The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 27: Warnings and Reactions
[Where we last left off, the pyromancer Durrin Rendhart confronted his conniving employer, Salidar Aram, and rejected Salidar’s cause and the kidnapping he had hired Durrin to perform. Durrin then strode into the woods, intent to ride to the capital city of Saven and raise the alarm about Salidar’s pending attack.]
Later that day.
A bell tinkled as the door to the Dozy Donkey swung open. The red-headed avir at the counter looked up disinterestedly. Then his eyes widened. “You!”
“Me,” said Durrin. He dropped a chunk of silver on the counter. “Twenty shekels—what I owe you for the horse, plus interest.”
Before the avir could form a response, Durrin turned and strode back out the door.
* * * * *
Adara tapped her foot in the antechamber outside Volthorn’s office, looking around. So this is what it’s like to be kept waiting, she thought. As the only child of royalty, she had normally commanded the instant attention of anyone she needed to talk to.
Sighing, Adara surveyed the smattering of military personnel in the room. They sat nervously at various tables around her, scribbling their way through paperwork. As in many bookkeeping jobs—where size or strength didn’t matter—most of them were snippens. They seemed to be doing their very best to look busy and professional with their monarch in the room.
A soldier exited Volthorn’s office and bowed low. “The commander is ready now, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Adara said, giving a slight nod as she walked past him. It occurred to her that she actually wasn’t certain of his exact rank. Interpreting military insignia had never been her strong suit.
Volthorn greeted her inside, showing her the best chair in the room. “Your Majesty,” he said, sounding flustered. “I must apologize. As you know, I just arrived after a long ride, and I needed a few minutes to clean up and change my uniform—”
Adara held up a hand. “Please, Commander. It’s all right. Waiting won’t kill me.”
It was a funny thing to say. The sense of urgency and danger from the night before had stayed with her since she’d woken up. All day, as she had waited for Volthorn to arrive at the capital, she had failed to shake the feeling that yes, too much waiting could put her very life at risk.
Volthorn sat down behind a large desk, clearing away a smattering of parchments. “What do you need, Your Majesty?”
“I’m concerned about my quarters in the royal wing,” Adara said. “I would like to be moved to another part of the palace.”
Volthorn frowned, leaning forward. “What, exactly, is your concern?”
“I feel too exposed,” Adara said. “I’m in an isolated tower, surrounded by open sky. It just feels . . .” She paused, wondering if she should tell Volthorn about her nightmare. Would he think she was acting out of paranoia? “. . . It just feels wrong,” she finished. “Unsafe.”
Volthorn nodded slowly, drumming his claws on the table. “I see. But I must reassure you, Your Highness. You’re in the royal wing for a reason— not just because of the four-poster feather bed. It’s by far the most secure part of the palace. The wing is built at the tallest edge of the acropolis, meaning besides the forty-foot walls of your tower, there’s another forty to fifty feet of nearly sheer cliffs beneath that. There’s only two entrances to the entire wing, and three guarded checkpoints to get to your quarters. The windows in your room are tempered glass reinforced with iron bars, with voidstone inlays to protect them from magical assault.”
Volthorn shifted in his chair. “Now let’s compare that to the rest of the palace. Passages and staircases are everywhere. Security is loose at night and nearly unmanageable during the day. Servants and visitors are constantly coming in and out. None of the windows are enforced with voidstone. Only the treasury is heavily secured, and that’s hardly a place for a queen to sleep, Your Highness.”
Adara frowned. Volthorn’s points made sense—but they failed to quench the gnawing worry inside her. “It still doesn’t feel right, Commander. It’s hard to put into words, but I would feel far more comfortable spending a couple nights away from my usual quarters.”
Volthorn leaned back, absently scratching his scalp as he thought. Finally, he straightened. “Your Highness. You know how much your safety means to me. Perhaps you would feel more at ease somewhere else—but I would not. And neither would my officers. We have had many discussions about ensuring your safety. So please trust me on this one.”
Adara studied the sincerity and concern on Volthorn’s face. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was letting her nightmare, and the emotions from it, cloud her judgment.
“Very well,” Adara said. She cracked a smile. “Besides—I do like that feather bed.”
“It’s better than the hard ground, believe me.” Volthorn rose to his feet. “Is that all, Your Highness?”
Your Majesty, Adara silently corrected. “Your Highness” had been her title while she was a princess. Some of her advisors and officers still used it occasionally out of habit.
“That’s all for today,” Adara said, rising as well. “We’ll have many meetings later, I’m sure.”
Volthorn opened the door for her, and she stepped out. The room beyond was even more crowded than before, as a griffin messenger had arrived, escorted by an intelligence officer. They both bowed deeply to Adara before entering Volthorn’s office.
Poor Commander Skarr, Adara thought, watching as Volthorn admitted the new arrivals and closed the door. He’s probably even busier than I am.
“Ready, Your Majesty?” one of her two bodyguards asked.
Adara nodded, and the guards escorted her from the room, one in front of her and the other behind. Since her coronation, she had grown used to having a constant bodyguard.
In the corridor outside, Adara and her escorts bumped into a band of six soldiers coming the opposite direction. Amid the soldiers strode a tall man clad in chainmail armor and a long sable cloak.
Adara paused, studying him. His face was unfamiliar—this was no guard or servant from the palace. His boots and the hem of his cloak were caked in mud. But it was his bearing that most caught her eye: the way he carried himself, with confidence and vigor, and with purpose in his grim face. He seemed a battle-worn hero come to life from an ancient epic.
The other party stopped well short of them. The soldier in the lead bowed low, voicing a greeting, but the others only briefly nodded, their attention flicking between Adara and the man they were escorting.
Adara caught the gaze of the tall man. As he noticed her crown and robes, a look of surprise flashed across his face, and he dropped to one knee, bowing his head low.
“What do we have here, Captain?” Adara asked, genuinely curious.
“Just a man with a message for Commander Skarr, Your Majesty,” the lead soldier said. “I apologize for delaying you.”
“It’s all right,” said Adara. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly why, but something about this man had piqued her curiosity. The guards around him looked uneasy and on edge. But although he looked like a capable warrior, she didn’t feel like he posed a threat.
“Who are you?” Adara asked, directing her voice at the kneeling man.
The man hesitated. “Durrin,” he finally said.
“You look like you’ve done a lot of traveling today, Durrin.”
He nodded. “The rain has been incessant.”
“You traveled far?”
“Around forty-five miles, Your Majesty.”
Forty-five miles? In the pouring rain? He must have been driving his horse hard the whole day. “What brought you?” Adara asked.
The man glanced to either side at the soldiers around him. He hesitated for a moment, his mouth open but no words coming out. Before he found a reply, the officer answered for him.
“He has an urgent message for our commander, Your Majesty. Now with your excusal, we won’t take up any more of your time.”
The officer moved to pass them, but the tall man stayed where he was, still on one knee. “With your permission, Lieutenant,” Durrin said, “I’d like to say something to Her Majesty.”
The soldier paused, obviously uncomfortable with the request but unsure how to handle it. He looked in Adara’s direction, and she held up a hand reassuringly. “Let him talk.”
“Your Majesty . . .” The man paused again for several seconds, then continued. “. . . You look very much like your father.”
Adara smiled in surprise. “You knew my father?”
The man shook his head quickly. “I did not know him. I only met him. Once. Right before he died. Your Majesty.” He paused for a very long time, then continued more slowly, “I’m sorry about your father. Deeply, truly sorry.”
Adara had been hearing condoling remarks about her father’s death for seven years. Some were sincere, some were not. Some, from close advisors in the days after the accident, had been as charged with emotion as her own poignant feelings. Others, especially from those outside the royal court, were nothing more than meaningless social gestures upon meeting her. That last type had become more and more common over the years. She had come to hate them.
Yet this comment was different from all the others. Yes, it was sincere, but it was something more: this man had an intensity of feeling behind the words, packing each syllable with emotional weight. His voice trembled, as if burdened by the message he was at long last delivering. It was more than a mere condolence. It almost seemed an apology.
“Thank you,” Adara said with a tiny voice. She wasn’t sure what else to say.
The lieutenant broke the spell with an impressively loud harrumph.
The man bowed until his head nearly reached the floor. “Farewell, Your Majesty,” he said, before rising to his feet and letting the soldiers sweep him away.
Adara watched them disappear into Volthorn’s antechamber. The exchange had stirred within her a strange collection of curiosity, nervousness, and loss. Her heart prodded her to turn back and hear what “urgent message” this hero out of legend bore. But she had business to attend to, tasks to complete, and a kingdom to run. Surely Volthorn could handle it.
* * * * *
Durrin mentally kicked himself in the shins. Coward!
He had blown his chance. The queen had been right in front of him. He could have exposed Salidar’s plot to her directly.
But he had barely been able to speak. To be confronted by the daughter of the man he had murdered—the girl that he had, less than a day before, been planning to assassinate as well—had left him entirely undone. It had been all he could do to stumble out a half-collected apology.
Pull yourself together. He was about to tell Elandria’s chief commander about the plot. Surely that would suffice.
The soldiers around him obviously distrusted him. With his keen hearing, he had overheard every whispered conversation about him since he had arrived at Saven. First the officers at the gate, then the officers at a city command post, then the officers at the palace entrance had all agreed with each other—presumably out of earshot—that this was the “fugitive pyromancer” who had “escaped” from Irongate Isle. It hadn’t occurred to anyone yet that Durrin, by giving his actual name, was clearly making no attempt to conceal his identity. Soldiers.
Word had apparently preceded him. The antechamber was a bundle of nerves, with every soldier, officer, and scribe in the room maintaining an uneasy, ever-vigilant silence. What did they think he would do? Take on a dozen opponents in a confined space?
Come to think of it, that did sound like him.
The lieutenant emerged from the commander’s office. “You will be seen now,” he grunted. He turned to the other soldiers. “Alone.”
Durrin felt the many pairs of eyes boring into his back as he strode into the commander’s room.
“Sit down, Rendhart,” said a cold voice.
Durrin sized up the korrik sitting at the desk. He was short—of course—but stocky, as solid as the earth. Every inch of him, from his scuffed boots to the deep scar on his face, conveyed a battle-hardened veteran. The jeweled rings on his fingers identified him as a terramancer.
Once the door had shut, Durrin cleared his throat. “I am told you are Chief Commander Volthorn Skarr.”
“Do you need to be told?” The korrik leaned forward over his desk, his eyes like daggers. “Do you not remember me, Rendhart?”
Durrin studied him, confused. Had this korrik worked at Irongate Isle?
The commander gestured to his face. “You left me this scar as a permanent token of my failure.”
The memory clicked. The captain at the palace. The head of the royal guard, whom Durrin had almost killed seven years before with a spear to the face. Durrin’s heart sunk.
Commander Skarr leaned back in his chair. “I’m curious to hear why you’ve returned.”
“I’ve come to warn you,” Durrin said. “Her Majesty’s life is in danger.”
“Oh?” said the korrik, raising a scaly eyebrow.
“Listen to me,” Durrin pleaded.
Swiftly, Durrin described Lord Salidar’s plot, the voyage of the Hakiru pirates, his defection, and the planned assault on the palace. As Durrin spoke, Commander Skarr leaned forward, listening to every word, his eyes never leaving Durrin’s face.
“I don’t think they know I got here already,” Durrin concluded. “If you move the queen to another part of the city, then fill the royal wing with soldiers and griffins, you can catch them by surprise and overwhelm them.”
The korrik nodded his head slowly, thoughtfully. “And why exactly, Rendhart, did you decide to warn me?”
Durrin met the korrik’s gaze without flinching. “Because I realize now that Calamar’s war is unjust. I now understand that what I did seven years ago was deeply, horribly wrong. And I want to set things right.”
The korrik studied Durrin for a long time. Finally, after what seemed like an age, Volthorn stirred and leaned back in his chair. He cracked his knuckles loudly, then began to clap his hands together. “Nice story, Rendhart.”
Durrin’s heart sunk. “You don’t believe me.”
“How can I? The logical flaws are glaring. That Lord Salidar may plot such an escapade, I can believe. But to lead the expedition himself? Entrust his life in the hands of a band of lawless Hakiru, much less run the risk of discovery and failure? Not to mention the foolishness of leaving Imperium and risking the unraveling of the elaborate political web he’s built for three decades? Highly unlikely.”
“I swear by my life I speak the truth.”
Volthorn waved away the oath. “There’s more. You expect me to believe that a cloudship has deviated from the normal trade routes and flown to within forty miles of here, without a single griffin patrol seeing it?”
“Who would think to report it? The Hakiru have never posed a threat before.”
The korrik chuckled softly, shaking his head. “This is really too much, Rendhart. You can stop trying.”
“Trying what?”
“Trying to hoodwink me with this fabrication. It’s not working. I must admit, your audacity was ambitious—to come yourself, to lay your biggest card on the table, to tell a story so ludicrous I would be forced to consider it true. But I am no simpleton. You mean to divert me, to tie up precious resources in a vain pursuit.”
“A vain pursuit?” Durrin hit the table with his fist, creating a brief flash of fire. “Protecting the queen is a vain pursuit?”
“Massing our whole garrison in the royal wing would be,” Volthorn said, his eyes shining. “I see through your plan, Rendhart, though it was well-crafted. You knew my history. You knew my desire to protect the queen. So with a cryptic, planted message, and now by coming in person, you seek to manipulate me into a foolhardy misallocation of resources. Tell me where your team is actually planning to strike. One of the city gates? The treasury? General acts of arson in the streets?”
“A cryptic, planted message?” Durrin said, confused. “Commander, I swear—”
“Why should I believe a single word you say?” Volthorn nearly spat. “You are a spy and a murderer!”
The words cut to Durrin’s core—because he knew they were true.
“Please. Believe me.”
The unspoken answer was written plain as day in the korrik’s frigid gaze. Never.
After several seconds, Volthorn leaned back. “On another note, Rendhart, it’s convenient that you turned yourself in.”
Fire began to rise in Durrin’s chest. “So you’ll arrest me? For trying to warn you?”
“No,” Volthorn said. “I will arrest you for escaping imprisonment.”
“I was set free! By your own chief magistrate!”
Volthorn waved a hand. “He acted without authorization. It’s time you finished paying for your crimes.”
The fire was raging now. Durrin rose to his feet, sending his chair clattering. “I am a free man. I will defend my right to remain so.”
Volthorn stood as well, rising like a surging pile of rock. His armor began to glow as he filled it with terracharge from the gems on his belt. “Perfect. Resist arrest, then. Give me an excuse to kill you.”
Durrin let a single lick of fire escape his mouth. Inside, he shook, a volcano about to erupt. He leaned into the korrik’s face. “Think very, very carefully about what you’re about to do.” With a snap of his fingers, he summoned a white-hot flame in his hand. “If I wanted to, I could burn this palace to the ground.”
Volthorn didn’t blink. “Nudisa semir colem tol,” he replied, using a common saying in the Numinous Tongue. Justice always claims its own.
For a moment they stood there: the korrik, terramancer of Elandria, stoic and defiant, his armor glowing with power; Durrin, pyromancer of Calamar, tense and quivering, his eyes flaming pits of fire.
They balanced on the scales of choice.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
Then slowly, slowly, Volthorn stepped away. “I will have you escorted out of the province and released. It’s more than you deserve.”
Durrin let the flame in his hand die, but he still trembled with anger. “You’re making a mistake. Salidar will attack tonight. Listen to me!”
“No!” Volthorn snapped. “Do not test my patience again, murderer. Or my mercy.”
Durrin stared at him, fire still coursing through his veins. “Very well,” he whispered. “Then the blame for tonight will fall entirely upon your head.”
Chapter 28, “Attack,” coming Tuesday, May 13.
This story has 57 chapters, a prologue, and an epilogue. I’m releasing a chapter every Tuesday through mid May.
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Will Salidar’s attack succeed? Or will Volthorn wise up soon enough to stop it? Find out next week!
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