“Far be it from me to question anyone helping me to escape, Hamil, but what’s he doing here?” Geran asked.
“I decided that I needed the best help available, in case we had to fight our way out of Griffonwatch,” Hamil answered. “And given what you’d told me about Sergen and Aesperus’s amulet, I thought Sarth might know something about what your cousin’s got planned. So I asked after Sarth all over town this afternoon, found him staying in a very fine inn called the Captain’s House, and explained what was happening.”
Hamil found the correct key and unlocked Geran’s shackles; the swordmage shook them off and rubbed his sore wrists while Hamil knelt to free his ankle irons. Geran looked into Sarth’s face and frowned. “I appreciate your interest, Master Sarth,” he said. “But why did you agree to help? What do you have to gain?”
“To gain? Nothing but a clear conscience,” the tiefling answered. He glanced to the corridor outside and then looked back to Geran. “You see, I bear some responsibility for Jarad Erstenwold’s death and your current troubles. I wish to make amends.”
Hamil found the key for the leg irons and quickly removed them. “You’re free, Geran,” he said. “We should go.”
“Just a moment,” Geran answered. “Explain what you mean, Sarth.”
“I came to Hulburg five months ago in search of the book called the Infiernadex. I knew that it had once belonged to Aesperus but had been taken from the lich king in the fall of Thentur centuries ago. I hoped to recover it for myself and to study the arcane secrets it contains. When I first arrived in town, I decided to seek out a sponsor, so I called on Darsi Veruna and tried to interest her in providing me assistance with my explorations.” The tiefling grimaced. “As it turned out, she wished to employ me as a wand-for-hire. I’d no particular desire to help her enrich herself any further, and we parted company. But I fear that I told her enough about my intended project for her to order her own people to begin searching for the book as well. As I understand it, their tomb-breakings soon attracted the attention of the captain of the Shieldsworn, who tried to put a stop to it and was killed for his interference. The Veruna armsmen would not have been there if I hadn’t sought out the aid of House Veruna at first. For that I am truly sorry.”
Geran shook his head. The tiefling seemed sincere, but he had a hard time taking Sarth at his word. Still, Sarth had evidently consented to help Hamil free him, and they had fought together against Veruna’s mercenaries by the barrow of Terlannis. “I’ll need to hear more about this soon. I guess now isn’t the time,” he finally said. “But I’m sorry if I’ve misjudged you.”
The tiefling smiled ruefully and gestured at the small black horns jutting from his forehead. “I am accustomed to it.”
“Can we continue with your escape now, Geran?” Hamil asked.
“A sound suggestion.” Geran stepped out of the cell; the red smoke was already dissipating. Five council armsmen lay sprawled on the ground, coughing weakly. He spied a trunk by the opposite wall and opened it, retrieving the personal possessions he’d been carrying when Kendurkkel and his men had ambushed him. With a sigh of relief, Geran buckled his scabbard around his waist and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “What now?” he asked.
“Mirya’s waiting with a wagon in the courtyard,” Hamil answered. “I arranged a large order for provisions to be sent to Erstenwold’s. We’re going to drive out the front gate as if nothing were out of the ordinary.”
“I’ll need a disguise.”
“I can attend to that detail,” Sarth said. The tiefling reached into a pouch by his belt to draw out a pinch of fine silver powder, and then cast the dust over the swordmage while murmuring a spell. Geran felt a strange prickling sensation over his skin and held still only through an iron determination not to flinch. Hamil and Sarth seemed to fade strangely in his sight, becoming pale and ghostly; when he looked down at his own body, he noticed that he seemed more ghostly still. “You’re invisible, Geran. Take care, since you can still be heard or felt. The spell lasts only a short time, so let us hurry.”
“I understand,” Geran said. He followed his rescuers down the corridor and then out through a guardroom where four more council armsmen lay where they’d fallen, snoring softly in an enchanted slumber. They descended a flight of steps and then turned aside into a small storeroom with a door that opened on the courtyard behind the gatehouse. A large, open wagon stood just outside, its bed filled with several casks and crates. More of the same stood in the storeroom. Geran guessed that Hamil and Sarth had played the part of Erstenwold clerks unloading the wagon, only to slip away when the opportunity presented itself.
Mirya stood in the shadows beside the wagon, wearing a dark hood over her dress. She stroked the neck of the draft horse to keep the animal still and quiet. When Sarth and Hamil appeared, she frowned in consternation. “What happened?” she whispered. “Where’s Geran?”
“I’m here, Mirya,” Geran answered. He couldn’t resist a quick touch on her shoulder. She jumped and glowered in his general direction. “You shouldn’t have let Hamil talk you into helping out, though. You’ll be in a good deal of trouble when the Shieldsworn figure out what happened.”
Hamil laughed softly. “Trust me, Geran, it wasn’t my idea. All I wanted was the wagon and some empty barrels, but she insisted on coming along to help.”
“It would be wiser to have this conversation somewhere else,” Sarth said quietly. “We have not succeeded yet.”
Geran glanced up at the banners flying over the gatehouse. They fluttered and flapped energetically in the strengthening breeze, glimmers of gray in the moonlight. He was only a few steps from slipping out of the castle, but he hesitated, quickly reviewing the decisions he’d made earlier in the day. “You’d better go without me,” he said slowly. “I must speak with the harmach and explain the danger to him. I can’t think of a reason why Sergen would wear that amulet unless he intends to use it to summon the King in Copper, and I think that he means to do it here.”
“Harmach Grigor may feel that he’s got to jail you again to keep his word to the Merchant Council,” Mirya pointed out. “You’ll not get a better chance to slip away.”
“I agree with Mirya,” said Hamil. “If they catch you now, it’ll be impossible to get you out later. Besides, it’ll raise some difficult questions for Mirya and me.”
“I’ll tell the harmach that it was my own doing. All I have to do is come up with a story to explain how I got out of the shackles. You should be fine.”
“That’s all well and good, but you can spare the harmach that decision by leaving with us now,” Mirya said sharply. “We can arrange to warn him once you’re out of danger. And if, after that, you still hold with the idea that Sergen’s up to some devilish plot, you’ll be free to take the fight to him.”
“Whatever you decide, decide quickly,” Sarth warned. “It will be far easier to spirit you out of the castle while you’re invisible, Geran.”
The swordmage thought for a moment longer then nodded-not that any of the others could see him. “I’ll go,” he said. “We’ll make sure to warn the harmach, but the best way to avert the danger is to get the lich’s amulet away from Sergen.” He clambered up onto the wagon, which rocked softly under his weight, and crouched down between a couple of empty barrels. The others climbed up onto the driver’s bench, and Mirya clicked her tongue at the draft horse. The animal gave a nervous whicker then pranced back in its traces.
“Easy, boy. Easy,” Mirya called softly. But the horse’s eyes rolled, and the animal stamped sharply as it shuddered and tried to back out of its harness. “Easy now!”
Geran rolled up on one elbow and looked at the animal, wondering what it was shying from. And then he felt it-a cold, sickening sensation that chilled his heart and made him shiver despite himself. The lanternlight burning by the castle gate seemed to dim and fail, and the shadows around the courtyard suddenly darkened and lengthened. He looked up and saw that the banners above the gatehouse hung limply from their masts.
“Something approaches,” Sarth rasped. “Something evil.”
Then, silently, terrible shapes began to rise from the moonshadows-ancient warriors in tattered hauberks, their skeletal faces blank with hopelessness and dread. An evil green light burned in the empty sockets of their eyes. The draft horse whinnied in terror and tried to rear in its traces; Geran rolled aside and abandoned the wagon, as did the others. The animal bolted away in panic, filling the courtyard with the horrendous sound of its screams and the clattering racket of the wagon bouncing over the cobblestones. Shouts of human terror echoed from the hallways and rooms of the gatehouse nearby as more and more of the specters appeared and glided into the castle.
“The King in Copper!” Mirya gasped. “He’s here!”
