The Echoes of Sin (The Kinless Trilogy Book 3)

by Philbrook, Chris

  Dunwood agreed. “Yeah. The same will happen again tonight if we haven’t routed them. If their archers are worth their weight in dull rocks they’ll have it figured that they can set that building on fire again. You should start talking with your men today after they rest about what you’re going to do to prevent it from happening once more tonight. We can’t afford to have two of the engines so close. It leaves too much of the village exposed and invites disaster if we’re struck with The Way.”

  Beckett’s mind swirled trying to come up with an idea that would alleviate their risk with the huge target. “I’ll think of something.”

  Dunwood clapped him on the back as the nearby fire crackled. “You had better think of something. Our reinforcements are set to arrive in a few hours, and when they do, all hell will break loose outside those walls, and the real fighting will begin in earnest. If we should be here tonight, rest assured that building will catch more than a few arrows.”

  “Did you come here to say that just to cheer me up?”

  Dunwood laughed. It sounded like a luxury in the war torn scene they were in. “You did a good job, and deserved to know it. If you call that cheering you up, then by all means Corporal, I hope you are cheered up.”

  Beckett had nothing to say as Dunwood walked off to find someone else to cheer up. He watched the fire consuming their dead instead, and tried to think of ways to thwart it if it appeared on the homes and structures surrounding him later.

  The afternoon came and went, and no trains arrived from the south. Marcus and his Sergeant had climbed to the tower nearest the Guild train station and kept watch for hours on end, straight through until the sun started to set in their eyes. The grimness of the day rose with each passing hour.

  “Were they delayed?” Dunwood asked his commander.

  “I don’t know,” Marcus said, concern pregnant in his answer. “Has Peiron sent another message south?”

  “He has, just an hour past. He claimed the spell was as hindered as the first though, so he’s no idea whether or not it worked. What are your orders?” the sergeant asked.

  Dunwood watched as Marcus’ eyed darted around the world, looking at the small Amaranth encampments on all sides of the village, far outside the moat and city walls. On their own they were no significant threat. Each unit could number no more than twenty enemy warriors, but their presence itched like an insult. They sat around cooking fires, eating meats and drinking wine as their abominations stood guard, staring at the village. Their casual manner told the Darisian 2nd that they were isolated, and cut off from their friends, family, and allies. The Empire wouldn’t need to go in after them. They would wait and starve them out if need be.

  “I want you to find two of our best riders. Find riders who are able to ride at night, and find them horses that can be ridden fast in the dark. As soon as the night sets upon us, if the trains haven’t arrived I want them to head out of the southernmost gate near the train station and head south. I want them to ride for six hours south as fast as they can. They are to wait on the rails for the trains until the sun is on its way down. One is then to ride south to search for our aid, and one is to return north to us.”

  “I can do that sir,” Dunwood said confidently.

  “I don’t think the Purple Queen or her generals and necromancers are stupid enough to tamper with the rails and anger the Guild but we should check nonetheless. There’s also the chance that a substantial second force has maneuvered around us to stop any train coming our way, though I find that doubtful as well.”

  “Anything is possible sir.”

  “Much is possible. If the rider hasn’t returned to us with the trains or news of them by that time, we’ll need to figure out a way to take this fight outside our meager walls to the Empire around us. We won’t be able to last long in a siege unless we find a way to thin their ranks in a damned rapid manner. They can grind us out slow, or kick down the walls and rip us from this hill,” Marcus said grittily.

  “I’ll be the first man with his hand held high if that call comes,” Dunwood said.

  “I know Oberyn. You’re reliable in that usefully insane way,” Marcus said.

  The sun set. The riders rode.

  General Dalibor Hubik stood in the cool evening air, tall and horrible in his heavy purple armor. He stood at least a skull taller than the nearest man, and as wide as two. Even his fire-cast shadow seemed to be a terrible giant amongst the midst of a terrible coven of the corrupt dead, and the corrupted living. He had an expression of joy on his face as he watched his men carry torches back to the braziers to relight them for a second night of fire, and death.

  “Your archers were inadequate last night General,” the Wight necromancer Yefim said as he walked at the side of the commander of the Empire war host.

  “I agree. I will have two of them put to the sword tonight before the first arrow is shot. Perhaps I will do it myself. The archers must be shown that they need to aim better, or there will be consequences,” General Hubik said in a disinterested tone. “And maybe some of our footmen will learn better habits in the process.”

  “You seem less than ideally motivated General. Has this war already bored you?” Yefim asked his taller counterpart.

  “Don’t confuse patience with boredom, Gneery Yefim. We are less than a day into a war with a nation that has ten times the population of The Amaranth Empire. Every step we take in this war must be measured, and calculated against the potential losses. We have an entire division of their infantry huddled inside a wall, running out of food, and more importantly, hope. Every hour that they wait for their friends to come on trains that aren’t, they grow a bit wearier, a bit more desperate. And do you know what desperate people do Yefim?”

  “They die Dalibor,” Yefim replied with restrained happiness.

  “That’s right. Now, speaking of dying, let’s go find two archers to make an example of.”

  —Chapter Eight—

  IN THE FACE OF FEAR

  After spending some religious time with Umaryn’s precious and unique armor on the loading dock in the city of Farmington, Naomi and party loaded onto her train, and headed northeast at full steam under a cloudy sky to Eden Valley, the hub of King Duulan’s Realm. Of course her other passengers on the train wouldn’t be there when it arrived in the Duulani city. The four would be departing at the abandoned, isolated, and seemingly cursed village of New Falun in the oddly named Scored Rock Gorge.

  But before the train and its strange passengers arrived there, they had a profoundly uncomfortable train ride to suffer through first.

  The hierarchy of House Kulare had been kept small and simple for many years, and for the most part, it had always been based on merit. There were five leaders in The Circle responsible for the major decisions to be made in the school’s best interests. They decided who would be admitted to the college, who would be expelled from the college; they discussed all major business contracts, and decided on all matters of politics. Some members of the group were granted significant governmental power in the Northern Protectorate, simply because they were part of the management group for the school. As House Kulare went, the NP went.

  The head of House Kulare during the siege of Occam’s Fringe was a wizened and wise Waymancer known to the world at large as Breen Valgo. Valgo had a massive character about him despite his laughably diminutive size. The top of Valgo’s bald head outmeasured only a few extremely short women on Elmoryn, and those ladies likely had a stunted growth themselves. He had lived as a dwarf in every way his whole life, sans his intellect, and in his mastery of The Way. No one in the world could claim truthfully that they wielded more mystical power than Valgo Breen. Others might be his equal or near to it, but none could claim to be his better without being wrong. Breen had sat as first chair of the Kulare Circle for almost ten years, and he had been second chair of the circle for ten years prior to that. He knew every secret there was to know about the old school and had a hand in making more secrets every year. Directly be
neath Breen sat Samrale in the second seat. These men were the two faces of the House’s administration.

  The rest of the Circle’s membership was unknown to everyone outside of the five. Currently, two other members of the group were teachers at the academy. Damon Wiltshire, a tall shrike of a man with obsidian black hair and the instructor of divinatory magic, Kristi Martin, a plump and happy faced woman who had instructed weather and element related magic at the school for years, and the strangest inclusion of all, a third year student named Emma Shaw. Emma hailed from the far distant region known as The Coastal Freelands, and had exotic dark skin that looked like chocolate, and short dark hair to match. Emma’s inclusion was a tradition in the circle. Every two years a third year student was added to the Circle to inject new eyes, and fresh ideas, on condition that they either were elected for permanent inclusion after graduation, or they would have their memories of the Circle voluntarily erased. No one had been the wiser about the longstanding student rule, especially after the memory of having served on The Circle was erased with The Way. The system had worked well for as long as House Kulare had been in existence.

  The secretive group met deep in the basement of House Kulare, behind a series of magically sealed doors and dusty hidden passages.

  Samrale stood at the head of the small rectangular table that the group normally met at. Candles mounted on all sides in silver wall sconces lit the room with a dreamy effect. The air was thick and heavy, quite humid, and the room’s temperature was rising slowly, setting in like tightening clothes after too big a meal. Sitting at the table were the other four members of the Circle.

  “I don’t see how this is the present business of House Kulare,” Breen Valgo said in his trademarked tinny voice. It always reminded Samrale of plugged noses, and young men who were just finding out that girls were something to be obsessed over. “There is much we risk if any of our staff or current students meddles in these affairs.”

  Samrale replied to the leader of the college of The Way, “As I said Breen, the aggressions of The Amaranth Empire are not the business of House Kulare directly. That is why respectfully I ask for a sabbatical to lend my assistance separately.”

  Kristi, herself only a slight bit taller than the tiny Breen, injected a thought into the conversation. “You respectfully asked to take several teachers, and a few students that were willing to go with you, Samrale. That would seem to me, to make this very much the business of the school at large.”

  Samrale had to agree with her. “I see your point Kristi, and I understand your concern. But, I would like to state officially that what I do is of my own volition, and should not be associated with House Kulare.”

  Breen seemed unimpressed by Samrale’s words. “And how exactly will we convey our lack of association with you to the Purple Queen? Send her a letter by way of an apology and a box of conciliatory chocolates? Issue a thought sending to one of her closest necromancers assuring her that we have no interest in joining the war that she brought on, and that the second seat of our House has left to do so, on his own? How exactly do we tell her that you’ve left with our blessing but not our outright encouragement to do what you wish?” Valgo asked, taking off his peculiarly square spectacles and polishing them on his blouse. His tone was confrontational.

  “I do not ask your blessing Valgo Breen. We’ve known each other a very long time, and we’ve done the students of this school and this world a great service for a long time. I say that you say nothing. I will make my imprint on this conflict subtle. I will leave little to no evidence of my presence if I am successful. I will instruct whomever I bring to do the same. There are a great many things properly taught Waymancers can do to affect the course of history while not showing up in its records.”

  The expectedly introspective teacher of divination Damon spoke. “Samrale, I am all for standing against the Amaranth army. I sit here contemplating joining you to be truthful, but I can also see how your actions can and likely will result in future friction with the Queens of the Empire. Friction we can ill afford. Our coffers have a good many coins that have come from purple colored purses. The Northern Protectorate cannot defend against an Empire invasion in the way Varrland can. This nation could be forced into war if the school takes action. Perhaps it is better to let Varrland deal with them, and allow us to remain neutral?”

  The old Waymancer felt his ire grow, but he kept it in check. “Damon Wiltshire, do your spells tell you that right here, right now we are being forced into war? Do they tell you that if Varrland should fall—even just a portion of Varrland—that the Empire will have more power finally in their grasp than we can deal with? Possibly the entire world can deal with? I would say there is no choice right now. War is already upon us. I will not wait for the red blood and dead bodies to reach this school’s gate to do something about it. I will not allow the risk that I will be remembered as a coward when courage mattered most. I understand if you feel differently.”

  The rest of the Circle had no words to say against his passionate stand. Samrale’s powerful statement left little room to argue.

  “How would you get there fast enough?” Breen asked his friend once the mood calmed. He sounded near sad.

  “We will fly,” Samrale said as if it were the most obvious possible answer.

  Everyone at the table sat up, intrigued by his comment.

  “Your new spell is ready?” Breen asked with a collegial smile.

  “It’s been finished for years, I merely didn’t want to teach it to anyone,” Samrale said with an innocent shrug, baiting the elder Waymancer’s curiosity.

  Breen clapped like an elated child on his birthday. “Well I’ll be damned. To hell with the Queen and her ambitions. She’ll have to understand that her bold actions have consequences beyond the borders of the nations she chooses to invade. Recruit your people Samrale. They will be allowed leave as needed and can be awarded extra credit at your discretion. Perhaps you can teach them that courage you spoke of. I do ask you friend: please only take those who are aware of what they are getting into.”

  “I’ve already assembled a list,” Samrale said, warmed by his colleague’s sudden reversal of attitude.

  “Excellent. Move with haste. I want to see this spell in action. If only for the sake of Elmoryn’s magical advancement, of course.”

  “I have some tasks to attend to, then. The esteemed Circle has my gratitude.” Samrale bowed in thanks, and moved out of the Circle meeting chamber with haste. He had a wide, satisfied grin.

  When the train shuddered and shook from what could only be the brakes being applied—because the alternatives to that reality were far too horrible to think about—James, Umaryn, Malwynn and Chelsea looked at one another in the lamp-lit interior of the cold steel freight car with worry. Their courage had gotten them this far, but the reality of their arrival made their joints stiffen and their blood run cold. The group’s only solace lay in the fact that dawn-blue rays of morning sunlight were sliding into the steel freight car like swords of protective power. The prior day’s clouds must have cleared for the sunrise as they rode the rails.

  “Guess we’re here,” Mal said as he got to his feet. He pulled Chelsea up to hers with a strong pull on her arm as the train rocked to its final resting place.

  “I’d wager you’re correct, judging by how the sun is hitting us low and from the east side, and it is morning, and the train is stopping,” Chelsea said sarcastically as she gathered up her things.

  “Do you always joke when things are serious?” Mal asked her with a disappointed look on his face.

  “Yes, absolutely. I find it lightens a dour mood. You should get used to it,” she said back to him, poking him in the ribs.

  James walked over to the sliding metal door of the car and grabbed the handle. “Cover your eyes,” he said, and once everyone had shielded their faces, he grunted and gave the handle of the door a tug, and it grudgingly slid open. The sound of the door protesting against the movement stood halfway between th
e throbbing metal screech you’d expect from iron grating on iron, and the muted death moans of a thousand victims of the plague. It vibrated the chest, made the hair on the backs of necks stand on end, and instilled them with infectious doubt about their place here in the wilds of Elmoryn. Chelsea and Mal drew their swords as the grinding grew in intensity, but outside the door nothing waited to be stabbed or slashed at. A small victory.

  Immediately they knew they were in the deep wilds of the world. Scored Rock Gorge looked nothing like Daris, or Farmington. Bright green windswept grasses that looked waist high swarmed around the broken concrete platform beside the train like a sea of untouched nature around an island of urban wreckage. The dirty gray concrete slab that had originally been intended to load and unload train cars exactly like the one they rode in had cracked from disuse, and had become uneven, like the earth worked to swallow it from bottom to top an inch at a time. Judging by the step down they had to take when they exited the train, there were still fifty years left to the meal of it.

  The platform measured only a fraction of the size of the Farmington loading dock they’d departed from, sitting just the length of two train cars instead of ten or more, though the northern end of it had been shattered by an impact with something, and had faded away under the weather until it was rounded and smooth. Perhaps once it had been longer. Tall trees stood back away from the rails, looming over the platform and tipping towards them just enough to make the four feel like the lush canopy above and away plotted against them, threatening to topple down and crush them out of spite. And of course looming ever high over the upstart trees bloomed the heart and soul of the Akeel Mountains.

  Earlier in their journey when they had passed through the ancient, man-made gorge at the borders of Varrland and Farmington, they had seen peaks that reached so high they scraped holes into the clouds and defied logic. White snow tipped daggers pointing to the sky that threatened to scrape the stars away should one dip too low. The strange, uniform lines cut into the rock near the ground were here as well, but surrounding them on both sides were the grown fathers and mothers of those tiny children of stone they’d seen earlier in their trip.