Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (79 page)

“Care to buy a lady a tankard of wine?” Celia jested.

Brannis, too, had noted the distinct lack of couth in
the manner Duke Pellaton’s wines were being consumed. Generations-old vintages
were being swilled from the bottle and poured into mugs not entirely drained
empty of ale.

*
* * * * * * *

As Brannis took Celia in arm over to the makeshift
wine steward—a stable hand who had no taste for the stuff and was thus deemed
fit for duty dispensing it—a malicious glare followed them. With Iridan held
tight to her bosom, Juliana could stare clear over his head and saw all of
Brannis’s exchange with the harlot sorceress Rashan had retrieved from the
goblins. Juliana had dressed in her Circle garb so as to avoid the attention of
so many drunken, wandering hands amid the festival. The harlot had taken the
opposite tack, outshining every lady present such that she could secure the
grand marshal’s attention fully.

“Ow,” Iridan yelped, as Juliana crushed his hand as
her grip tightened in anger.

“Sorry,” she apologized, hastily relaxing her grip and
returning as much of her attention as she could manage back to her future
husband.

*
* * * * * * *

“May I have your attention,” Rashan boomed, his voice
carrying clearly throughout much of the castle.

He was standing atop a table, giving everyone present
a clear view of him. He was bedecked in his formal warlock’s garb, as he had
arrived the night before, and was at once both a magnificent and terrifying
sight. Those few who saw him on the field of battle had reported his savagery
and his power, and those tales had spread throughout the city. As conversations
and dancing stopped, the musicians ceased playing.

“Thank you. Thank all of you. This is a day that
Raynesdark—and all of Kadrin—will long remember. But first, I must insist that
many of those present must leave. While our friends and kin have livened our
merrymaking, tonight is a feast for heroes. It is for those who stood upon the
city walls when the enemy bombarded us. It is for those who carried the battle
to the undercity and protected the citizens. It is for those whose spells
defended us and caused havoc among the goblin host. It is for all those who
encountered the enemy and acted against them to bring us victory. For those
others gathered here within the sound of my voice, I bid you good evening and
ask that you do honor to those to whom you owe your lives.”

The hall began to clear somewhat, as wives and maidens
exited, along with a few of the men who had not been part of the militia,
including the old man who played drums for the dancing.

Celia thought it was her time to depart as well but
felt a gentle force keeping her from leaving. She made eye contact with the
warlock and knew that he meant for her to remain.

“Spies are valuable as well. Never doubt that,”
she heard in her head.

“Now that we have cleared the regular folk, gather
’round, all you heroes of Raynesdark,” Rashan’s voice resonated.

Men who had not fit into the feast hall before entered
now, and the room filled back to near its previous capacity, though now the
surrounding castle was largely vacant.

“Tonight we dine as few have ever done. Tonight we
feast on dragon flesh!” Rashan proclaimed.

At that, the side door to the feast hall opened, and
porters carried in large covered platters. The crowd stared at the platters as
they were brought through, and each was set out on one of the tables around the
room’s perimeter. At a gesture from the warlock, the covers to all were removed
simultaneously as men jostled to see what was on them.

There was a heap of strip meat on each, a hand’s
length long and two fingers wide, sliced thinly.

“Eat up, and you will one day have a tale fit for your
grandchildren, and your ancestors will brag of possessing the blood of dragons
in their veins.”

“Hey, this is raw!” came an indignant complaint from
one of the first soldiers to try the dragon meat. There were voices of assent
in the evaluation of the fare.

“Cooking is the application of fire to food. Dragons
are utterly immune to fire, as is their flesh,” Rashan explained, taking a
strip for himself and tearing off a bite in front of everyone. “This is not a
delicacy to savor but a trophy well earned. Take in the meat of dragons and
take for yourself some small measure of their power. Eat your fill, for there
is more than all Raynesdark could eat in a month.”

Brannis took his first strip of the raw dragon flesh
and bit into it. The cooks had made some attempts at it. There was a smoky
flavor to it, and the meat had been salted and spiced, but it still had the
strong taste of blood that no amount of non-cooking could fully disguise. It
did not taste
bad
exactly, but he worried what the raw meat would do to
his digestion later. He expected there to be many a sick soldier in the
morning, and many partially eaten scraps of dragon meat found kicked beneath
tables or hidden under the edges of platters.

Celia, for her part, nibbled dutifully on the
over-spiced raw meat. She found it barbaric—and she had lived among goblins for
over week—and wished she had something to wipe her hands on after handling the
gummy meat. If Celia had any thoughts of ending her night with lovemaking, they
had been run off the road by the macabre feast. She had just heard the very
dragon she ate talking the day before.

Juliana, on the other hand, was well and drunk. She
had given herself over to the debauchery presented to her and—for the time
being at least—was intent on making do with what she was given. She finished
her first strip of the dragon meat, hardly tasting it over the ale she washed
it down with, and ate a second and even third piece of it. Far from Celia’s
revulsion, Juliana thought the salted meat went well with her thirst. She was
contemplating a fourth when a thought occurred to her, and she put the dragon
meat back onto the platter she had found it on.

Brusquely giving Iridan a look up and down, she
threaded her arm through his and hauled him away from the feast hall. Iridan
had been gamely attempting to choke down a third piece of his own to keep up
with his betrothed and was startled by his sudden movement—without his having
intended to move at all. He was somewhat less drunk than Juliana but was still
not piecing together the whole of what was going on.

Juliana was just sober enough to know that she was
drunk, and she was planning to make the most of it. She would need to bed
Iridan one day, sooner or later, and she was mad at Brannis right then.

Chapter 37 - The Last to Find Out

Kyrus awoke to the sound of the waves washing up on
the beach and the smell of the sea. However, the subtle rush of the waves was
complemented by distant voices, the bustle of activity, and the sweet fragrance
of tropical flowers added to the briny, nautical fragrance of the Katamic. He
was content for a while just to relax and listen, and feel the occasional
breeze across his skin. He had opened his eyes enough to realize he was in a
small building—a hut or tent of some sort—and it was at least partly open to
the outside. He was alone but had not been when he had fallen asleep. He did
not know the hour but assumed that his companions had awakened rather earlier
and with less of a hangover than he had.

Why do I keep doing this to myself?

Kyrus was growing weary of awakening with a
skull-cracking headache every fourth night or so. He pushed himself up to his
hands and knees and crawled to the doorway, finding that the floor of the hut
was covered by a woven blanket of some sort. Peeking out through the leather
flap that served as a door, Kyrus saw the sea and the white sands of the beach
but little else. He poked his head completely out, keeping the door flap tight
to his neck to hide his nakedness. He looked about and saw a few of the Denku
going about their daily chores. Men and women—as immodest at work as they had
been at revelry—were making and repairing fishing nets, seeing to the boats,
and hauling in fish from the morning’s catch. Of his two companions from the
night before, he saw no sign.

Less awkward this way, I suppose. I shall have time to
dress before they see I have awakened.

Kyrus did not know if anything was expected of him
after having the pleasure of their company—or at least he thought he had. The
previous night’s events were not entirely clear to him. The bright sunshine of
the late-morning sky was hurting his aching head and making it even more difficult
to recall what had befallen. He had been drinking and laughing and had been fed
spits of what tasted like pork. The two young women who had claimed him had
been very affectionate, they had left the feast and then …
blank
…
waking up just shortly ago. Kyrus frowned. The last time he had blacked out
after drinking, he had worked magic and thought it a dream.

Kyrus heard a shout, unintelligible in the Denku
tongue, but it seemed clear that someone had spotted him, as one of the men
down by the beach pointed to another then up toward Kyrus’s hut. It sounded
friendly and good-natured—at least as far as unintelligible shouting goes—but
it also meant he would likely be receiving visitors shortly. He pulled his head
back inside and quickly pulled on pants and tunic, eschewing shoes as less than
ideal in sand. Luckily his clothes had been neatly piled in a corner—certainly
not his own doing—and nothing appeared to be missing.

“Hey there,” Kyrus heard from outside.

It was an unfamiliar voice, but it seemed as though
one of the Denku spoke at least a bit of Acardian. Kyrus quickly checked that
his clothes were properly adjusted and stepped outside the hut.

Several of the Denku were heading over to see him,
heading down the shoreline from the north. They seemed largely older men,
middling years at least, accompanied by one younger man. It was hard to hide
age among the islanders, as wrinkled flesh and sagging muscle could not be
hidden behind clothing when you wore almost none.

“Good morning, Spirit Man Kyrus,” the younger one
addressed him.

The accent he had was easy on the ears, with all the
harsh sounds of the Acardian tongue softened and smoothed out, particularly the
hard “T” and “K” sounds. Kyrus wondered what Captain Zayne had told them to
have them calling him a “spirit man,” though. It boded ill to Kyrus’s thinking.

“Good morning,” Kyrus replied politely.

He glanced around to see that others from among the
Denku were drifting in from their various activities to see what was going on.
Of the other members of the
Fair Trader
’s crew, he could see none.

“I see you are well this morning,” the younger one
said. “My name is Gahalu. A few of us speak your tongue. I learned from sailing
with the foreign ships for three years. The elders do not speak your tongue,
but I will translate for you.”

Kyrus was impressed if Gahalu’s command of Acardian
was gained from just three years at sea among native speakers. Aside from the
accent, you would hardly have been able to tell he had not grown up in Golis.

“Thank you for your kind welcome last night,” Kyrus
said, addressing the rest of the small group.

He waited a moment as Gahalu relayed his words in the
Denku language. The elders heads bobbed in approval as his thanks were
translated. One of the elders spoke for a bit, and Kyrus waited his turn for
Gahalu’s explanation.

“Toktu says, if he knew a spirit man was coming, he
would have had a bigger feast, but he is happy you enjoyed it anyway.”

Toktu was the oldest-looking of the elders. His face
had wrinkles like the lines on a map of the sea currents, with hollowed cheeks
and bushy grey eyebrows. His head was shaved bare like his face, and his bones
showed prominently in his limbs and chest, but he stood tall and proud—though
the tall part only got him as high as Kyrus’s shoulder. He wore the same
loincloths as the rest of the Denku, but also bore ornaments of seashell and
shark teeth, and a gold chain with a ruby stone that must have come from the
traders that sometimes stopped at Denku Appa.

“I do not need anything fancy,” Kyrus said. “The feast
was remarkable. Speaking of which, who are the two women who … um … kept me
company at the feast last night?” Kyrus tried to put that as diplomatically as
possible. He was not sure what the accepted custom was in such circumstances
and hoped he had done nothing to give offense.

Gahalu relayed his sentiments but did not wait for a
reply before answering Kyrus’s question: “That was Tippu and Kahli. Tippu was
the one with green hair, and Kahli was the one with the red hair.” Gahalu
smiled. “They are very lucky to have laid claim on a spirit man. There are many
jealous women this morning.”

Kyrus found himself blushing.

“Um … laid claim?” Kyrus asked shyly, leaning a bit
toward Gahalu and keeping his voice low.

“Well, yes. They got you first. They did not know you
were a spirit man, though, so they are either very smart or just very lucky.
They did not wake you up for morning-meal, but we will get you something to
eat. You slept a long time, so you must be hungry by now,” Gahalu said.

“Well, I suppose I am, at that. Where are the others
from my ship?” Kyrus asked.

He had looked about but had not seen any of them yet.
He assumed they had either slept even later than he had or there was somewhere
else they had been housed.

“Oh, your ship left just before dawn,” Gahalu said
matter-of-factly.

Kyrus felt his blood chill.

They … left me. No.
He
left me here.
Kyrus realized he had been played for a fool.

“Captain Zayne left a message for you.” Gahalu turned
and spoke briefly to one of the other elders beside Toktu, who handed him a
scroll case. Gahalu in turn handed it to Kyrus. “Here. I can speak Acardian
fine, but none of us can read it.”

*
* * * * * * *

Kyrus stared at the parchment, not absorbing the
meaning of the words. It was all plainly written in Acardian in Denrik Zayne’s
crisp, efficient penmanship—the quality of the writing was a feature of the
letter that Kyrus had grasped far better than the concepts they were trying to
convey. Kyrus sat in the sand, his back pressed against the scaly trunk of one
of the tall trees that had its branches all up near the top.

He tried for the fourth time to get through the letter
without his brain shutting off on him like a lantern going out in a storm.

Kyrus
Hinterdale (or whomever you may really be),

Welcome to your new life on the island of Denku Appa.
After the events of the past few days, I finally decided that I just could not
risk keeping you aboard the Fair Trader. Your powers are impressive,
frightening even, and therein lies the rub. You are frankly too powerful and
possessing of too little control to be trusted aboard my ship. And if the
Marker’s Point incident was not enough to convince me of your incompetence,
finding you in the mines of Raynesdark was enough to have me questioning your
trustworthiness. I have worked with men with dark pasts and men who do not
speak of their earlier days at all, but never have I worked with one who had
such personal reasons to mistrust and hate me. Life on a ship, pirate or
otherwise, requires a certain understanding, a commonality of purpose, such
that even the vilest of miscreants can grasp that by working together, we
profit more than by subterfuge amongst ourselves. While I may have rotten
maggots infesting my ship, they will eventually be found out and disposed of.
With you, a more subtle approach was required. Be flattered, for there are few
men who have crossed me and lived to see their twilight years, but you have
earned well such distinction. By whatever means, you have rendered yourself too
dangerous and too difficult to kill safely, and thus I found it easier to
maroon you instead.

As to your current circumstances, I hope that in time
you will come to bear me no ill will over them. I imagine that you could
eventually find your way to just about anywhere, either through magic or just
waiting until another ship anchors at Denku Appa, but my hope is that before
then, you will decide that you do not want to leave. There are fewer places
more beautiful than that island, and I have seen much of Tellurak. They also have
a great deal of respect for magic, and their spirit men are revered. Make
yourself a home among them and you will live out your days in a paradise as a
respected adviser, and likely have your pick of women.

If you choose to hunt me down instead, I have no doubt
you will one day find and destroy me. You have the resourcefulness and magical
power to do so. But give the Denku a chance and I think you will find life
there preferable to a life of vengeance-seeking.

And if we are to ever face one another on the field of
battle as knight and sorcerer, I will bear you no special malice.

Captain
Denrik Zayne

Grand
Sorcerer Jinzan Fehr

Kyrus still could barely grasp the concept that he was
suddenly stranded on a tiny island in a remote part of the Katamic.

“Did he tell you anything when he left this?” Kyrus
asked Gahalu later, once he had a chance to gather his composure. Kyrus had
been so clearly disturbed by the contents of the letter that the Denku had left
him in peace while he pored over it time and again.

“He just said to give it to you when you awoke. We
figured that he meant it by way of good-bye. He seemed a little afraid of you,
Spirit Man. He is not a goodly man. We Denku are not stupid: we know he is a
pirate, but with us he trades fairly and brings word from the outside world, so
we tolerate him. But a spirit man is one he can have no hold over. A spirit man
has a heart too strong to be controlled by threats or force. I am sorry if his
message to you causes you troubled thoughts,” Gahalu said.

The Denku interpreter was perhaps half a dozen years
older than Kyrus, but he had the manner of an old man about him, wise and
understanding of the ways of the world.

“You could not have known. We had a disagreement, and
I had thought that we had resolved it. Obviously he was able to deceive me. But
how did they all manage to sneak off in the night and leave just me? Surely
others must have drunk as much as I did, and we were expecting to stay three
nights, not one,” Kyrus said. Just what lengths had Captain Zayne gone to rid
himself of his sorcerer?

“Actually … no. Captain Zayne had us mix the others’
drinks with unfermented mango juice. Only your own was kept strong. The rest of
his men grew drunk, but only you and one other passed out,” Gahalu said.

“So you mean there is another from the
Fair Trader
here on Denku Appa?” Kyrus asked eagerly, hoping that some familiar face might
be stranded with him—and also hoping it was one of the crewmen he got on well
with.

“No, Spirit Man. The other one who drank too much was
carried to the boat. You were the only one he had wanted to stay here.”

Gahalu sounded sad. Kyrus was not sure just how
complicit the Denku had been in getting him stuck on the island, but Gahalu at
least seemed contrite.

“So what now?” Kyrus asked simply, at a loss.

He had never felt so lost, even when he had thrown in
with Captain Zayne and his crew. At least then, he had some inkling that he
would eventually find his way back to Acardia, perhaps parting ways at a major
port and taking a different ship. Now he found himself off the trade-ways, on a
little island that had little to draw ships to its shores.

“First, I think you still need to eat this morning. No
feast is big enough to keep your belly full forever. Then after that, I can
show you your new home. It is nice here. I have traveled, and I have still not
seen any place I would rather live. One thing I think you should prepare
yourself for: our people have much respect for spirit men. The outside world is
not so respectful, but here you will be treated well by everyone, even the
elders.”