Geran’s fist tightened on the hilt of his blade. The extent of Sergen’s perfidy was now clear. “So Sergen sent the specters to slay everyone in the castle then made sure to have his armsmen waiting by the gates to cut down anyone who managed to flee?” he snarled. “He’s a traitor and a murderer, just like his father was.” He looked at Natali and Kirr, waiting with their mother. With Hamil and Sarth, he might have a chance to cut his way free of the trap, but he could hardly lead the children or his older relatives into a fight.
“We’ll have to try some other way,” the harmach said wearily. “The main gate, I suppose.”
“If those villains are watching the postern, Lord Harmach, there’s not a chance in the world they’ll not watch the main gatehouse too,” Mirya pointed out. “Is there any other way out of the castle?”
“There are a couple of places where a rope might be lowered from the walls, but I am not sure if the children could manage it,” the harmach said. “Or if I could, in all honesty.”
“We could wait here,” Erna said. “The specters might not come to this part of the castle.”
“Inadvisable,” Sarth said. He stood by the foot of the stairs, head cocked to one side to peer upward as far as he could. “It’s only a matter of time before the ghosts descend to this level.”
“We’ll have to break out, then,” Geran decided. “Sarth, do you have any spells that could protect us outside?”
The tiefling frowned. “A spell of fog. But it would blind us as well.”
“It’ll have to do.” Geran turned to his uncle. “Hamil and I will try to deal with the men waiting outside. Wait inside the postern as long as you can.”
Harmach Grigor nodded. “Good luck, Geran,” he said quietly.
The swordmage moved close to the doorway and muttered the incantation of the dragon scales to guard himself as best he could. A shimmering stream of purple-glowing diadems formed around him, rippling in the shadowy light. Hamil drew up close beside him, a dagger in each hand.
The halfling looked up at Geran and said, “I have some doubts about this plan.”
“Best not to dwell on it, then.” Geran looked over at Sarth.
The tiefling raised his clawed hands and softly chanted the words of his spell. Billows of blue mist began to rise from the ground, rapidly filling the doorway and spilling into the night outside. The swordmage waited a moment for the fog to thicken more and steeled his nerve. Then he stepped into the fog and felt his way out the postern gate. The gate opened onto a small landing near the foot of Griffonwatch’s hill, about halfway around the castle from the main gate. Worn stone steps covered by a low wall descended twenty feet to an old wrought-iron fence. Beyond that stood a tangle of alders, blueleafs, and blackberry thickets, a small woodland that ringed the eastern side of the castle’s hill. Geran could barely see the steps under his feet, and he kept one hand on the wall to navigate through the mist. It was cold, and the steps were slick with frost. Then, abruptly, he descended out of the tattered blue mist and caught sight of the armsmen standing nearby in Veruna’s green and white.
“There!” one of the mercenaries shouted. “Shoot him down!”
Several men raised crossbows at Geran, but the swordmage quickly ducked under the wall. Bolts snapped and hissed through the air, clattering against the rocky foot of the castle or striking the stone steps. He risked a quick peek over the wall to get a better look. The Veruna men were arranged in a loose half-ring under the eaves of the dark grove beyond the fence. Thrusting his fear and anger aside, the swordmage fixed in his mind the arcane symbols of the spell he needed and spoke its single word: “Seiroch!”
The strange, cold lurch of teleportation jarred him, and he felt as if he were falling-but then he stood in the middle of the Veruna armsmen, who were busily drawing back their crossbows and making ready another shot. Geran snarled and stabbed the nearest man through the throat and then bounded past the crumpling mercenary to slash off the arm of the next one in the line. A crossbowman behind him fired at his back, but the amethyst scales of his protection spell deflected the quarrel away from him. He ignored the attack and kept going. The third man he reached had the time to drop his crossbow and draw a sword. Geran launched a furious attack, raining slashes left and right against the Veruna armsman. The mercenary parried the first few and attempted a counterattack, but Geran threw up a lightning-quick block of his own and spun inside the man’s guard to slash his belly badly. The Veruna man shrieked and reeled away.
“Watch it, Geran!” Hamil paused by the iron fence, took aim, and hurled a dagger at an armsman hurrying up behind Geran. The blade took the man just under his hauberk, biting deeply above the knee. The charging soldier stumbled and rolled in the underbrush with a savage oath. Hamil scrambled over the fence, only to be knocked spinning to the ground by a crossbow bolt that caught him just before he was going to drop down on the forest side.
“Hamil!” Geran cried. He took a step toward the place where his friend had fallen, but Hamil’s silent voice stopped him.
I’m not badly hurt. Keep at them, Geran!
Geran turned back to the Veruna armsmen around him. He counted at least a dozen more men facing him. Swords in hand, they circled closer, ready for him now. Behind the Mulmasterite mercenaries stood a hooded man in elegant black finery. Sergen Hulmaster stepped out of the shadows, his dark eyes glittering. He carried a crossbow in one hand and a long, slender rapier in the other. “I didn’t like that arrogant little popinjay very much,” he remarked. “I intended for you to die in your cell, Geran. I must tell you that I’m a little disappointed that you’ll meet your end with steel in your hand. On the other hand-” Sergen paused to toss away his empty crossbow and drew a poniard with his left hand-“I’m more than a little tired of hearing tales about your heroics. Tonight I’ll repay many old slights and insults. I’ve always known that you’re not the paragon of virtue and skill everyone seems to think you are.”
Geran smiled coldly. “You’ll meet me blade to blade, Sergen? Your mercenaries will stand aside?”
The black-garbed lord laughed. “My sense of fair play is not so well developed as that, Geran. They’ll stand aside only as long as I’m winning.” He looked at the Veruna mercenaries standing nearby and said, “If he wounds me, cut him down.” Then he came to meet Geran with his rapier in hand.
TWENTY-SIX
11 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One
Geran did not remember Sergen as a swordsman of much skill, but he hadn’t seen him with a blade since Sergen was fifteen or sixteen. Still, the fact that Sergen offered to meet him suggested that the traitor had at least some reason to feel confident, and so Geran resolved to be cautious. Should I try for a swift victory, even though the armsmen might overwhelm me? he thought. Or do I play for time and try to draw things out-knowing that every moment I’m delayed, the wraiths may find the others?
Sergen seemed to read his uncertainty and grinned at Geran’s indecision. “You must be wondering just how skillfully you should fight,” he said. “A difficult puzzle, I suspect. I am curious to see how you’ll resolve it.”
“Difficult?” Geran stalked closer, watching Sergen’s eyes. If it were only his own life at stake, that would be one thing. But Sergen was responsible for authoring a massacre, and should he fall, Sergen or his men would see to it that none of the Hulmasters survived the night. “No, not especially. Whatever else happens tonight, you’ll regret crossing blades with me. If it costs me my life to send you from this world, then you’ll have little opportunity to profit from your treachery.”
He smiled coldly at Sergen and attacked, a simple thrust at the belt buckle. Sergen parried and riposted sharply; Geran parried in turn and gave a half-step before replying with a quick slash at Sergen’s face, which the council lord likewise parried. They traded thrusts and cuts furiously for several moments before the momentum of their strikes carried them past each other, and they exchanged places.
He’s quick, Geran realized. Sergen was a good swordsman, though not as experienced as he was. However, his cousin was exceptionally fast-quicker than Geran, at least. Of all the natural gifts a swordsman desired, raw speed was certainly the most vital. Given equal skill, a fast man could beat a strong man if weight of armor was not a consideration.
“You’re more of a swordsman than I remember,” Geran admitted.
“You’re not the swordsman I feared,” Sergen replied.
He began the next exchange, lunging in to thrust with his rapier. Geran deflected the point with a sharp ring of steel; Sergen recovered and attacked again, and Geran parried that one as well; and then rather than recover
