The Bloody Rebellion of Farris Grimholt

The Alchemist

The explosion threw him backwards across the courtyard and he landed heavily, the padding he wore cushioning most of the impact, though his head rattled inside the iron helm. The flames had leapt up so high they would have been visible even down in the streets of Torburgh. Through the narrow slit in his helm he could see only blackened earth where the wooden palisade had been standing. He waited several moments before approaching. The heat through the metal armour was incredible. There were shards of pot scattered around everywhere, blackened splinters that were all that remained of the palisade, and small flames leaping and dancing across the stones of the yard. Iqtal removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow. He called to Yoran, who clanked over in his too-large armour.

'Fetch that bucket of water,' Iqtal said.

The boy did as he was told, waddling back with the pail - clink-clank clink-clank. Hot steam rose as he splashed water here and there, extinguishing the persistent flames, and soon there were only black spots remaining.

'Let's set up that old suit of armour,' Iqtal said. They erected a small wooden frame, more commonly used for sword practice, in the centre of the quadrangle and placed an old, dented piece of armour over it with a battered helm perched where the head would have been. Iqtal came over to a small chest by the wall. Opening it he pulled out the fire-arm. 'Let us see if we can knock his helmet off,' he said to Yoran.

He took the weapon, packing down wadding, and pouring in some dark powder from a small pouch. Yoran handed him a small iron ball, which he inserted into the barrel. The boy looked from Iqtal to the helm atop the wooden man standing in the centre of the square. There was a loud bang, followed by a steel ting and the helmet went spiralling off the top of the stand, skittering away across the stones. The boy rushed over and brought the helm back to him. There was a large hold punched through the front of it. If there had been a man inside he would surely be dead.

'Set it up again,' Iqtal said.

He was packing a second shot down into the barrel when he heard a noise behind him.

'Iqtal! Grimholt wishes to speak with you,' said the guard, heavily armoured as though he was expecting battle.

'I shall be there shortly,' said Iqtal. 'Yoran,' he said to the young boy, 'take my things back to my house. Here are the keys. Do not disturb the girls. Leave the key in the cook-pot.'

'Yes, sir,' said Yoran. He took of his own helm, revealing a shock of red hair and freckled face. A good lad, and bright, he could follow instructions and was quick to learn. Much quicker than many men three times his age. Iqtal took the shot and powder out from the fire-arm carefully and put them back in the chest, the armour they bundled up together and laid on top before closing the chest and locking it.

Iqtal came through the door to the inner courtyard. Torburgh castle had seven courtyards in total, encircling a central keep. An ancient defensive measure: if the outer wall were breached, the attackers would only gain entrance to a small area, where archers positioned on the inner walls could easily destroy them. It had been a long time since Torburgh had been attacked. One of the squares was now used as a garden, one for royal burials, another used primarily for summer feasts, the smallest of the squares had been given to him, for whatever purpose he desired. Farris Grimholt had realised his uses and provided for his experiments handsomely in return for his martial 'inventions.'

He crossed over to the smithy where he was greeted warmly by the royal armourer. He took off his armour and the heavy padding he wore beneath. It was cumbersome, but it was always better to be over-prepared when dealing with dangerous weapons. He had heard of a man who had once been blown backwards through an upper-storey window while firing a hackbut at an intruder. Where he came from there were many men who had lost eyes, fingers, even hands, attempting to make the black gold beloved of kings and warlords. He washed his hands and face in a bucket of rain water that had been brought inside, mostly used for washing dirt from blades. His hair was always short and his face clean-shaven, further accentuating his youthful appearance.