15 Ches, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Geran stood paralyzed for a moment more, searching for a way out of the room, and then keys rattled in the lock of the laboratory’s door. There was nothing for it-they’d have to deal with whoever was at the door. He nodded at Hamil, who quickly crossed the room to stand beside the door on one side, while he moved to the opposite side. When they were in position, he motioned for Hamil to wait. In his best imitation of Rhovann’s elf accent, he called angrily through the door, “Who is there?”
The key stopped at once. Geran couldn’t help but smile; apparently the idea of disturbing the harmach’s mage in his sanctum was more than a little intimidating.
“Castellan Sarvin and Guard Murrn, my lord.”
“What is it?” Geran demanded.
“You are needed, my lord-the Hulmaster army is at the gates, and the harmach requires your counsel. Something must be done!”
The Hulmaster army is at the gates? Hamil observed silently. Kara must have made the most of her opportunity when we destroyed the master stone.
Geran nodded. “Something must be done, indeed,” he said. He reached down to unlock the door with his silver hand; it seemed to answer his will deftly enough, even though he could not feel the latch under his fingertips very well. “Enter!”
There was a brief hesitation before the door pushed open. Castellan Sarvin-the big, black-bearded officer Geran had seen in the Council Hall dungeon-and his guard stepped inside with some trepidation. They halted in confusion as they took in the wreck of the laboratory, the remains of the golem, and the presence of Mirya and Sarth at the other end of the room. Then Hamil’s knife appeared at the throat of the one mercenary, while Geran set the point of Umbrach Nyth at Sarvin’s belt buckle. The two Council Guards had sense enough-or were simply surprised enough-not to make a fight of it. They froze, keeping their hands well away from their weapons.
“A good idea,” Geran told the two guards. “Rhovann is dead, and I’m here to take back my castle. Now, where might I find Maroth Marstel?”
The two guards kept still until Hamil prodded his man with his knife. “The courtyard!” the guard answered. “The harmach is abandoning Griffonwatch. The Vaasans have offered us sanctuary. He sent us to see what was keeping Lord Rhovann.”
The Vaasans? Hamil remarked. What in the world do they have to do with this?
Geran scowled. He wasn’t sure what the Vaasans were doing in Hulburg, but here was a second piece of evidence of Warlock Knight meddling in the space of the last few hours. A year earlier, the Warlock Knights had aided Warchief Mhurren’s Bloody Skull horde; he’d dueled a Vaasan sorcerer during the battle at Lendon’s Wall. And Rhovann had said that the Vaasans had put Valdarsel up to his murder. Now Vaasans were waiting to spirit away the false harmach? No good could come of that. “How long before they ride?” he demanded.
“He’s waiting in the courtyard with the Vaasans now,” Castellan Sarvin answered. “We have no more quarrel with you, Lord Hulmaster. All we want is to be quit of this place.”
“You should have thought of that before you took Marstel’s coin,” Mirya replied. “What do we do with these two, Geran?”
“Bind them and leave them here. They answered, and for that I’ll spare their lives.” He smiled grimly. “After that, I think I’d like to go down to the courtyard and have a word or two with Harmach Marstel and these Vaasans before they depart.”
Hamil and Mirya quickly secured the two guardsmen. Geran noticed that the castellan wore a fine pair of light leather gauntlets; he tried on the right-hand gauntlet over the silver hand. He felt more than a little self-conscious about wearing Rhovann’s hand at the end of his own arm, and felt like he ought to keep it out of sight. Satisfied with the fit, he nodded to his friends, and they set out into the castle.
The halls of Griffonwatch were eerily quiet as Geran, Mirya, Sarth, and Hamil hurried down toward the lower courtyard. None of the castle servants or clerks seemed to be about; Geran guessed that they’d quietly slipped out of the castle in the last few hours to join loyalists in the streets or simply lay low and wait out events. Nor were any of Marstel’s mercenaries at their posts, since the towers and battlements seemed abandoned. They did find a number of runehelms as they descended, but Rhovann’s constructs were listless and unmoving. The magical glyphs marking their flesh had almost completely faded, and thin black ichor dripped from beneath their iron visors.
“Should we destroy these things as we pass them?” Hamil asked as they made their way through a motionless band of four gray guardians gathered around the upper entrance to the great hall.
“They are unlikely to pose a threat,” Sarth observed. “I suspect that the master stone’s destruction erased whatever orders or instructions Rhovann provided them, and clearly Rhovann will provide no new instructions now. With a little time, I might be able to determine whether the runehelms are crippled, awaiting new orders, or have simply ceased to function altogether.”
“Never mind that,” Geran answered. “We have no time to waste on the runehelms now-we must stop Marstel’s escape.”
“I’ve no reason to think kindly of Maroth Marstel, but does he matter at all now?” Mirya asked. “He was only a figurehead for Rhovann’s rule. Without the wizard, he’s naught but a drunken old fool.”
“That’s almost certainly true, but I can’t let the Vaasans have him. If the Warlock Knights have someone who can claim rulership over Hulburg in their keeping, there’s no end of the trouble they might cause. They might field an army of their own against us on the pretense of restoring Marstel to the throne. At the very least, it would give them a justification to keep up their meddling for years to come.” Geran led the way as they clattered down the steps at the rear of the great hall and ran to the doors at the room’s entrance. He set his hand on the handle and was about to yank one of the great doors open when Hamil caught his arm.
“Carefully,” the halfling said in a soft voice. “Listen!”
Geran paused, and cocked his head. He could hear the hoof stamps of horses and the anxious shouts of a number of men outside. Instead of opening the door, he instead moved to one of the shuttered loopholes in the door, undid the catch, and peeked out. The front of the great hall looked out on the castle’s large, lower courtyard. A light rain was falling, and deep puddles dotted the ground. To the left and right stood towers, barracks, and stables; directly across from the great hall stood the gatehouse, where the road climbing up from the Harmach’s Foot ended. In the cobbled space, two dozen warriors-some in the red and yellow of Marstel’s Council Guard, and some in the black and crimson of Vaasa-stood by their mounts or waited in the saddle. Maroth Marstel sat on a large charger, dressed in a broad-bellied suit of plate armor; beside him a Warlock Knight in a black, horned helm frowned impatiently.
“My lord harmach, we have waited as long as we dare,” the Warlock Knight said to Marstel. “Already our path may be blocked. We must leave now, and trust that Lord Rhovann will join us when he is able.”
“I don’t care for the idea of leaving without him,” Marstel answered. He stared up in the direction of the castle’s upper towers. “Perhaps I should go speak to him myself.”
“There is no more time, Harmach Marstel. I am leaving now, with my guards. If you hope to reach safety ahead of Kara Hulmaster’s soldiers, you would be well advised to come with us.” The Vaasan brought his mount in front of Marstel’s. “Rhovann is a very competent wizard. He will have little trouble making his way out of Hulburg, I am sure. But if you allow yourself to be caught here, then you may very well negate whatever effort Rhovann is engaged in. You can aid him best by leaving now.”
Marstel grimaced beneath his white mustache. “Very well, Lord Terov. Perhaps you are right. Let us go.”
The Warlock Knight-Terov, or so Geran guessed-nodded curtly to his men. With a creaking of saddles and the clatter of hooves on the well-worn cobblestones of the courtyard, the band of riders began to stream out through the castle gate and down the causeway beyond.
“They’re leaving,” Geran growled. “Quickly, after them!” Before he could reconsider his actions, he pulled open the door and ran out into the courtyard after the retreating riders, drawing the shadow sword as he went. It felt solid in the grasp of his new hand-perhaps a little rigid and stiff, but firmly under his control. Hamil followed after him, brandishing his knives, while Sarth stepped out into the doorway. The sorcerer conjured a ball of sparking green lightning and hurled it spinning into the middle of the soldiers waiting for their turn to pass the gate; with a great thunderclap it detonated, raking Council Guards and Vaasan soldiers alike with emerald bolts. Horses screamed in terror, and warriors tumbled from their saddles as panicked animals reared and shied. Mirya’s crossbow sang, and a Council Guard grunted as a bolt punched into his thigh. Some warriors spurred out after the lead riders, some turned to face the unexpected attack from the rear, and others simply hovered in between, torn by indecision.
Geran ran toward Marstel, intending to drag the fat old lord out of the saddle or kill him if he couldn’t manage that. For a moment, in the chaos and confusion of the courtyard, he thought he’d be able to reach Marstel unimpeded. But a pair of Vaasan armsmen moved to intercept him, blocking his way. The swordmage found himself engaged by a pair of competent bladesmen who wouldn’t simply be swept out of his way; grinding his teeth in frustration, he turned aside from his headlong charge to meet Vaasan steel with Umbrach Nyth, falling into the familiar flow of parry and attack. His wrist throbbed with each jolt of steel on steel, but the sword hilt remained firm in the silver hand’s grasp, and in a moment he almost forgot that it wasn’t his own living flesh that held the shadow sword’s leather hilt. “Sarth!” he shouted. “Stop Marstel!”
The tiefling turned his scepter on the usurper. “Ummar skeyth!” he intoned. A smoking white ray lanced from the device’s end straight at Marstel-but a woman in a crimson veil who sat on a horse near the Warlock Knight drew a wand from her sleeve and spoke a countering spell. The bitter white ray met some invisible shield conjured by the Vaasan witch and deflected upward, blasting a great white patch of ice in the side of one of the towers overlooking the courtyard. Then Terov urged Marstel out of the courtyard, followed by the Vaasan woman with her wand. They galloped out of sight down the causeway, and most of the guards followed them-but not before Sarth knocked two more out of the saddle with another blast of lightning.
Geran ducked under the wild swing of one of his opponents and bobbed up again to bury six inches of his sword point low in the Vaasan’s side, unhorsing him. The other guard nearly rode him down as he dodged around the stamping hooves and flashing blades, but Hamil rolled up under his stirrup and deftly cut the saddle strap. The horse spooked away from the halfling at its belly, and the unsecured saddle slid right off the animal’s back, taking the second Vaasan with it. He landed badly on the cobblestones; before he could get up, Geran stepped over and kicked him unconscious. The last of Marstel’s escorts vanished through the castle gate, leaving six of their number dead, wounded, or stunned in the courtyard.
“Sarth, go after them!” Geran called. “Do what you can to slow them down!”
“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 Faerun 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 the 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.