Aethersmith (Book 2) (61 page)

“Well, I do not know quite how to get into this, but since
the part I was worried about appears to have gone well, I may as well venture
it: I think there is a possibility that there is a conspiracy at work here,”
Brannis said. He found his heart still thumping in his chest, and suspected
that his face was still pink, but he was beginning to feel his guts unclenching
from the knot he had tied them in.

“Brannis, you already explained that one. Kadrin has been
rife with conspiracies since long before either of us was born.”

“No,
here
.”

“Here in Tellurak?” Soria asked.

“
Here
! Scar Harbor,” Brannis said. “I think there may
be twinborn at work that we do not know about.”

“Who do you suspect?”

“I am not certain, but I think Rashan may be at the heart of
it. He hinted that he once led a cabal of spies who passed information between
worlds. I do not know who he has running this side of it, but I suspect Abbiley
may be a pawn in this.”

“Why her? It seems to be a bit of a convoluted plan, don’t
you think? I mean, what are the odds you would even head back here to find out
about her? Coming back here—without backup like me and Rakashi at least—would
be foolhardy. And how would they even know about her?”

“Rashan knows. We got to talking one night—he was in his
cups, which seemed odd all to itself. He told me about his life in Acardia when
he was young; we compared how Scar Harbor looked then and now. He told me about
a girl he once loved, a long time ago—”

“And of course, you told him all about the artist girl,”
Soria finished for him.

“Yes, but showed him, too. He taught me an illusion spell
that night. We used them to put pictures to our stories. I even gave him her name,”
Brannis said, shaking his head. “I could have accidentally put her in danger.
There is this look Rashan gets in his eyes when he looks at me now, looks at
Kyrus, that is. I think he is wary of me, and I think he might use Abbiley as a
hostage to ensure his safety.”

“Seems a bit paranoid, even for a twinborn. You’re learning
to think of this sort of thing at least. That’s a start. Ever consider that you
wouldn’t know what became of her if you never checked, and that your ignorance
would have protected her from becoming a hostage?”

“Oh, I did not need to come back here to find out about her,
just to check on her, and possibly protect her. Abbiley seems to have been an
even later bloom that I was.”

“Wait. Are you saying she is twinborn too?” Soria seemed incredulous.
She came over and sat beside Brannis on the bed. “Do you know who else she is?”
Brannis said nothing, but a look of dawning realization widened Soria’s eyes,
quickly changing to a look of displeasure as she wrinkled her nose. “No. Not
her
!”

“You noticed the resemblance, too?” Brannis ventured,
treading carefully.

“Oh, sure, cow’s teats, hips wide enough to birth a
monohorn, peasant teeth that whistle in the wind when she smiles. At least the
one in Veydrus has magic enough to fix her teeth and complexion,” Soria ranted,
her speech accelerating and gaining momentum as she went. “It just figures that
the little harlot was always sniffing after you like a hunting dog. No wonder!
She was just following some leftover feeling from his artist girl. It’s not
like she ever had a real chance of—”

“Hey!” Brannis cut her off before she could get far enough
with her slanders to truly anger him. “I need to protect her. I might be the
one responsible for putting her in danger. I was able to get Juliana out of Kadris
before things got out of hand. I might have done something to protect Celia as
well, but for two things. Firstly, she is on a tight leash, working for Rashan,
and now for Caladris. Secondly, I had only one airship to give that did not
need a naval crew.”

“I doubt she would have known which end was up on a ship,”
Soria said.

“That is not the point. Kyrus gave it to
you
, not
her.”

“So you are saying Kyrus chose me? Not you?” Soria smiled,
but without her eyes lighting up the way they normally did.

“By the winds, Juliana, I chose you nine summers ago!”

Soria breathed a long sigh, releasing pent-up tension. The
lascivious look returned to her eyes as she turned toward Brannis.

* * * * * * * *

Their boarding-house room was small but clean. The dark wood
floors shone with well-worn varnish. The lath and plaster walls were painted
pale blue, giving the room an airy feel. A pair of bunk beds took up much of
the available floor space, the rooms being rented primarily to laborers,
migrants, and visitors to the city. It was not the sort of place to raise a
family, cook meals, or sit around in playing cards and dice—though the latter
had occurred far more often than the previous two activities.

Nevertheless, Wendell and Zellisan found themselves with a
small family of sorts: a would-be master, his intended apprentice, and … Zell,
who did not quite fit in anywhere yet.

Jadon wheezed slightly in his sleep, the only sign he
breathed at all, his thin chest moved so little as he slept, occupying the top
bunk, above where Wendell slept. It was early yet, and neither of the two
adults had any intention of slumber for some time yet. Wendell took occasional
pulls at a bottle of wine from the region they had just passed through.
Zellisan sipped a Takalish whiskey with too refined a flavor to it to waste on
gulping it down.

“Kid sleeps. I’ll credit him that much,” Zellisan remarked,
seated on the edge of his bunk. The wooden frame creaked at his every movement,
protesting the over-large Acardian’s heft.

“Just give him time. You cannot imagine what it ish like,
living with two worlds before your eyes at the … at the same … at once. We need
to help him sheparate the two in his mind. I think today was a good shign,”
Wendell replied. He thumped his fist against his chest, trying to quell the
burning feeling as the strong wine scorched its way down his throat. The
Takalish called it “partially distilled,” but it was more a liquor than a wine
to Faolen’s sensibilities.

“So … what? We wait for him to figure out which world is
which, and then what?” Zell asked, speaking slowly though remarkably clearly
for all the alcohol he had consumed.

“Anzik Fehr
has
the Staff of Gehlen. I just convince
him to give it to me. Shimple as … as that,” Wendell replied, managing to snap
his fingers. Being a magician had its advantages when drunk; certain muscles
just coordinated themselves without needing much brain involved.

“Well spit on me!” said Zellisan. “So all we gotta do is get
that one’s head cleared of lint and cowflops and … and … and whatever else is
up in there ... and we win? Hot biscuits!” Zell tilted back his expensive
whiskey, and took a long swig of it.

Wendell did not reply, but joined the undeclared toast in
honor of Kadrin victory, slinging back an eye-crossing amount of the distilled
wine. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes. In his stupor, he could not
quite settle on why.

It was not long before Zellisan was sprawled across his bed
at an uncomfortable-looking angle, atop the blankets, snoring like a bellows.
Wendell had an advantage that Zellisan could not compete with: a breezy
wake-me-up in the form of aether. Just a few simple illusions were enough to
freshen his mind temporarily. It was all he would need before collapsing in his
own turn.

Wendell climbed the first small steps up to the top bunk,
high enough that he could lean across the sleeping Jadon to whisper into his
ear.

“Anzik. Can you hear me? This is Faolen. I am the only voice
now. Give me the staff, and it will all be done.”

Wendell waited but got no response. He began to feel the
insistent pressure of the wine pitting its will against his own. He repeated
the message. Jadon stirred in his sleep.

“Where are you, Faolen?” Jadon murmured, still asleep.

Wendell smiled in relief. “I am at the High Council chamber.
Just go to the door, and ask for me. They will take the staff but it is all
right.”

Chapter 34 - Tides Turn

The morning dew was still wet upon the grassy hilltop as
General Hellmock dismounted his horse. He noted, with the curious guilt of
someone about to commit an act of desecration, just how beautiful the Kadrin
countryside was in early springtime. He held a hand out to his side, upturned,
not looking back as someone placed a farseeing lens in his grasp. His gaze was
fixed out on the mass of troops positioned to block his army’s advance.

Adjusting the tube until the blur sharpened into focus, he
took a census of the enemy before him. Arrayed in red and gold, with plate
armor gleaming where it peeked from beneath their uniforms, were real Kadrin
infantry. They were not conscripts, he realized, but a knot of the standing
army that Kadrin still kept. His practiced eye counted by thousands, coming to
a conclusion that ten was as good a number as he was likely to assign them,
milling about in preparation for an assault. Of course, not all of them were
infantrymen, just the ones foremost. Mixed among them were archers, catapult
crews, a smaller number of perhaps a hundred or so knight-led cavalry. No doubt
as well, there would be sorcerers among them. Aside from the trap laid at
Temble Hill, there had been members of the thrice-accursed Imperial Circle
opposing them at every turn. The Ghelkan sorcerers helped a great deal, but
always seemed outmatched. His troops always paid in blood to even the odds.

Still, the Kadrin numbers did not concern him. His forces
outnumbered theirs fivefold, and with monohorns as well. A handful of
stripe-cats would serve as flankers, mostly to keep the Kadrin force from
repositioning freely, but the terrain made them less than essential for the coming
battle.

The Kadrins had chosen the battlefield, a low-lying flatland
alongside the Thadagar River, between the forest's thick tangle and the water’s
edge. It meant that the Kadrin generals were learning from their earlier
defeats. Not content to sit behind the walls of Pevett while cannons worked to
pound those same walls to dust, they had decided to meet Megrenn’s forces in
the open field—or at least in the field, for the battlefield was as narrow as
Hellmock could remember encountering.

As Hellmock continued perusing the Kadrin assemblage, a few
of his officers cried out. General Hellmock took the tube of the farseeing lens
from his eye, and followed their gazes and pointed fingers. It was one of the
Kadrin airships. It circled about, never coming near enough to the Megrenn
forces for him to consider ordering archers or cannons to fire upon it. It
landed in the midst of the Kadrin host, soldiers scrambling out of the way to
make room.

A cheer rose from the Kadrin camp, the sound carrying over
the distance to where Hellmock and his officers stood. The ragged, disorganized
cheer faded into a chant. There were two syllables to it, but between the
distance and the language barrier, Hellmock could not tell what they were
chanting. He looked to his officers, but was met with shrugs and shaking heads.

The Kadrin forces began furious activity, men shifting all
about down in the floodplain of the Thadagar. Hellmock took up his lens once
again, and saw that they were forming up ranks, infantry at the fore.

Hellmock was puzzled. The Kadrins would have plenty of time
to set their defenses once they saw his own troops begin their advance. Had
some high general been flown up from Kadris, and was now mucking about, making
his troops wait in formation until the Megrenn decided to attack? Hellmock
nearly considered making them stand there in armor for a few hours, just to
tire their feet before the assault. But no …

The Kadrin infantry began to move. They were launching an
assault of their own!
Why would they take up a defensive position, only to
give it up just before we attack?

“Send down the orders for the monohorns to meet the Kadrin
advance,” Hellmock shouted. From his high vantage, he watched his own forces
array themselves. The monohorn cavalry ought to be more than a match for the
Kadrin infantry, with the Ghelkans countering whatever tricks of magic they no
doubt had in mind.

The Kadrin line slowed when the monohorns began their own
advance. The pause was noticeable but brief, as the troops—with admirable
discipline—resumed their pace. Horse-mounted sorcerers rode at the ready behind
the monohorns, on guard for deceit.

They were not enough.

Before the monohorns reached the Kadrin front line, the
beasts, under full gallop, lifted into the air. The Kadrin advance halted. A
lone figure walked out before all the infantrymen, small, clad in black. The
two dozen monohorns held aloft by magic were hurled back, lobbed
shrieking—beast and man alike—into the body of the Megrenn army. The ground
shook. Panic spread. Men died.

What little Kadrin that Hellmock understood had a military
bent to it. He understood every word when a magically enhanced voice boomed out
over the battlefield:

“DEATH TO THE MEGRENN! NO SURVIVORS!”

The Kadrin infantry charged, full run, toward the suddenly exposed
Ghelkan sorcerers. The sorcerers fired off spells of lightning and aether
before turning their horses to flee. A magical barrier stopped each assault,
leaving the Kadrin forces unscathed.

The black-clad figure was faster than all the rest, and
brooked no comparison. He chased down the horses, butchering steed and rider
with his sword, only a handful surviving to reach the Megrenn main force. Far
from daunted by the prospect of being amid a host of fifty thousand enemy
soldiers, the black-clad sorcerer plowed into their ranks, blade leading.
Bodies fell and blood flew in sprays.

Kthoom. Kthoom. Kthoom. Kthoom.

The body of the Kadrin sorcerer was thrown like an angry
child’s doll, tumbling end over end through the air to land in a heap before
the astonished Kadrin infantry. The soldiers stopped short of where their
champion had fallen, unsure what the sorcerer’s death boded for them.

Hellmock’s mouth went dry; his throat tightened as if
physically gripped by the fear he felt. The Kadrin sorcerer stood, unsteadily
at first, and brushed himself off. Bereft of weapon, he raised his arms slowly,
palms upturned. It seemed then that half the Megrenn army caught fire as flames
rose up from the ground over a wide expanse of the riverside.

The men nearest the Thadagar sought refuge in its deep, slow
currents, armor or no. The Kadrins nearest the sorcerer fell back as well, as a
pair closest to him collapsed. Hellmock knew little enough about sorcerers and
how they worked their magic, but he suspected the sorcerer to have affected
their doom as collateral damage.

No, not sorcerer
, Hellmock thought,
demon.
Warlock Rashan Solaran had come to personally destroy his army. He watched
helplessly, passively, as the doom engulfed them all. It would be his turn soon
enough, he realized.

* * * * * * * *

Donnel’s Fort was a small township on the border of the
ogrelands, with little strategic value. It would have been swept up eventually,
along with all the other places that would be cut off from Kadrin support by
the loss of the major cities and crossroads. It was walled in stone, high
enough that ogres of the neighboring tribes could not just grab the top, and
vault themselves over. There was a possibility of a sorcerer or two dwelling
among the residents, depending on whom they had crossed among the upper
echelons of the Imperial Circle.

Jinzan’s transference spell had deposited him just outside
the city gates, which stood open in the daylight hours as folk who worked
outside the walls preferred easy access—primarily woodsmen and farmers. Scouts
on the wooden towers just inside the wall were on constant alert for ogre
raids, for the brutes hated Kadrin for encroaching on what they viewed as their
own lands.

Those scouts spotted Jinzan appearing out of nothingness. No
one knew what to make of him. Sorcerers usually brought ill tidings, not
because they were enemies, but because they came with edicts from the Circle.
To men who lived under the constant threat of ogre attack, the Circle was still
more feared.

“Who goes there?” one of the scouts shouted down in Kadrin.

Jinzan looked up into the youthful, pale face of the spotter
of ogres. He wore a plain brown tunic, not the heraldry of the Kadrin army, but
that did not mean that he was not a soldier. Ogres saw the color red better than
most others, and anyone hoping to avoid their notice took care to avoid it.

“…” Jinzan thought to reply, but wondered what he could
possibly say that would be anything but lies or self-important bluster. He
turned his attention to the staff in his hands. The white wood was smooth
against his fingers, carved with runes thousands of summers old, with angular
“wings” of wood sprouting from the top. It smelled incongruously of sewage, but
that would not last, especially once Jinzan took the time to give it a thorough
cleaning.

Jinzan drew.

The scouts clearly felt the effects, bracing themselves
against the wooden railings of their tower as they felt an airless wind blowing
past and through them. There was no physical force behind it, but most folk
were unused to the feel of the aether, oblivious to it until it flowed like the
waters of a burst dam around them.

“To arms! We are under attack!” the scout shouted, with
every bit of breath in his lungs. His companion took hold of a rope and pulled,
ringing a bell hidden up under the roof of the tower.

“Eehu dolkavi esfenetor gelex pinudox,”
Jinzan
chanted, holding the Staff of Gehlen in one hand while thrusting the other
forth with a twisting motion.

Wind whipped about, scattering leaves and debris as a
cyclone formed. Faster and faster the winds blew, sucking at Jinzan’s clothing,
and pulling his cloak out taut in front of him. He was not near enough to the
tornado to feel the worst of its effects, though, and its movements obeyed his
commands as he directed it through the watchtower. Wood splintered and split,
chunks of the structure were wrenched off entirely. The two men in the tower
screamed, but their voices were barely audible above the roar of the magical
winds. The bell clanged a few final times as it was jerked about on its
supports before being ripped free of the tower along with the roof, and
devoured by the storm winds.

The rallying cry had prompted an admirably quick response
among the Kadrin defenders. Men with leather armor and long spears rushed
toward the town gates. Jinzan moved the twister into their path, a child’s
finger crushing and scattering ants as they emerged from their burrows. The
survivors moved in too many different directions for Jinzan to bother chasing
them all with the storm winds.

“Fetru oglo daxgak sevdu wenlu,
”
Jinzan spoke
as he pointed at a cluster of the militiamen. Forks of lightning stabbed from
his fingers, throwing the defenders of Donnel’s Fort into helpless convulsions
as they cooked.

By then, folk were fleeing the part of the town nearest to
Jinzan’s assault. A few hunters had taken shots at him with bows, but after
disposing of them, there had been no further retaliation. He watched as people
fled homes and workplaces, directing his spell over the vacated buildings,
leaving the ones with basements as nothing but foundations. The ones with
wooden or earthen floors were merely gone.

Jinzan allowed the women and any children of Anzik’s age and
younger to live, either to flee to other parts of Kadrin, into the ogrelands,
or to remain behind to try to rebuild.

Anzik
, Jinzan thought, distracting himself
inadvertently,
I will find you, my son. I know not what Faolen’s twin has
been telling you but I will welcome you home if you return.

The boy had left the Staff of Gehlen at the door to the High
Council chambers but fled when told he would be taken to see Jinzan. Anyone who
had been aware of the chase for the boy was wary of angering him, even without
the staff. He had escaped for the time being, but without the staff, even the
Kadrin illusionist’s help from the other side would not be enough to hide him
forever.

Jinzan left a message before he departed, burned into the
ground outside the city gate.

“Megrenn is your friend.”
The message was written in
ogreish.

* * * * * * * *

“Councilor Fehr,” a messenger approached him at a run,
panting for breath. “Word from the Pevett assault. Councilor Narsicann is
waiting for you in the Council chambers.” The messenger was a professional,
gasping out his missive between breaths.

“Very well. I will be there directly,” Jinzan replied. He
had just returned from Donnel’s Fort, and had not so much as changed out of the
boots he had worn, caked with mud and dirt from the Kadrin outpost’s
destruction. He turned to his wives, Nakah, Frenna, and Zaischelle—the latter
showing unmistakable signs of being with child—and made his farewell after so
brief a return. “I will return tonight. I think that whatever needs my
attention cannot take me from my home this night. With the Staff of Gehlen, I
might return most nights, even out on a campaign. I swear I will not let these
interruptions rule over our lives.”

“Just go, Jinzan. They need you,” Nakah said.

“If you do not, I swear I will name the babe after Narsicann
when he is born,” Zaischelle threatened, drawing a chuckle from Nakah and
Jinzan. She was by far the youngest of his wives, and the only one likely to
yet bear his children; this would be his first by her. He looked forward with
curiosity to see how much the babe resembled him, and how much he took after Zaischelle’s
Safschan heritage.

“Do what you need to do. Once Kadrin is burned, you can lay
about enjoying your victory,” Frenna added, souring the mood once more.