Avenger

FIVE

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

Six days after Grigor Hulmaster’s burial, Geran set foot in Hulburg again. He trudged alongside the mud-spattered wagons of a Double Moon caravan, playing the part of a Vastar sellsword. He’d signed on to escort the caravan from Thentia’s crowded merchant yards to Hulburg for a half-dozen gold coins. While the winter ice held in Hulburg’s harbor, the only commerce with the city consisted of a bare handful of overland wagon trains making their way along the windswept coastal road. It was a hard and uncomfortable trek in the depths of winter, but there was money to be made, and so the great trading companies sent their goods creaking along the trails as weather and opportunity permitted.

Geran’s hair was bleached to a dark blond, and he wore a fringe of yellow-dyed beard on his face. A heavy coat of burgundy-colored leather sewn with steel studs hung down to his knees, and he wore a shapeless, baglike hat of the same color. He’d cultivated a relentless pipe habit, marching along from dawn to dusk with a pipestem clamped between his teeth and as often as not a wisp of aromatic smoke ringing his head. It had taken every bit of stubbornness he possessed to keep Kara from sending disguised Shieldsworn along with him. She’d argued that it was beyond foolish for him to venture into Hulburg alone, risking capture-and most likely a swift, unpleasant death-at the hands of Hulburg’s enemies. He’d finally won his way by persuading Kara that a small number of Shieldsworn wouldn’t substantially add to his safety, while a large number following him about would simply make it much more likely that his ruse would be noticed. Even then he’d had to threaten to renounce the lordship altogether if that was what it would take for her to agree that he could set out for Hulburg on his own.

At the Double Moon tradeyard, Geran stood in line with the other caravan guards to be paid off, complained a little about how little coin he’d actually earned, and asked whether he might be needed for a return trip any time soon, all the things a poor sellsword might be expected to do. Then he left the Double Moon yard and lost himself in the bustle of wagons and passersby moving through Hulburg’s streets. After a few minor errands-purchasing more pipeweed, a new cloak, new stockings, and the like-to make sure that no one was following him or paying too much attention, he decided that it was safe to head to Erstenwold’s.

He saw the first of the gray, helmed warriors at the foot of the Lower Bridge, where Bay Street crossed the mouth of the Winterspear. The creatures were tall, a good half a head taller than his own six feet and two inches, and they stood motionless without paying any attention to the bitter cold or the folk passing by. Their faces were hidden behind their blank metal visors, and he could glimpse strange runic markings on the claylike flesh that showed beneath their black breastplates and helms.

“What in the world are these?” he muttered to himself as he drew near. For a moment he considered reversing his course and retreating, but realized that might appear suspicious when other folk simply carried on right past the things. The people going by on the bridge eyed the things nervously and gave them a wide berth; Geran followed their example. If the gray warriors were aware of the stares and dark mutters they provoked from the people who passed by, they gave no sign of it. Some sort of conjured guardians? Constructs built to serve as warriors, supplementing the numbers of the Council Guard? He remembered hearing rumors about creatures such as these in Griffonwatch. Had Rhovann created or conjured more of the gray warriors in the last few tendays, enough to station them around the city? If so, what was their purpose? Protecting the city and castle from attack? Or were they simply intended to intimidate the greatest number of common folk possible?

At the far end of the bridge, he spied a driver waiting with his wagon by a cobbler’s shop. On the spur of the moment he wandered over to the fellow, an old dwarf in a heavy hood of fur. Leaning close to the wagon seat, he said, “I’m new in town. Who are the gray warriors in the helms? What do they do? Should I mind myself around them?”

The dwarf scowled. “They’re servants o’ the harmach’s wizard. For th’ most part, they do naught but stand an’ watch. But ye mind yer step ’round them nonetheless. I’ve heard it said they take note o’ every soul that walks past and remember him or her. And if that’s a person that the harmach’s wizard suspects of something, they lay hold of him and drag the poor bastard on up to Griffonwatch, where the wizard steals their souls. It’s no’ right, but that’s the way of it.” He shook his head, muttering darkly. Geran took that as his opportunity to continue on his way, wondering how much of the old dwarf’s story was idle rumor and how much was based in truth.

He came to Plank Street, and noticed another pair of the helmed constructs watching the crowds at the intersection of Cart Street-as busy as any corner in Hulburg. It would be a good place to set unsleeping eyes to watch over the people who came and went in town. There’s probably nothing but empty speculation to the rumors, he told himself. Most folk knew little of magic or creatures made with magic, after all, and therefore assumed all sorts of things might be possible that weren’t all that likely. But the old dwarf’s story had planted a dark little seed of doubt in his mind. He paused, feigning interest in a tavern’s bill of fare as he surreptitiously watched the gray-skinned creatures towering over most of the crowd. If the creatures really were made to remember all that they had seen, then Rhovann might know enchantments that called upon those memories to quickly find or follow any person in whom he took an interest. The anonymity of Hulburg’s crowds could be much less protection than he’d assumed. How could you plot against a foe who might be aware of your every move?

“There’s no need for that,” he murmured to himself. If Rhovann was truly that capable, then his efforts would be doomed from the first. He might as well assume that Rhovann’s creatures couldn’t see what wasn’t there to be seen, or he’d go mad from worry and suspicion. Still, it couldn’t hurt to avoid the creatures as much as possible. With that in mind, he decided against moving in the open. Marstel-or more likely, Rhovann-would be sure to have Erstenwold’s watched, just in case he showed up. He was confident enough in his simple disguise, but Rhovann was a patient and meticulous adversary; even if the elf mage hadn’t placed his gray sentries by Mirya’s door, he might have woven alarm spells in places where he was likely to make an appearance. Magical measures might easily see through a little hair coloring and spirit gum if he simply walked up to the front door.

Instead of turning up Plank Street toward Erstenwold’s, he walked past Plank to Fish Street and turned north there. He could think of a few ways to get into Erstenwold’s without being seen. If he remembered the neighborhood, the tinsmith’s shop might have exactly what he needed. He hurried up a half block to the building where old Kettar had his workshop and house, only to find the place closed up with its windows dark.

“Now what?” he muttered, peering in the window. He could see empty worktables, a cold furnace, a few furnishings that had evidently been left behind. What happened to Kettar? he wondered. The tinsmith had been puttering away in his workshop on Fish Street since Geran had been a young boy. Had the tinsmith simply packed up and abandoned town? Had his store been seized through one of Marstel’s newly enacted taxes? Or had some gang of Chainsmen or Cinderfists run him out of his own shop? He scowled into the dirty window, and took a couple of steps back to see if the private rooms behind the shop were occupied or not. A single slat of wood had been nailed across the door, and a tattered leather scroll tube hung by it; he looked inside and found a notice of confiscation from the Tower. Taxes, then, he thought to himself. Hopefully Kettar and his family had a roof over their heads and a little money to get by on, wherever they were.

He glanced up and down the street, decided that no one was paying him any special attention, and pried the slat loose enough to let himself inside. Kettar’s misfortune provided him with a very handy bit of cover for what he had in mind next. It might look a little suspicious for an ordinary caravan guard to be skulking about in an empty property, but if anyone troubled him, he could just claim that he was looking for a place to set up shop and had a mind to buy the tinsmith’s store if it came up for auction. He crossed to the rear of the store and peeked out a window that looked down the alleyway.

Thirty yards away stood the back of Erstenwold’s. Fixing his eye on a small window in the rear of the Erstenwold’s building, he built a mental picture of the storeroom beyond. Closing his eyes, he summoned the arcane sigils of the spell to his mind and said softly, “Sieroch!” An instant of darkness-

— and he stood in a dim, cluttered pantry. Hoping that Rhovann hadn’t thought to ward the entirety of the storehouse, he let himself out into the hall beyond. From a short distance away he could hear the clatter and murmuring voices of the clerks and customers by the store’s front counter. He smiled a little, and started down the hall.

Mirya suddenly bustled around the corner in one of the practical wool dresses she favored in the wintertime, this one a light blue in color. Her arms were full of blankets, and her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid. An absent frown shadowed her wide blue eyes. Geran’s heart lifted at the sight of her familiar features; he hadn’t realized how much he missed her. Then Mirya caught sight of him and let out a startled gasp, dropping her armload as she suddenly recoiled. “What-you shouldn’t be back here!” she spluttered. Then, before Geran could even get a word out, her eyes flew open wide in recognition. “Wait a moment-Geran?”

He motioned for her to lower her voice. “Yes, it’s me,” he said. “Forgive me for sneaking in, but I thought it better to avoid being seen.”

“By the Dark Lady, but you gave me a fright! Never do that again!” She stooped to pick up the blankets; he kneeled beside her and helped her scoop them up. When they stood again, she scowled at him and said, “It’s no help at all that you’re dressed like an outlander and your hair’s that awful color. I thought some Cinderfist ruffian had broken in to rob me.”

“I am sorry, Mirya. Truly I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Hmmph. Well, you can wait back in the counting room. I’ll be along as soon as I tell Ferin to mind the counter for a time.” She brushed past him with her blankets, carrying them out to whatever customer had asked for them. Geran suppressed a smile and ducked back into the store’s back room, where Mirya kept her ledgers among a clutter of merchandise and knickknacks that had likely been moved from room to room in Erstenwold’s for years. The store had been in her family for almost fifty years, beginning as a ramshackle chandlery and storehouse built by her grandfather. Geran made himself comfortable in an old leather armchair and waited. A few minutes later Mirya returned and took a seat on the edge of a small couch across from him with her mouth settled in its customary frown.

“Is this a good time?” he asked her. “If you’ve business to attend, I can wait.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m simply surprised to see you. I would have thought …” She paused, searching his face with her keen blue eyes before continuing. “Geran, it may be that you haven’t heard, but word from Thentia arrived two days past that Harmach Grigor was killed by assassins.”

He met her gaze and nodded. “I was there.”

“Oh, Geran, I’m sorry for it, I truly am. He was a sweet old man who’d naught but kind words for me any time I spoke with him.” She reached across to rest her hand on top of his. “Is the rest of your family well?”

“Yes. Natali and Kirr weren’t hurt, thank the gods. Aunt Terena and Kara are fine too. But we lost a number of Shieldsworn and family retainers. It was a terrible scene.” He frowned and looked around. Speaking of the young Hulmasters had reminded him … “Are you and Selsha well? Is she about?”

“Aye, we’re well enough, I suppose, but I sent Selsha to stay with the Tresterfins for a time. I was worried that she might be caught up in some trouble here in town, and I thought she’d be safer in the countryside. I do miss her, though. I’m in the habit of listening for her footsteps or her voice.” Mirya sighed, and drew back.

The trouble must be growing worse if she sent Selsha away, Geran reflected. Mirya was hardly the sort to panic, as he well knew. “I saw that old Kettar’s workshop was empty,” he said. “Have Marstel’s tax collectors troubled you? Are you still able to make a living here?”

She made a dismissive gesture. “We’ve something laid by for hard times; we’ll see it through, I think. But I worry about my neighbors.”

“I do too. I won’t let this stand a day longer than I have to. I promise you.”

“I know it, Geran.” She fell silent for a time, gazing down at her hands. He knew her well enough to see that she had something she wanted to say. After a moment she shook herself a little, and looked up at his face again. In a quiet voice she asked, “What happened in Thentia?”

“Your old friend Valdarsel sent a priestess from his order to organize an attack at Lasparhall,” he said. “They struck in the middle of the night, when the household was asleep except for a few sentries. It was mere chance that I wasn’t killed as I slept. Kara and I-and the Shieldsworn-managed to foil the worst of the attack. But we were too late to save Harmach Grigor.”

Mirya covered her mouth in horror. “Oh, Geran,” she whispered through her fingers.

He sighed and glanced at the small gray patch of sky visible in the counting room’s tiny window. “Kara and I saw to it that the Cyricist and her mercenaries had no opportunity to enjoy their success. None of them got away.”

“Who is harmach now?”

He shrugged. “I am, I suppose. Well, I won’t take the title until Hulburg is free. But I’m the Lord Hulmaster.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Mirya recoiled in horror. “You must be mad! If Marstel knew that you were alone in Hulburg, right here under his nose …”

“I’m here to kill Valdarsel. He’s the one who ordered Harmach Grigor’s death. There will be no more Hulmasters assassinated on his orders.” The thought brought another flash of anger, and he clenched his jaw. “I don’t doubt that Rhovann put him up to it, and I’ll deal with him in good time. But for now I’ll settle for delivering an unmistakable message to Rhovann and his pet harmach about sending monsters and murderers against my kin. There’s a price to be paid.”

Mirya pressed her lips together, thinking on Geran’s words. A few months earlier she’d found herself on Valdarsel’s bad side, and she had good reason to fear the priest. “I wouldn’t miss him, and that’s the truth of it, but I don’t know if you’ll be able to put him under your blade. He spends most of his time in his new temple, and he’s got a strong guard with him whenever he leaves it.”

“New temple? What new temple?”

“They call it the Temple of the Wronged Prince,” Mirya replied. She shook her head. “I never thought I’d see the day when such a thing as a temple dedicated to Cyric might be built in Hulburg, but it’s happened.”

Geran frowned. Cyric was a dark god, but his doctrines embraced concepts such as ambition, change, and revolution-things that often appealed to folk who were poor and desperate. He suspected that Cyric’s priests downplayed the darker aspects of their Black Sun when recruiting from the wretched masses. “Where is this place?”

“On Gold Street, near the Middle Bridge. There are guards in black mail who stand by its doors both night and day, and acolytes are always about the public rooms. The priests’ quarters and the temple’s inner sanctum aren’t open to any but the servants of the Black Sun.” Mirya paused, studying him. “I’ve heard that there may be other guardians inside-devils or demons or some other such things. If you mean to face him, it might be better to wait for him to come out, guards or not.”

“That may be,” Geran replied. “Still … are there any other entrances?”

“Aye, there’s a small garden behind the building. A gate from the alleyway leads to the garden, and there’s a door leading in from the garden. It’s guarded by some sort of magical glyph.”

“I might be able to deal with that …” Geran mused aloud. Then a sudden thought struck him, and he looked sharply at Mirya. “Wait a moment. How do you know so much about this Temple of the Wronged Prince? Did Valdarsel have his ruffians drag you in?”

“No, nothing like that!” Mirya answered. She hesitated, looking away from him. “I’ve some … friends … who help me to keep an eye on things about town. We looked over the place a few days past, thinking that we might cause some mischief there. But as I said, it seemed too well protected to us, so we decided to leave it be.”

“Mirya, what have you been up to?”

“Marstel and his sellswords are running this town into ruin, Geran. We’re doing something about it. Hulburg is our home too, you know.”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that sort of thing is?” he demanded. “Once you raise your hand against Marstel and his allies, you can never take it back. Didn’t you learn anything from what happened when you put your nose in Valdarsel and Rhovann’s business a few months ago? They’ll hang you for a rebel if they catch you!”

“If they catch me?” she said, bristling. “You’re the one skulking about in a disguise, and you’re the one person in all Faerun they’d most like to catch playing at spy! How can you tell me that what I’m doing is too dangerous?”

“This is different,” he retorted. “I have experience at this sort of thing. I know what I’m doing.”

“Maybe I know what I’m doing as well, Geran Hulmaster.”

Geran rose to reply in anger, but bit back on his words. He’d never get her to see that he was right by shouting at her; Mirya could be exceptionally stubborn when she set her mind on something, and this seemed like one of those times. He decided to try another tack. “Mirya … I understand that you love this land as much as I do,” he said. “But I beg you, don’t take chances! I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”

She stood as well, and folded her arms like a battlement in front of her. “And why is that?” she asked in a sharp voice. “Don’t I have the right to choose my own risks?”

He retreated from her, pacing around the small room. “Don’t be foolish,” he said. “You know that you’re dear to me.”

“I know no such thing,” she snapped. “Oh, I know that I matter to you. You followed me to the Tears of Selune. But why, Geran? Ten years ago you loved me. It ended. What is it that you think you still owe me? Why is it so important to you what happens to me now?”

“Because I-” he began, and stopped himself, unable to finish. He’d been about to say because I love you. He stood in silence, stunned to find those words on the tip of his tongue, and aghast at the realization that he’d come within a breath of speaking them aloud. He had no right to say any such thing to her. Ten years before he’d been a young, callous fool who broke her heart when he set out to make some kind of mark in the world outside Hulburg. She could never trust him with her heart again, and he could never ask it of her. He drew a deep breath, and found something else to say. “Because I owe it to Jarad,” he said instead. “He’d want me to look after you and Selsha. I failed him once when I left Hulburg to fall into the state it did while I was gone. I don’t want to fail him a second time.”

“Because you owe it to Jarad,” Mirya repeated. She frowned, and finally shook her head, smoothing her skirts with her hands. “Very well, then. You can stay as long as you like, but I think you’re wise to avoid being seen as you come or go. I don’t know how, but I’ve a feeling that Erstenwold’s is being watched. I can show you a path in the buried streets if that would help.”

He looked down at the floor. Mirya was no fool. She knew that he hadn’t been honest, although he hoped that she didn’t know exactly how. “I thank you for the offer, but I think I’d better be going. I don’t want to tempt fortune by hiding here, and I’ve got a few more errands today.”

She paused by the door and looked back at him. “We’re ready to do what needs to be done. I can pass the word to the folk who are still loyal to the Hulmasters.”

He nodded. “My thanks. I’ll remember that when the time comes.” Her frown softened just a little, and she ducked back out into the hallway to return to her business. He stood in the storeroom for a moment, listening to her voice coming from the front counter as she resumed her day. Did I mean what I almost said? he wondered. He looked inward, and found nothing he could make sense of, only a tangle of old memories and new friendship. Shaking his head, angry at his own foolishness, he deliberately set them all aside. “I have no time for that sort of nonsense,” he muttered. He moved over to the counting room’s window, fixed his mind on the empty tinsmith’s shop down the alleyway, and teleported himself out of Erstenwold’s. In a matter of moments he slipped back out onto Fish Street and continued along his way.

The afternoon was drawing on, and he decided that he was hungry. He headed back toward the Winterspear along Market Street, and found a little smokehouse near Angar Square where he was able to buy a simple meal for a silver coin. When he finished, he turned his steps toward Gold Street and hurried past the Cyricist temple. It was much as Mirya had described it, a gaudy new structure rising from the middle of an old craftsman’s district on the edge of the Tailings. Black-clad guards stood by the open doors, doing their best to remain motionless and imposing despite the bitter weather. He was careful not to stare too closely as he walked past, giving the place what he hoped would seem like a cursory glance. He was tempted to wander in the open door and see what the public areas looked like, but decided against it; no doubt he’d be approached by someone if he did go in, and the whole point of a disguise was to avoid attracting attention. Instead he went back over the Middle Bridge-this one was watched by the gray-skinned warriors too-and climbed up the Easthill toward the better homes that sat along the hillside of the headland that formed the eastern half of Hulburg’s harbor. A few minutes’ walk brought him in sight of his goal, a house that was anchored at one corner by a small round tower.

There was no other traffic along this street; these were the homes of the wealthy, people who had no reason to venture out in the cold unless they did so in blanket-filled carriages. He saw no signs of Rhovann’s spies or Council Guards, and decided that a direct approach might be the best in this case. Squaring his shoulders, he marched up to the house’s front door and rang the bell.

There was no response for quite a while. He rang again. This time he heard several quick footfalls, and the door opened a double handspan. In the dark foyer beyond Sarth Khul Riizar appeared, his deadly magical scepter pointed at Geran. The tiefling wore the splendid scarlet and gold robes he favored, and his face-brick red in hue, and graced with two large, swept horns-was set in a stern frown. “I do not know you,” he said. “Explain this interruption at once!”

“Sarth, it’s me! Geran!” the swordmage said, his voice low.

The tiefling frowned and peered more closely at him. “Oh, so it is,” he muttered. “My apologies, Geran; it’s a good disguise. I thought you were some merchant coster armsman, come to deliver yet another offer of employment.” He lowered his scepter, and opened the door wide. “Come in, quickly. You’d best not be seen in the streets.”

“My thanks. I’m sorry for barging in like this.” Geran hurried inside, and Sarth closed the door behind him, bolting it with an absent wave of his hand. “I feared you weren’t at home when you didn’t answer.”

“Ah, well, I forgot that I’d given Wrendt the afternoon off. I thought he was here to answer the door.” Sarth set a hand on Geran’s shoulder. “It is good to see you, my friend. When I heard what had happened in Thentia … it is a monstrous thing to seek the murder of the children and your older relations, cruel and monstrous. I cannot believe that your enemies stooped to such wicked efforts. If there is anything I can do …”

“In fact, I think there is,” Geran replied. He gripped Sarth’s shoulder in reply, the age-old warrior greeting. He had no call on Sarth’s loyalty, no reason to expect that the sorcerer would be willing to make himself an outlaw and a rebel for the sake of a few shared moments of danger, but he hoped that he’d read the tiefling’s character correctly in the months they’d known each other. “Valdarsel, the Cyricist priest, was behind the attack on my family. I mean to kill him for it, and I’m hoping that you’ll lend me your help.”

The tiefling grimaced, and glanced around at the comfortable house around him. “He sits on the Harmach’s Council, you know. There will be unfortunate consequences.” Then he sighed, and nodded. “Very well. Allow me a few hours to make some preparations, and we will see what can be done.”