slowly chill a traveler all day long until no fire or bedroll could warm him when he finally stopped. He made his way over to the mount waiting for him and swung himself up into the saddle as Nimessa went to have a few final words with the caravan master. Commerce in and out of Hulburg slowed to a trickle in the depths of winter, but the mines in the Galena foothills worked around the year, and so Hulburg’s smelters did as well; the Sokol wagons were loaded with silver ingots, bar iron, and a few furs taken by trappers in the high country. With a jingle of harness and the nickering of the horses, the caravan passed under the gates to the Sokol tradeyard and into Hulburg’s streets.
Geran watched carefully for any sign that Council Guards or helmed guardians were waiting to swoop down and seize him as he left the concession’s shelter, but no enemies charged in as they left. The master turned the caravan toward the left and began to climb up Keldon Head toward the Coastal Way beyond, and still no hue or cry came. But up ahead in the fog Geran spotted two tall gray figures looming-a pair of the helmed guardians, standing motionless on either side of the road leaving the town. He surreptitiously drew his scarf up over the lower part of his face and tugged down on his hood. Slowly the caravan creaked and plodded ahead, and he found himself thinking again of the whispers he’d heard about the things and Sarth’s speculations about the creatures speaking with each other. Do they see as men do through those blind helms of theirs? Geran wondered. Or do they somehow sense identity without recognizing facial features?
He tightened his grip on the reins, ready to spur his mount into a desperate gallop if the helmed guardians challenged him, and kept his eyes fixed on the back of the horse’s head as he rode past the gray constructs. But they did not stir as he went by. Resisting the urge to look back, Geran breathed a small sigh of relief. Apparently the creatures weren’t mind readers of some kind, which was a small comfort at least.
For the next four or five miles, Geran kept listening for the sound of galloping hoofbeats coming up the road behind the caravan, but no cries of pursuit or bands of Council Guard riders came. Finally he allowed himself to relax, and began to spend more time keeping an eye on the sodden landscape around them. Rhovann is clever and ruthless, but he’s not omniscient, he reminded himself. He can be beaten … although how in the world the Hulmaster army could deal with scores of guardians that seemed almost impossible to hurt, Geran couldn’t say.
He stayed with the caravan for two full days as it crept along the Coastal Way toward Thentia, just in case they met some far-ranging patrol of Council Guards or spies of Rhovann’s. On the morning of the third day he informed the caravan master that he was departing, and rode on ahead to spare himself another day of plodding alongside the slow-moving wagons. An easy day’s ride brought him to the gates of Lasparhall in the late afternoon, as the fog finally lifted and the weather began to grow cold again. At the manor’s front door, he swung himself down from his horse, and pushed his soaked hood back from his face. He rubbed at his back, glad to be done with the day’s travel.
Two Shieldsworn stood guard by the front door. They came to attention as they recognized him. “The Lord Hulmaster’s returned!” one called inside. He motioned for them to stand easy as stablehands trotted out to look after his mount and he climbed wearily up the steps to the door.
He was met there by a stocky, round-faced soldier. “Welcome back, Lord Geran,” Sergeant Kolton said. The blunt old sergeant gave Geran a quick grin, and then turned to the younger warriors nearby. “Well, don’t just stand there. Give the Lord Hulmaster a hand with his saddlebags!”
“It’s good to be back, Sergeant Kolton,” Geran answered. He paused. “I thought Kara was going to make a captain of you.”
“Beggin’ my lord’s pardon, but I turned her down. I’ve spent the last thirty years complainin’ about gentlemen of rank. It wouldn’t be a decent thing to do to an old veteran like me. So Lady Kara decided to make me sergeant- major instead, and give me command o’ the House Guard.”
Geran smiled, and set a sympathetic hand on Kolton’s armored shoulder. He’d known that Kara intended to reorganize the Shieldsworn and make some promotions. “Congratulations, Sergeant-Major. I’ll sleep easier knowing that you’ve got the watch.” He looked around the manor’s front hall, and asked, “Have you had any word of Sarth Khul Riizar yet?”
“Aye, m’lord. He arrived three days ago.” Kolton’s expression grew fierce. “We heard from the sorcerer how the two of you dealt with the Cyricist behind the harmach’s murder. That was well done, Lord Geran. Your da would’ve been proud.”
“My thanks, Kolton. Is Kara around?”
“She’s down at the encampment drilling the field companies. I expect she’ll be back within the hour, though. Mistress Siever usually sets out dinner at six bells.”
“Good. I’ll see her then. In the meantime, I’m going to bathe and change. It’s a hard ride from Hulburg at this time of year.”
He went to his chambers and rewarded himself with a long soak in a warm bathtub, letting the hot water take away the bone-deep chill of the winter road. When he finished, he dressed and went down to the Hulmasters’ private dining room, anticipating his first good meal in three days. The manor was quieter without Natali and Kirr around, and he decided that he missed his young cousins; he hoped they were faring well in the Selunite temple where they’d been sent for safekeeping. He arrived just as the servants were beginning to set the board with a roast of beef, a carved goose, and all the trimmings. His resolve weakened from a long day in the saddle, he headed over to help himself to a slice of beef even though the dinner hadn’t been announced yet.
“Now why is it that you can get away with that?” a familiar voice asked. “I’ve tried that two or three times in the last couple of days, and Mistress Siever has threatened me with bodily harm on each occasion.”
Geran looked around, setting down his purloined plate. “Hamil! I wasn’t expecting to see you here!”
The halfling stood up from where he’d been sitting by the room’s great fireplace (he fairly well vanished in the human-sized armchair, so Geran forgave himself for not having noticed someone sitting there) and eyed the spread the Hulmaster cooks were setting out. He was a lean, wiry fellow a smidgen over four feet in height, dressed in a fine burgundy doublet, cream-colored breeches, and a wide-brimmed hat capped by a bright feather; Hamil had always prided himself on his sartorial splendor. “I arrived two days after you’d set out for Hulburg again. I thought about chasing after you, but decided that you’d probably be hard to find. Besides, this Moonsea winter is no fit weather for any reasonable man to fare abroad.”
Geran recovered his plate, added a wedge of cheese and some bread for Hamil, and joined his friend at the fireside. “How go things in Tantras?” he asked.
“Well enough. There’s a newly organized coster down in Turmish that’s buying up all the damned cotton, which is making it hard for us to place our own orders without paying twice what it’s worth, but I might just let ’em keep it this year and see if they’ve got any idea of how to get it to the northern markets. Business as usual, in other words.” He looked over to Geran, and his expression grew serious. “I was sorry to hear about the harmach. I set out from Tantras as soon as I heard about his murder, but travel’s slow in winter, and I couldn’t make it here in time for the funeral. Your uncle was a fine old fellow; I liked him a lot.”
“I know it,” Geran answered. “He didn’t deserve to die under an assassin’s knife.”
“I hear that you’ve already delivered something of a reply.”
“I did. I asked Sarth for his help, and together we paid a small visit to the Temple of the Wronged Prince.” Geran rubbed at his right fist, remembering the sensation of the steel shuddering in his grip as he drove it through the cleric’s black heart. “Valdarsel won’t trouble my family again, nor anyone else.”
“Good,” Hamil replied, a fierce smile crossing his face. He’d always been quick to answer an insult with a blade or blood with blood; he wasn’t about to lecture Geran on the hollowness of revenge. “I’m sorry I missed the chance to help you gut that murdering bastard. In fact, now that I think about it, I’m a little angry with you for killing him without me.”
Geran offered the halfling the plate he’d filled from the sideboard by way of an apology. He knew Hamil would have gone to Hulburg without a word of complaint. They’d first met almost ten years earlier, when Geran-then a footloose freebooter just setting out from Hulburg-had fallen in with the Company of the Dragon Shield, an adventuring band traveling through the Vast. After the Dragon Shields had parted ways, the two of them had bought shares in the Red Sail Coster in Tantras, working together until Geran’s travels had carried him to Myth Drannor … and after he’d been exiled from the realm of the elves, Hamil had cheerfully made room for him with the Red Sail again until Jarad Erstenwold’s murder had brought him back to Hulburg. “You can help me deal with Rhovann, then,” he said. “I can’t believe that Valdarsel would have moved against us here without Marstel’s consent, and from what I hear, Marstel can’t count to five without Rhovann’s help.”
