as I did. The map requires much magic, and at my age, I ain’t got all that much left.”

  “Oh, Oort, that was our Shyla, I know it, I felt her in that little light, I just know it was her!”

  Oort hugged his wife close. “I felt it too, Thinny. What a wondrous thing yeh have here, Lady. Thank yeh, thank yeh so much.”

  “Yes, Lady, thank yeh. Yeh canna know how happy yeh’ve made me.”

  “Oh, but I can, Thinsel. I love our Shyla as yeh both do, though I have not had the gift of knowin’ her as yeh have. For that I envy yeh, to be sure. Now, as I said, the news ain’t all good.”

  “Is she injured, Lady? Has harm come to her?” Oort began to tremble again.

  “No, well, I canna be sure, but I do not think so. No reason to think so. But there are other things we need t’be discussin’. See, I can use this map once per day, no more, and when I do, it takes a bit from me. So, I canna use it for too long. But I been usin’ it every day, and–”

  “Wait, yeh mean to say that yeh could have told us, every day, that our Shyla were safe? Do yeh know how hard it’s been, Lady? How dare yeh–”

  “Peace now, Thinsel. ’Tis not so simple as it seems. Whenever I Look into the map, I can only see a flash of the world as it was when I cast the charm. I canna know, from one day to the next, if Shyla is hurt, or captured, or lying in a hole dying somewhere. I tell yeh true, it has been a torture Looking only once per day, waiting fer the next day to arrive so I could Look again, not knowing if she be safe or no, only where she be. Yeh would have driven yerselves mad had yeh known. I only tell yeh now because if she be in the Grove, she be as safe as if she were sleepin’ in her nook, on that yeh can count.”

  Thinsel nodded, not quite agreeing with the Lady’s position, but too relieved that her Shyla was alive to argue.

  “Now, I was sayin’… I been usin’ the map every day, and I seen some things, some terrible things. Yeh will remember the little stonecracker we felt th’other day?”

  “Were but a shimmy is all, Lady,” said Oort.

  “A shimmy here. A catastrophe at the Trine, and the volcano Fang has awakened. Much of Greater Tahr be covered in ash right now, and it still be fallin’.”

  “Truly, Lady? That be awful, Shyla must be so afraid…” Thinsel nudged her chair closer to Oort.

  “Well, it’s awful there, and awful in Belgorne too, as I hear. Word has come through the traders that the dwarves have got themselves a big problem. Holes in the floor o’ their tunnels be openin’ up, and pits o’ fire be leakin’ smoke and poison air into the halls.”

  “Gotta be just rumors, Lady,” this from Oort. “We ain’t had no sign of anything like it here, and G’naath be just as deep as Belgorne, deeper in some parts.”

  “And that’s what worries me, Oort. Why? Why is the whole of Tahr goin’ to Mawbottom, but G’naath be safe and sound?”

  “Well, I ain’t mad about it, ’cept for poor Shyla havin’ to be out in it. Let ‘em have their woes, I say,” added Thinsel.

  “Yup, I thought the same at first, ’til I reasoned it out. The science of it just don’t add up. There be these little fires all over Tahr. And I mean all over. Looks to me like they spring up, burn out, and spring up somewhere else. Only a matter of time afore they catch and start burning the forests. They be in Mor, south to the Sapphire, west in the farmlands, all throughout the Maw basin, and even creepin’ up through the stone in Belgorne. But nothin’ here. ’Tis unnatural, is what I be tellin’ ya. Somethin’, or someone, here in G’naath has figured out a way to keep us out of the path of whatever this is, and that terrifies me, because it means there’s a power here in G’naath that is beyond my own, and that ain’t been true for a hundred years.”

  The Greykins looked at one another, fear apparent on their faces.

  “I do not mean to be leadin’ yeh to panic, and I be sorry to even have to tell yeh any of this, but yeh be family, to me heart, the only family this old witch has got, and I want yeh both t’be ready for me if I call yeh. If my suspicions prove true, we may need t’be leavin’ G’naath, and soon, if we want to stay safe for Shyla.”

  Oort and Thinsel looked to each other again. Oort nodded, and Thinsel stood, walking around the table. She knelt before the old woman and took her face into her hands.

  “Yeh be family, Lady Cindra, in our hearts as well. We welcome yeh. Yeh’re no witch, and yeh’re not alone. Yer Lady Cindra Sandshingle, and a Greykin now, too.”

  Cindra smiled and hugged the woman, the mother to her granddaughter, and Oort reached across the table to hold her hand.

  “Now, what be yer suspicions, Lady?” asked Oort. “Lay ‘em bare, and don’t leave out a thing.”

  V: THE GROVE

  The Spring of the Grove was not situated in the center of the kingdom of Thornwood, but it was certainly the heart of its people. For ages untold the Spring had healed the elven people of injury and ailment, its perpetually warm waters containing a magic that science could not explain. Shaped in a rough oval, the small spring was barely fifty paces across at its widest, less than half that at its narrowest. Its waters had never been known to rise, nor did they recede. Rains and droughts had little effect. Neither the most relentless snows of winter nor stretches of scorching summer days altered its temperature by more than a grade or two. Always the waters of the Spring were as warm as the blood of an elf, and like blood, the crystal-clear liquid of the pond was the very essence of life to the flora and fauna of the Grove.

  It was said that long ago, in darker times, elves and men had fought over control of the Grove. In the first Days of Fury, when the great volcano Fang had been born, the kingdoms of Mor and Thornwood had been at war. The elves believed that the Grove, and its Spring, were a gift from the First Father, meant for the elves and the elves alone. The mystics of Mor believed that the waters were a gate to the very center of the universe, a portal through which one could travel great distances with a thought, traverse the Veil, and perhaps even bring back loved ones from the dead. The great irony was that all shared the belief that the Spring of the Grove, regardless of its origins, was indisputably a source of life and hope–yet countless men and elves murdered one another in the struggle to possess it. It eventually became evident in the Days of Fury that their contest was but vanity when compared to the true horrors of the day. A council had been formed in those times, and a treaty agreed to: no matter the differences between the races, the Grove would remain sacred–cared for and maintained by the elves, for their talents in such things were well known–but the Spring would be accessible to all. Only once, in the War of Strife in the 1,135th year of Mor, was that treaty broken, and then only for a cycle.

  While its depth and temperature remained reliable, one attribute of the Spring was known to be fickle: the potency of its waters. The liquid could always be counted upon to mend common wounds and heal illnesses; it was regularly utilized for mundane injuries, quickly restoring broken bones and curing comm
on colds and maladies. Whether it would do more was unpredictable. When the lung-eating Strife had struck Tahr, the waters of the Spring had proven useless. The fluid could be poured on a cut, and one could almost watch as flesh stitched itself back together, but if that wound had been caused by the intentional violence of another, the Spring could not–or perhaps would not–accelerate healing to any degree. In some cases, the water would seem to refuse to help one person, where it would quickly and completely heal another.

  Once a dwarven family had come to the Spring while suffering from an infection of the blood. A mother and father and their two twin children, one boy, one girl, drank the waters of the Spring when they arrived that night. By morning, the children’s fevers had broken, and they had been healed completely. The mother and father were found cold dead.

  The elves of the Society of the Grove who were present that morning concluded that the infection had simply run too far into the tissues of the dwarven parents for the waters to be helpful. Perhaps their age was a factor, perhaps they had contracted the illness sooner. That evening, however, when a detachment of soldiers from Mor arrived seeking the family, their initial theory was replaced with another. The dwarven couple were wanted in the murder of a stableman in Mor. Three days prior, they had been caught by the horsemaster stealing mounts, no doubt intending to hasten their journey to the Grove. In the confrontation that resulted, they had killed the man and stashed his body in a stack of hay. They would not have been found out if the man’s young daughter had not witnessed the entire event, remaining hidden from sight as she watched her father being slain. The incident gave rise to the notion that the Spring, or its creator, were in fact sentient, and would choose to bestow or withhold life in accordance with the righteousness of the petitioner.

  Pheonaris, Mistress of the Society of the Grove, considered this as she sat in her wicker chair at her window, watching the newly arrived dwarves interact with her novices as they worked together in the sparklight to organize a late meal. She had sensed that the young man Lucan was on the mend and had awakened. If the Spring was in fact possessed of moral preference, perhaps this was a sign that the man was not a thief, as Barris had first assumed. Pheonaris was not convinced, however, of the man’s righteousness - nor of the Spring’s sentience. Few things in the world were so black and white.