Swordmage

TWO

11 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One

The castle called Griffonwatch was not really a true castle. Most of its towers and halls were guarded by the steep bluffs of the castle’s hilltop and did not require a thick wall for protection. Only on its lower northern face was Griffonwatch truly fortified, with a strong gatehouse and a tower-studded wall guarding access to the courtyards, barracks, and residences within. Geran had always thought of it as a great rambling, drafty, partially abandoned house that happened to be made out of stone, with the curious afterthought of one castlelike wall to guard the front gate.

“I have to congratulate the builders of the place,” Hamil said. “They picked the highest, coldest, windiest spot in this whole miserable town for their masterpiece.” The castle’s causeway was completely exposed to the northwest wind once the visitors climbed above the roofline of the surrounding town, and the faded banners above the gatehouse flapped loudly in the stiff wind.

Griffonwatch’s gates stood open. Hamil’s step faltered as they entered the dark, tunnel-like passage through the gatehouse. “I never liked these things,” the halfling muttered. He had an instinctive aversion to anything that felt like an ambush, and the front entrance of any well-made castle was designed to be a giant stone trap to its enemies. Menacing arrowslits overlooked the approach to the castle and the gate-passage proper. They stood dark and empty, but in times of war watchful archers would be posted there, ready to cut down attackers at the top of the causeway.

“Come on, Hamil,” Geran said quietly. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “It’s out of the wind, anyway.”

At the inner end of the gate, the castle’s portcullis was lowered into place, blocking most of the passage. The heavy grate was fitted with a small swinging door. Two Shieldsworn guards waited there. They wore knee-length coats of mail under heavy woolen mantles and steel caps trimmed with a ring of fur for warmth. Both carried pikes-perfect for thrusting through the portcullis at enemies on the far side-and a pair of crossbows leaned against the wall nearby.

“Hold there,” said the older of the men, a sergeant with a round, blunt face like the end of a hammer. “State your name and business.”

Geran stepped out of the gate’s shadow and reached up to draw back the hood of his cloak. “I’m Geran Hulmaster,” he said. “And I’m here to call on the harmach and visit with whatever kinfolk of mine happen to be home this evening, Sergeant Kolton.”

The sergeant’s eyes opened wide. “Geran, as I live and breathe! It must be five years!” He fumbled with the small door in the portcullis and finally got it open. “Come in, sir, come in!”

Despite the sour mood that had settled over him after the encounter with the Crimson Chains, Geran smiled. He’d always liked Kolton, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the man’s surprise. “Eight years, Kolton. I haven’t been home since my father died.”

“Lord Bernov was a good man. Things around here might be different if he hadn’t fallen.” The sturdy soldier’s face softened with memories, likely some old campaign or skirmish riding alongside Geran’s father… and then Kolton’s thoughts turned, and a sudden grimace stole over his features. He sighed and looked closely at Geran. “M’lord, I don’t know how to tell you this-” he began.

Geran cut him off with a small motion of his hand. “I’ve heard about Jarad, if that’s what you are about to tell me. My mother wrote me as soon as she heard.” Geran’s mother lived in a convent near Thentia now, but she still had many friends in Hulburg. She’d heard about Jarad only a few days after the Shieldsworn captain had been found dead on the Highfells. Her letter had reached Geran in Tantras half a month ago, and he’d left for Hulburg within the day.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Kolton said. “I know he was a good friend o’ yours. He was a good captain too. We miss him sorely.”

They stood without speaking for a moment. The wind moaned across the stone battlements, and the castle’s banners crackled sharply. Geran shivered in the cold, and he glanced down to Hamil. The halfling waited patiently, his cloak held tight around his body.

“Forgive me,” Geran said. “Sergeant, this is my friend and comrade-in-arms, Hamil Alderheart of Tantras. He’s a guest of the house.”

“Of course, sir,” Kolton said. “Leave your baggage here, gentlemen. I’ll have it brought up to your rooms shortly.”

“Thank you, Kolton.” Geran set down his duffel and worked his shoulder a moment. “One more thing-Hamil and I ran across some trouble in the Tailings on our way here. A gang of Crimson Chains led by some fellow calling himself Roldo tried to extort a toll from us.”

“We objected,” said Hamil. “Hard words followed, and there may have been a minor stabbing or two.”

“-and yes, we crossed steel. We didn’t kill any of them, but I thought the Shieldsworn should know.”

The sergeant grimaced. “You met Roldo, hey? I’m sorry to hear it, but I’ll not shed a tear over any cuts or bruises you gave him. He and his thugs’ve been causing trouble in the Tailings for months now.”

“Why haven’t you rousted them out, then?”

“It’s got to be murder or arson before we do, m’lord. We’re down to a hundred and ninety Shieldsworn, and that ain’t really enough to garrison Griffonwatch, man the post-towers, and keep a patrol or two out in the Highfells. We leave the keeping o’ the law in the town to the Council Watch. The harmach’s men only get involved when it’s a matter of high justice.”

Geran looked sharply at Kolton. He thought he’d heard the sergeant well enough, but there was very little that made sense to him. One hundred and ninety Shieldsworn? The harmach’s guards should have been twice as strong. And he’d never heard of any Council Watch; that had to be something new. A town full of foreign merchants, gangs roaming the streets, and now this… it seemed that he had a lot of catching up to do, and suddenly Geran doubted he’d enjoy his education very much. A number of questions sprang to mind, but he settled for just one more: “Who or what is the Council Watch?”

“The lawkeepers who answer to the Merchant Council.” Kolton’s blunt face didn’t move much, but his voice had a flat, hard tone. “They look after council matters and enforce low justice in the city proper, so that we Shieldsworn don’t have to trouble ourselves with such business. Or so I’m told.”

If they let the Crimson Chains walk the streets in the open, they can’t be very good at their jobs, Hamil remarked to Geran. Either they’re hopelessly incompetent or they’re paid not to notice such things. I know which side of that bet I’d cover.

“Who do I talk to in order to set the watch on the Chainsmen?” Geran asked.

Kolton snorted. “Captain Zara, down at Council Hall. But you shouldn’t expect much, m’lord. It seems to take a long time for Zara to be certain enough o’ the facts to bring charges against someone, especially if that someone happens to be on a guild or House payroll. Maybe it would be different if you said something-you’re kin to the harmach, after all.”

“I’ll bring it up with my uncle.” Ten days of hard travel were catching up with him, and the whole sorry mess just left Geran tired, with the beginnings of a headache. He glanced up at the banners flying above the gatehouse. The highest was a blue banner with a white seven-pointed star; by the traditions of Griffonwatch, it flew only when the lord of Hulburg was actually present. “Is there any reason I can’t see him now?”

“None at all,” Kolton answered. He looked over to his companion. “Orndal, you’ve got the gate watch. Call Sarise from the guardroom to take my place, and send word to the chamberlain that Lord Geran’s returned with a guest. Lord Geran, I’ll show you to the harmach.”

Geran nodded, and the Shieldsworn sergeant led him and Hamil across the courtyard to a wide set of stone steps climbing up between barracks, stables, armories, and storehouses of the Shieldsworn. In Geran’s experience a third or more of the soldiers were posted in various watchtowers and patrols along Hulburg’s northern marches at any given time, keeping watch for orc raids and spellwarped monsters out of the far north. Others would be on leave, staying with families down in the town or carousing in the taverns and alehouses. Either way, most of the barracks rooms were dark and empty.

Hamil studied it all with interest as they followed the guardsman. “I know that the harmach, Grigor, is your uncle,” he said to Geran. “Who else lives here?”

“Grigor’s daughter-in-law, Erna, and her children. Erna is the widow of my cousin Isolmar, Grigor’s son. He was killed in a duel about four years ago. I suppose Natali and Kirr are the harmach’s heirs now, but they’re still quite young.” They came to a second courtyard above the barracks and storehouses, where a large hall stood. Kolton trotted up the steps and opened the heavy wooden doors for them. The room beyond was a banquet hall and what served as the harmach’s audience chamber. It was rather plain by the standards of the southern cities, and wind whistled through some unseen draft high up near the rafters. “My Aunt Terena lives here too,” Geran continued. “She is Grigor’s sister.”

“And your father was Grigor’s brother?”

“Yes. Terena has two children: my cousin Kara and Sergen, who is her stepson by her second marriage.”

Hamil nodded. His people were very particular about relations. He sorted out family trees and remembered them with an uncanny ease-a useful advantage in the complicated dealings and rivalries of mercantile Tantras. Geran, on the other hand, had long since learned that he could never keep straight who was related to whom. He had to rely on notes in a journal. It was one more reason he appreciated Hamil as a business partner.

“Lady Kara rode out to the Raven Hill watchtower earlier today,” Sergeant Kolton said. “She may not be back tonight. Sergen spends most of his time at his villa out on Easthead, but he’s here now. This way, gentlemen.”

They climbed a staircase at the end of the hall, where two more Shieldsworn waited. Kolton spoke briefly with them-Geran did not know either man well, but they recognized him and welcomed him home-and then the sergeant led them up another flight of stairs into the third portion of the castle. This was not a true bailey, but simply a small courtyard crowning the hill. The buildings here comprised the Hulmaster residence, and so visitors were not normally permitted to pass beyond the large hall and kitchens below without an invitation or escort. The courtyard was circled by a roofed gallery linking several small buildings-a chapel, a library, a small kitchen, and the Harmach’s Tower itself, which was a good-sized stone keep sited on the highest point of the hilltop.

“One moment,” Kolton said. He knocked on the library door and entered. Geran and Hamil waited for a short time in the courtyard until the sergeant reappeared. “The harmach’ll see you now.”

“Thank you, Kolton,” Geran answered.

The stocky sergeant briefly inclined his head, which passed for a bow in Hulburg. “It’s good to see you home, sir.”

Drawing a deep breath, Geran let himself into the castle library. It was a small, cluttered space, really, but it did hold the largest collection of books for nearly fifty miles. It also served as the harmach’s study; when Geran thought of his uncle, he imagined him in that very room. He remembered the smell from his childhood, the musty odor of damp paper and the sharper scent of pipesmoke. He and Hamil passed through the small foyer and stepped into the study proper.

“Uncle Grigor?” he said.

“Well, this is an unexpected surprise.” Grigor Hulmaster sat behind a cluttered desk by a large window of leaded glass. He was a man of seventy-five years, tall and thin, stooped at the shoulder, with little hair remaining on his head except for a thin fringe that ran from the back of one ear to the back of the other. A knob-handled walking stick leaned against his chair, and his eyes were weak and watery. He pushed himself to his feet and peered at Geran. “Is that really you, Geran? How long has it been since you set foot in Griffonwatch?”

Geran came close and took his uncle’s hand; a cold tremble weakened the harmach’s grip. “Eight years last summer, Uncle.”

“Not since your father’s death, then. Your journeys in the south must have taken you to strange and far lands indeed. But, as they say, the traveler who walks the farthest yearns the most for home. I am glad to see you again, Geran.” The older man beamed and turned his attention to Hamil. “And who is this lad?”

Lad? Hamil demanded silently of Geran. To his credit the halfling kept his outrage from his face.

“This is my friend and comrade Hamil Alderheart, Uncle Grigor. He is a halfling of the Chondalwood, lately of Tantras. He and I were both members of the Company of the Dragon Shield, and together we run the Red Sail Coster of Tantras. He claims to be thirty-two years of age.”

“A halfling?” Grigor looked closer and shook his head. “I beg your pardon, good sir. I meant no disrespect. My eyesight is not as keen as it once was.”

Hamil forced a smile and bowed graciously. “Think nothing of it,” he grated.

The harmach does not look well, Geran thought. Grigor had never been a vigorous man, really. He was industrious and well read, but he had spent his life working with his head, not his hands, and he had never cared much for travel. As a young man a fall from a horse had left him with a badly broken hip that even the clerics’ healing spells had never been able to repair completely. In cold, damp weather-something Hulburg had no shortage of at any time of the year-it pained the old man greatly.

Does he ever leave Griffonwatch anymore? Geran wondered. The steps must be difficult for him to manage.

“So, you must have heard about Jarad,” Grigor said quietly. “Ill news carries swiftly and far, it seems.”

“I heard about it in Tantras. I’ve come home to pay my respects.”

“It’s a terrible thing, Geran. Jarad was a good man, a good captain to the Shieldsworn, a valued advisor… and a friend, as well. I still can’t believe that he is dead.” The harmach sighed and passed his hand over his face.

“Can you tell me what happened? How did Jarad die?”

“No one but his murderers could say for certain. He was found out in the Highfells, near one of the old barrows. He was alone. I know Kara rode out to study the scene; she could probably tell you more.”

“I’ll ask her when I see her, then.”

Grigor nodded. “Will you be staying long?”

“I don’t know.” Geran hadn’t intended to, but standing in the old castle, listening to the cold hard wind, and breathing in the sights and sounds and smells of home, he found that old memories were pressing close around him. Strange how he had never let his footsteps turn toward Hulburg in the long months since that last day in Myth Drannor. What was I avoiding? he wondered. Perhaps he had allowed himself to become bewitched in Myth Drannor, as Hamil thought, but that was over. He had lost that long waking dream that was his life for four years in the city of the elves, ending it in one dark moment he still did not understand. His heart longed for autumn in Myth Drannor, for Alliere’s musical laughter, but those things were not for him any longer. Geran closed his eyes to drive the image of her face from his mind, castigating himself in silence. It did his heart no good to dwell on her, but he seemed determined to anyway.

He must have frowned at himself. Grigor took his expression for disapproval and raised his hand. “I only meant that you’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” the old lord said. “There is always room for you here, Geran.”

“Forgive me, it’s been a long journey,” Geran answered. He mustered a small smile for his uncle. “I have no business in Tantras that can’t manage itself for a tenday or so. As long as I’m here, I might as well reacquaint myself with my kin.”

“Good,” said Grigor. “But Geran, please, be careful. The harmach’s writ doesn’t run so far as it used to in Hulburg. There are people in town who owe the Hulmasters no allegiance at all, much more so than when you were growing up. It was no accident when Isolmar was killed in that tavern quarrel, and I suspect that it was no accident that Jarad died alone out in the Highfells. When you set foot outside of Griffonwatch’s walls, you must watch your back.”

Hamil sketched a small bow. “That’s why I’m here, Lord Grigor,” he observed. “I have no use for a dead partner, so it’s in my interest to keep an eye on him. Why else would I venture so far from civilization?”

Grigor smiled, but his tone was serious. “If you are a friend of the Hulmasters, Master Alderheart, you may need to watch your own back as well.” He looked back up to Geran and indicated the study door. “Now, on to happier matters. Unless I am sorely mistaken, you have two young cousins who will be quite anxious to meet you. I expect they’re in the great room, resisting their mother’s efforts to put them to bed.”

The old lord took a mantle from a hook by the door, pulled it around his shoulders, and with the help of his short walking stick made his way to the covered walkway and court outside. Geran and Hamil followed. The wind sighed and hissed among the eaves of the old castle’s buildings, and the lanterns illuminating the way rocked in the breeze. Small yellow pools of light swayed and spun lazily beneath the wooden shakes.

“I’ve been meaning to have this enclosed,” Grigor remarked. “It’s a cold walk on a winter night.”

Then he led them into the small tower fronting the high court-a simple square, low building of somewhat sturdier construction than the rest of the castle’s upperworks. But as the harmach reached for the door, it opened from the inside, and a dark-eyed man with a pointed, black goatee and a crimson cape emerged, two armsmen at his shoulders.

“Ah, good evening, Uncle,” the dark-eyed man said with a small nod. “I was just-” Then his eyes fell on Geran and widened for an instant. He smiled, slowly and deliberately, and let out a small snort. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look what the wind’s blown up against our doorstep. Cousin Geran, you are the last thing I expected to see when I opened this door!”

“Sergen,” Geran replied. “You look well.” His stepcousin-if there was such a thing, he wondered-was in truth dressed quite well, with a red, gold-embroidered doublet, tall black boots of fine leather, and a gold-hilted rapier at his belt. In fact he looked more like a merchant prince of Sembia or the Vast than a son of northerly Hulburg. Geran remembered Sergen as a sullen, brooding young man, quick to find fault and take offense. But the man before him stood sharp-eyed and alert, brimming with self-confidence. “Ah, this is Hamil Alderheart, my friend and business partner. Hamil, this is my cousin Sergen Hulmaster.”

The halfling inclined his head. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise,” Sergen replied, but his eyes quickly returned to Geran’s. He stroked his pointed beard, and his brow furrowed. “I haven’t seen you in years, Geran. So where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Tantras, mostly. Hamil and I are proprietors of the Red Sail Coster, dealing in the trade between Turmish and the Vast-timber, silverwork, wool, linen.”

“Ah, of course. I’ve heard of it. But… why did I think that you were staying in Myth Drannor?”

Geran frowned. The question seemed innocuous, but he sensed a hidden stiletto in Sergen’s voice. “I lived there for four years, but as it happened I left about a year ago.”

Sergen’s eyes widened. “Ah, that’s right! I remember hearing something about that-a duel of some kind, love spurned, a rival suitor maimed, some sordid tale ending in your exile from the elf kingdom. Tell me, Geran, is any of that true?”

Geran stood in silence a long moment before he answered, “All of it.”

Sardonic humor danced in Sergen’s dark eyes. “Indeed! I would not have believed it if you hadn’t said so.” The rakish noble smiled to himself and reached out to clap a comradely hand on Geran’s shoulder. “Well, I’m eager to hear your side of the story, Cousin. I am certain there were extenuating circumstances. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a late dinner engagement this evening, and I must be going. Geran, you must promise me that you won’t leave town without a good long visit.” Sergen nodded to Harmach Grigor before he swept away across the bailey, his bodyguards in tow.

Grigor watched him leave. “A capable man, your cousin Sergen,” he mused aloud. “Clever and ambitious. He has grand designs for Hulburg. If only half of what he means to attempt works out, we will be well on our way to becoming a great city again. But he has a cruel turn to his heart, I fear.”

The dreams of a dragon, Hamil said silently. We know his type well, don’t we? Tantras, Calaunt, and Procampur are full of such men.

But Hulburg isn’t, Geran thought. Or at least, it never used to be.

The harmach shook himself and motioned to the door. “No reason to stand here in the cold,” the old man said. “Come, Geran, you must see your young cousins Natali and Kirr. They’ve heard quite a few stories about the Hulmaster who’s off seeing the wide world. You are something of a marvel to them, even if you don’t know it.”

The swordmage pulled his gaze away from his cousin’s back. He had a feeling that he would see more of Sergen soon enough, whether he wanted to or not. Instead, he summoned a wry smile for his uncle. “I’m no marvel, but I suppose I have seen some marvelous things in my travels,” he said. “I’ll try not to disappoint them.”