“There they are!” shouted a singed-looking acolyte in black robes. He stood, pointing an accusing finger at Geran and Sarth. “There stand the defilers! Seize them!”
“By all nine screaming Hells,” Geran muttered. “This is why I hoped to use the back door when we’d finished.”
Uncertainly at first, and then with angry mutterings and shouted threats, the small crowd began to surge forward. Geran thought about standing his ground and teaching the Cinderfists a second lesson to go along with the destruction of the temple, but then his eye fell on the towering rune-marked warriors in their blank helms. The creatures fixed their empty gazes on the two comrades and swung into motion, striding straight for them with a direct quickness that Geran frankly wouldn’t have expected of them. He hesitated a moment longer before glancing at Sarth. “I think we’d better be on our way.”
“Agreed,” the tiefling said. He stepped forward and locked his arms around Geran’s torso. Then, with a muttered spell, he leaped up into the air, bearing the swordmage into the firelit night with his flying spell.
EIGHT
21 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Rooftops reeled under Geran’s feet as Sarth carried him away from the Temple of the Wronged Prince. Behind them, flames shot up into the night from the building’s collapsing roof, and the fire’s sound—a dull, shapeless roar, interspersed by the constant popping and crackling of combustibles igniting within—filled the night. He glanced down as Sarth narrowly cleared a chimney and winced in fear of a fall. The last time he’d been carried into the air in such a way, he’d been fighting for his life against a gargoyle. But Sarth managed to keep the both of them in the air, his teeth bared in the effort to carry Geran along with him. In the space of ten heartbeats the tiefling returned to the ground two blocks from the temple, out of the mob’s sight, and released the swordmage.
“That … is much harder … than using the spell for myself alone,” Sarth panted. He leaned over with his hands on his knees. “My apologies … for not asking … your permission before … carrying you into the air.”
“Think nothing of it,” Geran answered. “We were about to be set upon by a mob; I approve of your judgment.”
“Shall we continue … as we’d planned?”
“I think so, and the sooner the better. I hadn’t expected so many Cinderfists to respond to our attack on the temple. Then again, I hadn’t expected to burn the place to the ground.” Geran and Sarth had decided it would be wisest to make for Thentia as soon as possible after dealing with Valdarsel. Even though Geran wished to begin plotting against Rhovann next, he was afraid that if he remained in Hulburg, Marstel’s men would tear the town to pieces to find him; if he allowed his return to Thentia to become widely known, the usurper’s soldiers wouldn’t waste any time trying to root him out of hiding.
“You wished to send a stern message to your enemies. The destruction of the temple certainly contributes to that.” Sarth drew one more deep breath, and straightened up. “Lead the way.”
“Our mounts are waiting.” The swordmage looked around to fix his bearings; they were in the small alleyway between High Street and Plank Street, not that far from Erstenwold’s. With a quick glance up and down the streets, he set out at a fast walk, figuring that would look less suspicious if they met any guardposts. Geran had prepared for their escape by purchasing a pair of riding horses the day before and stabling the animals with their tack, harness, and provisions in a disused storehouse near the intersection of Market Street and Keldon Way. With any luck they’d be mounted and on their way within a quarter hour, long before any pursuit could be organized. Of course, Marstel’s soldiers would certainly expect them to flee along the westward roads, but Geran was confident that he could lose pursuers in the moors.
They turned west on Cart Street; Geran glanced behind them, where he could see the bright orange-glowing smoke rising from the burning temple above the rooftops. Dark figures milled around a couple of hundred yards farther down the street. He couldn’t tell for certain from this distance, but it looked as if several parties of searchers were setting out to comb the streets. He quickened his pace, heading for Fish Street to cut over toward their waiting mounts and stay out of sight.
A muted clatter of steel came from the other direction, and four of the helmed gray warriors suddenly rounded the corner at a silent run, halberds clutched in their thick hands. Geran and Sarth froze in surprise; they’d been watching for pursuit from behind them, not ahead. For an instant Geran hoped that the creatures were simply hurrying to the scene of the fighting, but the gray monsters altered their course the instant they caught sight of the two fugitives, lowering their halberds to charge with the weapons’ deadly spear points.
“Take them!” the swordmage said to his friend. “We can’t let them follow us to the horses!” He drew his sword, and ran forward to meet the first of the helmed guardians. The creature drew back its thick arms and rammed the halberd point ahead in a powerful but clumsy thrust that might have driven the big weapon through the side of a house, but Geran simply stepped aside. In a single fluid motion he rolled in along the weapon haft, crouched, and drove his sword point up under the ribs on the thing’s right side. Fifteen inches of steel vanished into its gray flesh. He drew out his sword and spun away, searching for the next foe—but the hulking creature he’d just stabbed planted its lead foot and pivoted to bring the halberd around in a massive sweep that Geran avoided only by throwing himself back on his seat. He scrambled to his feet, ducked to his left, and lunged forward to cleave his long sword through its lower torso, just below the armor plate guarding the center of its body. The steel sword smacked into the creature’s flesh as if he’d hewed at a block of wet clay; when the blade passed through, it left a wide, thin-lipped cut, but only a few dark drops of ichor leaked from a wound that would have disemboweled any mortal foe. The creature raised its halberd for another strike, and this time Geran was obliged to scramble away from that attack as a second helmed guardian tried to skewer him from the side.
“They don’t bleed!” he cried in frustration. “It’s like hacking at mud!”
Sarth scorched another of the monsters with a jet of bright fire. Claylike flesh hardened under the heat and then broke away in fist-sized chunks as the construct advanced and swung its halberd at the tiefling. The sorcerer ducked and retreated. The construct paid no attention as huge slabs of its substance delaminated and fell to the snowy cobblestones, pressing after Sarth. “Nor do they burn very well,” the tiefling snarled. “In fact, they seem difficult to harm.”
We don’t have time to carve these things to pieces or bake them into immobility, Geran decided. They could not afford much delay in their escape. He traded one quick glance with Sarth, and said, “Run! We’ll lose them in the alleyways.”
Dancing away from the slow-footed guardians, Geran sprinted up Fish Street to the first convenient alley and darted in. Sarth followed a step behind him. He led the way as they darted through one yard after another, vaulting fences and darting down each twist and turn they could manage. They quickly outdistanced the hulking helmed guardians; the creatures were fast enough in a straight sprint, but they fared poorly in quick turns and narrow places. Geran worked his way north and west toward the storehouse where he’d left their mounts, and after a hundred yards or so emerged onto Keldon Way across from the towers of glassy green stone known as the Spires. Breathing heavily, he paused to scan the streets for signs of pursuit.
Sarth halted alongside him, panting. Then the tiefling snarled and spat a curse in a harsh language that Geran didn’t know. “Two more are coming from the right!”
“Damn the luck,” Geran said. He looked in the direction Sarth was staring, and saw the hulking creatures hurrying toward them. That was unfortunately the direction in which their waiting mounts were hidden; that pair might have been stationed up by the foot of the Burned Bridge, or perhaps near the gates of Daggergard. He glanced back to his left to see if
there was someplace they might hide from the approaching guardians, only to see another pair of the monsters hurrying up from that direction. And now he could hear the clatter of the creatures they’d skirmished with drawing close through the alleyways behind them. That’s not ill luck, he realized with a sick sensation. That’s coordination.
“They know where we are,” he said to Sarth. “They’ve got some way to follow us!”
“And to communicate that knowledge to each other without speaking,” Sarth replied. “A subtle and powerful enchantment, but a very useful one.”
“Useful, indeed,” Geran muttered. “So how do we elude them?”
“That has now become problematic.”
Geran gave Sarth a black look. “Come on, we have to keep ahead of them. Perhaps if we open a wider lead we can circle back to our horses.” They hurried over another building or two and cut back into the alleyways east of Keldon Way, dodging through more of the narrow lanes and cluttered yards of the homes and workshops in Hulburg’s westerly districts. This part of the city was not heavily inhabited, and some of the rubble of the old city that had once stood on this site still lay in heaps between the buildings that had sprouted up here over the last few decades. As often as not Geran and Sarth slipped and scrambled through weed-grown mounds of old masonry as they tried to keep ahead of the helmed guardians. This time Geran worked his way as far east as the Middle Bridge and then turned south to cut all the way across town toward the waterfront, staying off the major streets; now it was not just the gray constructs they had to be wary of, but also the bands of armed Cinderfists who roamed the streets. Near the tradeyard of the Jannarsk Coster they finally paused to scan the nearby streets for any sign of the helmed constructs.
“That must have lost them,” Geran said as they caught their breath.
“Perhaps,” Sarth said. The tiefling glanced up at the sky. “Dawn is not far off now. We are losing our chance to reach our mounts tonight.”
Geran nodded agreement. He looked up to gauge the hour by the lightening of the sky, and he caught a glimpse of a small, bat-winged shape momentarily silhouetted in the gap between two buildings. He frowned and let himself look away, but marked the spot. “Sarth, do you see something on the roof of that countinghouse to my right? Something like a large bat? Try not to look right at it.”
The tiefling turned his head slightly and looked from under his brows. “There is something there …” he said in a low voice. “Ah, a homunculus. It is watching us. That would explain how we have been followed so easily, although I still wonder how the gray guardians know what it sees.”
“It must be Rhovann’s work. He is an expert in alchemical creatures.”
“Their bodies may be formed by alchemy, but the animating force is another matter. There is magic at work here that I am not familiar with.”
Geran frowned. He had some skill with arcane lore, of course, but his education in magic was fairly narrow. When they had more time, he’d have to question Sarth closely on the topic of his observations about Rhovann’s magic. In the meantime, they had more pressing matters to deal with. “Can you destroy it?” he asked.
“Of course.” The tiefling changed his grip on his scepter, hiding the magical weapon from the small thing watching from the rooftop. Then he spun and pointed the device, shouting the words for a powerful spell. A brilliant green ray darted out and struck the little creature; it let out a startled squawk before bursting apart in a gout of dank clay and dark ichor.
Geran clapped the tiefling on the shoulder. “That’s one small spy who won’t trouble us anymore. Now, while we’re unobserved, I think it’s time to split up. Our enemies are looking for the both of us together, and—forgive me for being blunt—you stand out much more than I do. If you take to the air without trying to carry me along, I very much doubt that anyone will be able to catch you. Make your way to Thentia as swiftly as you can, and see to it that Kara learns everything we’ve learned about Rhovann’s guardians. I fear they’ll be a formidable obstacle to our plans to liberate the town.”
Sarth frowned, but he nodded. The tiefling was a very pragmatic man, when it came down to it. “Very well. What will you do?”
“I’m going to try for the mounts again.” He took Sarth’s arm in a warrior’s clasp. “Now go. I’ll see you in Thentia.”
“Be careful, Geran,” Sarth said. He glanced around, his eyes glowing crimson in the shadows, and murmured the words of his flying spell. In three heartbeats he shot up into the sky overhead, turned west, and arrowed away from Geran’s sight.
Geran heard a commotion behind him. He peeked around the corner of a building and saw a gang of Cinderfists coming in his direction. Quickly he turned and ran in the opposite direction, doing his best to stay under overhangs and awnings just in case more of Rhovann’s homunculi were about. He darted back into the nearest alleyway and began to work his way westward, looping back around toward the square by the Merchant Council’s grand hall. He paused between a taphouse and a bakery on Cart Street just a stone’s throw from the Merchant Council hall, and carefully risked another glance up and down the street.
To his right, a pair of the helmed guardians stood near the center of the small square, scanning the surrounding area behind their blank visors. To his left, another party of Cinderfists carrying lanterns hurried up from the waterfront. He muttered a curse and drew back out of sight, waiting for the foreign brigands to pass by. “At least the helmed creatures didn’t come for me this time,” he murmured to himself. Perhaps Sarth had managed to blind their pursuers for a time by destroying the winged spy.
Inside the bakery he leaned against, he could hear the clatter of firewood and pans as the baker and his helpers began to stoke their ovens. Dawn was approaching, and he didn’t want to be caught slinking around Hulburg in broad daylight. He might be able to blend in among the crowds, but he wasn’t at all certain that he could avoid Rhovann’s monsters indefinitely. What was it the dwarf had told him the other day? The creatures sensed the presence of those Rhovann wanted found? If there was even the slightest chance that was true, he could find himself at the center of a rapidly closing net even if he managed to outdistance any helmed guardian he ran into.
The Cinderfists passed by his hiding place with no more than a cursory look down the narrow lane between the buildings. They’re taking steps to seal the town, he realized. He looked to his left, toward the bay, where House Sokol’s walled compound stood. For the moment the way was clear.
In the distance, he heard the clatter and shouts of a Council Guard patrol moving into the yards he’d just left. “Cinderfists, Rhovann’s constructs, and now the false harmach’s men,” he muttered aloud. Simply escaping from Hulburg, with or without his mount and provisions, seemed less and less likely. He needed a place to hide for the day. It couldn’t be Erstenwold’s, it was far too likely that Marstel’s men might look for him there. The tinsmith’s shop might serve, but he might be spotted as he tried to slip through the net of searchers closing in. He needed someplace close by … he glanced again at the Sokol compound at the end of Keldon Way. It was close, and as a House represented on the Merchant Council, it enjoyed protections against the harmach’s authority. And it was conveniently sited on the west side of town for when he did decide to attempt escape again. The question was: did he trust Nimessa Sokol with his life?
She didn’t betray me when I spied out Hulburg a few tendays ago, he answered himself. Then again, there was quite a difference between turning a blind eye to his comings and goings and sheltering him from the harmach’s soldiers after a brazen attack on the Cyricists’ temple.
Before he could second-guess himself, he darted across the street and hurried down Keldon Way toward the Sokol compound. He was careful to stay out of sight of the yard’s front gate, which would be guarded by Sokol armsmen; the fewer people who knew where he was, the better it would be for all concerned. Instead he headed down the lane that ran behind the walled yard, fixed his eye on the wall top, and
used his teleportation spell to blink himself up to it. Quickly he dropped to the ground inside and made his way to Nimessa’s comfortable house, knocking softly at the door.
There was no response at first, and Geran began to wonder if perhaps Nimessa might have returned to Phlan before the ice set in. But then he heard footsteps coming to the door. A moment later, a gray-haired valet in a nightcap opened a small spyhole to peer out at him. He looked at Geran and frowned. “Who are you?” he demanded in a hard whisper. “What business do you have here?”
Geran didn’t particularly care to announce his identity unless he absolutely had to. “I have an urgent message for Lady Nimessa,” he said. “Could you please wake her?”
“Do you have any idea of the hour?” the valet demanded.
“I know it’s not yet four bells after midnight, but trust me, she’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say.”
The old valet scowled. “You’ll have to be more forthcoming than that, young master. I’m not about to admit a stranger to my lady’s house in the middle of the night, especially one who refuses to give his name. Now be off with you, before I summon our guards!”
Geran frowned, considering what he could say to convince the servant to rouse the lady of the house. But then he heard a small rustle behind the valet. “Who’s at the door, Barrad?” Nimessa called from somewhere inside.
Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III Page 10
