from the awful wound and twisted away from Geran’s grasp. “Destroy them! Destroy them all!” she shouted at the devils in the chamber.
Black fury washed over Geran in an irresistible tide. He leaped after the cleric with murder in his eyes, but the devil holding Harmach Grigor contemptuously discarded the gray-faced harmach, tossing him aside like a broken toy as it slammed into Geran from the side. Geran was conscious of slashing claws and the burning touch of the stinging tendrils, and he answered with a furious burst of his own. Too close to use point or edge, he seized a handful of the beard-tendrils in his left hand, ignoring the acidic ooze burning his fist, and jerked the devil’s face down into his hard-driven right knee. Needle-sharp fangs pierced his leg, but more snapped and splintered under the impact. He brought the rose-shaped pommel of his backsword down against the top of the devil’s head with enough force to crack bone, and then rained down a second, a third, a fourth blow until the creature’s skull gave way and it vanished in a belch of black smoke.
He looked up just in time to see the last of the assassins lining up a thrust at Kara’s back while she fought the other devil in the room. But one of the wounded servants in the room-short, slight Dostin Hillnor, the harmach’s chamberlain-snatched up a heavy wooden chair and threw it at the sellsword behind Kara. The blow knocked the mercenary to the ground, and an instant later, Kara finished her infernal opponent with a sweeping blow that took off most of its hideous face.
The cleric in the black robes retreated to the doorway, seeing her summoned devils and hired assassins losing ground. She looked back at Geran. “Greetings from Hulburg,” she snarled. Then she darted down the hallway, disappearing from view.
Still in the grip of his dark fury, Geran dashed after her as Kara, Hillnor, and the other servants turned on the last of the hired blades. She ran for the stairs, a dozen steps ahead of him. In desperation, he shifted his grip on his sword and hurled it spinning ahead of him. By skill or chance, the whirling blade caught the cleric across her calves. The throw was far too awkward to do any real injury to her, but she stumbled and went down to her hands and knees, her dagger clattering to the flagstones ahead of her. She started to climb back to her feet, but Geran was upon her, slamming into her at a dead sprint. His momentum carried them to the rail overlooking the manor’s grand stair.
“Let go!” the cleric hissed at him. She brandished her holy symbol, an amulet emblazoned with a silver skull, as Geran struggled to keep the symbol at bay and subdue her. He spun her around in a half circle, battering her against the lasparwood railing-and the railing gave way. She flailed for balance before toppling over the edge to the hard flagstones twenty feet below. Geran caught himself an instant before following her over the side.
He found himself standing at the broken rail, glaring down at the cleric crumpled on the floor beneath him, her holy symbol caught in his fingers. He’d seen the silver skull design before. “Cyric,” he spat. The god of lies and strife had a following among the foreign gangs infesting Hulburg. In fact, it was probably Valdarsel himself who’d sent the cleric and her infernal servants against Harmach Grigor.
His dark fury evaporated as he remembered his uncle. “The harmach!” he said. He turned back and hurried back to Grigor’s chamber.
Kara kneeled by the harmach, holding a blood-soaked sheet to his chest as a makeshift bandage. Grigor’s face was gray, and blood streaked the corner of his mouth. He breathed in small, wet gasps. Tears streaked Kara’s cheeks. “Stay with us, Uncle!” she pleaded softly. “We’ll find a healer, a curing potion. It’s not your time yet!”
“Kara, my … dear child … I fear that you are mistaken,” Grigor said weakly. He looked up at the two younger Hulmasters, and somehow found a small smile for them. “It is … for you and Geran … to carry on now.”
“Don’t say such things!” Kara cried.
Geran kneeled on Grigor’s other side and met Kara’s eyes. He slowly shook his head. He’d seen enough fighting to know a mortal wound, and so had she. He bowed his head, reaching down to grip Grigor’s hand in his own. “Speak your mind,” he said softly. “We’re listening.”
“Geran, my boy … I am glad … you came back from your travels.” Grigor looked up at both of them, gasping for the breath to speak more. “You … and Kara … must decide who will be … harmach after me … if ever you win back Hulburg.”
“We won’t rest until we set things right, Uncle,” he answered. “I promise you the Hulmasters will return to Hulburg. I promise it.”
Grigor nodded, and fell silent for a long time. His breathing grew shallower. Geran blinked the tears from his eyes, and waited for the inevitable. Kara wept quietly, holding Grigor’s other hand. Then, when Geran had started to think that he would not stir again, the harmach coughed weakly and said, “Come closer, Geran.”
Geran bent low above the harmach’s face, turning his ear to his uncle’s mouth. “The King in Copper waits …” Grigor whispered. “There is … an oath … that must be kept … in Rivan’s crypt …” He sighed, a long soft sound that trailed into nothingness.
“He’s gone,” Kara said in a small voice. She bowed her head a moment, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand.
“I know.” Numbly Geran stood. He could hear no more fighting anywhere in the old manor, only the cries of the wounded, the jumbled orders and reports of Hulmaster soldiers searching for more attackers, and the keening wails of sudden grief as the living found someone dear to them among the dead. “Come, Kara. We’d better make sure that Natali and Kirr are safe, and your mother too. Master Hillnor can look after him for now.”
Kara nodded, and rose to her feet. Her face was like iron as she picked up her sword again. “Who did this, Geran?”
He showed her the holy symbol he’d wrestled from the Cyricist. “The priestess is dead,” he told her. “But I think we know who put her up to this.”
THREE
Adamp, cold fog clung to the Winterspear Vale as Mirya Erstenwold drove a wagon north along the Vale Road. Noon had already come and gone, but still the mist lingered, and Mirya decided that it was likely to last out the whole day. She’d spent her whole life in Hulburg and knew its winters well, but that didn’t mean she liked them much. Snow, fog, wind, rain … today it was fog, clammy and dismal, dense enough that she couldn’t see the high rocky hills that hemmed in Hulburg’s valley or the rooftops and walls of the town half a mile behind her. With a small sigh, she drew her blanket closer around her shoulder, and took a moment to wrap it more closely around Selsha too. Her daughter glanced up at her face with a small smile, and snuggled closer to Mirya’s side.
“Mama, how long will I have to stay with Niney and Auntie Elise?” Selsha asked. Nine years old, slight as a willow switch, with her mother’s black hair and freckled nose, Selsha had a stubbornly independent streak in her that Mirya could only attribute to the girl’s father-a nobleman of Phlan Selsha had never met, and never would. Under most circumstances Selsha would have argued for hours about having to go out to the countryside. The fact that she’d acquiesced to Mirya’s decision without a debate was an indication of how worried Selsha was too.
She’s wiser than her years, Mirya thought fondly. She decided against putting on any sort of brave front for the girl; Selsha would see through it. “I don’t know, darling,” she answered. “One way or the other, I’ve a feeling that things will be settled within a couple of months. By Greengrass we’ll know more about what Marstel and his wizard have in mind for Hulburg. But until then, I think you’ll be safer with the Tresterfins. They’ll look after you just as well as I would, and I’ll be out to visit every few days, I promise.”
“Is Harmach Grigor ever coming back? And Geran?”
“I hope so, my darling. Hulburg’s not the same without them.” Mirya flicked the reins, turning the horse drawing the wagon into a wide lane heading west toward the far side of the vale. Here the Winterspear ran swift, cold, and hard under the steep western hills leading up to the Highfells; an old farm surrounded by apple orchards and walled pastures huddled against the river bend. The Tresterfin farm was only a couple of miles outside Hulburg proper, but Mirya hoped that was enough to put it well out of mind for the false harmach or his silver-handed wizard. She doubted that Rhovann would forget about her-the elf mage was far from stupid, after all-but in their brief interaction before the Black Moon raid she’d gotten the impression that his particular brand of malice was pragmatic, not vicious. He was not the sort to waste time on petty wickedness. On the other hand, the priest
