Richard Baker - Avenger

“Not that way, I fear!” Sarth shook his head and caught his arm, pulling him out toward the main shrine. “We must leave by the front door.”

Geran grimaced, but assented with a nod. Together they hurried out through the antechamber into the smoke-filled shrine beyond. Here stood a large statue, showing the god Cyric seated on his great throne with a sword lying bare across his lap. Bas-reliefs along the walls showed scenes of Cyric’s mortal life, telling the story of his fated birth and the trials through which he ascended to divinity. Geran hardly spared them a glance as the two hurried out through the gates into the cool, snowy streets outside, where a large knot of onlookers-mostly foreigners and Cinderfists, since the temple was not far from the Tailings and they made up most of Valdarsel’s followers anyway-had gathered to watch the place burn. Behind them a half dozen of the helmed constructs he’d seen earlier stood mutely watching the crowd, the reflection of the flames shimmering across their blank visors.

“There they are!” shouted a singed-looking acolyte in black robes. He stood, pointing an accusing finger at Geran and Sarth. “There stand the defilers! Seize them!”

“By all nine screaming Hells,” Geran muttered. “This is why I hoped to use the back door when we’d finished.”

Uncertainly at first, and then with angry mutterings and shouted threats, the small crowd began to surge forward. Geran thought about standing his ground and teaching the Cinderfists a second lesson to go along with the destruction of the temple, but then his eye fell on the towering rune-marked warriors in their blank helms. The creatures fixed their empty gazes on the two comrades and swung into motion, striding straight for them with a direct quickness that Geran frankly wouldn’t have expected of them. He hesitated a moment longer before glancing at Sarth. “I think we’d better be on our way.”

“Agreed,” the tiefling said. He stepped forward and locked his arms around Geran’s torso. Then, with a muttered spell, he leaped up into the air, bearing the swordmage into the firelit night with his flying spell.

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

Rooftops reeled under Geran’s feet as Sarth carried him away from the Temple of the Wronged Prince. Behind them, flames shot up into the night from the building’s collapsing roof, and the fire’s sound-a dull, shapeless roar, interspersed by the constant popping and crackling of combustibles igniting within-filled the night. He glanced down as Sarth narrowly cleared a chimney and winced in fear of a fall. The last time he’d been carried into the air in such a way, he’d been fighting for his life against a gargoyle. But Sarth managed to keep the both of them in the air, his teeth bared in the effort to carry Geran along with him. In the space of ten heartbeats the tiefling returned to the ground two blocks from the temple, out of the mob’s sight, and released the swordmage.

“That … is much harder … than using the spell for myself alone,” Sarth panted. He leaned over with his hands on his knees. “My apologies … for not asking … your permission before … carrying you into the air.”

“Think nothing of it,” Geran answered. “We were about to be set upon by a mob; I approve of your judgment.”

“Shall we continue … as we’d planned?”

“I think so, and the sooner the better. I hadn’t expected so many Cinderfists to respond to our attack on the temple. Then again, I hadn’t expected to burn the place to the ground.” Geran and Sarth had decided it would be wisest to make for Thentia as soon as possible after dealing with Valdarsel. Even though Geran wished to begin plotting against Rhovann next, he was afraid that if he remained in Hulburg, Marstel’s men would tear the town to pieces to find him; if he allowed his return to Thentia to become widely known, the usurper’s soldiers wouldn’t waste any time trying to root him out of hiding.

“You wished to send a stern message to your enemies. The destruction of the temple certainly contributes to that.” Sarth drew one more deep breath, and straightened up. “Lead the way.”

“Our mounts are waiting.” The swordmage looked around to fix his bearings; they were in the small alleyway between High Street and Plank Street, not that far from Erstenwold’s. With a quick glance up and down the streets, he set out at a fast walk, figuring that would look less suspicious if they met any guardposts. Geran had prepared for their escape by purchasing a pair of riding horses the day before and stabling the animals with their tack, harness, and provisions in a disused storehouse near the intersection of Market Street and Keldon Way. With any luck they’d be mounted and on their way within a quarter hour, long before any pursuit could be organized. Of course, Marstel’s soldiers would certainly expect them to flee along the westward roads, but Geran was confident that he could lose pursuers in the moors.

They turned west on Cart Street; Geran glanced behind them, where he could see the bright orange-glowing smoke rising from the burning temple above the rooftops. Dark figures milled around a couple of hundred yards farther down the street. He couldn’t tell for certain from this distance, but it looked as if several parties of searchers were setting out to comb the streets. He quickened his pace, heading for Fish Street to cut over toward their waiting mounts and stay out of sight.

A muted clatter of steel came from the other direction, and four of the helmed gray warriors suddenly rounded the corner at a silent run, halberds clutched in their thick hands. Geran and Sarth froze in surprise; they’d been watching for pursuit from behind them, not ahead. For an instant Geran hoped that the creatures were simply hurrying to the scene of the fighting, but the gray monsters altered their course the instant they caught sight of the two fugitives, lowering their halberds to charge with the weapons’ deadly spear points.

“Take them!” the swordmage said to his friend. “We can’t let them follow us to the horses!” He drew his sword, and ran forward to meet the first of the helmed guardians. The creature drew back its thick arms and rammed the halberd point ahead in a powerful but clumsy thrust that might have driven the big weapon through the side of a house, but Geran simply stepped aside. In a single fluid motion he rolled in along the weapon haft, crouched, and drove his sword point up under the ribs on the thing’s right side. Fifteen inches of steel vanished into its gray flesh. He drew out his sword and spun away, searching for the next foe-but the hulking creature he’d just stabbed planted its lead foot and pivoted to bring the halberd around in a massive sweep that Geran avoided only by throwing himself back on his seat. He scrambled to his feet, ducked to his left, and lunged forward to cleave his long sword through its lower torso, just below the armor plate guarding the center of its body. The steel sword smacked into the creature’s flesh as if he’d hewed at a block of wet clay; when the blade passed through, it left a wide, thin-lipped cut, but only a few dark drops of ichor leaked from a wound that would have disemboweled any mortal foe. The creature raised its halberd for another strike, and this time Geran was obliged to scramble away from that attack as a second helmed guardian tried to skewer him from the side.

“They don’t bleed!” he cried in frustration. “It’s like hacking at mud!”

Sarth scorched another of the monsters with a jet of bright fire. Claylike flesh hardened under the heat and then broke away in fist-sized chunks as the construct advanced and swung its halberd at the tiefling. The sorcerer ducked and retreated. The construct paid no attention as huge slabs of its substance delaminated and fell to the snowy cobblestones, pressing after Sarth. “Nor do they burn very well,” the tiefling snarled. “In fact, they seem difficult to harm.”