Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1)

by Sean Hinn

  “It is home,” Pheonaris expressed simply. “Let us go to it.”

  The women started down the rise and Aria spoke.

  “Thank you for allowing me to take the lead on the last stretch, Mistress.”

  Pheonaris halted her mount. “Aria. Wait a moment please.”

  Aria turned Sera. “Yes, Mistress?”

  “The lead is yours to take whenever you wish. Do you understand?”

  “I…thank you Mistress, I think so.”

  “I see perhaps that you do not. Aria, hear me now. You are the Princess of Thornwood. You are no longer my initiate. You bear the full authority of your station. You are my superior.”

  Aria frowned. “Mistress, the day that I feel myself your superior will never come. I am still but a novice...”

  “It is not a matter of how you feel, Princess. It is what is. I certainly hope that you will always allow me to advise you, and teach you as is my responsibility. But it is only that which I offer, advice. You must choose to heed it or not, as your obligations require.”

  Aria shook her head emphatically. “Mistress, I could never ignore your advice. You are wise in so many things…”

  Pheonaris smiled. “You honor me, Princess, but the day will come where my advice runs contrary to another’s, and you must allow your own wisdom and conscience to guide you. When the queen is not present, you are Thornwood. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Ah…of course, Mistress.” Aria was exceedingly uncomfortable.

  “When we are alone, if you allow it, I shall call you Aria, as I would speak to a student, as a friend. And you may call me Pheonaris, for I consider you my friend.” Aria nodded vigorously, her agreement passionate. “But when we are among our people, particularly when we are discussing matters of state, I will call you Princess, or another of your formal titles. You must feel free to order me as your mother the queen would. Perhaps the formality will help you remember.”

  Aria bowed her head. “Pheonaris, I do not like this. I do not wish for things to change.”

  “I know, child. I know. Yet change things do, and they always will. It is as it must be.”

  Aria looked upon her teacher, her Mistress, her friend. The Mistress of the Society of the Grove sat silently, returning Aria’s gaze. It became clear to Aria that she must give her mentor her first order.

  “Your counsel is wise. Let us continue then, Mistress. Though I would ask…”

  “Yes, Princess?”

  “If I am in danger of making a complete and total fool of myself, you will stop me?”

  Pheonaris laughed joyfully. “I will try, Princess Aria of Thornwood. I will most certainly try. Now let us see what trouble Trellia has caused in my absence. After you, Lady.” The Mistress bowed demurely in the saddle, and Aria walked Sera down to the valley.

  ---

  “Vicaris, the Mistress arrives! With Aria!” Lani announced excitedly, the senior Sister running up the flagstone path to greet her long missed friends.

  “Lani! Ah, it is so good to see you!” Aria exclaimed, rushing ahead to meet her. Pheonaris had said something as Aria had called to Lani, but she did not hear it over her own voice. The princess quickly dismounted Sera for the first time in days.

  “Noooo!” Pheonaris yelled, too late.

  As soon as Aria left the saddle and her feet hit the soil of Tahr, her knees buckled and her head began to swim. She fell to all fours, shivering and struggling for breath. Sera threw her head, visibly upset and frightened.

  “Aria, what’s wrong? Vicaris! Come now!”

  Pheonaris approached, chanting softly under her breath, and gingerly dismounted Spirit, steadying herself and maintaining physical contact with her colt at all times.

  “Princess, listen to me, you must reconnect with your Bond. Stand now, touch Sera, it will help.”

  Aria could not stand. She could not even try. She felt as if she had died, her soul unreachable, her body a ragged bag of lifeless skin and sinew. Her Mistress was speaking, but as if from beyond the Veil, words blurring and swirling in the air, incomprehensible and distant. The princess collapsed the rest of the way to the ground as Barris ran up.

  “Mistress! You did not tell her!” Barris scolded as he lay his hands on Sera, who by now was losing her own sense of balance.

  “I tried, Sir Barris. She shot ahead and I did not stop her in time.”

  “Lani, I must stay with Sera. Get the Vicaris–”

  “I am here, Barris,” Trellia moved beside Aria and placed her hand on her sallow forehead.

  “She is cold as snow. What happened?”

  “She dropped her Link too suddenly,” Barris replied as several initiates approached, two carrying a cloth stretcher.

  “We heard your call, Mistress. What must we do?” asked Petahr, concern becoming panic as he saw his Princess shuddering on the ground.

  Barris barked instructions. “You must carry her to the cabin, quickly now Brother. Lani, run ahead and set up a cot beside Lucan, and throw more logs on the fire. Everyone else, gather blankets. She will need to be kept as warm as possible. Her spirit is in shock, you will know how to treat this, but you must first warm her. Go!”

  Aria was loaded onto the stretcher and whisked to the cabin quickly, the novices and initiates racing about in an organized but harried fashion, carrying out Barris’ orders. Pheonaris and Barris slowly walked Sera and Spirit to the stables that sat on the near shore of the Spring.

  “She will recover,” the Mistress affirmed, to herself primarily.

  “She will, Mistress. Do not fear for her. Better she learn the lesson now, while she is in safe hands.”

  “I should have told her sooner. It is my error.”

  “And not the last you will ever make, Mistress. Be at peace, Aria will be fine,” Barris promised. “But where is Mikallis?”

  The Mistress gave Barris a loaded look. “We must speak about Mikallis. I fear that we may have a situation there.”

  Barris nodded, concern for his young protégé apparent. “I fear the same thing, Mistress. I assume he could not keep the pace?”

  “No, though I am sure he will not be far behind, a day at most. His pace is not the problem.”

  “Perhaps his pace is exactly the problem, Mistress.”

  Pheonaris understood the entendre, but shook her head. “It may run deeper than even that, Barris.”

  ---

  Trellia and Barris sipped tea with Pheonaris in her private home, huddled around her small dining table, the humbly appointed cabin bearing a musty, humid odor, but not an unpleasant one. The cabin had remained closed for the better part of a cycle as Pheonaris had traveled to the capital. The setting could best be described as orderly yet chaotic, hundreds of small trinkets and books and keepsake items adorning the many shelves around the cabin, colorful handmade chimes hanging silently in the windless air, and stacks of parchment balanced on nearly every flat surface in the sparsely furnished log home. The initial impression was that of a hoard of inconsequential items, but a closer look revealed that everything one saw had either a use or a history, and was in its proper place. The small house was divided into four equally sized rooms; a small area for entertaining, a kitchen, a bedchamber, and a library. Barris and Trellia sat quietly, awaiting Pheonaris’ cue to speak, but the woman seemed distant, and both sensed that something ate at the Mistress.

  “Share your thoughts, Mistress,” Trellia invited.

  Pheonaris pulled her gaze from the window. “I scarcely know where to start, Trellia. I suppose we must first discuss the fact that these are not ordinary clouds rolling in.”

  “Fang,” Barris declared frankly.

  “I believe so, Barris. I am a bit too fatigued to confirm as much, but after I have slept, I will know for sure.”

  Trellia shook her head. “No need, Mistress. It is the mountain. Either Fang caused the quake, or the quake woke Fang. I sensed this yesterday, and confirmed it myself. Ash falls throughout Greater Tahr. We are only just outside the mount
ain’s reach, and only until the westerly winds again blow.”

  Pheonaris appeared crushed. “So much will die,” she professed. “This has happened before. I have read the histories myself, and the devastation was awful. If Neral’s forecasts are accurate, and I have no reason to believe they are not, even the Grove will soon become a blighted land of death.” Pheonaris explained all that she had learned in the elven council. Barris and Trellia listened in rapt attention as the Mistress described the feared causes of the affliction affecting the world, and the omens of war, evil and horror that were coming to bear.

  “The outlook is nothing short of total and complete destruction,” Pheonaris concluded, her tone more miserable than Barris had ever heard it, all the charm of her spirit spent.

  “Let us hope it does not come to that, Mistress,” Barris said after a moment, lacking a better response.

  “Hope is not a strategy, Barris. We cannot let the land die, or its people will soon follow.”

  “I assume you have a strategy then, Mistress?” Trellia asked, Pheonaris’ gloom proving somewhat contagious. “Other than blind hope, I would gather? If so that is good, for I am not blind, but nor am I especially hopeful just now.”

  “A strategy…no. But a belief that one will soon emerge, yes.”

  “Not much better than blind hope I fear, Mistress.”

  “Perhaps it is a bit more, Trellia. I have been given to know that Aria is somehow to be instrumental in our opposition to these forces that threaten, as you have no doubt learned by now. Although…” Pheonaris paused, and her shoulders seemed to heave slightly as she suppressed a sob. “I had expected that we would have learned that strategy, or at least some of it, upon arriving here at the Grove. It was clear in my vision that we were required to arrive this morning, at dawn, yet the day passes and I have not yet discovered anything at all. I am afraid that perhaps we were a bit too late, or perhaps my failure in preparing the princess for the end of our ride has caused her to miss some sign–”

  Trellia interrupted the Mistress, embarrassed and saddened to see her superior so distraught. “No, Pheonaris. I do not believe divination works like that. A future is but one of many paths, it is not scheduled so strictly. You are tired, and filled with self-doubt. You must not despair,” Trellia replied.

  “I agree with the Vicaris, Mistress. Perhaps Aria is right where she is meant to be, and the way forward will soon become clear.” Barris reached for the Mistress’ hand, and spoke gently. “I know what you feel right now, Mistress. The breaking of the link of the Bond takes a toll, not only on your strength, but on your heart. You cannot serve yourself nor your people until you have rested.” Barris squeezed her hand, and stood.

  “Come, Trellia. Let us go see how our patients fare.”

  “Barris, do not dismiss me as so helpless,” Pheonaris scowled.

  “I do no such thing, Mistress. I dismiss your doubts, however. After you rest, you will as well.”

  The Mistress wiped her eyes, nodded compliantly and rose. “You will wake me, if Aria wakes?”

  “When Aria wakes, Mistress,” Trellia corrected, hearing the despair and guilt in her Mistress’ voice.

  XXXII: THE MORLINE

  “One hand on yer oars, one on yer straps! Looks like we’re in for a ride! Shlya, watch for–”

  The front of the lead raft struck something solid, and J’arn’s words were cut off as the craft skipped atop an unseen obstacle. He barely managed to avoid falling headfirst into the water as Shyla grabbed his belt and pulled him back. She had released her oar to catch the unbalanced dwarf, and it bounced off the deck into the water as Garlan’s raft violently collided with their own from behind. There was no time to resettle themselves or assess the damage, as the pair of rafts jumped another rock. Wolf yelped in fright.

  Boot had managed to remain balanced as they struck the first boulder, and as Garlan’s craft smashed them from behind. The second collision threw the dwarf from the log deck, and the hollering engineer flew into the water.

  “Boooot!” Rocks screamed.

  Boot gasped and clawed at the surface of the water as he rolled within the rapids between the two bulking crafts, tons of soaked wood threatening to smash him at the surface, rocks and wedged logs battering him from below. The dwarf could barely swim in calm waters; in the raging flow of the Boiler, he was at the mercy of the currents. He lost all sense of up and down, desperately inhaling when he sensed his head bob above the water line, exhaling violently whenever his battered body struck a stone. At one point he tumbled completely end over end, and his legs stuck out of the water, the corner of one raft smashing and grinding the bones of his ankle against the other. The pain was severe, but nothing when compared to the tortured burning of his lungs.

  Above the surface, Wolf barked and snapped, terrified. The dwarves had all lost their oars, and were clinging for life to their handholds. The rafts bounced and smashed and crashed wildly among the rocks as the river became shallower and more treacherous, but somehow they held together, only three logs having loosed themselves. J’arn was yelling unintelligible orders while he gripped his own strap, knowing they were not heard, nor could they be heeded if they were. The loose logs now rolled murderously between the two rafts, adding to the threat the drowning engineer faced.

  Shyla looked over to the other raft just in time to see Garlan bark an order to Starl, and dive into the water headfirst.

  Boot was no longer fighting. He rebounded between rock and raft, concentrating only on where his next breath might come from. His body bled and tore, but the dwarf paid it no mind. Only air. Please, one more breath. He willed himself to float to the surface as he fought against the scorching urge to inhale. Pain became panic, and he forced his hands over his nose and mouth to fight the need to breathe. Finally, a log struck him in the ribs, and he could withstand no more. Boot inhaled deeply, river water flooding his lungs, and he managed two violent inhalations before his eyes glazed over, and his limbs went limp.

  Darkness.

  ---

  The battering had seemed to go on for an eternity, then suddenly, as soon as it began, it had stopped. The Boiler passed over a shallow natural dam, and on the other side, the waters pooled; the two rafts spilled into a basin, slowing quickly. The stream widened quickly into a small, quiet pond lined with lush, green trees that had not yet suffered the ashfalls of the east, the grey and emerald scene impossibly serene and placid. J’arn and Shyla looked at one another solemnly, then to Rocks, and to Garlan’s raft.

  One terror had passed, the other only dawning, as Narl and Fannor were the only two dwarves visible.

  The pair of brothers paced the edge of their raft, calling desperately to their four missing comrades. J’arn, Shyla and Rocks joined the call, and Rocks saw Garlan first, a hundred paces to the east, pulling a limp dwarven body onto the shore.

  “Paddle! Get to the shore!” J’arn knelt and tore at the water with his hands, desperately trying to alter the raft’s direction, but the river behind them still thrust them forward despite the relative calm of the pond. Gradually, sluggishly, the raft altered course towards the shoreline. J’arn looked back to Narl and Fannor, and saw that they were not paddling, but standing in stillness, staring silently off towards the mouth of the Boiler. J’arn followed the line of their gazes.

  Floating face down, two dwarven bodies bobbed and swirled in the current.

  J’arn screamed to Narl and Fannor to rescue the floating dwarves, his mournful cry shattering the stillness of the scene. He and Rocks paddled furiously towards the shoreline, and Shyla slapped at the water, her tiny hands having little effect on the raft’s direction, but she did what she could.

  ---

  On the shoreline, Garlan slammed his hands upward repeatedly into Boot’s gut. Pints of water were expelled, but the dwarf did not breathe.

  “Damn you Boot, I’ll kill you for this.”

  Garlan pinched the engineer’s nose shut, and breathed into the pallid dwarf. Three, four,
five times he filled Boot’s lungs, finally rewarded with a mouthful of vomit and river water. Garlan jumped back as Boot gasped, coughed, and clawed at his own throat. The forgemaster rolled the dwarf onto his stomach, and let the engineer finish emptying himself of water and bile as J’arn, Shyla, Rocks and Wolf made the shoreline. Shyla immediately untied Wolf, Rocks moored the raft, and J’arn ran to Garlan and Boot.

  Narl and Fannor had lifted their friends aboard, and were not far behind.

  ---

  “I didn’t even see ‘em fall, me prince,” Narl said weakly through tears and snot.

  “Nor I, Narl.” His brother sobbed as J’arn, Rocks and Garlan helped the brothers gently carry their drowned friends ashore. Shyla sat beside Boot, who now sat upright, watching the four carry out the solemn duty. Wolf had limped off into the woods.

  “They were still on the backside of the raft when I went after Boot. Nothin’ ye coulda done, ye can’t help what ye don’t see,” said Garlan. The dead dwarves were lain side by side, and Shyla could not help but notice their bare feet. Somehow, the naked toes made the dwarves appear more lifeless, as if their lack of boots was the result of some final indignity faced, one that all would eventually suffer. Shyla shivered, and Narl knelt down to close their milky white eyes.

  “I shoulda been watchin’, Starl.” Fannor knelt beside his brother. “Ah, Fury, I’m so sorry, me prince. I’m so sorry.” Narl and Fannor embraced one another, weeping pitifully.

  J’arn spoke quietly and slowly. “It was not your fault. The responsibility was mine. I shall hear none claim otherwise, nor lay blame on another. The Boiler was the path I chose.” The prince eyed Garlan then.

  Garlan frowned. “I suppose ye fear I’ll blame Boot, prince.”

  J’arn did not respond, but looked to the engineer, who was being helped to sit upright by Shyla.