Tremors of Fury Page 6

  “Look, miss, a wolf has pointy ears–”

  Shyla stepped over to Lucan and kicked him in the shin, hard.

  “OW!”

  “Don’t you never make fun o’ Wolf’s ears! He’s just different, is all!”

  “Look, I didn’t–”

  “Stop, the two of you,” Trellia cut in. “Something’s wrong.”

  “What is it, Lady?”

  “I don’t know. Outside. Now.” Trellia rushed out the door.

  ~

  Aria listened attentively as the dwarves recounted their purpose for traveling to the Grove. J’arn shared the assessment of the dwarven leaders, and conveyed his kingdom’s concerns: the crumbling of the stone beneath the subterranean city of Belgorne had caused the appearance of dangerous, sulfurous pits. Boot elaborated, explaining how the damage had been accelerating over the past several cycles. The dwarves suspected an unnatural cause, and sought the assistance of the elven people in finding a solution. Garlan, the forgemaster, sought advice on how to sustain and reinforce the enormous forges in light of the growing instability of Belgorne itself.

  As Aria listened, she sensed the dwarves’ distaste in seeking the help of the elves. Her immediate instinct was to allay their concerns, to convey her people’s willingness to help, to ease the tension. Yet she also sensed there were details the dwarves were withholding and decided the best course was to be patient and seek the council of her elders before committing the elves to any course of action. In truth, Aria admitted to herself, she simply did not know how to respond to such serious matters. Her role as princess had been little more than ceremonial to this point; never had she been confronted with issues of gravity, nor expected to speak on behalf of Thornwood. She was not even certain if that was what was expected of her now; perhaps she should merely listen, be polite, and await her mother’s guidance. Glances at Trellia and Barris offered no additional clues.

  Barris was the first to speak when the conversation found a pause, his expression grave.

  “I see you carry two axes, J’arn Silverstone.” The First Knight of Thornwood glanced from the axe strapped to the prince’s back to the one at his belt.

  J’arn eyed Barris and responded after a moment. “I do, First Knight.”

  “You did not carry two from Belgorne,” Barris stated flatly.

  J’arn sighed, but did not lower his gaze. “I did not. Kelgarr carries a second as well.”

  Barris looked to Aria, then to Pheonaris, then back to the prince. “I am sorry, Prince J’arn. Truly.”

  “Aye. We took the Boiler, it was my decision, and I bear the fault.”

  “It was my suggestion, me prince,” added Boot somberly.

  Barris raised his glass. “To your fallen.” The elves followed suit, as did the dwarves.

  “Starl and Jender,” Prince J’arn toasted.

  “Starl and Jender,” repeated the dwarves and elves.

  The gathering quieted, and Aria sensed that she was meant to speak. Nervously, she began.

  “I…I am sure your Starl and Jender are at peace, Prince J’arn.”

  J’arn eyed Aria. “They were at peace before all this began, Princess. Aye, they be in Stonarris now, but they belong in Belgorne, with their kin.”

  Aria returned his gaze and considered how to respond when the barking began. Racing down the trail towards the gathering, yelping and howling, came Wolf. Shyla followed, not far behind but struggling to keep up. Wolf came to a halt before Pheonaris and crawled beneath her legs, clearly frightened by something.

  “What is it, Wolf?” The Mistress reached down to pat the animal. As her fingers brushed his fur, her eyes widened. She looked up. “Barris, Aria, the horses! Brace yourselves! Everyone!”

  There was no time to move. The ground began to heave, throwing the knight and princess from their seats. All around them elves and dwarves were tossed from their chairs and benches as the quake intensified. Shyla ran to Wolf, tripping and tumbling repeatedly in her effort to reach and protect the animal. The sound of cracking wood told Aria that the cabins of the Grove were taking damage. She immediately thought of Lucan and Trellia and turned to make for the Vicaris’ cabin, but her sense of direction was lost in the shaking.

  “Barris!”

  Barris did not respond; he was doing his best to reach the stables and safeguard the horses but had barely managed a dozen paces. Aria abandoned her efforts to gain her bearings; it was all she could do to keep from breaking an ankle as the land beneath her shifted and shook.

  Pheonaris, for her part, could not repeat her heroic magic from the previous quake. She had slept only a few hours after racing with Aria and Mikallis from the Trine, and could not center herself sufficiently yet to do more than maintain her own balance. She looked on helplessly as the dwarves were rattled and injured. Her initiates fared slightly better; some had chosen to float themselves, a dangerous and costly selection of magic. Others did as she did, using their energies to anticipate the movement of the ground, allowing them to ride the quake as a sailor would ride the sea. Others, the youngest, were too shocked to find their centers and were battered and bounced mercilessly by the quake.

  Gradually the movement relented. The sounds of trembling land were replaced by the groans of injured elves and dwarves. Wolf bounded into Shyla’s arms as she approached, knocking her over. Aria surveyed the scene, satisfied to see that no injuries were life-threatening. She turned to head for the stables to assist Barris when a familiar voice from the trail to the north rang across the Grove.

  “Aria!”

  “Mikallis!” Aria turned to see her friend stumbling towards the gathering. She raced up the path to meet him. Even in the meager sparklight, she could see the trail - and likely the quake - had left him poorly used. The elven captain was covered in dried mud and walked with a slight limp in his right leg. She reached to hug him; he grabbed her wrists to stop her.

  “No, please, let me look at you. Tell me you are alright.”

  “I’m fine, Mik. We’re fine. You…” Aria looked into her friend’s eyes and saw…something. “You do not seem well.”

  “I am not harmed.”

  “Where is Triumph?”

  Mikallis frowned. “I do not know. He was not there when I awoke. I suppose he abandoned me.” The captain’s tone was dark.

  “No, not Triumph. He has been your mount for years–”

  “And you have been my friend for a lifetime, yet…” Mikallis shook his head, as if he were having some internal argument. “No, I am sorry. You did what you had to.”

  “Well, yes, I did...” Aria frowned. She could not define what she felt at that moment, but it was unpleasant. Mikallis was not himself.

  “Come,” she pulled at his hands. “You need to see Mistress Pheonaris. I don’t think you are well, Mik.”

  Mikallis pulled away. “No. Barris. I wish to see Barris. I thought I sensed him… is he here?”

  “Yes, I think he is at the stables, I was just about to go myself–”

  “No. Please. I must speak with him alone. You are well, then?”

  “Yes, but Mik–”

  “I will find you shortly.” Mikallis broke into an unbalanced jog towards the stables, his limp clearly indicating that the elf was in some pain. Aria felt certain, however, that his true pain was not due to a wound of flesh, but to pride.

  Aria returned to the dining area to see elves and dwarves leaning on one another, several suffering injuries. Pheonaris was binding the leg of a dwarf and called to her.

  “Is Mikallis well?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s definitely not himself.”

  “No, he wouldn’t be. Help me here. Hold this bandage while I tie it.” Narl gritted his teeth in agony as the Mistress bound his leg.

  Aria bent to assist but fell to her knees as a flood of tangible dread washed over the Grove, carried by a breeze from the north. Her skin broke into bumps; her bones froze. Nausea gripped her. She felt her blood thicken and her heart slow as she heard
the elves of the Grove begin to keen sorrowfully as one.

  “Oh, Father, no,” Pheonaris whispered, tears already streaming down her face.

  “What… what is this, Mistress?” Aria was terrified.

  “The winds carry death, Aria. So much death.”

  IX: BELGORNE

  Laine Gritson, Jr., tossed and turned beside his wife Gennae, his thoughts from the meeting with King Silverstone battering his mind like pointed shards of stone. Sleep would not come this night, not any time soon. There was something he was missing, some piece of the puzzle that did not quite fit. The unsettling feeling pricked and prodded at his subconscious relentlessly; it would not be ignored.

  Gritson was good at puzzles and challenges of the mind. Extraordinarily good. His earliest memory was of disassembling the bars on his crib, escaping his room, building a makeshift stairwell of books and boxes, and climbing into the highest cupboard in his family’s kitchen to rummage for treats. He had found the basket of butterrocks and proceeded to unwrap and eat every last one. Unfortunately, he was too frightened to climb back down. He would not call for help, however. Despite being little more than a toddler, he knew he had done a forbidden thing. So, in the cupboard he stayed, all night, waiting for morning, hoping beyond hope that it would be his father to find him and not his mother, of whose wrath he was far more certain.

  He awoke that morning as his father was laying him back in his crib. He looked up at his father’s face, certain to see disappointment, but instead was greeted by a smile, a wink, and a kiss on his forehead–followed, of course, by a stern, silent, shaking finger, for good measure.

  This was no sweets raid, however, and his father was no longer here to rescue him. This…this could be the doom of my kin, he thought. Gritson rose quietly, abandoning efforts at sleep, and made his way to his family room. He felt his way along the walls of his darkened home, searching for the poker hanging beside the mantle. He found it and stirred the ashes in the fireplace. A small flame kindled within the embers and he lit a candle, transferring the flame to an oil lantern. He returned down the narrow hall, stopping to look in on Laine the Third.

  Rear end high in the air, drool on the pillow, his carrot-topped son slept soundly on the small bed, oblivious to the cares of his father and fears of his people. Laine III, now five years old, would be beginning his first year of lessons at the start of the coming year, now less than a cycle away. Gritson stood in awe at this as he considered his young son. How quickly he had grown. How long would it be, Gritson wondered, before he would put aside the toy soldiers and blocks in favor of a hammer, or a book, or an axe?

  Perhaps much sooner than I had hoped, Gritson lamented. Things would be changing now. Even Three’s lessons would, perhaps, be postponed. Of course they will, Gritson decided. Soon there will be no libraries, no classrooms…

  Gritson had wavered between alternating feelings of despair and fear since his meeting earlier that day, but now his heart bent to anger. As much as he despised the idea of war, there was no denying Prince Dohr’s logic. Spontaneous fires throughout Tahr. Maelstroms in the Sapphire. The eruption of Fang. Tahrquakes. The very foundations of Belgorne crumbling–yet not a whisper from G’naath? On the walk back to his home earlier that evening he had convinced himself that the gnomes were merely hiding their troubles, or hiding from them. Perhaps the traders had been ordered not to speak of their own woes. It must be that, he had decided. In speaking with Gennae, however - his no-nonsense, brilliant wife - he had deserted the notion. Gnomes, she had reminded him, were insufferable gossips with a penchant for drama, and the traders were the worst of them. Gnomes were widely accepted to be a panicky sort, and Gennae was sure that if G’naath had been experiencing similar struggles to what Belgorne had suffered these past few cycles, they would likely have descended into civil war, or worse. Reports from the traders of any such chaos were notably absent. The only conclusion one could rationally draw, Gennae had argued, was that they were largely oblivious.

  Gritson decided to walk the forgeway as he considered the impossible question. He pulled on his boots and made his way out of the Gritson family quarters, down the halls and towards the central stairways at the main crossing. He passed a few dwarves coming home from a late working shift–or drinking shift–but for the most part, Belgorne slept as Gritson puzzled.

  Something was missing. Even if Dohr’s suspicions proved true, how in Tahr were the gnomes accomplishing it? The very concept defied physics. A tahrquake was not a thing that could be contained. It could not be avoided. It could not be felt throughout Greater Tahr and not felt in G’naath. Neither could it be caused, not by any means Gritson could imagine. No person, tribe, kingdom or race could instigate the eruption of a volcano. No, there was simply no natural explanation–but that were Dohr’s point, were it not? These events were most certainly unnatural. Magic. No doubt. Great and terrible magic. But what in Tahr possessed such a power, and how in Fury had the gnomes gotten hold of it?

  Gritson turned when he reached the crossing and crashed straight into Kari as he rounded the corner.

  “Hey, watch where… oh, hello there, Grit!”

  “Hi, Kari. What are ye doin’ here?”

  “Just closed the Hammer. Late crowd tonight. What’s yer excuse?”

  “Can’t sleep. Thought I’d walk the forgeway fer a bit. Wanna come?”

  “Well, sure, but people will talk…” Kari winked at Gritson and took his arm.

  “They already talk. It’s good to see ye. It’s been a rotten day.”

  “It’s not every day ye get summoned by King Silverstone. Musta been important,” Kari said, letting the unasked question hang in the air between them.

  Gritson considered how much he should tell her, and decided that it would be best to remain vague, for now. He would get the families together for supper, he quickly decided, and share what he knew then. He would be expected to keep his counsel with King Garne, Prince Dohr, and Jensen in confidence until after the assembly.

  “No, not every day. We’re decidin’ on how to handle these damnable pits, and with Boot gone, the lot of it be fallin’ on me.”

  They reached the wide, winding stairway and began to climb the polished stone steps to the upper walkway, fifty feet above where they stood. After a moment, Kari spoke her mind.

  “Ye be lyin’ to me, Grit. There’s more.”

  Gritson shook his head and replied after a pause. “No, not lyin’, Kari. But aye, there be more. I just can’t talk about it, not just yet.”

  “Not even to me?” she asked sweetly, squeezing his bicep as they reached the second landing.

  Gritson took a breath. “Yer wiles have no effect on me, Kari. Wily as they be.”

  “Hmph. Clearly.”

  They had nearly reached the top of the stairs when the first tremor struck. They froze in place.

  “Grit.” Kari’s unsteady voice betrayed her terror.

  “Down! Back down, now!” Gritson wrapped his arm around Kari’s waist and began to guide her down the steps, but the second wave of trembling stole their feet from under them. They bounced and slipped on the smooth stone to the second landing as the shaking grew more violent. A crack began to wind its way down the center of the stair from above, widening hungrily.

  “Get up! Go!” Gritson pulled Kari to her feet, the two bouncing wildly between the railing and the stone wall as they made their way down the next flight of stairs. Kari fell again and tried to use the railing to pull herself upright. The rail fell away in a crumbling cascade of stone and dust. She screamed as she began falling over the edge.

  Gritson barely managed to maintain his grip on her wrist and pulled the panicking dwarf from the edge with a heave. The two slammed into the concave wall, Gritson’s shoulder smashing violently against the stone. The shaking did not relent; they continued their unsteady descent as quickly as they could. They reached the bottom just as the stairway separated from the wall and came crashing down behind them. The booming report of a massive
chunk of stone smashing to the floor sent them to their knees; the pair covered their heads as chips and shards of rock assaulted them from behind.

  Kari led the way then, pulling Gritson behind her as they ran down the hall to the living quarters. No words needed to be spoken; they would make for Gritson’s home to protect Gennae and Three.

  At some point during their run the shaking had stopped, though the chaos had worsened. The sound of cracking stone was replaced by shouts for help and cries of pain. Dwarves ran up and down the hall in both directions, all frantically trying to reach someone they cared for. The tide gradually shifted firmly against Gritson and Kari, however, and it became clear that they were the only two dwarves heading deeper towards the home halls. Everyone else was rushing to escape.

  A hand grabbed Gritson’s collar from behind. Jensen.

  “Ye cannot go that way, Grit!”

  “Get off me, ye old bastard! Me family’s down there!”

  Jensen released Gritson’s collar, horror etched on his features. Gritson did not miss the look but turned and continued to run with Kari nonetheless, accelerating as they rounded the curve in the hall that meant they were approaching Gritson’s home.

  It was Kari that time to save Gritson. She grasped the waistband of his pants just in time to prevent his descent.

  Before them yawned a hotly glowing chasm, a hundred paces across, impossibly deep. The living quarters of Belgorne were gone, lost to sulfurous depths, and with them, Gritson’s wife and son…his sweet Gennae and perfect baby boy, Laine Gritson the Third.

  Without a word, without a pause, Gritson jumped.

  X: G’NAATH

  “Yeh’ll be knowin’ there were a time when I were younger, and I ain’t ’shamed to say I once had a bit o’ fire in me,” Cindra said, her gnomish accent becoming thicker as she spoke of the past.

  “And yeh ain’t still?” Thinsel asked.

  “Not like then. Yeh know our history. Gnomes weren’t always the passive folk we are t’day, and we got plenty to be ’shamed about. There be good reasons the dwarves don’t like us much. We been on the wrong side o’ many a war. And there ain’t many of us have magic, but the ones that do, we all got it from the same place.”