Richard Baker: Swordmage

18 Uktar, the Year of the Purloined Statue (1477 DR)

It was late autumn in Myth Drannor, a bright cold morning with the first snows of the year dusting the open spaces between the trees. The fall colors were fading fast, but the forest of Cormanthor still mantled the city in a glorious cape of red, gold, and orange. The sun was brilliant on the golden treetops overhead, and the sky was perfect and clear. In the shadows beneath the trees, Geran Hulmaster fought with all his strength and lore against the elf mage Rhovann Disarnnyl, dueling with blade and spell against spell and wand. Steel glittered and rang in the morning air as Geran parried bolts of crackling white force or deflected shining veils of madness in which Rhovann tried to ensnare him.

Geran wore the dove-gray coat and silver embroidery of the Coronal’s Guard, but he was a human, tall and lean, with long black hair bound by a silver circlet. He wielded a fine backsword of elven steel, a graceful and strong weapon with a slight curve toward the point. It was longer and heavier than most such weapons, but in his hands the blade leaped and danced like a rapier. He kept his left hand free for spellcasting, fighting as elf swordmages did in the ancient bladesong tradition. Rhovann, on the other hand, was no swordsman; he had only his mahogany wand, and that was weapon enough for the elf mage.

Dueling was not permitted in Myth Drannor; this encounter was ostensibly an invitation to demonstrate skill through the lists in a tournament of the city’s defenders. A small crowd of witnesses watched closely to ensure that the forms would be followed. Daried Selsherryn, the sun elf bladesinger who’d taught Geran his magic, stood by to serve as Geran’s second. Daried watched with a disapproving frown, since he could tell already that the contest was long past a simple challenge of skill and was a duel in fact if not in name. Beside Daried stood Alliere, her face white with worry as she watched Geran and Rhovann fight. She was beautiful beyond comparison, a slender moon elf maiden not much older than Geran himself, with hair of midnight blue in which a slim diamond tiara sparkled like the stars in a dark sky. Geran was only a rootless human freebooter, a wanderer who had drifted into Myth Drannor and won himself a place in the coronal’s service, but she had come to love him nonetheless, and in the golden light of this perfect morning, she was petrified with fear for him. But Rhovann-a proud and handsome moon elf of a high House-loved her too, and he had come to bitterly resent the affection she held for Geran. And so the human swordmage and the elf wizard fought with the passion of lions over some trivial insult one had given the other.

Rhovann hurled a mighty fire-blast from his wand, and the onlookers gasped in alarm. Geran warded himself with a countering spell, even though the violet flames singed his cloak and licked at his face and hands. The magical flames seared the frost and dead leaves beneath his feet into steam and smoke that fumed around the swordmage. Rather than retreat, Geran brought a spell of translocation to mind, fixed its symbols and syllogisms firmly in his thoughts, and snarled a single arcane word: “Seiroch!”

In the blink of an eye he stood close beside Rhovann, who’d lost sight of him for a crucial instant amid the steam and smoke. The moon elf whirled and started to raise his wand, but Geran was quicker. He brought his sword up in a disarming stroke that sent the wand spinning through the air and carried through to slash Rhovann across the side of his face. His enemy cried out and staggered back, falling to his knees.

Geran leaped after the elf and laid his sword point at Rhovann’s breast. “Yield! You are defeated!” he shouted.

He held his blade still and steady despite the acrid stench of smoke in his nose and throat and the pain of his singed skin. Rhovann knelt in the thin snow, blood dripping from his handsome face. Brilliant hatred glittered in the wizard’s eyes, and his teeth were bared in a feral snarl. The mahogany wand waited in the snow between the man and the elf.

“I will not yield, human dog,” Rhovann hissed softly. Then he reached for the wand.

Without a moment’s thought, Geran batted the wand away from Rhovann’s hand, sending it spinning over the dead leaves and snow. The elf snarled in anger, and something dark and murderous erupted in Geran’s heart. Every cold sneer, every veiled insult, every sarcastic remark Rhovann had ever uttered against him coalesced into a black wave that swept over Geran. It was as if his anger, his hate, and his loathing for his rival had delivered him into the clutches of something he was powerless to resist.

Rhovann lunged after the wand again, his fingers stretching for his weapon. Coldly, deliberately, Geran leaned in and struck, taking off Rhovann’s hand at the wrist. Blood splattered the ice-crusted leaves. He heard cries of horror from those who looked on, and his adversary screamed in anger and fear.

Why did I do that? Geran wondered dully. He knew that maiming Rhovann in that way-cruelly, deliberately, when the duel had already been won-was a monstrous thing to do. He knew that Alliere and Daried and the other elves watching must be horrified by what he had done. Yet something spiteful beyond all understanding had driven him to it anyway. Once, when he was a boy of about nine or ten, his father had given him a fine toy lute inlaid with ivory, a gift carried back from a long journey to Deepingdale. Geran remembered how he had found himself twisting the neck from the drum, fascinated by the flex and strain of the fragile wood. And then, deliberately, knowing what would happen, he’d flexed it too far. He’d done it just to watch the toy break.

He looked down at Rhovann, huddled around his bleeding stump. The elf’s hand lay on the ground quite near the wand, palm up, the pallid fingers twitching oddly. Geran raised his sword slowly, studying the crippled elf, and even though he felt dizzy and sick with horror, he aimed carefully at the elf’s face. Without knowing why, he knew he intended to cut out an eye next, almost as if having already toppled into a shocking abyss, he meant to plumb its depths to the fullest, indulging this black compulsion until he sated it.

“Geran, no! It is enough!” shouted Daried. The graceful bladesinger ended the duel by leaping into the clearing and interposing himself. By the ancient rules, that spelled defeat for Geran, since Daried was after all his second and had intervened. But Geran sensed that the rules had been laid aside already. No one in the courtyard would argue that Rhovann had won the encounter, would they?

Geran felt his arm drawing back as if to drive his sword forward one more time, and then Daried seized him by the shoulders and wrestled him away. “It is enough, Geran!” Daried hissed into his face. “Have you lost your mind? That was cruelly done!”

Geran stared at his mentor, unable to find words. The black, murderous fury ebbed away as quickly as it had come over him, leaving him weak, empty. The sword fell from his fingers, and he shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the destructive impulse that had seized him. Why did I do that? he wondered. He despised Rhovann, true, but he should have been content with besting him, especially since the mage had instigated the whole thing. All he would have had to do is take a half-step and kick the wand out of reach again or perhaps set his blade across Rhovann’s neck to demand surrender, and the coronal’s judge standing by certainly would have ended the match.

“I had no intention to cripple him, Daried,” he finally said.

The elf bladesinger sighed deeply. “Your intentions hardly matter at this point. You will be judged for this, Geran Hulmaster. And judged severely, I fear.”