She hurried through the dark and dusty passages, following her usual route to the place she and her band usually met—an old wine cellar beneath the ruins of a wealthy merchant’s house in old Hulburg. She paused to consider her way in the shadows of the great, dusty tuns, searching her memory for the right combination of passages and cellars to take her toward the Burned Bridge.
Something moved in the darkness behind her. It wasn’t much, only the rattle of a small pebble kicked over the old flagstones by a careless foot, but Mirya’s heart leaped into her mouth. Instantly she dimmed her lantern and wedged herself into the darkest, narrowest space she could find, backing between two of the old storage shelves and bringing her crossbow up before her. For a moment, she heard nothing more—then the soft rustle of footsteps reached her ears, and a gleam of light played across the old vault. She released the safety catch of the crossbow. A large, hooded figure entered the room, a lantern held high in one hand and a wicked hatchet bared in the other.
Mirya heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m here, Brun,” she called softly, and came out of the shadows.
The young tavernkeeper jumped, startled by the sound of her voice. “Mirya?” he asked. “I didn’t expect to find you here—I was just on my way back to the Troll and Tankard.”
“Nor I you, but I’m glad to see you. I need your help. Geran Hulmaster’s been captured; Rhovann’s holding him in the prison beneath the Council Hall.”
“The Lord Hulmaster’s in the city?” Brun breathed. “We’ve got to help him! How in the Nine Hells did Marstel’s wizard catch him, anyway?”
“Through me,” Mirya answered. “Rhovann used his magic to spy on me, keeping watch for Geran.” That was as near the truth as Mirya could bring herself. She paused, thinking for a moment about what exactly she wanted him to do. She didn’t know if Hamil and Sarth could free Geran by themselves, but even if they could, she simply didn’t know if they’d be where Geran expected to meet them, or if they’d be able to divert themselves to the task when they likely had other important things to see to—in which case, it might come down to Mirya and whatever help she could muster from her neighbors. With a small nod to herself, she made her decision.
“Brun, I want you to gather the rest of our cell, or as many as you can find in half an hour’s time,” she told the big brewer. “Bring them to the cellar under Wennart’s storeroom, and wait for me there. It’s just behind the Council Hall; it’s the nearest safe place to meet up I can think of. I’m going to see if I can find Geran’s friends.”
Brun thought for a moment—making a list of who he could gather quickly, Mirya guessed. “Aye, I think I can find you at least a few fighters in that time. Nothing else we mean to do tonight would be as important as snatching Lord Geran out of Marstel’s talons!”
“Good luck. I’ll see you under Wennart’s.” Mirya took Brun’s arm for a moment before she hurried off northward again. Behind her, the brewer wheeled and ran back the way he’d come.
Mirya followed the buried streets as far as she could, and eventually climbed back up to the surface through a rubble-choked cellar near North Street that was bare to the sky. The rain was cold on her face after the underground passages, and she shivered. The neighborhood was one of the old razed portions of Hulburg that had never been entirely rebuilt. A few cheaply built rowhouses clustered close by Keldon Way here, home to more of the poor foreign folk who’d come to Hulburg in recent years; it was generally not a neighborhood that Mirya would have chosen to cross at night. But the troubles and disorders elsewhere in the city seemed to have everyone’s attention now, and no one was about in the ruined districts.
She reached the small square at the west end of the Burned Bridge, and hesitated in the shadows. The Burned Bridge wasn’t ruined, of course—it was a perfectly serviceable wooden structure built atop the stone piers of the bridge that had burned, sometime in the years before the Spellplague. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she could make out more of Rhovann’s gray monsters standing watch near the center of the span. “Am I to find them at this end, the other end, or the middle?” she wondered aloud. She certainly had no liking for the last two options; she simply refused to go anywhere near the runehelms again if she could help it.
Mirya looked and listened for a long moment, peering at any place that seemed like it might offer a clandestine meeting spot. Her eye fell on an old ruined mill just a little bit past the bridge. She couldn’t see anything in the shadows of its empty walls … but each time she looked away, her eye wandered back to that spot. Deciding to trust her intuition, she skirted the square by the foot of the bridge and ventured into the old shell of the building. “Well met?” she called softly. “Is anybody here?”
She heard nothing but the patter of raindrops, and the moaning of the rising wind. Then came a sudden rustle in the debris close by; a big rat scurried over the rubble. Mirya gave a startled yelp and leaped back as the creature vanished down a crevice, heading for the river bank. This was a foolish notion, she scolded herself. What if there’d been a band of ruffians lying in wait here?
She wrapped her cloak closer around her body and picked her way back toward the street—but then she heard another sound. “Mirya, is that you?” Hamil called. The halfling advanced from the darkness at the far end of the mill, sheathing the knife that gleamed in his hand. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re truly here,” Mirya said with a sigh of relief. She hurried back to meet Hamil in the middle of the ruined building. In the shadows of the far wall she now could make out Sarth’s horned silhouette. “It’s Geran,” she continued. “He’s been captured, and Rhovann is holding him in the dungeons below the Council Hall.”
“Damn it all!” the halfling swore. He paced in a small circle. “Now what? We certainly didn’t plan on this.”
Sarth frowned, and looked at Mirya. “How did you find us?”
“Geran came to my house earlier this evening, before he was caught. He mentioned that he’d be meeting you here at midnight. I’ve no idea what the three of you are up to, but I’m hoping that you can help him.”
“Me too,” Hamil muttered to himself. He glanced up at Sarth as he paced. “Do we have time to free him and carry on? For that matter, can we free him? He’s sure to be well guarded.”
“Geran had the scrolls, and the sword,” Sarth observed. “I might be able to translate us into the shadow, but Aesperus said that we would need Umbrach Nyth. Can we succeed without the sword, or Geran to wield it?”
The halfling shook his head, and came to a halt. He looked back up to Mirya. “What happened?” he asked.
Mirya couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. “I betrayed him,” she said in a whisper. “Rhovann bewitched me tendays ago, and I didn’t even know it until I turned Geran in. It’s my fault.”
Hamil stared at her, a hard and cheerless look that chilled her to the marrow. His eyes flicked to Sarth, and Mirya realized that he was speaking silently to the sorcerer. The tiefling studied her for a moment, and shrugged. “It’s a clever and ruthless ploy,” he said to Hamil. “Rhovann is a wizard of formidable learning, brilliant and unscrupulous. Why should we be surprised that he conceived something like this?”
“Because I hate it when my enemy proves more clever than I thought,” Hamil replied. “How do we know that she isn’t still under the wizard’s influence? He used Mirya to catch Geran, maybe he now hopes to use Geran to catch us.”
“That I can test,” Sarth said. He advanced on Mirya and peered into her eyes. The tiefling’s orbs were the color of hot brass in the shadows. “Be still, Mirya. This will not harm you, but I must be certain. Zamai dhur othmanna.” With the last words, he raised his rune-marked scepter and brought his magic to bear; his eyes glowed as bright as candles, and Mirya felt a strange tingling sensation over her skin. She shuddered, but tried not to retreat.
After a moment, Sarth nodded to himself. “No enchantment holds her, but I detect the fading impression of one that was recently up
on her. We can trust her.”
“That’s a relief,” Mirya said. “I feared that I was still under Rhovann’s spell without knowing it.”
“Start at the beginning, then, and explain to us what happened,” Sarth said.
Mirya started to speak, and then stopped herself. “No. We haven’t the time for that,” she answered. “I’ve a few loyalist fighters assembling near the Council Hall now. Every moment we delay, Geran remains in Rhovann’s power.”
The halfling and the tiefling stared at her. Then, slowly, Hamil nodded. “All right. Perhaps Rhovann isn’t expecting anyone to be able to mount a rescue so swiftly. Or perhaps we’ll all get killed. I don’t suppose you have a plan?”
She shook her head. “I can get you to the Council Hall unseen. After that, I hoped you’d have an idea.”
Hamil replied with a low laugh. “You surprise me, Mirya. You’re too practical for this sort of nonsense. Well, lead on, and we’ll see what we see.”
“This way, then,” Mirya replied. She led the halfling and the sorcerer back to the open cellar and its hidden entrance to the buried streets. A distant flicker of lightning brightened the sky as she scrambled back down to the old door, and the raindrops started falling thicker and faster. Her allies paused as she levered the door open again, looking dubiously at the dark passage revealed. Mirya retrieved her lantern and ducked inside; after a moment, she heard Sarth and Hamil following.
“Well, now I understand what you meant about getting to the Council Hall unseen,” Hamil said softly as they hurried along. “I never knew any of this was down here. How far do these tunnels go?”
“They lie under much of the new town, anywhere there’s been building atop the ruins of the old city,” Mirya answered. “They reach to Cart Street to the south, and as far as High Street on the east, but they don’t cross the Winterspear, of course. Still, they’re useful for smuggling and staying out of sight.” They passed through the old wine cellar, but no one was there; Mirya didn’t waste time, and simply pressed on ahead at the best speed she could manage. In another hundred yards she passed by the cramped door leading into Erstenwold’s cellar, and took a branching passage to her right. It took her one or two false turns, but she finally found her way to a wide but low cellar half filled with old rubble. Old casks, barrels, and trunks were stacked haphazardly around the bottom of an old wooden staircase that led up to a wooden door.
In the dim gleam of a lantern whose shutter was open only by a sliver, she saw several hooded figures waiting by the foot of the stair. Brun Osting raised the lantern and opened the shutter by a little more. “Mirya, is that you?” he called in a low voice.
“Aye, it’s me,” she said. “I’ve brought Hamil Alderheart and the sorcerer Sarth. They’ll help us get Geran out of the Council Guard’s clutches.” She quickly introduced Geran’s companions to her small group of loyalists—Brun, his cousin Halla, Lodharrun the smith, and Senna Vannarshel, the fletcher. It seemed that they were all Brun could find swiftly; Mirya decided that they’d have to do.
“Will we be enough?” Senna Vannarshel asked. “There might be scores of Council Guards guarding the hall.”
“Do not be concerned about them,” Sarth said. The tiefling smiled coldly. “Their numbers will not avail them.”
Mirya nodded in the dim light. She’d seen Sarth in battle before, when Geran dueled his cousin Sergen on the decks of a warship drifting through the skies of the black moon. The tiefling wasn’t boasting when he spoke in such a manner. “Up the stairs,” she told the others. “And try to be quiet about it.”
They climbed up the steep, dusty stairs. At the top there was a brief delay as Brun had to force the door open against the heavy barrels that had been left in front of it. Hamil quickly slipped past the burly brewer and went to the storeroom’s door, brushing a clear spot in one dirty pane of the window. After a quick peek, he opened the door a handspan and stuck his head out to look up and down the alleyway. The drumbeat of rain grew louder, and a breath of cold damp air—cool and clean after the close quarters of buried Hulburg—flowed into the storeroom. “No one’s around. Follow me!”
They filed out into the alley and splashed across through the cold puddles, gathering in a knot against a door in the back of the Council Hall—Hamil, Sarth, and Mirya to the left, and Brun, Halla, Lodharrun, and Senna Vannarshel to the right. The halfling gave everyone a look of warning, and then stealthily tried the handle. The door didn’t open. “Locked,” he whispered. “Give me a moment.” The halfling kneeled by the lock and drew a small pick from his sleeve.
“I don’t suppose we’ve any idea of where to find Lord Geran?” Senna whispered.
“In the prison below the hall. I saw him taken there. A guardroom blocks the way to the cells; there’ll be Council Guards there.”
“There it is,” Hamil murmured. He silenced the group with an upraised hand, and carefully peeked inside the door. A dim yellow light shone out into the alleyway. Motioning for them to wait, he slipped inside.
“Remember, we’re not here to pick fights. The quicker and quieter we go, the better our chances of reaching Geran and getting out again,” Mirya told Brun and the rest of her band as they waited on the halfling. “When the time comes to withdraw, we’ll try to find our way back to this door and retreat into buried Hulburg. It’s our best chance to lose any who chase after us.”
“We’ll give away the secret of the buried ways,” Lodharrun muttered.
“By tomorrow night we’ll have won or lost, and we’ll be done with sneaking through cellars,” Mirya replied. “If we give it away, we give it away.”
“Remember, the runehelms speak to one another,” Sarth added. “From the moment we meet one, all the runehelms in the city will know of our presence, and likely Rhovann as well. We must not be delayed.”
Hamil reappeared at the door, and motioned for quiet. There are a lot of Council Guards here, he said silently, his eyes flicking from one face to another. I think we can get to the guardroom without a fight, but we’ll need a distraction, something to draw Marstel’s soldiers away.
Mirya thought for a moment, and looked at her band of rebels. “What if we shoot a few arrows or bolts at the guards by the front door?” she asked. “Either they’ll come out and give chase, or they’ll close the doors and fort up, but they’d be out of our way.”
Hamil considered it, and nodded. Mirya turned to Senna and Halla; the fletcher was a skilled archer, as one might expect, and Halla was nearly as good with her sling. “I think that’ll be work for you two,” she said. “Stay well back in the shadows, and move between your shots. If they come out after you, you know what to do. We’ll give you a two-hundred count to let you get into position.”
“We’ll do what we can,” Senna replied. Halla bit her lip, but nodded. Together the old fletcher and the young woman hurried down the alley into the rain. Mirya said a silent prayer to the gods of mercy and good fortune that she hadn’t just sent the two women to their deaths. She waited with the others for a short time in the alleyway, silently counting off. Inside the Council Hall she could hear occasional footsteps, the sound of voices, the creaking of doors as they opened and shut, but none sounded very close by. Then Hamil motioned to the small band and led the way as they crept in from the rain.
They were in a large kitchen, currently unoccupied. For a moment Mirya wondered what in the world the Merchant Council needed with a kitchen, but then she realized that the prisoners in the cells below and the guards who watched them had to have their meals fixed somewhere. For that matter, the Merchant Council likely hosted banquets here when the occasion demanded. They quietly filed through the room to a servant’s hall on the far side, proceeding past several doors opening on either side until they reached a door at the end of the hall.
Here Hamil paused. Now we wait a moment for Mirya’s friends, he said. If they get the guards’ attention by the front door we should be able to cross the hall outside this door and duck down the steps to the guardro
om without being seen.
Carefully, he opened the door a finger’s width to peer out. The voices and movements of the soldiers outside grew louder, and Mirya steeled herself for violence. But then a sharp scream sounded from a short distance away. Cries of alarm and angry curses echoed from outside. Hamil gave them all a quick wink, and darted out from his hiding place. Sarth, Brun, and Lodharrun followed; Mirya brought up the rear, after the dwarf. She risked a single glimpse to her right as they crossed a wide, open hallway. Several Council Guards clustered around the building’s front door, some peering outside, others tending to one of their fellows, who was on the ground with an arrow in his stomach. Then they clattered down the stairs leading to the dungeons below the great hall.
Ahead of her Hamil vanished around a bend in the stairs, knives gleaming in his hands. An instant later another cry of alarm echoed from the room at the bottom of the stairs, followed by the sudden clash of steel on steel. Sarth rounded the bend after Hamil, and she heard the tiefling’s rough voice snarling words of magic; Brun and Lodharrun leaped into the fray after the two heroes. With a quick glance back up the stairs behind her, Mirya turned the corner after her friends, crossbow ready for a shot.
The violence of the scene appalled her. One guard was on the floor, vainly trying to staunch the blood pumping out of a murderous stab wound in his upper thigh, and Hamil was systematically slashing and stabbing his way through a second guard whose weak efforts to defend himself couldn’t last more than another moment or two. On the other side of the room, another pair of guards sprawled in frozen gore, pierced through by a blast of icicles that riddled them and the wall behind them. Brun Osting and the dwarf Lodharrun attacked the remaining two guards, the big brewer using his axe with his hand choked halfway up the haft, the dwarf fencing with his opponent. From her vantage on the stairs, Mirya had a clear shot at the smith’s foe, and before she could second-guess herself, she leveled her crossbow and took it. The thick quarrel suddenly sprouted in the fellow’s right shoulder, spinning him half around; the dwarf stepped forward and ran him through while he was distracted. In moments, the room was still again.
Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III Page 29
