Avenger botm-3

by Richard Baker

  Avenger

  ( Blades of the Moonsea - 3 )

  Richard Baker

  Richard Baker

  Avenger

  PROLOGUE

  5 Nightal, the Year of the Heretic’s Rampage (1473 DR)

  When Geran Hulmaster heard the distant strains of song drifting through the evening air like the snow falling lightly on his shoulders, he knew he’d reached Myth Drannor. He could see nothing of the city yet, but he stopped on the old elven road that lay under the soft snow and stood listening, captivated by voices inhumanly pure and sweet lifted in ancient elven melodies. He knew only a few words of the Elvish tongue, but he felt the song’s meaning in the deepest part of his heart. It was sad and beautiful and wise, a song about the winter sleep that had fallen over the land, a memory of the year that was fading and the longing for loved ones now far away … and yet in the countermelody he heard celebration of the winter’s own beauty, the anticipation of spring soon to come, the hope for reunions long delayed. Snowflakes drifted silently down to coldly kiss his face and catch in his hair, and still he stood listening, heedless of the long chill that had crept into his limbs during days of travel from old Harrowdale into the heart of the elf kingdom. The city of the elves was near, and yet Geran could not bring himself to take another step for fear that he might lose the marvelous song that drifted faintly to his ears.

  The dim golden glow of lanternlight in the winter sky waited ahead of him, as if the forest had somehow given way to a great hall pillared with slender silver trunks. Geran stood as quietly as the drowsing beeches in the gentle snow. He was a tall, lean man, twenty-five years of age, with raven-dark hair and eyes of steel gray, now half closed as he gave his full attention to the song. Beneath his weatherbeaten cloak and sodden hood, he wore a fine jacket of blue suede, a shirt of good Turmishan cotton, breeches of gray wool, and knee-high boots of chased Cormyrean leather-the clothing of a man of means, perhaps a noble born to rich estates or a merchant of great wealth. He was neither, having come by his fortune in a different fashion. Silver mail beneath his shirt glinted at his collar, and at his hip he wore a long sword enchanted in old Chondath five centuries earlier. It was the most valuable of the treasures he’d won in five years of adventuring across the lands of the Inner Sea.

  He might have stood mesmerized for hours, but a new sound grew behind him-a faint jingling of bells, and muffled hoofbeats. Geran realized that he was standing in the middle of the road, and managed to rouse himself enough to step aside for the carriage or sled that was approaching. In human lands a fast-driving coachman might not take any great pains to avoid running down a fool in his path. He doubted that the Fair Folk were that callous, but who could say what elves might or might not do? They were a strange people, and sometimes proved dangerous in unexpected ways. He’d met a few in his travels, including one he’d come to regard as a comrade as true as any he’d ever known. But even after years of traveling, fighting, drinking, and competing alongside Sonnelor in the Company of the Dragon Shield, he’d hardly begun to glimpse the elf’s depths. He liked to think that Sonnelor had regarded him as a friend, and perhaps not quite as foolish and shortsighted as most humans, but Geran still wasn’t sure of it.

  “I suppose I’ll never know now,” he muttered aloud. Sonnelor was dead a year or more now, and Geran’s journey to Myth Drannor was something of a farewell to his fallen comrade. Sonnelor’s kin had heard of his death many months before, but Geran thought that they deserved to hear the full story of the Dragon Shields’ last adventure and the part Sonnelor had played. More to the point, Geran owed it to Sonnelor-and to himself. He’d never said as much to Hamil or any of his other friends in Tantras, but some part of him simply wasn’t satisfied to carry on with his own affairs and leave the Company of the Dragon Shield behind him forever, not until he’d found a better way to say good-bye to those who’d fallen.

  He glimpsed a shadow of white and gray overtaking him along the road, and stepped a little farther out of the way. Beneath the softly falling snow, a sleigh of white wood pulled by a single dappled horse came into view. The horse’s harness was fixed with tiny silver bells, a merry sound as the animal pranced along the way. Two elves rode in the sleigh, a lord and lady draped in long robes against the chill of the evening. They were of the moon elf kindred, almost as pale as the snow themselves, with dark hair and dark eyes. Geran bowed politely as they approached, and waited for them to pass on by. But to his surprise, the elf woman drew up the reins and stopped the sleigh. He thought that her companion glanced sharply at her, perhaps annoyed, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Well met, stranger,” the woman said. She spoke Common with a light, lilting accent, and looked much like a slender human girl not much more than eighteen or nineteen years in age. Of course, it was difficult indeed for a human to guess at an elf’s age. She had a fine-featured face, bewitching violet eyes, and a dancer’s unconscious grace; Geran was smitten where he stood. “Have you lost your way in the snow?”

  “No, my lady,” he answered. “I only paused a moment to listen to the music.”

  She cocked her head to listen for a moment, and then laughed softly. “Then you might be here for some time. That is the Miiraeth len Fhierren, the Song of Winter’s Turning, and it has only just begun. This is the longest night of the year, and it will not end until sunrise. Many would call you fortunate to hear it completely. But I imagine you would hear it much better if you paused somewhere a little closer.”

  Geran grimaced, wondering what sort of fool he looked like, standing out in the middle of the forest to catch the merest strain of an elven melody. The young woman’s companion smiled at him, almost as if he sensed how ridiculous Geran felt, but his eyes held a hint of wariness. “Not all who roam these forests are friends, Alliere,” he said. “It might be wise to find out who this fellow is, and what he is doing on our doorstep. What is your business in Myth Drannor, sir?”

  Geran didn’t care for the elf’s manner, but it was a fair question. “I am Geran Hulmaster of the family Hulmaster. I intend to call on House Ysfierre, since I knew a kinsman of theirs.” He shrugged. “After that … I’ve heard that the coronal sometimes takes skilled blades into her service. I thought I might offer mine, if she’ll have it.”

  “Oh, you’re one of those, then,” the elf replied with a laugh. “They seem to come from all corners of Faerun to lay their swords at Ilsevele’s feet, sometimes a dozen in a tenday. I regret to inform you that the Coronal Guard is adequately staffed at the moment. You’ve most likely walked a long way for nothing.”

  Geran bit back the retort that leaped to his lips. He doubted that this elf would believe him if he claimed to be a little more seasoned or skilled than most rootless dreamers who came this way. Instead he looked over to the beautiful elf woman, and inclined his head. “Not for nothing,” he said evenly. “I’ve heard the Fair Folk singing the Miiraeth len Fhierren in the silver beeches of Cormanthor, and I’m the richer for it.”

  She smiled, and unlike her companion, her smile was warm and merry. “Well answered, Geran Hulmaster! Please, join us and allow me to drive you the rest of the way. I can see that you’ve had a long, cold journey, but at least we can ease the last mile for you. Tomorrow will bring what it brings.”

  Under most circumstances Geran would have declined, since it was clear to him that the woman’s companion preferred to have her company for himself. But the fellow had enjoyed a laugh at his expense twice now, and Geran was in no hurry to lose sight of the elf woman-Alliere, that was her name, he told himself. “My thanks, dear lady,” he said. Before he could change his mind, he climbed up into the sleigh and found a little space in the comfortable seat beside her, pointedly ignoring the flash of irritation that crossed her companion’s face.
“You are very kind.”

  She spread the blanket covering her lap over his as well, and flicked the reins lightly. The sleigh gave a little start as it began to move again, the bells on the horse ringing in the falling snow. “I am Alliere Morwain, of House Morwain,” she said to him. “And this is Lord Rhovann Disarnnyl, of House Disarnnyl.”

  “Lady Alliere,” Geran murmured. He looked past her to Rhovann, who managed a very sincere-looking smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Geran nodded. “My lord Rhovann. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I shall not trouble you for long.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Alliere said. “The Ysfierres are dear friends of mine, and I will be happy to take you to their home. But I hope that you will tarry a little while in Morwain Tower and warm yourself first. I have never ventured outside Myth Drannor, and I love to hear travelers’ tales of the lands beyond our forest.”

  “I’m at your disposal, my lady.”

  “Excellent!” Alliere turned to Rhovann. “You don’t mind, do you, Rhovann?”

  “Of course not, my dear,” Rhovann answered. He slipped his arm through hers and patted her hand, drawing her a little closer. “I know how you can’t resist caring for any lost little creatures of the forest you come across. I suppose it’s your compassionate nature.”

  Alliere favored the elf lord with an arched eyebrow, and looked back to Geran. “Then let me be the first to welcome you to Myth Drannor, Geran Hulmaster. May you find whatever it is you seek in our fair city.”

  “I hope that I will,” Geran answered her. He settled back in the seat, already enjoying the warmth of the blankets. The singing grew stronger as the sleigh glided onward through the soft wet snow, and he knew that he was lost no longer.

  ONE

  3 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)

  The lights of Thentia glimmered below Geran at dusk as he descended from the lonely moors to the settled lands ringing the old port. He rode past snow-covered fields, steep pastures bordered by crumbling stone walls, black orchards stretching barren branches to the darkening sky. Thentia’s valley was wider and more gentle than Hulburg’s, and its belt of farmland stretched for many miles from the city walls. He came to a cart track that ran northward, away from the city, and guided his weary mount into the muddy lane.

  The cottages and barns of Thentia were not much different than those of Hulburg to Geran. The two cities enjoyed something of a mercantile rivalry, since they produced similar goods and had more or less the same wants, but their people came from the same stock, the sturdy Moonsea settlers who’d tamed this cold and bitter land in the days of old Thentur. Many Hulburgans had kin in Thentia; as a young man, Geran had always thought of Thentia as “the big city,” looking for any excuse to visit. He knew the place almost as well as he knew Hulburg or Myth Drannor.

  After another mile, he crested a small rise and started down toward an old manor house that lay within a deep hollow hard under the mistblown slopes ringing the city. Home, such as it is these days, he told himself. He tapped his heels to the tired gelding’s flanks and picked up the pace, anxious to be in from the cold.

  The manor known as Lasparhall was not quite a palace and not quite a castle. It was a large house with thick stone walls, sturdy barred doors, and rooftop battlements, standing in a lonely vale just under the eaves of the Highfells, a little more than four miles from Thentia’s walls. In warmer seasons sheep grazed on the windy green hillsides that mounted up behind the old estate, but in the dark months of winter the manor’s flocks were kept in fenced pastures and low stone barns just behind the great house. The old estate had come into Geran’s family as a dowry when his grandfather Lendon Hulmaster married Artissa, cousin to Thentia’s ruling prince. In the decades since Geran’s grandparents had passed away, the Hulmasters had left the place to its caretakers for the most part, visiting every summer or two as the mood took them. As a child, Geran had spent many hours exploring the wide green pastures and wild moorland that waited just beyond a thin ring of apple orchards, or playing chase with the servants’ children up and down the long hallways, thick with sunmotes and the redolent scent of the golden brown lasparwood beams that gave the old house its name. It was far from a wealthy estate-the meager rents paid by shepherds and orchard keepers hardly paid for the house’s upkeep-but it was otherwise a comfortable home in exile for the Hulmaster family and those retainers loyal enough to follow them to Thentia.

  How long before a home in exile simply becomes a home? Geran wondered tiredly. Three months earlier, the usurper Maroth Marstel and Geran’s old rival Rhovann drove Harmach Grigor and the rest of the Hulmasters from the castle of Griffonwatch. Fall had faded into winter, and still they seemed no closer to reclaiming their home. The swordmage sighed as he studied the old house-a fine enough place in its own way, but a far cry from the great halls and lofty towers of Griffonwatch. Every day that Marstel remained in power, the borders of Lasparhall grew more familiar, more acceptable … and more cagelike to Geran.

  He trotted into the courtyard before the manor house, dismounted, and led his horse to the stable nearby. After passing the animal to the care of a stablekeeper, he hoisted the saddlebags over his shoulder and walked to the manor’s door. A pair of Shieldsworn guards in the blue and white surcoats of the harmach stood watch just inside, displaying to visitors that the Hulmasters in exile still commanded a small company of loyal armsmen-and were important enough to have enemies to be wary of.

  “Welcome home, Lord Geran,” said the Shieldsworn sergeant by the door.

  “Home, Noram?” Geran snorted and shook his head. “Hardly home. But I’m glad enough to return, nonetheless.”

  Sergeant Noram flushed in embarrassment. He was a young soldier, new to his rank, having been promoted after the heavy losses in the fighting against the Bloody Skull horde nine months past. “Your pardon, my lord. I meant no offense,” he stammered.

  Geran winced. He hadn’t meant to snap at the fellow. He paused in the doorway, and said, “It was nothing you said, Sergeant. Forgive me; it’s been a long day.”

  Noram smiled nervously, and relaxed a little. “We’ll see to your saddlebags, Lord Geran,” he said. “I think the harmach and the rest of the family are at their supper, if you’ve a mind to join them.”

  “My thanks,” Geran said. He allowed the sergeant to take the heavy pouches from his shoulder, and shrugged off his damp cloak. He was hardly dressed for dinner at the harmach’s table, but he was more than ready for a hot meal, and he figured that his uncle would forgive his informality. Working the stiffness from his neck, he crossed the manor’s front hall to the doorway under the great stairs and headed toward the kitchens. Lasparhall had a fine old banquet hall that was more impressive, but it was too big and drafty for anything less than twenty or thirty at a seating; the harmach preferred the smaller dining room that stood in the back of the house. He passed a few of the serving staff, folk from Griffonwatch who’d followed the Hulmasters into exile, exchanging greetings as he went. Then he came to the dining-room door and let himself inside.

  Harmach Grigor, his uncle, sat at the head of the table, a roasted quarter-chicken untouched on the platter before him. To his right sat Grigor’s sister, Geran’s aunt Terena, and next to her Geran’s cousin Kara, who wore a simple dress of green wool instead of the armor she often wore during the day as the captain of the Hulmaster’s Shieldsworn. On the other side of the table were Erna and young Natali and Kirr, the widow and children of Grigor’s son Isolmar, dead almost five years now. Before Geran could even open his mouth to greet his family, Natali and Kirr scrambled out of their chairs and bolted around the table to launch themselves at his waist.

  “Geran’s back! Look, Geran’s back!” the youngest Hulmasters shouted. “What happened, Geran? Is Marstel still calling himself the harmach? Did anyone recognize you? Did you see Mirya and Selsha? Can we go back to Griffonwatch now?”

  “One at a time, one at a time! And who said anything about Hulburg?” Geran prote
sted. He’d done his best to keep his travels secret, not wanting the children to worry about him while he was gone, but it seemed that the young Hulmasters had discovered his whereabouts anyway. He leaned down to hug his young cousins. Over their young lives Natali and Kirr had heard many stories about the Hulmaster who was off to see the world, and even after months of living under the same roof as Geran they still regarded him with appreciable wonder. Natali was the older of the pair, a clever, dark-haired girl of ten years with dark, thoughtful eyes. Kirr had his mother Erna’s reddish gold hair and a rambunctious, inexhaustible energy to him that seemed enough to vex and bother half the adults in the manor, Hulmaster, Shieldsworn, and servant alike. The one good thing about the family’s fortunes in the last few months, he reflected, was that he’d finally come to know Isolmar’s children.

  “Geran, my boy, good to see you again,” Harmach Grigor said. He motioned to the far end of the table. “Please, sit down, have something to eat. I’ll wager you’ve had a long ride today.”

  “Twenty-five miles by my guess. I just came in.” Geran gave his uncle a tired smile, but he found himself surprised by how gaunt and pale the old man looked. In the tenday that Geran had been off to Hulburg and back he’d somehow forgotten just how fatigued his uncle was. The defeat at Marstel’s hands and the subsequent flight into exile had taken a heavy toll on the harmach; Grigor was better than seventy-five years of age, and he hadn’t enjoyed very good health to begin with. The swordmage shook himself free of his young cousins and ventured over to clasp his uncle’s arm in greeting. The harmach’s grip was shockingly weak.

  “Well?” said Geran’s Aunt Terena. She was Grigor’s younger sister and Kara’s mother, a woman who wore the wisdom of her years well. She had a kindly, gentle manner, but there was unmistakable firmness in her voice. Much of Kara’s stubbornness came from her mother. “Since the secret of your journey’s out, what news of Hulburg?”