Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (8 page)

It was near to dusk, and they were beginning to search
for a spot to settle for the night, when a call was heard to the west.

“Hail, travelers!” called a human-sounding voice in a
high alto, ringing clearly through the evening air.

Every one of them turned to see who spoke, and they
saw a small figure approaching them. Through the trees and in back-lit
twilight, it was hard to make out much about the man until he approached quite
closely to the remains of the army. They took some comfort that his silhouette
clearly showed his arms held wide in a show of peace, but still Brannis and the
others clutched their weapons with suspicious caution.

When the shadow of one particular tree happened to
cast the man’s form in less harsh a light, it provided enough relief so that
his features could be seen clearly, and their tensions eased away. He was a
small man, thin and of a stature similar to Iridan, who was the shortest among
them. He was garbed in doeskin, unadorned and of inexpert make. His long hair
hung loosely about his shoulders, of a blond so light that in the poor light,
it looked nearly white. His face was smooth and pale, with angular features and
eyes that were a washed-out blue like a hazy sky. His age was difficult to
judge, though he appeared to be rather younger than most of the soldiers he
approached.

“Who are you?” called Lugren before the man approached
too closely.

“A resident of these parts, given to aiding refugees,
it would seem. If you are men of Kadrin, I believe I have someone that belongs
to you,” replied the stranger, smiling, still keeping his arms spread wide to
show his harmlessness.

“What do you mean?” Brannis asked, curious whom the strange
man could be referring to.

“Just last night, a man clad in armor such as yours
came into my care, claiming to have fled a great slaughter. I did not put much
faith in his claim, figuring he was a deserter, but it mattered not to me.
Seeing you men in such a state, bloodied and dragging a wounded man along with
you, lends some truth to his tale.”

“Who is he? Where is he now?”

Brannis was heartened at the thought that perhaps
another man had survived the battle that Jodoul had spoken of the previous night.
It would have been the best news he had gotten since discovering Iridan had
survived his ordeal, and even that was a happiness mixed with concern. He had
seen far too much killing that morning, and to find another of his countrymen
alive after all the carnage would provide a welcome relief from the dull pain
his heart felt.

“I have a small dwelling not far from here. It is my
habit to walk about the woods by day, but your man wanted rest, and he declined
my invitation to join in my daily stroll. He remains at my home,” he replied
and, with a slight smile, added, “and if he is of any use at all, he will have
managed a fire by now.”

“How far is it to your home from here? We are weary
and were just now seeking a spot to make our camp for the night.”

“I do not pace about the woods counting my footsteps,
but perhaps this might help. Do you see yonder those two trees growing so
closely that their trunks almost touch?”

He pointed to the north and west. Brannis nodded that
he did, for he did indeed see two trees matching the man’s description, some
ways distant.

“I would call it thrice that distance and half again.
If we go now it should be little trouble to reach it before the afterglow of
dusk fails us.”

Brannis turned his attention from the stranger to take
stock of his men. They looked a wreck, like ruined men all dirt-covered and
bloody, with eyes weary from fatigue and grief. He hesitated to ask even that
much more of his men for that night.

“I can take a look at that fallen man of yours as
well, if that is agreeable to you. Lonely living in these reaches forces one to
learn such skills if he wishes to survive,” the stranger said.

It was this last remark that firmed Brannis’s resolve.
They all owed Iridan their lives, and they would bear a little more, himself
included, to see that he was well tended. Their task could spare them this
brief diversion to the west. At Brannis’s order, they followed the forest
hermit to his home.

*
* * * * * * *

“I see no wound of any consequence upon him. What
befell?”

The hermit had led them to a small cottage among the
trees, not even in a clearing but in a space among the trees. It looked well
made but of a simple sort, logs forming the walls and thatch serving as roof. A
small pond just behind the cottage was home to a large number of pink
water-flowers that had the tended look of a garden about them.

There was no sign of the lost soldier when they
arrived, though his armor was piled in a heap by the cottage door. The hermit
assumed he had gone for more firewood and said nothing more of him, instead
turning his attention to Iridan’s condition.

“He is a sorcerer,” Brannis said. “His name is Iridan,
and he saved our lives this morning using magic that was beyond his power to
command.” Brannis wanted to be sure the man knew of Iridan’s bravery and
sacrifice, before revealing his foolishness: “The aether raged out of control
and nearly destroyed him. He survived but is as you see him now. Can you do
anything for him?”

“It is good that you brought him here to rest, for it
is rest he needs most. I do not know how far you dragged him along behind you,
but it did no good for his condition,” the young hermit said. “I can tend to
him to speed his recovery, but he would do best to stay put while he
convalesces. There is likely no lasting damage, if he has lived this long after
the incident, but he has likely burned his body’s fluids dry and needs to
recover them. He will awake again with a headache I do not envy, but he should
wake again.”

“How long until he will be well enough to travel?”

“If you are fleeing from the goblins like my other
charge was, be at ease. You may abide here until your sorcerer recovers, which
could be by morning or in several days. I have seen goblins while walking about
these woods, but they do not approach this place. Patience in matters such as
this serves well.” He waved a hand vaguely about the area. “There is game to be
had here, if you fancy more than herbs and plants for your food.”

“No, we cannot stay. Even if it is safe here as you
suggest …” Brannis glanced somewhat suspiciously as the hermit. “… we need to
get word to the Empire of the presence of such a large force in Kelvie Forest.
Do what you can for Iridan, but we must leave in the morning.”

“Then at least leave your sorcerer here to recover. I
admit that it will not harm him further to travel, so long as someone tends to
him, but neither will he recover quickly. Think this over before making your
choice.”

“All right, but I do not like to think of leaving
Iridan behind, especially considering what he has just done for us.” Brannis
stood to go check on the rest of his men as they made ready to partake of
dinner before turning in. “By the way, I am Sir Brannis Solaran, commander of
the Eighth Battalion of the Kadrin army.” He removed his gauntlet and extended
his hand to the hermit.

The hermit accepted the outstretched hand with a wry
smile. “Solaran, is it? A name for sorcerers, or so I was given to think. Is
your young sorcerer friend descended of the Westel line, then?”

The Westels were an influential noble family with a
long history of distinction among the Kadrin military. Brannis raised an
eyebrow.

“You have more knowledge of the Empire that I would
expect of one who lives out here.”

“Tales of children raised by wolves are no more than
fanciful stories and folklore. Even those who choose to live in solitude come
from somewhere. It is only the most recent portion of my life that has seen me
living thus.” The hermit turned his attention back to Iridan for a moment,
then, looking satisfied with his patient’s condition, stood up from where he
crouched beside the still form of the sorcerer. “I believe I should find out
what has become of our deserter friend. It should not be taking him this long
to find his way back.”

The hermit calmly turned and walked off in search of
the soldier who was lost once and appeared lost again. Without the din of his
own men’s footsteps all about him, Brannis noticed that the hermit made hardly
a whisper of sound when his soft shoes touched the forest floor, though he made
no visible effort to quiet his footfalls. It was not until the strange young
man was out of sight that Brannis realized that his offer of his name had not
been returned in kind. The man’s question about Iridan’s ancestry and the
comment about his own family legacy of sorcery had put him off his guard and
distracted him from his first line of thinking.

Who is this peculiar man who lives in Kelvie Forest?

For whatever reason, the comment about Iridan nagged
at him. He and Iridan had been close friends ever since they met as students at
the Imperial Academy, which was as far back as Brannis’s recollections of
childhood stretched; he could hardly remember a time in his life before they
had known one another. It had always been a sore point with the sorcerer that he
came from common stock. His magical talents had developed at a very young age,
and he was taken in as a ward of the Academy to hone his skills in service of
the Empire. Most of the students at the Academy had sorcerous bloodlines that
could be traced back innumerable generations. A few talented peasants and
children hailing from the occupied lands were allowed admittance but were
widely scorned by the better bred students. Small and frail, as unimposing as a
child can be, Iridan’s life would have been miserable if a certain gregarious
prodigy had not taken him under his wing. Brannis had originally felt a sense
of
noblesse oblige
toward protecting Iridan, a strong sense of
superiority being a trait learned early as a scion of the Solaran clan.
Eventually a genuine friendship had developed and then remained into their
adulthood. Iridan was, in fact, the only sorcerer who was willing to join the
expedition under Brannis’s command without being coerced. It was little wonder
of course; Iridan owed him many favors. He still remembered the first …

*
* * * * * * *

“Ouch! Hey, stop it! Help!”

A young boy lay on the grassy courtyard of the Academy
grounds, pinned by one his fellow students, who was pummeling him. It was
mid-winter, and the chill in the air kept all the students bundled warmly in
woolen coats, hats, and mittens at the insistence of their instructors. Despite
the fact he could not make out the features of either combatant from where he
stood, some dozen paces distant, Brannis recognized the voice of the boy being
beaten. It was that quiet boy, Iridan, the one who had taken to following him
around for most of the week since he had first arrived. It seemed that he could
not leave the kid alone for even a few moments without him getting bullied.

Well, hopefully the mittens help keep the punches from
hurting too much.

A quick sprint covered the distance that separated
Brannis from the action, and he tackled the boy who had pinned Iridan. He
landed heavily atop the aggressor and knocked him clear of where Iridan was
lying, pinning the bully in turn, face down in the cold grass.

“Thank you, Master Brannis,” young Iridan addressed
his savior.

Iridan scrambled to his feet to get out of the way of
the fighting. Brannis was the tallest boy in their class, and this was not the
first occasion when he had to step in and defend his diminutive friend in the
short time they had known each other.

Brannis did not answer back right away, instead
struggling to roll his opponent over to pay him back for hitting Iridan. The boy
was Brannis’s size, which meant he must have been an older student from one of
the other classes, and he was putting up a mighty struggle to get out from
under Brannis. Still, Brannis was determined and held the advantage of
leverage. Eventually he managed to turn the older boy over so he could punch
him in the face a few times, just as he had done to Iridan. Just as Brannis had
drawn back his fist to land a wicked punch, he stopped short, stunned.

She is a girl!

There were nearly as many girls enrolled at the
Imperial Academy as there were boys. Still, the last thing he expected to see
when turning over the “boy” who had been beating Iridan was a pair of sparkling
green eyes looking back into his own—the eyes of someone who was, quite
clearly, a girl. Brannis’s moment of surprised inaction was short lived, for
along with those eyes came the furrowed brow and clenched jaw of a very angry
young girl who happened to be a bully.

After a brief moment of darkness, Brannis’s vision
cleared, and he saw the sky framing that same face of the girl who had, as far
as he could tell, just slugged him in the face. Another blow followed the
first, as the girl had pinned Brannis in turn—but he was not Iridan. Heaving
the girl off him, he rolled back on top of her, but he could not very well
punch a girl. After another brief struggle, Brannis managed to pin the girl
face-first on the frozen ground, and this time, instead of trying to hit her,
he simply sat down on her back.

“Hey, get off me!” she yelled.