by J. S. Morin
Iridan would be trying to contact Kadris, where the Imperial Circle had their own speaking stone. He had no idea who might be attending to one at such an hour, but someone would be. He walked over to one of the chairs and sat down. He took a deep breath to calm his thoughts and reached out with both hands, laying them on the stone.
Woooom!
The stone pulsed with aether, causing a moment of dizziness to Iridan as he accustomed himself to the link. Tendrils drifted far off into the vastness of the aether, and as Iridan envisioned Kadris and the tower of the palace that the Inner Circle called home, the tendrils veered off in the direction of the Empire’s capital.
Iridan lost some sense of perspective as he could simultaneously perceive his backside cushioned on the seat of a chair in Pevett while his mind felt like it was suspended in the aether halfway to Kadris. After what seemed to be just a moment or two, he heard a voice echo in the aether.
“Who is this?” the brusque voice came clearly enough, though the echo would make it hard to identify someone by voice. It was clearly male, though. “That had best not be you again, Haridiar. I shall make my move when I make it. I will not let you harangue me into making a mistake.”
“Um, no, this is Iridan Korian, Fourth Circle. To whom am I speaking, if I might ask?” Iridan spoke aloud, knowing that his voice was carrying across the aether as well.
“I am Caladris Solaran, boy. You were sent to Kelvie Forest with my nephew,” the voice responded.
Caladris had no need to identify himself by Circle; he was Inner Circle. All sorcerers in the Empire knew who the twelve members of the Inner Circle were. It would have been almost pompous of Caladris to dangle his rank about when he knew Iridan was well aware of it … which is why it surprised Iridan slightly that he had not done so. Brannis’s kin were not known for their humility.
“Why are you using the Pevett Tower speaking stone?” Caladris asked. “Have you news? We received a messenger bird, but it told little.”
“Well, that relieves me greatly. The first thing I had wanted to do was confirm that the Circle had received our warning. We were nearly wiped out. Goblins overran our camp. We believe they followed the survivors of Sir Ferren Jessair’s command; his was wiped out as well, and there were but two survivors, sentries who had been cut off from the fighting. Of Sir Dennever Taldeen’s force, we had heard nothing and suspect the worst.”
Iridan was sweating. It was not so much the exertion of the speaking stone link—that was rather undemanding—but rather the fact that he was having this conversation with Caladris Solaran of the Inner Circle …
… and eventually he would have to mention the one member of their entourage that was going to be uncomfortable to explain.
“Tragic. Kelurian and Randul were their sorcerers, at least for the expedition. I suppose neither of them survived.” There was a long sigh from Caladris, who seemed genuinely mournful. “How did you manage to escape their fate? Was it by trick or fortune that you survived when so many others did not?”
“We were victorious, after a fashion. We had deduced after one of the fugitive sentries arrived that he would have been followed, if not directly, then at least tracked to us. Sir Brannis had us dig in and ambush them as best we could. The losses on both sides were staggering, but I do not think more than a handful of their assault force survived to flee,” Iridan said.
He felt a small swell of pride for the first time since the battle, considering how his actions had helped ensure their survival. He had not really given much thought to how the other two Kadrin forces had been destroyed utterly, and how they had actually prevailed, albeit at a terrible price.
“And what did you do in this great battle? You were sent in support of Sir Brannis’s command, but if it was as wiggly a spot as you describe, I suppose you must have intervened. How did you represent yourself? Did you give a good and professional accounting, a credit to the Circle? We will have reports from the others, and your stories will be checked against one another …” Caladris trailed off ominously.
Iridan swallowed, not entirely sure he was not going to be called to task very shortly. “I prepared the battlefield ahead of time. I had tamed wolves to patrol our perimeter, and they were the first to give warning of the assault. I gathered fog to obscure the vision, though only high enough to hinder the goblins; it was also to conceal pit traps that Sir Brannis had instructed his men to dig. When the battle joined in earnest, I used shielding spells to ward off the attacks of the goblins’ firehurlers. When they gained an advantage on us, I used telekinesis to hurl debris from the campsite into their midst, killing several.”
“So you are blood-drunk now, are you? Got a taste of killing?” Caladris asked. “Have a care, boy. I know the thrill of battle can be exhilarating, but it is a path that leads to self-destruction—”
“I was nearly overmatched by a sudden blast,” Iridan interrupted, surprising even himself, but he could not let himself be lectured about self-destruction after what he had recently been through, “but was able to catch it in time by instinct, bringing up a barrier. I was too hasty, though, and blacked out. I suffered a near-fatal case of aether burn. I know no further details of the battle, as I was carried senseless from the field by the soldiers.”
“A hard way to learn a lesson, but one you shall not forget.” The voice had softened some, as if it had heard what it needed to hear from its interrogation, and became sympathetic. “So, Iridan Korian, you have indeed survived. One moment.” There was a pause where Iridan felt contact with the Kadrin speaking stone break off. “All right now. Name for me the others who survive and are returning to Kadrin with you. I shall be making a report, and I expect others will be wanting to know about their loved ones.”
“Well, apart from myself are Sir Brannis, who seemed to have suffered no lasting harm in the battle; Sir Lugren, who I believe injured his sword arm in the battle, and who has seemed unusually subdued ever since. I daresay I cannot recall more than a few words he has spoken since I recovered. Among the conscripts were Maeron, Jorafir, Braegor—”
“Do you know their family names?” Caladris interjected.
Iridan froze. He was not a part of the regiment, officially; he was merely attached temporarily for this endeavor. He had never seen the men’s names, nor sought to learn them.
“Um, no, I cannot say that I do. I feel dreadful now that you mention it, but I never had reason to learn them.” Iridan was not sure how well his heartfelt contrition sounded across the aether link. “Could you possibly consult someone from the army who might have a roster of names?”
“Hmm, I suppose. Carry on.”
Iridan breathed an audible sigh of relief, then immediately froze up. Had Caladris heard that?
“Yes, well, there’s also, um, Tulok, Fardro, Liopan, Denair, Kundragar, Huane, and Urnar.” Iridan mentally ticked off the names in his head as he visualized the faces of the men he had been traveling with the past fortnight, proud that he had remembered Kun’s full name. “Then there are the two survivors from Sir Ferren’s force: Jodoul Brect and Tod Hellet. We questioned them upon their arrival, so I had cause to learn their surnames.”
“Very well. The hour is late, and I would much like to retire for the evening. We shall be expecting you in, say, four days’ time? You shall be expected at the Tower.” Caladris referred, of course, to the Tower of Contemplation, the northernmost tower of the Imperial Palace and the seat of the Imperial Circle’s power.
Iridan took a deep, steadying breath. “There is one other with us. We found him living in Kelvie Forest. He was knowledgeable in treating aether burn, and so they let him help nurse me back to health where I might otherwise have died. He says he lived in the Empire, was even born there, but had not been back in some time. Our encounter seemed to have given him either an excuse or at least a motivation to return to the Empire.”
“Fine. What’s his name? I shall write it down, but then I am off for a warm spiced wine and an even warmer bed. You lose track
of time using this dratted thing, and I have come to understand that it is well past midnight; one of the attendants just alerted me.”
“He gave his name as Rashan.” Iridan paused to listen briefly but heard nothing but cold, eerie silence from the connection. “And gave his family name as Solaran.”
“Preposterous! You have found a madman, or someone who has taken on a most unfortunate pseudonym. Have you noticed any odd behaviors about him? Does he talk to himself, or have a look in his eye of one whose wits do not quite all line up in a row? Is he dangerous?” Caladris’s voice sounded nervous and worried. “Keep a close watch on him. I know you say he helped heal you, and you should be grateful to him for that, but have a care who you take into your trust. He is obviously unstable in some way. Bring him to Kadris if you feel you must, either out of gratitude or prudence. If you feel some remuneration has been deserved for his assistance, by all means we can accommodate, but do not leave him unguarded among you. I will not lose a third sorcerer in this endeavor to something like carelessness in the handling of a madman.”
Iridan let Caladris ramble as he thought how to put his next words into an order that indicted neither himself nor Rashan as crazed. It was going to be tough to convince Caladris when he still had doubts himself, but too many coincidences had piled up, too many details fit too cleanly into place. Iridan believed in conspiracy, in elaborate plans and deals forged in dark hallways and hidden rooms. He knew that Kadrin and its enemies all engaged in subterfuge and espionage, a game of goblins and ogres to see if a small amount of force could be used to topple a large foe. But for the life of him, he could not conceive of why anyone would want to impersonate a long-dead warlock. If Rashan’s claim was false and he was a charlatan, he would be found out and destroyed the first time anyone tested his powers. If his claim was false, yet he was truly powerful, why adopt a guise so implausible as to not help but arouse all suspicion? Far easier to insinuate his way into the Imperial Circle through less conspicuous means. Unless there was a far deeper game afoot than Iridan could imagine—which he was willing to accept was a possibility—then the remaining choice was to believe.
“I have seen no odd mannerisms; in fact, he seems to be the most rational and thoughtful man I have met. His wits are quite intact, I can assure you, for I have seen him work magic, and he has done so as a warlock might: no verbal or gestural aids in his magic. I realize, of course, that plenty of sorcerers can perform the same feat any time they wish, if they are undisturbed. But he is also dangerous; I will not dispute that one. I had left out the detail of the ambush at Tibrik. The garrison had been overtaken by rebel Megrenn. Almost by reflex, he leaped the fortress wall and slaughtered every man within.
“He claims he is a demon. He claims he survived the Battle of the Dead Earth and gave an accounting of how it was won. He says that he was wounded by the necromancer’s putrid aether, tainting his Source, and that he kept away to prevent himself from bringing that taint home with him.”
Iridan took a quick breath, then, “And I believe him.”
“I must know more.”
Neither Iridan nor Caladris Solaran of the Inner Circle slept much at all that night.
Chapter 14 - The Smell of Freedom
The waves broke against the rocky shore, sending up a salty spray that scented the air with a briny musk. The sea breeze was refreshing and invigorating, a chill wind that wore away at years of oppression and the rhythmic crashing of wave upon wave eased the mind with the lull of constancy. That same tide had been washing in and out since the beginning of time, but it felt different that day.
Denrik Zayne breathed deeply of the sea air, filling his lungs. He felt free. It had been a week since he had made landfall, along with his makeshift crew. They were stashed away in a rocky inlet, a few miles south of Scar Harbor. The short cliffs that lay to the north and south of them protected them from the view of mainlanders, and there were enough crevices into them that they could easily conceal themselves when ships were spotted entering and leaving the port to their north.
Denrik watched the horizon, not for any pressing need, but rather out of habit—and a feeling of old familiarity. He could almost feel the deck of his old ship, The Honest Merchant, beneath his feet again as he stood at the water’s edge, letting the ocean fill his vision and ignoring the shoreline. He watched the water for hours at a time, keeping a vigil, not a watch. He knew when ships would pass their camp, when he would direct his crew to cover until the threat of discovery had passed.
“Cap’n! Yer man’s here!” Andur called out, breaking Denrik from his reverie.
He turned and made his way back to the cave they had taken as their temporary home. The cave was only just large enough to sleep them all, and they had salvaged little enough from the Bringer of Hope before Denrik had lashed the ship’s wheel and set it off to sea unmanned, hopefully to run aground somewhere, conveniently misleading those who would seek their recapture. They had gone north from Rellis Island rather than head west to the nearest landfall at Trebber’s Cove; if the ship managed to get anywhere near the cove, their eventual pursuers might never surmise them to have landed near Scar Harbor.
When Denrik got there, his men parted to allow him by, and he saw his guest. Robbono Stalyart was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with grease-slicked hair and a beard that he waxed to a sharp point below his chin. His dark eyes shone with genuine warmth, and his easy grin showed pearl-white teeth, giving him an air of a man completely at ease despite the hardened criminals he was visiting. He was dressed in a loose, grey tunic and dark leather vest, left open to reveal a large swath of his hairy, darkly tanned chest. The sash at his waist sported an inconspicuous bulge where Denrik deduced a knife was sheathed.
“Mr. Stalyart, what news?” Denrik asked, feeling more like Captain Zayne each time he spoke with his former first mate.
Robbono Stalyart had escaped during the surrender of The Honest Merchant and gotten away free and clear of the charges that had been brought against the other pirates. A phenomenal swimmer and diver, he had eluded the Acardian Navy long enough that they had given him up for drowned. It was he who had spent three years working to arrange the escape of Denrik Zayne from his imprisonment, learning the workings of the penal colony and finding its weaknesses, sending covert messages in amid supplies, and finally bribing the crew of the Bringer of Hope. Stalyart had met them at the inlet upon their arrival, having arranged it in advance as their meeting place for after the escape. He had broken into one of the hidden caches that Captain Zayne had stocked away for emergencies, and for Denrik Zayne, imprisonment was certainly justification enough for digging up some of the gold he had plundered.
What Denrik considered truly remarkable was that, given the chance, Stalyart had chosen to risk his own freedom on the plan to spring his former captain from exile. He could have lived well enough on one cache of loot that he would never have needed to sail again, yet here he was, in a small shoreline cave not far from Acardia’s largest seaport, plotting a return to the rolling seas with the most fearsome pirate of his day. Denrik could not help but be touched at the loyalty that showed, even if there was as much for him to gain by renewing their plundering reign on the Katamic.
“Captain,” Stalyart said, “it is what we have waited for. The Harbinger is due in port next week.”
Stalyart then handed his captain a folded sheet of paper, which Denrik opened and glanced over quickly. It was a copy of the harbormaster’s list of planned arrivals and departures, the second such document Stalyart had brought, beginning with their first meeting. Denrik had used it to ensure that they were all out of sight of the water when they knew a ship would be passing within spyglass range of their hideout.
“It is a frigate, and had a good reputation as a worthy ship,” Stalyart said. “They are due for a rotation of crew, with several men having completed their tours, and taking on as many new men. They will also be re-provisioning and taking on a small number of the new long guns that the cannoneers have
invented. Since I am known now as a well-traveled merchant, it was not suspicious when I inquired about purchasing the guns for my own ship. I was told they may only be sold to the navy.” Stalyart smiled. “It will make it all the more glorious to take them for ourselves.”
“What is her complement? How many men will guard her?” Denrik’s mind was already formulating a plan of attack. He had long plotted how he would get back to sea with a ship of his own, so rough frameworks of various plots were already lying about in his head half finished. A frigate: it was a grand prize indeed, but a difficult prospect unless they had some sort of edge. “Do you have anyone on the inside? One of the new crew members, perhaps?”
“My Captain!” Stalyart gave a sweeping bow, doffing an imaginary cap he was not wearing. “You ruin my surprises by outguessing me. I have one better than you think, though. My half-brother serves as gunnery mate aboard Harbinger. He is not one that is staying behind. He will serve his turn on the berth watch, but I will visit with him when he takes his shore leave. I have no doubt he would rather make his fortune with his brother and Captain Zayne than toil for a gunner’s pension in the navy.”
“You sure?”
“My Captain, I will throw my brother’s life and my own at your feet in this. I know that if there is any betrayal, my life is forfeit as well as my brother’s. I know him.”
“Err, Cap’n, this mean we’re takin’ a boat from the navy?” Andur asked. “I mean, ya know, we had us a boat afore, an’ we shooed it off to sea empty-like. Why didn’t we just keep it?”
Puzzling Andur was one of the least difficult tasks Denrik had ever performed. Even now that they were off Rellis Island, it was a task he still performed almost daily.