Swordmage

TWENTY-FIVE

10 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One

The wraiths of Aesperus killed swiftly and indiscriminately. Wherever they came across a living person, they struck savagely. As Geran dashed up through the castle toward the Harmach’s Tower, it seemed that he found a murdered servant or guard each time he turned a corner. Each victim died with hardly a mark upon him, simply a pallid white scar wherever a wraith’s weapon had touched living flesh. But their eyes were dark and blank, and their mouths were twisted in silent screams at the horror of their ghostly killers. Shouts of panic and mortal terror echoed through the castle’s corridors, lost amid the shrill cries and sinister calls of the spectral warriors who roamed Griffonwatch.

Rather than risk the castle’s great hall and the dozen wraiths swarming around it, Geran darted into the maze of storerooms and servants’ quarters that surrounded that part of Griffonwatch. Hamil, Mirya, and Sarth hurried to keep up with him, so he slowed his steps just a little-it was all too easy to get lost in Griffonwatch’s deeper hallways, and they hadn’t grown up in the castle as he had. “This way!” he called to them.

He came to a servants’ staircase that climbed up to the East Hall, a large building between the lower bailey and the upper court that housed offices of the harmach’s officials and quarters for dignitaries. Geran swiftly mounted the steps and emerged into a broad hallway with a floor of gleaming hardwood only to find several wraiths hovering nearby. The undead spirits hissed in challenge and flew at him with their pale blades raised to strike. “Wraiths!” the swordmage called over his shoulder.

He quickly wove the words for the silversteel veil. “Cuillen mhariel!” he cried then gave ground, luring the spectral warriors away from the doorway he’d just come through. His companions were only a few steps behind him, and he didn’t want the ghosts to fall on them as soon as they appeared in the hall. “Over here, you foul spirits!”

The wraiths swirled around him, streaking in to stab and slash with their ghostly blades, but Geran’s elf-wrought blade still glimmered with the radiance of his spirit-bane spell. He parried their attacks as if they were striking with weapons of iron, passing one blade past his hip, knocking another’s point down to the ground, and then whirling close to draw his edge across a wraith’s neck as he leaped aside from the third. The shining steel of his blade bit deep into the wraith’s shadowy substance, and a jet of dark mist boiled away from Geran’s cut as he turned to face the remaining two. The wraiths were not stupid; when they came at him again they did so much more cautiously, almost like living warriors who feared his strike. For a moment it was all Geran could do to keep himself alive as the two wraiths sought to trap him between their swords and assailed him from both sides at once. He devoted himself entirely to his own defense, parrying one blade after the other as he continued to circle away from them.

Hamil reached the top of the stairs in a sudden rush of soft footsteps. The halfling took in the situation in a glance and threw himself headlong into the fight, daggers in hand. “We’re coming, Geran!” he cried. He set in against one of the wraiths, his small blades moving in a silver blur as he slashed and punched at his ghostly foe. The wraith screeched and retreated from Hamil’s assault. Even though the daggers weren’t quite real to the phantom, they were enchanted and their magic bit into its spectral flesh. As with Sarth’s spells in the castle’s lower courtyard, the wounds did not last long. In a matter of moments the fraying ghost-stuff knitted itself together again, almost as fast as the halfling could slice it apart. “How do you kill these things?” Hamil snarled.

Geran took advantage of the distraction Hamil was providing to change foes, abandoning his wraith for a moment to jam his gleaming swordpoint in the center of the other’s back. The creature threw back its head and wailed horribly before discorporating. A black chill shocked Geran’s hands as the thing died-so to speak-on the point of his blade.

Mirya hurried into the room, holding her skirts with her hands to manage the stairs. The last wraith whirled and darted for her, and she cried out and threw herself out of the way. Behind her, Sarth leveled his rune-carved rod at the spirit and let loose with a gout of yellow flame. The wraith screeched once and veered away, plunging into a solid brick wall as it fled.

“Have all the shades of the Shadowland got loose in the castle?” Mirya muttered. “Madness and mayhem, that’s the name of this night!”

“Geran, we must leave this place,” the tiefling said. “I do not have magic enough to defeat all of these grim specters. Nor do you.”

“I’ve got to see my family to safety first,” Geran answered. “I can’t leave without them.” Harmach Grigor, Natali and Kirr, Erna, his aunt Terena… none of them would stand a chance against the ghostly warriors. He had to believe that his young cousins were still unharmed. The thought of the two Hulmaster children under the pale blades of Aesperus’s wraiths left him almost helpless with dread.

“They may already-” Sarth began to say, then winced and halted himself. The tiefling’s face was not made for compassion, but his voice was softer when he spoke again. “Of course. I should have thought of that. Lead on.”

Deciding that haste was more important than stealth, Geran turned to his right and ran for the doors leading out into the upper courtyard. He burst out into the cold, pale moonlight. Wraiths darted and flew through the shadows, eyes aglow with malice and hunger. The swordmage crossed the small courtyard quickly, passing two more dead Shieldsworn, and ducked into the Harmach’s Tower. His companions followed. The great room in the tower’s lower floor was deserted. A fire guttered and popped in the hearth, but none of the Hulmasters were there. Quickly Geran dashed up the stairs to the family’s bedchambers, throwing open each door as he passed. He found no one on the second floor, and in a growing panic he ran up to the third floor and began to search the rooms there as well. “They’re not here!” he cried.

“They might’ve fled already,” Hamil said. “Where would they go, Geran?”

“The postern gate?” he guessed. It was far below them now, but passages below the trophy room led to deeper armories and Griffonwatch’s small, well-protected side gate. He shook his head and checked the rooms again. Then he hurried back down the steps to the great room. It was possible that no one remained alive in the castle other than the four of them, but he could still make out the occasional distant scream echoing through the halls, so at least some of the guards or servants were still fighting for their lives. “Let me check the library first, the harmach’s often there.”

He rushed back out into the courtyard. Ghostly forms flitted through the shadows; he reached out and grasped Mirya’s hand. “Stay close,” he warned. He started along the side of the court, heading for the castle’s library. But Mirya suddenly stopped and pulled back.

“Geran, look!” she whispered. “The chapel!”

Geran halted and looked around. Across the upper courtyard, the castle’s disused chapel was surrounded by a dozen of Aesperus’s minions. The spirits were forming ranks before the door leading to the shrine. As each wraith took its place alongside its fellows, all of the spirits gathered there grew sharper, clearer, and more substantial. More of the spirits were streaming up to join their fellows. “Of course,” he murmured. Holy ground often deterred evil spirits, and Grigor certainly would have known that.

“I think the wraiths are gathering for an assault,” Hamil said in a low voice.

“Can they get in?” Mirya asked.

“I don’t know,” Geran replied. He looked over to Sarth. “Can they?”

The tiefling’s eyes glowed faintly red in the dark courtyard. He studied the scene and shook his head. “Not yet, but the old spells and blessings on the chapel do not seem very strong to me. They will not last long. And even if they can keep out the wraiths, there may be more powerful undead nearby. Should Aesperus himself come here, nothing will impede him.”

One of the wraiths reached out with its spectral hand and tested the door, which trembled a little at the ghost’s touch. Inside a child screamed in panic. Without another moment’s thought, Geran ran across the courtyard, brandishing his glowing sword, and darted into the middle of the assembled wraiths, swinging wildly. The blade left swaths of sparkling white light in its path like a wake of tiny stars. The wraiths shrieked in their cold, terrible voices and recoiled from its touch. Sarth joined in then, hurling blasts of fire that singed the wraiths’ shadowstuff and drove them back. “Hold on!” Geran shouted. “We’re coming!”

He fought his way to the door amid a swirl of phantom blades and leering dead faces. One icy cold blade kissed the nape of his neck, and another seared his left hip, but he cleared the ghostly warriors away. Mirya and Hamil darted into the doorway and fumbled at the door. Geran put his back to them and wove a web of brilliant elven steel in the icy night, keeping the wraiths at bay. “Hamil, the door!”

I’m working on it! Hamil answered. He worked frantically with the point of one dagger, trying to get it beneath the bar on the far side. There! The bar clattered to the floor, and Hamil threw open the door.

Inside the chapel the Hulmasters stood clustered close by the altar of Tyr. Harmach Grigor held a magic wand in one hand and stood a little in front of his daughter-in-law, Erna, and his grandchildren, Natali and Kirr. The children sobbed quietly, both frightened terribly but doing their best to be brave. Geran’s Aunt Terena-sister of the harmach, Kara’s mother, and Sergen’s stepmother-knelt on the flagstone floor, tending a Shieldsworn armsman who had collapsed from white wounds.

“Thank Tymora,” Geran breathed in relief. “You’re all alive.”

“Yes, though five Shieldsworn died to see us into this refuge,” Harmach Grigor said with a bitter tone. “I was of little help. I’m afraid that I’m not much of a wizard.” The old lord looked at Geran and frowned. “I feared that you would be killed in your cell, Geran. How did you survive? And who is that with you?”

“I escaped to warn you of this attack-too late, it seems,” Geran answered. “This is Sarth Khul Riizar, who helped Hamil and Mirya get me out of the cell. I hope you’ll forgive them, Uncle, but I had to try to warn you: Sergen means to kill us all. He summoned the wraiths to Griffonwatch.”

“Sergen is behind this?” Grigor demanded.

Geran’s Aunt Terena looked up from the man she tended. The wraith’s attack had caught her in her bed, and she wore only her dressing gown and a cloak thrown over her shoulders. She strongly resembled her daughter, Kara. She was a fit woman of sixty years, strongly built, with long gray-white hair. Terena paled and put her hand to her throat. “So he’s finally chosen to follow in his father’s footsteps,” she said. “Ah, Grigor, I’m so sorry. I never imagined he had so much hate in him. He wasn’t always what he’s become.”

“Excuse me, but all that can wait for later,” Hamil said sharply. He stood by the chapel’s door, looking out into the courtyard. “The wraiths are returning, Geran. We’ve got to leave now or fight here.”

Geran looked at his uncle. “We should flee,” he said. “I don’t know if we can hold off many more of the wraiths. The postern’s our best chance to get the children out of the castle.”

Grigor nodded. “Agreed. Lead the way, Geran.”

“Shut the door, Hamil,” Geran said. He hurried across the chapel to a small door that led outside to the tiny courtyard where he had practiced a few times. With luck, the wraiths would be gathering by the chapel’s front door, massing their might to overcome the old, weak blessings that deterred them for the moment. It took him a moment to get the side door open-this one was rarely used, and he had to put his shoulder to it to push it open through the leaf-mold that had accumulated on the other side. But no wraiths waited in the small cloister beyond.

“This way, quickly,” he said to the others. He hurried across to the door leading back into the Harmach’s Tower on the far side of the small courtyard. Mirya and Hamil helped the injured Shieldsworn to his feet, and Erna grasped Natali and Kirr firmly by their hands and followed.

Geran led them into the Harmach’s Tower and found the stairs that led down to the hallway by the trophy room. They encountered no more corpses here nor any wraiths. It was normally a lightly traveled part of the castle, and he began to hope that he might actually get his uncle and the rest of the family out of Griffonwatch safely. He turned into one of the passageways cut through the hill’s heartrock and came to a barred iron door. Geran threw the bar aside and pushed it open to reveal a staircase spiraling down into the gloom. “This way,” he said. “Be careful of the steps, it’s a long stair.”

“Are the ghosts going to follow us down there?” Kirr asked.

“I hope not, Kirr. We’re trying to stay a step ahead of them,” Geran answered. “Down you go!”

The stairs spiraled down forty feet or more, lit by dimly glowing light-globes the Shieldsworn refreshed every few months with minor magic. The stairwell was cramped, cold, and dark, but Geran could still see enough to lead the way down. Below the staircase stood a large hall with a low, barrel-vaulted ceiling. This chamber was designed to house scores of warriors in full kit, since the postern gate-the castle’s small back entrance, from which a force inside could sally in strength to attack besiegers from an unexpected direction-was close by. Geran halted at the foot of the stairs and guided the others into the room as they appeared. “Over there,” he said.

The harmach limped badly when he reached the bottom step. He grimaced in pain. “Stairs pain me,” he explained. “You shouldn’t wait on me, Geran.”

The sorcerer Sarth brought up the rear, watching carefully behind him with his rod at the ready. “We must keep moving,” the tiefling said. “They are not far behind us.”

Geran did not pause. He hurried back across the hall and ducked into the short passage leading to the postern. Normally the door was securely locked and barred, since the Shieldsworn didn’t keep any guards there, but when he turned the corner he found the postern standing open. It seemed that he wasn’t the only person in Griffonwatch to think of the side gate. He started forward, but Hamil reached out and caught his sleeve.

Something seems awry here, the halfling said silently. Douse the nearest lights, and wait here a moment. I’ll take a look.

“Go ahead,” Geran said softly.

He retreated a few steps and covered the light-globes gleaming in the postern passage. Hamil glided into the shadows and slipped out the heavy iron door; even though Geran knew the halfling was there, he couldn’t see or hear him. He motioned for the rest of the small company to hold still and wait.

Thirty heartbeats later, Hamil returned. “It’s an ambush,” he said quietly. “Several of the castle folk lie dead just outside. There are a dozen Veruna armsmen outside, ready for someone to blunder out the door.”

Geran’s fist tightened on the hilt of his blade. The extent of Sergen’s perfidy was now clear. “So Sergen sent the specters to slay everyone in the castle then made sure to have his armsmen waiting by the gates to cut down anyone who managed to flee?” he snarled. “He’s a traitor and a murderer, just like his father was.” He looked at Natali and Kirr, waiting with their mother. With Hamil and Sarth, he might have a chance to cut his way free of the trap, but he could hardly lead the children or his older relatives into a fight.

“We’ll have to try some other way,” the harmach said wearily. “The main gate, I suppose.”

“If those villains are watching the postern, Lord Harmach, there’s not a chance in the world they’ll not watch the main gatehouse too,” Mirya pointed out. “Is there any other way out of the castle?”

“There are a couple of places where a rope might be lowered from the walls, but I am not sure if the children could manage it,” the harmach said. “Or if I could, in all honesty.”

“We could wait here,” Erna said. “The specters might not come to this part of the castle.”

“Inadvisable,” Sarth said. He stood by the foot of the stairs, head cocked to one side to peer upward as far as he could. “It’s only a matter of time before the ghosts descend to this level.”

“We’ll have to break out, then,” Geran decided. “Sarth, do you have any spells that could protect us outside?”

The tiefling frowned. “A spell of fog. But it would blind us as well.”

“It’ll have to do.” Geran turned to his uncle. “Hamil and I will try to deal with the men waiting outside. Wait inside the postern as long as you can.”

Harmach Grigor nodded. “Good luck, Geran,” he said quietly.

The swordmage moved close to the doorway and muttered the incantation of the dragon scales to guard himself as best he could. A shimmering stream of purple-glowing diadems formed around him, rippling in the shadowy light. Hamil drew up close beside him, a dagger in each hand.

The halfling looked up at Geran and said, “I have some doubts about this plan.”

“Best not to dwell on it, then.” Geran looked over at Sarth.

The tiefling raised his clawed hands and softly chanted the words of his spell. Billows of blue mist began to rise from the ground, rapidly filling the doorway and spilling into the night outside. The swordmage waited a moment for the fog to thicken more and steeled his nerve. Then he stepped into the fog and felt his way out the postern gate. The gate opened onto a small landing near the foot of Griffonwatch’s hill, about halfway around the castle from the main gate. Worn stone steps covered by a low wall descended twenty feet to an old wrought-iron fence. Beyond that stood a tangle of alders, blueleafs, and blackberry thickets, a small woodland that ringed the eastern side of the castle’s hill. Geran could barely see the steps under his feet, and he kept one hand on the wall to navigate through the mist. It was cold, and the steps were slick with frost. Then, abruptly, he descended out of the tattered blue mist and caught sight of the armsmen standing nearby in Veruna’s green and white.

“There!” one of the mercenaries shouted. “Shoot him down!”

Several men raised crossbows at Geran, but the swordmage quickly ducked under the wall. Bolts snapped and hissed through the air, clattering against the rocky foot of the castle or striking the stone steps. He risked a quick peek over the wall to get a better look. The Veruna men were arranged in a loose half-ring under the eaves of the dark grove beyond the fence. Thrusting his fear and anger aside, the swordmage fixed in his mind the arcane symbols of the spell he needed and spoke its single word: “Seiroch!”

The strange, cold lurch of teleportation jarred him, and he felt as if he were falling-but then he stood in the middle of the Veruna armsmen, who were busily drawing back their crossbows and making ready another shot. Geran snarled and stabbed the nearest man through the throat and then bounded past the crumpling mercenary to slash off the arm of the next one in the line. A crossbowman behind him fired at his back, but the amethyst scales of his protection spell deflected the quarrel away from him. He ignored the attack and kept going. The third man he reached had the time to drop his crossbow and draw a sword. Geran launched a furious attack, raining slashes left and right against the Veruna armsman. The mercenary parried the first few and attempted a counterattack, but Geran threw up a lightning-quick block of his own and spun inside the man’s guard to slash his belly badly. The Veruna man shrieked and reeled away.

“Watch it, Geran!” Hamil paused by the iron fence, took aim, and hurled a dagger at an armsman hurrying up behind Geran. The blade took the man just under his hauberk, biting deeply above the knee. The charging soldier stumbled and rolled in the underbrush with a savage oath. Hamil scrambled over the fence, only to be knocked spinning to the ground by a crossbow bolt that caught him just before he was going to drop down on the forest side.

“Hamil!” Geran cried. He took a step toward the place where his friend had fallen, but Hamil’s silent voice stopped him.

I’m not badly hurt. Keep at them, Geran!

Geran turned back to the Veruna armsmen around him. He counted at least a dozen more men facing him. Swords in hand, they circled closer, ready for him now. Behind the Mulmasterite mercenaries stood a hooded man in elegant black finery. Sergen Hulmaster stepped out of the shadows, his dark eyes glittering. He carried a crossbow in one hand and a long, slender rapier in the other. “I didn’t like that arrogant little popinjay very much,” he remarked. “I intended for you to die in your cell, Geran. I must tell you that I’m a little disappointed that you’ll meet your end with steel in your hand. On the other hand-” Sergen paused to toss away his empty crossbow and drew a poniard with his left hand-“I’m more than a little tired of hearing tales about your heroics. Tonight I’ll repay many old slights and insults. I’ve always known that you’re not the paragon of virtue and skill everyone seems to think you are.”

Geran smiled coldly. “You’ll meet me blade to blade, Sergen? Your mercenaries will stand aside?”

The black-garbed lord laughed. “My sense of fair play is not so well developed as that, Geran. They’ll stand aside only as long as I’m winning.” He looked at the Veruna mercenaries standing nearby and said, “If he wounds me, cut him down.” Then he came to meet Geran with his rapier in hand.