Swordmage

NINETEEN

28 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One

Early on the morning after the duel with Urdinger, Harmach Grigor surprised Geran with a sharp rap at his chamber door. Geran had just finished his morning exercises and was preparing to refresh his arcane wards and spells, but he set aside his tome and stood when the old lord limped into the room, leaning on his cane. Grigor glanced at the spellbook. “You’re more of a student now than you once were,” he observed. “You had little interest in arcane matters when you were a younger man, but I see that you’ve learned much in the years you’ve been away from home.”

“I didn’t know it myself until I went to Myth Drannor,” Geran answered. “I learned Elvish there and studied under an elf bladesinger named Daried Selsherryn. My swordplay caught his eye, but he saw that I also had a talent for magic that I’d never suspected.” He closed his spellbook. “What can I do for you, Uncle Grigor?”

“I hope you will forgive the interruption, but Sergen came to see me shortly after sunrise this morning. He presented a demand from House Veruna and the Merchant Council for your immediate arrest on charges of murder.”

Geran snorted in disgust. “The forms might not have been strictly observed, but it was a duel, not a murder,” he said. He’d told Grigor, Kara, and Hamil about his encounter with the Veruna captain the previous evening, expecting that his uncle and his cousin would be appalled by his rashness. To his surprise, Grigor simply heard out his account of events and then asked him to remain at Griffonwatch until the consequences of the duel sorted themselves out. The fact that the harmach was standing in his room seemed to suggest that those were already upon him. “I fought Urdinger fairly-he struck first, by the way-and the other Veruna men stayed out of it. There were many witnesses.”

“Oh, I believe you, Geran. I told Sergen as much. He argued that until the circumstances of the duel had been verified by the council’s inquest, you should be remanded to the Council Watch and held. I said that I’d arrange for a fair and independent inquiry, but that you’d remain at liberty until it was concluded-not that I expected any fair inquest to incriminate you if the accounts I’d heard were accurate.” The harmach paced over to the window-seat in Geran’s room and leaned against the padded bench. “At that point Sergen insisted that you’d proven yourself a murderous scofflaw several times over, and that you were singlehandedly ruining our family fortunes by ignoring Veruna’s rights and protections under the laws of concession.”

“Ruining our fortunes or his?” Geran muttered darkly. He looked over to his uncle. “What did you say?”

“I told him that his generous interpretation of the laws of concession did not take precedence over the harmach’s interpretation of the rest of the harmach’s laws, and that as far as I knew, I was still Harmach of Hulburg. I’m afraid Sergen left after that.”

“I’m not surprised. The Verunas missed their chance at me on the Highfells and then again yesterday, so they sent Sergen to persuade you to arrest me for them.” Geran remembered Veruna’s mercenaries wrecking Mirya’s store, and his mouth tightened. It was bad enough that foreigners had such contempt for the harmach that they believed they could simply lay the town under tribute and plunder it in the guise of trade laws. But his stepcousin was clearly doing everything in his power to ensure their success. The question was, why? Sergen must have been bought completely-or smitten, perhaps-by Darsi Veruna, since he was so faithfully working in her interests… but something about that struck Geran as not quite right. Sergen had always been keenly aware of his own self-interest, even as a boy. It wasn’t like him to faithfully work at anything he didn’t want for himself. Which meant that Sergen wasn’t seeing to Veruna’s interests by keeping his Merchant Council out of the way of the foreign costers. He was likely seeing to his own. Perhaps the Verunas were working for Sergen instead of the other way around. “That must be it,” Geran murmured aloud.

“Some new thought has struck you, I see.” Grigor set his hands atop the head of his cane. “What is it, Geran?”

“I think Sergen means to supplant you, Uncle. He doesn’t work for House Veruna-they work for him. Everything he’s done to increase the power of the Merchant Council, he’s done to add to his own base of power. You must move against him before he moves against you.”

“Geran, even if you’re right, I cannot easily remove him,” Grigor said wearily. “What happens if I attempt to oust Sergen, and he still retains control of the Merchant Council? I must tell you frankly that I don’t know if my Shieldsworn could overcome the council’s combined forces. Even if my Shieldsworn succeeded in disarming the foreign companies, we’d face the complete ruin of Hulburg’s commerce, because you can be sure that the merchants will put a stop to all trade in or out until they are once again content with the state of affairs. Unless, of course, the Bloody Skulls prove as dangerous as Kara fears, in which case we all might be swept into the sea because we were too busy fighting each other to defend our borders against Warlord Mhurren’s horde.”

Geran stood in silence for a long moment. He hadn’t really appreciated the difficult course his uncle was trying to chart. Do nothing and allow the foreign interests to devour Hulburg a small bite at a time… or resist and risk catastrophe? In that light it was not unreasonable to seek some accommodation with the foreigners, an understanding about just what belonged to them and what remained the harmach’s. “Would it be better if I left Hulburg?” he finally said. “It seems that I’ve brought troubles to your doorstep that you hardly need. If I went back to Tantras, Sergen would no longer have the pretext of my so-called scofflaw deeds to challenge your authority.”

“You didn’t cause our troubles, Geran. They were here before you returned, waiting for you to find them.” The harmach glanced out the window; the day promised more warm spring rain, somewhat out of season even for the end of the month of Ches. “I think you’ve opened my eyes to the dangers that I’ve been trying to grope my way through for some time now. I am not happy to see these things as they are, but only a fool would hope to remain in ignorance instead of facing an ugly truth.” The old lord laughed softly and without humor. “On the other hand, I’m pleased that at least one of the men who murdered Jarad Erstenwold has met with justice, and I’m pleased that you took a stand against extortion in any guise. Darsi Veruna was long overdue for just the sort of check you’ve given her thugs; they’ve bullied honest Hulburgans for too long. But now I fear for your life. The Verunas will certainly seek a way to retaliate against you, so that they will not appear weak to their rivals and competitors.”

“I won’t hide in Griffonwatch,” Geran answered him. “House Veruna struck their bargain with the King in Copper for a reason, and I still mean to find out why. And I don’t believe for a moment that Sergen will leave Mirya Erstenwold alone, not as long as I’m here.” He shrugged. “What’s happened so far is only the first pass of steel in a long fight.”

“I can’t have you pursue a vendetta against House Veruna, Geran,” the harmach said sternly. “Like it or not, the laws of concession apply to you as much as any Hulburgan. You can defend life or property, as you did against the Verunas wrecking the Erstenwold store, but they must offer you a cause to intervene. After all, any free man is obligated to protect others who are threatened with harm. But, whatever you do, stay out of Veruna’s compounds or tradeyards. If you fall into their power in one of the concessions, I won’t be able to protect you.”

Geran grimaced, but he nodded. Trade concessions were much the same all over the lands of the Inner Sea; in effect, the property owned by House Veruna was a little piece of Mulmaster in the middle of Hulburg’s dock district, just as the Red Sail’s storehouses in Impiltur were protected by the laws of Tantras. But something else in the harmach’s words had given him the glimmers of an idea… “I understand, Uncle Grigor,” he replied. “I’ll watch where I step.”

“Good lad,” said Grigor. He stood up slowly, gripped Geran’s shoulder, and limped out of the room.

Geran sat down at the small writing desk and gazed out the window for a time, organizing his thoughts. Then he returned to his magical studies and finished weaving his wards and protections. He threw his good wool cloak over his shoulders, buckled on his sword belt, and went in search of Hamil.

It took longer than he expected. Hamil was nowhere in the Harmach’s Tower or the upper bailey. Geran finally resorted to asking the servants and guards and found the halfling in the castle’s sallet, a large, wooden-floored practice room near the lower gatehouse. Hamil was engaged in a furious, hard-fought bout against Kara, so Geran waited and watched. He’d known for years that Hamil was one of the fastest blades he’d ever seen and an expert acrobat as well, but he remembered Kara as exceptionally quick footed and agile. Both fought with buckler and rapier-equally unfamiliar to each, really, since Hamil preferred knives, and Kara usually carried a long sword. She was twenty inches taller and had a considerable advantage in reach and strength; when Hamil managed to get inside her guard, his smaller stature turned to his advantage. While Geran watched, Kara raced across the floor and spun past Hamil, her practice sword flicking out in a lightning-quick passing cut, but Hamil batted the stroke high with his buckler and lunged at her hip. Kara was not there; she was already moving away, opening the range to restore the advantage of her reach.

Hamil pressed closer and quickly somersaulted up under Kara’s blade, but the ranger stood her ground, twisting away from his point, and brought her own rapier straight down from overhead in an inverted thrust that touched Hamil at the back of the neck. Geran smiled to himself; she’d met Hamil’s unorthodox attack with a similarly unorthodox riposte. The halfling’s roll would have worked better with a shorter blade; it simply took Hamil too long to ready his attack with the rapier, though Geran did not doubt that he would have spitted most ordinary swordsmen; Kara was almost as quick as he was. “Not bad,” Hamil admitted. He straightened up and gave her a small bow of respect.

“Likewise, Master Hamil,” Kara said with a smile. She stepped back and saluted with her rapier. “I’m afraid I must attend to my duties. If I don’t leave soon, I won’t be able to get back by tomorrow.”

“Riding up to the watchtowers again?” Geran asked.

“I want to have another look around Raven Hill. If the Bloody Skulls mount a raid against us, I think it’ll come from that quarter.” Kara looked at Geran’s cloak and tunic and frowned. “You’re not leaving the castle, are you?”

“I won’t find many more answers here, Kara.”

“The Verunas will be looking for a chance to challenge you, Geran. You’d be wiser not to play their game.”

Geran shrugged and picked up another practice sword from a rack close at hand. He executed several quick blocks. “The Mulmasterites begin to open barrows-Jarad fails to stop them. We learn that Urdinger is seeking something in an ancient priest’s barrow-Hamil and I fail to keep the Infiernadex out of their hands. Sergen’s Merchant Council threatens Hulburg’s small traders-so I try to drive off Veruna thugs who are trying to intimidate and bully Mirya Erstenwold.” The practice sword whistled through the air as he spoke; then Geran shifted from parries to a sudden, fierce thrust at his unseen foe. “Everyone who finds himself in opposition to House Veruna does nothing but parry. I think it’s time for a riposte.”

Kara frowned unhappily. “Geran, what do you intend?”

He turned and looked over to Kara. “Is Durnan Osting still a captain of the Spearmeet?”

“Durnan? Yes, I suppose so.”

Hamil looked up at Geran. “What’s the Spearmeet?”

“My apologies, Hamil. It’s the militia of Hulburg. In the years after the Spellplague, Harmach Angar decreed that all landowning households must arm a spearman and drill together regularly. Most of the old families of the town pass down a mail byrnie, a steel cap, a good hide shield, and some weapons. Some of the townsfolk-especially those who live up in the Winterspear-used to take it quite seriously.”

“Only a few of the musters still gather now,” Kara said. She looked at Geran and folded her arms over her mail shirt. “There hasn’t been much need for the Spearmeet in recent years. What do you want with them?”

“The Spearmeet is made up of old native families like the Erstenwolds,” said Geran. “They’re the people who have the most loyalty to the harmach, and they’ve got little reason to be happy with foreign merchants taking over the town. I think it might be a useful lesson for the Merchant Council if a thousand Hulburgans decided to put on their family mail and shake the rust off their old spears. Besides, if the orcs of Thar are coming, it might be a good idea anyway.”

“They’re not professional soldiers, Geran. I doubt that the Verunas or Sokols or any of the others would be much impressed. But still, you may be right about the Bloody Skulls.” Kara brushed some of the perspiration from her face and then nodded. “I’ll speak to the harmach about calling out the Spearmeet simply to count heads and see who turns out. It couldn’t hurt.”

“Thank you, Kara,” Geran said. He looked over to Hamil and asked, “How do you feel about a visit to a taphouse?”

“I regard the prospect with pleasure, as always,” Hamil answered. “But isn’t it a little early?”

“Not if you want to speak to the master of the house before his establishment is full of customers demanding service.” Geran waited while Hamil stripped off his practice jerkin, pulled his fine ruffled shirt over his torso, and threw on his cloak. Then they took their leave of Kara and left the sallet. The taphouse Geran had in mind was close by Griffonwatch, so he and Hamil strolled down the castle’s causeway on foot through the light rain.

In the square of the Harmach’s Foot, Geran turned right and followed the Vale Road to the north, away from the town proper. Wagons and carts creaked by alongside them, a steady parade of provisions heading out to the mining camps, and farmers headed in the other direction, bringing food into town for sale. A couple of hundred yards brought the two companions to the Troll and Tankard, on the northern edge of the town. It was a big, sprawling building, its lower floor made of heavy fieldstone, its upper story timber. The taphouse stood astride the ancient walls of Hulburg. Even though they had been destroyed centuries ago, a low mound of broken masonry ran from the building’s foundation to the riverbank. “Here we are,” Geran said. He led Hamil to the sturdy front door and let himself inside.

The interior of the taphouse was as drafty and drab as the inside of a barn. The air was thick with the smell of brewing beer, and dozens of small kegs were stacked up along the walls. Little daylight filtered in through the small, dirty windows high overhead. “Charming,” Hamil muttered. “I can see why you favor the place, Geran.”

A beefy, brown-bearded man with a swaying belly under his apron appeared from the back room, carrying a heavy keg over his shoulder. “Good morning, sirs!” he said in a booming voice. “The taproom doesn’t open until noon, but I can sell you a keg or two now if that’s what you’re needing.”

“I’m not here for your beer, Durnan Osting. I’m here for you.” Geran threw back his hood and shook the water from his hair.

“Lord Geran!” the brewmaster said. “Well, I’ll be! I heard you were back in town. And I heard all sorts o’ tales, too-stories o’ fighting Chainsmen in the Tailings, battling ghosts up on the Highfells, learning some manners to them Veruna sellswords, and a duel ’gainst Anfel Urdinger yesterday eve. The taphouse was full o’ the talk. Is it true?”

“Some of it, at least. I don’t recall fighting any ghosts, but I’ve crossed blades with a few of the Veruna men in the last tenday-including Urdinger.”

“I heard you killed him.”

Geran nodded. “I did.”

The brewmaster grinned fiercely. “Good! Never did like that red-haired bastard anyway. Wish I could’ve seen it myself.” He set down his keg and brushed his big hands against his apron. “You said you wanted me for something. What can I do for you, m’lord?”

“I’ve seen how House Veruna’s men intimidate Hulburg’s merchants. Are they troubling you too?”

The brewmaster frowned. “It ain’t just the Verunas. All o’ the big foreign merchants collect so-called dues for the gods-be-cursed council: the Verunas, the Sokols, the Double Moon men, the Jannarsks of Phlan-they’ve got the Crimson Chains on their payroll, believe it or not-and even the Marstels, who’re supposed to be Hulburgans. They’re leaning on me and me boys too. I ain’t knuckled under yet, but now they’re threatening folks who do business with me. If the provisioners and smaller alehouses ain’t buying me brew, well, things’ll have to change for the Troll and Tankard.” Durnan looked at the kegs stacked up against the wall and scowled. “It wasn’t so bad last year or the year before, but nowadays… They’re ruining everyone, Lord Geran. The harmach needs to do something about it. Is that why you’re here?”

“Not exactly,” Geran admitted. “My uncle’s got to be careful to respect the concessions, Durnan. He’s convinced that they’re a necessary evil, and I suppose I see that Hulburg can’t get along without them. But I think there’s a lot that can be done that won’t set the harmach directly against the Merchant Council. It just needs to be a little… informal.”

The brewmaster raised an eyebrow. “Go on,” he said.

“The problem with the Merchant Council is that it doesn’t respect the interests of Hulburgans. It exists to protect and enrich foreigners. What we need is a different sort of Merchant Council… an alliance between the small merchants and craftsmen who are under coercion from the foreign Houses. If there were a hundred armed Hulburgans on the street corners, watching to make sure that council thugs couldn’t rough up people or wreck their stores to intimidate them, I think things might be different in town.” Geran leaned against the bar and tapped his hand to the hilt of his sword. “I’ve been trying to keep an eye on Mirya Erstenwold’s shop, but there’s only one of me-”

“Two,” Hamil interjected. “I’m not about to let you fight this out alone, Geran.”

“Two, then, but I need more help,” Geran continued. “I can’t be everywhere at once. We need more blades on our side.”

Durnan scratched at his beard and squinted, thinking it over. Geran remembered that the burly brewmaster was more deliberate than he usually let on with his boisterous manner and loud voice. “It’d take more’n a hundred men,” he finally said. “You’d need more like three or four hundred, since we all got to be able to keep at our trades and provide for our families. I could stand a watch one day in four, and me boys too, and some o’ the stouter fellows who work for us. But we couldn’t all be off on guard every day.”

“I agree. That’s why I was thinking of starting with the Spearmeet.”

Durnan stared at Geran and then let out a sharp bark of laughter. “By Tempus, you don’t do things by half measures, m’lord!”

“How many men are in your muster, Durnan? You’re still a captain of the Spearmeet, aren’t you?”

“Aye, I am. I’ve got two hundred in name, maybe sevenscore in fact. Of those, about a hundred would be worth anything in a fight.”

“What of the other captains? How are their musters?” The Spearmeet was made up of six mustering companies, each about two hundred strong-or at least it had been when Geran was a lad. He didn’t know if that was still true.

“Tresterfin’s boys are pretty good, but the others don’t really measure up to mine or his,” the brewmaster said proudly. “We drill every couple o’ months. Some o’ the other musters ain’t tried that in years. But you could find a couple of dozen good men in each, I’d wager.”

Hamil cleared his throat. “Geran, a hundred men on the street might not be enough. Veruna alone has at least that many, and they’re trained mercenaries.”

“We don’t need to be able to beat them, Hamil,” Geran answered. “We just need to raise the cost of intimidating Hulburg. The harmach’s willing to tolerate the foreign costers, but he certainly won’t tolerate Hulburgans cut down in the streets simply for standing up for themselves. Sergen and his foreign friends know that.”

“It’ll come to a fight before it’s done,” the halfling said. “Mark my words. The council Houses will try to punish men who are standing those watches-burning a few houses or businesses while the men are away protecting their neighbors, or perhaps baiting one of your patrols into an open fight.”

“Be that as it may, we might surprise those foreign bastards and make some o’ them bleed too,” Durnan said. “That’s the way of it with a bully. Sooner or later you’ve got to stand up to him, punch him in the nose, and damn what follows. You might get thrashed, but he’ll think twice ’fore he pushes you again. Besides, we’ll have a lot more eyes than spears on our side. If we tell the folk o’ each neighborhood to make sure they send word quick when they see council men up to no good, we’ll be able to shadow them anywhere they go.” The brewmaster shrugged and picked up his keg again. “Count me in. I’ll send word ’round to my muster. Some of them won’t show their faces since they work for the council Houses, but most o’ my men’ll help.”

“Good,” Geran said. “Who else should I talk to?”

“Burkel Tresterfin, for certain. Wester and Ilkur are fair captains too, and their musters might surprise me. After that, try Lodharrun the smith-he ain’t in the Spearmeet, but there’re a few dwarves what would be happy to stand with us.”

“I will. Can I tell the others to bring the men they need to the Troll and Tankard tomorrow evening to organize a watch scheme?”

Durnan grinned in his big beard. “I’ve always wanted to foment rebellion. For the harmach, of course.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Geran said. He gripped the brewmaster’s hand and then left the old taphouse. The light rain had faded to a mist that hung in the air, drifting in tatters just about the rooftops of the town.

“Let me guess,” Hamil said. “Tresterfin next?”

“Good guess,” Geran said. He nodded at the Vale Road. “The Tresterfin homestead is about two miles outside town.”

Geran and Hamil spent the rest of the day crisscrossing Hulburg and the farms nearby, speaking to dozens of Hulburgans about the Council Watch and what had to be done. Many were people Geran knew well from his boyhood, and he retold the story of his travels in the last ten years so often that he soon shortened the account to a few vague sentences about traveling the Inner Sea lands, visiting Myth Drannor, and buying into the Red Sail Coster of Tantras. A few of the men and women he spoke with declined to help; some feared the retribution of the Council Watch, but others were simply cautious about taking up arms and thought it likely to worsen the situation instead of improve it. They simply hadn’t yet suffered any great harm from the foreigners or reached the point where they were willing to hazard life or property to stand up against them. Two times Geran found that the Shieldmeet captains he was looking for had more or less given up on their musters, but each time the old leaders gave him suggestions for other Hulburgans who might be willing to help out.

Late in the afternoon, Geran headed to Erstenwold’s. He found the building boarded up, with a couple of Mirya’s cousins keeping an eye on the place. They told him that Mirya and Selsha were staying at the old Erstenwold homestead in the Winterspear Vale. Reassured that Mirya’s store was well looked after, Geran and Hamil returned to Griffonwatch for the night.

The next morning, the rain returned in force, and the wind picked up as well. A Moonsea gale was gathering over the cold waters of the small sea, drenching Hulburg with hard-driven rain. Hamil gave Geran a doleful look when Geran told him that they had more people to speak with, but he followed Geran back down into town. Their cloaks were sodden before they reached the bottom of the causeway. The weather was foul enough that the Harmach’s Foot seemed almost deserted, with little of the wagon traffic that normally crowded it in the morning.

“Well, where to now?” Hamil asked. “Please tell me that it’s a short walk to someplace warm and cheerful.”

Geran glanced right and left, trying to decide whom he wished to speak to next. Nearby, a party of dwarves worked to fix a broken wagon axle in the rain; across the small square, several men cloaked against the weather stood beneath the overhang of a smoking-house, arguing prices with the proprietor before large racks where dozens of smoked Moonsea silverfins cured in the open air. “East Street,” he decided. “Vannarshel the fletcher has her workshop there. She used to be quite an archer; I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s taught her sons to shoot as well as she did. Then we might visit Therrik’s Livery, which is nearby.”

They started across the small square, splashing through the puddles and mud gathering between the cobblestones. Then Hamil frowned, and his step slowed. Something isn’t right here, Geran, he said silently. This is an ambush!

Not twenty yards from the castle causeway? Geran thought in surprise. He glanced around behind him and saw the dwarves by the wagon pulling aside the canvas covering. Crossbows waited underneath. The men by the smoking-house suddenly broke off their arguing and turned back to the court, striding toward the two companions. The swordmage had expected some attempt by House Veruna, but not one so brazenly sprung beneath Griffonwatch’s battlements. Besides, none of the men or dwarves around them wore Veruna’s green and white. “Break past the men, leave the dwarves behind,” he hissed to Hamil. Then, as quick as thought, he framed the words for a spell and snapped, “Cuillen mhariel!” His silversteel veil appeared around him, glowing softly in the dim daylight, and Geran sprinted toward the men coming from the smoking-house. Hamil followed a half-step behind.

“Now!” someone shouted. The men in front of him swept out their blades and moved to cut him off; one of them hung back, drawing a wand from his sleeve and aiming it at Geran. From behind he heard the sharp snap! of crossbows firing, and bolts hissed through the air behind him. Two clattered past, skipping along the cobblestones, but a third sank into the back of his calf with a searing jolt of pain. Geran stumbled and rolled heavily to the wet cobblestones, but he let his momentum roll him to his feet again and loped as best as he could toward the swordsmen rushing him. The dwarves might not be so fast to shoot at him if he was in the middle of their allies.

Hamil divined his intent and altered his own course to follow; the halfling threw himself at the feet of the first man he reached, knives flashing, and the fellow cursed and went down as Hamil rolled through his shins. Then Geran met two of the swordsmen at the same time, sweeping out his blade to bat aside one man’s cut. He followed that with a sudden slash at the other swordsman and managed to gash that one’s forehead in a shallow, bloody cut before the man could block his blow. That enemy staggered back, momentarily blinded, so Geran returned to the man on his right.

Then the wizard snarled something in an arcane tongue, and a dazzling violet ray sprang from his wand and struck Geran over his heart. It felt as if he’d been hit with a hammer. All of the sudden his knees grew weak, he staggered unsteadily, and brilliant purple echoes jarred and danced in his eyes as his mind reeled in magical vertigo. A stunning spell of some kind, he realized, and he tried to frame a countering enchantment to clear his mind… but the words simply eluded his grasp. Before he could find them, the other swordsmen were upon him. He opened his eyes just in time to see the pommel of a long sword descending toward his forehead. The blow struck him blind again, and he staggered back over a barrel and tripped, falling to the street. His sword rang shrilly on the cobblestones beside him.

“Geran!” Hamil shouted from some great distance. Then mailed fists and booted feet descended on him in a sudden violent deluge, and darkness took him.