Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  One annoyance from his quick trip to watch Kyrus back in Kadris was that Rashan had forbade attempting the spell again until they understood how it had happened. He had gone so far as to indicate he would help Kyrus to learn how to control his Source. The prospect of Kyrus learning proper magic without Brannis having to read him bedtime stories out of the Tower of Contemplation’s libraries was a welcome relief. Brannis had enough to work on between reading reports, devising strategies for the war with Megrenn, sketching designs for airships, and learning how to rune-forge weapons in the style of the stone folk. When he thought about it, it was amazing he had time to spare for breathing amidst all that.

  I suppose I will learn whether I spread myself too thinly when the reports all come back with losses on the battlefields, airships begin falling from the skies, and that rune-forged sword snaps in Iridan’s hand when first he wields it in a real battle. It would be just his luck.

  Brannis was somewhat surprised to find that he had slept undisturbed. At the least, he had expected to find Kyrus’s two little imps curled up nearby. Brannis poked his head outside the hut, and saw that Gahalu was sitting with his back against the wall, keeping the others away.

  “You are awake. Good. You have a small problem,” Gahalu told him, climbing to his feet and brushing sand and dirt from his legs.

  “You mean in addition to being stranded here because Spirit Man Kyrus cannot aim his magic?” Brannis hoped he did not offend Gahalu by slighting the Denku’s “spirit man,” but he felt he had a rather special privilege in that regard, being his twin. “Any new problem is going to have to get in line behind that one.”

  Gahalu chuckled. “As I said, a small problem. Gaktu wants to challenge you. You are an outsider, uninvited, and showed great strength when you broke that rock thing that came with you.”

  Gaktu? Brannis searched his memories to place a face with that name, which sounded familiar. Ahh, the hunter with the necklace of panther teeth, he recalled.

  “It did not belong in this world. If a ship comes, I want them to find nothing but a lost traveler looking for passage to the mainland. I want no mysteries to make them wary of me. So why does Gaktu want to challenge me? If everyone saw what I can do with that sword, why would he want to fight me?” Brannis wondered.

  “To prove he is the best hunter. A panther’s claws will cut a man’s neck with one swipe. A boar’s tusk will open his gut. A hunter lives by avoiding the weapons of his prey. The more dangerous the prey, the more the hunter proves himself. Gaktu is one among many who are saying you are a spirit who escaped the spirit world when Kyrus left. To kill a spirit would have his name told in stories long after he is dead,” Gahalu explained, putting a hand on Brannis’s shoulder.

  “The Denku revere the spirits,” Brannis protested. “Why would he be honored for killing one? And besides, I am no spirit. I am a man, like you, or like Kyrus. I am just a man far from home.”

  “I believe you are a man, and no spirit. And, yes, we revere the good spirits. They are not saying you are a good spirit.”

  * * * * * * * *

  Brannis stood across an empty expanse of the village center, perhaps a dozen paces, and stared down his opponent. He had considered donning his armor, and allowing the Denku hunter free rein to jab ineffectually at him with a spear, but thought better of it. If he were to do that, he would never be able to take off the armor while he was on the island, lest they wait to catch him without it for a rematch. Avalanche was still sheathed at his side; Brannis did not want to kill Gaktu if he could help it.

  “You want kill me,” Brannis called out, feeling a tad more comfortable with Kyrus’s knowledge of Denku than when he had arrived, sleepy and disoriented. “I say you are killer of men, not hunter.”

  “Words will not save you, spirit,” Gaktu shouted back, loud enough to ensure everyone gathered to watch heard him.

  “You kill strangers. I do not kill hunters.” Brannis sat down on the ground. “Spirit Man Kyrus is my brother. I do not kill his friends.”

  “Coward.”

  “Friend,” Brannis corrected.

  “I have no spirits for friends. If you do not fight, I will just kill you.” Gaktu advanced threateningly at Brannis, who could not be certain whether the Denku hunter was bluffing.

  “Fine, then.” Brannis scrambled to his feet and drew Avalanche swiftly from its sheath.

  “Your slow blade is no match for my spear!” Gaktu boasted before all.

  Oh, Brannis realized, he saw me swinging it slowly so I did not send shards of rock everywhere. Brannis grinned, holding his sword out lazily in guard position, letting it drift back and forth at approximately the speed he had used to break the marble wall.

  Gaktu was cautious. Hunters lived longer lives when they made sure of their prey’s limits before striking. The Denku hunter made short jabs with his spear, testing Brannis’s reflexes. It was all Brannis could do to avoid letting his instincts take over and take a real swing in his defense.

  Not yet, Brannis thought. Not yet.

  When Brannis judged that Gaktu had made just the right sort of strike, a straight thrust that reached just inside Avalanche’s reach, he sprang into action. The sluggish, drifting sword became a blur of motion faster than Gaktu could react to. The first swipe chopped the tip off the spear. The second halved its length. As Gaktu stumbled backward in surprise, Brannis deftly cut between his wide-spaced grip and left his opponent with two short, splintered sticks in his hand, each the size of a tent stake.

  Brannis punched out with the cross guard of the sword, pulling the blow just as it connected with Gaktu’s chest. It was still enough to take the hunter from his feet and deposit him jarringly on his back.

  “I win,” Brannis stated.

  He sheathed Avalanche, making it clear that he had no intention of fighting to the death. Then he offered a hand to help Gaktu rise, but the hunter’s pride—and ribs—were too badly hurt to accept. That was something Brannis could understand, until he saw the look Gaktu gave him. It was filled with fear and hatred, and was more than Brannis could ignore.

  Reaching down as Gaktu cowered and tried to defend himself, Brannis grabbed the necklace Gaktu wore and snapped the leather thong. Letting it hang by one end, the panther teeth slid off and fell to the dirt all around the defeated hunter.

  “You are not ready to be first hunter when Fannu becomes elder,” Brannis told Gaktu, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Fannu can tell what is prey and what is friend.”

  That should have been “who,” but I think they understood me.

  * * * * * * * *

  Brannis dined by his hut that night, on a bowl of fish and mango stew that Gahalu brought to him. It was tasty, with a sweet saltiness so prevalent in Denku cooking, but a far ride from the feasting that had accompanied Spirit Man Kyrus’s arrival.

  “You made enemies today,” Gahalu told him, sitting by Brannis’s side as the itinerant knight ate his supper.

  “Gaktu is no more an enemy now than when he first tried to kill me,” Brannis reasoned, talking around a mouthful of stew. If Brannis had any thought of the rudeness of speaking with a full mouth, it was mitigated by the fact that he was hungry and a new spoonful of stew replaced each that was swallowed with little break between.

  “You broke his necklace. You shamed him,” Gahalu explained. “You had beaten him. You could have left it at that.”

  “You should have seen the look in his eyes when I offered him help standing. It made me angry. He made a fool’s mistake and I made one in turn.” Brannis sighed. “I could have killed him, if that was my way, and I thought giving him his life ought to have earned me his thanks. Would I have made fewer enemies if I had killed him instead?” Brannis asked, genuinely curious as to the Denku custom on ending challenges.

  “Perhaps. You certainly would have made one fewer,” Gahalu joked, trying to ease the mood. “But I think perhaps to simply have walked away may have been best. He could not challenge you again without looking foolis
h, and if he attacked you by surprise, he would mark himself as a coward.”

  “Well, I have made enemies before. Hopefully I can mend that garment over time. I like to have a clean conscience. I sleep well. I think any man who lives his life right should and I would not want to lose that,” Brannis said, staring vaguely off into the jungle rather than at his companion.

  “Well enough,” Gahalu said, rising to his feet. “One other thing. The fishermen pulled ashore with word of a ship on the horizon.”

  Brannis perked up. “A ship? Is it headed this way?”

  Oh, Kyrus, your timing could not have been worse. Another day or two and you might have gotten off this island and back to Acardia, instead of Kadrin.

  “It fights the wind, but yes. The night will be too treacherous to land without help. I doubt they will even get close enough tonight to try. Get sleep and take your leave of us in the morning, if they will have you. I think it would be best if they will take you. Spirit Man Kyrus never caused this trouble you brought,” Gahalu said, seeming colder toward Brannis than he ever had seemed to Kyrus.

  “Well, do not let them leave without me,” Brannis joked, informing Gahalu that he knew how Kyrus had come to be stranded on Denku Appa in the first place.

  “Have no worry. Toktu will be just as happy with you gone. He liked Spirit Man Kyrus, but I do not think he would go to any effort to keep you here, spirit or not.”

  * * * * * * * *

  Brannis had thought to get one night of peaceful sleep all to himself before departing on the morrow, but the thought was not destined to last. Giggling outside his hut broke him free of that drifting place where the mind waits idly for slumber to overtake it. His thoughts instantly went to Tippu and Kahli, Kyrus’s seductive little admirers. He almost had to grudgingly admire their persistence, but he quickly realized there were more than just two awaiting him outside.

  Brannis took their bait and rose to see what was transpiring without. There were a dozen or so girls, clad in … Well, by any Kadrin standard of decency, essentially they were not clad, except in the most nitpicking sense. They wore loincloths, beads, and bracelets, but Brannis saw it as a tawdry brothel turned inside out to deposit their wares in the sparse jungle. The Denku all dressed vaguely such, from old crones to fishermen, but intent made all the difference to Brannis’s way of thinking. The thoughts of the giggling throng were plainly written in eager eyes and coy smiles.

  Interestingly enough, Brannis saw no sign of either of Kyrus’s nemeses among the group. Quite possibly, they were the only unwed girls from the village not present. The nervous, conspiratorial whispers ceased when they saw Brannis emerge from the hut, becoming a cacophony of shrill, incomprehensible Denku language that Brannis only guessed at the meaning of by context.

  Brannis held up a hand in front of him and was grateful that the gesture to stop was universal enough for Denku to have adopted it. The girls’ propositions, questions, and promises slowed to a halt as they waited for Brannis to say something in response.

  “Wait here,” Brannis told them.

  They looked confused, but none wanted to give offense and upset him. There was a competition of sorts afoot and Brannis meant to settle it cleanly. He took a rock with something resembling a point and drew a long line in the dirt in front of the girls. By gestures, he got the point across that they were to line up along it.

  “I pick one girl. I pick, not you. Understand?” Brannis asked. Heads nodded obediently and enthusiastically. One girl started babbling a question, but Brannis cut her off with an imperious gesture. “Not you.” He pointed back toward the village. “Go.”

  The rest of the girls kept quiet as thieves as Brannis made his way up and down the line, making a show of looking them over. “I will pick one girl tonight. Any girl I do not pick, no argue. Understand?” Again, there was nodding.

  As Brannis inspected them, one by one he sent them back to the village, never giving a particular reason, but leaving the impression that they had failed some test, were lacking a certain something he craved. Most bore the rejection with resignation. A few cried softly—their own doing, by Brannis’s logic.

  At last, he left himself with the shyest, least annoying of the girls—possibly the youngest, though he would have been hard pressed to divine her age. She stood rigidly at attention, not lifting her gaze to meet Brannis’s.

  Brannis lifted her chin, and looked her in the eyes when he spoke to her. “At home, I have a girl I love. I choose her. Tonight, if you be quiet, you can sleep in the hut. Tomorrow, I leave on a boat. You can tell other girls anything. Make a good story.” Brannis smiled gently. He had no further trouble falling asleep that night and made a young Denku girl the envy of her friends.

  Chapter 16 - Hide and Seek

  “He was about yea high.” A soft and fluff-faced tavern keeper held a stubby-fingered hand at chest height. “Hair a bit darker than hay, mayhaps. Built like a stick, but then so many boys are at that age, eh?” The man tried a bit of humor but it fell short in the face of the three very serious men to whom he was speaking.

  “What did he carry with him? What was he wearing?” Jinzan Fehr asked in a low voice. He was dressed in the garb of the night guards to attract less attention as he made his way about the city. Black lacquered mail and doublet, dark grey hood and trousers. The truncheon and short sword at his belt were as useful as horseshoes on a monohorn, but he carried them to complete the disguise. He made no secret of his identity to those he encountered, but as one of the Liberators, he drew greetings and well-wishes as he walked down any street. For his purposes, that would have been counterproductive.

  “Little lad was all in his feast-day best—’cepting of course he prob’ly dresses like that most days, being yours and all. He was scuffed and dirty like he’d been out playin’ in the streets. Had himself a walking stick, fancy as beat all. Carried it around like a parade banner, though, he did, usin’ both hands and keepin’ it away from his body, like so,” the keeper replied, mimicking the manner he described.

  “Did you speak to him, or try to apprehend him?” Jinzan persisted. He was not angry with the tavern keeper, but a hint of desperation in his voice might have led one to think that he was.

  “No, High Councilor. I heard the rumors of folk turnin’ up dead and kept my mouth shut. Made like I didn’t see him at all. He looked right at me—but not in the eye—and just kept on about whatever business he had. Never said a word or nothin’.” The nervous keeper pulled a bar rag from his pocket and wiped at his brow.

  “Where did he go from here?” Jinzan asked, staring intently at the keeper across his own bar. It was the first fresh sighting they had found in days and he could ill afford to squander it. The animate dead they had been finding in Anzik’s wake were less than helpful when it came to answering questions.

  “He rummaged a bit in the kitchen and left out the back way. I went straight to find a guardsman after that,” the man half-pleaded.

  Jinzan did not wait to make an apology for scaring the man, who had done no wrong. He strode to the door and stormed through into the kitchen. “For your help,” one of Jinzan’s similarly garbed companions said, leaving a weighty purse of gold on the bar. They were there to aid High Councilor Fehr in whatever way he required, including smoothing over the feelings of distraught informants.

  The kitchens were dark, save for the starlight that came through the open window. Jinzan lit the room like daylight with a quick gesture. A stack of bowls had been upset, and there was a puddle of thick, brown broth on the floor near the stew pot. Jinzan looked into the pot and saw that the ladle had been left in carelessly, covering it with cold stew, handle and all.

  At least he is remembering to eat, even if he is acting a pig about it.

  Jinzan walked out the back door and into the narrow back alley behind the tavern. There was no sign of any boy. It was late night even by Zorren’s cosmopolitan standards, with even the drunkards and whores abed. The only sounds were the far-off rush of the San
tar River and the caterwauling of a cat in heat. When his two companions emerged from the tavern to join him, Jinzan picked a direction and took off, trusting to luck in the absence of a solid lead to follow.

  They had come so close.

  * * * * * * * *

  Shadow to shadow, Tod made his way over to where Jodoul had hidden himself. “What sort of cat was that supposed to be? You thinkin’ that’s what a dead one would sound like?” Tod whispered sarcastically. The two were dressed plainly in dark greys and browns. Both were from a school of skulking that liked having answers to angry questions about why one might be nosing about in the dark. None of the answers to those questions bore as much credibility when the answerer was dressed in nothing but black. It was a suspicious color, and not a lot better for hiding than the dark drabs they had chosen instead.

  “Worked, dinnit?” Jodoul snapped quietly. “They just went off that way, but I think they were guessin’. They seemed all hot and eager headin’ in, like they was owed money from some fella in there. They come out slow, look around a bit, wander off. Think the kid bobbed ’em again.”

  “Well, we can sneak after ’em rest o’ the night and hope that sorcerer don’t get wind of us up his breeches, hopin’ he gets lucky, or we can head back and tell Faolen ’n’ see if he’s got a better idea,” Tod suggested, clearly favoring the latter option. Neither of them relished the thought of tailing a sorcerer of the renown of Jinzan Fehr. They had never heard of him back home, but everyone in Megrenn knew his name. The trouble with sorcerers was that they could see out the back of their heads and even through walls with their magic vision; one could never be certain when they would try looking.

  “Yeah, let Faolen run around chasin’ famous sorcerers if he likes. I’ll run the docks and card-halls all night every night if’n he wants me to, but I’m not fer sticking my neck under an axe on the chance we get lucky the night they stumble on the kid,” Jodoul said.

  The two kept to the alleyways and backstreets of Zorren as they departed, safe from death at the hands of the Megrenn magic for one more night.