Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  In the time that remained between her initial meeting with Cindra and her final departure from G’naath, Shyla had learned much from the old woman of the dangers of the world, her own nature, and her unusual abilities. She had learned better how to listen to the voices inside her, to hear fragments of the secret thoughts of others. She had discovered how, with concentration, she could even ignite a small flame with only her will. Her threat to the wolf, however, was an exaggeration; she could no more burn the wolf to ash than she could fly. In time, however, Cindra had promised, she would learn to do such things, and more, if the elves chose to share such secrets with her. Shyla did not understand why the secrets belonged to the elves to bestow or withhold, nor from where her unique powers emanated, but there was little time for questions, so she tried to learn what she could without pestering the lady with demands for further detail. It was excruciating. So many questions! The inquisitive gnome gnawed a tear in her own cheek that day, stifling her queries. No matter. Cindra had promised her that all would be revealed, and Shyla trusted her grandmama. The sorceress had left her with one admonition: she must not use her magic until she understood it better, and certainly never in front of others. The understanding she needed would come at the Grove.

  Such a wondrous journey she now found herself undertaking, traveling through lands she could have never even dreamed existed, spending her days walking through rich, bright, colorful life, no stone or soil overhead, only endless skies dyed in tints of blue and orange and pink and violet and countless other colors she lacked the language to name. It was all so exquisitely overwhelming, and even though Shyla had crept upward through her secret tunnel on many, many a night, she had only seen the world of Tahr from a very limited vantage point before this journey began, and never in full daylight. She did not mind the stings and scratches. She did not bemoan her tired legs, nor her dirty clothing. Truly, if it were not for her mother and father, she would never, ever return to G’naath, and would live out her days wandering the world in search of new sights, sounds, and smells.

  Tastes, however…the young gnome could certainly go for one of her mother’s applecakes just then. Shyla knew she had but a few days’ more food, and soon she would have to learn what in Tahr was edible and what was not. She would need to learn to hunt, Cindra had said, and catch fish, and forage for fruits and berries. This frightened Shyla. What if she ate the wrong thing? What if she sought to hunt an animal, and instead found herself the one hunted? She carried but a short knife, hardly suited for battle with dangerous game. What if she could not catch any fish? She decided for the hundredth time to put the idea out of her head. Get to the Morline, Cindra had said, and you will find assistance there. With luck, she would find the great river before her food ran out. She refused to think further on the matter for now.

  Shyla finished her meal, stepped off the path to relieve herself, and returned to find the wolf sitting on the trail, clearly waiting for her, its tail sweeping back and forth on the ground. Odd, she thought. She took a moment to examine the black, shiny-coated animal. Its most exaggerated features were its paws; they seemed far too large to be proportionate. Sitting on its haunches, it was not quite as tall as Shyla. Its fur seemed shorter than her grandmama had told her it would be, its ears…a wolf’s ears were pointy, she had been told. This animals ears were…well, floppy. She had expected, in her imagination, for a wolf to possess black, evil eyes, and fierce, sharp, jagged teeth. This wolf did not; though its teeth were clearly sharp, fangs surely designed to tear into flesh, they did not appear so fierce. Its brown eyes – no evil there, she decided. Perhaps this animal is somehow deformed, she considered, the idea explaining why it might be without its family. That thought decided her.

  “I’m an outcast, too, wolf,” she said. The animal cocked its head, tongue hanging out again, then stood to approach her. It did so slowly, and Shyla reached out her hand, an inexplicable urge to touch the animal. The wolf stopped just short, extended its head to sniff her fingers…and began to lick them. Shyla giggled with glee.

  “Oh wolf, yer silly! Why ya wanna be lickin’ me?” she laughed. Her new friend seemed to enjoy her laughter, and began to prance around her, its keening whine now becoming a series of cheerful yelps. Shyla’s sunburned cheeks reddened even further with laughter, and it was not long before the pair were rolling around on the trail, the wolf gently nipping at her, trying to encourage her to play some game Shyla did not understand. She discovered to her disgust during their wrestling that her opponent was a boy wolf, possessing the unmistakable attributes of a male. The young gnome squealed herself to fatigue as they grappled, and in time the two settled beside each other on the trail, breathing heavily, merely looking at one another in silence. After a time, Shyla spoke.

  “Yeh be me first new friend, wolf. I s’pose yeh got a name, but bein’ as I canna speak wolf, I guess that’ll be yer name. Wolf. Do ya like that, Wolf?” Its tongue lolled out again, tail wagging. Shyla took that as a “yes”.

  Shyla rolled up her blanket, patted Wolf on the head, and the new friends continued along the trail toward the Morline. Shyla Greykin had never, ever been so happy.

  ---

  On a westward trail somewhat parallel to the one Shyla walked, a small company of dwarves rode south and west down the foothills of the Maw, led by J’arn Silverstone. Riding their sturdy yet diminutive horses, bred through generations to suit the dwarven people, the eight representatives of Belgorne made their way to the Morline, where they would secure (or design) passage to Highmorland, and then complete their march on foot to the Grove, where they would seek the knowledge and assistance of the elves. Some debate had ensued as they departed Belgorne, the forgemaster Garlan and the engineer Kelgarr coming to blows over whether they should ride straight for Thornwood, or take to the Morline, where they would abandon their mounts and settle for making contact with the elves in the Grove. J’arn had already decided their path, but allowed the dwarves to fight it out, knowing that if they did not settle their differences before their journey began, the road would be a long one indeed.

  The strategy proved vain, however, for had J’arn not separated the two, the fistfight would have become an axefight, and there would be one less dwarf travelling with the company. J’arn had no illusions which of the two would have survived; Boot was a formidable fighter, with or without weapons.

  The feud had begun nearly a decade ago, when Boot claimed he had warned the forgemaster that he was running the forges too hot, and would soon weaken the stone and steel struts supporting it. One support did weaken, and the forge shifted dangerously, killing two smiths, injuring several others, and shutting down the forge for several cycles while the damage was repaired. Garlan maintained that Boot gave no such warning, and implied that it was his incompetence in failing to see the danger that caused the calamity.

  No one in Belgorne had personally witnessed any conversation between the two, and the leadership of the kingdom, therefore, did not take a position publicly on the matter. Privately, Prince J’arn trusted Boot, and knew Garlan would rarely admit his own faults, even when the evidence was clear. In the absence of evidence, he would go to his grave before confessing an error. It was a frustrating trait of the dwarf, but his gruff, unyielding, unapologetic nature made him an excellent forgemaster, if a somewhat infuriating peer.

  Boot pulled his horse up alongside J’arn and remained silent. The two had not spoken in the two days since J’arn had broken up the fight, J’arn knowing better than to fuel the fire, and Boot still steaming. Since they had broken camp that morning, however, the engineer’s mood had seemed to improve.

  “Smoke up ahead, J’arn,” Boot stated, the air thickening with the scent of burnt wood and foliage. It was not the first evidence they had seen in the past two days of smoldering Tahr, and they knew it would not be the last.

  “Seen it Boot. We’ll be needing to find another trail, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Aye. If I remember, there’s a junction not far ahead can ta
ke us due south. We’ll reach the Morline sooner, but there won’t be any docks, to be sure.”

  “That’s why you’re here, Boot. That and to keep Garlan honest,” J’arn tested.

  Boot gave him a look. “About that, me prince. The damned fool just had to stir the ashes. Ye know how I feel about the forgemaster, but I weren’t tiltin’ for a fight.”

  “I know, Boot. Garlan carries guilt for what happened that day, and ‘tis easier to hate ye than to blame himself. In time he’ll make peace with ye. Could be this journey is just what it’ll take.”

  “Could be it won’t matter, J’arn. This is no pleasure trip we’re on.”

  The prince sighed. No, it most certainly is not, he thought. The sound of singing reached their ears then, the twin brothers Narl and Fannor belting out the verses of a vulgar yet beloved dwarven drinking song about a dwarf with a fetish for stealing women’s clothing. Soon the rest of the company joined the song, even Garlan, and J’arn and Boot chimed in at the chorus.

  Well, she never saw the lech’rous Jon, her eyes beneath her tresses,

  But when she woke the sneak had gone, along with all her dresses!

  The company laughed and sang and traded stories much of the rest of that day. Their worries were not quite put aside, yet the sunshine and crisp autumn air did much to remind the dwarves of Belgorne what they may soon be fighting for. The dwarves lived much of their lives within the halls of Belgorne, but unlike the gnomes, they lived much of their lives without as well, all dwarven clans taking turns with the responsibilities of hunting and patrolling the region surrounding the entrance to Belgorne.

  They took the southern fork of the junction, and continued riding until dusk, when they reached the Morline. A small outpost and stable, manned by Men, stood on the southern side of the river, just over a small bridge that spanned the still-narrow Morline. The great river did not widen beyond a dozen paces until it reached the Fang, a few day’s ride west, where it was fed by several underground springs and a series of rivulets that would nourish the waterway with melted snows in the springs. The rains the past few cycles had been plentiful, however, and where the dwarves crossed, the narrow river ran both deep and swift.

  J’arn and Boot approached the outpost and were met by a trio of soldiers.

  “Captain Atkins at your service,” the tall sentry addressed J’arn cheerfully. “What brings you to the Morline, gentlemen?”

  “Hah! Did ya hear that J’arn, he called ye a gentleman!”

  J’arn shook his head and dismounted. “J’arn Silverstone, Captain,” the dwarf extended his hand, grasping arms with the Captain. “Well met. We be headed down the Morline, on business of Belgorne. Tell me, can we stable our mounts with ye for a time?”

  The Captain frowned. “Not with me, Prince Silverstone, the stable’s not mine to rent, you’ll have to speak with the stablemaster, Mister Jennings. Though there’s room for twelve, and only our three mounts in residence, so I’m sure he’ll be pleased for the business. But I think you might be missing an important element in your plan, sir. There’s no dock here, and not a vessel to be had between here and the docks, if even there.”

  Boot spoke up then, still mounted. “Aye, we assumed such, Captain. We’ll be needing to assemble rafts, and quick. Any objection to us felling a few trees? Ye can have the firewood we leave behind, and we’ll be happy to dice it up for ye.”

  “No shortage of trees, sir, and they’re not mine in any case. A question though, have ye brought any, ah, liquid refreshment with ye? Besides water, I mean?” The two soldiers at his sides noticeably perked up at this.

  “Water!” This from Narl and Fannor, in unison, who had just approached. Narl continued, feigning indignation. “Whaddya take us fer, Cap’n? A gaggle o’ monks?”

  “Catch!” said Fannor, tossing a skin to the Captain, who opened the plug and took a whiff.

  “Fury, sir, but that’s not water. Tell you what, how would you feel about making camp tonight here, and in the morning, my men and I will help you fell those trees? Provided of course that you’d be willing to dine with us.”

  Boot laughed. “Ye mean drink with ye, and we’d be delighted, Cap.” The dwarf dismounted smoothly. “Kelgarr, at yer service, though me friends call me Boot. If ye can hold yer liquor, tomorrow ye can as well.”

  “Challenge accepted, sir. Let us introduce you to Mister Jennings, and get your mounts settled."

  ---

  Shyla and Wolf walked until night fell, and when dawn came the next morning, the air was not as clear as it had been the past few days, the forest enveloped by a dense mist. She opened her eyes to see Wolf curled up beside her, snoring. The young gnomish girl slept better that night, perhaps because she had better wrapped herself before she slept, perhaps because Wolf somehow kept the insects at bay, or more likely out of sheer exhaustion. She yawned deeply upon waking, and was assaulted by the stench of Wolf’s damp fur and her own dried, pungent sweat. “Oof! Gonna hafta do somthin’ bout that!” she said to herself.

  The crudely drawn map she had brought with her, combined with the instructions she had received from Cindra, led Shyla to believe that she would make the Morline this day. She had made excellent time since her departure from G’naath, facing flawless weather and easy trails, and her excitement at the day ahead was an instant tonic for her sleepiness. She did not delay in breaking camp. A bite of food for herself and Wolf, and they were off, for today, she hoped, she may make acquaintance with the “assistance” Cindra had foretold would come.

  The pair ran as much as they walked, the sunlight remaining obscured by the fog and the crown of the forest until well past midday. The lift of the haze was gradual, and the trail they traveled widened as the forest on either side took on an enchanted quality, deeply emerald at moments, alternating between murky grey shadow and shining coppery light at others, myriad touches of color tinging the leaves of the autumn trees.

  Shyla had never imagined that such magnificent and diverse hues could be born of the same brown and black soil, yet here they were, all around her, above her, beneath her, and she nearly lost her footing several times while her neck craned upwards to admire the great variety of trees, plants, birds and animal life she could not name.

  As twilight had begun to settle, Shyla was not concerned that she had not yet reached the river this day. She did not doubt that she was on the right path, for the sun had set to her right, and she could only be traveling south. No trails had cut across her own since the night before, and her sense of direction was almost faultlessly instinctive in any case, a skill developed and honed by a lifetime lived within a series of complex tunnels and caverns. Shyla glimpsed, just up ahead, two small furry-tailed animals chasing each other around a tree when Wolf took off in a sprint, doubtless to make a meal of them, yet he bounded past them and over a rise in the trail, lost over the rim of the hill.

  “Wolf! Wait up!” She laughed and dashed after him, but as she crested the hill, she froze.

  The river.

  Shyla had found the Morline. Wolf had already begun splashing on its banks, as if he too somehow knew that this was his destination, and that it was time to celebrate a milestone in their journey. Shyla was suddenly uncertain, however, for on the far side of the banks, across a narrow bridge, she saw smoke.

  Avoid the smoke, Shyla. Watch the skies for it, and if you see it, do not go near it. Turn and make haste the other way, as fast as you are able. A fire in the Maw will spread faster than you can run. It will jump streams and canyons. It will appear to be behind you, and yet suddenly leap ahead, surrounding you. And the fire may not even be your undoing, my dear. The smoke will end your days upon Tahr just as easily.

  Shyla had seen plumes of smoke on the distant horizon repeatedly over the previous few days. Never had it been close enough for concern, however, and never had it lain in her path, until now. Mawbottom, she thought, so close to the river, what now? She stood on the rise, watching Wolf splash and swipe at the water, the sun now fully
below the tree line, and only a bit of light remaining in the day. She could not, would not go back. Yet she dared not go forward. She must somehow retrieve Wolf, for the animal was surely too simple to know what the smoke meant.

  “Wooolf! C’mon Wolf!” She clapped her hands and hollered and danced around, Wolf glancing up at her once, then returning to his exploration of the bank. She continued to call, and he dipped in and out of view, and Shyla paced, suddenly realizing as darkness claimed the day that she was beginning to understand how her mother and father must be feeling right now. I’ll not abandon me only friend, she decided, and made for the bridge.

  The distance to the bridge was less than a hundred paces, and Shyla covered it quickly, though it felt like miles. The specter of smoke and fire and death reaching for her in the dark left her feeling as if a thousand needles had poked her flesh, the palpable, penetrating fear for herself and Wolf nearly paralyzing in its intensity. She did not stop to realize that she could not smell the smoke. She did not consider that if the fire were near, she would see the glow. In her frightened mind’s eye, fire was no longer a glowing, blazing, smoking thing, but a creeping invisible enemy that would snatch her life away without notice. Get hold of yerself, girl! Are yeh that much a coward?

  Shyla quickly decided that she was, in fact, that much a coward, but she made the bridge nonetheless, and called out for Wolf. “Heeere Wolf, c’mon ya stupid beast, I got more food for yer scrawny hide! Wooool–”

  A hand reached around Shyla, covering her mouth and stifling her cry. Instinctively, the young gnome bit deeply into the flesh of the strange hand, earning a scream and her immediate release. Before she could even fully turn around, Wolf arrived at her side, growling more fiercely than she had ever heard him growl. Shyla spun, pulled her knife free of her waist, coiled into a spring, and beheld her attacker.