The door with the skull-and-sunburst design opened. A black-robed man with straw-colored hair and a sandy goatee stopped on the threshold, momentarily taken aback. A holy symbol of Cyric hung from his neck by a silver chain. Two soldiers in black mail with curved half-sickle swords hurried out to take position between him and Geran. “What is the meaning of this?” the Cyricist demanded. “You dare to defile the house of the Wronged Prince?”
“Are you the one called Valdarsel?” Geran said to him. The man in the black robes met Mirya’s description of the Cyricist well enough, but Geran had never actually laid eyes on him before; he’d happily kill all the Cyricists in the place, but he wanted to make sure that the so-called high prelate was among them.
The robed man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he snarled.
“I am Geran Hulmaster, of the House Hulmaster, and you are a murderer and a coward. Your hand is on the letter calling for my uncle’s death. For that, you’ll not live to see another sunrise.”
“Then you’re a fool to challenge me here.” Valdarsel sneered. He glanced to the armsmen at his side. “Slay him!” The two soldiers started forward, advancing on the swordmage.
“More are coming, Geran!” called Sarth. “Strike swiftly!”
Geran glanced over his shoulder. “Sarth, keep the others busy!” he replied. “Raze the place to the ground if you have to!”
Behind him, the sorcerer nodded and unleashed a great blast of golden fire that roared back down the hallway, shaking the building and filling the air with acrid smoke. Screams of pain and terror rang from the hall. Sarth shouted the words of another spell and flung a sizzling orb of green acid back at the antechamber from which the devils had come, catching several of the human temple guards as they rushed back in from their place by the front doors. The stone blackened and sizzled as the green acid ate into the walls and floor. Dark chants rose as lesser priests summoned their own magic against Sarth, and the very air crackled with the ripples of spell and counterspell. Then Valdarsel’s bodyguards threw themselves at Geran, and the swordmage had no more time to concern himself with how his friend was faring in the hallway behind him.
The hallway was narrow enough that two enemies couldn’t easily come at him at the same time, so one guard held back a step and allowed his companion to go ahead. The leading bodyguard gave voice to a shrill laugh, his eyes ablaze with a fanatic’s reckless zeal. “Die, defiler!” he shrieked, and hacked down at Geran with an overhand cut. The swordmage parried the hard blow with some difficulty-the oddly shaped sickle swords were unfamiliar to Geran, and he wasn’t exactly sure where he wanted his own blade to meet his foe’s weapon. The curved point passed over his shoulder as the black-clad guard bore down, pushing the crossed blades down toward Geran with a two-handed effort … and the instant the curve of his sword was around Geran’s back, he suddenly leaned back and yanked with all his might. The sickle point wasn’t quite curved in enough to pierce Geran’s back, and it wasn’t effective as a slash, but the Cyricist guard did manage to drag him stumbling forward off balance, right into range for his comrade to cut Geran down. Geran survived only by throwing himself to the right, getting inside the second man’s swing and ramming his right elbow into his mouth. Then he stepped toward the guard who’d pulled him close so that his sword was no longer pinned against his body, and managed to smash the heavy pommel into the side of the second guard’s head as he recoiled from the elbow smash. The guard groaned and sank against the wall, his hand clapped to his ear as blood streamed through his fingers. But the guard grappling Geran shoved the swordmage back and attacked again.
The two of them traded slashes and parries for three, perhaps four, passes of steel, and then Geran spied Valdarsel brandishing his skull-and-sunburst symbol, his voice raised in an unholy chant. Dark energy swirled around the wounded guard kneeling by the wall, drawing him back to his feet and staunching the blood that flowed from his fractured skull. Damn it all! Geran fumed. He’d put that fellow out of the fight, and Valdarsel had used his priestly magic to heal the man’s injuries and return him to the fray. He caught another swing from the first guard on his blade and circled his point under his foe’s, ending in a lightning slash that arced up and through the man’s throat. “Heal that if you can!” he snarled at Valdarsel as this guard fell back to the flagstones.
“Now you will witness the might of the Black Sun!” the Cyricist answered. He stretched his hand over the dying man at his feet, and began another chant even as the soldier he’d healed first surged back into the fray. Geran met the man’s assault with a furious counterattack of his own, trying to batter his way through the guard and get to the priest behind him, but the man had just enough skill-or caution-to stand his ground and foil the swordmage’s attack.
Time for a different tactic, Geran decided. He backed away a step and wove his sword through an intricate series of precise motions, summoning the most powerful spell of offense he could manage. “Nhareith syl shevaere!” he chanted, timing the syllables to the movement of his blade. A corona of blue flame woke around the steel, trailing behind it as it danced through the air, and with the final gesture of the spell, Geran thrust the long sword straight ahead as if to fling the blue fire from the steel. A sheet of fierce blue flame roared out over the hall, catching the guard who’d been advancing to attack, the guard with the wounded throat as he rose to his feet, and even Valdarsel behind his bodyguards. Black surcoats and robes smoldered as a swordlike slash appeared where the plane of searing blue flame struck. The guards crumpled under the full fury of the deadly spell, but Valdarsel was shielded by their bodies; he staggered back, hunched over the shallow cut seared across his midsection.
“To me! To me!” the priest shouted. But none of his followers were nearby. More battle spells rocked the building in the hall behind Geran, and leaping flames danced across the wall hangings, the ceiling beams, even the plaster of the walls. Valdarsel looked around in disbelief, and sudden fury twisted his face into a hateful sneer as his gaze met Geran’s. “I swear by the Dark Prince that you will never see the end of your suffering!” he hissed. Then he turned and bolted back through the doorway with the carved door.
Geran darted after the fleeing priest. The door slammed shut in his face and latched; he tried it and found it locked, but he’d caught a glimpse of the chamber beyond as the door closed. Fixing it in his mind, he brought the teleportation spell to his mind and snarled, “Sieroch!” In the blink of an eye, he stood in the chamber beyond, a lavishly appointed suite with ceiling-to-floor wall hangings in gold and rust red, opulent couches, and a gleaming wooden table. Valdarsel groped behind the arrases, evidently searching for a concealed door. He whirled to face Geran as the swordmage appeared in the room.
“Defend yourself, murderer,” Geran said in a cold voice. “I’ll run my sword between your shoulder blades if you lack the courage to face me.”
“Your anger has brought you far, prince of Hulburg.” The Cyricist priest sneered. “Are you so certain that you aren’t serving the Black Sun’s purposes even now? Perhaps Cyric has caused your thirst for vengeance to lead you to your destruction!” Clutching his amulet with his left hand, he chanted the words of another priestly spell. Geran leaped forward to strike him down before he could finish, but Valdarsel was quicker with his magic. Ghostly chains appeared around the swordmage, anchoring him to the ground in midstep. A dim purple radiance flickered over the spectral iron, its touch searing Geran’s flesh and sapping his strength. Geran struggled to advance, but he could only shuffle another half step before the chains coalesced around him.