Between the Worlds: Twinborn Chronicles, #8

By J.S. Morin

Gamblers and goblins. Dragons and duels. Scoundrels of every make and description. 

Dive back into the worlds of the best-selling Twinborn Chronicles  with this collection of eight short stories—including three exclusive, never-before-published works. J.S. Morin peels back the larger twinborn story to reveal the smaller tales concealed beneath. 

Gamble with pirates in Crackle Man. Curry favor with a living god in To Serve a Dragon. Join the hunt for ogres in War-Bringer. For some characters, this is their beginning. For others, this is the end. But for a fortunate few, their adventures continue on in the Twinborn Chronicles: War of 3 Worlds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magical Scrivener Press
• Release date: Mar 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781939233448

J.S. Morin

I am a creator of worlds and a destroyer of words. As a fantasy writer, my works range from traditional epics to futuristic fantasy with starships. I have worked as an unpaid Little League pitcher, a cashier, a student library aide, a factory grunt, a cubicle drone, and an engineer--there is some overlap in the last two. Through it all, though, I was always a storyteller. Eventually I started writing books based on the stray stories in my head, and people kept telling me to write more of them. Now, that's all I do for a living. I enjoy strategy, worldbuilding, and the fantasy author's privilege to make up words. I am a gamer, a joker, and a thinker of sideways thoughts. But I don't dance, can't sing, and my best artistic efforts fall short of your average notebook doodle. When you read my books, you are seeing me at my best. My ultimate goal is to be both clever and right at the same time. I have it on good authority that I have yet to achieve it. Visit me at jsmorin.com

Book preview

Between the Worlds

BETWEEN THE WORLDS

Collection of Twinborn Short Stories

TWINBORN CHRONICLES

BOOK VIII

J.S. MORIN

Story Copyrights © 2013 J.S. Morin

Story illustrations by Rich Woodall. Find more of his brilliant work at johnraygun.deviantart.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Ordering Information: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

J.S. Morin — First Edition

ISBN: 978-1-939233-44-8

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

War-Bringer

The Gambler’s Reward

The Two Goblins

Crackle Man

Sword Brothers

The Harbor is Watched

To Serve a Dragon

Codename: Baker

Back Matter

WAR-BRINGER

PRELUDE TO THE TWINBORN CHRONICLES: AWAKENING

WAR-BRINGER

Note: War-Bringer takes place shortly before the events of Knight in the Nighttime. It stands alone, and is a perfect place for new readers to first read about Brannis Solaran. For readers of the Twinborn Chronicles: Awakening, it gives insight into the events that led to Brannis being assigned a command of his own. War-Bringer is spoiler-free.

Abellowing cry echoed through the forest, cut short by a sound like a butcher’s cleaver biting into a carcass. The last of the ogre band lay still, porcupined with arrows and gashed with shallow wounds. It had taken one last heavy blow to the throat before the brute would lay silent. In its death grip, it still clutched a club that was little more than a log stripped of bark and carved with primitive icons; it was caked with human blood.

I never thought we’d hear the end of that one, said Sir Palter Joram. The Kadrin knight put a booted foot to the ogre’s head for leverage, and tore his sword free in a spray of warm blood. There was a chorus of good-natured chuckles—the sort born of relief rather than humor.

Orrin won’t, sir, one of the conscripts spoke up. Neither will Garri, Loson, Sir Davran—

We all know, the brutes took a heavy cost from us, Sir Palter cut the man short. No use mourning while there’s still work left to be done. It’s three days back to Weiselton and until then, any tree might harbor ogres.

Sir, I only count six ogres dead, Sir Brannis Solaran called out from the edge of the battlefield. The youngest knight on the expedition jogged over to join the main group. There were seven at the start.

You certain, Solaran? Sir Palter asked. There were mutters among the soldiers and knights, each man questioning his own assessment of the war party that had attacked them.

You always wondered what they taught me at the Academy, Sir Brannis shot back. I can count as well as any sorcerer. Despite the grim news, a few chuckled at the joke.

Gut me, Sir Palter muttered, before raising his voice to bellow his order. Bring the hounds! We’ve got an ogre to track down!

Brannis rushed over and grabbed Sir Palter by the shoulder. Sir, we should head back for Weiselton. That ogre has plenty of lead on us. We should—

Shut up, and be ready to make haste as soon as those hounds find a scent, Sir Palter ordered. Brannis glowered down at the senior knight, a full head shorter than him, but said nothing more.

Long-eared and floppy-jowled, the hounds were not built to fight, but were ferocious trackers. In minutes, they had found the scent of the missing ogre and played out all the slack in their long leads. Their handlers ran to keep pace.

The rest of the expedition was forced to run along as well. Already weary from one battle, men laden with chain and spear ambled along as best they could, grumbling to one another with any spare breath they could find. Knights in plate armor, bearing sword and shield, had a worse time of it, but bore the hardship with less outward complaint.

Brannis counted himself fortunate. The Solaran family was as wealthy as any in the Kadrin Empire, and his runed armor was evidence of that wealth put to good use. The steel plates of his suit were thinner and stronger than those of his fellows, and lighter as well. Being only two and twenty summers’ age, he also carried fewer years than the other knights—years that can weigh as much as steel when enough of them gather in one man.

As he ran along with the rest of Sir Palter’s command, Brannis wondered if any of them would survive. It seemed foolhardy to chase an ogre that had so large a head start, especially when they were so deep into the ogrelands already. The ogre was likely to find allies before the Kadrins found it. Sir Palter’s plan seemed disastrous.

The day that Brannis had learned of his assignment, he began a study of the ogres. He read a dozen books: everything that Kadrin scholars had collected on ogre history, culture, and language. He spent three summers serving on the border of the ogrelands before Sir Palter had been sent to finish routing the brutes back into their forests.

The hounds pulled them onward, lured by the scent of the ogre they sought, heedless of the dangers. The forest darkened and cooled as they went, owing to the deepening evening and the thickening canopy overhead. The longer they chased, the less their pace resembled a run; they slowed with the waning sunlight. The tireless hounds still led the way, but the men who followed had strung out in a line, sorting themselves by fitness and vigor.

Brannis could have kept pace with the hunters who held the hounds’ leashes, but chose instead to hang back in company with his fellow knights.

Foolish pride. Sir Hoilan muttered loud enough for only Brannis to hear as the two trudged along, side by side. You had the right of it: we ought to have turned back.

Brannis let the comment pass with a shrug. Boasting of his own cleverness would not reverse Sir Palter’s orders.

If it was sickly or injured, we might have caught it by now, Brannis said. No doubt that ogre is putting distance on us the longer we chase.

Where could it go though? There are no villages in this part of the forest, Sir Hoilan wondered. We might wear through our boot soles, but we might get a chance to catch it if it stops for rest.

We say there are no villages, but by what maps? Thirty winters have passed since someone drew those.

Sir Hoilan grunted in reply, not sparing the breath to argue.

By the full fall of night, there was no question of continuing onward. The footing was unsure, even by torchlight, and men were stumbling over roots and rocks. The hounds, dutiful creatures that they were, pressed on past exhaustion and were barely able to stand. Men with aching legs and grumbling bellies, grown bold enough to complain within earshot of their commander.

Halt! Sir Palter shouted. He scowled about, blaming every malcontent who worried more about their comfort than of finding the escaped ogre. Sir Palter’s gaze flicked past Brannis, when it became clear the younger knight was not going to shy from his censure. Clear some of this brush and make camp right here. We press on at dawn.

Swords meant for parting flesh were set to hacking down underbrush. Cook fires sprang up at the edges of the camp as men sought spit-roasted quail ahead of sleep. Brannis watched as other knights enlisted the aid of conscripts in stripping out of their armor, but looked to no such help for his own.

Sleeping in your armor, Sir Brannis? Sir Hoilan asked, punctuating his question with a chuckle. The older knight’s mood had brightened with the exchange of the sword in his hand for a strip of salted pork, and of his armor for a light tunic.

If I sleep at all, yes, Brannis replied. I daresay the ogres will keep away in the night, but I would not put a dawn raid past them. If I am to fight before dawnfeast, I would prefer my armor over a bit of extra rest.

Sir Hoilan shook his head. Lad your age shouldn’t brood. You’ll worry your way to an early death.

I always thought it was the ones who worried too little who risked dying young.

Brannis watched the fires as the night lingered. He sat with his back to a tree, fully armored except for his helm. Sentries were posted at all points about the camp, and ogres were creatures of the daylight hours, even more so than humans. Despite his mind’s assurances that he was safe until dawn, sleep still refused to claim him.

Psst, Sir Brannis, came a whisper near his ear. Brannis started, causing a rattling of armor that stirred a number of nearby sleepers. Sorry, sir. Here’s something to help you sleep. A waterskin was pressed into his hands, but Brannis doubted that it contained water. He turned to see his benefactor, and saw that it was one of the sentries, returning at the end of his shift.

Thanks, Brannis murmured. He lifted the skin to his lips and tilted it back, letting the wine within splash against his closed mouth. He drank nothing. He passed the skin back to the sentry.

Just so you know, I been talkin’ around a bit, the sentry said, leaning in close. Somethin’ were to happen ... you got friends.

Brannis gave a nod in reply, not knowing what to say to such a comment. He knew that Sir Palter’s orders had been unpopular, but the thought of disobeying them, or confronting Sir Palter in front of the men, had not crossed his thoughts. Rather than reassuring Brannis, the sentry’s words of support were the final arrows shot into his hope for sleep.

Dawn came with a general sense of relief around camp, but for Brannis it only drew his thoughts down dark passes, where ambush and traps lay in wait. He watched as the other knights took their dawnfeast, still out of their armor. Sir Hoilan, Sir Kinin Shareborn, Sir Maram Dellway, and even Sir Palter—they all sought the comfort of their bellies before the protection of a good layer of steel over their vitals. There had only been six knights on the expedition—now one fewer after Sir Davran had his skull crushed by an ogre club—but that harsh reminder of the dangers they faced had been dulled by a night’s sleep and a fresh sunrise.

As Brannis went to see about stilling his own rumbling stomach, he let his gaze wander the camp. Here and there he caught a man’s eye, and received a subtle nod in reply. The conscripts, more than the seasoned knights, had taken Brannis’s example to heart. Most of them had their chain armor on and their spears near at hand. The bread in his hand had gone stale, as Sir Palter’s mission had taken them longer away from Weiselton for longer than anticipated, but Brannis was too preoccupied to mind.

Being deeper than he had ever been into the ogrelands had done nothing to change the birdsongs. The birds still sang their cheery melodies, somewhere unseen among the boughs above. They were repetitive, but familiar. I wish I could just listen to birdsongs, and know that we were safe. Books of lore had told Brannis of many creatures that would scare common birds into silence, but ogres did not number among them. Ogres were a part of the forest, and no foe of birds.

We came too deep, Brannis thought aloud. He stared off to the north, the direction they were bound to continue should Sir Palter keep them to their course. Only a matter of time ...

Don’t let anyone hear you say so, Sir Brannis, Sir Hoilan spoke at his ear. Brannis snapped his head around, not expecting to find the knight—or anyone else—so close. Palter would have you up on reprimand, and have your sword from you. Be just my luck I’d have to lug that accursed thing around until we got home.

Brannis looked to his hip, where Massacre was sheathed, its hilt and crossguard sculpted in the likeness of a dragon. Whereas his armor had been made for him upon his graduation from the School of Arms, the sword was a relic, an heirloom dredged up from the Solaran family’s cellars. For the most prominent sorcerous family of the Kadrin Empire, a sword was hardly utilitarian. Massacre had been left unused for generations.

I often feel the same myself. How many times does a man have to be sent off to hold a flank, ten paces from a friendly blade, before he takes it personally?

We do the tasks we’re set to, or that we’re suited to.

Brannis bit his tongue before it betrayed him into questioning, for a second time, why Sir Palter had dragged them so far afield. It was neither the task they had been set to—strictly speaking—nor did Brannis find Sir Palter suited to it.

The first sign of trouble came from the hounds. Sensitive noses picked up an errant scent on the wind and a cacophony of barking alerted the camp.

Arm yourselves! Sir Palter shouted. Watch the trees!

With nerves frayed thin, and Sir Brannis’s concerns aired so loudly the day before, most of the men were already following the order before it was given. The camp looked like a frenzied rehearsal for a military parade, with the donning of armor and the gathering of weapons as the primary activities. Brannis strapped on his helm, took his shield in hand, and was ready for battle. He looked to the dogs, and saw that the north was indeed their concern. He headed to the left flank to defend against a northern attack, without having to be told. For good or ill, he knew Sir Palter well enough.

"Sir Maram, Sir Hoilan, hold the right flank! Sir Brannis,