Swordmage

ELEVEN

23 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One

The fourth barrow was only about two miles farther on, but it proved difficult to find. Geran and Hamil crisscrossed a low, fencelike ridge of old weathered tors pocked with crudely built fieldstone cairns for almost two hours before they finally found the right burial mound. Geran couldn’t imagine how anyone had noticed that it had been broken into, since it was well off any track or footpath he could find. In any event, it was another round, dome-shaped one, as they’d come to expect.

“Care to wager whether it’s a priest of Lathander in there?” Hamil asked. Geran just shook his head in reply.

Inside, they found that even less of the interior had survived intact than the third mound they’d visited. Geran couldn’t be certain that it was a Lathanderian’s tomb at all, but the construction of the place was similar enough to the other mounds that it seemed to him that someone looking for tombs of a particular appearance might have included it just to be thorough. After sifting through the debris for an hour, they gave up and climbed back into the thickening dusk. A handsbreadth of ruddy orange remained on the western horizon, and the wind was picking up again, keen and shrill.

“You should’ve taken the bet,” said Hamil.

“If I had, you’d still be inside looking for proof that you’d won,” Geran said. “As it was, that’s the last of our daylight.” He shivered; the night promised to be bitterly cold, and he hadn’t seen any suitable shelters in quite some time. They could sleep in the barrow, which would be covered from the weather and reasonably defensible, but he didn’t see much that would fuel a fire nearby. Nor did he especially care to sleep in a burial mound. They hadn’t seen any restless spirits yet, but the back of Geran’s neck prickled at the thought of closing his eyes in the dank stone tomb. If that didn’t invite a haunting of some sort, he didn’t know what would.

Hamil glanced around the rocky hollow where the barrow stood, and he frowned. “I think I can hear something on the wind, Geran,” the halfling said quietly. “We need to be careful tonight.”

“I feel it too.” Geran turned in a circle, scanning the moorland around them. “Most of the time the Highfells aren’t that bad when the sun goes down, but every now and then you get a night when dark things stir… this feels like it might be one.”

“Stay here, or find another spot to bed down?”

“I don’t want to stay here, but I can’t promise anything better.” The swordmage ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“If this is a Lathanderian tomb, chances are good it’s warded against undead.”

“It could be-” Geran stopped and glanced toward the south. Hamil had given him an idea. “Wait, I think I know where we can spend the night. And we might find someone who can tell us something about Lathanderian tombs too. There’s an old abbey five or six miles from here. It’s mostly in ruins, but some monks still live there.”

“Six miles? That’s going to be a long, cold ride,” Hamil said dubiously. “Can you find your way there in the dark?”

“I’m not Kara, but I’ll do my best.” Geran leaped down from the mound and gathered up his saddlebags. “If nothing else, we might find a better place to camp along the way.”

They’d left their horses saddled, since they hadn’t expected to spend much time at the fourth barrow. The two companions quickly gathered their belongings, tightened the saddle straps, and mounted. Geran took a moment to mark his heading as best he could, then set off at a good trot, posting with his mount’s easy gait. It would be a hard ride, but if he didn’t get lost-or if the horse didn’t step in a hole in the dark-it would not be much more than an hour. He glanced back at Hamil, but the halfling’s big pony seemed to keep up well enough.

They jogged over the moors as the sunset faded to a dull red crescent limning the horizon to their right, and stars began to emerge from the retreating overcast. The wind grew stronger, hissing through the long grasses and moaning over the bare gray stone. Geran’s hands soon ached with cold, and he shivered inside his cloak. When they’d gone two miles or so, it had grown dark enough that he began to seriously worry about one of the horses missing a step, so he cast another light spell and set the dim blue globe bobbing a few feet in front of him.

“Anything within a mile of us will see that light, Geran!” Hamil called.

“I know, but I don’t want to risk the horses in the dark. It’ll be a long walk if one of them breaks a leg.” The horizon was no longer visible, and Geran couldn’t make out his landmarks any longer. He picked a dim star that he hoped was in the right direction and urged his horse onward. The jogging pace was beginning to wear on him, making his thighs and back ache.

Some subtle note in the wind changed, and the steady moaning took on a new tone. Cold, distant voices seemed to mutter and whisper in the wind, and Geran’s heart skipped a beat. “Barrow-spirits,” he said softly. Ghosts, wraiths, some sort of dreadful phantoms-whatever they were, they meant no good to the living. He and Hamil needed to get off the moor, or they’d soon find out exactly what was abroad on the night wind.

Do you hear them? Hamil called silently.

Geran simply nodded in response. He felt something drawing closer and glanced quickly to either side. Nothing was there-but when he looked again at the path in front of him, a spectral figure seemed to hover in the air a short distance before him. It was the image of an ancient warrior, dressed in the simple mail hauberk and nasaled helm a warrior of five centuries past might have worn. His braided beard was gray and tattered, and his blank eyes shone with a pale green light.

“Thy doom is upon thee, mortal,” the ghost whispered. “Thou shalt sleep under cold stars this night, and never again the sun shall find thee.”

Geran’s horse tossed its head in panic, and icy dread seemed to rob the swordmage of his will. He stared at the apparition for a long, terrible moment. Then he tugged at the reins and turned his horse away from the dour spirit. He kicked his heels to the animal’s flanks, and with a shrill whinny of terror the black charger bolted off into the night. Geran leaned down low over its neck and let the animal run; he heard the hoofbeats of Hamil’s mount falling behind him. Finally he slowed the horse’s pace, and Hamil soon caught up.

“Don’t stop now!” the halfling said. “I think it’s following us!”

Geran kicked his mount back to speed and led Hamil over the moors. Whatever track they were following was long behind them, and he did not want to try to find it again. They came to a steep-sided gully that cut across their path, and Geran swore. He had to detour one way or the other around it. His sense of direction told him to veer left, but in that direction the terrain generally became more rugged as the land descended toward the Winterspear Vale. To the right they had a better chance of finding a place to cross, but he was afraid that would set them even farther off course. The swordmage grimaced and decided to head right first. They rode westward for several hundred yards, and the gully shallowed enough to cross. When they scrambled back up the other side, Geran caught a glimpse of a dim yellow light far across the moor.

“Thank Tymora,” he breathed aloud. “I think that’s the abbey.”

“Good,” Hamil replied through chattering teeth.

The travelers picked up their pace, following the distant light. For a long time it seemed to recede before them, never growing brighter, but finally they began to make up the ground, and a sprawling heap of broken towers and grass-grown stone appeared atop a short, steep-sided hill. Faint light showed from a few shuttered windows and a lantern swinging in the wind. They crossed an old stone-flagged causeway and scrambled up onto the road, and Geran breathed a sigh of relief as they stretched out into an easy canter and hurried the last few hundred yards.

They rode up to the weatherbeaten door in the crumbling wall and dismounted. Geran found a pull-rope by the door and tugged on it. From somewhere inside he heard the flat clang of a small bell. Nothing happened for a while, and he rang the bell again. Then he heard the rasp of wood on wood, and a small port in the door opened. The eyes of an aged man gazed out at him.

“Yes?” the fellow asked. “Who are you, and what do you want at this hour when no honest folk are abroad?”

“I’m Geran Hulmaster; this is my companion Hamil Alderheart. I ask shelter for the night. And I’d like to speak with the Initiate Mother.”

The monk’s eyebrows rose. “Geran Hulmaster? What in the world are you doing out here tonight, lad? It’s the dark of the moon. Don’t you know who walks the Highfells on nights such as this?”

“I’d rather not find out. Can we come in?”

“Yes, yes, just a moment.” The port closed. Then a heavier timber slid somewhere out of sight, and the abbey gate opened. The old monk appeared in the doorway a lantern in his hand. “Come on, then. Hurry, lads, it’s not safe to linger outside the walls tonight.”

Geran and Hamil led their horses into the doorway, and found themselves standing in an old courtyard. The monk pushed the heavy door closed and slid the bar back in place before turning to face them again. “Welcome to Rosestone,” he said with a wry smile. “I know the abbey has seen better days, but you’re safe enough inside these walls. I’m Brother Erron. Here, let’s stable your mounts and get you something to eat.”

“Thank you, Brother Erron,” Geran murmured. He glanced around at the crumbling towers and the broken pavement of the courtyard, then followed the old monk to a stable that evidently had not seen a horse in quite some time. Still, it was better than spending the night outside. He could no longer hear the chill voices in the wind, which led him to guess that old priestly wardings likely kept the restless dead far from Rosestone Abbey.

After stabling their animals, Geran and Hamil followed Erron to the abbey’s refectory. A handful of other monks waited there, and they provided the two comrades with a plain dinner of cured ham, boiled potatoes, black bread, and sharp white cheese, washed down with a tankard of hot cider.

“All right, Geran,” Hamil admitted. “This is better than huddling in some barrow out in those dreary hills, waiting for ghosts to come for us. But we were lucky to find the abbey when we did. There was a whole company of ghosts following us for that last mile.”

“You didn’t say anything about that,” Geran said.

The halfling shrugged. “I wanted you to keep your eyes on what was ahead of us. I was keeping watch behind.”

When they’d finished with their supper, Brother Erron appeared by the table and bowed. “Gentlemen, if you please, the Initiate Mother would like a word with you. Will you follow me?”

The two companions pushed themselves away from the table, rose, and followed the aged monk. He led them through a maze of passageways that took them through the main chapel-a tall room whose eastern wall was graced with a great window of stained glass depicting a glorious sunrise in panels of red, rose, and gold-and then a dark scriptorium filled with wooden writing desks and scroll racks. For all of the abbey’s weathering and the poor condition of its outer walls and towers, the interior seemed to be in good shape. On the far side of the scriptorium, Erron led them to a sturdy wooden door in a deep stone arch and knocked twice.

“Initiate Mother?” he called. “I have brought Geran and his companion.”

“Enter,” a muffled voice called.

Erron opened the door and led them into a small study or office, sparsely furnished. A stocky woman in yellow robes with iron-gray hair and a nut-brown complexion waited for them by the fire. She had a stern, lined face that would have been quite severe if not for her warm brown eyes, well creased by crow’s feet.

“Ah, Geran Hulmaster,” she said in a rich, melodious voice. “I have not laid eyes on you in ten years or more. And this must be Master Alderheart. I confess I am more than a little surprised to find you on my doorstep on such a bitter evening.”

“Mother Mara,” Geran said with a smile. He’d always liked her. From time to time he and Jarad had passed by the abbey in their youthful ramblings, and the monks of Amaunator had always been happy to set places at their table for two hungry young hunters. He crossed the room to bow and take her offered hand, raising it to his lips. “I’m glad that Brother Erron let us in. It would’ve been a long, cold night otherwise.”

“We are honored to be of service,” she replied. “Please, sit. I’ve heard that you were back in Hulburg, but I would love to know what business brought you out on the Highfells this evening.”

Geran looked around and found a plain wooden chair. He seated himself, while Hamil scrambled up into a matching one nearby, and the Initiate Mother took a seat across from them. “We’re looking for tomb robbers,” he answered. “My uncle told me that Jarad Erstenwold was found near a broken barrow, and that he’d been chasing after some gang of robbers who were opening burial mounds when he was killed. I decided to look into it for myself, and Hamil here offered to help me. We spent the day visiting tombs that had been broken into recently, but I suppose we stayed out later than we should have.”

The abbess nodded. “Yes, I know about the tomb-breakings, but I hadn’t heard that they were connected with Jarad’s murder. Have you learned anything new?”

“Maybe,” Geran said. “We’ve got reason to believe that one of the merchant houses in Hulburg is involved. And we might have learned something important this evening: All of the barrows that were broken into were burial mounds of priests of Lathander.”

The abbess sat up straighter and locked her eyes on Geran’s. “That I did not know. Go on.”

“The tombs we’ve seen look to be about the same age. Going by the inscriptions we can make out, I’d guess they date back about four or five centuries to the time of Thentur,” Geran continued. “Do you have any idea why the tomb-breakers would choose those barrows and ignore any others? What could they be looking for?”

The priestess frowned and looked down at her hands, thinking for a long time. Finally she shook her head. “I can’t imagine what they expect to find, Geran,” she said. “As you know, Amaunator was called Lathander in those days, so these are the tombs of the fathers of our faith you are speaking of. But to the best of my knowledge none of my antecedents were buried with any great treasure. I expect that the barrows of old Tesharan chieftains or ogre kings would be much more attractive to those who seek to plunder the wealth of the dead.”

Geran scowled and sat back. If Mara didn’t know why those tombs might be important, he didn’t know who would. Maybe he could find something in the harmach’s library that could shed some light on the mystery…

“Initiate Mother,” Hamil said slowly, “do you think they might be looking for a book?” He glanced over to Geran and shrugged. “The sorcerer was looking for one, after all. Maybe they’re after the same thing.”

“A book?” The priestess’s brow furrowed in concentration, and then surprise flickered across her face. “A book! Yes, it is indeed possible, Master Hamil. They might be looking for the Infiernadex of Aesperus.”

Hamil glanced at Geran and back to Mara. “The what of what?” he asked.

“The Infiernadex. A book of spells or rites that once belonged to Aesperus. By all accounts it was filled with dire and dangerous invocations. It lies in the tomb of a priest of Lathander.”

The halfling grimaced. “Geran, Aesperus is the lich you and Kara were talking about a few days ago, right?”

Geran nodded. “He’s called the King in Copper-why, I couldn’t tell you. He came to power in the city of Thentia several centuries ago and brought much of the Moonsea North under his dominion, including Hulburg. His realm was known as Thentur, and the old stories say that he used necromancy to cling to power for many years. Eventually the people rose up against his tyranny and overthrew him. Hulburg and the other towns and cities under Thentur’s dominion became free, and Aesperus fled. Many years later he turned up again as a powerful lich, haunting some place under the Highfells known as the Vault of the Dead. It’s said that he’s the master of all the undead of Thar.” He looked back to the Initiate Mother. “But I’ve never heard any story about a book of his that might’ve ended up in a Lathanderian tomb.”

“You know only part of the story, Geran,” Mara answered. “Few remember it now, but the chief agents of Aesperus’s defeat in Thentur were the priests of Lathander, led by the High Morninglady Terlannis. She and her priests rallied the people of Thentia and Hulburg against the tyrant. The war to defeat Aesperus took years, but Terlannis and her forces slowly pushed the king and his loyalists to the eastern frontiers of the realm, where Aesperus held out in a strong fortress called the Wailing Tower. After a long siege, the Lathanderians successfully stormed the Wailing Tower, broke Aesperus’s army, and razed their stronghold. They found no sign of the king, but they seized many of his weapons and treasures-including the Infiernadex. Aesperus eluded Terlannis, but he escaped with little more than the robes on his back.”

“How do you know all this?” Geran asked.

“I have read the accounts of the rebellion Terlannis herself set down after her victory. She was quite thorough in describing the wizard-king’s treasures and the dispositions she made with them. Some things she destroyed, some she felt safe in giving away, and other things she thought best to conceal and protect.” Mara folded her hands in her lap and met his gaze calmly. “The Infiernadex is the only book mentioned by name in her accounts. She feared that the book might survive any attempt to destroy it and perhaps reassemble itself in some distant land, so she directed it to be safely interred for all time, guarded by powerful wards.

“In fact, when her death approached, Terlannis instructed her followers to entomb the book with her, so that Lathander’s blessings would keep the Infiernadex hidden from evil hands forever. The book lies in her crypt.”

“So, if the tomb-breakers are indeed looking for this magical tome, then they’re not simply looking for Lathanderian tombs,” Hamil said. “They’re looking for the tomb of Terlannis.” The halfling scratched at his chin, collecting his thoughts for a moment before looking back up to Geran. “How many Lathanderians are buried on the Highfells? Do we have any idea how many burial mounds the Verunas have to search?”

Geran started to shrug helplessly, but the Initiate Mother answered for him. “Somewhere around eighty-five or so, Master Hamil.”

Hamil winced. “So many?”

“Some are priests, and others are laymen who gave noteworthy service to Lathander during their lives. We have good records of which mounds are sacred to Amaunator, since we naturally honor those who followed the Sun Lord in his earlier incarnation as the Dawn Lord.”

“Well, it’s a start at least,” Geran pointed out to Hamil. “We think we know who’s opening barrows, and we think we know what they’re looking for. The vast majority of the burial mounds around Hulburg are no longer of interest to us. We can concentrate on the Lathanderian mounds, and maybe we can determine which are likely to be visited next.” He returned his attention to the abbess. “Do your records mention any distinguishing features of Terlannis’s tomb? Markers, inscriptions… anything?”

“They do not, but I doubt that you will need them,” the Initiate Mother said. “You see, I know where High Morninglady Terlannis is buried.”