I thought you two couldn’t work magic in here, Hamil observed.
“We can’t, but in this case, the magic is contained in the paint,” Geran answered. He looked over to Sarth and offered the stylus. “Do you want to render it?”
“No, I think you had better do it,” Sarth replied. “Your Elvish is much better than mine, and this is an elven spell. I wouldn’t want to misdraw one of these symbols and send us all into some monster-haunted crypt unarmed, or strand us in some forgotten forest.”
“At least we’d be out of our cell,” Geran observed. Sarth’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile, but he smoothed the parchment out carefully and held it flat against the wall so that Geran could copy it more easily. Drawing a deep breath to steady his hand, Geran opened the jar, dipped the stylus into the thick silvery paint inside, and began to copy the diagram onto the wall, only much larger. It proved trickier than he would have thought—the magical pigment dried to a faint line of silver glitter within moments of its application, and he soon realized that some of the symbols he had to draw were very intricate indeed. He glanced at Sarth and said, “Watch me carefully to make sure I draw these glyphs correctly.”
The tiefling nodded, and Geran focused on his task. He drew a tall oval frame four feet high and two wide, and a second oval within the first. In the space between the parallel lines he painted the words of the spell, struggling to make out the faint lines as they faded from view.
He was three quarters done when Hamil’s voice lashed silently at him. Guards coming! the halfling said. Geran swore to himself and took a moment to mark his place as carefully as he could; then he tucked the stylus into his sleeve, capped the jar, and hid it in his pillow as he threw himself down on his bunk, making a show of folding his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. Sarth joined Hamil at the table, where the halfling had already laid out two hands of playing cards. The tiefling looked across at his small opponent and said, “It’s your play.”
“So it is,” Hamil agreed. He ruffled through his hand and was still studying the cards as two Coronal Guards appeared. The elven warriors checked the door and peered into the cell; Geran’s heart raced as he waited for the outcry announcing that their half drawn escape had been noticed. But after a long pause, the guards continued on their way, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief. Their footsteps receded, and Hamil leaned out from his seat to watch them.
They’re gone, he finally reported.
Hurriedly, Geran retrieved his jar and returned to the drawing. His heart sank as he studied his working space; the work he’d already done had faded to near invisibility. “Sarth, I don’t know if I can see where I’ve been!” he hissed to the sorcerer.
Sarth grimaced. “Take your best guess,” he said. “It may still function even with some amount of imprecision.”
The swordmage daubed the stylus in the pigment again, and leaned close to begin again before pausing. He couldn’t even tell if he was about to draw the next sign inside the door’s frame, on the blank surface of the door, or somewhere outside the bounds of his work altogether. He made himself touch the brush to the wall in the spot he thought was right … and then, from the narrow window beside him, a faint silver radiance broke through the overcast. As the faint moonlight brightened the treetops and spires outside, the markings he’d already painted for the moon-door also began to grow brighter. Invisible lines and glyphs gleamed with a pale radiance as if they were made of molten silver, stark and beautiful.
“Hurry, Geran!” Sarth whispered. “Finish it while the break in the clouds lasts!”
The swordmage nodded and quickly began to draw and letter with confidence. In a few moments more he finished with it, and sat back on his heels to study the diagram on the parchment and the larger one he’d painted on the wall. “Do you see any mistakes?” he asked Sarth.
The tiefling studied the drawing as intently as he had. “No. I think it is done.”
“Then let’s see where it leads.” Geran waited for Hamil to join them in the alcove, and focused on the last set of words he’d drawn, the activating phrase of the portal. With one more glance at his comrades, he read them aloud: “Illieloch ser Selûnarr adhiarran!”
The silvery runes glowed even brighter. Geran reached out to set his hand squarely in the center of the diagram, and willed himself forward; the light grew blindingly bright, a cool silver curtain that poured down over him as if he’d stepped under a waterfall of moonlight. Then, in the blink of an eye, he staggered forward into a dark clearing and stumbled to all fours, his eyes still filled with the brilliant radiance. I’m not in the cell anymore, he realized. But am I where I’m supposed to be? He tried to blink the bright afterimage from his eyes and started to stand, only to stumble again as Sarth and Hamil piled into him. When he finally regained his feet, he found that he and his friends were standing in a small open space before an old elven ruin. A complicated design of silver lines and Elvish lettering glowed brightly within an arch of white stone, one of several arches that made up the ruin’s wall. He looked around, searching for something familiar.
A quick elf laugh interrupted him. “You succeeded!” Alliere said. He turned and found her in the moonlit clearing opposite the doorway they’d just come through. Daried Selsherryn sat on a log close by, smiling broadly. Alliere came forward to embrace him, and quickly drew back. “Well done, Geran! I knew you’d manage it!”
He shrugged awkwardly. “I couldn’t have done it without your help. Thank you for aiding us—both of you. I sincerely hope that you don’t wind up taking our places in the tower.”
Daried stood. “I suspect that the coronal won’t be unhappy with your escape. She did not care for the idea of Rhovann Disarnnyl causing mischief in other lands after she’d banished him from her realm. We shall see.” He clasped Geran’s arm, and nodded to Sarth and Hamil. “Come, you cannot linger here. I will seal the moon-door to bar pursuit, but the coronal’s mages will be able to discern the door’s destination easily enough, and we are only a couple of miles from Myth Drannor. You’d better go while you can.”
Alliere took Geran’s hand and led him and his friends to a trio of horses picketed in the shelter of an old courtyard, while Daried began to chant words of closing, interrupting the doorway behind them. As she’d promised, their belongings were gathered in tidy bundles by the horses; Geran belted his sword to his hip as Sarth tested his rune-marked scepter and Hamil rearmed himself with his seemingly endless store of daggers. When they’d finished, she handed Geran a wooden tube. “The manuscript you brought from the Irithlium,” she explained.
Daried returned from the moon-door. “That should suffice for now,” the bladesinger said. He nodded at the forest outside their small clearing. “There is an old road that strikes the Moonsea Ride not far from here, but if you’ll heed my advice, you won’t go that way. Any who pursue you will certainly expect you to fly in that direction. I would instead suggest that you make for the Silverleaf Trail and head due north, through the woods. Three to four days of hard riding should bring you to the Hillsfar–Yûlash road, a day’s ride west of Hillsfar.”
“Sound advice that I think I’ll follow,” Geran answered. He set his hand on Daried’s shoulder. “How can I ever repay you for the help you’ve given us?”
“Give Rhovann my warm regards,” the bladesinger said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Our paths will cross again before too long, I think.”
The swordmage released his old mentor, and turned to Alliere. Strange, he thought. Only a year ago, and I would never have been able to turn my back and ride away from her, yet now he meant to do exactly that … and his heart was content. He took her hands in his, and looked into her face. “I am truly sorry for what I did before,” he said to her. “But I’m glad that we part in friendship now. Sweet water and light laughter until we meet again.”
She held his gaze for a moment before she nodded. “And to you, dear Geran,” she answered. Then she released him and stepped away.
EIGHTEEN
23 Alturiak, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Shortly after sunset, a clatter at his window startled Rhovann from his meticulous record keeping in his laboratory. A small gray shape scratched at the thick glass; the mage set down his quill and hurried over to open the window and let in one of his homunculus spies. The creature croaked once and flopped inside, collapsing on the windowsill.
“What is this?” the mage muttered to himself. The homunculus was dying. Something had raked its body with deep claw marks, and dark fluid dripped slowly from the wounds. He frowned and examined the number scribed at the back of its neck, trying to determine which of his minions this was. After a moment, he nodded to himself. This homunculus he’d sent to Thentia several days before. The injuries were severe, but it was quite likely that the tiny creature had spent itself in the wearying flight. The creatures were not made to endure days of travel in the harsh winds and weather of the Moonsea North.
He sighed, closing the window against the wind-driven hail and icy rain that beat against the panes of his workshop. “Well, let us see what you have found,” he said aloud. The creature could not understand that, of course, but the mage was speaking to himself, not the homunculus. He carried the small monster from the windowsill where it had collapsed to a worktable nearby. Murmuring the words of a spell, he set his hand—the living one—upon the tiny creature’s head, summoning up its recollection of what it had seen during its long flight.
Endless miles of moorland and barren, stony hillsides reeled by beneath him; Rhovann ignored it and shifted the creature’s recollection to something of significance. The image blurred, and then steadied again; now he seemed to hover above an encampment of wooden barracks and tents. Hundreds of soldiers in surcoats of blue and white marched and wheeled in some sort of mock battle. Rhovann blinked in surprise; that was certainly more than he would have expected the Hulmasters to gather in exile. They must have had more success reorganizing their Shieldsworn than he’d anticipated … or perhaps, as the Vaasans feared, some other Moonsea power had chosen to support the Hulmaster cause with gold and sellswords. It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had happened.
“A matter for concern, but not panic,” he decided. No doubt Geran and Kara Hulmaster would get the most from the troops under their command, but the Council Guard still held an edge in sheer numbers—and that was not counting his own runehelms, who were far stronger and more resilient than merely human combatants anyway. “Show me more,” he commanded the homunculus, and the picture in his mind’s eye shifted again. Now he peered in a window at a large room where many captains gathered. He could clearly make out Kara Hulmaster, speaking at the head of the table. A tall young cleric in the robes of an Amaunatori friar stood listening nearby beside a black-bearded dwarf in heavy armor who smoked a pipe. Rhovann frowned, recognizing Kendurkkel Ironthane. He still didn’t understand why the Icehammers had joined the Hulmaster cause; it didn’t seem like the mercenaries to take on speculative work. There was a map on the table, and Rhovann strained to make out the details on it. Unfortunately, this vision only lasted a few more heartbeats before the homunculus was obliged to flit away from the window in order to avoid the attention of a nearby guard.
“What is your plan, Kara?” he wondered aloud. “You are outnumbered, but you prepare to attack regardless. What is it you know that I do not?” Geran and his cousin might be counting on more aid from friendly cities … or perhaps they hoped to combine forces with the rebels who’d been causing so much trouble in Hulburg. Yes, that might be it; they had a different appreciation of the numbers than he did.
Rhovann willed the homunculus to its next memory. He found himself flying over a field behind the manor, heading for one of the barracks. A solitary man on horseback sat back in the tree line, with something on his arm. He threw his arm forward with a sharp cry—and a large falcon leaped into the air, its wings beating with power and grace as it arrowed up toward the homunculus. There was a confused tumble of sky and ground, flashing talons … Rhovann snatched back his hand, unwilling to share in his small servant’s mortal agony. It was just as well—the broken thing expired an instant after he severed their connection.
“A falcon,” he murmured, pursing his lips in thought. Kara Hulmaster’s doing, no doubt. Evidently she’d decided to guard her camp against airborne spies; she was damnably clever about such things. If she was cautious enough to post falconers, she might very well be cautious enough to anticipate his spying and make a point of showing him things she wanted him to see … in which case, he could not be confident of any report his minions brought back from the Hulmaster camp. Well, he would just have to find another way to keep an eye on the so-called Hulmaster army.
He closed his eyes, thinking hard about what the homunculus had seen … and not seen. There was no glimpse of Geran Hulmaster anywhere. Of course, the odds of his homunculus spotting one specific person in a manor crowded with many hundreds were low, but Rhovann had instructed his small spies to seek out Geran, and for tendays now, they’d found nothing. For that matter, the human spies he employed in Thentia couldn’t confirm Geran’s location, either.
The mage scowled as he realized that some of his calm confidence about the coming conflict had eroded away. Still weighing the homunculus’s last vision, he closed his journal and secured the laboratory with the customary wardings. Then he went in search of Edelmark.
He found the Council Guard captain in the castle’s rain-splattered courtyard, observing the drill of one of his companies. “Come, Edelmark,” he said. “I want a word with you.”
“Of course, my lord mage,” the captain replied. He nodded to a subordinate to take over, and fell in a half step behind Rhovann as the elf mage led him into the dry interior of a turret overlooking the castle gate. A murmured spell and a simple gesture guaranteed their privacy.
“I have just received a report from Thentia,” Rhovann said to his captain. “The Hulmasters are drilling and maneuvering their army every day. And it seems that our initial reports were correct, and the Icehammers are marching under the Hulmaster banner.”
Edelmark nodded. “Do you know when they plan to march, my lord?” he asked.
“I haven’t been able to discover that with my observations,” Rhovann admitted. “If you were in command of the Hulmaster forces, what would you do?”
Edelmark frowned and considered his answer. “A winter campaign would be difficult. There’s no shelter to be had in the Highfells. Given my choice, I’d wait for the weather to turn … but time doesn’t favor them. If they wait for the spring thaw, the reopening of our port would give us the opportunity to bring more mercenaries into the city any time we liked.”
“It would also give me the opportunity to manufacture more runehelms,” Rhovann observed. He hoped that the number and strength of the constructs he’d created would come as a very ugly surprise to any Hulmaster loyalists marching on Hulburg. Geran and his cousin might understand that, or they might not. On the other hand, they probably wouldn’t overlook the significance of Hulburg’s port reopening. “If the Hulmaster army comes before the thaw, could your Council Guard defeat them?”
“With the Icehammers, they’ve got about eight hundred armsmen. That is close to matching the strength of the Council Guard and the allied merchant companies.” Edelmark shrugged. “Of course, many of the Hulmaster troops are ill-equipped militia and wouldn’t stand up well to our professional armsmen. But we have to assume that any loyalists remaining in Hulburg would rise in support of a Hulmaster army, possibly shifting the odds against us.”
Rhovann thought that his captain was a little too quick to dismiss the quality of the Hulmaster troops, but he didn’t want the man
starting at phantoms. “My runehelms are nearly a hundred strong now. They would make our victory certain, would they not?”
The mercenary captain twisted his mouth into a small smile. “Nothing is certain in war, my lord mage. But I have a hard time imagining how the Hulmasters could beat that many of your gray warriors. They’re formidable opponents. Could you commit so many to the field?”
“What else would I do with them?” Rhovann asked.
“Some forces must be left to protect Griffonwatch and Daggergard, and keep order in the town. I don’t trust the Cinderfists, regardless of what the Vaasans might promise. Valdarsel seemed to be the only one who could keep them in check, and now that he’s dead, they’re all too likely to riot and start looting the town as soon as our backs are turned. For that matter, I’m not sure that we’ve completely suppressed the Hulmaster loyalists. There may be more of them than we’ve seen so far.”
“The Cinderfists do not concern me.” An unruly mob in Hulburg’s poorer quarters was troublesome, but without the priests of Cyric directing their efforts, they were simply ruffians, and didn’t pose a lasting threat to Rhovann’s control of the city. In fact, leaving them to roam unchecked might prove useful, since they’d likely harass native Hulburgans who might otherwise rise in support of the Hulmasters. Despite all of the plunder the Cinderfists had been allowed to strip from the native loyalists, they still clamored for more. “Who else might side with the Hulmasters?”
Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III Page 22
