Spawn of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  “Well, given the company you’re meant to rely on, I certainly understand. A gnome girl? A dwarf? A wretched cur like Luc–”

  “Why do you despise him so? Is it as he says, do you simply hate everyone who is not an elf?”

  “Hate? Certainly not. I hardly deliberate on the other races often enough to hate them. But in the case of Lucan not-Thorne, perhaps I do hate him. But not because of his race.”

  “Why, then? Has he wronged you?”

  Mikallis looked to Aria as if he was deciding how truthful his next words should be. “I suppose I do not like the way he looks at you.”

  Aria sneered. “And what if I do?” she thought and said in the same instant, regretting the words before they even left her lips. She scrambled to change the topic.

  “You said you are eager to see Eyreloch. Look around us, Mikallis. This ash will kill everything. Nothing will grow, and the balance that sustains all things will die. Think of our home, of the thousands of elves we have lost. The very world is cracking apart. You say we elves live long lives. That may no longer be true. Yet you are eager?”

  Several long moments passed before Mikallis replied.

  “I have a feeling that soon the truth of all things will be exposed, Princess. The nature of all people, and, yes, of all races. We are taught when we become Captains; only in the face of peril can the quality of a person be revealed. And in the face of this, the ultimate peril, I think you will discover who among you is deserving of your loyalty. Deserving of your love.”

  Aria shook her head in horror. “I do not need the death of all things to show me who I do and do not love, Mikallis Elmshadow! What a terrible–”

  “You misunderstand me, Aria. I am certain you know who you love. What you do not know, not yet, is who deserves it.”

  Aria’s expression turned to rage. “And you do?”

  Mikallis shrugged, his reply unnervingly dispassionate. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Only time will tell, and so yes, Princess, I suppose I am a bit eager.”

  Mikallis urged Triumph ahead. Aria shuddered.

  XIV: THE MAW

  Yer a fool Mister Lux, and no mistake.”

  “Shut your trap, Lady Thinsel, and pull them straps tight!”

  Gathering the materials needed to make the sled could have taken Lux the remainder of the day, but knowing time was his enemy, he made haste. Nova’s fever would progress until her mind boiled. The chill he felt in his bones was likely nothing compared to that which Thinsel endured; he had the benefit of movement to help keep him warm, as well as a generous layer of natural insulation. The gnome woman did not complain, but he knew she must be terribly cold. Now, with the afternoon behind them and the light of day fast retreating beyond the horizon, the oversized dwarf had finally managed to gather what was needed, and all that remained was to tie the contraption together and cut himself a walking stick; the snows were deeper here and would get deeper still as they made their way down from the hills. In the meager light, however, the tasks were far from simple.

  “Am I doin’ this right?” asked Thinsel.

  Lux nodded. “Aye, far as I can tell. Ye just make sure an’ tuck them ends under the knots, so’s they don’t come loose.”

  Thinsel nodded. “Tryin’ to. Fingers a bit stiff.”

  “Here, let me help.”

  Lux moved to tighten the knots Thinsel had been working on. After a few turns, he declared the task complete.

  “Best we can do. ‘Bout outta leather,” he said. “Gimme some room, now.”

  Thinsel moved to the side as Lux rolled a blanket-wrapped Nova onto the makeshift sled. “Now lay on top o’ her, Lady Thinsel, and I’ll wrap ye in tight-like.”

  “Yer a fool, Mister Lux,” Thinsel repeated as she did as Lux asked. “Ye coulda been half way to Belgorne by now had yeh just carried Nova.”

  “Bah. This’ll be faster.” Lux wrapped Thinsel as promised and tied the last of the straps that would secure her to the sled. “I’m tired o’ carryin’ women anyways. All ye do is complain about the ride. Maybe now ye can just take a nap and leave me in peace!”

  “And who’s gonna keep yeh from walkin’ off a ledge? Nah, yeh’ll be hearin’ me nag fer a bit still.”

  The two continued their banter for the better part of an hour as Lux marched through the snow towards the southeast, dragging the sled behind him. The rocky, uneven foothills became exceedingly difficult to traverse as the light of day faded, each step becoming more perilous than the last. On Lux marched, if not heedless of the danger, at least refusing to be dissuaded by it. Eventually Thinsel did fall asleep; the steady rocking of the sled in time with Lux’s steps and the relative warmth within the blankets proved a natural sedative. When several of Lux’s attempts at wit went unanswered, he knew the lonely part of his trek had begun. He paused a moment at the summit of a small rise to check on Nova. Lux recognized the telltale signs: rapid, shallow breathing; a weak pulse; impossibly warm skin. His friend of these many years would not last long, he knew. Her infection required the skills of a master healer.

  Lux resumed his slog, lamenting his inability to treat Nova’s infection. The scouts of Belgorne – Flint’s Five in particular – had a reputation for being prepared for nearly any eventuality. Lux recalled the song of his company, the tune every young dwarf could recite before they were old enough for their first mead.

  Boot need fixin’? Laces fell out?

  Forget the cobbler! Find ye a scout!

  Got ye a splinter? Need it dug out?

  Quit yer chuntrin’, go ask a scout!

  Never late, nor unprepared! Never tired, an’ never scared!

  Fear ye not when trouble’s about! All’s too well, just call on a scout!

  Lux had first heard the ballad early in his second lesson year, sung by a party of dwarven scouts parading through the underground city. The men and women of Belgorne lined the halls in celebration, overjoyed at their return; he recalled imagining that they must have slain some great beast, or perhaps won some mighty battle against an evil foe. He eventually learned what they had sung about that day; Captain Latimer Flint had rescued a company of scouts from a band of cutthroats who had intended to hold them for ransom. It was the moment the intrepid captain had gained his fame. It was not Flint’s deed, however, that inspired Lux that day, but rather the pride and joy he had heard in the boisterous song. The moment became true North in the compass of the young dwarf’s life, the single defining event that would guide his steps from that day forward, eventually leading to the fulfillment of a childhood dream that was born on that day: induction into the most legendary squad of soldiers in all of Belgorne, Flint’s Five.

  As with most childhood dreams, the reality of serving as a scout, even in Flint’s Five, proved far less romantic than the fantasy. Becoming a scout required a mastery of many skills; battle skills, of course, being paramount. But during a young soldier’s training, one’s skill with an axe would merely catch a captain’s eye, earning an opportunity to train with a sword and shield, or a crossbow, or, as in Lux’s case, twin dirks. Those who demonstrated extraordinary aptitude with multiple weapons would then be invited to train in a variety of other skills such as tracking, hunting, and countless other survival proficiencies. Prospective scouts would even receive rudimentary schooling in engineering. Finally, if a prospective scout exceeded his peer’s efforts in all areas, he or she would then be trained in field medicine and offered a position as a scout. The extensive education process was difficult; few made the grade. Those who did, however, embodied the qualities of courage, experience, and preparedness that were the hallmarks of a dwarven scout. Truly, if one needed a thing done, there was little chance a scout could not do it.

  Yet Lux could do nothing to help Nova, he knew. Nothing more than he was already doing; hastening to bring her to those who had more skill in healing than he, those who would perhaps possess some medicine potent enough to be of use. And so the muscular dwarf trudged forward, on through the snow, on through the dark
, his exhausted body protesting every step.

  Of all the abilities Lux had developed as a scout, the one he was most thankful for then was one that was not so much taught as a lesson, but rather discovered in due course: the virtue of mindless resignation. The hours spent swinging an axe as he trained in the regular army, the days spent practicing one’s balance in silence, knees trembling in exhaustion while executing a variety of uncomfortable stances… the grueling cycles in the early part of his training had felt, at the time, to be nothing more than torture, a series of sadistic orders given by equally sadistic sergeants, purposeless exercises in endurance that would never matter outside of the training halls. Eventually, he learned there was at least one function to the punishing regimens – to identify those who possessed the strength of body and mind to endure them. Those days would eventually prove among the easiest he’d suffer in his training; the forced marches he was later subjected to as a prospective scout required a degree of single-minded resolution that bordered on madness. In truth, Lux discovered, it was precisely that. A sort of madness was required for one to complete such marches, and once one discovered they possessed it, an odd sort of compulsion took hold, an obsession with discovering, and surrendering to, that odd, burning, euphoric state of being, again and again.

  The body would lie. It would complain that the legs could not take another step. They could. It would cry out for relief, bemoaning some minor injury, a blister perhaps, or a pulled muscle. It would send signals of revolt to one’s consciousness, as if the body were not subservient to the mind, as if the flesh was qualified to decide the limits of one’s spirit. It was not. Yet the body would never yield the argument; on the contrary, it became more persuasive with practice. Gentle requests became insistent demands, and as time wore on, a single, polite complaint of the flesh would become a cacophony of bawling grievances. Early in his training, Lux would indulge his body in those arguments, possessed of the erroneous belief that it was, in fact, a winnable quarrel in which he was participating. Eloquently he would dispute his body’s claims, reasoning that if only he could convince his aching joints of the superiority of his logic and persuade his bones to the mores of his cause, his mind would win out and he could continue on. It was not until it occurred to him that he was not in fact embroiled in an intellectual argument with his body, a foe with whom he could reason, but rather a shouting match with a sworn enemy, that the answer became clear to him: to end the quarrel, he must concede. He must accept the fact that his body was entitled to its complaints; he could not dispel them. He could only resign himself to the reality that he was expected to continue on, no matter his pain, no matter his fatigue, no matter the burning fire in his chest that threatened to turn his lungs to ash. Upon first discovering that – the talent of resignation, the true secret to dwarven endurance – Lux had believed himself near to immortal. He recalled sharing his revelation with Captain Flint one evening after completing a particularly grueling two-day trek. Flint had commented on how much better the young recruit had performed. Lux had been so proud; he had rambled on and on in reply to his captain, enthusiastically relating how he finally understood what it meant to be a scout, how he would never again complain at the announcement of a long march, how he even looked forward to the next. Flint had listened patiently until Lux concluded his rant. “Congratulations,” his captain finally replied. “Ye now know how to run yourself to death. Ye be as smart now as a horse.”

  Not quite, Lux told himself as he marched on, ropes digging painfully into his shoulders as he pulled the sled along. A horse’d been smart enough to leave the gnome. Lux chastised himself as soon as the thought took shape. He of course could not leave Thinsel behind; he had given his word. And even if he had not… his conscience would never allow him to turn his back on someone thusly. But I ain’t makin’ good time, he thought. And if Nova dies ’cause I be carryin’ this gnome along, then what? Ah, Fury. Can’t go faster anyways. Can’t see to. Blasted dark! Well, that ain’t true, neither… it’s the sled slowin’ me down. If I had Nova on me back, could go faster, no doubt. Bah, don’t matter. Couldn’t leave Lady Thinsel.

  Lux did not need to rely on his training to avoid an argument with his aching body. As the guilt of risking his friend’s life competed with the guilt of leaving a stranger behind to die, the conflict within his heart demanded his full attention.

  XV: THE NORTH MAW

  Oort had been doing as Jade urged him: walking slowly, listening, looking for deadwood. There was little risk of him violating the first instruction; the darkness of the night was near total. Even with his superior gnomish eyes, considerable care was required to avoid a misstep. Listening proved simple as well; the night was silent apart from the occasional whistle of wind. As for deadwood, there was none to be found along the tops of the hills. He could have chosen to walk the valleys; there, the remnants of fallen trees and branches would have been easier to find. But he would have almost certainly lost his way; without the distant flashes of lightning at the mouth of Fang as a guide, maintaining his direction would have been impossible, and to venture into the valleys would certainly mean he would lose his reference.

  The matter, however, was soon decided for him. The winds, which had been persistently blowing out of the east, had shifted as Oort traveled, pulling bitterly cold air over the mountains from the north – more importantly, however, they had altered the direction of the clouds overhead.

  The change was sudden. One moment, Oort was looking down at snow-covered feet he could barely see. The next, the very ground around him seemed to radiate a bluish light. At first Oort thought he was imagining the glow; perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him to counter the monotony. Perhaps he was losing consciousness. The effect was disorienting. Oort turned in a circle to regain his bearings and for the first time since Oort and Thinsel had escaped G’naath, he saw them. The Twins, Lor and Kal, shone brightly down on the awestruck gnome. So close to one another were they that at first glance they appeared not as two celestial objects, but rather as a single glowing oval. They did not overlap, not quite, but their brightness made it difficult to see where Lor’s shape ended and Kal’s began.

  Other sparkling splendors of the night sky became visible as Oort’s eyes adjusted to the brightness. He knew these to be stars, most of them, at least. Some were other worlds, it was said. Worlds like Tahr. Or so the texts said. Rather, so Shyla said the texts said. Oort was not much of a reader; all he knew about the night sky was what his daughter had taught him, and all she knew was either reasoned out on her own or discovered on some moldy parchment she’d stumbled upon.

  If Shyla calls ’em stars, they’re stars.

  The thought of Shyla broke the brief spell. If he was to see his daughter again, or see his wife again, he would need to survive – and to survive, he would need to do as Jade said: warm himself often, dry his clothing, and rest. His fear of losing his way was alleviated by the sudden brightness. He began to make his way down the hills where he might find wood for a fire and make camp.

  The going was not much faster, despite the light of the Twins. Each step had the potential to send Oort tumbling into a drift; more than once he stuck his stick into the snow where he had intended to place a boot, expecting to find solid ground a foot or so beneath the surface, but instead met no resistance at all, nothing but frozen powder as deep as he could reach. The near-falls into the deadly drifts convinced Oort to take his time, but his feet were wet, and his fingers were becoming numb; if he did not find a way to warm himself soon, he would risk incurring frost injuries that would never heal.

  Yet, eventually, he made his way to the valley and found what he was looking for: a fallen tree, dead for what must have been years, lying beneath a copse of other trees. As he moved to break branches off the fallen log, they snapped without resistance. This, Jade had told him, was the best wood to find. It would be dry inside and would burn well.

  Oort set down his pack and moved quickly to gather enough for a small fire. He deci
ded he would pitch his tent first as a windbreak before attempting to spark his kindling. The light of the Twins was more than bright enough for the gnome to manage the chore without much difficulty, and within a few short turns, he sat at the opening of the tent, ready to build his fire. The kindling did not catch on his first try with the flint and steel, nor the tenth, but eventually it did, and in time the freezing gnome began to thaw as he exchanged his wet clothing with the dry alternatives he carried in his pack. As he finally settled in, absently he tasted a salty droplet that had been playing at his upper lip. He was certainly not warm enough to sweat. Tears of relief fell from Oort Greykin’s eyes as he began to accept that he would not, perhaps, die that night.

  I’ll make it to yeh, Thinny. Might take me a bit, but I’ll make it to yeh.

  A wistful, keening howl challenged the sentiment, shattering the stillness of the night and splintering Oort’s newly minted resolve.

  The haunted sound was not so near that Oort did not have time to lace his boots, but neither was it far. He raced to fully dress himself, tying the dagger to his waist last. Its cold grip matched the ice in his heart; there could be no question as to whom the howl belonged, nor doubt as to her intentions. In that howl Oort heard his own loneliness, his own sorrow, his own aching grief and burning antipathy at the injustice of the fates that would separate him from his daughter, from his home, and now, from his wife.

  Mama had found Oort. She recognized him as her enemy and would have her vengeance.

  Oort could not see the dire wolf approach, nor from which direction, but he knew that she did. He also knew he could not hope to outrun her, nor could he defend himself. But neither would he choose the way out Jade had suggested, terrified as he was at the prospect of being torn apart while still living, for so long as he drew breath, he could fight, he could think, and he could hope.