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

by Chris Philbrook

“Thanks Maya. You and Usul have been wonderful to my brother and I.”

  “Excuse me soldier,” Malwynn said from his perch atop Bramwell’s saddle. This high up he felt strong, authoritative. Unchallengeable.

  The young soldier had been keeping his eyes well averted from Malwynn, but challenged now, he looked up, clearly in awe of the Gvorn. “Sir, yes?”

  Malwynn wore the dress uniform they’d salvaged off of Drogal, and wore it well. “Why exactly are you so far from your patrol route?”

  The soldier, no more than sixteen years old looked around confused and a little panicked, “Sir I’m right where I belong. I walk this route almost every night.”

  Malwynn shook his head slowly, indicating displeasure. He rose up and slid down out of the saddle, his feet hitting the dirt softly, “Son, you didn’t pay enough attention to the late change in orders. We’ve doubled patrols in this district due to the crimes of late.”

  “I’m sorry Captain. I was unaware anything had changed tonight.” The soldier stood firmly at attention, long handled axe held at his side in deference.

  “It’s nearly unforgiveable soldier. What do you propose I do with you? Report you to your commanding officer?” Malwynn was learning to love toying with these young soldiers like this. It was one of his last remaining joys in a largely joyless existence.

  “Sir I think I’d be in a lot of trouble with my senior officer if you did that. Is there anything I can do to make up for this mistake? Perhaps I can cut wood for you on my day off? Do your laundry? Anything sir. A court martial for me would be the death of my family.” The kid was desperate. Missing a patrol could result in death with the wrong officer.

  Malwynn smiled to put the soldier at ease. He’d kept the boy distracted long enough.

  Umaryn had silently slipped in behind the boy, and with one quick backhand knocked him out cold. His limp body stretched out on the ground, unaware of what had happened. They’d bring him to the butcher shop on the back of Bramwell next. As for after the butcher shop…

  Malwynn vomited. He couldn’t control it anymore. Getting rid of Drogal had been easy. Both twins had been full of hate, and anger, and letting the rage loose on him had been easy. Dismembering his body and scattering it across various trash bins across the city had seemed exhilarating in a strange, morbid way. Now the killing had become routine, and without the supposed thrill of dealing out justice to the evil, slicing a person apart at the joint with a butcher’s knife was what it was; a crime against humanity.

  Malwynn’s poor stomach heaved repeatedly, emptying its contents on the rust colored floor of the shop. He thankfully hadn’t eaten much.

  Umaryn stopped what she was doing, still clutching one of the young soldier’s arms. “Come on Malwynn. We’ve done this before. Tell me you aren’t going soft.”

  “Fuck you. This is wretched woman. How are you not on hands and knees with me? If mother and father saw us doing this, I don’t think they’d appr-hooooove-“ he was cut off by another heave.

  Umaryn put the severed arm in a burlap sack and pulled a chair over. She sat down and took pity on her brother, “Mal I’m sorry. I know this is rotten business, and I’m sorry we’ve gotten into it. I wish we could just… walk away from it all. Go home, and forget it all happened.”

  Her brother sat heavily and wiped a trail of vomit from his chin, “We’ve no home to go to. I mean, we could save up for a train to Daris, and try to start over there, but let’s be honest, do you think you’d sleep at night when we got there? I hate this. I hate it with a passion, but I can’t just walk away. It’s just… horrible horrible business.”

  “Murder tends to be.”

  It was an awkward silence.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she said.

  Mal blinked several times, debating if he wanted to hear it, “Okay.”

  “I gave Maya our rent for the room yesterday, and we got chatting about how she pays taxes. I guess the tax man comes around about this time each year, with the first snowfall. That got me thinking about what kind of an opportunity that might bring for us.”

  Malwynn’s mind pondered the situation as offered by her brief statement. “He’d be a fairly high up figure. What else about this idea seems good to you?”

  Umaryn lit up with excitement she’d clearly been holding back, “He’s the tax man Mal. He collects money from houses all day. All day.”

  Mal put two and two together, “He could be carrying a fortune in Crowns. Ancestors alive Umaryn, he could be the last person we need to kill for money here.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ahh I don’t know though. A man like that would be bound to have a dozen undead guards with him, plus a unit of soldiers to boot. He’d be near impossible to kill cleanly.” Malwynn frowned.

  Umaryn smiled, “Maya said he comes into the home alone. His retinue of undead won’t fit in the foyer, so he leaves them outside. If we can find a way to be the people at the door the day he comes, it’ll be just him, and the two of us. And as you said, if we prepare ahead of time, I think we can take him, necromancer or not.”

  Malwynn couldn’t help but agree with her logic, “It could work. We just need a way to keep Maya and Usul out of this.”

  She nodded, agreeing. “It could work. If he knows anything else too, then we’re golden. Two birds-“

  “One really big stone.”

  “You were always good at skipping rocks Mal,” Umaryn said.

  Mal shrugged, and spat bitter flecks of acid out of his mouth. “We need to work out how we’ll question him too.” Mal sighed. “Well, before we do anything else, poor Footman… hell I don’t even know his name, he needs to be put away. We can talk more tomorrow about all of this.”

  The sister had hatched a genius idea to poison Maya and Usul. She didn’t want to poison them to death, simply make them bedridden for a day or two; long enough for them to receive, and handle the tax man when he came. After a few days of warm milk and hot tea, they’d be back to full health. Neither of the two had any knowledge of the foul art of poison preparation, so they set out to gather knowledge. Malwynn had suggested they speak to a barber, one of the barbaric bleeders of Graben that might know where and how someone might obtain a substance they could use in exchange for a few purple coins.

  Umaryn had a more innocent idea. She headed towards the massive lifts at the center of the city cliff, and found an apothecary, a professional medicine man whose life work was to make the sick well. It stood to her reason that if he could make the sick well, he could make the well sick.

  The tiny shop was perched on a cobble stone corner amongst larger businesses. It had finely wrought glass windows, and an intricately carved door that spoke to the wealth of the business owner inside. Upon entering the shop she was struck by the esoteric odor of the place. Medicinal at first, then, comforting and warm, like incense made to soothe ragged nerves. She waited patiently behind an older woman wearing finery that cost more than her and her brother’s combined wealth, Gvorn, horse, and all. When the lady finished her business and walked past Umaryn, she stepped to the counter.

  Umaryn addressed the Apothecary respectfully. He struck her as the type of person who had a large amount of powerful friends in Graben, “My aunt has come down with a strong stomach illness. We believe it to be something she ate. It appears to be passing quickly, thank the Queen, but we were wondering what she might have eaten, or drank that could’ve caused such a problem.”

  The Apothecary, a short bald man with thick spectacles nodded in rapid fire, “Well there are many things that she could have ingested. Household things.”

  “What’s something she might have eaten that wouldn’t have tasted off to her? Something she might normally have in the home? She’s getting a touch… let’s say senile in her old age.”

  The joke was lost on the dour medicine seller, “Does she gather mushrooms at all? Many of the mushrooms that grow wild on the bark of the trees of the Low City can cause distress to the innards. Check her cupboards.
Throw any mushrooms out.”

  “Oh I hadn’t thought of that, thank you so much sir.”

  “Most folks don’t think. It’s the downfall of the peasant class.”

  She smiled. Fuck you, Umaryn thought. “Might I have some of the incense you’re burning? I find it quite soothing.”

  “Maya says the man should be here tomorrow. The neighbors are gossiping that the tax man was seen right after breakfast a few streets over. You think I should go try and find him and ask if it’d be too much trouble for him to come later in the day? Tell him Maya and Usul won’t be home until later so he has more money on him?” Umaryn asked Mal as he ate a feeble sandwich. It was all they could afford to eat.

  “No, that might be suspicious. Wouldn’t want to arouse anything of the sort. When do you want to try and feed Maya and Usul those mushrooms you got? Any idea on how long they take to kick in?” Mal said, swallowing his bite.

  She shook her head, unsure. “I told them I’d be making them a dinner as a thank you but didn’t tell them when. Maya hasn’t started cooking yet for their dinner tonight. I was going to go tell her I had it taken care of. I think if I slip some in with dinner, then keep it in their system with tea over the night, we’d be in the clear.”

  “What if we make a lot of noise and they hear us? What if we trash the place? How are we going to explain it to them?” Malwynn asked before taking another bite of the crusty bread.

  “I don’t know. We can either keep them sick until we fix whatever we break, or maybe we just take off and go somewhere else in the city.”

  “Are we willing to risk their lives for this? Killing Amaranth officials is one thing, but these two have been good to us,” Mal said, clearly at odds with the thought of the old couple being in danger.

  Umaryn shared his turmoil, “I wouldn’t want them hurt.”

  “Then we’d best make very quick work of this fucking tax man. We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t, let’s just see to it we make this as fast and clean as possible.”

  “How is it?” Umaryn asked, sipping soup from a wooden spoon. She’d been very careful, ensuring none of the stomach churning mushrooms she’d gathered were in her or her brother’s bowl.

  Maya nodded in a motherly way, “It’s quite good. A little spicy.”

  Usul, ever the grump, was honest, “I don’t care much for it. It tastes like foreign food to me.”

  “Usul be nice. The young girl went out of her way to make us a meal, and you need to appreciate it. Say something nice.”

  Usul glared at his wife of forty years before speaking again, “It’s not bad.”

  Malwynn cracked a grin.

  “Thank you. I’m not much of a cook, but we both wanted to show you how much we appreciate all you’ve done for us since we got to Graben.”

  Malwynn gulped down a mouthful of the soup, “Yes. Thank you wasn’t enough.”

  Maya reached out a put one of her aged hands on Mal’s forearm, “We were young once. This is an unforgiving world. Finding a break is hard.”

  The two suddenly felt very bad about the soup.

  It took an hour for the mushrooms to work their natural, yet insidious magic. Maya was the first to complain. She spoke in an urgent, yet hushed tone about not feeling well, and then excused herself from the living room of the large home. Usul continued to smoke his pipe and read his book, but less than an hour later, Malwynn watched him as he shifted in his high back leather chair uncomfortably. A tiny bead of sweat appeared on his brow, and after wiping a dozen more away, he simply got up and left the room without saying a word.

  Within minutes, both brother and sister could hear all the colorful sounds of intestinal distress from the upstairs washroom.

  The smells came shortly after that.

  Umaryn tended to them once enough time had passed. They needed them ill, but not hopelessly so. A glass of cold water from the sink pump followed by two cups of hot tea, laced with a tiny amount of the mushroom’s oils meant the discomfort of the stomach ailment was sustained at a manageable level. Umaryn returned to the bottom floor and her brother after she’d seen the two elderly hosts put into bed.

  “How are they?” Mal asked, distressed.

  “Empty of water. From both ends. They’re also seeing things. Maya just called me ‘her little fairy,’ and attempted to tap me on the head with an old umbrella, as if it were an enchanted wand.” She slumped down in the second leather chair, exhausted.

  “Thank you for doing that. Miserable work I’m sure.”

  Umaryn nodded, looking at her hands. She looked as if she was examining murder weapons, “I just hope it’s not too much.”

  “Me too. Are you going to give them more of the mushroom oil tonight?”

  Umaryn shrugged, “Yeah probably. I think the visions they’re experiencing from the mushrooms are going to mask any noise we might make tomorrow. Hallucinations are wonderful distractions, so I’m told.”

  “Eaten a lot of strange mushrooms Umaryn?” Mal asked playfully.

  “No, but I’m starting to think some of your meals in the near future might be enhanced by one or two of them,” she replied, eyebrow rising.

  Mal grinned again, until his thoughts flitted upstairs to the two people he and his sister had just poisoned. It was a strange life he and his sister were leading, so different from the one they’d led in New Picknell.

  Malwynn’s blue eyes were as cold as the icicles that clung to the eaves of homes in winter, and no less piercing. He stared out of the panes of glass in the upstairs of the brick home that they shared with the old couple. He focused his attention on the short, thin man that walked patiently from home to home in the gentrified Low City neighborhood. He spent a short amount of time at each door, and each visit was precisely the same.

  He’d slide up the steps to the front door, and give it three quick raps. He’d stand patiently, holding a hardened scroll case in one hand with a full half dozen armed and armored undead at his side, and heels. Neither brother nor sister had seen armed undead before, and it worried them tremendously. When each door opened, the stoic face revealed was always tinged with the presence of fear. So many undead had to chill the blood, and the presence of the purple robe made it so much worse. Each home owner would watch as the tax man unrolled the scroll from his case, read the matter of their annual taxes aloud for them to hear, and then roll the scroll up. Each resident simply handed a small bag over, likely filled with Crowns, to the robed figure, and he would turn and walk away to the next home, the taxes collected.

  It had the feel of a funeral.

  The armed undead were Malwynn’s newest point of attention. The undead were still very much dead, and appeared to be no more in control of their faculties than a normal undead, but the simple presence of rusted short swords, meager leather armor was troubling. To fear the bites and scratches of the dead was one thing. To dodge sword blows, and pierce both helm and armor was another entirely. Most alarming of all, was the wrought iron helms they wore.

  Wrapped around and over their entire head and upper chest was an imposing helm made of blackened iron. The cold steel formed an impenetrable cage an inch from the flesh that protected the undead from decapitation or damage to the brain. Most people were taught from an early age that the best way to slay a zombie was to destroy or remove the head. Killing a zombie’s body was far harder, and required you to wreak so much damage the task was near impossible. Zombies were also renowned for their lack of cooperation in the matter. That these undead were armed as well bode poorly for anyone attempting to attack them.

  Umaryn slid beside her brother and took the scene in before speaking, “That’s horrifying.”

  All Mal could do was nod.

  “What do you think happens to them when we kill the tax man? Will they come in and try and kill us?” Umaryn asked, worried.

  It was Mal’s turn to shrug, “I don’t know, I’m not a necromancer. My guess is he’s got them dominated and slaved to his will with The Way. Once he
dies, I’d imagine The Way will fade, and they’ll be free of his control. If that’s the case, then the question becomes, is there any kind of control over them after that? Is there a second puppeteer holding more strings?”

  Umaryn swallowed hard, “Do we still do this?”

  “Do we have a choice at this point?”

  The tax man left another building and moved on to the next. The twins watched him as he repeated his task, picture perfectly. It was almost as if he were a thoughtless creature, incapable of doing anything different.

  Umaryn assessed her brother. He was wearing the Amaranthine armor they’d salvaged many months before. He had his bow in hand, as well as Drogal’s short sword on his hip. Slung across his back was the quiver, filled with ten arrows. Earlier in the morning Umaryn had sharpened all their weapons using The Chant of Sharpness, and strengthened both sets of armor using a Repair spell. She’d taken a short nap to replenish the willpower spent on the magic. Now she was refreshed, and ready to wield The Way fully.

  Umaryn reached into Mal’s quiver and took out all of the razor sharp arrows in a large handful. As Malwynn turned to see what she was doing, Umaryn took a seat on his bed, and rested the arrows in her lap, as she would a small child.

  Running her fingertips over the feathers, and down the length of the each arrow’s shaft, she closed her eyes and felt her soul blend with the tiny immaterial spirits contained in each item. Melding together as a single entity for merely a moment, the connection was full, and intense. A dozen souls had announced their presence to her, and it made her spirit soar. She whispered, almost in reverence to the weapons of death in her lap. Malwynn watched, dimly feeling on some strange level some of the sensations his sister was experiencing.

  “Spirits of the arrows, I beg of you to fly straight and true from my brother’s bow. I encourage you to pierce the armor of our foes, as they are wicked men, aberrant men, and need to be brought to heel for justice to exist. I pledge to you I will take proper care of you so long as I survive, and will show my appreciation to you and your brethren spirits for my life. I beg of you to be sharper than his armor, and faster than his reflexes.”