Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  Help me, Father, he prayed, not ambiguously, but truly, humbly seeking divine guidance. In the space of a heartbeat, his panic cleared, and his mind focused.

  Inhale.

  Barris’ eyes darted around the scene with otherworldly speed, his senses sharpened, his indecision washed away, and his elven sight pierced the surface of the churning water, finding the boulder that Hope’s hock was wedged against. Details surpassing those that ordinary vision could impart flooded his mind. He instantly discovered how he had missed the rift; he had treaded upon the boulder, while Hope’s hind hooves had slipped off the backside of the stone, her legs sinking into the mud. The cavity in the ravine was new, doubtlessly formed by the tahrquake that morning. The rift was a result of the shifting of the great rock, only a small portion of which was visible above the muddy stream bed, but the fissure had filled with loose sediment, making it impossible to notice. As his understanding of how he had led Hope into danger dawned, Barris looked to Phantom and Lucan, his enhanced eyesight bringing the pair into close focus as if through a looking scope. Barris saw that the leather thong that held Lucan’s leg to the saddle was tied tightly, the knot in no danger of separating. He allowed himself to sink deeper into the Bond with Phantom, and urged him to calm, all his will focused into steadying his friend, conveying to him the danger he posed to the one that Barris was obligated to care for. He sensed that Phantom understood, that the series of images he had sent had indeed reached the horse’s consciousness, and as Phantom’s heartbeat slowed, he knew that Lucan would be safe, for the space of a few breaths at least. Barris hoped that was all he would need.

  Exhale.

  Barris released Hope’s reins and shimmied beneath her, his feet delicately finding balance on the underwater boulder, impossibly cramming himself into the space remaining between the rock and the horse’s barrel, shoulders braced against her ribs. He returned his elven focus fully to his own body, willing his life’s energies into his legs and back, knowing that what he intended would come at a cost, but one he would bear to help this honorable beast.

  Inhale.

  Barris concentrated his entire being into a single great heave. He felt his eyes near bursting with pressure, his muscular legs swelling with blood and strain, tearing the seams of his leggings, the bones of his spine grinding against one another grotesquely. With agonizing slowness, Hope was lifted just enough from her muddy snare for her hooves to scratch out a slippery footing on the boulder. Her grip established, she bounded onto the land, kicking Barris a glancing but painful blow in the side of the head as she leapt.

  Exhale.

  Barris could not fall. He could not lose consciousness. Lucan was not out of danger. Blood poured from the gash on his scalp into his right eye, but he maintained his command of the power of his own life force, scrambled to Phantom and heaved the young man back onto the horse, balancing him and somehow summoning the presence of mind and dexterity to secure his binds once more. As he yanked the last knot tight, his vision clouded, and Barris knew that his moment of might and speed had come to an end, his power utterly spent.

  “The Grove, Phantom. Get to the Grove, brave friend.” Barris collapsed, his last thought a speculation as to whether Lucan was even still alive.

  ---

  “Vicaris, a rider!” The student cleric turned abruptly from the group and rushed to the trail, sensing a horse and rider, though he could not touch the rider’s consciousness.

  The Vicaris had been lecturing the young aspiring members of the Society about the practical and ethical usage of the Sight, and heard Jerriah’s cry of alarm before she herself sensed the approach. She stilled herself, closed her eyes briefly, and bowed her head, her long silver hair flowing lightly in the breeze, the only indication that she was not a statue. The Vicaris listened with her bones, then opened her eyes again hurriedly, concern apparent on her aged features. “Come, elves. Do not delay, to the trail.” As one the eleven students turned to follow Jerriah with haste. The path curled somewhat beyond the tree line, so the mount and rider were not yet visible, but as Jerriah skidded to a halt and froze, there was no question that something approached, something that worried the young student a great deal.

  “PHANTOM!” Jerriah turned back to his classmates and yelled, “It’s Phantom!” He looked back to the horse. But…no Barris?

  The great stallion walked up to Jerriah, and the student immediately began to untie the young blonde haired man that was strapped to the saddle. Phantom stood motionless, ears flat against his head with anxiety. Jerriah’s classmates approached, and together they lay the young man on the trail. Once the boy was clear, Phantom immediately began to dance nervously. The Vicaris had just caught up to the scene, and lay her hand gently on the stallion’s muzzle, her concern turning to shock instantly. Without a word, the elderly elven woman vaulted atop the horse, and the pair broke south at a gallop.

  Only a few seconds had passed before the Vicaris and Phantom passed a lone riderless horse on the trail. The Vicaris sensed that this was Hope, friend to Phantom, and sent her will through the Bond to the mare, urging her with conveyed imagery to continue along the path to the spring that welled north in the center of the Grove. The Vicaris did not break pace, and raced down the trail just in time to see a bloody, staggering Barris climbing out of the brook. Barris saw Phantom, then the woman astride him, and stopped, awaiting her approach, his head sagging awkwardly, arms hanging limply at his sides. The Vicaris helped the elven knight atop Phantom, and the trio turned back to the north.

  “The boy,” Barris croaked as Phantom drove the trail. “Does he live?”

  “I sensed nothing, Barris. Quiet now, knight, you are unwell.”

  Barris suppressed a cry, and buried his head into the Vicaris’ hair in sorrow as he clung to her. So close, he thought despondently. So close.

  XXII: THE PRAËR

  Aria wrapped herself tightly in her cloak, shuddering astride her bright white filly Sera, her chill unrelated to the crisp evening air. Aria, Captain Mikallis and her Mistress Pheonaris had made the Pinestroke, and what the young princess saw iced her to the core. The great wide swath of trees that marked the boundary between the Praër and the deep forests of Thornwood stood nearly lifeless, bereft of color, branches bare, needles wholly shed lying brown, dry and dead upon the ground. Aria had never seen anything so deeply unsettling.

  Mikallis spoke first as the trio brought their mounts to a halt.

  “Mistress, how can this be?”

  Pheonaris did not immediately reply, struggling against her own sorrow. After a time, she spoke.

  “Aria. What do you sense?”

  Aria shook her head. “I…I cannot describe it, Mistress. Not death, not pain, but not unlike both. It is a horror. Perhaps that is the word. Horror.”

  Pheonaris nodded. “It is the same in my heart, Aria. Mikallis, do you sense it as well?”

  The Captain thought for a moment. “I am not as well attuned to these things as you and Aria, Mistress. I feel…anger. Though it is from within, not without. Anger at whatever is causing this.”

  Pheonaris regarded the Captain. “It is precisely anger that is causing this, Captain. No, do not indulge guilt. It is not your rage that is to blame; your anger is justified, and a proper reaction for a warrior. Yet there is, as of now, no enemy at which to direct that anger, Mikallis. I would caution you to disregard your rage, and learn what you may, so that when the time comes, you will be able to focus that anger at its proper target.”

  Mikallis nodded. “I understand, Mistress. I cannot but feel helpless, though. I do not know what is to be learned, nor what to listen for. I am impotent against this blight, and it inflames me.”

  Aria put her hand on the elf Captain’s shoulder, and spoke gently. “We feel just as you do, Mikallis. Try to listen. You may hear something we do not.”

  Pheonaris smiled at the calming affect Aria had on Mikallis, and even on her own heart. The young princess has a gift, the Mistress considered. Her very vo
ice rides waves of harmony. Pheonaris supposed, not for the first time, that the daughter of the elven Queen was properly named. The three sat atop their mounts silently for the space of a few turns as the light of day began to fade, and Aria was the first to break the silence.

  “Mistress. I feel that we must not camp here. We must cross the Trine, and camp beyond the Praër.”

  Pheonaris nodded once, and wordlessly urged her sorrel colt Spirit forward. Aria and Sera followed, and Mikallis trailed the women, he and his own young stallion, a steel war steed named Triumph, assuming a rear guard. The riders passed beyond the gloom of the dying Pinestroke onto the rolling hills of the Praër, the name given to the vast clearing that dropped gradually yet unevenly over a distance of a mile toward the Trine Crossing. The Praër had been the site of many historical events for the elves of Thornwood; great battles and massive centennial festivals alike had been held here. The Trine was one of three natural boundaries that marked the lands of the elven people. To the east, the elven territory extended to the northern ranges of the Maw. To the west and north, no boundary existed, nor was any required, for the forests west were too dense and dangerous to be settled, and to the north, too few natural resources existed to make the conquest of the land worthwhile. The southernmost boundary was a long, narrow, winding brook just south of the Grove, a quarter cycle’s ride south from the Praër, roughly where the legal border between Mor and Thornwood was drawn. The traditional southern boundary, however, was the Trine, for the elven people all lived north of it, where the land was tended pristinely, and the life of the Wood was nurtured continuously, the conscientious caretaking by the elven people contributing to create a land that tended and nurtured their people in return. The Rangers of Thornwood roamed the lands south of the Trine and north of the Grove, serving as a first line of defense against southern threats, and a force of protection and order for the people of varying race and background that sought to live an isolated life in the wilds, for varying reasons.

  Aria had traveled the road between the Grove and the central communities of Thornwood repeatedly over the past twelve seasons, her studies at the Grove and responsibilities of royalty making the voyage frequently necessary. In truth, those responsibilities had, in the past, been little more than ceremonial and traditional – attending weddings, funerals, and serving in various capacities during holidays and seasonal celebrations. That was as it would be until she had earned her cloak in the Society this very season, and she had assumed that even then, her duties would not change very much. In her last trip north, only a cycle ago, she had seen that the Pinestroke was less healthy than usual. At first, it was believed that a mild disease had struck the trees, though none had been found after extensive analysis. Less than thirty days before, as she passed this way last, the condition of the trees was, to her knowledge, little more than a somewhat unpleasant ailment that would certainly be resolved soon. Yet now…what she saw was a genuine blight, still of unknown origin, with no indications as to how far it might spread, or what it might ultimately portend.

  Aria had never imagined that she, among all the elven people, would be a focal point in some vague and mysterious expedition to discover the nature of the forces that threatened the very world of Tahr. The slight blonde young woman did not fancy herself adventurous. Her life to this point had been remarkably carefree for the daughter of a Queen, and she had earned precisely zero experience in matters of great importance. I am but a child, she thought to herself, a suckling babe compared to even the youngest leaders of our people. Her observation was not an exaggeration. Her people could live for as long as a half millennium, and she carried less than a drop of knowledge when measured against the vast wells of wisdom someone like Mistress Pheonaris possessed. Even a typical Ranger had lived a life more than five times the length of her own twenty-three years, and had surely witnessed events great and small that Aria had never even begun to imagine.

  I am placing too much importance on my place here, she reminded herself, not for the first time. Over the past several days, Aria had wavered between two vastly differing notions. One, the idea that she was only a tiny piece of a greater puzzle, that she would most likely serve as no more than a carrier of a minor message to her people, a message she would somehow receive at the Grove. The message would be important, she believed, and she would be required to deliver it with precision and timeliness, but her role in this great evolving tale would end there. Her other notion frightened her, and somehow seemed in her heart to be more likely. She, Aria Evanti, fledgling princess of Thornwood, would be somehow instrumental in the struggle threatening her people, threatening all peoples, and she would not be up to the task. As soon as she would entertain the thought, however, she felt…guilt. Shame. She felt that she must be arrogant beyond measure to think herself so important. I am a child! she exclaimed again silently. If I were mature enough for this task, I would not even be thinking these thoughts! Aria imagined that one who was truly essential to the safety of her people would not even begin to entertain such ideas. An elf of wisdom, Aria imagined, would ride to the Grove solemnly, await whatever knowledge or direction was to be given her, and would not waste her time in idle and fantastical speculation of what her role would be.

  Aria could not stop her mind from returning to the topic, however, no more than she could will herself to sleep while standing. The inexorable tide of daydreams and imagined scenes of abstract troubles would not relent, and she struggled continuously to not speak of them. How foolish Pheonaris would consider me, she thought. Even Mikallis could not hide his derision.

  Mikallis. Now there was a topic she could think on that would distract her. The beautiful and brave elf was a dear friend to her, and more than once she had imagined what it would be like for him to hold her like a woman. She was startled beyond speech when he declared, without asking permission, to accompany her on this journey. Such a thing was not done. Certainly not publicly, in a venue as grave as the last council. A part of her was flattered and flushed by the idea that the young Captain would risk such public humiliation on her behalf. Another part of her, however, was appalled. It was not his place to speak so boldly. She cared deeply for Mikallis, and she did not lack a certain attraction to him, but she did not love him. Not in the way he would wish her to. And that was a thing she could not understand. She was physically attracted to the elf. His thick light brown hair, strong jaw, clear blue eyes, and muscular frame had turned the head of every unmarried elven woman under a century old, and some older. He was a serious sort, not quite brooding, but a bit dark, and when he spoke of anything, he spoke passionately. Aria had grown up like a younger sister to the young Captain, he but a decade older than she, and he had been her most favorite elf for as long as she could remember. There was nothing they had not shared…well, next to nothing. The topic of romance was a thing that they carefully avoided since Aria came of age, and despite the occasional awkward moment, the spark they felt for each other neither grew to a flame, nor caused them grief. Over the years they had settled into an easy and maturing friendship, one that only rarely threatened to become something more, and Aria loved the way things were. Mikallis made her feel safe, and beautiful, and cared for. He was more than pleasant to look at, even fantasize about. Yet she did not love him.

  He loved her though, she knew. If she did not know before, she did now. No elf would speak as he did at the council otherwise. Aria could not say why she did not share his feelings in return. She could scarcely define what love was, though she knew she had never been in it. The only thing she knew for certain was that after his declaration at the council, things between them would change. The day would come, perhaps soon, when Mikallis would make an even more bold declaration, and Aria would be forced to tell her dear friend, with no good cause, that his feelings were not shared. She felt dishonorable. Wicked. How could she have allowed him to become so close to her over the years, when her instincts told her that he would someday want more than friendship? She knew the answer. She c
ould not bear to lose his friendship, and the fantasy of him was a sweet thing she selfishly clung to, an inadequate substitute for real, passionate love. Aria fell into despair and shame as she thought more on the matter, and suddenly the idea of the world of Tahr coming to a violent end did not seem like the worst thing that could happen.

  The three crossed the Trine without incident, and left the Praër of Thornwood behind them just as the Twins crested the horizon to the east. Pheonaris instructed them to make camp just off the trail, and they shared a meal of cheeses, breads, and berries, deciding that the disruption to the environment caused by a campfire was not necessary. They spoke of lighter things, shared stories of travels past, and Pheonaris taught them a bit about the early history of the elven people, when the Airies, Stone Elves, and their own people shared a community. As they completed their meal, Mikallis bade the two elven women goodnight respectfully, a slightly more exaggerated bow to Aria, and retired to his tent. The two women crawled into theirs.

  Aria lay awake for most of the night, alternating between silent tears and raging frustration at the turns her life had been taking. Sleep came to the young woman in fits and starts, stippled with nightmares and dark emotions. She had just shaken herself free of another unpleasant dream when Pheonaris suddenly threw off her own blanket, pulled on her boots and reached for Aria. Her Mistress’ voice was commanding and terse.