Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III

by Richard Baker

  The elf wizard halted a few steps from Geran, studying him with narrowed eyes. “Ah, now this is a sight to warm the heart,” he said softly. “Here hangs Geran Hulmaster in chains. The reckless freebooter and scofflaw, captured by a few words whispered in my runehelms’ ears!”

  Geran carefully set his feet under him and levered himself fully upright. Standing, his hands were chained at about the height of his head; sharp twinges of pain in his shoulders and wrists brought a wince to his face, but he stifled it quickly. “Enjoy it while you can,” he told Rhovann. “No matter what happens to me, your days in Hulburg are numbered.”

  “Your confidence appears misplaced,” the elf answered. “Matters seem well in hand to me. I have you exactly where I want you, my harmach’s dealt with your army—with a little help from my runehelms, of course—and soon enough I’ll have Mirya Erstenwold help me clean up the ugly little resistance she’s been fomenting all winter. I anticipate nothing but success in all my endeavors.”

  Geran set his jaw in an angry frown. Dealt with the army? He had a sinking feeling that Rhovann wouldn’t bother to lie to him as long as he was in his power, which meant that something else had gone wrong with the Hulmaster strategy. Kara was supposed to be waiting near Rosestone; she wouldn’t have deviated from the plan they’d worked out. Had Rhovann sent out his army to face Kara already? He and Kara had talked about whether it would be wiser to wait until the runehelms were disabled before bringing the Hulmaster army eastward, and ultimately they’d decided that it would be useful to either lure much of Marstel’s strength away from Hulburg or bring their own force within striking distance. But if Rhovann had somehow surprised Kara outside of the town with a number of runehelms, then they’d simply stuck their heads into the spring-loaded trap Rhovann and his minions had readied for them—the worst possible outcome, really.

  How many more catastrophes am I going to blunder into today? he wondered. Even though he had no desire to listen to Rhovann’s smug triumph, he had to know more about Kara and the Shieldsworn. “I don’t believe you,” he replied. “Kara trained that army all winter. They wouldn’t break.”

  “I hardly care whether you believe me or not,” Rhovann snapped. “Still … it seems a pity that you should remain uninformed as to the scope of your failures.” The mage turned to study the nearest runehelm, and murmured the words of a spell. With one hand he touched the creature’s shoulder, and with his silver hand he extended one finger and tapped Geran between the eyes. “Observe!”

  A confusing jumble of images appeared in Geran’s mind, and he struggled to make sense of what he saw. It was dark outside, with a cold rain falling. He seemed to stand at the foot of a low but steep bluff crowning a wide hillside; under his feet were bare gray rock and tufts of moorgrass. Dozens of guttering lanterns glimmered in the night, illuminating company after company of Council Guards and runehelms who sought to climb up the rain-slick hillside. Atop the bluff, a large knot of Shieldsworn still held their ground, fending off the runehelms with what looked like pikes improvised from wagon axles and peppering the ranks of Marstel’s army with a steady arrow fire. Geran caught a glimpse of Kara at the top of the Hulmaster defenses, shouting for the Shieldsworn to stand fast. Then his point of view swiveled, almost as if he were turning his own head; Geran realized that he was seeing from a runehelm’s eyes, such as they were. Is this how Rhovann can perceive what his constructs perceive? he wondered. With the new perspective, he saw that Marstel’s army had the Shieldsworn and the Icehammers fairly well trapped on the hilltop. They couldn’t push Kara off the hill, but neither could she fight her way clear.

  If they lost the camp, they’ll be short on food, water, and shelter, Geran thought furiously. How long can they hold out on a bare hilltop?

  Rhovann withdrew his finger, and Geran blinked the wizard’s images out of his sight. “As you can see, it is merely a matter of time. Perhaps I will allow your cousin to surrender her army and spare their lives, or perhaps not.” He chuckled. “I must admit, I never would have thought to look for you in Hulburg when I observed you riding out to parley with Marstel. A clever trick, that; I owe Mistress Erstenwold my thanks for pointing out my mistake. I shall have to give some serious thought to devising an appropriate reward for her.”

  Geran scowled. “What do you mean to do with me?”

  Rhovann smiled coldly. “I could have ordered your arrest half a year ago when you returned from the black moon. But I would have faced an inconvenient amount of unrest if I’d passed a harsh sentence on you after your incompetent bumblings appeared to save Hulburg from the threat of the corsairs—so instead I permitted you to go into exile, knowing full well that you would inevitably return to challenge me. Now you are a traitor, rebel, and murderer. At last, I can see to it that justice prevails for all the insults and injuries you have given me.”

  Geran raised his head and looked Rhovann in the eye, even though his head was splitting. “Do your worst, then,” he rasped. “But spare me your aggrieved airs and your little show of sanctimony. It’s wasted on me, and there’s no one else here but your creatures.”

  “Aggrieved airs?” Rhovann snarled. “Believe me, there is nothing insincere in the grievances I bear you. With the exception of the Years of Retreat, my family has lived in Myth Drannor for almost three thousand years. Thanks to your your fawning and simpering before that softhearted coronal, you were permitted to displace me in the affections of a teu Tel’Quessir princess as if you were in some way my equal, or hers! Our Houses were ancient and glorious when your inbred ancestors were crouching in squalid huts and fumbling with sticks to make fire! Do you have any idea how much shame you brought upon my family, and Alliere’s?

  “And let us not forget this,” Rhovann continued. He stepped close and thrust his silver hand into Geran’s face. The swordmage found his eyes struggling to focus on it; the artificial member was bound seamlessly to the flesh of the wizard’s wrist. Tiny runes gleamed around its base, where it met the stump of the arm. “The Red Wizards provided me with this replacement—a capable enough device, bought at a very dear price, I might add—but not a day goes by that I do not feel the ache of my severed hand and long to feel with these cold metal fingers as my living fingers would have. Not a day goes by that I am not constantly reminded of how you maimed me, Geran!

  “When at last you’d finally demonstrated the quality of a human of your high breeding with your craven, savage stroke against me when I was helpless before you, and even Ilsevele had to admit that you had no place among the teu Tel’Quessir, still you ruined me. Your friends at court could not abide the idea of their favorite human pet punished, and so they began to whisper against me, to spread malicious lies and suggestions until all my affairs were laid bare and I was forced to endure the same ignominious fate that had been decreed for you!” Rhovann’s teeth were bared in pure fury as he leaned close to Geran’s face. “And finally we come to perhaps your most galling offense against me: I, the scion of a House thirty centuries old, was treated like a common human criminal and turned out of my ancient homeland on your account! What for you was the end of a casual visit was for me the denial of everything I might ever have had or striven for! Now, tell me again that I am manufacturing my indignation! Tell me again!”

  Geran tried to blink some of the crusted blood from his eyes. He knew that he should choose his words with care, but he was weary. “You brought much of that on yourself, Rhovann,” he said. “Alliere’s heart was never yours to begin with. You chose to dabble in arts forbidden in Myth Drannor. And when you and I fought, you reached for your wand when I’d beaten you. Your fate is your own doing, and you’re a fool if you blame it on me.”

  A door slammed down the corridor, and Geran heard the sound of heavy footsteps and rustling mail. Rhovann scowled in irritation as a beefy, black-bearded Council Guard officer appeared, flanked by several council soldiers. Geran recognized him as Sarvin, castellan of Griffonwatch under Edelmark; he’d seen the fellow at a distance in his
earlier visits to occupied Hulburg. The castellan’s face was set in a fierce scowl, broken only by a small snort of satisfaction as he glanced toward Geran in his chains. “Forgive the interruption, my lord,” he said to Rhovann. “I have urgent news that cannot wait.”

  “Well?” Rhovann snapped. “What is it?” Castellan Sarvin glanced at Geran again, and Rhovann rolled his eyes and moved to the far corner of the room, taking the officer by the arm. The fellow whispered urgently to the elf, as Geran strained to hear what news he was bringing Rhovann. He was too far away to make it out, but after a moment Rhovann simply nodded and gave the castellan some answer that satisfied him. With a shallow bow to the mage, Sarvin marched out of the room again, motioning for his guards to join him. Rhovann stood silent for a moment, absorbed in his thoughts, then wheeled around to approach Geran again.

  “Ill tidings, I hope?” Geran asked.

  “It seems I let Mirya Erstenwold go too soon,” Rhovann replied. “The Hulmaster loyalists are arming themselves to rise against the harmach all across the town. And of course much of my army is scattered across the Highfells in pursuit of yours. Doubtless that was not part of your plan, but the timing of it may cause some inconvenience. Well, no matter. Within a few hours the loyalists will be put down. After tomorrow, no one will ever dare to challenge my grip on Hulburg again.” He paused, allowing the swordmage to consider what he’d said. “Never fear, Geran. I’ll make certain that you live to see the destruction of your House and the final futility of your efforts to unseat my harmach before I allow you to die.”

  Geran set his face in an iron mask, refusing to let Rhovann see him wince. If he hadn’t allowed himself to be captured, the runehelms the elf mage was so proud of would have been sabotaged by now, and the battle for Hulburg already won. But unless Sarth and Hamil somehow found a way to proceed without him, Rhovann would keep his constructs for the foreseeable future. He glanced again at the pile of clothing and gear that had been taken from him when he was brought in. The scrolls of shadowalking and Umbrach Nyth were lying with his other belongings on the table by the cell’s door. So far Rhovann hadn’t thought to make any close inspection of the things Geran had been carrying with him … and if there was any hope of striking an unexpected blow against the master stone to which the creatures were all bound, he couldn’t let Rhovann guess that he attached any special importance to dealing with the mage’s powerful constructs.

  “You might pay your mercenaries and build your automatons, but no one is truly loyal to you,” he said to the mage. “You trust no one, and therefore no one trusts you. How long can you keep Hulburg under your thumb without allies?”

  “Allies come and go; as long as I hold the reins of power in this city, I’ll never want for them.” Rhovann studied him coldly, and a cruel smile crept across his features. “As much as I might like to continue this conversation, I have to admit that it would inconvenience me to let your misguided loyalists cause any great amount of damage. Unfortunately, that means I have no more time to bandy words with you now. But before I go, I think I’ll leave you with a little something to remember me by, and a promise of many more conversations to come.”

  The mage motioned to the runehelms hovering close by Geran. The creatures moved in to take Geran by the arms and pin him firmly against the wall of the cell, his arms outstretched in the fetters. He drew his wand from the slender holster at his hip, and advanced on the helpless swordmage. “I am nothing if not a creature of reason,” Rhovann remarked. “You brought about my exile from my home; I did the same to you. You humiliated and disgraced me; I will think long and hard about how best to give you the same, measure for measure. But first and foremost, you maimed me. What compensation should I require for that, I wonder?”

  Despite his determination not to show any weakness to his enemy, Geran felt his stomach tighten in sudden fear. He pressed his lips together, refusing to say anything.

  “No suggestions?” Rhovann raised an eyebrow, waiting for Geran to speak. When Geran kept his silence, he suddenly scowled. “As you will, then,” he said. He pointed the wand at Geran’s right hand and snarled, “Aitharach na viarl!”

  From the wand green-glowing liquid jetted forth, a splatter not much larger than half a good-sized mug. It covered Geran’s palm and most of his fingers—and instantly began to blacken his flesh, bubbling and sizzling. The acid was appallingly strong, stripping away the skin in mere heartbeats and dissolving its way to muscle and tendon underneath. Despite his determination not to give Rhovann even the slightest flinch, Geran howled in agony as a thousand red-hot needles skewered his flesh and began to chew deeper and deeper. The smell of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils. He looked again, and saw bare black bones emerging from the ruin. Nausea and pain overwhelmed him.

  Suddenly his arm swung free from the fetters, and he sagged toward the floor, held now only by the chains around his left wrist. For an instant he thought that somehow he’d slipped out of his manacles and saved his hand—but when he looked at his right wrist, there was only a pocked, blackened stump, throbbing with unbelievable agony, a pain so intense his shoulder ached and his heart hammered in his chest. An animal-like sound of misery escaped his mouth.

  “Not so clean or swift as the wound you dealt me, but the end result is much the same,” Rhovann snarled. He looked to the runehelms. “Send for a healer to clean and bandage the injury. He is not to die before I permit him to do so. I will return when I am done dealing with the Hulmaster loyalists.” Then he wheeled and strode out of the dungeon, his cloak fluttering behind him.

  Geran looked again at the charred bones of his wrist, and fainted.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  15 Ches, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)

  Mirya hurried through the lamplit, rain-streaked streets, fleeing the Council Hall and the awful knowledge of what she’d done. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and for once she didn’t care who might see them. Near the corner of Plank and Cart Streets, she ducked into a doorway, wrestling with her despair. Oh, Mirya, she thought over and over again. You’ve killed the man you love. Rhovann’ll flay him alive, and he’ll die thinking that you were the one that gave him up to his enemies. She shuddered in pure horror, and a stifled sob escaped her. For a long time she covered her face and gave herself up completely to her tears.

  The whole episode had been a strange, dark dream in which she saw herself saying and doing things she never meant to, a spectator inside her own head. She’d fought furiously to awaken as she saw herself leading Geran directly to the spot where she meant to turn him over to his enemies … but Geran had taken her silent struggle for simple fear, not understanding that it was Rhovann’s dark magic that forced her steps onward. The runehelms ignored her, and the Council Guards allowed her to go after Rhovann instructed them to release her—no doubt believing that she was still under his influence. But she’d emerged from Rhovann’s enchantment shortly on the steps of the Council Hall, the terrible understanding of her betrayal crashing down on her waking mind with the force of an avalanche.

  Finally she gave herself a small shake. “What’s done is done, Mirya,” she told herself. “Stop this nonsense, and think. There must be something to be done.”

  It didn’t seem likely that Rhovann would kill Geran out of hand, or he could have done it already. The wizard had imprisoned Geran instead. Perhaps he thought that Geran knew something of value about the Hulmaster attack, or perhaps he was keeping Geran alive to serve as a hostage in case the fight for Hulburg went against him. Or maybe it was as she feared, and Rhovann meant to do Geran to death in some truly slow and horrific manner … but in any of those cases, he’d keep Geran alive at least for a little while. And that meant it might be possible to plead for mercy, to find someone to intercede, or to rescue Geran somehow.

  “Marstel and Rhovann have no mercy to speak of, and I can’t imagine who might be able to intervene,” she murmured. Perhaps one of the merchant companies, or a temple? The Sokols might help, but she’
d seen over the last few months that Nimessa’s voice didn’t carry much weight in the council. It would have to be a rescue. Somehow she’d have to get into the Council Hall dungeon, free Geran in spite of the guards and runehelms (and likely Rhovann himself), and get him away again.

  “It can’t be done,” she told herself, and scowled in the shadows of the alleyway. Even if she gathered her loyalist cell together, it would be suicide. Perhaps with some sort of magic … “Sarth!” she breathed. The sorcerer was supposed to meet Geran at the Burned Bridge, and Hamil too. If they couldn’t help her, no one could. Perhaps Geran’s friends could undo her treachery before any lasting harm came of it.

  Of course, there was the thorny question of whether she could even get to the Burned Bridge with the town in the state it was. The streets were crowded with bands of merchant coster armsmen defending their companies’ storehouses or stores, shorthanded Council Guard detachments hurrying here and there, gangs of Tailings thugs and bravos roaming in search of chances to loot stores or rob passersby, and bands of Hulburgans gathering in squares to pull on old mail shirts or leather jerkins and pass out spears, axes, pitchforks, any old hoarded weapon or tool that might serve as one. From time to time silent squads of runehelms marched past, scattering crowds and driving gangs into retreat—it hadn’t taken long for both foreign gangs and loyalist militia to learn that the mage’s creations were almost invulnerable to any weapon they could find.

  It would have to be the buried streets, she decided. They’d get her close enough. With a new determination fixed in her mind, Mirya slipped out of her shadowed doorway and hurried for Erstenwold’s. The store wasn’t far off, only a half block or so, and she hurried around the side of the building to let herself in the back—somehow the idea of unlocking the store’s front door while so many ruffians and thieves were about didn’t seem wise. She paused to throw the bolt at the back door and hurried to the cellars. Beneath a large square of canvas waited the crossbow and lantern she kept ready for venturing into the old passages beneath the streets. She didn’t like the idea of wandering about in the buried streets by night, but it wasn’t as if it would be any darker than it was during daylight. She lit the lantern, hoisted the crossbow on her hip, and clambered into the underground maze.