Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III

by Richard Baker

  “Is this a good time?” he asked her. “If you’ve business to attend, I can wait.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m simply surprised to see you. I would have thought …” She paused, searching his face with her keen blue eyes before continuing. “Geran, it may be that you haven’t heard, but word from Thentia arrived two days past that Harmach Grigor was killed by assassins.”

  He met her gaze and nodded. “I was there.”

  “Oh, Geran, I’m sorry for it, I truly am. He was a sweet old man who’d naught but kind words for me any time I spoke with him.” She reached across to rest her hand on top of his. “Is the rest of your family well?”

  “Yes. Natali and Kirr weren’t hurt, thank the gods. Aunt Terena and Kara are fine too. But we lost a number of Shieldsworn and family retainers. It was a terrible scene.” He frowned and looked around. Speaking of the young Hulmasters had reminded him … “Are you and Selsha well? Is she about?”

  “Aye, we’re well enough, I suppose, but I sent Selsha to stay with the Tresterfins for a time. I was worried that she might be caught up in some trouble here in town, and I thought she’d be safer in the countryside. I do miss her, though. I’m in the habit of listening for her footsteps or her voice.” Mirya sighed, and drew back.

  The trouble must be growing worse if she sent Selsha away, Geran reflected. Mirya was hardly the sort to panic, as he well knew. “I saw that old Kettar’s workshop was empty,” he said. “Have Marstel’s tax collectors troubled you? Are you still able to make a living here?”

  She made a dismissive gesture. “We’ve something laid by for hard times; we’ll see it through, I think. But I worry about my neighbors.”

  “I do too. I won’t let this stand a day longer than I have to. I promise you.”

  “I know it, Geran.” She fell silent for a time, gazing down at her hands. He knew her well enough to see that she had something she wanted to say. After a moment she shook herself a little, and looked up at his face again. In a quiet voice she asked, “What happened in Thentia?”

  “Your old friend Valdarsel sent a priestess from his order to organize an attack at Lasparhall,” he said. “They struck in the middle of the night, when the household was asleep except for a few sentries. It was mere chance that I wasn’t killed as I slept. Kara and I—and the Shieldsworn—managed to foil the worst of the attack. But we were too late to save Harmach Grigor.”

  Mirya covered her mouth in horror. “Oh, Geran,” she whispered through her fingers.

  He sighed and glanced at the small gray patch of sky visible in the counting room’s tiny window. “Kara and I saw to it that the Cyricist and her mercenaries had no opportunity to enjoy their success. None of them got away.”

  “Who is harmach now?”

  He shrugged. “I am, I suppose. Well, I won’t take the title until Hulburg is free. But I’m the Lord Hulmaster.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Mirya recoiled in horror. “You must be mad! If Marstel knew that you were alone in Hulburg, right here under his nose …”

  “I’m here to kill Valdarsel. He’s the one who ordered Harmach Grigor’s death. There will be no more Hulmasters assassinated on his orders.” The thought brought another flash of anger, and he clenched his jaw. “I don’t doubt that Rhovann put him up to it, and I’ll deal with him in good time. But for now I’ll settle for delivering an unmistakable message to Rhovann and his pet harmach about sending monsters and murderers against my kin. There’s a price to be paid.”

  Mirya pressed her lips together, thinking on Geran’s words. A few months earlier she’d found herself on Valdarsel’s bad side, and she had good reason to fear the priest. “I wouldn’t miss him, and that’s the truth of it, but I don’t know if you’ll be able to put him under your blade. He spends most of his time in his new temple, and he’s got a strong guard with him whenever he leaves it.”

  “New temple? What new temple?”

  “They call it the Temple of the Wronged Prince,” Mirya replied. She shook her head. “I never thought I’d see the day when such a thing as a temple dedicated to Cyric might be built in Hulburg, but it’s happened.”

  Geran frowned. Cyric was a dark god, but his doctrines embraced concepts such as ambition, change, and revolution—things that often appealed to folk who were poor and desperate. He suspected that Cyric’s priests downplayed the darker aspects of their Black Sun when recruiting from the wretched masses. “Where is this place?”

  “On Gold Street, near the Middle Bridge. There are guards in black mail who stand by its doors both night and day, and acolytes are always about the public rooms. The priests’ quarters and the temple’s inner sanctum aren’t open to any but the servants of the Black Sun.” Mirya paused, studying him. “I’ve heard that there may be other guardians inside—devils or demons or some other such things. If you mean to face him, it might be better to wait for him to come out, guards or not.”

  “That may be,” Geran replied. “Still … are there any other entrances?”

  “Aye, there’s a small garden behind the building. A gate from the alleyway leads to the garden, and there’s a door leading in from the garden. It’s guarded by some sort of magical glyph.”

  “I might be able to deal with that …” Geran mused aloud. Then a sudden thought struck him, and he looked sharply at Mirya. “Wait a moment. How do you know so much about this Temple of the Wronged Prince? Did Valdarsel have his ruffians drag you in?”

  “No, nothing like that!” Mirya answered. She hesitated, looking away from him. “I’ve some … friends … who help me to keep an eye on things about town. We looked over the place a few days past, thinking that we might cause some mischief there. But as I said, it seemed too well protected to us, so we decided to leave it be.”

  “Mirya, what have you been up to?”

  “Marstel and his sellswords are running this town into ruin, Geran. We’re doing something about it. Hulburg is our home too, you know.”

  “Do you have any idea how dangerous that sort of thing is?” he demanded. “Once you raise your hand against Marstel and his allies, you can never take it back. Didn’t you learn anything from what happened when you put your nose in Valdarsel and Rhovann’s business a few months ago? They’ll hang you for a rebel if they catch you!”

  “If they catch me?” she said, bristling. “You’re the one skulking about in a disguise, and you’re the one person in all Faerûn they’d most like to catch playing at spy! How can you tell me that what I’m doing is too dangerous?”

  “This is different,” he retorted. “I have experience at this sort of thing. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Maybe I know what I’m doing as well, Geran Hulmaster.”

  Geran rose to reply in anger, but bit back on his words. He’d never get her to see that he was right by shouting at her; Mirya could be exceptionally stubborn when she set her mind on something, and this seemed like one of those times. He decided to try another tack. “Mirya … I understand that you love this land as much as I do,” he said. “But I beg you, don’t take chances! I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”

  She stood as well, and folded her arms like a battlement in front of her. “And why is that?” she asked in a sharp voice. “Don’t I have the right to choose my own risks?”

  He retreated from her, pacing around the small room. “Don’t be foolish,” he said. “You know that you’re dear to me.”

  “I know no such thing,” she snapped. “Oh, I know that I matter to you. You followed me to the Tears of Selûne. But why, Geran? Ten years ago you loved me. It ended. What is it that you think you still owe me? Why is it so important to you what happens to me now?”

  “Because I—” he began, and stopped himself, unable to finish. He’d been about to say because I love you. He stood in silence, stunned to find those words on the tip of his tongue, and aghast at the realization that he’d come within a breath of speaking them aloud. He had no right to say any such thing to her. Ten years before he’d been
a young, callous fool who broke her heart when he set out to make some kind of mark in the world outside Hulburg. She could never trust him with her heart again, and he could never ask it of her. He drew a deep breath, and found something else to say. “Because I owe it to Jarad,” he said instead. “He’d want me to look after you and Selsha. I failed him once when I left Hulburg to fall into the state it did while I was gone. I don’t want to fail him a second time.”

  “Because you owe it to Jarad,” Mirya repeated. She frowned, and finally shook her head, smoothing her skirts with her hands. “Very well, then. You can stay as long as you like, but I think you’re wise to avoid being seen as you come or go. I don’t know how, but I’ve a feeling that Erstenwold’s is being watched. I can show you a path in the buried streets if that would help.”

  He looked down at the floor. Mirya was no fool. She knew that he hadn’t been honest, although he hoped that she didn’t know exactly how. “I thank you for the offer, but I think I’d better be going. I don’t want to tempt fortune by hiding here, and I’ve got a few more errands today.”

  She paused by the door and looked back at him. “We’re ready to do what needs to be done. I can pass the word to the folk who are still loyal to the Hulmasters.”

  He nodded. “My thanks. I’ll remember that when the time comes.” Her frown softened just a little, and she ducked back out into the hallway to return to her business. He stood in the storeroom for a moment, listening to her voice coming from the front counter as she resumed her day. Did I mean what I almost said? he wondered. He looked inward, and found nothing he could make sense of, only a tangle of old memories and new friendship. Shaking his head, angry at his own foolishness, he deliberately set them all aside. “I have no time for that sort of nonsense,” he muttered. He moved over to the counting room’s window, fixed his mind on the empty tinsmith’s shop down the alleyway, and teleported himself out of Erstenwold’s. In a matter of moments he slipped back out onto Fish Street and continued along his way.

  The afternoon was drawing on, and he decided that he was hungry. He headed back toward the Winterspear along Market Street, and found a little smokehouse near Angar Square where he was able to buy a simple meal for a silver coin. When he finished, he turned his steps toward Gold Street and hurried past the Cyricist temple. It was much as Mirya had described it, a gaudy new structure rising from the middle of an old craftsman’s district on the edge of the Tailings. Black-clad guards stood by the open doors, doing their best to remain motionless and imposing despite the bitter weather. He was careful not to stare too closely as he walked past, giving the place what he hoped would seem like a cursory glance. He was tempted to wander in the open door and see what the public areas looked like, but decided against it; no doubt he’d be approached by someone if he did go in, and the whole point of a disguise was to avoid attracting attention. Instead he went back over the Middle Bridge—this one was watched by the gray-skinned warriors too—and climbed up the Easthill toward the better homes that sat along the hillside of the headland that formed the eastern half of Hulburg’s harbor. A few minutes’ walk brought him in sight of his goal, a house that was anchored at one corner by a small round tower.

  There was no other traffic along this street; these were the homes of the wealthy, people who had no reason to venture out in the cold unless they did so in blanket-filled carriages. He saw no signs of Rhovann’s spies or Council Guards, and decided that a direct approach might be the best in this case. Squaring his shoulders, he marched up to the house’s front door and rang the bell.

  There was no response for quite a while. He rang again. This time he heard several quick footfalls, and the door opened a double handspan. In the dark foyer beyond Sarth Khul Riizar appeared, his deadly magical scepter pointed at Geran. The tiefling wore the splendid scarlet and gold robes he favored, and his face—brick red in hue, and graced with two large, swept horns—was set in a stern frown. “I do not know you,” he said. “Explain this interruption at once!”

  “Sarth, it’s me! Geran!” the swordmage said, his voice low.

  The tiefling frowned and peered more closely at him. “Oh, so it is,” he muttered. “My apologies, Geran; it’s a good disguise. I thought you were some merchant coster armsman, come to deliver yet another offer of employment.” He lowered his scepter, and opened the door wide. “Come in, quickly. You’d best not be seen in the streets.”

  “My thanks. I’m sorry for barging in like this.” Geran hurried inside, and Sarth closed the door behind him, bolting it with an absent wave of his hand. “I feared you weren’t at home when you didn’t answer.”

  “Ah, well, I forgot that I’d given Wrendt the afternoon off. I thought he was here to answer the door.” Sarth set a hand on Geran’s shoulder. “It is good to see you, my friend. When I heard what had happened in Thentia … it is a monstrous thing to seek the murder of the children and your older relations, cruel and monstrous. I cannot believe that your enemies stooped to such wicked efforts. If there is anything I can do …”

  “In fact, I think there is,” Geran replied. He gripped Sarth’s shoulder in reply, the age-old warrior greeting. He had no call on Sarth’s loyalty, no reason to expect that the sorcerer would be willing to make himself an outlaw and a rebel for the sake of a few shared moments of danger, but he hoped that he’d read the tiefling’s character correctly in the months they’d known each other. “Valdarsel, the Cyricist priest, was behind the attack on my family. I mean to kill him for it, and I’m hoping that you’ll lend me your help.”

  The tiefling grimaced, and glanced around at the comfortable house around him. “He sits on the Harmach’s Council, you know. There will be unfortunate consequences.” Then he sighed, and nodded. “Very well. Allow me a few hours to make some preparations, and we will see what can be done.”

  SIX

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

  Early on a cold, gray morning, Kara Hulmaster stood holding the reins of her horse Dancer, and watched as her captains maneuvered their companies of Spearmeet and Shieldsworn through marching drills in the steep vale behind Lasparhall. A light snow flurry fell, and she wore a heavy cloak against the cold. Close-order drill was something normally reserved for masses of pikemen, but she’d always thought it handy for welding together newly formed companies and giving new officers practice at commanding their troops. Five days earlier she’d decided to combine the surviving Shieldsworn soldiers with the Spearmeet militia to form three new combined companies—or “shields,” as they were called in Hulburg—for the campaign to come. The new units were still learning how to work together.

  As she watched the captains maneuvering their shields, a dwarf riding on a thick-barreled mule came jogging down the lane leading back toward the manor. He was a black-bearded, broad-shouldered fellow even by the standards of his stoutly built kind, and he clenched the stem of a pipe between his teeth. When he drew up beside her, he reined in his mount and slid to the ground with a grunt. “Lady Kara,” the dwarf said with a small nod. “The chamberlain o’ the house told me I’d find you here.”

  “Master Ironthane,” Kara replied. “My thanks for coming to call on me here. I’d have been happy to ride down to Thentia, you know.”

  Kendurkkel Ironthane shrugged. “It’s the better part of two months now the Icehammers’ve been in winter quarters. I needed a reason to be out an’ about. Besides, I wanted t’ have a look at the Hulmaster army for myself.”

  “How have you been keeping?”

  “Fair enough,” he replied, watching the shields in their maneuvers. “Better’n you and yours, I’d say.”

  Kara winced. Many dwarves had a tendency to speak the truth and spare no feelings, and Kendurkkel was an excellent example. “I wish that weren’t quite so true.”

  The dwarf raised an eyebrow. “Are ye wishin’ hard times on me?” he said, but he smiled behind his pipe. Early the previous summer, the Icehammer mercenaries had stood side by side with the Shieldsworn
and the Spearmeet to break the Bloody Skull horde at Lendon’s Wall. Kendurkkel was a mercenary and owed allegiance to no one … but Kara had won his respect with her generalship in the desperate battle against the orcs, and respect was something that Kendurkkel was slow to give.

  “No, better times for me and mine,” Kara answered. She turned to face the mercenary and fixed her eyes on his. “We’ve got work for the Icehammers if you’re willing, Master Ironthane.”

  “I’m always willin’ t’talk business. What’s it t’be, then?”

  “I mean to retake Hulburg from Marstel and his supporters. We march at the end of next month. I’d like to hire the Icehammers to bolster our numbers.”

  “That soon, eh?” The dwarf drew on his pipe. “It’ll no’ be cheap, Lady Hulmaster. If that’s what you’ve got in mind, well, there’s a damn good chance of a field battle t’be fought. We’ll no’ shy from fightin’, but it costs a good deal more, you see.”

  Steeling herself for the answer, Kara asked, “What’s your price?”

  “Well, the customary amount is two thousan’ gold crowns up front, and a thousan’ per month we’re in your service. Add another six hundred if we provide our own quarters and board.” The dwarf removed his pipe from his mouth and tapped it against his hand, emptying out the ashes. “We’ll need a bonus of one thousan’ per day o’ skirmishin’ or siegework, or five thousan’ for a major battle.”

  Kara grimaced. That was frankly more than the Hulmaster fortune, such as it was, could manage, but she had to have the Icehammers. The winter weather meant that no other mercenary companies could be hired and brought to Thentia until late spring at the earliest, and that would pose its own problems—the Hulmaster treasury would be empty by then. More importantly, she couldn’t take the risk that Marstel’s agents might contact Kendurkkel and hire his company. All things being equal, she thought Kendurkkel would rather fight at her side than with her enemies, but it was hardly wise to count on such sentiments affecting a mercenary’s business dealings. If Marstel offered to meet the Icehammers’ price and she didn’t, there would be two hundred more veteran soldiers lining up against her, enough to make an already difficult task next to impossible.