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

by Chris Philbrook

  She looked over at her brother and drew on his strength. He was resolute in the face of hopelessness, and there was something powerful and inspiring in his defiance. The moment of panic passed and they rode their mounts for some time. Umaryn thought of how these moments had struck both her and her brother, and she wondered if that was the pangs of guilt digging deep into their souls.

  “Are you afraid our souls will be damned after this? Win, lose or draw?” She asked suddenly.

  Malwynn pondered the question seriously, taking his eyes and focus off the world around them, “I don’t even know what that means anymore Umaryn. Aren’t we already damned? We’ve lost everything. I can’t see this getting much worse. In the end, I’d like to think our ancestors would approve of how we fought tooth and nail to find justice for our family. You can argue about the end not justifying the means, but we all know the tale of the Tyrant King of Varrland.”

  “Murder the monarch to set the nation free.”

  “And in the end, there was truth, justice, and equality for all. Our story is not that different Umaryn, and I’ll debate and mourn the ethics of our deeds in our old age. Right now, we’ve got things to do. Damnation and guilt can wait.”

  In the city of the Purple Queen, three thousand Crowns was not a large amount of money by any means. Many of the Queen’s servants earned that amount of wealth every week, often on the backs of undead labor. Three thousand Crowns in the hands of two young, new faces in the city was a bit strange however, and they knew it. Umaryn and Malwynn’s wealth, as small as it was, would still generate questions if they flashed it about. In order to avoid any scrutiny at all, they spent the next few weeks leaving their new home sparingly, and spending frivolously when they did.

  Fortunately, their space was lavish. The entire second floor of a squat home made of stone the color of sand was theirs. Bookcases filled with old tomes from the last century lined the walls from floor to pressed tin ceiling, and the two were in heaven. Both had been voracious readers in their youth- a habit learned by watching both parents spend countless hours reading.

  Umaryn found a section of books dedicated to metallurgy, and she spent a full week reading each and every one of them cover to cover. Luther’s hands-on instruction had given her incredible skill, but he lacked the scientific knowledge the books offered to her. He had expertly taught her the practice of the work, but not the theory. Her desire to revisit a forge was rekindled by her reading, and she wished desperately for a way to put iron into the coals once more.

  Malwynn found many books on military tactics, and swordsmanship. A book on necromancy found its way into his reading list, and he spent many hours reading the deplorable contents within. He wanted to learn the ins and outs of his foes thoroughly, and develop strategies to counteract them. He hoped the book would be a means to that end.

  “I believe the spell used against you was called ‘Viral Strike’ Umaryn. Apparently with the touch of cured, diseased flesh, you can inflict a horrible curse of sickness on someone,” Mal said as he read about the spell.

  “That’s fascinating. You know I had green putrescence coming out of both ends of me, right?” She replied, clearly not impressed.

  He looked up, lowering the book, “Yeah, I know. If you’ll recall, I was the one who carried you around, and cleaned up after you while you had the Green Shakes.”

  “The Green Shakes? Is that what that was? Didn’t dad get the Green Shakes once? In Ebonvale or something?”

  “Yeah, the book says one of the afflictions commonly bestowed by the spell is the Green Shakes. And I think it was Ebonvale. East Ebonvale, near the Farmington border region I think.” Malwynn laughed suddenly, “You remember how dad told us that story? ‘Kids, I was shaking like an old man hopped up on coffee at a whorehouse, and with half the bowel control.’ We laughed so hard.”

  Umaryn shared his laughter, “The good old days. Mom and dad’s stories of conquest and adventure.”

  “Well there cannot be light without the darkness as they say. You need to shit yourself at least once to learn true humility dad said.”

  “That he did.”

  Reminiscing was good for the two, and they did much of it. Malwynn practiced his sword work in the sitting room, after moving the sofas and loveseat away of course. He practiced actual strokes suggested in the book, and learned how to chain movements and momentum together. He practiced balance, speed, and power. His victims were small logs that were ceremoniously burned in the fireplace to keep them warm.

  Umaryn practiced The Way as often as possible. Sharpening the sword Malwynn claimed from Drogal was a constant task. The blade was good, but not superior in its craftsmanship, and needed constant care to remain at peak usefulness the way he had been using it. Neither dared to leave their weapons dull, or out of arm’s reach considering where they were, and what they had done. Umaryn also practiced her Chants, the same spells she’d cast on their weapons the day they’d killed the tax man. Malwynn’s enchanted arrows had carried that day, and she wanted to more than perfect her knowledge of the spell. She had a routine of casting the spell each morning after she woke, and the repetition had done her good. She’d cut the time needed to recite the Chant in half already.

  Their rest period was much needed. The two hadn’t been in each other’s company peacefully since the day they’d gone to pick blueberries. Sadness, swings of mood, and anger had consumed them, and taking even just a few weeks to isolate themselves was good for the mind, body, and soul. They did vow that in a day or two, they would return to the butcher’s shop to ensure it was still suitable for their purposes.

  All the while, they were watched.

  “I think we’re ready. More accurately, I think they’re ready,” the long, robed figure said from the street corner. He spoke to a single, frail female corpse standing at his side. He dwarfed the zombie. From where he stood no normal man could see inside the home the twin’s were in, but this was no normal man.

  “Tomorrow I suspect we will spring our plan on them. If they survive what is put in front of them, all the more the better. If not, well… Fresh bodies always have their uses, eh Maya?” The tall man said to his lone corpse companion.

  Maya’s body couldn’t answer. He hadn’t given it the ability to. He hadn’t even given it the ability to understand all of what he’d said to it.

  The man turned with a flourish, and disappeared into the first few flakes of a coming storm. Maya shuffled her dead feet behind him, leaving furrows in the dusting on the road.

  “I do not miss this place. I will never be able to go into a meat market, or butcher’s again without thinking ill.” Umaryn’s nose wrinkled in disgust, even though the cold room didn’t smell that bad. Her senses had succumbed to the memory of older smells, and events.

  “Agreed,” Mal said.

  The twins examined the back room where they’d killed Drogal, and dismembered a handful of other Amaranthine soldiers and citizens. Not one of their deaths had yielded useful information, though there was a great deal of both satisfaction and pain. More of that guilt just below the surface Umaryn thought.

  “Everything is still here, and sharpened. Business must be good,” she said, putting a razor sharp blade the length of her forearm down. Every tool had a place in the room. She appreciated the order of it all, even amongst the chaos of old blood stains. She perhaps appreciated it especially amongst the chaos.

  “Good. Great. I’ll check the front just in case.” Mal walked out into the nearly pitch black front room of the business where the customers would come in. The room was divided in half by a large counter made of metal, and glass. Inside the counter cuts of meat on display for purchase were kept chilled by large blocks of ice. The room was dark except for the invasion of the faint reddish glow that came from Hestia in the night sky above. Malwynn gave the room a quick once over, and turned to leave. Something in the back of his mind stopped him. He felt an odd sensation, almost like an itch inside his skull, and the oddness of the sensation pe
rsuaded him to turn again, and examine the room. He’d missed something.

  His eyes, stained purple by the red light on the ice blue he’d been born with turned across the room with more intent. He slowed his breathing and opened his mind to filter his senses. He consciously focused on each and every element in the room, until he finally saw what he missed. His eyes locked on a dark spot against the wall, next to the door where no window was. A wooden chair with a high back had played a trick on his eyes, obscuring what sat in the chair.

  A person.

  “Who are you?” Malwynn said as he drew his blade from its scabbard. He moved slowly, and kept his sword below the level of the counter.

  The sitting figure didn’t respond.

  “Who are you talking to?” Umaryn whispered as she pushed the swinging door open. She saw the red glint of the moonlight off of Mal’s weapon and reached to her back to fetch her hammer. She’d heard him address someone.

  Malwynn ignored her, and continued to press his authority, “I asked you who you were. As a soldier of the Amaranth Empire, I command you to answer me or face punishment.” Malwynn spoke with clout. These late night jaunts while wearing Drogal’s Amaranthine uniform had led to multiple opportunities to abuse the power that came with it. He hoped its inherent authority would carry them once more.

  Once again, the sitting figure was silent.

  Malwynn’s fingers clenched the sword’s grip as he formulated a plan to kill the person before they got to the door. He walked slowly to the edge of the metal and glass case, and lifted the wooden counter up to move closer to the sitting person. Once he and Umaryn were in the same small space, he issued another command.

  “Identify yourself. I am Captain Drogal of the Queen’s Army. Why are you trespassing in this business at this hour? Speak now or you shall be placed under arrest.”

  The body in the chair was tiny, but terrifying. The fear of the unknown was paralyzing. Brother and sister could feel the sitting figure smile. “You are not Captain Drogal of the Queen’s Army.” The voice was eerily familiar. It had depth, character, and age. It was neither female nor male, and had a hint of dark knowledge to it. They felt very exposed in the dark room with the unfamiliar sitting figure.

  “Who are you?” Umaryn asked.

  “Interesting question to ask. There are two very honest answers to that question young lady. Which do you prefer I answer first? Who am I, or who are you speaking with?” The small figure responded from the billowing blackness of the shadows.

  “Your games do not amuse us trespasser. Tell us to whom do we speak?” Malwynn said angrily. He lifted the tip of the blade as a threat.

  In the darkness the sitting figure shook with silent laughter. “You are speaking to a necromancer. One who knows all your dark, little secrets. One who has been watching you for some time now.”

  “Watching us? Then you must surely know that we’ve been idle in our home for weeks. We’ve no secrets to keep.” Umaryn said, attempting to present some kind of innocence.

  “You’ve no secrets to keep from me that is for certain, Umaryn with no-last-name,” the sitting figure said, spelling it all out for them.

  “Dram,” Malwynn said softly, realizing who the voice was. Pulses quickened as the situation’s truth unfolded.

  “Correct. Now what will the two of you do with this knowledge, at this moment? Will you run? Run into the streets and attempt to kill all of my friends that I’ve brought with me tonight to make sure you couldn’t get away? Or will you listen to my offer?” The sitting figure said in a twisted version of Dram’s voice. It seemed to them now that the minute body’s vocal chords were straining, trying to more fully mimic the large source of the words forced through them.

  Brother and sister looked up and out of the windows of the shop. Standing statue-still in the street, as thick as trees in the deep forest were dozens of the same armored undead the tax man had. They stood impassively, armed with weapons of a clearly higher caliber than the previous undead had carried. Malwynn calculated the odds of battling their way through such a force, and realized survival was very unlikely. It seemed listening was the correct course of action.

  “Good. You’ve passed the first test,” the sitting figure said in the Inquisitor’s voice.

  “Oh? What test is that, Lord Sorber?” Malwynn said sarcastically.

  “The most basic intelligence test. Your sense of self preservation is working, happily. Now on to the reasoning test. Let’s see how honest you choose to be with me. Allow us to assume that I have evidence of your deeds against the Queen. You’ve worn her soldier’s armor, and even the uniform of one of her Majesty’s officers. Both of these offenses are punishable by summary execution, and yet, I’ve not seen to your death yet. Why do you suppose that is Malwynn and Umaryn?”

  The two thought. Umaryn spoke first, “You’ve a use for us.”

  “Two tests, and two passes. You’ll be my finest students. Now the third test. How truly honest can you be? Tell me why you are doing what you are doing, and do so in detail. If you lie, I will know.” Dram’s puppet crossed its legs and leaned slightly forward inquisitively.

  Mal sheathed his sword and looked to his sister. “We’ve nothing to lose at this point. Tell him the truth.”

  Umaryn spoke softly, “Our town was wiped out by Amaranthine forces shortly after we helped fight off a small patrol from here several months ago. That’s how we got the armor you saw on the train. We followed tracks north to the rail lines, and followed them here to Graben. When we got here, we started to kidnap soldiers, and an officer, and even a robed official. We are trying to find out who made the decision to destroy our town, and then kill them.” Her voice was as cold as the wind blowing against the flesh of the dead outside.

  “Most interesting. Vengeance is such a compelling thing.”

  “You’ve no idea,” the twins said in unison.

  They felt the sitting figure smile again, “You’d be surprised what I know, young ones.”

  “At this point, I suspect we wouldn’t be surprised what you know. What do you know Dram? You’ve been on to us since the train, haven’t you? Why didn’t you stop us earlier?” Mal questioned.

  The puppet responded, “You have been no threat to me. And simply put; a few loose gears in the works keeps the mechanics on their toes, as the Artificers have said time and again. I suppose it boils down to job security. Leaving you to your self-appointed tasks and then keeping an eye on you was easy. You are motivated, but very unskilled. You are raw talent needing refinement.”

  “Talent?” Umaryn asked, confused.

  “Indeed. I sense The Way on both of you, even now. One of you, if not both of you carry the will to wield The Way. Never mind your expanding martial prowess. When you first started this quest for vengeance here in Graben you were clumsy. By the time you killed our poor, innocent tax collector you had increased your talents tenfold. With my assistance and guidance, you can become ten times more skilled, ten times more powerful.”

  “Why? Why would you help us?” Malwynn asked skeptically.

  “As you said, I’ve a use for you,” Dram’s voice said from behind them.

  Mal and Umaryn spun quickly to find the Inquisitor standing behind the counter. He stood passively, leaning against the wall of the butcher shop as if he’d been there all along. He looked to be the bringer of ends, the villain in their story.

  “Fuck you Inquisitor. How long have you been there?” Umaryn said, fighting the urge to lift her hammer in anger.

  “Long enough to point out another of your flaws. But let’s not linger on what you cannot do, and instead focus on what I can do for you,” Dram said softly, interlacing his long, white fingers together just below the intense darkness of his hood.

  “Do for us?” Mal asked.

  “Indeed. You’ve been searching all along for someone with knowledge of who you seek. Ironic that the first person you spoke with had that information all along,” Dram said with the tiniest laugh.

>   Mal and Umaryn looked at each other, frustration festering. Mal spoke, “Who did it? And further, why would you tell us this? What’s your purpose in this… game?”

  Dram’s grin under the hood could be heard in his voice, “Well then young ones, if I were to divulge the identity of the person you searched for, I would lose all my leverage in this burgeoning relationship. Suffice to say, the person who destroyed your pleasant village is known to me, and I don’t care for them. In fact, my feelings for them, in circles of people I might consider friends, could be described as hostile.”

  Umaryn stifled a smile. He was frightening, but humorous, “Why can’t you simply just kill him? You’re a necromancer. Clearly a powerful one. Send your army of minions after him.”

  Dram leaned forward off the wall. The motion seemed threatening, “Silly girl. It would make no sense for me to send undead after a man that has the same power over them I do. He’d simply assert his will and dominate them, or use The Way to destroy them. I cannot use tools to wage war that my enemy uses himself. Our powers largely cancel one another out.”

  “So he’s a necromancer?” Malwynn asked.

  “Does that surprise you? Here of all places?” Dram asked sarcastically.

  “No, I suppose not,” Mal retorted smartly.

  “It shouldn’t. And that’s where you come in. I can see to your advancement, and then put you in various positions to remove his power structure out from underneath him, and finally kill him once and for all. You win, I win, Graben wins.”

  The twins looked at one another and mulled Dram’s idea over. It had merit. It also helped that they had little choice in the matter. If they refused his offer, they faced certain death at either his hands, or the hands of his undead legion outside.

  “I saw that you can read. This is a huge boon.”

  Umaryn looked offended, “Of course we can read. We aren’t stupid.”