by J. S. Morin
“Captain, take the ship back to Kadris and receive new orders,” Iridan shouted, feeling a bit dizzy yelling in the thin air.
“What do you mean, sir?” the captain asked but stopped short as Iridan put a foot up on the railing, and leapt over it.
The captain rushed over to the side of the ship to look down, and just caught a glimpse of Iridan in the starlight, disappearing down into the clouds.
* * * * * * * *
“What news of the killer?” a lyrical voice asked in a perfect tenor. The speaker appeared as a bronze-skinned young man, clad in nothing but a knee-length kilt. He could have been sixteen or eighteen winters if looks were to be believed. Those looks were liars.
“He is as he ever was,” Illiardra replied with a sigh. She had resumed the form she had first greeted Rashan in, with her elongated ears and delicate horns. It was no more the form she was born to than was her companion’s, but it was the one she preferred.
The two immortals stood in a glade surrounded by towering pines, and lit by nothing but starlight. The trickle of a brook was the only sound besides their voices; no crickets, no owls, no wolves called the vale home.
“Shall we tell the others, then, and make his banishment official?” her companion asked.
“I would just as soon not speak of him again, nor trouble the others with such unpleasant talk. He will have no thought of returning, and if he ever does, that will be the time to bear ill news,” she replied.
“And what of your son?” asked the bronze-skinned man, who was not so young.
“Rashan wished for a son to carry on after him, and do better than he had done. For love of him, I went along and bore him a son, but Iridan is no son of mine. He is as much his father as a boy can be; I gave little to nothing of myself. I fear he is destined for the same fate. The work of the gentle, kindly folk we fostered him with is being undone, and I do not expect it will be repaired.”
“That is indeed tragic. If you ever need someone upon whom you can unburden your troubles, I am here.” The bronze-skinned man winked slyly.
“Perhaps in a dozen seasons or so. First I ought to watch the fruits of my folly as they rot from the tree,” Illiardra replied.
“How morbid. Really, I cannot fathom the fascination you have with that place,” the bronze-skinned man scoffed, referring essentially to everywhere else besides where they were.
“Become a woman for three seasons, and bear a child. See then if your attitude remains the same,” she challenged.
“Hmm, an interesting thought,” the bronze-skinned man commented, giving it some consideration.
Chapter 22 - The Enemy Within
The sun rose over the city of Munne. Many of the Kadrin peasants who called it home had somehow not expected it to. Smoke drifted up from some of the buildings, but came from chimneys, not the structures themselves. All was not well, but it was far better than they had feared. Some folk went to work that morning as if nothing had happened; most did not. The streets were hardly quiet, for soldiers in unfamiliar blue uniforms patrolled them in numbers, more for something to occupy themselves than out of any need for occupying the city.
The few remaining Kadrin troops who had finally surrendered had been led from the city. No one had told the population just where those soldiers had been taken or what had been done with them.
Soldiers spent the day knocking on doors and searching homes. They took anything that seemed likely to be used as a weapon, but were surprisingly restrained. Tailors’ scissors and cooks’ knives were allowed to be kept; even butchers’ cleavers were permitted. Swords and axes were confiscated, as were any bows found among the residents’ possessions.
In the wealthy districts of the city, merchants with gold stashed in every cupboard and under every floor board fretted about their coin; most did so in vain. Those with tinges of noble blood in their lineage—something they were usually all too proud to claim—found their homes looted but their lives spared. Those merchants lucky enough to have friends in Megrenn were permitted to pack their belongings, and leave the city and seek asylum there.
The lesser nobles who engaged in no real trade, but lived on the wealth of their lands, were gone; no one knew where. Lord Grenorn had escaped, along with most of his relatives, aboard one of the Kadrin airships. Monohorn teams were busily tearing his estate to rubble, the great beasts hauling heavy chains wrapped around the support pillars or merely butting their armored heads into the walls.
The day passed peacefully, if uneasily, for the peasants in occupied Munne.
* * * * * * * *
Night fell, bringing with it a sense of normalcy, after a fashion. Common folk who would be at work all day felt trapped within the walls of their homes, with hostile troops all about outside. Those same folk felt protected when the darkness came, and those same walls surrounded them.
A curfew had been put in place, requiring all civilians to stay indoors after dark. It had been shouted at every major street corner by a strong-voiced lad who spoke Kadrin well enough, despite a strong Megrenn accent. The peasants were generally happy with the arrangement, wanting no part of the darkened streets with Megrenn all about.
The peasants were not the only ones within the city walls.
The night had deepened to its fullest as clouds suffocated the moon. That was when the fires began. The first blaze started in the Kadrin barracks, where Megrenn troops had settled, though the structure was nothing remotely adequate to house the whole of the occupation force. Normally someone would have thought to stop it, but it continued to burn. Few woke to see it, mainly those close enough to hear the clash of steel and the screams of men and beasts from the vicinity.
The second fire started in the winter stores, giant warehouses near the marketplace where dried fruits and salted meats were packed in during the mid-autumn months, and that kept the city fed through the lean months of winter. Though springtime had come, the stores were far from empty, having been well provisioned with the prospect of war hanging over them all winter. Now the reserves of food were cooking uncontrolled. It was not the only food in the city, but it represented half a season’s worth of sustenance for whomever held it.
The third conflagration was in a residential neighborhood. More folk took note of that fire, as homes burned and peasants took to the safety of the street, curfew or not.
* * * * * * * *
“What does he want at this uncivilized hour?” Councilor Fehr demanded of the man who had wakened him from the little sleep he had been able to find.
Jinzan was dressed in a knee-length nightshirt and his boots, with several days’ stubble upon his face. His eyes were parted but little, taking offense at the glare of the lantern the messenger carried. The light made him look sinister; the combination of boots and nightshirt made him appear ridiculous. The murder lurking in his eyes kept the messenger from commenting on either.
“He said there was urgent word from Munne,” the messenger replied crisply, pointedly ignoring the Councilor’s dishabille. By his manner, they might have been meeting in the Council chamber and not the hallway outside Jinzan’s bedroom. “I have the helm. A porter is waiting with it in the foyer, upon your leave.”
Jinzan muttered under his breath, but reminded himself that it was Narsicann that had ordered them to awaken him. He was the one deserving Jinzan’s ire, not the poor night-duty messenger he had collared into carrying out the order.
“Very well,” he said. Narsicann might be many things, but frivolous was not counted among them. If there was word from Munne that Narsicann felt Jinzan needed to be made aware of halfway to dawn, he would hear it for himself …
… and if it did not please him, he would scribble himself a note so that he would remember in the morning—after returning to a much-neglected bed—to flay Narsicann for bothering him.
Jinzan lighted the foyer as he descended the stairs, choosing a soft blue color that was easy on eyes that had been adjusted to the dark. He saw the porter—a stocky, stiff, nervous-
looking fellow—with a warded lockbox. Still in his nightclothes and boots, Jinzan walked over, and quickly disabled the runes. It was a simple matter, since he was one of the few who were permitted the helm’s use.
The helm he took out was gold wrought, plain in design, but covered in complex runes. Megrenn only had two of them. As he donned the helm that had been delivered to him, Jinzan wondered to whom he would be speaking.
“This is Councilor Jinzan Fehr,” he thought, pressing his words out into the aether by force of will. “What is this urgent news?”
“Councilor Fehr, this is Dembeck Drall, Tourmaline Mystery, servant of Ghelk. We have had multiple disturbances this night. There is a Kadrin force somewhere within the city,” a voice in the helm replied. There was no tone to it, no timbre, just a tinny, echoic sound, bearing intelligible speech. It could have been anyone on the other end, so long as they had the power to use the obstinate devices. Jinzan had heard of Dembeck Drall but did not know him well. He had to take it on faith that the man was who he said he was.
“This is war, Dembeck. Did you expect they would all flee and leave you the city? Hunt them down and kill them or take them prisoner, if it suits you. I did not need to be awakened for this.” Jinzan attempted to convey his irritation, but knew it was unlikely to have carried over well through the farspeech helms.
“We believe it is Rashan Solaran,” the voice added.
“Again?” Jinzan asked.
The demon had appeared via transference spell, stealing the speaking stone from Munne’s Tower of Grace as they tried to parlay using it. He had killed a hundred or so troops, including a handful of sorcerers and two generals—three if one counted General Tarrakan, who had been sent off presumably to Kadris when the spell brought Rashan Solaran. The demon had retreated shortly thereafter, taking the Kadris speaking stone that had come with him. Jinzan sorely wished Megrenn had such devices at their disposal. They were beyond his ability to create, however, so they would have to make do with the helms the Ghelkans had so thoughtfully supplied.
“Fires burn across the city in small pockets. None has seen him yet and survived the encounter,” the voice of Dembeck Drall answered. “This is bad for morale.”
“I will send reinforcements,” Jinzan reassured him, breaking off the connection.
“Do you know where the blade-priests are staying while they are in Zorren?” Jinzan asked the messenger as he removed the farspeech helm, and returned it to its box.
“Yes, Councilor,” the man replied. “They are staying at Councilor Varduk’s estate, as his guests.”
“Bring them here. Do not rush them, just convey that it is urgent, and that they should be prepared to depart the city shortly afterward. They will come at their own pace, regardless of any prodding,” Jinzan ordered. “If possible, do not rouse Councilor Varduk. Just leave word of the blade-priests’ departure for him to receive in the morning. There is little he could do to help between now and then anyway.” He turned to the porter. “I have no further need of that helm tonight. Return it to Councilor Narsicann’s home, and then get yourself some sleep. Oh,” he added as an afterthought, “if you can make enough noise to awaken the good Councilor, you will find a small addendum to your pay.”
The man grinned, and winked his understanding to Councilor Fehr. Jinzan kept his expression neutral except for the barest hint of a smile.
* * * * * * * *
In a darkened alleyway behind a coopersmith’s shop, Iridan Solaran sat with his back to the wall, trying to catch his breath. Dragon’s Whisper lay across his lap, smeared with partially wiped-off blood. Iridan found himself in much the same state. He was covered in blood and sweat—the latter largely his own, the former entirely not.
He was terrified, exhausted … and exhilarated. Death stalks me at every turn. All blades and claws seek me. None has yet to scratch me! Every foe falls before me. I cannot say what trick my father used to hold me back in practice each morning but those beardless lads he sent against me were thrice the challenge these Megrenn weaklings are. Brannis, I forgive everything I thought about you. This sword is wonderful!
Already dressed in black as his warlock attire had him, he had become a nocturnal hunter. He had thought back to all the histories he had studied to think of targets to attack, and had simply thrown himself headlong against them. One firestorm set the whole barracks ablaze. It was so much easier than at Raynesdark. All that practice drawing has paid off as well. My Source is still fine, Iridan thought. He was brimming with aether, litte enough that he could still hold it safely for a long while, but sufficient for incinerating any patrol that might stumble upon him as he rested.
They had already come upon him once. The house where he had tried to find shelter for the night had instead raised the alarm. Iridan was not sure why they had sided against him, but he had managed to fight off three stripe-cats and a score of soldiers. When he had set one of the great cats on fire, it had thrashed about wildly, knocking into a row of houses, and putting them to the flame as well. Iridan had hidden, and waited for more of the occupiers to arrive to battle the flames before they spread, but Iridan had ambushed them as well.
They are Megrenn houses now anyway, he reminded himself. This is war, and I am in occupied territory. I have to think like a soldier now. He had not hurt any of the peasants, so far as he knew, but he had not been paying such close attention to their fates.
Iridan had been finding that not paying attention to certain details made everything so much easier. He had stopped looking down at the bodies of the men and beasts he killed. It is just meat now, lying there, is it not? He had blocked out the sounds of the screaming as best he could manage. Just like sleeping through a thunderstorm, once you realize it cannot hurt you. He had ignored the fates of the people he was fighting for. I can worry about a few here or there, or I can try to save all of them. The choice is obvious. He ignored the gore that splattered about and got all over him. Like playing in the mud as a boy. It will wash off. The smell was harder to ignore, the coppery scent of blood and the sick, cloying, smoky scent of burned human. I will get used to it, in time.
Once he put that all past him, it was just his skills and guile against his enemies'. He was winning. He felt strong, in control. Iridan realized that he was smiling. This is fun, in a way.
* * * * * * * *
Jinzan had shaved and dressed by the time the five Safschan blade-priests had arrived. Among Megrenn’s major allies, Ghelk held the most magical power; Safschan could not find one sorcerer among them for every ten Ghelk counted. Megrenn herself had a third the populace of Safschan, but possessed thrice their wealth. For all that, though, Safschan was the real force in the alliance’s army. Their stripe-cat cavalry had already shown well in the conquest of Munne, and now it was time to see another of their contributions to the cause.
Five of them were arrayed before him, standing in a neat line in his foyer. The blade-priests waited in identical poses, feet spread just wider than shoulder width, knees slightly bent, arms crossed before them. The leader stood at the center, a half pace forward of the rest; he would be the only one speaking without being directly addressed.
The leader of the blade-priests was a well-built man, not brawny like many knights or the men who wrangled monohorns, but with a lean, balanced body like a tumbler. His hair was shorn close, so as not to give any advantage to his enemies. He wore blue-and-gold garb of leather and silk intermixed. It protected some critical areas, but largely left the arms unencumbered. Like all blade-priests, he carried a rune-blade sheathed on his back. The long-hilted swords were legendary for their versatility and the ferocity of the men who bore them. The leader stood out from his men in one unusual way: his eyes did not match. One was a brownish green; the other was a scant contrast of two shades of white. The white eye did not follow Jinzan as he approached, like the green one did.
“Master Tiiba, thank you for coming on short notice and at this unseemly hour. I do apologize,” Jinzan greeted the men. Strong as
he was, he was still wary of the power the blade-priests wielded. While none of them could hope to stand against him in a purely magical encounter, while within theoretical reach of those rune-blades, he was at best on equal footing.
“You would not have done so if there was not cause, I am confident,” Tiiba replied. He sounded neither sleepy nor annoyed by the summons. It was better than Jinzan could have said for himself, earlier that night.
“Of course. I have received a report that there is an insurgency beginning in Munne. The sorcerer who made the report, a Ghelkan named Dembeck Drall, believes that the demon, Rashan Solaran, is at the heart of it. There were strikes this very night against our forces, and we need to act quickly to counter this threat.
“There are very few options we have at our disposal for dealing with a warlock. Until such time as we recover the Staff of Gehlen, you priests are the best option we have,” Jinzan told them. There was no point in putting up a pretense before the blade-priests. They were as unlikely to object to the order as they had been to being awakened hours before dawn.
“You pay us a great deal of respect, Councilor. The privilege of facing a great monster such as Rashan Solaran is no small gift. There have been few warriors of such renown,” Tiiba responded. “I will relish the opportunity to destroy him myself.”
“Do you think you five can handle him?” Jinzan asked, skeptical but hopeful. He wanted the honor of killing Rashan himself, but more than that, he just wanted the demon warlock dead. Without the Staff of Gehlen, he did not like his own chances.
“No, Councilor, I do not. But war is a tricky thing. Sometimes fortune favors the righteous. More often, it just favors the lucky.” Tiiba smiled. Jinzan could not help but chuckle. He had not expected an attempt at humor from a Safschan blade-priest.