Not so steep as you think, Geran reflected. He supposed he could simply walk off and see if the Chainsmen tried to stop him. Or he could wait for one of them to make a move. But he could see where this was going, and if he was right, well, there was no reason to wait for the slavers to start it, was there? He took a deep breath and looked down at Hamil.
The halfling glanced up. Now? he asked silently.
I’ll take care of the alehouse if you deal with the other side of the street, Geran answered. Try not to kill any of them if you can help it.
Done, Hamil replied. Then, without another word, the halfling’s hands flashed to his belt and came up with a pair of daggers. He threw both in the same motion, sinking each dagger into a Chainsman’s knee. Before either ruffian could even cry out, Hamil had the big fighting knife from his shoulder harness in his hand, and he dashed into the stunned pair by the firepit without a sound. Apparently neither of the men there had really thought they might be set upon by someone no bigger than a ten-year-old child. To all appearances the halfling had simply gone berserk.
“What in the Nine Hells?” the leader of the gang growled. He went straight for his own knife, a good piece of fighting iron almost a foot and a half long. The two men on the wooden steps of the alehouse yanked their cudgels out and started to clatter down to the street-but Geran was faster.
By the time the leader had his hand on his knife hilt, Geran had already swept his sword from the scabbard. The elven steel was etched with a triple-rose design, and it was superbly balanced by a pommel in the shape of a steel rose. He’d earned it in the service of Coronal Ilsevele soon after arriving in Myth Drannor, and the sword suited Geran better than any other he’d ever taken in hand. He swept the point up and across the slaver’s knife- hand in one smooth motion with the draw, laying open the man’s forearm. Roldo cursed and reeled away holding his wounded hand, blood streaming through his fingers.
“Take ’em, lads!” he snarled.
The two men on the steps came at Geran in a quick rush. He retreated several steps, emptied his mind with the quick skill of long practice, and found the invocation he wanted. “Cuillen mhariel,” he whispered in Elvish, weaving a spell-shield with his words and his will. Ghostly streamers of pale silver-blue light gleamed around him, seemingly no more solid than wisps of fog. Then Geran stood his ground as the first man lunged out at his skull with the knobbed cudgel. The swordmage passed the heavy blow over his head with the flat of his blade, then slashed the fellow’s left leg out from under him with a deep cut to the calf. The Chainsman went down hard with a grunt of shock.
The second man came at him an instant later. Geran spun away from the one blow, batted aside the other with a hand-jarring parry near his hilt, and smashed the rose-shaped pommel of his blade into the slaver’s nose. Something crunched, and blood gushed as the fellow staggered back and sat down heavily in the street.
A sharp thrumm! whistled in the street. Geran caught a glimpse of a crossbow’s bolt just before it struck him high on the right side of his chest-but his hasty spell-shield held. The bolt rebounded from a sharp, silvery flame flaring brightly in the shadows of the street and clattered away across the cobblestones. The Chainsman leader stood open-mouthed, a small empty crossbow in his good hand.
“Damn it all, he’s a wizard!” the first slaver by Geran snarled. The fellow scrambled awkwardly to his feet and quickly backed away, favoring his injured leg. Then he turned and fled into the night. The man with the broken nose followed, lurching blindly after him. On the other side of the street, the remaining two Chainsmen were limping away from Hamil as fast as they could, giving up the battle.
Geran ignored them. If they thought he was a wizard and wanted no more of him, he wouldn’t say otherwise. He advanced on the slaver Roldo. The man was already drawing back the string of his crossbow for another try, but Geran put a stop to that by striking him hard across the side of the head with the flat of his blade. The blow split Roldo’s shaven scalp and stretched him senseless on the wooden steps of the alehouse. “That was for taking a shot when I wasn’t looking,” the swordmage growled. He was tempted to give the slaver something more to remember him by, but he held his temper. At least half a dozen spectators were peering through the alehouse’s windows and doors, and some might not be friendly.
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.”
TWO
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
