Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)

by J. S. Morin

  “That is another thing. My steward tells me that the ogres are demanding payment. They said the ‘big boss’ said so,” Duke Pellaton said, his face reddening.

  “It has already been taken care of. I had Mennon give them a few hundred lions and they seemed happy enough with that,” Brannis said.

  “That is not the point. They do not get paid. They are mining animals, nothing more. My family has kept and bred them for winters,” Duke Pellaton growled, pointing his cane menacingly at Brannis.

  “They showed last night that they were more than that. They fought to defend their homes and their keepers. So pay them a pittance and make them buy the bread and meat they eat. Give them the same illusion of freedom as the peasants, and you shall find them just as loyal and useful.

  “I might add that it is the same illusion of freedom that you enjoy, Duke. You have your lands and your wealth, but there is an angry demon outside dissecting the corpse of a dragon he slew inside the walls of your city. Any freedom you think you have is at the pleasure of Warlock Rashan. He treats you better than you treat the ogres, but he could easily show you how tenuous that freedom really is, show you firsthand how simple it is to take away,” Brannis said.

  “Why do you care for the ogres? They are just dumb brutes.” Duke Pellaton’s eye narrowed accusingly. “You got some thing for ogres, do you?”

  “I spent two summers fighting them in the borderlands. They are fierce warriors. You tamed them and made them dumb. I am not claiming them to be scholars, but they are cunning enough fighters and have their own ways, their own language. Your ogres are useless, or at least were until last night, when they showed they can be trusted.”

  Brannis snatched the cane from the old duke with his good hand and thrust it back at him, jamming it flatly against his chest. The old duke stumbled backward against a chair and bobbled the cane, which clattered against the floor.

  “If you do not like the manner in which I kept your people alive, or the manner in which I treat your slaves, take it up with the warlock,” Brannis barked, drawing stares from all about, as those who had been attending to other business stopped to watch the confrontation.

  “This is my city, you insolent pup! I shall have you—”

  Suddenly Brannis had closed the gap and stood face-to-face with the duke, towering over the older man from a handspan away.

  “You shall have me … what?” Brannis asked through gritted teeth. After all that had transpired the previous night, he was ill-inclined to suffer threats from the worthless Duke Pellaton and his feigned outrage. “You forget yourself, Duke. I was sent here to save your city, and I have. I was not sent here to save your old walls, or keep your ogres docile. There is a dead dragon outside, and you somehow survived the night. Warlock Rashan put me in command here, and I have not yet relinquished it, nor yet been relieved of it. If you insist on interfering with my efforts to put Raynesdark back in order, you can spend the night in one of your own dungeons. Any appeal will not take long, since the Imperial Regent is just outside. Fair warning, he is not so forgiving of fools.”

  Brannis was glad that Avalanche was still buried somewhere under a mountain of ice. Had the clean-up crews retrieved it for him already, Duke Pellaton’s elder son might have been made duke.

  * * * * * * * *

  Iridan listened as best he could, but his attention wandered at times. The dragon was fascinating, but he’d had a hard night and had not slept. Rashan poked and carved at the corpse, studying the creature’s anatomy, marveling at the strength in the scales and the beauty of the dragon as a whole. Rashan had walked all about the dragon’s body and climbed around on it, Iridan following dutifully in his wake as the warlock explained his findings and his methodology to his protégé. Iridan had not looked in a mirror since the battle and would hardly have recognized the reflection if he had. His face was ashen, with dark shadows around reddened, heavy-lidded eyes. A fresh bruise swelled the left side of his face at the cheekbone, and blood crusted at the corner of his mouth and left eye from the force of Jinzan’s spell, even though Iridan’s shield had saved his life from the blast.

  “Look at this. I can bend it just a bit but cannot break it or keep it from springing back to shape, and I am truly trying,” Rashan said, flexing one of the dragon’s scales between his hands.

  The scale in question was the size of a supper plate, one of the larger scales on the dragon’s body—they ranged down to tiny scales the size of a thumbnail. The warlock handed the scale to Iridan to see for himself, and Iridan gamely tried to bend it, finding it as inflexible as steel, though it felt like glass or polished stone in his hands.

  “Yes. Sturdy,” Iridan muttered sleepily, handing it back.

  Warlock Rashan had pried it loose from the dragon’s back with some difficulty, an indication of how well it was attached, to have put the demon to some trouble over it. Iridan was just noticing that it was late morning, as the sun was coming up over the mountaintops. Raynesdark saw little of the sun even in the warm months, but as the Solstice holiday approached, it was lucky to have a few hours of light a day, between the shortened days and the sheltering mountains to the east.

  Townsfolk had begun gathering at the base of the fallen glacier, tradesmen by the look of them. They were dressed for warmth in the frigid morning air, but Iridan identified them by their tools. There were blacksmiths with tongs and hammers, standing out from their peers by their bulk as well. He saw butchers, with meat hooks and cleavers, a couple even carrying saws along with their more commonly seen tools. The duke’s apothecary was there with his apprentices, pulling a hand cart filled with empty vials, flasks, and jars. Drovers came in numbers, with oxcarts, mostly empty, some filled with crates and sacks. Other tradesmen Iridan could not name, but he knew that they had some part in Rashan’s current undertaking: disassembling the dragon.

  It was to be gruesome work, but Rashan had emphasized just how rare a thing a dragon kill was, and how valuable every piece of it. The scales and bones were stronger than steel and took runes as readily as a mop took water. The leather was strong and supple even before any curing, and was impervious to fire. Less was known of the uses of the dragon’s fluids, but Rashan wanted none wasted that could otherwise be preserved, that they might find what uses they held.

  The ground at the edge of the glacier was wet, and further away steamed lightly. The fires of the forges below still heated the overcity and the snow was melting, albeit at a rate which would not clear the hilltop-sized mount of snow before springtime. The more adventurous of the tradesmen did not just stand in the great puddle waiting for instruction but came up onto the snow and approached the dragon.

  “Welcome, people of Raynesdark,” Rashan addressed them, tearing his attention away from the fascinating specimen upon which he stood.

  The warlock placed one foot upon the dragon’s head, posing as a prize hunter might atop a kill—and no monohorn or gelnon looked so impressive beneath a hunter’s boot as the dragon who called herself Jadefire looked beneath Rashan’s.

  “Last night was a night of war and suffering and loss, but today is a day for celebrating those who yet live, and the mighty deeds they have wrought. This dragon brought forth her goblin minions against us, and the Kadrin people have made her pay for her folly. Her minions are slaughtered in the fields before the city, at the wall, and in the streets of Raynesdark. Beneath the Neverthaw lie countless others. Yet more lie dead in the streets of the undercity, given no quarter or mercy by Raynesdark’s miners,” Rashan said, rather diplomatically referring to the ogres, declining to call them either slaves or citizens. Brannis’s actions the previous night had cast their status into question.

  “As for you, good folks, you will be helping us take our trophy. For while goblins sell their lives cheaply in battle, dragons are more cautious creatures, and more dangerous. To my knowledge, there have been no slayings of dragons in at least six hundred summers. You look upon a spectacle none of your ancestors has seen in thirty generations, if
they were even so lucky. We will harvest and put to use every part of this dragon save for one. The skull will remain just where it is now, allowing for the melting of a few feet of snow beneath it. The area around will be cleared and a monument erected, celebrating the defeat of Nihaxtukali.” The draconic word sounded odd with Rashan’s traditional pronunciation, amid all the Kadrin words about it. “Do not fear, I will show the stonemasons how to spell it,” the warlock joked, smiling. There were a few chuckles among the tradesmen, mostly out of politeness.

  The tradesmen had been informed of who Rashan Solaran was, and in a few cases had it explained to them what a warlock was, as there had not been one within the lifetime of anyone in the city. They were a bit uneasy around him in person as he directed them about the butchering and harvesting of the dragon. There was a way he walked, moved, and spoke, that unnerved folks. His movements were swift and sure, his head snapped around quickly when he changed focus, his eyes seemed to meet the gaze of each man and woman in the crowd as he spoke to the assembly, all from a single glance. Sorcerers were not so unusual a sight among the folk of Raynesdark, but they were not used to the pent up energy they saw in the warlock. Their own sorcerers were aloof, bookish sorts, prone to long periods indoors and little real work. Rashan directed the tradesmen the way a harbormaster oversees a port—at the center of all, checking on all he saw and demanding reports of all he did not.

  Iridan had no tasks assigned him. He was present to watch and learn but seemed near the point of falling asleep on his feet. When he quietly slipped away, Rashan made sure to overlook his absence. While Iridan’s contributions to the battle has been less than he had hoped, he had shown promise.

  But Iridan had been the one assigned to stop the Megrenn sorcerer, and that failing was likely to prove quite costly someday. The Staff of Gehlen was an object whose powers few were familiar with. Rashan was quite familiar with them. He wanted no part of facing one who wielded it.

  Rashan busied himself demonstrating to the fifth group of would-be dragon-skinners the technique he had found that removed the scales from the hide most quickly. All men who used blades were carrying whetstones and cloths as well. The blades dulled quickly against the resilient dragon hide. The warlock had considered runing a few blades to speed the work but decided that his time was better spent in organization.

  Flay my flesh, this is vanity! I have but three I somewhat trust among the Inner Circle, and two only because they are kin. I have no spies of my own and rely on Caladris for information across the Empire. Most of the Circle thinks I have usurped the imperial throne, and much of the populace thinks I killed the emperor myself. Yet here I am, carving trophies from my greatest kill.

  As the snow continued to melt, the dragon sank slowly toward the city streets, sometimes shifting ominously as the melt was uneven. Bodies were exposed as the glacier receded against the combined heat of the undercity’s furnaces and forges, and the heat generated by the bodies and efforts of the workers around the dragon. Workers were diverted from dragon duty to the clearing of the goblin corpses. It was a duty for those who were found slacking, displeased the warlock in some way, or otherwise fell to those of least social standing.

  The goblins bodies were frozen from a night packed in ice, and their frail bodies came apart all too easily with the effort it took to disengage them from the snow. Exposed again to air after a partial night’s decay prior to freezing, their odor was fetid and nauseating. Men wore dampened cloths over their faces to move them, despite the frigid air, preferring the cold to the retch-inducing smell.

  “Fool!” Rashan barked, directing his ire at one of the drovers, who had just thrown a claw the size of a greatsword into his cart. “Those are not unbreakable. They are sturdy but worth more than you will earn in a lifetime. Treat them with more care.”

  Who is the fool? I essentially just told them all that a little petty thievery will make them rich enough to retire. Now I am going to have to watch them all the more carefully. There is no count of scales, nor of the claws, and I do not yet know all the internal bits we are to excavate. Something is bound to go missing and never be missed.

  Annoyed at his revelation, Rashan drove the tradesmen all the harder, reminding them not only of the value of those scraps of dragon they were hauling but also the blood of friends and kinsmen that had been paid for it.

  Let guilt keep them honest, the warlock figured.

  Even in his most optimistic mood, it was unlikely to work, but it was better than leaving them to plot their little larcenies from the comfort of a clear conscience.

  * * * * * * * *

  Brannis slumped against the wall of his bedchamber, wincing as the impact jarred his broken arm. He breathed deeply to calm his nerves, slowly regaining his composure after his confrontation with Duke Pellaton.

  Have I gone completely mad? I just threatened one of the highest nobles in the western Empire. If I had been carrying a blade, I would have killed him.

  Brannis’s thoughts turned to the fables that he remembered from Kyrus’s youth. The Test of Kings sprang painfully to mind. It was a long tale, told through a succession of unlikely men elevated to the crown by unlikely circumstance. Each had gone in as a good man, with the best of intentions, but in turn, each was corrupted by the power of a crown on his head. Brannis was no king, but he felt as though he had just failed The Test of Kings, as had so many in the eponymous tale. He could not recall quite how it ended, but it was something to do with a king finally realizing that the only real power he had derived from the love of his people and their loyalty.

  Brannis had never been the most honorable of knights. He considered himself more of a pragmatist in battle, willing to sully himself with deceits and ruses rather than restricting himself to fighting his enemy on even terms. While his dealings within the Empire were honest, and he treated his subordinates and peers alike with respect, he was far from the ideal of the old guard among the knighthood. The old guard would have been proud of him, though, standing his ground to challenge an insult from one who was not his liege. Placing honor above self-preservation was something that Brannis had not learned at a young enough age for it to have ever made sense to him. His family and his early schooling taught him that self-preservation was the ideal.

  Do not touch that—it is hot and will burn you. Do not eat that—it will make you sick. Do not provoke that man—he will plot against you and you will die under suspicious circumstances that will never be investigated with any rigor.

  Knights did not think like that, or at least were not taught to.

  Do not break your word—no man will ever accept it again. Do not visit treachery upon your foe—one day you may be in their power, and they will remember. Do not let stand an untrue word against you—your honor can never be fully cleaned once sullied. Do not take that woman to your bed—she is the betrothed of your best friend, who could magic you into ash if he was angry enough.

  Brannis sighed. At least one lesson of the knights had overridden his more cosmopolitan upbringing among the sorcerers. Juliana would have gone through with it and trusted to discretion as her shield.

  He knew that he could not be long from the activities going on below in the lower levels of the castle, out in the city, and down in the undercity. He was the focus of the recovery and repair efforts; the soldiers would look to him once they were recalled to duty from their well-earned respite, and the citizens already were busily obeying Brannis’s orders, knowing him to not only be the Grand Marshal of the Empire, but a key to the costly victory the night before. His presence would be missed, folk would be seeking him out and asking for him. He could not be found cowering in his room from his own temper.

  To put at ease any wondering as to why he had run off, Brannis hastily grabbed his cloak from the wardrobe where the servants had left it and threw it about his shoulders. It was a poor excuse, but it would do. He would have to make a point of heading outside at some point soon though, so it would appear as if he had just wanted somethin
g warmer to go out in. He knew what Rashan was doing out in the city, carving up the dragon into its component parts, and he had little stomach for it. The dragon was fascinating, but Brannis had seen it from close up already, at great speed and hurling toward him intent on his death. He would be just as happy to not see it again, no matter the number of pieces.

  * * * * * * * *

  Pompous ass. He should be grateful he has a city left at all after that dragon attacked.

  Juliana had watched the encounter between Brannis and Duke Pellaton, as had many of those in the castle that morning. For a moment, she actually believed that Brannis was going to run him through—and she would not have blamed him—but he had left his sword somewhere under the collapsed glacier. The duke was myopic, seeing only the damage done to his city—no, not to the city, but to his treasury. She had paid attention, and heard every word, and not once had the duke mentioned the loss of life, either those suffered or those lives saved by Brannis’s actions and orders. She had seen the glacier wall collapse, had seen the host of goblins that had been assembled to enter through the gate the avalanche blocked, and had seen the cannons they’d brought with them.

  Cut off from the battle outside, she had heard secondhand what Rashan had done. After taking the dragon by surprise when the ice gave way beneath its feet, the warlock had fallen upon the goblins like the demons of the fairy stories, untouchable by the weapons brought to bear against him and slaying all that he encountered. Actually Rashan had gone far out of his way, hunting long into the predawn hours to chase down survivors who had fled the battle. As best everyone could tell, there were no survivors down on the plains, save one lone human sorceress, whom the goblins had kept captive at the behest of their human ally.

  Juliana had not seen the woman herself, who had named herself a Fifth Circle when the demon confronted her, but Juliana was no fool. A sorceress of the Fifth Circle could have escaped capture if she had really wanted to, and by all accounts, the goblins had taken no real precaution to hold her against her will. The girl was a harlot or a turncoat, in Juliana’s opinion. The sorcerer they had encountered in the upper mines no doubt held some sway over her, but she doubted that it was by magic. That Megrenn was strong—Inner Circle strong—but that was no excuse for failing to slay a man whose bed she no doubt shared. A threat to the Empire was worth taking a risk for; it was worth murdering for, even if it meant her own death if caught or unsuccessful.