by J. S. Morin
“Aww, not wastin’ it all on whores, are ya?” Tod sounded disappointed in his friend.
“Naw, think I got the coin now to court a girl proper. You know, get me a wife, like?” Jodoul said just before noticing Brannis coming right down the hall at them.
Both men scrambled to arrange themselves in proper guard pose—upright and holding a weapon usually covered it.
“Easy, fellows,” Brannis said as he got close enough that he would not have to yell to talk to them. “Just here for the library, not any sort of official inspection.”
“Aww, sir, you ought to know we cannot let you in,” Tod said.
“Orders and all,” Jodoul agreed, “right from Warlock Rashan. This is our first night at it, and we cannot botch it up right off.”
Brannis could not help noticing that they largely dropped the gutter slang when addressing him.
“You stand relieved. Go get some sleep,” Brannis ordered.
Neither man budged.
“Warlock Rashan’s orders, sir,” Tod told him.
“He does not want folks poking about at night until it settles down a bit,” Jodoul said. “Come morning, I am sure you can get him to let you have a look.”
Brannis felt himself growing exasperated. “Listen, boys, I have no time to explain properly, but I need to get into that library. I do not have time to wait until morning. Go have yourselves a good night’s rest. I will make sure no one else gets in.”
Brannis tried to sound calm and reasonable, but his sword hand was across his body, resting on the hilt of Avalanche. The point was not missed by either of the two guards. For all their other shortcomings, Tod and Jodoul were survivors. They had heard of the incident at army headquarters, where Brannis had driven that same sword an arm’s length deep into the stone floor.
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
Neither of them saluted as they stepped aside and let Brannis pass. As Brannis opened the—thankfully not warded—door, they made their retreat down the corridor. Brannis shut the door behind him. The room was well lit, with light just sufficient for comfortable reading anywhere in the room, and no more.
Brannis picked a row of shelves at random and started browsing titles: Aether Theory for Plants. A Decomposition of Fire Magics. The Sorcerer’s Travel Companion. Ward Maintenance. Care and Nurturing of Familiars for Increased Aether Generation. Maximizing Spell Effects with Minimal Aether. Guide to Silent Casting: A Novel Approach. Magics of Stone and Earth.
Brannis nodded to himself. All right, that one sounds promising. Kyrus is in a cell of stone blocks.
He pulled the volume off the shelf and examined it. It did not look especially old, but he suspected that extraordinary measures were likely used to keep old books intact over the course of centuries. He flipped through it and found that it was written in rune language, which he was fully capable of reading, and it was even illustrated with diagrams showing what various forms of spell could do. Brannis took it over to one of the many small tables scattered about the library and sat down to study it.
There was a spell to crush rock and another to form rock dust into larger pieces. He found a spell that was a more effective way of levitation that was suited specifically to rock and earth. He found one that could burrow and one that could make solid stone turn to a runny sort of mud.
Brannis knew he was probably going to have to leave Kyrus to his own devices to get the gag out of his mouth enough to speak, but the problem he kept seeing was that all of the gestures for the spells involved motions that could not be done while he was shackled. He kept reading, hoping to find one that was a one-handed gesture, or something just done with the fingers. He scanned quickly through the rest of the book to see if any were simpler spells but found that it was not the case.
Leaving that book open on the table to the page with the burrowing spell, Brannis went back to the shelves. He wanted to see if there were any books that might help with getting Kyrus unshackled. He looked for titles that dealt with metals, skipping over the rest for now.
Manipulating Metals turned out to be about changing alloys to improve sword performance. Cold Steel was actually a book describing how warlocks combined sword and spell in battle.
Melting Metal was actually a scholarly work describing the ways that metals were smelted, but it was written for the hobbyist sorcerer who practiced metallurgy in his free time. In between passages explaining the necessary temperatures to get various metals to melt and the most advantageous mineral additives to strengthen them, there were helpful variant spells that worked well for achieving those temperatures. Unfortunately it was poorly organized and each section referenced other works where further information could be found. If Brannis were to get any use out of it, he would have to search through to find the basic spells the author kept referencing, and then work out how they would need to be modified to heat a particular metal most economically. The economy of aether was good to note, since Brannis had no basis for comparison as to how well Kyrus drew aether.
Brannis was taking Melting Metal over to the table to read when he heard the library door open. His hand immediately went for his blade, but he did not draw it. Staying behind the shelves for cover, he stood quietly and waited.
For what seemed like hours there was no sound at all, and Brannis was getting ready to dismiss the sound of the door as paranoia. Then, down the end of the row, he saw a head poke around the corner.
“Aha, there you are,” Rashan said, chuckling. “Your two friends are better soldiers than you gave them credit for. They came straight to me after you got rid of them.”
“So it would seem,” Brannis commented flatly, trying to see where the warlock was going with this.
“So what brings you down to the libraries at this hour? Have you been trying to study up to graduate the Academy? What was so important that you had to threaten your way past the guards?”
Brannis struggled to find some excuse for being there. His excuse for nearly anyone else would have been that he was working on orders from Rashan, but that was unlikely to work in his current scenario.
“Oh, stop trying to think up a lie and just tell me. Unless you are a spy for Megrenn or a goblin sympathizer, it is not as if I would kill you for whatever reason you have,” Rashan said.
Brannis cursed silently in his head. The warlock was too clever to be stalled.
“Well, I suppose that ought to reassure me. I do not think it absolves me of being thought a madman, though. I admit this is all quite suspicious,” Brannis admitted.
He could feel his heart starting to quicken in his chest. He did not want to have Rashan think that he could not handle his new position and take it away from him this soon.
“Brannis, I have been thought dead for a century, and less than a day after returning, I find I have to kill a quarter of the Inner Circle for treason. You shall hardly have a monopoly on being thought a madman, regardless of your tale. Besides, now you have piqued my curiosity, and I shall not be denied whatever story you have. Be warned: I have been lied to by many of the best liars in Kadrin—the nobles—and can generally sniff out a false tale.”
Brannis swallowed hard. At this point, if I admit it, maybe I can get him to help. I do not know if I will get a good enough plan together in time at the rate things are going now.
“Well, this might take a bit of explaining,” Brannis said. “We should sit.”
Brannis went over to the table where Magics of Stone and Earth sat open, and settled into one of the chairs. Rashan dropped lightly into one of the chairs opposite him, twisting his head around to make out the title of the book Brannis had been reading.
“Studying fortifications and how to destroy them with magic? Commendable, but not ‘emergency in the night’ fare, I think. Out with it now; what sordid tale do you have for me?”
Brannis took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “Well, this is about my dreams. I have … I do not know quite what to call them—visions?—of another place. I see things thr
ough someone else’s eyes,” Brannis began, wondering if he could get Rashan to jump in and offer insights.
“Fascinating,” Rashan commented, his tone light and his eyes fixed on Brannis’s, as if he were hearing the opening to a fireside storyteller’s yarn.
“Well, in this other place, this other person has gotten himself into some trouble. I know he can learn things that I have seen, so I was looking for a spell to get him out of his predicament.” Brannis phrased that about as mildly as he could think of without straying from the truth.
“So what sort of predicament? Surrounded by goblins? Backed against a cliff and facing doom at the hands of angry ogres? Just caught in the bedchamber of a princess? Brannis, you are a lousy storyteller. Details, please,” Rashan said.
“He has been locked up for being a ‘witch,’ and he is likely trapped in a cell awaiting execution. He is shackled hand and foot, and gagged. I am looking for a spell that could get him out of a stone dungeon cell, or out of a set of iron shackles, preferably both,” Brannis said.
Rashan looked pensive for a moment. Then he did something Brannis had yet to see from the warlock. He cast a spell.
“Denek iliaru estatta pogulu benna tetga fenex refleragna,” he said and pressed his hands together, rubbing them quickly in tiny circles.
Rashan’s form became hazy and indistinct, then fully transparent. Brannis watched the warlock pass his hand through the table. After a moment, he solidified again.
“It allows one to pass through solid objects and requires minimal hand movement,” Rashan explained.
“Any suggestions on how to get the gag out of his mouth?” Brannis asked, hoping perhaps the warlock would give him all the answers he would need. He had not honestly considered that Rashan would be nonplussed by the whole affair and decide to help him.
“Well, if your alter ego can use aether at all, just burn it through. If he is about to be executed otherwise, I would think a few burns would be worth the cost. Oh, and if he fails to escape, at least have the historical sense to go out with something noteworthy … like a plume of flame engulfing everyone in sight. Sorcerers are not meant to be rounded up and beheaded like thieves. Do not start a precedent.” Rashan winked and stood to leave.
“Thank you, Rashan. Now I just need to get back to sleep so he can use this information,” Brannis said. “Would anyone mind if I slept here until morning?” It was certainly an unusual request, but Brannis thought it by far the least insane thing he had done that night.
“By all means. Here, let me help,” and Rashan appeared to concentrate on Brannis, and he started to feel just a bit dizzy. “Brannis, you are far too resistant to magic for your own good. If that Source of yours were shut any tighter, you would be a demon, like me. I might be able to tear you in half with lightning or cremate you where you stand with a firestorm, but I cannot affect you directly with a simple sleep enchantment,” Rashan said. “Let me try from a bit closer.”
Rashan got right up next to Brannis and held his hands out just to either side of his head. As soon as Brannis closed his eyes to try and help out by relaxing, Rashan balled his right fist and slugged him, hard, right in the temple. The warlock was quick to react, catching the much larger knight as he slumped out of his chair and laying him sprawled out on the floor.
“Good luck,” Rashan wished him and retired from the library.
Chapter 22 - Good Help Is Hard to Find
“I’d never before thought of a life at sea, but you make your point, Cap’n,” Grosh replied when asked if he would join Denrik as part of his crew. “I have no trade without acting outside my guild, and who has heard of a rogue tailor? At least with you, sir, I know where I stand.”
Denrik nodded in acknowledgment. That makes one of the ones I wanted, at the least. He stood with his men arranged about him in a semicircle, and was going about finding out once and for all who was staying on with him. It was to be their last night camped among the low cliffs to Scar Harbor’s south. By morning, they would either be sailing as free men, or be dead. None among them wished to be recaptured.
“And you, Jimony?” Denrik asked.
“Good coin, ya say? I got you on that one, right? We get loot and get rich?” Jimony asked, his priorities transparent. The wiry viper’s eyes gleamed as he imagined piles of treasure akin to the stories in Neiron the Kingthief and pictured them for himself.
“Better than knifing old men coming home from the tavern, certainly,” Denrik replied dryly. “Learn a trade aboard ship, and you shall earn a full share of the loot. Same goes for all of you lads. Work as a pirate, get paid as one.”
“Aye, Cap’n. Count me in,” Jimony replied enthusiastically.
Denrik was chagrined but little surprised. It was the easiest money a lowlife like Jimony could imagine, preying on merchants and traders who quickly became much more interested in saving their own skins than in protecting their investments, and far from the reach of any sort of law. On the open waters, it was the Law of Guns: whoever possessed the most cannons was in charge.
“Oh, me too!” exclaimed Andur. “Loot for everyone!”
Everyone laughed, and Denrik supposed he was stuck with Andur for the foreseeable future.
Denrik did not ask again but simply turned to Tawmund and looked questioningly at him. As a man of few words himself, Tawmund understood the implied query.
“Yeah, sure,” was all Tawmund said, but from Denrik’s perspective, that was all he needed to hear.
Whether they would change their minds later once they found out that life aboard ship was not for everyone, and certainly was not day after day of plunder interrupted only by port calls for drinking and whoring … Well, he would just wait and see how they took to it.
* * * * * * * *
Stalyart arrived for one final visit early in the afternoon. He seemed in good spirits as well—and why not? For, his plan to take to the seas with his old captain was about to come to fruition. He was dressed more plainly than the other times he had come to them, in the plain drab-brown coveralls and boots of a dock worker. He was lugging a large sack along with him.
“Mr. Stalyart, good news I hope,” Denrik said as Tawmund and Grosh moved to help him unburden his load.
“The best, as always, Captain,” the grinning Stalyart replied. “I have brought everything we will need and perhaps a bit more. I like games of chance, but this is no game, so I take no chances.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Dark clothing for everyone. I guessed sizes, so make the best if they do not fit as you would prefer. There are long knifes for each—better than cutlasses, easy to hide. Two more pistols also. My men are ready as well. We will meet at the docks an hour after sunset and wait for my brother’s signal.”
Denrik always admired his first mate’s efficiency. With five more like him, it would little matter what dullards the rest of the crew were. Fortune being what it was, there was only one of Stalyart. He was still going to be woefully short on good men who knew their trades. His most pressing reason for bringing his Rellis Island crew was simple manpower. Under normal circumstances, he would have been able to afford the luxury of picking an experienced crew, but he had need of every willing and able body he could muster.
“What news from the city? Are the cannons aboard? What of the captain?” Denrik peppered him with questions, his own eagerness showing through.
“The captain, I am afraid, will likely be on board. No great harm, though. We can take care of him. The new cannons are so beautiful; I see them for myself when they load them. The news from the city, though? Ahh, this shames my other little newses. The sheriff has caught a witch! He even admitted it in his trial this morning. In the witch’s house, there is a light that does not come from anywhere. I went for myself to see it.”
“So you believe them?” Denrik asked.
This was truly news worth hearing. Denrik’s own powers were so limited.
A real sorcerer in Acardia? Now that might be useful.
“Yes. He was not sentenced t
oday. They want to get permission to execute him, but need to have to ask the lords in Golis. He is not dead yet, but he borrows his days,” Stalyart replied.
“What do you think, Stalyart?” Denrik asked him.
Stalyart was among those on his crew who were aware of Denrik’s mystical leanings, so Denrik knew that Stalyart had something more in mind when he brought him this news, otherwise its inclusion with the day’s plans would have been nothing more than a distraction.
“I think the winds are not so strong tonight. I think we take less chance by bringing this witch with us than we do trying to outrun pursuit on a calm night,” Stalyart replied.
“If this witch has real magic, how is it that he is kept captive?” Denrik asked, drawing nods of agreement from Jimony and Grosh, who otherwise had the sense to keep out of the conversation.
“He is kept shackled and gagged. They keep him so he can work not magic,” Stalyart explained. “I hear that even to eat, they hold a crossbow on him.”
So he is unskilled, or at least unschooled. I can work with that. A fully trained sorcerer could easily escape such mundane imprisonment, which is why no one with sense takes one prisoner. Jinzan could have broken out the minute they left him alone.
“How did they capture him?” Denrik asked, trying to get a feel for how much of a sorcerer he was dealing with.
“They broke in his door in the middle of the night and took him by surprise.”
Denrik sat down and thought for several minutes. No one interrupted him. The look on his face was of such an obvious calculating nature that they just waited for him to speak and then decide.
* * * * * * * *
Kyrus came back to the land of the conscious and found he had been returned to his cell. It was a small comfort, knowing that he was likely just awaiting the hangman’s noose, or possibly a post, some rope, and a pile of firewood.
His headache had improved to the point where he was thinking rationally. Importantly, he remembered everything he had dreamed, including a rather clear recollection of Rashan’s spell. He just had to pick the right time to use it.