Richard Baker - Swordmage

“No, I’m not married. Her father’s no one you know and no one that we’ll ever see again.” Darkness flickered across her face, and she looked away from him. “But we’ve got each other, and we make do.”

There’s more to it than that, Geran thought. Had she fallen in love with someone else after he’d left only to have her heart broken again? Or… well, there was not much point in speculating about it. Mirya had made it clear that it was none of his business. Strange, but the idea that she’d evidently moved on after he’d struck out on his own woke a small, bitter swell of resentment in him.

You have no right to feel that way, he told himself. You left her, after all. Was she supposed to remain chaste and forlorn until the day you decided to wander back into her life? And Alliere’s ghost still haunted him every day.

“I should be going,” he finally said. “I’d like… well, I’ll stop in to say good-bye before I leave town.”

She shrugged and started to say something, but then someone pushed the door open. Three men in mail shirts and tabards of green and white sauntered in. One ran his hand along the wooden counter as he paced toward Mirya, one closed the door behind him and leaned against it with arms folded, and the third wandered by the barrels and sacks stacked along the opposite wall. He studied Geran while feigning interest in the goods offered for sale.

“Well, now, Mistress Erstenwold,” the first man said. “You seem to’ve neglected this month’s council dues. We’re here to offer a friendly reminder.”

Mirya’s face tightened. She stood her ground, not moving. “I’ve not paid any dues because I haven’t joined the Merchant Council,” she said. “Nor do I mean to, so you and your men can see yourselves out anytime you fancy.”

“You certain about that, Mistress Erstenwold?” the first man asked. He was a big, round-faced fellow with the complexion of a ruddy ham. “These are dangerous times. It’ll be difficult to do business without council protection.” He nodded toward the man along the back wall, who drew a dagger from his belt and slashed open a sack of milled grain. It poured out onto the floor with a soft hissing sound.

“Enough,” Geran said. He turned to face the men in green and white. “She asked you to leave, so leave.”

“This isn’t your problem,” Mirya snarled under her breath.

“Mistress Erstenwold is right-this ain’t your problem, stranger,” the leader of the three said. He shifted his attention from Mirya to Geran and squared to face him. He rested one hand on the hilt of the long sword at his belt. “Why don’t you shut your damned mouth and think of some other place you ought to be?”

Geran smiled coldly, but his eyes were hard. This was something else that he hadn’t seen in Hulburg before. This makes twice in two days that I’ve faced foreigners wearing steel in my own hometown, he thought. “Whose colors are you wearing?” he asked the man.

The ruddy-faced man measured him for a moment before answering. “House Veruna. Lady Darsi’s helping the Merchant Council to establish order in this miserable town. Everyone who wants to do business in Hulburg is going to join, one way or the other. Now, you’re starting to annoy me, stranger. I’m telling you for the last time: Stand aside, and let me finish my conversation with Mistress Erstenwold here, or things won’t go well for either you or her.”

“Geran, you’re not making things any better!” Mirya hissed.

He ignored her. “I’m not moving,” Geran said.

Ignoring the dark looks the Veruna men shared with each other, Geran emptied his mind of distractions and concentrated on the secret arcane syllables he’d studied for so many months in the starlit glens of Myth Drannor. It was not enough to know the words; to invoke their magic, one also had to understand the strange associations of thought that gave the ancient words their power, then hurl the focused might of one’s will at the combination of symbol and meaning. “Theillalagh na drendir,” he said aloud, clearly, his voice strong and confident in the ancient Elvish.

A faint veil of violet mist coalesced around him, growing stronger and brighter, shaping itself into hundreds of scalelike shards of diamond-bright force that rippled and cascaded from his shoulders to his knees. The elf swordmages knew the incantation as the Scales of the Dragon. It armored him as well as the finest dwarf-wrought plate.

“Did you hear that, Bann?” said the Veruna armsman by the back of the store. The man recoiled two steps. “It’s elven witchery! He’s a mage of some sort!”

“Steady, lads,” the lead armsman, Bann-or so Geran guessed-said. His voice was steady, but his eyes narrowed, and he suppressed a small shiver. Slowly he drew his blade, a sturdy basket-hilted broadsword, careful to keep the point to the gleaming wooden floor. “Wizards are just men. They can bleed and die like anyone else.”

“We’ll see,” Geran replied. “Ilyeith sannoghan!” He swept out his elven blade as he spoke the spell, and the subtly curved steel began to crackle with dancing sparks of yellow-white, almost as if he’d parried a bolt of lightning. In a voice as quiet as death he promised, “The next man who damages Erstenwold property will regret it for the rest of his life.”

The Veruna armsmen exchanged glances and hesitated. None seemed willing to be the first to try Geran’s steel, not while shimmering veils of magic shrouded him and brilliant sparks danced like fireflies along his blade. The armsman Bann met Geran’s gaze with a fierce glare. “Fair is fair,” he grated. “We told you our colors. So whose colors do you wear, wizard?”

“None but my own,” Geran snarled. He shifted his feet, and raised his blade into a high guard.

“Stop it!” Mirya barked. “I’ll not have this nonsense in my store! Take your quarrel to the street, all of you!”

No one moved. Mirya snorted in disgust, slid a few steps along the countertop, and pointed at Geran. “Oh, by all nine of the screaming hells. He wears no colors because he’s Geran Hulmaster, kin of the harmach,” she said to Bann and the other Veruna men. “Think on that before you strike!”

Geran scowled and moved away. “Stand aside, Mirya. I know what I’m doing. This’ll be over with soon enough.”

“The harmach’s nephew?” the armsman by the door said. He frowned. “Bann, I’m not sure about this. Someone cut up the Chainsmen last night. I heard it was him. And what’ll the townsfolk do if we hurt him?”

“If he chooses the quarrel, we’ve broken no laws,” Bann said.

“Aye, but Lady Darsi’ll have your heads if you lay a finger on him without her permission!” Mirya retorted.

That dart found its mark. The Veruna man winced, and uncertainty flickered across his face. He glared at Geran a moment longer, and then he contemptuously spun on his heel and slammed his sword back into the sheath. “You might be surprised, Mistress Erstenwold,” he said to Mirya. He angrily jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, lads. We’ll just come back sometime when Mistress Erstenwold isn’t so busy.”

The Veruna man strode out of the store, sparing Geran one more look before he bulled his way into the street. The other two blades followed him. Geran watched them pause and speak together for a moment out in the street before they turned and left together. He sighed and released the spells he’d been holding. With a simple flourish he returned his sword to the scabbard. “I suppose that’s done for now,” he said.

Mirya watched the Veruna armsmen leave, her face a tight mask of disapproval. “And when did you become a wizard?” she demanded.

Geran shrugged. “I know a few shields and evocations, but I’m no wizard. Sword magic is all the magic I can master.”