Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  “Tend the horses.” Pheonaris threw the flap of the tent aside and raced to awaken the sleeping Captain. Aria did not delay in rushing behind the Mistress, immediately sending her consciousness to her Bond as she fastened her own boots, silently sending thoughts of peace and comfort to Sera. The princess did not know what threatened, but she knew that Pheonaris was not easily unnerved.

  The three were protectively hovering near their mounts when the first jolt struck, a sharp convulsion coming from beneath them, as if a great fist had struck upwards from the center of the world. Aria’s feet left the ground, and she landed in a crouch just as the land bucked a second time, and a third, and after but a few moments it felt as if the very ground was trying to beat them all to death. Only Pheonaris was able to keep her feet, and as Mikallis strained to hold the reins of the horses, the land beneath him bouncing him mercilessly, the Mistress’ bent legs somehow rode the tremors rhythmically. Aria could just make out Pheonaris’ arms raising, extending to the skies as the Mistress of the Society of the Grove inhaled deeply and began to chant.

  “Da, Nü perra ha na tahri. Da, Nü perra ha na tahri. Da, Nü perra ha na tahri.” Father, your power to the Land.

  A translucent golden glow, the color of morning sunlight, flashed from the hands of the Mistress as she clapped them together above her, extending like a shimmering dome over the companions and mounts. It rose for several feet, then fell around them protectively, a barrier of sorts Aria decided, and in an instant, the violent shaking no longer affected them, silence and tranquility extending in a radius just large enough to envelop elf and horse. The quake had not yet relented, and as Aria and Mikallis got to their feet, and the horses glanced around them nervously, they could see through the protective veil a great rending, a tear in Tahr itself opening raggedly from just north of their camp, to and through the Trine a thousand paces away. While they could not hear it, the distant impression of a rushing wave of water was somehow felt by all three. The pounding from the depths of Tahr stopped as suddenly as it began, but Pheonaris continued to hold the golden barrier, her concentration fierce. Her eyes met Aria’s, and the young princess knew what was needed.

  Bracing her hands on Pheonaris’ shoulders, Aria sought deep within herself and located her own reservoir of life, calling upon it to strengthen her Mistress, though she did yet see to what end. The Link was a thing practiced often in her training at the Grove; it had never been required of her in more than an academic setting, though Aria did not suffer from doubt. The princess would maintain the Link until her life force was utterly spent.

  Mikallis watched the women in awe as he used his Bond to comfort their horses. The golden dome around them thickened, and a great wave of yellow and brown water broke against it, sizzling and boiling as it sought entrance to their sanctuary, the odor of boiled mud the only intrusion into their protective bubble. The current was exceptionally fast and violent, carrying broken trees, stone, and even game animals with it. The detritus bounced off the dome harmlessly as Pheonaris and Aria held their enchantment, the water rushing over their position. Suddenly, the wave slowed, then stopped, and Mikallis believed the torrent would soon recede meekly…but then it reversed itself, coming at them at nearly the same speed from the south now, bringing with it an endless murk of soil, brush, and drowning wildlife.

  The two women dripped in sweat, trembling from their efforts. After a time that none of the three could measure, the surge of river and death had slowed and fallen back into the rent in the land, the lethality of the event passing. Phoenaris and Aria both fell to their knees, and shin-deep muddy water rushed in to meet them. Mikallis released his concentration on the Bond, the horses spooked but out of danger, and the Captain rushed to support Aria. She waved him off, knowing that Pheonaris needed him more.

  Mikallis helped the Mistress to her feet, and as she stood unsteadily in the thickening mud, she commanded Mikallis. “Help me mount. Lead us from here. We must find a trail before the horses are mired.”

  Aria and Mikallis helped Pheonaris onto Spirit, then led their own horses on foot. The light of day had broken at some point during the flood, and though their bearings had been shaken loose, the way south was not difficult to find. The trail, however, proved much more elusive.

  More than once, Aria and Mikallis had gotten stuck to some degree, though the horses somehow instinctively maintained a momentum that prevented them from sinking into the muck. On they plodded, through the wet, cold sludge of mud and debris, helpless to assist countless small animals that struggled to free themselves. Pheonaris sat in her saddle upright, somehow, though Aria could tell she was not present. She appeared much as she had during the council, and the princess was certain she was in the throes of another vision. Aria’s strength was fading fast when they finally ascended a small rise that had remained above the water line. The three crested the knoll, and twenty paces south, the trail mercifully appeared again. Aria and Mikallis hugged wordlessly in relief, and climbed their mounts.

  Pheonaris spoke weakly, her attention returned to the moment. “I am proud of you, Aria Evanti and Mikallis Elmshadow. Your composure protected us.”

  Mikallis dismissed the honor. “We would be drowned and lost forever without your power, Mistress. It was you who saved us.”

  Pheonaris smiled. “Well, if credit must be given for power, it is the First Father to whom we must give thanks.” Aria and Mikallis nodded their agreement, and Pheonaris smiled humbly. “Though I will admit, the dome was not a terrible idea.”

  Aria laughed, the musical tone of her mirth somehow both inappropriate and timely. “No, not terrible Mistress. And Mikallis…how you kept those horses calm I will never know. Excellent work, Captain.” Aria bowed graciously in the saddle.

  Mikallis did not share the lighthearted mood of the women. “We survived. Many did not.”

  Aria shriveled, but Pheonaris’ tone remained cheerful. “You speak with wisdom, Captain,” agreed Pheonaris. “But let us not forget to be grateful to one another, and to celebrate that we yet live.”

  Mikallis nodded silently as they turned onto the trail, unfazed by the woman’s attempt to find a bright side. They rode slowly, silently for a turn, then Pheonaris called the halt.

  “Let us stop a moment.” The three riders turned their mounts to face one another.

  “Aria. Last evening, you had foreseen this.”

  Aria frowned, confused, and then recalled her unmistakable sense that they must cross the Trine and camp south of the Praër. “I…I would not say that I foresaw anything, Mistress. I suppose I merely felt uncomfortable within the Pinestroke.”

  “Was that all, Aria? Think, now.”

  Aria concentrated on recalling the feeling of the night before, a hint of…something…flowing just beneath the surface of her understanding. She could not give words to it, but she knew her feeling was something more than simple discomfort. Yes, she decided, there was something there. Something…ah, it was no use, her mind was a mess, and she could not focus.

  “No, Mistress. It was not merely discomfort. But I cannot tell you what it was, only that it was not that. I am sorry I cannot be more specific, I suppose I am not quite myself just yet. I will think more on it.”

  The Mistress nodded, and continued. “I spent a considerable amount of time in communion with the land this morning, as you must have noticed. I realize I was not much help in finding the trail; my attention was required elsewhere.” Mikallis and Aria listened. “I will not mislead you now. The quake of this morning is but a taste of what is to come. Understand me, just a small taste. This quake was felt from north of our homes to the Morline, to the deeps of Belgorne and west to the farmlands. Consider that. I am also reasonably certain that the Fang has awakened to some extent…and this was just a shadow of what is to come.” Pheonaris paused to be certain that the gravity of her statement settled. The look of horror on Aria’s face and the young Captain’s frozen expression made clear that it had. “You have never expressed an ability to
sense future events Aria, have you? No, I did not think so. Yet the power of this event was sufficient to awaken that ability within you. To some degree, at least. It has also awakened something within me, and I tell you that we must make the Grove within three days. I cannot tell you why. I only know that at dawn, three days from now, you are due at the Grove, Aria.”

  Aria and Mikallis exchanged a look. The Captain spoke first.

  “Mistress, I will do whatever is required of me without complaint. But this is not possible. It is six days at a hurried pace to the Grove. We have no food. We have no water. We will need to forage, and allow the horses to graze. Three days…Mistress it cannot be done.”

  Pheonaris’ usually gentle voice rang with an air of authority. “Do you mean to tell me Captain that there is none who can sustain such a pace? Because if so, I will tell you frankly that you are mistaken.”

  Mikallis reddened, but did not speak. Aria interjected.

  “There is one, Mistress. Sir Barris. None other. Not without Phantom’s endurance.”

  “It is not Phantom’s endurance that makes such things possible, Aria. You should know this.”

  Aria knew she was missing something, but she could only shake her head in response. “I lack your wisdom on the matter, Mistress. Forgive me.”

  “It is not a matter of wisdom Aria. It is a matter of logic. Phantom is a great beast, perhaps the greatest living example of his kind today. Yet he is a horse. You must know this, do you not? Ah, I can see that you both are lost. Aria and Mikallis, hear me. It is through great personal sacrifice that Sir Barris impels Phantom to run as he does, without rest, without food, and when necessary, without water. It is the Bond, and the force of life that Sir Barris pours into that Bond that enables Phantom to endure. Yet the Knight does even more. Sir Barris does not merely offer what part of himself is required to accomplish this. He freely gives well beyond what is required, so that Phantom does not only succeed in such feats, but thrives upon them. That is why the pair are so renowned. That is why Phantom would run over the very lip of the Fang for his rider. Sir Barris has forfeited years of his life on this last circuit to Mor alone. Do not mistake me, Phantom is unique among horses. But Sir Barris is unique among elves, not in his power, but in his sacrifice.”

  As if on cue, Mikallis and Aria, in unison, honored the absent knight.

  “Nü glahr ni, Sir Barris.”

  “Indeed,” replied Pheonaris. “Though if you truly wish to honor Barris, you will not allow his sacrifices to be in vain. You will follow his example, and you will use your own Bonds to make this journey possible. There is no other way.” She turned to Mikallis. “Captain, you are here voluntarily, and if you do not wish to risk–”

  Mikallis placed his hand on his heart and straightened. “I will do as required, Mistress, with gladness, in service of my people.”

  “Of all peoples, Captain. Thank you for your oath, I would expect nothing less. You are an Elmshadow.” Pheonaris turned her attention to her novice. “Aria, I will not ask. You are the princess of Thornwood, daughter of the queen, heir to the Seat of the Wood and ordained Sister of the Grove. Your path is determined by an authority greater than my own.”

  Aria felt herself strengthened by her Mistress’ use of her titles. “You need not ask, Mistress. Though I must tell you, I do not know how I will accomplish this. I am not so experienced with the Bond as you.”

  “You will learn, Princess. As will you, Captain. You must learn quickly. We will ride slowly until midday to allow our mounts to put the mornings horrors behind us, and I will answer what questions you have, but at noon, we will break south at speed, and we will ride until we make the Grove. We will do this because we must, and we will not fail.”

  Without another word, Pheonaris urged Spirit forward at a trot, and her younger companions followed. Aria kept her questions to herself for the time being, sensing that her silence was required for the moment. She could not, however, prevent her mind from turning over with anxieties.

  I am the princess of Thornwood, she thought. I am an ordained Sister. And I will try, Father help me but I will try. Aria did not allow herself to further indulge her deepest fears, however. For in her deepest, weary heart, she believed sincerely that she could not accomplish what was asked, that she would die on this journey, and she would fail her Mistress; she would fail her people.

  I am but a child.

  XXIII: THE MORLINE

  “You talk pretty, Mister J’arn, but don’t yeh come…hey, Wolf! What’re yeh doin’? Get over here!”

  Wolf decided quickly that Mister J’arn was just his sort of person. The dwarven prince made eye contact with the animal, and that was sufficient enough invitation for Wolf to bound towards him and begin a thorough investigation of the scents residing in the dwarf’s most intimate areas. J’arn danced around to avoid the probing nose of the curious black beast, doing his best to remain stoic, but the laughter of his dwarves was too hearty to ignore. Within moments, the eight dwarves and one previously terrified gnome were laughing themselves into fits, as Wolf began barking and jumping at the prince, finally discovering a pocket that contained some morsel of uneaten food. Two of the three sentries of the Morline post joined the gathering, one announcing that dinner was about to be served. Wolf perked at the man’s announcement, and despite a breeze coming from the north, somehow sensed that just beyond the crossing south, there was more promise than what was contained in J’arn’s pockets. He took off at a run for the bridge.

  “Come eat with us, little lady,” offered Boot. “Ye can tell us all about why ye be out here in the woods of the Maw all by yerself.”

  This is the help Lady Sandshingle promised, Shyla was certain. She would not, however, put her guard down. Not just yet.

  “I’m little Mister, and I’m a lady, but I ain’t no little lady. That said, I could sure use a bit t’eat, if yeh’ll have me.”

  J’arn replied with a smile. “If your wolf has left any for the rest of us, ye be welcome to it. Come then.”

  ---

  The dwarves and men ate and drank with Shyla and Wolf, a filling meal of roasted fowl, boiled cabbage and sour loaves of bread. The thick, sweet scent of cooked fats mingled with pungent, steaming sprouts and burning wood, the aromas, to Shyla, redolent of home. J’arn insisted that Shyla eat her fill before being compelled to speak of her journey. The abundance and variety of food satisfied the gnome quickly, and as she sat and listened to the merry crew laughing and telling stories around the fire, she could not help but think about her family, and G’naath, and all she had left behind. A melancholy had nearly taken hold when Boot belched to shatter stone, and the dwarves offered their own gastric symphony in refrain.

  Shyla was fairly certain one of the dwarves used a different instrument, and upon the realization, could not remain sullen. She giggled and stamped her feet in silly abandon, and the more she laughed, the less able she was to stop herself. The whole of the camp caught the contagion, including J’arn, and soon the usually solemn dwarf was laughing himself breathless beside her, cheeks darkening visibly despite his thick beard and the low firelight. Wolf, now full to popping and exhausted, glanced around dramatically at the dozen hysterical humans and wandered into the darkness, doubtlessly seeking a place of sanity where he could nap. The sight of the exasperated animal sent Shyla further into stitches, and she nearly laughed herself unconscious.

  J’arn spoke when he finally caught his breath. “Lady, your laughter is a melody. I have never heard such a thing.” He smiled warmly at the gnome, and she smiled back.

  “Shyla, Mister J’arn, yeh can call me Shyla. Shyla Greykin is me name.” The dwarves and men quieted, sensing that this was the moment that they would hear the young gnome’s tale.

  Boot jumped in. “Well ye know J’arn already, Shyla. I’m Kelgarr, though I s’pose the lot of ye can call me Boot now that we’ve shared a meal. This here’s Narl and his brother Fannor.” The brothers raised their mugs respectfully. “There be Jender, Sta
rl, and Sergeant Turnn, but ye can just call him Rocks. And that sneaky lookin’ fella over there be our illustrious forgemaster, Garlan. Ye be watchin’ yerself around that one.”

  “Stuff it, Boot,” Garlan retorted.

  “Stuff it yerself, Garlan. Anyways Lady, ah, miss Shyla, that be our company. Now, the fine men here who have so kindly shared a meal with us, I know the Captain Atkins, but his men…”

  The Captain sensed his cue. “Aha! Thank you Boot! My dear bearded friend! I am your host Captain Atkins,” the uniformed man stood and took a poorly balanced bow, “and these are my ven-nerade…my esteemaded…ah, Fury, this here’s Mark and Ed.”

  The men laughed, and one spoke. “Privates Marcus Wellis and Edward Kalson, Lady, at your service.”

  “Hah! You said privates!” the Captain jeered.

  “How’s that nightnectar, Cap?” kidded Narl.

  “Tip top, Nerl! Tip top!” The Captain sat back on his log, or rather, fell gently.

  J’arn smiled and shook his head at the sloshed watch commander, and looked back to Shyla. “Well, ye know us now, Miss Shyla,” he said, “or at least ye do a bit. Now I have to ask, what is a young gnomish girl and her…wolf…doing this far from G’naath? And, ah, forgive me for askin’, but...how young are ye?”

  Shyla felt all eyes on her, but did not blanch. Her trial felt like a lifetime ago, though she did not forget how vulnerable she felt then. This did not begin to compare. “I’m twenty and three Mister J’arn. And yer how old? Yeh look a bit young t’be leadin’ an expedition, though I don’t know much about dwarves, t’be fair.”

  J’arn did not quail, either. “I’ve got twenty-three years as well, Miss Shyla. And ye speak true, I be young for the job,” J’arn raised his mug and motioned at his company, “but these here are the best dwarves in Belgorne, and with these fine companions, the job ain’t more than a nature walk.” The dwarves quietly raised their mugs to J’arn in kind, grateful for the honor.