Tremors of Fury Page 9

“Buildings crumble. Elves die. It is as it must be. But the winds bring good news as well. The Grove remains. Your daughter yet lives. Barris yet lives. We have lost many, but many more remain. We are privileged to serve those that do.”

  “You are as wise as you are strong, my dear knight. Your wife and son, they are well?” She knew it to be so, but asked as a courtesy.

  “They are, all blessings from the Father.”

  Terrias smiled warmly and squeezed the knight’s hands. “I am joyed for you, truly. Let us go ensure they remain so. There is much to be done.”

  Marchion flagged a passing rider. “Soldier! You there.” The rider pulled up.

  “Corporal Thain, Sir, reporting.” A nod to the queen. “My lady.”

  “Send for Tobias and request a company of Swords to attend the queen at the Lovers.”

  “No need, Sir. A squad stands guard and General Tobias has set up a command center there.”

  “Very well. Carry on.”

  The soldier nodded. “Lady Evanti. It is good to know you are safe. All blessings.”

  “All blessings, Corporal. Be well.”

  The rider turned north and rode off at a gallop as the queen and her second knight made their way to the fountain.

  ~

  The pair arrived to see that General Tobias had, in fact, set up a command center. Several large tents had been erected in the cul-de-sac in addition to dozens of smaller ones, even the smallest large enough to shelter several elves. Tables, chairs and bedding had been brought to fill the temporary homes. The scene reminded Terrias of the gay annual festivals on the Praër, but for the lack of music and dancing.

  The general approached and bowed deeply. “Lady. I have prepared your temporary chambers. There are not yet many amenities, but there is a basin installed for you to wash if–”

  “I require no amenities, nor a bath, General. Only my councilors.” The queen’s tone had regained its air of command. “Have you designated a tent for our meeting?”

  “I have. This way please, though…”

  “Yes?”

  The general looked to Marchion, receiving no help. “Ah… Lady… you are covered in blood, and in your nightclothes.”

  Terrias looked down at herself for the first time since dawn. She was, indeed, covered in caked, dried blood, and wearing her torn nightdress. Yet she would not be dissuaded.

  “Your cloak, if you would?”

  “Of course.”

  “Lead the way, General.”

  The three wound through the maze of tents, Terrias discovering to her shock and joy that the Lovers remained intact, no doubt a result of the magical protection bestowed on the statue over the centuries. They walked until they arrived at the largest tent, the queen giving and receiving words of encouragement to and from exhausted and grieving elves as she passed. The command tent had been fashioned of thick green canvas, tall as three elves, large enough to seat dozens comfortably. Within sat a newly built oak table, and around it her remaining and present councilors stood. Queen Evanti made her way to the head of the long table without delay as Marchion and Tobias took their places.

  Three oil lanterns had been lit and set, one each at the positions around the table that would normally be occupied by Neral, Malkren, and Margris. The table was much larger than it needed to have been; the empty seats amplified the somber atmosphere.

  Terrias began without delay.

  “Kar enna spen ai den bestu Nü glahr ai blei.” May our words and deeds give you honor and joy.

  “Glahr ai blei,” the council answered in refrain.

  “Before we are seated, I wish you to know that I stand before you covered in the blood of four elves. One, a soldier, whose name is not known to me. His chest was pierced by a shard of wood. He died gasping in my arms. I could not save him.” A pause. “The second was an elderly woman. Her arm had been severed at the shoulder by a sheet of glass that fell from the Citadel. Sir Marchion and I thought we had stopped the bleeding, but we had not. Her heart had merely stopped pumping. We could not save her.” Sir Marchion bowed his head. “The third is a young girl, four, perhaps five years of age. We found her screaming. A falling stone from the Citadel had smashed her feet… her tiny feet…” Terrias swallowed. “She screamed for an hour, words and phrases that should not be known to a child, shrill sounds that should be made by no human. Three healers and I managed to repair her flesh and bones, though we could not stop her pain. The trauma was severe; I do not know if she will live.” A final pause.

  “The last is my own blood. Very little of it. But with every drop in me that remains, I swear to you this: these lives lost today will be avenged. On all that I am, on all that I will ever be, on all that I hold dear and before the Father who gave me life, Ni oäsh’e en!” I vow it! The queen’s voice thundered throughout the makeshift camp; all nearby had heard her oath.

  The assembly stood passively as Queen Evanti allowed her gaze to settle on each of them in turn. After several turns she spoke again.

  “Please be seated.” She awaited their compliance and remained standing. “You have all lost those you love today. You sit here by the grace of the Father, no more. For all your losses, I am deeply sorry. But we will not discuss them today, nor shall we address the empty seats at this table. We do not grieve today. The people of Thornwood will grieve more than enough on our behalf. We are its leaders, and we will act. Do I speak for us all?”

  The councilors agreed as one.

  “Very well. Please remove these lamps.”

  Without hesitation, those closest to the empty seats removed the lamps and placed them on a far table. Queen Evanti noticed an expression of…something…from Nishali.

  “You think my break with tradition dishonors them, Nishali?”

  The ranger looked up, startled. “No, my queen. No, the opposite in fact. I…I think you do them great honor.”

  “Explain.”

  “I cannot imagine Neral wishing to be represented by a glowing candle while we all stare at it, weeping about his death, not when so much needs doing. He was a knight, my lady. And Margris, Malkren…they were no less honorable.”

  “You speak with wisdom, Nishali. I misread your expression.”

  “No, you did not, my queen. You read my rage correctly.”

  Evanti nodded, addressing the others. “Before we get in to specifics, it is required that we all see this threat through the same lens. Neral told us much of what this danger is that we now face. I have now reached the conclusion that he was correct. Fury rises. There can be no other explanation. A tahrquake with its epicenter directly beneath the Citadel…a chasm swallowing the castle whole…this preceded by another quake, one that appeared to directly target my daughter as she rode for the Grove. This is not natural. Only a fool would call these events coincidental, and I see no fools before me here. This power has been focused directly at the elven people, and if my sources are correct, at Belgorne as well. I require, right now, for any of you who disagree to say so.”

  Terrias waited. No one spoke.

  “Very well. We are in agreement. Now, how do we wage a resistance against such a foe, against the very power of Fury?”

  “Point me at a target, my queen, and my Swords will lay it to waste,” said Tobias.

  “As will my knights,” said Marchion.

  “So long as they queue behind my rangers,” added Nishali.

  “Yet it is not so simple, is it?” said Kender, Hand of Justice. “No enemy has shown itself. We can only make assumptions based on the little we know.”

  The queen nodded soberly, finally taking her seat. “And what do we know, Kender?”

  “We know that G’naath is wholly unaffected. We know that Mor faces hardship, but mostly of its own doing, apart from the ashfall. The quakes have not been as severe there. Now, I am no student of the sciences, but it would seem to me that the power of a tahrquake would radiate evenly outwards from its epicenter – unless someone, or something, was… ah I cannot even imagine the power
it would take to shield an entire city from such force. But that is what has been reported.”

  “So. We must assume G’naath is behind this somehow, correct? And possibly Mor? There can be no other explanation.” asked Sir Marchion.

  “Mor? I doubt it. The wizards of Mor command only the new magics, and this must be old power.”

  “Then what protects Mor?” asked the queen. “Perhaps Mor is simply not being targeted, and is therefore only proximally affected.”

  “That is sound reasoning to my mind,” agreed General Tobias. “So then: G’naath protected, Belgorne and Thornwood targeted, and Mor, merely a casualty. We must then logically lay the blame on G’naath. Long have the gnomes been aligned with dark forces. It has always been so.”

  “You speak too broadly, General. Say it is G’naath. What is G’naath, though? It is an underground city filled with what, twenty thousand gnomes? Should we assume they have all banded together, beating drums to cause tahrquakes and the destruction of the world? Nonsense,” said Kender.

  “They are involved somehow, Kender. They must be,” said Tobias.

  “But who is they? Which gnomes of G’naath do you accuse? Name them, and I will arrest and try them myself.”

  “Does it matter?” asked Nishali. “If we lay G’naath to waste, we’re bound to find the culprits.”

  “Where, in the piles of bodies?” said Kender, his voice rising.

  “Yes! Exactly there, impaled by my own arrows!” exclaimed Nishali. “Queen Evanti, I am under no illusion. Such a course will kill innocents. But what of the innocent elves we will bury today? What of the ones that we will never even find to bury? What of those who burned alive beneath the Citadel? What of those deep in the forest who may have died with none to even mourn them? We are at war, my queen, a war we did not choose, and in war, innocents die.”

  The queen’s tone darkened. “We are at war when we, as a council, declare it, Nishali. And our council is not fully assembled.”

  “Marchion speaks for the knighthood,” replied the ranger. “Pheonaris…her ballot is a foregone conclusion; she would never vote for war. Tobias and Marchion, you must agree with me, do you not?” Tobias nodded immediately. Marchion did not. Nishali continued as if he had. “And three of those who would vote today have been murdered by those who make war upon us! I would suspect that they would vote to not allow other good elves to come to the same end.”

  Kender chimed in, shaking his head. “Nishali, by our laws, we lack a quorum. And I am sure we all agree, now is not the time to declare a new Goodelder, nor to replace Margris and Malkren. Such appointments require serious deliberation.” All nodded, even Nishali. Kender looked to the queen. “Lady, we cannot hold a binding vote of war.”

  Terrias nodded, having resigned herself to this eventuality before the meeting had begun. She knew the laws. “No, we cannot, Kender. Which means it falls to me to make an interim declaration.” The assembly quieted as the queen considered the question for several turns. Her expression belied her indecision; the council was therefore shocked when she spoke once more.

  “My heart lies with you on this, Nishali. I would avenge our people. I have vowed to. I do not relish the idea of war, but we did not initiate it.”

  “Lady, the evidence is not so clear!” said Kender.

  “Is it not?”

  “Not to me! Why could this not be the work of another entity, arranging circumstances to implicate G’naath?”

  “The simplest explanation is usually correct, Kender.”

  “Usually? Are you comfortable with the idea of killing thousands of gnomes, and certainly losing many good elves in the process, on no more than the premise that an idea is usually true?”

  The queen’s voice strengthened, her righteous anger rising to the surface. “Does any other explanation present itself, Kender? Our people are dying! I will not stand idle!”

  “Lady, what of your daughter’s quest?” pleaded Kender. “She has made the Grove, I hear. Has she discovered anything, anything at all?”

  “Not that I am yet aware of, no.”

  “We must give her time, my queen. Please, we must not act rashly!” said Kender.

  “How much time?” demanded Nishali. “The next quake may shatter the world, for all we know. If it is even possible that G’naath is somehow calling Fury up from the deep, we must act now, before there is no Tahr left to save!”

  The council continued to argue, all but Sir Marchion. His mind was elsewhere, recalling a children’s tale, an oath he once took, a whisper of ancient knowledge he carried, a secret he had been guarding for over a century. As he wandered the landscape of his memories, only obliquely listening to the argument before him, it became clear that the question of G’naath was not the right question at all.

  Finally, Sir Marchion interjected, his tone somber. “The next quake will not shatter the world, Nishali,” he said.

  The argument stopped. The ranger looked at the knight, incredulous. “What? How can you know this?”

  “Because there will be three.” He looked to the queen. The others did as well, confused.

  Nishali read her queen’s silence correctly. “What are you not telling us, Queen of Thornwood?”

  Ah, good Neral. You saw it all so clearly, thought the queen.

  The queen looked to the knight, recognizing that Sir Marchion desperately needed her to understand and support his deduction before he would feel permitted to expand further. She did understand, and though it terrified her to the core, she knew that his revelation was correct.

  Queen Terrias Evanti spoke slowly, deliberately, reciting the passage of ancient prophecy:

  “Scores of flame and quakes of three,

  Ash will portend thy fate to thee.

  On fiery wings, thy doom shall dive,

  Thy ramparts held by only Five.”

  The council sat silent, all but Nishali. “You can’t be serious,” she scoffed.

  The queen gravely regarded the ranger. “I wish I were not. This has all been foretold, Ranger.”

  “In a children’s tale! This is madness!”

  Sir Marchion spoke. “No. It is not madness.” Nishali stood to object. “Wait, Nishali, please!” He looked to Queen Evanti, seeking guidance. “My queen?”

  She nodded. “Please, Sir Marchion. Speak freely. Now is the time.”

  “It should be Barris to say these words, Lady. Not I. It is his sacred duty.”

  “And yours in his absence, Sir Marchion. Barris faithfully discharges his duties where he is, of that I have no doubt, and he would expect you to do the same.”

  Marchion nodded submissively. He stood before the assembled elves, his imposing frame lending weight to his words, and began to speak.

  “There is a legend that stands as the very heart of the knighthood, the very reason our order exists. It is known only to a few: we knights, the king or queen of Thornwood, and the mistress or master of the Grove. It is a secret we are sworn to guard, and a duty we are specially trained to uphold. But…but I admit, I truly thought it no more than a parable, a myth to inspire heroism… until now…”

  XIII: THE GROVE

  “This makes no sense, Pheonaris,” declared Trellia. “It has no effect.”

  “Heh, I wouldn’t say that, elf!” said Boot, hopping from one foot to the next.

  “No effect on the quake injuries, dwarf,” said the Vicaris. “You know what I meant.”

  “Well, I know that juice fixed me up just fine! I thought I were gonna be ridin’ in that damned litter for another cycle at least.” Boot’s injury from the Boiler had been completely repaired since the night before, when he had tasted his first sips of the potent Spring water.

  The mistress shook her head. “I do not understand it either, Trellia. Lucan is fine. Boot’s leg is healed, utterly. Narl’s twisted leg, however…it’s totally unaffected. Same with the wounds of the initiates, and the scrapes on Triumph’s legs.”

  “Triumph?” asked Aria.

  “Ye
s, he returned sometime in the night,” said Trellia.

  “Is he well?” the princess asked.

  “Well enough, only a few scrapes. But the Spring water did nothing to heal them. I had to make him a salve.”

  “Perhaps it is as they say,” Aria said.

  “What is as who says?” asked Lucan, casually biting at an apple. He had approached a moment earlier. Boot’s expression made clear that he shared the young man’s confusion.

  The elven women looked at one another, and back to Lucan. “Do you not know the stories of the waters of the Spring?” asked Pheonaris.

  Lucan and Boot shrugged in unison.

  “Well then, I will summarize,” said the mistress. “The Spring heals whomever it chooses to. It is not known why it chooses to heal one, and not another.”

  “Well, it is not known, but there are theories,” added Aria.

  “Wait,” said Lucan. “Are you telling me the water has…what, an opinion?”

  Trellia replied drily. “It would seem so.”

  “Ha! Well, looks like my dwarf friend here and I are of fine character indeed, for your elven waters to have taken such a liking to us!”

  Aria bristled. “And yet it would deny healing to the very elves who dedicate their lives to tending its waters? In favor of you two?”

  “Hey, what’s the matter with us?” asked Boot, offended.

  “I…I didn’t mean…”

  “I think she means we’re second-class, Mister Boot,” said Lucan with a hint of mischief.

  “No, of course not, I only meant–”

  “Enough, please. I need to think,” said Pheonaris. She and Trellia walked a few steps away, speaking quietly between themselves as Aria took a seat across from Lucan. Boot headed up the path toward the cabins where J’arn was awaiting his return, leaving the pair alone for the first time since their initial meeting.

  Lucan took the opportunity to sit beside the spring and finish his apple, gazing at the divided skies. Directly above them and to the east, it seemed as if a wall of gray death had approached in the night, only just overtaking their position. To the west, a crisp blue sheet of autumn sky extended to the horizon, unblemished by even a wisp of a cloud. Aria sat to join him, and he regarded her as she did so, noticing that she had cleaned up quite well since he had seen her last. Neither did he fail to admire the fact that she cut a striking figure in her snug grey leggings and fine silken blouse. She wore a flowing green mantle about her shoulders, the fabric as lush as anything Lucan had ever seen. Her platinum hair spilled casually down her neck on one side, teased by a gentle easterly breeze on the other. He was suddenly aware of his own tattered clothing. The elves had washed it for him, but only the smell of sweat had been washed away; the stench of poverty still clung tightly.