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

by Chris Philbrook

  The soldier with the tipless spear had dropped his newly made staff in favor of the short sword sheathed at his hip. But in the few seconds that it took for him to draw it, Ivar had killed both of the other men still alive. One man had been severed in half by a backhanded stroke of the blood soaked bastard sword in Ivar's grip. Malwynn had only barely seen the stroke it had happened so fast. As his friend died in half, the severed spine flopping openly in the cold air, the other man had attempted a swipe with his long polearm at Ivar's legs, but the undead knight hopped deftly over the savage hack. The awkward attack caused the body of the soldier to twist just a little too far, and in the half second it took for him to regain his posture and bring his long weapon back into the fight, Ivar had cocked one of his legs back. He launched it into the unprepared warrior's chest, and from fifty feet away Malwynn heard a crescendo of ribs cracking. Chain Mail offered no protection from the crushing force of the armored boot. The Amaranthine man dropped his weapon and crumbled to the ground, his chest caved in, lungs destroyed, and his life quickly ending.

  The lone short sword wielding soldier stood alone, fear on his face. The small blade looked infinitesimally small compared to the weapon that Ivar held in his huge hand. The dead knight surveyed the carnage he'd dealt out in just a few seconds and the same familiar grin crept back onto his taut grey face. He seemed truly pleased that he'd just killed four of the Queen's soldiers. The solitary city guard with the wavering blade stood firmly, fighting off the urge to run as far as he could, as fast as he could from certain doom.

  Ivar addressed him in a baritone that rattled deep within his dead chest, "Well done warrior. Your willingness to continue the fight, to draw your weapon and stand your ground has shown you to be a warrior who has earned more time alive. Rest assured that your compatriots will continue to serve the Queen in their death."

  The soldier lowered his sword, nodding in thanks to the knight that was sparing his life.

  "I shall tell your commanding officer of your deeds this day. Return to your unit. Serve the Queen steadfastly, and perhaps one day I will return to test your mettle again."

  The soldier ran away, horrified and relieved that he'd been given a reprieve by someone who held his mortality in his hands. Ivar and Malwynn watched as the man's legs pumped hard, taking him out of the fenced-in parade ground and past the wooden barracks buildings that housed more warriors. The man disappeared around one of the structures. Malwynn hoped he would live a good life. Second chances were rare in this world. He sighed deeply, and realized that the knight that had slain the four warriors was still in the field, no more than fifty feet away.

  The sudden proximity of Ivar's voice sent an electric charge through Malwynn. "You must be Malwynn Everwalk." Ivar had crossed the distance between the two of them in only a few seconds, and had done so in complete silence. Mal's eyes traced Ivar's path from the fresh corpses and counted only a score of footprints. His legs were long.

  As Ivar loomed above him, his dead white eyes surveying and judging him, Malwynn nodded, "You are Ivar Brodull then?"

  The undead warrior nodded, a lock of his stark white hair drifting across his forehead, and blowing aside again in the wind, "Ivar Brodull, Knight of the Order of the Purple Flower, servant of the Queen, and for a time, your martial instructor. I sincerely hope your skills exceed that of the four men that have joined the ranks of the dead tonight. Otherwise your training will be painfully short, and a complete waste of my time. Let us begin Malwynn Everwalk. Tell me of your skill with weapons, and do not exaggerate in the least."

  Malwynn shivered, unsure of whether or not it was the cold causing it, or the brutal chill that slipped off of Ivar like sheets of ice. He started telling Ivar his tale, and did not exaggerate in the least.

  That day Malwynn's sister was no more than a hundred yards away as the crow flies. She was in a different area of the barracks entirely; one dedicated to the manufacture and repair of arms and armor. The forges in the base were built near a small stream for access to cold water for quenching the raw steel. Several forges were arranged side by side in large stalls very similarly to a series of stables, though instead of horses or Gvorns, the stalls held smiths, and soldiers working as laborers for them for extra pay.

  The very last forge stall was left available for her use, and after she checked in briefly with the officer in charge of the area, she got to work. Since her and her brother's arrival and settling in at Dram's home she had sequestered herself away in the room she slept in. It was on an upper level of the manor, at the end of a long passage that had stone bookshelves running the entire length of it. Sorber had arranged for a sizeable collection of Artificer texts for her, and they rested on the shelves immediately outside her bedroom door

  No matter how clean they were, she was sickened by all of Dram's dead servants ponderously wandering the carved stone halls of the dreary home, so she took several of the books in her room, and locked the door. She knew the door wouldn't keep Dram out, but it was a terrific relief to hide behind the wide oak planks, and the sturdy iron locks. She'd rested on the plush, long unused bed and studied several of the texts that went into glorious detail on Artificer spells until she was blue in the face.

  Umaryn was never a bookworm. She was a far more able hands-on learner, and after giving herself five straight days of headaches reading, she was far overdue to put what she'd learned into practice. She had focused on a single, moderately powerful spell that she felt was within her grasp and current abilities. Umaryn could enchant weapons to be more deadly, this much she knew, and had already put that aptitude to use several times. The Chant of Sharpness was the traditional name for that particular spell she knew already. Her mission now was to start the process of mastering a new spell, one known as Strip in the books she'd read.

  Strip was, by the tome's definition and assessment, a slightly more powerful spell than the Chant she knew. It was a very different application of The Way, however. It required less nurturing of spirits like the Chants she knew, and instead more flat-out intimidation of them. To master Strip, she would need to frighten and scare a weapon's spirit at a moment's notice. She would have to scare a sword dull, frighten a bow weaker, and shock a mace soft. The effect might only last a few moments, but as she and her brother already knew, most battles were decided by only a few moments.

  The challenge was exhilarating. As she arrayed multiple weapons out on a large wooden table next to the idle heat of the forge, she wondered which weapons Omniri Decadra's men would be wielding when she and her brother finally went to kill him. As she picked up a dagger and prepared to attempt the spell for the first time, she hoped he and his minions would be arrogant. The joy of watching their weapons fail them in mid-battle would be an excellent treat right before they died.

  She prayed to her ancestors that she could master this spell, and a few more before it came time to take on the man responsible for the deaths of everyone in New Picknell.

  Three of the Queen's soldiers sat together at a meal table in the mess hall of the barracks several days later. They ate quietly in a crowded room of uniformed ruffians. The Amaranthine military was a collection of all walks of Empire life; poor and rich the same. These men had risen through the ranks a bit, and were Sergeants in the Queen's army.

  One of the three Sergeants sat his tin fork down on his wooden plate and finished chewing a mouthful of a meat he wasn't entirely sure was chicken as advertised. He had a perplexed and worried look to his face as he chewed. One of the other men caught his expression, and inquired.

  "Oi, what's wrong? Eat another fingernail in the mashed?" He asked.

  The quizzical man laughed a bit before shaking his head and replying, "No, no fingernail. I was just thinking that I thought I saw someone the other day. Been bothering me."

  "Of course you saw someone the other day. We eat lunch every day here together. Someone important you mean?" The third soldier, a beast of man said.

  "Yeah. You remember that pretty waitress from T
he Salon named Isabel? I swear I saw her on base here the other day. I wasn't sure, I'm still not sure actually, but the more I think about it… I think it was her. Or her damn sister." The man picked up his cheap fork and shoveled in another mouthful of mashed potatoes and mystery meat.

  The larger man leaned in very seriously, "The same bitch that we saw leave with Captain Drogal the last night anyone saw him?"

  "Yeah, I think it was her. Same slut."

  The largest man of the three moved food around on his plate with his fork, his own expression hardening, "Where was she Eli? She paying a whore's visit to an officer? Sucking some cock for Crowns?"

  Eli responded, "I saw her over at the forge area working on some kind of weapon. She was riding out on a horse not long after. Hard to identify her exactly fully clothed and all. Not used to seeing her that way."

  The giant nodded, probing his mouth with an angry tongue. "Show me tomorrow. If it's her, I say we make a plan to snatch her and find out what the hell happened to the Captain. Worst case, we get a piece of ass and hand her over to the Necromancer's Guild as a fresh body."

  The trio nodded, and returned to their quiet meal in the loud room.

  "No. You are doing it wrong. Your power does not come from your arms, moron. It comes from your hips, and your legs. Here, like this," Ivar said firmly.

  Malwynn and the undead knight were in an indoor amphitheatre at the Queen's barracks. Ivar had moved them inside due to a series of snowstorms that made sparring outdoors very difficult. Visibility was next to nil in the flurries, and Malwynn's still living body struggled with the cold. Ivar clearly had no concern for freezing solid, or his own personal comfort, but at least he was cognizant of Malwynn's frailties.

  "Sorry Ivar," Malwynn said. The massive knight walked through several strokes with his powerful longsword to properly perform the technique they had been working on for several days. Ivar was an impatient teacher, made even more difficult to study under because of his attention to detail, and drive for perfection out of Malwynn.

  Ivar stopped his repetitive swings to address Malwynn, "Do not apologize to me. Your patriarch has seen to me being available to you for some time, and wasting your energy attempting to apologize only wastes his efforts, and my time. Focus on what I do, and how I do it, and then do it exactly the same. Do it until you no longer need to think about doing it. Do it until it simply is the way you do it."

  Malwynn nodded and went back to watching Ivar's form. He admired how the deceased knight twisted his hips and put extra force into the swing. Ivar's motion was natural, and powerful. Malwynn hoped that soon, very soon, he would master the technique as well.

  "That bitch can work The Way? You think she's actually doing it or you think she's plum crazy and seeing things?" The soldier Eli said to his two sergeant cohorts in the deep and drifting snow. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind whistling between and through the barracks buildings. The three Sergeants had braved another heavy squall to sneak over to the forges and steal a peek at the woman they thought was Isabel.

  It took them nearly an hour of glaring through the swells of puffy white snow to come to the conclusion that it was indeed her.

  The mammoth Sergeant was made larger by a heavy wolf fur wrapped around his body. It did little to warm him, but did see to him seeming even more threatening. He looked like barely restrained violence. "An Artificer. She's an Artificer. She's working The Way in a damn forge idiots."

  "You think she's dangerous? You think she's powerful with The Way?" One of the lesser Sergeants asked, his eyes locked onto the small stall forge Umaryn worked away in.

  "I'll tell you this; I'm a lot less worried about The Way with her, and a lot more worried about that purple sash she's got on that work table where her coat is. I'm starting to wonder who she is exactly to be able to wear purple and not get strung up for it."

  "An Inquisitor?"

  The giant shook his head slowly, "No. She's too young to be an Inquisitor. We need to watch her more. Follow her. Find out what she's really doing here, and who tucks her in at night. Then if she makes any mistakes, we snatch her up and find out what happened to the Captain."

  "We could just ask her."

  "We could also broadcast to the world that we're thinking about taking out someone wearing purple. No, no." The massive soldier turned around and started to walk back towards the part of the barracks that they belonged in. The others turned and followed suit.

  "I don’t understand you Dram. You seek the impossible. How is it you plan on motivating people that have nothing left to lose?" Ivar asked.

  Dram bridged his fingers, "You show them how to take something away from someone they hate Ivar. At the end of the day when you've nothing left, you always have that."

  Ivar's pale white eyes took in the Inquisitor, and he nodded.

  Umaryn had a short sword in a vise that was mounted on her forge's work table. The blade was horizontal, hanging out into the air with the edge upward. Wrapped in heavy paper on the bench the vise was attached to were large cuts of heavy meat. She'd stopped by a butcher's shop on her way to the forge that morning and got the meat for this experiment, and dinner later that night. She'd made sure to stay far away from Quality Meats, Cheap for her purchase.

  She took the paper and unwrapped it from the food, freeing up a large piece of the meat. A thigh from a lamb. This part of the experiment was moot, but she went through the motions anyway. Taking the chunk of flesh she dragged it along the edge of the sword slowly, letting the razor sharp edge of the blade bite into the cold pink meat. By the time the piece of flesh reached the sword's tip it had been cut completely through. She caught the falling chunk deftly in her hand and smiled. She'd already known the sword was sharp.

  Umaryn put the flesh back on the paper and prepared to cast her spell. She'd tried many different avenues to cast Strip. She'd tried scaring the weapons, ridiculing them, shocking them, and other ideas. She'd tried a slow build up too, but her minimal success had been best achieved with a fast utterance of unintelligible words, and a quickly clenched fist. She wasn't sure why that gesture, with that strange word worked, but somehow it did.

  Umaryn took a few steps around to ready herself mentally. Pacing helped her focus. In the future, she wanted to trim down the time it was taking her to channel The Way in her mind, but for now, this would be a good starting point. She stopped pacing suddenly and faced the naked sword blade. She stared at it for few seconds then barked out the strange collection of syllables that worked best for her.

  "Ichthyorak!" She spat the word out like acid at the blade, and then snapped her fingers shut in a clenched fist. Deep inside her mind and down in the rumble of her stomach she felt a warm sensation, almost like a surge of warmth, or sudden rush of cold. It was inexplicable, but she knew exactly what it was: The Way.

  After the release of the minimal energy she'd brought about nothing changed. The sword didn't melt into nothingness, and it certainly didn't bend towards the forge's floor like a child's handful of taffy. Umaryn hoped her spell had worked. She went to the unraveled paper on the work bench and grabbed a second piece of meat. Just the same as the first piece she gently dragged it along the blade, allowing that same razor sharp edge to bite into the meat, to cut it in two again.

  Except it didn't.

  When she pulled the meat away from the blade it was still in one piece. Her examination of the lamb thigh showed there wasn't even the slightest cut from the sword. Her heart now racing, she pulled the meat along the blade again, then once more. Feeling confident, she drew her finger gingerly but firmly along the edge of the short sword. There was no sharpness to the blade's edge anymore.

  She was positively giddy.

  Umaryn danced around the forge for a minute or two, elated at her achievement. She knew the sword was still dangerous, even dull, but the sudden change in the weapon's effectiveness would be a huge advantage in a fight. She went back to the sword and slid the meat back and forth a few more times t
o ensure that she wasn't going crazy. The meat moved along the rail of the blade like a rag over a polished metal railing. On the fifth pass through, she felt the blade's edge return, and the meat bog down on the weapon. She felt some of her glee fade, but now she knew how long her spell would last. She put the meat to the sword once more, and cut the final two steaks she and her brother would eat at dinner later that night. She couldn't wait to tell him all about it.

  The Everwalk twins were in Dram's massive dining hall sharing their meal of steak, boiled cabbage and carrots. They were both excited about the day.

  "That's incredible. So amazing. How much longer do you think you'll need to be able to cast it in a fight? Like, really quickly?" Malwynn asked right before he shoveled another bite of the steak into his mouth.

  She finished chewing through a smile before replying, "A week, maybe two. I've decided I'll work on casting that spell three times each day at the forge to fine tune it, as well as starting to work on a second new spell."

  Malwynn perked up, "Another new spell? What's this one all about?"

  Umaryn smiled slyly, "It's pretty straightforward. It's an old offensive Artificer spell that the Guild uses. It's called Rope of Iron."

  "Rope of Iron?" Mal sounded less than impressed.

  "I know it doesn't sound all that impressive. But Mal, it allows you to turn normal, flexible rope into steel-like cable, or a metal staff." Umaryn took another bite of food.

  "How the hell is steel cable going to help us?" Mal asked, genuinely missing any value in the spell his sister was going to try and learn.