Richard Baker - Avenger

Quillon scribbled on his parchment, then cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, Lord Geran, but in point of fact, you’d be known as the Baron Hulmaster, since that is the precedence accorded your family in other lands.”

“Lord Hulmaster is good enough.” He looked around the room; his mother nodded in approval, Terena appeared relieved, and Erna frowned but nodded as well. He could already feel their expectations settling around him; in the dark and chaotic days since Grigor’s murder they’d all been caught up in the simple process of grieving and the automatic responses of dealing with a death in the family-something that the Hulmasters knew all too well. Geran’s father, Kara’s father, now Isolmar and Grigor both … he could almost believe that some dark curse had settled upon the Hulmaster line. “I still believe I’m not a very good choice to be harmach, but I’ll do what I can to restore our family’s birthright to the next harmach.”

“Should you name a successor in case …?” Erna asked.

“No, and for the same reasons that Uncle Grigor didn’t. At least, I won’t make any sort of formal announcement. Privately … well, if a successor is needed, I wouldn’t be around, so you should do what you think best in my absence. But my recommendation would be that if something should happen to me, Natali becomes the next harmach, and Kara should be her regent.” He waited in case anyone else wished to speak, and nodded to Quillon. “Master Quillon, does this all seem in order to you?”

“It does, my lord har-baron … er, Hulmaster. I’ll have the proper patents and notices drawn up at once.” The old halfling stood and shuffled his papers together. “And I have some correspondence that requires your attention.”

“I’ll be along shortly, Master Quillon,” Geran replied. He waited for the halfling to let himself out of the room, weighing the iron resolve that was beginning to take shape in his heart. Serise, Terena, Erna, and Kara all watched him, perhaps measuring him against their expectations of what a harmach-in name or not-should do next. I’d better begin to get used to that, he realized. Shieldsworn, servants, clerks, scribes, even my own close family, they’ll all be watching to see how I meet each decision, each development, that comes our way. He found himself shivering at the thought, his stomach growing unsettled, and he closed his eyes to gather himself. I don’t even have a kingdom to rule yet, and Hulburg’s a small realm by any measure. How could someone become the King of Tethyr or the coronal of Myth Drannor and stand it?

There’s no sense in wishing for this to go away, he told himself. Before he could reconsider the intent growing in his thoughts, he faced the rest of House Hulmaster and spoke. “Tomorrow, we bury Uncle Grigor,” he said. He let the words stand for a moment to let the others think on them. “But the day after, we begin the war to retake Hulburg. Mother, I think it might be a good idea to take Erna and her children into hiding in Selune’s temple-Aunt Terena too, if she’s willing to go. Too many people know we’re here, and we have enemies who command powerful magic. Natali and Kirr would be safer somewhere else. Kara, your task is to build the Shieldsworn and any exiled Hulburgans willing to join us into an army that can defeat Marstel’s Council Guard. Hire sellswords, recruit adventuring companies, make deals with the merchant costers of the Moonsea, whatever is required. I want to be able to march in the spring.”

Kara nodded, but a frown creased her brow. “You have some other purpose in mind, don’t you?”

He met her eyes, and let the anger that had simmered in him for days put steel into his voice. “Vengeance,” he said. “Before I do anything else, those who ordered Grigor’s murder are going to die under my blade.”

17 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)

Six days after Grigor Hulmaster’s burial, Geran set foot in Hulburg again. He trudged alongside the mud-spattered wagons of a Double Moon caravan, playing the part of a Vastar sellsword. He’d signed on to escort the caravan from Thentia’s crowded merchant yards to Hulburg for a half-dozen gold coins. While the winter ice held in Hulburg’s harbor, the only commerce with the city consisted of a bare handful of overland wagon trains making their way along the windswept coastal road. It was a hard and uncomfortable trek in the depths of winter, but there was money to be made, and so the great trading companies sent their goods creaking along the trails as weather and opportunity permitted.

Geran’s hair was bleached to a dark blond, and he wore a fringe of yellow-dyed beard on his face. A heavy coat of burgundy-colored leather sewn with steel studs hung down to his knees, and he wore a shapeless, baglike hat of the same color. He’d cultivated a relentless pipe habit, marching along from dawn to dusk with a pipestem clamped between his teeth and as often as not a wisp of aromatic smoke ringing his head. It had taken every bit of stubbornness he possessed to keep Kara from sending disguised Shieldsworn along with him. She’d argued that it was beyond foolish for him to venture into Hulburg alone, risking capture-and most likely a swift, unpleasant death-at the hands of Hulburg’s enemies. He’d finally won his way by persuading Kara that a small number of Shieldsworn wouldn’t substantially add to his safety, while a large number following him about would simply make it much more likely that his ruse would be noticed. Even then he’d had to threaten to renounce the lordship altogether if that was what it would take for her to agree that he could set out for Hulburg on his own.

At the Double Moon tradeyard, Geran stood in line with the other caravan guards to be paid off, complained a little about how little coin he’d actually earned, and asked whether he might be needed for a return trip any time soon, all the things a poor sellsword might be expected to do. Then he left the Double Moon yard and lost himself in the bustle of wagons and passersby moving through Hulburg’s streets. After a few minor errands-purchasing more pipeweed, a new cloak, new stockings, and the like-to make sure that no one was following him or paying too much attention, he decided that it was safe to head to Erstenwold’s.

He saw the first of the gray, helmed warriors at the foot of the Lower Bridge, where Bay Street crossed the mouth of the Winterspear. The creatures were tall, a good half a head taller than his own six feet and two inches, and they stood motionless without paying any attention to the bitter cold or the folk passing by. Their faces were hidden behind their blank metal visors, and he could glimpse strange runic markings on the claylike flesh that showed beneath their black breastplates and helms.

“What in the world are these?” he muttered to himself as he drew near. For a moment he considered reversing his course and retreating, but realized that might appear suspicious when other folk simply carried on right past the things. The people going by on the bridge eyed the things nervously and gave them a wide berth; Geran followed their example. If the gray warriors were aware of the stares and dark mutters they provoked from the people who passed by, they gave no sign of it. Some sort of conjured guardians? Constructs built to serve as warriors, supplementing the numbers of the Council Guard? He remembered hearing rumors about creatures such as these in Griffonwatch. Had Rhovann created or conjured more of the gray warriors in the last few tendays, enough to station them around the city? If so, what was their purpose? Protecting the city and castle from attack? Or were they simply intended to intimidate the greatest number of common folk possible?

At the far end of the bridge, he spied a driver waiting with his wagon by a cobbler’s shop. On the spur of the moment he wandered over to the fellow, an old dwarf in a heavy hood of fur. Leaning close to the wagon seat, he said, “I’m new in town. Who are the gray warriors in the helms? What do they do? Should I mind myself around them?”