Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (23 page)

Iridan swallowed, not entirely sure he was not going
to be called to task very shortly. “I prepared the battlefield ahead of time. I
had tamed wolves to patrol our perimeter, and they were the first to give
warning of the assault. I gathered fog to obscure the vision, though only high
enough to hinder the goblins; it was also to conceal pit traps that Sir Brannis
had instructed his men to dig. When the battle joined in earnest, I used
shielding spells to ward off the attacks of the goblins’ firehurlers. When they
gained an advantage on us, I used telekinesis to hurl debris from the campsite
into their midst, killing several.”

“So you are blood-drunk now, are you? Got a taste of
killing?”
Caladris asked.
“Have a
care, boy. I know the thrill of battle can be exhilarating, but it is a path
that leads to self-destruction—”

“
I was nearly
overmatched by a sudden blast,” Iridan interrupted, surprising even himself,
but he could not let himself be lectured about self-destruction after what he
had recently been through, “but was able to catch it in time by instinct,
bringing up a barrier. I was too hasty, though, and blacked out. I suffered a
near-fatal case of aether burn. I know no further details of the battle, as I
was carried senseless from the field by the soldiers.”

“A hard way to learn a lesson, but one you shall not
forget.”
The voice had softened some,
as if it had heard what it needed to hear from its interrogation, and became
sympathetic.
“So, Iridan Korian, you have indeed survived. One moment.”
There
was a pause where Iridan felt contact with the Kadrin speaking stone break off.
“All right now. Name for me the others who survive and are returning to
Kadrin with you. I shall be making a report, and I expect others will be
wanting to know about their loved ones.”

“Well, apart from myself are Sir Brannis, who seemed
to have suffered no lasting harm in the battle; Sir Lugren, who I believe
injured his sword arm in the battle, and who has seemed unusually subdued ever
since. I daresay I cannot recall more than a few words he has spoken since I
recovered. Among the conscripts were Maeron, Jorafir, Braegor—”

“Do you know their family names?”
Caladris interjected.

Iridan froze. He was not a part of the regiment,
officially; he was merely attached temporarily for this endeavor. He had never
seen the men’s names, nor sought to learn them.

“Um, no, I cannot say that I do. I feel dreadful now
that you mention it, but I never had reason to learn them.” Iridan was not sure
how well his heartfelt contrition sounded across the aether link. “Could you
possibly consult someone from the army who might have a roster of names?”

“Hmm, I suppose. Carry on.”

Iridan breathed an audible sigh of relief, then
immediately froze up. Had Caladris heard that?

“Yes, well, there’s also, um, Tulok, Fardro, Liopan,
Denair, Kundragar, Huane, and Urnar.” Iridan mentally ticked off the names in
his head as he visualized the faces of the men he had been traveling with the
past fortnight, proud that he had remembered Kun’s full name. “Then there are
the two survivors from Sir Ferren’s force: Jodoul Brect and Tod Hellet. We
questioned them upon their arrival, so I had cause to learn their surnames.”

“Very well. The hour is late, and I would much like to
retire for the evening. We shall be expecting you in, say, four days’ time? You
shall be expected at the Tower.”
Caladris referred, of course, to the Tower of Contemplation, the northernmost
tower of the Imperial Palace and the seat of the Imperial Circle’s power.

Iridan took a deep, steadying breath. “There is one other
with us. We found him living in Kelvie Forest. He was knowledgeable in treating
aether burn, and so they let him help nurse me back to health where I might
otherwise have died. He says he lived in the Empire, was even born there, but
had not been back in some time. Our encounter seemed to have given him either
an excuse or at least a motivation to return to the Empire.”

“Fine. What’s his name? I shall write it down, but
then I am off for a warm spiced wine and an even warmer bed. You lose track of
time using this dratted thing, and I have come to understand that it is well
past midnight; one of the attendants just alerted me.”

“He gave his name as Rashan.” Iridan paused to listen
briefly but heard nothing but cold, eerie silence from the connection. “And
gave his family name as Solaran.”

“Preposterous! You have found a madman, or someone who
has taken on a most unfortunate pseudonym. Have you noticed any odd behaviors
about him? Does he talk to himself, or have a look in his eye of one whose wits
do not quite all line up in a row? Is he dangerous?”
Caladris’s voice sounded nervous and worried.
“Keep
a close watch on him. I know you say he helped heal you, and you should be
grateful to him for that, but have a care who you take into your trust. He is
obviously unstable in some way. Bring him to Kadris if you feel you must,
either out of gratitude or prudence. If you feel some remuneration has been
deserved for his assistance, by all means we can accommodate, but do not leave
him unguarded among you. I will not lose a third sorcerer in this endeavor to
something like carelessness in the handling of a madman.”

Iridan let Caladris ramble as he thought how to put
his next words into an order that indicted neither himself nor Rashan as
crazed. It was going to be tough to convince Caladris when he still had doubts
himself, but too many coincidences had piled up, too many details fit too
cleanly into place. Iridan believed in conspiracy, in elaborate plans and deals
forged in dark hallways and hidden rooms. He knew that Kadrin and its enemies
all engaged in subterfuge and espionage, a game of goblins and ogres to see if
a small amount of force could be used to topple a large foe. But for the life
of him, he could not conceive of why anyone would want to impersonate a
long-dead warlock. If Rashan’s claim was false and he was a charlatan, he would
be found out and destroyed the first time anyone tested his powers. If his
claim was false, yet he was truly powerful, why adopt a guise so implausible as
to not help but arouse all suspicion? Far easier to insinuate his way into the
Imperial Circle through less conspicuous means. Unless there was a far deeper
game afoot than Iridan could imagine—which he was willing to accept was a
possibility—then the remaining choice was to believe.

“I have seen no odd mannerisms; in fact, he seems to
be the most rational and thoughtful man I have met. His wits are quite intact,
I can assure you, for I have seen him work magic, and he has done so as a
warlock might: no verbal or gestural aids in his magic. I realize, of course,
that plenty of sorcerers can perform the same feat any time they wish, if they
are undisturbed. But he is also dangerous; I will not dispute that one. I had
left out the detail of the ambush at Tibrik. The garrison had been overtaken by
rebel Megrenn. Almost by reflex, he leaped the fortress wall and slaughtered
every man within.

“He claims he is a demon. He claims he survived the
Battle of the Dead Earth and gave an accounting of how it was won. He says that
he was wounded by the necromancer’s putrid aether, tainting his Source, and
that he kept away to prevent himself from bringing that taint home with him.”

Iridan took a quick breath, then, “And I believe him.”

“I must know more.”

Neither Iridan nor Caladris Solaran of the Inner
Circle slept much at all that night.

Chapter 14 - The Smell of Freedom

The waves broke against the rocky shore, sending up a
salty spray that scented the air with a briny musk. The sea breeze was
refreshing and invigorating, a chill wind that wore away at years of oppression
and the rhythmic crashing of wave upon wave eased the mind with the lull of
constancy. That same tide had been washing in and out since the beginning of
time, but it felt different that day.

Denrik Zayne breathed deeply of the sea air, filling
his lungs. He felt free. It had been a week since he had made landfall, along
with his makeshift crew. They were stashed away in a rocky inlet, a few miles
south of Scar Harbor. The short cliffs that lay to the north and south of them
protected them from the view of mainlanders, and there were enough crevices
into them that they could easily conceal themselves when ships were spotted
entering and leaving the port to their north.

Denrik watched the horizon, not for any pressing need,
but rather out of habit—and a feeling of old familiarity. He could almost feel
the deck of his old ship,
The Honest Merchant
, beneath his feet again as
he stood at the water’s edge, letting the ocean fill his vision and ignoring
the shoreline. He watched the water for hours at a time, keeping a vigil, not a
watch. He knew when ships would pass their camp, when he would direct his crew
to cover until the threat of discovery had passed.

“Cap’n! Yer man’s here!” Andur called out, breaking
Denrik from his reverie.

He turned and made his way back to the cave they had
taken as their temporary home. The cave was only just large enough to sleep
them all, and they had salvaged little enough from the
Bringer of Hope
before Denrik had lashed the ship’s wheel and set it off to sea unmanned,
hopefully to run aground somewhere, conveniently misleading those who would
seek their recapture. They had gone north from Rellis Island rather than head
west to the nearest landfall at Trebber’s Cove; if the ship managed to get anywhere
near the cove, their eventual pursuers might never surmise them to have landed
near Scar Harbor.

When Denrik got there, his men parted to allow him by,
and he saw his guest. Robbono Stalyart was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with
grease-slicked hair and a beard that he waxed to a sharp point below his chin.
His dark eyes shone with genuine warmth, and his easy grin showed pearl-white
teeth, giving him an air of a man completely at ease despite the hardened
criminals he was visiting. He was dressed in a loose, grey tunic and dark
leather vest, left open to reveal a large swath of his hairy, darkly tanned
chest. The sash at his waist sported an inconspicuous bulge where Denrik
deduced a knife was sheathed.

“Mr. Stalyart, what news?” Denrik asked, feeling more
like Captain Zayne each time he spoke with his former first mate.

Robbono Stalyart had escaped during the surrender of
The
Honest Merchant
and gotten away free and clear of the charges that had been
brought against the other pirates. A phenomenal swimmer and diver, he had
eluded the Acardian Navy long enough that they had given him up for drowned. It
was he who had spent three years working to arrange the escape of Denrik Zayne
from his imprisonment, learning the workings of the penal colony and finding
its weaknesses, sending covert messages in amid supplies, and finally bribing
the crew of the
Bringer of Hope
. Stalyart had met them at the inlet upon
their arrival, having arranged it in advance as their meeting place for after
the escape. He had broken into one of the hidden caches that Captain Zayne had
stocked away for emergencies, and for Denrik Zayne, imprisonment was certainly
justification enough for digging up some of the gold he had plundered.

What Denrik considered truly remarkable was that, given
the chance, Stalyart had chosen to risk his own freedom on the plan to spring
his former captain from exile. He could have lived well enough on one cache of
loot that he would never have needed to sail again, yet here he was, in a small
shoreline cave not far from Acardia’s largest seaport, plotting a return to the
rolling seas with the most fearsome pirate of his day. Denrik could not help
but be touched at the loyalty that showed, even if there was as much for him to
gain by renewing their plundering reign on the Katamic.

“Captain,” Stalyart said, “it is what we have waited
for. The
Harbinger
is due in port next week.”

Stalyart then handed his captain a folded sheet of
paper, which Denrik opened and glanced over quickly. It was a copy of the
harbormaster’s list of planned arrivals and departures, the second such
document Stalyart had brought, beginning with their first meeting. Denrik had
used it to ensure that they were all out of sight of the water when they knew a
ship would be passing within spyglass range of their hideout.

“It is a frigate, and had a good reputation as a
worthy ship,” Stalyart said. “They are due for a rotation of crew, with several
men having completed their tours, and taking on as many new men. They will also
be re-provisioning and taking on a small number of the new long guns that the
cannoneers have invented. Since I am known now as a well-traveled merchant, it
was not suspicious when I inquired about purchasing the guns for my own ship. I
was told they may only be sold to the navy.” Stalyart smiled. “It will make it
all the more glorious to take them for ourselves.”

“What is her complement? How many men will guard her?”
Denrik’s mind was already formulating a plan of attack. He had long plotted how
he would get back to sea with a ship of his own, so rough frameworks of various
plots were already lying about in his head half finished. A frigate: it was a
grand prize indeed, but a difficult prospect unless they had some sort of edge.
“Do you have anyone on the inside? One of the new crew members, perhaps?”

“My Captain!” Stalyart gave a sweeping bow, doffing an
imaginary cap he was not wearing. “You ruin my surprises by outguessing me. I
have one better than you think, though. My half-brother serves as gunnery mate
aboard
Harbinger
. He is not one that is staying behind. He will serve
his turn on the berth watch, but I will visit with him when he takes his shore
leave. I have no doubt he would rather make his fortune with his brother and
Captain Zayne than toil for a gunner’s pension in the navy.”

“You sure?”

“My Captain, I will throw my brother’s life and my own
at your feet in this. I know that if there is any betrayal, my life is forfeit
as well as my brother’s. I know him.”

“Err, Cap’n, this mean we’re takin’ a boat from the
navy?” Andur asked. “I mean, ya know, we had us a boat afore, an’ we shooed it
off to sea empty-like. Why didn’t we just keep it?”

Puzzling Andur was one of the least difficult tasks
Denrik had ever performed. Even now that they were off Rellis Island, it was a task
he still performed almost daily.

“Andur, have you ever
seen
a frigate?” Denrik
asked, and Andur shook his head; at least he was being honest. “Well, a frigate
is to that worthless little wreck of a supply ship as a sword is to a spoon.”

With that, Denrik swept his cutlass, taken from the
now dead guards aboard that same supply ship, from its scabbard.
Shhhhinnng!

“Find yourself a spoon now, Andur, and defend
yourself.”

Denrik waved the blade in front of Andur, who
nevertheless looked suddenly very nervous.

“Um. Uh. That-That,” Andur stammered, “don’t seem all
fair to me. I-I-I don’t know how to fight with a spoon!”

There was a general burst of laughter from all
present.

“He don’t mean for real, ya stinker! Cap’n’s usin’ one
o’ them word tricks to make a point,” Jimony said with a guffaw.

Even Denrik, who felt better than he had in years,
broke out in a smile at Andur’s discomfiture. He sheathed his blade before he
scared the poor fool senseless.

“With a ship like that, we would stand a chance against
nearly any ship in the sea,” Denrik said. “I have no intention of shipping
wheat or spices when I sail again. I do not plan to offer my services to
travelers. I intend to take up my mantle as the most feared pirate in the
Katamic!” Then Denrik lowered his voice somewhat: “And I will not get there
captaining a creaky wooden barrel with a sail that poor bastard calls a ship.

“So, Mr. Stalyart,” Denrik said, purposely changing
his demeanor to set a lighter tone, “what do you have for your captain to eat,
and to drink?”

*
* * * * * * *

Denrik’s work crew whiled away the hours and days.
There was little enough to do, since they could not risk being spotted. That
meant no swimming or fishing, no fires, and trying not to be too loud. That
meant boring. Stalyart had brought them cards and dice to amuse themselves, but
they had no money to gamble with and generally lost interest. None of them were
great thinkers, but Captain had given them something that required a great deal
of thought.

Denrik Zayne needed a crew. Stalyart had a few men
picked out that had sailed with him on his little trading ship,
Nyurissa
,
and was counting on his brother’s help, but he was still quite short on men.
Grudgingly, he had given his Rellis Island companions the option: they could
either join his crew and learn the trade as they went, or Denrik would drop
them at the nearest port of questionable character, where they might lose
themselves among the locals and start anew in a land where their criminal pasts
were not known.

Conscripted crews were a great tradition among both
pirates and the navy of old. It showed that if properly motivated—by the lash
if necessary—any dullard could be made into a serviceable sailor. But the navy
had abandoned the practice decades ago with good cause. Not only were they
trying to cast themselves in a better light among the reformist government’s
elites, but they had found that “any dullard” made an awful sailor, and a
discontented and potentially mutinous one. None of Denrik’s charges was a
thinker, and as best he could gather, only two had useful skills be might avail
himself of.

First was Grosh—Grosh Mantlegard—who was a tailor by
trade. He had been rather newly anointed into the Tailors Guild when he had
gotten into a heated, drunken dispute with his employer and stabbed him to
death with a pair of scissors. Denrik figured that sail repair ought to be
something he could manage with little trouble. As a bonus, he was also a
killer, and an unrepentant one, maintaining that his boss had it coming. Such
men took better than most to a life of piracy.

Then there was Tawmund Reggelend. Tawmund was the
quietest of Denrik’s fellow inmates, a kindness he was inclined to repay, but
that was not the reason Denrik wanted him in his crew. Tawmund was built like
the statue of Ptaw, the old Garnevian god of blacksmiths, that stood in Temple
Square of Golis. Thick as an oak tree, and with no discernible neck, Tawmund
was frighteningly strong. Years of hard labor had made him leaner, but his bulk
was still considerable. He would be a natural for boarding actions and subduing
captured vessels. He was also already a pirate of sorts; he was sent to Rellis
Island for his part in a gang that ran a number of criminal rackets in
Stollen—they were pirates on land.

Jimony was another story, however. He was a thief and
a killer of the “knife you from behind” and “slit your throat in your sleep”
variety. Denrik did not trust him. Sure, they were all on Rellis Island for
good cause, but Denrik was a shrewd judge of character and was an expert on
scoundrels in particular. There were criminals whom you could trust to do a
job, take orders, and pull their weight because they knew you were good for a
payoff in the end. They were the backbone of the pirate trade. Others could be
hammered into that mold with the threat of violence hanging over their heads; a
bosun with a scourge in hand had made many a poor sailor into an able one. This
Jimony, though, was a viper if Denrik had ever seen one. He was not the sort to
start a mutiny but rather the sort to try to make off with as much as he could
carry after a big haul, probably leaving a few knives stuck in the poor souls
stuck on watch the night he did it.

Trapped on Rellis Island, Jimony had thrown in with
Denrik out of necessity. All the others in the cell had let him act as their
leader, and Denrik’s own vile reputation offered a good reason to pause before
acting against him. Now that there was a whole world to disappear into, Denrik
would not trust the man with his back turned. Sooner or later, he would be rid
of him; if he took the deal to be dropped off at some distant port, so be it.
If he accepted Denrik’s offer to join his crew at sea, well, there would either
be some convenient accident, or Denrik would have to find a good excuse to run
him through. If it came to it, it might not be such a bad idea to let his new
crew know who they were dealing with—and the price for crossing him.

Denrik sighed deeply and contemplated his hardest
decision: Andur. Poor Andur was simpleminded, but in an earnest way that Denrik
could not help taking a liking to. There was no artifice with Andur: he would
say what he meant, whether it was a good idea or not, whether he grasped the
situation or not. He took no offense from all the ridicule he bore; for of all
the faults he had mentally, he was at least aware of the deficiency. He
naturally gravitated to those who told him what to do and how to do it. He had
practically been Denrik’s puppy on the island. He was not exactly certain of
the crime Andur had been imprisoned for, but he gathered it was rape. From
years observing the man, Denrik was fairly certain he had been a dupe for
someone else’s crime, a brawny laborer who worked for a noble family and was
too stupid to defend himself from the charge. Worse, he was the sort who could
be convinced to confess without realizing the consequences.