Richard Baker - Swordmage

“Send word to Rosestone Abbey too,” Mirya suggested. “The clerics of Amaunator might be able to do something about the spirits haunting Griffonwatch.”

“A good idea,” Geran agreed. “Master Osting, can you see to it?”

“Yes, m’lord,” the big tavernkeeper answered. “I’ll send one of me lads at once.”

“Geran, I don’t know if this is wise,” Grigor murmured. “Sergen’s men are trained warriors, well armed and armored-”

“Forgive me, Uncle Grigor, but we’ve got no choice. Sergen and his council have declared war. The Spearmeet’s the only army remaining to you.” Geran lowered his voice and leaned closer to his uncle’s ear. “I hope it won’t come to that. No mercenary really cares to fight a pitched battle if he can help it; there’s little reward in it and lots of risk. I think the Veruna men and the Council Watch might have a change of heart once they see there’s an army to take the field against them, especially one that outnumbers them.”

“I hope you’re right, Geran,” the harmach said.

“A message for the harmach!” called one of the Hulburgans by the tavern’s door. Several other voices in the throng took up the call, and Geran looked up from the table as the crowd swirled around a young woman in a tall silver helm. She wore the white surcoat and blue griffon of the Shieldsworn, but her coat was splattered with blood and dirt. The commoners crowding around her held her motionless for a moment, and then several of the men nearby her pushed a path clear. “Make way for the messenger!” they shouted.

“Harmach Grigor?” the young woman called. “My lord?”

“Over here,” Grigor answered. He pushed himself to his feet and held his walking stick up in the air.

The Shieldsworn soldier finally caught sight of him and hurried to his side. “My lord,” she said. “I thought to find you in Griffonwatch, but when I passed by on the road the militiamen outside told me you were here. I have dire news.”

The harmach visibly steeled himself. “Go on, then,” he said gently.

“Lady Kara’s been defeated at the Vadarknoll post-tower. The Bloody Skulls and their monsters overwhelmed the army of Hulburg. Many lives were lost. Lady Kara is retreating down the east bank of the Winterspear, fighting to slow the horde with all her strength, but she told me to tell you that she expects the orcs to reach Hulburg by sunrise.” The young soldier bit her lip, but continued. “She recommends that you direct the people of the town to take refuge in Griffonwatch, Daggergard, and the best-fortified of the merchant compounds and make the strongest defense you can. She doesn’t expect her army to survive the night.”

The taproom fell silent. “Disaster compounds upon disaster tonight,” Grigor said quietly. He sank back to the bench with his head in his hands. “It seems that Sergen chose the worst possible moment for his treachery.”

“Or the best,” Geran said darkly. But perhaps Sergen had not anticipated the ferocity of the approaching horde. It would be more than a little ironic if his cousin managed to dethrone the harmach just in time to preside over the destruction of the city. More likely Sergen had simply recognized the Bloody Skull ultimatum as the opportunity to put his plans in motion, never imagining that the threat from the north would actually materialize. He looked at the men and women who filled the Troll and Tankard. Their fierce defiance had vanished in an instant at the news of the defeat. They might succeed in preserving their lives by taking shelter behind strong walls-excluding Griffonwatch for the moment, he reminded himself-but their homes, their workshops, their storehouses, and their livelihoods all lay exposed to destruction. Assuming that the orcs chose not to reduce strongholds like Daggergard or the fortified compounds, they’d still be ruined.

“It would have been wise to wall the city,” Harmach Grigor said with a sigh. “We always knew this day might come, but now that it’s at hand, I wish doom had chosen some other hour to fall upon us.”

Wall the city… Geran frowned, thinking furiously. Hulburg had been walled, once. In ancient times, when it had been a much larger city, its wall had passed right over the spot where the Troll and Tankard stood. When the town had been resettled a hundred years ago, his ancestors Angar and Lendon had faced constant orc raids against the fields and farms of the Winterspear Vale. They had raised a simple dike across the Vale to protect the closer farms.

“What about Lendon’s Dike?” he asked aloud. “If we brought the entire Spearmeet there and combined our strength with whatever’s left of Kara’s army, we might be able to stop the Bloody Skulls before they sack the town.”

“That’s a deadly gamble, m’lord,” Durnan Osting said slowly. He whistled between his teeth. “The dike’s not much o’ defense.”

“We’ll have a few hours to improve it if we begin right away,” Geran pointed out. “Yes, it might be safer to find whatever refuge we can now and give up the town. But maybe it’s not too late to save Hulburg.”

“What of the Veruna brigands waiting outside Griffonwatch?” Mirya asked. “What’s to be done about them?”

Geran frowned. As much as he wanted to use the Spearmeet to storm the Veruna merchant yards and put an abrupt stop to Sergen’s designs, the threat of the Bloody Skulls simply dwarfed his cousin’s treachery. “Sergen will have to wait until tomorrow,” he finally said. “We’ll ignore them. They can’t do much harm that can’t be undone in a few days.”

The harmach looked dubious. “Yours is a counsel of desperation, Geran. You know what it is to stake your life on chance, but most of the rest of us do not. It’s harder for us than you might think.”

Geran lowered his voice and leaned close to his uncle. “I understand, Uncle Grigor. But consider this: Either we tell our folk to hide in cellars and scatter to the Highfells, or we try to fight off the orcs. If we fight and lose, well, how much worse can that be than if we hadn’t fought at all? Hulburg’s sacked and our people enslaved in either case. Will the Bloody Skulls show us any more mercy if we spare them another battle? We might as well die fighting.”

Harmach Grigor weighed Geran’s words for a long moment. Then, slowly, he stood and turned to face the assembled Hulburgans crowding the tavern floor. The townsfolk awaited his words in a hushed silence. “You’ve all heard what I’ve heard,” he said. “We failed to stop the Bloody Skulls at the head of the Winterspear. My nephew believes we may have one more chance to break the horde before it drowns Hulburg in fire and steel. I need every last man of the Spearmeet to march at once for Lendon’s Dike. If we can hold off the orcs until dawn, then perhaps daylight will show us better reason to hope than we can find tonight.” Grigor seemed to stand a little taller, and his voice grew stronger. He struck his cane to the floorboards. “I want word sent through all the town for women, children, the infirm, the elderly, all those who cannot bend a bow or hold a spear, to seek refuge immediately. But tell any man or woman who can carry an axe or a hunting bow to come to Lendon’s Dike-I don’t care whose colors they wear!”

Geran drew his sword and thrust the point into the air. “For Hulburg!” he shouted. “For the harmach!”

“Hulburg! The harmach!” a dozen voices shouted in reply. Then a hundred more joined in, until the tavern trembled with the thunder of their shouts. “Hulburg! The harmach!”

“Captains, gather your musters!” the harmach called, his voice carrying through the din. “Sons and daughters of Hulburg, take up your spears and stand together! We march!”