The Bloody Rebellion of Farris Grimholt

The Alchemist

Approaching the steps to the keep he was greeted by the guards who looked down on him with barely disguised malice. Even though Farris Grimholt's own wife was from the vast lands of the far south, many people still distrusted those from beyond the sea. Rumours said that they were violent, deceitful, and even that they carried disease. Iqtal was short and his dark complexion and black eyes made him stand out amongst the tall, pale inhabitants of this land. Although there were many dark-skinned merchants who made the journey from Mulbern to Torburgh, and were even given board and lodgings at a price, there were very few who settled there.

'I have an appointment to see Lord Grimholt,' Iqtal said, little intimidated by their scowls. The guard rapped twice on the door, which swung open to the central courtyard. He stepped in beneath the wide arch and made his way across to the dining hall. There were several knights in conversation, and the omnipresent magisters who seemed to appear and disappear at will, stalking round the castle with their ever-watchful eyes.

The dining hall was on the far side of the courtyard from the gate. A cold, draughty place, even with the fires lit, thought Iqtal as he entered. He had been born in the sun-lands, where the sand will burn the soles of your feet in summer. Lord and Lady Grimholt sat next to a large table, laid out with bread and cheese, with a large jug of wine beside. Farris Grimholt was fat, with several chins visible beneath his red beard, and with bushy eyebrows above his mismatched eyes, one green, one white. It was said that he had lost the sight in his eye in a hunting accident, though it was more likely the result of some childhood infection. Namira Grimholt was a woman of rare southern beauty, her dark complexion at odds with the pale face of her husband, with large intelligent eyes and her dark hair bound in intricate braids. She was a tall woman and strong enough to have capably overcome several of the knights of the south in a duel. Iqtal had heard that she had seen plenty of death before wedding the Baron of Torburgh.

'Come. Sit,' said Lord Grimholt. Iqtal approached them and bowed deeply before taking a seat. Farris Grimholt was busy cutting cheese for his bread, while his wife sipped a goblet of red wine. Iqtal waited for them to address him.

'Iqtal,' Farris Grimholt shouted. 'How are your experiments going?'

'Well, sire. I am testing a new mix for the fire-pots. With enough I am sure they would burn through any depth of wood. Though I am hoping to eliminate some of the danger from the lighting of them.'

'Danger. I like danger,' said Grimholt winking his one good eye. The white eye never closed. 'And how about these pistols?'

'I have sent Yoran home with the prototype. It shoots straighter than the former model, though it still requires a little work. I will bring it for you to see if you would like.'

'I would. I would like that very much. Next time those bastards come for their taxes,' Grimholt raised his hands in imitation of a gun, 'Bang. And that will be the last time they come begging. I swear you are a genius, Iqtal.'

Iqtal had heard various rumours about Lord Farris Grimholt's madness around Torburgh. People believed that he had lost his mind following the death of his sons. Others said that his wife had turned his thoughts black.

'I hope to make my father proud, sire,' said Iqtal.'

'Your father was a great man. A terrible shame what happened. But we must learn to live. We must persevere.'

'You came to Torburgh following the great troubles, is that correct?' said Lady Grimholt. Though she herself had been born across the sea, there was only the faintest trace of that accent there. Her words and mannerisms were as one born to rule these lands.