Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (44 page)

Well, that was one of the worst ideas I have ever had.

He was still locked up and gagged, and now his neck
hurt where the leather rubbed against burned flesh.

Time to see how picky magic is about pronunciation.

“Hmnk wrru uhdhdh poguruh bnnuh dhdhguh vnk
rvrurugnuh,”
he mumbled, mimicking
Rashan’s gesture of pressing his hands together and making little circles as he
rubbed them together.

At first, he thought he felt something weird happening
to him, but soon he realized that it was the aether building inside him with no
release. He heated the doors some more to let the pressure of the aether escape
him.

Kyrus knew that the magic did not care one whit about
the words themselves or how he spoke them. It was more a matter of the shapes
they made in his mind. But Kyrus was new at this, and the words and gestures were
meant to create the right thoughts. He did not know the spell well enough to
skip to the end results and just cast it knowing how it was supposed to go.

Kyrus tried the spell again, this time focusing on
trying to hear the words correctly in his head, even if his mouth was getting
them wrong—due to entirely forgivable circumstances.

Having nothing but time on his hands, Kyrus kept
trying over and over as each attempt failed. He began wondering if he would be
better off just trying his plan of “blast everything next time someone unlocks
the door.”

After what, by his count, was his thirty-fifth try, he
was distracted by noises outside. In the clear night air, he could more clearly
hear the two constables guarding him and the scant few noises of the streets.

“Mind if we have a word with your prisoner?”

The male voice came from outside, not far from Kyrus’s
window.

“No visitors. Please step ba—”

The constable’s voice was cut short.

“Hwp—” a muffled voice began, but got no further.

Kyrus heard two bodies slump to the ground.

“Get to the corner and keep a watch. We do not have
much time,” Kyrus heard the voice again, same as the first one.

He was not sure what had transpired outside his cell,
but he was leery of it. Too many people had called for his death earlier in the
day for him to trust that a random stranger was less a threat to him than the
men guarding his cell.

“You in there,” the voice called.

Kyrus looked up to see a face peering down at him
through the bars.

“Are you really a sorcerer?”

The owner of the voice had a darkly tanned face
covered in salt-and-pepper stubble, and he wore a black knit cap pulled low.

Kyrus heard the word “sorcerer” instead of “witch,”
and festival bells rang in his brain. That was the Kadrin term for a witch!
Kyrus decided to take his chances with the user of the term less associated
with public burning. He nodded enthusiastically.

“Get the back of your head as close to these bars as
you can,” the stranger instructed.

Kyrus struggled up onto the plank bed and stood straight,
turning his back to the window.

“Kohtho ilextiumane veeru,”
Kyrus heard from behind him.

Suddenly the gag was loose in his mouth. He quickly
spit it out, trailing a wad of saliva with it, and worked his stiff jaw to
loosen the muscles. He turned to see his benefactor just inches from his face.

“Thank you,” Kyrus said. “Are you planning on getting
me out of here?”

Kyrus did not ask what had befallen the constables. At
that moment, he did not want to know.

“Burning through that gag was about the most I can
manage,” the man said. “If you are really a sorcerer, now is the time to prove
it. Same words I just used, and hold your fingers as close together as you can
without them touching.”

The stranger then demonstrated the gesture. Kyrus was
relieved to find that someone had discovered a spell for casting while
shackled.

“Focus on these bars, and once they melt through, we
can pull you out.”

“Kohtho ilextiumane veeru,”
Kyrus repeated as he put his fingers close together.

He drew aether and felt it flow like an arrow straight
to the point in the bar he directed it. It glowed orange, but Kyrus
accidentally touched his fingers together and the spell faltered.

“You must keep your fingers apart or it will never
work,” his would-be rescuer told him. “You get more power from having them
closer, but touching ruins it. Find a way to get it done without ending the
spell so soon.”

Kyrus tried again, this time with his fingers far
enough apart that he could have put his nose between them, had the shackles
allowed him that much freedom.

“Kohtho ilextiumane veeru,”
Kyrus repeated.

The aether flowed again. The bar turned a
reddish-orange, but did not seem to be melting.

“They need to be closer than that,” the man said. “I
am surprised you can heat it at all like that.”

Kyrus looked down and brought his fingers much closer.
He was no longer watching where he was aiming, but he kept the aether going the
same place it had been, so he was hopeful it would still be heating the bar.

He heard a hissing sound and looked up, trying not to
move his fingers. He saw the reddish-orange bar turn a bright orange, then
white, then become a puddle. Then the puddle started to boil off.

“Great Melethaw, Lord of Seas! What did you just do?”
the man said.

Kyrus was not well versed in nautical expletives, but
he recalled that Melethaw was one of the ancient Garnevian gods. It did not
tell him much about his rescuer, but at least he was classically educated.
Or
possibly a cultist
, Kyrus thought, keeping himself honest. There was no use
overlooking unpleasant possibilities.

“I did as you asked,” Kyrus answered. “I kept my
fingers closer together.”

“Well, hurry up and do the same to the other three. I
had thought we would be at this for some time, but it seems I underestimated
you.”

The stranger left for a moment as Kyrus repeated the
spell thrice more.

His rescuer soon returned with his companion. Kyrus
could make out little in the darkness outside, but the second of his rescuers
seemed rather a large man. He also noted for the first time that there appeared
to be a light rain falling outside. It hissed and steamed as it hit the spots
where the iron bars of the cell had once been.

“Get close and we will haul you out,” the first
rescuer instructed him, stepping aside so his stone-faced companion could
appear at the window to grab him.

“One moment,” Kyrus requested, and began another
spell.

“Denek iliaru estatta pogulu benna tetga fenex
refleragna,”
he chanted quickly,
finding it much easier without a gag in his mouth.

As he completed the hand-rubbing gesture, he felt a
strange tingling throughout his body. Without warning, he fell through the
plank bed he had been standing on. He stopped when he hit the dirt floor, not
understanding why it felt solid while all else passed right through him. As planned,
the shackles fell right through him as well, crashing onto the plank, which was
now at thigh level—and actually within Kyrus’s incorporeal thigh. As an
unexpected bonus, his clothing fell through him as well.

Quickly dismissing the magic once he had a chance to
step clear of the cluttered mess he had just made, Kyrus hastily dressed
himself, and climbed back onto the bed. He reached up with his arms and
carefully out the first hand’s length of the window, avoiding the
still-scalding ends of the vaporized bars.

The larger of his two rescuers grabbed his hands.
Kyrus braced a foot against a wall and tried his best to angle his head so it
would go through without touching. With a sudden heave, Kyrus was pulled
through the window, scrambling up the wall with his feet as best he could to
avoid banging his hips and knees as he went through.

Despite taking a slight battering and scorching both
his shirt and pants, Kyrus was little worse for the wear on the other side. The
falling rain felt good, even cleansing. He saw his two accomplices in the
jailbreak. The leader was a lean, hard-looking man of middle years and much
obvious hardship. He had the gleam in his eye of the type of person Kyrus
avoided sharing the same side of the street with, even in daylight. The one who
had pulled him through the window resembled nothing so much as a wall of
person. Tall, wide, and solid, he seemed to be the epitome of what an ambitious
wall aspires to.

“Thank you,” Kyrus said.

He was unsure what else to say. His two rescuers were
dressed all in black and had just murdered two men who were, even now,
spreading pools of blood beneath them. It was not exactly in the “knights in
shining armor” mold of rescue, but he supposed he made for a poor maiden. While
he regretted that the two constables had to die for him to be free, he was
feeling a rather large surge in whatever organ regulates self-preservation, and
was willing to overlook it, considering they seemed rather likely to be
preparing him for a similar fate.

“What now?” Kyrus asked. It felt like a safe,
noncommittal question.

“We have somewhere to get, come on,” the leader said,
beckoning with one hand. The other he kept against his side, likely concealing
whatever blade had been used on the dead constables.

“Where are we heading?” Kyrus asked.

“The docks,” the leader said. “We are going to get on
a ship and get far away from Acardia. You seem like you could use a new place
to live. I have a place for you.”

Kyrus’s mind skipped a beat. He had never been more
than a week’s travel by carriage from Scar Harbor. Golis was a long trek by his
mind, and a fast rider could make it in less than a day.

“Can I stop at home and pack a few things?”

“We have the time for it, but no. Your house turned
into something of a gawking curiosity, since you left a light on. We saw the
glow on our way over here. Even at this hour, folks are likely to notice us if
we got near the place. You get a fresh start, lad. Not everyone gets so lucky,”
the leader told him. “Now move. Of all the places to discuss this, there are
few worse than right here.”

The leader took him firmly by the arm as they slipped
away down a side street, taking a long, winding route through the city’s worst
neighborhoods to avoid notice. Kyrus supposed his new companions were like
mountain guides, those curious folk who could walk up nearly sheer surfaces and
who were essential companions for explorers seeking the safe ways through the
Skelton Peaks. In this case, they were guiding him along the safe passes
through the city. He supposed it was a bit of an unfair comparison, since in
many ways, the safest path was a knife’s reach to either side of them, and
moved with them.

Not needing his eyes to guide him, Kyrus slipped into
aether-sight to check for pursuers and ambushes along their path. He mostly
kept watch behind them, more worried about pursuit once his escape and
associated murders were discovered than the prospect of being accosted in an
alley while being escorted by two murderers, one of whom was apparently a minor
sorcerer.

“There are a half dozen men around the next corner on
the right, headed this way,” Kyrus said.

The leader did not question how he knew but quickly
backtracked them to a side street. They made a circle of the block in the
opposite direction and kept moving. They could hear a number of voices;
apparently some sort of young ne’er-do-wells were gadding about and causing
trouble. Kyrus supposed that on this occasion, he ought not be one to judge.

Twice more on their route to the docks, Kyrus altered
their course to avoid bystanders. The leader seemed to take it in stride, but
Kyrus got the sense that his larger companion was a bit skeptical of how he was
getting his insights. He hoped that the leader was in firm control, lest he end
up with another witch hunt to flee from.

Their immediate destination was a vacant warehouse
near the northern side of the dock ward, close to the piers. Kyrus warned again
of a number of men on their path, but this time, his warning was brushed aside.

“They are with us,” the leader informed him.
“Everyone,” he announced quietly, once they were close enough that everyone
could hear his low tone. “This is Mr. Kyrus Hinterdale. He is coming with us.”

“Aye, you got him out, eh?” one man said, then
chuckled. “Not bad if I says so meself.”

“Excellent. Most excellent. Welcome, Mr. Hinterdale,”
said one man who appeared to also be some kind of leader. “Today you died in
Acardia as a witch. Tonight you are born again on the sea as a free man.”

Kyrus took in the ragged, hard-eyed men that made up
the group and wondered just what they were up to.

“We had no time for proper introductions on the way
here, given the circumstances. I am Denrik Zayne, soon to be captain of that
vessel just over yonder.” He pointed out to a navy ship docked in the harbor.
“I know you for what you are, and I accept you as such. Now you know me for who
I am, and I am giving you a chance to start a new life. Whatever you had here,
they took it from you. Come with me and you shall become rich and powerful. You
are a fugitive, as am I. Yesterday you might have thought that you and I had
little in common, but today I think you will find that we can use each other. I
will take you in, and you can use your magic to aid and protect me and my crew.
Are you in?”