Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (3 page)

A great cheer greeted Kyrus as his arrival was noted,
and a number of tankards and mugs were raised.

“Kyrus!” they shouted in unison, giving the impression
they had rehearsed the welcome ahead of time.

“Have a seat, friend,” said Greuder, owner of a local
pastry shop, who sat near the far end of the table from Davin.

Greuder then stood and pulled out a chair for Kyrus,
the seat exactly opposite Davin’s, at the other head of the table.

Kyrus’s face flushed bright crimson. Twenty or so
people were more than he spoke to in a typical day, and he felt out of place at
the center of their attention, like an actor thrust into a role at the last
moment, never having read the script. Words failed him utterly. He must have
stood there stunned for longer than he thought, because the next thing he knew
Greuder had a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to his seat.

“Am … Am I late?” Kyrus managed to stammer out once
the initial shock wore off.

“No, no, not at all, my boy!” yelled Davin down the
length of the table. “You are here right on time, as usual. It is just that I
had arranged for everyone else to be early, you see.”

Davin smiled, apparently at his own cleverness.
Greuder managed to deliver the guest of honor to his seat and then resumed his
own seat just to Kyrus’s right. Once everyone had settled down, Davin stood up
and produced a small cylindrical case, the same case that had piqued Kyrus’s
curiosity earlier in the day. He withdrew the contents—several sheets of
parchment—and tapped them on the table to straighten them out a bit. Turning
his attention to his guests, he cleared his throat.

“Well, let us get down to the reason for this little
gathering, shall we?” Davin said. “Friends and colleagues, as you may have
already surmised, I have a great announcement to make. This gentleman to my
left is Kornelius, steward to His Majesty, King Gorden.”

At this, several guests gaped openly, and there was a
bit of murmuring.

“He is here at His Majesty’s behest to aid me in
setting my affairs in order before I leave for Golis. I have been offered, and
most gratefully accepted, His Majesty’s post as the next royal scribe.”

Davin paused here, no doubt fully expecting his
friends’ reaction. There were several who clapped, some cheered; Kyrus felt
faint and could only stare dumbly at his employer.

“I have been given this opportunity because our dear
colleague, Mr. Oriedel Conniton, heretofore His Majesty’s personal scribe, has
fallen ill with an affliction resulting from his advanced years and has
resigned the position to spend his remaining years with his family. I have
already conveyed my well wishes to Mr. Conniton and his family, and I shall be
visiting them on my way to Golis to deliver my respects in person.

“As a member in good standing of the Scriveners Guild,
I would like to toast His Majesty for his continued support of our craft,
despite the ever-intrusive designs of the typesetters and their infernal
presses. To King Gorden, may his wisdom be passed down through all the ages!”

Everyone raised his mug and drank deeply, including
Kyrus, who found that someone had pressed a tankard of ale into his hand while
he was not paying attention.

“Now, of course, there remains the small matter of
what will become of my shop once I have moved out of it,” Davin said. “I must
admit that over the years I have grown to become quite fond of the place, and I
am loath to leave it behind. But, of course, duty calls, and I must answer!
Therefore, I have made the decision that I must sell my beloved home, for that
is what it is to me, as much as it has been a workplace. And as His Majesty is
currently without the services of a royal scribe, the sale must be made in all
haste. Since I could not bear to sell it to a stranger, I had thought to ask
one of you to buy it from me. We shall auction it right now, with payment due
immediately. Let us begin as modestly as possible, at a single eckle.”

There was a general bewilderment at this sudden turn
of events. That the men gathered at the table were ill prepared for such an
undertaking was obvious. Kyrus could not believe what was happening. Davin was
auctioning off his home …
his
home—the both of theirs. While it was
perfectly within his right to do so, Kyrus could not believe Davin had not
forewarned him.

“Well, anyone … one eckle?”

There was a general muttering up and down the length
of the table, muttered excuses of coin purses left at home and the like.
Greuder gave Kyrus an elbow in the side, and Kyrus noticed that nobody at the
table would admit to having so much as a single one-eckle coin among them.
Fumbling in his vest pocket, Kyrus withdrew the first coin his fingers closed
on. He gave a quick glance at the denomination and slapped it down on the
table.

“Ten eckles!” Kyrus cried as everyone turned their
gazes in his direction.

Silence fell over the gathering as they waited for
someone to respond.

“Well, we have a bid of ten eckles. Do I hear any
other bids?”

Silence followed Davin’s question. After a moment,
Davin deemed it suitable to continue, having given everyone enough time to
protest should they so choose.

“Ten eckles it is, then.”

Davin smiled at Kyrus and beckoned to him with one
hand—the hand not holding the speech that had turned Kyrus’s world on its head
that evening.

“Congratulations, my boy. Let us just get the deed
signed over to you, which Kornelius has conveniently brought along.”

At a nod from Davin, the old steward retrieved a small
strongbox from the floor in the corner of the room, where it had lain
unnoticed. Kornelius placed it on the table and withdrew from it some papers, a
quill, and ink. Starting to put the pieces together and figure out what
precisely was going on, Kyrus cautiously made his way down to Davin’s end of
the table. The whole thing gave Kyrus the impression of one of the old, trite
plays that Davin so enjoyed watching.

Kyrus and Davin both signed the contracts that
Kornelius had drawn up to complete the sale, and Kyrus could not help but get
the feeling that there was something missing. As if on cue, Davin interrupted
his musings.

“Of course, to keep the old place in use, there will
have to be a member of the Scriveners Guild there to oversee things. Now,
Kyrus, I know you have been painfully aware that I have been remiss in my
duties to you as a mentor of late. You are long overdue for your
journeymanship, as I have long admitted. Now close your eyes; I have something
for you.”

Kyrus did as he was told and shut his eyes, grinning
broadly. At last, he would get his official membership in the guild. He had
waited perhaps a year longer than was considered the norm, but today would make
up for all that. He would also be the only journeyman in Eastern Acardia to own
his own shop. He could hardly contain his excitement as he first heard Davin
step around behind him and then the clatter of a fine metal chain. He felt
Davin lower the chain over his head; it had to be his journeyman’s medallion, a
symbol of his new status as a guild member.

“Now,” Davin said, “I know that the guild does not
forbid a journeyman from maintaining his own shop, but the general public does
not place their trust lightly, and it is difficult for a journeyman to gain
that trust, not having been recognized by the guild as an expert in his field.
You should not have to worry, though.”

Kyrus’s eyes shot open. He looked down at his chest
and did not see the journeyman’s medallion he had first expected. What he saw was
the emblem of an Expert Scrivener: a golden “S” curled around a quill. He spun
around to face Davin, the question on his mind written upon his face as clearly
as his gifted hands could ever have managed.

“At the last meeting of the guild, when I found out
about my new station, I remembered to recommend you,” Davin said. “I had some
of your work along with me for them to review, and I had to somewhat sheepishly
confess to my own dereliction in not presenting your case sooner. Needless to
say …” Davin reached over and gave Kyrus’s medallion a meaningful flick. “…
they were impressed. Oh, to be sure, there were a few who thought that despite
your talent, you should progress through the ranks the same way everyone else
has to, but these are difficult times. The Typesetters Guild is gaining
prominence as they refine those blasted machines that make a mockery of our
art. We cannot let a brilliant scribe languish as a journeyman when his works
should be heralded as those of a true expert. Now enough of all this seriousness.
Let us celebrate!”

Davin picked up his mug of ale, and the other guests
did likewise, raising their voices in toasts of congratulation for Davin and
Kyrus both. Another mug found its way into Kyrus’s hand, and he lifted it along
with the others. Few among the guests were hard drinkers, and the night’s
revelry was fairly brief. Kyrus, who rarely drank anything more potent than
wine, was the first to pass out.

Chapter
3 - After the Bloodless Night

By dawn, most of the men were emotionally spent. With
the long night finally past, the threat of the goblin attack seemed to
diminish. It was almost as if, believing the goblins would attack at night, the
threat seemed over with the arrival of the morning sun. Few of them had slept
much during the night, between the added watches and chain armor pressing down
on their chests like the heavy hand of waiting death.

The cheer of morning seemed to banish such dark
thoughts. The singing of morning birds and the rosy cheer of the day’s first
rays of sunlight seemed at odds with the thought of death lurking out among the
trees. There was some talk that perhaps the goblins had thought better of their
attack, and silently withdrawn back from wherever they had come. Some believed
what they were saying; others just needed to hear some words of confidence to
assuage their uncertainty and nervousness. Brannis did not like it.

Let the men say what they would, but Brannis had the
nagging feeling that the goblins were scheming something.
They would not
have delayed their attack just to cost our men a night’s sleep, would they?
Perhaps …

There had been no hunting the previous night, so the
morning meal was to be nothing but cured meat strips and water—hardly an
appetizing prospect. Brannis made his way over to claim his dawn feast from the
army’s stores and ran into Iridan, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, appearing a
bit wobbly on his feet.

“Fair morning, what say?” asked Brannis with a smile.

Brannis had managed a restful sleep despite the
circumstances and felt refreshed. His dreams had been growing more vivid of
late and he seemed to sleep the deeper for it, not awakening throughout the
night as so many of the other knights had.

Strange to have such vivid dreams about such mundane
drivel. What about copying texts for stodgy old men should be so worth
remembering? Am I trying to tell myself I would be best off retiring and taking
up a trade?
The thought amused
Brannis. He had never used to remember what he dreamed at night and wished it
was not always the same bland stuff.
Why not fair lasses and glorious
battles some night?

“I would not know; it is still last night for me,”
Iridan said. “I never thought I would envy anyone a night’s sleep in full
armor. Guess I was wrong on that count. Hey, when can we call off the goblin
watch and let me get some sleep?”

“I will have some patrols search the surrounding area
for signs of the goblins. I do not think they can hide from us in daylight in
any threatening numbers. If the patrols do not turn anything up, well, I guess
we will see about letting you sleep a bit.” Brannis leaned closer and added in
a low voice, “I can see now why necromancy is forbidden. I cannot imagine
anything dead would look less horrible than you do right now.”

Despite his fatigue, Iridan could not help but smile
and chuckle a bit. The playful swat that he aimed for the back of the grinning
Brannis’s head missed badly, and drew an amused snicker at his expense from the
few men nearby.

“Sure, Brannis, enjoy this now. I will be getting you
back once I have …” Iridan paused for a yawn. “… gotten a good sleep in me. I
will not be forgetting! Maybe the next wolves I bring into camp will be doing
their business in
your
tent.”  They had been friends since childhood, so
Iridan was freer than most to joke with the battalion commander.

He looked at Brannis out of the corner of his eye and
tried to feign a menacing look. This drew a good-natured laugh from everyone,
as Iridan was hardly in any condition to look menacing. Brannis nearly toppled
his friend with a hearty clap on the back and helped him to a seat and dawn
feast.

*
* * * * * * *

“Goblins!” one of the sentries screamed.

While the goblins were as silent in daylight as at
night, there was no denying that they had given up some advantage in stealth
with their dawn raid. One of the sentries had spotted them.

“To arms! Form a shield wall just inside the camp
perimeter,” Brannis ordered as he plunked his helmet onto his head and secured
the chinstrap. “Keep the shields low and remember that the goblins cannot reach
above your shields, only under and between.”

The knights were gathering behind the rapidly forming
wall of men with shields and spears, each wielding a pair of “goblin
swords”—whip-thin rods of steel meant to overcome the goblin advantage of
quickness. Only Brannis, carrying Massacre, was differently armed. And, of
course, Iridan, who was neither armed nor armored, though he had been given a
chain shirt identical to those of the commoner soldiers.

Poor Iridan
,
thought Brannis,
no sleep for him after all
.

The young sorcerer had shunned the armor he had been
given, planning to rely solely on his own magic for his defense. If the goblins
were half as smart as everyone claimed, they would pick him out of the crowd
easily enough anyway, and he preferred to be free of the awkward armor to
better cast his spells.

“Indreithio anamakne ubtaio wanuzar pronedook,”
intoned Iridan.

Brannis spared a glance over his shoulder to check on
the spell Iridan was casting. He was holding his arms skyward, fully extended,
with his fingers slowly weaving an intricate pattern in the air. Brannis
recognized it as a shielding spell, and from the way Iridan was gesturing, one
meant to form a barrier overhead to prevent the goblins’ thrown weapons from
penetrating, like giving a house a sturdy roof to keep out the rain.

Brannis was just behind the front lines when the first
of the goblin missiles sailed in. He shouted for his men to keep down behind
their shields and not to raise them up. All but a handful managed to put aside
their instinct to bring their shields up to cover their heads.. A second wave
of thrown spears and daggers quickly followed the first and with few targets
presenting themselves, those few went down quickly amid a storm of hurled
blades.

The sound of the goblin sorcerers’ spell chants were
drowned out by the sudden war cry of their first wave of infantry, a horrible
chattering cacophony bringing to mind a flock of startled chickens in an
echoing canyon. Yet the spells were cast—heard by the defenders or not—and a
blast of lightning shattered the ranks of men to one side, while two bolts of
white-hot aether hammered into Iridan’s shielding spell, illuminating the
transparent barrier for a flickering moment. The shield appeared almost to
buckle, but it held and the aether-bolts dispersed.

The goblins pressed their advantage where the
lightning had cleared a hole in the Kadrins’ shield wall. Two knights rushed in
to fill the breach, a burning scent heavy in the air around them. They stood
over the bodies of the fallen soldiers and continue serving their duty on the
line.

Both sides now had to contend with the effects of the
fog.. There was still enough visibility at head height that the humans could
clearly make out where their allies were. The goblins, mired in thicker fog
whose nature they had somewhat underestimated, were having difficulty finding
their footing. Brannis sported a rather wicked, self-satisfied grin when he
heard the startled yelps of the goblins that stumbled into one of the vast
number of latrines his men had been digging the last several days. He had
figured that a waist-deep hole to a man was plenty to take a goblin out of the
fighting.

The goblins, however, were nothing if not adaptable.
One of their sorcerers quickly cast a spell that created a gale of wind that dispersed
the remaining fog in the span of but two breaths. Another created a dimness in
the air not entirely dissimilar to the fog, but which acted to dim the light
from the morning sun over the battlefield, creating an artificial night.

Iridan acted quickly to counter the latter effect, and
nullified the advantage that goblin eyes held in the dark.

“Aleph kalai abdu.”

He quickly spoke the few necessary words, and made a
quick circling gesture with his right hand, with the tip of his middle finger
touching his thumb. It was the simplest of all spells and the first one taught
to every student at the Academy. It was a spell simple enough that Brannis
nearly had the strength to cast it. Instantly the false night was replaced by
an equally false noontime, as a bright ball of light appeared overhead near
Iridan’s outstretched hand, the harsh white light cutting through the dimming
spell the goblins had fashioned.

The spell had worked well, and taken back the
advantage that the goblin spell had bought for the few moments prior. But it
had also marked Iridan clearly in the eyes of the goblins. The way the spell
was worded, it was difficult to make it appear more than a pace or so from the
hand from which it originated. In fact, it took some skill and practice even to
keep the light from emanating from one’s own fingertip. Iridan might as well
have painted a sign reading "Sorcerer" and hung it around his neck.

*
* * * * * * *

Brannis had been calling out orders, orchestrating the
Kadrins’ defenses, when he heard a high whistle sound above the noise of
battle. It came in two quick bursts, a longer whistle, then two more short:
goblin signals, he realized. He had not yet become engaged in the combat; his
own sword was far too dangerous to have it drawn and swinging about in close
quarters with his own men. They were holding up well. They had resisted the
urge to break ranks and attempt to press the goblins back into the forest,
which was now starting to burn. Iridan’s shielding spell had somehow managed to
turn a ball of fire from one of the goblins back at their own ranks. Brannis
watched to see what came of their enemy's whistle.

From behind the lines, Brannis was the first to notice
the goblins’ reinforcements charge in from the south and west. They were not as
numerous as the main force attacking from the east, but they presented a
tactical problem: no defenders were prepared to hold those sides against
attack. The shield wall had held so far, and the knights had done well to
prevent the goblins from coming around the flanks, but this they were not going
to be able to stop in time.

“Pull back and bring the shield wall around to face
the south as well!” Brannis shouted.

*
* * * * * * *

As the knights helped direct the troop movements to
carry out their commander’s orders, Iridan watched Brannis draw his sword and
prepare to defend the interior of the camp. Iridan himself was behind the lines
and knew they were unlikely to survive this battle without his magic, so long
as the goblin sorcerers still lived. He stayed watching both his friend's
position and for places his spells might be needed.

The first attackers among the goblins stopped short.
They had been eager to rush in against a lone human knight and an unarmed
sorcerer, relishing the glory of cutting off the head of the army. But the
sight of an almost ogre-sized human, wielding an enchanted sword that glowed a
foreboding green and trailed a strange mist in its wake, gave them pause. As
the goblins at the forefront slowed, those lagging behind caught up to the
front of the charge, and their renewed numbers swelled their courage once
again, and they recommenced the attack en masse.

Iridan saw the goblins heading for Brannis and started
another spell.

“Haru bedaessi leoki kwatuan gelora.”

Iridan held his arms wide with his fingers spread
apart. Then, rapidly, as he finished his chant, he drew his hands together and,
just before they met, turned his palms upward and raised both hands overhead.
He was only a few paces from the cooking fire and that was what had inspired
this particular spell. As the aether flowed through him, he directed it into
the various pots, spoons, bowls, and ladles that the Kadrins had brought along
with them. These various items rose quickly into the air to hover around waist
height and with a commanding gesture from Iridan toward the onrushing goblins,
they flew.

In all of Kadrin history, there was perhaps no
instance where the contents of a larder had been put to such deadly use on the
field of battle. A storm of crockery hurtled through the air with the speed of
a diving hawk. The great clanging and splattering sounds that resulted hinted
at one of the greatest culinary assaults of all time. Though it sounded quite
incongruous in the middle of a battle of spell and steel, the charge from the
west was brought near to a halt.

*
* * * * * * *

Just a few steps away, Brannis was beset by onrushing
goblins, leading with their spears. Three-wide they charged;three at once they
were cut down. The goblins were astonished by the speed at which the blade cut
through the air … and spears … and goblins. That is, all but the first three
were astonished, for those at the forefront of the charge never realized what
had become of them.

The rest of the goblins charging Brannis drew back and
began to try to encircle him, staying just out of his reach. Brannis kept Massacre
waving back and forth in front of him, leaving the green mist wafting in the
air behind the blade, and forming a hazardous barrier for the goblins to cross.

The goblins were sensitive creatures, naturally better
attuned to the aether than were humans. They could sense the power in the
weapon and thus had some misgivings about letting the mist touch them. One who
had gotten a bit too close was already unsteady on his feet and did not look
well at all. Several gave up on Brannis altogether and instead tried to get
past him to the sorcerer, whom they saw was much distracted by other concerns.