Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (60 page)

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.