Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)

by J. S. Morin

  He had heard of woodland sorcerers before—those who called themselves druids—but he had been taught that they lacked any real talent with aether. Supposedly they only drew on the aether in living plants, and very rarely the aether of animals. Such limitations combined with no organized training reputedly made them an insignificant force compared to the sorcerers that the Academy trained. If Rashan was a druid, then druids were more adept than the masters at the Academy had let on.

  “All life is magic, Brannis. Shall I inform you each time I breathe?” the hermit asked.

  It was a simple enough question, and the logic flowed right from Brannis’s remembered lessons from the Academy: Life is magic. Aether flows from life.

  “Never mind. Just do not hide things from us anymore. You have proven yourself to be a friend by your help in tending to Iridan’s affliction. You need not worry that we are ungrateful, or frightened of small bits of sorcery worked about us. Now enough of this gawking; we are not getting any closer to Kadris this way.”

  Brannis turned away from the sideshow at the back of the group and resumed his march. The men about him were less trusting of the hermit now, though, and were slow to turn their backs on him, but eventually had to return to their duty to keep up with their commander.

  * * * * * * * *

  Iridan and Rashan were the last to resume their march, hanging back from the rest of the company. Rashan took hold of Iridan’s upper arm and held him gently at bay. With feigned innocence and a mischievous little grin on his face, Rashan seemed to rise up a finger’s breadth, and there was a slight sucking noise from the mud beneath his feet. A heartbeat later, Iridan felt his own body lighten suddenly and his feet pulled free of the mud in which they had been mired.

  “Since they already know about this little trick,” Rashan whispered just loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the storm, “it is hardly a secret anymore. Let us take the day’s walking in leisure and leave the mud to them.”

  He cast Iridan a conspiratorial look. There was a twinkle in the hermit’s icy blue eyes that told Iridan that he was not taking the matter nearly as seriously as Brannis had made it out to be.

  Iridan considered for a moment and decided that the hermit was right. He had just regained the strength to walk, and he had begun to tire some time ago. Complaining did not seem likely to buy overmuch sympathy from the men who had been carrying him in shifts in addition to their own gear, so he had not mentioned anything to Brannis. With the help of the hermit’s magic, he would be able to keep up with the soldiers’ pace as they slogged through the mud. A grin slowly spread across Iridan’s face as he returned the hermit’s gaze. Suspicion remained in the dark recesses of his thoughts, but Iridan found himself liking his strange new companion. The two men hurried their steps, splashing along the surface of the shallow, muddy pools of water, and tried not to attract too much attention as they caught up to everyone else.

  Chapter 10 - The Time to Act

  He was all alone in the dark cell, sitting on the edge of his bunk. He rested his elbows on his knees, and his hands were clasped tightly together; his heart was racing in eager anticipation.

  The day is finally here.

  Denrik’s men had been taken from the cell shortly before dawn as part of a work detail that would unload the supply ship that was to make its monthly visit to Rellis Island that morning. All told, a dozen men would take part in the job of carrying the food and other goods ashore and stocking them in the small warehouse that held the penal colony’s supplies. The guards picked the fortunate prisoners based on behavior, bribery, and often on a whim. The rest—a group that unfailingly included Denrik—were locked in their cells until the ship had once again departed. The fact that all five members of Denrik’s crew happened to have been selected this once caused no concern among the guards, for of all the prisoners on the island, only Denrik was deemed to warrant extraordinary precautions.

  The waiting was necessary but growing tiresome on Denrik’s nerves. He needed to time his maneuvers properly, even if he had built considerable leeway into his plan. Inside the cell block, there was no light from the sun, and judging the passage of time was tricky—in fact impossible with any degree of precision. Since he had never been on one of the supply details, he had to make countless inquiries of the other prisoners who had. Not all the prisoners were friendly with the former pirate, and some had taken to taunting him with tales of their little treks aboard the supply ships, knowing that it bothered him that he was not allowed to accompany them. Bitter though the stories were, Denrik milked them for all the information he could gather about how the operation was run—and that was quite a lot.

  * * * * * * * *

  Jimony glanced all about as he walked, fearing that the guards knew what he was preparing to do. To his mind, guilt was written clearly upon his features, and he was a doomed man. The guards were not so perceptive that they made anything of it, and merely thought the prisoner to be fearful of the bared weapons that they carried. Normally the guards on duty carried just whips and clubs, lest the prisoners rise up in numbers and overpower them should they get hold of anything truly dangerous. When a ship was docked, that changed. All the guards were on duty, outnumbering the prisoners unloading the ship twofold, and they carried swords. In the hold, the ship’s crewmen were similarly armed, ensuring that the workers caused no mischief to the ship or the cargo.

  They had already made one trip, carrying barrels of freshwater and sacks of flour into the storehouse. This next trip into the hold was the one. Captain Denrik had told them all what to do, the five of them that were loyal to him. If the other seven prisoners went along with the plan once it was revealed, everything would be fine. If not … Well, things might get bloody. Jimony glanced around to assure himself that his comrades were all present. He fervently wished that the captain had not put him in charge of this part of his plan.

  The prisoners marched barefoot up the gangplank and then down into the hold of the ship via a short flight of rickety stairs. The ceiling of the hold was low, giving rise to fears of hitting one’s head while merely walking upright. Sailors stood to either side of the door, and others among the cargo, watching the prisoners’ movements with drawn swords.

  Jimony cleared his throat. “Beggin’ yer pardon, mister, but I’m not for thinkin’ we’re gonna get off this ship,” he told the nearest sailor, trying not to sound scared.

  “Huh?” one of the prisoners who had not been in Denrik’s “crew” uttered dumbly.

  “Of course, and you need not get off,” the sailor said. “We surrender.”

  The sailor’s words were matter-of-fact, and he laid his sword carefully on the floor. The other sailors did likewise. Jimony could hardly believe how easy it had been.

  * * * * * * * *

  Denrik had waited long enough. Time or not, he was unable to sit idle any longer. He would have rather tested his luck being too early than see all his planning wasted were he to be too late.

  He moved to the steel door that had caged him in for so long, and smiled. Irrationally, he felt it was time that the door received its due punishment for the all the years that it had held him captive. He felt along the rough, metal surface to locate the lock. Satisfied that he had found just the right spot, he took a half step back and crouched low, bringing the lock to his eye level.

  “Kohtho ilextiumane veeru,” he spoke softly and then held the tips of his index fingers just a hairsbreadth apart—no mean feat considering the darkness.

  He felt the cool rush of aether into his body, a welcome feeling that he was too seldom able to indulge in among the superstitious fools with whom he dwelt. Being a pirate was a serious enough offense—one that had nearly been enough for the Acardians to reinstate public execution—without compounding it by being caught practicing witchcraft.

  There was no visible change to the lock at first, but slowly a red glow began to illuminate the gloom of the darkened cell. The heat created enough light for Denrik to see what he was d
oing, as the area around the lock grew ever hotter. The smell of burning filth wafted from the door as the grime that pervaded the cell block caught fire inside the lock. Sweat beaded on Denrik’s bald head, but from exertion and not the heat of the melting metal. His skills with magic were considerable, but he lacked the power to make much use of them. The spell he was using to heat the lock was fairly simple, yet he felt as if he was straining to hold a cannonball over his head, so quickly it sapped his strength.

  With a gasp and a few heavy breaths, Denrik ended the spell, and the red glow from the door began immediately to fade. He ran a hand over his head to wipe away the sweat, a gesture that still felt odd to him with no hair. He supposed that once he was free of the lice-infested prison colony, he could grow it out again.

  Foolish guards, he mused, they have not let me so much as see a razor. Did they ever wonder how I managed to keep clean-shaven?

  Denrik had been using magic to keep the stubble both on his face and scalp at bay, not wanting to suffer the misery that so many other prisoners went through with the biting parasites that infested the place. He shook his head in derision at the thought that in the three years of his captivity, no one had questioned how he managed it.

  Regaining his strength after a moment, Denrik stood and pushed gently on the door. It swung open just a crack, the locking mechanism no longer in any shape to continue performing its duties. He peeked out into the hallway, squinting against the sunlight that streamed in from a barred window above the guard post. It was unmanned, of course, since all the guards were out ensuring that the supply ship was protected.

  How amusing: if there was someone on duty here, that ship would be a whole lot safer.

  Denrik made his way down the hall, his bare feet slapping against the stone floor. He did not care if anyone heard him or not. The prisoners were of no concern; none of them would raise an alarm, even if they did believe something to be amiss. There was no love lost among the various inmates of the New Hope colony, but they all stood united against their common enemy—the guards.

  The door out of the cell block had no lock and really never needed one before. The island was thought to be secure from escape, and the locked cells were mostly to protect the guards. Denrik walked right out of the cell block unopposed, leaving the door to his own cell wide open. He relished the thought of the guards’ expressions when they eventually came back and saw that their prized prisoner was gone.

  The morning sun was high in the sky, and a few fluffy white clouds were the only ornament to grace the clear blue above. Denrik never cared much for landscapes or trees, or any of the beauty that poets ascribed to them, but there was something about a clear sky that he could appreciate as a man of the sea. It was a fine day to set sail!

  He headed straight toward the water, away from where the ship was docked. He kept low and used the naturally rocky and uneven terrain of the island for cover. The guards were likely preoccupied with the prisoners unloading the supply ship, but he was too close to his goal to take any unneeded risks. The chilly water of the Katamic Sea lapped at his feet at he reached the shore, apparently without being spotted. Not hesitating in the least, he plunged into the water. The sudden cold shock of the dunking felt invigorating—he supposed in no small part due to the fact that he knew he was nearly a free man. He slowly began to make a circuit of the small island, swimming around to where his salvation was docked.

  It was the riskiest part of his plan. Denrik was a strong swimmer, but he could only make so large a concession to stealth. To completely avoid detection, he might have swum out to sea a ways and doubled back on the ship from the far side. But there was limited time, and he needed to make sure he was on board the ship before it weighed anchor. He was going to need a bit of luck to avoid being seen by the guards as he came within a hundred yards of the shore and then approached the ship.

  * * * * * * * *

  The guards were growing impatient. The lazy good-for-nothing prisoners had been in the ship’s hold for too long. What was the delay? There was a protocol to the business of the supply ships; the sailors took great pride in their job and were touchy about the guards coming on board to boss them around. It gave little comfort to the colony’s guards, however, as they waited on the short pier for their prisoners to emerge with the last of the supplies.

  They heard no sign of a struggle from the ship’s hold, and had heard no calls for help from the crew. There was nothing to be done but wait for the prisoners to come back out, at least not without causing trouble with the ship’s crew. There was going to be a debt to pay after the ship was unloaded, though.

  * * * * * * * *

  Denrik was almost disgusted at how easily he reached the ship, named the Bringer of Hope as a reminder that the prisoners had little of it themselves.. If the guards were so oblivious, he wondered why he had not just stowed aboard one of the ships years ago. Of course, Denrik knew better than to seriously think he could have succeeded. The crew would almost certainly have discovered him and fed him to the sharks, even if he had managed to get free from his cell without having his cellmates all out of the way on work detail. He grabbed the rope that anchored the ship in the water and pulled himself hand over hand up to the deck. It was just one more thing that was going according to his plan; the anchor was not attached by a chain.

  He crawled across the deck to the stair leading below into the hold and slipped down into the belly of the supply ship. It was all going as planned. There were his men, as well as the other prisoners, and the crew of the ship all tied and seated against the wall.

  “Cap’n, you made it!” Jimony exclaimed, his eyes widening in disbelief. He somehow had not expected the plan to work.

  “Yes, good work, men,” Denrik said to his crew. “Have they been cooperating?”

  “Uh-huh. They gived up them swords and let us tie ’em up, real easy like,” Jimony replied.

  “We have done as we were instructed, Captain Zayne,” one of the ship’s crewmen said to Denrik. “Your man made everything perfectly clear.”

  “Huh? We didn’t tells ya nothin’ but we wasn’t getting’ back off ’n this here ship,” Jimony said.

  “Do not worry,” Denrik assured his men. “You were not the one he was referring to. Some of my former associates have been quite helpful in arranging this little jailbreak for us. The crew is being paid well to go along with this little charade of a commandeering.”

  “Huh?” Andur asked, the simple-minded one of the group speaking the thoughts of several of Denrik’s men.

  “This was all planned ahead of time,” Denrik boasted. “My old first mate bribed these men to let us take over their ship. They say we overpowered them, and pocket a king’s—or should I say pirate’s—ransom for it. Now we have to make good our escape.”

  After confiscating one of the cutlasses his men had taken from the crewmen, Denrik headed back up to the deck. He motioned for his men to follow, noting that four of the five at least had held his ground and not followed the other prisoners back off the ship; it was better than he had expected. Hopefully the rest remembered their role in the final part of the plan.

  Denrik slunk over to where the line for the anchor was tied. The knot was too heavy and too tightly pulled for him to have any hope of untying it, but there was little need. He used his new cutlass and began to saw at the rope. Watching from the top of the stairs to the hold, Jimony waited for Denrik to signal him. When the rope snapped free and slithered over the side rail and into the water, Denrik turned and gave a quick nod to his men.

  All pretense of stealth was abandoned as the men of Denrik’s—or more appropriately Captain Zayne’s—crew rushed out onto the deck, weapons drawn. The guards were stunned momentarily but recovered quickly and burst into action, making their way to the gangplank to board the ship. But the prisoners were prepared. They made immediately for the only way onto the ship, loosing the gangplank from the deck and dropping it into the water. They then set off quickly for the remaining rope lines t
hat tethered the ship to the dock, hacking away at them to free the vessel. Denrik was a one-man crew as he rushed about preparing the ship to sail. He only needed to do enough to get away from the dock before he could painstakingly instruct his landlubber crew in the operation of a ship. The guards, with their drawn swords and no apparent means to board the ship, looked lost and confused.

  Denrik felt the ship lurch and knew that the vessel was floating freely, cut free of the dock at last. The rest was simple. In no time, the ship was making its way slowly out onto the open sea. He could not resist running over to the railing to call out to the guards.

  “Thank you all! This ship is not quite to my preference, but it will have to do for now. Remember that I know each of your names. If I hear that word of my escape reaches the mainland within a fortnight, your families will pay dearly. Farewell,” he cried.

  The guards did not respond. They did not know how to respond. They had been given one clear mission that took precedence over all their other duties: keep Denrik Zayne from ever sailing again. They had failed.

  * * * * * * * *

  Captain Zayne had taken the uniform and boots from the sailor closest to his own size, and had ripped off the naval rank insignia that the uniform bore. He had no hat, as he had customarily worn in the days when he had a real crew and a real ship of his own, but his bald head was deeply tanned from the long days spent breaking rocks, so he could survive without one for a few days. The jacket and pants fit well enough, though he felt foolish dressed as a midshipman in the Acardian Navy, but it was far preferable to going about clad in the rags of a prisoner. He let the vestments of his captive life drop overboard and swore that he would never be forced into such a wretched state again. His pride had been wounded during his time on Rellis Island, but he was not going to forget the indignities he suffered, or let them go unpunished.

  The crew was pathetically inadequate in all things nautical. He had made an attempt to teach them enough to maintain the basic functions of the ship, but even that had apparently been beyond their comprehension. He had finally set everything in order himself, handed the ship’s wheel to Andur, and ordered that he hold it still. Two others he charged with alerting him should anything change at all, putting them on watch over the rigging and sails. Shaking his head at his hopeless crew, he went below deck to see to his prisoners, bringing Jimony in tow.