Sarth sighed, but he turned to the gate and murmured a minor spell of opening. The bolt on the far side rasped softly as it drew back under his magic, and the wrought-iron gate swung open. Geran pushed through and hurried across the snow-covered garden beyond. Most buildings in Hulburg were made of timber on strong stone footings, but the temple was made entirely of masonry. It did have windows, but they were narrow embrasures that stood a good ten feet above the ground, like a castle’s arrow slits—far too narrow for anyone to scramble through, as Mirya had observed. He drew close to the temple’s back door, and paused when the magical glyph guarding it became visible to his eyes. He could sense the baleful curse held within its faintly glowing lines and whorls. It was nothing he would care to tamper with, but Sarth was better with such things than he was.
Sarth studied the glyph closely for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “A competent effort, but I can defeat it,” he murmured. In a low voice he began to whisper the words of a counterspell, gently gesturing with his hand as he traced the glyph’s shape in the air with a fingertip. The glyph glowed brighter, its lines blazing a brilliant emerald green before they suddenly grew dark and vanished. “It is done.”
Geran glided forward and set his hand on the handle, not without a small quiver of trepidation. Glyphs, symbols, and such things could be highly dangerous, after all, but he trusted Sarth. He opened the door as quietly as he could, and found himself looking into a stone-flagged hallway dimly lit by small oil lamps in wall sconces. Several doors opened off the hall before it turned out of sight. He slipped inside, and Sarth followed behind him, pulling the door closed after him.
“Seal the door,” Geran whispered. “No one is to get out this way.”
“We may trap ourselves,” Sarth replied. But at a nod from Geran, he whispered the words of a locking spell to hold the door against anything short of destruction by a battering ram.
Geran moved down the hall, glancing at the doors as he went. This was the weakest part of his plan; he knew nothing about the layout of the priests’ quarters behind the Cyricist’s chapel. He simply hoped that Valdarsel’s chambers would be obvious from a quick inspection. The temple was not a very large building, after all, and he doubted that there were more than six or seven rooms in the portion of it barred to the public. The hallway from the garden door met an intersecting hall in a T, and he paused to look left and right. To one side the new hall opened into a large antechamber that led to the great chapel, and to the left he saw two more doorways, including one that was lavishly gilded and carved into the skull-and-sunburst emblem of Cyric. He allowed himself a small smile at their good fortune; that was the first place they’d look.
He motioned for Sarth to follow, and turned left toward the ornamental doorway. But the sudden soft clicking of claws on stone and rapid footfalls came from the antechamber behind him. Geran whirled, and found himself facing a terrible devil with greenish black scales and razorlike barbs jutting from shoulders, elbows, knees, and skull. The monster hissed in frustration as it realized that its stealthy rush had failed, and threw itself forward in a flurry of raking talons and stabbing spikes.
The swordmage gave a step or two, parrying the monster’s claws with his blade. The steel rang shrilly under its iron-hard talons, and sparks flew. “Foolish mortal,” the monster snarled. “Do you not know whose house this is? Did you think the servants of the Black Prince would leave their shrine unguarded?”
Geran said nothing in reply, still hoping to avoid making too much noise if he could. He fought back in grim silence, his blade leaping and darting to nick the barbed devil once, then twice. The creature’s scales were as hard as a coat of mail, and he quickly realized that it could shrug off anything but the most solid thrusts or heaviest slashes. Sarth stepped out into the hallway behind the monster, his rune-carved scepter of gold leveled at the creature’s back—and a second devil appeared in the archway to the antechamber at the far end of the hall, hurling itself toward the sorcerer.
“Sarth, behind you!” Geran cried.
Sarth spun to meet the new threat; the second devil was almost upon him, and he had no time for subtlety in his magic. “Narva saizhal!” he shouted, and from his outstretched fingers a half-dozen spears of blue-white ice took form and streaked toward his attacker. The monster screamed in rage and tried to leap out of the way, but two of the ice spears skewered its torso even as the rest streaked past and shattered loudly down the hallway. It staggered back and sank to the floor, but found the strength to conjure a ball of green hellfire and fling it at Sarth. The tiefling deflected the blazing ball with a motion of his scepter; it bounced back down the hall leading to the back door, scorching the flagstones.
Claws raked through Geran’s spell-shield, and he hissed aloud as his adversary’s hot talons scored the meat of his left arm. He returned his full attention to the monster in front of him, launching a furious attack of his own. Steel glittered and rang as the barbed devil batted the blade aside with its claws and spikes, and the monster grinned at Geran with a mouthful of yellow fangs. He could hear an uproar beginning in the temple as the Cyricists began to wake to the battle in their halls, shouting alarms to rouse the rest of their fellows or demanding to know what was happening. There’s no point in trying to keep it quiet now, Geran realized. Time is more important than stealth. With that in mind, he cleared his mind for a sword spell and let the arcane words roll from his mouth. “Sanhaer astelie!” he shouted.
Supernatural strength flooded into his limbs. When his foe raked at him again, Geran caught its forearm in the grip of his left hand—gashing his palm badly on the monster’s sharp scales in the process—and spun around to fling the creature into the wall as if it were a toy. Plaster cracked and the stone blocks of the wall shifted out of place under the impact. Before the monster could recover, he set the point of his sword against the barbed devil’s side and rammed the blade through lungs and heart until the point burst through the opposite ribs. With the last of the strength spell’s brutal power he wrenched his blade free and tossed aside the fiend’s corpse, which collapsed into sulfur-tinged smoke.
The door with the skull-and-sunburst design opened. A black-robed man with straw-colored hair and a sandy goatee stopped on the threshold, momentarily taken aback. A holy symbol of Cyric hung from his neck by a silver chain. Two soldiers in black mail with curved half-sickle swords hurried out to take position between him and Geran. “What is the meaning of this?” the Cyricist demanded. “You dare to defile the house of the Wronged Prince?”
“Are you the one called Valdarsel?” Geran said to him. The man in the black robes met Mirya’s description of the Cyricist well enough, but Geran had never actually laid eyes on him before; he’d happily kill all the Cyricists in the place, but he wanted to make sure that the so-called high prelate was among them.
The robed man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he snarled.
“I am Geran Hulmaster, of the House Hulmaster, and you are a murderer and a coward. Your hand is on the letter calling for my uncle’s death. For that, you’ll not live to see another sunrise.”
“Then you’re a fool to challenge me here.” Valdarsel sneered. He glanced to the armsmen at his side. “Slay him!” The two soldiers started forward, advancing on the swordmage.
“More are coming, Geran!” called Sarth. “Strike swiftly!”
Geran glanced over his shoulder. “Sarth, keep the others busy!” he replied. “Raze the place to the ground if you have to!”
Behind him, the sorcerer nodded and unleashed a great blast of golden fire that roared back down the hallway, shaking the building and filling the air with acrid smoke. Screams of pain and terror rang from the hall. Sarth shouted the words of another spell and flung a sizzling orb of green acid back at the antechamber from which the devils had come, catching several of the human temple guards as they rushed back in from their place by the front doors. The stone blackened and sizzled as the green acid ate into the walls and floor. Dark chants rose as le
sser priests summoned their own magic against Sarth, and the very air crackled with the ripples of spell and counterspell. Then Valdarsel’s bodyguards threw themselves at Geran, and the swordmage had no more time to concern himself with how his friend was faring in the hallway behind him.
The hallway was narrow enough that two enemies couldn’t easily come at him at the same time, so one guard held back a step and allowed his companion to go ahead. The leading bodyguard gave voice to a shrill laugh, his eyes ablaze with a fanatic’s reckless zeal. “Die, defiler!” he shrieked, and hacked down at Geran with an overhand cut. The swordmage parried the hard blow with some difficulty—the oddly shaped sickle swords were unfamiliar to Geran, and he wasn’t exactly sure where he wanted his own blade to meet his foe’s weapon. The curved point passed over his shoulder as the black-clad guard bore down, pushing the crossed blades down toward Geran with a two-handed effort … and the instant the curve of his sword was around Geran’s back, he suddenly leaned back and yanked with all his might. The sickle point wasn’t quite curved in enough to pierce Geran’s back, and it wasn’t effective as a slash, but the Cyricist guard did manage to drag him stumbling forward off balance, right into range for his comrade to cut Geran down. Geran survived only by throwing himself to the right, getting inside the second man’s swing and ramming his right elbow into his mouth. Then he stepped toward the guard who’d pulled him close so that his sword was no longer pinned against his body, and managed to smash the heavy pommel into the side of the second guard’s head as he recoiled from the elbow smash. The guard groaned and sank against the wall, his hand clapped to his ear as blood streamed through his fingers. But the guard grappling Geran shoved the swordmage back and attacked again.
The two of them traded slashes and parries for three, perhaps four, passes of steel, and then Geran spied Valdarsel brandishing his skull-and-sunburst symbol, his voice raised in an unholy chant. Dark energy swirled around the wounded guard kneeling by the wall, drawing him back to his feet and staunching the blood that flowed from his fractured skull. Damn it all! Geran fumed. He’d put that fellow out of the fight, and Valdarsel had used his priestly magic to heal the man’s injuries and return him to the fray. He caught another swing from the first guard on his blade and circled his point under his foe’s, ending in a lightning slash that arced up and through the man’s throat. “Heal that if you can!” he snarled at Valdarsel as this guard fell back to the flagstones.
“Now you will witness the might of the Black Sun!” the Cyricist answered. He stretched his hand over the dying man at his feet, and began another chant even as the soldier he’d healed first surged back into the fray. Geran met the man’s assault with a furious counterattack of his own, trying to batter his way through the guard and get to the priest behind him, but the man had just enough skill—or caution—to stand his ground and foil the swordmage’s attack.
Time for a different tactic, Geran decided. He backed away a step and wove his sword through an intricate series of precise motions, summoning the most powerful spell of offense he could manage. “Nhareith syl shevaere!” he chanted, timing the syllables to the movement of his blade. A corona of blue flame woke around the steel, trailing behind it as it danced through the air, and with the final gesture of the spell, Geran thrust the long sword straight ahead as if to fling the blue fire from the steel. A sheet of fierce blue flame roared out over the hall, catching the guard who’d been advancing to attack, the guard with the wounded throat as he rose to his feet, and even Valdarsel behind his bodyguards. Black surcoats and robes smoldered as a swordlike slash appeared where the plane of searing blue flame struck. The guards crumpled under the full fury of the deadly spell, but Valdarsel was shielded by their bodies; he staggered back, hunched over the shallow cut seared across his midsection.
“To me! To me!” the priest shouted. But none of his followers were nearby. More battle spells rocked the building in the hall behind Geran, and leaping flames danced across the wall hangings, the ceiling beams, even the plaster of the walls. Valdarsel looked around in disbelief, and sudden fury twisted his face into a hateful sneer as his gaze met Geran’s. “I swear by the Dark Prince that you will never see the end of your suffering!” he hissed. Then he turned and bolted back through the doorway with the carved door.
Geran darted after the fleeing priest. The door slammed shut in his face and latched; he tried it and found it locked, but he’d caught a glimpse of the chamber beyond as the door closed. Fixing it in his mind, he brought the teleportation spell to his mind and snarled, “Sieroch!” In the blink of an eye, he stood in the chamber beyond, a lavishly appointed suite with ceiling-to-floor wall hangings in gold and rust red, opulent couches, and a gleaming wooden table. Valdarsel groped behind the arrases, evidently searching for a concealed door. He whirled to face Geran as the swordmage appeared in the room.
“Defend yourself, murderer,” Geran said in a cold voice. “I’ll run my sword between your shoulder blades if you lack the courage to face me.”
“Your anger has brought you far, prince of Hulburg.” The Cyricist priest sneered. “Are you so certain that you aren’t serving the Black Sun’s purposes even now? Perhaps Cyric has caused your thirst for vengeance to lead you to your destruction!” Clutching his amulet with his left hand, he chanted the words of another priestly spell. Geran leaped forward to strike him down before he could finish, but Valdarsel was quicker with his magic. Ghostly chains appeared around the swordmage, anchoring him to the ground in midstep. A dim purple radiance flickered over the spectral iron, its touch searing Geran’s flesh and sapping his strength. Geran struggled to advance, but he could only shuffle another half step before the chains coalesced around him.
Valdarsel laughed shrilly. “See? Your determination is admirable, Lord Geran, but all your passion and skill are nothing in the face of Cyric’s might.” The priest drew a long dagger from the sleeve of his robe, and began to chant another spell.
Geran wriggled his sword arm free and readied a spell of his own. “Haethellyn,” he breathed, infusing the long sword with a spell of defense. Valdarsel finished his dark prayer and directed a lance of dancing black fire straight at Geran’s heart, but the swordmage spun his blade in a half circle and parried the priest’s deadly strike directly back at him. Valdarsel’s eyes widened in disbelief a split second before his own black fire melted his holy symbol and burned deep through robes, mail, and flesh beneath. With a choking cry, he staggered back and fell, leaving a trail of smoke behind him. The spectral chains pinning Geran where he stood suddenly wavered as the priest’s concentration faltered and failed. He dragged a foot forward through the vanishing chains, then the other, and finally strode free to stand over the fallen priest.
Valdarsel glared up at him, blood and smoke escaping from his mouth. Geran fixed his eyes on the cleric’s. Another fiery blast rocked the hallway outside. “I should let you die slowly and savor every moment of it,” he said, “but I can’t spare the time. This is for my uncle Grigor Hulmaster, you bloody-handed bastard.” Then he finished the Cyricist with a single fierce blow.
He stood and stared down at Valdarsel’s corpse for a moment, vaguely surprised at the lack of satisfaction he felt in what he’d done. As much as the Cyricist had deserved to die, the fact remained that Geran’s enemies still held his homeland in a grip of iron. He couldn’t believe that Valdarsel would have struck against Harmach Grigor without the knowledge and approval of Maroth Marstel or Rhovann Disarnnyl. Is that it? he wondered. Do I have to slay them as well to set matters right in my mind? Or is it simply that there is so much more to be done, and this is only the start of it all?
A great crash of masonry shook him out of his reflections. Sarth was still battling outside, and likely needed his help. Besides, nothing more would be put right if he didn’t take care with his life and freedom so that he could strike again. He turned on his heel and darted back to the door. With his sword in his hand, he drew back the bolt and hurried out into the hallway.
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nbsp; Roaring flames and thick smoke greeted him. Sarth’s spells or the battle prayers of the Cyricists trying to stop him had set the Temple of the Wronged Prince afire. The building looked like it was already well beyond saving, and was likely to come down around their ears at any moment. “Sarth!” Geran called. “It’s time to leave!”
There was no reponse at first, and Geran feared that Sarth had left already—or fallen in battle against the Cyricists. But then the tiefling sorcerer staggered through the smoke, coughing through the handkerchief he was using to cover his mouth. Blood streamed from a nasty cut above his knee, and his fine robes were peppered with blackened scorch marks as if he’d been caught under a shower of sparks. But Sarth’s eyes glowed with the hellish wrath he was capable of unleashing when angered or hurt, and Geran could see a half-dozen Cyricists lying crumpled on the floor behind him.
“Is it done?” Sarth asked through his handkerchief.
“Valdarsel’s dead,” Geran replied. “Come, we’d better get away from here.” He started down the hall leading to the back door, only to realize that a great collapse of the roof beams had made it impassable.
“Not that way, I fear!” Sarth shook his head and caught his arm, pulling him out toward the main shrine. “We must leave by the front door.”
Geran grimaced, but assented with a nod. Together they hurried out through the antechamber into the smoke-filled shrine beyond. Here stood a large statue, showing the god Cyric seated on his great throne with a sword lying bare across his lap. Bas-reliefs along the walls showed scenes of Cyric’s mortal life, telling the story of his fated birth and the trials through which he ascended to divinity. Geran hardly spared them a glance as the two hurried out through the gates into the cool, snowy streets outside, where a large knot of onlookers—mostly foreigners and Cinderfists, since the temple was not far from the Tailings and they made up most of Valdarsel’s followers anyway—had gathered to watch the place burn. Behind them a half dozen of the helmed constructs he’d seen earlier stood mutely watching the crowd, the reflection of the flames shimmering across their blank visors.
Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III Page 9
