Tahr (The Days of Ash and Fury Book 1) Read online

  Tahr is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  © 2016 by Sean Hinn.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America by Bobdog Books.

  ISBN 978-0-692-75644-7

  www.seanhinn.com

  http://www.facebook.com/TahrSeanHinn

  First Electronic Edition

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  I: MOR

  II: THORNWOOD

  III: G’NAATH

  IV: THE WHISTLING WENCH, MOR

  V: MOR, AND THE NORTHERN ROAD

  VI: G’NAATH

  VII: THE WHISTLING WENCH, MOR

  VIII: BELGORNE

  IX: MOR

  X: THORNWOOD

  XI: G’NAATH

  XII: HIGHMORLAND

  XIII: G’NAATH

  XIV: BELGORNE

  XV: MOR

  XVI: HIGHMORLAND

  XVII: THORNWOOD

  PART TWO

  XVIII: THE MAW

  XIX: MOR

  XX: THORNWOOD

  XXI: HIGHMORLAND

  XXII: THE PRAËR

  XXIII: THE MORLINE

  XXIV: MOR

  XXV: THE GROVE

  XXVI: THORNWOOD TRAIL

  XXVII: THE MORLINE

  XXVIII: MOR

  XXIX: THORNWOOD TRAIL

  XXX: THE MORLINE

  XXXI: THE GROVE

  XXXII: THE MORLINE

  XXXIII: THE GROVE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For Lady Emily, my heroine and queen.

  PROLOGUE

  Lucan stood beside the Elf on the ridge overlooking The Praër of Thornwood, once more bearing silent witness to the terrible scene. Before him, a vast expanse of grassy slopes yawned for a radius of miles around the Trine Crossing, and in that field lay an army of felled and falling elven warriors. To the right, the Pinestroke ran from the near eastern foothills to the western forest and beyond, parallel to the Trine. The ‘Stroke was a once endless procession of ancient emerald trees, marking the entrance to the homeland of the elven people. It now stood lifeless, branches barren of needles, blanketed in ash. A few days’ ride beyond the Pinestroke to the north lay the once tranquil and ageless city of Thornwood, though Lucan knew that it, like all lands of Greater Tahr, was no longer serene, no longer at peace. Thornwood was the beloved home of the Elf, he knew, but how he knew these things, he could not say.

  A thousand-pace expanse lay between the tree line and the river to the south, to Lucan’s left. There, the poisoned grey-yellow waters of the Trine thickened with the blood of elves and the ichor of the unnamable beasts they battled. The mighty river had once been a pristine and shining sibling of The Morline; now, the toxic vein of pestilence and blight no longer gave life to the land of Tahr, but stole it away greedily. Lucan had never before been to the Trine, yet he somehow knew what it had once been. He could visualize it in his mind clearly, unspoiled, not as an imagination, but as a memory. Further south beyond the river, the relentless surge of blackened, hairless, shrill and evil creatures again flooded the ashen Praër. Many days’ ride in that direction, Lucan’s own city had once stood, the Kingdom of Mor, the home of Men. He knew it stood no longer, yet still, he could not say how he knew.

  The scene before Lucan reminded him of stories he had heard as a child, legends of horrors millennia past. He recalled tales of when Fang had first emerged, the great volcano that towered at the muzzle of the Maw. In that all but forgotten age, it was said, Fang had not sprung from the world in a violent birth, but had gradually risen, lava pouring from its mouth, cooling, then spilling again over the course of many cycles, ultimately resulting in a soaring black thorn that protruded from the center of Greater Tahr. The land had been covered in ash, it was told, as it was in the scene before him. Indescribable beasts from the deep fiery pits of Fury had clawed their way from their eternal prison to make war upon the living, their aim to claim the world as their own. Lucan had once believed the stories were little more than a way to ensure the behavior of children; if the boys and girls of Tahr were not good, adults warned, their mischiefs would call the evil up to the world of the living again. The worst children would serve as the first meals of the devils.

  Lucan watched the battle play out before him, as he had a hundred times, and knew that the tales were not merely the conjuring of aggravated parents, but an accurate portrayal of a menace that Tahr had once faced, and was facing again. Heroic tales of men, dwarves, and elves of the days of Fang were enshrined in ballads that Lucan had performed countless times to earn a meal in a tavern. He recalled his favorite, The Ballad of Mulgar, a hearty drinking song about a dwarven king that had fought the minions of Disorder and rallied the peoples of Tahr to final victory.

  In the setting before him, no such heroics were to be found. Only death, and a single source of hope and light that stood beside him, the beautiful Elf, the ubiquitous and mysterious woman that had accompanied him to this hillside dream too many times to count. Yet Lucan was terrified to turn and look upon her, for he knew that when he did, she would vanish like smoke, and the nightmare would begin anew.

  Lucan knew he was not here. The knowledge comforted him, for truly being here would mean that the things he saw were real, and they could not be. No, in no world he wished to live would these dreads come to pass. Yet neither did he wish to awaken and return to his own world, a life in which he had no purpose beyond hustling his next meal, a life where he had run north, escaping the wrath of men he offended. His true life was one wherein his body most certainly lay dying, somewhere. Lucan allowed his hand to rest on the pommel of the sword at his waist, a sword with a name he could not recall, a sword he did not own, yet did. As his fingers gripped the weapon, he sensed again that here, in this life, he had a purpose. Here, his life had meaning, value, worth. Yet the cost of this reality was more than he could bear, for he knew his merit was inextricably tied to the monstrous horrors before him.

  In contrasting the values of his own reality and this one, Lucan had decided that the only thing he truly wanted from either was to continue to share the presence of the Elf. In this world, if only for fleeting moments, he could stand beside her. In the other, in his true life, he did not know her. Lucan decided then that, if he should ever awaken from this nightmare, he would seek out the beautiful Elf; he would find her if it took a lifetime.

  Lucan turned to look upon her, and again she faded like mist.

  I: MOR

  “And here we have a rider, come through the rains to peddle the lies of Evanti.”

  Barris resisted the urge to launch himself at the King of Mor, prepared as he was to be baited. The disciplined knight willed himself to stillness in response, and successfully so, appearing by all measure to have not even heard the layered insult. Layered, as he was certainly no mere rider, and it was well known that to accuse an Elf of dishonesty was a grave affront. More, a slight upon Queen Evanti was a dagger to the breast of any elf, and all the more so to Barris. A span of a dozen breaths passed in the drafty great hall, and despite the chill, a bead of sweat trickled its way down Barris’ forehead, winding its way down from his dark hairline, pausing to gather momentum at each wrinkle in his bronzed brow, finally coming to rest in the corner of his cobalt eye. Barris did not blink, nor did he wipe at his face, for he believed that to do so would prove to all assembled just how truly vulnerable he felt. The elf was the only one of his kind present among hundreds of onlookers; their delight at watching him twist was barel
y concealed. If he could have straightened his mount-weary spine any further he would have done so, if only to convince himself of his own façade.

  King Halsen’s yellowed, rheumy eyes followed the droplet down the knight’s face with dark amusement, desiring an early end to The Game, yearning for this lackey from Thornwood to speak out of turn, knowing that he would not. The moments passed, and Halsen beheld the knight. A bit tall and solid for his kind, unusually dark of hair, worn long and tied tightly at the back. He wore a light brown cloak, fastened at the neck with a hand carved wooden brooch indicating his title of First Knight of Thornwood. Despite having been told that the knight had ridden for days on end, the finely woven garment lacked a wrinkle, a smudge, or any sign whatsoever that the rider had been out of doors. His grey tunic and pants, unflawed by the elements…even his boots, made of soft leather, were laced to the knee with care and clean as the day they were first sewn. The weather had not been fair these past days, certainly not to the north, yet this wisp of a man – no, not a man, Halsen thought – stood before him as if he were entering a knight’s dress parade. Rather than causing the king to feel some grudging respect for Barris, or at least of his noble presentation, the elf knight’s cleanliness provoked Halsen to hate him all the more, to envy the pride (or more likely enchantments) that allowed him to appear so…so perfect. As it became clear that the knight would stand there like a witless fool indefinitely without speaking, the king gloomily conceded the contest, bloodlust giving way to impatience. His excuse to kill the rider may still be forthcoming, he knew.

  “Do you expect us to sit here all day, knight,” Halsen bellowed with a sarcastic emphasis on the last, “or are you planning to enlighten us as to why we must bear your presence in our halls?”

  Barris glanced to either side of the great bronze and leather throne the King of Mor sat upon, perceiving slight movement as the heavily armored Defenders relaxed their grips on their halberds, if only by a fraction. So feels he requires an excuse, Barris thought to himself, taking heart, knowing well the implications of such an observation. Barris replied, his deep, resonant voice contrasting with the congested tones of the king’s speech.

  “Her Majesty Terrias Evanti of Thornwood commands me to bring tidings of the north, my lord. As you are most certainly already aware, there have been rumors of instabilities in and surrounding our lands, and strange omens, perhaps heralding distress within the very land of Tahr itself.”

  “We have heard the grumbling of the mystics and wizards, knight. About your northern wood, and a thousand other things over the years that have come to no more than rat dung in the kettle. What of it?”

  Chuckles then, from the assembly, and a smirk from the king, pleased with his vulgar expression. Halsen held out his bejeweled right hand, and a goblet of wine was immediately placed within his chubby fingers by a servant Barris had not even seen standing behind the throne. Barris reminded himself to ignore the tone of the king, recalling his objective, and the warnings he was given. He is more than simply petty. Every part of him hates every part of everything else. Do not play into his hand, and do not underestimate him; he will try to goad you, and none is more treacherous.

  “You may not yet know the extent of the disruption, good king.”

  “Spare us the ‘good king’ nonsense, knight. I have not come to possess all that you see before you through benevolence.”

  Again, an echoing silence, and the guards stiffened, as Barris recognized that to speak here would assure his death; he was not asked a question, and thus, again, was not permitted to speak. Such was The Game, enshrined in law, in the throneroom of the great King of Mor. As the silence passed, however, he took notice that for the first time in the brief conversation, the maniacal king had referred to himself in the first person, as “I,” breaking his habit of using the haughty and royal “we”. In the context of his possessions. Perhaps that is the way…

  After another moment, the king held out his goblet, which was immediately replaced with a full one. He continued. “By all means, rider, tell your tale so that we might shed our need to suffer this intrusion.”

  Barris nodded, and told the king of all that his people had seen over the past few cycles. Ancient pines that had been tall before the oldest of his kind had been born, suddenly shedding half their needles overnight. A mass exodus of birds migrating south, a full cycle earlier than a typical year. Even the insects had begun to fade into winter early, while the temperatures had yet remained seasonable and mild. Most troubling, however, were the fires.

  “When I left the Wood to begin my journey to your Kingdom, King Halsen, I witnessed plumes of smoke from your own land rising in a dozen places. I have come to tell you that we of the Wood have experienced much of the same and that we, particularly Terrias Evanti, do not believe these fires to be natural, nor accidental. It is our Queen’s position that, despite our differences of opinion on some matters, both our kingdoms would be well served to work together to root out the cause of these anomalies.”

  The king began to cough…or laugh, Barris could not be sure, as the phlegmy, rattling sound emanating from Halsen would most likely be the same in either case. Barris had come to Mor promising himself to not despise the man out of hand, despite his character, which was well known to the elven people. Yet as he stood here, he saw a slovenly wretch who, despite the finery of his clothing, the magnificence of his marbled halls, and the grandeur of his throne, appeared to Barris as nothing more than a gluttonous street merchant who could not be bothered to comb the locks from his own hair, nor wipe the wine that was slopping from his mouth as he coughed it out. This man was anathema to all that Barris was, in appearance, civility, and heart.

  “Tell us, Knight of Thornwood,” the king’s voice was raised now, “why Mor should concern itself with the campfires and hearthfires of its people? Do you think us so cowardly, that a few wisps of smoke should send us into a panic? You either come here to mock us, or waste our time with the nonsensical ravings of that pointy-eared strumpet of a Queen you serve!”

  Barris’ right hand perceptibly quivered, longing to pull his sword free from its usual resting place in its sheath on his back. If it had not been confiscated on his arrival….none should be allowed to speak that way of his beloved Queen!

  No, Barris. Barris started; a female voice spoke gently in his mind. My pride is not worth the lives of our people. You must succeed. The voice that grazed his consciousness was truly that of his Terrias Evanti, not his own mind’s creation. No sooner did he come to that realization than did a warmth spread from his center to his extremities, calming him, bringing his mind and heart out of its agitation. Forgive me, my Queen, Barris thought to himself, wondering if even his very thoughts were known to her. Is she listening even now? he wondered, or did she merely enchant me with a reminder, set to trigger in the event of my impending failure? In either case, he quickly decided, he felt ashamed, both for his weakness and for Lady Evanti’s lack of faith in him. Yet as he chided himself, he knew that even his shame was vanity. Too much was at stake for his pride to factor here.

  With a deep breath, Barris brought himself back to the matter before him, and realized that he was asked two questions during the king’s outburst, but he did not end his speech with a question…should Barris reply? Would a failure to speak when expected to bring the same result as speaking out of turn? Damn these games! Barris thought for another moment, and settled on a strategy.

  “In answer to your questions, King Halsen of Mor, the power and bravery of your kingdom and its people are precisely the reasons I have come.” A slight pause, as the king slowly sat back a bit in his throne, the knight’s delicate phrasing apparently successful. “It is your wisdom we seek, as well. If, through investigation, you determine that these fires and other events are in fact nothing more than what is common and ordinary, then no harm has been done. If, however, you were to discover, as we suspect, that something unnatural is at work, you may rely upon the assistance of the elves of Thornw
ood to help do battle against their cause as your neighbor, and protect all that you possess.” Another slight pause, to allow the covetous king to consider the risk to his fortunes. “We merely seek to openly share with you what we discover in our investigations, and to request the same of your sages and advisors.”

  A slight murmur began to spread among the merchants and councilors assembled in the hall. Barris assumed they were most likely discussing the wagers that had been placed upon whether or not he would survive his audience with the king. He watched the king’s expression and demeanor, which did not exactly soften, but did somewhat diminish, and for the first time since his sword was seized in the anteroom as he awaited his audience, he began to believe that he might survive the day. Halsen examined his ringed fingers as he spoke, doing his best to appear bored and dismissive.

  “Your people are weak, knight. And that is why you have come, to seek our help in the unlikely event that something odd is afoot.” The king let the slur settle in the knight’s heart for a moment, then raised his gaze into the knight’s eyes. “But it would please us to prove your fears to be no more than the superstitions of a frightened and fragile people. Perhaps when we have done so, you will cease to disturb us with your babbling nonsense every time a swallow breaks wind in the wrong direction. Be gone, return in a cycle with your own report, and we shall have ours.”

  The knight had to force himself to bow before the king, as law required, as he began to take his exit, not only because the act was as distasteful to him as the king’s choice of language, but because after riding for nine days and nights without rest, bending from the waist - and returning to an upright position - was truly a feat of strength and resolve.

  “KNIGHT!” The king hollered as Barris had just turned away. Barris halted and turned back to face the man.

  “It will be you, in particular, to return for audience with us. Do not think to do so beyond the next zenith of the Twins; we would be greatly displeased.”