Twin Soul Series Omnibus 2: Books 6-10

by McCaffrey-Winner

  Orders were shouted, men jumped down from the carriages, others led staff horses and brought them to their officers. The troops formed up and moved off briskly. The moment the train was clear, another officer shouted to the driver who engaged the steam and the wheels, pulling the train forward toward the siding where it would turn around for another load.

  Might do to lay two sets of tracks, Tashigg noted to himself idly. A shout from the distance caught his attention and he saw two horsemen trotting up, waving at the train driver and shouting furiously. Whatever did they want?

  Presently the driver, who’d turned the train around was ready to start back to Kingsford, noticed them and waved them to approach. To Tashigg’s surprise, moments after they spoke with the driver, they pulled their horses to the gap between two train cars and jumped aboard, letting the poor horses dash about uncontrolled.

  “Someone get those horses!” Tashigg shouted, waving toward a number of mounted men nearby. Two nodded in acknowledgement and set off. Those horses had been ridden hard, might even be winded, but they looked to be of good stock. Familiar, even.

  “Sir!” one of the mounted men rode back with his hands on the reins of one of the abandoned horses, pulling it along behind him.

  “Bring it over here,” Tashigg said, stepping down from the platform. “Let’s have a look at it.”

  “This mare’s pretty far gone, sir,” the mounted officer said sadly, pulling the horse up to the side of his own and offering the reins to the general.

  General Tashigg took the reins with a quick nod of thanks, and ran his hands over the flanks of the panting mare. “There, there,” he said soothingly. “We’ll get you rested and back on your way —” he broke off as he noticed the saddle. “By the gods! This is one of Filbert’s finest mares!”

  “Were they dispatch riders, sir?” one of the mounted ensigns asked. “With dispatches for the king?”

  “If they were,” Tashigg said with a thunderous look, “they should have reported to me first!” He glanced at the retreating train and decided it was moving too fast and was too far to stop. He turned around to examine his assembling troops. “Never mind, let us be off!”

  #

  General Georgos Gergen, the general in command of the army and now in command of the two divisions about to stage an assault against the Sorian Sea Pass, gave the mage a disgruntled look as he repeated, “And still no word?”

  “Yes, general,” mage Margen replied testily, “I would have informed you immediately of any contact.”

  “I’m sure,” the general muttered, his tone belying his words. Old doddering fool probably would have forgot! He sighed. “Until we know, we can’t begin our demonstration against the enemy.”

  “Surely, with your numbers, general, and our magic, we should have no trouble overwhelming the Sorian forces,” Margen said acerbically.

  “If I believed that, mage, I would have already done so,” Gergen replied. “Perhaps, given that I am King Markel’s ranking soldier, you might consider that I have more training in the art of war than you.”

  “Oh, I’m certain of it,” Margen said, making it clear how highly he valued military arts, his face just short of a sneer.

  “When is the next train due?” Gergen asked idly, thinking of sending a messenger back to the king.

  “I wouldn’t know, I am not a mechanic,” Margen sniffed.

  Gergen glared at him, signalled to one of his aides who, refreshingly, came at a trot to answer his summons. “Find out when the next train is heading back to the capital. I may want to send a message to the king.”

  The ensign clicked his heels, glared at the mage, saluted the general, turned briskly and trotted off in pursuit of his duties.

  That’s how it should be done, Gergen thought to himself smugly.

  “If you’ll excuse me, general, I must see to my magics,” Margen said with a vague nod.

  “Please see that you do,” Gergen said, returning the nod in dismissal. “I understand that your bangs and booms will help us in startling the enemy.”

  “My magic is what powers your weapons, general,” Margen said with a haughty look.

  “Wonderful,” Gergen said without any feeling. He waved the mage away. When he was reasonably sure the old man was out of earshot, he added to himself, “That explains all the misfires, then.”

  #

  “Your majesty, I was told that we should expect such things,” first minister Mannevy told his king firmly when they got the news.

  “Then we should have built more!” King Markel roared in pure fury. “How are we going to defeat Soria if our damned trains won’t roll?”

  “I can get mechanic Newman on the problem immediately,” Mannevy offered with a wave of his hands. “He helped perfect the machines, he’ll certainly know what to do.”

  “It just stopped!” Markel roared. “Right there, halfway between us and the south!”

  “At first we thought it was for lack of water, then for lack of coal,” Mannevy said in explanation. “Now that we’ve solved both lacks, we think it might be something with the engine itself.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Or the boiler.”

  “Think! You think!” the king roared. “How come no one knows?”

  “We’re getting our best man on it, sire,” Mannevy said. He glanced toward Peter Hewlitt, the spymaster to see if perhaps he would add some placating words. Hewlitt gave him a bland look and said nothing. “We knew that we were trying something new when we came up with this plan, sire. When trying new ways, errors are always possible.”

  “What if they find out?” Markel asked, his anger receding. “What then, eh?”

  “I have heard nothing from the Sorians, sire,” Peter Hewlitt spoke up soothingly. “My spies have intercepted all dispatches northward from Korin’s Pass —”

  “And what happened there?” Markel demanded, glaring first at Mannevy and then at Hewlitt. Neither had an answer. “Shouldn’t we have heard something by now?”

  “Make way! Make way!” a man from outside the king’s chambers bellowed. “I’ve no time for this idiocy!”

  Mannevy’s brows furrowed at the interruption. He couldn’t quite place the voice but it sounded familiar. The doors burst open and his confusion deepened as two dirty, bedraggled men came marching up to the throne. In unison they paused and bowed before the king. The first one lifted his head and spoke before the king gave him permission, “Sire, I have news from the east.”

  “Who are you?” Markel bellowed.

  The man rose to his feet and bowed. “Captain Nevins, sire. I have returned from our attack on the East Pass Fort.”

  “You have?”

  “What news do you bring us, captain?” Mannevy asked, moving to the man’s side.

  “The East Pass Fort is destroyed, sire,” Nevins said, bowing to the king and ignoring Mannevy. “They used some new magic against us however and destroyed our ships.”

  “Destroyed?” King Markel asked, aghast. “How?”

  “Vengeance with cannon fire and Warrior with dragon’s fire,” Nevins replied, glancing toward the other bedraggled man for confirmation. The other man nodded in hasty agreement.

  “A dragon?” Markel repeated. His eyes narrowed as he glared at Mannevy.

  “What color was the dragon, captain?” Mannevy asked with an intent expression.

  “Black, black as night,” Nevins replied immediately. “Although we didn’t see it well as it flamed our hull to ash flying up from the ground.”

  “Was it the same one that attacked Spite on her maiden voyage?” the king demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Nevins said with a shrug. “Perhaps.”

  “It wanted revenge,” Markel said. He turned to Mannevy. “That fool Ford should have killed it.”

  “He got the wyvern, instead, sire,” Mannevy reminded his ruler.

/>   “And we know how well that turned out!” Markel roared. Mannevy suppressed a wince. It was true that even now, the royal airship Spite had not returned from its mission to kill or capture the wyvern that had been reborn.

  “Sire,” Captain Nevins said hurriedly, going to one knee in obeisance, “if you will give me another airship, I will guarantee that you will hear no more of this dragon.”

  Markel thought on that for a moment but before he could reply, spymaster Hewlitt spoke up, “And how exactly, captain, did you lose your ship?”

  “The fort flew, sire,” the other man spoke up, his eyes wide and frightened.

  “And who are you, sir?” King Markel asked sourly.

  “Tortis Borkin, sire,” the man said, bowing and rising again. “I served as mage aboard the captain’s ship.”

  Markel’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t we fire you?” He turned to Mannevy. “Isn’t this that apprentice that couldn’t lift a ship?”

  “He did more than lift a ship, sire,” Nevins spoke up stoutly. The king turned his attention to him. “When Vengeance was destroyed because mage Tirpin could not lift it above the flying fort, Mage Borkin jumped our ship a hundred feet up into the sky, putting us once again above the fort.” Nevins allowed himself a smug look, as he continued, “And from there we bombarded the fort as ordered and caused it to fall to its destruction.”

  “And how did the fort fly in the first place?” Peter Hewlitt demanded intently.

  “Did the dragon lift it?” the king added.

  “There were large metal slabs placed around its foundations,” Mage Borkin replied thoughtfully, “and I felt there was some magic at work.”

  “Magic?” Mannevy asked, turning to Hewlitt and raising his eyebrows speculatively. The spymaster returned his look with a shrug. But he looked thoughtful.

  “And it didn’t fly as much as it floated, sire,” Nevins added. “Like it was floating on the magic in the metal.”

  “That was my opinion, too,” Borkin said.

  “Mage Borkin and I are familiar with the dragon, as well as the floating forts, sire,” Nevins put in hastily. “Give us a ship and nothing will stand in our way.”

  The king glanced to his first minister who pursed his lips before saying, “We could use both captains and mages for our airships, sire.”

  “And do you, mage, know how to lift an airship?” the king said to Borkin. “It seems to me you had trouble before.”

  “Magic and the way it works is different for each mage, sire,” Borkin replied. “Mage Tirpin had different magic from mine and I could not adapt mine to his.”

  “Are you saying you can’t?” the king asked in confusion.

  “No, sire,” Nevins spoke up in the young man’s defense, “he’s saying that he couldn’t do it Tirpin’s way.” Nevins gave Borkin an approving nod as he continued, “He can do it better.”

  “And I know others I can teach, sire,” Borkin put in quickly.

  “Better, eh?” the king repeated. “And teach?” He glanced to Mannevy.

  “Give us the ships, sire, we’ll find the crews,” Nevins implored.

  “Ships?” the king repeated. “You want more than one, now?”

  “I am the only captain who has fought a floating fort and a dragon, sire, and lived to report back to you,” Nevins said. “I would be happy to teach others my knowledge.”

  “Harbinger and Pace are ready for commissioning, sire,” Mannevy said in oblique support.

  “I thought there were four readying completion,” Nevins remarked.

  “And you want them all?” Mannevy asked in complete surprise.

  “There’s one other thing,” Nevins said, slowly. He glanced toward mage Borkin, then continued, “We believe that those metal supports, the ones that floated the fort, were made of steel, sire.”

  “Steel?” the king repeated, brows furrowed. He vaguely recalled that steel was important but couldn’t quite remember why. He glanced to Mannevy for help.

  “Steel is better for building airship engines and boilers, sire,” Mannevy reminded him. “The lack of it partly explains the performance of our last two airships.”

  “We could take an airship, fly to the ruins and return with steel in less than four days, sire,” Nevins offered. He glanced to Mannevy, adding, “Wouldn’t that help in the construction of more airships?”

  Mannevy stroked his goatee. After a moment he nodded. “I do believe it would,” he said. “Of course I would have to check with Mechanic Newman to be certain.”

  The king came to a decision, waving a hand to Mannevy. “Send them to get the steel.” He turned his eyes to Nevins. “Get it, get back, and then we’ll see about more ships, captain.”

  Captain Nevins bowed, reaching out to nudge the bemused Borkin to do the same. When he rose, the king waved him off.

  When they were gone, the king turned to Mannevy, “I think that could work out very well, don’t you?”

  Chapter Three

  Imay came back into the healing hall just as Rabel bent over a hideously burnt zwerg, murmured some soothing words, and reaching a finger to the worst burn. Imay’s eyes widened in wonder as she saw the burnt skin turn bright red and then back to normal as the flame was absorbed into the nail of Rabel’s finger and, as his finger and hand brightened, seemed to diffuse through the rest of the man. It was then that Imay realized that Rabel was glowing brighter than the others in the room.

  Imay could see that Molle, the head healer, was overwhelmed by the dragon-sworn smith’s abilities. Imay grunted in agreement and the other two turned to her, expectantly.

  Not seeing Ellen with her, Rabel’s face fell and Imay could see how tired the man was. From all that she’d seen and heard, he deserved a day’s sleep, at the very least.

  “Where’s Ellen?” Rabel asked.

  “Lissy said she couldn’t come,” Imay said hurriedly. She glanced apologetically to Molle, then back to Rabel. “She said that they had to stay with Jarin.”

  “I wanted him, too,” Rabel said pursing his lips in a frown. He started to rise, turned back to the long line of cots with burnt zwerg in them and looked — for the first time to Imay’s eyes — lost.

  “You taught Ellen how to do this?” Imay said, gesturing toward the now uninjured zwerg whose burns had been absorbed into Rabel’s body.

  Rabel nodded. “Jarin knows how to do it instinctively, being a dragon.”

  “He can breathe fire, so he can take fire back,” Imay guessed. Rabel gave her an appraising look and nodded.

  “Can all the fire-touched do this?” Imay asked. Rabel shrugged. Imay felt her heart race as she continued in a rush, “Could you teach me?”

  “Princess!” Molle squeaked in surprise.

  “Ellen and I are oath-sworn to Ophidian,” Rabel said slowly. “I think this ability comes from him.”

  “Can you teach it to me?” Imay reiterated. “If I take an oath to the dragon-god?”

  “My princess, this is not a good time,” Molle began thoughtfully.

  “I disagree,” Imay cut her off. “I think this is the perfect time. Rabel is tired, Ellen and Jarin are indisposed and there are injured who need our help.”

  “Your mother, the queen —”

  “Is not here, and I am here daughter, her heir, and her representative,” Imay said. “I am old enough to speak for myself.”

  “I thought you were a child,” Rabel said, glancing from her to Molle and back.

  “I have been in the world for twenty years only, it is true,” Imay said. “And a zwerg can expect to live for several hundred, so I am considered still a youngster by most.” She glanced to Molle, saying, “But it is my right to declare myself of age.” The healer nodded in reluctant agreement. Imay waved a hand at the injured. “These people need my help and I am their princess.” She glanced to Rabel. “Your Ellen is very
young, and yet she is sworn to Ophidian.”

  “That’s true,” Rabel agreed somberly. “But —”

  “Princess, it’s bad enough to have a dragon with our gold!” Molle declared. “You are now offering Ophidian all our riches and our kingdom.”

  “No,” Imay declared, “I am offering him my help for his help.” A slight smile flicked across her lips. “Given what I know of our friend here,” she nodded toward Rabel, “and his apprentice, I rather suspect that Ophidian and I will be well-matched.”

  Rabel snorted, eyes dancing in amusement.

  “You were going to teach us how to make dragon-steel, what makes this any different?” Imay asked him.

  Rabel shook his head. “As you say, princess, it’s your life.” He glanced toward the healer. “Healer Molle, do you have any further objections?”

  The old healer shook her head.

  “If so, then I suggest you tend other patients,” Rabel said, “while I lead your princess through the oath.”

  Molle glanced at Imay, biting her lips. “Princess?”

  Imay waved her away. “Go! These people need our help and we cannot wait.”

  With a final nod to the princess and a reluctant glance toward Rabel, Molle moved away.

  “The oath we swore to Ophidian was special,” Rabel said to Imay in a low voice. “And it required blood and an image of the dragon-god.”

  “Does the image have to be physical?” Imay asked.

  Rabel pursed his lips, then shrugged. “Can you imagine him fully?”

  “Well enough,” Imay said. “And if I can’t the oath won’t work, will it?”

  “Take my hand,” Rabel said. Imay grabbed his hand in hers.

  “Please hurry,” Imay said, gesturing toward the burn victims. “I fear they cannot wait much longer.”

  “No,” Rabel agreed with a tired sigh. He locked his eyes with Imay. “I cannot use the same oath for you, so I’m going to have to make it up.”

  “I understand,” Imay said. “What do I need to say?”

  “I don’t know,” Rabel admitted with a heavy sigh. Imay gasped. He turned his eyes to meet hers. “What I swore to him was…” he paused, then continued in a different tone: “‘Ophidian, I, Rabel Zebala, wielder of the dragon’s fire do accept your bargain. Life given, lives guarded. Three lives I’ll guard for you, even beyond death.’”