“Forgive me, it’s been a long journey,” Geran answered. He mustered a small smile for his uncle. “I have no business in Tantras that can’t manage itself for a tenday or so. As long as I’m here, I might as well reacquaint myself with my kin.”
“Good,” said Grigor. “But Geran, please, be careful. The harmach’s writ doesn’t run so far as it used to in Hulburg. There are people in town who owe the Hulmasters no allegiance at all, much more so than when you were growing up. It was no accident when Isolmar was killed in that tavern quarrel, and I suspect that it was no accident that Jarad died alone out in the Highfells. When you set foot outside of Griffonwatch’s walls, you must watch your back.”
Hamil sketched a small bow. “That’s why I’m here, Lord Grigor,” he observed. “I have no use for a dead partner, so it’s in my interest to keep an eye on him. Why else would I venture so far from civilization?”
Grigor smiled, but his tone was serious. “If you are a friend of the Hulmasters, Master Alderheart, you may need to watch your own back as well.” He looked back up to Geran and indicated the study door. “Now, on to happier matters. Unless I am sorely mistaken, you have two young cousins who will be quite anxious to meet you. I expect they’re in the great room, resisting their mother’s efforts to put them to bed.”
The old lord took a mantle from a hook by the door, pulled it around his shoulders, and with the help of his short walking stick made his way to the covered walkway and court outside. Geran and Hamil followed. The wind sighed and hissed among the eaves of the old castle’s buildings, and the lanterns illuminating the way rocked in the breeze. Small yellow pools of light swayed and spun lazily beneath the wooden shakes.
“I’ve been meaning to have this enclosed,” Grigor remarked. “It’s a cold walk on a winter night.”
Then he led them into the small tower fronting the high court-a simple square, low building of somewhat sturdier construction than the rest of the castle’s upperworks. But as the harmach reached for the door, it opened from the inside, and a dark-eyed man with a pointed, black goatee and a crimson cape emerged, two armsmen at his shoulders.
“Ah, good evening, Uncle,” the dark-eyed man said with a small nod. “I was just-” Then his eyes fell on Geran and widened for an instant. He smiled, slowly and deliberately, and let out a small snort. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look what the wind’s blown up against our doorstep. Cousin Geran, you are the last thing I expected to see when I opened this door!”
“Sergen,” Geran replied. “You look well.” His stepcousin-if there was such a thing, he wondered-was in truth dressed quite well, with a red, gold-embroidered doublet, tall black boots of fine leather, and a gold-hilted rapier at his belt. In fact he looked more like a merchant prince of Sembia or the Vast than a son of northerly Hulburg. Geran remembered Sergen as a sullen, brooding young man, quick to find fault and take offense. But the man before him stood sharp-eyed and alert, brimming with self-confidence. “Ah, this is Hamil Alderheart, my friend and business partner. Hamil, this is my cousin Sergen Hulmaster.”
The halfling inclined his head. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise,” Sergen replied, but his eyes quickly returned to Geran’s. He stroked his pointed beard, and his brow furrowed. “I haven’t seen you in years, Geran. So where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Tantras, mostly. Hamil and I are proprietors of the Red Sail Coster, dealing in the trade between Turmish and the Vast-timber, silverwork, wool, linen.”
“Ah, of course. I’ve heard of it. But… why did I think that you were staying in Myth Drannor?”
Geran frowned. The question seemed innocuous, but he sensed a hidden stiletto in Sergen’s voice. “I lived there for four years, but as it happened I left about a year ago.”
Sergen’s eyes widened. “Ah, that’s right! I remember hearing something about that-a duel of some kind, love spurned, a rival suitor maimed, some sordid tale ending in your exile from the elf kingdom. Tell me, Geran, is any of that true?”
Geran stood in silence a long moment before he answered, “All of it.”
Sardonic humor danced in Sergen’s dark eyes. “Indeed! I would not have believed it if you hadn’t said so.” The rakish noble smiled to himself and reached out to clap a comradely hand on Geran’s shoulder. “Well, I’m eager to hear your side of the story, Cousin. I am certain there were extenuating circumstances. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a late dinner engagement this evening, and I must be going. Geran, you must promise me that you won’t leave town without a good long visit.” Sergen nodded to Harmach Grigor before he swept away across the bailey, his bodyguards in tow.
Grigor watched him leave. “A capable man, your cousin Sergen,” he mused aloud. “Clever and ambitious. He has grand designs for Hulburg. If only half of what he means to attempt works out, we will be well on our way to becoming a great city again. But he has a cruel turn to his heart, I fear.”
The dreams of a dragon, Hamil said silently. We know his type well, don’t we? Tantras, Calaunt, and Procampur are full of such men.
But Hulburg isn’t, Geran thought. Or at least, it never used to be.
The harmach shook himself and motioned to the door. “No reason to stand here in the cold,” the old man said. “Come, Geran, you must see your young cousins Natali and Kirr. They’ve heard quite a few stories about the Hulmaster who’s off seeing the wide world. You are something of a marvel to them, even if you don’t know it.”
The swordmage pulled his gaze away from his cousin’s back. He had a feeling that he would see more of Sergen soon enough, whether he wanted to or not. Instead, he summoned a wry smile for his uncle. “I’m no marvel, but I suppose I have seen some marvelous things in my travels,” he said. “I’ll try not to disappoint them.”
THREE
12 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One
Two hours before sunset, the orc-hold began to stir. Warriors rose from their pallets, stretching and yawning, heavy canines gleaming yellow in the dim light. Females stoked the cookfires, fed the livestock, and began their long round of drudgery and toil. The young scurried about underfoot, fetching water and firewood, emptying chamberpots, and tending to the scraggly goats, sheep, and fowl penned within the crudely built fortress. Orcs disliked the brightest hours of the day, and therefore the hold took its rest from shortly after sunrise to the late afternoon. Only the scouts, the sentries, and those young given the job of minding the herds in the fields nearby stayed awake through the bright hours of morning and midday.
The warchief Mhurren roused himself from his sleeping-furs and his women and pulled a short hauberk of heavy steel rings over his thick, well-muscled torso. He usually rose before most of his warriors, since he had a strong streak of human blood in him, and he found the daylight less bothersome than most of his tribe did. Among the Bloody Skulls, a warrior was judged by his strength, his fierceness, and his wits. Human ancestry was no blemish against a warrior-provided he was every bit as strong, enduring, and bloodthirsty as his full-blooded kin. Half-orcs who were weaker than their orc comrades didn’t last long among the Bloody Skulls or any other orc tribe for that matter. But it was often true that a bit of human blood gave a warrior just the right mix of cunning, ambition, and self-discipline to go far indeed, as Mhurren had. He was master of a tribe that could muster two thousand spears, and the strongest chief in Thar.
Yevelda sat up when he threw off the furs. She was his favorite wife, a tigress with more human than orc in her, much like himself. Slender as a switch of willow by the standards of most of the tribe’s women, she made up for her small size and clean features with catlike reflexes and pure, fierce intensity. With a knife in her hand, she was more deadly than many male warriors twice her weight. Even when he took her to the sleeping-furs, Mhurren never really let his guard down around her. She cuffed his two lesser wives, Sutha and Kansif, awake.