Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)

by J. S. Morin

  “You certainly waited long enough to ask that,” Brannis said. “The simple answer: goblins are not stupid. They have a force far too large to have been brought to conquer just Illard’s Glen, and Korgen is no more of a threat, nor much more of a prize. The goblins attacked Illard’s Glen to field-test their new siege engine before bringing it to bear here at Raynesdark. They would not need a new wall-wrecking weapon if they were to attack Naran Port, which is the only other city in the region that would be a large enough target to justify bringing an army that size.”

  Brannis tried to sound sure of his answer, but he knew there were several jumps of logic that could easily mislead them if any single one were wrong. Guessing the goblins’ motive was the biggest risk in his plan.

  “I would hate to hear the complex version,” Faolen muttered just loud enough to be sure Brannis heard.

  Brannis glared sidelong at the sorcerer but said nothing.

  “Well, we are not yet in place to get ourselves attacked,” Juliana said cheerfully. “We ought to get moving.”

  With that, she urged her horse to a gallop and shot off toward Raynesdark like a loosed arrow.

  Brannis took a quick glance at the other three sorcerers, shrugged, and took off after her. Iridan, Faolen, and Ruuglor followed in his wake.

  * * * * * * * *

  There had been no trouble at the city gates. Accompanied by the four sorcerers—one of whom was wearing warlocks’ garb—and bearing orders with the imperial seal, Brannis followed the gate guards directly to the castle to meet with Duke Pellaton. The city had been on edge since the arrival of refugees from Illard’s Glen, several days earlier, bringing word of the goblin invasion. The walls teemed with soldiers in numbers that could not have been sustainable in peacetime.

  As they were escorted through the town to the castle, the streets stood deserted, eerily quiet, and … curiously warm. Brannis had read that they used the heat from the smelters and forges of the undercity to keep the roads and homes of the city above warm, preventing snowy roads and making the overcity’s homes livable in the depths of winter in the heights of the Cloud Wall. Stone ducts ran in a maze between the two layers of the city, mixed in and around the overcity’s sewers, venting the immense heats generated below in the belly of the mountain. A low fog hung over much of the city as the moisture left by the snow gently steamed off with nowhere cool to settle.

  The castle was no less imposing from up close than it had been from the other side of Neverthaw Lake. Colossal stone blocks formed its walls, each taller than a man and fitted so closely together that no mortar was used in the entirety of the structure. It was impressive to look upon, but less so to Brannis, who had studied the history of the place and knew that the stones had been reshaped by aether to fit so well.

  When a stable hand came to take their mounts to the subterranean portion of the city for safekeeping, Brannis looked down at him.

  “Shoe them,” Brannis said, “and have the old shoes set aside until our departure. The ones they are wearing right now have runes of speed upon them and could cause trouble in the stables if they get loose,”

  “Aye, Your Lordship,” the lad responded with a nod.

  The stable hand then began helping the sorcerers out of their saddles.

  Iridan and Faolen had improved a bit over the past few days but were still saddle-weary and aching in the hips, legs, and back. Ruuglor’s back was bothering him from all the jostling, especially the last, harrowing run of their ride. Juliana seemed to have fared as well as she had since the first day, stiff from long hours riding but otherwise fine. Brannis had discovered to his pleasant surprise that the runed armor he wore cushioned the worst of the horse’s jarring gait, and he could easily have ridden all the rest of the day.

  Porters bearing the green-and-gold livery of House Pellaton came and unpacked their belongings from the saddlebags and took their packs. The duke’s chamberlain escorted them through the wide, vaulted corridors of the castle to the drawing room where Duke Pellaton awaited them.

  “So our warlock suspects the goblins will attack Raynesdark next, and this is what he sends?” Duke Pellaton asked by way of greeting as soon as they entered his presence.

  The duke was standing when they arrived, aided by his cane, though it did not detract from his lean stature or erect posture. He wore his own green-and-gold version of a general’s uniform, complete with tasseled epaulettes and the sign of House Pellaton—a mountain goat on a heater shield—where an imperial general would bear the emperor’s golden hawk. His manicured goatee was shot through with streaks of black where it was not grey, and none would be the wiser if the hair on his head was likewise, for it was waxed bald. The duke’s expression was like the rest of him: stern, reserved, and unwelcoming.

  “Indeed, Your Grace,” Brannis said, skipping the formal introductions. “I suspect you would prefer to get this out of the way directly.”

  Brannis handed him the orders Rashan had sent with him, as the duke seemed ill inclined toward pleasantries. Two of the three men in the room with him bore striking resemblances to the duke and seemed younger; it took little imagination to see that they were his sons. The third wore a loose black tunic trimmed in the duke’s colors, the sign of a house sorcerer. Brannis had only met a few sorcerers who had shunned the Circle to take work in the employ of one of the noble houses. It was more common farther from the heart of the Empire, as the influence of the Circle waned and the nobles had more direct control of their local sorcerers. This specimen seemed to match his master’s mood: a dour, scrawny man with a severe, finger-length black beard who was likely much older than the thirty winters he appeared to have seen.

  Duke Pellaton took the scroll case from Brannis’s hand and, leaning his cane against one of the large maroon-upholstered chairs, removed the document within and began reading. The other eight in the room waited and watched his expression as it ran the gamut from curiosity, to surprise, to puzzlement, then disbelief, anger, and resentment in succession. He handed Rashan’s proclamation to the elder of his two sons.

  “It seems the warlock has decided to commandeer my own troops. House Pellaton has held Raynesdark against all foes since the earliest days of the Empire, and this is the thanks we receive in return. I find the scant aid he saw fit to send to be more insulting than sending none at all. Now I see that on top of it, he is handing my army to this … boy,” Duke Pellaton vented, gesturing to Brannis. Pellaton’s face was reddened, and his shoulders heaved slightly as he had run himself short on breath.

  “I see that one in the warlock’s cloak is Warlock Rashan’s son. Caldrax, what do you think of the firehurlers they sent us?” the elder son asked House Pellaton’s sorcerer, handing the orders to his brother.

  “Let me see,” the sorcerer Caldrax said, his eyes losing focus. “I find nothing extraordinary, though the imitation warlock seems to have a respectable Source. Nothing that I would consider to give us any significant tactical advantage, should battle come to our walls.”

  “The girl is his arranged bride? How sweet … and completely unhelpful,” the younger brother added as he reviewed the orders.

  Is the whole family soured on the inside? The unadorned stone blocks of the castle seem more friendly than this lot, Brannis thought.

  “We are here, and you have all read the orders. I think a tour of the city is in order, and a review of the defenses,” Brannis said, trying to remain above the duke’s personal dislike of Rashan’s plan of how best to defend Raynesdark.

  “Hmph. I suppose if we must abide the warlock’s decree, we might as well be about it, then,” the duke said. “Answer me two things first, however. What did you do to get this assignment?”

  “I defeated a goblin army that had destroyed two other scouting expeditions already, and I outwitted Warlock Rashan at chess. He also seems to appreciate the fact that I do not back down from him when I think he is wrong,” Brannis replied, trying to word his answers carefully. He could scarcely justify the warlock’s
confidence in him. Brannis could only hope that two hundred-odd summers’ worth of intuition knew what they were doing.

  “Hmm, fair enough, then. Second, what would become of me if I ordered you thrown in the dungeons while I conducted the coming battle my way?”

  “Since by order of the imperial regent I am in charge here, I would have to do whatever was in my power to maintain my command. I would run you through myself and see if your elder son was more reasonable. And in the event you were successful in removing myself as well as my companions, Rashan would find another noble house to elevate to the duchy of Raynesdark after he killed you and likely your entire family.

  “Your Grace, and I say this with due respect to all parties involved, Rashan Solaran is every bit the monster that history reports him as. He finds his position tenuous after discovering treason within the Inner Circle and rectifying it in his own fashion by killing those he deemed to be most responsible. I find him to be utterly loyal to the Empire and the imperial line. He is also frighteningly powerful, fiendishly intelligent, and surprisingly introspective and thoughtful, but above all, utterly and chillingly ruthless. If he feels you are working against him, he would find himself remiss if he did not kill you. The Kadrin Empire did not make enemies of half of Veydrus because of his tolerance and social graces.”

  Duke Pellaton paused for a moment before responding: “I come from a proud family and find that I enjoy the study of history. I am well familiar with the deeds of Rashan Solaran. There has been some debate …” The duke looked meaningfully at Caldrax. “… as to whether the reports that Warlock Rashan has returned are indeed true, or whether there is some sort of imposter at work.”

  “Among the Inner Circle, there is no debate,” Ruuglor commented. “There is still a hole in the Sanctum where Gravis Archon was killed.”

  Brannis noticed Juliana wince at the mention of her grandfather’s recent demise. He had been careful not to bring the subject up, but Ruuglor was less concerned about tact. It reminded Brannis as well that his own father was killed in that same purging; he felt oddly detached from it, a fact that he could not muster a sense of shame for.

  Duke Pellaton took his leave of them after that, giving them over to the custody of his younger son Mennon, with instructions to show them around the city. Mennon had his father’s build but the stooping posture of one who cares little for commanding the respect of others. He seemed morose and aloof, though not as embittered as his father.

  As they exited the drawing room, Brannis caught sight of something. As she turned, Juliana’s loose over-tunic twirled slightly and there was a glint of something beneath that Brannis was rather convinced was a dagger hilt. He hung back as the group moved into the corridor, and fell into step behind Juliana.

  Brannis took her by the arm and slowed their pace. When they had fallen behind a bit, he reached in and pulled the dagger from its hiding place, drawing a small indignant gasp from Juliana—which Brannis cynically suspected was feigned. Fortunately it had not attracted the attention of the rest of the group.

  “What is this?” he whispered, holding the dagger out in front of her in accusation. It was carved with runes whose purpose Brannis could at least guess at, if not identify. “Non … combatant. Understood? No getting involved once the fighting starts.”

  “Brannis, you brought me here. I am no aspiring warlock. I have no intention of seeking out battle, but if the fighting gets as far as me, I do not intend to go down in flames, hurling fire like some crazed goblin.

  “Oh, and I had them there before we even left Kadris, and it took you this long to notice them?” she plucked the dagger deftly from Brannis hand as he was still wondering what “them” meant. She twirled the dagger through her fingers before stabbing it deftly back into its sheath. “Did they not teach you juggling at the Academy?”

  “We used little cloth balls filled with sand, and you know it,” Brannis whispered back, trying to keep their little tiff from alerting the others. It was a rudimentary way that aspiring sorcerers learned to finely control their hand movements, and a great help in developing the dexterity for spellcasting.

  “Well, my daggers are runed and deadly, I know how to use them, and I could juggle them better than you could ever juggle those little cloth balls,” Juliana countered, and she quickened her pace to rejoin the group.

  * * * * * * * *

  The undercity was oppressive. After days spent in the autumn chill and the icy, biting cold of the mountains, the lower level of Raynesdark felt like summer. Not like the pleasant sunny days of few clouds and balmy nights, but the humid, sticky heat that made breathing seem a chore. Whereas the overcity was deserted, the undercity teemed with activity.

  The foundries and forges gave off a reddish-orange light that tinted the entire space. The noise from them pervaded the vast domed space of the undercity, with iron on stone, iron on iron, and the hiss of steam forming an industrial symphony that was discordant to those who had not grown up around it.

  “All the heavy labor is ogreish now,” Mennon remarked as they watched a gang of ogres trudge by. “We used to still have human labor for work in the diamond mines until a few summers ago, but we have trained them to the point where the ogres can do that as well.”

  “How do you keep them under control?” Faolen asked.

  Brannis knew the answer but left it to Mennon to explain.

  “These are all captive-bred,” Mennon answered. “Most of ours are sixth generation at least, and we have not had any wild-born in my lifetime. None of them have so much as heard ogreish spoken. We train them from childhood, so they do not know any other way.”

  Brannis had fought wild ogres, and the difference was stark. These tamed ogres were bigger and better fed—probably stronger as well—but they had a dull look in their eyes. They slaved away in the mines, and that was their entire life. The wild ones had their own culture and worshiped nature gods, painting their faces with colorful mud-like paints before battles to frighten the spirits of their enemies.

  Mennon led them to the temporary campground that had been set up for the refugees from Illard’s Glen. With no need for protection from the elements, it had sprung up as a sort of open-air barracks, with bedrolls littering the ground and little or no real privacy to be had. Whatever belongings the refugees had managed to bring along with them were lying here and there all about, relying on the openness and a sense of community for security against theft.

  Brannis interviewed a number of the refugees, allowing Mennon to take the rest of the group to see the markets and some of the other non-strategic parts of undercity. Brannis was able to tease out the details of the attack from a half dozen different witnesses, the most valuable of whom was a huntsman who had recovered from an apparent case of magical tampering and recalled seeing the goblin encampment before the battle.

  The siege weapons they described were most certainly cannons. It seemed that the goblins had been able to cast them out of bronze. There had been no other reports that indicated any earlier tests of the weapons, so it would seem that the goblins had done well enough in their first attempt to pulverize Illard’s Glen’s walls. The damage had been explained to him and seemed gratuitous; they were likely just working on their aim or performing drills.

  Brannis considered the forges and the ready supply of iron, and wondered how long it would take to replicate the goblins’ success. The resources were all at hand, he was fairly certain. Kyrus could easily find out the proper way to mix the black powder from the crew of the Harbinger or someone in Marker’s Point, and he could study the design of the ship’s guns. They could make iron versions in Raynesdark, heavier and stronger than the ones the goblins could make from bronze. If they could produce them in time, they could outgun the goblin army. It was a serious problem if the goblins were able to set up their cannons and pound the Raynesdark defenses with impunity from farther away than they could retaliate.

  As Brannis considered the cannons that the goblins had, he considered how the g
oblins had learned of them. That Denrik Zayne was involved seemed nearly certain: he had admitted sharing that marvelous invention of warfare with Veydrus, and the goblins were probably better candidates for producing working black powder than the Megrenn were. The Megrenn were traders, merchants, and philosophers—as well as warriors, Brannis admitted—but not noted alchemists. If Denrik had been in a hurry to get cannons made, it would be easier to trade with the goblins—the plans in exchange for working copies, for instance—than to teach his own people.

  If Denrik had to teach the goblins how to make the cannons, could it be possible that he is the human liaison reportedly traveling with the goblin army? Brannis’s eyes widened. Yes, that might even be likely. I shall have to try to find out through Kyrus.

  * * * * * * * *

  The tour of the undercity had been enlightening, but Brannis hoped that it would have little bearing on the city’s defense in the expected battle. If they were driven back to defending the undercity, they might be in serious trouble. The overcity and the walls were what concerned Brannis most.

  Mennon took them for a walk on those very walls—fitted stone battlements four times the height of a man, constructed in the same manner as the castle and just as old. Leaning over, Brannis could see runes in a long, unbroken line along the length of the wall.

  “Iridan, I want you to get started tomorrow on shoring up these runes,” Brannis ordered. “As much power as you can manage, get them near to bursting if you can, and make sure there are no weak spots.”

  “Thanks, Brannis. I get appointed to the Inner Circle, and not a tenday goes by before you demote me back to wardkeeper,” Iridan joked.

  Prior to joining Brannis’s expedition to Kelvie Forest, wardkeeper had been Iridan’s occupation. There were a group of a dozen or so at any given time in the city of Kadrin, keeping up civic wards on wells, sewers, roads, and anything else that required aether to function or last. They would recarve or replace damaged runes and supply aether to depleted ones. Usually new wards were carved by more senior sorcerers for official imperial use, but all the wardkeepers knew the craft well enough, and many did work on the side to earn extra money, earning hefty commissions from paranoid merchants and nobles.