Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (62 page)

“Your Grace, if the goblins do not attack us, or if
your troops turn them aside so easily that no help of ours was needed, I will
gladly bear whatever ridicule you wish to heap upon me,” Brannis said while
still standing—as was Duke Pellaton—at the far end of the table. “And if at
that point you wish to voice your displeasure to the regent, Warlock Rashan, I
suspect you might find me relieved of my rank, if not my life. And upon my
death, if you wish to toast your foresight and laugh over my grave, I will
offer no resistance.

“But until such time as we have either defeated the
goblins or I am convinced that they have turned their intentions elsewhere, I
expect the full cooperation of the forces of Raynesdark and their commanders.
That includes yourself, Your Grace. Sometime in the next handful of days, there
will be a goblin army at the foot of your mountain, and I have been ordered by
the acknowledged ruler of the Empire to defend it. I will do so with or without
your help, though I would be obliged for any aid that is available in my
charged duty.”

“Well spoken, boy, I appreciate blunt words. You will
have my cooperation, if not my approval; that you may only have if you are both
correct and victorious,” Duke Pellaton said.

Brannis did not know if the presence of the duchess
softened the duke’s mood or tempered his words, but he suspected that the fact
Duke Pellaton had no grounds to defy him without risking the ire of Rashan
played a part somewhere. Humility was a dish best served to someone else, yet
Duke Pellaton had at least lifted a spoonful of it to sniff it experimentally.

The remainder of the meal passed without further
incident. Brannis spoke mainly to his own companions and made a bit of light
conversation with the commanders of Raynesdark’s forces and their wives. The
House Pellaton end of the table was quieter and kept their conversation amongst
themselves as well.

The day’s events had worn Brannis down, and he retired
to his borrowed chambers gladly. It felt wonderful to slip into the bath that
one of the servants had drawn for him. The runed armor was by far the most
comfortable protection he had ever worn, but it was still mail beneath the
plates, and hot, sweaty padding below that. Never one for soaking, he washed
himself and prepared for a well-earned slumber in a proper bed.

After drying off from the bath, he checked that the
books he had brought from the Tower library were still in good order. He had
little time to read them while on the road, though he had perused a bit before
bed. This night, though, he found that he was more interested in the soft
blankets than yellowed old tomes, and put them away once he had seen to their
safety.

Sorry, Kyrus. Tomorrow, I promise
.

It was chilly in the room, and when the residual
warmth from the bath fully left him, it grew unpleasant. The glassed window at
the front of the room let in enough light to find the bed with the lanterns
out, and lacking magic, he preferred to keep the heavy green curtains wide
open. Thankful for the thick carpets on his bare feet, he climbed into the bed.

Brannis closed his eyes and headed off to see what was
going on with the crew of the
Harbinger
.

*
* * * * * * *

In the darkened hallway of Raynesdark Castle, a figure
clung to the shadows. With thick carpets quieting careful feet, the figure felt
its way along. It found its objective at the end of the corridor, the last of
the rooms in the guests’ wing, usually reserved for visiting nobility.

The figure examined the door carefully, running a
thin-fingered hand over the wood, searching with a practiced hand. It could
find no wire or catch to trigger a trap, nor any ward to interfere with its
entry—for it knew the ways of aether and was careful of such things. The same
thin hand tried the door and found it opened easily and quietly; it was not
even locked. It was almost too easy …

The slight figure slipped inside and oh-so-quietly
closed the door. The floor in the guest room was well covered in rugs as well,
and there was no sound as the figure approached the sleeping knight. The chest
rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, almost hypnotically. The pale moonlight
from the window was even enough to make out the beating of the heart in the
knight’s neck.

Slowly the figure leaned in closer to the knight,
holding its breath lest the knight sense the approach by a disturbance in the
air. With dexterity and practiced control, the figure got right down next to
the knight’s neck …

… and laid a gentle kiss just above the collarbone.
Using the distraction of the kiss and the tickle of hair that fell on Brannis
as he stirred in his sleep, Juliana eased herself up onto the bed and beneath
the blankets. She had noticed on the journey to Raynesdark just how heavily
Brannis slept, and was taking full advantage.

She ran a hand up Brannis’s chest and reached her leg
across him, slowly drawing herself atop him, straddling his waist. Of course,
there were limits to the things even as sound a sleeper as Brannis could
slumber through, and some laggardly watchman within his sleeping thoughts saw
fit to inform Brannis that “something important is going on.”

*
* * * * * * *

Brannis awoke confused, briefly wondering if he had
bedded one of the serving girls from dinner. The smell of honeysuckle brought
back a wash of memories and cleared up any doubts as to who his bed-mate was.

She hung her smiling face above his, her unbound hair
streaming down around the both of them, creating a curtained area for just
herself and Brannis.

“Tonight is ours, Brannis,” she whispered and then ran
a hand down along his bicep.

“What are you doing here?” Brannis asked softly.

He had not seen that particular smile from her in a
long time, and his thoughts began to form small puddles at the bottom of his
brain as they melted away. She wore the dress from dinner, but without the sash
or shawl to go along with it, or even shoes, as he could feel her cold, bare
feet against his legs. Other than her feet, the rest of her felt warm and
inviting, the thin fabric of the dress doing nothing to shield him from the
warmth of her body.

“We may never get this chance again. Tomorrow we all
may die, or be swept up in battle and events carry us away. I do not know. All
I need to know is I have you now, for tonight at least,” she whispered.

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his. He
returned her kiss but hesitated.

Brannis shook his head. “I cannot do this. You are
betrothed to my best friend.”

“And I still will be, come morning.”

“That is not the point,” Brannis said.

“But it is,” Juliana said. “It is not Iridan that I
came to be with tonight. I want you.”

“I cannot have you.” Brannis barely managed to get the
words out. It was the hardest thing he had ever admitted.

She balled up her fist and pounded it on his chest.
“Why?” she protested, hitting him again. “Why could you not have been a
sorcerer like you were supposed to be? Did your mother bed one of the stable
hands? You were supposed to be mine.”

She pulled back and seemed about to really slam her
fist down, but Brannis caught it this time.

“But I am not. Iridan is going to be yours now. He is
a good man … and a good friend,” Brannis replied calmly.

“Brannis, you were more a man at fourteen than I
suspect Iridan will ever be.”

She seemed about to cry, her breath coming in short
gasps in between sniffles. With one wrist in Brannis’s grasp, she held down his
other arm and leaned in to kiss him again, making one last desperate attempt to
overwhelm his reason with her anything-but-reason.

But Brannis ignored her grasp and let go of her other
wrist. He took her gently but firmly by the midsection and lifted her up. Held
aloft by her center of balance, Juliana could do little to struggle loose as
Brannis sat up and plopped her down in a seated position, still kneeling
astride him.

Brannis wrapped his arms around Juliana and pulled her
close. She curled up in his arms and began to sob. Brannis said nothing, and
Juliana was beyond words, just feeling the strength of his arms holding her and
letting loose feelings that had been building to a boil for far too long.

When at last she had run dry of tears, Juliana was
able to compose herself enough to leave Brannis’s bed. She kissed him quickly
on the forehead, not trusting herself to try anything more, and quickly
disappeared down the corridor to return to her own room.

When she was gone, Brannis got out of bed and found
his sword. Drawing Avalanche from its sheath, he walked over to the door and
pressed the blade flat against the wood, closest to the handle side and
oriented up and down. He released his grip and the sword remained in place,
held by rune-forged magic and certain to keep out any further intruders, no
matter how welcome their intentions might be.

Having secured the door, Brannis went to stand by the
window. The glass let in a chill that felt cleansing, and Brannis thought he
could use some about then. He looked at the night view of the abandoned
overcity and wondered how soon the attack would come. He watched the view long
enough for his passions to cool, and for the warmth of Juliana’s body to escape
him.

As he climbed back into bed, he noticed that it had
managed to acquire a faint whiff of honeysuckle.

I am a fool. Perhaps a good man, perhaps a good
friend, but definitely a fool
.

Chapter 30 - Sand in the Dragon’s Eye

A light steam rose from the murky water that poured
from the large circular stone duct that jutted from the rocky base of the
mountain, carrying the humans’ effluent into the lake. The duct was large
enough that a human might pass through, albeit uncomfortably, in order to
perform maintenance. There was a grating blocking the opening, made of iron and
warded against rusting. The openings in the grating were small enough to keep
out goats and bears and other wildlife that might seek respite from the cold of
winter within the warm, fetid sewers of Raynesdark. They were even small enough
to keep out goblins.

But not all goblins were quite as resourceful as
Gkt’Lr. The assassin studied the runes for a moment and measured the gaps in
the bars against the width of his shoulders. The wards were not so complex that
he could not unravel them and break through the iron of the grating, but it
would take time. He reached his pack through the bars and set it quietly on the
other side, just above the water level, hoping that it would stay put as he
worked to join it. The stone was rough but worn, and the curved slope of the
duct threatened to tumble the pack into the murk of the humans’ waste. Gkt’Lr
was not squeamish about the disgusting mess, but he did not want the stink of
it on him for the whole evening; he had work to do and did not want to announce
it by his odor.

The goblin assassin reached an arm through the bars
and poked his head through as well.

Now for the trick
.

He twisted his collarbone at an unseemly angle,
farther than nearly any goblin could manage, enough to make an onlooker
uncomfortable just watching. There was no pop, no dislocation, as human
contortionists might use to fit themselves places that their bodies did not
belong, merely a continued stretching as tendons and ligaments relaxed and
allowed the lithe body to squeeze through a space no wider than a human
forearm.

Once the shoulder was through, the rest came easily.
Gkt’Lr reoriented his shoulders to a more anatomically sustainable position—one
that let him breathe—and used both arms to push himself the rest of the way
through, angling his hips to pass through the square holes.

Scooping up his pack, he set off down the warren of
pipes and ducts in search of a way up into the city. The goblin pulled an
amulet from beneath his tunic and gave it a bit of aether to start it. The
passage was bathed in a purplish light, which he was able to see but which most
goblins and all humans would be unable to distinguish from the darkness.

Gkt’Lr was Master of Eternal Night, the second most
senior position among the Cult of Knives. The only one above him was the Grandmaster
of Darkness. A wizened old goblin named P’ko’t, the grandmaster had passed on a
great deal of wisdom to his protégées. Gkt’Lr remembered one particularly
relevant lesson …

“You cannot just kill a dragon. The dragon is much too
strong for you to overcome. Rather, be the sand in the dragon’s eye, that it
might blink when the blade comes to claim it.”

The Cult of Knives was a notoriously impious bunch,
left to practice their dark craft more out of practicality than approval. The
dragon-god cared little for such backroom blasphemies, though, and appreciated
the competence the assassins brought among their followers. So long as the
assassins neither openly insulted any dragon nor attempted to put their
parables into practice, they were more than tolerated by the dragons.

Ni’Hash’Tk was Gkt’Lr’s particular problem, though.
She was disappointed in him, possibly bordering on annoyance. That was not a
recipe for a long life among her followers. He needed something to prove his
worth to her. He could not destroy an army, but he might provide a distraction
to the defenders of Raynesdark and wound them as well.

It was time to become the sand in the dragon’s eye,
and this “dragon” was named Raynesdark.

*
* * * * * * *

The sewers had wound a long course, much of it upward,
back into the undercity of Raynesdark. Gkt’Lr was more familiar with goblin
sewers than human and had to accustom himself to a whole new plethora of foul
odors as he made his way through. His hopes of making it through cleanly were
dashed at the first drop he had to ascend. With sewage pouring down around him,
he had climbed up by rope and hook. It had happened several times after that
first one, as the humans had farther to bring their runoff down than across as
they drained it out into the lake.

[I wonder if the folk in the downriver cities know
they pour their filth into the lake,] the assassin muttered to himself.

He found respite from the foul waters in a back alley
of the undercity. The grating that covered the opening to the sewers was not
bolted in place, and with the help of a little aether, he was able to dislodge
it long enough to make his exit.

He kept to the shadows and away from the noises of the
humans’ night activities. Few were about, but those that were made enough noise
for the vigilant assassin to steer well clear of them. Guards wandered the
streets and taverns seemed to still be plying their trade at the late hour of
his arrival, but the regular folk seemed to have largely retired for the night.

Gkt’Lr wandered, but not aimlessly. He was
reconnoitering the city, looking for three things. The first was the humans’
water supply. He could hear the waters flowing and was making his way toward
them with all caution.

The architects of Raynesdark had not relied on wells
for their water but had instead diverted an underground river through the
undercity. Gkt’Lr approached cautiously and examined the canal they had
created. The canal flowed in from the north side of the city, and that was the
point where Gkt’Lr concerned himself. The canal was cut with dark stone walls,
quarried from the same stone as the lake walls outside. He studied the ancient
runes inscribed along them—someone around these parts had been intent on
placing wards on nearly everything, it seemed—and found ones that kept the
stone from wearing away, ones that kept the flow of the water constant and, to
the assassins’ dismay, ones that kept the water clean and pure.

His pack contained a deadly contaminant that he had
intended for the water, but it would have been best used in a well. The
free-flowing water would have carried much of the poison—an extract from kokoi
grass—out of the city before much had been consumed. Even at that, he would
have used it just to try, if not for the wards.

Gkt’Lr had two plans for the water, though, and from
the second he would not be dissuaded. There was an archway at the head of the
river’s entrance to the city, and he walked through it, balancing on the stone
blocks that lined the edge. Once safely out of sight of the city, he stripped
off his clothes and equipment and laid them on the stones. He slid into the
water and washed off the muck of the sewers as best he could.

Once he felt clean enough, he climbed back out and
washed his clothing in the waters as well. The wards purified the water so
effectively that the filth he left was already dispersing by the time it flowed
out into the city.

The foundries were not far from his location, and they
were near to where he was headed next anyway. While the city slept, the
foundries worked day and night. There was less activity than during daytime
hours, but there were still humans about. Gkt’Lr could not exactly run around
unnoticed forever, dripping wet from the canal, at least not if he hoped to
avoid attracting notice. Gkt’Lr found himself a spot near the fires to dry out,
ever alert for iron-workers in the area. He settled in and waited, taking the
time to admire the sights of the city—or as much as he could see from his place
of hiding.

It was a nice enough place, huge even by goblin
standards. The domed ceiling was very practical and avoided the frequent
supports that his own people’s underground dwellings used. The buildings would
have to be refurbished to goblin size, but all the essential elements for
goblin habitation were already in place.

Maybe I will purchase land here, once the conquest is
complete. Perhaps I can even convince Ni’Hash’Tk to include someplace as a
reward for my role in it.

*
* * * * * * *

“What this for?” the ogre asked, though his ogreish
accent made “what” sound like “whad,” as all the hard sounds softened.

The ogre’s massive brow knitted in suspicion. He was
naked to the waist, wearing just a pair of leather breeches and boots, as were
the other male ogres. The females, toward the back of the pen with the
children, just wore simple leather skirts and were bare of both chest and foot.
A few sat nursing babes, and others kept the naked, unruly children away from
their visitor, as much from fear as from politeness.

“Gold … is … your,” the assassin explained slowly,
struggling with the Kadrin words. They had too many vowels.

“Why you givin’ us gold?” the ogre persisted, looking
down at his knee-high benefactor.

“For help free you,” Gkt’Lr said. “Goblins fight
humans. Ogres no fight goblins. Goblins give more gold. Goblins set ogres free.
No more work mines.”

The assassin hoped that got the point across well
enough. Speaking Kadrin was tiring, and the ogres only understood properly
pronounced Kadrin poorly to begin with.

“So you come fight humans. If we no fight, you give
more gold? What we do with gold? We no can go markets,” the ogre reasoned out.

Well, he gets half of it at least.

“We make you free. Then you go markets,” the assassin
clarified.

That gold was a means of trade for goods and services
was a bit more than he hoped to have to teach them. At least they knew what
markets were, after a fashion.

“What we got do?” the ogre asked, if not fully
comprehending the offer, at least understanding that he was being asked to do
something. Being given tasks was at least a concept that the ogres were
familiar with.

“Humans give weapons. You kill humans, not goblins.
Goblins make you free,” Gkt’Lr said, thinking that maybe finally they could
reach an understanding.

The ogre took the bag of gold coins that the assassin
first offered him and looked inside again, getting a feel for the amount of
money within, if not a count.

“You give gold. Goblins fight humans in city. You say
humans give us weapons?” the ogre paused to ask, and Gkt’Lr nodded an
affirmative. “We use weapons and fight humans instead. You give more gold an’
make us free, so we go do markets and spend gold. Ya?”

“Yes.”

“We make deal.”

*
* * * * * * *

In the darkened hallway of Raynesdark Castle, Gkt’Lr
clung to the shadows. With thick carpets quieting careful feet, he felt his way
along. He found his objective at the end of the corridor, the last of the rooms
in the guests’ wing, usually reserved for visiting nobility.

It seemed like the sort of place one would lodge the
most important visitors, so it seemed the best place to start. The goblin
assassin had made easy work of the passage up from the undercity to the castle,
silencing a handful of guards along the way. If he had gotten all of them along
the patrol routes, there would be no one left to report the missing guards
before daybreak.

The door at the end of the hall was not warded, the
assassin concluded after a cursory inspection. There was something with a
strong reserve of aether just on the other side of the door though, but it was
not any sort of ward. The assassin pushed gently to open the door, but it did
not move in the least. He pushed again, harder, and met with the same result.

I could burn through the door, but that would be the
end of stealth for the night. I should see what other targets are available.

Gkt’Lr moved on to the next door, across the hallway
from the first one. He inspected the wards he found there and saw that it was a
simple, temporary construct, likely thrown into place hastily to give the
sorcerer within some privacy.

Gkt’Lr was about to begin unraveling it—a skill of
which he was especially proud—when he noticed something. The ward he had first
found to be so simple was actually a trap, meant to give false security to just
such an intruder as himself. He saw that it was linked to other, more subtle
wards, scribed within the first so as to pass unnoticed. They would raise an
alarm and strike at the one undoing the first ward, with some sort of magic
that the assassin could not identify at a glance. It was a masterful work of
rune crafting, and Gkt’Lr was thankful to be as much a master at his own craft
to have avoided it.

He crossed the hall again to the next door down.

I hope these Kadrins are not all so paranoid, or this
night’s work could go poorly.

The door was warded again, a bit more thoroughly than
the last door appeared at first. Gkt’Lr gave some serious time to going over
the runes of the ward in exacting detail, but found that it was merely a plain,
unassuming ward to bar the door against entry. He began unraveling it and found
that no surprise awaited him upon its final collapse.

The assassin slipped inside and oh-so-quietly closed
the door. The floor in the guest room was well covered in rugs as well, and
there was no sound as Gkt’Lr approached the sleeping sorcerer. The Kadrin’s
chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, almost hypnotically. The pale
moonlight from the window was even enough to make out the beating of the heart
in the sorcerer’s neck.