Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  Twenty-six days to the next zenith, Barris quickly counted to himself, eighteen of which would be spent riding without rest. This king is a bastard of the highest order.

  “As you wish, King Halsen.” Barris bowed again.

  II: THORNWOOD

  With a slight wave of her hand, the misty vision dissipated like smoke before the elven queen, and she faltered slightly, exhausted from the effort of Seeing from such a distance.

  “My lady, please, sit,” said her Captain of The Citadel, as he rushed to bring her wicker chair from behind her small oaken desk.

  “Thank you, Mik. That was a bit trying.”

  Mikallis frowned, for Terrias Evanti rarely used his shortname in front of others, and even more rarely admitted fragility of any sort, even among her inner circle. Mikallis Elmshadow was the son of Queen Evanti’s former and late Captain Jons Elmshadow, and had practically grown up alongside her own daughter, the princess barely a decade younger. He was as close as anyone who was not directly related to the queen’s family, yet propriety was almost never breached when official matters of the elven kingdom were being discussed, not once in the several seasons that Mikallis had served as Captain. This council was quite small, however, as the queen did not wish to expose Barris’ private perspective to anyone whom he did not personally call friend.

  “Trying, my lady?” This from Aria Evanti, only daughter of the elven queen, and the newest member of the Society of the Grove. “Seeing from such a distance has never been done before in our history, and certainly never throwing the Speech! How in the Wood did you even–”

  “Be calm, my daughter. When the need is great, the Wood has always answered. This much you know.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “And it has been done once before,” the queen soberly added, “but only once that I know of.”

  This brought a bow of the head from the three others assembled in the small room.

  The four were gathered in the queen’s study, which amounted to a small apartment across a narrow hall from her personal chambers. Dark, exotic woods made up the floors and walls, oiled to a sheen and flawlessly clean. Several wide windows lined the top of the room on the west and north walls, each partially opened to allow the floral Thornwood air to circulate. Thousands of books, letters, and parchments lined the shelves on the walls, neatly, but without attention to organization, for but a thought from the queen would guide her to the needed material. Dozens of small mirrors built into the bookcases were angled to the center of the room now, though their angle would change spontaneously, to reflect towards the area of the room where the queen required light.

  A large mahogany reading table sat in the center of the room, lined with comfortable padded wicker chairs, gifts made by the hands of friends and subjects who wished to offer a kindness to the queen. In the Thornwood, to use one’s hands to make a chair for another was considered among the highest personal honors an elf could grant another elf. It signified gratitude for a job done, or respect for a task accomplished, and said to the gifted, “You are beloved to me, and you have done well. I wish for you to rest.” Such chairs would often take months, even years to make, for no magic was ever used in their creation, and often even the most nondescript chair was, upon close inspection, a marvel of design, engineering, and respect to detail. The wicker she sat upon now was not of the most sophisticated design, it was not even padded, but nonetheless it was among the most precious to Evanti, for it had been made by the children of one of the eastern villages, in gratitude to the queen for simply spending an evening around their fire, telling stories and sharing a meal.

  The queen continued after the prolonged silence.

  “Neral. Tell me what you saw.”

  Neral was the oldest member of the Evanti family, the brother of Terrias’ own grandfather, and among the oldest in the entire kingdom of Thornwood. He sat upon his own padded chair, and was the only member of the Council of the Wood permitted to sit while the queen was in attendance (and not sitting herself.) While the elves would hardly make such a rule into law, it had been a tradition kept to since before even Neral’s grandfather had served on the council, nearly a millennia past. To disregard the custom would not bring punishment – yet it was simply not done. Such were the elven ways; one did as all were expected, for to upset the order of things would be to potentially cause discomfort to another. More than a matter of politeness or propriety, it was the simplest issue of morality to the elves; law and tradition first, their people second, and if both are served well, then the joy of the self would be inevitable. Failure to live one’s life according to that principle predictably would cause chaos, and from chaos, harm. Traditions, if they are born of respect and kindness, serve Order, and thus are upheld.

  Yet Neral was granted exception, for not only was he a beloved elder of the elven people, he had once been their most revered Captain. It was Neral, foremost, who had made the first peace with humankind, a truce won both through his boundless heroism in a battle that cost him a son and a foot, and, eventually, his forgiveness of the man who took both from him.

  Despite his infirmity and age, and despite the fact that she herself was seated, Neral stood upon the address of his queen. Terrias bowed her head as he used his splintered oaken staff to pull himself upright, as it was not expected for Neral to stand, but stand he would, as he always had.

  “It is good and bad, Lady. I saw what you saw. Halsen is an evil, frightened man holding onto his throne with naught but his fingernails, and eager to slaughter our Barris for his own pleasure. However, I also saw that his fear may just yet cause him to align his purposes with ours.” He paused for a bit, most certainly for effect, for Neral so did enjoy a bit of drama when his opinion was asked for.

  “I see. Please continue, Goodfather.” Terrias was skeptical here, but she knew better than to doubt Neral’s instincts and wisdom.

  “Why not simply kill Barris? He could have, at any time. He could not know that you were Seeing this parley. He sought an excuse, to be sure, giving Barris plenty of opportunity to misstep, but if he wanted him dead, why not simply do the deed and be done with it, Game or no?”

  “I’m not sure I follow your line of reasoning, Neral. Are you implying that he has some reverence for the elven people? That he sincerely wishes to unite with us? Or that he sees the looming threat as clearly as we do? Because if so, I disagree on all three counts.”

  “No, no, my lady. Not that; he is a shortsighted man with no love for his neighbors. But he does fear us. He knows you, my lady, or at least knows of you, and he knows that if Barris broke his senseless law of throneroom etiquette, you would not avenge him.”

  Mikallis stepped forward at this, incensed. “What are you saying, Neral, that our Lady would ignore the murder of Barris, and let his death go unpunished? That is madness!”

  Queen Terrias Evanti raised her palm to Mikallis, who immediately took a step back. “Please, Mikallis, allow Neral to finish. Go on, my friend.”

  Neral inclined his head towards the Captain, and offered a gentle smile. “Ah, you are young for a Captain of The Citadel, dear Mikallis, but listen closely and you shall gain wisdom. No, our Lady would never ignore the murder of an Elf of the Wood. But it would not be murder if Barris, knowing the law of the land, wicked as it may be, broke that law. Do I misspeak, my lady?”

  The queen sighed, her face drawn and downcast as she replied. “No, good Neral, you have it right. If we enter another’s domain, we do so while accepting their interpretation of Order, or we do not go at all. That is our law, and has been since the Truce.” She lifted her eyes to Mikallis then. “And our observance of that law has served us well, despite the risk to good elves like Barris.”

  Mikallis bowed his head to his queen, and then to Neral.

  “I apologize, Goodfather, you are wise in this.”

  Neral smiled again, and nodded respectfully to the young Captain.

  “I’m sorry, but this makes little sense to me,” Aria Evanti querie
d, “If he wanted Barris’ head so badly and, as you say Neral, had no way of knowing that he was Seen, why not just satisfy his lust, and claim a violation of the law when we came asking?”

  “Why not indeed, young lady…why not, indeed? Mikallis, would you care to answer?”

  Mikallis thought for a moment, looked to Aria, and shook his head. “I know not, Goodfather.”

  “I do not fault you that, Mikallis, nor you, young Aria, for the intrigues of the courts of men would likely escape most elves. But to one as old as I, it is clear as the Trine.”

  “The Trine is not so clear these days, as you well know Neral.” Yet as Neral looked to Queen Terrias, he saw the glimmer of understanding dawn on her face. She nodded, bidding him to continue his lesson.

  “Halsen kills without mercy, desperately seeking to maintain control of his people through violence. He pretends to fear nothing himself, yet only cowardice could drive a man to do such things. If he fears that Thornwood would avenge Barris, and fear us he does, it is because he also fears what all tyrants eventually come to suspect – that he is besieged by spies.”

  “I thought you said it was good and bad, Neral. I hear only bad.”

  “The good, my queen, is that his weakness of heart and paranoid mind will not allow him to sit long upon his throne. He is no threat to our people, if he ever was.”

  “Is not a wounded animal the most dangerous?” asked Terrias, still unconvinced. “Should we not be concerned that he will make war with us, if for no other reason than to unite his people against a common enemy?”

  “If that were the case, my lady, we would already be mourning our Barris.”

  At that, the queen took heart, as Barris did, when he had the same realization as he stood before the king. Mikallis and Aria, however, remained shaken by the idea that a man of such character could even exist, let alone rule a kingdom.

  “The King of Mor is truly a rotten bastard,” offered Mikallis.

  The queen frowned. “No Mikallis, a bastard he is not, for I knew his father and mother well.”

  “Rotten then, to his bones,” added Aria.

  “Alas, perhaps,” said the queen with a sigh, recalling a young boy dancing and singing in the Grove beneath the light of the Twins, chasing conjured sparkflies. “But, it was not always so.”

  III: G’NAATH

  Oort Greykin slowly pulled away the leather curtain that hung before the private stony nook within which Shyla slept, and peered inside.

  “To the brass. Again,” Oort whispered to his wife Thinsel, referring to the candle Shyla was given just the day before, fully melted now, right down to the base of her brass lamp. “Even knowin’ what’s to be comin’ t’day.”

  “We’re gonna lose ‘er, Oort,” Thinsel moaned as Oort let the drape fall and they stepped a few feet away to speak. “Oh, my Oort, you must do something, I canna bear it.” Thinsel began to sob, tears flowing freely down her round, pallid face. Oort took her in his diminutive arms, his callused fingers drawing the yellow hair from her eyes.

  “We’ll not lose ‘er, my dear. Not today,” Oort vowed, unconvincingly. “Nuth’n fer it but to get her up then, and face th’elders.” Oort patted his wife’s shoulder as he released her.

  “Oh, Oort!” Thinsel keened.

  “Girl!” Oort thundered, “Git yerself outta bed, yer sleepin’ late again, t’day of all days!”

  Shyla’s eyes popped open, and she immediately felt her heart plummet into terror, knowing in her bones what this awful day would bring.

  “I’m up Papa, I’m up!”

  “Well, git yerself down the tunnels then and quick, girl. Don’t be dallyin’, for yer own sake.”

  Shyla rubbed her eyes and gathered her wits, formidable wits indeed for a gnome, and began to formulate a plan that would get her through this ordeal, yet knowing even as she raced to pull on her breeches that she was out of excuses. She had been late to begin breakfast for the gnomes of her tribe more often than not the past few seasons, and had been warned repeatedly – she must do her duty, or face expulsion from G’naath. Two days before, as she arrived to the kitchens late yet again, she had found the Elder waiting for her, parchment in hand, with orders to appear before the Court.

  There were few things, if any, more sacred to the gnomes of the Maw than the virtues of labor and duty, and Shyla had proven herself a complete failure on both counts.

  “I shoulda never been a gnome,” the girl said ashamedly to herself, for at least the hundredth time, as she prepared for what would certainly be the worst day of her life. “Ain’t cut out fer it.”

  ---

  Shyla Greykin had come to understand her disparity from other gnomes nearly fourteen years prior, in a cycle that had cost the lives of nearly a dozen of her people.

  While the people of G’naath were not unintelligent, indeed most were capable of reading and writing, the higher principals of mathematics and science had never been their strength. Yet Shyla had always been dissimilar from her people, and before she had reached her tenth year, she had gone missing from her own slabs within the great cavern for hours, found by a panicked Oort and Thinsel explaining to a team of tunnelers, in great scientific detail, how and why their newest branch would soon collapse, to the uproarious laughter and derision of all who had been present.

  Less than a quarter of a cycle later, eleven gnomes were buried alive under hundreds of tons of cold, hard stone.

  Her troubles began that day, and had accelerated since, for many of the gnomes were not inclined to hear her explanations of mathematics and physics, which she could scarcely put into language in any case; no, they had already drawn their conclusions. The girl was a witch, created by the very Hand of Disorder, and would someday doom them all.

  It was not that pronouncement, however, that led to the trouble she faced this day. No, it’s me own damnable obsessions, she told herself, as she marched with her mother and father down the tunnels.

  One night, not long after the cave in, Shyla had been exploring the tunnels, seeking a place to hide from the stares and glares and cruel remarks and worse, when she found a driphole that had apparently gone dead, for the impression on the floor of the tunnel was dry as a bone. She looked up, wondering where the water had once come from, and saw a recession in the stone that seemed to be deeper than it ought to be. Setting down her candle, she climbed up the nearly sheer face of the tunnel wall, as far as she could, and peered up and over the lip of the recession, her pointy little noise barely clearing the rim – and smelled something wonderful! Even her pink gnomish eyes, accustomed to the dark as they were, could not see far into the hole, but she could tell that that wonderful scent was not coming from inside G’naath, but outside.

  Outside.

  She had never been Outside. Never, not once. Outside was for the hunters. Outside was for the other races. Outside was for the beasts and the orcs and all things dangerous. Generations of female gnomes had lived and died in the tunnels of the Maw, never once having been Outside.

  Shyla Greykin, however, was the most curious of gnomes, and had decided then and there that she would make a plan. She would get herself a ladder, she would climb into that hole, and she would go where it leads, if only to see Outside just once, just for a moment. She could have no sooner denied that call than she could have licked her own elbow. That scent! It was…it was like…oh, she just couldn’t even dream of not finding out what it was!

  And so she did, but not without ordeal, for it would not prove easy for this petite little creature to find herself a ladder, the right ladder, let alone conceive a strategy to carry it all the way from the miners’ branch to her secret channel, and stow it covertly and neatly for reuse once her mission had been completed. Shyla, however, was no ordinary gnome. She took measurements using a piece of string from the bottom of her skirts, memorized those measurements, and began her search for the perfect ladder to use for her ambitious task. Finding the free time alone was not an easy thing, for even young gnomes were expecte
d to toil, not frolic and adventure throughout the tunnels like some shiftless, unreliable Airie.

  Ultimately, it became clear to Shyla that she would need to fashion her own ladder, and so that is what she did. Using tools she poached from the miner’s branch, and discarded pick handles from the tunnelers, over the course of several cycles and many nights with very little sleep, she had managed to build herself an elaborate, jointed collapsible ladder, one that she could stow in her knapsack. One night, after the evening meal had been cleared, the dishes washed, and all good gnomes were settling onto their cots for a night of slumber, Shyla Greykin made her way stealthily through the tunnels to her private passageway.

  Her ladder worked as intended, and she ascended carefully, crawling through the crevice, inching her way upwards, discovering to her great joy that there was, in fact, enough space for her to continue her climb, as the channel did not narrow, but rather widened as she gained elevation. She had brought her candle with her, and had managed to keep it lit throughout her ascent, until a gust of sweet air finally blew it out – yet to her surprise the fissure was not entirely dark.

  And then, she saw them. Impossibly, Shyla Greykin looked upon the glowing orbs of the Twins, surrounded by a blanket of a hundreds – no, hundreds of hundreds – no, more! – of tiny little dots of light, hanging suspended in the night sky as if the entire world lay beneath an infinitely immense and faintly lit candelabra.

  Oh, how wonderful it was, how truly, truly magnificent…

  As the scent of her extinguished candle subsided, the aroma she had first detected those many nights ago replaced it, permeating her senses with an fragrant blend of soil, and plants, and flowers, and faunae…together, they melded into a bouquet of life, deep, rich and poignant, and Shyla Greykin, for the first time, began to appreciate how very small she truly was.