Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III

by Richard Baker

  “All right,” she finally said. “We can meet your hiring price and your monthly rates for several months, at least. We’ll look after your quarters and provisions.” Of course, that meant selling off almost all the jewelry she’d been able to scrape together from her mother’s collection as well as that of Harmach Grigor’s wife Silne, who’d died many years before. They’d fetch enough in the markets of Thentia to cover the Icehammers for a short season … she hoped.

  “An’ if there’s fightin’, can you pay?” Kendurkkel asked.

  “It depends how much fighting you see. Is it possible that we could arrange to pay in installments once we see how much of a bonus you’ve earned?”

  “That’s no’ the way ’tis done,” he replied, shaking his head. “Usually our employer’s t’set aside a provisional sum with some countinghouse or another. After all, if we fight an’ lose, an employer might no’ be able to pay the agreed upon bonus. An’ if we fight an’ win, employers sometimes forget that there’s a bonus t’be paid.”

  “We don’t have thousands of crowns to leave in a countinghouse right now, Master Ironthane.”

  The dwarf shrugged. “Then I don’t see how t’help you, Lady Kara. I like you, I truly do. We’ve killed a lot o’ orcs together, we have. But as I see it you’ve got long odds against you, and it’s all too likely I’ll no’ see my pay.”

  Kara’s stomach sank. She needed the Icehammers! She crossed her arms and paced away, trying to come up with some argument, some enticement, that might sway Ironthane. Beyond the troops drilling in the field before her, the false battlements of Lasparhall glistened under their dusting of new fallen snow. She gazed at the old manor, thinking furiously … and something came to her. She looked back to Kendurkkel and said, “How about Lasparhall? The manor and the land must be worth ten thousand crowns or more. It’ll be our security for your fee.”

  The dwarf raised an eyebrow, but he turned to look at the house. “I’m no’ certain what I might do with a manor,” he muttered.

  “Sell it, use it as quarters for your company, or keep it for your own. I imagine that someday you might want to retire comfortably,” said Kara. Of course, if their attempt to retake Hulburg failed, that would leave the Hulmasters landless as well as penniless; there was literally nothing else to fall back on. Even Geran might have hesitated to make such an offer. Well, he wasn’t here to offer some better answer to the challenge of securing the Icehammers for the spring campaign. This was the only thing she could think of that might hook Ironthane in the absence of hard coin waiting for him in some trusted countinghouse. “If we fail, the place is yours. If—when—we defeat Marstel, then I’d like the opportunity to buy the deed back from you. But if we can’t, you’ll have Lasparhall to show for your troubles.”

  Kendurkkel replaced his pipe between his teeth, studying the lay of the land around the field. “It’s a fair piece o’ land,” he finally admitted. “I’ll be needin’ some assurance that th’ lord o’ Thentia would let the property change hands if it comes to it. But, if that’s all well, then yes, I agree. We’ll take your contract.”

  “Excellent!” Kara repressed a sigh of relief; she didn’t need the mercenary captain to see anything but complete confidence on her part. “Your quarters will be ready in two or three days. I mean to drill hard for the next few tendays, so your soldiers’ll be hard at it for a while.”

  “That’s as it should be,” Kendurkkel said. “A bored soldier’s a trouble waitin’ to happen. I’ll have me boys begin the packin’ up directly.” He stuck out his hand, and Kara took it forearm-to-forearm in the dwarven manner. The mercenary nodded in approval and grinned around his pipe. “It’ll be good t’ work with you again, Lady Kara. I go.”

  “We’ll speak again soon.” Kara watched the dwarven mercenary climb back into his mule’s saddle and ride off, then returned her attention to the companies wheeling and turning in the field before her. The sergeant’s sharp voices carried over the snowy ground, and from time to time one company or another gave a sudden shout in response. They’re good troops, far better than the foreign blades who make up Marstel’s army, she told herself. The question was whether she had enough of them … and with the Icehammers, she thought she had an answer.

  She motioned for her standard-bearer, a young Hulburgan soldier named Vossen, to join her. The sergeant trotted over, the Hulmaster banner fluttering from his stirrup. “Aye, Lady-Captain?” he said.

  “My compliments to the captains of the shields, and Sergeant-Major Kolton. Carry on with the day’s drills, and join me with the House War Council in the upper library at four bells this afternoon.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Sergeant Vossen replied. The soldier saluted, striking his right fist to his breastplate, and rode down into the drillfield in search of the captains as Kara turned Dancer and cantered back up to the manor. She’d been thinking of the campaign to come since the day the Hulmasters and their Shieldsworn had been driven out of Hulburg. It was time to set events in motion.

  A little before four bells, Kara waited for the House War Council to gather in Lasparhall’s fine old library. It was a broad, sunlit room on the upper floor of the manor’s west wing, and for the next few tendays, she intended to use it as her headquarters. A large map showing the lands lying between Thentia and Hulburg hung in the middle of one wall; a great table of gleaming dark mahogany was set up in the center of the room. The banquet hall in the middle of the manor was a larger room, but Kara preferred one that she could lock up and keep guarded without rendering half the house inaccessible.

  She busied herself with reading through a small handful of correspondence that Master Quillon had given her earlier in the morning as the chief commanders of the Shieldsworn and the family’s key advisors filed in. First came the shield-captain Merrith Darosti, a sturdy woman of thirty who wore mail much like Kara’s and carried her bold red hair in a long braid. Sergeant Kolton, who looked distinctly uncomfortable at the idea of participating in the officers’ council, followed a step behind her; since he was one of the most experienced sergeants remaining in the ranks of the Shieldsworn, Kara had promoted him to head of the House Guard. Brother Larken, a tall young friar in a brown robe adorned with the yellow sunburst of Amaunator, filed into the room next. Behind Larken two former members of the Harmach’s Council made their way into the room and took their places: Deren Ilkur—formerly the keeper of duties—and Theron Nimstar, who’d been Hulburg’s high magistrate. Neither man was a fighter, but they had good minds and broad experience in running civic affairs. Bringing up the rear of the procession came the stockman Nils Wester, who’d brought more than a hundred Hulmaster loyalists from his Spearmeet company into exile rather than submit to Marstel’s rule. The assorted clerks and seconds for the council members took their own places in the row of chairs along the wall.

  “It seems we’re all here,” she observed to Quillon. She handed the letters back to the old halfling, and adjusted the saber hanging in its scabbard by her hip. Since the assassins’ attack on Lasparhall, Kara had made a habit of wearing her arms almost every waking hour. Today she wore her light kit—a shirt of fine mail over a knee-length skirt of reinforced leather and half-greaves, all beneath a surcoat of quartered blue and white much like that worn by any Shieldsworn. She didn’t intend to be caught off guard by Hulburg’s enemies again. Unlike the soldiers’ coats, Kara’s featured a griffon of blue and gold embroidered on the upper left quadrant—the insignia of House Hulmaster, which was only worn by a member of the family under arms.

  She approached her place at the head of the table. “Good day, gentlemen,” she said. With a scraping of wooden chair legs on the flagstone floor, the men and women in the room rose to their feet as she took her seat. “Please, be seated.” Her officers and advisors sat down again and turned their attention to her, waiting for her to speak.

  Kara regarded them evenly as she organized her thoughts. This was more properly Geran’s task, not hers; it was frankly reckless and irresponsible
of him to hare off to Hulburg and play at being a spy or assassin when there was serious work for the head of the household to look after in Thentia. It wasn’t entirely outside her experience—after all, Harmach Grigor had trusted her to lead Hulburg’s small army with hardly any guidance at all—but as the only Hulmaster in Lasparhall, she was more than the commander of the Shieldsworn. All of House Hulmaster’s interests and concerns were now in her hands, whether they were political, diplomatic, or simply administrative. She’d tried to convince Geran that she needed his help on those fronts, but her cousin had simply said, “I have complete confidence in you, Kara; you’ll manage better than I would,” as if that was sufficient answer to her worries. Part of her understood that Geran’s work in Hulburg could very well be just as important as her work in Thentia, especially if it brought hundreds of oppressed Hulburgans into the loyalists’ ranks. But it was even more clear to her that Geran was hazarding the fortunes of the whole Hulmaster family along with his own life by carrying on as if he were nothing more than the rootless adventurer he’d been for so long. If he managed to get himself killed, she’d be the only Hulmaster who could carry on the fight … and the burden of leadership would fall completely on her shoulders, with no hope of reprieve for decades.

  No sense in returning to an argument already lost, she told herself. Especially not when Geran was already abroad, beyond her ability to recall or even contact for now. No, all she could do now was to throw herself into the challenge Geran had set out for her. She set her mouth in a determined frown and began to speak. “Today I struck a deal with Kendurkkel Ironthane of the Icehammer mercenaries,” she began. “With the Icehammers, we have the strength we need to defeat the usurper Marstel’s Council Guard wherever they meet us. On the tenth of Ches—fifty-two days from today—we march on Hulburg.

  “For the next five tendays, we will be engaged in maneuvers and training, come good weather or bad. By the time we march, we will be fast, disciplined, organized, and aggressive—a well-balanced sword in the Lord Hulmaster’s hand.” She paused, measuring their reactions before continuing. “Fifty-two days may seem like a long time today, but it’s not. If any here have doubts or questions about a spring campaign, now’s the time to voice them.” Kara held the rest of the room with her gaze for a moment more, and then leaned back in her chair.

  No one spoke at first. Then Nils Wester cleared his throat. He was a wiry man of fifty years with a weatherbeaten face and dark, fierce eyes under bushy gray brows; before he’d rebelled against Marstel, he and his large clan had kept hundreds of sheep on their pastureland high on the hills west of the Winterspear Vale. “I’ve little learning in strategy,” the wiry old stockman said, “but I suppose I don’t see why we’ve got to give that fat old bastard Marstel fifty days to get ready for us, Lady Kara. My warriors could march by the end of the tenday! Why wait?”

  “Because we need time to reequip and train,” Kara answered. “Half the men from the old Spearmeet musters don’t have any armor heavier than a leather coat or a weapon better than an old hunting spear. We might be a match for the Council Guard even so, but if you count the merchant coster armsmen in Hulburg, the Cinderfists, and whatever magic Marstel’s master mage can employ, the odds are longer than I’d like. Trust me, we’ll need the five tendays to make a field army out of the fighters we’ve got here.”

  “Marstel might find more sellswords by the time we march,” the old magistrate Theron Nimstar pointed out.

  “True enough,” Deren Ilkur said, “but regardless of whether we wanted to strike quickly or not, we simply don’t have the provisions or material to march now. It will take me some time to gather a supply train that could support our little army in the field for more than a few days.”

  “Do we need more?” Nils Wester asked. “Hulburg ain’t more than forty miles from here—two days if you’ve a mind to hurry.”

  “In good weather,” Kara pointed out. “And assuming no enemy force takes a position to contest our march. Imagine that we find we have to march another twenty or thirty miles out of our way to avoid some obstacle Marstel puts in our path, or that heavy rains make the tracks—such as they are—impassable. I don’t care for the idea of marching back to Thentia for our supper three or four days into the campaign simply because we’d neglected to adequately provision ourselves.”

  Wester grimaced, but subsided. “Well enough,” he replied. “I can see the reasonin’ of it. But—no disrespect intended, Lady Kara—where’s Lord Geran? If this whole campaign is a plan o’ his, I’d like to know what part he aims to play in it.”

  A good question, Kara answered in the privacy of her own thoughts. She couldn’t blame Wester for asking about exactly the same concern that she’d been worrying at for days now. On the other hand, the last thing her captains needed to hear were her own doubts about the wisdom of Geran’s actions. Wester was a good man, and a fiery leader to the Spearmeet muster who’d followed him into exile, but he was a difficult subordinate. He’d quickly fall into the habit of questioning every order she gave him if she showed any signs of equivocation.

  “Lord Geran is engaged in a secret mission,” she replied. “I wish I could speak freely about what he’s doing, but I can’t rule out the possibility that Marstel’s spies—or the scrying of his mage Rhovann—might unearth some report from Lasparhall. If our enemies learn what he’s about, they might take steps to counter his efforts, and his life could very well be in danger. Suffice it to say that we have too few allies and too many enemies at the moment; Geran means to amend that before our campaign begins.” All of that was, of course, true enough, which spared her conscience; she’d never been a good liar. But that might be anything from secret diplomacy in Melvaunt or Hillsfar to seeking out magical assistance to raising the common folk of Hulburg against their oppressors. Let Wester and the others guess at what exactly she meant. “Now, are there any other questions or concerns before we get to work?”

  No one spoke for a long moment. Kara studied the faces of her captains; some were grinning in eagerness, anxious for a chance to redeem themselves, but others—mostly the older, more experienced men—harbored dark flickers of doubt. They understood well enough the disparity of numbers and the slender resources available to the Hulmasters for their campaign. The defeat Marstel and his Cinderfist allies had dealt them back in the fall was still all too fresh in their memories.

  Without even realizing what she intended to do or say, Kara slowly rose and leaned her mailed fists on the great table. “Marstel’s soldiers are growing fat and lazy in their comfortable winter barracks, bullying old graybeards and children,” she said in a snarl, allowing her voice to rise. “We’re the warriors who met the Bloody Skulls on Lendon’s Wall and stopped those savages dead in their tracks. Marstel’s sellswords caught us spread out all over Hulburg and surprised us with sudden treachery last time; they won’t surprise us again. When next we meet the usurper’s forces in the field, I promise you this: we will cut them to pieces! Now—are you with me, or not?”

  Sergeant Kolton scrambled to his feet and struck his fist to his chest. “Aye!” he shouted. “I’m with you, Lady Kara!” Chairs scraped and mail rustled as the others in the room stood and spoke, filling the room with a chorus of “Ayes!” and “We’re with you!” and even a few cries of “Death to the usurper!”

  Kara straightened up and nodded to herself. She had them for now, at least. As the cacophony of replies faded, she spoke again. “Good!” she said, grinning fiercely. “Now let me tell you how we’re going to smash Marstel’s hired blades.”

  SEVEN

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

  A soft snow was falling at three bells after midnight as Hulburg slept. Dawn was still almost five hours away, and even the most determined revelers had abandoned the streets and taverns. Geran and Sarth stood in the shadows by the garden gate of the Temple of the Wronged Prince, wrapped in the eerie silence of the snow and the sleeping town. It seemed they were the only tw
o people awake in the whole of Hulburg, although Geran knew that was a misleading thought. They’d seen two or three patrols of Council Guards on their way to the temple and its grounds, and avoided at least one pair of the tireless helmed warriors with the gray skin. The constructs took no notice of passersby during the day, but that didn’t mean they would ignore two armed men at an hour when no honest folk were out and about.

  “I see no wardings over the garden,” Sarth said in a low voice. “However, there is a glyph upon the door, as you said. I believe I can defeat it without making much noise.”

  “Good,” said Geran. He drew his sword—a fine straight long sword with a modest enchantment upon it, borrowed from Sarth’s collection since he’d left his elven blade in Thentia—and murmured the words of a spell to summon a faint veil of silvery mist around himself. The cuillen mhariel, or silversteel veil, was a potent defense against many forms of attack, including magic. “You know that you need go no farther. Once you strike a blow, you’ll lose what remains of your neutrality. Marstel’s men and Rhovann’s helmed constructs will storm your house before the day’s out.”

  The tiefling shrugged. “An unfortunate loss, since I rather like the place. But I’ve made arrangements for the things I value, and have no great concern for the rest.” He hesitated just a moment, and added, “Geran … this is your chance to reconsider as well. There is no telling what sort of retaliation you may provoke.”

  The swordmage shook his head. In his mind’s eye he saw the blood-splattered corridors of Lasparhall and the gray face of his uncle, dying with an assassin’s knife in his heart. He knew that nothing could undo what had been done, but at the very least he could make sure that Grigor Hulmaster’s murderers never had the chance to kill anyone else dear to him. “That may be true, but Valdarsel will have no part in it,” he said. “Come on; we’re wasting the night.”