Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  “I have told Shyla some bit about her heritage, Thinsel, but her mama should be the one to tell her all.”

  Thinsel nodded, and turned her eyes to Shyla, her features stoic, not betraying a hint of the dread she was feeling, having known this day would come.

  “Me girl, me sweet, sweet girl, yer gonna be mad at yer mama now, but know that I be lovin’ ya, with all me heart.”

  Shyla reached out to touch her mother’s hand. “Mama, I’ll not be mad. I think I knew in me heart that ya were me Mama and Papa by choice, but not blood. Somehow all me twenty-three years I been knowin’, but not knowin’ all the same.”

  Thinsel nodded again, squeezed her daughter’s hand, and told the tale of how a young Oort and Thinsel would deliver food and other provisions to the hunters at the Mawgate each morning, as was their duty. She told her wide-eyed daughter how they had fallen in love over time, and would sneak Outside whenever they could to be alone with one another, keeping close to the gate, where their friend Rak would let them back in upon hearing their secret knock. For a just over a year they did so, until Oort had saved enough working to earn himself a nook, and to buy Thinsel’s hand in marriage.

  ---

  On the morning after their wedding night, they had decided to go one final time Outside; final, for privacy was no longer a struggle, and the risk of being caught was no longer worth taking. When they reached the gate, however, a nervous Rak told them they would not be going out that day.

  “There be things happenin’ outside the gate today, and yeh’ll not want t’be goin’.” Oort and Thinsel pressed their friend for more details, but he would not answer. Not to be so easily dissuaded, however, they waited around the corner until Rak was distracted, and they snuck out the gate. Giggling and holding hands, they ran into the daylight, making their way to their usual spot beneath a great pine, where they were assaulted by the cry of a newborn gnomeling.

  Wrapped in tattered rags and bawling to raise the dead lay a pink-eyed babe, totally and completely alone. The two looked to the babe, then each other.

  “Ain’t but a wee nugget, Thinny,” whispered Oort. An unspoken understanding then – they would not abandon this child.

  ---

  “Yeh were as loud as a gang o’ miners, Nugget, and yer cheeks were as pink as yer eyes from yer yellin’. We waited off to th’side fer hours n’hours, but didn’t nobody come for yeh. It started gettin’ dark, and yer Mama was getting’ cold, and there was nothin’ fer it, so yer Mama took yeh in her arms and we knocked on the gate, and Rak about wet his breeches when we tried to being yeh in, but Mama pinched his nose so hard his eyes watered and that were that.”

  The three ladies were each shedding tears now, but bravely, as Thinsel continued to explain how they had managed to hide Shyla for the three cycles that were needed to pass Shyla off as their natural born daughter. At the announcement of the birth, however, Cindra had been called to the blessing, and the truth was immediately known to her.

  “Your birth mother was my daughter, child, and her name was Scinty, and I cannot say which of the two of you was more beautiful.” Cindra’s bravery was faltering now, her shoulders beginning to heave. “She did not survive long after your birth, however, and your father was too torn with grief to raise you himself. You were given to the Elders, they had decided that your birth was a bad omen, and you were to be wolved.”

  “Wolved? What’s that Lady?”

  Oort spoke up. “It means they were t’do what they did Nugget, wrap yeh up and leave yeh Outside fer the wolves or whatever else t’git ya.”

  Shyla was first confused, then horrified. “But…why? Why would they do that to a babe? Mawbottom Papa, but that’s wrong!” Shyla was standing now, her eyes wild, and she slammed her fist on the table in rage…

  …blowing a fist-sized chunk of stone through the table, leaving a hole the shape of a tiny hand.

  Oort and Thinsel froze. Shyla yelped. Cindra sighed.

  “Oh Lady, I’m so sorry, I didn’t….”

  “Peace child, ‘tis but a hunk o’rock,” Cindra now slipping back into her gnomish accent. “But yeh’ll be needin’ t’get hold o’yerself, or yer liable t’cause a stonecracker!” Cindra was giggling now, and the three Greykins looked back and forth between this ancient, silly sorceress and the broken stone table in stunned disbelief.

  Cindra shrugged. “We’ll git to that soon enough. Now about them cursed Elders…”

  Cindra continued the story, completely ignoring the fact that the young gnome had just punched a hole through three fingers of solid stone. Cindra explained how her legendary status as a sorceress was both admired and feared among her fellow Elders, and due to her outspoken nature, despite the great things she had done for the gnomish people, she was not particularly well liked. So it had been decided that she would not be allowed to participate in the hearing to decide her granddaughter’s fate.

  The wolving of a motherless newborn gnome was a practice that had faded out of use generations before, yet the law had never been altered. And so it was that the council had decided to weaken Cindra politically through grief.

  “But Lady, yeh have magic, why did yeh let ‘em do it? Yeh were me grandmama!”

  “Shh…..easy child, you must know that I would never let harm come to you.”

  Shyla stayed her tirade, but did not take her fierce gaze from Cindra’s face.

  “I had two options, child. One, to destroy the council in a maelstrom of fire and death, and go to war with all of G’naath, and I tell you true, I had prepared just such an enchantment.” A brief pause. “But I found my senses in time to avoid such a tragedy, and chose instead to look Forward, and see what would become of you should I not intervene.”

  “Look forward, Lady, you mean, into the future?”

  Cindra smiled. “Yes child, it is a talent we both possess.”

  Shyla’s eyes widened, as did those of her parents.

  “’Tis a little trick I picked up from the elves of Thornwood, child, and I suspect that’s where you shall learn it as well, but we will discuss that shortly. Now Oort, and Thinsel, you deserve to know why I did not come to you again these many years. But I suspect you already see, do you not?” Cindra concluded her story, explaining her decision to keep her distance from their family, for their own safety and peace.

  “Know that it was painful to be apart from you, Shyla. Look into me, and tell me that you know.”

  Shyla regarded her grandmama, calmed her mind, and listened, with that secret, powerful part of herself that, she had just this day discovered, could listen deeply. After a long, silent while, she nodded at Cindra, and again to her mother. Thinsel did not quite understand what had happened between the old and young gnomes, but she knew from the tears in each of their eyes that it was profound, and honest.

  Oort had laid his arm over Thinsel’s shoulders, and the two parents considered their daughter, worry and love equally apparent on their anxious expressions. Shyla looked back to Cindra, her features suddenly courageous.

  “Lady?”

  “Yes, child?”

  “What are wolves?”

  XIV: BELGORNE

  J’arn Silverstone closed the door to his father’s chambers quietly and made his way through the stone halls to the Hammer where he assumed he would find Boot. The walk was quite long, considering that the entire dwarven kingdom of Belgorne lay within the peaks of the Maw. J’arn considered this as he made his way past the king’s personal halls, past his own smaller rooms, through the libraries, kitchens, and dining halls. He crossed the central passageway that led down to the forges on the right, to the living quarters of the dwarven people to the left, and continued on towards the common halls, where most dwarves would find themselves after a day’s work, feasting and drinking and telling tales. Today would not be a day for such things, J’arn reminded himself, and as he walked he was again awed by the fact that each step he took represented the labors of dwarves millennia past, shaping the finely crafted passages
, the hands and picks of countless laborers digging into soil, mining raw rock, turning the stony, unyielding Maw first into passable tunnels, then stone-lined halls, and eventually what they were today – true works of art.

  Each passageway was intricately fashioned; nothing was left raw. Expertly chiseled stone, brick, and mortar lined the floors, walls, and ceilings, and rarely could one walk more than a few paces without passing murals sculpted into the stone, depicting wars long ago won or lost, famous dwarves of old, or simple scenes of hearth and home.

  ---

  Ages past, as the War of Greater Tahr was coming to a terrible close, the last of the dwarven people found themselves cornered in the throat of the Maw, besieged on all sides by every manner of hateful creature – trolls, orcs, goblins, and other tribal races long forgotten. Lacking the numbers to fight their way clear, but too fierce and stubborn to yield, they began to dig. At first, they sought shelter in ancient caves, and expanded them into makeshift homes. They found sources of water, underground rivers that led deep into the mountain. Within these clear spring waters they found sustenance, and they continued to dig. Even while fighting on several fronts, their numbers dwindling, they dug. In time, over the course of many seasons and under the leadership of Brenn Blackhammer, the dwarves had succeeded in withdrawing completely into the Maw, and had built a defensible perimeter at the entrance to their new home.

  Their enemies begrudgingly relented, less from a sense of mercy and more as a result of their own thinning ranks, as they spent their lives against the dwarven fortifications. In time the dwarves were left in peace to expand their subterranean fortress inward. Centuries passed and the dwarven people flourished, discovering great veins of precious metals, mastering the science of purifying raw metals, forging alloys, and crafting fine weapons. They developed trade relationships between themselves, men, elves, and eventually even gnomes, who, seeking to emulate the dwarves, dug out their own homes within the rock. The two races were not completely dissimilar, both being diminutive in size compared to the other races, and while the gnomes had historically been more easily persuaded to make common cause with evil allies, they did not lack strength nor a work ethic, and their leaders discovered that they too could marshal their people to toil and labor the stone, much as the dwarven people had. The similarities ended there, however, as the gnomes were satisfied digging themselves out of the rain and peddling the gemstones they discovered through their own tunneling, whereas the dwarven people had quickly developed a calling to make their homes and halls magnificent and grand in every respect.

  Brenn Blackhammer was named King of the dwarven people soon after they had closed their gates for the first time, and upon his installation, his first act on that first day was to name their new kingdom Belgorne, honoring Shan Belgorne, the last heroic dwarf to lose his life outside the gates.

  The legends and histories of the dwarves vary significantly in their discussion of the days before Belgorne, as many histories, oral and written, had been lost to the decade-long attrition of their people in the Battle of the Maw. On the day the gates closed, however, all tellings agree without variation that as their new king first pronounced the name of their kingdom, a great gust of air swept over the dwarves assembled in the entranceway, extinguishing all flames and light. When the confusion settled and the torches were again lit, bare turns later, the middle-aged Brenn Blackhammer was on his knees in tears, his long hair and luxurious beard no longer coal black, but now platinum-grey, and the squared marble section of floor upon which he knelt was no longer marble, but pure polished silver. The dwarves silently and reverently knelt to the king as one. As he stood, he began speaking of a vision of an underground kingdom more grand and magnificent than even the wildest dreams of the most ambitious engineer, a vision of the dwarven kingdom of Stonarris. At the conclusion of his sermon, an elder dwarf had declared that Brenn Blackhammer should be henceforth known as Brenn Silverstone, and the thunderous chanting of that name shook the very Maw.

  When a dwarf thinks of life beyond this life, they think of Stonarris. For that, told Brenn Silverstone, is where the true kingdom of the dwarves lay, and their people must continue to dig, must continue to expand their halls, for one day, they would break through the stone and clay and soil and find themselves in their true ancestral homeland, where they will be reunited with loved ones lost, and finally find rest.

  Faith in the promise of Stonarris is universal among the dwarves, but today, as he walked alone through the majestic home the dwarves had made for themselves, J’arn Silverstone found his faith tested, for the promise of Stonarris rested upon a premise that he now knew to be an uncertainty – the idea that the dwarves, and the world, would survive long enough for his people to reach the fabled halls.

  ---

  Boot was sloshing down the last of his mead and saw J’arn enter the Hammer as he peered over the rim of the horn. He wiped at his long dark beard and motioned the prince to join him at the long bench. As he approached, Boot nodded slyly to Gritson, who was seated across the Hammer at the bar. Griston returned the nod, and J’arn seated himself across from Boot.

  “You look grim, J’arn, more so than typical,” Boot opened the conversation.

  “Aye Boot, grim times.”

  “Aye.” Boot waved over to Kari, and held up two fingers. J’arn glanced around the tavern nervously, leaning in to speak.

  “Not good news then,” Boot stated matter-of-factly.

  “Not good Boot. Not good at all. I just came from another meeting with me father, and Fury, but things are bad.”

  “Well, don’t honey it over, J’arn. Tell me plain.”

  “No honey to be had. He’d just spoken with the priests, the forgemaster, and Jansen from engineering–”

  “Bah, the forgemaster Garlan? He’s a damned fool and a liar besides. And Jensen? That ol’ gearbuster ain’t got a brain in his head.”

  “Brain enough to see what we’re all seein’ Boot. We’ve all looked at this thing frontways and sideways, and there ain’t no denying it.” J’arn leaned in closer, almost whispering, “Dammit Boot, if we don’t figure this thing out, the whole cursed Maw’s gonna come down around us!”

  Boot dropped his voice to match the prince’s volume. “Now how in Fury is that gonna happen, J’arn? We been cutting through this rock for ages, and we don’t go a finger without shoring up a foot behind, and you know damned well that our shorin’ is stronger than the blasted rock was to begin with–”

  “It ain’t the tunneling Boot, and ye know it.” A pause as Kari brought the two fresh horns.

  Boot lowered his gaze to the table. “So it’s true then. All of it.”

  “Far as we can tell, ‘tis true Boot. I wanted to be the one to tell ye sure, so that ye can be the one to tell yer dwarves before word spreads.”

  “To Fury with word spreading, J’arn. Yer father needs to call an assembly, and tell Belgorne himself.”

  “Aye, and he will, but ye know how these things go. By the time we gather all of Belgorne for an assembly, won’t be a dwarf left who doesn’t already know what’s what. Anyhow, I’m to head out tonight, and take a company with me to go speak with the elves, and see if we can’t put our heads together and think of something.”

  “And Mor?”

  “Halsen’s a damned fool, but after we talk with Evanti, we’re making our way to Mor, and we’ll see if we can’t get the old bastard to see sense. Best to secure some help from the elves first.”

  Boot nodded soberly. “Well, I supposed it’s settled then.” Boot gulped down the remainder of his mead. “Gritson!” The younger dwarf rushed to the table, and set a pack on the floor beside Boot.

  “Just like we talked about, son.”

  “Aye, Boot. Just like.” Gritson nodded at J’arn, then Boot, then brought his fingers to his lips and whistled. As one, the team of engineers stood and walked out of the Hammer in silence.

  “What in Fury was that about, Boot?” demanded J’arn.

  “
Ain’t no sense in waiting for dark, J’arn. Might as well be getting’ on with it. Besides, Gritson’s ready, he’ll make a good foreman, once he learns to kick a little butt.”

  J’arn was at a loss for a moment, then put it together. “Boot, you’re needed here, you’re not–”

  “Fury I’m not, ya fool of a prince, who’s gonna save yer scrawny hide from the monsters and such on the way to Thornwood?”

  “There ain’t no damned monsters Boot, not yet, and I’ll have company, I don’t–”

  “And I suppose that yer company’s gonna just fly to Thornwood?”

  “Well, no Boot, dammit, we’ll ride and march–”

  “And come back to a pile o’ rubble. You ever been to Thornwood, J’arn? Dunno if ya did the numbers, but it’s a hell of a long ways.”

  J’arn rose at that. “Don’t doubt my strength, Boot, I’m a Silverstone damn you.”

  “I don’t doubt ye, lad, but ye ain’t got wings!” Boot stood as well, facing the prince defiantly.

  J’arn lowered his tone. “Keep your voice down, fool!” He glanced around and saw, thankfully, that the tavern was nearly empty already. “And I suppose you’re gonna engineer me some wings then, are ye?”

  “No, not wings lad, but I can damned sure engineer ye a boat.”

  When J’arn did not respond immediately, Boot continued. “I’m gonna walk out on a shelf here and guess that ol’ Jensen didn’t volunteer himself for this little trek.”

  J’arn sat and sighed, motioning at Boot to do the same. “No, Boot, he didn’t.”

  “Then ye ain’t got no engineer, and yer gonna need one, no mistake. Now listen, me illustrious prince, ye can’t make it to Thornwood and back in time without takin the Morline, and fer that ye’ll need a boat. And once word o’ this nightmare gets around, won’t be no boats to be had. Yer gonna need a sturdy raft, maybe two, and fer that yer gonna need an engineer. And if yer gonna need an engineer, who in Fury else ye gonna take with ya?”