Avenger

TWENTY-FIVE

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

Geran didn’t recall much of the next half hour. Despite his brave words, he was hardly steady on his feet, and he wasn’t far from simply passing out in pain. His missing hand burned as if he’d thrust it into a brazier full of hot coals and left it there; needlelike jolts of agony raced up his arm with every beat of his heart. In the guardroom Sarth unleashed a hellstorm of shrieking fireballs, scouring the chamber clear of the Council Guards clattering down the stairs to hinder his escape. Mirya ushered him through the corridors of the Council Hall and out into the driving, cold rain of an early spring thunderstorm. Icy water on his bare back and shoulders shocked him into wakefulness as they crossed to the old tailor’s shop behind the Council Hall. He caught one glimpse of orange smoke billowing out of broken windows and doors blown from their hinges before Mirya urged him down into the cellars. Brun Osting followed, then Sarth and last of all Hamil.

“Keep going!” the halfling called. “No point lingering here!”

They hurried through the buried streets, passing through several cellars and dusty old passages until Geran was no longer certain of where they were. Mirya knew where she was and guided him along. He felt his legs growing steadier under him as they went along, and when they finally halted in an old wine cellar, he was able to stand up straight and push the pain of his injury to one side of his mind, focusing his thoughts on what to do next. The rest of the band filled in behind him and Mirya; Hamil took up a post by the passage they’d just used, looking and listening back the way they’d come.

Brun brought his belongings over, and set them down. “Your things, Lord Geran,” he said.

“My thanks, Brun. I’ll remember who came to fetch me out of Marstel’s prison.” Geran clapped the big brewer on the shoulder with his left hand.

Sarth reached into a small pouch at his belt, withdrew a small vial, and unstopped it. “Drink this, Geran,” the sorcerer said. “It’s a healing potion. I took the liberty of providing myself with a couple before we left Thentia. It should help a little with the pain.”

“I appreciate your foresight,” Geran said. He took the vial and drank down the contents. The elixir felt like warm mead in his mouth, sweet but heady. It left a glow in his stomach, and a flood of fresh strength filled his limbs. A deep, vital warmth seemed to gather at his right wrist, almost too hot to endure, and he grimaced as the potion did its work. When the magic faded, he felt much better-still a trifle weak in his stride, perhaps, but he was no longer hunched over his wounded arm. He was tempted to peek under the bandages that swathed the stump, but decided not to; the dressing was secure, and he didn’t want to redo it.

Sarth smiled as he saw Geran’s posture straighten and some of the pain fade from his face. “I wish there was more I could do,” he said.

“Good,” said Mirya. “Now get yourself dressed, and we’ll see you out of Hulburg. We’ve a few ways to slip out of town without being seen.”

He shook his head, trying to ignore the trembling in his limbs. “I’m not leaving. We still have a job to do in the Shadowfell, and Kara is counting on us to see it through.” In fact, based on what he’d seen through the runehelm’s eyes, Kara and the Shieldsworn were in dire danger.

“But you’re in no condition for a fight!” Mirya protested. “What more do you expect of yourself?”

“There is no dishonor in withdrawing, Geran,” Sarth told him. “We will see to what must be done.”

“Trust me, I have little stomach for fighting right now, but Rhovann showed me Marstel’s army and his runehelms surrounding the Shieldsworn. Destroying Rhovann’s hold over his runehelms might be the only thing that can save them. I mean to cross into the shadow and finish what I started-the sooner, the better.”

His companions were silent for a moment. Finally Hamil nodded. “All right. We’ll see you to where you need to go, and help you do what Aesperus told you to do. But you’re to leave the fighting to Sarth and me.”

He met Mirya’s eyes. After a long time, she nodded too. “Very well. Sometimes wisdom comes disguised as foolishness, and this might be one of those times.”

Geran looked at the bundle of clothes, and frowned. “I’m afraid I’ll need some help getting dressed,” he said.

“Of course,” Mirya said. While Hamil and Sarth waited, she helped him with his shirt and buttons, held the right side of his breeches as he pulled them over his smallclothes, pulled on his boots for him, and then helped him shrug on his jacket. They shared an awkward grimace when he fumbled at his belt before she leaned close to cinch it for him. The difficult part was his scabbard and baldric, which were rigged to ride on his left hip for a right-handed draw. Mirya solved the puzzle by putting the baldric on him backwards, then unhooking the scabbard and turning it around. The sword hilt was a little farther back around his hip than Geran would have liked, which would slow his draw. But then again, he hardly felt like he was up to a duel at the moment.

“I’m ready,” he announced. “It’s now or never.”

Hamil looked at him dubiously. “Can you fight left-handed?”

“A little. Daried used to make me train with my left hand from time to time. Many bladesingers are ambidextrous, or very nearly so, and he thought it was important that I learn as much of the technique as I could. But I’m hoping that you and Sarth can handle any trouble we meet up with.”

“I’d better come with you,” Mirya said.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea-” Geran began.

“Nor am I, but I’m coming nonetheless,” Mirya interrupted. “You said yourself a few moments ago that you had no certain idea of what to expect. Well, I might very well be able to help, especially if Sarth and Hamil find themselves too busy to aid you with whatever you might have to do. And don’t you dare tell me it’s too dangerous, when you’re set on trying it injured as you are.”

I think she has you there, Hamil remarked to Geran.

The swordmage stood his ground, then sighed. “All right. The shadowcrossing will work as well for four as it would for three. Besides, I doubt that there’s any place in Hulburg that’s truly safe tonight, so I might as well have you where I can keep an eye on you. But you must promise to do whatever I ask you to, without hesitation. The Shadowfell is no place to be trifled with. Brun, you’d better do what you can to gather whatever loyalist bands you can find and avoid any serious fighting until it’s the right time to strike.”

The brewer frowned. “How will I know the moment?”

“Watch the runehelms, I guess,” Geran replied. “Now be on your way, or you may be pulled into the shadow with the rest of us when we make the crossing.” Brun gave a sharp nod and backed away. Ducking under a low archway, he hurried off into the tunnels.

“Do you want the scrolls?” Hamil asked.

The swordmage shook his head. “If Sarth is willing, I’d rather save the scrolls in case something goes amiss.” After all, if they used up the scrolls and Sarth were incapacitated or killed, they’d be unable to return to the Shadowfell if some other work of Rhovann’s demanded their attention.

“I am willing,” Sarth said. He indicated the old cellar around them with a motion of his horned head. “Shall I perform the crossing here? We will translate into a shadow analogue of this cellar. You may prefer to be in the streets above when we make the crossing.”

“Here is fine,” Geran decided. “We might as well stay out of sight as long as we can.”

“Then gather close to me, take one another’s hands, and be still. The crossing itself is not perilous, but we have no way of knowing what awaits us on the other side.” Sarth waited until Geran, Hamil, and Mirya were arranged as he liked, then drew a large vial from beneath his robes and poured black, acrid-smelling ink in a rough circle around them. Replacing the vial’s stopper, he took his rune-carved scepter and murmured words of command, pointing its tapered end at the splatter of ink on the floor. Under the influence of his magic, the ink flowed and shaped itself into glyphs of power. Geran didn’t recognize them, but that didn’t surprise him; he’d seen that Sarth’s learning was not the learning of Myth Drannor. As each glyph took its final form, the dark ink shimmered with a violet glow. Sarth chanted softly as he worked, shaping the circle. As the diagram approached completion, the tiefling stepped carefully inside its bounds to stand close beside his companions, and gave Geran and the others a warning glance without breaking the words of his spell.

Mirya stiffened next to Geran, and clutched at his arm. In the cellar around them the light was changing, growing dimmer in some strange way that did not change their ability to see. The flickering shadows dancing on the walls and ceiling from Sarth’s glowing runes began to take on an unsettling, viscous appearance, sliding and flowing over the brick and timbers like liquid oil. Sarth’s chant approached its end, and the tiefling completed the last glyph of the circle surrounding them. The whole design pulsed once; Geran felt a strange lurch or pull on his stomach from a direction he couldn’t define, and the circle went dark.

The cellar seemed almost the same … but Geran could see at once that the doorways were subtly crooked, the rubble and debris heaped a little higher, the air colder and more still. Mirya shivered against him, and he put his left arm around her shoulder, drawing her close. “What is this place?” she murmured.

“The shadow world,” said Geran. “Sometimes called the Shadowfell, or the Plane of Shadow. It’s an imperfect echo of our own world, existing alongside us but rarely touching our world. In some ways we’re exactly where we were when Sarth began his spell. But if you were in the cellar we’ve just left, you would have seen us disappear into thin air.”

“I see that you are familiar with the Shadowfell,” Sarth observed.

“During my days as a Coronal Guard, I was part of a small company sent into the Shadowfell to retrieve an elven artifact stolen by the shadar-kai,” Geran answered. “I never mastered the crossing ritual, but I learned what I needed to know about this realm and its perils.”

“Perils?” Hamil asked.

“The powers of darkness are very strong here,” Sarth said. “This is where the restless shades of the dead wander when they refuse to pass on to their final judgment. And there are old, hateful entities that lurk in the deepest shadows. They are best avoided.”

“I can imagine,” the halfling muttered. “Well, let’s get on with this, then. Where is Rhovann’s citadel?”

Geran studied their surroundings, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom that seemed to press in around them. “My guess is the shadow copy of Griffonwatch. It’s the strongest, most secure place in Hulburg, so it stands to reason it would be here as well. Mirya, where’s the closest access to the streets from here?”

Mirya shook herself and pointed to the corridor leading north. “There’s a door not fifteen yards down that hall that lets you into the cellar of the old Black Eagle guildhall.”

“Good.” Geran allowed Hamil to lead the way, and followed after Sarth. The door proved to be a little farther than Mirya remembered, but then again, that might have been the disconcerting proportions of the Shadowfell; distances were not as constant here as they were in the daylit world. When they finally found it, the door was stuck fast. It took Geran and Sarth pushing together to force it open. Inside, a rickety staircase led up to the ground level in the middle of a burned-out shell of a building. Through a gap in the floor over their heads they could look up and see a starless night sky above. Despite the lack of streetlamps, moon, or stars, there was a faint gray luminescence that gave them just enough light-or a lessening of shadow, anyway-to see by. Silently they climbed up and made their way out into the street. They weren’t far from the Winterspear, at the north end of Fish Street.

“Look at the castle,” Hamil said softly.

Geran found that the dim gray gloom didn’t hide things with sheer distance the way a normal night might have. Over the ramshackle rooftops and ruined walls of shadow-Hulburg Griffonwatch’s black crag towered, noticeably narrower and steeper than it would have appeared in the normal world. He followed its battlements up to the Harmach’s Tower at the top, which leaned precariously over the cliff’s edge. Pale swirls of lambent light played about the castle’s upperworks like a purple aurora.

“Rhovann’s defensive wards,” Sarth observed. “Interesting. The spells with which he guards the castle are visible in this plane.”

“Come on,” said Geran. “Kara’s waiting for us, and we’ve already lost hours.” He led the way as they turned left and headed north-if such directions had any meaning in the Shadowfell-through the ruined districts on the west bank of the Winterspear. These neighborhoods had been razed long before in the daylit world, and he was somewhat relieved to see that they were much the same here. Wiry tufts of pale grass and thorny brambles grew out of great mounds of rubble, intersected here and there by the crooked silhouette of a surviving wall. Sarth conjured a small, ruddy orb of light that bobbed along a little above him. It did little to brighten the gloom that surrounded them, but Geran decided that it raised his spirits a little, and it wasn’t so bright that it would be seen from any great distance. Once or twice as they hurried along the rubble-strewn street he thought he heard ominous scuttlings or whispers from the mounds of debris around them, and he noticed that Hamil kept a wary eye on the shadows nearby. Geran chose not to say anything to Mirya; he didn’t want to needlessly alarm her if it turned out to be nothing, since she was unsettled enough already.

They came to the small court where Keldon Way met the foot of the Burned Bridge. The bridge wasn’t there. The old stone piers were still where they belonged, but the newer wooden trestle that had been built atop them was missing. “What in the world?” Mirya murmured. “Now how do we cross?”

“It’s the nature of the Shadowfell,” Sarth answered. “Sometimes things that have come to ruin in our world remain intact here, and other times things that are still whole in our world have been destroyed here. It can be capricious.”

“Well, capricious or not, it’s damned inconvenient,” Hamil said. “We’re still on the wrong side of the Winterspear.” He looked at the river, swift and dark in the ever-present gloom. “I hate the thought of swimming it. I don’t suppose we can fly or teleport across?”

“It’s too far for my teleport spell,” said Geran. “Sarth, can you carry us one at a time?”

“If I managed you once, I can certainly manage Hamil and Mirya.” The sorcerer gauged the distance, and sighed. “Let me begin with you, Geran.” He murmured the words to his flying spell; Geran felt the shadows drawing in around them as the magic took its shape, but nothing more happened. Sarth stepped close behind him, locking his arms beneath his, and sprang up into the air. The cold waters raced swiftly beneath Geran’s feet, and the broken stone piers of the old bridge reeled by on their left. Then the two of them landed heavily in the ruins by the riverbank, not far from where the Troll and Tankard stood in the Hulburg Geran knew. Sarth panted for breath.

“Well done,” Geran told him. “Bring Mirya next-we don’t want to leave her alone in a place like this.”

The sorcerer nodded, and rose up into the dark sky again. Geran turned to study his surroundings, keenly aware of his solitude. He’d never been one to take fright easily, but the shadow world was no place for a living human to linger, and he was keenly aware of his vulnerability if something should happen. He could see more of the ancient city wall than he would have expected; it seemed that the Shadowfell remembered Hulburg as the ruined city it had been a hundred years previous, not the thriving town it was today.

A small scrabbling sound echoed through the darkness not far off, a sound like someone or something slipping across the weed-choked rubble. “What is that?” he murmured softly. He set his left hand on Umbrach Nyth and drew the sword from its sheath, aiming the point in the direction of the unseen thing moving about in the shadows. Nothing more happened, so he took a moment to perform a couple of simple attack and defense patterns with the dark blade. It was ready and responsive in his hand, despite the awkwardness of using the wrong arm. Without any false modesty, Geran knew he was an excellent swordsman under normal conditions; he’d only met a handful he knew to be better in his years of adventuring and travel. Fighting left-handed, he still had his learning, his knowledge, his footwork, and his swordmagic, but his strength and quickness suffered. He could probably handle a strong but inexperienced opponent, or perhaps a swordsman of average skill and no great natural talent, but he wouldn’t care to hazard his life on the outcome.

“I’ll get better in time,” he told himself. Unfortunately, he didn’t see that he had any great need to fight six months or a year from now, but he might very well have to fight in the next few hours-possibly several times. Rhovann couldn’t have picked a worse time to cripple him.

The flutter of a cloak in the air caught his ear as Sarth returned, carrying Mirya with an arm around her waist and one of her arms over his shoulder. The tiefling alighted, and Mirya eagerly disentangled herself. “I thank you for sparing me the swim, Sarth, but I think I’d rather leave flying to the birds,” she explained. “It’s no natural thing for a person to do.”

Sarth smiled. “I’ve come to like it,” he said. Then he shot off into the gloom again.

Mirya glanced at Geran, and frowned as she noticed the sword in his hand. “What is it?” she asked in a low voice.

“I thought I heard something moving about. It’s probably nothing. A rat, perhaps.”

“Are there such things as rats here?” She set the stirrup of her crossbow on the ground and drew back the string as she studied the shadows around them.

He started to shrug-and at that moment the creatures attacked. Several gaunt, gray houndlike monsters bounded from the shadows of the ruined walls and rubble mounds, charging the two humans. Their flesh seemed tattered and dessicated, and bare bone showed beneath; their eyes were sunken, black pits in which fierce pinpoints of crimson burned.

Geran moved to intercept them without a moment’s thought. “Cuillen mhariel!” he snapped, automatically invoking the silversteel veil to protect himself in the coming fray. Silver streamers of mist took shape and began to flow around him-and Mirya as well, since she was close beside him. Then he leaped forward, thrusting his point straight at the breast of the first of the gravehounds as he spoke another sword spell: “Reith arroch!” A brilliant white radiance flicked along the ebon blade as it found the gravehound’s chest in midleap. He shouldered the dying monster aside as it slammed into him, evading a snap of its jaws only by jumping back out of the way.

“What are these things?” Mirya cried out. Her crossbow sang behind him, knocking another of the creatures to the ground. It snapped at the bolt in its flank before scrambling to its feet again.

Geran fixed his eyes on the next creature rushing them. “Naerren,” he breathed, invoking a spell of hindrance that took the form of red-gold lashes streaking around the monster, steering it away from Mirya. Then he ran over to meet the one Mirya had shot as it started after again. Mirya yelped in panic and backed away as it snarled and snapped at her. Geran slashed at it with his sword and managed only a glancing blow from its bony shoulders. The things stank when he came too close; the air was filled with a foul rotting stench, and his stomach-none too steady for a while now-threatened to revolt entirely. He managed to drive it back with a flurry of wild cuts before turning back to the other he’d enmeshed with his hindering spell. The gravehound rushed at him and leaped for him. This time Geran’s thrust missed its mark, sinking into the creature’s thick shoulder instead of skewering its heart. The impact took him off his feet, and out of pure reflex he threw his arm behind him to break his fall. Instead, he jammed his stump against the ground and screamed as white-hot agony nearly overwhelmed him. Only the swirling silversteel warding saved his life, resisting the monster’s vicious fangs as it struggled to find his throat.

“Kythosa zurn!” From somewhere behind Geran’s head, Sarth’s powerful voice thundered in the ruins, and a barrage of golden force orbs hammered into the gravehound pinning him to the ground. The orbs blasted fist-sized wounds in the monster’s side, hurling it away from him. Geran rolled to his side and scrambled to his feet. Sarth and Hamil battled furiously against the rest of the pack, Hamil keeping close to Mirya to fend off the creatures darting and snapping at her, Sarth scouring the monsters with one spell after another. In another moment the gravehound pack broke and retreated-not before Mirya loosed another bolt at the fleeing creatures, bringing down one with a quarrel in its spine.

“Geran, Mirya, are you hurt?” Sarth asked urgently, descending to the ground.

“The one tore the hem of my skirt, but I’m all right,” Mirya replied.

Geran sheathed his sword and brushed himself off. “Not much more than my pride,” he answered. “It would have been much worse if you hadn’t returned when you did.” In fact, he was fairly sure that the gravehounds would have killed both him and Mirya. They wouldn’t have found me such easy prey if I’d been at my best, he thought angrily. He scowled in the shadows.

“Were those creatures of Rhovann’s?” Mirya asked.

“I doubt it. I’ve never known him to employ undead servants-he prefers to work with inanimate subjects.” Geran forced himself to set aside his frustration; there was no point in dwelling on the fact that he’d been caught and maimed. Will this poison me the way it poisoned Rhovann? he wondered. There would be all the time in the world for wishing otherwise later, but now he had things to do. “No, I would guess that the skeletal hounds are simply denizens of this place. We should keep moving before any more are drawn to us. The castle’s not far off.”

“I don’t care for the idea of marching up the causeway to the front gate,” Hamil remarked.

“Nor do I,” Geran answered-especially since he doubted that he’d be able to help much if it came to fighting their way in. He studied the towering shadow of Griffonwatch’s crag, crowned by its flickering curtains of violet light. The spires and battlements of the Hulmasters’ castle had a jagged, menacing look to them, stabbing up at the starless sky like a thicket of spears. The lower floors were lost in the gloom, but he could see flickers of light in the uppermost portions of the old castle. It struck him as likely that Rhovann would appropriate the safest and most comfortable part of the old fortress for his own use, and that meant the Harmach’s Tower or some part of the castle close by it. “But how to get in without being seen?” he mused aloud.

Mirya glanced at Sarth. “Can you fly us up to the top?” she asked him.

“Possibly, although I doubt I could bear Geran so high aloft. But I do not advise it.” Sarth pointed at the flickering aurora around the keep. “We would have to pass through the wardings there. If they were to incapacitate me or suppress my flying magic …”

Mirya shuddered at the thought. “Never you mind, then. We’re not meant to take wing anyway.”

“We’ll make for the postern gate,” Geran decided. “It’s easily overlooked, and Rhovann may not have paid it much attention. If we’re careful, any guards that Rhovann’s posted won’t notice us until we’re well inside the castle.”

Tugging at his baldric to seat his sword more comfortably, he led the way from the clearing by the Burned Bridge into the shadow of Rhovann’s castle.