Swordmage

SEVENTEEN

27 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One

Later in the afternoon, Geran decided it was time to visit Mirya Erstenwold again. She’d insisted that there was nothing that he had to do about Jarad’s murder on her account, but that didn’t mean she didn’t deserve some answers. After all, when they’d met at Jarad’s graveside, she’d seemed to understand that he needed to settle Jarad’s business for the peace of his own heart, if not hers. By sharing her suspicions about House Veruna, she’d given him her blessing to follow his own path through grief. Geran was slowly resigning himself to the idea that he might not ever find out which of the Veruna armsmen had actually waylaid his friend in that wild and lonely place, but he could certainly tell Mirya what the Veruna men had been seeking and how Jarad had come to get in their way. Besides, Mirya needed to know what he’d learned about Veruna’s involvement. The men who’d murdered her brother might be the same men who now threatened her family’s livelihood with their extortion and intimidation.

Wrapped deeply in his thoughts, Geran slipped out of the castle an hour before sunset, leaving Hamil to entertain Natali and Kirr. He set out from Griffonwatch on foot, dressed in a nondescript gray cloak, only one more man among the hundreds in the streets who hurried about on their own business. The rain had diminished to a cool, steady mist that beaded his cloak without really soaking the dense wool, and faint tatters of cloudwrack drifted over the town only a few hundred feet overhead. He took Cinder Street through the Tailings-by daylight the neighborhood was simply run down and poor, not dangerous-crossed the Winterspear at the Middle Bridge, and climbed the steps up to the square by the Assaying House and High Street.

As he threaded his way through the sodden streets, Geran brooded over the question of how to hold House Veruna to account even if the harmach couldn’t. When he considered events coldly and carefully, he decided that it didn’t matter all that much which of the armsmen had been involved. The Veruna men were mercenaries, paid to do what they did without asking questions, and the ultimate responsibility for Jarad Erstenwold’s murder rested with the man or woman who had ordered the mercenaries to kill him. It seemed likely that Anfel Urdinger might be that man-after all, Mirya had seen him wearing Jarad’s elf-made dagger. And the encounter at the barrow of Terlannis suggested that Urdinger was the sort of captain who was inclined to personally see to important missions. The only real question in Geran’s mind was whether Urdinger had conceived the plans to loot the barrows, deal with Aesperus, and assassinate Jarad Erstenwold himself, or simply followed the orders of Lady Darsi or some other high-ranking member of House Veruna.

Geran reached the intersection with Plank Street and turned the corner to Erstenwold’s. The first sign of trouble was the two mercenaries in tabards of green and white standing outside the door of Mirya’s store with insolent smirks. Passersby gave them a wide berth, staying well clear of the doorway. The next sign was the sound of breaking glass and coarse laughter from inside.

Geran’s step faltered. “Ah, damn it all,” he muttered. “Geran, you fool!” The Veruna men were back, vandalizing the place to teach Mirya a lesson for letting him stand up for her. But whether it was a message for him or a message for her, he wasn’t going to stand by and let Darsi Veruna’s mercenaries hurt Mirya or drive her out of business. I think I’ve had about enough of Darsi Veruna’s hired blades, he decided. He paused in the shadow of a doorway and quickly spoke a couple of his swordmage spells. Then he crossed the street, heading for the steps where the mercenaries waited.

“Find another store, friend,” one of the men said coldly. “This one’s closed.”

“That’s not for you to say,” Geran replied, and he whipped his cloak free of his shoulders, dropping it into the muddy street without breaking stride. His right hand rode on his sword hilt. “Now get out of my sight, because Torm knows I’ve had all I can stand of your stink in my town.”

“Damn it, Terth! That’s him!” the second man said to the first. “That’s Geran Hulmaster!”

“I don’t care if he’s the king of Cormyr,” the first armsman said. He set his hand on the hilt of his own sword and grinned in challenge at Geran. “I don’t mean to step aside for him.”

“Sanhaer astelie!” Geran snarled.

He lunged forward and caught the first Veruna man with his bare hands by the belt buckle and the collar. With the burst of magical strength the spell gave him, he simply plucked the man right off the top step, holding him above his head. He wheeled and took three strides with the Veruna bladesman waving and kicking helplessly in midair before he rammed the man headfirst into a big barrel full of rainwater that stood by the corner of the store. The man’s feet kicked and scissored in the air, but it was a big barrel, and it was full; it rocked but didn’t tip.

“Stay there as long as you like!” Geran snapped.

He heard the rasp of steel against wood and leather behind him and turned to face the second Veruna man hurrying down the porch. Geran swept his elven backsword from its sheath, flinging water from his wet sleeves, and bounded forward to meet the man. The mercenary aimed a high cut at Geran’s head, but Geran batted the blade over his head and then laid the man’s swordarm open from elbow to wrist. The mercenary’s sword clattered across the cobblestones, and the man hissed a curse as he jerked his arm back. With the last glimmer of his strength spell, Geran seized him by his good arm with one hand, spun in a half-circle, and propelled the wounded man headlong into the side of the building. The Veruna man hit hard and went down in a jingle of mail, splattering blood from his wounded arm all over the whitewashed timber.

Without even pausing to think about it, Geran leaped up the steps into the Erstenwold storefront. Two more Veruna men were inside. One-the mercenary sergeant Bann, whom Geran had seen in the store the last time he visited-had dragged Mirya out from behind her counter and stood holding her with his hand knotted in her dark hair. The other man was systematically breaking every jar of goods on the shelves behind the counter.

“Let go of her,” Geran said coldly.

Bann looked up in surprise as Geran stormed in, but the big mercenary recovered quickly. “You know, I’ve been waiting for this,” he remarked. He dragged Mirya out of his way and shoved her violently to the floor, then slowly drew his own blade. “I wonder if you’re man enough to meet me steel to steel, or do you need to lean on your damned elven witchery?”

“Mirya, get out of the way,” Geran said. He waited a moment for her to pick herself up from the floor. Her chin was already beginning to bruise, but her eyes blazed with an icy fury, and she threw her shoulders back and walked proudly to the doorway leading back toward the rest of her storehouse.

“He’s strong, but he’s slow, Geran,” she said. “Try not to kill him in my shop if you can help it.”

“Done,” Geran said. He glided forward, point low and guard high, and stamped his lead foot down as he started with a series of short slashes at the mercenary’s legs. Bann parried the first and the second, then just missed the third and earned a quick cut above the knee. He swore and beat Geran’s point up into the air, then put his size and power into a whistling backhand cut that Geran caught with a sliding block and stepped away from. Steel rang shrilly on steel as the two men traded cuts and parries.

“You ain’t that good without your magic, are you?” Bann grunted. But a trickle of sweat beaded at the man’s brow, and his breath grew heavier.

“I’m not in any particular hurry,” Geran replied. He let his momentum circle him around and attacked the lead leg again as Bann turned to follow him. This time he buried three inches of his point in the meat of Bann’s thigh just under his mail, and the Veruna bladesman grunted and hobbled back, beating Geran’s point away again. “I’ve got hours to slowly cut you to pieces.”

“Cyric take me if you do!” Bann swore, and he suddenly lunged forward, bulling straight for Geran to catch the blades breast-to-breast. The bigger man grinned and pressed down, shoving the swordmage back three paces across the old, smooth floorboards. Geran’s boots slid without giving him purchase, and he started to stumble-but he caught his back foot against one of the posts in the center of the room, bent both knees a bit, and shoved back and up with all his strength. He might not have been as big as the Veruna man, but he was quick and strong, and he knocked Bann’s sword up over his head.

Before the mercenary could recover, Geran simply slugged him hard in the mouth with the heavy hilt of his sword. He felt teeth shatter, and the Veruna man spun away from the blow, blood splattering from his mashed lips. Geran cut his back leg out from under him, and Bann went to the floor heavily, at which point Geran kicked his sword away and struck him senseless with another kick.

“I was a pretty good swordsman before I went to Myth Drannor, you ox-brained fool,” he said to the unconscious Veruna man. Then he glanced around for the other, the one behind the counter.

The last mercenary glared at him and started to edge his way around the counter, moving to get clear. His hand settled on his sword hilt as he moved to put the open door at his back.

“You-get out of here now, or I’ll feather you right in the eye, eh?” Mirya spoke in a voice that was deadly and certain.

Geran glanced around. Mirya had quietly slipped back behind the counter to retrieve a small but efficient-looking crossbow, which she’d leveled at the other Veruna man. Evidently the fellow had been so caught up in watching his sergeant fight that he’d forgotten to keep an eye on her.

The man spat once on the floor and backed up a step. “You’ll be sorry for this,” he said.

“Drag that thickheaded fool with you when you go,” Geran said, nodding at Bann. The last Veruna man scowled, but he grasped the big sergeant under his arms and dragged him to the door.

Mirya kept her crossbow trained on him until he backed out of the door then slowly lowered it. She shuddered and set the weapon down on the countertop. “May demons carry off those brigands and all their kin, straight to the bottom of the blasted Abyss. What have I got that’s worth their trouble?”

Geran motioned for her to wait. “Just a moment,” he told her. He turned his back on Mirya and stepped out onto the porch, sword still in hand; a small crowd of townsfolk stood and stared at him. The last Veruna man had Bann upright, aided by the mercenary with the wounded arm. The two of them shot murderous glances back at the swordmage as they retreated back down the street. Geran glanced over to the corner. The water-barrel lay on its side, and there was no sign of the man he’d dropped into it. The swordmage looked at the nearest person, an old dwarf in a crumpled hat. “The other one ran off?” he asked.

“Aye, m’lord,” the dwarf grunted. He smiled crookedly at Geran. “Half-drownded he was, but he tipped himself over an’ crawled out.”

“My thanks,” Geran replied. He wouldn’t have wanted to drown the Veruna man, which is why he came out to make sure the sellsword had actually escaped from the barrel… but coming within an inch of drowning the fellow did not bother him at all.

He drew an oilcloth from a small pouch by his scabbard and wiped down the fine steel blade as he stepped back inside. With a graceful flourish he sheathed the sword and faced Mirya in the wreckage of her business. She stood with her arms hugged close to her body, watching him with an absent frown creasing her brow.

“Are you hurt, Mirya?” he asked quietly.

She reached up to touch her jaw and shook her head. “I’ve taken no hurt. But if you hadn’t come along when you did, I’ve a feeling it was going to get a lot worse.”

“I wish I could promise you that they won’t trouble you anymore, but I can’t.” Geran stooped down to right a small keg of nails that had been kicked over on its side. “I think you need to hire a couple of good men to guard your place. Or close up shop for a tenday or two, keep to yourself, and stay safe until things settle down.”

“I know it.” Mirya went to the door, closed it, and threw the bolt. Then she turned to study the damage to the shelves and wares and took a deep breath. “What a mess they’ve made of the place. It’ll take me all the night to clean this up.”

“Mirya, I’m sorry that I brought this on you. I thought that I could solve your problems for you with a few hard words and a show of steel. That’s what I know how to do. I suppose I felt that I owed it to Jarad… and you. But I shouldn’t have stepped into the middle of your troubles without asking.”

Mirya didn’t reply for a time. She reached up to brush her disarranged hair out of her eyes. Her braid had come lose during the struggle. “Thank Ilmater that Selsha’s back at the house with my mother,” she finally said. “If she’d been here… I haven’t the heart to even think about it.” She sighed and found a seat on a heap of grain-filled sacks. “Whether you were here or no, the Merchant Council would still trouble me, Geran Hulmaster. They aim to drive all the smaller merchants out of town to make more room for Veruna and Marstel and the other important companies. They’ve already arranged the harmach’s laws to suit them, and that’s not enough, so they mean to ruin the rest of us. Maybe you’ve got the right of it, and it’s your stubbornness as brought those brigands back to my shop today. But I’m beginning to think that your way of things might be exactly the change that’s needed in this town.”

“I’m only one man,” Geran answered. He shook his head. He never would have imagined that things could turn so ugly in Hulburg in just a few years, but if Mirya said it was so, he believed her. He found an overturned barrel, rolled it up on its end, and seated himself on it. “Listen, Mirya, I came to see you for a different reason… there’s something I need to tell you. I’ve found out a few things about Jarad’s death. And you should know that House Veruna is at the bottom of it.”

She glanced sharply at him and nodded once. Clearly, Mirya was not surprised to hear that. “Were the barrow robbers Veruna men?”

“Yes, they were-and you haven’t heard a quarter of the story yet.” He began the tale of how he’d spent the last tenday with his visit to the barrow where Jarad Erstenwold had been killed, the days he and Hamil had spent spying out House Veruna’s enterprises, and the decision to retrace Jarad’s steps and visit the other barrows. He recounted the visit to Rosestone and his decision to find the barrow of Terlannis before the Verunas could pillage it, and told her about what he and Hamil had found there and the ambush waiting outside when they emerged.

Mirya listened intently, her keen eyes never leaving Geran’s face. When Geran described how Aesperus had made an appearance, her eyes widened and she leaned forward. “The King in Copper himself,” she breathed. “Everybody’s told tales of that one for years, and all this time I’ve believed they were nought but stories.”

“He knew me for a Hulmaster, but other than that, I was almost beneath his notice,” Geran said. “He was only interested in the book. He left after he took it from me, but not before he told Urdinger that Veruna had met their end of the bargain.”

“Bargain? What bargain?”

“I didn’t find out. Hamil and I made a break for it after Aesperus left. Our chances didn’t look good, but the sorcerer we met at the first barrow showed up again and started slinging spells. We were able to fight off the Verunas in the confusion. Anfel and his men rode off, but we lost our horses and had to walk back. We didn’t get back to Hulburg until early this afternoon,” Geran finished. “I came to see you as soon as I could leave Griffonwatch.”

“So the Veruna mercenaries opened the barrows to find this book for Aesperus,” Mirya murmured, more to herself than to Geran. “Jarad stood in their way, and for that they killed him. Stealing barrow-gold I might’ve guessed, but searching for Aesperus’s spellbook? That’s a dark and strange tale, and there’s no doubt of it.” She remained silent for a long moment, looking down at her lap. Then she shook herself and raised her face to Geran again. “So what does the harmach mean to do about it?”

“I’m not sure. As you know, the Verunas can hide behind the laws of concession. My uncle can’t lightly set those aside, no matter how much he might want to.” Geran scowled. “I think that he feels that he’s got to give Sergen and his Council Watch a chance to show where their loyalties lie. Of course, when I told my tale in front of Sergen and the harmach, Sergen was quick to speak in Veruna’s defense. He went so far as to suggest that my friend Hamil and I were the barrow-robbers and were casting accusations at House Veruna to cover our own crimes.”

Mirya’s mouth twisted in a small, bitter smile. “He did not!”

“He did. Even my uncle-who’s tried hard to believe the best about Sergen for fifteen years-had a hard time with that.”

“Did Sergen have aught to do with the whole scheme?”

“I couldn’t say. He might have been protecting Veruna as a matter of simple self-interest. It seems that he’s prospered greatly with the rise in House Veruna’s fortunes, and that might be reason enough for Sergen to side against me.” Geran smiled humorlessly. “Then again, Sergen’s hated me since we were children. I’m sure that had something to do with it too. We had hard words for each other in front of my uncle. Sergen won’t forget them. Nor will I.”

Mirya started to say something else, but a sharp rap at the window beside the bolted door interrupted her. Geran glanced around behind him; the old dwarf from across the street was peering inside. The dwarf met his eyes through the wavy glass and gave a sharp jerk of his head before ducking away.

“Now what was that about?” Mirya said.

“Trouble. I think the Verunas are coming back.” Geran stood. He could leave and try to avoid further trouble, but they might take it out on Mirya. The best thing might be to meet them in the street, distance himself from Erstenwold’s, and try to keep the mercenaries’ attention on him.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, unlocking a spell in his mind, and breathed the words for his silversteel veil. “I’ll meet them outside.”

Mirya didn’t protest. She simply met his eyes and nodded slowly. “I’ll ask the neighbors to send for help,” she said and hurried out the back of the store.

Geran moved to the door, unshot the bolt, and stepped out onto the porch. He glanced down the street; three men in green-and-white tabards pushed through the passersby. He descended from the store’s covered porch to the cobblestones and strode out into the middle of Plank Street to await them. Two of them were men he hadn’t seen before

… but the third was Anfel Urdinger, wearing his armor of black plate under his Veruna tabard. The captain’s face was set in an angry scowl. The three Veruna mercenaries came to a halt seven paces away from him, and the people moving about on the street nearby fell silent to listen and watch.

“You’ve made a serious mistake,” Urdinger grated. “Trying to beat me to my prize up on the Highfells was one thing. The book was there for the taking, after all. But now you’re interfering in our business. My House paid well for our place in this wretched little town. If you think a few brave words and some elf-magic are going to make me surrender it, you’re dead wrong, Hulmaster.”

“It seems to me that your House’s place in this town consists of robbing Hulburg blind, threatening unarmed women, and dealing with the harmach’s enemies,” Geran retorted. “I’d suggest that you ought to change your ways, but somehow I doubt that would make much of an impression. So I suppose I’ll have to frame my point in terms you can understand: Every time a Veruna man hurts a Hulburgan or damages his property, I’ll make certain that he soon regrets it.”

“Fool,” the mercenary captain spat. “When you draw steel against a man in our colors, you draw steel against all of us. When we’re done with you, you’ll never hold a sword again.”

The other two mercenaries started to circle slowly around Geran. The swordmage shifted his stance a step but kept his eyes on Urdinger. The mercenary captain shrugged his cape over his shoulder, clearing his sword hilt, and then Geran saw something familiar: On the mercenary captain’s right hip rode an elven dagger with a pommel shaped like a sprig of holly.

Geran stopped and stood his ground, narrowing his eyes. “Where did you get that dagger, Urdinger?” he asked in a cold voice.

The mercenary glanced down at his hip with a frown, then he looked back up with a short rasp of cruel laughter. “What, this? I suppose I found it out on the Highfells. Why do you care?”

“I gave that dagger to Jarad Erstenwold three years ago.” Geran drew his sword in one easy motion, leveling the point at the Veruna captain. “I name you murderer, thief, and tomb-robber, Anfel Urdinger. And I name you a craven coward as well, since you seem to be unable to challenge a son of Hulburg without a three-to-one advantage in numbers.”

The Mulmasterite’s coarse amusement died in his throat, and an angry flush reddened his face. Geran had chosen his barb well; in Mulmaster, words such as Geran’s were words to kill over. With two of his own armsmen and a handful of Hulburgan bystanders close at hand, Urdinger could not let it pass. “No man calls me a coward and lives,” the mercenary hissed.

One of the Veruna armsmen spoke. “Captain Urdinger, he’s baiting you-”

“Shut your mouth!” Urdinger snarled. “And stand aside, both of you. This lies between me and him.” He drew his own blade, a well-made long sword engraved with the image of a serpentine dragon. The captain quickly moved the blade through several quick passes, slicing the air as he settled the sword in his grip, and then he advanced on Geran. “I’ll have satisfaction for your insults, my lord. You’d have been wiser to keep your accusations to yourself.”

With a sudden martial shout, the Mulmasterite sprang at Geran and attacked. He slashed high, recovered from Geran’s parry with a jab at the swordmage’s face, and then lunged quickly at Geran’s belt-buckle while Geran was still leaning back. Geran barely knocked Urdinger’s point aside. The mercenary was a fine swordsman, noticeably quicker and more skilled than Bann, and for a few moments Geran was hard pressed to keep up a defense, let alone riposte. Another vicious thrust at his midsection he only deflected, and the Mulmasterite’s point stopped only when the silversteel veil turned it away from piercing Geran under his right-side ribs.

“Elf witchery,” the Veruna man snarled. “And you accuse me of cowardice!”

“You wear steel plate,” Geran answered. “My spells are my armor.”

Urdinger attacked again, trying out Geran’s measure more deliberately, seeking an opening. Geran fell back, choosing to use his footwork more as he studied Urdinger in return. The Veruna man was a master of the Mulman style-hard strikes, hard parries, an emphasis on attack over defense. It was fairly common in the Moonsea lands. The cobblestones scuffed under his boots as he circled Urdinger, and the shrill ring of steel against steel filled the narrow street. Geran’s own style was much less formal. He’d spent his early years largely teaching himself, learning to fit his bladework to his own strengths instead of the other way around. He’d come by his formal schooling much later, in Myth Drannor, learning from elf blademasters who had studied their art for centuries.

A small scowl of frustration began to work its way across Urdinger’s face. He’d thrown himself into a sudden, fierce assault, but Geran had survived it, and in the space of three heartbeats, the initiative in the duel passed from the mercenary to the swordmage. Geran shifted from parries and ripostes to more deliberate and dangerous attacks, throwing Urdinger on the defensive. Steel flickered and darted in the fading daylight, and the two duelists exchanged places several times in a row as Geran’s passing attacks carried him to Urdinger’s right flank, and the Mulmasterite quickly reciprocated.

“Stand still, damn you!” the Mulmasterite growled.

Geran saw his chance. He feinted with his feet, bluffing at another passing attack, and Urdinger anticipated the move and gave way too soon. With the quickness of a striking serpent, Geran circled his point under the Mulmasterite’s parry and then up and around in a looping cut that found the juncture of helm and shoulder. The last four inches of Geran’s point slashed through Urdinger’s neck, flicking scarlet drops across the street, and then Geran gave back a couple of steps.

Urdinger grunted and recovered his guard, ignoring the blood coursing from his collar and bubbling between his bared teeth. He fixed his eyes on Geran and returned to the attack for two, then three swings, each growing wilder, and then he stumbled to all fours. His sword clattered to the cobblestones, and his eyes widened in shock.

“Not… like… this…” he rasped.

Geran lowered his point and gazed coldly at the Veruna captain. “I met you steel to steel, Urdinger,” he said. “You might be a murderer and a thief, but I must say it: You’re not a coward.”

The Veruna captain pitched forward to the street and fell still, blood pooling beneath him. Geran knelt and pulled the elf-dagger in its sheath from Urdinger’s sword belt. “This was Jarad’s,” he said to no one in particular, and then he straightened and looked around. The townsfolk stood watching him, not saying a word. The remaining two Veruna men stared at their fallen captain with astonishment. Geran ignored them. He shook the blood from his sword and sheathed it.

“Word’s on its way to Griffonwatch, Geran,” Mirya said. She stood on the steps of Erstenwold’s, her face set in a worried frown. She wouldn’t miss Anfel Urdinger, of course, but Mirya had sense enough to see that this wasn’t the end of the affair. “The Shieldsworn ought to be here soon enough. Are you wounded?”

He realized that his side hurt, and glanced down. A small round spot of blood stained his tunic on the right side of his torso, where Urdinger’s blade had pinked him. He was lucky. If his spells hadn’t held, that could have been a mortal thrust. Not all of Veruna’s blades are as slow or clumsy as Bann, he told himself. Urdinger might have beaten him on a different day, and there were likely other Verunas who could as well. “No, I’m fine,” he rasped.

“What do you aim to do now?” she asked.

Geran remembered standing on frosted grass beneath the last leaves of autumn under the towers of Myth Drannor, watching the blood drip from his elven steel. He could still taste the rich, wet scent of the fallen leaves. He remembered looking up from his maimed enemy and meeting Alliere’s stricken gaze, the cold sick shock that marked her perfect face, and the look of her turning away from him.

He raised his eyes to Mirya’s face. She didn’t flinch away from him; she was made of sterner stuff. But there’d be trouble from his duel with Veruna’s captain, and they both knew it. It was inevitable. Geran shrugged. “I’ll wait for the Shieldsworn,” he said.