Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)

by J. S. Morin

  “Hmm, perhaps this time it is the truth after all. Well, then, let us toast to a friendship in this world while we begin our rivalry in the other. I say this: let this ship be as an embassy of the Kadrin Empire. We can treat here with no hint of our activity showing among our own allies and keep each other apprised of diplomatic messages.

  “House Solaran, you say,” Denrik mused. “It seems they have gone downwind in their pursuit of sorcerous perfection. I think they made you too good, and when your Source broke in half from the strain, the whale’s share ended up here, rather than in Kadrin. You tell me that Rashan Solaran is returned among you, but I think I would more greatly fear Kyrus Solaran, properly trained among those of the Imperial Circle. You may lack for guile and ruthlessness compared with him, but they would have put that into you at the Academy had you shown this sort of promise.”

  “In fact, I did attend the Academy. They expected much of me, given my birthright, and for some time suffered my slow development in magic, before casting me out. I joined with the knighthood instead, and my family ties came to my advantage only once I met Rashan,” Kyrus said. “It was he who elevated me to grand marshal.”

  “Tell me, what is the monster like? How was it he has kept himself alive so long? He must be near to two hundred fifty by now,” Denrik asked, leaning toward Kyrus a bit.

  “He is a philosopher and a keen observer, thoughtful and kind. His knowledge and wisdom span centuries, and he teaches and guides. The next moment, he is bloody to the elbows with a score of corpses in his wake over some slight or misstep, with a look in his eyes akin to madness, even joy. The moment after, he will calmly resume his pleasant demeanor, as if no one had noticed what he had done. It preys on his thoughts, I think, the rage that lurks inside him, and I think that is why he was away so long—to find some other way of being.

  “As to his longevity, he had found the secret of the demons, of a perfect Source that loses no aether. He is a demon now himself, and a monster in both the classical and literal senses,” Kyrus said.

  It felt odd speaking of Rashan while in Tellurak, since the warlock was so alien to it, a creature of naught but magic in a world that did not even admit the existence of it.

  “Tell me this, Kyrus, why do you follow him, if you see this so clearly? You seem to understand the evils you consort with—the monster who enslaved my homeland six generations ago—yet you serve him.” Denrik seemed perplexed.

  “If you wish him slain, do it yourself with that staff you are so proud of plundering. He killed a dragon and I cannot count the thousands of goblins. When I fell exhausted into my bed last night, Rashan Solaran was still chasing down anything that survived in the plains below the city. I am loyal to Kadrin, and for now at least, he is our best weapon against you. I could not stand against him if I wished to, and at present, I do not wish to,” Kyrus said.

  “Well, I shall let it go at that for now. I shall make it my goal to sell you the merits of a free Megrenn ruling over Kadrin. You may be too highborn to see it, but your people suffer for the rule of the powerful houses—noble and sorcerous alike—and I intend to see them free to live as Megrenn do, as equals to be judged on their own merits. I will win you over. I will find what it is you love in life, and you shall have it. You are made of different stuff that those men out there.” Denrik gestured broadly beyond the walls of his cabin. “But I will find your heart’s song and a bard to play it for you.” Denrik smiled at Kyrus.

  I bet you cannot find me another Abbiley, nor take her aboard the Fair Trader. You will find no hold over me.

  * * * * * * * *

  The boats held ten men each, and Kyrus had been summoned to the first one with Captain Zayne. They were to head ashore first to meet with the chieftain of the people on the island. The boat swayed a bit as each man climbed aboard, down the rope ladder over the Fair Trader’s side. Three nights they had been promised, to take in the pleasures of the island’s hospitality. The Denku—for Denku Appa literally meant “Denku Place” in their own tongue—would be expecting them, having seen the ship from their little fishing boats.

  The water was placid and calm, with just the slightest of rolls to give any hint of being at sea at all. The ship anchored a ways from shore, as the island was surrounded by reefs and shallow waters all about. The long boats would be the only way to go ashore.

  Kyrus went with more than a bit of trepidation. He meant to keep his magics to himself; if a cosmopolitan people like the Acardians could be driven to stake-burning frenzy at the prospect of magic, how much worse would savages react to having a witch in their midst? Kyrus might survive, but what might he wreak in the meantime? Would he kill half his own crew this time? Perhaps the boats …

  Four poor men had the unlucky draw to get duty on the oars, and slowly they began making their way to shore. The night air was warm, and the clouds sparse in the starry sky. The moon and starlight sparkled against the tepid waters of the southern Katamic. The sound of the oars rhythmically breaching the water brought to mind memories of illicit visits to Dragon’s Eye Island back in Kadrin, when a younger Kyrus—err, Brannis—was wooing a younger Juliana Archon. Kyrus smiled, but amid the eager smiles of the lusty sailors about him, its nostalgia felt tainted amid less pure intentions.

  As they neared the shore, smaller boats came out to meet them and guide them in to shore. These boats were little more than a pair of hollowed tree trunks, lashed together with wooden poles that held them separated by two paces or so. In each boat, one of the hollowed trunks carried a small mast and little triangular sail little taller than a man’s height. The Denku sailors wore little but loincloths and an occasional ornament—a necklace of sharks’ teeth, a leather bracelet—and they carried small lanterns hung from poles, which they dangled a bit in front of the long boat to light its way. It was an unnecessary gesture on the brightly lit night, but it was just that: a gesture. The native Denku seemed eager to appear welcoming to their visitors.

  Fires appeared on the shore, lighting areas of broad, white sand and casting the small figures gathered around them into sharp contrast. There were scores of the Denku out to greet them once they reached shore. Kyrus saw no sign of weapons among them, which he found curious.

  Even Marker’s Point had guns trained on us and boarded the ship before we were allowed in, and one ship is no real threat to them. Four-score pirates could slaughter these people, yet they guide us to them with unarmed fishermen?

  The fires on the beach multiplied as the island’s residents continued their preparations. Kyrus tried to guess how many there were among them but gave up as there were too many obscured in the darkness where the fires did not reach. But the numerous fires were enough that he could begin to make out the plant life that lived not far from the beach. There were brilliant greens of leaf and bush, tall trees that had no leaves at all until very near the top, and little specks of color that must have been flowers, all oranges and reds and yellows.

  Off to the port side of the boat they passed a sea-worn rock, jutting from the water. Their guides had veered them around it. Kyrus paid a bit more attention to the surrounding waters after that and noticed many more rocks not far above the surface.

  It would be suicide to pilot these waters blindly without guides. Well, aside from the water being warm and us being so close to shore, Kyrus corrected himself.

  Aside from the late hour and not wishing to sleep wet, it was tempting to swim the waters. Kyrus dragged a hand in the water, feeling the warmth and wondering what creatures might lurk beneath the surface.

  Drat!

  Kyrus had once again forgotten and let his vision slip back solely into the light. It was a hard habit to get into—easier aboard ship where his paranoia lent him focus—and the beauty of the night landscape had lulled him into a reverie of light without aether. He willed his vision into the mixed view he wanted to maintain, and looked down again.

  Below the boats, the waters teemed with life. Schools of fish abounded, hundreds of schools, and tho
usands, perhaps millions of fish! There was a wall of life not far beneath them; it ran in a circle about the island, as far as he could see into the aether. It could only have been the reef. He did not know the draft of the Free Trader, but it could not possibly have made it over the reef without running aground.

  Kyrus’s musings were again interrupted when the drums began, followed by chanting in a language he did not understand. There was a five-beat pattern with syncopation—dum dum da-dum dum—and accompaniment by a clacking of wood on wood. The words did not change much. If it was a song, it seemed only to have perhaps two verses, but it sounded festive, and there were at least a hundred among the chanters, if not more.

  “They know how to welcome visitors here,” Denrik spoke quietly to Kyrus.

  Kyrus had forgotten about his reservations about Captain Zayne, caught up in the wonder and mystery of this little island and its inhabitants.

  Could it be that this place is all that he promised? Kyrus wondered.

  * * * * * * * *

  The party that first greeted them as they pulled the boat ashore was led by a trio of older men. Two had the look of the island’s natives, lean with bronzed skin; smooth, soft features and round faces, and dark black hair, which they wore close-cropped. They wore nothing but loincloths and trinkets, and their bodies bore numerous tattoos—plainer in style and cruder in form than the ones he had seen in Marker’s Point, but he had seen their like among the crew. The third was a grey-bearded northerner, Acardian by the look of him, dressed like the Denku: loincloth, tattoos and all.

  One of the Denku spoke at length in his own language, and the Acardian translated: “Welcome back, sir. Kappi wishes to welcome the Zayne ship and its crew. His fishermen did not recognize your ship, but he is pleasantly surprised to find it is you.”

  The one who must have been Kappi spoke again. “He says the feast will begin shortly, once the hunters return. You and your men will share drinks and songs. They may lie with any women who will have them but warns that they must behave themselves,” the Acardian translated.

  “It will not be like last time,” Denrik assured him. “Rathbone was hung years ago and is no longer among my crew. Tell Kappi that it is a pleasure as always, and we have much to trade and much to discuss.” To the rest of his men, he ordered, “And you lot, bring the chest ashore and have it here.”

  Kyrus had not seen the small chest loaded aboard the longboat. It had been covered with a canvas tarp to protect against the sea spray and had not attracted his notice.

  On the other hand, the natives most certainly had caught Kyrus’s notice. The garb of the men that met them was typical of the Denku, man and woman alike. Not a one of them wore the clothes he would consider adequate to be modestly asleep in his own bed. The women were of all ages, but the old crones and mothers did not catch his eye; it was the younger maids. Whether primitive or not, there was something to a diet of fish and hunted game, combined with an active life, that seemed quite agreeable to the figure. Kyrus had been to the museums of Scar Harbor and Golis, and had seen the works of Dard the Lesser and Hallay Fellbird—and the Denku women looked much like those statues in form, if not about the face. He had never seen so much of his beloved Abbiley as he now saw of these strange women.

  After the official greeting, the Denku pressed forward to greet the newcomers themselves. There were smiles and indecipherable greetings in the Denku tongue. Two comely young women took Kyrus in arm and escorted him toward the fires. Tattooing seemed to be mostly for the menfolk, but the women had decoration of their own. The younger ones especially seemed to like to dye their hair fanciful colors. The one who had hold of his right arm had brightly colored green hair, which might have been shoulder length had it not been teased out in every direction. She wore a double-stranded necklace of seashells about her neck and a needle through the top of one ear. The one on his left arm was scarlet haired—the red of ripe apples, not the more natural strawberry blonde of Juliana’s—and wore hers in four braids, two pulled forward over each shoulder. This one wore no necklace, but the clatter of beads as she walked made him guess that perhaps her loincloth was naught but stranded beads—Kyrus pointedly did not look.

  Kyrus was finding it hard to look anywhere at all on the island without embarrassment. He was a head taller than either of his escorts, so even looking down at their faces—which smiled up guilelessly each time they noticed his attention—was an invitation to blush as he saw too much else. The two who had claimed him took him off to a long bench at the sand’s edge, made from a felled tree and carved flat and made smooth on the top surface. They waded through a throng of cheerful Denku on the way there, smiling at him, touching him, offering greetings or blessings. It was hard to tell which, since Kyrus could barely distinguish words among their speech, let alone put meaning to them.

  Once they were seated, the girls began fussing over him. He was touched and felt, and they talked past him to each other considerably. They pressed close against him on either side and managed to arrange it such that each of his arms encircled one of them. Kyrus hardly knew how to resist—and was beginning to wonder why it was occurring to him to try—as he could hardly touch anyplace on them in any modesty to push them away. Drinks were brought around in bowls not much smaller than dinner plates. The two girls, whose hands were free when they chose them to be, held the bowl to Kyrus’s lips so that he did not need to release them from his embrace to drink. The liquid was slightly thick, not quite a syrup, and sweet, with just a hint of alcohol to it. It was delicious, some sort of fermented melon if he had to guess, and the three of them shared it.

  Kyrus saw others from the crew come to join the revelry, but he paid them little mind. His attention was being drawn to the area immediately beneath each of his arms by the attentions of the two young lasses who seemed intent on keeping it all for themselves. When the feasting started, they took spits of the meat of some furry animal the hunters had killed—halfway between a bear and a badger—and fish, as well as fruits from the island. As with the drink, they held the spit up for him as well, feeding him like a Takalish prince.

  As the night wore on, the music played and drunken men and women danced about the fires. Drinks were replaced when they were emptied, and spits of meat came regularly. At some point, Kyrus had his tunic confiscated—he was a bit fuzzy on the “how,” but figured out the “who” easily enough—and the two girls curled more closely against him, their warmth contrasting with the pleasantly cool night breeze on his back. The girl to his left had marveled at his tattoo, tracing it with her fingers and kissing it. It seemed like they thought it was a symbol of status, or perhaps his prowess as a warrior.

  Well, perhaps it is, at that.

  Kyrus felt guilty somewhere in his heart. He longed for home, but the night was surreal and dreamlike, in a way his dreams never were. It seemed magical, but not in the way that he was growing to understand magic. Kyrus allowed the revelry to sweep him up and away, like a leaf borne on the wind. He was not Brannis, nor were these girls betrothed of anyone he had ever met.

  Chapter 36 - A Feast for Heroes

  The repairs and cleanup began at dawn. The townsfolk were out in numbers, clearing the bodies from the streets and carting off debris from the wreckage of buildings or the wall. The combatants of the night before were allowed to sleep to noontime, but all other able-bodied folk were at work by the duke’s orders. Brannis had ignored his privilege of a late slumber and was seeing to the organization of the repair and recovery efforts.

  He had slept fitfully, with his broken arm set by aether construct to prevent it from breaking any worse, but Caldrax’s handiwork had done nothing for the pain of the break, or any of the other lesser hurts Brannis had suffered when his armor’s aether had failed.

  Brannis was not sure what to do about Jinzan. Only Juliana had heard what befell in the chamber of the Obelisk of Gehlen and still lived. She had heard Brannis call to him by name, and not the name he was known by in Veydrus. She had also heard J
inzan call him by Kyrus’s name. Then again, she had hit the floor solidly when he tackled her. Perhaps she would not even remember such a mincing detail as two unfamiliar names traded just before a blow to the head.

  Should I bother trying to explain it away, just in case? Maybe if I do not bring it up, she will let it pass, or forget about it in the face of all else that has befallen.

  “Marshal Brannis, a word,” came a shout from down the hall, bearing the duke’s voice.

  Brannis had been giving orders to a few others of the knights who could not bear the extra sleep, sending them to begin accounting for the dead. With the destruction wrought of dragonfire and cannon alike, a count of skulls would be the best way to determine how many had been lost—by both sides. While he was less concerned with the families of the goblins, he wanted to know what strength they had faced, and how many fewer were the goblin numbers than they had been the previous day.

  “Marshal Brannis,” the voice came again as Duke Pellaton made his way through the throng in the overcity entrance chamber of the castle. “Finally! I have been looking all over for you. What have you done to my city? I heard that you were the one who sabotaged the avalanche wall and brought the Neverthaw Glacier down across the entrance to the undercity and buried half the overcity in snow and ice! What were you thinking?”

  “Go out, do what you can,” Brannis ordered the knights who had surrounded him, then turned his attention to the duke. “What would you have had me do, fight them in the undercity, outnumbered twenty to one? The whole population was down there; I could not just let an army make their way down unhindered. As it was, too many got through, and we had to let the ogres loose among the goblins to stop them.”