Swordmage Page 5

  The warchief motioned to the warriors filling the room and said, “Hold, warriors! We will see how long their spells last.”

  The Bloody Skulls gnashed their fangs and growled in frustration, but they obeyed, slowly edging away from the whirling black firestorm. A forest of spearpoints surrounded the small party of Vaasans, waiting for the black-veiled woman’s spell to show any signs of weakening. Mhurren turned his attention back to Terov and said, “I do not know how long your woman’s spells will last, but if you want to leave this room alive, convince me to spare you before they fail. Choose your next words with care, Vaasan!”

  Terov held up his fist in reply. A heavy iron band carved with dire runes encircled his ring finger. “Do you know what this is?” he said in Vaasan.

  “Your ring,” Mhurren snarled. He’d heard stories of the Warlock Knights and their peculiar methods for ensuring obedience. It was said that an iron ring could not be removed once the wearer put it on of his own free will. “What of it? Everyone knows that Warlock Knights all wear one.”

  “It is a pact ring. I am bound by what I swear. And he who swears to me is bound too. If you take me for your liege, you will be accounted a lord of Vaasa, and I will give you a ring of your own so that you may bind others to their oaths. Yes, you will rule in the name of the Warlock Knights. You will send me warriors when I ask you to, and you will render to me the yearly tithes your oath demands. Those are the things a vassal lord owes his liege. But in turn I will be obliged to come when you call, to honor the laws and judgments you levy on your lands, and to respect the vassal oaths you extract from others. And perhaps most importantly, what you conquer in my name you will keep.” Terov let his hand fall to his side and paused, measuring Mhurren’s reaction. The half-orc chief glared at him but said nothing, so the Vaasan continued. “Today I offer you Thar, but with the power I can give to you, the whole of the Moonsea North will be yours to govern as you see fit… with only a few small exceptions.”

  “Hah! I thought so.” Mhurren bared his fangs. “All right, then. What ‘small exceptions’ do you have in mind?”

  The Warlock Knight shrugged. “If I take some city or town under my protection, you may not sack it. I will levy suitable tribute against it and pay you your due, but once my word is given to someone else, I will not permit you to break it.”

  Mhurren returned to his throne and sat down again. It would be easy to tell this Kardhel Terov no, or better yet, have his warriors draw and quarter the man for his impudence … if in fact they could overcome the powerful magic the Vaasans evidently wielded. On the other hand, if Terov made good on his offer, Mhurren would be the strongest chief for hundreds of miles around. Tribes such as the Skullsmashers or the Red Claws as his vassals instead of his enemies would give him enough power to dominate Thar and any city within a tenday’s march. And the ability to demand unbreakable oaths from those around him would be useful indeed.

  “What does the human offer us, Warchief?” the priest Tangar asked. “Does he insult us? I will gladly spill his blood on the altar of the Mighty One!”

  Mhurren ignored him and spoke to Terov. “I claim the land from the Giant’s Cairn to Sulasspryn and Glister to the sea as my kingdom,” he said. It was a broad definition of Thar, broad indeed, but Terov nodded. “And before I agree to your terms, you will give me a sign of your sincerity: The arms and armor you mentioned, and the services of the Skullsmashers and the monsters at your command, so that I can raze the town of Glister. When Glister falls to the Bloody Skulls, then I will know that you speak truth, and you and I will swear oaths together.”

  Mhurren leaned back, satisfied with himself. If the Vaasan’s promises failed to materialize, well, then, he wouldn’t take Glister. And if Terov was as good as his word and Glister fell into Bloodskull hands, on that day Mhurren could decide whether he wanted to swear any oath or not. It had been a long time since any orc had been called the king of Thar, and if he brought about Glister’s destruction, he would be the greatest of Thar’s chiefs in centuries … maybe a king indeed.

  “It is fair,” Kardhel Terov allowed. “But you will be obligated to me, King Mhurren, if I give you your arms and armor and Glister as well.” He bowed slightly and straightened. In Orcish he said, “I will arrange for the arms to be sent from Vaasa by the end of the tenday. And a Warlock Knight will come in the next day or two to serve you. He will relay your commands to the giants and the other monsters who will answer your call.”

  Mhurren stood and descended the steps of the dais, approaching the human as closely as he dared with the sorcerous black flames flickering around the Vaasans. He stared closely into the man’s face, trying to read something of his intentions. Kardhel Terov returned his gaze without blinking.

  “As you say, then,” the warchief said. “But, tell me one more thing—why are you interested in Thar? What do you gain by making me your ally?”

  Kardhel Terov offered a small smile. “Vaasa is a landlocked country,” he answered. “Impassable mountains surround our land on all sides save the southeast, and there the land of Damara stands astride our natural path of expansion. Most of my peers have their eyes fixed on the conquest of Damara, but I am more patient than they are. I believe Vaasa will grow more quickly by opening up trade with the lands of the west and filling our coffers with gold. The Moonsea is only forty miles from our southern plains. Should I secure a safe trading route across the mountains and moors of Thar to Hulburg or Thentia or Melvaunt, I would vastly enrich my land. To do that, I need a single strong chieftain in Thar who can guard Vaasan trade from any other chieftain or monster that might be tempted to interfere.”

  “And I am the chieftain you have chosen for this … honor?”

  “The Bloody Skulls are my first choice, but I will raise up another chief and another tribe if I have to. I am willing to pay that chieftain very well indeed for serving my purpose, but in turn I will demand loyalty.” Terov’s eyes were as cold as stone. “Our oaths of fealty are inescapable, King Mhurren, both from lord to liege and liege to lord. You will help to make Vaasa rich, and in turn we will help you to build up a kingdom that will last for centuries, not a single lifetime.”

  Mhurren thought for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. “Very well,” he finally said, returning to Orcish so his warriors could understand him. “I do not trust you, Vaasan, but there may be something in what you promise me. I will weigh the truth of your words at the walls of Glister.”

  FOUR

  12 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One

  When the clocktower in the Assayer’s House struck nine, Geran left Griffonwatch and descended the winding causeway to the town. Morning mists lingered in the lower streets, but the sunshine was bright and clear overhead. The fierce wind had finally died away, and the day promised to be mild and fair by the standards of the Moonsea spring. He’d left Hamil to look after himself for the morning. The halfling intended to spend the day looking into Red Sail business; Geran was content to leave it to Hamil for now, since he intended to put every street in the town under his boots at some point during the day. He wanted to see everything that was new or different or simply missing in Hulburg, and more importantly, he wanted to see everything that had stayed the same. He had exhausted his memories in the years he had been away, and he needed to collect the familiar sights and sounds and voices again.

  Geran breathed deeply and threw his shoulders back as he walked, enjoying the cool, fresh air. He’d spent a good two hours of the previous evening reacquainting himself with his young cousins Natali and Kirr before their mother had ushered them off to bed—and not a moment too soon, because he was almost reeling from exhaustion by the time Erna put an end to their endless questioning. Natali was a slender girl of ten years who took after her father, Isolmar. She had the black, straight hair of the Hulmasters and a cat-quick sense of curiosity. Kirr was a rambunctious young fellow of seven whose reddish-gold hair favored his mother, Erna. Unlike his older sister, he seemed more inclined to measure his world
by trying to break it one piece at a time. And, as Grigor had warned him, they wanted to know everything about every place he’d ever been and anything he’d ever done that might be considered adventurous, magical, or dangerous.

  Isolmar would be proud of them both, Geran reflected. It was a heartbreak and a shame that they’d lost their father while so young, but that was hardly an uncommon thing in the Moonsea lands. Wars, monsters, feuds, and hard toil in hard lands orphaned many children and left most of those in much grimmer circumstances. At least Natali and Kirr had their mother and their father’s kinfolk to look after them, as well as a castle full of men and women sworn to the Hulmasters’ service. As far as he could tell, the servants and maids who worked in the castle loved the two young Hulmasters as if Natali and Kirr were their very own children.

  He reached the bottom of the causeway, which was a small square called the Harmach’s Foot. Mule-drawn wagons clattered over the cobblestones, a steady stream passing both north and south. Those heading north were bound for the mining and woodcutting camps beyond the Winterspear Vale with provisions of all kinds—salted meat, sacks of flour, casks of ale, wheels of cheese, blankets, tools, all the things that men living out in the field would need. Those heading south were coming into town from the valley farms. At that time of year, all they had were eggs, dairy goods, and meat to sell in the town’s markets. It would be months before the summer crops came in.

  He didn’t recognize any of the drivers heading out to the work camps. If their accents and manner of dress were any guide, most were from other Moonsea cities. He saw more Mulmasterites and Melvauntians, and even a few Teshans. Geran shook his head, struck again by how crowded the town seemed. “Well, where to?” he asked himself.

  He thought for a moment then struck out north along the Vale Road. Once he left the Harmach’s Foot, the area between Griffonwatch and the Winterspear reverted to old, brush-covered rubble, with only a few buildings standing amid the remains of the old city. Most of the living town clustered close to the harbor, and the northern and western districts of Old Hulburg remained ruins except for the best sites, such as the Troll and Tankard, a taphouse on the edge of town.

  When the Vale Road finally emerged from the ruins of Old Hulburg and headed north into the Winterspear farmlands, Geran turned west at the Burned Bridge. Centuries ago a fine and strong bridge had crossed the Winterspear on five stone piers. In Lendon Hulmaster’s time a simple trestle of wood had been laid across the remains of the ancient stone piers to link Griffonwatch more directly with Daggergard Tower, a small barracks and watchtower on the west bank of the river. Geran paused at the top of the bridge to lean on the rail and watch the water race by below. The snowmelt of spring was just beginning; in a few weeks the Winterspear would be ten feet higher, roaring with the voice of Thar’s high snowfields and the distant glaciers of the Galenas.

  He made his way from Daggergard along Keldon Way, heading south as he circled the town. Above him rose the strange stone forest the folk of Hulburg knew simply as the Spires. Soaring, club-shaped columns of pale green stone stood embedded in the flanks of the ridge marking the western edge of the town, in some cases bursting through the old foundations of the ancient ruins. The Spires were change-land too, just like the spectacular Arches that guarded the eastern side of Hulburg’s harbor. Both were inexplicable legacies of the Spellplague that had swept Faerün nearly a century ago. Odd landmarks such as the Spires or the Arches were commonplace in many lands—rock and root of alien Abeir, piercing Toril’s flesh when the two worlds, long separated, had merged in a decade of unthinkable catastrophes following the Year of Blue Fire. Geran had heard that many such eruptions of Abeiran landscape in other lands were infested with all sorts of strange planar monstrosities or held undreamed-of marvels of living magic, but the Spires were simply tangled, fluted pillars of malachite, silent and inert. No alien perils or deadly magic were hidden within.

  From the shadow of the Spires he descended quickly into the trading district at the foot of Keldon Head, where half a dozen tradeyards clustered near the wharves of the harbor. Here Geran slowed his pace and began to pay attention. The storehouse compound belonging to House Sokol of Phlan had stood in Hulburg for many years, but large new yards belonging to House Veruna of Mulmaster and the Double Moon Coster of Thentia were new. He turned eastward on Cart Street and found a striking new building, the Merchant Council’s Hall, standing not far from the merchant yards. A pair of armed guards stood in front of it, men who wore cuirasses of iron and carried short pikes—the Council Watch, or so he guessed. He didn’t like the idea of an armed company in Hulburg other than the Shieldsworn, but the town seemed full of mercenaries and sellswords.

  Geran threaded his way through heavier crowds along Cart Street. The triangle of tangled streets between the Harbor, Angar’s Square, and the Low Bridge was the heart of Hulburg. Clerks hurried from place to place, carrying ledgers and quills. Porters threw barrels of ale or sacks of flour over the shoulders and carried them off. Children ran and shouted among the oxcarts and porters. “It seems that Hulburg isn’t a backwater anymore,” Geran muttered to himself. Was this what the harmach had meant when he mentioned Sergen’s designs for the town?

  He turned the corner to Plank Street, and his footsteps faltered. He hadn’t even realized where he was allowing his feet to carry him, but now he was here, not more than ten feet from a familiar hammer-and-grain-sheaf emblem, hanging above a door. The signboard was old and battered, but he could still make out the faded lettering: ERSTENWOLD PROVISIONER.

  The storefront was old and weatherworn too, but it was tidy. Barrels full of last fall’s apples stood by the wooden steps. To his right, a large workyard and storehouse adjoined the store. The Erstenwolds had made a decent living for two generations by supplying foodstuffs, rope, canvas, woolen blankets, and iron tools to the ships that called on Hulburg and the miners and woodcutters who worked the hills to the north and east. Jarad’s family could still look after themselves, and that was a small comfort at least.

  He hesitated for a moment, studying the storefront while passersby made their way around him. What are you waiting for? he wondered. His mouth twisted with a grimace of irritation, and he deliberately set foot on the wooden steps leading to the door. Two quick strides, then he pushed it open and let himself inside.

  The Erstenwold store consisted of a single long wooden counter that spanned the width of the room. Thick, smooth planks of hardwood gleamed underfoot, old and stained. Dim daylight filtered in through a row of thick glass-paned windows high on the opposite wall. Tack and harness filled the room with the rich smell of fresh leather, and rows of barrels, sacks, and crates lined the walls. A couple of customers—woodcutters in town to stock up on supplies, Geran guessed—negotiated with a clerk behind the counter.

  It looks pretty much the same as ever, Geran decided. He knew the Erstenwolds’ place of business almost as well as he knew his own rooms in Griffonwatch. Not terribly busy at the moment, but that was not unusual. If no ships or big supply trains were stocking up, a day could be surprisingly slow here.

  “Can I help you, sir?” A dark-haired woman bustled into the room from a doorway behind the counter, brushing her hands against her apron. She was tall and slender, with strong, sharp features and wide-set eyes of a striking glacial blue. She wore her hair pulled back in a single stern braid, but a small spray of freckles danced across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose in defiance of her unsmiling expression. When Geran didn’t answer immediately, she gave a soft snort of annoyance and took a step closer. “Hey! I said, can I …” the shopkeeper began, then stopped. She looked again and shook her head as if to clear it of confusion. “It’s you,” she finally said.

  “It’s me,” Geran said. “Hello, Mirya.”

  “Geran Hulmaster.” Mirya Erstenwold crossed her arms, fixing him with her sharp, bright gaze. “What are you doing here?”

  “I … I heard about Jarad. I had to come.” He rested his hands on the
well-worn wood of the counter and lowered his eyes. “Mirya, I’m sorry. I loved him like my own brother.”

  Mirya said nothing for a long moment. Then she sighed and smoothed her apron. “I know you did, Geran.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No,” she said. “We buried him last Fifthday, alongside my mother and father. It’s done. You’ve no cause to worry on our account.”

  Geran winced. Once upon a time, Mirya wouldn’t have used such a tone on him. Sometime in his seventeenth summer, he’d finally noticed that the sister of his best friend, a girl who had followed the two of them all over Hulburg and the wildlands nearby, was clever, strong, slender, and graceful as an elf princess … and that something in her eyes danced like sunlight on water when he was around her. She’d been his first love, and he’d been hers. But that carefree girl with the easy smile and the soft laugh was just a memory, just as much as the restless boy he’d once been.

  “He didn’t leave anyone behind, did he?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t remember hearing that he’d ever married.”

  “Jarad was promised to Niamene Tresterfin. They meant to marry at Midsummer.”

  “Burkel Tresterfin’s daughter?”

  “Aye.”

  Geran remembered Niamene—a pretty little slip of a girl, perhaps five or six years younger than Jarad. The Tresterfin farm was a good piece of land in the Winterspear Vale, three or four miles north of town. She’d been a young teenager when Geran set out from Hulburg. But it seemed that she’d grown up while he’d been away. Strange how ten years changed such things, he mused.

  “How is she?” he managed.

  “Heartbroken, what do you think? She and her whole family too. Burkel and his wife liked Jarad a lot, and he liked them as well. It would’ve been a good match.”