Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III

by Richard Baker

  The valet glared at Geran, and looked away to answer. “An armsman who claims he has a message for you, m’lady,” he replied. “He’s not one of ours and he hasn’t identified himself. I was about to tell him to come back in the morning.”

  “You might as well admit him,” she replied. “I’ve already been roused twice tonight, after all.” Geran heard light footfalls inside, a brief murmur of conversation, and then the valet Barrad opened the door and motioned for him to enter. He stepped into the house and found himself in a comfortable foyer with rich wood paneling; a sitting room lay through a doorway to his right, and a dining room to his left. On the stairs leading to the house’s upper floor stood Nimessa Sokol, wearing a dressing gown with a warm blanket draped around her for warmth against the winter chill. Her long golden hair fell loose to her shoulders, and her eyes—an enchanting shade of greenish blue—settled on him with a mild curiosity. He noticed that she kept one hand tucked into the sleeve of the other arm. Dark wood gleamed in her fingers; she had a wand ready in case he turned out to be less innocuous than he claimed.

  He pushed his hood back over his shoulders and looked up to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry to wake you, Nimessa, but I’m afraid I’m in need of your help,” he said.

  She looked more closely at him, and her eyes widened in surprise and recognition. “I can imagine,” she replied. She tucked her wand back into her sleeve and hurried down the last few steps. “Are you hurt? Were you caught up in whatever trouble’s afoot in town this night?”

  Geran glanced down at himself. He noticed that he was scratched and bleeding in several places where the barbs of Valdarsel’s spectral chains had caught in clothing or skin. His shoulder and back ached where the point of the guard’s sickle sword had snagged him. I look like a ruffian who’s just come from a riot, he realized. No wonder the valet hadn’t liked the look of him. “Only scratches,” he said. “Otherwise, I’m well enough.” He cut his eyes toward Barrad before saying any more.

  Nimessa took his meaning. She glanced to her servant and said, “Barrad, you can go back to bed. I’ll be fine.”

  “As you wish, m’lady,” Barrad answered. The valet looked at Geran dubiously, but he bowed and withdrew.

  Nimessa waited for the old servant to leave before turning on Geran, a small frown fixed on her face. “What are you doing here?” she asked urgently. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near Hulburg!”

  “The Cyricists attacked my family in Thentia,” he answered. “I had to settle a score with Valdarsel.”

  “We heard about that, of course, but I can’t believe that you’d dare to come into Hulburg alone. You must be out of your mind.” She leaned close to peer at his cuts and the torn clothing, and frowned. “This is no scratch. I’d better fetch some bandages.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, but he grimaced when she poked at a bad cut on the back of his left hand. She raised an eyebrow at him, and hurried off to what he presumed was the kitchen. He heard cabinets creaking open and thumping shut. A moment later she returned with a basin of warm water and a roll of linen bandages.

  “Are you behind the fire at the Temple of the Wronged Prince, then?” she asked. “My armsmen woke me an hour ago to tell me the place was burning to the ground.” She took him by the arm and ushered him into the sitting room adjoining the foyer.

  He nodded. “It wasn’t my intent to burn the place down, but I’m not sorry to see it destroyed.”

  “For Selûne’s sake, what have you done? Half the town’s been turned upside down to find those who attacked the temple.” She steered him to a couch, and sat close beside him, dipping a clean bandage into the water to begin washing his cuts. “Was Valdarsel there? What happened?”

  “Valdarsel’s dead,” he said. “And more than a few of his guards and acolytes with him, I suppose.”

  “You killed the high prelate?” she asked in amazement. She frowned and looked away, quickly thinking through the consequences of his actions. After a moment she sighed and took his hands in hers. “You must flee Hulburg at once, Geran. It’s far too dangerous for you to remain here after tonight.”

  “That was my intent. Unfortunately, I hadn’t reckoned with the capabilities of Rhovann’s gray guardians or the alertness of his spies. I couldn’t reach the horse I’d left for my escape to Thentia. In fact, it’s not possible to set out on foot at the moment.” He made himself look into her eyes, bright with worry for him. “Listen, Nimessa … I know it puts you in a difficult position, but I need a safe place to lay low for a day or so before I attempt to set out again. I’ll understand if you can’t allow me to stay. But if that’s the case, I’d better leave immediately.”

  “Did anyone see you come here?” she asked.

  “Only your valet. I’m fairly confident about that.”

  “Barrad can be trusted to keep things to himself. Still, it would be wise to keep you out of sight. Most of our folk here are loyal enough, but I’d rather not take the chance on someone carrying tales to the Council Guard in hope of a reward, or simply saying something they shouldn’t out in the town.” She wrapped a strip of bandage around his hand, and turned her attention to another gouge by his left knee.

  “All I need is a pallet in a dark corner of your storehouse,” he said. He shifted and straightened out his leg so she could get at the minor wound more easily. He hadn’t realized how weary he was; it felt good to sit for a time, and even better to watch Nimessa’s deft hands at work, even if it stung fiercely at odd moments. “I’ll wait out the day and see if things have improved by nightfall.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid it’ll be nothing quite so heroic as a bit of straw and a crust of bread as you hide out in an attic or basement. I’ve got a guest room that you can have as long as you need it. I carry out a fair bit of business here in the house, but no one goes upstairs except Barrad, the maid, and myself, and the maid’s not due for another day or two. As long as you’re quiet, no one’ll know you’re here.”

  “Are you certain you’re fine with this?”

  “I’ve chosen my side, Geran,” she said. “Marstel is the wizard’s puppet, and I don’t trust Rhovann as far as I could throw him. I might have to conceal our sympathies in public for now, but if House Sokol can help you win back your realm, we will. I haven’t forgotten that you risked your life to rescue me from Kamoth Kastelmar, or that you stamped out the pirates who murdered my kinfolk and robbed our ships.” She stood, slender and graceful in her thin gown, and pulled him to his feet. “Come, I’ll show you where you can wash up and sleep. You might as well rest if you plan to set out at sunset.”

  She took a small lamp from the mantle and led him to the house’s upper floor. He followed after her, carrying his sword belt over his shoulder. The second floor was as well-appointed as the rooms below, its wide hallway graced by half-a-dozen fine portraits. Nimessa’s house was no palace or grand manor, but it was a comfortable residence for the head of House Sokol’s concession in Hulburg. The merchant nobles of the Moonsea looked after their own, Geran decided.

  Nimessa opened a door at the end of the hall, revealing a small room with a large canopy bed. She went to draw the curtains and quickly check that the linens were fresh. “It’s been a month or two since anyone’s used this room,” she explained. “I hope you don’t mind if it’s just a little bit musty.”

  “It’s far better than a hayloft or an attic, which is how I thought I might spend my day.” He dropped his sword belt into a chair by the room’s hearth, slipped his cloak from his shoulders, and turned to face her. “Nimessa … thank you.”

  “I don’t suppose I’ve ever properly thanked you for saving me from the Black Moon pirates,” she said with a smile. She leaned close to brush her perfect lips against his; the delightful sensation made him shiver down to the toes before she drew away. “How can I do any less for my brave rescuer?”

  She walked to the door, leaving the small lamp on a chest nearby, and paused to smile at him over her shoulder. Then, as she opened
the door to let herself out, Geran found himself moving after her without consciously deciding to do so; his legs simply carried him to her. His arms circled her waist and he buried his face in the soft golden tresses by the nape of her neck, drawing her to him. She gasped, and began to say something, but he reached up to turn her chin toward his face and covered her mouth with his. She hesitated, shivering in his arms, and then she responded, her breath warm in his mouth, her soft figure melting into him.

  Once upon a time I kissed Mirya like this, he thought. For a moment he hesitated, too, surprised to find those memories surfacing when Nimessa sighed in his arms. That was a long time ago, Geran, he told himself. Ten years before, Mirya had been his first love, but he’d wanted something more out of life than the narrow confines of a small town at the edge of the wilds and the love of a girl whose simple dream was to live her life in the place where she’d been born. The rational part of him knew that Mirya couldn’t ever love him as she once had, not after he’d abandoned her once. Whatever it was that his heart hoped for now, it wasn’t fair to Mirya—or himself—to imagine that she might come to feel the same way about him. And if that was true, what was the point of keeping himself for her any longer?

  Nimessa glanced up to him, sensing his hesitation. Deliberately he reached past Nimessa to push the half-open door shut, and kissed her again. Closing his eyes, he banished Mirya’s ghost from his memory, abandoning himself to the moment.

  NINE

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

  Little was left of the Cyricist shrine. The thick masonry that comprised its outer walls had survived the fire intact, if somewhat blackened and burned, but it was only a shell now. The wooden beams supporting the building’s roof had given way, leaving a mound of smoking rubble in the temple’s interior. Several black-robed acolytes supervised gangs of guards and Cinderfist loyalists as they sifted through the ashes and ruin, searching for anything that might be salvaged from the destruction.

  “So passes the Temple of the Wronged Prince,” Rhovann murmured to himself, amused by the irony of it. Followers of Cyric claimed that their god was misrepresented by other faiths and treated with a shameful lack of respect—a divine martyr who suffered the jealousy and resentment of all other gods. He’d always felt that the Cyricists were overly quick to claim insult and injustice from those who failed to bow to their demands; their credo, such as it was, made it easy to rationalize any sort of setback or obstacle as the action of a petty, hostile world determined to deny them their due. But here he stood in the ashes of Cyric’s house, and he had to admit that the followers of the Black Sun for once had a wrong for which redress was due.

  Captain Edelmark emerged from a blackened archway, his fine cloak streaked with soot. The soldier paid it no mind. Edelmark was a Mulmasterite of thirty-five years or so, not very tall, with the buff features and coarse manners of a common driver or woodcutter. He was a seasoned mercenary who’d fought for every city in the Moonsea at one point or another in his long career. “Lord Rhovann?” he said. “I think we’ve found him.”

  “Very good,” Rhovann replied, even though nothing about this catastrophe was good at all. The tall moon elf absently adjusted the hood of his cloak with his hand of silver, shielding his fine-featured face from the freezing drizzle—not quite snow, and not quite rain—that sifted down from the sky. He noticed that his boots of fine gray suede were now almost black with wet ash, and sighed. His clothes would smell of the fire for tendays, no matter how many times he had them washed.

  “Come, Bastion,” he said, motioning to the golem that waited silently at his side. The mage followed the Council Guard’s commander into the ruin, wrinkling his nose at the thick smell of smoke that hung over the place. The hulking golem in its vast brown cassock and hood padded after him, the rubble shifting and crumbling under the weight of its footfalls.

  Some of the interior walls still stood, while others had collapsed. Edelmark led him through the doorway that had once separated the public shrine from the priests’ quarters and down a short hallway—there were two bodies here, guards in blackened mail and charred harnesses—to what might have once been a large suite. Rhovann had never set foot in the place before, so he had no real idea of whether this room had been Valdarsel’s living space, his office, a secret shrine, or a bordello for the privileged initiates. Regardless, several Council Guards and underpriests stood around a pile of masonry near the center of the room. From beneath the debris jutted a blackened, skeletal arm, its bony fingers clutching a tarnished medallion. Rhovann leaned closer and recognized the skull-and-sunburst design of Valdarsel’s holy symbol, but there was no way to be certain otherwise.

  “Stand back,” he warned the others nearby. “Bastion, remove these beams and uncover this body—carefully, if you please.”

  The golem stepped forward and seized an eight-inch-square beam that must have weighed the better part of five hundred pounds. Without a sound it lifted the fallen rafter, swiveled, and tossed it to the other side of the room, where it raised a great puff of ash amid a horrific clatter. Bastion took a step, selected another beam, and discarded that one as well. Then the golem stooped to pick up a large section of charred roofing, stepped back, and threw it aside. Rhovann sensed the humans around him shrinking from the pure physical power of his unliving servant, but he paid it no mind; he knew exactly what Bastion was capable of, and was no longer surprised by such demonstrations.

  Beneath the roof section, the rest of the body was revealed—burned, crushed, but not incinerated as Rhovann had feared. He could still make out Valdarsel’s distinctive robes, although the face was unrecognizable. Still, it was intact enough for his purposes. He motioned at the guards and lesser priests standing about and said, “Leave me. I do not wish to be disturbed for the next quarter hour. Edelmark, you may stay.” The others withdrew.

  “Your satchel, Bastion,” Rhovann said. The golem shrugged a large leather bag from its shoulder and set it down at Rhovann’s feet. Frowning as he kneeled in the ashes, Rhovann opened it and quickly found the implements and components he needed. Working swiftly, he set several black candles in a ring around the dead priest’s body, and then sprinkled a carefully mixed oil over the corpse with a small aspergillum. Then he took a small black book from the satchel, opened it up, and began to read the words of a long and somewhat involved spell.

  The skies, already gray and dark, seemed to darken even more, and the air grew still. Edelmark shifted nervously, uncomfortable in the presence of Rhovann’s magic, but Bastion simply watched impassively. Rhovann rarely had reason to perform this particular spell, but Valdarsel’s mysterious death presented an ideal opportunity. As he neared the end of his invocation, he sensed an intangible doorway of sorts taking shape in the air above the corpse. With his left hand he made a beckoning motion. “Valdarsel, return! I have questions for you!” he called into the cold stillness.

  A spectral shape—a simple outline of pale mist, hardly visible even to Rhovann’s magically attuned senses—slowly emerged from the doorway and sank down into the corpse. It stirred sluggishly, its burned tendons creaking and skin crackling. “What do you want of me?” the corpse said in a thin, hissing voice. “Let me rest!”

  Does Valdarsel enjoy the eternal rewards promised by his god, or is he disenchanted with how Cyric keeps his promises? the mage wondered. The dead priest was of course beyond his recall, but Valdarsel’s soul was not required for the ritual; the minor spirit he’d summoned out of the deathly realms had nothing whatsoever to do with the dead man. It was merely an animus for the priest’s remains, a way to give the dead body a voice. Only things known to Valdarsel in life could be drawn out with this spell. Rhovann considered the questions he desired answers for, then addressed the corpse. “Who slew you?” he asked.

  The dead jaws worked in silence before the answer came. “Geran Hulmaster.”

  Geran? Rhovann had to force himself to stay silent despite his surprise. If he spoke aloud, the spir
it animating the corpse might take it as another question, and simply repeat its answer. So it was no common sellsword or assassin his runehelms had pursued the night before—it was the impudent swordmage, his most bitter nemesis, challenging his power in a brazen act of mayhem! Not only had Geran visited Hulburg in defiance of his family’s exile, he’d murdered a high-ranking member of the Harmach’s Council and a useful, if somewhat unreliable, ally of Rhovann’s. The elf ground his teeth together and mastered his anger before proceeding to his next question. “Who was with him?”

  “The tiefling … Sarth Khul Riizar,” the corpse groaned. “No others that I saw before I died.”

  “I should have known,” Rhovann murmured to himself. He’d known that Sarth was almost certainly a Hulmaster sympathizer, given the amount of help he’d provided to Geran when Geran was hunting the Black Moon corsairs. I should have driven him off too, he fumed. But the sorcerer had simply kept to himself and hadn’t done anything to provoke suspicion, at least not until the attack on the Temple of the Wronged Prince. Rhovann believed he was Sarth’s better in the arcane arts, but he hadn’t been so confident that he’d been willing to directly confront Geran’s friend without evidence of conspiracy. Clearly, Sarth’s participation in the attack on the Cyricists changed that; as soon as he finished here he’d see to Sarth Khul Riizar. But he suspected that he’d find nothing more than an empty house if the tiefling wasn’t stupid.

  He returned his attention to the burned corpse at his feet. “Why did Geran attack you?” This was a little trickier, since it called for speculation, but the mage hoped that Valdarsel’s corpse might retain enough resentment toward his slayer to cooperate.

  The grisly thing did not answer for a long time, but just as Rhovann was about to give up, it stirred. “Vengeance,” it said. “I ordered Larisse to destroy the Hulmasters in Thentia, and gave her gold to hire sellswords and scrolls to summon devils. For that Geran Hulmaster slew me.”