Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)

by J. S. Morin

  Kyrus was a bit dubious at the confidence the captain showed in him but was more surprised that he had not reprimanded the quartermaster for questioning him. Kyrus was no scholar of naval comportment, but he was fairly certain the Acardian navy took a dim view of underlings questioning their superiors’ decisions. He had assumed that among pirates, the tolerance for such brazenness would have been nearly nil.

  In fact, Kyrus was beginning to question just how much danger he was truly in aboard the Denrik Zayne’s ship. Despite most of them carrying blades, he had yet to see anyone draw one in anger against another crewman. With all the drinking during their night of Crackle, there had been no brawl or serious threats, just a general joviality. With the captain and first mate in on the secret he carried, there was even a certain sense of protection from above.

  For the rest of the evening, Kyrus kept his winnings moderate.

  Let them think I had a run of luck, and nothing more, Kyrus thought.

  He even strategically lost a few hands to Holyoake and Scradd, who had seemed the least cordial toward him. He figured that it would be easier to like someone when you can take their money at cards.

  * * * * * * * *

  By the time the game broke up and each of them had retired to their quarters, Kyrus had added a hefty sum to the share of loot he had been awarded. He figured upon it being roughly a haul of sixty thousand eckles, once he converted the various currencies using Stalyart’s exchange rates. It was more than he had made in his lifetime up to that point. It was hardly a sum to retire on as a country gentleman, but it was certainly a strong start toward such a fortune.

  If Kyrus was ever were to make his way back to Acardia to reunite with Abbiley, it certainly would not hurt to be wealthy by then. He doubted his reputation would allow him to ever settle within the city again, but with enough gold, he could start a new life and take Abbiley along with him. Certainly there was gold enough to be had among these pirates that such a goal was not unrealistic.

  Kyrus sighed, thinking about the last night he and Abbiley had spent together, and wishing that he had not left her to go back to his shop and work.

  Brannis would have known better, he thought, punching his feather pillow in frustration. I was a fool to assume I had forever to court her.

  Kyrus walked the few steps to his now warded door and angrily poured aether into it, yanking a bit back at the last moment when he sensed it was about to burst.

  Let the ship crash against the rocks; that door still is not going anywhere.

  He could still see everyone in his vicinity aboard the ship, their Sources overlaying his vision of the world of light; Kyrus was really appreciating his newfound trick of keeping his sight balanced between the worlds of aether and light. He wondered briefly if the world of aether was truly another world like the one that Brannis lived in, or whether the aether world was common to both. It was a bit too philosophical for the late hour, and Kyrus’s moderate drinking had nevertheless taken a small toll on his wakefulness. He resolved to ponder the question another day.

  Read a bit more from Basic Wards tonight, Brannis, if you do not mind, Kyrus thought before drifting off to sleep, feeling much more secure than he had the previous night.

  It was an odd feeling, knowing there was someone in another world watching over you, conspiring with you, sharing your thoughts and memories. Now that Kyrus knew the secret of his connection with Brannis, though, he found it comforting. It was like finding out a childhood imaginary friend had been real all along.

  Chapter 26 - For Old Times

  Brannis and one of the palace porters clattered down the halls of the palace, intent on the stables. Their arms were filled with the provisions Brannis had expected they might need on the journey to Raynesdark. While Brannis carried the pack with the books he had taken from the Tower library, a number of maps of the countryside, and a few changes of clothing, the porter was carrying much of Brannis’s armor, whence came much of the considerable noise they were making.

  Brannis wore a traveling cloak over mail armor and a steel breastplate, as well as his Solaran tabard. Mail covered the leather of his leggings down to just above the knee, but his lower legs and boots were unarmored. It was a compromise—armor that would lend some protection if they ran into trouble on their journey, but not so heavy that a journey of a tenday would wear him down physically. He expected to ride hard, at least so much as his sorcerer companions could handle.

  Brannis was under little illusion about his companions. Sorcerers among the Kadrin Imperial Circle were not known for partaking of an active lifestyle. Iridan’s adventure in Kelvie Forest with Brannis had been by far the exception, and even after the whole expedition, he was hardly in the shape of a common conscript. Juliana—for all else he admired about her form—was built better for the ballroom than the road, with thin arms and slender legs and shallow, graceful …

  Never mind that now.

  The other two he knew not, but neither looked the least bit rugged. Ruuglor likely weighed twice his own twenty-five gallons—well, probably not, but it certainly seemed like it. And Faolen must have spent as much time on his appearance as a courtesan, and appeared more dainty than even Juliana, who could at least act the part of the fierce warrior when the mood struck her.

  And yet, should we be ambushed on the road, it will be them protecting me, not the other way around, Brannis thought ruefully.

  He knew he was being sent to Raynesdark for his leadership rather than his sword arm, but it was still a bit off-putting to know that any of the four of them could almost literally tie him into knots if it came right down to it. Kadrin sorcerers were a far cry from the novices the goblins in Kelvie had thrown at them.

  When Brannis and his assistant made it to the stables, they found Rashan waiting for them. Unlike the previous night’s dinner, they had arrived in advance of the rest of the attendees. The warlock was dressed in his usual black robes and cloak, but he was carrying an ornate breastplate.

  “Fair morning, Brannis,” Rashan greeted him. “I ought to have sent word to leave your armor behind, but I have had so many other tasks to attend to that I fear I overlooked that detail. Now, before everyone else arrives, get that stuff off and get changed.”

  “What do you mean? I have no time for fitting a new set of armor at this point. If you need my measurements to have it fitted while I am away, I use Goloway as my smith. He is the best in Kadrin these days and has all my measurements, unless I have lost girth with how busy I have kept myself this last season or so. Um … you did not already have Goloway alter that armor for me, did you? I cannot imagine that was made anew in the two days since you have returned.”

  “No, Brannis, do not concern yourself. It will fit you plenty well enough without alteration. Quit arguing and just put it on. You shall see,” Rashan said, proffering the breastplate at arm’s length.

  Brannis looked about and saw what appeared to be the rest of the matching plates hanging from pegs that normally would have held riding tack, had five horses not already been outfitted that morning.

  “Very well,” Brannis agreed, reluctantly.

  He hoped that the warlock was at least a good enough judge of his size that the armor would not be too uncomfortable. Given the choice of looking like a grand marshal and actually wearing comfortable, fitted armor, he would choose the latter every time. For someone unaccustomed to needing armor, Rashan just would not understand the vast difference between “close” and “just right” when it came to the fit of a suit of armor. Goloway made a princely living for a commoner by being a master at understanding that difference.

  He enlisted the porter’s help in getting out of his own armor, a task he could manage on his own if time was not at issue. When he went to put on the long-sleeved mail shirt that went on under the plates of the new armor, he found it to be laughably oversized for him. Brannis found that unusual, as he was among the tallest knights in the Empire, and his hands would not even exit the ends of the sleeves until he bu
nched the mail up at his wrists.

  As soon as Brannis had fully donned the mail shirt, it began to shrink until it fit snugly against the padded woolen under-layer he wore. His eyes immediately sought out the warlock and found Rashan watching him with amusement.

  “I told you it would fit,” the warlock said, smiling.

  “Where did you get this? I doubt even five knights in the Empire own aether-forged armor. I daresay none would give theirs up while they yet lived,” Brannis replied.

  Brannis’s own armor was runed but not aether-forged. It held protections that a sorcerer could renew with aether, but aether-forged armor was not only stronger, but also capable of remarkable feats like the resizing trick Rashan’s proffered armor has just performed.

  “Please tell me that you did not murder some poor knight to get this.”

  “No, I merely made a search of the emperor’s private armory. It was hanging on a display rack, apparently unused since Liead wore it into battle with me,” Rashan said, sounding sad.

  “So you made this armor?” Brannis asked, impressed.

  As he looked over the rest of the plates, he could not help admiring the exquisite detail—etched patterns and writings that were hidden among the raised relief artwork, gracefully flowing lines, and, on the inside, runes.

  “No, no. Sadly I cannot take credit for that. It was hundreds of summers old when I first laid eyes on it. I never took the time to research its history, but many an emperor, those that were of a mind at least, wore it when going to battle or when fighting in tournaments. Once long ago, our emperors were not craven canaries, kept in gilded cages to be put on display for the commoners at holidays.”

  “If this is from the emperor’s armory, I should not be wearing it. This should only be worn by the emperor.” Brannis began removing the mail shirt.

  “Stop that. Be sensible. You talk as if there were an emperor to offend. My all-wise Inner Circle saw to it that the canary in the cage was replaced with the mere reflection of a bird. It did all it needed to on high balconies on feasting days, but I think it lacked the ability to take offense. While I am regent, I will not allow such useful magic to go wasting away in a dusty room while I can put it to use in battle,” Rashan said.

  “Well, then …” Brannis trailed off, and he started putting the armor on.

  The porter loitered around to help, but the armor went on with ease as each piece was comfortably oversized as it went on and then fitted itself like a second skin as soon as it was in place.

  When he had finished, Rashan conjured up a shimmering force in midair that reflected like a mirror. “Well, see how you look. More befitting the Grand Marshal of the Imperial Army, would you say?”

  “I must admit, I look the part now, at least,” Brannis said.

  He was dressed head to foot in gold and quicksilver, materials that would never be used in more functional, mundane armor—quicksilver could not even have held a shape without magic—but as mere vessels for the magic they bore, they were impressive and far more functional than any armor Brannis had ever worn.

  “Here is the best part,” Rashan told Brannis.

  Without warning, the warlock drew Heavens Cry and lunged for him. Brannis could barely begin to lift an arm to ward off the unexpected attack before the blade struck him squarely in the chest. Brannis rocked back slightly under the blow, but instinctively he had expected the blade to pass right through him. More rationally, he had figured that the aether construct worked into the armor would have held firm and he would have just been driven back by the force of the blow, but that had not happened, either. He looked down at the breastplate and noticed a small dent that was already growing smaller as the quicksilver flowed back into a mirror-smooth, perfectly unblemished surface.

  “I admit it, that was impressive.” Brannis smiled and went back to looking over his reflection.

  There were dragon-claw clasps at the collarbone for attaching a cloak, and the ridged blades rode down each arm from elbow to wrist. Similar blades worked their way from knee to ankle. The boots were made with a thick sole to them, making Brannis seem a half hand taller even, on top of his already impressive stature. The gauntlets were serrated on the backs of the knuckles, but the palm side was just leather, which gave them a comfortable feel on the hilt of his blade—and there was a hook on his belt to hang them from when he was attending to less bloody work. The helm was a masterpiece: shaped into the countenance of a demon—the storybook sort, not like Rashan at all—with twisting horns and jutting edges and angles around the open face that seemed to cast the wearer’s face in ominous shadows unless lit from directly in front.

  Rashan handed Brannis a new cloak as well, bloodred to match the trim of the Inner Circle’s robes, as well at the emperor’s personal colors.

  “There is nothing special about the cloak,” Rashan said. “It is just well made and matches the armor better than the plain one you wore back from Kelvie.”

  As Brannis was fastening it on, the rest of the group arrived, apparently all having just come from the dining hall’s morning feast. Brannis, being of a more martial and practical bent, had expected them to break their fast on the road with trail rations, but it appeared as if he had been overruled by the majority.

  “Excuse me … Warlock? What have you done with Brannis? And who is this scary-looking fellow in the sharpened armor?” Iridan asked upon seeing Brannis in Emperor Liead’s armor.

  Iridan was dressed like Rashan again, in his black tunic and leggings, and steel-epauletted cloak. Brannis supposed it would serve well enough as traveling attire, if Iridan had some magic in mind to deal with the cold.

  The other three were dressed more reasonably for the late-autumn trek to the mountains. The robes of the Imperial Circle had been replaced with riding leathers and heavy jackets and cloaks. Brannis had to make a point of not letting his gaze linger overlong on Juliana, as he reminisced about the last time he had seen her dressed for riding.

  “I hear he is the new grand marshal,” Juliana said. “He must be trying to look the part. I would have suggested a few grey hairs and some wrinkles, myself.”

  She looked Brannis over with much less discretion than he had used, making him a bit uncomfortable with everyone else there watching.

  “Now that we are all here,” Rashan began, ignoring the jests, “I will reveal the surprises I have in store for you.”

  “I hope he does not have one of those outfits for me,” Iridan muttered to Ruuglor, whom he seemed to already know.

  “I have five horses here, all fitted with runed shoes.”

  The five would-be travelers looked at each other, puzzled. None of them had been expecting horses with runed shoes.

  “They have been fully drained for now, but when charged with aether, these horses will run easily twice their normal speed, and their hooves will not quite touch the ground. That will allow you to cross rough, muddy terrain, as well as bodies of water. Take care not to stop on the water, as the effect does not persist once they stop moving.”

  “That could save six or seven days off our journey,” Brannis said, impressed.

  He could not predict how long the goblins would spend consolidating their hold on Illard’s Glen before advancing to Raynesdark, if they had not already done so. Six days would markedly increase their chances of reaching the city ahead of the anticipated siege.

  “No, it will save three days, four if you press,” Rashan said. “Besides allowing you to move faster, the shoes will let you take uncut paths through the mountains. You will not have to take High Pass and follow the Cloud Wall south along the western side. You can head straight west and come at the city from across the mountains directly.”

  “How will we know where to cross the Cloud Wall if there is no road?” Ruuglor asked.

  “You are smart little boys and girls, and Brannis is carrying maps. I am sure you will figure out how to find Raynesdark from the east side,” Rashan replied. “Now mount up, and be gone. You have already wasted eno
ugh of the morning. Head north along the road for an hour, then activate the horseshoes and begin heading west from there. That should confuse any spies who might take note of your departure. So long as you have privacy when you veer west, you will not be seen again by any who might try to follow you.

  “Oh, and I trust that the four of you will support Brannis’s claim that he has truly been appointed grand marshal. I want no trouble from Duke Pellaton if he is indeed as cantankerous as Duke Benklear inferred. Brannis is to take charge of all Kadrin forces present, including Duke Pellaton’s own troops. And that includes the lot of you and any sorcerers in the city already,” Rashan said.

  “But, Warlock, the chains of command are entirely separate. I would have to support the senior—in this case—only member of the Inner Circle present, were there to be a conflict,” Faolen said, possibly mistaking Brannis’s and Iridan’s informality with the warlock for permission to act so himself.

  “Let me make this clear, Sorcerer Faolen. Marshal Brannis is in charge on this journey, and he is in charge when you all reach Raynesdark. I say so, and I am High Sorcerer, as well as Regent of the Empire. I am explicitly ordering you to follow Marshal Brannis’s command. Is that clear?” Rashan asked, glaring at Faolen.

  They all selected mounts and stowed their gear in the saddlebags. Brannis’s load was much lighter now that he was not bringing separate armor for travel and battle; the magical armor was more comfortable even than his own expertly fitted armor—and lighter as well.

  “Iridan,” Rashan spoke softly, pulling his son aside as the others were busying themselves with the horses. “Take this,” and he pressed a plum-sized spherical stone into Iridan’s hand. It was carved with hastily scratched runes and had a hole in the middle, through which a leather thong was run. “It is a crude speaking stone I crafted last night. It will only send to me and may not work for long, but should anything go badly, contact me. I can use a transference spell to come to your aid. I have much to attend to here in Kadris, so do not bother me for trivialities.”