Swordmage (4 page)

“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 Aider-heart, 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 ttue?”

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.”

Three

Two hours before sunset, the ore-hold began to stir. Warriors rose from their pallets, stretching and yawning, heavy canines gleaming yellow in the dim light. Females stoked the cookfires, fed the livestock, and began their long round of drudgery and toil. The young scurried about underfoot, fetching water and firewood, emptying chamberpots, and tending to the scraggly goats, sheep, and fowl penned within the crudely built fortress. Ores disliked the brightest hours of the day, and therefore the hold took its rest from shortly after sunrise to the late afternoon. Only the scouts, the sentries, and those young given the job of minding the herds in the fields nearby stayed awake through the bright hours of morning and midday.

The warchief Mhurren roused himself from his sleeping-furs and his women and pulled a short hauberk of heavy steel rings over his thick, well-muscled torso. He usually rose before most of his warriors, since he had a strong streak of human blood in him, and he found the daylight less bothersome than most of his tribe did. Among the Bloody Skulls, a warrior was judged by his strength, his fierceness, and his wits. Human ancestry was no blemish against a warrior—provided he was every bit as strong, enduring, and bloodthirsty as his full-blooded kin. Half-ores who were weaker than their ore comrades didn’t last long among the Bloody Skulls or any

other ore tribe for that matter. But it was often true that a bit of human blood gave a warrior just the right mix of cunning, ambition, and self-discipline to go far indeed, as Mhurren had. He was master of a tribe that could muster two thousand spears, and the strongest chief in Thar.

Yevelda sat up when he threw off the furs. She was his favorite wife, a tigress with more human than ore in her, much like himself. Slender as a switch of willow by the standards of most of the tribe’s women, she made up for her small size and clean features with catlike reflexes and pure, fierce intensity. With a knife in her hand, she was more deadly than many male warriors twice her weight. Even when he took her to the sleeping-furs, Mhurren never really let his guard down around her. She cuffed his two lesser wives, Sutha and Kansif, awake.

“Rise, you two,” Yevelda said. “See to the kitchens and make sure our guests are looked after. They judge our husband by the table you set. Do not disappoint me.”

The junior wives scrambled quickly out of the furs. Yevelda had shown more than once that she was quick to beat one, the other, or both if she had to repeat herself. Kansif was a young, full-blooded girl who was thoroughly cowed by the half-ore woman and desperate to please her. Sutha, on the other hand … Sutha was an older and far more cunning woman, the first of the three to have shared Mhurren’s furs and a strong-willed priestess in her own right. She was a strong, fit mixed-blood who was not at all happy about having been supplanted by Yevelda as Mhurren’s favorite. The chieftain guessed that Sutha was well along in several plots against Yevelda, but it wouldn’t do to intervene. If the favorite couldn’t keep the lesser wives in their place, then she wasn’t fit to be the favorite, was she? As she left, Sutha brushed by him with a sly smile and let her hand trail over the thick mail of his broad chest, moving just quickly enough to deprive Yevelda of a reason to chastise her.

Mhurren grinned in appreciation as he watched his lesser wives dress themselves and hurry from his chambers. Then

he moved over to the slitlike window and brushed the heavy curtain out of the way. The day was bright, and faint hints of green growth speckled the gray hills and moorlands surrounding Bloodskull Hold. Thar was a hard land, barely suitable for a few scrawny herds of livestock, but with the coming of spring the passes would soon open, and he’d be able to send hunting parties to the mountain vales and the open steppeland beyond. It would be good for his warriors to have something to do. Too many of his ores were growing bored and restless after the long winter, and that usually spelled trouble.