“Where would we find this master stone?” Hamil asked.
“It almost certainly lies in the Plane of Shadow. It must constantly draw in the energies of the Shadowfell to empower the runehelms, especially if this elf mage is creating many lesser pearls from it.” Aesperus shrugged, and the copper bands of his shoulder blades creaked in protest. “Unless Rhovann is a great fool, it will be well guarded. Look for a place of strength in the Plane of Shadow’s analogue of Hulburg. The runehelms will be stronger the nearer they are to the master stone, so he will not scatter them far.”
“We’ve only seen the runehelms in Hulburg itself, so it seems likely that Rhovann keeps the stone somewhere in or near Griffonwatch,” Sarth observed in a low voice.
Geran frowned, digesting Aesperus’s advice. He had little personal experience of the planes of existence that echoed Faerun’s mundane landscape, but he’d studied them in his arcane training. The Shadowfell was a sort of dark twin or duplicate of the daylight world, an echo of reality that was only a step away-if one knew the proper magic to employ. With a little study, he thought he could manage it when the time came. But there was something else that Aesperus had said that caught his interest. “King Aesperus, how far can the runehelms go from their master stone?”
The lich considered the question for a moment. “It depends on the nuances of their maker’s skill and the power he draws upon,” he finally said. “I doubt that the minions of Rhovann can go more than a few leagues from the master stone without suffering degradation.”
A few leagues … Geran’s eyes narrowed in thought. That meant the runehelms would serve as a potent defense for the city proper, but they couldn’t contest the Shieldsworn march. The beginnings of a plan took shape in his mind. “Does Rhovann have any other defenses?” he asked. “Besides the runehelms, how else could he strike at us with his magic?”
“Such knowledge was not part of our bargain.” Aesperus laughed softly, his voice rasping in his empty throat. “You asked for the weapon and understanding necessary to defeat your enemy’s magical constructs, and my promise to stay my hand against Hulburg. These I have given you. Do not presume upon my generosity, Geran Hulmaster. I find your circumstances interesting … but I care little whether you succeed or fail. In the end, your struggles are meaningless. All come to my realm in time.” The lich folded his arms across his empty chest, and the wind began to blow again, a wild gale that tore at their cloaks and drove the four of them back several steps. Aesperus laughed scornfully, his ragged robes flapping around his yellowed bones, before he seemed to erode away like sand driven before a storm. In a moment the oppressive dread of the lich’s presence was gone, leaving nothing but the bitter wind howling over the dark hillside.
“I take it our discussion is complete!” Hamil said, almost shouting to make his voice heard above the wind.
“So it would seem,” Geran replied. He looked down at the black sword in his hands, and shivered with more than cold. “No prophecies of doom no matter what we do this time. I take that as a good sign.”
“Does this change your plans at all?” Kara asked.
“Yes. It sounds like I’ll need to slip into Hulburg and shift into the shadow to deal with Rhovann’s monsters,” Geran replied. He thought for a long time, ignoring the bitterly cold wind as it arose again and whipped his cloak behind him. “I wanted an answer to the runehelms before we risked meeting the Council Guard in open battle. Now I’m not so sure. If the creatures can’t go very far from their base, we could bring the Shieldsworn to the outskirts of Hulburg before we’d have to worry about the creatures. In fact … I’m sorely tempted to see if we can lure them out, and then cut their strings with one swift stroke.”
“There’s something else,” Hamil pointed out. “The threat posed by the Shieldsworn might serve as an excellent distraction for any skullduggery in Rhovann’s shadow redoubt, wherever it is.”
Despite the wild wind and the bonechilling cold, Geran smiled. It could work … it would work, if he could arrange it. “Come on, let’s be on our way,” he said to his friends. “This is no good place to linger, and we’ve got a lot to do in the next few days.”
TWENTY
14 Ches, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
From the moment he crested Keldon Head on the old coastal track, Geran sensed Hulburg’s change of mood. Storm clouds were gathering, despite the cold, clear weather and the empty blue skies. He allowed his mount, a sturdy black gelding, to pick its way down the road unguided as he peered sharply at the town below, trying to determine what was different. He could still make out the clatter and bustle of the town’s commerce … but there was definitely a different tenor to the activity.
From his vantage, he could look along Bay Street all the way to the mouth of the Winterspear. Even with the harbor ice unbroken, Bay Street should have been crowded with wagons and folks going about their business-after all, the mercantile concessions and their storehouses lined the harborside street. But instead of teeming throngs of carters and porters and clerks, he saw nothing but the occasional wagon or clerk hurrying on some errand or another. Small knots of idle workers gathered on the streets before the various taverns and taphouses, and the smelters whose chimneys would normally have been belching smoke instead emitted only a few thin wisps.
“Where is everybody?” said Hamil, studying the scene below. He jogged along on a baggage-laden pony a few paces behind Geran, dressed in the very ordinary garb of a poorly paid manservant. “Has Marstel declared a holiday for the war?”
“I’d guess that most folk are laying low to see what comes of Kara’s march, or maybe getting ready to flee if it looks like the town might come under attack,” Geran answered. “Either way, I think it’ll make our work easier. It seems that no one is going to care much about two more travelers.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sun, now sinking toward the west. If things had gone as he’d expected, then his cousin and her army would be drawing near to Hulburg. She planned to encamp near Rosestone Abbey and await events; they’d decided that it was far enough from the town to discourage Rhovann from marching out to meet the Hulmaster army, but close enough for Kara to strike quickly once the runehelms had been dealt with.
Sentries ahead, Hamil said silently. Look sharp now!
At the foot of the road that became the Coastal Way, very near the place where Geran had passed a pair of runehelms in the Sokol caravan a few tendays before, a half-dozen runehelms now stood guard. There hadn’t been that many here the last time he’d left Hulburg. He frowned, hoping that his disguise was sound. This time he was dressed as an itinerant mage for hire, wearing a scarlet robe embroidered with arcane glyphs over a high-collared shirt of black silk and matching breeches. A great cowl-like cape protected him from the bitter weather, and he carried a staff across his saddlebow-although Umbrach Nyth was belted to his hip too. His hair he’d cropped brutally short, and he now wore a full goatee and an eyepatch. As they approached the runehelms, he made a point of giving them a casual glance, just as any newly arriving traveler might.
They were almost past the creatures when one on the right swiveled its visored face toward them and said, “Halt. Identify yourselves.”