Swordmage

TWENTY-SIX

11 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One

Geran did not remember Sergen as a swordsman of much skill, but he hadn’t seen him with a blade since Sergen was fifteen or sixteen. Still, the fact that Sergen offered to meet him suggested that the traitor had at least some reason to feel confident, and so Geran resolved to be cautious. Should I try for a swift victory, even though the armsmen might overwhelm me? he thought. Or do I play for time and try to draw things out-knowing that every moment I’m delayed, the wraiths may find the others?

Sergen seemed to read his uncertainty and grinned at Geran’s indecision. “You must be wondering just how skillfully you should fight,” he said. “A difficult puzzle, I suspect. I am curious to see how you’ll resolve it.”

“Difficult?” Geran stalked closer, watching Sergen’s eyes. If it were only his own life at stake, that would be one thing. But Sergen was responsible for authoring a massacre, and should he fall, Sergen or his men would see to it that none of the Hulmasters survived the night. “No, not especially. Whatever else happens tonight, you’ll regret crossing blades with me. If it costs me my life to send you from this world, then you’ll have little opportunity to profit from your treachery.”

He smiled coldly at Sergen and attacked, a simple thrust at the belt buckle. Sergen parried and riposted sharply; Geran parried in turn and gave a half-step before replying with a quick slash at Sergen’s face, which the council lord likewise parried. They traded thrusts and cuts furiously for several moments before the momentum of their strikes carried them past each other, and they exchanged places.

He’s quick, Geran realized. Sergen was a good swordsman, though not as experienced as he was. However, his cousin was exceptionally fast-quicker than Geran, at least. Of all the natural gifts a swordsman desired, raw speed was certainly the most vital. Given equal skill, a fast man could beat a strong man if weight of armor was not a consideration.

“You’re more of a swordsman than I remember,” Geran admitted.

“You’re not the swordsman I feared,” Sergen replied.

He began the next exchange, lunging in to thrust with his rapier. Geran deflected the point with a sharp ring of steel; Sergen recovered and attacked again, and Geran parried that one as well; and then rather than recover Sergen suddenly leaped in close and stabbed with his poniard. Geran knocked the dagger’s point away with his forearm and received a shallow, bloody cut from its razor-sharp blade despite the spells protecting him. He put his shoulder down and shoved Sergen back out of range. The blades flew swiftly in the moonlight, ringing shrilly. Geran tested his cousin’s defenses low, then high as they circled through the brush. As best he could, he kept an eye on the Veruna soldiers who ringed them.

He managed to turn Sergen around again, so that he could see the castle’s postern gate over Sergen’s shoulder. It was difficult to tell with the tatters of mist still clinging to the doorway, but he thought he saw a furtive motion there-shadowy figures slipping down the steps. Geran redoubled the pace of his attacks, keeping Sergen and the Veruna armsmen focused on him. He knew a sword spell or two he could have used, but if he worked a spell, the Verunas around him might react. Grimacing in frustration, he fell back on his own skill.

“I think you’re holding back,” Sergen said between blows. “Perhaps you’re not as fearless as you believe you are, dear cousin.”

“You forget where I studied,” Geran retorted. “I spent years in Myth Drannor, tutored by elf blademasters. You think you’re quick? I learned to fight against elves who’d make you look like a staggering drunk!” He parried several more blows and essayed a riposte of his own that Sergen caught on his poniard. “Speed’s a fleeting advantage, Sergen. When a man tires, he slows down. If you were going to defeat me with your quickness, you would’ve done it already. Now it’s my fight.”

“Your confidence is misplaced,” Sergen snarled. He launched a lightning thrust at Geran’s heart, which Geran parried awkwardly. Instantly Sergen recovered, circled his point under Geran’s blade, and thrust again-falling into Geran’s trap. The swordmage’s awkward parry instantly became a short, brutal chop at Sergen’s sword arm as Geran twisted away from the thrust. His blade bit into Sergen’s arm just below the elbow and cracked bone. Sergen cried out and dropped his rapier, and then Geran nearly took his head off with the backhand stroke that followed. Sergen managed to duck under the blow, but not without suffering a great gash of his scalp and a jarring blow to the skull that sent him reeling to the ground.

Geran leaped past his stepcousin and immediately engaged the first of the Veruna armsmen he could reach. “Hamil!” he shouted. “Help if you can!”

He rushed past the man and found a brief clear space to speak another spell. “Ilyeith sannoghan!” he cried, and his blade suddenly crackled with brilliant yellow sparks. Then several Veruna men beset him at the same time. Geran leaped and parried, thrust and slashed, and for ten heartbeats he was lost in the thick of a fight as dire as any he’d ever been caught in. A thrust at his heart was weakened just enough by his fading dragon scales to keep the point in the muscle of his chest, and then a hamstringing slash at the back of his knee buckled his leg but did not quite bring him down. He struck one man in a steel breastplate with his enchanted blade, and a sharp flash of lightning seared the darkness; when Geran blinked his eyes clear, the man was lying on the ground with smoke curling from his ears. But more mercenaries pressed in around him.

Suddenly the forest rocked with powerful words of magic. “Satharni khi!” roared Sarth. The tiefling appeared by the postern gate, amid the dissipating remains of his simple fog spell. From his hands streaked out a great glowing blast of purple fire that burst beneath the trees. Sorcerous fire seared an awful swath through the mercenaries near Geran. Several men screamed terribly as their surcoats caught fire, and they staggered blindly through the night like living torches. Others fell and burned where they stood. The tiefling leaped into the air and soared over the fight, smiting more mercenaries with blasts of his fire or crackling bolts of lightning.

A crossbow snapped in the darkness, and another Veruna blade attacking Geran threw his hands up in the air and collapsed with a quarrel in his back. My arm’s broken, Geran, Hamil said. I can’t work the cranequin for another shot.

“Improvise!” Geran called back to him. He dispatched one of the men still pressing him, with a deep cut to the great artery in the thigh; the man hopped back a half-step and toppled, trying vainly to clamp his hand over the terrible wound. Then Geran felt a roar of fire at his back and turned to find one of the mercenaries staggering at him, raising his sword to strike. The swordmage parried the clumsy blow, cut the legs out from under his foe then buried his point in the man’s heart as a stroke of mercy. He reeled from the awful smoke and stink of the burning corpse and saw one of the other soldiers ten yards away taking aim at Sarth with a crossbow. Without a moment’s thought Geran summoned another spell as he threw his backsword. The blade flew straight and true, whirling through the firelight and shadows, and buried its point in the crossbowman. The mercenary crumpled and folded. Geran held out his hand and finished the spell by stretching out his hand and snarling, “Cuilledyrr!” The sword wrenched itself free and flashed back to him hilt first; he caught it and wheeled around in search of another foe.

To his surprise, he saw that the remaining Veruna men were retreating, fleeing through the thickets and shadows. He swayed where he stood, suddenly aware of the cuts and bruises he’d fought through, and slowly limped back toward the postern steps. Tymora smiled on me tonight, he thought wearily. “Hamil?” he called. “Uncle Grigor?”

“Here,” his uncle replied. He slowly straightened up from the wall by the steps, standing in front of Erna, Natali, and Kirr. “We’re unhurt.”

“Thank the gods. Hamil? Where are you?”

“I’m by the fence, Geran,” Hamil called. Geran made his way over and found Mirya tending to the halfling already. A bloody quarrel lay on the ground next to Hamil, and she held a folded-up cloak against a dark stain high on his right leg. Hamil’s left arm hung limp at his side; his face was pale, but he found a small smile for Geran anyway. “Can you believe it? The quarrel in my leg’s bad enough, but I fell from the top of the fence and broke my arm. Fortunately Mirya’s gentle touch shall soon restore me to health.”

“In a month, perhaps,” Mirya said with a frown. “There’s to be no more fighting for you tonight, Master Hamil.”

Geran knelt and rested a hand on his friend’s good shoulder. “You should’ve used the gate,” he told him. Then he climbed back to his feet and returned to where Sergen had fallen.

Sergen was gone. Geran swore and thrashed around in the bracken and briars, searching for some sign of his traitorous cousin. He found the place where Sergen had fallen and set his hand on the ground where his cousin had been lying, only to find splashes of blood and a pair of small, empty vials.

“Potions,” he muttered. Healing? Invisibility? Whatever they were, Sergen had made his escape. He could very well return with more mercenaries to finish things. In fact, he had to, since he was done in Hulburg as long as the Hulmasters remained alive. I’m an idiot, Geran told himself. I should’ve made sure of him. Then again, there were a dozen enemies nearby waiting to strike the instant he defeated his cousin, and he couldn’t very well have paused to search Sergen at the moment he fell. “But I could have spared him a swordpoint in the eye,” he muttered darkly.

“Geran, the castle’s foot is no safe place to linger,” Mirya called softly. “I hear the ghosts calling one to the other, and I think they’re coming near the postern.”

“You’re right, Mirya,” Geran answered. “Sergen’s gone. He may return with more mercenaries. We need to get the harmach and the young ones to a place of safety.”

“Where?” Harmach Grigor asked. He nodded up at the castle battlements far overhead. Geran could hear the distant wails and cries of the wraiths that swarmed through its passageways and chambers. “Griffonwatch is a morgue. Most of my Shieldsworn are away fighting the Bloody Skulls, and I suspect that all who remained to guard the castle are dead now. I have few soldiers remaining in Hulburg, Geran.”

Geran thought for a moment. They could simply search for a place to hide and wait for morning, but Sergen’s allies might already be moving to seize control of the town. They needed soldiers, a body of armed men to protect the harmach, but Kara and the Shieldsworn were defending the borders against the Bloody Skulls. “That’s not quite true, Uncle Grigor,” he said slowly. “We’ll find at least some of the Spearmeet captains at the Troll and Tankard. We can have a couple of hundred loyal Hulburgans around you in an hour. I have to believe that might stop the Verunas from trying to kill you.”

The harmach sighed, nodded, and said, “You’re right, Geran. I can’t see that Sergen and his allies have any other choice but to try to finish this.”

Mirya helped Hamil to his feet, and Sarth and Geran shouldered the Shieldsworn guard who’d fallen in the chapel. By the dim moonlight Geran saw that it was the young guard Orndal, the one he’d met with Kolton when he first returned to Griffonwatch. The soldier’s skin was pale and frigidly cold, but his eyelids flickered when they hoisted him upright and put their shoulders under his arms. Geran nodded toward his right, and the small party set out along the footpath that circled the southern face of Griffonwatch’s rocky prominence.

In a hundred yards they broke out of the wooded area and emerged in the city streets. Geran detoured a block or two to give the square by the Harmach’s Foot a wide berth, since he could see soldiers in green and white gathered in a large company by the causeway that climbed to the main gate. Just as well we didn’t try to leave by that door, he decided. Even from a distance of several blocks, he could make out the cold and distant cries of the wraiths in the castle and glimpse ghostly figures swarming over the battlements. The few passersby they encountered stood in the street and stared up at Griffonwatch, horrified.

Once they were safely around the company of Veruna mercenaries watching the main gate, they returned to the Vale Road. Geran’s wounds ached fiercely, but he set the pain aside as best he could and limped on his way. The harmach hobbled along on his walking stick, while Mirya finally had to pause and gather up Hamil in her arms like a child.

“I protest!” the halfling said. “No woman as fair and delicate as you should be expected to carry a wounded hero from the field of battle.”

Mirya snorted. “Delicate or not, I’d guess that I’m twice your weight, Hamil. It’s easier to just carry you.”

Geran looked over his shoulder constantly for some sign of pursuit, fearing that Sergen’s Council Watch or their Veruna allies would overtake them in the street at any moment. But no more enemies appeared, and the Troll and Tankard came into view. A large crowd of people stood outside its doors, pointing at the battlements of the castle-from here, they seemed to glow with an eldritch green light-and speaking together in low voices.

“Make way!” Geran called. “We’ve got wounded with us. Make way!”

“Here, let us lend a hand,” one fellow said. In a moment several Hulburgans took the young guard Orndal from Geran and Sarth. Two more helped Mirya with Hamil, and the crowd folded in around them and followed them inside the tavern.

In the warm yellow lanternlight inside, Geran saw that several dozen militiamen were gathered, helms and spears close to hand. They looked up in surprise as he and his party of survivors entered the brewer’s taproom. “Why, ’tis Geran Hulmaster!” said one man. “And the harmach!” The men and women who had gathered in the tavern quickly climbed to their feet and touched their hands to their brows, bowing to Harmach Grigor, and then the room erupted in a chaotic babble of excited questions. A table was cleared for Orndal, and the young Shieldsworn guard was stretched out on it; Hamil was shown to a bench by the wall.

“One side! One side!” The tavernkeeper Durnan Osting pushed his way through the crowd gathered around, and bowed to the harmach. “We saw that some fell magic had stricken Griffonwatch, m’lord,” he said. “We feared that you were dead or worse-glad to see you and your kin got out o’ the castle. Can you tell us what’s going on?”

“The King in Copper sent his minions to attack Griffonwatch,” the old lord said wearily. “We escaped through the postern gate, but we found House Veruna armsmen waiting there to cut down anyone trying to flee.”

“Sergen Hulmaster’s trying to seize control of Hulburg,” Geran added. “This is all his doing. He means to kill the harmach tonight, and all the Hulmasters if he can. Master Osting, can you pass the word to call out the Spearmeet and muster the companies here? We must protect the harmach.”

Osting gaped in amazement. “The black-hearted bastard!” he finally said. “Beggin’ m’lord’s pardon for speaking ill o’ his kin, that is. Of course we’ll call out the Spearmeet! We’re all the harmach’s men. No sellswords from Mulmaster are going t’ kill our lord and call themselves masters o’ this town!”

“Send word to Rosestone Abbey too,” Mirya suggested. “The clerics of Amaunator might be able to do something about the spirits haunting Griffonwatch.”

“A good idea,” Geran agreed. “Master Osting, can you see to it?”

“Yes, m’lord,” the big tavernkeeper answered. “I’ll send one of me lads at once.”

“Geran, I don’t know if this is wise,” Grigor murmured. “Sergen’s men are trained warriors, well armed and armored-”

“Forgive me, Uncle Grigor, but we’ve got no choice. Sergen and his council have declared war. The Spearmeet’s the only army remaining to you.” Geran lowered his voice and leaned closer to his uncle’s ear. “I hope it won’t come to that. No mercenary really cares to fight a pitched battle if he can help it; there’s little reward in it and lots of risk. I think the Veruna men and the Council Watch might have a change of heart once they see there’s an army to take the field against them, especially one that outnumbers them.”

“I hope you’re right, Geran,” the harmach said.

“A message for the harmach!” called one of the Hulburgans by the tavern’s door. Several other voices in the throng took up the call, and Geran looked up from the table as the crowd swirled around a young woman in a tall silver helm. She wore the white surcoat and blue griffon of the Shieldsworn, but her coat was splattered with blood and dirt. The commoners crowding around her held her motionless for a moment, and then several of the men nearby her pushed a path clear. “Make way for the messenger!” they shouted.

“Harmach Grigor?” the young woman called. “My lord?”

“Over here,” Grigor answered. He pushed himself to his feet and held his walking stick up in the air.

The Shieldsworn soldier finally caught sight of him and hurried to his side. “My lord,” she said. “I thought to find you in Griffonwatch, but when I passed by on the road the militiamen outside told me you were here. I have dire news.”

The harmach visibly steeled himself. “Go on, then,” he said gently.

“Lady Kara’s been defeated at the Vadarknoll post-tower. The Bloody Skulls and their monsters overwhelmed the army of Hulburg. Many lives were lost. Lady Kara is retreating down the east bank of the Winterspear, fighting to slow the horde with all her strength, but she told me to tell you that she expects the orcs to reach Hulburg by sunrise.” The young soldier bit her lip, but continued. “She recommends that you direct the people of the town to take refuge in Griffonwatch, Daggergard, and the best-fortified of the merchant compounds and make the strongest defense you can. She doesn’t expect her army to survive the night.”

The taproom fell silent. “Disaster compounds upon disaster tonight,” Grigor said quietly. He sank back to the bench with his head in his hands. “It seems that Sergen chose the worst possible moment for his treachery.”

“Or the best,” Geran said darkly. But perhaps Sergen had not anticipated the ferocity of the approaching horde. It would be more than a little ironic if his cousin managed to dethrone the harmach just in time to preside over the destruction of the city. More likely Sergen had simply recognized the Bloody Skull ultimatum as the opportunity to put his plans in motion, never imagining that the threat from the north would actually materialize. He looked at the men and women who filled the Troll and Tankard. Their fierce defiance had vanished in an instant at the news of the defeat. They might succeed in preserving their lives by taking shelter behind strong walls-excluding Griffonwatch for the moment, he reminded himself-but their homes, their workshops, their storehouses, and their livelihoods all lay exposed to destruction. Assuming that the orcs chose not to reduce strongholds like Daggergard or the fortified compounds, they’d still be ruined.

“It would have been wise to wall the city,” Harmach Grigor said with a sigh. “We always knew this day might come, but now that it’s at hand, I wish doom had chosen some other hour to fall upon us.”

Wall the city… Geran frowned, thinking furiously. Hulburg had been walled, once. In ancient times, when it had been a much larger city, its wall had passed right over the spot where the Troll and Tankard stood. When the town had been resettled a hundred years ago, his ancestors Angar and Lendon had faced constant orc raids against the fields and farms of the Winterspear Vale. They had raised a simple dike across the Vale to protect the closer farms.

“What about Lendon’s Dike?” he asked aloud. “If we brought the entire Spearmeet there and combined our strength with whatever’s left of Kara’s army, we might be able to stop the Bloody Skulls before they sack the town.”

“That’s a deadly gamble, m’lord,” Durnan Osting said slowly. He whistled between his teeth. “The dike’s not much o’ defense.”

“We’ll have a few hours to improve it if we begin right away,” Geran pointed out. “Yes, it might be safer to find whatever refuge we can now and give up the town. But maybe it’s not too late to save Hulburg.”

“What of the Veruna brigands waiting outside Griffonwatch?” Mirya asked. “What’s to be done about them?”

Geran frowned. As much as he wanted to use the Spearmeet to storm the Veruna merchant yards and put an abrupt stop to Sergen’s designs, the threat of the Bloody Skulls simply dwarfed his cousin’s treachery. “Sergen will have to wait until tomorrow,” he finally said. “We’ll ignore them. They can’t do much harm that can’t be undone in a few days.”

The harmach looked dubious. “Yours is a counsel of desperation, Geran. You know what it is to stake your life on chance, but most of the rest of us do not. It’s harder for us than you might think.”

Geran lowered his voice and leaned close to his uncle. “I understand, Uncle Grigor. But consider this: Either we tell our folk to hide in cellars and scatter to the Highfells, or we try to fight off the orcs. If we fight and lose, well, how much worse can that be than if we hadn’t fought at all? Hulburg’s sacked and our people enslaved in either case. Will the Bloody Skulls show us any more mercy if we spare them another battle? We might as well die fighting.”

Harmach Grigor weighed Geran’s words for a long moment. Then, slowly, he stood and turned to face the assembled Hulburgans crowding the tavern floor. The townsfolk awaited his words in a hushed silence. “You’ve all heard what I’ve heard,” he said. “We failed to stop the Bloody Skulls at the head of the Winterspear. My nephew believes we may have one more chance to break the horde before it drowns Hulburg in fire and steel. I need every last man of the Spearmeet to march at once for Lendon’s Dike. If we can hold off the orcs until dawn, then perhaps daylight will show us better reason to hope than we can find tonight.” Grigor seemed to stand a little taller, and his voice grew stronger. He struck his cane to the floorboards. “I want word sent through all the town for women, children, the infirm, the elderly, all those who cannot bend a bow or hold a spear, to seek refuge immediately. But tell any man or woman who can carry an axe or a hunting bow to come to Lendon’s Dike-I don’t care whose colors they wear!”

Geran drew his sword and thrust the point into the air. “For Hulburg!” he shouted. “For the harmach!”

“Hulburg! The harmach!” a dozen voices shouted in reply. Then a hundred more joined in, until the tavern trembled with the thunder of their shouts. “Hulburg! The harmach!”

“Captains, gather your musters!” the harmach called, his voice carrying through the din. “Sons and daughters of Hulburg, take up your spears and stand together! We march!”