Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)

by J. S. Morin

  Rashan did have a purpose and most certainly knew where he was going. It was a matter of what he would find when he got there.

  He found his destination at the end of a hall that was seldom visited. The floors were kept clean, but there was little other reason to come down this way. The door in front of him was outlined in runes, both on the door and on the stone frame it was set in. The two lines of runes matched up, with identical symbols on each, directly across from one another. A faint, subtle pull of aether fed the magic of the door’s locking spell. Unlike the crude cell down in the dungeons, this work was a masterpiece. While it was not designed to harm anyone, it was a bit of self-regenerating magic, an aether construct that would repair and renew itself, rather than slowly give way to the passage of time, weakening until it ultimately failed.

  Rashan wove a complicated web of aether, touching just the right places at the right times. It was so ingrained in him that he did it with hardly a conscious thought. This was his room.

  It was much as he remembered leaving it the day he departed with the Red Riders for Farren’s Plain. There were the discarded clothes he had worn the day before, ready to fall apart with age. The wardrobe stood open. Upon the shelves was a collection of books, a few of which he had written himself.

  Blast! he thought. Someone got in here.

  There was a book missing, and after a moment’s thought, Rashan knew which it was. The Warlock Prophecies was gone from its spot. The immortal warlock sighed deeply. He hoped that the book had not caused any trouble.

  Rashan had always possessed a dark sense of humor. In his younger days, when he was feeling annoyed with someone he could not justify killing, he would often retire to his room and write prophecy. Rashan had no gift of foresight, but it was cathartic to write of doom and woe in the most cryptic and vague ways he thought someone might someday believe. As he wrote them, he took his petty vengeance on the generations yet unborn who believed in prophecy and would get what they deserved for reading his. He had always hated prophecies and the passive, helpless thinking they engendered. Rashan carved his own history with steel and aether, and the thought that fate or some unknown agent of the universe controlled his actions was anathema to him.

  In those younger days, he had taken a sinister glee in the thought that weak-minded fools one day would follow his prophecies as some sort of grand revelation that could save them from the dooms they predicted if only they deciphered them. Now he just hoped that whoever had broken into his room and stolen it had not taken it seriously. He could not recall everything he had written, but some of it likely applied to the current era.

  The entry into his room had been no small feat. Whoever had managed it must have studied the locking aether construct extensively. There were a number of steps required to disarm the layers upon layers of aether guarding the construct. It would have been simpler to have confronted the wards guarding the physical structure of the door and just blasted it off its hinges. The latter would have required considerable power in its own right, but was far less complicated and painstaking. However, Rashan had not built any means of inflicting harm into the door’s protections; it was in the middle of the palace, after all, and he had no reason to harm overly curious palace staff or mischievous young sorcerers. It was simply a matter of ensuring the sanctity of his own privacy—and if forced to admit it, to show off how well he could craft it.

  Whoever had broken in had certainly earned himself a modicum of respect from the warlock. To take on the tedious task of figuring out the lock rather than the idiot’s method of caving in the door bespoke someone who also wished to show off their cleverness. However, to have taken—near as he could tell—only the prophetic writings, damped that respect markedly.

  Rashan double-checked the rest of the room. His recollections were a century old, and while he possessed a good memory, time played tricks with even an immortal’s past. Still worried he might have overlooked something missing, he concluded that it was probably just the book.

  What Rashan had really come to his old room for was easily found. On a special rack made just to hold it, hung his formal garb. Identical to the robes and cloak he had imitated before the Inner Circle, these were the genuine article. The tunic was of a rare spider silk that was naturally black and shimmered iridescent in certain lighting. The gold trim was actually gold-infused thread, and the red trim got its color from ruby dust. The cloak was dragon hide, with meteoric iron pauldrons that were trimmed in plated gold. The pauldrons were joined together in the front and back as a single piece, and Rashan pulled them over his head as he finished changing.

  Rashan reached under the back of his collar and pulled his long hair free where it had been caught under the cloak, shaking it loose and letting it fall back into place. He stepped over to the mirror and casually swept away the century’s worth of dust that had accumulated, using a small wind called up from the aether. He looked himself over critically. He looked younger than the last time he had seen himself in that mirror, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes gone along with the dark circles that often hung below them. His hair was pure white now as opposed to blond and grey, and covered all the areas it had formerly retreated from. Age had been kind to the exceptional materials his warlock’s gear was crafted from, but not nearly so generous as the gifts immortality had granted him. Still, two items were missing.

  The boots Rashan had preferred were lost at the Battle of Farren’s Plain. Fine, “Battle of the Dead Earth” if that is what they insist on calling it. They were a practical pair, suitable to the dirty work of fighting necromancers, unlike the finery he had just donned. He had no other pair like them. Walking barefoot over to the bed, he reached under and found a nice pair of house slippers that looked enough like soft shoes to avoid embarrassment, and slipped them on.

  The last piece he was missing was hovering in the air over its sheath, which hung from a pair of hooks in the wall just below it. Ahh, Avalanche, how long has it been? Too long, I think. Grasping the hilt, he pulled the sword from its perch atop nothingness. The blade had a bluish tint to its steel, but the blade and crosspiece were otherwise not unusual for a broadsword. He gave it a couple effortless sweeps through the air, holding it in one hand; though in battle, he had always used two. He was much stronger now than he had been as a mortal; the changes he had wrought in his body were more than cosmetic. He was careful to avoid hitting anything with the blade. Avalanche was a weapon that was difficult to impede. He could put it through the wall if he was not careful with it.

  He let the blade go for a moment, and it resumed hovering exactly where it was left. To test its enchantment, Rashan leaned heavily against the flat of the blade and could not feel the slightest give to it. Satisfied, he retrieved the sheath from the wall and buckled it onto his belt. Taking control of the sword once more, he slid it into its sheath with a satisfying snick. Only in its sheath, or when wielded, could Avalanche be moved.

  Walking back to the mirror, he rechecked his appearance. The shoes were not very noticeable, he was relieved to find. The sword seemed lacking, though. While the workmanship was fine, and he had carried it habitually through much of his tenure as warlock, he knew that it was unimpressive to look at. The sword and hilt were finely crafted, but certainly no more so than most knight’s blades. Whoever had crafted it, ages ago, had been primarily concerned with utility. Rashan had always appreciated that aspect of the sword since he had used it often and found it served its purpose admirably. For now, though, he wanted something showier, something that would cause a bit more of a stir.

  He wanted to retrieve Heavens Cry.

  Making sure the door was secured behind him, its wards back to their silent sentry duty, he turned and set off to get it.

  * * * * * * * *

  Well, that could have gone worse, I suppose, Brannis thought, feeling drained.

  He had just returned from army headquarters and his meeting with General Sir Hurald and Sir Garibald, the commander of Kadrin forces and his own c
ommander, respectively. The older knight had thankfully been in his army uniform still, despite being expected at the palace shortly thereafter in foppish sorcerer’s garb. They had listened to Brannis’s accounting of the mission, the battle, and the return trip home in silence, not asking any questions until he had finished.

  That was when Sir Hurald revealed that Sir Lugren had already reported in, and had a different take on Brannis’s story. Lugren had told Sir Hurald that the army had been unprepared for the goblins’ arrival despite vain efforts to make them so. He reported that Iridan was unable to effectively counter the goblins’ own sorcerers, and that many of their casualties were a direct result. He had complained about the efforts of carrying the stricken Iridan with them when no effort was made to bring any of the fallen soldiers along, and of the time they had wasted with the delusional hermit that eventually claimed to be Warlock Rashan.

  Brannis’s own account had agreed on all the wide-sweeping facts, but on the minor details and interpretations, Lugren had disagreed entirely. While Sir Lugren spoke well of Brannis’s combat acumen, he had convinced the general that Brannis was unfit for command. Even though Brannis held a higher rank on the mission than Lugren, Hurald chose to take the older, more veteran knight’s word on the matter, especially since Brannis seemed to at least entertain the idea that the hermit they met might really be the former Kadrin warlock.

  As he walked though the house and up to his room, Brannis could think of little aside from finding his bed and sleeping through the rest of Bygones Night. The growling of his stomach asserted itself, though, and he corrected his thought. He could think of little else but sneaking some food from the kitchen, heading up to his room to eat, and sleeping away the remainder of the evening.

  When he reached his room, carrying a battered turkey leg and a tankard of ale, he received a shock. Upon opening the door, he had seen that someone had stolen in. His heart raced as he realized that the sword on his bed was not Massacre.

  He rushed over to the bed, hastily setting his meal down on a side table, and looked to see what was there. Under some fragments that appeared to have once been the dragon-sculpted handle of Massacre, there was a note, written in a brusque, scratchy script:

  I wanted my sword back. Take this one. I think you shall like it better anyway. Its name is Avalanche. Be careful with it until you have learned its tricks. It does not move unless sheathed or in hand. —Uncle Rashan

  Brannis felt dizzy.

  What does he mean by “my sword”?

  Brannis picked up the broken pieces of the little dragon that used to perch at his hip. He tried fitting them back together and noticed that they were actually not the hilt of his sword, but had actually covered it. There was a hollowed out area inside the sculpture that was the shape of a much thinner handle, one that would have been uncomfortably small for his large hands. It would seem to have been ideally suited to someone Rashan’s size, though.

  He knew that trying to chase down the demon was pointless. He would not know what to do if he caught him. By the note, he bore Brannis no ill will, but confronting him would likely irritate him at the least. Brannis tried thinking back to when he had first met Rashan. Had he taken any particular interest in the sword? How soon had he recognized the weapon?

  Have I really been carrying Heavens Cry around all this time?

  Ever curious, Brannis could not help but wonder about the new blade he had been given. He pulled Avalanche from its sheath on the bed and gave it a few experimental swings to test its weight. It felt like almost nothing in his hand.

  Probably a lightened weapon for a smaller swordsman, someone Rashan’s size, Brannis mused.

  He swung it around hard a few times, making a hwoom, hwoom sound as it displaced the air. Brannis looked around the room for something to test it on, but his own armor, piled in a heap at the foot of his bed, was the best he could find. Not wanting to ding his armor, he gently tapped at the breastplate with Avalanche.

  Crunch!

  The sword smashed the breastplate against the floor and took a fist-sized chunk out of the stone. Startled, he dropped the sword and leaped back from it. The sword did not fall, but stayed point down, angled to the floor just as he had left it. More cautious this time, he grabbed the hilt and picked it up again, then let it go in midair. Again it stayed.

  Accepting the fact that he could do little about the demon’s desire for Heavens Cry, Brannis brightened his mood by playing with Avalanche, seeing what it was capable of.

  * * * * * * * *

  As darkness fell over the city of Kadrin, the lights of the palace shone brightly. From the open and welcoming doors, magical illumination spilled out onto the marble-paved road that ran past the entrance, where carriages deposited their various personages of royal invitation. To be welcomed at the palace that night, one had to be either a noble, a head of one of the trade guilds, a knight, or a member of the Imperial Circle. There was a line of carriages out front, as guests awaited their turn to disembark. Those among the guests who lived closer sometimes walked and thus avoided the long wait for the carriages to unload. In all, there were likely to be over five hundred in attendance before guests stopped filling the palace ballroom.

  Rashan watched the procession from the shadows near the entrance gate, far from the doors of the palace but close to where the carriages passed as they entered the grounds. He kept an idle count of the conveyances as they passed, but was mostly looking to see what sort of folk were running the Empire nowadays. There was only so much one could gather from the partygoers at a revel, but at least Rashan saw that the Empire appeared to be prospering; the guests were bedecked in expensive-looking finery, almost without exception. The only ones who seemed to be dressed in less than extravagant luxury were some of the younger members of the Circle, and a few knights and nobles from less well-off families.

  There were two in particular Rashan watched for, and he was disappointed on one count. He saw Iridan later on toward the end of the guests’ arrivals, on foot. He supposed the lad must have had to scramble to prepare, given that they had arrived only earlier in the day. Rashan smiled when he saw Iridan’s costume. While most of the sorcerers of the Circle were dressing as knights, Iridan was in squire’s garb. Rashan applauded him for having the humility to poke fun at his own inexperience. He saw too that Iridan was alone. While it was certainly not unheard of to attend a ball unescorted, Rashan had rather hoped Iridan would have had time to find someone to take.

  I shall have to do something about that. He ought to have been arranged to someone by now. Can they not see how exceptional he is?

  As the last of the carriages finally left, Rashan made his way to the entrance. He strode confidently across the lawns of the palace, taking the shortest distance rather than following the curve of the road. With his cloak flowing out behind him and Heavens Cry bouncing at his hip, nearly dragging on the ground, he was like an apparition from the past. Ever mindful of the Empire’s best interests even in small matters, he kept his feet from touching the grass as he walked.

  The entrance was guarded, but ceremonially so. With everyone in costume, a pair of armored simpletons could hardly tell that one petite warlock did not belong at the party. The guards would have prevented drunken peasants from wandering in, but Rashan needed no magic to slip by them without raising their suspicions. The herald, however, was another story. The wizened old man whose voice called out the names of those who entered made a career of knowing who belonged in the palace, with emphasis on knowing who belonged at the various revels.

  “Sir, I do not know you,” the herald told Rashan, stepping into the warlock’s path. “Might you enlighten me, such that you may be properly introduced?”

  While his words were formal and said in the most polite tone, there was a clear implication that Rashan was in the wrong.

  “What is your name, Herald? I would properly address you before I give mine.”

  Rashan wanted to know this man, whom he expected he would deal wit
h much more once he slipped back into palace life on the emperor’s staff. He could easily have befuddled him with magic but chose not to. Some were a bit more sensitive to it than others, and even if he did not recall being enspelled, the herald would deduce it later when talk of a gatecrasher spread throughout the city.

  “I am Lonford, sir, Royal Herald.” He nodded graciously—and expectantly.

  “If you have had cause to visit the Sanctum in the Tower of Contemplation, you may recognize my face. I am Rashan Solaran, Warlock of the Empire, High Sorcerer, and the blood-stained right hand of the emperor. I have been away a long time, and it is a tale I have no time to tell now. I am home now and intend to resume my service to the emperor and to the Empire.”

  Rashan drew his sword as slowly and nonthreateningly as he could manage, pulling it with his off hand and grip reversed, cradling it along his right arm as he pulled the blade free of its sheath. He used his magic to levitate the blade in front of Lonford for inspection.

  “This is Heavens Cry, no crude copy, but the real blade itself, forged by my hand. Tonight is my first night back in Kadris, and since it happens to be Bygones Night, I plan to make the Inner Circle a peace offering, for the best interest of the Empire. I will, however, leave it to your discretion whether you would like to announce me—with the title as I gave it to you—or just allow me to enter unannounced.”