Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  Almost.

  VIII: BELGORNE

  “Pull, ye arselickin’ sons o’ dung, pull like ye got a pair!” shouted Kelgarr through the horn, lamenting the slow progress of his kin.

  “If I pull any harder Boot, me pair’s gonna swap places with me guts!” replied Gritson, purple-faced and arms shaking from the strain on the thick rope.

  “Ain’t none of ya got no guts, nor a pair to speak of besides, now PULL!”

  The gargantuan boulder finally began to roll again, at last beginning to clear the lip of the cavity in the stone. Kelgarr, “Boot” to most, dropped his horn and ran to help his men finish the monumental task, its conclusion now in sight. He faced away from the boulder, bent low and sprang up from the knees, slamming his broad shoulders into the underside of the twenty-foot high rock. A cracking, snapping sound came from behind him, but it wasn’t his back…the pulleys were starting to come off the walls, and if they didn’t get it over on this try…

  “Stonarris!” he howled, and his company of kin took up the call.

  “STONARRISSSSSSS!” they roared in refrain. The boulder found balance on the lip just as Kelgarr heard the last of the three pulleys separate from its anchors in the ceiling. His sturdy legs and back were the only force being applied to the massive round rock now, and if someone had entered the cavern just then, it would have appeared as if two dozen dwarves were standing around watching one singlehandedly plug a volcano with a mountain.

  At long last, the ruddy light from below was extinguished by the boulder, its great bulk settling onto the aperture of the pit, seamlessly closing it and, more importantly, sealing the cavern from the sulfurous smoke that had been rising from it for nearly a cycle.

  As the echoes of the thundering report of stone-on-stone faded, Boot faced his incredulous comrades, breathing heavily. “Hmph,” he snorted. “Shoulda rolled the damnable thing here myself.” A groan issued from the exhausted band of engineers. “Mud the seam and roll these ropes boys, and back to the halls for a mead or three!”

  The groans turned to cheers as the bone-weary company raced one another to shovel the mud, roll the ropes and gather the remains of the ruined pulleys.

  “Dunno why in Fury we’re down here bustin’ humps. Boot might just have rolled that bastard rock here himself!” said Gritson in awe, after waiting for the dwarf to turn a corner.

  None dared argue the suggestion.

  ---

  Boot was finishing his first horn of mead to the sound of his men’s merriment at the bar behind him when his king’s young firstson straddled the bench beside him, two tankards in hand.

  “Took a bit longer this time, Kelgarr,” said J’arn Silverstone as he handed a mug to Boot. “Though from what I’d seen, it were a colossal job indeed.”

  “Bigger hole. Bigger rock.” Boot looked down at the tankard J’arn had brought him, and back to the prince. “Not mead.”

  “Not mead,” J’arn agreed.

  “Ye ain’t never drank but mead with me, J’arn.”

  “Ye speak true.” J’arn eyed the tired but perceptive dwarf.

  Boot returned J’arn’s gaze as an understanding passed between them.

  “How long?”

  “Not long. Mayhap a cycle, two at the outside.”

  Boot quaffed down half the contents of the pungent nightnectar in a single gulp. “How can ye be sure?”

  “Well, your own reports for one, the dig reports from Beezle for another, and then this last from the priests.” J’arn slid a folded parchment across the bench to Boot who took it in his hands, and brought a thick monocle out from within his vest. He stroked his greying beard and leaned back, pulling a face, arm outstretched.

  “Gahhh, damned priests write too small. What’s it say?” Boot handed the parchment back to his prince, who folded it immediately and shoved it into a pocket.

  “In short, Boot, it says what we suspected. First off, it’s no ordinary tahrcracker. Second, it’s no ordinary mawflow. It’s coming from the heart o’ Disorder itself, and it’s not just happening here.”

  “Where else?”

  “Everywhere. Thornwood, Mor, the Sapphire Sea even. Somehow G’naath ain’t seen much yet, but they will.”

  “The Sapphire? How could anyone know that?”

  “Well, supposedly there have been maelstroms here and there, running the southern coast over the summer, and unlike the usual ones they see in the spring, these ain’t goin’ anywhere. If anything, they’re gettin’ bigger.”

  “But what’ve the priests to say about it?”

  J’arn stroked his own thick, burgundy beard and kicked his leg over the bench, facing the table now, shoulders slumping.

  “Ye cannot tell the men, Kelgarr. Not a word.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “Say it anyways.”

  Kelgarr reached to his belt and put his hammer on the table, one hand grasping its head, the other its handle. “I’ll not tell a soul, my prince, on my seat in Stonarris’ halls.”

  J’arn nodded, and continued. “The priests say, Boot, that we’re about to face the same damned thing the dwarves of Mulgar Silverstone faced.”

  Boot paled. “Fury, no.”

  “Not just Fury, Boot. Fury alone we might could handle. This runs deeper.”

  “Dammit, J’arn, in a cycle?” Boot exclaimed.

  “Keep your voice down, damn ye! Aye, in a cycle, maybe two, never more than three.”

  The friends sat in silence as the moments passed. Boot looked back on his men, watching them harass the pretty young Kari as per usual, as she laughed, and dodged, and swatted them with her towel. His eyes examined the whole of the stony subterranean inn, appreciating for perhaps the first time the fine workmanship that had built the benches, the great wooden bar, the staircase, the elegantly carved hearth, the dozens of lines of brass tubing leading to the great casks in the cellar, the faded tapestries and chiseled reliefs on the walls, all of it…

  Boot brought the remainder of his drink to his lips, hands trembling. “Where will we go, my prince?” he asked quietly into his mug, his reddened eyes moist.

  “My father has not told me, Boot. I do not think he yet knows.”

  IX: MOR

  The Kingdom of Mor sprawls centrally within a wide, gently sloping valley just to the south of the Morline, nearly a cycle’s ride south of the elven Kingdom of Thornwood (upon a typical mount), roughly equidistant between Thornwood and the southern Sapphire Sea. Its fertile land rises again onward to the west, through the farmlands to the dense forests of Eyre, within which sits Eyreloch, home of the Airies and the great lake which marks the convergence of the Morline and the great river Trine. Beyond Eyre lay the deserts of the west and its tribal peoples. To the east of Mor the great peaks of the Maw rise, and many cartographers have exaggerated the relationship between Mor and the Maw to make it appear as if the kingdom were nothing more than a pending meal for the Beast of the East. Little artistic embellishment was required to convey the effect, however, as a true representation of the terrain was not far removed from the interpretations.

  From along the balustrade of the topmost level of the Keep of Kehrlia, situated in the absolute geometrical center of the city of Mor, one could walk the radius beneath the parapet and look upon the entire city, and many of its nearest surrounding villages. On a clear autumn day such as this, one could barely make out the gentle plumes of smoke rising from the Fang, an extraordinarily tall volcanic mountain marking the westernmost teeth of the upper jaw of the Maw. Today, however, some effort was required to differentiate the more commonly seen cloud of volcanic ash from the numerous thin trails rising throughout Greater Tahr.

  Sartean D’avers, Master of Kehrlia, chief advisor to King Halsen, head of the Fraternity of Incantors and among the most powerful wizards in the recorded history of Tahr, looked out over the railing and for the first time in decades knew fear.

  Sartean did not fear the smoke, nor the fires, nor what the accelerating changes in the la
nds, or even the very Order, may portend. He did not fear the powers of opposing kingdoms, nor any man, elf, dwarf, or beast. He did not fear the tribal peoples, individually or as a whole, nor their witchdoctors and soothsayers, nor all the swords and spears of all the peoples outside the walls of the city of Mor combined.

  He feared that his wretched fool of a king would continue in his reckless and violent ignorance, that the very subjects of Mor would soon rise up against Halsen, and when they marched him to the square and tore the very flesh from his bones, Sartean D’avers would be watching it all from the stocks, awaiting his own turn for justice at the hands of the filthy, avaricious mob.

  His terror at this notion was not baseless nor overstated, for he had seen that very scene unfold in a vision not a quarter cycle past.

  Which was not to say that the course of destiny could not be altered, to the wizard’s mind, for that was the very function of the art of divination – to foretell that which is impending, and to modify fate’s course before the possible became the inevitable. While many naïve and craven practitioners of magic would argue that to attempt to rework providence was foolish at best, disastrous at worse, and impossible most often, in Sartean’s estimation this view was nonsense. A great wizard must acknowledge no restraint upon his power, tangible nor ethical, and the greatest of wizards have accomplished much, much more than a simple amendment to a divined possible outcome. After all, could he not simply dive from this very tower to the street below, at this very moment, and render the vision moot?

  Sartean would do no such thing, of course, for he had a much more agreeable answer in mind.

  He turned and walked to the stairwell at the center of the balcony, his practiced stride and long, flowing black robes lending the illusion that he was not walking, but floating. He descended the marble stair and as he made his way onto the landing in his luxuriously appointed private library, the room began to glow with light, not from one point, but from all, as if it the very air were luminescent.

  In the center of the room on a low glass table sat his favorite diversion, a fist-sized uncut diamond, resting within the grasp of a sculpted jade talon. Its three pointed nails were chiseled and filed to such sharpness that one had to look closely to be certain that they were in fact holding the gem, and it was not merely hovering above the claw. Perhaps a bit of fun then, before I return to my work.

  Sartean sat cross legged upon an outsized plush velvet pillow before his toy, and made a slight gesture towards the stone with the fingers of his right hand, closing his eyes. The enchanted diamond was empowered with the life energies of an entire pack of dire wolves, whose hearing was well known to be unparalleled in the animal kingdom, and attuned to the frequency ranges of human voice. The sound he listened for, using the powerful gem as a conduit, would not be audible in the room, but rather within his own mind, and he was presently assaulted by the dissonant murmur of every word being spoken at that instant in and near Mor. The initial sensation was always unpleasant, but he was rehearsed at the endeavor and within a few moments the cacophony of muttering filtered down to his intended target, the sound of his own name.

  Three hundred thousand men, women, and children lived within the city of Mor, and during the day, the streets could fill with many more, as merchants and visitors from around the kingdom and beyond entered the walls of the city to conduct trade or other business. He had discovered one day (with great satisfaction to his considerable sense of conceit) that at any given moment, dozens could be in a conversation about the wizard, either in passing or earnest. He also discovered that the discussions were often unflattering, though Sartean D’avers relished the sound of own his name on the lips of the masses, no matter the theme.

  Well, the theme mattered, as one would no doubt discover this day.

  He allowed his attention to flit among the various conversations until he found a suitable point of focus, and with scarcely a thought, the scene appeared within his mind, as if he were present among the men’s discussion.

  “The rotten old drunk is gonna work us all to death or starvation, and that’s a fact. You know it and I know it.” The emaciated youngish man was digging a hole for some reason alongside another man, older and thinner.

  “It won’t be the work that kills us, James,” the older man replied, leaning on his shovel. “That smoke rising up all over the damned place will choke us all out well before then, mark my words. It’s devilry boy, I know it. Something awful is coming, and that old pickled fool doesn’t have a clue.”

  “Well, like I said, why doesn’t old Sardine Cadaver do something about it?” James asked, wiping sweat from his eyes with his forearm. “The man’s supposed to be some all-powerful sorcerer, why in Tahr can’t he put out a few fires?”

  Sardine Cadaver. Ah, how the fools love their little joke.

  “He probably lit the damned things himself, boy. Why don’t ya just go ask him? And while you’re at it, ask him to wizard us up a few lamb steaks and a cask o’ wine.”

  “Don’t drink wine, but I won’t be asking him a thing anyways, that’s for sure. And while we’re at it, let’s talk about something else. They say he listens, ya know. Might be that he decides to turn us into toads for speaking his name.”

  “You’re already ugly as a toad boy, won’t be much work.”

  “No, James, I won’t turn you into a toad,” Sartean said aloud as he dismissed the vision. “Though I expect you shall find yourself the victim of a most unfortunate accident tonight.” The wizard smiled to himself and stood, walking over to his desk where he would begin the work of divining where the man lived, to whom he was related, and if time allowed, of what his deepest, greatest fears consisted.

  Oh, how I do enjoy my hobbies, Sartean thought to himself, when a single knock interrupted his thought.

  Damn!

  “Enter!”

  A young apprentice opened the door and peeked into the room, his eyes darting about, anxious.

  “I said enter, fool, not reconnoiter my library for goblins. What do you want of me? Speak quickly!”

  The student entered and addressed the floor.

  “Er, ah, I’m sorry for disturbing you Master, but you’ve been summoned to the king’s residence, with all haste.”

  “‘All haste’, boy? Your words or those of the messenger?”

  “Ah, the messenger’s words were more colorful, Master.”

  “Were they,” said the wizard rhetorically.

  “Shall I tell him–”

  The air left the room for a moment, and the frightened young apprentice looked up to see his master was no longer behind his desk, nor in the room at all. He did not have time to register the wizard’s departure before he found himself back in the hall, facing away from the library. Disoriented, he turned around in time to see a glow under the door of the wizard’s study fading to blackness.

  Fury.

  ---

  King Halsen sat at his dining table within his expansive bedchamber, his silken nightrobe hanging loosely about him, light streaming in from behind through the open window beside his enormous poster bed. A knock came from the door, and he nodded to his manservant Yan to allow the visitor entry.

  Sartean passed the threshold of the bedchamber. He had only recently begun inviting Sartean to his private chambers, after two decades of service. The wizard was pleased to see that King Halsen had honored his request from their last visit in this room, and had a cloth draped over the table, for no sight was less appealing to the wizard than King Halsen’s open robe. He glanced at Yan and back to the king, who dismissed the man with a wave.

  “Enjoy your meal, my liege, I shall await your command.” The man closed the heavy gilded door behind him with a bow.

  “Ah, Sar, what a fine day, is it not? Join me for breakfast.” Halsen motioned to a chair across from him, which the wizard did not immediately take, before which a plate of poached eggs, ham, and potatoes steamed invitingly.

  Yet Sar-tee-ann was not in the mood. Why must he
insist on calling me Sar? thought the wizard, knowing the answer.

  “It is past noon, my lord.”

  “One of the advantages of being king, mage. I eat what I want when I want, and awaken when I am no longer asleep. Wine, then?” he offered as he filled his own golden cup.

  “No thank you, Sire.”

  “Ah, but you are sour today Sartean, and I even had Yan cloth the table for you, though I know not why you would shy from the sight of my royal dangly bits.” The king roared with laughter at this, egg and ham spilling from him mouth. “Have I stolen you from a task of great importance, then?”

  “Not so important, my king. How may I serve you today?”

  “Well, you may begin by telling me why you did not attend the visit from the woodie.”

  “My apologies, my king, I was required at the keep, though I did witness the meeting.”

  “Good, for it is that meeting that I wish to discuss. How do you see it then, Sartean? What are your thoughts on the matter?”

  Sartean paused to consider the best approach here. Halsen poured himself another glass of wine, and he immediately regretted not having accepted any himself, for now the king would drink the entire decanter, and that could make for a most trying meeting, if not the entire day.

  “I pray that I may speak freely, Sire.”

  “You’ve never prayed a day in your life, Sartean.”

  “That is nearly true, my lord.”

  “Nearly? Do you mean to tell me that you once carried the spark of religious fervor?”

  Sartean thought back to his childhood for the briefest of moments, very nearly remembering his mother’s voice…he dismissed the memory immediately.

  “Only in passing, my king.”

  “Well, in any case, rarely do you not speak your mind, Sartean.”