Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  “Titles are always necessary,” said Mikallis. “One’s station matters.”

  “Hardly,” Trellia argued. “Maybe in a military command, but we’re all in this together. A bear comes out of those woods over there, he’ll not be checking rank. He’ll eat the slow one.”

  “I have to disagree, Vicaris. I’m a soldier. It would not be proper for me to assume equality with Princess Aria.”

  “Alright. Fine. So how do you rank against, say, Prince J’arn?”

  “Easy. He is the peer of my princess. He outranks me.”

  “And Shyla?” Trellia pressed.

  “She is a civilian. I would owe her respect, but would not be compelled to follow her orders.”

  “Lucan?”

  Mikallis looked at the man. “Same.”

  “How about me?”

  “Tougher,” Mikallis replied. “We are roughly equal in station, as we both serve the princess, but others serve us. But you are our guide, so in most matters, I would defer to you. In military matters, however, I would expect you to defer to me.”

  “Ha! Expect all you like. That won’t happen. No offense, but I’m two hundred years old. I tend to do what I please, barring an order from on high.”

  “Exactly my point. Without a clear hierarchy, you get chaos.”

  “There’s a problem with your logic, Captain,” said Lucan.

  “Oh? Do tell me.”

  “Well, Aria, J’arn, Shyla, and I are all charged equally with saving the world, it would seem. I suppose that would make us her peers, and subsequently, you our subordinate.”

  Trellia spit out her food, laughing.

  “Give me an order,” said Mikallis sharply. “Let’s see if I follow it.”

  “Alright, alright. Behave yourselves, boys,” Trellia said. “I agree with you, Princess, or Aria, if you prefer. For the duration of this journey, first names should do. As for hierarchy, I will follow your leadership, but I’ll humbly request that you don’t lead us into a volcano. In the face of such an order, I may choose to decline. I’d prefer trial for treason over burning alive.”

  “And that’s the difference between us, Vicaris. If Aria commanded me to leap into a volcano, I would follow her order.”

  “You’d regret it on the way down,” said J’arn. “In Belgorne, we’ve got a saying: if someone gives a damned fool order, only damned fools are expected to follow it.”

  “Then how do you keep discipline?” asked Mikallis, skeptical.

  “Trust, I suppose. That, and we don’t put damned fools in charge of anything.”

  “Sounds like a recipe for chaos.”

  “It’s worked for millennia. Hasn’t been a dwarf charged with treason in my lifetime. Nor my father’s, far as I know.”

  “I think I’d like being a dwarf,” said Lucan. “Aside from the whole being short part.”

  Shyla leaned over and kicked Lucan in the thigh.

  “Watch it!”

  “Ow! I only meant I like my size as it is. No offense, Prince J’arn.”

  “None taken. And J’arn will do. I agree with ye, Aria. No need for pomp out here.”

  “Equality it is,” said Trellia. “Now let’s put it to the test. We need to make a decision on which way to take. We can either head north from here and follow the Trine, or south, and follow the Morline.”

  “Which is faster?” asked J’arn.

  “Same either way. The Trine would be the more isolated route, but takes us through some fairly dangerous lands. Lots of wilderness that way, and more of the kinds of beasts that like to eat people. The Morline will take us through the Farmlands, though, and I’m not so sure we all want to be seen together.”

  “Why not?” asked Shyla.

  “Because we’re bound to stir up talk,” said Lucan. “A dwarf, three elves, a gnome and a man, traveling together to Eyreloch… not exactly inconspicuous. I vote north.”

  “Keep your breeches on, Lucan. There’s more,” Trellia continued. “If one of us suffers injury, or takes ill, there won’t be a soul to help us along the Trine.”

  “Easy. That’s what Aria’s water is for,” Lucan countered.

  “Sure, but what if there’s another quake?” asked Trellia. “Spring water won’t help if that happens, we learned that at the Grove.”

  “And there will be another quake,” said Aria. “Just a matter of when.”

  “I don’t particularly like the idea of traveling through the lands of men,” Mikallis said. “Lucan is right. We’re bound to attract attention, and attention from the men of Mor often enough leads to banditry, or worse.”

  “For Fury’s sake, Mikallis, we’re not savages.”

  “Not savages, no. But violent enough. Barris has told me of plenty of battles he’s fought with highwaymen and outlaws from Mor. I’d prefer we not risk that kind of attention.”

  “So, we risk dying somewhere up north when the next quake hits. How’s that better?” asked Shyla. “I vote south. I don’t like the idea o’ Wolf havin’ to fight some big beast. He’s still growin’, like yeh said. ’Sides, ain’t never seen a farm.”

  “Well, that’s two for north, one for south. J’arn?”

  “South.”

  “Why?” asked Aria.

  “Because if for some reason I need to make my way back to Belgorne, all I’d need to do is follow the Morline.”

  “Why would yeh do that, J’arn?”

  J’arn regarded Shyla. “If one of us dies, Shyla, this quest is for naught, and I’ll be heading home.”

  “Nobody’s going to die,” Trellia said. “You’re all so dramatic. Aria, do you have an opinion?”

  “I do not,” she said. “Both routes carry risk. I will defer to you on this, Trellia.”

  “Oh, lovely. So if we all die a horrible death, it’s my fault.”

  Lucan frowned. “You just said we aren’t going to die.”

  “Oh, shut up. Fine, I vote south, just to contradict Lucan.”

  “What!”

  Everyone laughed, all except Lucan.

  “Isn’t democracy fun?” said Trellia.

  XXXV: BELGORNE

  “We must hurry, my liege.” General Brandaxe was anxious.

  King Dohr Silverstone glared at the dwarf. “Do not rush me, Hatchet. It ain’t every day a king of Belgorne abandons his home.”

  “Aye, me king.”

  Dohr stood beside the Sovereign, a trembling hand tracing the chiseled names of fallen kin. He turned, surveying Shan’s Hall for what he knew could be the last time, eyes careful to avoid the reddish-brown stain at the foot of the dais.

  “I never thought this throne would be mine own,” he said, not so much to the general as to the stone of the hall. “And I suppose it will not be.” His voice echoed sadly in the empty room. “Gnomes. Bleeding gnomes!” The king shook his head, appalled that the dwarves’ weak northern neighbors could have caused the downfall of so great a kingdom.

  “We will return, my king. Someday.”

  Dohr was not so sure. The sulfurous fumes from the fiery pits beneath Belgorne had rendered the kingdom uninhabitable. He had ordered the evacuation that morning, at the behest of his advisors. Scores of dwarves had fallen ill the previous night as hot gusts of the poisonous air issued from the chasms and pits that were too numerous to be sealed; several dwarves had even died. Many of those that did not suffered burned lungs and terrible nausea; their injuries would strain the already taxed healers of Belgorne as they readied for war with G’naath. But the fumes were not their only concern: whatever evil force had caused the quakes was still a threat. If another quake were to strike, Dohr’s advisers feared that none within the crumbling kingdom would survive.

  So, the order had been given: abandon Belgorne. But there was nowhere to go. The camps outside the gates were not yet ready to house even a quarter of the refugees. Canvas was scarce; dwarves had resorted to tying their clothing together to pitch makeshift tents. To make matters worse, the ash of Fang had begun to fall intermittently as
the wind turned westerly, which could only portend a storm coming from the east. Given the falling temperatures, such a storm likely would bring with it the first snows of the season, and soon their efforts at hunting and gathering food would be fruitless.

  Dohr had sent an emissary west to Mor the day before to treat with Halsen, hoping to secure assistance, but he expected them to return empty-handed. Mor had little food to trade, and it was unlikely that Halsen would accept refugees. The bastard would love nothing more than to see us starve, Dohr believed. And starve they would. The dwarven stores of food would never last the winter.

  To Dohr it was no longer a matter of whether the gnomes were responsible for their woes, though the king was certain they were. There was nowhere else to go, and if his people did not manage to take G’naath, they would soon either freeze or starve in the Maw. He would prefer to be remembered as the king that slaughtered G’naath than for his people to be lost, forgotten altogether. In council that morning, he had seen the looks of shame and guilt on the faces of his advisors and senior military staff, yet none had dared to contradict the king. They know, Dohr was certain. We fight, or we die. Dohr did not mind bearing the guilt of his people on his shoulders. He felt little remorse himself, if any. G’naath was to blame.

  Dohr coughed; the stench of sulfur was growing unbearable. He looked to Hatchet, who stood with a handkerchief over his mouth, and nodded to the general. Hatchet returned the nod, handing his king the Axe of Belgorne, and the two walked silently from Shan’s Hall without looking back.

  ~

  “Are we the last?” asked Hatchet.

  The ash-covered bridge sergeant shrugged. “Aye, save a few that chose to stay.”

  Hatchet frowned. “Chose to stay? Can’t no one stay. It’s a death trap, it is. Send a squad to collect the fools.”

  “Belay that,” said Dohr. “I’ll not risk the lives of fighting dwarves by sending ’em back in.”

  “But, me king–”

  Dohr shot the general a look. Brandaxe did not finish his sentence.

  “There be, ah, somethin’ else, General.”

  Brandaxe eyed the sergeant.

  “Well, it may be nothin’, but the night watch said Flint’s Five headed out late last night. Without Flint – well, without Latimer, that is. They had his niece with ’em.”

  “Your orders?” King Dohr asked the general.

  The general shook his head. “No, me liege.”

  King Dohr nodded. “Desertion, then.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that for sure, me king, Lat has a lot o’ slack–”

  “Slack enough to disobey his general, and his king? I was specific, none in or out ’til dawn, for this reason exactly. That, and I don’t want G’naath gettin’ wind o’ what be happenin’ here. Did ye not convey me order?”

  “I did.”

  “Then it’s desertion.” The king turned to the sergeant. “Who was Captain of the Gate last night?”

  The bridge sergeant swallowed. “Kalder, Sire. Blythe Kalder.”

  “Arrest him. Him and Captain Flint. Bring ’em to me quarters.”

  “Aye, me liege.” The sergeant called to a nearby dwarf and conveyed the order.

  King Dohr walked from the bridge without another word. General Brandaxe hurried to match his steps.

  “My liege–”

  “Not a word, Hatchet. This ain’t the time for disobedience in the ranks.”

  “Aye, but desertion? Ye cannot know that for sure.”

  “Which is why I’ll be askin’ Flint himself.”

  ~

  Two dozen log cabins had so far been constructed in the woods outside the gates of Belgorne. King Dohr sat behind a desk in the largest of those. General Brandaxe sat across from his king, joined by two dwarves who stood on either side. The four pored over a map of the Maw.

  “One way in, one way out,” said the elderly Travert, the most senior cartographer in Belgorne. “We been up, down, and around G’naath every which way, General. Mapped every blasted tree and rock. Ain’t no other way in.”

  “Then we go in through the front door,” said Brandaxe. “Fast and hard, so they dunno what hit ‘em.”

  “Can’t,” said Colonel Onyx, Brandaxe’s second, a lifelong scout before taking an arrow to the knee in a freak hunting accident. “They’ll see us comin’. Hear us comin’. Say what ye want about them gnomes, General, but they be a wary bunch. Take their security seriously, they do, even in less anxious times.”

  A knock at the door interrupted the debate.

  “Come in,” Hatchet bellowed.

  Four dwarves entered the cabin. Two armored sentries flanked Captains Kalder and Flint.

  “Leave us,” King Dohr said to the sentries. The pair left obediently.

  “Sure could use your Five right about now, Captain.” The king regarded Flint with scorn.

  “They be out followin’ me orders, Sire. Ain’t here,” Captain Latimer said, irreverence thick in his tone.

  “I know they ain’t here!” King Dohr bellowed, standing. “And ye be about to tell me why!”

  The captain was frank. “Because I told ’em to go, Sire. Sent ’em off with my niece afore they all get themselves killed.”

  “You have no authority to issue that order!” Dohr was furious.

  “Aye, I do not,” the captain agreed.

  “Yet ye ordered it all the same.”

  “Aye.”

  General Brandaxe spoke softly. “That be treason, Captain. And ye do not deny it.”

  “I do not. And if we just so happen to survive this war, ye can have me head for it.”

  “Why shouldn’t I have your head now, Flint? And yours, Captain Kalder?”

  Kalder shrugged. “Ye will if ye must, me king.”

  “Why did ye let those six out the gates?”

  The captain sighed. “ ’Cause we’re all gonna die anyway, Sire. ’Spose I didn’t think it mattered.”

  No one spoke for a turn. King Dohr was incensed, but returned to his seat, thrown aback that two well-respected dwarves would speak so bluntly to their king. They think me a false king, Dohr knew. His ascension had been decided in haste, by his distraught father. Captain Flint broke the silence.

  “Me king, do not fault Captain Kalder. The boy’s had an eye on me Kari for years, and ye know what a fool that sorta thing makes outta a dwarf. As for me own treason, Kari be me last livin’ kin, and I’ll gladly give me head to save ’er.”

  Dohr ignored Flint for the moment. “Captain Kalder. Get outta me sight. I’ll let Brandaxe decide your fate.”

  “Aye, me king.” Kalder bowed and left the cabin.

  “I’ll speak with ’im, me liege,” said Hatchet after the door closed.

  King Dohr nodded. “What would ye have me do with this one?”

  Hatchet shook his head. “Can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing, Sire. World’s gone to Fury.”

  “Aye, most of the way. But it’ll go the rest if we don’t have discipline.” He turned to the captain. “Ye think I should execute ye, Captain Flint?”

  Flint shrugged. “Aye, probably.”

  “Ye don’t seem all that worried about it.”

  “Cleaner death than what’s comin’.”

  Dohr could not disagree, nor could he fault the captain for what he had done. Flint was right: most, if not all, of the dwarves of Belgorne would soon die. There was no way to quickly take G’naath, and if they did not take it quickly, the dwarves of Belgorne would be no more. But Dohr would not accept their fate as unalterable. There must be a way, he asserted silently to himself. As for Flint, he did not care to begin his reign by executing one of Belgorne’s most legendary soldiers. He decided to put aside his anger at being disobeyed, for the moment.

  “Aye, it would be cleaner. But I’ll not let ye off so easy, Captain. I’ll expect ye to take at least a score o’ gnomes with ye in the battle to come. Ye do not have my permission to die until ye do.”

  Captain Flint nodded, surprise
d at the maturity of his king’s decision. “Aye, I can do that, Sire. Assumin’ I can get to ’em. They’re gonna collapse the tunnels as soon as they know we’re comin’.”

  “We were just discussing that,” Hatchet said. “Any thoughts?”

  Flint shook his head. “Been chewin’ on that. Too much open land before their gates, and they tend it that way for a reason. No way to flank our way in. Too many sentries and hunters ’tween here and there.”

  “So, we take out the sentries,” Brandaxe said. “Covert assault, under cover of night.”

  “Won’t work,” Flint said. “Ye can’t sneak up on ’em. Night or day. Believe me, the Five had tried, and if we can’t do it, it can’t be done. They switch posts every hour, all day, all night. Always alert, and they see damned fine in the dark. We’d have to sneak a thousand dwarves in to take the tunnels by surprise. We’d be lucky to sneak in one.”

  “So, what then? We just attack, then dig ’em out?” asked Dohr. “It could take months. Half our people will die.”

  “Beats all our people dying,” said Hatchet.

  “There’s nothin’ for it, Sire. Fight and dig,” declared Travert. “Just like the dwarves of old.”

  “The dwarves of old were decimated,” said Dohr.

  “Aye,” agreed Colonel Onyx. “But we’ve gotten pretty good at digging since then.”

  King Dohr sighed. “Good enough, let’s hope. Organize your soldiers, Hatchet. I want every dwarf building shelters for those who cannot fight. We’ll do the best we can for the next two days, then we march.”

  Hatchet nodded. “Aye. Flint, with me.”

  “Wait,” said Dohr. “Captain.”

  Flint turned to his king.

  “I hope your Kari survives, wherever she is.”

  Flint nodded. “Thank you, Sire. As do I.”

  “But if ye disobey me or your general again, I’ll hang ye for a traitor. Sure as stone.”

  “Aye, Sire.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Flint and Hatchet left the cabin. When the door closed behind them, the captain turned to his general.