Richard Baker: Avenger

Rather than follow him, Terov wheeled and shouted at Marstel. “Harmach Maroth, flee! My iron tower is only half a mile farther.”

At the edge of the fray, Maroth Marstel wheeled his horse and spurred madly for the open road; the Warlock Knight raced after him. Geran sought to drive his own mount through the press after the fleeing lords, but too many soldiers-Shieldsworn, Vaasan, and Council Guard alike-crowded the gap in the old dike. For the moment there was no opening.

“Marstel’s getting away!” Kara shouted over the fighting.

“I know!” Geran snapped. He couldn’t get through the press, but he could go around it … Before he could reconsider the desperate plan that had sprung into his mind, he slid out of the saddle into the muddy road and fixed his eye on a spot just a short distance ahead of the fleeing lords. “Sieroch!” he said, summoning his teleport spell to mind. With one confident step he strode through an instant of icy blackness, reappearing to stand in the road a few yards ahead of Marstel and Terov on their galloping horses. In the moment before they rode him down, he wove his sword through an intricate flourish and unlocked his next spell. “Nhareith syl shevaere!”

A bright blue corona of fire sprang into being on the shadow sword’s dark blade, streaming an arc of blue flames as Geran’s sword danced in his hand. With one final slash, the swordmage flung the fiery blast at his enemies. The horses whinnied and shied from the sheet of fire, losing their footing as they leaped away from Geran and the menace of his flames. Terov cursed and deflected the sword’s fiery arc, at least in part, with a counterspell of his own-but the panicked stop of his mount sent him flying from the saddle. Marstel had no such magic to protect himself, and the blue fire seared a black gash through his breastplate that stretched from hip to shoulder. The usurper spilled to the ground as his horse went down. Geran tried to dodge the tumbling horse as it crashed by him, but it swept through his legs and knocked him down too.

He fell into the muddy road in a great splash, shocked by the cold water that soaked his clothing. The fall knocked the wind out of him, but a heartbeat later he scrambled back to his feet and staggered toward Marstel. The old lord lay facedown in the road, limbs twisted from his fall, a faint wisp of acrid smoke rising from his breastplate. Geran reached him and rolled him over, raising Umbrach Nyth to deal the coup de grace to throat or heart.

It wasn’t necessary. For a moment Marstel’s eyes locked on Geran’s as the old lord’s breath and blood gurgled somewhere in his broken body-then Marstel’s eyes drooped and his last breath wheezed from his lips. “You old fool,” Geran rasped. He let his sword drop and looked up to find the Warlock Knight, meaning to deal with Terov next. The Vaasan lord floundered on the ground twenty feet away, gasping with pain as he disentangled himself from his saddle and stirrups. Geran pushed himself upright and started toward him, only to halt in disbelief when a great burst of smoke and wet, bubbling sounds erupted behind him. He spun around in time to see Maroth Marstel’s body melting away into a puddle of dark, frothing ooze.

“What in the Nine Hells?” he muttered. He backed several steps away, staring in astonishment.

The sounds of skirmishing behind him diminished as Shieldsworn and Vaasan alike paused, distracted by the spectacle. Kara, who’d picked her way through the fray and was now close behind Geran, peered at the stinking mess. “What in the world did you do to him, Geran?” she asked.

“It was no spell of mine,” Geran replied. “That was a thrice-damned simulacrum, not the real Marstel! It must have been!” He was no expert on such magic, but Rhovann certainly was. Now that it was dead, it was reverting to the alchemical brew that the wizard had made it from.

“A simulacrum?” Terov snarled. The Warlock Knight had lost his horned helm in his fall; beneath it he seemed surprisingly ordinary, a man with stern features and steel gray hair. Only his crimson eyes marked the touch of the supernatural in his face. “It was a simulacrum I tried to spirit away? Curse Rhovann Disarnnyl’s perfidy! He’s made a fool of me, and kept the real Marstel for himself.” He finally dragged his feet free of the stirrups and started to stand, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet.

“Whether he did or not, it was little help to him,” Geran replied. He turned his attention to the Vaasan lord and advanced on him, setting the point of Umbrach Nyth at Terov’s neck before the Warlock Knight found his feet. “I have you at a disadvantage, my lord. Yield, and order your men to yield as well, or I’ll slay you where you stand.”

Terov glowered at Geran for a moment before he sighed and raised his hand to the handful of soldiers still on their feet. “Very well,” he said. “I yield. Borys, Naran, you others-lower your weapons. We can do no more here.”

Kara trotted forward and dismounted beside Geran. “Where is the real Marstel?” she demanded of Terov.

“I have no idea,” the Warlock Knight answered. “If you don’t have him, and I don’t have him, then I would guess that he is either dead or locked away in some secure dungeon of Rhovann’s. This one here”-he nodded at the sodden, bubbling puddle in the empty armor-“has ruled in Hulburg for a couple of months now.”

Geran risked a glance at the frozen skirmish behind him. Several Shieldsworn were on the ground, but none of the Council Guards were still in the saddle, and only four of the Vaasans remained. Hamil and Mirya slowly rode forward along the road as Sergeant Kolton directed his Shieldsworn to dismount and disarm their prisoners. Mirya closed her eyes and murmured a prayer of thanks as she saw that Geran was unhurt; Hamil took in the scene with a broad grin, and gave Geran a wink.

Looks like you’ve got the rascal right where you want him , he said to Geran. Run him through already, and let’s go have breakfast .

“Not quite yet,” Geran murmured. He looked back to the Vaasan. “Who are you? And what is your quarrel with Hulburg?”

The Warlock Knight’s face might have been made of stone. “I am Kardhel Terov, fellthane and Warlock Knight. I have no particular quarrel with Hulburg. It is simply not in Vaasa’s interest to leave Hulburg in the hands of a weak ruler who might fall under the sway of Mulmaster or Hillsfar.”

“You say you’ve got no quarrel with us, but I don’t see it so. Last year on this very spot I fought Vaasan knights who were aiding the Bloody Skulls in their attack on Hulburg. Mhurren and his orcs would have razed Hulburg to the ground if we hadn’t fought and bled here to stop them. Now I find that you meant to keep Maroth Marstel as a pawn to use against us whenever you felt like it.” Geran narrowed his eyes. “You’ve caused my family and my people a great deal of blood, grief, and tears, Vaasan. Don’t play games with me if you value your life.”

“There are repercussions for slaying a Warlock Knight, Hulmaster.”

“Which I care nothing for at the moment.”

Terov grimaced. “I am not toying with you. We have done nothing more than back the strongest faction in our designs to bring Hulburg within our orbit. Last year the rising power in the Moonsea North was Warchief Mhurren. This year the master mage of Hulburg was ascendant. If your position had seemed strongest to us, we would have approached you, but in fact the survival of House Hulmaster seemed highly unlikely until the last day or two. I would dearly like to know how you ruined Rhovann’s construct warriors at a single stroke, by the way. In any event, the grief we caused your family was incidental to your own lack of strength.”