Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III

by Richard Baker

  “Geran, my boy, good to see you again,” Harmach Grigor said. He motioned to the far end of the table. “Please, sit down, have something to eat. I’ll wager you’ve had a long ride today.”

  “Twenty-five miles by my guess. I just came in.” Geran gave his uncle a tired smile, but he found himself surprised by how gaunt and pale the old man looked. In the tenday that Geran had been off to Hulburg and back he’d somehow forgotten just how fatigued his uncle was. The defeat at Marstel’s hands and the subsequent flight into exile had taken a heavy toll on the harmach; Grigor was better than seventy-five years of age, and he hadn’t enjoyed very good health to begin with. The swordmage shook himself free of his young cousins and ventured over to clasp his uncle’s arm in greeting. The harmach’s grip was shockingly weak.

  “Well?” said Geran’s Aunt Terena. She was Grigor’s younger sister and Kara’s mother, a woman who wore the wisdom of her years well. She had a kindly, gentle manner, but there was unmistakable firmness in her voice. Much of Kara’s stubbornness came from her mother. “Since the secret of your journey’s out, what news of Hulburg?”

  “Things are much as they’ve been. Marstel is still holding court in Griffonwatch, I’m sorry to say, and his Council Guard holds the town in force.” He moved around the table to kiss his Aunt Terena on her cheek, set a hand on Kara’s shoulder, and then sat at the next place down. The kitchen servers quickly set a plate of roasted chicken and a goblet of warm mulled wine in front of him before retreating from the room again. Between mouthfuls of chicken, he recounted a carefully edited version of his journey to Hulburg and travels around the countryside, leaving out most of the names. Since his treacherous cousin Sergen’s passing, there were no more Hulmasters he didn’t trust, but the children were young and might say something where they shouldn’t. If word got back to Rhovann that he’d been helped by the Sokols or had spoken with Mirya or the Tresterfins or any other old loyalists, lives might be in danger. But he made sure to exaggerate every conceivable hardship and moment of peril he faced for the sake of Natali and Kirr, so that the whole drab and wearying tenday became a hair-raising dance with death in the retelling.

  By the time he’d finished, the eyes of both young Hulmasters were wide with astonishment. Erna frowned sternly at Geran, well aware that the truth had been stretched more than once. “They’ll be up half the night with that tale in their heads,” she said. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Geran!”

  “Every word of it true,” he answered. “Besides, Hamil isn’t here to spin them their bedtime story. I did what I could in his place.” Hamil Alderheart, Geran’s old adventuring companion, was greatly beloved by the young Hulmasters. He’d sailed back to Tantras a month before to see to the business of the Red Sail Coster, his trading company.

  “Every word true, indeed,” Erna muttered. “Come, Natali, Kirr. It’s to your lessons and then bed for the both of you, and I’ll not hear a word of protest about it!” She gathered her children and shooed them out of the room. Terena excused herself and followed to give Erna a hand with the young Hulmasters, leaving just Kara and Harmach Grigor with Geran.

  Kara looked at Geran, and raised an eyebrow. “I’m accounted one of the best trackers in the Moonsea North, and I have to say, I’ve never met any frost giant robbers or pixie bandits haunting the roads between here and Hulburg.” Laughter danced in her brilliant blue eyes, touched years before by the azure fire of the Spellplague. “Natali saw through every word of that, you know.”

  “I know it,” answered Geran. “I simply didn’t want to say too much about my true business in Hulburg. Careless words may prove dangerous.”

  They fell silent for a time, listening to the receding sounds of the children retreating to their rooms. Harmach Grigor smiled sadly, and then returned his attention to his nephew and niece. “Speaking of dangerous, you were rash to return to Hulburg, Geran,” he said. “We have other sources of information. It’s not worth your life.”

  Geran shook his head. “I disagree. There’s a difference between reading about what’s happening in the town and seeing it with your own eyes. Besides, to have any hope of organizing resistance to Marstel’s rule, we must have the trust and respect of old Hulburg. We will be asking people to run deadly risks on our behalf. They need to see that we haven’t abandoned them.”

  “Geran is right, Uncle,” Kara said firmly. “Even the most loyal hearts will lose hope if they come to believe we don’t intend to return.” With the brilliant azure of her eyes and her well-known spellscar, she could not disguise herself as easily as Geran. He knew it was hard for her to leave the dangerous spying to him, but as risky as it was for him to venture into Hulburg now, it would have been twice as risky for her. She looked over to Geran and asked, “So how do matters stand in Hulburg now?”

  “It’s hard on the folk who supported us,” he admitted. “Marstel—well, Rhovann I suppose, I can’t imagine this was Marstel’s scheme—is taxing the old landowners and shopkeepers into penury. Then he’s awarding their confiscated property to the outlander gangs to buy their support. Yarthin, Errolsk, Baudemar, they’re all out of business.”

  “And the Cinderfists are staying bought?”

  Geran nodded. “For now. Their priest Valdarsel now sits on the Harmach’s Council as the so-called high prelate of Hulburg. Things might be different in a few months when Marstel’s tax collectors run out of folk to rob and have no more gold or land to give to the Cinderfists, but that day isn’t here yet.”

  “Who did you see?” Grigor asked.

  “Mirya, of course. After her, Sarth, Burkel Tresterfin, Theron Nimstar, the Ostings, a couple of others. Nimessa Sokol likely knows I slipped into Hulburg in a Sokol caravan, but I didn’t speak with her or any of her folk.”

  “How many of the Spearmeet are ready to fight for our cause?” asked Kara.

  “If Tresterfin, Nimstar, and the Ostings are right, a couple of companies still. I’d guess ten score, altogether. More would join once the fighting began in earnest, I think. Few are willing to be the first to rise in opposition, but once some do, more would follow.”

  “No,” said Harmach Grigor. “Not yet. Encouraging our loyalists would only bring down reprisals that we cannot shield our people against. If we cannot protect them, then we must make sure that they don’t suffer on our behalf.”

  “Every day we wait, our loyalists grow weaker, and Rhovann adds to his own strength,” Kara replied. “Wait too long, and we’ll miss our chance altogether.”

  “I understand that, Kara. But this is not yet the time. Better to do nothing at all and let Marstel have his way with the town for now than to cause our folk any more suffering.” Grigor pushed himself upright with a grunt and motioned to the door. “It’s getting late. I believe I’ll retire for the evening.”

  Geran frowned, unwilling to let the matter rest. Despite the hard day’s travel in the cold weather, he was not yet ready for bed. Still, he was certainly in need of a change of clothing, and a warm bath wouldn’t be amiss. The three Hulmasters said their good nights to each other, and parted ways—Kara to make her rounds of the manor and its grounds, seeing to the Shieldsworn guards, and Geran and Grigor to the wing of the manor where their rooms were. They climbed the stairs to the second floor, Grigor moving slowly and carefully as Geran tried to hover nearby as unobtrusively as possible.

  At the top of the stairs Grigor paused to catch his breath. “The winters are growing harder every year,” he said, leaning heavily on his cane. “The cold never leaves me, it seems. Ah, well, that’s the price of seeing so many of them. It’s good to have you back safe and sound, Geran. We worry about you when you’re away.”

  “I try to be careful.” Geran hesitated, weighing the question of whether to push again on the issue of more direct action against Marstel. He decided to try one more time. “About Marstel … I believe there’s more we can do than you might think, Uncle. In a tenday Kara and I could muster a hundred riders to harry Marstel’s frontier posts and
borders. It might not be much, but it would show friends and foes alike that we’re not beaten yet. Even just a show of resistance might be enough—”

  “Not yet!” the harmach said sharply. He fixed his pale, watery eyes on the younger Hulmaster. “I have spoken on this matter, Geran. There is no point in spilling more blood if we don’t yet have the strength to win.”

  Geran fell silent, meeting his uncle’s gaze for a long moment before he reluctantly nodded. “I hear you, Uncle. There’s to be no fighting for now.”

  “Good,” Grigor said. He smiled again, and turned toward his chambers. “Good night, Geran. We’ll speak again tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Uncle Grigor,” Geran replied. He watched his uncle limp away on his cane, then headed for his own rooms.

  TWO

  4 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)

  Geran was sound asleep when the assassins came. Only the fact that he’d carelessly left his boots lying on the floor near the foot of his bed saved his life.

  A soft stumble in the dark roused him from a dreamless slumber; he awoke just as iron-hard talons were reaching for his throat. Flailing wildly, he caught his attacker’s arms in his hands. He felt rough, scaly skin that was as hot as a firepit’s stone in his grasp, and heard a hiss of anger from the thing leaning over him. The air reeked of warm sulfur, acrid and strong enough to choke his cry of alarm.

  “He wakes!” a second voice hissed from nearby. “Slay him swiftly!”

  The first creature did not reply, but bent all its strength to seizing Geran in its talons. It was horribly strong, and it steadily pushed its claws closer to his neck. He saw carious yellow fangs gleaming in the shadows above his face, and a beard of thick tendrils that writhed and dripped inches from his chest. Wherever its saliva dripped on his bare flesh, his skin burned and smoked. He couldn’t hold the creature’s talons from his neck for much longer, and he was defenseless against its companion as long as he dared not let go of the creature’s arms.

  A desperate idea came to him, and before he could think better of it, Geran gambled on its success. Somehow he found a still center in the midst of his pain and panic, focusing on the arcane symbols of the spells locked away in his mind. The featherlight touch of magic gathering to him stirred the bedchamber’s cold air and the sheets entangling his flailing limbs. “Sieroch!” he shouted, finishing the spell as he released his foe’s arms. The creature’s lethal claws lunged forward, but Geran was no longer there. His teleportation spell had carried him across the room. He scrambled to his feet as the monsters screeched in frustration and whirled to face him again.

  “Clever, mortal,” the first creature snarled. It was little more than a jagged shadow in the darkened room. “You would have been wiser to die in your sleep.”

  What in the Nine Hells is going on? Geran thought furiously. He blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes, coming fully awake. His hands throbbed from the heat and jagged scales of the creature’s hide. The Nine Hells indeed—if these creatures weren’t devils of some kind, he would have been astonished. Some enemy had summoned infernal assassins to slay him in his sleep. Other questions crowded in after that, but he thrust them aside. There would be time for answers later, if he managed to survive the next few heartbeats.

  First, he needed to see better. “Elos!” Geran said, casting a minor light spell. A globe of pale gold shimmered into existence a few feet from him, its soft illumination filling the room. The two monsters facing him winced and recoiled, surprised by the sudden light. They were roughly man-sized, covered in dull reddish scales and sharp barbs of horn at knees, shoulders, and elbows. Their feet were great raptorlike talons, and they had long, lashing tails studded with more sharp barbs. Coiling tendrils of darker red jutted from their chins, giving them foul, twisting beards of a sort. Geran hadn’t faced their like before, but he’d heard of them before—barbazu, or bearded devils, fierce and deadly foes. How they’d gotten into Lasparhall he couldn’t imagine, but their purpose was all too clear.

  “Rend him to pieces!” the second devil growled. The two launched themselves across the room in a sudden rush, claws stretching out for him. Geran looked past the monsters to the place where his sword hung in its scabbard by his bedstand.

  He reached out his hand and called out a summoning spell of his own: “Cuilledyr!” His elven backsword shivered once in its scabbard before lurching free and soaring hiltfirst to his hand, just in time to meet the devils’ furious charge. Dropping beneath the raking claws of the first devil, he drove the point of his blade into the center of its torso, just under the breastbone. The ancient sword rang shrilly as it pierced infernal flesh; long before in Myth Drannor’s Weeping War its makers had enchanted it with spells of ruin against hellspawned monsters just such as these. The creature shrieked horribly, impaled on the blade, then burst apart in a noisome black cloud. But its companion hurled into Geran, its sharp claws raking him deeply across the chest and shoulders as it slammed him into the cold floor.

  Sizzling venom from the devil’s writhing beard-tendrils splattered Geran’s cheek, and he howled in anguish. The monster pinned his sword arm with one talon and mauled him with the other. Somehow the swordmage found the strength to throw the barbazu to one side. The devil didn’t release him, but with its weight off his chest he was able to roll to one side and seize the hilt of his sword in his left hand, which wasn’t pinned. Before his assailant could seize that arm too, Geran dragged the gleaming edge across the devil’s scaly flesh in a single long draw. The bearded devil hissed in pain and scrabbled back from the bright steel. Geran surged to his feet and set upon the creature with a furious hail of blows. Yet its scales resisted all but the surest of his attacks.

  “Ah, how delicious.” The creature sneered. “While we dance, the rest of your family dies. Perhaps I should let you go to them before I slay you.”

  “You lie!” Geran retorted automatically. He had to believe the monster was toying with him, trying to urge him into a rash attack. If more devils were loose in Lasparhall, stealing into the harmach’s chambers—or worse yet, Natali’s or Kirr’s—then every moment he was delayed here might come with a horrible cost indeed.

  He traded passes with the barbazu again, his steel striking sparks from its ironlike claws as they exchanged places. Quickly he cleared the welling fear for his family from his mind, and summoned up the calm for spellcasting. This time he charged his sword with a crackling aura of blue-white lightning that threw garish shadows against the walls as it danced along the edge. The bearded devil bared its fangs in defiance and leaped to meet him again, but this time its hard scales did not stop the sword’s bite. Lightning seared its red flesh, freezing it in place with powerful convulsions. Before the monster could recover, Geran slashed it through the throat. It, too, vanished in a sudden burst of black smoke, and the bedchamber fell still for a moment.

  Blood dripped from his raked flesh to the wooden floorboards. Geran gritted his teeth against the burning pain of the wounds, and staggered to the door. Pausing only a moment to summon a better spell-shield to defend himself, he threw open the door and hurried out into the passageway. Shouts of alarm, screams, and the ringing sound of blade meeting blade echoed throughout the old manor.

  Someone means to eradicate the Hulmasters this night, he realized—all of us. It was the second time in half a year that someone had tried to destroy the Hulmasters in their home. His cousin Sergen had tried to murder the family during his coup attempt the preceding spring, attacking Griffonwatch with summoned wraiths while his mercenaries waited to cut down anyone fleeing the castle. Sergen was dead now, but someone else clearly wanted the Hulmasters out of the way. Rhovann? he wondered. His old rival certainly held no end of malice for him, but indiscriminate murder was not like Rhovann. The Verunas, perhaps? Or someone else who wanted to make sure the Hulmasters never returned to Hulburg?

  “Damn it,” he snarled into the darkened hallway. He whirled around, trying to make sense of the chaos. To the
right were the rooms of the young Hulmasters. In the opposite direction lay Harmach Grigor’s chamber. The harmach was certainly the first target of the attackers, but Geran knew what his uncle would want him to do. Grigor would want him to make sure that Natali and Kirr were saved from this slaughter, regardless of the cost.

  A child’s scream rang out in the darkness. “Natali,” Geran murmured. Without another thought he turned to his right and sprinted down the hallway, his sword bared in his hand. The harmach probably had Shieldsworn bodyguards close to hand already; if fortune smiled just a little, they might be able to hold off the attack for a while. He turned the corner at the manor’s grand stair, and found several men and women in the harmach’s colors lying dead or unconscious at the top of the steps. Two men Geran had never seen before were crumpled on the steps by the guards. They wore no colors at all other than their well-worn leather jerkins and dark, hooded cloaks, the sort of nondescript garb that scores of sellswords in Thentia’s dockside taverns wore every day. Whoever was behind the attack had likely hired any killers he could find for the task—or wanted it to appear that way—and then reinforced the common sellswords with summoned devils.

  Geran did not pause to study the scene more closely, leaping over one of the fallen guards and continuing down the hallway. He came to Natali’s chamber, found the door standing open, and burst inside.