“Are you finished?” he asked Sarth.
“Only if you are certain that no argument of mine can dissuade you,” the tiefling answered unhappily.
Geran nodded. “I’d better do most of the talking. He knows me,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the piece of parchment and read aloud:
Dark the night and cold the stone,
Silent grave and barren throne,
Empty halls, a crown of mold,
Deathless dreams the king of old.
Long the dark and brief the light,
An hour’s play, and then the night,
Beauty fails and all grows cold,
Still awaits the king of old.
For a long time, nothing happened. Hamil glanced at him and said silently, Perhaps you didn’t do it right?
A circle of mist abruptly appeared on the ground a short distance in front of Geran, bubbling upward as if fed by some dark spring. He took a step back as icy dread congealed in his heart. The mist rose higher, taking on a hunched, humanlike shape, and began to darken and thicken. In five heartbeats it was mist no longer, but instead a figure of nightmare—a skeletal corpse clad in the tatters of kingly robes. Evil green flames flickered in its empty sockets, and it clasped a great iron staff in its bony fingers. Its bones were sheathed in strips of hammered copper, each incised with tiny arcane runes. It regarded the four of them for a moment with its horrible lipless grin; Geran could barely stand to look at the thing, and he kept his eyes fixed on its breastbone rather than gazing full into its emerald gaze.
“As you have called, so I have come,” the lich said in a dry, crackling voice. “What is it that you wish of me?”
“We desire your counsel,” Geran answered. “The enemies of House Hulmaster have seized Hulburg, King Aesperus.”
“That is hardly any concern of mine.”
Geran winced, but he pressed on. “We mean to take back our realm, but the false harmach’s wizard—an elf named Rhovann Disarnnyl—has created a small army of constructs animated through powerful necromancy. If we could neutralize or destroy the helmed guardians, we could meet the rest of the usurper’s forces on equal footing and win back Hulburg for the Hulmasters. Do you know how Rhovann created his guardians and how we might defeat them?”
“Of course I do,” the King in Copper grated. “I perceive many things, young fool; how could I fail to notice the elf’s forging of such a spell? Once upon a time I made legions of such things to serve me. Your adversary’s efforts are clever in their own little way, but he has outwitted himself in his handiwork.”
“Outwitted himself? How?” Kara asked.
Aesperus turned to regard her with his horrible gaze. “Ah, another Hulmaster,” the lich said. “Daughter of Terena, daughter of Lendon, son of Angar. Yes, I know who you are, Kara, altered though you might be by the Spellplague’s curse. I should destroy you to ensure the curse dies in your generation … or perhaps it might be excised, although the damage would be severe at this stage of your life.” Kara paled and swallowed, but she stood her ground.
“Do not harm her,” Geran said firmly. “We’re the last kin of yours left in this world, King Aesperus. Cursed or not, she is a Hulmaster, and you are sworn not to raise your hand against any of Angar’s line. Kara knows what might become of her children. You needn’t worry about that.”
The lich’s eyes blazed angrily as he turned back to Geran. “Do not presume too much on Rivan’s blood, young fool. Rivan was a worthless traitor who turned against me when I was at the height of my power! Do you think that I would hesitate for the merest moment to extinguish the last of his wretched line? I could destroy you both with a word!”
“In which case, Maroth Marstel remains harmach of Hulburg, dancing on Rhovann’s strings until the end of his days,” Hamil interjected. “And the surviving few Hulmasters live out their lives in poverty and exile. Hardly a fitting fate for a family fortunate enough to share your noble blood, mighty King.”
Aesperus glanced at Hamil but did not deign to answer. Geran decided that it might be wise to engage the ancient lich again. “How has Rhovann outwitted himself?” he asked carefully.
“His creations all share a single masterful enchantment,” the lich answered. “This is their great strength, since each additional runehelm he creates multiplies the power, resilience, and reasoning ability of all the runehelms he has so far created. But this is also their vulnerability. To share their senses with one another, to act in such perfect concert, they necessarily share a single animus. Sever that, and you could destroy them all at once.”
“What animus? How can it be severed?”
Aesperus made a low whistling sound deep in his bony chest, and Geran realized that he was laughing after a fashion. “My counsel is not without cost,” he said. “No more will I say until you meet my price.”
Geran felt the worried glances of his friends, but he did not look away. “What do you wish, King Aesperus?” he asked.
“Last spring, you delivered to me an old tome I have sought for centuries.” The lich’s jaws moved, smiling horribly at his own ironic wit; Geran had in fact done everything in his power to keep the Infiernadex from Aesperus’s bony claws, only to have the spellbook ripped from his hands at the lich’s mere gesture. “Unfortunately, it is incomplete. Do not fear, young one, I know that you did not maim my prize; the damage was done long before you stumbled across it. A number of pages were removed from the Infiernadex before it was hidden by the accursed Lathanderians. Complete the Infiernadex for me, and I will give you what you need to defeat Rhovann’s runehelms.”
“It is too high a cost, Geran,” Sarth said. “If he holds only part of the tome, then it would be better to leave it at that. We will find some other way to best Rhovann.”
“I am not speaking with you, devilspawn,” Aesperus snapped. “You gainsay me at your peril!”
Sarth fell silent, although he gave Geran a warning glance. Geran thought swiftly, considering the lich’s offer. His cousin Sergen had bargained with Aesperus a year prior, and the Infiernadex was the price the lich had named. The King in Copper had dealt honestly with Sergen and the House Veruna armsmen; Geran and Hamil had watched the lich hand Anfel Urdinger, the Veruna arms-captain, the amulet by which he paid for the book’s recovery. Aesperus hadn’t agreed to slay the Hulmasters out of hand; the lich had simply armed Sergen with the means to do so, which seemed a fine line to walk in terms of honoring his old promise not to raise his hand against any of Angar’s line. But even that suggested that Aesperus valued his word enough to take pains not to violate the exact wording of a promise.
“If we get the rest of the Infiernadex for you, will you promise not to employ its powers against Hulburg or its folk?” he asked.
The lich made a small snorting sound. “Done. I have far more important concerns than your miserable little flyspeck of a realm.”
“Then I agree. We’ll find the book’s missing pages if it lies within our power.” Geran felt Sarth’s discomfort, but the tiefling did not speak; he hoped that he was not making a terrible blunder. Of course, there was no telling where in Faerûn any pages removed from the book centuries before might then lie. Perhaps Sarth would be able to divine their location, assuming that his friend would be willing to help.
I hope you know what you’re doing, Hamil told him silently. The halfling looked up at the lich and said, “I don’t suppose you know where the missing pages are, do you?”
The lich looked down at Hamil, his jaw clicking. “I have known for centuries, but potent countermeasures obstruct me. They should pose less of an obstacle for the living. The missing pages lie in the vaults of the Irithlium in Myth Drannor.”
Geran stared at the lich, dumbfounded. Myth Drannor was the one place in the world he could never go again, but before he could begin to frame a protest, Aesperus raised his iron staff, silently regarding each of Geran’s companions in turn, and dissolved back into mist again. “Summon me when you have brought the page
s I seek. Do not long delay, young Geran. Doom draws near, and you will need my aid.”
The lich vanished, and silence fell over the barrowfields.
TWELVE
3 Alturiak, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
The Council Guard soldiers came for Mirya in the middle of the night. She was awakened from a fitful sleep by the sound of her cottage’s door breaking open, the angry shouts of the harmach’s soldiers, and their heavy, armored footsteps thundering over the old floorboards. She sat up and started to swing her legs out of the bed with some half-formed notion of fleeing out the back door, but the bedroom door flew open and several soldiers with bared steel in their hands surged forward to seize her. She was dragged stumbling from the bed to the kitchen, where a Council Guard sergeant she didn’t know waited by the banked fire.
“Who are you? What’s this all about?” Mirya managed.
“Shut up, you!” one of the soldiers holding her snarled. He cuffed her across the mouth with the back of his mailed gauntlet—not with his full strength, since no bones broke and her teeth all stayed where they belonged, but still hard enough to buckle her knees and split her lip. Dizzy, she sagged in the soldiers’ grip until they stood her upright again.
“Mirya Erstenwold, we’ve got a writ for your arrest,” the sergeant said. “You’re accused of conspiracy, harborin’ spies, and committin’ acts of rebellion ’gainst the harmach.”
“No—” she began to protest, but a hard look from the soldier who’d hit her brought her protest to a quick end. Then the Council Guards marched her out the door to a waiting wagon and shoved her inside, slamming the door of iron bars shut behind her. In the space of a few heartbeats the wagon was jouncing and rocking as it rolled down the lane back toward the center of town. Mirya huddled inside her nightshirt, trying to make sense of what had happened and where they might be taking her. The night air was cold and dank, and a sour old smell clung to the wagon’s interior. She could hear the clatter of hoofbeats on cobblestones from the team drawing the wagon, the harsh commands of the driver and the sharp flick of the lash, the creaking and jingling of the soldiers’ armor and the wagon’s springs.
Thank the gods that Selsha wasn’t home, she thought dully. She didn’t think the soldiers would have dragged in a girl not even ten years of age yet, but the whole scene would have terrified her daughter beyond words. She had no idea what was about to become of her, but at least Selsha was safe with the Tresterfins.
The wagon finally rattled to a stop. Two more Council Guards unlocked the door and dragged her out. She caught a single glimpse of their surroundings, and recognized the silhouette of the Council Hall’s decorated eaves in the dim orange light of the streetlamps. Then she was ushered inside and down a flight of stairs to the guardrooms below the hall proper. She’d been this way once before, when Geran had been arrested at his cousin Sergen’s order and held here. The guards led her past several cells that were already occupied; she recognized half a dozen of her neighbors, including the bearlike Brun Osting, who was stretched out unconscious on his cell floor. She doubted that they’d brought him in without a fight. The young brewer’s face was a mass of blood and bruises, but two of his kinfolk—fortunately Halla was not among them—were tending to him in the cell. Torm guard us all, she thought. Marstel’s soldiers have caught half the resistance tonight!
The guards came to an empty cell and shoved her in. “Enjoy your stay,” one snarled at her. Then the door slammed shut, its heavy iron bolt sliding shut. Mirya picked herself up off the flagstones, and crawled off to curl up in one corner of the cold stone chamber. Her mouth ached where she’d been struck, and she touched her lip gingerly. I’ll count myself lucky if that’s the worst I have to show for this, she thought.
Hours passed as she waited in the cold cell. To judge by the sounds she heard echoing down the halls, the council dungeons were bustling with activity this night. Doors creaked open and slammed shut, guards moved around with heavy footsteps and jingling mail, voices shouted in protest or suddenly cried out in pain. She found herself cringing at each new outburst, wondering who’d been caught and what was happening to them. Just when Mirya was beginning to wonder if she’d simply been forgotten, she was roused by the sound of keys turning in the lock of her cell. A pair of Council Guards let themselves in, and without speaking a word to her, simply grabbed her by the arms and hustled her out the door.
“What is it?” Mirya asked. “Where are we going?” But her jailers didn’t answer. They showed her into a small, windowless room, sat her down in a sturdy wooden chair in its center with her arms behind her back, and bolted her manacles to a shackle in the floor. Then the two of them took station behind her.
A short time after that, the room’s door opened again, and a short, broad-shouldered officer with sandy hair and a stern frown fixed over his small goatee entered the room. She recognized him as Edelmark, the captain of the Council Guard; they’d never met, but she’d seen him a few times. A clerk followed him in, taking a seat in the corner and laying out a quill and parchment by a small writing desk there.
Edelmark regarded her in silence for a moment before taking a seat behind a wooden table and setting his helm—the brow marked by a device of a golden stag—on top. “Well, what are we to do with you?” he finally said.
Mirya wasn’t entirely sure that the question was meant for her, but she did her best to meet his steely eyes without cringing. “I suppose that depends on what you think I’ve done,” she replied. If Edelmark knew about her involvement in the resistance, then he had ample reason to have her executed at once. She and her small band had struck several times in the last few tendays, and blood had been spilled more than once. On the other hand, it was just barely possible that she’d been swept up with the rest on suspicion alone, and that she might still walk free.
Edelmark studied her without expression. “I think that you’re one of the people behind some of the little troubles we’ve seen of late, which makes you quite possibly a rebel, a murderer, and a traitor. Any one of those things would be ample grounds for me to have you hanged at dawn. On the other hand, I’m a reasonable fellow. If you’re honest with me and simply explain what part you’ve played in some of these events, I’ll urge Harmach Marstel to exercise leniency in your case. You have an opportunity to make up for whatever misjudgments you might have made lately. I sincerely suggest that you take it.”
A chill ran down Mirya’s spine. A small, frightened part of her whimpered and begged to throw herself on Edelmark’s mercy, hoping that she might save herself by doing as he asked. But she guessed that Edelmark’s definition of “mercy” probably did not extend to letting her go, not after the part she’d played in Hulburg’s incipient resistance. And she’d never be able to live with herself if she offered someone else to face justice—well, Harmach Marstel’s so-called justice—in her place. She simply shook her head. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” she told him.
Edelmark allowed himself a small smile. “Indeed,” he said. “Two days ago, someone shot half-a-dozen crossbow bolts at a Council Guard patrol on the Vale Road. One man was badly wounded, and two more injured. It was a carefully planned ambush by someone who knew the woods in that area quite well. Do you know anything about that?”
“No,” she answered, doing her best to lie with a straight face. She’d put Brun and Senna up to it a tenday earlier; they’d spent days choosing the right spot. It had been a risky attack, but she wanted the Council Guards to think twice about where they went and in what numbers.
“An attack on the harmach’s soldiers is a capital offense. The only way you’d avoid execution for involvement in something like that is by admitting your guilt and showing you sincerely regretted your actions by helping us to locate everyone involved.”
Mirya said nothing. Edelmark waited, simply watching her. Then he sighed and continued. “Two Iron Ring armsmen were murdered in an alleyway behind the Siren Song festhall three nights ago. They were seen to leave the place
in the company of a dark-haired woman who’d apparently promised them her favors.”
“It certainly wasn’t me!” Mirya snapped, and she meant it. “I wouldn’t set foot in such a place.”
“Of course not,” Edelmark replied, but his eyes remained as cold as a drawn blade. He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “A little more than three tendays ago—on the 8th of Hammer, to be precise—a House Veruna supply caravan bound for the Galena camps was attacked by ten masked bandits. They killed five Veruna armsmen and pillaged the wagons, but they spared the drivers. Do you know who might have been involved in that?”
Keep calm, Mirya! she admonished herself. She allowed herself a frown of disapproval. “So far you’ve suggested I might be involved in prostitution, murder, and now brigandage,” Mirya answered. “Have there been any kidnappings or rapes lately? We might as well go through those as well.”
“Mind your manners, Mistress Erstenwold,” Edelmark replied. He nodded at the soldiers standing behind Mirya. She heard two quick footsteps and a rattle of chain before her arms—still bound behind her—were jerked upward sharply by the manacles between her wrists. Twin stabs of pain in her shoulders brought a cry from her throat, and her face was forced down toward her knees. Then the pressure was gone, and her arms fell back into their natural place. “Would you like to rephrase your answer?”
Mirya winced. “Captain Edelmark, I’ve no idea who’s behind the attacks.”
The captain studied her for a long time. She expected him to nod at the soldiers behind her again, and found herself tensing for the sudden jerk and sharp pain again, but instead he frowned and leaned back in his chair. “Have you seen Geran Hulmaster since his exile?”
Everybody knows that Geran attacked the Temple of the Wronged Prince, she thought swiftly. He must know that Geran’s looked out for me before. And it might make other things I’ve said ring more true if I show a little honesty now. Carefully, she nodded. “Yes. I saw him the day before the temple burned down.”
Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III Page 15
