Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (16 page)

All pretense of stealth was abandoned as the men of
Denrik’s—or more appropriately Captain Zayne’s—crew rushed out onto the deck,
weapons drawn. The guards were stunned momentarily but recovered quickly and
burst into action, making their way to the gangplank to board the ship. But the
prisoners were prepared. They made immediately for the only way onto the ship,
loosing the gangplank from the deck and dropping it into the water. They then
set off quickly for the remaining rope lines that tethered the ship to the
dock, hacking away at them to free the vessel. Denrik was a one-man crew as he
rushed about preparing the ship to sail. He only needed to do enough to get
away from the dock before he could painstakingly instruct his landlubber crew
in the operation of a ship. The guards, with their drawn swords and no apparent
means to board the ship, looked lost and confused.

Denrik felt the ship lurch and knew that the vessel
was floating freely, cut free of the dock at last. The rest was simple. In no
time, the ship was making its way slowly out onto the open sea. He could not
resist running over to the railing to call out to the guards.

“Thank you all! This ship is not quite to my
preference, but it will have to do for now. Remember that I know each of your
names. If I hear that word of my escape reaches the mainland within a
fortnight, your families will pay dearly. Farewell,” he cried.

The guards did not respond. They did not know how to
respond. They had been given one clear mission that took precedence over all
their other duties: keep Denrik Zayne from ever sailing again. They had failed.

*
* * * * * * *

Captain Zayne had taken the uniform and boots from the
sailor closest to his own size, and had ripped off the naval rank insignia that
the uniform bore. He had no hat, as he had customarily worn in the days when he
had a real crew and a real ship of his own, but his bald head was deeply tanned
from the long days spent breaking rocks, so he could survive without one for a
few days. The jacket and pants fit well enough, though he felt foolish dressed
as a midshipman in the Acardian Navy, but it was far preferable to going about
clad in the rags of a prisoner. He let the vestments of his captive life drop
overboard and swore that he would never be forced into such a wretched state
again. His pride had been wounded during his time on Rellis Island, but he was
not going to forget the indignities he suffered, or let them go unpunished.

The crew was pathetically inadequate in all things
nautical. He had made an attempt to teach them enough to maintain the basic
functions of the ship, but even that had apparently been beyond their
comprehension. He had finally set everything in order himself, handed the
ship’s wheel to Andur, and ordered that he hold it still. Two others he charged
with alerting him should anything change at all, putting them on watch over the
rigging and sails. Shaking his head at his hopeless crew, he went below deck to
see to his prisoners, bringing Jimony in tow.

The prisoners were lined up along a wall of the hold,
ten men in all, and aside from the one whose uniform Denrik had stolen, all
looked in relatively good spirits.

“So were all the arrangements to your liking?” he
asked, knowing that the men were in no position to object at that moment.

“Yes, sir, Captain Zayne. We did everything just as
your mate instructed,” replied the apparent leader, a lieutenant in the
Acardian Navy.

“And you told no one of our arrangement? It would not
do for anyone to find out, you know,” Denrik said.

“No, sir, everything was kept quiet. We shall be
rescued once you run the ship aground, and we will tell everyone that the great
Captain Zayne was too much for us.” The man winked at Denrik.

“Excellent,” Denrik said with a grin that was not the
least bit reassuring to the sailors. He turned to Jimony. “Cut their throats
and throw them to the sharks. It is better than they deserve.”

Denrik turned to head back up top.

“Wait! What about our deal? I swear we told no one!”
the prisoners pleaded, eyes wide with fear.

Denrik spun about, a hard, ruthless look in his eyes.
“The next one who talks gets thrown in with a belly wound … to be eaten alive!”

He stomped up the stairs, leaving an uncomfortable
Jimony to finish the gruesome chore.

Jimony looked from the blade in his hand to the
helpless prisoners who cowered before him. He was beginning to understand why
Captain Zayne was known as the Scourge of the Katamic.

Chapter 11 - Old Habits

By mid-morning the next day, Brannis’s troops met up
with the main road that led down from the Cloud Wall Mountains and forked south
into the forest toward the Kadrin town of Illard’s Glen and north toward
Megrenn. It was a well-cleared path of dirt, wide enough for two wagons to pass
each other comfortably. In days gone by, it was a busy thoroughfare, as it was
the primary land route between the heartland of the Empire and the far-flung
settlements west of the mountain range. That was before the seas had been well-secured
by the Kadrin fleet and shipping lanes had been plagued by privateers, making
them a risky venture; wagons were thought to be the surest way for merchants to
see a return on their investments. Though still in use, the road was now quiet
much of the time, and so it was when Brannis led his men onto it, grateful to a
man for a straight trail to follow, after days of tripping over roots and
crashing through underbrush. The mild upward grade the whole way was the only
downside for the weary bunch.

With his route clear before him, Brannis’s thoughts
moved onward to what lay ahead of them. The road would lead them up into the
mountains along an old pass, cleared by magic hundreds of winters before.
Lingering constructs of aether were supposedly still protecting the pass, their
silent and invisible presence reassuring them of safety from avalanches and
collapsing rock faces.

Of course
,
Brannis thought,
I would never notice if it was not here until we were
buried beneath a pile of rubble
.

He briefly considered asking Iridan to feel his way
into the aether to see whether they were still protected, but decided against
it. After Iridan’s last attempt to draw aether, Brannis hesitated to give his
friend another chance to re-injure himself.

The thought of asking Rashan to do the same thing
lingered a trifle longer before he finally decided against that as well. There
was something he did not trust about the odd little hermit, and despite every
indication to the contrary, he could not shake the feeling that Rashan was a
potential threat. He had taken care of Iridan when he collapsed from
self-induced aether burn. He had allowed Brannis and his men the meager
comforts of his forest home. He had—or at least claimed to have—sent a message
to Kadrin for them. He had accompanied them quietly, helpfully, and
unobtrusively for days, and seemed to be getting on companionably with Iridan,
whose health he was still careful of. But the sums just did not add up in
Brannis’s mind.

Should a forester, living off the land and being out
of doors constantly, not be more … forester-like? Should his body not be hard
and tough? Rashan looked as if a rowdy chipmunk could topple him. Should his
face not be unshaven, weathered, tanned? Rashan was as fair as a sheltered
noble lass of eight winters age, and no hairier, it seemed. Should his clothes
not be dirty and worn? His homemade garments were certainly not fashionable but
they looked newly made and undamaged; even Brannis’s own clothes seemed worse
for wear after just a few days travel through Kelvie Forest. Should a man cut
off for winters not be awkward among strangers? Brannis had instructors at both
the Imperial Academy and School of Arms who were less eloquent, less sure of
themselves. No, Brannis decided to forge onward into the mountains, trusting
that either ancient magic, or luck, would see them safely to their destination.

The destination that Brannis had most immediately in
mind was a small fortress, kept up by the Kadrin military, which guarded the
crossing of Two-Drake Chasm. The pass had gotten its name in the early days of
the imperial expansion, when a group of mountaineers was sent to survey a route
for a path to be carved through the Cloud Wall Mountains. During the
expedition, two brothers, Carlen and Mortimer Drake, fell to their deaths in a
chasm that split the eventual main route through the mountains. Finding no
better route along safer ground, the fortress was built to guard a drawbridge
that allowed the Kadrins to control access through the pass. During the height
of the pass’s use, the fortress became a strategic bottleneck for the defense
of the heartland, giving the Kadrin merchants quick access to the west, and
providing the Kadrin Empire a good income from taxing foreign merchants for its
use. However, just like the pass itself, the fortress had fallen from
prominence, though not entirely from use. A small garrison of Kadrin soldiers
manned it and guarded the drawbridge, and it was these soldiers Brannis was
counting on for support.

“Brannis,” called the hermit quietly from just behind,
“might I have a word with you?”

Brannis had not heard Rashan come up behind him, and
was a little startled, as it was rare for him to leave his place beside Iridan,
taking up the rear of the march.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Iridan seems to be much improved. By tomorrow, I
expect he will be free to call aether again without harming himself.”

“Well, that is good to hear.” Brannis sighed with
relief.

“Yes, and I think that means I have about played out
my time with you. You should not need me any longer, and I should be heading
back to tend my gardens. I shall take my leave of you once you are safely on
your own side of the fortress.”

“Who said anything about a fortress?” Brannis asked,
giving the hermit a sidelong glance.

For, indeed, he hadn’t mentioned it to his men nor had
he overheard anyone mentioning it to Rashan.

“I did not grow up in the forest here, Brannis, you
know that. I told you I was born in the Empire. I passed through that fortress
autumns ago. It is an open road still, you know,” Rashan replied a bit
impatiently, as if he expected Brannis to have known better.

“There you are!” came a call from behind them. Iridan
was hastening up to join Brannis and Rashan as they walked side by side at the
lead of the line. “I turn my attention away for moment and it is like you have
disappeared.”

“I just had to speak with your commander for a bit,”
replied the hermit, smiling and looking a bit amused.

“Oh,” said Iridan, sounding just a touch hurt at being
left out. “Anything I might be interested in?”

“Just that I will be parting ways with you all when we
reach the fortress that guards the pass.”

Iridan stopped in his tracks. The rest of the Kadrin
contingent kept right on walking, and the young sorcerer was left gaping for a
moment as he was slowly left behind.

“What?” Iridan said.

Brannis turned back to see Iridan jogging to catch up
to Rashan, who was facing straight ahead and grinning to himself as he kept
pace with Brannis. Iridan got ahead of both of them and stopped in the road,
blocking the hermit’s path.

“What do you mean you are leaving? You cannot just
leave us, just like that.” Iridan snapped his fingers in the air.

“I have a flower garden that will die without my care.
It may already be dying, as I have neglected it these past days. It is a
delicate species and requires a great deal of attention. Besides, you should be
safe once you have reached more of your own men. That, and by tomorrow, you
should be able to gather and hold aether without it hurting. You will not be
needing me.”

“Flowers? You cannot be serious!” Iridan shouted. “You
have been away a long time; come back to the Empire with us. I can hear it in
your voice every time you mention it, that you miss it there.”

Rashan’s eyebrows rose slightly as this.

“And how can you know I will not need you, that
tomorrow I shall be able to use aether without any problem?” Iridan asked. “You
are not even the same sort of sorcerer as we have in the Empire, you said so
yourself.”

Brannis was a little surprised at hearing this, but the
effect on the hermit was more pronounced.

“No, I am not,” Rashan returned evenly, his expression
stern and his nearly colorless blue eyes flashing in anger. “But I do know what
I am talking about. You would think you could show more respect for my knowledge,
seeing as it saved your life the other night. Yes, I quite think you would have
died had I as little understanding as you are now attributing to me. But
anyway,” and with an abrupt change, the hermit’s mild tone had returned, “we
ought not pass the day just standing here. Onward, eh?”

The entire group had halted when Iridan had blocked
Rashan’s path and forced him to stop, and all had been watching the whole scene
unfold. No one seemed to know quite what to make of it, though, and everyone,
including Iridan and Brannis, seemed a bit ill at ease. There were certainly
none among the soldiers who would shed a tear at the strange hermit’s parting.

The rest of the trip up the mountain passed in uneasy
silence. Rashan seemed to be unaware of the discomfort he was causing to those
around him. Brannis and the soldiers had found his sudden small burst of anger
troubling, especially now that he had apparently admitted he was a sorcerer of
some sort—though they were all quite suspicious already after the bird-messenger
incident, despite never having seen him perform anything that looked like
spellcasting. Iridan, on the other hand, seemed to be nursing a case of hurt
feelings. It seemed that he had grown rather fond of the hermit and had been
quite grateful for the care he had received from his injury. But, no doubt, he
could not help but feel rejected and neglected when Rashan had snuck off and
told Brannis of his coming departure, and not told him first.

The mountain road was in exceedingly good condition
with a low grade and smooth surface. Brannis hoped it was evidence of a healthy
aether construct at work—wards buried under the dirt, down in the bedrock, and
in the side of the cliff faces themselves—keeping things in order and
preventing the hundreds of tons of rock overhanging the pass from falling on
them. With the lack of voices in the air, the only sounds to be heard were the
creak of leather boots as they trudged along the rock, the clatter of the
soldiers’ gear, and the sound of the wind moaning between the mountains.

The view nearly made up for the miserable company his
fellows were being, Brannis thought. As they ascended, he could see the
treetops of Kelvie Forest, green and lush, with no sign of the turmoil of
battle and marching armies. Brannis had looked back often, wary of signs of
pursuit, or of the movements of the main goblin force, but the goblins were far
too clever to give themselves away by, for instance, creating great smoking
bonfires at their encampments.

The men were in reasonably good spirits as they
approached the safety of the garrison at Two-Drake Chasm. It promised a rest
from pursuit and a good meal, and possibly horses for making the final leg of
their journey back to the Empire proper in good time. And thus it came as quite
a shock when they finally came within view of Tibrik, the fortress that Kadrin
kept garrisoned to defend High Pass.

The garrison itself presented a drab, grey wall of
fitted stone to those who approached from the western half of the pass, weather
stained and ancient looking. The top of the wall was crenelated, and arrow
slits broke up the monotony of the otherwise unadorned facade. A drawbridge of
iron-bound timbers blocked the gate, and its absence precluded any attempt at
crossing the chasm on foot. What was out of sorts was that the fortress
should
have been adorned. Thin iron rods jutted out along the top of the wall, meant
to be hung with the red and gold of the Kadrin flag. There were six of them in
all, and all were bare.

It was not a comforting sign.

In its heyday, the garrison housed upward of fifty
soldiers and could still accommodate stopovers by merchants and other
travelers. The whole fortress had bustled with activity as a miniature trading
town along a lucrative road. Even in modern times, it should still have been at
least manned to the point of having a lookout to have hailed them by now. That
the Imperial Colors were not flying was an even worse sign. Brannis hoped that
nothing horrible was about to happen.

“Hello there,” Brannis called across the chasm as they
reached the point where the drawbridge should have ended, were it to be
lowered.

“… there … ere,” his voice echoed back to him.

“I am Sir Brannis Solaran, Knight of the Empire. I
say, is there anyone on duty?”

“duty … uty.”

He waited, but there was no reply from inside.

“I guess we will have to work out some other way of
getting across. Iridan, do you think you are up to doing a little heavy
lifting?” Brannis asked, turning to the sorcerer, who had been conferring with
the hermit in hushed tones off to the side a ways.

Brannis was not sure he cared for how close the two of
them were becoming. It was not jealousy as such but more of the caution of an
older brother, worried that his younger sibling was getting involved with
unsavory associates. Best friends though they may have been, Brannis had always
been sort of watching out for Iridan as long as he had known him. Brannis’s
musings were cut short, though, as a reply was finally forthcoming from the
fortress, though not the type that Brannis had really hoped for.

“Fire!” someone from inside shouted.

“Fire … Fire … ire.”

The air erupted in arrows, and bows thrummed a deadly
tune as the garrison sprang from its slumber and attacked. The chasm was not
particularly wide, and there was no cover worth mentioning. It was quite an
efficient and forthright defensive position; it was constructed in a time when
builders were advised by generals rather than merchants and noblemen. The
archers who were manning it now were also no fools. They had waited and watched,
and knew who the leaders of Brannis’s group were. Incidentally, Brannis’s
proclamation of his own rank may have helped confirm who was in charge.