Richard Baker: Swordmage

Hamil sauntered up, sheathing his knives one by one as he studied the scene. “You let yours run off with hardly a mark on them.”

“I’ll set that straight if I see them again. Did you find all your knives?”

“I’m willing to loan them out for a time, but I want ’em back when all the dancing’s done.” The halfling stooped down to wipe off one last bloody knife on the tunic of the unconscious Chainsman at their feet. “So, is this the typical evening entertainment in Hulburg?”

“No,” said Geran, “it’s not.”

He returned his sword to the sheath and looked up at the old gray towers of the castle overshadowing the town. Dim yellow lights burned in a handful of the keep’s windows; other towers remained dark. Crimson Chain slavers seemed to think they owned the streets. What in the world had happened to Hulburg while he was away? How long had it been like this?

He picked his bag up from the ground and took a deep breath. “Come on, Hamil,” he said. “I think it’s time to find out just what’s been going on around here.”

11 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One

The castle called Griffonwatch was not really a true castle. Most of its towers and halls were guarded by the steep bluffs of the castle’s hilltop and did not require a thick wall for protection. Only on its lower northern face was Griffonwatch truly fortified, with a strong gatehouse and a tower-studded wall guarding access to the courtyards, barracks, and residences within. Geran had always thought of it as a great rambling, drafty, partially abandoned house that happened to be made out of stone, with the curious afterthought of one castlelike wall to guard the front gate.

“I have to congratulate the builders of the place,” Hamil said. “They picked the highest, coldest, windiest spot in this whole miserable town for their masterpiece.” The castle’s causeway was completely exposed to the northwest wind once the visitors climbed above the roofline of the surrounding town, and the faded banners above the gatehouse flapped loudly in the stiff wind.

Griffonwatch’s gates stood open. Hamil’s step faltered as they entered the dark, tunnel-like passage through the gatehouse. “I never liked these things,” the halfling muttered. He had an instinctive aversion to anything that felt like an ambush, and the front entrance of any well-made castle was designed to be a giant stone trap to its enemies. Menacing arrowslits overlooked the approach to the castle and the gate-passage proper. They stood dark and empty, but in times of war watchful archers would be posted there, ready to cut down attackers at the top of the causeway.

“Come on, Hamil,” Geran said quietly. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “It’s out of the wind, anyway.”

At the inner end of the gate, the castle’s portcullis was lowered into place, blocking most of the passage. The heavy grate was fitted with a small swinging door. Two Shieldsworn guards waited there. They wore knee-length coats of mail under heavy woolen mantles and steel caps trimmed with a ring of fur for warmth. Both carried pikes-perfect for thrusting through the portcullis at enemies on the far side-and a pair of crossbows leaned against the wall nearby.

“Hold there,” said the older of the men, a sergeant with a round, blunt face like the end of a hammer. “State your name and business.”

Geran stepped out of the gate’s shadow and reached up to draw back the hood of his cloak. “I’m Geran Hulmaster,” he said. “And I’m here to call on the harmach and visit with whatever kinfolk of mine happen to be home this evening, Sergeant Kolton.”

The sergeant’s eyes opened wide. “Geran, as I live and breathe! It must be five years!” He fumbled with the small door in the portcullis and finally got it open. “Come in, sir, come in!”

Despite the sour mood that had settled over him after the encounter with the Crimson Chains, Geran smiled. He’d always liked Kolton, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the man’s surprise. “Eight years, Kolton. I haven’t been home since my father died.”

“Lord Bernov was a good man. Things around here might be different if he hadn’t fallen.” The sturdy soldier’s face softened with memories, likely some old campaign or skirmish riding alongside Geran’s father… and then Kolton’s thoughts turned, and a sudden grimace stole over his features. He sighed and looked closely at Geran. “M’lord, I don’t know how to tell you this-” he began.

Geran cut him off with a small motion of his hand. “I’ve heard about Jarad, if that’s what you are about to tell me. My mother wrote me as soon as she heard.” Geran’s mother lived in a convent near Thentia now, but she still had many friends in Hulburg. She’d heard about Jarad only a few days after the Shieldsworn captain had been found dead on the Highfells. Her letter had reached Geran in Tantras half a month ago, and he’d left for Hulburg within the day.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Kolton said. “I know he was a good friend o’ yours. He was a good captain too. We miss him sorely.”

They stood without speaking for a moment. The wind moaned across the stone battlements, and the castle’s banners crackled sharply. Geran shivered in the cold, and he glanced down to Hamil. The halfling waited patiently, his cloak held tight around his body.

“Forgive me,” Geran said. “Sergeant, this is my friend and comrade-in-arms, Hamil Alderheart of Tantras. He’s a guest of the house.”

“Of course, sir,” Kolton said. “Leave your baggage here, gentlemen. I’ll have it brought up to your rooms shortly.”

“Thank you, Kolton.” Geran set down his duffel and worked his shoulder a moment. “One more thing-Hamil and I ran across some trouble in the Tailings on our way here. A gang of Crimson Chains led by some fellow calling himself Roldo tried to extort a toll from us.”

“We objected,” said Hamil. “Hard words followed, and there may have been a minor stabbing or two.”

“-and yes, we crossed steel. We didn’t kill any of them, but I thought the Shieldsworn should know.”

The sergeant grimaced. “You met Roldo, hey? I’m sorry to hear it, but I’ll not shed a tear over any cuts or bruises you gave him. He and his thugs’ve been causing trouble in the Tailings for months now.”

“Why haven’t you rousted them out, then?”

“It’s got to be murder or arson before we do, m’lord. We’re down to a hundred and ninety Shieldsworn, and that ain’t really enough to garrison Griffonwatch, man the post-towers, and keep a patrol or two out in the Highfells. We leave the keeping o’ the law in the town to the Council Watch. The harmach’s men only get involved when it’s a matter of high justice.”

Geran looked sharply at Kolton. He thought he’d heard the sergeant well enough, but there was very little that made sense to him. One hundred and ninety Shieldsworn? The harmach’s guards should have been twice as strong. And he’d never heard of any Council Watch; that had to be something new. A town full of foreign merchants, gangs roaming the streets, and now this… it seemed that he had a lot of catching up to do, and suddenly Geran doubted he’d enjoy his education very much. A number of questions sprang to mind, but he settled for just one more: “Who or what is the Council Watch?”

“The lawkeepers who answer to the Merchant Council.” Kolton’s blunt face didn’t move much, but his voice had a flat, hard tone. “They look after council matters and enforce low justice in the city proper, so that we Shieldsworn don’t have to trouble ourselves with such business. Or so I’m told.”

If they let the Crimson Chains walk the streets in the open, they can’t be very good at their jobs, Hamil remarked to Geran. Either they’re hopelessly incompetent or they’re paid not to notice such things. I know which side of that bet I’d cover.