Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)
Firehurler
Book 1 of the Twinborn Trilogy
By J.S. Morin
Copyright © 2012 Magical Scrivener Press
All rights reserved.
Cover Art by Duncan Long
duncanlong.com
ISBN: 1-939233-01-1
ISBN-13: 978-1-939233-01-1
Dedication
To my mother.
For being there for the first words I ever wrote.
Here are the first words I ever published
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - The Forest Trap
Chapter 2 - Dawn of Morning
Chapter 3 - After the Bloodless Night
Chapter 4 - Disturbing Dreams
Chapter 5 - Hard Time
Chapter 6 - Flight from the Battlefield
Chapter 7 - Bearers of Bad News
Chapter 8 - A Magnificent Curse
Chapter 9 - A Walk in the Woods
Chapter 10 - The Time to Act
Chapter 11 - Old Habits
Chapter 12 - Masterless Apprentice
Chapter 13 - Returning Home
Chapter 14 - The Smell of Freedom
Chapter 15 - Rook Takes Pawn
Chapter 16 - Some Explaining to Do
Chapter 17 - For Lost Time
Chapter 18 - Usurpers Usurped
Chapter 19 - That Witch I Fear
Chapter 20 - I Am Indeed Me
Chapter 21 - On My Own Behalf
Chapter 22 - Good Help Is Hard to Find
Chapter 23 - Dragon Time
Chapter 24 - How to Start a War
Chapter 25 - Sorcerer Ahoy
Chapter 26 - For Old Times
Chapter 27 - Foreign Markets
Chapter 28 - Out in the Cold
Chapter 29 - Tour of Duty
Chapter 30 - Sand in the Dragon’s Eye
Chapter 31 - What’s in a Name?
Chapter 32 - Opening Salvo
Chapter 33 - Dragon Goddess
Chapter 34 - Rashan’s Bargain
Chapter 35 - That Awkward Morning After
Chapter 36 - A Feast for Heroes
Chapter 37 - The Last to Find Out
Chapter 38 - Solstice Feast
Chapter 39 - Letter Home
About The Author
Chapter 1 - The Forest Trap
With his breath coming in ragged gasps, the soldier crashed through the forest. He had ceased to hear any sound of pursuit several minutes ago, but he knew they were still coming. In his heavy chain armor, he also knew that the goblins would be able to keep up with him easily; they could afford to be stealthy. Of course, they had little need for stealth, as there were hundreds of goblins in the forests, spreading out to finish off the stragglers.
The screams of his dying comrades still rang in his ears. They were long, agonized cries, as the goblins ignored the mortally wounded to pursue those soldiers still able to run. He was one of those running. Running from the hopeless battle against a foe that had been expecting them. Running to keep from hearing those gut-wrenching screams coming from his own throat. Running with the hope of finding living allies before the goblins got him. Running from the slaughter that he had just witnessed …
* * * * * * * *
“Fine day, is it not, Sir Lugren?” Sir Brannis Solaran called out as he approached the older knight.
Brannis Solaran was the youngest of the knights sent into the Kelvie Forest to hunt for goblin scouting parties. He was also in charge of the Imperial Army’s Eighth Battalion, with one hundred men at his command. Brannis was tall and lean, traits common in his family, though he carried a great deal of muscle on his frame. There was not a man in camp who could do better than look him in the chin when standing face-to-face with him. His straw-colored hair hung loose down to his shoulders, framing a strong face with prominent cheekbones and a rather longish nose. A pair of bright green eyes peered out, wide and alert, seeming to study rather than just see.
Lugren had seen forty summers and was greying a bit at the temples but showed every sign of being in his physical prime. Broad and muscular, Lugren had served the Kadrin Empire for more than half that lifetime as a knight and before that as a squire. He turned to fix Brannis with dark brown eyes that showed a bit of eagerness in them.
“Fine day for swordplay, do you mean?” Sir Lugren asked in reply.
Lugren had a fondness for all things competitive, and recognized the spring in Brannis’s step as a sign that his commander was spoiling for a match. While Lugren was a loyal knight and served Brannis to the best of his abilities, it chafed at him that his commanding officer was little more than half his age. He enjoyed the chances he got to put the upstart in his place.
The youngest son of Maruk Solaran, one of the twelve members of the Inner Circle, Brannis had been expected to grow up to be a sorcerer. With Brannis born on the summer solstice under a confluence of unusual celestial events, High Sorcerer Gravis Archon had foretold that extraordinary powers lay in his future. What turned out to be there instead of sorcerous power was years of frustration and humiliation at the Imperial Academy, trying to learn magic without any real talent for it. When it was finally decided that Brannis would never blossom into the prodigy the high sorcerer had predicted, he was expelled. From there, after much argument with his stubborn father, he had managed to get himself accepted to the School of Arms, the path to the knighthood, and because of a keen mind for strategy, had risen through the ranks quickly.
“I do indeed,” Brannis said. “What say you?”
“Any time, sir,” Sir Lugren replied.
The older knight retrieved his sword and a special set of leather padding to cover the blade for the bout. While all the knights were given goblin-swords for combat against their foes, none left behind their “real” weapons. It was a matter of honor to carry a true sword at one’s hip, since the specialized swords for fighting the goblins looked ridiculously like pointed riding crops. Had the goblins’ reputation for quickness and ferocity not been so well known, most knights would have refused to carry them altogether.
Brannis borrowed a sword from Sir Aric and another set of padding for it. Using his own sword was out of the question. Brannis was the only knight in any of the three battalions in Kelvie Forest to have the good fortune of possessing an enchanted blade. Upon receiving his knighthood, his father had given him the sword, named “Massacre,” as a gift. It was an heirloom that a family of sorcerers had little need of. It was a misfit weapon, suitable for a misfit son; Brannis's father was happy enough to be rid of both. It had made him uneasy just to wield the blade when he had first gotten it. The sword was wickedly serrated down its entire length, and the hilt was carved to resemble a dragon breathing out the blade. When wielded, the blade glowed green except where the runes were etched into it, and a pale greenish mist hung from the sword and poisoned anything it touched other than the wielder. Even covered in padding, it could be lethal to use in a sparring match. Brannis had since grown accustomed to the sword’s brutal appearance, and accepted it as a remarkably effective weapon when used properly.
Sliding the padding over his borrowed sword and tying it securely to the cross guard, Brannis circled his opponent. Lugren likewise circled his young commander, his sword held in front of him in a guard position. Lugren was an excellent swordsman, and he watched for his commander to make the first move, preparing to counter. While Brannis was easily the strongest of the knights in the expedition and had an advantage in reach of several handspans over Sir Lugren, he lacked the long winters of training his opponent possessed and was a rather less-polished fighter.
As word spread throughout the camp that Sir Brannis and Sir Lugren were going to spar, the soldiers not
obligated to other duties drifted into an impromptu ring around the combatants. For the knights to practice swordplay was not uncommon in the camp, but their commander’s fights always seemed to make for the best shows. There was something about the way Brannis fought that was exciting, a ferocity that rarely entered into the more subdued contests among the older knights.
Lugren’s attack came as a series of measured strikes. First a lunge—more controlled than Brannis’s had been—aimed at Brannis’s chest, followed by a feint to the same spot and a low sweep toward Brannis’s legs as his opponent’s sword came across to parry the feint. Each strike was planned before the previous maneuver had ended, Brannis knew; Lugren did not expect to end the fight in one blow.
Brannis was working his sword back and forth in front of him, rhythmically beating away Lugren’s attacks, which were starting to get predictable. Every third lunge was a feint, which Brannis made certain to at least flinch at so that Lugren would not figure out he was on to the pattern. Brannis was impressed, as always, at the precision of Lugren’s moves; every strike, every parry was executed cleanly and with no wasted motion. It was almost pointless to wait for the older knight to make a mistake, since Brannis knew his own technique could be generously described as serviceable. He would slip up long before the more experienced Lugren so much as caught a poor angle on a parry. Brannis needed to make a breakthrough in the fight.
Brannis knew he could never outdo Sir Lugren at his own fighting style, but he needed to lull his opponent back into his routine. Then, with a quick change of footwork, Brannis had his right foot leading well ahead of him and slightly to his opponent’s left. He brought his sword around in a wide arc at arm’s length, but with the sword’s point at an awkward angle aimed straight at his opponent’s chest. It was a trick that looked like it was angled to avoid a clean parry but Brannis had learned otherwise long ago. He had tried the move with his first tutor in swordsmanship at the School of Arms and had been neatly and cleanly disarmed. His tutor berated him severely every time he had tried the maneuver, but every youngster had gotten it into his head at some point during his training to try things that would get him killed in a real battle. Brannis had learned that lesson well, and he had not had a relapse in his match with Sir Lugren. However, he had baited a trap.
Sir Lugren had taught swordsmanship at the School of Arms for several summers; Brannis knew that and counted on it. Lugren brought his sword across point down in a parry that would look almost as if he would punch the sword out of Brannis’s hand. He caught Brannis’s blade gave a fierce push near the crossguard, strong enough to break Brannis’s grip on his sword. But Brannis released his grip, and offered no resistance as his sword went spinning off toward the watching soldiers.
There would have been no time for him to recover from the awkward strike had he allowed Lugren to complete his defense properly. Instead, Lugren overbalanced as the resistance he expected from Brannis just was not there. Brannis caught the wrist of Lugren's sword hand as it went by and bowled his opponent to the ground in a clatter of armor. Lugren landed awkwardly on his left shoulder with Brannis atop him. With the fight reduced to a wrestling match, the advantage was Brannis’s. Easily forcing his opponent face-first onto the ground, he wrested the sword from Lugren’s hand.
“I yield,” came a resigned mumble from the dirt, and it was over.
The fight had been a friendly match, so Brannis had merely pinned Lugren rather than roughing him up. The two men helped each other to their feet. Both were dirty and sweaty from the fight, and Brannis started to remove his armor but paused as he noticed Sir Lugren staring at him.
“Who goes there?” came a shout from the sentries that called away all attention from the sparring knights.
* * * * * * * *
The errant soldier was insensible when the sentries dragged him into camp. It was obvious from his clothes and boots that he was one of their own; each of the common soldiers had been equipped with the same gear from the army quartermaster just before they set out from Korgen. Other than his clothing, though, he had nothing else with him, neither armor nor weapon, nor even any personal effects. He was exhausted, hungry, and nearly mad with fear. The sentries heard him muttering something about goblins—something that sounded urgent.
Though Brannis wanted very much to give the man some space to collect himself and gather his wits, he could hardly reprimand his men for their curiosity; he shared it in full measure. Nearly every man in camp gathered around the fire where the two sentries brought the poor soldier and sat him down. Someone thought to bring the man a blanket, for he was covered in a cold sweat. One of the cooks brought a fresh bowl of quail stew remaining from the night’s meal, and the soldier gratefully accepted it with hands still shaking from the aftereffects of what had to be fear.
As the wayward soldier downed a few mouthfuls of the delicious dinner, the rest of Brannis’s men waited in respectful silence, taking a cue from their commander. Brannis sat across the fire from the man and watched his eyes. They seemed to clear as he ate, the delirium of a full day of fearful flight no doubt being replaced by the reality of good food and friendly company. The color started to return to the man’s pale face as the warmth of the fire and the food in his belly replenished his depleted strength.
Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, seeming to remind himself of the reality that he was now relatively safe, the man looked around the assembly of faces that had gathered about him.
“Thanks. I … I need to talk to your commander—whose battalion is this? I've got horrible news.”
“I am in command here; these are my men. I am Sir Brannis Solaran. What is your name, soldier, and how did you come to find us here?”
The man turned to meet Brannis’s intent gaze and quickly lowered his eyes to the dirt.
“Jodoul Brect, sir, that’s my name. They’re gone, sir, all of 'em.”
There was a collective feeling of shock among the troops gathered around the fire, and a buzz of discussion started to grow and steadily increase in volume with the passing seconds as Jodoul’s declaration hung in the air. Brannis waved one hand in a downward motion, urgently gesturing for his men to quiet down. The poor soldier—Jodoul—had obviously been through some ordeal and had not quite recovered mentally. Being in the eye of a storm of speculation and questioning would do him no good. Still, Brannis needed answers, especially if his suspicions about what Jodoul meant proved to be correct.
“What do you mean? Who is gone?” Brannis asked in a measured tone, trying not to upset Jodoul.
“Gone, dead, all of them. All of Sir Ferren’s battalion, dead except for me. The goblins came and there was nothing we could do to stop ’em. They was like evil spirits, sneakin’ up in the dark of night and swarmin’ over our camp. There was fire fallin’ from the trees and the air was filled with steel and screamin’.” Jodoul gritted his teeth and squeezed shut his eyes. “I can still hears them, even now. I wish I could have done somethin’ to help them, I—”
“How did you get away?” Sir Aric interrupted. “How is it that you managed to be the only one, if it is as you say and all the others are dead?”
“I think that is enough for now,” Brannis said. “Triple the sentries; all men are to carry arms; everyone into your armor, even for sleeping. I know it is uncomfortable but so is a spear-tip in your gut, you can be sure. We must be ready for them to attack anytime now.”
Brannis watched as his men started off to carry out his orders. He then turned to his knights and Jodoul.
“Let us continue this discussion in private, in the planning tent,” Brannis said. “Iridan, you should join us as well.” Brannis gave a nod to the sorcerer assigned to his battalion.
The planning tent was the only one large enough to accommodate a standing human. It was set up as a meeting place for the knights to lay out their maps and plan strategies without exposing either map or man to the elements. They removed the small table that was normally kept inside the tent, which normally sported
a map of their immediate vicinity, and set it outside. They then gathered inside, eight knights—the other two were seeing to the tripling of the watch—along with Jodoul and Iridan, seated themselves on the ground. The tent was originally meant to hold eight men standing around a table so ten men seated, even without the table, was rather cramped. But Jodoul was in no condition to stand for any length of time, and they needed to know everything he had seen, so they accommodated his present weakness.
Over the next several minutes, Brannis and the others came to understand the scope of the enemy they were facing. Jodoul’s account was quite thorough in its description of the carnage and the strange happenings resulting from goblin magic. Jodoul, though, left out his own actions around the time of the battle, Brannis noticed. There was something in the way he avoided such mention that made Brannis suspect the man had not acquitted himself well; Sir Aric most likely had the right tack in questioning why he was the one who survived, but Brannis had more immediate concerns than potential cowardice in the face of the enemy.
The goblins were now no doubt aware of their location—that much was easily inferred from Jodoul’s account of how they hounded him like a game hare. The only matter remaining unsettled was when they would arrive in force. If the goblins knew they were here, the campfires would only be of aid to the human army, for goblins tended on the whole to see much better in low lighting that their human counterparts. Dousing the fires would not serve to hide them but rather help to hide their small foes from them.
“Iridan, bring up a fog in and around camp,” Brannis ordered his friend.
Iridan nodded, then half-closed his eyes and began to chant, “Zoina emintari koactu fununar,” at the same time sweeping his hands back and forth in front of him, palms downward, in a close approximation of a swimming motion. He repeated the chant and continued to gesture. A fine wispiness coalesced in the air about his fingers, growing into a light fog and drifting to the ground. Within moments, the fog had spread throughout most of the campsite and was growing both thicker and deeper by the moment. Brannis, who knew the chant at least as well as did Iridan, caught himself silently mouthing the words in time with the chant. He could almost imagine that it was his own powers creating the fog in response to his own chant. As he watched the ever-growing fog, his better sense grabbed hold of his daydreaming and shook it aside.