Avenger

ONE

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

The lights of Thentia glimmered below Geran at dusk as he descended from the lonely moors to the settled lands ringing the old port. He rode past snow-covered fields, steep pastures bordered by crumbling stone walls, black orchards stretching barren branches to the darkening sky. Thentia’s valley was wider and more gentle than Hulburg’s, and its belt of farmland stretched for many miles from the city walls. He came to a cart track that ran northward, away from the city, and guided his weary mount into the muddy lane.

The cottages and barns of Thentia were not much different than those of Hulburg to Geran. The two cities enjoyed something of a mercantile rivalry, since they produced similar goods and had more or less the same wants, but their people came from the same stock, the sturdy Moonsea settlers who’d tamed this cold and bitter land in the days of old Thentur. Many Hulburgans had kin in Thentia; as a young man, Geran had always thought of Thentia as “the big city,” looking for any excuse to visit. He knew the place almost as well as he knew Hulburg or Myth Drannor.

After another mile, he crested a small rise and started down toward an old manor house that lay within a deep hollow hard under the mistblown slopes ringing the city. Home, such as it is these days, he told himself. He tapped his heels to the tired gelding’s flanks and picked up the pace, anxious to be in from the cold.

The manor known as Lasparhall was not quite a palace and not quite a castle. It was a large house with thick stone walls, sturdy barred doors, and rooftop battlements, standing in a lonely vale just under the eaves of the Highfells, a little more than four miles from Thentia’s walls. In warmer seasons sheep grazed on the windy green hillsides that mounted up behind the old estate, but in the dark months of winter the manor’s flocks were kept in fenced pastures and low stone barns just behind the great house. The old estate had come into Geran’s family as a dowry when his grandfather Lendon Hulmaster married Artissa, cousin to Thentia’s ruling prince. In the decades since Geran’s grandparents had passed away, the Hulmasters had left the place to its caretakers for the most part, visiting every summer or two as the mood took them. As a child, Geran had spent many hours exploring the wide green pastures and wild moorland that waited just beyond a thin ring of apple orchards, or playing chase with the servants’ children up and down the long hallways, thick with sunmotes and the redolent scent of the golden brown lasparwood beams that gave the old house its name. It was far from a wealthy estate-the meager rents paid by shepherds and orchard keepers hardly paid for the house’s upkeep-but it was otherwise a comfortable home in exile for the Hulmaster family and those retainers loyal enough to follow them to Thentia.

How long before a home in exile simply becomes a home? Geran wondered tiredly. Three months earlier, the usurper Maroth Marstel and Geran’s old rival Rhovann drove Harmach Grigor and the rest of the Hulmasters from the castle of Griffonwatch. Fall had faded into winter, and still they seemed no closer to reclaiming their home. The swordmage sighed as he studied the old house-a fine enough place in its own way, but a far cry from the great halls and lofty towers of Griffonwatch. Every day that Marstel remained in power, the borders of Lasparhall grew more familiar, more acceptable … and more cagelike to Geran.

He trotted into the courtyard before the manor house, dismounted, and led his horse to the stable nearby. After passing the animal to the care of a stablekeeper, he hoisted the saddlebags over his shoulder and walked to the manor’s door. A pair of Shieldsworn guards in the blue and white surcoats of the harmach stood watch just inside, displaying to visitors that the Hulmasters in exile still commanded a small company of loyal armsmen-and were important enough to have enemies to be wary of.

“Welcome home, Lord Geran,” said the Shieldsworn sergeant by the door.

“Home, Noram?” Geran snorted and shook his head. “Hardly home. But I’m glad enough to return, nonetheless.”

Sergeant Noram flushed in embarrassment. He was a young soldier, new to his rank, having been promoted after the heavy losses in the fighting against the Bloody Skull horde nine months past. “Your pardon, my lord. I meant no offense,” he stammered.

Geran winced. He hadn’t meant to snap at the fellow. He paused in the doorway, and said, “It was nothing you said, Sergeant. Forgive me; it’s been a long day.”

Noram smiled nervously, and relaxed a little. “We’ll see to your saddlebags, Lord Geran,” he said. “I think the harmach and the rest of the family are at their supper, if you’ve a mind to join them.”

“My thanks,” Geran said. He allowed the sergeant to take the heavy pouches from his shoulder, and shrugged off his damp cloak. He was hardly dressed for dinner at the harmach’s table, but he was more than ready for a hot meal, and he figured that his uncle would forgive his informality. Working the stiffness from his neck, he crossed the manor’s front hall to the doorway under the great stairs and headed toward the kitchens. Lasparhall had a fine old banquet hall that was more impressive, but it was too big and drafty for anything less than twenty or thirty at a seating; the harmach preferred the smaller dining room that stood in the back of the house. He passed a few of the serving staff, folk from Griffonwatch who’d followed the Hulmasters into exile, exchanging greetings as he went. Then he came to the dining-room door and let himself inside.

Harmach Grigor, his uncle, sat at the head of the table, a roasted quarter-chicken untouched on the platter before him. To his right sat Grigor’s sister, Geran’s aunt Terena, and next to her Geran’s cousin Kara, who wore a simple dress of green wool instead of the armor she often wore during the day as the captain of the Hulmaster’s Shieldsworn. On the other side of the table were Erna and young Natali and Kirr, the widow and children of Grigor’s son Isolmar, dead almost five years now. Before Geran could even open his mouth to greet his family, Natali and Kirr scrambled out of their chairs and bolted around the table to launch themselves at his waist.

“Geran’s back! Look, Geran’s back!” the youngest Hulmasters shouted. “What happened, Geran? Is Marstel still calling himself the harmach? Did anyone recognize you? Did you see Mirya and Selsha? Can we go back to Griffonwatch now?”

“One at a time, one at a time! And who said anything about Hulburg?” Geran protested. He’d done his best to keep his travels secret, not wanting the children to worry about him while he was gone, but it seemed that the young Hulmasters had discovered his whereabouts anyway. He leaned down to hug his young cousins. Over their young lives Natali and Kirr had heard many stories about the Hulmaster who was off to see the world, and even after months of living under the same roof as Geran they still regarded him with appreciable wonder. Natali was the older of the pair, a clever, dark-haired girl of ten years with dark, thoughtful eyes. Kirr had his mother Erna’s reddish gold hair and a rambunctious, inexhaustible energy to him that seemed enough to vex and bother half the adults in the manor, Hulmaster, Shieldsworn, and servant alike. The one good thing about the family’s fortunes in the last few months, he reflected, was that he’d finally come to know Isolmar’s children.

“Geran, my boy, good to see you again,” Harmach Grigor said. He motioned to the far end of the table. “Please, sit down, have something to eat. I’ll wager you’ve had a long ride today.”

“Twenty-five miles by my guess. I just came in.” Geran gave his uncle a tired smile, but he found himself surprised by how gaunt and pale the old man looked. In the tenday that Geran had been off to Hulburg and back he’d somehow forgotten just how fatigued his uncle was. The defeat at Marstel’s hands and the subsequent flight into exile had taken a heavy toll on the harmach; Grigor was better than seventy-five years of age, and he hadn’t enjoyed very good health to begin with. The swordmage shook himself free of his young cousins and ventured over to clasp his uncle’s arm in greeting. The harmach’s grip was shockingly weak.

“Well?” said Geran’s Aunt Terena. She was Grigor’s younger sister and Kara’s mother, a woman who wore the wisdom of her years well. She had a kindly, gentle manner, but there was unmistakable firmness in her voice. Much of Kara’s stubbornness came from her mother. “Since the secret of your journey’s out, what news of Hulburg?”

“Things are much as they’ve been. Marstel is still holding court in Griffonwatch, I’m sorry to say, and his Council Guard holds the town in force.” He moved around the table to kiss his Aunt Terena on her cheek, set a hand on Kara’s shoulder, and then sat at the next place down. The kitchen servers quickly set a plate of roasted chicken and a goblet of warm mulled wine in front of him before retreating from the room again. Between mouthfuls of chicken, he recounted a carefully edited version of his journey to Hulburg and travels around the countryside, leaving out most of the names. Since his treacherous cousin Sergen’s passing, there were no more Hulmasters he didn’t trust, but the children were young and might say something where they shouldn’t. If word got back to Rhovann that he’d been helped by the Sokols or had spoken with Mirya or the Tresterfins or any other old loyalists, lives might be in danger. But he made sure to exaggerate every conceivable hardship and moment of peril he faced for the sake of Natali and Kirr, so that the whole drab and wearying tenday became a hair-raising dance with death in the retelling.

By the time he’d finished, the eyes of both young Hulmasters were wide with astonishment. Erna frowned sternly at Geran, well aware that the truth had been stretched more than once. “They’ll be up half the night with that tale in their heads,” she said. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Geran!”

“Every word of it true,” he answered. “Besides, Hamil isn’t here to spin them their bedtime story. I did what I could in his place.” Hamil Alderheart, Geran’s old adventuring companion, was greatly beloved by the young Hulmasters. He’d sailed back to Tantras a month before to see to the business of the Red Sail Coster, his trading company.

“Every word true, indeed,” Erna muttered. “Come, Natali, Kirr. It’s to your lessons and then bed for the both of you, and I’ll not hear a word of protest about it!” She gathered her children and shooed them out of the room. Terena excused herself and followed to give Erna a hand with the young Hulmasters, leaving just Kara and Harmach Grigor with Geran.

Kara looked at Geran, and raised an eyebrow. “I’m accounted one of the best trackers in the Moonsea North, and I have to say, I’ve never met any frost giant robbers or pixie bandits haunting the roads between here and Hulburg.” Laughter danced in her brilliant blue eyes, touched years before by the azure fire of the Spellplague. “Natali saw through every word of that, you know.”

“I know it,” answered Geran. “I simply didn’t want to say too much about my true business in Hulburg. Careless words may prove dangerous.”

They fell silent for a time, listening to the receding sounds of the children retreating to their rooms. Harmach Grigor smiled sadly, and then returned his attention to his nephew and niece. “Speaking of dangerous, you were rash to return to Hulburg, Geran,” he said. “We have other sources of information. It’s not worth your life.”

Geran shook his head. “I disagree. There’s a difference between reading about what’s happening in the town and seeing it with your own eyes. Besides, to have any hope of organizing resistance to Marstel’s rule, we must have the trust and respect of old Hulburg. We will be asking people to run deadly risks on our behalf. They need to see that we haven’t abandoned them.”

“Geran is right, Uncle,” Kara said firmly. “Even the most loyal hearts will lose hope if they come to believe we don’t intend to return.” With the brilliant azure of her eyes and her well-known spellscar, she could not disguise herself as easily as Geran. He knew it was hard for her to leave the dangerous spying to him, but as risky as it was for him to venture into Hulburg now, it would have been twice as risky for her. She looked over to Geran and asked, “So how do matters stand in Hulburg now?”

“It’s hard on the folk who supported us,” he admitted. “Marstel-well, Rhovann I suppose, I can’t imagine this was Marstel’s scheme-is taxing the old landowners and shopkeepers into penury. Then he’s awarding their confiscated property to the outlander gangs to buy their support. Yarthin, Errolsk, Baudemar, they’re all out of business.”

“And the Cinderfists are staying bought?”

Geran nodded. “For now. Their priest Valdarsel now sits on the Harmach’s Council as the so-called high prelate of Hulburg. Things might be different in a few months when Marstel’s tax collectors run out of folk to rob and have no more gold or land to give to the Cinderfists, but that day isn’t here yet.”

“Who did you see?” Grigor asked.

“Mirya, of course. After her, Sarth, Burkel Tresterfin, Theron Nimstar, the Ostings, a couple of others. Nimessa Sokol likely knows I slipped into Hulburg in a Sokol caravan, but I didn’t speak with her or any of her folk.”

“How many of the Spearmeet are ready to fight for our cause?” asked Kara.

“If Tresterfin, Nimstar, and the Ostings are right, a couple of companies still. I’d guess ten score, altogether. More would join once the fighting began in earnest, I think. Few are willing to be the first to rise in opposition, but once some do, more would follow.”

“No,” said Harmach Grigor. “Not yet. Encouraging our loyalists would only bring down reprisals that we cannot shield our people against. If we cannot protect them, then we must make sure that they don’t suffer on our behalf.”

“Every day we wait, our loyalists grow weaker, and Rhovann adds to his own strength,” Kara replied. “Wait too long, and we’ll miss our chance altogether.”

“I understand that, Kara. But this is not yet the time. Better to do nothing at all and let Marstel have his way with the town for now than to cause our folk any more suffering.” Grigor pushed himself upright with a grunt and motioned to the door. “It’s getting late. I believe I’ll retire for the evening.”

Geran frowned, unwilling to let the matter rest. Despite the hard day’s travel in the cold weather, he was not yet ready for bed. Still, he was certainly in need of a change of clothing, and a warm bath wouldn’t be amiss. The three Hulmasters said their good nights to each other, and parted ways-Kara to make her rounds of the manor and its grounds, seeing to the Shieldsworn guards, and Geran and Grigor to the wing of the manor where their rooms were. They climbed the stairs to the second floor, Grigor moving slowly and carefully as Geran tried to hover nearby as unobtrusively as possible.

At the top of the stairs Grigor paused to catch his breath. “The winters are growing harder every year,” he said, leaning heavily on his cane. “The cold never leaves me, it seems. Ah, well, that’s the price of seeing so many of them. It’s good to have you back safe and sound, Geran. We worry about you when you’re away.”

“I try to be careful.” Geran hesitated, weighing the question of whether to push again on the issue of more direct action against Marstel. He decided to try one more time. “About Marstel … I believe there’s more we can do than you might think, Uncle. In a tenday Kara and I could muster a hundred riders to harry Marstel’s frontier posts and borders. It might not be much, but it would show friends and foes alike that we’re not beaten yet. Even just a show of resistance might be enough-”

“Not yet!” the harmach said sharply. He fixed his pale, watery eyes on the younger Hulmaster. “I have spoken on this matter, Geran. There is no point in spilling more blood if we don’t yet have the strength to win.”

Geran fell silent, meeting his uncle’s gaze for a long moment before he reluctantly nodded. “I hear you, Uncle. There’s to be no fighting for now.”

“Good,” Grigor said. He smiled again, and turned toward his chambers. “Good night, Geran. We’ll speak again tomorrow.”

“Good night, Uncle Grigor,” Geran replied. He watched his uncle limp away on his cane, then headed for his own rooms.