Avenger: Blades of the Moonsea - Book III

by Richard Baker

  “Their mage is skillful, but I will do what I can,” the tiefling answered. He invoked his spell of flying and rose up over the battlements, heading northward in pursuit.

  “Find a mount,” Geran told Hamil. He turned to follow his own advice, and spotted a big black charger whose rider was lying on the cobblestones, scorched by Sarth’s spells. Trying not to frighten the animal by moving too quickly, he approached. “Easy now,” he said in a soothing voice. “That’s a good fellow, easy now.” The horse snorted suspiciously, but it stood still long enough for Geran to take hold of its reins and give it a few pats on the neck before swinging himself up into the saddle.

  “Perhaps you weren’t counting, but Marstel’s men still outnumber us about ten to one,” Hamil observed. The halfling was trying to calm a skittish mare that was a little on the small side, the horse least ill-suited to his stature. “What exactly do you propose to do if we catch them?”

  “I’ll work that out when we do. Are you ready?”

  “Almost,” Hamil replied.

  “I’m ready,” Mirya replied. She’d found a mount of her own and had quickly slit her skirt at front and back to ride with a foot in each stirrup.

  Geran frowned. “Mirya—”

  “I’ll have none of that nonsense now, Geran Hulmaster, not after the daft things I’ve watched you do in the last few hours,” she said sharply. “If I followed you into the Shadowfell, I can damn well ride with you now.”

  He hesitated before answering. “Then at least promise me you’ll stay well back from any fighting we come to.”

  “If it makes you feel better.” She kicked her heels to her horse’s flanks and rode hard through the castle gate. Geran scowled and spurred his black charger after her; behind him, Hamil managed to get himself into the saddle and rode out after the two of them.

  They cantered swiftly down the causeway toward the small square known as the Harmach’s Foot, the cold raindrops striking them as they hurried after Marstel and his company. From their height, Geran glimpsed a half-dozen thin pillars of smoke rising up to meet the low overcast. He couldn’t hear much over the thudding of his horse’s hooves on the paving stones, but here and there in the streets below he could see handfuls of people hurrying from one spot to another. There seemed to be a riot or a skirmish by the Middle Bridge, and he thought he could hear the distant clash of arms echoing through the gray morning. To his right, a couple of hundred yards ahead of them, Marstel’s company of riders was heading north on the Vale Road; the flash of spells and peals of magical thunder rang through the streets in that direction. Then he lost his vantage as the causeway descended down to meet the Vale Road.

  Mirya must have seen what he had, for she turned north and galloped after the false harmach. Geran followed her, and Hamil as well. He leaned over his animal’s neck, encouraging it to greater speed. For several hundred yards they thundered madly through the muddy lane, racing toward the outskirts of the town and the partially repaired city wall by the Burned Bridge and the Troll and Tankard.

  Not much besides open countryside ahead of us, Hamil called to him. Perhaps we should follow at a distance, and see if we can sneak up on them later? Or round up a larger company before we set out after them?

  Geran didn’t answer for a moment. It was a sound suggestion, but he wasn’t willing to abandon the chase just yet. Finally he straightened in the saddle, and began to ease up on the reins, thinking about the best way to proceed—but a sudden skirmish broke out somewhere ahead of him, just over a small rise. More magic flashed and thundered just ahead, and the shrill sound of steel meeting steel came clearly to his ears. He spurred ahead, sharing one quick glance with Mirya as he drew abreast of her. Together they topped the rise.

  Just below them, dozens of Shieldsworn ran and shouted after Marstel and his riders, who were galloping madly down the road away to the north. In their flight, Marstel and Terov had run headlong into a company of Hulmaster soldiers. Half-a-dozen Shieldsworn lay motionless on the road or in the muddy fields nearby … but just as many Vaasans and Council Guards had fallen too. Sarth sat on the roadbank, a crossbow bolt in one thigh and the other leg stretched out at an awkward angle, while a small band of Shieldsworn waited nearby. Shieldsworn archers started to draw on Geran and his companions, taking them for stragglers from Marstel’s band, before they lowered their bows with shouts of recognition. “It’s Lord Geran!” they cried. “He’s here!”

  “I am sorry, Geran,” Sarth said from the ground. “I did what I could, but the Warlock Knight’s witch put a spell of negation on me and cancelled my flying spell while I was a fair distance above the ground. I fear I’ve broken my leg.”

  “That always seemed a significant drawback to the tactic of fighting from the air,” Hamil remarked. “That, and the fact that everybody within half a mile can see exactly where you are, especially when you’re flinging fireballs and lightning bolts to one side and the other. A good thing the Vaasan witch didn’t catch you too much higher in the air. But how did you get that bolt in your leg?”

  Sarth scowled. “One of the Vaasans shot me on the ground. I suppose he had some notion of finishing me while I was distracted.”

  Geran kneeled beside his friend and gripped his shoulder. “You did as much as I could have asked for. A bit of bad luck now doesn’t diminish what you’ve done in the service of Hulburg.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry I left you with no potions to drink.”

  “As am I. I think I’ll remember to save one for myself next time.”

  The swordmage smiled. “I wouldn’t blame you.” He was about to say more when another group of Shieldsworn with banners flying from their stirrups galloped up from the west, cutting across the fields from the Burned Bridge. Kara Hulmaster rode at the head of the small company; Geran stood and waved. “Kara!” he called.

  Kara’s mouth opened in surprise as she caught sight of him. She cantered up close and slid from the saddle, hurrying over to catch him in a quick embrace. “Geran! Where in Faerûn have you been?”

  “Events didn’t proceed as I’d planned.” Geran returned Kara’s hug. “Rhovann caught me yesterday and threw me in his dungeons. Mirya, Hamil, and Sarth weren’t able to rescue me until hours later. We didn’t reach Rhovann’s master stone until shortly before sunrise.”

  “I feared the worst until the runehelms began to fall.” Kara studied his face and frowned. “By Ilmater, you’ve had a beating. Are you well?”

  “Not as well as I’d like, but I’m still here.” He decided he’d tell her what Rhovann did to him and show her the silver hand when they had time for the whole tale; it wasn’t something he cared to do in the middle of the road with the Shieldsworn looking on. “What happened to the runehelms when we shattered the stone? And how did you come to be here?”

  “The Council Guard and the runehelms drove us out of our camp at Rosestone. We were pushed back to the round, flat-topped hill a little west of the abbey—”

  “Yes, I saw.”

  Kara stared at him. “You saw? How—”

  “I’m sorry. Rhovann showed me what his runehelms could see of your stand. He wanted me to know that you’d been beaten.”

  “We almost were,” she replied. “We fought off attacks all night long. Just before dawn Marstel threw his greatest attack at us, but just as the runehelms threatened to overrun us, they suddenly faltered—whatever force that was driving them suddenly failed. That would be the moment you shattered the master stone, I suppose. They were almost helpless from that point on, and without their runehelms, the Council Guard assault failed completely. We came down from the hilltop and routed them. Then we set out for Hulburg immediately.” Kara pointed back toward the west side of the Winterspear vale. “We managed to horse most of the Third Shield on mounts we took from Marstel, and I rode ahead with them to throw a cordon around Hulburg and scout out the city. The Icehammers and the rest of the Shieldsworn—those who can still march, anyway—are following on foot. They’re probably descending into the vale by t
he abbey trail right now. I had a mind to send messengers to any loyalists fighting in town and see if we could join forces.”

  “Send word to the Sokols and Double Moon too,” Hamil added. “They’ll help.”

  “Good,” said Geran. “The castle’s ours—Marstel and his men abandoned it. Send some soldiers to hold it when you can. Even a dozen to watch the gate would be enough.”

  “Marstel fled?” Kara asked.

  “He was with the Vaasans who rode through. They’re trying to spirit him away, but I don’t see any reason why we should let the Warlock Knights have him, not when he has so much to answer for here.”

  Kara turned and called out to Kolton, who waited nearby. “Sergeant Kolton, I need every rider you can spare! We’re going to run down Marstel and his Vaasan friends before they slip out of our reach!”

  “Aye, Lady Kara!” the old soldier replied. He turned and began to bark orders at the Shieldsworn around him. The soldiers quickly moved to gather all the enemy mounts they could catch, while others climbed back up into the saddle and arranged themselves on the road.

  Kara turned and caught her saddlehorn, ready to mount up again. “What about Rhovann?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Geran gave her a wintry smile. “He’s dead.”

  Kara gave him a grim nod. “Good.”

  “It seems you must continue without me,” Sarth said to Geran. “Good hunting, my friend.”

  “I’ll give the Vaasans your regards,” Geran answered. He stood up and clambered back into the saddle, ignoring the tremors of fatigue in his limbs. He could ride and fight a little more if he had to. In a matter of moments, he spurred his horse northward on the road again, racing along the Winterspear’s course as Hamil, Mirya, Kara, and fifteen Shieldsworn riders under Sergeant-Major Kolton galloped along at his back.

  THIRTY

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

  The sun, weak and pale, broke through the overcast as Geran and his small company thundered over the Vale Road. They raced north for a half mile or more, following the familiar twists and turns through the muddy fields and wooded stretches, the trees still brown and bare from winter. Geran leaned forward over his mount’s neck, urging the horse to more speed; the misty air splattered his face with droplets of cold water, and the animal’s flying hooves kicked plumes of mud up behind him. All he could hear was the drumming of hooves, the creaking of the saddle, the clash and jingle of the armored warriors behind him.

  They galloped into a thick copse that cut off the view of the road ahead, and passed by a motionless horse standing beside a fallen warrior, a Council Guard mercenary who’d evidently ridden as far as he could with the wounds he carried from the engagement by the Burned Bridge. The Hulmaster company sped past the fallen mercenary without stopping. Then they burst out of the woods into the last stretch of open fields before old Lendon’s Wall.

  Marstel and his Vaasan escort were a scant hundred yards ahead of them, riding slowly northward. The mercenaries and Vaasans stared back in horrified astonishment, surprised by the appearance of pursuit, before they spurred their horses ahead with cries of alarm. Two or three of the riders fell behind almost at once.

  “They’ve got more injured from the fight by the bridge!” Kara shouted to Geran. “We’ve got them!”

  The fleeing lord and his allies realized their predicament as well. They kept up their flight for a few hundred yards more until they reached the spot where the Vale Road passed through a gap in Lendon’s Wall, then reined in and turned to make the best stand they could in the narrows. Several worked to ready crossbows as the Shieldsworn raced closer, and a ragged volley of bolts whistled past Geran; he heard cries of pain and the sudden clatter of a warrior falling from the saddle. Risking a quick glance behind him, he saw Mirya and Hamil reining in short of the clash. He was relieved to see that Mirya had sense enough to know that she had no business getting in the middle of mailed swordsmen and swordswomen trained to fight from horseback. She slid from her saddle and began to draw her own crossbow.

  That’s not a knife fight, the halfling told him. Go ahead, I’ll be here if you need me.

  “Take them!” Geran cried to his warriors, and he led the way as the lines closed. He spied a woman with a veil over her face riding close beside the Warlock Knight; she began chanting a spell, pointing a wand at him. An instant later a bolt of purple lightning crackled across the gap between them, as Geran raised his blade to parry with a counterspell on his lips. The arcane lightning glanced from Umbrach Nyth to plow a deep furrow in the muddy ground nearby; a small shock tingled through Geran’s arm, but he was otherwise unhurt. Then he was in the middle of a violent skirmish as his horse carried him into the middle of the enemy. Knee to knee with a Vaasan rider, he cut and parried with everything he had left as the Shieldsworn riders hammered into their foes.

  “For Hulburg, and the true harmach!” a Shieldsworn shouted. Others took up the cry.

  The Vaasan sorceress took aim at Geran again as he was caught in the press. He tried to maneuver into a position to parry her next spell—but suddenly Kara flashed into sight, nimbly dashing through the fight on her agile mare. She took the Vaasan sorceress out of the saddle with a wide slash of her saber; the woman screamed and fell, her wand flying from her outstretched fingers.

  Geran’s adversary was swept away from him as the Shieldsworn’s greater numbers began to tell. He looked for another foe, and spied the Warlock Knight Terov in his armor of black plate. The Vaasan lord dueled with a Shieldsworn rider briefly before smashing him out of the saddle with a spell that conjured dancing black motes along his rune-scribed sword. Geran spurred for the Warlock Knight, ducking under the Vaasan’s blade to stab at the man’s neck, but the knight’s gorget deflected the stroke. Terov countered with a quick chop at Geran’s sword arm, but the swordmage parried as his horse’s momentum carried him past.

  Rather than follow him, Terov wheeled and shouted at Marstel. “Harmach Maroth, flee! My iron tower is only half a mile farther.”

  At the edge of the fray, Maroth Marstel wheeled his horse and spurred madly for the open road; the Warlock Knight raced after him. Geran sought to drive his own mount through the press after the fleeing lords, but too many soldiers—Shieldsworn, Vaasan, and Council Guard alike—crowded the gap in the old dike. For the moment there was no opening.

  “Marstel’s getting away!” Kara shouted over the fighting.

  “I know!” Geran snapped. He couldn’t get through the press, but he could go around it … Before he could reconsider the desperate plan that had sprung into his mind, he slid out of the saddle into the muddy road and fixed his eye on a spot just a short distance ahead of the fleeing lords. “Sieroch!” he said, summoning his teleport spell to mind. With one confident step he strode through an instant of icy blackness, reappearing to stand in the road a few yards ahead of Marstel and Terov on their galloping horses. In the moment before they rode him down, he wove his sword through an intricate flourish and unlocked his next spell. “Nhareith syl shevaere!”

  A bright blue corona of fire sprang into being on the shadow sword’s dark blade, streaming an arc of blue flames as Geran’s sword danced in his hand. With one final slash, the swordmage flung the fiery blast at his enemies. The horses whinnied and shied from the sheet of fire, losing their footing as they leaped away from Geran and the menace of his flames. Terov cursed and deflected the sword’s fiery arc, at least in part, with a counterspell of his own—but the panicked stop of his mount sent him flying from the saddle. Marstel had no such magic to protect himself, and the blue fire seared a black gash through his breastplate that stretched from hip to shoulder. The usurper spilled to the ground as his horse went down. Geran tried to dodge the tumbling horse as it crashed by him, but it swept through his legs and knocked him down too.

  He fell into the muddy road in a great splash, shocked by the cold water that soaked his clothing. The fall knocked the wind out of him, but a heartbeat later he scrambled
back to his feet and staggered toward Marstel. The old lord lay facedown in the road, limbs twisted from his fall, a faint wisp of acrid smoke rising from his breastplate. Geran reached him and rolled him over, raising Umbrach Nyth to deal the coup de grace to throat or heart.

  It wasn’t necessary. For a moment Marstel’s eyes locked on Geran’s as the old lord’s breath and blood gurgled somewhere in his broken body—then Marstel’s eyes drooped and his last breath wheezed from his lips. “You old fool,” Geran rasped. He let his sword drop and looked up to find the Warlock Knight, meaning to deal with Terov next. The Vaasan lord floundered on the ground twenty feet away, gasping with pain as he disentangled himself from his saddle and stirrups. Geran pushed himself upright and started toward him, only to halt in disbelief when a great burst of smoke and wet, bubbling sounds erupted behind him. He spun around in time to see Maroth Marstel’s body melting away into a puddle of dark, frothing ooze.

  “What in the Nine Hells?” he muttered. He backed several steps away, staring in astonishment.

  The sounds of skirmishing behind him diminished as Shieldsworn and Vaasan alike paused, distracted by the spectacle. Kara, who’d picked her way through the fray and was now close behind Geran, peered at the stinking mess. “What in the world did you do to him, Geran?” she asked.

  “It was no spell of mine,” Geran replied. “That was a thrice-damned simulacrum, not the real Marstel! It must have been!” He was no expert on such magic, but Rhovann certainly was. Now that it was dead, it was reverting to the alchemical brew that the wizard had made it from.

  “A simulacrum?” Terov snarled. The Warlock Knight had lost his horned helm in his fall; beneath it he seemed surprisingly ordinary, a man with stern features and steel gray hair. Only his crimson eyes marked the touch of the supernatural in his face. “It was a simulacrum I tried to spirit away? Curse Rhovann Disarnnyl’s perfidy! He’s made a fool of me, and kept the real Marstel for himself.” He finally dragged his feet free of the stirrups and started to stand, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet.