Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  Shyla’s curious voice ruptured the stillness. “J’arn, is it hard to ride a horse?” the gnome asked the prince. “I seen the ones at the stable, and it looks hard.”

  J’arn nodded to Shyla. “Aye, Shyla, I have been considering that. ’Tis not a simple thing, particularly for one so small as yerself. I do not mean to insult, mind ye, but it is a matter of strength. A rider uses their legs as much as their hands, and ye be at a disadvantage.”

  “Yeh saying me legs are short, J’arn?” Shyla teased.

  “Yer legs are just lovely, Shyla. But they ain’t exactly pikes now, are they?”

  “I s’pose not. Yers ain’t neither though.”

  J’arn laughed. The gnome had a way of brightening any situation, he noticed. “In any case, Lady Shyla, it will be necessary that ye share a saddle with one of us.”

  “Ain’t all that easy for a dwarf neither, me prince,” Rocks added, poling the raft steadily. “Can’t speak for the rest, but I ain’t used to a full-sized mount.”

  “Ye’ll manage, Rocks. We’ll not be able to ride as hard as with our dwarven steeds, but we’ll make much better time than on foot.”

  Rocks nodded, and the matter was lain to rest for the moment until Shyla spoke again.

  “What about Wolf?” she asked.

  “What about him?” J’arn replied.

  “Well, he can’t ride no horse. He just s’posed to run alongside? He ain’t much fer doin’ as yeh tell ‘im.”

  J’arn did his best to find a delicate way to respond, but none came to him.

  “Shyla, Wolf might be best off stayin’ behind at the docks–”

  “Well that ain’t happenin’ J’arn,” Shyla interrupted. “I ain’t leavin’ Wolf behind fer nuthin’.”

  “Ye may have no choice, Shyla–”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, ye can’t–”

  “Nope.” Shyla scowled at J’arn, daring him to argue the point. J’arn was about to do just that when Boot interjected.

  “Yer little spat may be for naught anyways. We got us another set o’ problems.”

  The three looked to the engineer, who had spent the better part of the day poring over a series of maps. “C’mere and look at this, J’arn.”

  J’arn and Shyla shifted over to see the map Boot had laid out on the deck.

  “We got us a Fury of a run northwest after we hit the docks. Look here. ” Boot pointed to a shaded area on the map. “There be Gas Gorge, smack dab in the middle of the trail headin’ to the Grove. We’d pass her by if we sailed on straight to Mor, but we can’t get around her comin’ from the docks.”

  J’arn sighed. Shyla asked, “What’s Gas Gorge?”

  “It’s a crack, Shyla. A crack in the ground. The gorge be deep and treacherous, and some kinda bad air tends to accumulate in there, poison some say. It ain’t too bad when the winds are blowin’, but they ain’t been, and I ain’t fer sure we oughta take that road. In fact I’m pretty sure we’d better not.”

  “We can’t float all the way to the Northern Road, Boot,” J’arn said. “If we do, we’ll need to head south into Mor for mounts, and we’ll add a day at least to the journey, likely more. We need to cut northwest, and the only place from where we can do that and buy mounts be the docks.”

  Shyla listened as she concentrated on understanding the map laid before her. She could not make out the words very well, the handwriting foreign to her, but she could see where the Fang was marked, and was able to roughly establish where they must now be, based on the marking for the docks. Shyla understood direction well, and it did not take long for her to understand what the map portrayed.

  “What’s this squiggly line right here,” she asked, “running west and north-like where the Morline breaks south?”

  J’arn replied. “That’s the Boiler, Shyla. It’s a fork off the Morline that runs northwest to the springs.

  “Well ain’t we headed to the springs? Ain’t that where the Grove is?”

  Boot answered. “Aye, Shyla. That’s what I was about to mention to me prince here.” Boot looked to J’arn, eyebrows raised expectantly.

  J’arn returned the stare. “Ye be crazy, Boot. No way can we take the Boiler, not on these rickety things.”

  “What’s so bad ‘bout the Boiler?” Shyla asked.

  “Whaddya mean, rickety?” Boot replied, incensed. “These rafts can take a beating, J’arn, ye can bet a bag o’ emeralds on that.”

  “What’s wrong with the Boiler?” Shyla asked again.

  “Ye can’t be serious, Boot. I ain’t tellin’ ye about yer business, but can’t no raft make the Boiler.”

  “What in Mawbottom is wrong with the boiler, damn yeh?” Shyla shouted.

  Wolf’s ears flattened against his head. The riders on Garlan’s raft looked back at the hollering gnome.

  “Apologies, Lady Shyla,” said Boot. “The Boiler’s a rapid, she’s fast and rocky and narrow, and…” Boot saw her confusion.

  “It’s a really fast river, Shyla,” J’arn explained. “Really fast. It breaks off from the Morline, and yeah it heads right where we be goin’, but it’s dangerous. Too dangerous for a raft.”

  “J’arn, I disagree with ye. These rafts can take ‘er.”

  “Ever run the Boiler, Boot?”

  “Can’t say as I have. Have ye?”

  J’arn knew he had erred. “Well, no I haven’t Boot–”

  “Then ye can’t know we can’t make it. Look J’arn, if we can take the Boiler, we’ll get most of the way afore nightfall, if the stories about the speed ring true. We’ll have a day’s march the rest of the way. Look here…it ain’t even a day’s march from where the Boiler drops us off. And there be somethin’ else. I ain’t sure we’re gonna find us any mounts at the docks besides. Ye see what we’re floatin’ in? The damned skies are fallin’, and for all we know, it be worse in Mor proper. Would ye be wantin’ to sell yer own mount in these times?”

  J’arn sighed, again. Shyla, Rocks, and Boot all stared at the prince.

  Rocks spoke up.

  “Prince J’arn, if we can make ‘er in under two days, ‘stead of seven or eight, I say we give it a go.”

  “Seven or eight if we get mounts,” Boot corrected.

  “Two days if we survive the damned thing, and if we march the rest of the way without making camp.” retorted J’arn.

  “I ain’t tired a bit, J’arn. How ‘bout ye, Shyla? Need yerself a nap just yet?”

  Shyla shook her head, smiling.

  “Rocks?”

  “Well, me arms are a bit tired, but I s’pose if ye can spell me a bit…sure, I’ll be holdin’ up, I’m thinkin’.”

  J’arn hung his head in thought as the three turned to him for a decision.

  “Boot, I just ain’t sure. The Boiler is bloody fast. It comes down to yer rafts. I’m no engineer, ye know that. But I know we’re gonna take a poundin’. I need ye to put yer pride aside and tell me. Can these rafts make it?”

  Boot considered before responding. He had of course never ridden the Boiler. None of them had. He could not know how treacherous the rapids would be. What he did know was that all Fury was breaking loose on Tahr, and the only help his people could hope for would come from the magic and wisdom of the elves. He looked to his prince. The young leader wanted an answer, not speculation. J’arn was hesitant, understandably so, and he needed reassurance.

  “Well J’arn, the rafts are sound. I designed ‘em sturdy. We got as many crosslogs in the water as decklogs on top, and a hundred ties each raft, tight as can be. We could lose half our knots and still hold together. I took a close look at Garlan’s raft afore we floated this morning, makin’ sure the damned fool hasn’t banged his up too badly. She was rock solid, solid as when we first tied em’ together. I say we rope everything down a bit more snug like, just to be sure.”

  J’arn needed more.

  “Aye, me prince, these rafts can make it.”

  The prince nodded. “I didn’t bring ye along for y
er looks, Kelgarr. Garlan!” he called. “Drag back a bit, we’ll be takin’ the lead!”

  Narl dug his pole into the murky bottom of the Mor, allowing J’arn’s crew to come alongside.

  “Dwarves, we got us a bit of a problem, but we think we have a solution,” J’arn addressed Garlan’s crew.

  “Ha!” Fannor barked. “Pay yer papa, boys!”

  Jender and Starl groaned, and each tossed Fannor a coin.

  “What’s this?” asked J’arn.

  “Well, we’re takin’ the Boiler, ain’t we?” asked Fannor, smiling from ear to ear beneath his carrot-colored beard.

  J’arn’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, we’re taking the Boiler. Could ye hear us talkin’ from upriver? Didn’t think we were so loud.”

  “Nah, we’re just smart is all,” said Narl. “Fact is, Garlan here saw it comin’ first.”

  “Did ye now, Garlan?”

  “It’s a damned fool idea, Prince J’arn. I know why ye wanna do it, but these rafts can’t take it.”

  Boot jumped up. “Ye call me prince a fool again, Garlan, and ye’ll be whisker bait, I swear it.”

  “I didn’t call J’arn a fool, Kelgarr, nor would I ever. It’s you I call a fool, and I know it be yer damnable pride that makes ye think these floating trees can ride the Boiler.”

  “Pull us closer, Rocks. We’re about to be short one forgemaster.”

  “Shut yer traps before I shut ‘em for ye! Enough!” bellowed J’arn, the rare sound of his raised voice freezing the company stiff. “Garlan, it be my decision, not Boot’s. Ye be out of yer element here. Boot, ye swallow that tongue o’ yours now.” J’arn paused a moment to make certain the dwarves had settled.

  “Prince J’arn,” Starl broke the tension. J’arn looked to the man.

  “If we take the Boiler, are we gonna get out o’ this cursed ash a little faster?”

  “Might be, Starl.”

  “Well ye got my vote then, if ye needed it.”

  The rest of the dwarves all murmured agreement, all except Garlan.

  “I didn’t need yer vote Starl, but I’ll take it. Boys, ain’t no time for democracy now, we’re gonna have to get to work. Now, the river’s widening. See that inlet comin’ up? That means we’re not far from the fork. I’ve made this trip a dozen times with my father, and he’s shown me where the Boiler starts more than once. It won’t look like much when we hit the split, just a little lazy lookin’ channel off to the right, but don’t let that fool ye. My father says she narrows quick, and she’s fed from a dozen inlets between here and the springs. She’ll get fast, and faster, don’t ye doubt. We’ll be ridin’ the Boiler before noon, I be thinkin’ half an hour at most. I want every last pot, kettle, pack and sack roped down tighter than a corset, and retied again. Shyla, ye might want to tie yer Wolf down. Don’t gimme that look…better he whine than fall off in the rapids. If he hits the water, we can’t stop, won’t be no way to stop. Boot, what else?”

  Boot spoke up. “I cut an oar for each o’ ye, they ain’t much but they’ll have to do. Fannor, pass me those four on top o’ the pile. Shyla, grab ‘em, don’t let ‘em fall in now. We’re gonna need to tie in some handholds. Jender, cut me nine lengths o’ rope, long as yer arm–”

  “Ain’t much rope left, Boot,” Starl said.

  “How much?”

  “Not enough to do all the tyin’ ye be askin’ for, and make handholds besides.”

  Boot thought for a moment. Shyla looked around at the dwarves, and chimed in.

  “We all got bootlaces, Boot. Will that work?”

  “Aye, Shyla, good idea. Ye won’t wanna be wearin’ those if ye get knocked off anyhow. Use yer bootlaces then, yer gonna need to thread ‘em between the logs now, and get some gloves on after, or ye’ll blister up as ye paddle…”

  Ideas became orders, and the dwarves worked diligently. Shyla managed to secure Wolf as best she could with J’arn’s help, the struggling animal tied and flattened to the center of the raft. He had snapped threateningly at the pair repeatedly, but eventually relented, sensing that he had little choice but to comply. He whined continuously, but even Shyla was not swayed.

  “It’s for yer own good, ye furry pain in the pants. Yer a Wolf not a fish, if yeh fall yer a goner.” She worked to soothe the disconcerted animal as best she could.

  After a time the rafts were as ready as they could be made to withstand the ride, and J’arn called back to Garlan. “Stay on my tail now, the fork’s comin’ up!” J’arn announced.

  Seven oars and two poles worked the water, and the sturdy crafts cruised right up the center of the fork, leaving the Morline to wander to the southwest, as they entered the Boiler heading northwest. At first, there was no perceptible difference in speed. The Morline had widened considerably and slowed a bit before the fork. The Boiler began to narrow slightly, however, grassy shores becoming steep embankments, and their speed increased. As they navigated the stream, the falling flakes of ash seemed to come at them from an angle, the illusion created by their accelerating pace.

  “Well, we’re makin’ good time now, ain’t we?” Boot said excitedly.

  “Aye Boot, seems like!” J’arn replied. “Center now boys, keep to the center. Watch how I’m paddlin’.”

  J’arn hunched at the front of the raft, steering left and right with his oar as they passed the first inlet. The flow of water from the north pushed the raft to the left, and the paddling dwarves compensated smoothly, their pace steadily increasing.

  “Mawbottom J’arn, we’re movin’ now!” Shyla declared, grinning, the ash beginning to blow around them, rather than coming to a rest and sticking to their clothing and the deck. “This has gotta be faster than a horse!”

  “About that fast, Shyla, but we’ll be gettin’ even faster here in a bit I’d wager. How’s the raft holding up, Boot?”

  “Ain’t no different than the Morline, J’arn, unless we hit somethin’, don’t matter how fast we go.”

  Rocks addressed the engineer. “Pass me one o’ those oars, Boot, this pole’s useless at this speed.” Boot rose. “I’ll take the rear, Rocks. Rest yerself a turn. Shyla, let me an’ J’arn steer, rest yer arms a bit.”

  The dwarves on both rafts took shifts resting and manning the oars, and despite the increasing speed, or perhaps because of it, the steering became easier for a time, their oars used more as rudders than paddles. They passed several inlets, made several meandering turns, and the company navigated the stream carefully, always maintaining a path along the center. The land of Tahr flew by, and a flock of hundreds of small birds paced the crews for a time, eventually veering off, giving up the chase.

  “The ash!” Shyla exclaimed late that afternoon. “The ash ain’t fallin’ no more!” The dwarves had barely registered the change, their concentration fixated on piloting their rafts. A cheer arose as they all realized the gnome was right, and Narl and Fannor broke into a song about a fictional fleet of dwarven pirates.

  “Quiet dwarves!” J’arn interrupted the song. “Looks like the channel is starting to narrow up here. Everyone on an oar now, watch me!”

  The channel did narrow, dramatically. The rafts were roughly four paces square, and the Boiler had maintained a width of roughly forty paces for the past hour. No longer. The width of the stream suddenly halved, and their speed subsequently doubled. What had been a smooth, fast, flat journey quickly became a breakneck ride, the wind pulling tears from J’arn’s eyes as they accelerated.

  J’arn kept his gaze upriver, and suddenly, he could see why the Boiler was so named.

  XXXI: THE GROVE

  Aria and her snow bright filly Sera flew the remainder of the Thornwood Trail like feathers in a gale, the princess not quite relieved of her sorrow over Mikallis, but not shattered either. Aria had consciously decided that she would not allow herself to mourn the decision to leave him; all was as it must be. She would enjoy this ride with Sera, and allow herself to become hopeful that the Grove would bring rest and understanding of her role i
n the struggles to come. Mikallis would join them, and in time the episode would be forgotten.

  She did not want to forget this moment, however. The air was crisp and cool, the leaves of the wood scattered and piled on the trail but still retaining many of the bright vivid colors of autumn. They had passed a mob of deer, several rabbits and all manner of woodland life as they rode. All parted before the storming pair in deference, as if they somehow knew that even their future relied on the successful journey of the Princess and her Mistress.

  Pheonaris had not called to her in an hour, and Aria was grateful for it. She enjoyed taking the lead, flying through the wood as if she and Sera were the only sentient beings in all the world. Her body was sore, but her spirit was soaring, and despite the gloomy skies and chilly air the day was perfect. Her long ponytailed hair bounced behind her, blue cloak flowing freely as she moved in rhythm with her horse and flung the miles behind her dismissively.

  The trail opened suddenly onto a grassy hillock, and the riders slowed at long, long last, cresting the hill and looking down upon the secluded valley of the Grove. Pheonaris pulled astride her, and they slowed their huffing mounts to a trot, then a stop.

  “Tell me, is it not wonderful, Aria?” The beautiful Pheonaris spoke reverently, smiling.

  “The ride, or the Grove?” Aria asked.

  “Both, certainly, but I speak of the Grove. I cannot but leave my heart here when I go, and I so do love to return to it.” Pheonaris inhaled deeply. “What do you smell?”

  Aria also inhaled. The air of the Grove was different from that of the trail. Perfumed aromas of flowers and pungent wild plants mingled with the steamy, humid scents that emanated from the underground hot springs, the sweet waters that nourished the herbal florae of the enchanted land. “Life, Mistress. All the life of the world. It is the best air in all of Tahr. I miss it dearly as well when I go.”