Sean Hinn [Hinn - Descent Into Fury

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

2016, 2017, 2018 by Sean Hinn

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America by Bobdog Books.

First Edition

Published July 2019

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www.seanhinn.com

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

To all who have ventured

Into the dark places

And have again found the door

And to those who will.

T HE D AYS OF A SH AND F URY

PART SEVEN

CONTINUED FROM

S PAWN OF F URY,

(OR A SH: A CT O NE)

I: THE MORLINE

S IR BARRIS OF THORNWOOD tore west along the Morline astride the great black stallion Phantom, the pair only just failing to outpace the dawn. On any other morning, the familiar harmony of speed, power, and grace might have been a joy, but on this day, the First Knight carried only dread in his heart.

Barris had seen the pillar of light. He had sensed the battle ahead, caught the scent of evil on the winds the scent of death. Men of Mor had died today, he knew, though the cause of his dread was less abstract, more personal. In his deepest heart, Barris knew he had lost something dear to him this dawn. Some one . He knew in the way a twin might know her sibling is in danger. He knew in the way a wife would wake suddenly in the night, knowing her husband had faced his end in some far-off war. He knew in the way an estranged daughter might sense a chill at the passing of her mother.

Or how a father might know, upon losing a son.

Phantom broke free of the tree line and the trail widened. The pair accelerated, cold wind pulling tears from the corners of Barris cobalt eyes as the carnage before him came into focus. Torn and smoldering bodies lay strewn on either side of the great river. The Morline Bridge was just gone.

Phantom needed no guidance, nor could the aggrieved knight have provided any. Barris shut his eyes against what he knew they would soon see, sobbing freely as Phantom came to a halt beside Mikallis torn and burnt body. Triumph greeted Phantom with a nudge and a whinny. Phantom stamped and snorted as Barris slid from the saddle, one hand remaining in contact with his horse, the other trembling as he knelt beside the young, broken captain and reached to close his lifeless eyes.

Mikallis had suffered. The tracks of his movement told the story of his end; he had crawled through the ash and snow as his flesh melted away, dragging himself towards something, or someone. A vile acid did this, Barris imagined. An excretion of the dragon, certainly, for the signs of its rage were everywhere deep gouges in the muddied ground, burned and shredded bodies wearing the robes of Kehrlia. Barris sobbed and prayed and mourned over Mikallis body for a time that might have been a turn or an hour before noticing the faint glow emanating from beneath the fallen elfs shirt. The Mark. Mikallis had made a great sacrifice this day, and the knowledge filled Barris with both breathless pride and even more profound regret at the loss of the elf he would have named son. The sight of the Mark called to mind Barris own duties, and the heart-spent knight finally wiped his eyes. He stood to survey his surroundings in more detail.

A few paces away lay Redemption, the sword he had carried most of his life until he released it into the care of Lucan not-Thorne. Barris turned, searching among the dead for the young man. He saw instead his mount, Hope, huddled nearby beside Sera, Spirit, and Osraed. The knight released his Bond with Phantom and made his way to the four horses but froze as he neared them and saw: there on the ground lay his oldest friend, Trellia Evanti, Vicaris of the Grove. Barris reached to touch Osraed, Bonding with her grey mare. Images flashed in his mind; he saw her death clearly through the mares memory, Trellia cleaved in two by an enormous dragon scale that still jutted from the ground between her two halves. He saw the battle with the dragon through their eyes, saw Mikallis heroic sacrifice in a vain attempt to save his friends, saw the four inexplicably vanish as Kalashagon bore down on them. He knew some magic must have whisked them away and could only hope they were safe, somewhere.

Returning to the present, Barris eyed the dragon scale. Its presence was an affront Barris could not abide. He paid no heed to the black, viscous sheen as he snatched the great plate from the ground, screaming, and flung it a hundred paces across the Morline as if skipping a stone. It stuck a foot deep in the far bank and Barris fell to his knees once more, weeping again from eyes he had thought bereft of tears.

A tingling in his hands became an intense, burning pain as the acidic residue from the scale ate at his palms. He made no sound, believing that to cry out against the pain would diminish the far greater suffering he knew Mikallis had endured. He made his way down the bank to dunk his hands in the icy water of the river, muttering a prayer that he knew would not hasten his healing but would, at least, prevent the burns from deepening. Large, fluid-filled blisters had begun to form, but his wounds would not worsen.

A cry from across the river drew his attention. Someone still lives! Barris stood, searching for a way across the Morline, but there was none. He recalled the trick Nishali had taught him and in a few bounds skipped his way across the frigid water of the Morline and onto its southern shore. He climbed the embankment.

Who calls? Where are you?

Here! Oh, Father please help me! Here! A young mans voice cried out, weak and tortured.

Barris ran through the ashen slush to the mans side. A glance told him there was nothing he could do for the dying Incantor.

Please. Help me.

Barris knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Peace, friend. Tell me your name.

The man met Barris eyes. This is my fault. All my fault. Im so sorry.

Shh, now. This cannot be your

It is! The man coughed as Barris surveyed his wounds. His lower half was mangled, his spine bent at an unnatural angle. The stench of burning flesh brought a gag to Barris lips. I knew! Father forgive me, but I knew! He is a monster!

Who, friend? Who is a monster?

SARTEAN! Hes not dead, you know. Not forever! Kal will call him! The man coughed again, blood gurgling from his mouth. He grasped at Barris cloak as the light in his eyes began to fade. He is indebted. He will return!

Barris blanched. He sensed a power in that word indebted .

The knight stroked the mans forehead. Tell me your name, sir, so that I may pray for your peace.

The man laughed; a mirthless, choking sound. Jarriah. My name is Jarriah. But there will be no peace for me. The hand grasping Barris cloak went slack, and Jarriah died.

Barris muttered a short prayer and closed the mans eyes. He stood.

Sartean DAvers is dead . The thought chilled the knight, knowing what power the Master of Kehrlia possessed, marveling at what might have killed him. Barris began checking the bodies, one by one, offering prayers, closing eyes. Why? he wondered, not for the first time in his long years. Why do we trouble to close eyes that no longer see? He found Sartean DAvers body near to noon. The condition of the corpse puzzled him. No injury was visible whatsoever, aside from a hole the size of a fist that went clean through the back of his head and out his mouth. Some projectile had lain him low, but it was nowhere to be found. The accurate placement of the wound implied it was deliberate, and surely not caused by the dragon.