Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  Cindra closed the door behind them, and motioned to a stool on the near side of the circular table that sat in the middle of the small, cluttered hollow. Oort obediently sat down, if slowly, and Cindra walked around the table, taking a seat across from the bewildered gnome.

  She leaned forward, cheerfully watching Oort watching her as she rested her chin on her miniature knuckles.

  “Such pretty eyes yer daughter has, and so unlike yer own.”

  ---

  “Yeh’r to have one job and one job only, me daughter,” Thinsel said gravely, as she stirred the kettle and Shyla set the table. “That’s stayin’ alive Outside, and make no mistake, the Outside is no friendly place to a gnome.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Shyla replied absently.

  Thinsel turned and glowered at Shyla, the most severe expression on her mother’s face she had ever seen.

  “This ain’t the time fer ‘Yes, Mama’, child.”

  Shyla nodded, sensing her mother’s intensity, and trying her best to clear her mind and focus on her mother’s words. Thinsel set the large stone spoon down on the counter, and pulled up a stool beside Shyla, placing her hands on her daughter’s knees.

  “Now yeh listen girl, and yeh listen well. Yer a smart one, there’s no denyin’, and maybe the smartest gnome in all G’naath. Don’t look at me like that, yeh know it and yeh always have. But there be bad people in the wide world, worse than the meanest gnome you ever met, and beasts and monsters alike, and the worst part is, ya won’t be knowin’ the good from the bad most times until it’s too late for yeh. Yeh got to be wary child, wary of all yer seein’, all the time, and yeh can’t let yer guard down never, not fer a turn.”

  Shyla listened as her mother continued, and as she did, she felt a tickle of understanding develop in the back of her mind. Mama has been Outside. She must’a. How could she know these things if she ain’t?

  She waited until her mother took a breath, and interrupted.

  “Mama.”

  Thinsel heard her tone, and knew a grave question was coming, hoping it was one, and not the other.

  “Yes, child.”

  “Have yeh been Outside yerself?”

  Thinsel sighed, relieved. She paused for a moment, looking to her hands, gathering her response, and looking back to meet her daughter’s eyes.

  “Yes, Shyla, yer father and I have both been Outside.”

  Another pause.

  Shyla looked at her mother, Thinsel looking back at her, their unblinking eyes locked, and somehow Shyla knew that there were things she could ask at this moment, and things she should not. She somehow recognized that their conversation was at a tipping point, a crossroads of sorts, and she instinctively turned away from the one direction, the deepest part of her terrified of what she would find at the end of that path.

  I know that if yeh wanted to tell me more of it Mama, that yeh would have afore now. But yeh can tell me what yeh know to help me survive this trouble, and I’ll not ask more than yeh’re willin’ to tell.

  Thinsel nodded as if she heard every word in Shyla’s mind, and continued to teach her what she could, skillfully avoiding the truths she could not speak aloud.

  ---

  A bit more than two hours had passed, and Oort returned to their home, just in time to see his Greykin ladies clearing the table.

  “There’s more stew in the kettle, Oort. Girl, git yer father a bowl and a spoon, would yeh? And some bread, if there be any left.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Oort and Thinsel exchanged a look then, and each immediately knew that the other had just undergone something profound.

  Later, mouthed Thinsel, glancing sidelong at Shyla.

  Oort sat down to eat his meal, and the three of them talked lightly for a bit, not quite as if all were well and normal, but not quite as if the world were ending, either. The conversation inevitably led to the trial, however, and Oort leveled his eyes at his daughter.

  “I dunno if yeh heard at the time, but Lady Sandshingle asked yeh to visit her afore ye go, girl.”

  Shyla stiffened at this. “I intend to do no such thing, Papa. She spelled me to spill my guts afore all o’ G’naath, and that’s a fact.”

  “That ain’t how I see it, Nugget.”

  The girl was nearly disarmed by his heart-name for her, but quickly steeled herself.

  “Papa, I felt it. She raised those wrinkled old arms o’ hers, and my whole speech I had planned out fell apart in me own mouth, and next thing yer knowin’, I’m blubberin’ and spittin’ out things I didn’t never mean to say.”

  “I don’t doubt yeh, girl, but that still ain’t the way I see it.”

  “Well if ya don’t doubt me, Papa, then how–”

  “Listen to your father, child,” Thinsel scolded.

  Shyla’s anger only intensified at that, mindful now that she was being talked down to, and by both her parents.

  “I’m no child, Mama, at least I better not be, seein’ as what I got afore me.”

  “Yeh speak true, me daughter, yer no child no more, but to yer Ma and me, yer the only child that ever was or ever will be. Now will yeh hear me, or won’t yeh?”

  Shyla sighed. She was no less angry, for the shame she felt at emptying her heart before all of G’naath ran deep and hot, and she blamed the sorceress chiefly for it. Yet she could not find it in her heart to defy her father, not now.

  “I’m sorry, Papa, I’m listening.”

  “Good then, and listen well. The lady saved yer hide today, child, don’t yeh doubt it fer a turn. Sure, yer mad at ‘er fer makin’ yeh spill yer guts, and make yeh she did, we all saw it. But if yeh hadn’t done just that, just what do yeh think ol’ Ky’rl Gypstone was gonna do with yeh?”

  “I coulda defended meself, Papa, it weren’t fer sure what woulda happened...”

  Oort interrupted. “Think, Shyla. And tell yer father why that ain’t true.”

  Shyla paused, irked that her intellect should be tested, as if she weren’t capable of reasoning it all out on her own…after a blink, her head drooped in resignation.

  “Yer right, Papa.”

  Oort nodded. “Why am I right, Nugget?”

  “Because the lady has magic, and even if I’da convinced the whole cavern of what I was wantin’ to say, she woulda known the truth, probably the whole of it, and woulda told th’elders as much when they went back to decide me fate.”

  “And?” Oort urged his daughter to continue.

  “And I woulda been shunned forever, not just fer th’eight seasons, and wouldn’t nobody have been carin’ a bit, once they heard that I weren’t tellin’ the whole truth.”

  But how did Papa reason the whole thing out? Shyla wondered, for she loved and respected her father, but…

  As if on cue, her father spoke. “There’s no denyin’ yer smarter than me, Nugget, and fer that I’m proud as can be. But yeh ain’t as wise, not yet, and there’s a sickness only age can cure, and twenty-three years ain’t yet enough. And smart as yeh are, yeh canna think straight when yer mad or scared, can’t no one, and when yeh lie, yeh need two brains–”

  “One to manage the lies, and one fer hidin’ the truth,” Shyla completed the moral for him, a lesson he had taught her more than once.

  “Yeh’ll be seein’ the lady Sandshingle then, me girl, if not by yer own desire, then fer me and yer Ma.”

  Shyla nodded her head in resignation. “Yes, Papa. But Papa?”

  “Yes?”

  “How did they only expel me for eight seasons? Ain’t the law s’posed to be that I’m out fer life?”

  “Like I said, girl, see the lady.”

  The pink-eyed, pointy-nosed, auburn-haired, pigtailed and freckled gnome looked at her father with suspicion then, and it dawned on her that this driphole she was in descended much deeper than she had supposed.

  VII: THE WHISTLING WENCH, MOR

  “To coin, boys, and heaps of it!”

  “Heaps of it!” replied the men in chorus.

 
; The golden-haired young man tilted his mug and took a drink, as Earl drained his own in three enormous swallows, finishing with an ear-splitting belch.

  “Now that’s a talent, Earl.” said the boy in honest admiration. “You could earn a decent living, wagering on your drinking prowess.”

  “I already earn a living boy, though it ain’t so decent.”

  “Doing what?” he asked, not really caring, but more to further ingratiate himself to the colossal man.

  “Earl here is a wagon loader, and us four work on ‘em,” this from Stubs, whom the boy had learned was missing three fingers, “on account of a dice game gone bad”.

  “Wagon loader, huh, is there much work to be had doing that?”

  “This time of year, there’s plenty, but winters can be a bit rough.”

  “Same for fixin’ em,” added Pike, the tall, thin man that had stood over the pile of coins during Earl’s nimble performance. The boy wasn’t sure if his name was given at birth, or assigned later, as his long, lanky build did very much resemble a pike.

  “And how about you, boy?” asked Earl, “How do you earn your keep, and hey, what’s your name anyhow?”

  A voice from behind. “His name is trouble, and you’ll not want to share it.”

  The young man and his new friends looked up at the three severe-looking men who had just made their way to their table, the one in the tight black jerkin on his right being the speaker, the other two in dark grey cloaks, just now maneuvering behind the boy’s chair. Fury. Here we go…

  Earl was the first to respond. “Well, right now Trouble over here is buyin’ the drinks, so unless you wanna get the next round, you can take a walk.”

  The man who had spoken nodded at the other two, who each pulled back their cloaks to reveal long, wide scabbards at their hips.

  Earl’s boys looked at him, unsure, and Earl addressed the speaker.

  “We don’t want any trouble now, mister…”

  “As I said. I expect then that you will be returning to your homes. It’s getting late, and you’ll need to be to work at dawn, Earl. As will you, Pike, Stubs, Han, and Kendrick,” the man glanced at each in turn as he named them.

  From Pike, “How in Tahr do you–”

  “Now.”

  Earl stood, and for the briefest of moments seemed to consider his options, but then grabbed the boy’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Good luck to you, kid. Looks like you’ll need it. C’mon boys, work in the morning.” The five made their way to the door, Earl looking back once at the young man, shaking his head.

  The speaking man took a seat at the table, his men remaining in place. He leaned in and flashed a hungry smile. “Hello, Lucan.”

  “Lucan? I don’t know any–”

  A flash of pain interrupted the lie, knocking Lucan to the floor of the tavern, as he was struck on the ear from behind by something much more solid than a fist. He returned to his seat slowly, and as his vision cleared, he saw the first splatters of blood drip onto the table.

  Get it together, Luc, this is bad. Really bad.

  He blinked away his shock and pain, and decided that his first order of business would be to do whatever was necessary to avoid being struck again.

  “Lucan, sir. That’s my name. Whatever it is you think I have done, I am sure–”

  “The ring.”

  Huh? For Tahr’s sake, this is about the ring?

  “It was a fair bet, friend, but if it matters that much to the man–”

  “The ring means nothing. The pride of Vincent Thomison means much.”

  Aw, Fury. Vincent Thomison was known to be among the most ruthless merchants in all of Mor, the term “merchant” being applied loosely. He was rumored to be the leader of a small army of thieves, thugs, and mercenaries, though his legitimate businesses peppered the streets of the city, from arms to armor, magical items and more.

  “I’m sorry friend, I did not know that the man was Master Thomison. I am happy to give the ring back, here…” he pulled the chain from his neck and began to remove the ring, as one of the men behind him snatched both from his hand.

  “The man you cheated was not Master Thomison, fool of a boy, but rather his brother. And he would like to have a little conversation with you. Outside.”

  Lucan Thorne willed himself to think, and think fast, for if these men got him outside, he was fairly certain that his last meal would, in fact, wind up being his last meal. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and feigned resignation as he tried to quickly recall every detail of the last few turns.

  We ordered another round of drinks, and I heard the horses approach the tavern. Earl did as well; he turned his head towards the entrance. Talking, drinking, the sound of boots on the porch…a man outside telling another to move along, the trio enters, the wagon men leave, words, pain, a laugh, a sliding stool behind me at the bar…he should just be getting to his horse now…

  Lucan exploded out of his chair, his legs flinging it behind him, and overturned the table onto the speaking man. He leapt high and to his right, directly onto the long dining bench beside him, and ran right along the top of it towards the exit, nearly reaching it before he heard the shout behind him.

  “STOP HIM!” Black Jerkin shouted.

  The boy burst through the door, bowling over a waitress on the way, and there was the ringless brother of the infamous Thomison, reins of his horse in hand, the mount already untied from the rail as Lucan had hoped, thankfully facing the center of the street. Well, there’s a bit of luck then, thought Lucan, as he launched himself off the porch, leveling a kick at Thomison’s chest. Lucan missed his mark, but found another, catching the man square in the groin, dropping him like a stone. Lucan mounted the horse in a graceful vault, faster and more cleanly than he had ever mounted a horse in his life. He grabbed the reins and kicked the animal into gear. Shockingly, the horse did not throw him, but instead obediently took to a run, just as Lucan heard the steps of his pursuers on the porch.

  He was forced to veer the mount to the right as he reached the first cross street to avoid another rider that had made the intersection at the same time, and he heard the man shout at him as he rode past. Sorry pal, but I promise you’re not in as much of a hurry as I am.

  He heard the galloping of his pursuers behind him as he neared the gate and cleared the moat bridge, silently praying, to no one in particular, that the sentries at the wall would not be too alert. His wish was granted, as they were milling about several yards from the cobblestone path, and as he flew past the walls of Mor he felt hope’s faint spark, followed shortly thereafter by the returning pain in his ear as his initial adrenaline rush began to fade.

  His escape was not a yet foregone conclusion, however; far from it. He urged the mount on, and wished he had a whip, or spurs, something to inspire the horse to find more speed, although he had to admit, this was quite a horse. While he had ridden many times growing up, Lucan was acutely aware that he was no horseman. He was familiar with the saddle enough, at least, to know that it was extremely rare, if not unheard of, for a strange horse to not only accept a new and frantic rider so quickly, but to respond so effortlessly to his command. Yet Lucan began to realize that even his good fortune in acquiring this quick, compliant mount may not be enough, for the sound of galloping hooves behind him was getting louder as moments turned to miles.

  Cursed bastards, can they not relent? It was just a damned ring, and they got it back!

  On they rode, fast approaching the Morline, Lucan managing to coax bursts of speed from the horse on occasion, but it was becoming clear that the beast was flagging, nearing the limits of its endurance.

  Just a bit more, get me across the bridge and they’ll surely give up the chase!

  The horse responded yet again as Lucan leaned across its neck, lowering its head and tearing into the trail as powerfully as its great legs would allow. They sailed past the Morline guardhouse and over the bridge, yet still the trio came on, showing no signs of slowing.

 
; Damnit, think Lucan, think!

  They weren’t going to give up. Lucan was sure of that now. They would run their horses into the grave, and if Lucan’s estimation was correct, his own mount would collapse soon, its heart exploding from the chase. If he felt that his horse might outlast his pursuers, he might have decided to risk it, but he knew his own luck – or lack of it. It’s only a one in four chance that my horse survives them all, and the way my fortune runs, it might as well be one in a hundred.

  Lucan decided then what he would do.

  For Tahr’s sake horse, please run true for just a bit more…

  Lucan climbed partway out of the saddle, preparing to jump off the horse and make a break into the forest. It was dark enough, and the trio of riders just far enough behind, that he believed he could make it beyond the tree line unseen. His only hope, however, was that his horse would keep running and lead the trio on, for if it did not, it would be just a matter of time before his hunters found him.

  Run like the wind, horse, you’ve been good to me…

  Lucan jumped from the saddle, rolling into the brush to his left, immediately cracking his head on a thick root in the precise spot where the thug had struck him earlier, his next roll slamming a rib against a stone. Hot, searing pain brought a howl to his lips as his roll concluded against a sapling, the wind mercifully torn from his lungs, for he knew that to make noise now would ensure his death. He clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, trying to get as flat as he could within the knee-high grasses where he had come to a rest. He could not see, nor barely hear, but he thought he could just make out the sound of his horse’s gallop, far ahead, as the trio of riders passed him.

  Gradually, his breath returned, and he could no longer hear his charging doom. His head and side now began to throb in time with his fast-beating heart, and he took a moment to count his injuries. The ribs were the worst of it, one or more almost certainly cracked, and the still bleeding wounds on his ear and head were painful but not debilitating. Everything hurt, but to a survivable degree, as long as he did not take more than a quarter of a breath. He rose and began stumbling into the woods, almost hoping that a bear would just come eat him and end this miserable night.