Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Aria returned the gaze. “Trellia, we must save this person.”

  J’arn and Lucan needed no further prompt. The two dashed through the tilled land towards the battling four. J’arn absently noted that whatever crop this farm cultivated, it had died and shriveled before being harvested. Lucan pulled his dagger and turned to see who followed. They all did; Wolf led the charge, Aria and Shyla followed closely in the next rank. Trellia and Mikallis were at their heels.

  Lucan turned to the dwarven prince as they ran. “Ready for a little action, J’arn?”

  “Ye have no idea,” J’arn replied, grinning.

  Lucan turned back to face the assault, barely registering a hulking figure in the distance waving its arms in his periphery before he did. As they neared range, Lucan put a hand on J’arn’s chest, urging him to slow.

  “Let me toss this,” he said, hefting the dagger. “I might be able to end this right now.”

  “Be me guest,” J’arn replied, breathing heavily.

  Lucan took aim at the woman casting the stream of ice at the victim. He flipped the dagger and wound his arm back, gathering strength. Don’t miss this one, Luc…

  The dagger flew from his hand before he could release it. He turned to see Aria and Shyla approach.

  “Fool!” Aria said at a loud whisper.

  “Did you do that?” Lucan asked, incensed.

  “Yes! They will have wards, you idiot! Wait a moment.” She turned and waited for Trellia, who approached directly with Mikallis.

  “What do we do, Trellia?”

  “I will handle this,” she said, panting. “Support me only if I need it, Aria.”

  Trellia stepped forward and bowed her head.

  “Da, Nü perra ha na tahri.”

  A whirling storm of dust and debris formed before the Vicaris, widening as it grew in height, advancing slowly ahead. The companions shielded their eyes as dirt and stones pelted them. Within the span of a few breaths it stretched as high as twenty men, yawned as wide as ten, and continued to advance, swirling at impossible speed. Despite its forward momentum as it creeped away from the companions, the assault of debris did not abate. As the storm of dust grew, so did the radius of wind that fed it.

  Aria knew she could help with that much, at least. She took a deep breath, reached within herself, and summoned a shield of air that enveloped and protected the six from the onslaught.

  “Nice!” Trellia admired.

  Aria smiled. “Thank you.”

  The spinning whirlwind bore down on the three attackers, flinging dirt and grit, obscuring their view to their target. The nearest attacker finally turned, seeking the source of the storm. The distraction proved sufficient. The woman conjuring the stream of ice screamed something unintelligible at the man, and as she did, the stream was interrupted for an instant. The victim took advantage immediately; with an inaudible “pop,” the man vanished.

  The whirlwind dissipated as a blur of meat and muscle tackled Trellia to the ground from the left. Wolf leapt onto the man’s back, tearing and clawing at his clothing. The man rolled to his right, grasping at the animal. Shyla reacted instinctively. The man found his arms and legs stretched to their limits, pinned to the ground by an unseen force. Wolf stood on the man’s torso, fangs mere fingers from his neck, growling and snapping. The man turned to face the six.

  “You bleedin’ fools! You have no idea what you’ve done!”

  Lucan rubbed his eyes. “Earl?”

  The man furrowed his brow. “Trouble?”

  Trellia stood, brushing herself off. “You know this man?”

  “Well, yeah,” Lucan said. “What in Tahr are you doing–”

  Lucan flew backwards as if he had been struck by an invisible charging bear. The others turned to see a lethally beautiful wizard with glowing green eyes approach, followed by a young red-haired woman and an elderly man.

  Mikallis drew his sword. J’arn crouched, heaving his axe. Wolf turned to see the green-eyed woman and whined in terror, retreating behind Shyla as the young gnome glared at the three attackers. Aria took a breath, preparing for what might come next. Trellia was the first to speak as Earl rose to his feet.

  “No one needs to die today, woman,” Trellia warned the green-eyed attacker. “But come any closer, and you will.”

  Mila made a swatting gesture with her hand. Trellia was blown backwards several paces, but kept her feet.

  “Threaten me again, elf, and you will die in fire.”

  “Mila,” Earl said. “Please.”

  Mila turned to Earl briefly, then back to the intruders. Each wore expressions of confusion and fear.

  Mile spoke through clenched teeth. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  J’arn was unafraid. “I know damned well what we done, and what ye three were doin’! We saved that man’s life!”

  Mila shook her head. “You fools. You miserable fools.”

  Lucan regained his feet and addressed the large man. “Earl, my outsized friend. Be a good pal and fill us in, will you, before this all turns sideways?”

  XXXXIII: MOR

  Barris sat beside Vincent on the south side of the throne room of Mor, nearest to the marble dais which held Halsen’s throne. The king glanced once to his right upon entering the room, taking notice of Barris before he sat, rolling his eyes disdainfully as the court crier commanded those in attendance to be seated.

  The throne room was filled to capacity. To Barris’ right, a row of petitioners sat pensively, a short carved wooden rail separating the narrow gallery from the main floor. There were but nine in total, including Barris, Vincent, and Gerald, but across the floor in the councilors’ gallery sat near to a hundred men and women. All but a very few seats were filled, which had been the case on his last visit, but the most notable difference was the number of ordinary citizens in attendance. On his previous visit, there had been none. Now, Barris estimated that a thousand men and women filled the rear gallery, nearest the exit on the east side of the room. So many, in fact, that the seating area overflowed; a considerable delay was caused by the unexpected volume of citizen witnesses. Red satin ribbons tied to waist-high stanchions and a troop of six Defenders were all that separated the ashy throngs from the king. Barris had queried Vincent and Gerald as the additional standing area was established; the law, as Gerald explained it, was that any who wished to witness a royal proceeding were welcome, so long as none came within ten paces of the throne. The Defenders had measured out a dozen paces before the stanchions had been set.

  One by one, the petitioners were called. The first three had come for similar reasons, each reporting a crime that had gone unpunished. Halsen barely listened, declaring after each petition that if the Defenders saw no need to pursue the matter, neither did he. The fourth was a young lady, pretty but quite thin, requesting employment within the palace. Halsen toyed with the woman, ordering her repeatedly to turn around so that he might appraise her better, making lewd comments that drew snickers from the crowd. He assented to her petition with an order that she be “fed until she looked like a woman.” She was then led from the throne room by a pair of Defenders. The fifth and sixth were a married couple, middle-aged, reporting that their adult son had gone missing a season before, requesting the king’s decree that the Defenders and sentries of Mor conduct a search. Halsen did not bother to feign sympathy; he dismissed them outright, declaring that their son had most likely taken up with a woman and that they would do well to leave him to his own decisions. The couple wept as they were led from the room.

  Barris had expected to be called next, as they had made their way down the row of petitioners, but instead the crier called the name of Vincent Thomison.

  ~

  Vincent and Gerald made their way to the floor. They were met by a wizard, near to Vincent’s own age, one he did not recognize, but a surreptitious wink from the Incantor set Vincent’s mind at ease. Ah, well done, Sartean, he thought, daring to hope that the day might end well. He placed a hand in hi
s pocket for the hundredth time, ensuring the stone within did not suddenly vanish. It had not. He looked to the councilors’ gallery; he had expected to see all his Merchants in attendance, but aside from the Junei sisters, none had arrived. Maris shrugged when she met Vincent’s eyes, acknowledging the unasked question. Kalindra nodded solemnly in encouragement.

  “Master Vincent Thomison, Your Highness,” the plump crier called. “To confess before Mor a crime committed, and seek Your Majesty’s clemency.” Vincent bowed deeply; Gerald followed suit.

  “And who is this with you, Master Thomison?” Halsen asked through a mouthful of berries. He motioned to Yan to remove the platter.

  “Gerald Shallory, my king,” Vincent replied, “master of my house and counsel for this matter.”

  “Your client takes a risk in coming here today, wizard. Why?”

  Gerald cleared his throat. “Before I reply, Sire, I would ask that in accordance with the procedures of trial, the rules of etiquette be altered accordingly.”

  Halsen leaned forward. “Before you reply? Bold, aren’t you?”

  Gerald shook his head. “No, not bold, Sire. Terrified, in fact.” This drew a laugh from the councilors’ gallery. “But your question is best answered in context, in my client’s own words.”

  “Lian, any objection?” he asked the court Incantor.

  “None, Sire. Master Thomison is here of his own free will. I would counsel you to grant the courtesy.”

  Courtesy, Vincent sneered silently. It’s the damned law.

  Halsen nodded. “Very well. You may both speak freely, for now.”

  “Thank you, Sire,” Gerald replied.

  Incantor Lian unrolled a parchment and began to speak. “Vincent Thomison, you come before your king today to request trial for murder.” The crowd muttered. “By the laws of Mor, you shall be granted leave to speak your piece. You have waived your right to jury. Know that the truth of your words shall be gauged by me, and me alone, to be false or truthful, through use of the powers I have gained in service to Kehrlia. Upon conclusion of this trial, I shall recommend condemnation or clemency to your king, who will then decide your guilt or innocence. The king’s decision shall be final, and should you be found guilty, you will be sentenced to death and executed by a manner of the king’s choosing at dawn on the morrow.” The Incantor looked up from the parchment, meeting Vincent’s eyes. “Do you agree to these conditions, and wish to proceed?”

  Vincent looked to Gerald. The wizard nodded. “I do.”

  “Very well. Your counsel may proceed.”

  Gerald nodded. “Thank you, Incantor. Master Thomison, please begin.”

  Vincent swallowed, wiping his moist forehead with his right-hand sleeve, grasping the stone tightly in the pocket of his left hand. “Near to twenty years ago, I killed a man named Fain Thallinson.”

  “How did you kill him, sir?” Gerald asked.

  Vincent took a breath. “I sawed off his head in a tavern.”

  The crowd gasped.

  “Tell us why.”

  “I killed the bastard because he raped my wife.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  Vincent nodded. “I do. My wife – my bride, I should say, for we were married less than a cycle – came home late one night after spending the day with friends, practicing her riding skills. She arrived at our home without her horse, bloody and bruised,” Vincent paused, trembling, “with her dress torn and…” Vincent choked back a sob.

  “Take your time, Vincent,” Gerald offered.

  Vincent straightened. “With the blue lace dress I had bought her only the day before, torn and tattered.” Vincent shook his head. “She loved that dress.”

  “And what did she tell you?”

  “Nothing at first. She ran to our room, crying. She locked the door. I spent the night at that door, hearing her sobs. I pleaded with her to tell me what happened, to let me in. She did not.”

  Gerald nodded. “And then what happened?”

  Vincent looked at his friend, then to the king. “I knew, Sire. I knew. I let her sleep, and waited at the door until morning. At dawn, she let me in. She had done what she could to cover the bruises with makeup, but her face…” Vincent closed his eyes. Tears flowed freely from their corners. “Her face was so swollen. He beat her, Sire. Beat her something terrible.”

  “What did she tell you, Vincent?” Gerald prodded.

  “She told me that a man approached her on the Northern Road as she rode past the Whistling Wench. It was called the Whispering Wench back then. He said he could not find his daughter.” Vincent wiped at his face. “She was a good woman, my Anie. She offered to help. She tied her horse to the rail and followed the man. He led her behind the Wench…”

  “You need not go into detail, Vincent. Did she tell you the man’s name?”

  Vincent shook his head. “No. She made me promise to never tell anyone. She was so ashamed.”

  “How then did you discover his identity?”

  Vincent’s expression darkened. “I went to the Wench. Every night, for a quarter cycle. I wore a hood, so no one would recognize me. I listened. I heard the men tell stories. I watched them drink. Finally, someone let it slip. The man said Fain Thallinson had been bragging about how he had…” Vincent bit his lip. “How he had taken the wife of ‘that pompous ass Thomison.’ I knew Fain Thallinson. He had served under me in the army. The bastard hated me and I hated him. He was the worst soldier that I ever commanded, and I rode his arse hard.”

  Gerald nodded. “And you went home, to tell your wife.”

  “I never should have. Never. I wanted to convince her to report him to the sentries, before he could hurt someone else. But when I told her… when I asked her…”

  “Go on, Vincent. I know this is hard.”

  Vincent shook his head. “No, it’s fine. When I asked her if it was him, she stood up, left the dining room, and locked herself in the room again. I slept at the door, hoping she would talk to me when dawn came.”

  “But she did not.”

  “No. She did not. Because she was dead. She slit her own throat that night. She was... she was cold when I finally broke the door down.”

  Whispers from the crowd became murmurs. Gerald waited a moment before continuing, allowing the emotion of the moment to take root.

  “What did you do next, Vincent?”

  Vincent sighed. “I asked you to help me carry her to the garden.”

  “Yes. I remember. I mean, what did you do, after?”

  “I found the nearest Defender and reported what had happened. They sent a contingent to Concord, turned my house upside down. They said they couldn’t do anything about Thallinson, not without Anie’s testimony. My word was no good. They damned near charged me with her murder.”

  “But they did not.”

  “No. One of them had a brain in his head and saw the situation for what it was. Captain Eriks Lane. He could not press arrest against Thallinson, the law wouldn’t allow it, but he called Anie’s death a suicide, and left it at that.”

  “What did you do that night?”

  “I went to the bastard’s house. He wasn’t there, but I told his wife what he did. She laughed at me. Laughed in my face. Said I should have done a better job of keeping an eye on my wife.”

  “What else did she say?”

  Vincent shook her head. “I’ll never forget it. She said, ‘Men are men. Women clean up their messes,’ and slammed the door in my face.”

  “What did she mean by that, ‘women clean up their messes’?”

  “I didn’t know at the time. I was too angry to understand. I found out later.”

  “Go on.”

  “She meant that she knew exactly what her dung-eating husband did, and she had helped him bury a body of another woman not a cycle before.”

  “How did you learn that?”

  “When I dropped his head on her doorstep the next time I came calling, she told me. Said she was glad he was dead, at least she didn
’t have to dig any more graves.”

  Halsen interrupted. “Lian, I’ve heard enough. I don’t care if he sawed off the heads of every member of the Thallinson family one by one. If you tell me he speaks the truth, I will grant this man a full pardon.”

  The councilors’ gallery cheered in support. The citizen gallery remained quiet.

  “I cannot, Sire.”

  “WHAT?” Halsen bellowed.

  “What?” Vincent’s knees buckled.

  The Incantor continued, flashing Vincent a knowing smile. He turned to the king. “My liege. Insofar as this man speaks of the murder of Fain Thallinson, he speaks the truth. The rest is a complete fabrication.”

  “You rotten bastard, Sartean put you up to this,” Vincent spat through gritted teeth.

  “This trial is concluded!” Halsen screamed. “Vincent Thomison, you are found guilty of murder! You will die at dawn!”

  A gaunt man from behind the ribbons rushed the floor. “He will die right now!”

  Vincent turned just in time to see James Thallinson thrust a dagger into his chest. The son of his enemy twisted the knife, tearing a hole into the merchant’s lung. Vincent gasped and fell to his knees; the pain was blinding. He locked eyes with James as he collapsed. He did not see a man behind those hazel eyes; he saw an abomination, a shell of a man, a ruined soul. Vincent absently noted Gerald, his lifelong friend, screaming in protest, reaching to catch him before he fell to the ground. He did not. Vincent crumpled just as a halberd sliced through the air, separating James’ head cleanly from his body.

  Vincent gasped for breath that would not come. He withdrew the stone from his pocket. With the last remaining vestiges of air in his blood-soaked lungs, Vincent Thomison rasped a word.

  “Dream.”

  ~

  Barris felt a stabbing sensation behind his eyes. The throne room went silent. He briefly noted that everyone in the entire hall shared the same expression of bewilderment he knew had claimed his own visage. A vision–no, a memory–materialized within his mind.

  “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–”