Richard Baker - Avenger

Wester grimaced, but subsided. “Well enough,” he replied. “I can see the reasonin’ of it. But-no disrespect intended, Lady Kara-where’s Lord Geran? If this whole campaign is a plan o’ his, I’d like to know what part he aims to play in it.”

A good question, Kara answered in the privacy of her own thoughts. She couldn’t blame Wester for asking about exactly the same concern that she’d been worrying at for days now. On the other hand, the last thing her captains needed to hear were her own doubts about the wisdom of Geran’s actions. Wester was a good man, and a fiery leader to the Spearmeet muster who’d followed him into exile, but he was a difficult subordinate. He’d quickly fall into the habit of questioning every order she gave him if she showed any signs of equivocation.

“Lord Geran is engaged in a secret mission,” she replied. “I wish I could speak freely about what he’s doing, but I can’t rule out the possibility that Marstel’s spies-or the scrying of his mage Rhovann-might unearth some report from Lasparhall. If our enemies learn what he’s about, they might take steps to counter his efforts, and his life could very well be in danger. Suffice it to say that we have too few allies and too many enemies at the moment; Geran means to amend that before our campaign begins.” All of that was, of course, true enough, which spared her conscience; she’d never been a good liar. But that might be anything from secret diplomacy in Melvaunt or Hillsfar to seeking out magical assistance to raising the common folk of Hulburg against their oppressors. Let Wester and the others guess at what exactly she meant. “Now, are there any other questions or concerns before we get to work?”

No one spoke for a long moment. Kara studied the faces of her captains; some were grinning in eagerness, anxious for a chance to redeem themselves, but others-mostly the older, more experienced men-harbored dark flickers of doubt. They understood well enough the disparity of numbers and the slender resources available to the Hulmasters for their campaign. The defeat Marstel and his Cinderfist allies had dealt them back in the fall was still all too fresh in their memories.

Without even realizing what she intended to do or say, Kara slowly rose and leaned her mailed fists on the great table. “Marstel’s soldiers are growing fat and lazy in their comfortable winter barracks, bullying old graybeards and children,” she said in a snarl, allowing her voice to rise. “We’re the warriors who met the Bloody Skulls on Lendon’s Wall and stopped those savages dead in their tracks. Marstel’s sellswords caught us spread out all over Hulburg and surprised us with sudden treachery last time; they won’t surprise us again. When next we meet the usurper’s forces in the field, I promise you this: we will cut them to pieces! Now-are you with me, or not?”

Sergeant Kolton scrambled to his feet and struck his fist to his chest. “Aye!” he shouted. “I’m with you, Lady Kara!” Chairs scraped and mail rustled as the others in the room stood and spoke, filling the room with a chorus of “Ayes!” and “We’re with you!” and even a few cries of “Death to the usurper!”

Kara straightened up and nodded to herself. She had them for now, at least. As the cacophony of replies faded, she spoke again. “Good!” she said, grinning fiercely. “Now let me tell you how we’re going to smash Marstel’s hired blades.”

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

A soft snow was falling at three bells after midnight as Hulburg slept. Dawn was still almost five hours away, and even the most determined revelers had abandoned the streets and taverns. Geran and Sarth stood in the shadows by the garden gate of the Temple of the Wronged Prince, wrapped in the eerie silence of the snow and the sleeping town. It seemed they were the only two people awake in the whole of Hulburg, although Geran knew that was a misleading thought. They’d seen two or three patrols of Council Guards on their way to the temple and its grounds, and avoided at least one pair of the tireless helmed warriors with the gray skin. The constructs took no notice of passersby during the day, but that didn’t mean they would ignore two armed men at an hour when no honest folk were out and about.

“I see no wardings over the garden,” Sarth said in a low voice. “However, there is a glyph upon the door, as you said. I believe I can defeat it without making much noise.”

“Good,” said Geran. He drew his sword-a fine straight long sword with a modest enchantment upon it, borrowed from Sarth’s collection since he’d left his elven blade in Thentia-and murmured the words of a spell to summon a faint veil of silvery mist around himself. The cuillen mhariel , or silversteel veil, was a potent defense against many forms of attack, including magic. “You know that you need go no farther. Once you strike a blow, you’ll lose what remains of your neutrality. Marstel’s men and Rhovann’s helmed constructs will storm your house before the day’s out.”

The tiefling shrugged. “An unfortunate loss, since I rather like the place. But I’ve made arrangements for the things I value, and have no great concern for the rest.” He hesitated just a moment, and added, “Geran … this is your chance to reconsider as well. There is no telling what sort of retaliation you may provoke.”

The swordmage shook his head. In his mind’s eye he saw the blood-splattered corridors of Lasparhall and the gray face of his uncle, dying with an assassin’s knife in his heart. He knew that nothing could undo what had been done, but at the very least he could make sure that Grigor Hulmaster’s murderers never had the chance to kill anyone else dear to him. “That may be true, but Valdarsel will have no part in it,” he said. “Come on; we’re wasting the night.”

Sarth sighed, but he turned to the gate and murmured a minor spell of opening. The bolt on the far side rasped softly as it drew back under his magic, and the wrought-iron gate swung open. Geran pushed through and hurried across the snow-covered garden beyond. Most buildings in Hulburg were made of timber on strong stone footings, but the temple was made entirely of masonry. It did have windows, but they were narrow embrasures that stood a good ten feet above the ground, like a castle’s arrow slits-far too narrow for anyone to scramble through, as Mirya had observed. He drew close to the temple’s back door, and paused when the magical glyph guarding it became visible to his eyes. He could sense the baleful curse held within its faintly glowing lines and whorls. It was nothing he would care to tamper with, but Sarth was better with such things than he was.

Sarth studied the glyph closely for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “A competent effort, but I can defeat it,” he murmured. In a low voice he began to whisper the words of a counterspell, gently gesturing with his hand as he traced the glyph’s shape in the air with a fingertip. The glyph glowed brighter, its lines blazing a brilliant emerald green before they suddenly grew dark and vanished. “It is done.”

Geran glided forward and set his hand on the handle, not without a small quiver of trepidation. Glyphs, symbols, and such things could be highly dangerous, after all, but he trusted Sarth. He opened the door as quietly as he could, and found himself looking into a stone-flagged hallway dimly lit by small oil lamps in wall sconces. Several doors opened off the hall before it turned out of sight. He slipped inside, and Sarth followed behind him, pulling the door closed after him.

“Seal the door,” Geran whispered. “No one is to get out this way.”

“We may trap ourselves,” Sarth replied. But at a nod from Geran, he whispered the words of a locking spell to hold the door against anything short of destruction by a battering ram.