Avenger

NINE

21 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)

Little was left of the Cyricist shrine. The thick masonry that comprised its outer walls had survived the fire intact, if somewhat blackened and burned, but it was only a shell now. The wooden beams supporting the building’s roof had given way, leaving a mound of smoking rubble in the temple’s interior. Several black-robed acolytes supervised gangs of guards and Cinderfist loyalists as they sifted through the ashes and ruin, searching for anything that might be salvaged from the destruction.

“So passes the Temple of the Wronged Prince,” Rhovann murmured to himself, amused by the irony of it. Followers of Cyric claimed that their god was misrepresented by other faiths and treated with a shameful lack of respect-a divine martyr who suffered the jealousy and resentment of all other gods. He’d always felt that the Cyricists were overly quick to claim insult and injustice from those who failed to bow to their demands; their credo, such as it was, made it easy to rationalize any sort of setback or obstacle as the action of a petty, hostile world determined to deny them their due. But here he stood in the ashes of Cyric’s house, and he had to admit that the followers of the Black Sun for once had a wrong for which redress was due.

Captain Edelmark emerged from a blackened archway, his fine cloak streaked with soot. The soldier paid it no mind. Edelmark was a Mulmasterite of thirty-five years or so, not very tall, with the buff features and coarse manners of a common driver or woodcutter. He was a seasoned mercenary who’d fought for every city in the Moonsea at one point or another in his long career. “Lord Rhovann?” he said. “I think we’ve found him.”

“Very good,” Rhovann replied, even though nothing about this catastrophe was good at all. The tall moon elf absently adjusted the hood of his cloak with his hand of silver, shielding his fine-featured face from the freezing drizzle-not quite snow, and not quite rain-that sifted down from the sky. He noticed that his boots of fine gray suede were now almost black with wet ash, and sighed. His clothes would smell of the fire for tendays, no matter how many times he had them washed.

“Come, Bastion,” he said, motioning to the golem that waited silently at his side. The mage followed the Council Guard’s commander into the ruin, wrinkling his nose at the thick smell of smoke that hung over the place. The hulking golem in its vast brown cassock and hood padded after him, the rubble shifting and crumbling under the weight of its footfalls.

Some of the interior walls still stood, while others had collapsed. Edelmark led him through the doorway that had once separated the public shrine from the priests’ quarters and down a short hallway-there were two bodies here, guards in blackened mail and charred harnesses-to what might have once been a large suite. Rhovann had never set foot in the place before, so he had no real idea of whether this room had been Valdarsel’s living space, his office, a secret shrine, or a bordello for the privileged initiates. Regardless, several Council Guards and underpriests stood around a pile of masonry near the center of the room. From beneath the debris jutted a blackened, skeletal arm, its bony fingers clutching a tarnished medallion. Rhovann leaned closer and recognized the skull-and-sunburst design of Valdarsel’s holy symbol, but there was no way to be certain otherwise.

“Stand back,” he warned the others nearby. “Bastion, remove these beams and uncover this body-carefully, if you please.”

The golem stepped forward and seized an eight-inch-square beam that must have weighed the better part of five hundred pounds. Without a sound it lifted the fallen rafter, swiveled, and tossed it to the other side of the room, where it raised a great puff of ash amid a horrific clatter. Bastion took a step, selected another beam, and discarded that one as well. Then the golem stooped to pick up a large section of charred roofing, stepped back, and threw it aside. Rhovann sensed the humans around him shrinking from the pure physical power of his unliving servant, but he paid it no mind; he knew exactly what Bastion was capable of, and was no longer surprised by such demonstrations.

Beneath the roof section, the rest of the body was revealed-burned, crushed, but not incinerated as Rhovann had feared. He could still make out Valdarsel’s distinctive robes, although the face was unrecognizable. Still, it was intact enough for his purposes. He motioned at the guards and lesser priests standing about and said, “Leave me. I do not wish to be disturbed for the next quarter hour. Edelmark, you may stay.” The others withdrew.

“Your satchel, Bastion,” Rhovann said. The golem shrugged a large leather bag from its shoulder and set it down at Rhovann’s feet. Frowning as he kneeled in the ashes, Rhovann opened it and quickly found the implements and components he needed. Working swiftly, he set several black candles in a ring around the dead priest’s body, and then sprinkled a carefully mixed oil over the corpse with a small aspergillum. Then he took a small black book from the satchel, opened it up, and began to read the words of a long and somewhat involved spell.

The skies, already gray and dark, seemed to darken even more, and the air grew still. Edelmark shifted nervously, uncomfortable in the presence of Rhovann’s magic, but Bastion simply watched impassively. Rhovann rarely had reason to perform this particular spell, but Valdarsel’s mysterious death presented an ideal opportunity. As he neared the end of his invocation, he sensed an intangible doorway of sorts taking shape in the air above the corpse. With his left hand he made a beckoning motion. “Valdarsel, return! I have questions for you!” he called into the cold stillness.

A spectral shape-a simple outline of pale mist, hardly visible even to Rhovann’s magically attuned senses-slowly emerged from the doorway and sank down into the corpse. It stirred sluggishly, its burned tendons creaking and skin crackling. “What do you want of me?” the corpse said in a thin, hissing voice. “Let me rest!”

Does Valdarsel enjoy the eternal rewards promised by his god, or is he disenchanted with how Cyric keeps his promises? the mage wondered. The dead priest was of course beyond his recall, but Valdarsel’s soul was not required for the ritual; the minor spirit he’d summoned out of the deathly realms had nothing whatsoever to do with the dead man. It was merely an animus for the priest’s remains, a way to give the dead body a voice. Only things known to Valdarsel in life could be drawn out with this spell. Rhovann considered the questions he desired answers for, then addressed the corpse. “Who slew you?” he asked.

The dead jaws worked in silence before the answer came. “Geran Hulmaster.”

Geran? Rhovann had to force himself to stay silent despite his surprise. If he spoke aloud, the spirit animating the corpse might take it as another question, and simply repeat its answer. So it was no common sellsword or assassin his runehelms had pursued the night before-it was the impudent swordmage, his most bitter nemesis, challenging his power in a brazen act of mayhem! Not only had Geran visited Hulburg in defiance of his family’s exile, he’d murdered a high-ranking member of the Harmach’s Council and a useful, if somewhat unreliable, ally of Rhovann’s. The elf ground his teeth together and mastered his anger before proceeding to his next question. “Who was with him?”

“The tiefling … Sarth Khul Riizar,” the corpse groaned. “No others that I saw before I died.”

“I should have known,” Rhovann murmured to himself. He’d known that Sarth was almost certainly a Hulmaster sympathizer, given the amount of help he’d provided to Geran when Geran was hunting the Black Moon corsairs. I should have driven him off too, he fumed. But the sorcerer had simply kept to himself and hadn’t done anything to provoke suspicion, at least not until the attack on the Temple of the Wronged Prince. Rhovann believed he was Sarth’s better in the arcane arts, but he hadn’t been so confident that he’d been willing to directly confront Geran’s friend without evidence of conspiracy. Clearly, Sarth’s participation in the attack on the Cyricists changed that; as soon as he finished here he’d see to Sarth Khul Riizar. But he suspected that he’d find nothing more than an empty house if the tiefling wasn’t stupid.

He returned his attention to the burned corpse at his feet. “Why did Geran attack you?” This was a little trickier, since it called for speculation, but the mage hoped that Valdarsel’s corpse might retain enough resentment toward his slayer to cooperate.

The grisly thing did not answer for a long time, but just as Rhovann was about to give up, it stirred. “Vengeance,” it said. “I ordered Larisse to destroy the Hulmasters in Thentia, and gave her gold to hire sellswords and scrolls to summon devils. For that Geran Hulmaster slew me.”

Rhovann frowned, wondering which of Valdarsel’s followers Larisse was. She might have been one of the assassins who died in the attack, of course. He’d been almost certain that Valdarsel was behind the attack at Lasparhall, although he’d also suspected House Veruna and the Crimson Chains of involvement in the clumsy debacle. It seemed that Geran Hulmaster had uncovered Valdarsel’s hand behind the attack too. If it had been anybody else, Rhovann might have savored the sheer justice of Valdarsel dying at the hand of an adversary he’d underestimated; after all, he’d been foiled by Geran Hulmaster before, and there was a grim satisfaction in measuring himself by the quality of his enemies. “Did Geran tell you anything about his plans when you met him here?” he asked the corpse.

The corpse groaned again. “No. He only spoke of vengeance. Now let me rest.”

“Very well.” The mage straightened and brushed the soot from his robe. With a gesture he ended the ritual, severing the tenuous thread that imbued the corpse with its animating force. It fell still at once, nothing more than a dead body again. Rhovann absently rubbed at his right wrist, thinking about what he’d learned.

Edelmark looked down on the corpse, frowning in distaste. He cleared his throat and asked, “Are you finished with the high prelate’s remains, Lord Rhovann?”

“Hmm? Oh yes, I have no further use for poor Valdarsel here … no, wait. I may very well need to speak with him again. Inform the surviving clerics that we will see to the high prelate’s burial, and have the remains sent back to the castle.”

“Yes, m’lord.” The mercenary motioned to one of the Council Guards hovering nearby, and glanced around at the wet, smoking ashes and rubble. “It seems that Geran Hulmaster has much to answer for. I can’t believe that he would be so foolhardy as to defy the harmach’s edict and wantonly murder his councilors.”

“I can,” Rhovann muttered. He knew all too well that Geran was a man with more determination than sense at times, and Valdarsel had certainly provoked him. “I must speak with the harmach about my findings here. Have word sent to the other members of the Harmach’s Council; there is to be an emergency session at three bells this afternoon. We must weigh our response to this attack.”

Edelmark bowed, then marched off, calling for his messengers and guards. Rhovann gestured for Bastion to follow him, and made his way back out to the street. He climbed into his carriage while the golem took its place at the running board across the back like a gigantic footman, its weight testing the wooden springs. “Back to Griffonwatch,” Rhovann instructed the driver; the carriage set out with a small jerk, rocking side to side as it clattered through the mud, slush, and uneven cobblestones toward the castle.

As it so happened, the occasion of an emergency council gathering was convenient. For many tendays now, Rhovann had been working to create a Maroth Marstel that could look after himself without constant guidance. The old Hulburgan lord was failing swiftly, his body worn by age and heavy drinking, his mind broken by months of control under Rhovann’s enchantments. Rhovann kept the harmach of Hulburg safely locked away in his own chambers, too ill to see to his duties … but that was about to change. In a vat in his laboratory an alchemical copy of Maroth Marstel was almost ready for its debut, and the council’s meeting would make for an excellent test. As soon as the coach halted in Griffonwatch’s courtyard, Rhovann returned to his laboratory to see to scores of the final details involved with his rituals and alchemical processes.

A little before three hours after noon, he left his laboratory-sealing and warding it behind him, as he always did-and descended from his working space to the castle’s great hall, which served as the meeting place of the Harmach’s Council. He was pleased to note that his fellow councilors were already assembled, waiting for him. Their conversations faltered and they turned astonished looks up at the stair leading down into the room from the castle’s upper floors.

Rhovann smiled and gave a slight bow as he stepped to one side. “My lords and ladies, may I present Harmach Maroth Marstel?”

His simulacrum of Marstel limped forward, raising his hand in greeting. The thing was a perfect copy of Marstel-or, to be more precise, Marstel as he might have appeared had he been enjoying his first days of good health after a long and debilitating illness. To lend credence to the idea that the harmach had simply been indisposed for a time, Rhovann had carefully added a hint of dark circles under the eyes, a little looseness to the flesh to suggest a loss of weight, and a slight shuffle to the footsteps. But the false Marstel’s eyes were clear, and his smile was genuine enough.

“Ah, my good friends!” the false Marstel said in something close to the booming voice of the old lord. “It’s been far too long, it has. But I’m glad to report that I am finally feeling myself again.”

Rhovann made a show of offering his hand, which the old lord’s duplicate refused. He made his way down the stairs, leaning a little on the balustrade as the wizard followed, ready to aid him if he faltered. The waiting councilors stood and applauded as the harmach took his seat at the head of the table. The moon elf moved around the table to his own place, where the master mage customarily sat. The false Marstel inclined his snowy head, accepting the applause of the assembled councilors and guards. “Most kind, most kind,” he said. “Good Rhovann informs me that I’m still recovering and shouldn’t weary myself too much yet, so let’s get to our business.”

He waited as the council members took their seats again, and looked over to Rhovann. “You’d best let the council hear what you had to tell me about the murder of Valdarsel, Rhovann.”

“Of course, my lord harmach,” Rhovann replied. He made a mental note to instruct the simulacrum to act with more bluster and bluntness; he was perhaps just a little too reasonable and mild-spoken for Maroth Marstel. He turned to face the rest of the council. “I investigated the remains of the Temple of the Wronged Prince at length. My divinations and questionings are quite conclusive: High Prelate Valdarsel was killed by none other than Geran Hulmaster, with the aid of the sorcerer Sarth Khul Riizar. I have carefully reviewed the reports of those of my guardians who were involved in the pursuit as they fled the scene. Unfortunately, the murderers vanished somewhere near the waterfront, and I cannot conclusively determine if they have fled Hulburg or not. They may still be here, sheltered by Hulmaster loyalists.” He paused to study the reactions of the merchant leaders around the table before adding, “I will, of course, begin a new course of divinations immediately. If Geran and Sarth are still here, we’ll unearth them quickly enough.”

“There is also the question of those who helped Geran Hulmaster to enter the city, or sheltered him before his attack on Valdarsel,” Captain Edelmark said. “Any such actions amount to high treason against the rightful harmach. If we fail to catch Hulmaster and his half-devil accomplice, we can make sure that those who aided them are suitably punished.”

“Indeed,” Marstel said. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward with a determined frown on his face. “To that very point, I’m instructing the Council Guard to begin an immediate crackdown on all Hulmaster loyalists or sympathizers, known or suspected. This brutal assassination, this fiendish arson, have forced my hand! All persons of suspect allegiance are to be closely questioned regarding their activities over the last two tendays; I want to know where they’ve been, who they’ve associated with, and what they’ve been saying to each other. All arms and armor are to be confiscated. Personal wealth or property that can’t be adequately accounted for are to be confiscated as well; we’ll smother this little rebellion before it spreads any further.”

Old Wulreth Keltor, the keeper of keys, looked stricken. He was the only member who’d also served on Harmach Grigor’s council, and his duties pertained to the Tower’s treasury and administration. “Forgive me, my lord harmach,” he said, “but such an action simply isn’t countenanced in Hulburg’s body of law.”

The false Marstel waved aside Wulreth’s objections. “And well I know it. I’ll issue a decree to set it all down in black and white. But to put it simply, old friend, these are extraordinary times and they demand extraordinary measures. No effort can be spared to secure Hulburg from lawlessness and anarchy!”

“I’m afraid I share Master Keltor’s concerns,” Nimessa Sokol said. “How many people of suspect allegiance do you intend to move against, my lord? As a member of the Merchant Council, I am frankly worried about the effect a widespread confiscation of property would have on our interests. House Sokol’s business in Hulburg will be sorely damaged if our customers and suppliers are impoverished or run out of town arbitrarily.”

“Speak for yourself,” Captain Miskar Bann retorted. He was the ranking member of Mulmaster’s House Veruna present in Hulburg, a big, round-faced mercenary who had a mouthful of gold teeth and wore an iron brace on one knee. The Verunas had been evicted from Hulburg after their role in Sergen Hulmaster’s attempted coup, and they’d eagerly provided mercenaries to help Marstel and the Cinderfists seize control of Hulburg during the Black Moon troubles a few months later. Of course, they’d profited greatly by scavenging property confiscated from old Hulburg and awarded to Cinderfists. No doubt Captain Bann was already salivating at the new possibilities in Marstel’s plan. “I’m a member of the Merchant Council too. Everyone knows you’ve got a soft spot for the Hulmasters, Lady Sokol. I think the harmach’s men ought to begin by searching your compound.”

Nimessa flushed. “The laws of concession prohibit any such intrusion.”

“Do you have something to hide?” Bann taunted.

“Do you?” she retorted. “If Sokol opens its gates to the Council Guard, I’ll insist that every coster in Hulburg does the same. I doubt that Geran Hulmaster is hiding in the Veruna compound, but I wonder whether you’ve got any stolen goods or slaves stashed away in your mistress’s storehouses, Miskar. Trading in slaves is still against the harmach’s law, is it not?”

Rhovann studied the half-elf thoughtfully. As Miskar Bann observed, it was certainly possible that Geran and his sorcerer friend had been aided by one of the other merchant costers. Clearly House Sokol was not without sympathies for the Hulmaster cause, but it was also possible that a neutral company such as the Double Moon Coster might have aided the Hulmasters in order to weaken the Cinderfists. Unfortunately Rhovann had to exercise care in making any such accusations against one of the great Houses, lest he drive the merchant costers into closing ranks and defending their precious laws of concession. On the other hand, he had means to quietly spy out the Sokol compound without any public accusation necessary.

Miskar Bann bristled, but Captain Edelmark cleared his throat and spoke before the merchant lord. “The Council Guard will, of course, implement the lord harmach’s instructions immediately,” he said. “Disloyalty and sedition cannot be tolerated. But I fear that we are dealing with a symptom, not the disease. The ultimate source of this incipient rebellion is the Hulmaster enclave in Thentia. As long as the Hulmasters have a safe haven in Thentia to rebuild their army and foment trouble, we are threatened. If we want to put down this rebellion not just for this month but forever, we must deprive the Hulmasters of their refuge outside our borders!”

“What do you suggest, Captain?” the false Marstel asked.

“My lord, I propose that we muster the strongest army we can gather and march on Lasparhall. We can destroy the Hulmasters’ army before it organizes, seize their supplies and arms, and raze their barracks and the old manor for good measure. The Hulmaster cause could never recover from such a blow.”

Subtlety is not Edelmark’s strong suit, Rhovann reflected. He caught Marstel’s eye and gave an imperceptible shake of the head. Marstel frowned, weighing the captain’s words, as Rhovann leaned forward to answer for him. “A bold plan, Captain,” the elf said to Edelmark, “but I can’t see a way to do what you suggest without making an enemy of High Lord Vasil and Thentia. Perhaps a show of strength would convince the high lord to stop coddling our enemies-but it might instead drive him to throw in with the Hulmasters entirely. For now Thentia is staying out of our quarrel, and that favors us far more than a Thentian intervention. Each day the Hulmasters remain in Thentia, their position grows weaker and ours grows stronger. We should be in no hurry to change that.”

Marstel nodded. “Well said, Rhovann,” he rumbled. “But, Edelmark, you are right to bring the threat of the Hulmaster army to our attention. We must be ready to strike and strike hard the moment they sally out from behind Thentia’s skirts! I want you to make all necessary preparations to meet an attack from Thentia, no matter how improbable it may seem. And see if our agents can’t spread a little gold around in Thentia’s taverns to find out what the Hulmaster’s soldiers think they’re up to, as long as we’re waiting.”

Edelmark bowed. “As you wish, my lord harmach. I will review our defenses immediately, and redouble our efforts to hire more sellswords abroad.” He smiled cruelly. “After all, we may have an unexpected windfall in the form of confiscations from those who are disloyal to the throne. I see no reason why they shouldn’t contribute to the common defense.”

Rhovann looked over to the simulacrum, and decided that it would not be wise to test it too aggressively in its debut. “My lord harmach, we should be mindful of your need for rest,” he said. “You are still recovering, after all.”

The false Marstel nodded. “Of course, of course,” he said. “I confess that I am tiring already. I trust the council to work out all the necessary details of the decisions we’ve made today.” He pushed himself to his feet, and the councilors around the table quickly stood as well, bowing as the old lord made his way to the stairs.

“The Harmach’s Council is adjourned,” Rhovann said. “Captain Edelmark, I’ll speak with you soon.” Then he hurried over to join his simulacrum and made a show of helping the harmach climb the stairs back toward the private quarters of the castle. Behind them, chairs scraped and voices murmured as the councilors and their various clerks and seconds began to leave or huddled together, discussing the harmach’s decrees.

All in all, a very satisfactory debut, the mage reflected. The simulacrum had performed flawlessly with only the most minimal preparation and prompting. The real advantage of the creature was that it could incorporate his direction into its own reason and judgment, masquerading as Marstel while working toward the goals he specified without the constant enchantments and contest of will he’d had to endure in keeping the original Marstel under control.

“You are a much more tractable Marstel,” he remarked as they came to the upper court. “Go about your business; I’ll be in my quarters if you have need of me.”

The false Marstel nodded once and set out for the library, which served as the harmach’s office. Rhovann watched it leave, and glanced up across the castle’s upper courtyard to the Harmach’s Tower. Given the unqualified success of his simulacrum, a feeble old madman locked up in his chambers there had just become nothing more than a tedious liability. As long as Maroth Marstel remained alive, there was always a slight chance that someone might somehow stumble across the inconvenient fact that there were now two Harmach Marstels.

He allowed himself a small smile; after all, he’d been looking forward to this moment for months. “And now for a little bit of tidying up,” he said to himself.