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

by Chris Philbrook

  Malwynn kept his eyes on the arrows, hoping to see some change, some magical shift in the weapons, but nothing happened. They simply sat there, inanimate as before. Umaryn lifted her head with a large smile, satisfied.

  “Did that work?” Malwynn asked skeptically.

  She nodded, “Of course it did. I may not be able to do much with The Way, but what I can do, I do very well Mal. I just need to do the same to my hammer, and we’ll be ready.”

  “Well you’d best hurry. The tax man cometh.”

  His knock on the door came just minutes later. Umaryn had only just completed her chant on the hammer and assumed her position in the foyer. Malwynn was pressed against the wall on the stair landing, above and to the right of the door. Once the tax man entered, Umaryn was to draw him inside so the door would shut, and Malwynn would let fly with his bow, hopefully crippling the man, and ending the fight before it began. If it came down to it, Umaryn would pick up her hammer from its hiding spot behind the leg of the hallway table, and bring it to bear.

  A second trio of knocks brought the twins to their senses. Umaryn straightened out the heavy gray robe she wore over her armor. Malwynn was pleasantly surprised at how concealing the plush robe was of the armor. He wondered if they’d be returning the robe to poor, ill Usul without blood stains on it.

  Umaryn turned the door knob of the heavy wooden door and stepped back, pulling it in. The cool autumn breeze carried a strange smell into the home. It was cloying and sweet, with the hint of dust and decay. Even on the breeze, it made her nose itch, and threatened a sneeze. Up close the purple robed tax man was frightening in a simple way. He was older, perhaps three decades and a half. His receding hair was gray, but not in a wise, patriarchal way. It was too white, as if the color had been drained out unnaturally over too short a time. His skin was loose, almost flabby and saggy, creating strange folds of skin that made him look like a bulldog wrapped in purple.

  Before she could say a word, the odd looking tax man brandished his scroll case, and pulled the sheet out, pulling it expertly to where Maya and Usul’s name appeared. He spoke curtly, revealing a voice that was slightly high in pitch, yet still menacing, “Maya and Usul Renfro of 174 Rainwater Lane. Your Queen has assessed the value of your property for this year, and has decreed a tax bill of two hundred and fifty Crowns. Your full obligation to the throne is due immediately. How do you plan to pay?”

  Umaryn had the same stoic, yet fear tinged face the same as all the others. She smiled apologetically then replied, “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring the Crowns to the door. Maya and Usul are both ill. Would you care to step inside for a moment while I fetch the money for you?”

  Impassive, the robed figure cocked his head to the side skeptically. After a wait that stretched on a bit too long, he put the scroll away and simply stepped inside, and Umaryn let go of the door. It swung slowly shut behind him, and she backed a few steps away, drawing him into the foyer.

  From the landing, as silent as he could manage, Malwynn held his breath, and raised the bow, drawing the string the entire time. He had a bead on the back of the robed man and after a prayer to the ancestors, he let fly. The twang of the string could not have made much noise, but somehow, the robed figure knew the arrow was in flight. He spun wickedly, reaching up with a purple sleeved arm exactly as the arrow reached him. Instead of his back, the projectile lodged in the meat of his forearm, halfway through. He let loose a ragged curse of pain as Malwynn readied another arrow.

  Umaryn was panicked. The robed man should have an arrow in his back instead of his arm, and he was far too unfazed by that arrow for her comfort. Taking several steps backward she felt along the edge of the hallway table until she reached the end. As her fear scattered fingers slid along the tabletop she could sense the dim spirit inside, oblivious to the chaos right beside it. There, behind the table and resting against the wall was Chael’s hammer. Her hammer. Just feeling the leather wrapping of the haft in her hand gave her tremendous strength. She could feel the spirit of the weapon rouse in her grip, and she knew she and her brother were far from alone in this fight.

  Confidently now, she ripped the heavy gray robe free, stepping forward wearing only the Amaranthine armor. The tax man’s hand was already covered in slick blood from his pierced arm, and she was intent on shattering his other arm before he could do anything mystical with it.

  The aged tax collector crouched low, almost as a feral animal might, snarling with his strange features. He looked more beast than man. Umaryn grunted as she brought the head of her hammer in a giant swing at his shoulder. She could feel the exultation of the hammer as the steel head whistled towards soft, vulnerable flesh.

  She was shocked by his speed. He ducked under the hammer as Malwynn’s second arrow sailed a bit too high, sinking itself into the plaster wall. The entire time the necromancer moved, he was cursing strange words under his breath, and using his good hand to fetch a weapon from inside his robe. Umaryn prepared herself for his lighting strike, expecting his retaliatory blow to be a jab with a dagger, or a slash with a knife. Instead, his good hand produced a small piece of dried flesh that he gracefully drew across a small part of her exposed forearm, where the armor was not.

  Immediately she felt something… change inside her. The Way was working upon her from the inside out, and she instantly felt a turmoil the touch of the piece of flesh had given to her. The collector was a necromancer, and one of considerable power. He had managed with a brush of collected flesh to place pure evil and sickness deep inside her. Now the evil wanted out, and Umaryn’s flesh was in the way.

  Umaryn’s knees gave way as if she’d been struck from behind. She dropped down to the floor, her stomach splitting in two from cramps more powerful than she’d ever experienced. A great knot appeared lower than she’d ever felt pain before, and suddenly the contents of her stomach erupted from her mouth, through gritted teeth. A foamy green slime filled with bits of her last meal spread out across Maya and Usul’s foyer floor, thick like tainted lava.

  “UMARYN!” Malwynn screamed as he watched his sister fold in half into the fetal position, her treasured hammer an afterthought. The collector, a sinister grin across his face, turned to the door and twisted the knob to make his escape, or to allow his undead guards in to finish them off. Malwynn already had an arrow on the string, and he drew it faster than he ever had, and aimed it at the fleeing necromancer. Malwynn felt for a fraction of a second a feeling he had never felt before; a second presence, a second emotion near to him that was still not yet him. He felt joy, thrill, and release as the arrow sprang forth from his weapon towards the necromancer.

  The knob twisted no more than an inch before the arrow reached its intended mark. It bit deep and pierced muscle, vein and artery at the midpoint between shoulder and neck. The arrow hit the dark mage with tremendous force, far more than it should have. He stumbled sideways into the living room with the pair of high backed leather chairs, leaving a huge smear of dark red blood in his wake.

  Malwynn dropped the bow at the top of the landing and took the entire half flight of stairs in a single leap. He landed with a thud as the undead outside began to bang on the door. Somehow, they had realized the events inside the home. Maybe it was a twist of the knob, or some mental alarm from the necromancer. Malwynn ignored the armored undead outside and slid the thick iron bolt shut as he drew Drogal’s blade from the scabbard at his hip. His sole focus was the necromancer.

  The tax collector was hurt badly. The arrow had plunged far into his chest, and as Malwynn crossed into the room with him, the man coughed wetly, and sprayed a fine red mist of blood onto the floor, and his precious robe.

  “Guess who’s coming to collect now, you piece of shit?” Malwynn said, stalking the death mage across the room.

  The necromancer turned slightly to face his attacker more, but his strength and coordination failed. He stumbled, landing on the chair Umaryn had sat in exhausted the night prior. He rolled over, and fell on the floor, blood running fr
eely from both his arm and his neck. The aged user of The Way smiled, and reached into his robe to fetch something.

  Malwynn had seen what the things in the robe did to people, and he took no chances, and swiped powerfully across the shins of the mage, hacking two thick gouges into both flesh and bone. The man’s legs were useless now, and the scream of pain he let loose was proof of the agony he was in. He abandoned his search for spell materials or weapons and clutched at his ruined legs. He barely had the strength to sit up.

  Malwynn crouched low, holding the sword, still edged in the red blood of the dying mage. He watched impassively as the mage slowly lost the sensation in his legs and sat back, leaning against the red leather of the chair. The tax man looked at Malwynn, and took stock of him. Finally he laughed.

  “You’re a heretic aren’t you? A rebel against the Queen. A red wearer. I see you for what you are.”

  Malwynn could care what the mage thought of him, “Tell me before you die. What do you know of an attack in Varrland on a small village named New Picknell? Who can tell me who ordered the attack? Speak quickly and I’ll see to it your body is resurrected as a proper undead, befitting your station in life.” As he made his offer, he heard the raucous noise of the undead growing. He had but a minute before the entire neighborhood realized something was very wrong inside the home here.

  The tax collector’s eyes lit up as much as they could. There was precious little life left in them. “I’ve no idea. I simply collect the taxes in my district, and maintain the undead used for public works. You’d need someone much more important than me. See to it I’m animated as a Wight please. I wish to be a Wight. I’ve always admired their recollections of life.”

  Malwynn nodded, hiding his frustration. “Your head needs to be intact for that, yes?”

  The necromancer nodded, his head barely able to lift itself.

  “When you die, will your host outside continue to attack us? Or will they wander off, returning to their den?”

  He sputtered something, but it was inaudible, and full of blood. Malwynn repeated his question, and the necromancer finally spoke loud enough for Mal to hear him, “They’ll revert to their own will. They’ve been given fledgling sentience. They’ll wander about until another necromancer finds them and dominates them as I have. You’ll be in trouble then. They’ll know I’m dead, and where I was.”

  “I guess I’d better work at that not happening then eh? So sorry about your head.”

  “Wha-?”

  The necromancer struggled to raise his head one last time, but before he could, Malwynn’s stroke separated it from the neck. It rolled in a crazy circle, and spun under the chair the body leaned against. He made a mental note to remember to go back and collect it if they survived this. It would be a horrible find for Maya or Usul. He jogged quickly back into the foyer where Umaryn lay.

  “Umaryn, are you okay?” He asked, resting his hand on her shoulder. He stole a glance over his own shoulder and saw the undead banging on the door even more violently than before. They were different now, with the death of the tax man.

  Umaryn’s response was to roll the tiniest amount onto her back. Mal looked back to her and saw she was covered in her own vomit. Her skin was aflame to the touch, as hot as the coals in the fire of the forges she longed for. Her eyes were stricken with both pain and confusion. She’d never seen or experienced The Way like this before. This was a sickness, a rot formed within caused by necrotic magic most foul.

  Malwynn brushed her hair out of her eyes softly with fingers tipped in red blood, and picked her up. She felt light, though he knew she hadn’t lost weight. All his exercising had paid off. He carried her into the small kitchen at the rear of the home and rested her on the heavy wooden table they’d eaten at the night prior. He leaned in close and reassured her as best he could, “I’m going to deal with the zombies. Be strong, this is almost over.”

  Malwynn bolted from where she lay on the oak table and shut the kitchen door. He dragged the hallway table in front of it, barring entry unless the undead figured out how to move the table aside. He wasn’t sure what these undead were quite capable of. Malwynn ran up the steps to the landing, looking out the tall and narrow windows of the foyer door. He could see and count five of the necromancer’s pets, all chomping at the bit to get inside. At the top of the landing he scooped up his discarded bow, and jumped down once more.

  He had one plan, and with a flick of the wrist he threw the bolt, and prayed to the souls of his ancestors it would work. He notched an arrow on the string and gave the knob a twist to set the door free, backpedaling to put space between the undead and his bow.

  He got five steps back before the door swung in fully, and the undead marched inside, looking for blood. Their weapons were raised, and their pose clearly showed that they knew how to use their dilapidated, corroded weapons. Despite their low quality, Malwynn knew the blades were no less deadly.

  He drew the bow fully and let fly another arrow. The same as the last arrow that felled the necromancer, Malwynn felt the screaming joy of the arrow as it sailed out and split the air between two of the iron bars that encased the head of the first zombie pushing its way into the home. The arrow hit just below the eyebrow and skipped downward enough to slide into the eye socket fully, ruining the soft gray matter hidden behind the rotten orb. It fell, dead.

  “I COMMAND YOU IN THE NAME OF THE QUEEN TO STOP WHERE YOU STAND!” Malwynn bellowed at full voice. He felt the strength of roar come from deep, from a place he’d rarely tapped into. He was hoping his Amaranth uniform, and the mention of the Queen would buy him a moment. Immediately the undead halted their forward progress, and lowered their blades enough to give him time to draw and fire another arrow. The second arrow sailed as true as the first, piercing the tongue and throat of its target, severing the spine far behind all the wet meat in front of it. The second dead body fell as the first did.

  New violence freed the undead from their momentary stupor. By then Malwynn had already backed up a few more feet, and had enough time to fire another arrow through the woven steel cage protecting the head of another dead warrior. His aim had never been better than in this moment, and he credited his sister’s enchantment of the arrows with The Way. Without her blessing, both brother and sister would have been dead by now.

  Malwynn drew and notched another arrow, but luck had finally caught up to him. As he drew the string for the last time, it snapped. He shouldn’t have been surprised. It was an old string, and he was drawing it much further than normal, much more rapidly than ever. He let the arrow and impotent bow drop the floor and as fast as he could, he drew his short sword.

  He was parrying immediately. As the last two undead advanced on him they pushed him into the dead end he’d created by blocking the door to the kitchen with the table. He would win this battle, or he would die right there in the blood and vomit filled foyer. One rusty blade came at his face, and he raised his sword hand up and blocked it, sending a surprisingly powerful shock through his arm. He reached out with his free hand and grabbed the iron cage surrounding the face of the zombie, and pulled powerfully forward, toppling it into the floor. They were armored, but awkward.

  Tossing the zombie aside gave Malwynn enough space to circle out into the hall, giving him a means of escape should he need it. He felt invigorated by how the battle was unfolding, and he pressed forward now, hacking at the knee of the standing zombie with his blade, sending it to the floor to join its fallen companion. In its disorganized facedown state Mal brought the blade down like he would a post-digger, and cracked the braincase swiftly. He had but a single threat to deal with, and with his sword quickly free, he booted the still awkward zombie in the rear, causing it to fall facedown and giving him ample time to plunge his sword downward into the monster’s spine.

  Malwynn turned and walked to the doorway, chest huffing heavily, regaining his breath. He kept his blade in his hand and walked out onto the small porch Maya and Usul sat on before the cold weather set in.
At most of the doorways within eyesight he could see locals standing, fearful of the clamor from inside.

  He yelled what he hoped would calm them at the top of his lungs, “Today the Queen has brought to justice a rebel against her cause! A rogue tax collector stealing from her coffers, caught in the act! Seek shelter in your homes as the Queen’s servants deal with this traitorous scum! Your silence is of the greatest importance in this matter as we root out the foul sickness attempting to destabilize our city, and our nation!”

  Surprisingly, a round of applause grew in the street. After a bit of time, he had to reissue the command for the people to return to shelter in their homes. He didn’t want a patrol to come by, and a conversation to be struck up. Something far worse than a few armed undead would come investigating.

  Malwynn turned, confident he’d bought he and his sister some time. Right now, he needed to attend to her, and find out if the evil inside her was killing her.

  - Chapter Seven -

  A GRAND OFFER

  “Did you keep any of it down?” Malwynn asked his sister softly.

  She nodded meekly from her bed. Her skin was still colored wrong, like a shadow cast in daylight for no reason. She was still quite ill with the after effects of the necromancer’s tainted Way. Her throat was raw from vomit, she’d lost her voice, her stomach was still sore from the labors of having its contents emptied over and over. She’d been worse than this for days, and Malwynn considered her present state one of progress.

  “Maya and Usul are much better. They’re both up and about. Up since breakfast actually. You know, this has been a bit of a stroke of luck, all things considered.”