Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Even upon achieving the Silver Sword, sigil of the Third Honor, acceptance into the order of knights was not a foregone conclusion; an additional series of examinations had to be endured. A prospective knight’s swordsmanship, decision-making under stress, leadership, and character would be put to the test in a series of trials, and if a prospect failed at any of them, they would be barred from the knighthood until they completed another Sequence. If, after five Sequences, an elf did not attain the brooch, he or she would be removed from consideration.

  The rigorous selection process was necessary, for on the battlefield, even the greenest knight of Thornwood outranked any non-knight. An order given to a soldier, ranger, or member of the guard by a Knight of Thornwood was law, and such responsibility was reserved to those elves who had proven themselves worthy of the duty.

  ~

  Queen Terrias Evanti had retired to her temporary quarters upon concluding the council, and had spent the better part of two hours scrubbing the caked blood of her subjects from her exhausted body. She scoured herself until her own flesh bled, but no amount of scrubbing could rinse the taint of death and sorrow from her wounded soul.

  She listened through the tent to the sounds of barked orders; absently, she noted the thundering vibrations of horse that indicated Sir Marchion’s knights were gathering supplies, preparing to depart Thornwood. Nishali’s rangers would have already left, of that she had no doubt. The temperamental elf would have ordered her rangers to readiness well before the council had been held. Tobias’ task of organizing the army would be more difficult, as many of his elves were quite young, certainly terrified, and had never seen battle of any kind. But they were elves of Thornwood, she reminded herself, and they would carry out their duty with honor.

  As if there is honor to be had, she lamented as she dressed herself in clean attire. She could not call ten thousand elves marching on G’naath to commit genocide against a weak and militarily inferior race a thing of honor. Yet neither was there honor to be found by cowering in Thornwood, waiting to die. She knew Sir Marchion was right; the prophecy was coming to pass. Soon, if she did nothing, the gnomes of G’naath would succeed in their Calling, and the evil unleashed upon Tahr would be all but unstoppable. Their only hope was to interrupt the chain of events, but Terrias held little confidence that even that was possible. The logical part of her mind, once it had accepted the prophecy as the likely truth, could not convince itself that a three-thousand-year-old divination could be correct in every part but the last. More likely, she conceded, was that she was presiding over the final days of her people, and nothing could be done to prevent what was to come.

  But that is not what the prophecy says, she reminded herself: “Thy ramparts held by only Five.” The line implied that the ramparts could be held, and if Barris and Pheonaris were carrying out their duties, as she knew they must be, they would be seeking the others in earnest. The most terrifying truth, to Terrias, was the knowledge that her Aria must be one of the Five. Pheonaris’ vision had required Aria’s presence at the Grove. The second quake seemed to have targeted her daughter on the ride south. She wished she could be sure; had she any strength remaining, she would send her Speech over the winds to request the wisdom of her Mistress. As it was, she was spent. She would need to rest first, and when she woke, she would send the message.

  Queen Evanti lay on the cot an unnamed elf had prepared for her. Her last thought before consciousness faded was a guilty one: How can I sleep while while the world collapses?

  XXV: MOR

  Vincent Thomison rose at what he believed was sunrise, though it was impossible to tell for certain. The cloud of ash and ember spewing from Fang had all but blotted out the sky; it would remain dark for several more hours, until the sun’s light became bright enough to vaguely illuminate Mor. As it was, the only light one could see, aside from the glow of ash-covered streetlamps, was from the intermittent streaks of violet lightning that emanated from within the cloud. Vincent dressed to leave and found Gerald awaiting him at the stable, wrapped tightly in a cloak against the chill morning air. The pair watched the eerie spectacle in silence for several turns.

  “Best be going,” Vincent said finally.

  Gerald handed Vincent a small object wrapped in cloth. He tucked it into a pocket.

  “You’re sure this will work?” he asked.

  “I am. It’s a simple magic,” said Gerald.

  “Sartean’s no simple wizard,” said Vincent. “What if he detects it?”

  “He won’t. It’s a passive device.”

  “And it will definitely work?”

  Gerald sighed. “Vincent, would you like me to elucidate the science of crystal harmonics and capacitance? Because believe me, I would be delighted–”

  “I just need to know, Gerald. Everything rides on this. Everything.”

  Gerald nodded. “I know. It’ll work. Just remember, you will have three turns, at best. And if you activate it early–”

  “I won’t.”

  “Then go. Your guard awaits you at the gate.”

  Vincent mounted Steelwind. “Wish me luck.”

  “Luck,” said Gerald.

  ~

  The contingent arrived at Kehrlia in short order, passing none save the occasional Defender on the streets. The city was disconcertingly quiet; muffled peals of thunder from Fang mingled with the hushed clapping of horse hooves on the thick carpet of ash. Both noises were unfamiliar: shadowy, stifled versions of ordinary sounds, naked and insubstantial without the usual reverberation that one’s ears expected. None in Vincent’s guard of three spoke; the ominous feel of the morning held tongues fast.

  Vincent dismounted Steelwind. “I won’t be long,” he said, handing the reins to the guard nearest, a man in a tight black jerkin. He climbed the steps of Kehrlia and waited. After a moment, an robed woman emerged.

  “How can I help you at this hour, Master Thomison?” the elderly Incantor asked, her disdain at the early visit palpable.

  “And which hour would that be? As if one could tell. I need to speak with Sartean.”

  The Incantor frowned. “I was not informed that Master D’Avers was expecting a visitor.”

  “You would not have been,” replied Vincent coldly. “Nonetheless I will see him.”

  “If he will see you.” The woman stepped aside to allow Vincent to enter the tower. The enormous steel door closed, pulled by an unseen hand. “A moment,” she said, closing her eyes. Vincent knew she would be communicating with Sartean silently. After a moment, she opened them, glaring at Vincent.

  “Master Sartean will see you. He is in his library. Must I climb several flights of stairs, or do you know the way?”

  “I know the way,” he replied, already walking towards the grand stair. The echoing resonance of boots on marble contrasted sharply with the muted footfalls outside the tower, lending the impression that Kehrlia was somehow more alive than the city of Mor. Perhaps it is, thought Vincent, unnerved.

  A turn later he arrived at Sartean’s door, which stood open. “Come in, Vincent!” called Sartean from his desk. “So glad you could visit.”

  Thomison frowned as he entered the library, eyeing Sartean as he approached the foreboding black desk. “Well, aren’t you cheerful this morning.”

  Sartean smiled graciously. “You know what? I am, Vincent. I’ve had a bit of a riddle nagging at me recently, and I believe I am quite near to solving it. Please, sit.” Sartean motioned to a chair.

  “I won’t be long, and you’d probably rather I not dirty your chair. As it is, I’ve tracked ash up your stairs.”

  “Ah, you must know that is less than nothing for one of my Incantors to clean up. A thought, a wish, and ‘poof!’ No more ash. Do sit.”

  Vincent nodded, reaching into his cloak pocket as he took a seat across from the wizard.

  “Everything still on schedule?” asked Vincent. “Given the quake–”

  “Absolutely, a minor delay at worst,” Sartean said, more quickly tha
n seemed natural to Vincent. "You will be ready to begin distribution soon?”

  Vincent took care to sound confident. “Being ready isn’t the problem.”

  “There is a problem?”

  “Not necessarily. Well, that’s up to you, really.”

  Sartean frowned. “I see. Go on.”

  Vincent covertly unwrapped the object in his pocket, taking it between his finger and thumb.

  “First things first. You say you have the support of the throne on this little venture of yours. How do I know that’s true? If I were to begin distributing this Flightfluid of yours, and the people of Mor were to become addicted–”

  “Oh, they will become addicted. Of that you can be sure.”

  “Very well. Then if I begin distribution on the scale you are suggesting, it won’t be a secret long. If our illustrious king does not approve–”

  “He approves, Vincent. Here.”

  Sartean reached into his drawer and pulled out the parchment, signed by King Halsen, detailing the authority given to Sartean to do whatever was necessary to manufacture and distribute the potion. He passed it over the desk; Vincent examined it quickly.

  “Alright then. Seems to be in order. But let me ask you directly, Sartean, and don’t mince words with me. What is this potion going to do to the people who take it?”

  Sartean frowned. “I did not think you would concern yourself overmuch with that.”

  “I didn’t at first. But if people start dying, will King Halsen revoke his authority?”

  “I was very clear when I spoke to Halsen about the side effects. He was not concerned.”

  “And those side effects are?”

  Sartean sat back. “Very well. Some will fall victim to their own inability to manage their addiction. Some will take too much. Some may have adverse reactions. Some will die. Why does this matter?”

  Vincent released the crystal in his pocket. “It doesn’t right now. But it might, if Halsen decides the cost is too high. And if he does, I’m vulnerable.”

  “You are acting under my authority, given me by this document. You are not at risk.”

  “No, not for the distribution. But I am vulnerable nonetheless. I don’t know how much you know about me, Sartean, but my past is a bit colorful.”

  Sartean nodded knowingly. “I know everything there is to know about you, Vincent. You fear that Thallinson’s death will come back to haunt you.”

  “I worry that if Halsen changes his mind, he’ll use my past to throw me under a wagon. Or that you will.”

  “Me?”

  “If this all works as you intend, and I do what you’ve asked of me, you’ll have the throne. Who’s to say that you don’t decide to put me on trial for the murder of Thallinson at some later date, once I’ve given you Mor?”

  “If I wanted you out of the way, I wouldn’t need a trial to accomplish it.”

  “You would if you wanted to kill me without fear of retribution from my associates. Say you decide to try me, order my execution, make it legal. I would be without recourse, and you’d have the Defenders of Mor to protect you from my friends, in addition to your already formidable protections.”

  Sartean sighed. “You are far too paranoid, Vincent. But I appreciate your position. What do you propose?”

  “Talk to Halsen. Tell him I am instrumental to your little scheme, and in exchange for my enthusiastic participation, he grants me a pardon for Thallinson. Publicly.”

  “That would require your confession. And a trial.”

  “A trial in which you would preside as Incantor for the Crown.”

  “Well, not me personally,” said Sartean. “That would be out of the ordinary. But I could certainly appoint the Incantor. One who has been instructed to be sympathetic.”

  “That would do.”

  “Halsen could still execute you. Despite whatever assurances he makes me.”

  “Not if your Incantor declines to request it. Even Halsen won’t break the laws of Mor so easily. Besides, when I tell my story, he won’t be inclined to.”

  “Won’t he?”

  “He won’t. I suspect he’d be openly derided for it, particularly if he bent the law to do so, and we all know how much he likes to think himself adored.”

  “You seem quite sure.”

  “Sure enough,” said Vincent, “provided that I can count on you greasing the wheels for me.”

  Sartean nodded. “Very well. I cannot claim to know Halsen’s mind from one turn to the next, so I cannot be certain how he will react. However, I never ask anything of him, and he is quite pleased with me of late. If I were to make this a personal appeal, I am sure he would acquiesce.”

  “Then you’ll have yourself a distributor, as soon as you tell me Halsen is ready to hear my confession.”

  “I will speak with him this afternoon. The next public assembly is in five days; I may not be here for it, though I will make certain everything is in place.”

  “Going somewhere?”

  “I am. Related to that riddle I mentioned earlier.”

  “Well, I hope it resolves itself favorably for you.”

  Sartean smiled, malevolence swimming behind his dark eyes. “It will. Anything else I can do for you, Vincent?”

  Vincent stood. “Thank you, no. I have what I came for. Enjoy your day, Master D’Avers.”

  Sartean stood in turn. “You as well, Master Thomison. Glad I could be of service.”

  Thomison whistled softly to himself as he descended the stairs, patting the pocket of his cloak. Yep, definitely have what I came for, he thought pleasantly.

  XXVI: THE FARMLANDS

  “He will kill us all,” said the farmer.

  Mila replied defiantly. “Let him try.”

  “It’s no more than we deserve.” Mila turned to see red-haired Sienni, youngest of the Incantors present in the barn, bow her head in shame.

  Forty-six Incantors, the heads of a dozen farmholds, and a score of laborers, including Earl, stood in rapt attention as Mila Felsin attempted to persuade them not only to abandon their efforts at growing and harvesting phenarril, but to openly oppose the Master of Kehrlia.

  “It’s a Fury of a lot more than I deserve!” Ren Smitt exclaimed. The farmer was incensed. “I had no choice! None of us did.” Murmurs of agreement from the gathered crowd supported the man’s sentiment. “You came here and told us we’d be givin’ our farms over to your use, and that were that!”

  “Well, not exactly,” said Myriel, matron of the Klor estate and the most senior farm owner present. “They also paid us twice what we’d expect to earn in a typical harvest. Didn’t see you givin’ any back, Ren. Nor any of you.”

  Earl spoke up. “Same for the rest of you. That gold in your pockets is death money, every crown. No mistake, and you knew it when you took it.”

  “And I suppose you gave your pay back?” said Myriel.

  Mila defended the man. “He did. Earl laid his coin right on my desk when he resigned. But I don’t expect any of you to do the same.”

  “You have no right expecting anything,” said an older man in the back of the crowd. Heads turned to listen. “Your poison took my son. If I had the power, Mila Felsin, I would kill you where you stand.”

  Mila hung her head. It was not the first comment of its kind that morning. “I’m sorry, sir. I did not intend–”

  “I don’t care what you intended, witch. His blood is on your hands.”

  Earl addressed the man. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He did not meet Earl’s gaze.

  “What was your son’s name?” Earl pressed.

  At that he looked up. “My son…” the man choked back a sob, then straightened himself. “My son was Jak Tinner. And he’s dead.” He turned to Mila. “And you killed him.”

  “Master Tinner,” said Earl. “Let’s make sure he didn’t die for nothin’.”

  “He did! He died for absolutely nothin’, not a damned thing!”

  “Not if we g
et the bastard who set this whole thing in motion,” said Earl.

  “And how do you propose we do that?” An emaciated laborer, shaking, clearly in extreme discomfort, challenged Earl. “Right now, all I give a damn about is getting’ me a dose o’ that stuff. Help me, Lady Felsin! I know ya got more!” Several others echoed his plea.

  “I will help you, sir. I promise. I will help all of you. But we need to agree, here and now, that this comes to an end.”

  “Were you not listening, lady? Sartean will kill us. Every last one,” said Incantor Darl. “We cannot stand against him.”

  “We can,” Mila said. “I could very nearly defeat him myself. I only need a little help–”

  “And why would we help you?” said another Incantor, a middle-aged man whose name Mila could not recall. “You’ve threatened us with death or worse repeatedly since we arrived here. And now you want us to risk our lives to help you? Against the Master of Kehrlia? Are you insane?”

  Several others repeated similar views. Incantors, laborers and farmers barked their derision at the sorceress. Earl said what he could to quiet them, but his words fell on deaf ears. The pot had boiled over; they were in open revolt.