The Wrath of the Orphans (The Kinless Trilogy Book 1)

by Chris Philbrook

  “Well young lady, I am an Inquisitor. We didn’t earn our reputation by not putting people to death.” Dram laughed slowly, and all the color drained from the twin’s faces.

  Malwynn and Umaryn struggled to stay focused as they waited at the bottom of the wooden ramp that led to the freight car Bramwell and Tinder rode on. Graben was an impressive city, far larger than anywhere they’d ever been, and its startling geography had them captivated. Graben was a city divided in half, albeit in a strange fashion.

  The city rested flush against a massive cliff in the Snake Ridge Mountains. At the base of the cliff was an area Ellioth had called the Low City. Squat timber homes and buildings spread out from the side of the cliff like an urban stain on the earth. Hundreds upon hundreds of structures were arranged along shoddy dirt roads for hundreds of yards. The ripe stink of human waste and dirty animals filled the air, thick and pungent. Where they stood in the Low City, on the very outer edge was the Artificer Guild rail yard. Unlike the tiny rail station in Ockham’s Fringe, this structure was an edifice, dedicated to the Guild as well as the Queen. It rose many stories high, and was chiseled out the grey granite that formed the bedrock of the Snake Ridge Mountains. Columns, domes, intricate carvings and scrollwork, and the ever present color Purple made the building seem enormous, ominous, and cold. Where they stood at the base of the platforms gave them a view of the city unlike anyplace they could’ve imagined.

  Cut into the face of the cliff and running the entire width and breadth of the Low City were doors and windows, indicating that there were homes and businesses entrenched within the stone cliff itself. Near the very center of the Low City and carved into the cliff was a perfectly rectangular space that slid upwards into the mountain until it opened up to the sky at the top of the cliff, well over a thousand feet above the land they stood on. In the channel carved from the cliff two platforms moved up and down side by side in a balanced dance. Both platforms had a footprint larger than their family home in New Picknell, and one rose at the same speed that the other fell. The twins could see people, wagons, horses and even a Gvorn or two on the platforms. From this distance they could see massive chains powering the lifts, but could not discern what controlled the mechanics. Umaryn suspected the Artificers Guild was involved.

  At the top of the giant cliff there was a second city. They knew it to be called the High City, the home of Graben’s political and military elite. On many window sills, and lining the streets they could only barely see, they saw the tiny purple flowers that gave the Empire its name. Each home in the upper city was carved directly into the face of the mountain, and they were all grand monuments. The smallest palace carved into the mountain on the level of the High City was two stories tall, and beyond beautiful. The stature of the owners of these homes could be gauged by their opulence, by their size and the amount of carvings etched into their faces.

  Despite all their independent beauty and character, none could hold a candle to the palace of the Purple Queen. The terrain at the top of the cliff could not have been parallel to the face, for the palace was set further back from the edge than the other residences. The cliff carvings outlining the palace reached up high, at least ten floors higher than the next largest home in the High City, and the detail and grandeur was unmistakable, and oppressive. Sinister gargoyles flanked by intricate pillars decorated the stone the entire length and width of the palace. Intermixed in, tall statues of winged men and women spread their arms in a benevolent gesture, likely meant to lure the populace into believing the resident of the palace was kind, and caring.

  No Queen of the Amaranth Empire was kind, or caring.

  “I find myself staring at it every time I return too,” Dram said from the platform above them. Mal and Umaryn shook the distraction from their eyes and turned to him. He towered above them even more than before, flanked by his two undead pets.

  “There is something special about it,” Umaryn said before her brother said what she knew he wanted to say.

  “Indeed,” Dram returned, his face still shrouded in blackness under his purple hood. The six people on the train had already left. They practically ran away from the train and Dram’s entourage. Despite being in such a massive city, they felt very alone in his presence. As they shared their moment of strange silence, one of the Artificer Guild’s laborers led Bramwell and Tinder down the ramp. Dram’s eye line dropped from the cliff down to the animals as they were brought to the twins. Tinder immediately nuzzled Umaryn as she took the reins from the laborer. Bramwell was slightly less affectionate.

  “Quite the creature you have there Malwynn. Majestic and strong,” the Inquisitor said.

  Malwynn smiled, truly appreciating the compliment, “Thank you Inquisitor Sorber.”

  “I find it interesting that a young man from a tiny village who had to join the Queen’s army to support his family would be able to afford such a creature.”

  Brother and sister exchanged glances at one another. Their story was beginning to unravel. Malwynn looked up at the robed nightmare, and tried to piece their cover back together, “Bramwell here was taken from a Varrlander we killed while on patrol a few weeks ago. He had strayed into Empire territory, and we took care of matters.”

  “Hm. Well done then I suppose,” Dram said, clasping his bony hands in one another at his waist. He turned to walk away, and then stopped long enough to utter a single statement that sent the pits of their stomachs below the hard Amaranth earth.

  “I find it curious that your Gvorn looks almost identical to one a close associate of mine had.” Dram spun on his heels and took his two undead cohorts away, gliding effortlessly across the slate gray stone of the rail platform.

  “It’s time to get dirty my friends,” said the blonde Artificer from behind them. They turned to face him. He rested a wheelbarrow filled with all manner of tools at their feet, smiled, nodded, and left them.

  Two long sighs later, they each took a tool, and got to work.

  - Chapter Five -

  WHATEVER IT TAKES

  Twelve.

  Malwynn hated this place. He hated it more than anything he could’ve ever imagined hating.

  Thirteen.

  The smell was horrid, even since the cold had begun to set in. Animal waste, human waste, and the incredible amount of rotting undead wandering about the city was nearly mind numbing in the odor they created.

  Twenty. A drop of salty sweat fell from his brow to the old wooden floor.

  Zombies everywhere. Absolutely everywhere, doing the things that people should’ve been doing. Instead of hundreds of young hard working people doing municipal tasks like digging shit and filth out of drainage on the side of the streets, it was a group of undead led by a purple clad soldier. They were ponderous, uncoordinated and did a poor job. Not only did their flesh and rot stink, but the amount of trash and feces they left behind stank as well.

  Thirty. Another drop of sweat fell.

  It was already cold here, and Malwynn and his sister had only been here a month. New Picknell was far enough north that it experienced cold early, but this was something else. This was a cold that invaded you, violated you. Malwynn swore it came from that damned palace atop the High City cliff.

  Forty. A puddle of sweat had formed on the floor, despite the chill air.

  He hated that they were broke. Flat broke. Howard’s gift of extra Crowns had been generous, and Malwynn still appreciated that favor, but the money didn’t last. They couldn’t live on the streets; the soldiers would scoop them up and incarcerate them. So they were forced to rent a small room in a reasonably large house to share. The old couple who owned the home had nothing, and they charged a peasant’s fee for the room and the stable for Tinder and Bramwell, but even so, the twin’s money wasted away.

  Fifty. Malwynn rolled over off his hands and onto his back.

  Food was hard to come by here, even when they had money for it. The hard earth was unforgiving, and certainly not generous with the harvest it offered. Despite it
being prime harvest season, a decent hot meal was hard to come by. Most of the spoils of the farms went up one of the elevators to the High City, or directly to the barracks where the Queen’s soldiers ate. It made a lot of sense to join the military here, even for them now. They’d argued over the idea several times now, with both siblings taking both sides.

  Ten. Malwynn’s stomach already burned from the exercising.

  Earning money here was next to impossible. Most jobs were taken by the undead, and those not occupied by zombies dominated by necromancers were skilled jobs neither twin was qualified for. Umaryn had tried to get a job at several Low City forges, but she was laughed away. Women couldn’t possibly work iron. She was too scared to share her abilities in The Way to convince them.

  Eighteen. Muscles burned like hot coals under Malwynn’s belly skin.

  Malwynn knew only how to tend fields, and shoot a bow. His two options were to leave Umaryn behind and work as a day laborer at a farm, or join the Queen’s Army as an archer. The first job was already taken by the dead, and he’d die before taking the second job.

  Thirty. Almost at his limit now. Malwynn closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, pushing to go a little further than the night prior.

  Malwynn and Umaryn had a single job between the two of them they could work legally, and with little inquiry by the local authorities. It revolted both of them, but paid well enough to be worth it, and seemed to be developing into a way for the twins to track down leads on who had murdered their family and destroyed their town.

  Umaryn had taken a job working in a military tavern as a dancer and waitress.

  Forty one. Malwynn collapsed to the floor hard, his stomach knotted in more ways than one.

  Umaryn’s body moved like the inner workings of an Artificer’s machine. Well oiled and smoothly. She wore little clothing, despite the chill outside. A form fitting black cotton waistcoat wrapped her torso, pushing her breasts up higher, and her lower half was only clad in a matching pair of black shorts. Most of her skin was very visible to all the men and women in the tavern. Her long and lean body was still pale, but in the gentle lamp and firelight of the tavern, she radiated both sexuality and class. She was like an exquisite porcelain doll made to entice men into bad decisions.

  She knew her brother hated her doing this, and on most levels, she herself despised it. But there was a dark glory in her role at the tavern. Here, she was in control of the men around, and not the opposite. Umaryn tried to explain it to her brother many times to no avail. Malwynn couldn’t understand that she was the one exerting domination, not the soldiers in attendance. He could only see her as being used; as an object of sexuality to be taken advantage of. He felt she was trashy. The opposite was the case, and she couldn’t make him see that.

  The tavern was somewhat inaptly named The Salon. It was dark, loud, and lit by lanterns that smelled vaguely of armpits. No matter how much she tried to ignore the smell of the place, she failed. It got into her skin, her hair, and came home with her every night. It was one more thing for Malwynn to hate. Umaryn’s primary task at The Salon was to whisk small wooden trays of alcoholic drinks from the scarred wooden bar to the various tables and booths where eager mouths awaited them. She was also expected to be sensual, appealing, friendly, and not reveal that she wanted to cut every throat that tipped back to drink a lager, or an ale.

  “Hey Isabel, can you fetch me another dark brew? And maybe when you bring it back you could spare a wet kiss for the Sergeant?” A voice called out from behind her. She spun on her heels, tray in hand in time to watch one of the regulars lookup from where her ass had just been.

  Despite not being named Isabel, she responded to the man, “Sergeant Vardo, you know you can have the beer, but sir you certainly don’t tip well enough to get any kind of kiss, let alone a wet one.” She winked mischievously and continued on, smiling the whole way. She’d certainly get an extra half crown out of him for that flirt. Umaryn slid sideways around chairs pushed closely together, intentionally allowing the cheek of her ass to graze the forearm of a young soldier. She didn’t have to look back to know what expression was on his face.

  “Gentlemen and warriors of the wonderful corner booth, I present to you your drinks,” Umaryn said, delivering the short glasses filled with hard alcohol, and the tall mugs filled with softer beer to their recipients.

  “Thank you Isabel. As always, you’re a vision of professionalism, and beauty,” A Lieutenant said to her.

  “Why thank you Lieutenant. You’re always welcome here at The Salon, just so long as you all keep being handsome, and remember to tip.” She smiled, trying to seem cute and innocent. For some reason the soldiers here ate that shit up. She wasn’t sure why innocence would be so sexy to them.

  “Where did you say you were from? Your accent is so strange, exotic,” another officer said. She didn’t recognize him.

  “I’m from the southern border of the Empire sir. Right near Varrland. I’ve got Varrlander blood in my family tree, and a little bit of their tongue too.”

  “Do you speak Entch? That’s what they speak down there right?” The same officer asked with an excited look to his face.

  “My mother had… family from Daris. She spoke it, and I picked up quite a bit of it,” Umaryn said. From there she rattled off multiple sentences in Entch, the tongue of central Varrland. Entch flowed smoothly, like silk. It had long vowels, and soft consonants, and was renowned for being pleasurable to hear. In truth, her mother, brother, and little sister all spoke fluent Entch, but she needed to maintain her ruse.

  The officer’s eyes lit up, “That’s fantastic. The next time my unit is on patrol at the border, I would love for you to come. You’d help so much for when we find the random Varrlander farm and they play stupid with that damn language. I wish they’d just speak Lish like everyone else for Queen’s sake.”

  Umaryn’s eyebrow twitched. She suddenly disliked this man very, very much. “Well I’d love that sir, just so long as Michael behind the bar gives me the time off. What’s your name sir?”

  “I’m Captain Drogal Clock of the Queen’s Fifth. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance Isabel. Are you taken by chance Isabel? Is it too soon to ask for your hand to be courted?” The officer asked boldly, yet as polite as can be.

  Umaryn smiled again, innocent once more, “Oh Captain Clock, I’m not the kind of woman your mother would approve of, and you just might change your mind about me after spending time in my company. I do however invite you to return frequently to The Salon. It was nice meeting you, and I’d like to serve you again.” She excused herself from the table and headed over to check on the rest of her customers. She’d be paying special attention to this Captain.

  The kind of attention that you pay with a hammer.

  “Thoughts?” Umaryn asked her brother. It was later that same night, and the two were in their separate beds, in the dark. The discussion revolved around Captain Drogal Clock, and his possible involvement in the destruction of New Picknell.

  “Does it matter what I think? You and I both know he’s the best lead we’ve gotten on finding the people who killed Mom, Dad and Rynne. We need to keep tabs on him, and find a way to ask a lot of questions. The kind of questions we ask at the end of a dagger.” Malwynn’s voice was filled with quiet hatred.

  “I was thinking at the end of my hammer.”

  “Silly girl, hammers aren’t nearly as scary as a dagger. Hammers might be more lethal, I’ll grant you that, but unless you’re holding it up high, and threatening to smash in his head with it, a dagger is much more frightening.”

  Umaryn snickered, “Yeah yeah. You just want the satisfaction of stabbing him before I get the chance to dash his brains out on the floor.”

  Malwynn bit his lower lip in thought, “That’s a damn good point…”

  Umaryn waited for him to finish his thought, but he didn’t, “What’s a good point? What’re you thinking about?”

  “Ok, how do you envision this happening?”
Malwynn asked.

  “I… don’t know. I get him drunk and ask a lot of questions at the tavern? Maybe in a side booth? Then maybe we find a way to get him alone to ask him tougher questions? I didn’t really get that far,” Umaryn said.

  “Well that’d be great, except we can’t very well ask him those questions in The Salon. Anyone hears you asking those questions, especially the crowd he seems to run with, and we’re fucked. We need to get him drunk, then get him apart from his lackeys. Then we knock him senseless, bring him somewhere we can tie him up for as long as it might take, and then really ask him questions.” Malwynn sounded eager.

  “That seems very much a one way trip Mal.”

  Malwynn nodded, and then realized his sister couldn’t see him in the dark, “Yes. There’d be no way we could let him go after that. What I was just thinking of, is where would we do this? It’d have to be quiet, maybe secluded, and if we killed him, we’d need a place where we could hide his body, or at least draw no attention if we killed him.”

  “You’re going to spend a lot of time thinking about this while I’m at work, aren’t you?” Umaryn said wryly.

  Malwynn nodded again in the dark, “Yes sister. I think this might be the difference between us getting justice for the dead, or being slaughtered by the Queen’s minions like a pair of fools.”

  “Well if that’s all that’s at stake, take all the time you need.” Umaryn rolled over and adjusted her dusty and old feather-stuffed pillow. She drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

  Malwynn’s mind raced for many hours after that.

  The walking corpse was held together by only the tiniest amount of flesh. A pathetic amount of sinew and ligament was all that kept its bones from tumbling apart. The sad creature was bent at the waist, skeletal fingers, flesh worn away from an unknown amount of work, scraping up the remains of a dead kitten. The tiny cat’s ripped and torn apart body, likely eaten by some of Graben’s massive Ink Rats, was in many ways less heart breaking than the zombie picking it up. The brother wished he’d seen the Ink Rat. At least that thing would’ve been worth some Crowns to someone.