Tremors of Fury Read online

  Lucan drank several gulps from the glass, instantly feeling more refreshed and alert. “I am no thief,” he said roughly, looking from the knight, to the older woman, then to Aria. “I have stolen nothing. Where…where am I? Who are you?” He settled his gaze at Barris for a moment. “You…I remember you…a black horse…”

  The Vicaris sat beside him and drew his matted blond hair from his eyes. “No talk now, young man. Drink.” She offered him more of the refreshing water, and he accepted without complaint.

  “Perhaps some talk, Vicaris. I have questions for this man,” said the knight.

  “There will be time enough for that. Be glad for now that our patient has returned to us. Aria, how do you fare?”

  Aria had been drinking her own glass of the potent water, brought to her by Barris. “I am better, Vicaris. I…I am not completely sure what happened. I dismounted from Sera, and felt as if I were suffocating, as if all life had left my body–”

  “Not all, Princess,” said Barris. “But some. Your ride south with Sera was extraordinary, from what Pheonaris tells me. You should have not dismounted so quickly, and certainly not have given up your link to the Bond without assistance. The abrupt severing cost you and your filly quite a bit of suffering, which could have been avoided if you–”

  “Enough, Barris! The girl is fine. She did not know. You may educate her later. For now, go find something useful to do. You are no help here.”

  Barris frowned, unused to being chastised, but would yield to his elder friend’s wishes. “As you ask, Trellia. I will be in the stables. Inform me please when the man is sufficiently strong to withstand some questions.” He turned to the princess. “Aria.”

  “Yes?”

  He leaned in to kiss her forehead. “It is so good to see you, my little songbird.”

  Aria hugged him close. “You too, Bear.” She looked over his shoulder to the Vicaris. “Trellia, may I please go with Barris? I am well, I promise. I wish to see Sera.”

  “Not looking like that, you won’t. You need a bath, Princess. And a change of clothes.”

  “Ah, well, I suppose I do,” Aria replied, suddenly conscious of her disheveled appearance in the presence of the strange man.

  “We can get you a change of clothing at Pheonaris’ home,” offered Barris.

  The Vicaris frowned, and looked to Barris. “She is still not rested, Barris. Not to my liking.”

  “I will look after her, Vicaris.”

  “Hmph. Go then, but if you should not feel well–”

  “I will return, I swear it. Thank you, Vicaris.” Aria stood, Barris helping her to her feet.

  Aria paused, addressing Trellia. “And take good care of this one,” she said. “There’s something about him…”

  “Yes. So I keep hearing. Now go you two, and let me work.”

  Barris led Aria out of the warm, fire-lit cabin and into the cool dark of the evening. The sun had set a few hours before, and what would usually be a nearly silent Grove was bustling with activity. She walked arm-in-arm with Barris down the path towards the Spring. The flagstone walkway was lined with magically imbued orbs of glass balanced atop wooden staves, illuminating their route in a pale blue light. As her eyes adjusted to the dim glow, she could see elves and dwarves scurrying about ahead – dwarves!

  “Bear! Where did the dwarves come from? Were they here when I arrived?”

  “No, Aria, they were not. They arrived less than an hour ago; I have barely been able to greet them myself. I was about to speak with them when Trellia informed me that you had awoken. Shall we go visit Sera and Phantom, or would you prefer to meet our guests?”

  Aria looked to Barris for guidance, but found none. She very much wished to see the dwarves, but she felt that she must first check on Sera. And she did miss Phantom dearly as well.

  “The stables first, I think. Don’t you?”

  Barris smiled at the young elf. “In my heart, I do. But you are the Princess of Thornwood. Your duty would be to greet your guests. Let us do so, and then we will visit our companions. I assure you they are both well; I have spent the afternoon with them. They rest now.”

  “And Pheonaris?”

  “She rests as well. I promised her I would notify her when you awoke, but I would see her sleep a bit more first.”

  Aria nodded. “I don’t suppose you have seen Mikallis…”

  “No. Though Trellia sensed him on the winds today. He is not far. He will likely arrive at dawn, or near to it.”

  “He is safe then,” Aria said, to herself more than Barris.

  “It would seem he is well enough to travel, yes. Though, I cannot speak to his state of mind.” Barris paused. “Can you?”

  Aria avoided the question. “Is that…is that a dog?” she asked, pointing down the path as a smallish canine came racing at them.

  “That, my little songbird, is apparently Wolf.”

  “Wolf? But it’s…”

  “Woooolf! Get back here, yeh crazy furbeast!” Running behind Wolf was the smallest dwarf Aria had ever seen, but before she could realize her error, Wolf bounded up to Barris and began prancing and pawing at him playfully. Aria laughed and Wolf turned to her, determining immediately that the princess was also a suitable target for mischief. He danced around her, barking and jumping, and buried his nose in her backside as she giggled.

  “Wolf, now yeh stop that! Yeh don’t know that lady!”

  “Hello again, Shyla,” said Barris. “I would like you to meet Aria Evanti, Princess of Thornwood.”

  “Princess?” The gnomish girl looked mortified. “Oh, Lady, please forgive Wolf, he’s just a stupid little–”

  “Wolf!” Aria exclaimed happily as she knelt to pet the animal. “Aren’t you a pretty one, Wolf! That’s a good boy…” She scratched behind his ears and smiled at Shyla. “No need to apologize, Miss Shyla…ah…” Aria’s features creased as she saw the new arrival more clearly, and realized she was not in fact a small dwarf. The scarlet-haired, pigtailed young girl was a gnome! “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare…”

  “Oh, it be alright, Lady, at least yeh didn’t do what Prince J’arn did when he first saw me, and grab me from behind! Think his hand still hurts from where I bit ‘im!” Shyla laughed, recalling the memory.

  “Ah, I suppose not…”

  Wolf tired of the conversation, and ran up the path the way Barris and Aria had come.

  “’Scuse me, Lady. Wooooolf!” The gnomish girl raced after him.

  Aria watched them go, shaking her head. “Um, Bear?”

  Barris regarded her, smiling.

  “Was that a gnome?”

  “Yes. Yes it was. And quite a cute little gnome, don’t you think?”

  “Ah, well…yes. Very. But what is a gnome doing at the Grove?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I see. And…she brought a…a Wolf. And the Firstson of Belgorne?”

  “Correct. And several other dwarves. Although I am not sure if she brought them, or they brought her.”

  “I see. Bear?”

  “Yes?

  “I am awake, aren’t I?”

  “It would seem so, yes.”

  “You’re not going to tell me anything at all, are you?”

  “You know as much as I do.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  The pair arrived at the home of the Mistress of the Grove. “We will have our questions answered shortly, songbird.”

  ~

  “Hold still a moment, young man.”

  “Lucan.”

  “Lucan then. I am Trellia. Now, hold still.”

  Trellia held the cup of Spring water below Lucan’s hand and drew a small knife from her belt. Even Aria sensed it, she thought. Time to know for sure. With a smooth, fluid motion, she cut a nick in Lucan’s finger and dipped it in the glass. Lucan, to his credit, did not flinch at the small injury. Trellia withdrew his finger from the water, and almost immediately the wound began to close. The Vicaris watched the liquid c
losely.

  The pink-tinged water quickly turned clear again, but after a few moments, the liquid in the glass began to emit a faint glow–clear, white light at first, fading to blue, then violet, then gone. Trellia frowned and looked to Lucan. She placed the glass on the end table beside the bed and lifted the blond hair from above the young man’s right ear, looking for something. She did not seem to find it.

  “What is your surname, Lucan?”

  “Thorne, ma’am. Lucan Thorne.”

  “No, it is not.”

  Lucan looked away for a moment.

  “No, I guess it isn’t. I don’t know my surname. I chose Thorne myself. I like the sound of it.”

  “Where were you born, Lucan not-Thorne? And when?”

  “I… I don’t know for sure, ma’am. Mor, I think. Roughly twenty-five years ago.”

  “No, not Mor, I do not think. Could it be twenty-three?”

  “Years?”

  Trellia rolled her eyes. “Yes, Lucan, years.”

  “Well, I suppose. I don’t really know…”

  Trellia sat back. She looked Lucan in the eye, then to the glass, then back to Lucan.

  “Young man, you really have no idea, do you?”

  Lucan frowned. “About what?”

  The Vicaris shook her head, and turned her attention to the fire in the hearth. She was silent for a turn, then spoke quietly.

  “Father, what in Fury is going on here?”

  III: BELGORNE

  Gritson wearily entered the Hammer and made his way to the counter, his band of dwarven engineers taking their usual places around the bar. Or rather, they were Kelgarr’s band—Boot’s band, his foreman’s band. Gritson had only recently been promoted, and he wanted nothing more than to return to his former role as Boot’s second. It was not to be, however; Boot had left Belgorne in the company of Prince J’arn Silverstone a quarter of a cycle past, and would not be returning anytime soon.

  “Ye look like ye been wrestlin’ devils in Fury, Griston,” said the bright-eyed young barmaid Kari, the most sought-after prize in all of Belgorne. “This one be on the house,” she offered, presenting the engineer with a large horn of mead.

  “I must look bad indeed, Kari. Ye ain’t never bought me a drink in all me years. I thank ye.”

  “Never, eh? Ye mean, never since yesterday? Besides, ye might look a sight better if ye grew yer beard out again, Grit,” Kari teased. “Ain’t nothin’ there to hide the soot.” She leaned over the bar and tickled the dwarf’s bare chin, ignoring, for the moment, the calls for mead and nightnectar from the newly arrived patrons.

  “Keeps gettin’ singed by the damned embers floatin’ up from the pits. ‘Bout ready to shave me head, too.”

  “That bad?” she asked.

  “That bad,” Gritson replied. More calls for drinks interrupted the conversation.

  “Shut yer holes, ye impatient buffoons!” Gritson hollered back at his dwarves. “Can’t ye see Kari be about to propose?”

  Kari laughed sweetly. Grit’s engineers roared with derision.

  “Aye, she be proposin’ that ye take a bath afore ye burn her pretty eyes out with the stench!” said one.

  “Bah. They don’t know true love when they see it, me sweet Kari,” said Gritson.

  “Love, ye say? Now Grit, I can’t imagine Gennae would approve o’ such talk from ye.” Kari turned from the dwarf with a smile, sauntering away to serve her other patrons. Gritson and Kari had been best friends since their first lesson year, and eventually her younger sister Gennae had taken a liking to the dwarf. Now, as her brother-in-law, Grit happily served as Kari’s de facto protector at the Hammer. Drunken dwarves were, for the most part, harmless, but on occasion one would mistake Kari’s flirtatious nature for something more and cross a line. None would do so in Gritson’s presence, however, and so the pair made it a habit of implying that something more existed between them, to reinforce the idea that the woman’s affections were unattainable. One would think such an idea would cause a scandal, and related gossip would occasionally spark a flame, but those who knew the family best understood the nature of the relationship. In truth, Gritson never knew why the pretty dwarf had not yet married; she was affable and intelligent, loved and respected by everyone, sought by every unattached dwarf male in Belgorne, and perpetually single. Yet she did not seem to mind; on the contrary, she seemed to prefer her status.

  Gritson took a swallow of mead and heard the step of boots behind him. He turned on his stool to see two Sentinels approach, dressed and armed, clearly there in an official capacity.

  “Foreman, yer king wishes a word. Yer to join Master Jensen in the Hall, soon as ye be able.”

  Gritson frowned and drained his horn, standing. “I be able now. Lead the way.”

  ~

  The three made their way through the wide stony halls of Belgorne, deep beneath the mountains of the Maw, crossing the central thoroughfare that led to the forges and living quarters of the subterranean city, passing the markets, dining halls and kitchens. Their walk took the better part of an hour, the sprawling passages bustling with dwarves heading home after a long day of work. They arrived in Shan’s Hall, so named to honor the last dwarf to die in the Battle of the Maw as the dwarves of Belgorne had shut their gates against the world for the first time, ages past. Within Shan’s Hall sat the Sovereign, the first ancient dwarven throne built in the great underground city. The Sovereign, a towering seat that rested upon a worn stone dais, had been made from thousands of interlocking pieces of fine, white alabaster, the joints practically invisible, each piece intricately carved and masterfully fit to display a flowing relief of hundreds of inscribed names. Each name, scaled to the size of a dwarven hand, was that of a brave fallen dwarf of old, and for each name, a war axe had been hung in the walls of the Hall. Many of those ancient axes still remained, though many no longer did; legends told that when one fell from the wall, it meant that its wielder had fallen from his seat in Stonarris, having finally drunk his fill of mead.

  Upon the Sovereign sat Garne Silverstone, King of Belgorne, father to Firstson J’arn and his younger brother Dohr. Before him stood Dohr and Jensen, the elderly master engineer. Gritson approached and knelt before his king.

  “Forgive me delay, King Garne. ’Twas a long walk.”

  Garne nodded. “Ye need not apologize, Gritson. I hear ye’ve had yer hands full.”

  Gritson stood. “Aye, me king, me own hands and dozens more. Any word from J’arn?”

  “None yet, though I would not expect it. The company should be well on their way to the Grove; we won’t hear anything for a time.”

  “Aye.” Gritson looked to Prince Dohr and Master Jensen on either side of him; neither spoke, though both appeared solemn.

  “How can I serve ye, me king?” he asked.

  The king nodded to Jensen, who replied. “We’re needin’ to know how bad it is, Grit. And how bad ye think it’ll get.”

  Gritson’s eyes narrowed, unused to being in a position to report on such matters. “Well, Boot would be able to tell ye best, but–”

  “No, he would not,” this from Dohr, his tone derisive. “Boot ain’t here, because he insisted on following me brother on his foolish voyage. He couldn’t tell us what’s happenin’ in Belgorne today no more than an elf could.”

  King Silverstone spoke. “He left with my blessing, Dohr. Let it be. Go on now, Grit. Tell us what ye think.”

  Gritson cleared his throat, aware suddenly that he was in the middle of a disagreement within the royal family. “Aye, me king. Well, ah, it’s bad. I guess that’s about the sum of it. We’ve plugged nearly twenty holes or cracks this past cycle, and some of ‘em have been right big ones. The plugs ain’t gonna last, neither. Before Boot left, we covered the biggest yet, slapped mud in the seams and sealed ’er up tight, but the boulder’s already sunk a foot, and the hole’s gettin’ bigger. It’s the same all over, and we’re playin’ catch-up just to keep the stench down. Some o’ these holes be shallow
, but some, like that one, be hundreds of feet deep, and there’s this glow comin’ up with the fumes, and sounds, strange sounds… I swear, me king, it looks to me like either Fury’s comin’ up, or Belgorne’s goin’ down. Maybe both.”

  Prince Dohr shook his head. “Fury can’t come up, engineer. You exaggerate.”

  “Ye been down to the deeper tunnels, me prince? I dunno what ye would call it, but that’s what it looks like to me. I sure as snot ain’t lyin’ before me king, ye can bet a bag on that.” Gritson knew he had responded too harshly, but he would not be called a liar. “Apologies, me king, but I tell ye true. This ain’t natural, and it ain’t gettin’ better, it be gettin’ worse.”

  Jensen jumped in. “It’s as I said, King Garne. I may be too old to be much use these days, but me brain still works. Boot and me talked this thing up, down and sideways. We don’t see eye-to-eye on much, but on this we’re in agreement, and Gritson here confirms it.”

  Dohr opened his mouth to respond, then shut it with a glance from the king. The three waited in silence for Garne to consider Gritson’s report.

  Damn it all, the king thought. He knew what he must do, but he could not bring himself to do it. No, his people could not leave Belgorne, not yet. There was nowhere for them to go, in any case; ninety thousand dwarves would need shelter, and there was none to be had in Greater Tahr. Who would welcome them? Certainly not Halsen. Winter approached quickly. Food was surely to be scarce, as the flow of goods between Belgorne and Mor had slowed to a trickle over the past year. There were stores of grains, but they were limited, and they could not be abandoned. Yet by all accounts, the foundations of Belgorne were at risk of crumbling, and there was no way to know if the collapse would come gradually or violently.

  “How many crews do ye have right now, Jensen?” the king asked.

  “Ten, including Grit’s. A bit over two hundred dwarves, but only Grit’s crew has been assigned to pluggin’ the pits. The rest are assigned to the forges, the mines, or diggin’ out homes fer new families… regular duty, as it were.”