The swordmage moved over and glanced out, but he did not see much. Then a small sound from over his head caught his attention. He ducked down and looked up as steeply as he could; Hamil clung to a rope a little above his cell’s window. I’m here, Hamil! he answered.
Are you well? The guards wouldn’t let me in to see you.
I’m well enough, but Sergen ordered his men not to allow anyone in to see me, Geran told him. Did you get the tiles?
I did, though I confess I almost ignored your cousin. He sought me out to show me his new dragon’s-teeth, and I didn’t think anything of it. Fortunately he was very persistent, and I finally paid attention just to humor him. Only then did he mention that you’d sent them to him. The halfling shifted a little and turned to set his feet on the top of the embrasure over Geran’s window. Keeping his voice to a whisper, he said, “Playing two dragon tiles together is considered bad luck in the south, you know.”
“I hoped you’d take it as a sign of distress. Listen, Hamil-I need to get out of this cell.” Geran kept his voice low. He did not think his guards could hear him through the thick door, but if one of them happened to slide open the viewport and check on him, he wanted to look as if he were simply staring out the window instead of holding a conversation with someone clinging to a line just outside.
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask, but aren’t you worried about embarrassing your uncle by making an escape?”
“I think Sergen’s planning something awful. I’ve got to stop him. He means to have my uncle killed, maybe the whole family. He’s got the amulet that the King in Copper gave to Urdinger. No good can come of that.”
Hamil fell silent for a moment. “The lich said that whoever wore the amulet could call on his minions.”
Geran nodded. “And Sergen told me last night that I wouldn’t have to worry about regaining my liberty again. I take that to mean he’ll have me killed in my cell, or he intends to make himself the master of my fate by seizing the throne. I have to believe that Sergen’s got the medallion now, because he’s going to call on its powers. We’ve got to get it away from him or at the very least warn my uncle and Kara about his intentions.”
“Agreed. Let’s figure out how to get you out of there.” Hamil studied the window and then descended a few more feet to examine the stonework below it. “Hmmm, I don’t think the window’ll work unless you can use your teleporting magic.”
Geran shook his head. “I need to see exactly where I’m going, and I’ll need a safe place to appear. Besides, I’m still in mage shackles. I can’t use magic.”
“It’ll have to be the front door, then,” Hamil said. “I need to arrange for some help, Geran.”
“Leave the Shieldsworn out of it if you can, Hamil. Many of them are sympathetic to my situation, but their duty is clear-they’re sworn to resist any effort to break me out. You can’t count on their help, but I don’t want to see them killed.” Geran paused, thinking his way through what Hamil would have to do. “For that matter, it’d be better if you could avoid a massacre of the council guards. I’d rather have them incapacitated than dead. The charges Sergen laid against me are groundless, but they wouldn’t be if we killed men assigned to keep me under arrest.”
“As long as you’re thinking of ways to make my job harder, why not ask for a purple horse with a golden saddle to ride away on?”
“If I were certain that Sergen intended to move against the harmach within the next day, I’d tell you to do anything in your power to get me out and damn the consequences,” Geran said in a low voice. “But I’ve only got suspicions, Hamil. I’m hesitant to kill over them.”
“Fine,” Hamil sighed. “I’ll see if I can free you sometime this evening.”
“I’ll be waiting for that purple horse.”
Hamil snorted in response. Geran heard a whisper of leather against stone and a small grunt of effort, and then the halfling was gone again, scrambling back up to whatever vantage he had descended from. The swordmage turned away from the window and surveyed his small room. A few more hours, he thought. He’d have to make sure he knew what to do once Hamil freed him. He sat down on the bed, his chin in his hand, and thought long and hard about the hours ahead. Then he composed himself to wait through the afternoon. He found that he had little appetite for his dinner, simply because he was growing anxious for Hamil, but he made himself eat well anyway; if things didn’t go well, it might be a long time before he had the opportunity to eat again.
After his dinner, Geran watched a spectacular sunset from his window, which faced toward the southwest. The gloom and drizzle of the last few days was breaking up; a great mass of tattered gray clouds drifted slowly eastward, painted rose and gold by the setting sun. The skies above the western horizon seemed dark and clear. Another stretch of cold weather and strong winds, Geran decided. Already whitecaps were beginning to kick up on the purple gloom of the Moonsea, splashing against the soaring shadows of the Arches that dominated the harbor.
Nothing happened until three hours after sundown, and when it did, it happened quickly. Geran heard a brief commotion in the corridor outside his door-a sharp cry of alarm, quickly cut off, followed by a shrill ring of steel on steel. Then he heard a deep, rasping voice hissing syllables of arcane power, words of might that made the door tremble in its frame. Streams of reddish smoke seeped from under the door, carrying an acrid reek that made Geran’s eyes water and his throat burn. Then the key turned, and the door swung open.
Hamil stood there with a handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth. And behind him stood the proud tiefling sorcerer Geran had encountered out on the Highfells. The tiefling wore a heavy, hooded black cape over his finely embroidered scarlet robe, but he still carried his rune-covered staff. “The shackles, quickly!” he hissed to Hamil.
The halfling hurried up to Geran with a set of keys in his hand. “Geran, you remember Sarth Khul Riizar. We’ve met before, of course, but circumstances didn’t permit a proper introduction.”
“Far be it from me to question anyone helping me to escape, Hamil, but what’s he doing here?” Geran asked.
“I decided that I needed the best help available, in case we had to fight our way out of Griffonwatch,” Hamil answered. “And given what you’d told me about Sergen and Aesperus’s amulet, I thought Sarth might know something about what your cousin’s got planned. So I asked after Sarth all over town this afternoon, found him staying in a very fine inn called the Captain’s House, and explained what was happening.”
Hamil found the correct key and unlocked Geran’s shackles; the swordmage shook them off and rubbed his sore wrists while Hamil knelt to free his ankle irons. Geran looked into Sarth’s face and frowned. “I appreciate your interest, Master Sarth,” he said. “But why did you agree to help? What do you have to gain?”
“To gain? Nothing but a clear conscience,” the tiefling answered. He glanced to the corridor outside and then looked back to Geran. “You see, I bear some responsibility for Jarad Erstenwold’s death and your current troubles. I wish to make amends.”
Hamil found the key for the leg irons and quickly removed them. “You’re free, Geran,” he said. “We should go.”
“Just a moment,” Geran answered. “Explain what you mean, Sarth.”
“I came to Hulburg five months ago in search of the book called the Infiernadex. I knew that it had once belonged to Aesperus but had been taken from the lich king in the fall of Thentur centuries ago. I hoped to recover it for myself and to study the arcane secrets it contains. When I first arrived in town, I decided to seek out a sponsor, so I called on Darsi Veruna and tried to interest her in providing me assistance with my explorations.” The tiefling grimaced. “As it turned out, she wished to employ me as a wand-for-hire. I’d no particular desire to help her enrich herself any further, and we parted company. But I fear that I told her enough about my intended project for her to order her own people to begin searching for the book as well. As I understand it, their tomb-breakings soon attracted the attenti
on of the captain of the Shieldsworn, who tried to put a stop to it and was killed for his interference. The Veruna armsmen would not have been there if I hadn’t sought out the aid of House Veruna at first. For that I am truly sorry.”
Geran shook his head. The tiefling seemed sincere, but he had a hard time taking Sarth at his word. Still, Sarth had evidently consented to help Hamil free him, and they had fought together against Veruna’s mercenaries by the barrow of Terlannis. “I’ll need to hear more about this soon. I guess now isn’t the time,” he finally said. “But I’m sorry if I’ve misjudged you.”
The tiefling smiled ruefully and gestured at the small black horns jutting from his forehead. “I am accustomed to it.”
“Can we continue with your escape now, Geran?” Hamil asked.
“A sound suggestion.” Geran stepped out of the cell; the red smoke was already dissipating. Five council armsmen lay sprawled on the ground, coughing weakly. He spied a trunk by the opposite wall and opened it, retrieving the personal possessions he’d been carrying when Kendurkkel and his men had ambushed him. With a sigh of relief, Geran buckled his scabbard around his waist and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “What now?” he asked.
“Mirya’s waiting with a wagon in the courtyard,” Hamil answered. “I arranged a large order for provisions to be sent to Erstenwold’s. We’re going to drive out the front gate as if nothing were out of the ordinary.”
“I’ll need a disguise.”
“I can attend to that detail,” Sarth said. The tiefling reached into a pouch by his belt to draw out a pinch of fine silver powder, and then cast the dust over the swordmage while murmuring a spell. Geran felt a strange prickling sensation over his skin and held still only through an iron determination not to flinch. Hamil and Sarth seemed to fade strangely in his sight, becoming pale and ghostly; when he looked down at his own body, he noticed that he seemed more ghostly still. “You’re invisible, Geran. Take care, since you can still be heard or felt. The spell lasts only a short time, so let us hurry.”
“I understand,” Geran said. He followed his rescuers down the corridor and then out through a guardroom where four more council armsmen lay where they’d fallen, snoring softly in an enchanted slumber. They descended a flight of steps and then turned aside into a small storeroom with a door that opened on the courtyard behind the gatehouse. A large, open wagon stood just outside, its bed filled with several casks and crates. More of the same stood in the storeroom. Geran guessed that Hamil and Sarth had played the part of Erstenwold clerks unloading the wagon, only to slip away when the opportunity presented itself.
Mirya stood in the shadows beside the wagon, wearing a dark hood over her dress. She stroked the neck of the draft horse to keep the animal still and quiet. When Sarth and Hamil appeared, she frowned in consternation. “What happened?” she whispered. “Where’s Geran?”
“I’m here, Mirya,” Geran answered. He couldn’t resist a quick touch on her shoulder. She jumped and glowered in his general direction. “You shouldn’t have let Hamil talk you into helping out, though. You’ll be in a good deal of trouble when the Shieldsworn figure out what happened.”
Hamil laughed softly. “Trust me, Geran, it wasn’t my idea. All I wanted was the wagon and some empty barrels, but she insisted on coming along to help.”
“It would be wiser to have this conversation somewhere else,” Sarth said quietly. “We have not succeeded yet.”
Geran glanced up at the banners flying over the gatehouse. They fluttered and flapped energetically in the strengthening breeze, glimmers of gray in the moonlight. He was only a few steps from slipping out of the castle, but he hesitated, quickly reviewing the decisions he’d made earlier in the day. “You’d better go without me,” he said slowly. “I must speak with the harmach and explain the danger to him. I can’t think of a reason why Sergen would wear that amulet unless he intends to use it to summon the King in Copper, and I think that he means to do it here.”
“Harmach Grigor may feel that he’s got to jail you again to keep his word to the Merchant Council,” Mirya pointed out. “You’ll not get a better chance to slip away.”
“I agree with Mirya,” said Hamil. “If they catch you now, it’ll be impossible to get you out later. Besides, it’ll raise some difficult questions for Mirya and me.”
“I’ll tell the harmach that it was my own doing. All I have to do is come up with a story to explain how I got out of the shackles. You should be fine.”
“That’s all well and good, but you can spare the harmach that decision by leaving with us now,” Mirya said sharply. “We can arrange to warn him once you’re out of danger. And if, after that, you still hold with the idea that Sergen’s up to some devilish plot, you’ll be free to take the fight to him.”
“Whatever you decide, decide quickly,” Sarth warned. “It will be far easier to spirit you out of the castle while you’re invisible, Geran.”
The swordmage thought for a moment longer then nodded-not that any of the others could see him. “I’ll go,” he said. “We’ll make sure to warn the harmach, but the best way to avert the danger is to get the lich’s amulet away from Sergen.” He clambered up onto the wagon, which rocked softly under his weight, and crouched down between a couple of empty barrels. The others climbed up onto the driver’s bench, and Mirya clicked her tongue at the draft horse. The animal gave a nervous whicker then pranced back in its traces.
“Easy, boy. Easy,” Mirya called softly. But the horse’s eyes rolled, and the animal stamped sharply as it shuddered and tried to back out of its harness. “Easy now!”
Geran rolled up on one elbow and looked at the animal, wondering what it was shying from. And then he felt it-a cold, sickening sensation that chilled his heart and made him shiver despite himself. The lanternlight burning by the castle gate seemed to dim and fail, and the shadows around the courtyard suddenly darkened and lengthened. He looked up and saw that the banners above the gatehouse hung limply from their masts.
“Something approaches,” Sarth rasped. “Something evil.”
Then, silently, terrible shapes began to rise from the moonshadows-ancient warriors in tattered hauberks, their skeletal faces blank with hopelessness and dread. An evil green light burned in the empty sockets of their eyes. The draft horse whinnied in terror and tried to rear in its traces; Geran rolled aside and abandoned the wagon, as did the others. The animal bolted away in panic, filling the courtyard with the horrendous sound of its screams and the clattering racket of the wagon bouncing over the cobblestones. Shouts of human terror echoed from the hallways and rooms of the gatehouse nearby as more and more of the specters appeared and glided into the castle.
“The King in Copper!” Mirya gasped. “He’s here!”
Geran caught her arm and retreated a few steps toward the storeroom behind him, sweeping out his sword even as he wondered if it would help against ghostly steel and spectral claws. Dozens of the terrible wraiths were already in sight, and more were appearing by the moment. “I hesitated too long,” he groaned. “Sergen’s decided to strike.”
A wraith flew overhead, wailing in a shrill, cold voice as it streaked past. It drew up and turned to gaze at them, the shadowy image of a long-dead warrior. “Slay them all,” it whispered to itself then it leaped down at Mirya, sweeping its phantom sword from its scabbard. Geran shoved her behind him as he parried with his backsword. Elven steel glimmered in the moonlight against dark shadowstuff, but the wraith’s ghostly weapon passed through Geran’s steel and sank into his arm. A bitter white chill pierced the swordmage’s flesh, and he cried out in agony. Then the wraith’s blade passed through him, leaving behind a thin white line of cold, pallid flesh like the scar of an old wound.
“Vaar thel murne!” Sarth shouted, and from his fingertips he hurled a bolt of bright fire at the center of the wraith’s body. The blazing bolt burned a hole right through the spirit’s substance, such as it was, and the wraith recoiled as though sorely wounded. “Steel is of l
ittle use now, Geran!”
The wraith’s features wavered and grew indistinct, but within moments its ghostly fabric began to knit together again, and the malice of its emerald eyes glittered brightly. It turned its attention to the tiefling and glided forward, raising its phantom blade high for another strike. “Damn the luck,” Sarth muttered. “Perhaps my magic is not of much use, either.”
Geran shook off the lingering numbness in his sword-arm and found the spell he was seeking. “Reith arroch!” he called, and his sword suddenly blazed with a brilliant white radiance. He leaped up to meet the wraith and drove his point right between the spirit’s eyes; this time the elven steel bit into the unearthly substance as if into living flesh. The wraith shrieked once, pinioned by the sword through its forehead, and then a flash of argent light destroyed it. But more wraiths swirled around them, and the castle courtyard began to take on an eerie, sepulchral appearance, as if the mere presence of the dead warriors had dragged Griffonwatch itself into the spectral horror of their shadowy existence.
“We can’t stay here, Geran,” Hamil warned. He had his daggers in hand-enchanted weapons both, but who could say whether they were keen enough to pierce flesh that was not there? — and he kept them poised as a defense of sorts, trying to hold off wraiths drawing close from that side. “We’re too exposed here!”
Geran looked around, and his gaze fell on the door leading to the banquet hall. A Shieldsworn guard fought furiously on the steps, only to crumple under the slashing assault of several of the furious wraiths. There was only one thing to do-Geran had to reach the harmach and the rest of the Hulmasters before the wraiths did. Hoping the others would follow his lead, he dashed across the courtyard and bounded up the steps into Griffonwatch’s horror-haunted halls.
TWENTY-FOUR
10 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One
The Hulburgans had chosen a good defensive position. The track descending from the moorland down into the river valley ran between a high hillside on the east and a small rocky rise on the right. The white rushing Winterspear wound across the vale just in front of the human defenses, spanned by an old bridge of stone. One of their small watchtowers stood atop the rocky rise. Mhurren grinned in appreciation as he studied the small army arrayed against him. The sun had set more than an hour ago, but great bonfires burned across here and there in front of the human positions, set so the humans would have light enough to fight by. The human soldiers were careful to stand well back from the firelight; they might not be able to see past the line of fires, but then again, Mhurren couldn’t send his warriors at them without sending them through the firelight. Whoever the commander was, he was no fool.
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