by J. S. Morin
He drew Avalanche from its sheath, slowly, and with a reversed grip. He took two steps closer to Sir Hurald as the honor guard parted slightly to allow a clear path between the two men. Still moving slowly, he raised his sword, blade still facing downward, until his arm was fully extended.
With a sudden, explosive thrust, Brannis drove the sword halfway to the hilt into the solid granite floor of the entry hall. Those nearby turned, threw up their hands, or covered their faces to protect themselves from the stone debris that flew up every which way from the sundered floor. To his credit, Sir Hurald only flinched, never lowering his sword from guard position.
“I could cut you in half,” Brannis spoke, loudly enough for everyone in the now quiet hall to hear him clearly, despite being only a few paces from the old general he was addressing. “But that will not make me any more right. If you were to dodge my strike and run your sword through my heart, you would not prove your point, either.
“Rashan Solaran is back. Yes, he is the very same warlock who destroyed Loramar and ended the Necromancer Wars, and who survived the Battle of the Dead Earth, contrary to what we once thought. He had been gone just over a century, and he has much to explain about his whereabouts in the interim, and why he has not returned before now. That I will grant.
“This is no raw lust for power; he has all that he could want and more already. I know little of his tale, but I know this much: Warlock Rashan was able to survive the final battle with Loramar because he had become an immortal, a demon. However powerful and dangerous history’s record says he is, he is more so now. Though I was not present to witness it, I have reliable accounts, confirmed by the Inner Circle, that Gravis Archon confessed his crimes and tried to rationalize his way around them. When Warlock Rashan chose to summarily destroy him, the former high sorcerer was helpless to defend himself.
“Though you will doubtless hear much the same from him tonight, Warlock Rashan does not intend or wish to remain regent, or to style himself as the new emperor. Having traveled back from Kelvie Forest with him, I feel I know him at least a small bit. I believe he was homesick and wished to return to the emperor’s service, as he once served so long ago. Upon his homecoming, he instead found a grand conspiracy that had been perpetrated in his absence.
“He is upset. He is angry. He does not yet know whom to trust among the circles of power in Kadrin. Thus he has instated me, his kin and someone whom he has shared travels with, as custodian of the army, at least for the time being. I know not if this promotion will last a week, a month, or become permanent.
“You, Sir Hurald, have not been demoted as such. The position of Grand Marshal may be above yours but has not been awarded in many summers. I expect you will continue to serve the Imperial Army and obey the orders given by me or by the regent. If you have issue with this arrangement, and frankly you have made it sufficiently clear that you do, take it up with Warlock Rashan tonight when you meet him. Contrary to what you might think, he will not kill you for challenging his decision; he may even appreciate it. He finds our knights soft and passive, and you might do well to show otherwise.
“I will let you think on this. I have no intention of issuing sweeping orders to change the army wholesale. My one order for today is that you find me an office, which I will take residency in starting tomorrow.” Brannis paused as if to consider something, then continued: “And please bear in mind that the warlock may visit this new office of mine. While I consider myself to be good humored and reasonable, I find Warlock Rashan to be somewhat less so, and he might find it inappropriate if he has to meet with me in some converted pantry or one of the stables.”
Brannis pulled his sword from the ground as easily as if it had been stuck in snow, and returned Avalanche to its sheath, locking his gaze on Sir Hurald as he did so.
“I may still ask to face you in combat over this, Brannis,” Sir Hurald said, more calmly than he had spoken earlier. Warily, he slid his own blade back into its sheath as well.
“I will see you this evening, then. I shall be in attendance as well, as I am now a senior officer of the army,” Brannis replied.
Brannis turned and began to walk back toward the main doors, and the honor guard fell in behind him.
As they exited army headquarters and the view of those inside, Iridan leaned in to Brannis and whispered, “Well played, indeed. I thought for a moment you really were going to cut him in half in front of everyone.”
Without turning, Brannis muttered back, “So did I. I am still surprised the arrogant mule put his sword away.”
Iridan suppressed a chuckle.
* * * * * * * *
Brannis parted ways with the honor guard and the two sorcerers at the gate to Solaran Estate. He needed some time away from the chaos that was quickly overtaking him, at least long enough to regroup and adjust to the sudden change in rank and importance. Iridan remained behind when the rest left.
“Would you like me to show you around the place? I know my father did not like having you around, but that would seem not to be an issue anymore,” Brannis said.
Despite their longstanding friendship, Maruk Solaran had never approved of Brannis associating so closely with a “peasant” sorcerer. Though his stance had softened somewhat as Iridan showed himself more and more capable as he advanced through the Academy, Brannis’s father had never allowed Iridan to feel at ease at the estate.
“I would like to see the place a bit. From the couple times you sneaked me in when we were younger, it seemed nearly as nice as the palace,” Iridan replied. “Not today, though. I think everyone should get some time to get used to me being Warlock Rashan’s son, not the least of them being me. I woke up this morning as Iridan Korian. I think I shall try falling asleep as him tonight as well.
“By the by, you could use a good night’s rest yourself. I know you have had as interesting a day as have I, but you look the worse for it,” Iridan said in that bluntly insulting manner that only close friends are wont to get away with on a regular basis.
“I slept poorly last night. I had a particularly vivid nightmare, and it has gnawed at me all day, despite the numerous distractions that you might think would take my mind off it entirely,” Brannis confided. There was no one else around now, and he felt confident that Iridan knew him well enough not to read too much into it.
“Must have been quite the nightmare. Were you falling perhaps, or trapped by some monster or another? I have never found the end of one of those falling ones; I think the mind does not quite know what the end is supposed to feel like, so you just wake up,” Iridan said.
“No, I always see the same place in my dreams, the same people. I am always the same person in my dreams, not Brannis the knight, but some lowly scribe. Last night, I was accosted by city guards after they caught me doing magic, which I think was illegal, possibly. Anyway, I got caught and knocked out. I do not know what happened from then on,” Brannis said. He was not sure Iridan would understand, but at least he felt he could unburden himself somewhat in Iridan’s presence.
“Oh, Brannis. It still pains you even though the Academy was winters ago? You get to play at magic in your dreams and get persecuted for it? That is just awful. Quite a clear recollection of it as well. It must have made quite the impression on you.”
Iridan sounded empathetic, but Brannis knew he could not understand the frustration that those winters of failure and ultimately ridicule had caused him. Still, as thoughtful as Iridan’s kind words were, they missed the mark.
“Well, yes, but that is not the half of it. I remember it all, the whole thing, morning to night, and I do every night. I did not use to remember my dreams much at all, but I think possibly because they bored me so. Things have been going better of late in the dream world, what with learning a little magic and meeting this girl—”
“Aha,” Iridan interrupted him. “This whole dream thing is about the parts of your life you would like to change. You are still pining for Juliana, too, I would wager. You claimed you were p
ast that, but you still carry on hoping because technically no one called off your betrothal. It was just a given that once you left the Academy that it was over. How many lasses have you bedded to convince yourself you did not still want her? You are a general now—”
“Grand marshal,” Brannis corrected him quietly, barely slowing Iridan’s narrative momentum.
“Err, yes, a grand marshal now, and have the support of the new high sorcerer. Surely you could just, uh, follow through? How could she refuse you?” Iridan asked.
Brannis could not help but admire how his friend was trying to help him out, ill-conceived though the attempt might have been.
“It is not so much that; I just worry what has happened in my dream. I do not want to lose everything I have there,” Brannis said.
“Brannis, it is just a dream. Dreams are all in your head. If you lose what you have there, maybe you can take my advice and seek it while you are awake.” Iridan smiled mischievously. “Is she pretty?”
Brannis frowned in reply. “Do you have an appointment with a tailor you ought to be seeing to this afternoon?” Brannis said, diverting the conversation because Iridan was just having fun with him now.
“See you tomorrow, Brannis.” Iridan turned and waved as he departed. “And get some real sleep tonight. The Empire will need you, after all.”
* * * * * * * *
Brannis attended the officers’ summons to the palace that night. Rashan held audience in the throne room but stood beside the empty throne the whole time. All officers stationed in Kadris were in attendance, since the order had left off mention of what ranks were considered “senior” enough to attend. Rashan made no comment on the size of the crowd.
Brannis kept himself distracted by the audience, as he had heard the details of the conspiracy already, and knew more of the travels from Kelvie already than Rashan revealed to the rest of the officers. He could not stop his worries about Kyrus and his fate, now that he had time enough to let them run wild.
He was half-listening to Rashan and was aware enough of the crowd’s reaction to realize that the warlock was an inspiring speaker. It dawned on Brannis that these were Rashan’s people, much more so than the flabby old sorcerers that sat in ornate chairs in a tower and spent their days debating and delegating. These were men who would bear arms into battle and emerge bloody and victorious, or at least might have in their younger days, in some cases.
The warlock appealed to their sense of imperial pride and talked of the glories of the Empire that were dying in the fields like overripe vegetables. He actually compared them to those vegetables: soft, worthless, and rotting inside. He offered them a new path back to what the Empire used to be, when he was last its warlock.
The rousing speech noticeably lifted the morale of those present, though obviously some remained unconvinced. The one phrase that stood out to Brannis as an omen of the Empire’s future was thus: “I will reunite the Empire through diplomacy, and I am a diplomat of fire and steel.” There was actually a book in the library at the School of Arms entitled The Diplomacy of Fire and Steel, which had been written after Rashan’s apparent death, describing his use of diplomacy and deception in the cause of war.
It was said that the emperor wielded the army in his left hand and the Circle in his right, the two tools by which he controlled the Empire. Brannis wondered if he was about to become the blood-stained left hand of the regent.
Sir Hurald did not seek Warlock Rashan’s permission to challenge Brannis to a duel that night. Brannis did not expect to sleep the better for it.
Chapter 21 - On My Own Behalf
What happened? Kyrus wondered in a daze.
He had a headache that only a man bound for the chopping block would envy. He was lying down on some hard surface that felt like wood. Opening his eyes to try to get his bearings, the light sent shooting pains through his head, and he closed them again quickly.
There was some sort of commotion that sounded like it was in the next room, but he could not tell with any certainty. There were raised and angry voices, but too many of them, and the overall effect was too loud; it was making his headache worse.
His whole side hurt from whatever wooden surface he was lying on. He felt as if he must have been insensible for a long time, for his muscles had grown stiff due to lack of movement. He stretched out a bit and heard a clanking of chains; his ankles were shackled together.
What he had first dismissed as a bad case of dry mouth was actually some sort of gag. He reached up to pull it loose but found his wrists shackled together as well, and bound to a chain around his waist.
Oh, this definitely is not a good sign.
Opening his eyes just a slit, Kyrus managed to survey his surroundings. He was, unsurprisingly given the shackles, in a cell. Kyrus had never been to Scar Harbor’s jail—a failing of his cultural upbringing no doubt—but was clever enough to puzzle out that it was his present location. He was surrounded on three sides and above by stone bricks, with a wall of bars completing the room. The floor was dirt covered, but Kyrus suspected that it, too, was stone or bedrock not far down. He was lying on a wooden cot, with the only other furnishing in the room being a chamber pot. With a supreme effort, Kyrus rolled enough that he could look at the wall he was lying nearest, and saw that there was a small, wide, barred window above him near the ceiling of the cell. The window allowed in fresh air, a little—unwelcome at the moment—light, and the noises from the street that he had been hearing.
Kyrus knew only one, modestly effective, cure for headaches. He relaxed as best he could and drew in a bit of aether. The cool rush cleared his head a bit. It did not eliminate the pain, but it helped markedly in clearing the foggy haze that the pain left in his head. He was able to sit up without the world spinning and decided that it was worth an attempt to do so.
Though he had drawn in little aether, after a few moments he became irritatingly aware of the fact that he was holding it. As it began to burn, and it occurred to Kyrus that he had not the ability to cast any spells, bound up as he was. He looked about for a likely place to dump the excess discretely and found that they had left him no water. He was almost glad he had not yet used the chamber pot, sparing himself that unsavory odor, should he have boiled it off. He decided on the bars of the cell door as his likeliest option and diverted the aether there. He saw no visible effect from it, but knew that the bars would be, at the least, rather uncomfortably warm to the touch.
* * * * * * * *
The bars of the cell had surely cooled by the time the bailiffs arrived to drag Kyrus from his cell. They were two stocky men, cut from the “just obeying orders” cloth. Both were dressed in official uniforms of a drab brown with minimal adornment, and carrying clubs slung from their belts. One carried a ring of keys and unlocked the cell door. The grating metal-on-metal sound of the key in the rusted lock pierced Kyrus’s still-sensitive ears and drove tiny daggers of pain into his brain.
The door opened with the creak one might expect of an un-oiled iron cage, and the bailiffs strode in. Without so much as a word, they hoisted Kyrus up under each arm and carried him bodily from the cell, shackled feet dragging along. Kyrus could not have kept up with their pace had he wanted to, hobbled as he was, and doubted he would much care for where they were taking him. They carried him down the row of cells beneath the jailhouse, and to the stairs heading up.
Well, at least this bodes well for seeing the light of day again, Kyrus mused darkly.
He had worried that he might be taken somewhere worse, and usually that sort of thing would suggest down rather than up, if the storybooks he had read were any indication. As they took the stairs, Kyrus contorted to dodge his head below one of the low rafters, causing his headache to renew its efforts. His feet bumped along at each step as they hung limply; Kyrus was too tired to make the effort to pull them up or back and out of the way.
When they reached the top, they made their way past a short row of waiting constables, who fell in beside them as they proce
eded. The jail was cleaner and more orderly up on the ground floor, with desks and storage rooms and hallways connected by barred doors. Kyrus tried to make a map of it in his head, in case he were to attempt some sort of daring escape. To date, his most daring endeavor had been courting Abbiley, so he expected that there might be a bit of a learning curve in regards to jailbreaks. Still, what other options was he going to have?
Well, I can always try denying everything. Only a few officers of the constabulary saw anything, and it was late at night. They could have been overwrought and misinterpreted what they saw. Or maybe I can insist I was practicing parlor tricks, and it was all an act. Surely not enough people in Acardia are superstitious enough to believe in magic. Certainly not a magistrate.
Kyrus had managed to make himself feel rather better about his prospects by the time they got him to the door. He would make his appeal to the magistrate—which is where he supposed they were bringing him—and convince everyone that the whole notion of magic was preposterous. Acardia was a rational, enlightened kingdom: too sensible to be overcome by fears of witchcraft.
Of course, once Kyrus passed clear of the door, the crowd, which had gone relatively quiet in the hours of waiting to see the “witch,” was re-energized. Thoughts of appealing to the better nature of a learned man of law and justice were quickly replaced with a sudden fear that he was going to be burned at the stake!
“Begone, fiend!”
“We do not want your kind!”
“Get rid of him!”
“Hang him!”
“Leave us alone, witch!”
“Burn the witch!”
The latter was shouted more than once and was eventually taken up by the mob at large as a chant. Kyrus suspected that he was being carried because any sane man would have likely tried to bolt if he was walking on his own. The two bailiffs carried him to a waiting wagon and hefted him into it, then climbed in with him. The constables kept the crowd back and away from the horses as the wagon drover got them moving. Kyrus tried to slouch down below the level of the sides of the wagon to get out of sight of the crowd, but one of the bailiffs grabbed him and hauled him back up.