Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  Shyla continued. “Well, me tale’s a long one, and I’ll not be thinkin’ yeh’ll wanna hear all of it, but the short of it is, I been sent to find the Grove, and meet with the elves, and there I’m s’posed to be learnin’ from their elders or some such. Me grandmama sent me, and so that’s where I’ll be goin’.” She paused to gauge the reaction of J’arn and his dwarves.

  “The Grove,” J’arn replied. “Miss Shyla, do ye know how far the Grove is?”

  “Shyla be fine, Mister J’arn. Don’t need no ‘miss’ in front.”

  “Then I’ll not need a Mister. J’arn will do fine as well. But do ye know?”

  Shyla considered how best to reply, and decided on the truth, or at least some of it. “Mist…ah, J’arn, I do not. Lady Sandshingle said I’d find help when I got meself to the Morline, and that was good enough fer me.”

  “Sandshingle!” exclaimed Boot. “Ye know Cindra Sandshingle?”

  Shyla cocked her head, stunned by Boot’s recognition. “Well, I ougtha, she’s me grandmama.”

  “Well, why didn’t ye say so! J’arn, ye’ll be knowing of the lady Sandshingle, will ye not?”

  J’arn shook his head. Boot continued. “Well, my little friend, ye’ll have to forgive our prince. He’s not yet heard every story there is to tell, but don’t let that fool ye, he’s a sharp one, and a Silverstone, and that’s enough.”

  “Yer gonna hafta stop callin’ me little, Boot,” Shyla said, not unkindly.

  “Hah! But ye are little,” Boot teased.

  “And yer a plump one. Do yeh want me callin’ yeh ‘me fat friend’ every time I talk to yeh?”

  The company laughed and Boot reddened. “Aye, Lady Shyla, as ye wish. Now lemme tell this story…”

  Boot told the tale, as he had heard it, of Cindra Sandshingle and her single-handed magical defeat of an entire tribe of goblins. The telling did not differ much from Shyla’s version, and she said as much when Boot finished.

  “The only part yeh got wrong was that when she went before the goblin king or prince or whatever he was, the wrinkled old fool didn’t come after ‘er with his staff. The coward tossed it up in the air and hid behind his chair, bawlin’ like a drownin’ goat as they say. The lady caught it, walked right outta the tunnel, not sayin’ a darned thing to no one, and brought it back to th’elders, sayin’, ‘Yeh ain’t got yerselfs a goblin problem no more.’”

  “Hah! She did not!” cried Boot.

  “She did, and the way me Mama tells it, that was the last time we had a goblin problem, and that’s a fact.”

  The dwarves raised their mugs and toasted to the lady riotously, and Shyla raised her own. Though her drink was already sweet enough, a delightful mixture of unfermented berry juices, it tasted all the sweeter knowing that it was in honor of her grandmama.

  J’arn spoke when the voices died down. “Shyla Greykin, if ye are to see the elves, and are to be learning their ways, should I take that to mean that ye have magic of sorts?”

  Shyla’s expression remained serious, and she did not answer immediately. She was afraid now; afraid that her secret would alienate her from her new friends, afraid that they would shun her as her own people did. As she looked into J’arn’s eyes, however, she did not sense fear. Nor hatred. Only wonder, and perhaps…admiration? She suppressed the urge to dig deeper, to read into the thoughts and feelings of the dwarven prince, deciding that while it may be prudent to do so before speaking next, she would not violate this good dwarf so.

  “I do, Prince J’arn. And I hope that won’t make yeh hate me, nor yer company. But it is what it is, and I won’t lie to yeh.”

  J’arn nodded, and the campsite grew silent. “One more question, Shyla. Why do ye travel alone, with none o’ yer people with ye?”

  Shyla understood the implication, but refused to let shame surface. She straightened and looked the prince directly in the eye, unblinking. “I ain’t exactly the favored daughter of G’naath, Prince J’arn. That don’t bother me none. Lady Sandshingle weren’t understood nor loved overmuch by me people, and I ain’t, neither. But I am favored by me Lady Sandshingle, and me Papa and Mama, and if that be good enough fer me, it’ll have to be good enough for any. Besides, I ain’t alone. I got Wolf.”

  Prince J’arn returned the gnomish woman’s gaze, meeting her pink eyes. So childlike, he thought, but this was no child. The young gnome seemed to J’arn to be a complete contradiction. Small in stature, a head shorter than a dwarf, yet a spirit larger than life. Her demeanor had been somehow simultaneously wary and bold since their first meeting. Her pigtailed, bright auburn hair and freckled features lent her visage the personification of innocence, yet when she spoke, her words carried a dwarven sturdiness, and a surprising maturity. Surprising, because J’arn had traded with gnomes, and listened attentively as his father negotiated with them. Before now, they seemed to him as children, naive and temperamental, possessed of a certain narrowmindedness; not unpleasant, but less sophisticated and civil. Yet J’arn had to admit to himself that he had never gotten to know a gnome personally, and his sentiments were born of the natural suspicion of the foreign and unknown, rather than formed by any real experience.

  No real enmity existed between the dwarven and gnomish peoples, aside from an occasional trade dispute or quarrel over hunting grounds, but a certain mistrust had survived even the centuries of uneasy peace between the races. Stories persisted of days when gnomes and orcs and trolls made common cause, often against the dwarven people. Those days were long gone, but when the last major treaty of peace had been drawn, a major tenet was that the leaders of the two races would severely punish any who broke the peace, whether with swords or provocative confrontations. The result was a forced tolerance, rather than a true alliance. In time, the old hatreds gave way to more pressing issues, then to common interests, and eventually to a tenuous forbearance of one another, but no real friendship had taken hold. The dwarves of the present lived in a state of peaceful competition with the gnomes, their people segregated by many miles of stone and soil. The reclusive and geographically isolated gnomes relied on the dwarves as trading partners with the rest of the civilized world, and the dwarves relied on the gnomes for the gemstones and crafting materials they provided. They would bargain and haggle furiously, and tempers would sometimes flare, though any major disputes were quickly settled between royal envoys in the interests of peace, most often with both sides leaving the negotiations dissatisfied.

  J’arn decided that was the source of his opinions about gnomes; it was those heated negotiations he witnessed that made up the majority of his contact with their people. It occurred to him then, as he listened to Shyla speak of herself and the love of her family with pride and self-assurance, that perhaps in his limited experience he had misjudged the gnomish people. Or, maybe, this young gnome was unlike other gnomes. Perhaps both. J’arn became aware that his reaction was required, and that none would speak until he had responded to the young woman before him. He also became self-consciously mindful of the fact that he had been staring at Shyla in silence for an uncomfortably long period of time, and so he returned to the matter at hand.

  “Ye speak as a Lady of honor, Shyla Greykin. I and my company will honor ye as such.” He turned to his company, considering his next words for brief moment, then turned back to the strong and pretty gnomish woman.

  “We seek the Grove ourselves, Shyla Greykin, and I know it to be true that we are the help Lady Sandshingle promised ye. It cannot be otherwise. Ye may accompany us to the Grove, if ye would, and we shall protect ye as one of our own.”

  A cheer rose from behind J’arn, his dwarves and even the men clearly fond of the young woman, and Shyla could not help but blush as the prince continued to look at her. Well, I canna just stare back at the feller like a damnable fool, she thought.

  “I dunno what yer all cheerin’ for, I didn’t even say as I’d go with yeh drunken fools yet!” Her wide, toothy smile left no doubt, however, as the dwarves all fell into laughter.<
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  Boot leaned in to whisper at J’arn. “Wipe yer beard and stop starin’, me prince.” Boot clapped his friend on the back.

  ---

  The night ended with most of J’arn’s company falling into slumber where they sat as the stories ended and the nightnectar ran low. The men had prepared a tent for Shyla, and she awoke to the sound of Wolf barking and axes hacking wood. Daylight was already well established despite a thin overcast, and as she left her tent she saw the dwarves and men scurrying about under the volatile direction of Boot, the first of two rafts already assembled, and the second well on its way.

  “Well good afternoon there, Lady Shyla!” greeted Captain Atkins warmly, with a hint of playful sarcasm. “I didn’t know gnomes slept so soundly, you missed the tahrquake! Or did you keep watch all night, protecting us from the dangers of the Maw?”

  Shyla grimaced at the Captain. “Well it sure weren’t yer drunken self wardin’ off the orcs and trolls!”

  “Hah! You wound me, Lady. And after I prepared your tent with such care and reverence.”

  “Ah, don’t yeh be wounded Cap’n, I just tend to sleep a bit late is all. And what’s a…whadja call it, a ‘tar quake’?”

  “It’s when the world shakes a bit, sometimes they can be bad, other times–”

  “Ah, yeh mean a stonecracker! I slept through that?” she asked, astounded.

  “It wasn’t much of one, Lady Shyla, no need to be alarmed. Must have been centered pretty far away.”

  Shyla was a bit worried for her family, but if she slept through it… Well, what can I be doin’ fer help? I’m a fair cook, if yer men be needin’ lunch.”

  “It is not yet near noon, Lady. I jest. Feel free to wash and tend to yourself.” Captain Atkins bowed politely. “I’ll need to excuse myself and return to helping Boot, or he’ll have my head with that axe of his.”

  Boot bellowed on cue. “Ye be right about that, Cap! Shyla, get this animal o’ yours out from underfoot! Dammit Garlan, ye hacked that one too short…” Boot continued to holler and dictate orders, and even Prince J’arn seemed to scurry when he pointed.

  Shyla called for Wolf, and walked down to the river, searching for a private place to wash her body and clothes. She passed the stable where the dwarves had left their horses; she very much wanted to go closer to see the great beasts, but the stablemaster Jennings eyed her and Wolf suspiciously. Must not like gnomes much, she decided. She found a secluded area where she could bathe, and the freezing water invigorated her. She had just enough beesoap remaining to lather Wolf a bit, the animal desperately needing an improvement of odor. Shyla wrung out her wet clothing and dressed in her last clean pants and tunic, energized and enthusiastic for what the day would bring.

  By midday the rafts had been completed, and Shyla marveled at the amount of work done in such a short period of time. The dwarves and men sat around the camp, shirtless and covered in sweat despite the cool air, and ate a quick meal of leftover fowl and cheeses that Shyla had helped prepare. The gnome could not help but notice the strong builds of the dwarves, all muscular and meaty, the most sculpted of which was J’arn. The prince caught her eye as she was assessing the finer points of his physique, and she turned away quickly to busy herself elsewhere.

  “Ye can stop flexin’ those spindly little arms of yours, my Prince, she ain’t lookin’ over here no more.”

  J’arn turned to Boot and regarded him severely. “Another word like that Kelgarr and ye’ll be takin’ night watch for the duration of the journey.”

  “Bah, Fury I will J’arn, ye know damned well I’d fall right asleep. But I’ll behave. She ain’t unpleasant to look at though, is she?”

  J’arn sighed. “She’s pleasant enough, Boot.” And she was, J’arn thought. The only gnomes he had ever met were old, grizzled traders. He had not known that one could be…well, pretty. “But yer wife wouldn’t wanna hear ye say it, and ye be too old to make such an observation.”

  “Aye, ye speak true. Though tell me prince, yer wife…what’s her name again?”

  “Ye said ye’d behave, Boot.”

  “Ahhh, that’s right, ye ain’t got a wife yet. Mistaken I was, I tend to forget at my age. Hmph.”

  Boot elbowed the prince as he stood, his meal finished, and J’arn threw out a foot to trip him as he walked away. Boot nimbly jumped it without missing a stride, and strutted away confidently.

  “May be I’m not so rickety as ye think, J’arn! Ha!”

  The dwarves completed their meal and began to pack their gear, and Shyla gathered her few supplies and reorganized her pack. Before an hour had passed, the eight dwarves had carried the two rafts to the bank of the Mor, moored them, and turned to say goodbye to their hosts.

  Garlan addressed the men. “Captain. Marcus and Edward. Ye have been a great help to us. Thank ye much.” He shook the men’s hands, and the dwarves all followed suit. Boot nudged J’arn and spoke quietly enough to not be overheard.

  “Like he’s the one to be thankin’ ‘em on our behalf. Presumptuous turd, ain’t he?”

  J’arn eyed Boot. “If he overstepped Boot, it’d be my toes he stepped over, and I take no offense. Nor should ye.”

  Boot snorted but did not respond.

  “Well my bearded friends, it’s been a pleasure,” Captain Atkins said. “And the same to you, Lady Shyla. I hope ya make the Grove in one piece, or no more than nine in any case.”

  “Nine would be ideal, Captain,” said J’arn.

  “Ten!” Shyla cried.

  “Ten?” Boot asked.

  “What about Wolf? C’mon wolf! Time t’go fer a ride!” Her companion hurried to her side and sat obediently.

  “Ah, for Fury’s sake J’arn, I gotta ride on a raft for three days with that furbeast?”

  Shyla glared at Boot threateningly.

  “Well, as ye like, Boot,” J’arn replied. “Ye can ride with me, Shyla, Wolf, and Rocks, or ye can ride with–”

  “Aye, me prince. No need to get nasty. We’ll be best o’ friends, won’t we Wolf?”

  Wolf cocked his head, unsure.

  “Load up, dwarves of Belgorne!” J’arn exclaimed. “We sail!”

  A process that should have been as easy as walking onto the rafts and dropping the lines became a disaster when Wolf realized he would be expected to sit submissively on the unstable, floating wooden log-thing. An hour later, all eight dwarves, one gnome, and one furbeast were soaked to the core in river water; Wolf was finally too exhausted to further resist embarkation. The two rafts were unmoored and the ten travelers drifted slowly west.

  The three men of Mor watched the rafts depart.

  “Captain?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes, Wellis?”

  “Does that girl really think that crazy pup is a wolf?”

  “I think so, Wellis.”

  “Well why doesn’t anyone tell her?” asked Edward.

  “Why didn’t you, Kalson?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s one feisty little gnome. Didn’t wanna make her mad,” Edward replied.

  “Well there ya go,” the Captain smirked. “Me neither.”

  XXIV: MOR

  Ten seasons before the dwarves boarded their Morline rafts, as the last days of an unusually long and harsh winter gave way to the first hints of spring, Mila climbed the stairs of the Keep of Kehrlia, arriving at the door to Sartean’s personal library hours before dawn. She knocked once, receiving no reply. After several moments she reached to knock again.

  “Enter.”

  Mila smiled. Always the posturing, she thought, and entered the library.

  “Why do you disturb me, Miss Felsin?” Sartean asked icily, sitting behind his desk reading, not taking the trouble to glance up at the sorceress.

  “Forgive my intrusion at the late hour, Master. I have news.”

  Sartean waited. Mila smiled amiably.

  “Shall I await a messenger for this news, or have you brought it yourself? Perhaps it is a written message, hidden on your person?” Sarte
an looked the sorceress up and down, her sheer gown clinging to her pale flesh. “If so, I do not know where you might have hidden it.”

  Mila laughed demurely. “Oh Master, you are so lurid.” She continued to smile wryly as Sartean frowned at her irreverent comment. “But my news. I have abandoned my efforts to synthesize the phenarril plant as futile. It cannot be done.” She paused, standing straight, chin out, back arched, her smile plastered on like a mannequin’s.

  Sartean raised an eyebrow, and stood slowly. “Yet you stand there grinning, so I can only assume that you have gone mad with the terror of how I will react.”

  “Oh, certainly not!” Mila said cheerfully. “On the contrary, I think you will be quite pleased.”

  Sartean’s tone darkened. “Enough, Mila. Tell me why you are here.”

  Mila sighed dramatically. “Oh, Master Sartean! Will you not allow me my fun? I have toiled for two years and have found your solution. May I not present it with a bit of flair? Indulge me just a bit more, will you please?” she said sweetly.

  Sartean froze his expression, masking his emotions. “A moment more then, Miss Felsin. Continue.”

  “With your permission, Master, I would prefer to show you. Would you accompany me to the labs?”

  “Come here, Miss Felsin.”

  The sorceress walked around the desk obediently. Sartean grasped her hand, and they appeared instantaneously in the second floor laboratory, beside Mila’s work area. The only light in the room came from a glowing blue orb of energy, slightly larger than a human head, hovering and wobbling a hand’s breadth above her immaculately clean stone alchemy bench. She stepped before it and turned to Sartean.

  “Your solution, Master,” she motioned to the orb.

  “What is it?”

  “Not what, precisely Master, but closer to where. You will know that phenarril grows only near Fang’s rim, and has never been found elsewhere.”