said proudly. “We drill every couple o’ months. Some o’ the other musters ain’t tried that in years. But you could find a couple of dozen good men in each, I’d wager.”
Hamil cleared his throat. “Geran, a hundred men on the street might not be enough. Veruna alone has at least that many, and they’re trained mercenaries.”
“We don’t need to be able to beat them, Hamil,” Geran answered. “We just need to raise the cost of intimidating Hulburg. The harmach’s willing to tolerate the foreign costers, but he certainly won’t tolerate Hulburgans cut down in the streets simply for standing up for themselves. Sergen and his foreign friends know that.”
“It’ll come to a fight before it’s done,” the halfling said. “Mark my words. The council Houses will try to punish men who are standing those watches-burning a few houses or businesses while the men are away protecting their neighbors, or perhaps baiting one of your patrols into an open fight.”
“Be that as it may, we might surprise those foreign bastards and make some o’ them bleed too,” Durnan said. “That’s the way of it with a bully. Sooner or later you’ve got to stand up to him, punch him in the nose, and damn what follows. You might get thrashed, but he’ll think twice ’fore he pushes you again. Besides, we’ll have a lot more eyes than spears on our side. If we tell the folk o’ each neighborhood to make sure they send word quick when they see council men up to no good, we’ll be able to shadow them anywhere they go.” The brewmaster shrugged and picked up his keg again. “Count me in. I’ll send word ’round to my muster. Some of them won’t show their faces since they work for the council Houses, but most o’ my men’ll help.”
“Good,” Geran said. “Who else should I talk to?”
“Burkel Tresterfin, for certain. Wester and Ilkur are fair captains too, and their musters might surprise me. After that, try Lodharrun the smith-he ain’t in the Spearmeet, but there’re a few dwarves what would be happy to stand with us.”
“I will. Can I tell the others to bring the men they need to the Troll and Tankard tomorrow evening to organize a watch scheme?”
Durnan grinned in his big beard. “I’ve always wanted to foment rebellion. For the harmach, of course.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Geran said. He gripped the brewmaster’s hand and then left the old taphouse. The light rain had faded to a mist that hung in the air, drifting in tatters just about the rooftops of the town.
“Let me guess,” Hamil said. “Tresterfin next?”
“Good guess,” Geran said. He nodded at the Vale Road. “The Tresterfin homestead is about two miles outside town.”
Geran and Hamil spent the rest of the day crisscrossing Hulburg and the farms nearby, speaking to dozens of Hulburgans about the Council Watch and what had to be done. Many were people Geran knew well from his boyhood, and he retold the story of his travels in the last ten years so often that he soon shortened the account to a few vague sentences about traveling the Inner Sea lands, visiting Myth Drannor, and buying into the Red Sail Coster of Tantras. A few of the men and women he spoke with declined to help; some feared the retribution of the Council Watch, but others were simply cautious about taking up arms and thought it likely to worsen the situation instead of improve it. They simply hadn’t yet suffered any great harm from the foreigners or reached the point where they were willing to hazard life or property to stand up against them. Two times Geran found that the Shieldmeet captains he was looking for had more or less given up on their musters, but each time the old leaders gave him suggestions for other Hulburgans who might be willing to help out.
Late in the afternoon, Geran headed to Erstenwold’s. He found the building boarded up, with a couple of Mirya’s cousins keeping an eye on the place. They told him that Mirya and Selsha were staying at the old Erstenwold homestead in the Winterspear Vale. Reassured that Mirya’s store was well looked after, Geran and Hamil returned to Griffonwatch for the night.
The next morning, the rain returned in force, and the wind picked up as well. A Moonsea gale was gathering over the cold waters of the small sea, drenching Hulburg with hard-driven rain. Hamil gave Geran a doleful look when Geran told him that they had more people to speak with, but he followed Geran back down into town. Their cloaks were sodden before they reached the bottom of the causeway. The weather was foul enough that the Harmach’s Foot seemed almost deserted, with little of the wagon traffic that normally crowded it in the morning.
“Well, where to now?” Hamil asked. “Please tell me that it’s a short walk to someplace warm and cheerful.”
Geran glanced right and left, trying to decide whom he wished to speak to next. Nearby, a party of dwarves worked to fix a broken wagon axle in the rain; across the small square, several men cloaked against the weather stood beneath the overhang of a smoking-house, arguing prices with the proprietor before large racks where dozens of smoked Moonsea silverfins cured in the open air. “East Street,” he decided. “Vannarshel the fletcher has her workshop there. She used to be quite an archer; I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s taught her sons to shoot as well as she did. Then we might visit Therrik’s Livery, which is nearby.”
They started across the small square, splashing through the puddles and mud gathering between the cobblestones. Then Hamil frowned, and his step slowed. Something isn’t right here, Geran, he said silently. This is an ambush!
Not twenty yards from the castle causeway? Geran thought in surprise. He glanced around behind him and saw the dwarves by the wagon pulling aside the canvas covering. Crossbows waited underneath. The men by the smoking-house suddenly broke off their arguing and turned back to the court, striding toward the two companions. The swordmage had expected some attempt by House Veruna, but not one so brazenly sprung beneath Griffonwatch’s battlements. Besides, none of the men or dwarves around them wore Veruna’s green and white. “Break past the men, leave the dwarves behind,” he hissed to Hamil. Then, as quick as thought, he framed the words for a spell and snapped, “Cuillen mhariel!” His silversteel veil appeared around him, glowing softly in the dim daylight, and Geran sprinted toward the men coming from the smoking-house. Hamil followed a half-step behind.
“Now!” someone shouted. The men in front of him swept out their blades and moved to cut him off; one of them hung back, drawing a wand from his sleeve and aiming it at Geran. From behind he heard the sharp snap! of crossbows firing, and bolts hissed through the air behind him. Two clattered past, skipping along the cobblestones, but a third sank into the back of his calf with a searing jolt of pain. Geran stumbled and rolled heavily to the wet cobblestones, but he let his momentum roll him to his feet again and loped as best as he could toward the swordsmen rushing him. The dwarves might not be so fast to shoot at him if he was in the middle of their allies.
Hamil divined his intent and altered his own course to follow; the halfling threw himself at the feet of the first man he reached, knives flashing, and the fellow cursed and went down as Hamil rolled through his shins. Then Geran met two of the swordsmen at the same time, sweeping out his blade to bat aside one man’s cut. He followed that with a sudden slash at the other swordsman and managed to gash that one’s forehead in a shallow, bloody cut before the man could block his blow. That enemy staggered back, momentarily blinded, so Geran returned to the man on his right.
Then the wizard snarled something in an arcane tongue, and a dazzling violet ray sprang from his wand and struck Geran over his heart. It felt as if he’d been hit with a hammer. All of the sudden his knees grew weak, he staggered unsteadily, and brilliant purple echoes jarred and danced in his eyes as his mind reeled in magical vertigo. A stunning spell of some kind, he realized, and he tried to frame a countering enchantment to clear his mind… but the words simply eluded his grasp. Before he could find them, the other swordsmen were upon him. He opened his eyes just in time to see the pommel of a long sword descending toward his forehead. The blow struck him blind again, and he staggered back over a barrel and tripped, falling to the street. His sword rang shrilly on the cobblestones beside him.
“Geran!” Hamil shouted from some great distance. Then mailed fists and booted feet descended on him in a sudden violent deluge, and darkness took him.
TWENTY
1 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One
