Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Oort and Thinsel exchanged a glance. Oort spoke.

  “Far as I know Lady, yeh be the only one with magic in all o’ G’naath anymore. I don’t know another.”

  “Me neither,” Thinsel added. “And if yeh mean to tell us that yeh Communed fer it, I ain’t ready to hear that.”

  “No, not that. Those ceremonies had been gone fer generations when I got me spellspark. Or at least I thought as much. But they left a legacy, and I be a part of it. Me own power comes from the Deep Ones, and though I didn’t bargain for it meself, someone did, some Sandshingle or Claywart ages past–”

  Thinsel blanched. “Yeh got Claywart blood in yeh, Lady? Truly?”

  “I do. Me own mother were the last of ’em. If I were to be guessin’, I’d say that’s where I got me spark. The elven lady Trellia figured the same. Blood endures, they say, and there’s been power in Claywart blood since… well, since ferever. Not every Claywart carried the spark, mind… me mother, she hadn’t a whiff o’ witchery in her. Nor me father, but more than one Sandshingle over the years has carried the ’spark as well. I figure the mix o’ the two lines made me what I am.” Cindra paused for a moment and beheld the Greykins. “That’s where yer Shyla got it.”

  Oort shook his head. “I canna believe it, Lady. Yer talkin’ about a dark power. Ain’t a speck o’ blackness in our Shyla. Not a speck.”

  “Power ain’t dark, Oort. People be dark. Do yeh think me a creature o’ shadow, a treacherous thing?”

  “Yeh know I don’t, Lady.”

  “Ayup. I know it. But I’ll tell yeh, since we’re family now–I ain’t a pillar o’ light, neither. Leastways, I weren’t always. I discovered me spellspark one day when me father brought out the strap and couldn’t find it in him to put it away. He caught me doing a thing I weren’t s’posed to, don’t even remember what it was, but me mother held me over her knee, one hand over my mouth to muffle my hollerin’, and my father laid into me with that leather.” Cindra paused, her features unreadable yet clearly reliving the terrible moment in her mind. Oort and Thinsel waited patiently for her attention to return to the present. Moments passed before she continued.

  “After about the tenth whack, I knew somethin’ snapped in him. He was just gonna keep on whackin’, and I couldn’t even breathe to scream no more. Me mother…” Cindra trailed off again. “Well, she didn’t help, and I’ll leave it at that. But I knew. I knew me father had gone over the edge, and I knew just the same he weren’t gonna come back. I weren’t just guessin’, mind you. I heard his thoughts, just like I were right there in his head with ’im.” The Lady’s eyes moistened. “He weren’t even mad at me. He was mad at everything. And he was sad, too. Something broke him once, and now he needed to break someone else, and there I was. Now, I was scared of me father, scared like a lamb afore a lion, and the thought o’ tryin’ to fight back never dawned. But me mother…if I could get her to let go of me, I could run. And so I bit ’er. And she let go. And I ran. And I made it all the way to the mines before I spit out the finger I bit off.”

  “I dunno if I wanna hear this, Lady,” Thinsel said meekly.

  Cindra reached for her hand. “Yeh don’t. But yeh must. Now, I kept runnin’, the taste of me mother’s blood in me mouth, and I didn’t feel a bit bad about it. She let my father do what he did. She helped him. And all I could think about was the fact that I had just jumped into me father’s mind, and knew him for what he was – a scared, sad little gnome, so mad at the world that he would hurt his own little girl. How could I’a known that? I was a child. I tell yeh again, I heard it from inside him, from his mind, from his heart. I knew, right there, I had me a spark. Anyways, I kept running, dunno fer how long, and I rounded a corner somewhere near the mines and ran smack into Ky’rl Gypstone. I bowled him over like he weren’t even there, ran right through him, and he was a head taller than me back then. He had all his friends there with him–Rane Sarsen, Kenter Loamknoll, the Ridge sisters, all of ’em.”

  “Mawbottom! Those are all Elders!” Oort exclaimed.

  “Yup. Every one. They asked me what I was doin’, chargin’ around like a crazed troll, blood runnin’ down my chin. And I told ’em. All of it. I didn’t like that bunch much but I needed some friends just then, and they were there. And they listened. And they seemed to care, a bit at least, and that weren’t somethin’ I were used to. So, when they told me what they were doin’ there, in the deep mines in the middle of the night…well, they didn’t tell me right off, but I was still in the grip of whatever grabbed me that night, and I heard what they were thinkin’ as if they were talkin’ out loud – anyways, they were gonna try a Communion, right there and then, and though they didn’t say as much, I could hear ’em thinkin’ it. They’d been tryin’ just about every night for a cycle. They knew me, knew my blood, and asked me to help. Didn’t even occur to me to say no.”

  Oort and Thinsel pointed their Horns at the ground, the universal gnomish hand gesture meant to ward against evil.

  “Don’t bother, the Horns don’t work. I know it fer a fact,” said Cindra. Thinsel blanched. “Never mind that. Now, listen to me, afore yeh judge me. Yeh canna know the pain I was in that night, both inside and outside. So I joined their little group in their dark work that night, and some nights after. We held the rituals, prayed to the darkest of demons, and called on the Hand himself. Yeh’ll be happy to know it all came to naught. We didn’t have any idea at all what we were doin’, and after another cycle or so, we gave it up. But not afore I figured out a few things about me own magic.”

  “Cindra… what happened when you went back home? With yer mother and father?”

  “I didn’t go back home, Thinsel. Not ever. I found this nook, the very one we sit in now, and I hid in it. Took me a bit over a year to learn how to hide the door. Ky’rl and that lot brought me food from time to time, and I scavenged what I could, but I never went back home. Never.”

  “But… your mother and father… didn’t they look for you?”

  “Nope. Or at least if they did, they sure as stone didn’t look all that hard. A little over a year after I left, the Ridge sisters came callin’ to tell me they had just come from me funeral. Me father told everyone I had run Outside, and he went lookin’ for me, and all he found were a bloody doll I used to carry around. No one questioned him on why I hadn’t been seen nor heard in over a year. I weren’t the only one afraid of Nash Sandshingle.” Cindra rose. “I need some more tea,” she said, suddenly cheerful. “Who wants more tea?”

  Neither Oort nor Thinsel replied.

  Cindra dipped the iron kettle into a barrel behind her to fill it and set it on the table. “A moment now.” She sat again, closing her eyes, and cradled the kettle in her tiny, wrinkled hands. After a moment, a wisp of steam escaped the spout. Thinsel gasped.

  “Ah, yeh think me a witch now, don’t yeh! Ha!”

  They remained silent for another moment as Cindra refilled their cups.

  “Lady,” Oort began. “There be a lot here to swallow.”

  “Oh, I ain’t even fed yeh the big bites yet, Oort. But I’ll tell yeh this much, fer yer own peace of mind. I never again dabbled in the dark stuff. Yeh need not fear that much. I was a scared little girl back then, and I did what I did as much outta ignorance as to fit in with Ky’rl and his crew. Do yeh understand that?”

  Oort and Thinsel looked to each other, then back to Cindra. They nodded as one.

  “Once I heard that I were dead, so to speak, I got outta G’naath as fast as I could and made my way to Thornwood. I figured, the elves–”

  Cindra suddenly quieted. A moment later they all felt it. A subtle vibration became a gentle rocking. The three looked to one another, frightened.

  “Stonecracker,” Oort declared.

  “Ayup. Big one,” Cindra replied.

  Thinsel disagreed. “Doesn’t seem that bad–”

  “Here, no. Not bad here.” Cindra held up her hand. “Quiet now.” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply as the rolli
ng sensation continued. After a turn, she opened them, tears welling in the corners.

  “What is it, Lady?” Thinsel asked.

  “Oh, child, it is a horror. Thornwood…it’s...”

  “What?” Oort demanded, standing. “What about Thornwood? Is Shyla alright?”

  Cindra nodded. “I believe so. Sit, Oort. I be sure she is alright.” Her accent had lost its gnomish edge again.

  “Are yeh?”

  “Sure as I can be. The quake…it has laid Thornwood to waste. And…” Cindra closed her eyes again, shuddering. “And Belgorne. So many dead in Belgorne.”

  “But…how can that be, Lady?” Thinsel asked. “If Thornwood and Belgorne have been damaged, how are we safe? We be smack between ’em!”

  “That’s what I been trying to get to. I said we did not manage a Communion, those many years ago. And I never again tried. In truth, I never really tried at all – I pretended to try, no more. But Ky’rl did try. He and his friends, they never stopped trying. And I believe–no, I know–they succeeded. I didn’t know fer certain until now. These… these stonecrackers. They’re not what they seem.”

  “What are they, Lady?” asked Oort.

  Cindra sighed. “I believe, Oort, that the Deep Ones come.”

  “No. They canna come again, Lady,” said Thinsel. “They be vanquished.”

  “No, child. They canna be vanquished. They wake, and they climb. Beneath Thornwood, beneath Belgorne. I ain’t told yeh much about what be happenin’ outside G’naath, but it be a tragedy. Them little stonecrackers we been feelin’ – well, they be openin’ up holes under Belgorne, and the whole city might be cavin’ in soon. Up north o’ the Grove, where Shyla be headin’, the trees are dyin’, some just droppin’ needles, but some burnin’ up from the inside. And it’ll sure as stone get worse. I ain’t fer sure, but seems to me like the Old Ones are comin’ back, and I believe Ky’rl Gypstone, maybe all the Elders, have woken ’em up.”

  Oort shook his head. “Somethin’ don’t add up here. Yeh said Ky’rl Gypstone was a head taller than yeh when yeh met him, all those years ago. Yeh said the Ridge sisters were there. Sarsen, Loamknoll… I assume yeh meant Quari and Sledge as well, did yeh not?”

  “I did.”

  “Lady, I don’t mean no offense, but yer the oldest gnome I ever met.”

  Cindra laughed. “No, Oort, I ain’t.”

  “Yeh mean to say them Elders are older than yeh?”

  “Yup. Every one, though not by much.”

  “They sure don’t look it. Mawbottom, Lady, the Ridge sisters look to be not much older than me,” said Thinsel.

  Cindra nodded. “Unnatural, ain’t it?”

  Oort nodded back.

  “And I’m here to tell yeh, the lot of them have no power of their own. Not a spark among ‘em. So, they be gettin’ it from somewhere. And I need the two of yeh to help me prove it, afore it’s too late.”

  Oort frowned. “Us, Lady? How in Mawbottom we gonna do that? And to who?”

  “Carefully, Oort. And to all o’ G’naath. The two of yeh managed to sneak outside how many times when yeh were younger? Hid Shyla for what, three cycles?”

  “We were a lot younger then,” Thinsel replied.

  “So yer a bit wiser now, I’d wager.”

  “Wise enough to know not to meddle in business such as this,” said Oort.

  “Is that so? Who else do yeh think knows about this, here in G’naath?”

  Silence.

  “No one. No one. Think about that. If we don’t meddle, who will?”

  Oort shook his head. “I have to be at work in a few hours. So does Thinny. I dunno what yeh spend yer own days doing, Lady, but–”

  “And you work with Sledge’s son, do yeh not? And Thinsel, yeh work right alongside Quari’s nephew, do yeh not?”

  “Don’t remind me. That smug bastard’s been grinnin’ at me ever since his aunt sent Shyla out.”

  “And it weren’t the first time she sent her out, neither.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It were Quari who argued the loudest to have yer Shyla wolved at birth.”

  Thinsel stood and glared at Cindra. “These people be evil, Lady! How can yeh sit beside ’em as an Elder?”

  Cindra stood as well, glaring back at Thinsel, not unkindly, and spoke softly. “How can I not?”

  Thinsel held Cindra’s eyes, her body trembling with anger at the thought of her daughter being repeatedly put in harm’s way. By an Elder! Yet, she understood why Cindra remained in their midst. Someone had to, Thinsel thought to herself. Someone good. There was much she did not know about Cindra Sandshingle, but she knew this woman loved Shyla. Of that she held no doubt, and by that love the Lady’s goodness was proven, at least to Thinsel. She sat again, as did Cindra. The three remained silent for a turn.

  “Yeh asked me to lay it bare, Oort. So here yeh are. The Deep Ones are coming. The Elders have called ’em up. Yeh canna imagine what that means, but I’ll tell yeh. We’ll all be dead soon, if we’re lucky. Slaves if we’re not. Belgorne is gonna figure out what the Elders did, how they broke the world, and when they do, they’ll blame all of G’naath, and we’ll be at war. And it won’t matter whether we win or lose, because when it’s all said and done, we’ll be answerin’ to the Hand of Disorder, from here on out. We have one chance. We have to expose what they’ve done, and stop it afore it can’t be undone. We have to find out the truth, and make sure Belgorne knows the truth, afore they slaughter every last gnome in G’naath. Assuming Mor and Thornwood don’t come after us first.”

  “Sounds like it’s already too late,” said Oort. Thinsel nodded her agreement.

  “If it is, then what’s it matter what yeh do? Yeh’ll be dead in a few cycles. But if it’s not, it would sure be nice fer Shyla to have a home to return to someday.”

  “Oort,” Thinsel looked at her husband. They shared a long and silent moment, the kind only loving parents can share.

  Oort nodded, and turned to Cindra. “What would yeh have us do then, Lady?”

  Cindra beamed. “Well, yer to become spies, o’ course!”

  XI: MOR

  Thomison concluded his business for the night and rode lazily for Concord, guiding his steel-grey mount through the dark and ash-strewn streets of Mor. He made his way towards the expansive manor on the west side of the Southern Road that he called home. He had avoided recalling his meeting with Sartean until now; the merchant master did his best thinking in the shadows, on the streets of Mor.

  He had known this day was coming, but did not expect it would come so soon. Halsen has to go, he reminded himself. But Sartean? On the throne of Mor?

  He could imagine worse things, he supposed, but not many. The wizard had no interest in the duties of managing a kingdom, he thought. He said as much without saying it…install the throne in his damnable library? The bastard wants the power, not the duty. And with the power of the throne and the power of Kehrlia…

  Thomison shuddered at the thought. No, he would not be helping Sartean claim the throne. Removing Halsen… maybe. The gluttonous madman was singlehandedly destroying not only Mor, but the very fabric of Greater Tahr. Thomison knew, perhaps better than anyone, that an unhealthy economy in a kingdom was like a wasting sickness, poisoning the lands around it until war and starvation were all that remained. The merchant master had no doubts as to exactly what was needed to restore Mor to its former glory. Depose Halsen, install someone who understood how to keep the plates spinning, and surround that person with a soldiery that once again commanded – no, deserved – the respect of the people.

  He looked to his left as he rode along King’s Way, his pace unhurried despite the ash. He surveyed the decrepit remnants of the Defenders leaning on their halberds, occasionally harassing a passing vagrant for little reason beyond their own entertainment. These streets were once lined with the best of us, he lamented. Now… animals.

  So, who? he asked himself. Who could serve as king? Thomison imagined the faces of everyo
ne he knew, finding a fatal flaw in each. The honest men were too young and brash… the wisest were too corrupt. This one… too many skeletons. That one... too many ghosts. A woman he admired, perhaps well suited for the task, but the prejudices of Mor would never allow it. A soldier he had served with, the finest man he ever knew, who would sooner be fed to wolves than take the job. He could think of no one.

  For less than a moment he considered himself for the position, but dismissed the idea immediately. No, Vincent, you would make a poor king. You are a murderer, and replacing one killer with another is no fit solution for Mor.

  Yet Halsen must go.

  Thomison turned his mount down the Southern Road as he pondered all that Sartean had confided. Flightfluid? Thomison would not help distribute such a thing. It would hasten the demise of the kingdom, and the suffering of Mor’s people would surely be horrific. Yet he could not have refused Sartean on the spot; he had no doubt that to do so would have ensured his immediate death. Thomison’s boasts of protection notwithstanding, Sartean would calculate that the risk of allowing his scheme to be betrayed would far outweigh any threat Thomison could muster. In truth, Thomison doubted whether any ordinary man, assassin or otherwise, could kill the wizard if his defenses were engaged. The vile man commanded the power of hundreds of Incantors, and his own magical might was no less than legendary.

  As if on cue, a wave of thunder crashed–not from above Mor, but from below. Thomison’s mount reared as the quake hit, nearly throwing the merchant. He jumped from the saddle and hit the cobbled street awkwardly, slipping in the ash and barely managing to keep his feet as the shaking and rolling intensified. His mount bolted as the stone manors on either side of the Southern Road began to crack, the deafening sound of splitting stone terrifying the horse.

  Thomison fell to his knees coughing; the soot around him was kicked up by the shaking, invading his lungs. He looked up through the haze to see the lighted windows of Kerhlia towering above Mor, swaying to the rhythm of the quake. The sound of sliding hooves from behind warned him to roll to his left, barely evading the trampling, hammering steps of a frightened mare. The horse slipped beneath its rider and the pair fell to the cobblestone. Thomison heard two distinct snaps as they struck the ground, followed by the screams of horse and man as they shared the pain of shattered limbs.