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

by Chris Philbrook

  Mal nodded grimly, but replied, "Umaryn, who the hell is going to be able to take Sorber down? He's directly working for the Queen, and if you know anything about the Way, then you must have some idea of how powerful he is. I know next to nothing, and I'm sure we've got little to worry about. Dram seems like the kind of person who leaves no T uncrossed."

  Umaryn sighed, giving up.

  "Besides, what did Dad always say? 'Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?' I can't think of a better way to take that advice than staying here," Mal said.

  "Well we certainly can't get any closer to him. He wouldn't fit up either of our asses."

  Malwynn wasn't so sure the sanctity of their bodies was off limits to the death mage, but didn't want to ruin her joke. They both needed to laugh.

  Deep inside the mountain, deep inside Dram's home were what seemed to be endless passages and doorways. Some crossed one another, while others wound in gentle arcs, around large chambers. It must've taken centuries to carve the home, just as he said. Down a set of smooth stone hallways the home opened up into a dining hall that was nearly larger than their home had been in New Picknell. The table inside was far too large to have been constructed elsewhere and brought in. It was created in that room, and would remain there for eternity. The wood was frayed though from decade after decade of use. Umaryn noted the wear and tear on the table, and everything else in the room, and the home. The silver was tarnished, the rugs frayed, the paintings fading, and the life in all the spirits of the home was diminished. The house was a fragile ecosystem of delicate spirits on their last leg. She felt a swoon of sadness envelop her, but she fought through it. She knew given time she could work The Way and bring vibrant life back to the dwelling.

  Standing tall at the center of the table was Dram, pointing indelicately with his porcelain finger at a sheaf of papers. He stood motionless after beckoning them over, his posture stiff. The twins looked at the two small piles of papers and Dram finally spoke, "I've taken the liberty of starting your paperwork. Please look it over and let me know what changes need to be made. I've seen to it that you will have a meal brought to you shortly. Have a seat, ensure the paperwork is correct."

  "Is all this the paperwork we need to use the lift?" Mal asked.

  "Indeed, and more. I will be registering you both in the Hall of the Inquisitors as my aides. You'll have some protection from prosecution should you continue to commit crimes and heresy against the civilians of Graben. Mind you," Dram got serious suddenly, "this is not carte blanche to run around murdering soldiers and tax collectors. Foolish behavior like that won't be tolerated by other Inquisitors, and it certainly won't be tolerated by me."

  The twins spoke in unison, "Okay," they said. As Dram walked away they sat next to one another and pored over the details that would create them an official life in the city. Umaryn immediately noticed something strange.

  "Dram, it says here I have a last name," she said.

  "Me too. What gives?" Mal asked.

  Dram spun on his heels and answered them immediately, "It is Amaranthine custom to have a surname. To register you without one would've been suspect."

  "How did you choose this name?" Mal asked.

  Dram replied curtly, as if the question was rhetorical, "You've come a very long way on your journey. I suspect that you will travel much further before you're both satisfied. The name seemed fitting. I hope you enjoy it while you're here in Graben." Dram turned away, sealing the conversation shut.

  The twins looked at their names written with the new surnames attached. They digested the taste of the words, the feel of them on the tongue before saying them aloud. Umaryn spoke her brother's name first.

  "Malwynn Everwalk."

  Mal smiled, surprised that he liked the sound of it before saying his sister's name in kind, "Umaryn Everwalk."

  They sat at the table, looking at the paperwork, then each other, then saying the names in different tones, and cadences until both had settled on an exact pronunciation and accent that made them comfortable.

  "I hate to give that freak any credit but I really like that name," Umaryn said.

  "Dad would like it. Ancestors forgive me, but he really would like it. As long as that name is ours, we are always on this journey. Forever walking, forever searching. It's perfect." Mal smiled, thinking of a home gone, and a life lost. He wondered if Marissa would've liked that last name as her own.

  "Well ancestors bless Dram. If anything, he's done this one decent thing for us."

  "Ancestors bless him."

  The Everwalk family lost their appetite to eat when a bloated dead woman brought them their food on a silver tray. Even though her flesh had been preserved by Dram's magic, she had that stink of spices, dust, and rot that pervaded everything around the undead, and when she set their plates down, made of purple porcelain of course, they couldn't bring themselves to eat anything, despite the enticing aromas from the food after she retreated away to the kitchen. Dram joined them at the massive table shortly after the food had gone cold.

  "I had food brought here especially for you two. I do not know what is customary in New Picknell, but it is considered quite rude here in Graben to not enjoy a meal a host has had prepared for you."

  Umaryn gulped down the awkwardness of the moment, "Dram thank you, but it is sort of appetite disrupting to have a dead body bring you food."

  "Yeah," Mal said flatly.

  Dram pondered it, "I suppose. I hadn't quite calculated for the cultural differences. Here in the High City most are tended to by undead servants. It's commonplace. I imagine in Varrland it's much different. So be it. Can you cook for yourselves then? I hesitate to bring any other living souls into this home."

  "We can both cook. If you have food brought in we can prepare it ourselves," Mal said, excited at the prospect of a well stocked kitchen for a change.

  "It will be done," Dram said.

  "Wait, you said you brought food in especially for us? What do you eat?" Umaryn asked, suddenly very interested in learning more about their host.

  Dram waved his hand dismissively, "In my condition, food is a very secondary concern. Leave my dietary needs out of this, if you find my servants distasteful, you'll find my diet quite disruptive to your quality of sleep."

  The twins lost interest in the potential answer immediately.

  "Here is our plan, brother and sister Everwalk. I realize I've said some of this already, but bear with me longer. I want no confusion about this," The Inquisitor said, moving the conversation along. "Umaryn, I've assembled several texts for your education. Many are a century old or more, and they have been brought here to help illuminate your path to progression in The Way. Artificer books. I'm sure you'll be fascinated by them, and I hope you are able to learn new spells from them."

  Umaryn's heart raced. "I'm beyond excited Dram."

  "Good. I've also procured access to a forge in the Low City. It is in the barracks, and is a military forge, but they've set aside an entire area just for you for the next two months. If you need more time after that, we will need to pull strings, and perhaps do favors for associates of mine. Nothing comes without a price here in Graben."

  "Of course," she said, fully aware of what he meant.

  "Good. My goal with you is to harvest your potential as an Artificer. Your skill in The Way is potent already, but it is unfocused. You have unskilled raw talent, and my aim is to have your studies give you that focus so you may learn more spells to bring to bear against our enemies. Spells that our foe will not be prepared to defend against."

  "That makes sense, thank you."

  "Thank me with your hard work," Dram replied coldly.

  "What about me?" Mal inquired.

  "Your skill with that bow, and your sword is notable, and as with your sister, it is still very unrefined. You seem like a natural that has not yet received proper training," Dram supposed.

  "I guess, yeah. That's fair," Mal stammered out.

  "When your sister works in
the forge, you will accompany her and receive training with one of the empire's finest swordsman. Another personal associate of mine. I think you'll find him quite fascinating, and very, very good at making people deadly." Dram looked over the paperwork the twins had finished in his absence.

  "That’s incredibly exciting. What else?" Mal leaned in.

  "That’s enough really. Though I've assembled a library here on nearly every subject you might find interesting. You are more than welcome to read to your heart's content. I can have your body trained to wield a blade with skill, quickness and instinct, but you must take the personal initiative to train your mind."

  "Can I learn more about necromancy? This person we're going after is a necromancer isn't he? I think it would be wise to learn as much about him as possible." Mal licked his lips, unconsciously showing his eagerness.

  Dram snorted in appreciation, "Indeed he is young boy. A wielder of impressive magics, and controller of many undead. Knowing how to best counter his spells will be an asset. I'll see to it you are shown where the beginner texts are tonight."

  "Excellent, thank you."

  "Thank me as your sister will, with your hard work."

  They nodded. Mal spoke, "Who is it exactly we are going after? You said he was another Inquisitor right? Your boss?"

  Dram exhaled, clearly unsure of what to say. After nearly a minute of heavy silence, and internal debate he answered, "He is not in my direct line of command, though he is superior to me. He was responsible for your village being destroyed. As an assigned matter of course, he deals with affairs outside of Graben. Outside of the Empire in fact."

  "That fucker. Why did he choose New Picknell? Why? What was it about our tiny home that he just had to destroy?" Umaryn asked, her fists curling tightly into white balls of anger.

  "You ask that as if your town was part of the equation at all, dear girl. Most likely, your town was simply a place he felt like destroying for practice, or for the bodies he'd gain. A man as high up as him has little care for the details of a town like yours. Sorry."

  That explanation did not help in the least.

  "You think he destroyed our town, our friends and our families for nothing?" Umaryn asked incredulously, her anger boiling under her pale skin.

  "No, not for nothing. But not because of anything special about your home. New Picknell was simply on his agenda. Perhaps when we finally reach the point where he's at sword's end, you can put the question to him. Persuade him to tell you the truth, if that's even possible. Perhaps the answer is far more interesting than I think it is," Dram said with a shrug.

  "Who is he?" Mal asked.

  "I suppose his name isn't too much to ask. I do warn you though, he will only be brought down with extreme patience over time. You are far from ready to begin to challenge him directly. His skills and influence here in the city are more than a match for us, and our steps must be carefully calculated or else he and his court will sense our hunt. We've many months of preparation, and there are others that must die before him for us to have any chance at killing him at all."

  "Whatever. Give us a name Dram. We've earned that much," Umaryn demanded.

  "Perhaps you have earned that much. Malwynn, Umaryn, the name of the man responsible for the deaths of all who you have ever loved, and the destruction of all you have ever known, is Lord High Inquisitor Omniri Decadra."

  "Omniri Decadra," Mal spat it softly like a curse, like words too filthy to keep in his mouth. Umaryn half expected to see a wad of sooty phlegm on the table in front of her brother.

  Mal's eyes were filled with something dark. Something that Umaryn hadn't seen before. He turned to her and with no emotion on his face what so ever, he asked her a question;

  "Do you think he knows he's dead already?"

  - Chapter Nine -

  GIVING A MAN A SHOVEL

  A week later as Malwynn and Umaryn left Dram's cold stone stables on the back of Tinder and Bramwell, the Inquisitor caught Bramwell's bridle in a white hand, and spoke to Malwynn.

  "Study not only the techniques of the man who trains you today. Study the man himself. Understanding the warrior and his way is almost as important as learning how to wield the blade. Teaching a man how to shovel does not make him a farmer."

  Malwynn nodded, not really understanding the importance of Dram's advice. The twins left for the lift that would take them to the barracks where they would learn new ways to make violence more successfully.

  Malwynn's teacher was more frightening than anyone he had ever met in his life. How he met him didn't help the matter one bit. The man stood on an empty, white parade field in the Low City barracks.

  His name was Ivar Brodull, and he was dead.

  Even ankle deep in snow, Ivar stood a full six and a half feet in height, and in life, he must've been mammoth. In death, his gray flesh half shrunken and wasted away, he was no less intimidating. His body was dead, that much was obvious simply from the pallor of his skin. His eyes and long hair had gone a shade of white, with the color drained away, likely with his soul. Ivar's flesh was not rotten, though his visage sparked turmoil inside Malwynn's stomach. He wore plate mail very similar to the armor that Marcus Grey had worn back in the skirmish before New Picknell's destruction. There was one slight difference: the color.

  The burnished steel had been somehow tinted with purple, and was trimmed and etched with ornate versions of the Amaranth, the Queen's flower. If the suit had been in a museum, it would've been a work of art, but instead he wore openly on the field, and when Malwynn first laid eyes on Ivar, he was engaged in combat with not one, but five fully armed and armored Amaranthine soldiers, his helm discarded, a joyous snarl on his face. Clenched in a massive, violet mailed fist was a hand-and-a-half-sword, wavering menacingly. The sword's blade caught a breath of sunlight and gleamed, forcing Malwynn to squint.

  The five warriors surrounding him had every advantage needed to ensure a sound victory, but as Malwynn slid off of Bramwell and watched the battle begin in the center of the empty parade ground of the barracks, he felt as if the five warriors were mice caught in a mortal trap.

  Ivar's head spun to and fro slowly as his opponents circled him, testing his reflexes nervously with long halberds and spears. They poked in at him here and there, seeing if they could get him to bite on one of their feints. The young men looked vibrantly alive in comparison to the undead knight they faced, and when they made their attack on him, all their deficits were brought to a bloody red light in the blink of an eye.

  Two of the soldiers lunged forward with their halberds at the same precise moment. They were opposite one another, and as the long tips of their polearms attempted to skewer Ivar inside his armor, he deftly stepped to his side, forcing one soldier to miss entirely. As he moved more into the path of the second soldier's weapon, he brought the bastard sword's blade down in powerful stroke, shattering the weapon's shaft, and rendering the man impotent. He looked up at Ivar as his weapon crumbled to the snow packed field and backpedaled. He knew how his story ended if he pressed the battle.

  Malwynn watched as the other three soldiers drove in with their weapons. Two spears and a halberd seemed to spell certain doom for the purple knight. All three weapons struck in towards the center where Ivar stood simultaneously, leaving no room to dodge anything.

  Ivar grinned even more.

  His blade was still traveling downward from the destruction of the first soldier's polearm, and he swirled his massive body around in a circle, twisting his wrist and momentum to force the blade upward, neatly slicing the steel tip off one of the spears. His timing was perfect, for as the steel point spun wildly away, the blunt wooden shaft of the spear rammed ineffectually into his breastplate. The remainder of his spin allowed the other spear to strike his hip plating and skip off harmlessly. Despite his impressive quickness and grace, the final weapon struck solidly.

  The soldier wielding the axe-like halberd put his hips and legs into a powerful overhand chop with his weapon, and his maneuve
r bought him success. The edge of the axe had enough force to dent Ivar's shoulder armor and bring him down to a knee, and put a snarl on his sunken face. Ivar's rage had finally stepped out onto the snow covered field, and the man wielding the halberd was dead in its sights.

  Ivar's powerful tree trunk legs catapulted him off the snow and upwards at the halberd-wearing man like a violet missile. His armored body, dead as it was, hit the soldier as powerfully as a rampaging bull might. The soldier's corpse was decimated long before Ivar's shoulder drove it through the snow and into the hardened earth, splitting it apart and spilling life blood in every direction. Ivar was up and on his massive feet, now soaked in the soldier's blood. The bright red vitae turned his violet armor a deep, dark purple, far more akin to the purple of the Queen of the Empire. Malwynn wondered if that was by design.

  Ivar roared, his dead lungs forcing dead air over dead vocal chords. The sound made the hair on the back of Malwynn's neck stand straight up, and sent Bramwell backing away.

  "COME TO ME!" Ivar bellowed.

  The four remaining soldiers, one already backing away, attacked immediately. They did it instinctively, out of raw fear that disobeying Ivar would have a worse consequence than dying at the end of his massive blade.

  Ivar rose up to his full height as two halberd axe heads began to crash downward at him. He reached up with a steel clad fist and caught the shaft of one as the other fell beside him, nearly shearing off an arm and imbedding into the snow and earth. His iron strong grip yanked down hard on the shaft sending the Queen's warrior holding it off balance. As he struggled to regain his footing Ivar drove his longsword through the soldier's chainmail, both front and back. The warrior let out a whimper of pain as his life escaped him, and Ivar withdrew his bloody weapon and discarded the halberd. The dead warrior hit the hard packed snow heavily, long dead before hitting the ground. A crimson stain began to spread in the snow at Ivar's feet.