Swordmage

by Richard Baker

Two of the Veruna armsmen still crouched nearby, distracted by the battle raging a short distance away. Then one glanced down and caught a glimpse of Geran by the light of a blast of fire. “The others!” he shouted. “They’re making a break—” Then a short arrow took him in the face and sent him staggering backward.

  “Shhhh,” Hamil said. “That’s a good fellow.”

  Geran quickly bounded up the steps as the armsman waiting there scrambled to his feet and launched himself down. They met on the top stair; the man parried Geran’s thrust at his midsection and replied with a vicious cut at Geran’s head that the swordmage simply ducked under before surging up and scoring with a long passing cut to the neck as he shouldered the man out of the way. The Veruna man spun half around and fell where he stood.

  From the foot of the barrow, a man Geran hadn’t noticed before raised a wand and pointed at the sorcerer in scarlet and gold. A trio of shrieking blue missiles screamed out of the wand, weaved their way through the sorcerer’s fiery aura, and hammered home against his side. The horned man cried out and staggered in midair, clamping a hand to his injury. The Veruna mageling shouted in triumph and aimed another burst at him. Geran had no idea whether the horned man—the tiefling, that’s what his kind was called—was an enemy or not, but for the moment the mercenaries of House Veruna were a common foe, so he raced down the side of the mound and hurled himself at the unsuspecting Veruna mage. The fellow sensed danger and started to turn just in time to see the swordstroke that decapitated him. Hamil followed a step behind him, now with knives in his hands since he’d shot all his arrows. “Are you sure this is our fight, Geran?” he called.

  “I’m making it ours,” Geran answered. He found himself engaged with another Veruna swordsman and fought a furious duel for several long moments, Mulman broadsword against elf-wrought backsword, blades flashing in the darkness and firelight. Hamil skirmished against another swordsman who moved in to attack Geran’s back while Geran was battling the first, and managed to slash the man across the knee badly enough to put him on the ground—at which point the halfling swarmed over him and finished him with a dagger through the visor of his helm.

  For his own part Geran almost stepped onto his opponent’s swordpoint but saw through the feint at the last moment. He beat his adversary’s point up into the air, and ran him through beneath the arm. The swordmage quickly spun clear, searching for another foe, but no more Veruna men remained on their feet nearby. He caught a glimpse of Urdinger and half a dozen men galloping away into the darkness, pursued by flaming bolts the tiefling hurled after them. Then the battlefield fell silent except for the low, smoldering crackle of grassfires kindled by the sorcerer’s fire. The tiefling snarled something after the fleeing mercenaries and allowed himself to drift back to earth. Then he caught sight of Geran and Hamil.

  “Hold!” Geran called. “We’ve got no quarrel with you.”

  “That remains to be seen,” the tiefling answered. He held his curved metal rod at the ready, but he did not move to attack. “The book!” he demanded. “Where is it?”

  Geran studied the tiefling for a long moment before answering. The man was obviously a very capable sorcerer, but Geran knew that his spell-shields would stand up better to blasts of flame and bolts of lightning than the mundane mail the Veruna men wore. He took his time answering in order to make sure that the sorcerer would understand that he did not answer out of fear. “If you’re speaking of the Infiernadex, then the lich Aesperus has it,” he said. “The Veruna men followed us to this barrow, and I think Aesperus followed them. He took the book from me and departed not more than half an hour ago.”

  “You should take up the matter of the book with him,” Hamil offered.

  The tiefling’s face darkened, and he turned away, snarling something in a language that Geran didn’t know. He kicked at the ground and slashed his weapon through the air in frustration. “You led them right to this place! Aesperus never could have removed the book from the Lathanderian’s barrow by himself. You have delivered his prize to him, you fools!”

  “The Verunas were searching barrows all over the Highfells,” Hamil retorted angrily. “Sooner or later, they would have found the right one. Don’t blame us because you didn’t find it before we did. For that matter, I’d like to know how you found us here too.”

  “I followed the Verunas. I was going to let them remove the book then take it from them.” He glared at Hamil. “Your meddling has cost me six months of labor. You halfwits have no idea what you’ve done!”

  Geran decided to let the sorcerer’s sharp words pass for the moment. “This is the second time I’ve met you on the doorstep of a barrow,” he said. “I am Geran Hulmaster, of the harmach’s family, and we have laws against disturbing burial mounds in these lands. Who are you? And what do you want with Aesperus’s book?”

  The tiefling calmed himself with a visible effort, and looked back to Geran and Hamil. “I am Sarth Khul Riizar,” he answered. “My interest in the Infiernadex is my own affair. But if Aesperus has found it at last, I doubt that I will ever be able to lay my hands on it. He is a foe beyond my strength.”

  “We’re in your debt, Sarth Khul Riizar,” said Geran. “Your arrival distracted the Veruna men from the task of figuring out how they were going to kill us.”

  “Such was not my intent,” the sorcerer said bitterly. “Still, I suppose you made yourself useful in the fight, and you have my thanks for that.” He frowned at the two companions again, then shook his head and muttered a spell under his breath. With a single bound he leaped into the sky and shot off eastward over the fells. In a moment he was completely out of their sight.

  “Did you hear that? We made ourselves useful,” Hamil said. He sighed and looked around. A cold drizzle began to fall. “Ah, wouldn’t you know it? Our horses ran off with theirs.”

  “Rosestone is three or four hours off by foot,” Geran said. He sheathed his sword and took a deep breath. “If we start now, I think we can be there before sunup.”

  FIFTEEN

  26 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One

  Council Hall was one of the largest and most striking buildings in Hulburg. Its lower walls were made of thick, strong stone every bit as sturdy as a watchtower’s, and its upper stories were well-fitted hardwood, with beam-ends carved into leaping dolphins and vigilant hounds—images of commerce and good fortune. Sergen Hulmaster glanced up as his coach rolled under the expensive carvings overhead; there was a gold dragon’s head over the front door that he liked best of all. In the fading afternoon light it took on a striking orange gleam.

  “We’re here, Lord Hulmaster,” his driver said. The coachman reined in the team, and Sergen’s footman hopped down to hold open the door for him. Two Council Watch guards who rode on the coach’s running boards climbed down and arranged themselves on either side, ready to fall in and escort him. The watchmen looked competent and crisp in black tabards over breastplates of browned iron. They might not have been a match for the professional sellswords Veruna and the other companies employed, or even the harmach’s Shieldsworn, but Sergen intended to remedy that soon enough. Besides, an armed escort was one of the trappings of privilege, and he insisted on it.

  “Very well,” Sergen said. “Wait for me here. I don’t intend to remain inside for long.” He smiled to himself as he stepped down to the cobblestones in front of the fine stone stairs leading up to the hall’s doors. He did every time he caught sight of the grand edifice, since it was really his building, a symbol of his personal power and importance in Hulburg. Oh, the Merchant Council was ostensibly an association of equals, with each merchant of consequence in the city commanding one seat on the council, and he merely presided over it without a vote in its deliberations. But Sergen was Keeper of Duties, which gave him all the power he needed to buy or sell votes as he liked, while the support of House Veruna—and its immense wealth—made him master of the council in fact as well as name. For years now he had dictated to lesser members the positions they should a
dopt and the measures they should support or ruined them by giving Veruna opportunities to plunder their interests. It hadn’t taken the smaller companies long to learn the cost of not doing what he wanted.

  Sergen climbed up the steps and strode into the building, paying the guards posted by the door no mind as they grounded the butts of their halberds for him. The council chamber itself was to his right, but he walked past it and up a grand wooden staircase in the foyer. His chambers were on the second floor, a large suite that included working rooms for his staff, a library, a sitting room, servant’s spaces, and even a modest bedchamber if he decided that he didn’t care to return to his grand house in the hills after an evening in Hulburg. Few of the council clerks or attendants were in the building since the working day had ended an hour ago, but those who crossed his path were careful to stop and bow with murmured greetings of “Good evening, Lord Hulmaster,” or “By your leave, Lord Keeper.”

  Sergen’s guards preceded him into the Keeper’s chambers. He swept in on their heels, doffed his expensive fur mantle, and handed it to his valet. “Is Ironthane here?” he asked.

  “Aye, Lord Hulmaster,” one of the guards answered. “He waits in the captain’s room.”

  “Show him upstairs immediately, then,” Sergen answered. “I am attending the theater tonight, and I don’t want to be late.” The guard withdrew and hurried off. Sergen sat behind his desk and quickly studied the documents and orders his minions had left for him to review before signing. He found nothing of any real importance at a quick glance, but before he could begin a more serious examination, he heard footsteps in the hall, followed by a knock at the door. “Enter,” he replied.

  “Captain Kendurkkel Ironthane, my lord,” the guard said. He moved aside to make room for a wide-shouldered, black-bearded dwarf in heavy mail-and-plate, who wore a vast bearskin mantle over his armored shoulders and a wide gold chain to secure the fur. The dwarf had a long-stemmed clay pipe cupped in one hand and rested his other hand on the handle of a vicious-looking throwing axe that hung at his left hip. He was tall for his kind, just an inch or two under five feet, and was extraordinarily burly with shoulders that seemed a yard wide. He looked Sergen up and down and puffed once on his pipe.

  “Welcome, Captain,” Sergen said. He looked at the other guards and attendants in the room and dismissed them with a gesture. Then he stood up and bowed slightly. “I am Sergen Hulmaster, Keeper of Duties in Hulburg.”

  “I’ve no’ been long in Hulburg, but I’ve been here long enough t’ learn who you be,” the dwarf said. “You’re master o’ the town, as near’s I can tell. So what d’you want with me Icehammers?”

  “Have a seat, Captain.” Sergen waited for the dwarf to make himself comfortable then went on. “I believe I have need of your mercenaries. I wish to engage your company as a special auxiliary to the Council Watch. You’ll report to me, and me alone. Are you interested?”

  The dwarf shrugged. “It depends where you mean t’ send me lads, an’ who you expect us t’ fight, Laird Hulmaster.”

  “You’d remain in or near Hulmaster for now—within an hour’s march, I would imagine. As for fighting, well, I doubt you’ll see any pitched battles. The Bloody Skull orcs are demanding tribute from the harmach, but I intend for that to be little concern of yours. I want to use your company to help establish and keep order in town and perhaps assist me in suppressing enemies of the Merchant Council.”

  “An’ who be those enemies?”

  “Whomever I tell you to consider an enemy, Captain.” Sergen leaned forward on his desk and steepled his fingers in front of him. “Lawless gangs in the Tailings. Outlaw bands on the Highfells. Merchant companies that refuse to abide by the fair rules this council enacts. Perhaps … others.”

  Ironthane smoked for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. “How long will you be wanting the Icehammers at your beck and call, Laird Hulmaster?”

  “Until I feel that good order has been established in Hulburg, Captain.”

  “So y’want me to take an open-ended contract with no specific enemy in mind, other’n whatever poor bastards y’tell me to handle for you?” The dwarf tapped his pipe against the arm of his chair to settle the embers to his satisfaction. “In that case, I expect t’be retained month-t’month. Meet our price, an’ I’ll keep me lads ready for you as long as you’re to keep payin’ me.”

  Sergen leaned back and frowned. He sensed that it might be better to be direct with Ironthane. Dwarves had a reputation for bluntness, after all. “I was hoping you would find something like that a reasonable arrangement. I foresee trouble in the next few months. Abrupt and decisive action may be called for. My Council Watch is a constabulary, not an army, but that’s exactly what I may need soon.”

  “You want your own army, then.” Ironthane smiled humorlessly. “Well, Laird Hulmaster, it will no’ be cheap. Me Icehammers’ll cost you two thousan’ gold crowns up front and another thousan’ crowns per month, plus decent quartering and provisions. If you can’t provide quarters or rations, it’ll be another six hundred per month. I expect t’be paid the first o’ the month each month. If you pay me no', you’re in breach of our contract, and we’ll walk out on you. That coin buys you our services as guards, roustabouts, an’ a standing force in case y’need two hundred well-armed veterans at short notice. If you want us t’ undertake a major action—say, anything where me lads face more’n twenty enemies under arms at the same time—well, we’ll have t’negotiate a special bonus.” Kendurkkel Ironthane grinned to himself. “We’re no’ patriots, we’re no’ fanatics, and we won’t give you a moment’s loyalty that you don’t pay for, Laird Hulmaster. But we observe our contracts an’ fight damned hard when we’ve struck terms. You won’t find a tougher company than the Icehammers anywhere north o’ the Moonsea, and no’ all that many south o’ it neither.”

  Sergen winced at the cost. “You’ll be looking after your own accommodations and provisions. I’m willing to go as high as twelve hundred per month. And we’ll need to come to a better understanding of what you mean by a special bonus and just what triggers it.”

  “I’m willing t’ split the difference,” the dwarf said. “Fourteen hundred per month?”

  Sergen considered for a moment, then nodded. “Done.” He stood up and offered his hand; Ironthane took it, and they clasped palms. “Pick out a good site for a barracks within half a mile of town, and tell your men to keep this quiet until I tell you otherwise.”

  “Two hundred men, close t’ hand, no particular duties yet, an’ keep it quiet,” the dwarf repeated. He puffed on his pipe, eyeing the human lord with interest. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you intended a coup, m’laird.”

  “Let’s just say that I believe in the value of being prepared.” Sergen stood and inclined his head to Ironthane. The less said about his actual intentions, the better; he really did not know how much he could trust the mercenary captain yet. “You’ll receive two thousand gold crowns first thing tomorrow. We’ll speak more then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Captain, I’m meeting someone at the theater. My men will show you out.”

  “Enjoy the play, Laird Hulmaster.”

  Sergen smiled sourly. “It’s supposed to be wretched beyond description,” he replied.

  He left Ironthane in the company of the council guards and made his way back downstairs to his waiting coach. The driver clucked to the team, and the coach clattered off over the rough cobblestones. Sergen patiently endured the jolting and jostling from side to side that was the price of a carriage ride in Hulburg’s rough streets. He was a man of means, after all, and it wasn’t seemly to walk the four or five blocks to the playhouse. In a few minutes his coachmen drove up to the Crown and Shield, one of only two dedicated theaters in Hulburg. Sergen allowed his valet to open the door for him and then swept through the small foyer with its bowing theater attendants. He allowed them to show him to House Veruna’s private box and took his seat. The show had already started, a bawdy farce called The Bride of
Secomber.

  “You’re late,” Darsi Veruna said as he sat down.

  “A small matter of business I needed to attend to. Forgive me.”

  “Has your uncle decided what he’ll do with the Blood-skull tribute demand?”

  “The arguments continue,” Sergen replied. The private box was a good place to speak freely. With the musicians below, the actors giving their lines, and the laughter—or groans—from the rest of the audience, there was not much chance of being overheard. “My uncle doesn’t want a war, but he can’t stomach the idea of giving in to the orcs’ demands, especially the demand for slaves. His position is difficult.”

  “What will he do, then?”

  Sergen frowned. “Kara advises him to stall. She believes that the longer things can be drawn out, the more likely it is that this King Mhurren will have his attention drawn away from Hulburg by some other event—an unexpected feud within his tribe or perhaps an attack by some other enemy.”

  Lady Darsi looked away from the performance and met his eyes. “Stall? How? Morag was quite insistent on a yes or no answer. How could the harmach stall?”

  “Send the emissaries back with an impressive array of gifts and the message that Hulburg might pay if the tribute demand were just a little more reasonable, and sufficient time allowed for the harmach to levy the necessary goods and coin from Hulburg’s people and the merchant companies in the city.”

  “He intends to make us help him pay off this orc brigand?” Darsi demanded.

  “Well, my dear lady, you and your House are theoretically at just as much risk as the harmach and his people. My uncle believes that you’re obligated to contribute something to the effort.”

  “That is unacceptable,” Darsi snorted. She returned her attention to the play, and Sergen leaned back to watch as well while he continued to think on matters. He had an idea about what might be done next … but he wished to mull it over for a time, and so he paid some small attention to the action on the stage as his mind worked. Early in the second act, the final pieces worked their way into place, and he smiled in satisfaction despite the truly execrable quality of the shoddy little production playing out before him.