Avenger botm-3 Read online

  He tightened his grip on the reins, ready to spur his mount into a desperate gallop if the helmed guardians challenged him, and kept his eyes fixed on the back of the horse’s head as he rode past the gray constructs. But they did not stir as he went by. Resisting the urge to look back, Geran breathed a small sigh of relief. Apparently the creatures weren’t mind readers of some kind, which was a small comfort at least.

  For the next four or five miles, Geran kept listening for the sound of galloping hoofbeats coming up the road behind the caravan, but no cries of pursuit or bands of Council Guard riders came. Finally he allowed himself to relax, and began to spend more time keeping an eye on the sodden landscape around them. Rhovann is clever and ruthless, but he’s not omniscient, he reminded himself. He can be beaten … although how in the world the Hulmaster army could deal with scores of guardians that seemed almost impossible to hurt, Geran couldn’t say.

  He stayed with the caravan for two full days as it crept along the Coastal Way toward Thentia, just in case they met some far-ranging patrol of Council Guards or spies of Rhovann’s. On the morning of the third day he informed the caravan master that he was departing, and rode on ahead to spare himself another day of plodding alongside the slow-moving wagons. An easy day’s ride brought him to the gates of Lasparhall in the late afternoon, as the fog finally lifted and the weather began to grow cold again. At the manor’s front door, he swung himself down from his horse, and pushed his soaked hood back from his face. He rubbed at his back, glad to be done with the day’s travel.

  Two Shieldsworn stood guard by the front door. They came to attention as they recognized him. “The Lord Hulmaster’s returned!” one called inside. He motioned for them to stand easy as stablehands trotted out to look after his mount and he climbed wearily up the steps to the door.

  He was met there by a stocky, round-faced soldier. “Welcome back, Lord Geran,” Sergeant Kolton said. The blunt old sergeant gave Geran a quick grin, and then turned to the younger warriors nearby. “Well, don’t just stand there. Give the Lord Hulmaster a hand with his saddlebags!”

  “It’s good to be back, Sergeant Kolton,” Geran answered. He paused. “I thought Kara was going to make a captain of you.”

  “Beggin’ my lord’s pardon, but I turned her down. I’ve spent the last thirty years complainin’ about gentlemen of rank. It wouldn’t be a decent thing to do to an old veteran like me. So Lady Kara decided to make me sergeant-major instead, and give me command o’ the House Guard.”

  Geran smiled, and set a sympathetic hand on Kolton’s armored shoulder. He’d known that Kara intended to reorganize the Shieldsworn and make some promotions. “Congratulations, Sergeant-Major. I’ll sleep easier knowing that you’ve got the watch.” He looked around the manor’s front hall, and asked, “Have you had any word of Sarth Khul Riizar yet?”

  “Aye, m’lord. He arrived three days ago.” Kolton’s expression grew fierce. “We heard from the sorcerer how the two of you dealt with the Cyricist behind the harmach’s murder. That was well done, Lord Geran. Your da would’ve been proud.”

  “My thanks, Kolton. Is Kara around?”

  “She’s down at the encampment drilling the field companies. I expect she’ll be back within the hour, though. Mistress Siever usually sets out dinner at six bells.”

  “Good. I’ll see her then. In the meantime, I’m going to bathe and change. It’s a hard ride from Hulburg at this time of year.”

  He went to his chambers and rewarded himself with a long soak in a warm bathtub, letting the hot water take away the bone-deep chill of the winter road. When he finished, he dressed and went down to the Hulmasters’ private dining room, anticipating his first good meal in three days. The manor was quieter without Natali and Kirr around, and he decided that he missed his young cousins; he hoped they were faring well in the Selunite temple where they’d been sent for safekeeping. He arrived just as the servants were beginning to set the board with a roast of beef, a carved goose, and all the trimmings. His resolve weakened from a long day in the saddle, he headed over to help himself to a slice of beef even though the dinner hadn’t been announced yet.

  “Now why is it that you can get away with that?” a familiar voice asked. “I’ve tried that two or three times in the last couple of days, and Mistress Siever has threatened me with bodily harm on each occasion.”

  Geran looked around, setting down his purloined plate. “Hamil! I wasn’t expecting to see you here!”

  The halfling stood up from where he’d been sitting by the room’s great fireplace (he fairly well vanished in the human-sized armchair, so Geran forgave himself for not having noticed someone sitting there) and eyed the spread the Hulmaster cooks were setting out. He was a lean, wiry fellow a smidgen over four feet in height, dressed in a fine burgundy doublet, cream-colored breeches, and a wide-brimmed hat capped by a bright feather; Hamil had always prided himself on his sartorial splendor. “I arrived two days after you’d set out for Hulburg again. I thought about chasing after you, but decided that you’d probably be hard to find. Besides, this Moonsea winter is no fit weather for any reasonable man to fare abroad.”

  Geran recovered his plate, added a wedge of cheese and some bread for Hamil, and joined his friend at the fireside. “How go things in Tantras?” he asked.

  “Well enough. There’s a newly organized coster down in Turmish that’s buying up all the damned cotton, which is making it hard for us to place our own orders without paying twice what it’s worth, but I might just let ’em keep it this year and see if they’ve got any idea of how to get it to the northern markets. Business as usual, in other words.” He looked over to Geran, and his expression grew serious. “I was sorry to hear about the harmach. I set out from Tantras as soon as I heard about his murder, but travel’s slow in winter, and I couldn’t make it here in time for the funeral. Your uncle was a fine old fellow; I liked him a lot.”

  “I know it,” Geran answered. “He didn’t deserve to die under an assassin’s knife.”

  “I hear that you’ve already delivered something of a reply.”

  “I did. I asked Sarth for his help, and together we paid a small visit to the Temple of the Wronged Prince.” Geran rubbed at his right fist, remembering the sensation of the steel shuddering in his grip as he drove it through the cleric’s black heart. “Valdarsel won’t trouble my family again, nor anyone else.”

  “Good,” Hamil replied, a fierce smile crossing his face. He’d always been quick to answer an insult with a blade or blood with blood; he wasn’t about to lecture Geran on the hollowness of revenge. “I’m sorry I missed the chance to help you gut that murdering bastard. In fact, now that I think about it, I’m a little angry with you for killing him without me.”

  Geran offered the halfling the plate he’d filled from the sideboard by way of an apology. He knew Hamil would have gone to Hulburg without a word of complaint. They’d first met almost ten years earlier, when Geran-then a footloose freebooter just setting out from Hulburg-had fallen in with the Company of the Dragon Shield, an adventuring band traveling through the Vast. After the Dragon Shields had parted ways, the two of them had bought shares in the Red Sail Coster in Tantras, working together until Geran’s travels had carried him to Myth Drannor … and after he’d been exiled from the realm of the elves, Hamil had cheerfully made room for him with the Red Sail again until Jarad Erstenwold’s murder had brought him back to Hulburg. “You can help me deal with Rhovann, then,” he said. “I can’t believe that Valdarsel would have moved against us here without Marstel’s consent, and from what I hear, Marstel can’t count to five without Rhovann’s help.”

  “Ah, there you are.” Sarth appeared at the door, and gave Geran a stern look. “You certainly took your time in escaping. We have all been very anxious about your fate.”

  “I found myself boxed in after we parted,” the swordmage answered. “I had to hide for a couple of days before slipping out of town, and then I joined a Sokol caravan on the Coastal Way for cov
er.”

  “Hmmph. I exhausted my flying spell a few miles outside Hulburg and walked the rest of the way with no provisions or bedroll, very nearly freezing to death before I reached civilization again.” The tiefling scowled at Geran. “I sincerely hope you were hiding in some cold, dank hayloft with nothing to eat while I was trudging back to Thentia.”

  Geran shrugged. “It was something like that,” he said carefully. Hamil must have sensed his evasions, for the halfling snorted and regarded Geran skeptically. Fortunately the swordmage was saved from explaining his escape from Hulburg in more detail by the arrival of his cousin Kara, who bustled into the room, doffing her heavy cloak and shaking off the water that had beaded over it.

  Geran rose and went to greet her, giving her a quick embrace. “It’s good to see you, Kara,” he said. “It seems that you’ve got things well in hand here.”

  “Not so well that you can plan to run off again and leave it all on my shoulders,” she replied. But she gave him a lopsided smile as she said it. “It’s good that you’re back. We have a lot to talk about.”

  “After dinner,” he promised. “I’m sorely in need of a good hot meal, and I’d wager that you are too if you’ve been outside with the troops all day.”

  “Go ahead and start. I want to dry off and change first.”

  “You don’t have to say that twice,” Hamil remarked. He jumped to his feet and made a beeline for the smorgasbord. Geran and Sarth followed suit. Geran helped himself to a heaping plate-it always amazed him how hungry being outside on a cold day could make one-and Hamil did likewise on general halfling principle. After a short time Kara rejoined them, wearing a riding dress with a tailored leather jacket instead of the heavy armor she’d had on before. Over their dinner Geran related a somewhat abridged version of his visit to Hulburg, including his conversation with Mirya, his strike against the Temple of the Wronged Prince with Sarth, and their efforts to evade Rhovann’s constructs afterward. He admitted to taking shelter in the Sokol compound-which brought a grumble from Sarth, and a raised eyebrow from Hamil even though he left out any hint of the hours he’d passed with Nimessa-and finished by recounting how the helmed guardians seemed to be watching the roads out of Hulburg now. When he finished, the four of them helped themselves to mugs of mulled wine and retired to the seats close by the fireplace.

  Geran propped his feet up on a stool and sipped at the warm wine. If I mean to get anything more done before morning, I’d better do it soon, he realized. He was more than ready to retire for the evening. “You’ve heard the tale of my visit to Hulburg,” he said to Kara. “How are matters proceeding here?”

  “Well enough,” she replied, “but our purse isn’t deep enough to keep our men fed and quartered much longer. We have to march in Ches or Tarsakh, because by Mirtul I doubt we’ll have an army any longer. On the bright side, I secured the Icehammers for a couple of months.” She made a face. “I’m afraid that will probably cost us Lasparhall. I had to promise the manor and the grounds to Kendurkkel Ironthane as security against the contract’s fighting bonuses.”

  Geran winced. He wished she hadn’t done that; if their throw of the dice failed, Lasparhall would have at least provided a modest inheritance for Natali and Kirr, a minor title for the family to cling to in generations to come. There’s no point arguing it, he told himself. I told Kara to do as she must in order to raise an army and then left it all in her hands, so I’ve got no cause to complain with how she does what I ask.

  “How does your army compare against Marstel’s forces?” Hamil asked.

  “With the Icehammers included, we’ll march with a little less than eight hundred soldiers,” Kara answered. “That’s a fair match for the Council Guard and any merchant detachments that Marstel can muster. If we count the Cinderfist gangs, I guess we’d be a little outnumbered, but I’m confident in our ability to beat the Council Guard and a hodgepodge of mercenary companies and ruffians in any kind of open battle.”

  “You’re forgetting about Rhovann’s helmed guardians,” said Geran. “We didn’t take them into account before, but I think we have to now. If Marstel’s sellswords have enough of the guardians backing them up, we might not be able to beat them.”

  Sarth nodded in agreement. “The constructs would be formidable foes on the field of battle.”

  Kara leaned forward, looking from Geran to Sarth. “How many of these helmed guardians are there?”

  Geran thought for a moment. He’d seen as many as ten at one time, counting the group that he and Sarth had skirmished with as others were closing in. Others had been posted in pairs at each of the bridges, by the Council Hall, and likely in other strategic spots throughout the town, and Mirya had mentioned that there were more in Griffonwatch. Presumably the creatures didn’t sleep or rest; they were automatons, and wouldn’t need to be rotated on or off duty. “My guess is that Rhovann’s got at least twenty of the creatures scattered throughout the town, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has that many more guarding the castle. He might have as many as fifty or sixty.”

  “That matches my estimate,” Sarth said.

  “How did they fight?” Hamil asked.

  “They’re not quick or skillful, but they’re as strong as ogres, and they’re damned hard to kill,” Geran replied. “Nothing seems to hurt them much. They don’t even bother to defend themselves, really. I think they’d cover ground fast too-they’re likely tireless, or close to it.”

  “So, in other words, we’d better assume that the Council Guard is backed up by fifty trolls, or creatures that fight much like trolls?” said Kara.

  Geran grimaced. He hadn’t thought of it in such a way, but Kara’s comparison was fairly accurate. Trolls were big, strong, slow, and likewise damned difficult to kill. And they knew it, of course, so they wouldn’t hesitate to throw themselves into a hedge of spears to win a fight. By most measures a single troll was worth five human footsoldiers in a battle, which meant that even twenty or thirty of Rhovann’s monsters could be a very formidable force in the field. “Yes,” he said. “They’d be a lot like trolls.”

  Sarth shook his head. “Perhaps physically,” he said, “but I think you would be wise to remember that the helmed guards seem to act in concert. They might prove even more dangerous on the battlefield than their sheer strength and resilience would indicate. For example, they might relay messages over great distances, or react far more swiftly to orders than simple trolls would.”

  “If that’s the case, I don’t see how we can risk a pitched battle without some way to deal with these helmed guardians,” Kara said. “It would be foolish to march out just to put ourselves where Marstel and Rhovann can finish us off. Maybe we could draw them out with skirmishing, or drive Marstel out of power by blocking commerce long enough …”

  “There must be some weakness you can exploit,” Hamil offered. “Trolls fear fire; it’s one of the few things that can hurt them. If you think you might have to deal with trolls, you make certain you’ve got the means to burn them. Sarth, isn’t there some magic you could employ against them? A counterspell or disjunction to remove their animating force?”

  The tiefling spread his hands. “Given time, I am confident I could find a spell that could disable one physically. If nothing else, I might disintegrate enough of its mass to render it useless. But I know nothing about the magic that animates them and bends them to Rhovann’s will. My own arts simply do not deal in necromancy or shadowstuff, and that is precisely what powers the helmed guardians.”

  “I don’t suppose we know any necromancers?” Hamil remarked. No one answered, and he gave a small shrug. “Well, in the absence of a magical counter, I’d wager that you could immobilize one of Rhovann’s creatures if you cut it apart. Zombies ignore pain and don’t bleed, but it’s simple enough, if a little messy, to make sure their limbs don’t work anymore. These helmed guardians must have the same sort of mechanical connection of muscle to bone-or whatever they use in place of muscle and bone-that living creatures wo
uld have, or they couldn’t move. It’s not like they’re specters or ghosts.”

  Ghosts and necromancers … Geran stared into the wine in his goblet, thinking. He found himself remembering the desperate night when Sergen Hulmaster had summoned an army of spectral warriors-servants of the lich Aesperus, the King in Copper-to attack Griffonwatch in a bid to wipe out the rest of the family and seize power. An undead mage of dreadful power, Aesperus had claimed dominion over the barrowfields of the Highfells between Thentia and Hulburg for centuries. Geran had met the lich once on a cold night out in the barrowfields, and Aesperus had recognized him as a Hulmaster. And later on, the lich had used the slain crewmen of the luckless Moonshark to deliver a cryptic warning to Geran about the doom approaching the House of the harmach.

  Harmach Grigor said something about Aesperus before he died, he recalled. “An oath to be kept in Rivan’s crypt,” he murmured aloud, frowning into his wine. What had Grigor meant by that?

  The others looked at him strangely. “What did you say?” Kara asked.

  He looked up, and spoke more clearly. “I think we do know a necromancer. The question is whether or not he’d help us … and at what price.”

  ELEVEN

  1 Alturiak, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)

  For the next few days, Geran worried at the mystery of Grigor Hulmaster’s final words. He’d all but forgotten them in those confusing days as the family had struggled with the questions of how to carry on after Grigor’s death. Immediately after the funeral he’d fixed his mind on his need to avenge the harmach’s murder, focusing all his attention on the deadly dangerous game of threading his way through Hulburg’s streets and shadows without making some error or blundering into his enemies’ hands. And finally he’d been more than a little distracted by his interlude with Nimessa Sokol and the indecipherable yearnings in his own heart as he made his way back home. Now, for the first time in half a month, he found himself looking past the exigencies of the moment toward the confrontation looming ahead … and every time he closed his eyes and tried to envision the reckoning that drew closer each day, he couldn’t shake the nagging sense that Grigor’s words about the King in Copper were important.