Richard Baker: Avenger

“We seemed weak, so what you did to us was justified?” Geran snapped. “Show me your iron ring!”

Terov hesitated, but the shadow sword at his throat did not waver. He drew off his gauntlet and held up his right hand. The ring was surprisingly plain in appearance, a simple band of iron.

Geran shifted Umbrach Nyth to his left hand and seized Terov’s right hand in the clasp of his leather-gauntleted silver fist. “Swear on your ring that you will truthfully answer the next question I ask.”

“That is hardly necessary-”

“Swear it or I’ll kill you myself,” Kara said from beside Geran. Terov’s eyes blazed with anger, but he nodded. “I swear I shall answer truthfully.”

“Did you direct the Cyricist priest Valdarsel to arrange the assassination of my family?” asked Geran in a cold voice.

Terov flinched-not much, only a slight flick of the eyes, but a flinch nonetheless. “Yes,” he answered. “But, as I said-”

“Shut your mouth!” Geran snarled. Before he knew what he meant to do, he released Terov’s hand and struck him in the face with his right hand. A sharp jolt of fresh pain seared his arm as the damaged bones of his wrist took the impact, and a trickle of fresh blood started from beneath the silver cuff at the end of his arm. But Terov’s jaw broke under the weight of the silver fist. The Warlock Knight spun to the ground, spitting blood and broken teeth. Geran strode forward and seized Terov by the gorget, setting the point of his sword at the Vaasan’s throat.

“Murdering bastard,” Hamil said aloud. “If you don’t kill him, Geran, I’ll be happy to take care of it for you.”

“I yielded, damn you!” Terov snarled through his bloody lips.

Geran glared at the Vaasan, but in his mind’s eye he saw Harmach Grigor gasping out the last breaths of his life in Lasparhall, and dead Shieldsworn and servants strewn through the manor. His sword arm almost quivered with the need to take the Vaasan’s life. He felt Mirya frown in deep distaste, shrinking from the blow she sensed gathering in him. Somehow he found that he didn’t want her to see what he meant to do next; her disapproval held him from striking for a heartbeat as he looked down at the villain helpless under his blade. There was no question that Kardhel Terov deserved whatever fate he chose to mete out, that the blood of Grigor Hulmaster and perhaps hundreds more Hulburgans was on his hands. But slaying the Warlock Knight, however richly he deserved death, would not deter Vaasa from meddling in Hulburg’s affairs again.

As a Hulmaster I can justly take his life, Geran thought through his cold fury. But as the Lord Hulmaster, is this the right thing for Hulburg?

“Strike if you think it is right, Geran,” Kara said softly. “He has earned it.”

Geran’s eye fell on the leather gauntlet covering the silver hand he now wore in place of his own. A spot of blood stained the cuff, dripping from where Rhovann’s hand joined his arm. Suddenly he felt exhausted, tired of the never-ending circle of strife and suffering he seemed to be caught in. Looking down at Terov, he realized that he didn’t hate the man. After all, he hardly knew him. He might hate the things Terov had done, but that was not the same thing. And he knew that a war with Vaasa could end in only one way for Hulburg. “Nothing will be ended if I do,” he murmured aloud.

This is why I shouldn’t be harmach, he told himself. Compromise isn’t in my nature. He sighed, and lowered his blade from Terov’s throat. “Can you speak for Vaasa?” he said. “Will the Council of Knights be bound by what you agree to here?”

Terov wiped the blood from his chin and nodded. “Yes,” he replied.

“Swear to it.”

“Damn it, yes, I swear it by my ring. My word can bind the Council of Knights.”

Geran reached down and took Terov’s ring hand again. “Then swear to me that Vaasa will never again interfere in Hulburg’s affairs or support Hulburg’s enemies for the purpose of harming my family or realm, and I will let you leave here alive and unharmed.”

Terov shook his head. “I cannot swear that oath. Never would make it impossible, and therefore powerless. Five years I could promise you.”

“Make it twenty,” Kara said.

Terov grimaced, holding his jaw gingerly. “Ten, and in all candor, that is all I can promise without intent of evasion. There are limits to the authority I wield on the council’s behalf.”

“Ten years, then,” Geran decided. “Swear it, and you can go.”

“I swear on the part of the Council of Knights that no Warlock Knight or agent of Vaasa shall interfere in Hulburg’s affairs or give support to Hulburg’s enemies for the purpose of harming the realm or persons of the Hulmasters, to be so bound for ten years from this day.”

Geran felt an eddy of magic gathering in the ring under his hand. He released Terov and stepped back, sheathing Umbrach Nyth . The Warlock Knight stood up slowly, and regarded Geran for a long moment. The gray turret of his iron tower was a dark shadow peeking through the trees by the shores of Lake Hul. “May we collect our wounded and dead?” asked Terov.

“Go ahead,” the swordmage answered. “But I want that tower out of Hulburg’s territory by the end of the day tomorrow.”

“We will be gone by sunset today.” Terov motioned to his soldiers, who quickly gathered their wounded comrades. The veiled mage was sorely hurt, and Geran wasn’t sure if she would survive or not, but the Vaasans quickly fashioned a litter for her. They left the Council Guards where they’d fallen or sat wounded under guard, and set off on foot down the road.

“That’s done for now, but what happens in ten years?” Mirya asked as they watched Terov and his soldiers march away.

“I have no idea,” Geran answered. “But I’ve got to believe that in ten years we can find a way to convince the Vaasans that we’re capable of looking after our own affairs-or, at the very least, are more trouble than we’re worth for them.” He shook himself, and turned toward Hulburg again. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

11 Tarsakh, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)

A little less than a month later, the great hall of Griffonwatch was as full as Geran had ever seen it. It seemed that half of Hulburg had gathered in the harmach’s hall. Bright sunshine flooded in through the windows high overhead, and the smoke-darkened rafters had been dusted, scrubbed, and freshly lacquered. Old banners that had been removed by Marstel’s servants were back in their places, repaired and cleaned for the occasion; after all, it had been more than thirty years since the coronation of a new harmach. Geran leaned against a doorway in the back of the hall, watching as his young cousin Natali sat in the harmach’s seat, receiving the oaths of allegiance and well-wishing of her new subjects. She wore a dress of rich yellow, and her dark hair was coiffed beneath a slim gold tiara for the occasion. Her eyes looked big, dark, and perhaps a little frightened, but she’d been coached well for the ceremony, and Kara-wearing a fine dress and an elegant coiffure instead of her customary riding clothes or arms and armor-stood right beside her.

“You’ll do fine, Natali,” Geran murmured, even though he was much too far away for her to hear him. The musicians at the far end of the hall blew a small fanfare of their trumpets. Roars of approval, applause, and shouts of “the Lady Harmach!” and “Harmach Natali!” echoed throughout the great hall. Geran joined in, settling for raising his fist in the air and shouting “Huzzah!” since he’d learned the hard way that it was a bad idea to applaud with his new hand. He hadn’t found any way to remove it short of simply amputating it from his wrist, so he simply kept it hidden beneath a thin glove of fine leather that matched his formal coat.