Swordmage Read online

  “I didn’t know.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have heard.” Mirya glanced down the counter; the woodcutters were finishing their business with her clerk, who was busy writing out their order in a ledger. Satisfying herself that it was nothing she needed to worry about, she took a deep breath and looked back to him. “Where do you keep yourself now, anyway?”

  “Tantras. A few years back I joined an adventuring band called the Company of the Dragon Shield. Tymora smiled on us, and we won a small fortune before we went our separate ways. My comrade Hamil and I bought owners’ shares of a small trading company, the Red Sail Coster. We buy and sell cargoes in the Vast.”

  “I thought I’d heard that you were living in Myth Drannor.”

  His hand tickled, remembering the feel of brushing dry leaves of orange and gold from Alliere’s midnight hair as she laughed and ducked away from him. Strange that his fingers recalled something his heart had no wish to, he mused. He looked down again to banish the memory from his mind. “I did for a time, but I’ve been in Tantras for more than a year now,” he said. He paused and changed the subject. “Listen, Mirya, I know you said that there isn’t much I can do, but….”

  She crossed her arms and fixed her gaze on him. “You don’t need to worry about me, Geran Hulmaster. You’ve not been home in years, and you’re sure to be on your way again soon. Spend an hour by Jarad’s grave if you feel you should, visit with your family, take a ride in the Highfells if you still fancy the scenery. Then go back to whatever place you call home now. You’ve nothing more to do here.”

  Geran retreated a step. Mirya had good cause to be angry with him, after all. He’d broken her heart when he left Hulburg ten years past. He’d always meant to come back after seeing more of Faerûn, but after those first few years with the Dragonshields, he’d found himself enchanted in Myth Drannor, swept up in a dreamlike life that had made him feel like one of the Fair Folk himself, and the memories of his boyhood had seemed so faint and far away. He was still waking up from that strange dream.

  “Mirya, I don’t know what to say,” he sighed. He couldn’t think of anything more.

  “Mother! Mother! I finished my letters. Can I go play kick-stones with Dori and Kynda?” Geran looked to the doorway leading back to the family quarters, where a young, dark-haired girl stood. She wore a long-sleeved dress of blue wool and was already pulling a brown hood over her shoulders, expecting to go outside. She gave a quick smile and dipped in a shallow curtsey when she noticed him looking at her. “Well, can I?” she repeated.

  Mirya has a daughter? Geran blinked in surprise. Of course, Mirya was wearing her hair in a long braid. In Hulburg that was something married women did. When did that happen? he wondered. He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. What did he expect after ten years, after all?

  Mirya’s face softened for a moment. “Aye, go ahead, Selsha. But you be back here by noon. We’re taking a big delivery from the brewhouse, and you’re to help mind the store while I’m seeing to it.”

  “Thank you, Mother!” Selsha bolted back the way she had come. Her footsteps clattered in the hallway, and a door slammed shut.

  “You have children?” Geran asked. “I never knew.”

  “Only Selsha,” she replied. She stared after her daughter with the same mixture of love and just a hint of worry that mothers everywhere seem to have. “Selune knows that she’s enough. She’s a wonder and a trial to me every day.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Eight last month.” Mirya glanced back at him. “She came about two years after you left Hulburg.”

  He nodded. In other words, Mirya was saying, she isn’t yours. That would have been a few months after he’d returned home for his father’s funeral, but Geran had stayed in Hulburg only a couple of days before leaving again. He hadn’t seen Mirya then. “She’s beautiful. Are you—I mean, who is—?”

  “No, I’m not married. Her father’s no one you know and no one that we’ll ever see again.” Darkness flickered across her face, and she looked away from him. “But we’ve got each other, and we make do.”

  There’s more to it than that, Geran thought. Had she fallen in love with someone else after he’d left only to have her heart broken again? Or … well, there was not much point in speculating about it. Mirya had made it clear that it was none of his business. Strange, but the idea that she’d evidently moved on after he’d struck out on his own woke a small, bitter swell of resentment in him.

  You have no right to feel that way, he told himself. You left her, after all. Was she supposed to remain chaste and forlorn until the day you decided to wander back into her life? And Alliere’s ghost still haunted him every day.

  “I should be going,” he finally said. “I’d like … well, I’ll stop in to say good-bye before I leave town.”

  She shrugged and started to say something, but then someone pushed the door open. Three men in mail shirts and tabards of green and white sauntered in. One ran his hand along the wooden counter as he paced toward Mirya, one closed the door behind him and leaned against it with arms folded, and the third wandered by the barrels and sacks stacked along the opposite wall. He studied Geran while feigning interest in the goods offered for sale.

  “Well, now, Mistress Erstenwold,” the first man said. “You seem to’ve neglected this month’s council dues. We’re here to offer a friendly reminder.”

  Mirya’s face tightened. She stood her ground, not moving. “I’ve not paid any dues because I haven’t joined the Merchant Council,” she said. “Nor do I mean to, so you and your men can see yourselves out anytime you fancy.”

  “You certain about that, Mistress Erstenwold?” the first man asked. He was a big, round-faced fellow with the complexion of a ruddy ham. “These are dangerous times. It’ll be difficult to do business without council protection.” He nodded toward the man along the back wall, who drew a dagger from his belt and slashed open a sack of milled grain. It poured out onto the floor with a soft hissing sound.

  “Enough,” Geran said. He turned to face the men in green and white. “She asked you to leave, so leave.”

  “This isn’t your problem,” Mirya snarled under her breath.

  “Mistress Erstenwold is right—this ain’t your problem, stranger,” the leader of the three said. He shifted his attention from Mirya to Geran and squared to face him. He rested one hand on the hilt of the long sword at his belt. “Why don’t you shut your damned mouth and think of some other place you ought to be?”

  Geran smiled coldly, but his eyes were hard. This was something else that he hadn’t seen in Hulburg before. This makes twice in two days that I’ve faced foreigners wearing steel in my own hometown, he thought. “Whose colors are you wearing?” he asked the man.

  The ruddy-faced man measured him for a moment before answering. “House Veruna. Lady Darsi’s helping the Merchant Council to establish order in this miserable town. Everyone who wants to do business in Hulburg is going to join, one way or the other. Now, you’re starting to annoy me, stranger. I’m telling you for the last time: Stand aside, and let me finish my conversation with Mistress Erstenwold here, or things won’t go well for either you or her.”

  “Geran, you’re not making things any better!” Mirya hissed.

  He ignored her. “I’m not moving,” Geran said.

  Ignoring the dark looks the Veruna men shared with each other, Geran emptied his mind of distractions and concentrated on the secret arcane syllables he’d studied for so many months in the starlit glens of Myth Drannor. It was not enough to know the words; to invoke their magic, one also had to understand the strange associations of thought that gave the ancient words their power, then hurl the focused might of one’s will at the combination of symbol and meaning. “Theillalagh na drendir,” he said aloud, clearly, his voice strong and confident in the ancient Elvish.

  A faint veil of violet mist coalesced around him, growing stronger and brighter, shaping itself into hundreds of scalelike shards of diamon
d-bright force that rippled and cascaded from his shoulders to his knees. The elf swordmages knew the incantation as the Scales of the Dragon. It armored him as well as the finest dwarf-wrought plate.

  “Did you hear that, Bann?” said the Veruna armsman by the back of the store. The man recoiled two steps. “It’s elven witchery! He’s a mage of some sort!”

  “Steady, lads,” the lead armsman, Bann—or so Geran guessed—said. His voice was steady, but his eyes narrowed, and he suppressed a small shiver. Slowly he drew his blade, a sturdy basket-hilted broadsword, careful to keep the point to the gleaming wooden floor. “Wizards are just men. They can bleed and die like anyone else.”

  “We’ll see,” Geran replied. “Ilyeith sannoghan!” He swept out his elven blade as he spoke the spell, and the subtly curved steel began to crackle with dancing sparks of yellow-white, almost as if he’d parried a bolt of lightning. In a voice as quiet as death he promised, “The next man who damages Erstenwold property will regret it for the rest of his life.”

  The Veruna armsmen exchanged glances and hesitated. None seemed willing to be the first to try Geran’s steel, not while shimmering veils of magic shrouded him and brilliant sparks danced like fireflies along his blade. The armsman Bann met Geran’s gaze with a fierce glare. “Fair is fair,” he grated. “We told you our colors. So whose colors do you wear, wizard?”

  “None but my own,” Geran snarled. He shifted his feet, and raised his blade into a high guard.

  “Stop it!” Mirya barked. “I’ll not have this nonsense in my store! Take your quarrel to the street, all of you!”

  No one moved. Mirya snorted in disgust, slid a few steps along the countertop, and pointed at Geran. “Oh, by all nine of the screaming hells. He wears no colors because he’s Geran Hulmaster, kin of the harmach,” she said to Bann and the other Veruna men. “Think on that before you strike!”

  Geran scowled and moved away. “Stand aside, Mirya. I know what I’m doing. This’ll be over with soon enough.”

  “The harmach’s nephew?” the armsman by the door said. He frowned. “Bann, I’m not sure about this. Someone cut up the Chainsmen last night. I heard it was him. And what’ll the townsfolk do if we hurt him?”

  “If he chooses the quarrel, we’ve broken no laws,” Bann said.

  “Aye, but Lady Darsi’ll have your heads if you lay a finger on him without her permission!” Mirya retorted.

  That dart found its mark. The Veruna man winced, and uncertainty flickered across his face. He glared at Geran a moment longer, and then he contemptuously spun on his heel and slammed his sword back into the sheath. “You might be surprised, Mistress Erstenwold,” he said to Mirya. He angrily jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, lads. We’ll just come back sometime when Mistress Erstenwold isn’t so busy.”

  The Veruna man strode out of the store, sparing Geran one more look before he bulled his way into the street. The other two blades followed him. Geran watched them pause and speak together for a moment out in the street before they turned and left together. He sighed and released the spells he’d been holding. With a simple flourish he returned his sword to the scabbard. “I suppose that’s done for now,” he said.

  Mirya watched the Veruna armsmen leave, her face a tight mask of disapproval. “And when did you become a wizard?” she demanded.

  Geran shrugged. “I know a few shields and evocations, but I’m no wizard. Sword magic is all the magic I can master.”

  Her eyes fell to the blade at Geran’s hip, and she studied him more thoughtfully. “I’ve heard stories of elven swordmagic,” Mirya finally said. “I thought the elves weren’t in the way of sharing their magic with outsiders. Is the sword enchanted?”

  “The lightning was a spell of mine, not the sword. But, since you ask—yes, the blade’s enchanted. I earned it in the service of the coronal.” He halted, unsure what else he could add. The people of Hulburg knew elves and elven ways only by what they heard from merchants of Hillsfar or Mulmaster, and the folk of those cities had good reason to fear the wrath of the elves. Consequently elves were likewise regarded as mythical and perilous in Hulburg too.

  I’m going to have to be careful about saying too much about my time in Myth Drannor, he realized. He grimaced and moved on. “The Veruna men shouldn’t trouble you for a while. I’ve dealt with their kind before.”

  “Well, that’s helpful,” Mirya said in a sarcastic voice. “And what do you think’s going to happen when they come back after you’ve gone away again? I’ll tell you, Geran Hulmaster: They’ll hold me to account for your nonsense. That’s what.”

  “If you have to, tell them that I interfered without your blessing,” he said sharply. He’d expected at least a little gratitude for his trouble, after all. “It’s true enough.”

  “It’s not so simple, and you know it.” Mirya clenched her fists in her apron. “You’ve been gone for ten years, and you’re sure to be gone again before the month’s out. I don’t need you to pick a fight and then sail off, leaving it to me!”

  Geran snorted. “If you beg forgiveness for standing up to a bully, you’re asking him to rob you again. You should know that, Mirya.”

  “You’ve not been here, Geran, and you don’t have half an idea of what’s going on in this town!” Mirya snapped. “And it’s not just my own neck that I’m worried for. What if those black-hearted scoundrels thought to teach me a lesson by hurting Selsha? Now how could I live with myself if I let her get hurt on account of my stubbornness? Or yours?”

  “All right, then. I’ll make sure that I don’t involve you in my quarrels, Mirya. But I’ll be damned if I’ll stand still and watch some Mulmasterite thugs threaten my friends right in front of me. I promise you I’ll make sure my fights are finished before I go.” Geran shook his head and stormed away. He tried not to slam the door behind him, but he didn’t quite succeed. Mirya shouted something after him, but he turned back toward Griffonwatch and set off without looking back.

  Slavers in the Tailings, the Shieldsworn keeping no laws within the town’s walls, and thugs dressed in the colors of foreign companies extorting native-born Hulburgans. Somewhere at the back of it all, Jarad Erstenwold had been murdered in the Highfells by tomb robbers. Geran fumed silently as he shouldered his way through the narrow streets. It seemed that looking after Jarad’s affairs might take longer than he’d thought.

  FIVE

  13 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One

  The day after the encounter at Erstenwold’s, Geran rose early and spent half an hour practicing his weapon-forms in a little-used court on the castle’s south face. When he finished, he returned to his chambers, splashed himself with cold water for a teeth-chattering bath, and dressed. Then, before leaving his rooms, he took a large book written in Elvish from his baggage. Geran spent an hour studying the words and symbols from the spellbook, pressing into his mind the arcane phrasings and signs he would need to unlock his magic quickly and surely should he need it. Given what he’d seen of the state of affairs in Hulburg so far, it seemed wise to be ready for anything.

  With the swordmagic spells fixed in his mind, Geran took a few moments to renew the protective charms he usually maintained from day to day. He quickly rewove wardings of keen perception and deflection, defenses that just might save him from a dagger in the back or see him through an unexpected skirmish. His battle-shields were much more powerful, of course, but he couldn’t maintain them for long; the wardings he could wear all day, like an invisible shirt of light mail. He returned his spellbook to the trunk at the foot of his bed and whispered a locking spell out of habit.

  “All right,” he said aloud. “Now for some breakfast.”

  He trotted down the stairs leading from his old bedchamber to the great room in the Harmach’s Tower, where the family normally took their meals. Hamil was ahead of him, already finished with his own breakfast. The halfling was engaged in a game of dragon’s-teeth with Geran’s young cousin Kirr, who chortled with delight every time he found an oppo
rtunity to put one of his own markers on top of Hamil’s. Somehow the halfling never failed to provide the young lad plenty of opportunities to take his pieces.

  Hamil looked up at Geran with a doleful frown. “It seems I’ve fallen into the hands of a master strategist,” he said. “I don’t doubt that this young fellow will grow up to be the greatest general since Azoun of Cormyr. Neighboring lands should sue for peace now, while his terms remain generous.”

  “That’s right!” Kirr declared. “Ha! You missed another one, Hamil!” He plunked a red tile down on top of one of Hamil’s white ones.

  “What—but how? You fiend! You have captured my last white!” the halfling spluttered in feigned outrage. The young boy cackled in reply, almost helpless with delight at his own cunning. His older sister, Natali, studied Hamil suspiciously while she arranged her own pieces for the next match, clearly aware that the halfling was throwing the game but wise enough not to say so right before she got a chance to play him.

  Geran shook his head. In a hundred years he never would have guessed that Hamil had a weakness for children. He helped himself to a broad plate of honeycakes, bacon, and eggs from the breakfast service and sat down near the game to watch as he ate. “A word of advice, Kirr,” he said between mouthfuls. “If Hamil loses again but suggests that maybe you should play for coin next time, say no.”

  The halfling snorted. “Even I am not that underhanded, Geran!”

  “Do they play dragon’s-teeth in Tantras, Geran?” Natali asked. She was quieter than her younger brother, but in two brief evenings Geran had already learned that she had a quick and lively sense of curiosity and never forgot a word she heard. Where Kirr was constantly in motion, fidgeting and standing and sitting and pushing tiles together when it wasn’t his turn, Natali held herself as still as a falcon watching a mouse.

  Geran nodded. “Yes, indeed. And people play dragon’s-teeth in most other places I’ve visited too. In the Moonsea it’s regarded as a children’s game, but if you go down to Turmish or Airspur you’ll see grown men playing all afternoon. They take tremendous pride in playing well, and sometimes they gamble bags of gold on games. The marks on the tiles are different, but the game’s pretty much the same everywhere you go.”