Valdarsel laughed shrilly. “See? Your determination is admirable, Lord Geran, but all your passion and skill are nothing in the face of Cyric’s might.” The priest drew a long dagger from the sleeve of his robe, and began to chant another spell.
Geran wriggled his sword arm free and readied a spell of his own. “Haethellyn,” he breathed, infusing the long sword with a spell of defense. Valdarsel finished his dark prayer and directed a lance of dancing black fire straight at Geran’s heart, but the swordmage spun his blade in a half circle and parried the priest’s deadly strike directly back at him. Valdarsel’s eyes widened in disbelief a split second before his own black fire melted his holy symbol and burned deep through robes, mail, and flesh beneath. With a choking cry, he staggered back and fell, leaving a trail of smoke behind him. The spectral chains pinning Geran where he stood suddenly wavered as the priest’s concentration faltered and failed. He dragged a foot forward through the vanishing chains, then the other, and finally strode free to stand over the fallen priest.
Valdarsel glared up at him, blood and smoke escaping from his mouth. Geran fixed his eyes on the cleric’s. Another fiery blast rocked the hallway outside. “I should let you die slowly and savor every moment of it,” he said, “but I can’t spare the time. This is for my uncle Grigor Hulmaster, you bloody-handed bastard.” Then he finished the Cyricist with a single fierce blow.
He stood and stared down at Valdarsel’s corpse for a moment, vaguely surprised at the lack of satisfaction he felt in what he’d done. As much as the Cyricist had deserved to die, the fact remained that Geran’s enemies still held his homeland in a grip of iron. He couldn’t believe that Valdarsel would have struck against Harmach Grigor without the knowledge and approval of Maroth Marstel or Rhovann Disarnnyl. Is that it? he wondered. Do I have to slay them as well to set matters right in my mind? Or is it simply that there is so much more to be done, and this is only the start of it all?
A great crash of masonry shook him out of his reflections. Sarth was still battling outside, and likely needed his help. Besides, nothing more would be put right if he didn’t take care with his life and freedom so that he could strike again. He turned on his heel and darted back to the door. With his sword in his hand, he drew back the bolt and hurried out into the hallway.
Roaring flames and thick smoke greeted him. Sarth’s spells or the battle prayers of the Cyricists trying to stop him had set the Temple of the Wronged Prince afire. The building looked like it was already well beyond saving, and was likely to come down around their ears at any moment. “Sarth!” Geran called. “It’s time to leave!”
There was no reponse at first, and Geran feared that Sarth had left already-or fallen in battle against the Cyricists. But then the tiefling sorcerer staggered through the smoke, coughing through the handkerchief he was using to cover his mouth. Blood streamed from a nasty cut above his knee, and his fine robes were peppered with blackened scorch marks as if he’d been caught under a shower of sparks. But Sarth’s eyes glowed with the hellish wrath he was capable of unleashing when angered or hurt, and Geran could see a half-dozen Cyricists lying crumpled on the floor behind him.
“Is it done?” Sarth asked through his handkerchief.
“Valdarsel’s dead,” Geran replied. “Come, we’d better get away from here.” He started down the hall leading to the back door, only to realize that a great collapse of the roof beams had made it impassable.
“Not that way, I fear!” Sarth shook his head and caught his arm, pulling him out toward the main shrine. “We must leave by the front door.”
Geran grimaced, but assented with a nod. Together they hurried out through the antechamber into the smoke-filled shrine beyond. Here stood a large statue, showing the god Cyric seated on his great throne with a sword lying bare across his lap. Bas-reliefs along the walls showed scenes of Cyric’s mortal life, telling the story of his fated birth and the trials through which he ascended to divinity. Geran hardly spared them a glance as the two hurried out through the gates into the cool, snowy streets outside, where a large knot of onlookers-mostly foreigners and Cinderfists, since the temple was not far from the Tailings and they made up most of Valdarsel’s followers anyway-had gathered to watch the place burn. Behind them a half dozen of the helmed constructs he’d seen earlier stood mutely watching the crowd, the reflection of the flames shimmering across their blank visors.
“There they are!” shouted a singed-looking acolyte in black robes. He stood, pointing an accusing finger at Geran and Sarth. “There stand the defilers! Seize them!”
“By all nine screaming Hells,” Geran muttered. “This is why I hoped to use the back door when we’d finished.”
Uncertainly at first, and then with angry mutterings and shouted threats, the small crowd began to surge forward. Geran thought about standing his ground and teaching the Cinderfists a second lesson to go along with the destruction of the temple, but then his eye fell on the towering rune-marked warriors in their blank helms. The creatures fixed their empty gazes on the two comrades and swung into motion, striding straight for them with a direct quickness that Geran frankly wouldn’t have expected of them. He hesitated a moment longer before glancing at Sarth. “I think we’d better be on our way.”
“Agreed,” the tiefling said. He stepped forward and locked his arms around Geran’s torso. Then, with a muttered spell, he leaped up into the air, bearing the swordmage into the firelit night with his flying spell.
EIGHT
21 Hammer, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Rooftops reeled under Geran’s feet as Sarth carried him away from the Temple of the Wronged Prince. Behind them, flames shot up into the night from the building’s collapsing roof, and the fire’s sound-a dull, shapeless roar, interspersed by the constant popping and crackling of combustibles igniting within-filled the night. He glanced down as Sarth narrowly cleared a chimney and winced in fear of a fall. The last time he’d been carried into the air in such a way, he’d been fighting for his life against a gargoyle. But Sarth managed to keep the both of them in the air, his teeth bared in the effort to carry Geran along with him. In the space of ten heartbeats the tiefling returned to the ground two blocks from the temple, out of the mob’s sight, and released the swordmage.
“That … is much harder … than using the spell for myself alone,” Sarth panted. He leaned over with his hands on his knees. “My apologies … for not asking … your permission before … carrying you into the air.”
“Think nothing of it,” Geran answered. “We were about to be set upon by a mob; I approve of your judgment.”
“Shall we continue … as we’d planned?”
“I think so, and the sooner the better. I hadn’t expected so many Cinderfists to respond to our attack on the temple. Then again, I hadn’t expected to burn the place to the ground.” Geran and Sarth had decided it would be wisest to make for Thentia as soon as possible after dealing with Valdarsel. Even though Geran wished to begin plotting against Rhovann next, he was afraid that if he remained in Hulburg, Marstel’s men would tear the town to pieces to find him; if he allowed his return to Thentia to become widely known, the usurper’s soldiers wouldn’t waste any time trying to root him out of hiding.
“You wished to send a stern message to your enemies. The destruction of the temple certainly contributes to that.” Sarth drew one more deep breath, and straightened up. “Lead the way.”
“Our mounts are waiting.” The swordmage looked around to fix his bearings; they were in the small alleyway between High Street and Plank Street, not that far from Erstenwold’s. With a quick glance up and down the streets, he set out at a fast walk, figuring that would look less suspicious if they met any guardposts. Geran had prepared for their escape by purchasing a pair of riding horses the day before and stabling the animals with their tack, harness, and provisions in a disused storehouse near the intersection of Market Street and Keldon Way. With any luck they’d be mounted and on their way within a quarter hour, long before any pursuit could be organized. Of course, Marstel’s soldiers would certainly expect them to flee along the westward roads, but Geran was confident that he could lose pursuers in the moors.