Avenger

EIGHT

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

Rooftops reeled under Geran’s feet as Sarth carried him away from the Temple of the Wronged Prince. Behind them, flames shot up into the night from the building’s collapsing roof, and the fire’s sound-a dull, shapeless roar, interspersed by the constant popping and crackling of combustibles igniting within-filled the night. He glanced down as Sarth narrowly cleared a chimney and winced in fear of a fall. The last time he’d been carried into the air in such a way, he’d been fighting for his life against a gargoyle. But Sarth managed to keep the both of them in the air, his teeth bared in the effort to carry Geran along with him. In the space of ten heartbeats the tiefling returned to the ground two blocks from the temple, out of the mob’s sight, and released the swordmage.

“That … is much harder … than using the spell for myself alone,” Sarth panted. He leaned over with his hands on his knees. “My apologies … for not asking … your permission before … carrying you into the air.”

“Think nothing of it,” Geran answered. “We were about to be set upon by a mob; I approve of your judgment.”

“Shall we continue … as we’d planned?”

“I think so, and the sooner the better. I hadn’t expected so many Cinderfists to respond to our attack on the temple. Then again, I hadn’t expected to burn the place to the ground.” Geran and Sarth had decided it would be wisest to make for Thentia as soon as possible after dealing with Valdarsel. Even though Geran wished to begin plotting against Rhovann next, he was afraid that if he remained in Hulburg, Marstel’s men would tear the town to pieces to find him; if he allowed his return to Thentia to become widely known, the usurper’s soldiers wouldn’t waste any time trying to root him out of hiding.

“You wished to send a stern message to your enemies. The destruction of the temple certainly contributes to that.” Sarth drew one more deep breath, and straightened up. “Lead the way.”

“Our mounts are waiting.” The swordmage looked around to fix his bearings; they were in the small alleyway between High Street and Plank Street, not that far from Erstenwold’s. With a quick glance up and down the streets, he set out at a fast walk, figuring that would look less suspicious if they met any guardposts. Geran had prepared for their escape by purchasing a pair of riding horses the day before and stabling the animals with their tack, harness, and provisions in a disused storehouse near the intersection of Market Street and Keldon Way. With any luck they’d be mounted and on their way within a quarter hour, long before any pursuit could be organized. Of course, Marstel’s soldiers would certainly expect them to flee along the westward roads, but Geran was confident that he could lose pursuers in the moors.

They turned west on Cart Street; Geran glanced behind them, where he could see the bright orange-glowing smoke rising from the burning temple above the rooftops. Dark figures milled around a couple of hundred yards farther down the street. He couldn’t tell for certain from this distance, but it looked as if several parties of searchers were setting out to comb the streets. He quickened his pace, heading for Fish Street to cut over toward their waiting mounts and stay out of sight.

A muted clatter of steel came from the other direction, and four of the helmed gray warriors suddenly rounded the corner at a silent run, halberds clutched in their thick hands. Geran and Sarth froze in surprise; they’d been watching for pursuit from behind them, not ahead. For an instant Geran hoped that the creatures were simply hurrying to the scene of the fighting, but the gray monsters altered their course the instant they caught sight of the two fugitives, lowering their halberds to charge with the weapons’ deadly spear points.

“Take them!” the swordmage said to his friend. “We can’t let them follow us to the horses!” He drew his sword, and ran forward to meet the first of the helmed guardians. The creature drew back its thick arms and rammed the halberd point ahead in a powerful but clumsy thrust that might have driven the big weapon through the side of a house, but Geran simply stepped aside. In a single fluid motion he rolled in along the weapon haft, crouched, and drove his sword point up under the ribs on the thing’s right side. Fifteen inches of steel vanished into its gray flesh. He drew out his sword and spun away, searching for the next foe-but the hulking creature he’d just stabbed planted its lead foot and pivoted to bring the halberd around in a massive sweep that Geran avoided only by throwing himself back on his seat. He scrambled to his feet, ducked to his left, and lunged forward to cleave his long sword through its lower torso, just below the armor plate guarding the center of its body. The steel sword smacked into the creature’s flesh as if he’d hewed at a block of wet clay; when the blade passed through, it left a wide, thin-lipped cut, but only a few dark drops of ichor leaked from a wound that would have disemboweled any mortal foe. The creature raised its halberd for another strike, and this time Geran was obliged to scramble away from that attack as a second helmed guardian tried to skewer him from the side.

“They don’t bleed!” he cried in frustration. “It’s like hacking at mud!”

Sarth scorched another of the monsters with a jet of bright fire. Claylike flesh hardened under the heat and then broke away in fist-sized chunks as the construct advanced and swung its halberd at the tiefling. The sorcerer ducked and retreated. The construct paid no attention as huge slabs of its substance delaminated and fell to the snowy cobblestones, pressing after Sarth. “Nor do they burn very well,” the tiefling snarled. “In fact, they seem difficult to harm.”

We don’t have time to carve these things to pieces or bake them into immobility, Geran decided. They could not afford much delay in their escape. He traded one quick glance with Sarth, and said, “Run! We’ll lose them in the alleyways.”

Dancing away from the slow-footed guardians, Geran sprinted up Fish Street to the first convenient alley and darted in. Sarth followed a step behind him. He led the way as they darted through one yard after another, vaulting fences and darting down each twist and turn they could manage. They quickly outdistanced the hulking helmed guardians; the creatures were fast enough in a straight sprint, but they fared poorly in quick turns and narrow places. Geran worked his way north and west toward the storehouse where he’d left their mounts, and after a hundred yards or so emerged onto Keldon Way across from the towers of glassy green stone known as the Spires. Breathing heavily, he paused to scan the streets for signs of pursuit.

Sarth halted alongside him, panting. Then the tiefling snarled and spat a curse in a harsh language that Geran didn’t know. “Two more are coming from the right!”

“Damn the luck,” Geran said. He looked in the direction Sarth was staring, and saw the hulking creatures hurrying toward them. That was unfortunately the direction in which their waiting mounts were hidden; that pair might have been stationed up by the foot of the Burned Bridge, or perhaps near the gates of Daggergard. He glanced back to his left to see if there was someplace they might hide from the approaching guardians, only to see another pair of the monsters hurrying up from that direction. And now he could hear the clatter of the creatures they’d skirmished with drawing close through the alleyways behind them. That’s not ill luck, he realized with a sick sensation. That’s coordination.

“They know where we are,” he said to Sarth. “They’ve got some way to follow us!”

“And to communicate that knowledge to each other without speaking,” Sarth replied. “A subtle and powerful enchantment, but a very useful one.”

“Useful, indeed,” Geran muttered. “So how do we elude them?”

“That has now become problematic.”

Geran gave Sarth a black look. “Come on, we have to keep ahead of them. Perhaps if we open a wider lead we can circle back to our horses.” They hurried over another building or two and cut back into the alleyways east of Keldon Way, dodging through more of the narrow lanes and cluttered yards of the homes and workshops in Hulburg’s westerly districts. This part of the city was not heavily inhabited, and some of the rubble of the old city that had once stood on this site still lay in heaps between the buildings that had sprouted up here over the last few decades. As often as not Geran and Sarth slipped and scrambled through weed-grown mounds of old masonry as they tried to keep ahead of the helmed guardians. This time Geran worked his way as far east as the Middle Bridge and then turned south to cut all the way across town toward the waterfront, staying off the major streets; now it was not just the gray constructs they had to be wary of, but also the bands of armed Cinderfists who roamed the streets. Near the tradeyard of the Jannarsk Coster they finally paused to scan the nearby streets for any sign of the helmed constructs.

“That must have lost them,” Geran said as they caught their breath.

“Perhaps,” Sarth said. The tiefling glanced up at the sky. “Dawn is not far off now. We are losing our chance to reach our mounts tonight.”

Geran nodded agreement. He looked up to gauge the hour by the lightening of the sky, and he caught a glimpse of a small, bat-winged shape momentarily silhouetted in the gap between two buildings. He frowned and let himself look away, but marked the spot. “Sarth, do you see something on the roof of that countinghouse to my right? Something like a large bat? Try not to look right at it.”

The tiefling turned his head slightly and looked from under his brows. “There is something there …” he said in a low voice. “Ah, a homunculus. It is watching us. That would explain how we have been followed so easily, although I still wonder how the gray guardians know what it sees.”

“It must be Rhovann’s work. He is an expert in alchemical creatures.”

“Their bodies may be formed by alchemy, but the animating force is another matter. There is magic at work here that I am not familiar with.”

Geran frowned. He had some skill with arcane lore, of course, but his education in magic was fairly narrow. When they had more time, he’d have to question Sarth closely on the topic of his observations about Rhovann’s magic. In the meantime, they had more pressing matters to deal with. “Can you destroy it?” he asked.

“Of course.” The tiefling changed his grip on his scepter, hiding the magical weapon from the small thing watching from the rooftop. Then he spun and pointed the device, shouting the words for a powerful spell. A brilliant green ray darted out and struck the little creature; it let out a startled squawk before bursting apart in a gout of dank clay and dark ichor.

Geran clapped the tiefling on the shoulder. “That’s one small spy who won’t trouble us anymore. Now, while we’re unobserved, I think it’s time to split up. Our enemies are looking for the both of us together, and-forgive me for being blunt-you stand out much more than I do. If you take to the air without trying to carry me along, I very much doubt that anyone will be able to catch you. Make your way to Thentia as swiftly as you can, and see to it that Kara learns everything we’ve learned about Rhovann’s guardians. I fear they’ll be a formidable obstacle to our plans to liberate the town.”

Sarth frowned, but he nodded. The tiefling was a very pragmatic man, when it came down to it. “Very well. What will you do?”

“I’m going to try for the mounts again.” He took Sarth’s arm in a warrior’s clasp. “Now go. I’ll see you in Thentia.”

“Be careful, Geran,” Sarth said. He glanced around, his eyes glowing crimson in the shadows, and murmured the words of his flying spell. In three heartbeats he shot up into the sky overhead, turned west, and arrowed away from Geran’s sight.

Geran heard a commotion behind him. He peeked around the corner of a building and saw a gang of Cinderfists coming in his direction. Quickly he turned and ran in the opposite direction, doing his best to stay under overhangs and awnings just in case more of Rhovann’s homunculi were about. He darted back into the nearest alleyway and began to work his way westward, looping back around toward the square by the Merchant Council’s grand hall. He paused between a taphouse and a bakery on Cart Street just a stone’s throw from the Merchant Council hall, and carefully risked another glance up and down the street.

To his right, a pair of the helmed guardians stood near the center of the small square, scanning the surrounding area behind their blank visors. To his left, another party of Cinderfists carrying lanterns hurried up from the waterfront. He muttered a curse and drew back out of sight, waiting for the foreign brigands to pass by. “At least the helmed creatures didn’t come for me this time,” he murmured to himself. Perhaps Sarth had managed to blind their pursuers for a time by destroying the winged spy.

Inside the bakery he leaned against, he could hear the clatter of firewood and pans as the baker and his helpers began to stoke their ovens. Dawn was approaching, and he didn’t want to be caught slinking around Hulburg in broad daylight. He might be able to blend in among the crowds, but he wasn’t at all certain that he could avoid Rhovann’s monsters indefinitely. What was it the dwarf had told him the other day? The creatures sensed the presence of those Rhovann wanted found? If there was even the slightest chance that was true, he could find himself at the center of a rapidly closing net even if he managed to outdistance any helmed guardian he ran into.

The Cinderfists passed by his hiding place with no more than a cursory look down the narrow lane between the buildings. They’re taking steps to seal the town, he realized. He looked to his left, toward the bay, where House Sokol’s walled compound stood. For the moment the way was clear.

In the distance, he heard the clatter and shouts of a Council Guard patrol moving into the yards he’d just left. “Cinderfists, Rhovann’s constructs, and now the false harmach’s men,” he muttered aloud. Simply escaping from Hulburg, with or without his mount and provisions, seemed less and less likely. He needed a place to hide for the day. It couldn’t be Erstenwold’s, it was far too likely that Marstel’s men might look for him there. The tinsmith’s shop might serve, but he might be spotted as he tried to slip through the net of searchers closing in. He needed someplace close by … he glanced again at the Sokol compound at the end of Keldon Way. It was close, and as a House represented on the Merchant Council, it enjoyed protections against the harmach’s authority. And it was conveniently sited on the west side of town for when he did decide to attempt escape again. The question was: did he trust Nimessa Sokol with his life?

She didn’t betray me when I spied out Hulburg a few tendays ago, he answered himself. Then again, there was quite a difference between turning a blind eye to his comings and goings and sheltering him from the harmach’s soldiers after a brazen attack on the Cyricists’ temple.

Before he could second-guess himself, he darted across the street and hurried down Keldon Way toward the Sokol compound. He was careful to stay out of sight of the yard’s front gate, which would be guarded by Sokol armsmen; the fewer people who knew where he was, the better it would be for all concerned. Instead he headed down the lane that ran behind the walled yard, fixed his eye on the wall top, and used his teleportation spell to blink himself up to it. Quickly he dropped to the ground inside and made his way to Nimessa’s comfortable house, knocking softly at the door.

There was no response at first, and Geran began to wonder if perhaps Nimessa might have returned to Phlan before the ice set in. But then he heard footsteps coming to the door. A moment later, a gray-haired valet in a nightcap opened a small spyhole to peer out at him. He looked at Geran and frowned. “Who are you?” he demanded in a hard whisper. “What business do you have here?”

Geran didn’t particularly care to announce his identity unless he absolutely had to. “I have an urgent message for Lady Nimessa,” he said. “Could you please wake her?”

“Do you have any idea of the hour?” the valet demanded.

“I know it’s not yet four bells after midnight, but trust me, she’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say.”

The old valet scowled. “You’ll have to be more forthcoming than that, young master. I’m not about to admit a stranger to my lady’s house in the middle of the night, especially one who refuses to give his name. Now be off with you, before I summon our guards!”

Geran frowned, considering what he could say to convince the servant to rouse the lady of the house. But then he heard a small rustle behind the valet. “Who’s at the door, Barrad?” Nimessa called from somewhere inside.

The valet glared at Geran, and looked away to answer. “An armsman who claims he has a message for you, m’lady,” he replied. “He’s not one of ours and he hasn’t identified himself. I was about to tell him to come back in the morning.”

“You might as well admit him,” she replied. “I’ve already been roused twice tonight, after all.” Geran heard light footfalls inside, a brief murmur of conversation, and then the valet Barrad opened the door and motioned for him to enter. He stepped into the house and found himself in a comfortable foyer with rich wood paneling; a sitting room lay through a doorway to his right, and a dining room to his left. On the stairs leading to the house’s upper floor stood Nimessa Sokol, wearing a dressing gown with a warm blanket draped around her for warmth against the winter chill. Her long golden hair fell loose to her shoulders, and her eyes-an enchanting shade of greenish blue-settled on him with a mild curiosity. He noticed that she kept one hand tucked into the sleeve of the other arm. Dark wood gleamed in her fingers; she had a wand ready in case he turned out to be less innocuous than he claimed.

He pushed his hood back over his shoulders and looked up to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry to wake you, Nimessa, but I’m afraid I’m in need of your help,” he said.

She looked more closely at him, and her eyes widened in surprise and recognition. “I can imagine,” she replied. She tucked her wand back into her sleeve and hurried down the last few steps. “Are you hurt? Were you caught up in whatever trouble’s afoot in town this night?”

Geran glanced down at himself. He noticed that he was scratched and bleeding in several places where the barbs of Valdarsel’s spectral chains had caught in clothing or skin. His shoulder and back ached where the point of the guard’s sickle sword had snagged him. I look like a ruffian who’s just come from a riot, he realized. No wonder the valet hadn’t liked the look of him. “Only scratches,” he said. “Otherwise, I’m well enough.” He cut his eyes toward Barrad before saying any more.

Nimessa took his meaning. She glanced to her servant and said, “Barrad, you can go back to bed. I’ll be fine.”

“As you wish, m’lady,” Barrad answered. The valet looked at Geran dubiously, but he bowed and withdrew.

Nimessa waited for the old servant to leave before turning on Geran, a small frown fixed on her face. “What are you doing here?” she asked urgently. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near Hulburg!”

“The Cyricists attacked my family in Thentia,” he answered. “I had to settle a score with Valdarsel.”

“We heard about that, of course, but I can’t believe that you’d dare to come into Hulburg alone. You must be out of your mind.” She leaned close to peer at his cuts and the torn clothing, and frowned. “This is no scratch. I’d better fetch some bandages.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, but he grimaced when she poked at a bad cut on the back of his left hand. She raised an eyebrow at him, and hurried off to what he presumed was the kitchen. He heard cabinets creaking open and thumping shut. A moment later she returned with a basin of warm water and a roll of linen bandages.

“Are you behind the fire at the Temple of the Wronged Prince, then?” she asked. “My armsmen woke me an hour ago to tell me the place was burning to the ground.” She took him by the arm and ushered him into the sitting room adjoining the foyer.

He nodded. “It wasn’t my intent to burn the place down, but I’m not sorry to see it destroyed.”

“For Selune’s sake, what have you done? Half the town’s been turned upside down to find those who attacked the temple.” She steered him to a couch, and sat close beside him, dipping a clean bandage into the water to begin washing his cuts. “Was Valdarsel there? What happened?”

“Valdarsel’s dead,” he said. “And more than a few of his guards and acolytes with him, I suppose.”

“You killed the high prelate?” she asked in amazement. She frowned and looked away, quickly thinking through the consequences of his actions. After a moment she sighed and took his hands in hers. “You must flee Hulburg at once, Geran. It’s far too dangerous for you to remain here after tonight.”

“That was my intent. Unfortunately, I hadn’t reckoned with the capabilities of Rhovann’s gray guardians or the alertness of his spies. I couldn’t reach the horse I’d left for my escape to Thentia. In fact, it’s not possible to set out on foot at the moment.” He made himself look into her eyes, bright with worry for him. “Listen, Nimessa … I know it puts you in a difficult position, but I need a safe place to lay low for a day or so before I attempt to set out again. I’ll understand if you can’t allow me to stay. But if that’s the case, I’d better leave immediately.”

“Did anyone see you come here?” she asked.

“Only your valet. I’m fairly confident about that.”

“Barrad can be trusted to keep things to himself. Still, it would be wise to keep you out of sight. Most of our folk here are loyal enough, but I’d rather not take the chance on someone carrying tales to the Council Guard in hope of a reward, or simply saying something they shouldn’t out in the town.” She wrapped a strip of bandage around his hand, and turned her attention to another gouge by his left knee.

“All I need is a pallet in a dark corner of your storehouse,” he said. He shifted and straightened out his leg so she could get at the minor wound more easily. He hadn’t realized how weary he was; it felt good to sit for a time, and even better to watch Nimessa’s deft hands at work, even if it stung fiercely at odd moments. “I’ll wait out the day and see if things have improved by nightfall.”

She smiled. “I’m afraid it’ll be nothing quite so heroic as a bit of straw and a crust of bread as you hide out in an attic or basement. I’ve got a guest room that you can have as long as you need it. I carry out a fair bit of business here in the house, but no one goes upstairs except Barrad, the maid, and myself, and the maid’s not due for another day or two. As long as you’re quiet, no one’ll know you’re here.”

“Are you certain you’re fine with this?”

“I’ve chosen my side, Geran,” she said. “Marstel is the wizard’s puppet, and I don’t trust Rhovann as far as I could throw him. I might have to conceal our sympathies in public for now, but if House Sokol can help you win back your realm, we will. I haven’t forgotten that you risked your life to rescue me from Kamoth Kastelmar, or that you stamped out the pirates who murdered my kinfolk and robbed our ships.” She stood, slender and graceful in her thin gown, and pulled him to his feet. “Come, I’ll show you where you can wash up and sleep. You might as well rest if you plan to set out at sunset.”

She took a small lamp from the mantle and led him to the house’s upper floor. He followed after her, carrying his sword belt over his shoulder. The second floor was as well-appointed as the rooms below, its wide hallway graced by half-a-dozen fine portraits. Nimessa’s house was no palace or grand manor, but it was a comfortable residence for the head of House Sokol’s concession in Hulburg. The merchant nobles of the Moonsea looked after their own, Geran decided.

Nimessa opened a door at the end of the hall, revealing a small room with a large canopy bed. She went to draw the curtains and quickly check that the linens were fresh. “It’s been a month or two since anyone’s used this room,” she explained. “I hope you don’t mind if it’s just a little bit musty.”

“It’s far better than a hayloft or an attic, which is how I thought I might spend my day.” He dropped his sword belt into a chair by the room’s hearth, slipped his cloak from his shoulders, and turned to face her. “Nimessa … thank you.”

“I don’t suppose I’ve ever properly thanked you for saving me from the Black Moon pirates,” she said with a smile. She leaned close to brush her perfect lips against his; the delightful sensation made him shiver down to the toes before she drew away. “How can I do any less for my brave rescuer?”

She walked to the door, leaving the small lamp on a chest nearby, and paused to smile at him over her shoulder. Then, as she opened the door to let herself out, Geran found himself moving after her without consciously deciding to do so; his legs simply carried him to her. His arms circled her waist and he buried his face in the soft golden tresses by the nape of her neck, drawing her to him. She gasped, and began to say something, but he reached up to turn her chin toward his face and covered her mouth with his. She hesitated, shivering in his arms, and then she responded, her breath warm in his mouth, her soft figure melting into him.

Once upon a time I kissed Mirya like this, he thought. For a moment he hesitated, too, surprised to find those memories surfacing when Nimessa sighed in his arms. That was a long time ago, Geran, he told himself. Ten years before, Mirya had been his first love, but he’d wanted something more out of life than the narrow confines of a small town at the edge of the wilds and the love of a girl whose simple dream was to live her life in the place where she’d been born. The rational part of him knew that Mirya couldn’t ever love him as she once had, not after he’d abandoned her once. Whatever it was that his heart hoped for now, it wasn’t fair to Mirya-or himself-to imagine that she might come to feel the same way about him. And if that was true, what was the point of keeping himself for her any longer?

Nimessa glanced up to him, sensing his hesitation. Deliberately he reached past Nimessa to push the half-open door shut, and kissed her again. Closing his eyes, he banished Mirya’s ghost from his memory, abandoning himself to the moment.