Richard Baker: Avenger

The tiefling turned his scepter on the usurper. “Ummar skeyth!” he intoned. A smoking white ray lanced from the device’s end straight at Marstel-but a woman in a crimson veil who sat on a horse near the Warlock Knight drew a wand from her sleeve and spoke a countering spell. The bitter white ray met some invisible shield conjured by the Vaasan witch and deflected upward, blasting a great white patch of ice in the side of one of the towers overlooking the courtyard. Then Terov urged Marstel out of the courtyard, followed by the Vaasan woman with her wand. They galloped out of sight down the causeway, and most of the guards followed them-but not before Sarth knocked two more out of the saddle with another blast of lightning.

Geran ducked under the wild swing of one of his opponents and bobbed up again to bury six inches of his sword point low in the Vaasan’s side, unhorsing him. The other guard nearly rode him down as he dodged around the stamping hooves and flashing blades, but Hamil rolled up under his stirrup and deftly cut the saddle strap. The horse spooked away from the halfling at its belly, and the unsecured saddle slid right off the animal’s back, taking the second Vaasan with it. He landed badly on the cobblestones; before he could get up, Geran stepped over and kicked him unconscious. The last of Marstel’s escorts vanished through the castle gate, leaving six of their number dead, wounded, or stunned in the courtyard.

“Sarth, go after them!” Geran called. “Do what you can to slow them down!”

“Their mage is skillful, but I will do what I can,” the tiefling answered. He invoked his spell of flying and rose up over the battlements, heading northward in pursuit.

“Find a mount,” Geran told Hamil. He turned to follow his own advice, and spotted a big black charger whose rider was lying on the cobblestones, scorched by Sarth’s spells. Trying not to frighten the animal by moving too quickly, he approached. “Easy now,” he said in a soothing voice. “That’s a good fellow, easy now.” The horse snorted suspiciously, but it stood still long enough for Geran to take hold of its reins and give it a few pats on the neck before swinging himself up into the saddle.

“Perhaps you weren’t counting, but Marstel’s men still outnumber us about ten to one,” Hamil observed. The halfling was trying to calm a skittish mare that was a little on the small side, the horse least ill-suited to his stature. “What exactly do you propose to do if we catch them?”

“I’ll work that out when we do. Are you ready?”

“Almost,” Hamil replied.

“I’m ready,” Mirya replied. She’d found a mount of her own and had quickly slit her skirt at front and back to ride with a foot in each stirrup.

Geran frowned. “Mirya-”

“I’ll have none of that nonsense now, Geran Hulmaster, not after the daft things I’ve watched you do in the last few hours,” she said sharply. “If I followed you into the Shadowfell, I can damn well ride with you now.”

He hesitated before answering. “Then at least promise me you’ll stay well back from any fighting we come to.”

“If it makes you feel better.” She kicked her heels to her horse’s flanks and rode hard through the castle gate. Geran scowled and spurred his black charger after her; behind him, Hamil managed to get himself into the saddle and rode out after the two of them.

They cantered swiftly down the causeway toward the small square known as the Harmach’s Foot, the cold raindrops striking them as they hurried after Marstel and his company. From their height, Geran glimpsed a half-dozen thin pillars of smoke rising up to meet the low overcast. He couldn’t hear much over the thudding of his horse’s hooves on the paving stones, but here and there in the streets below he could see handfuls of people hurrying from one spot to another. There seemed to be a riot or a skirmish by the Middle Bridge, and he thought he could hear the distant clash of arms echoing through the gray morning. To his right, a couple of hundred yards ahead of them, Marstel’s company of riders was heading north on the Vale Road; the flash of spells and peals of magical thunder rang through the streets in that direction. Then he lost his vantage as the causeway descended down to meet the Vale Road.

Mirya must have seen what he had, for she turned north and galloped after the false harmach. Geran followed her, and Hamil as well. He leaned over his animal’s neck, encouraging it to greater speed. For several hundred yards they thundered madly through the muddy lane, racing toward the outskirts of the town and the partially repaired city wall by the Burned Bridge and the Troll and Tankard.

Not much besides open countryside ahead of us , Hamil called to him. Perhaps we should follow at a distance, and see if we can sneak up on them later? Or round up a larger company before we set out after them?

Geran didn’t answer for a moment. It was a sound suggestion, but he wasn’t willing to abandon the chase just yet. Finally he straightened in the saddle, and began to ease up on the reins, thinking about the best way to proceed-but a sudden skirmish broke out somewhere ahead of him, just over a small rise. More magic flashed and thundered just ahead, and the shrill sound of steel meeting steel came clearly to his ears. He spurred ahead, sharing one quick glance with Mirya as he drew abreast of her. Together they topped the rise.

Just below them, dozens of Shieldsworn ran and shouted after Marstel and his riders, who were galloping madly down the road away to the north. In their flight, Marstel and Terov had run headlong into a company of Hulmaster soldiers. Half-a-dozen Shieldsworn lay motionless on the road or in the muddy fields nearby … but just as many Vaasans and Council Guards had fallen too. Sarth sat on the roadbank, a crossbow bolt in one thigh and the other leg stretched out at an awkward angle, while a small band of Shieldsworn waited nearby. Shieldsworn archers started to draw on Geran and his companions, taking them for stragglers from Marstel’s band, before they lowered their bows with shouts of recognition. “It’s Lord Geran!” they cried. “He’s here!”

“I am sorry, Geran,” Sarth said from the ground. “I did what I could, but the Warlock Knight’s witch put a spell of negation on me and cancelled my flying spell while I was a fair distance above the ground. I fear I’ve broken my leg.”

“That always seemed a significant drawback to the tactic of fighting from the air,” Hamil remarked. “That, and the fact that everybody within half a mile can see exactly where you are, especially when you’re flinging fireballs and lightning bolts to one side and the other. A good thing the Vaasan witch didn’t catch you too much higher in the air. But how did you get that bolt in your leg?”

Sarth scowled. “One of the Vaasans shot me on the ground. I suppose he had some notion of finishing me while I was distracted.”

Geran kneeled beside his friend and gripped his shoulder. “You did as much as I could have asked for. A bit of bad luck now doesn’t diminish what you’ve done in the service of Hulburg.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry I left you with no potions to drink.”

“As am I. I think I’ll remember to save one for myself next time.”

The swordmage smiled. “I wouldn’t blame you.” He was about to say more when another group of Shieldsworn with banners flying from their stirrups galloped up from the west, cutting across the fields from the Burned Bridge. Kara Hulmaster rode at the head of the small company; Geran stood and waved. “Kara!” he called.

Kara’s mouth opened in surprise as she caught sight of him. She cantered up close and slid from the saddle, hurrying over to catch him in a quick embrace. “Geran! Where in Faerun have you been?”