Richard Baker - Avenger

“Because you owe it to Jarad,” Mirya repeated. She frowned, and finally shook her head, smoothing her skirts with her hands. “Very well, then. You can stay as long as you like, but I think you’re wise to avoid being seen as you come or go. I don’t know how, but I’ve a feeling that Erstenwold’s is being watched. I can show you a path in the buried streets if that would help.”

He looked down at the floor. Mirya was no fool. She knew that he hadn’t been honest, although he hoped that she didn’t know exactly how. “I thank you for the offer, but I think I’d better be going. I don’t want to tempt fortune by hiding here, and I’ve got a few more errands today.”

She paused by the door and looked back at him. “We’re ready to do what needs to be done. I can pass the word to the folk who are still loyal to the Hulmasters.”

He nodded. “My thanks. I’ll remember that when the time comes.” Her frown softened just a little, and she ducked back out into the hallway to return to her business. He stood in the storeroom for a moment, listening to her voice coming from the front counter as she resumed her day. Did I mean what I almost said? he wondered. He looked inward, and found nothing he could make sense of, only a tangle of old memories and new friendship. Shaking his head, angry at his own foolishness, he deliberately set them all aside. “I have no time for that sort of nonsense,” he muttered. He moved over to the counting room’s window, fixed his mind on the empty tinsmith’s shop down the alleyway, and teleported himself out of Erstenwold’s. In a matter of moments he slipped back out onto Fish Street and continued along his way.

The afternoon was drawing on, and he decided that he was hungry. He headed back toward the Winterspear along Market Street, and found a little smokehouse near Angar Square where he was able to buy a simple meal for a silver coin. When he finished, he turned his steps toward Gold Street and hurried past the Cyricist temple. It was much as Mirya had described it, a gaudy new structure rising from the middle of an old craftsman’s district on the edge of the Tailings. Black-clad guards stood by the open doors, doing their best to remain motionless and imposing despite the bitter weather. He was careful not to stare too closely as he walked past, giving the place what he hoped would seem like a cursory glance. He was tempted to wander in the open door and see what the public areas looked like, but decided against it; no doubt he’d be approached by someone if he did go in, and the whole point of a disguise was to avoid attracting attention. Instead he went back over the Middle Bridge-this one was watched by the gray-skinned warriors too-and climbed up the Easthill toward the better homes that sat along the hillside of the headland that formed the eastern half of Hulburg’s harbor. A few minutes’ walk brought him in sight of his goal, a house that was anchored at one corner by a small round tower.

There was no other traffic along this street; these were the homes of the wealthy, people who had no reason to venture out in the cold unless they did so in blanket-filled carriages. He saw no signs of Rhovann’s spies or Council Guards, and decided that a direct approach might be the best in this case. Squaring his shoulders, he marched up to the house’s front door and rang the bell.

There was no response for quite a while. He rang again. This time he heard several quick footfalls, and the door opened a double handspan. In the dark foyer beyond Sarth Khul Riizar appeared, his deadly magical scepter pointed at Geran. The tiefling wore the splendid scarlet and gold robes he favored, and his face-brick red in hue, and graced with two large, swept horns-was set in a stern frown. “I do not know you,” he said. “Explain this interruption at once!”

“Sarth, it’s me! Geran!” the swordmage said, his voice low.

The tiefling frowned and peered more closely at him. “Oh, so it is,” he muttered. “My apologies, Geran; it’s a good disguise. I thought you were some merchant coster armsman, come to deliver yet another offer of employment.” He lowered his scepter, and opened the door wide. “Come in, quickly. You’d best not be seen in the streets.”

“My thanks. I’m sorry for barging in like this.” Geran hurried inside, and Sarth closed the door behind him, bolting it with an absent wave of his hand. “I feared you weren’t at home when you didn’t answer.”

“Ah, well, I forgot that I’d given Wrendt the afternoon off. I thought he was here to answer the door.” Sarth set a hand on Geran’s shoulder. “It is good to see you, my friend. When I heard what had happened in Thentia … it is a monstrous thing to seek the murder of the children and your older relations, cruel and monstrous. I cannot believe that your enemies stooped to such wicked efforts. If there is anything I can do …”

“In fact, I think there is,” Geran replied. He gripped Sarth’s shoulder in reply, the age-old warrior greeting. He had no call on Sarth’s loyalty, no reason to expect that the sorcerer would be willing to make himself an outlaw and a rebel for the sake of a few shared moments of danger, but he hoped that he’d read the tiefling’s character correctly in the months they’d known each other. “Valdarsel, the Cyricist priest, was behind the attack on my family. I mean to kill him for it, and I’m hoping that you’ll lend me your help.”

The tiefling grimaced, and glanced around at the comfortable house around him. “He sits on the Harmach’s Council, you know. There will be unfortunate consequences.” Then he sighed, and nodded. “Very well. Allow me a few hours to make some preparations, and we will see what can be done.”

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

Early on a cold, gray morning, Kara Hulmaster stood holding the reins of her horse Dancer, and watched as her captains maneuvered their companies of Spearmeet and Shieldsworn through marching drills in the steep vale behind Lasparhall. A light snow flurry fell, and she wore a heavy cloak against the cold. Close-order drill was something normally reserved for masses of pikemen, but she’d always thought it handy for welding together newly formed companies and giving new officers practice at commanding their troops. Five days earlier she’d decided to combine the surviving Shieldsworn soldiers with the Spearmeet militia to form three new combined companies-or “shields,” as they were called in Hulburg-for the campaign to come. The new units were still learning how to work together.

As she watched the captains maneuvering their shields, a dwarf riding on a thick-barreled mule came jogging down the lane leading back toward the manor. He was a black-bearded, broad-shouldered fellow even by the standards of his stoutly built kind, and he clenched the stem of a pipe between his teeth. When he drew up beside her, he reined in his mount and slid to the ground with a grunt. “Lady Kara,” the dwarf said with a small nod. “The chamberlain o’ the house told me I’d find you here.”

“Master Ironthane,” Kara replied. “My thanks for coming to call on me here. I’d have been happy to ride down to Thentia, you know.”

Kendurkkel Ironthane shrugged. “It’s the better part of two months now the Icehammers’ve been in winter quarters. I needed a reason to be out an’ about. Besides, I wanted t’ have a look at the Hulmaster army for myself.”

“How have you been keeping?”

“Fair enough,” he replied, watching the shields in their maneuvers. “Better’n you and yours, I’d say.”

Kara winced. Many dwarves had a tendency to speak the truth and spare no feelings, and Kendurkkel was an excellent example. “I wish that weren’t quite so true.”