“If you’re asking for my guess, I’d say that they put the Cyricists up to their mischief with the Cinderfists,” Kara answered. “Before we were driven out of Hulburg, I’d turned up a few hints that the priests of Cyric were paid in Vaasan gold, but I never caught them at it. The Black Moon troubles drew all of my attention. What exactly they hope to gain from meddling in Hulburg, I couldn’t say.”
“How many Vaasans are coming? When will they arrive?”
Kara shook her head. “I’ve got scouts ringing the Highfells and the moorland now. They haven’t run across any Vaasans yet, but then again, the Galena passes are still snowed in and likely to stay that way for another month or more. I doubt we’ll see any large numbers of Vaasan soldiers in Hulburg before the end of Tarsakh, at the earliest. Even then, it would be a hard crossing.”
“That is another argument for striking at Marstel soon,” Sarth observed. “It would seem better to attack before Vaasan soldiers reinforce the Council Guard.”
As if we needed another reason to move with haste, Geran reflected. He didn’t like the idea of the Vaasans choosing sides, but he couldn’t see that it changed the essential facts of their situation. Every day that went by with Marstel in control of Hulburg was another day for the usurper to tighten his grip on his stolen realm, another day for Rhovann to devise arcane defenses and create deadly new soldiers, another day for the foreign mercenaries and brigands to plunder the honest folk of the town. “We should see to it that High Lord Vasil knows what we know about the Vaasan meddling,” he mused aloud. “Thentia won’t want to see another power gaining influence in Hulburg. It might buy us some additional help.”
“I’ll have Master Quillon speak to his counterpart in the high lord’s palace,” Kara said. “Now, for more important matters … what in the world did you do to end up in the coronal’s dungeons? Other than you, Geran, of course I expected you to be imprisoned. I want to know how Hamil and Sarth got on Ilsevele’s bad side.”
“You expected me to be imprisoned?” Geran protested, but he was too late; Hamil was already embarking on the story of their brief sojourn in Myth Drannor. Instead, he shrugged and sat back to listen to his friend’s version of the tale, which featured more than a few colorful exaggerations.
That night, he slept soundly for what seemed the first time in months. The following day was bright, clear, cold, and windy—a typically raw early spring day in the Moonsea. Geran spent it doing his best to catch up with scores of important details and decisions that Kara and her officers had settled on during his absence, but ultimately he simply concurred with everything that had been done already. He saw no reason to second-guess a decision arrived at over hours of dedicated thought with his own quick impressions, and he knew that his next task waited for him on the Highfells after sundown.
Late in the day, Geran took an hour to refresh his wardings and arm himself with the most powerful spells he could manage. A little before sunset, he rode up to the Highfells again, with Kara, Sarth, and Hamil at his side. The howling wind drove the moorgrass first one way and then another, an invisible serpent writhing and hissing its way across the landscape. The four riders huddled closer within their heavy cloaks against the biting cold and the sheer wild loneliness of the empty hills.
An hour’s ride brought them to the line of barrows on the broad hillside where they’d met the King in Copper before. “This is the spot,” Hamil said. He shivered. “The sooner this is over, the better.”
Geran nodded. He closed his eyes, searching for the words to summon the lich, and began to recite:
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.
The wind grew stronger as he spoke, seeming to snatch away his words even before he spoke them. A chill began to gather in his bones, and he shivered; he could feel the King in Copper’s presence. In the barrow’s entrance, windblown mist began to stream and sink into the low doorway, pooling like water poured into a basin. From the gathering mist, the tattered robes and tarnished crown of Aesperus took form. An evil green light kindled in his black eye sockets, and his yellowed bones with their copper rivets took shape within his robes of black. Despite himself, Geran retreated a couple of steps; Sarth and Hamil did likewise.
“Have you brought the rest of my book?” the lich hissed.
“Aye, I have it,” Geran replied. “I wouldn’t have summoned you without completing my part of our bargain, King Aesperus.” He drew the scroll tube from Myth Drannor from under his cloak, opened it, and carefully drew out the old parchment within. The wind, which had been howling with such bitter fury only a few moments before, had fallen still with the lich’s arrival. With a conscious act of will he forced his feet forward and extended the pages to the lich.
Aesperus took them with surprising care, immediately turning his attention to the parchment in his bony hands. His jawbone worked silently as he read, examining the prize. “Ahhh, so I thought,” he murmured to himself. “At last the ritual can be completed …” The lich’s voice trailed off as he eagerly read on, studying the ancient pages with his eyes burning brighter.
Hamil gave Geran a sharp glance. Remind him that we’re waiting? the halfling suggested.
“Is that everything you expected us to find, King Aesperus?” Geran asked.
The lich ignored him, reading further. Geran felt his companions’ eyes on him, but he forced himself to keep his peace a little longer. He did not want to annoy the King in Copper, of that much he was certain. He waited until the lich raised one hand and began to chant in his horrible, cracking voice. For a moment Geran feared that Aesperus was simply going to enact whatever spell had been interrupted four hundred years earlier, or teleport away without another word … but instead the pages glowed briefly with a violet light, and vanished. “The manuscript is complete,” Aesperus finally said. “I have sent the pages you brought me to rejoin the tome from which they were torn. I have much study ahead of me now.”
Geran took a breath. “How do I defeat Rhovann’s runehelms?”
“With the proper weapon, of course.” The lich stretched his hand over the bare ground and rasped the words of another spell. There was a burst of mist from the spot beneath his hand. Then a black, dull shape seemed to rise up out of the ground in answer to his magic. It was a sword, long and straight, a double-edged broadsword with a blade of some unreflective black metal Geran did not recognize. Its hilt was wrapped in dark, pebbled leather, and its pommel was a flat disk in which small glyphs were inscribed around a large onyx gemstone. “This is Umbrach Nyth, the Sword of Shadows, forged of shadow to dispel shadow. Long ago I enchanted this black steel for your ancestor Rivan. He later attempted to slay me with it, the ungrateful fool. You will find that it carries a bitter sting for creatures infused with the power of shadow—and most others, for that matter. The runehelms will not ignore its bite. Take its hilt.”
Trying not to flinch, Geran reached for the sword’s hilt and drew it clear of the ground. It was lighter than it looked, not much heavier than his Myth Drannan backsword, and it was balanced quite well. He could sense the potent enchantments on the weapon as he brandished it. A matching scabbard appeared from the ground; he took it in his left hand, and sheathed the dark blade. “I can believe that this would be a better weapon against Rhovann’s constructs than my own sword,” he said, “but am I supposed to personally defeat each and every one of them? There may be hundreds by now.”
“You forget what I told you about Rhovann’s enchantment the last time we spoke,” Aesperus replied. “A single animus unites the runehelms, equally present in each one of the constructs. A pearl of shadow lies within each of Rhovann’s creatures, linking it to its fellows—and to a sin
gle great pearl or stone, a master sphere from which the others are drawn. Destroy the master stone, and all of the shadow pearls created from it will be destroyed. Without their shadow pearls, the runehelms are bereft of intelligence, purpose, resilience … they are little more than unthinking automatons. Your warriors will easily sweep them aside.”
“Where would we find this master stone?” Hamil asked.
“It almost certainly lies in the Plane of Shadow. It must constantly draw in the energies of the Shadowfell to empower the runehelms, especially if this elf mage is creating many lesser pearls from it.” Aesperus shrugged, and the copper bands of his shoulder blades creaked in protest. “Unless Rhovann is a great fool, it will be well guarded. Look for a place of strength in the Plane of Shadow’s analogue of Hulburg. The runehelms will be stronger the nearer they are to the master stone, so he will not scatter them far.”
“We’ve only seen the runehelms in Hulburg itself, so it seems likely that Rhovann keeps the stone somewhere in or near Griffonwatch,” Sarth observed in a low voice.
Geran frowned, digesting Aesperus’s advice. He had little personal experience of the planes of existence that echoed Faerûn’s mundane landscape, but he’d studied them in his arcane training. The Shadowfell was a sort of dark twin or duplicate of the daylight world, an echo of reality that was only a step away—if one knew the proper magic to employ. With a little study, he thought he could manage it when the time came. But there was something else that Aesperus had said that caught his interest. “King Aesperus, how far can the runehelms go from their master stone?”
The lich considered the question for a moment. “It depends on the nuances of their maker’s skill and the power he draws upon,” he finally said. “I doubt that the minions of Rhovann can go more than a few leagues from the master stone without suffering degradation.”
A few leagues … Geran’s eyes narrowed in thought. That meant the runehelms would serve as a potent defense for the city proper, but they couldn’t contest the Shieldsworn march. The beginnings of a plan took shape in his mind. “Does Rhovann have any other defenses?” he asked. “Besides the runehelms, how else could he strike at us with his magic?”
“Such knowledge was not part of our bargain.” Aesperus laughed softly, his voice rasping in his empty throat. “You asked for the weapon and understanding necessary to defeat your enemy’s magical constructs, and my promise to stay my hand against Hulburg. These I have given you. Do not presume upon my generosity, Geran Hulmaster. I find your circumstances interesting … but I care little whether you succeed or fail. In the end, your struggles are meaningless. All come to my realm in time.” The lich folded his arms across his empty chest, and the wind began to blow again, a wild gale that tore at their cloaks and drove the four of them back several steps. Aesperus laughed scornfully, his ragged robes flapping around his yellowed bones, before he seemed to erode away like sand driven before a storm. In a moment the oppressive dread of the lich’s presence was gone, leaving nothing but the bitter wind howling over the dark hillside.
“I take it our discussion is complete!” Hamil said, almost shouting to make his voice heard above the wind.
“So it would seem,” Geran replied. He looked down at the black sword in his hands, and shivered with more than cold. “No prophecies of doom no matter what we do this time. I take that as a good sign.”
“Does this change your plans at all?” Kara asked.
“Yes. It sounds like I’ll need to slip into Hulburg and shift into the shadow to deal with Rhovann’s monsters,” Geran replied. He thought for a long time, ignoring the bitterly cold wind as it arose again and whipped his cloak behind him. “I wanted an answer to the runehelms before we risked meeting the Council Guard in open battle. Now I’m not so sure. If the creatures can’t go very far from their base, we could bring the Shieldsworn to the outskirts of Hulburg before we’d have to worry about the creatures. In fact … I’m sorely tempted to see if we can lure them out, and then cut their strings with one swift stroke.”
“There’s something else,” Hamil pointed out. “The threat posed by the Shieldsworn might serve as an excellent distraction for any skullduggery in Rhovann’s shadow redoubt, wherever it is.”
Despite the wild wind and the bonechilling cold, Geran smiled. It could work … it would work, if he could arrange it. “Come on, let’s be on our way,” he said to his friends. “This is no good place to linger, and we’ve got a lot to do in the next few days.”
TWENTY
14 Ches, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
From the moment he crested Keldon Head on the old coastal track, Geran sensed Hulburg’s change of mood. Storm clouds were gathering, despite the cold, clear weather and the empty blue skies. He allowed his mount, a sturdy black gelding, to pick its way down the road unguided as he peered sharply at the town below, trying to determine what was different. He could still make out the clatter and bustle of the town’s commerce … but there was definitely a different tenor to the activity.
From his vantage, he could look along Bay Street all the way to the mouth of the Winterspear. Even with the harbor ice unbroken, Bay Street should have been crowded with wagons and folks going about their business—after all, the mercantile concessions and their storehouses lined the harborside street. But instead of teeming throngs of carters and porters and clerks, he saw nothing but the occasional wagon or clerk hurrying on some errand or another. Small knots of idle workers gathered on the streets before the various taverns and taphouses, and the smelters whose chimneys would normally have been belching smoke instead emitted only a few thin wisps.
“Where is everybody?” said Hamil, studying the scene below. He jogged along on a baggage-laden pony a few paces behind Geran, dressed in the very ordinary garb of a poorly paid manservant. “Has Marstel declared a holiday for the war?”
“I’d guess that most folk are laying low to see what comes of Kara’s march, or maybe getting ready to flee if it looks like the town might come under attack,” Geran answered. “Either way, I think it’ll make our work easier. It seems that no one is going to care much about two more travelers.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sun, now sinking toward the west. If things had gone as he’d expected, then his cousin and her army would be drawing near to Hulburg. She planned to encamp near Rosestone Abbey and await events; they’d decided that it was far enough from the town to discourage Rhovann from marching out to meet the Hulmaster army, but close enough for Kara to strike quickly once the runehelms had been dealt with.
Sentries ahead, Hamil said silently. Look sharp now!
At the foot of the road that became the Coastal Way, very near the place where Geran had passed a pair of runehelms in the Sokol caravan a few tendays before, a half-dozen runehelms now stood guard. There hadn’t been that many here the last time he’d left Hulburg. He frowned, hoping that his disguise was sound. This time he was dressed as an itinerant mage for hire, wearing a scarlet robe embroidered with arcane glyphs over a high-collared shirt of black silk and matching breeches. A great cowl-like cape protected him from the bitter weather, and he carried a staff across his saddlebow—although Umbrach Nyth was belted to his hip too. His hair he’d cropped brutally short, and he now wore a full goatee and an eyepatch. As they approached the runehelms, he made a point of giving them a casual glance, just as any newly arriving traveler might.
They were almost past the creatures when one on the right swiveled its visored face toward them and said, “Halt. Identify yourselves.”
They speak? Hamil remarked.
The first I’ve seen of it, Geran answered. He reined in and turned his one “good” eye on the creature. “I am called Jhormun. This is my manservant, Pirr.”
“What is your business here?” the runehelm said. Its voice was deep and oddly inflected, but still intelligible.
“I am a mage for hire. I have heard that some of the merchant Houses in Hulburg are willing to pay a wizard of my skill quite handsomely.”
<
br /> There was a long silence, and Geran quietly tensed, ready to draw his blade or cast a spell as he needed to. Then another one of the runehelms spoke. “You may go,” it said.
Do you think they’re speaking to Rhovann? Hamil asked as they rode on past. Or are they simply following his directions and exercising their own judgment?
“Neither possibility is very reassuring,” Geran muttered under his breath. The sooner they dealt with Rhovann’s monstrous creations, the better. In an inner pocket of his robe he carried twin scrolls, carefully prepared days ago in Thentia, that held a ritual of shadowcrossing to carry him into the Shadowfell at the proper time. Sarth was also capable of performing the transition, but Geran couldn’t be certain that the sorcerer would be able to rejoin them by the appointed hour—in this case, midnight. That was still eight or nine hours off, and Geran had things to do before then.
Leaving the guardpost behind, he turned right on Keldon Way and headed for the Sokol compound. Hopefully anyone or anything watching wouldn’t be surprised to see a mage for hire presenting himself at the first mercantile establishment he came to. At the gate he informed the Sokol guards that he wished to speak with the mistress of the establishment, and he and Hamil were shown to the sitting room of Nimessa’s house. They waited for a short time before Nimessa bustled in, followed by one of her clerks.
“My apologies, Master Jhormun,” she began. “There is a fair bit of trouble in Hulburg today—”
“I know it,” Geran interrupted. He stood and removed his eyepatch, meeting Nimessa’s gaze.
She drew back in surprise, and stopped. Then she glanced to her clerk. “Allow us a few moments,” she said. The clerk raised an eyebrow, but gathered up his ledgers and let himself out. Nimessa waited until the door was firmly shut before she turned back to face Geran. “Master Jhormun, indeed. I would’ve thought you’d be with your army up on the moors! What in the world are you doing here?”
Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III Page 24
