Aethersmith (Book 2) (40 page)

The realization that not only was Brannis now a sorcerer,
but stronger than him by leaps and bounds galled him. Brannis had been his
friend since they were boys, but he had grown up in Brannis’s shadow. Brannis
had been taller, stronger, more popular, from a better family (or so he had
believed at the time). When Iridan came into his own magically, he had found
some measure of equality with Brannis, a way he could be the strong one, the
important one.

If I do not act soon, Brannis will take my place. Rashan
is already acting as if Brannis will become a warlock as well, even though he
showed all the finesse and skill of an ogre with a needle and thread.

“We are coming upon Munne soon, Warlock Iridan,” the captain
informed him, shouting above the wind. “What are your orders?” The man might
not have liked his orders, but Iridan at least appreciated that they were
followed.

He had begun to forget that he outranked nearly everyone,
having his company predominated by Rashan and Juliana. She at least ought to
have obeyed his orders, but feeling along his newly grown teeth with his tongue
reminded him of the reality of that dynamic.
I would pay dearly for Brannis
to teach me whatever trick he uses to keep her in check
, he thought sourly.
Perhaps motherhood will temper her disposition.
Iridan had thought to
see about getting her with child before he departed, but he found himself
acting out of anger at Brannis instead. Brannis might have had everything he
ever wanted, but Iridan still had Juliana.

“Go higher, well above the clouds. I do not want a repeat of
what happened to the
Thunderstorm
, Captain,” Iridan ordered. He reached
behind him, to the hilt of Dragon’s Whisper, sheathed at his back. It should
have given him comfort, a wedding gift from his best friend, but he could not
find it.
You can just do everything now, can’t you, Brannis?
The blade
had been given the name “Sleeping Dragon” when he received it, but Iridan
thought it might have been a subtle jab at his as-yet untapped depths of skill
as a warlock. He had chosen the new name by the quiet swishing it made as it
sliced through air … or wood, stone, or steel.

The crew were puzzled by Warlock Iridan’s order, but obeyed.
The ship’s assigned sorcerer, whom Iridan was unfamiliar with, and whose name
he had not bothered to ask, guided the ship higher as they neared the city. The
cold night air grew frigid, and breath came shorter as the air thinned in the
higher altitude, but Iridan was not concerned.
It will only be for a little
while.

“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.