“That’s almost certainly true, but I can’t let the Vaasans have him. If the Warlock Knights have someone who can claim rulership over Hulburg in their keeping, there’s no end of the trouble they might cause. They might field an army of their own against us on the pretense of restoring Marstel to the throne. At the very least, it would give them a justification to keep up their meddling for years to come.” Geran led the way as they clattered down the steps at the rear of the great hall and ran to the doors at the room’s entrance. He set his hand on the handle and was about to yank one of the great doors open when Hamil caught his arm.
“Carefully,” the halfling said in a soft voice. “Listen!”
Geran paused, and cocked his head. He could hear the hoof stamps of horses and the anxious shouts of a number of men outside. Instead of opening the door, he instead moved to one of the shuttered loopholes in the door, undid the catch, and peeked out. The front of the great hall looked out on the castle’s large, lower courtyard. A light rain was falling, and deep puddles dotted the ground. To the left and right stood towers, barracks, and stables; directly across from the great hall stood the gatehouse, where the road climbing up from the Harmach’s Foot ended. In the cobbled space, two dozen warriors-some in the red and yellow of Marstel’s Council Guard, and some in the black and crimson of Vaasa-stood by their mounts or waited in the saddle. Maroth Marstel sat on a large charger, dressed in a broad-bellied suit of plate armor; beside him a Warlock Knight in a black, horned helm frowned impatiently.
“My lord harmach, we have waited as long as we dare,” the Warlock Knight said to Marstel. “Already our path may be blocked. We must leave now, and trust that Lord Rhovann will join us when he is able.”
“I don’t care for the idea of leaving without him,” Marstel answered. He stared up in the direction of the castle’s upper towers. “Perhaps I should go speak to him myself.”
“There is no more time, Harmach Marstel. I am leaving now, with my guards. If you hope to reach safety ahead of Kara Hulmaster’s soldiers, you would be well advised to come with us.” The Vaasan brought his mount in front of Marstel’s. “Rhovann is a very competent wizard. He will have little trouble making his way out of Hulburg, I am sure. But if you allow yourself to be caught here, then you may very well negate whatever effort Rhovann is engaged in. You can aid him best by leaving now.”
Marstel grimaced beneath his white mustache. “Very well, Lord Terov. Perhaps you are right. Let us go.”
The Warlock Knight-Terov, or so Geran guessed-nodded curtly to his men. With a creaking of saddles and the clatter of hooves on the well-worn cobblestones of the courtyard, the band of riders began to stream out through the castle gate and down the causeway beyond.
“They’re leaving,” Geran growled. “Quickly, after them!” Before he could reconsider his actions, he pulled open the door and ran out into the courtyard after the retreating riders, drawing the shadow sword as he went. It felt solid in the grasp of his new hand-perhaps a little rigid and stiff, but firmly under his control. Hamil followed after him, brandishing his knives, while Sarth stepped out into the doorway. The sorcerer conjured a ball of sparking green lightning and hurled it spinning into the middle of the soldiers waiting for their turn to pass the gate; with a great thunderclap it detonated, raking Council Guards and Vaasan soldiers alike with emerald bolts. Horses screamed in terror, and warriors tumbled from their saddles as panicked animals reared and shied. Mirya’s crossbow sang, and a Council Guard grunted as a bolt punched into his thigh. Some warriors spurred out after the lead riders, some turned to face the unexpected attack from the rear, and others simply hovered in between, torn by indecision.
Geran ran toward Marstel, intending to drag the fat old lord out of the saddle or kill him if he couldn’t manage that. For a moment, in the chaos and confusion of the courtyard, he thought he’d be able to reach Marstel unimpeded. But a pair of Vaasan armsmen moved to intercept him, blocking his way. The swordmage found himself engaged by a pair of competent bladesmen who wouldn’t simply be swept out of his way; grinding his teeth in frustration, he turned aside from his headlong charge to meet Vaasan steel with Umbrach Nyth, falling into the familiar flow of parry and attack. His wrist throbbed with each jolt of steel on steel, but the sword hilt remained firm in the silver hand’s grasp, and in a moment he almost forgot that it wasn’t his own living flesh that held the shadow sword’s leather hilt. “Sarth!” he shouted. “Stop Marstel!”
The tiefling turned his scepter on the usurper. “Ummar skeyth!” he intoned. A smoking white ray lanced from the device’s end straight at Marstel-but a woman in a crimson veil who sat on a horse near the Warlock Knight drew a wand from her sleeve and spoke a countering spell. The bitter white ray met some invisible shield conjured by the Vaasan witch and deflected upward, blasting a great white patch of ice in the side of one of the towers overlooking the courtyard. Then Terov urged Marstel out of the courtyard, followed by the Vaasan woman with her wand. They galloped out of sight down the causeway, and most of the guards followed them-but not before Sarth knocked two more out of the saddle with another blast of lightning.
Geran ducked under the wild swing of one of his opponents and bobbed up again to bury six inches of his sword point low in the Vaasan’s side, unhorsing him. The other guard nearly rode him down as he dodged around the stamping hooves and flashing blades, but Hamil rolled up under his stirrup and deftly cut the saddle strap. The horse spooked away from the halfling at its belly, and the unsecured saddle slid right off the animal’s back, taking the second Vaasan with it. He landed badly on the cobblestones; before he could get up, Geran stepped over and kicked him unconscious. The last of Marstel’s escorts vanished through the castle gate, leaving six of their number dead, wounded, or stunned in the courtyard.
“Sarth, go after them!” Geran called. “Do what you can to slow them down!”
“Their mage is skillful, but I will do what I can,” the tiefling answered. He invoked his spell of flying and rose up over the battlements, heading northward in pursuit.
“Find a mount,” Geran told Hamil. He turned to follow his own advice, and spotted a big black charger whose rider was lying on the cobblestones, scorched by Sarth’s spells. Trying not to frighten the animal by moving too quickly, he approached. “Easy now,” he said in a soothing voice. “That’s a good fellow, easy now.” The horse snorted suspiciously, but it stood still long enough for Geran to take hold of its reins and give it a few pats on the neck before swinging himself up into the saddle.
“Perhaps you weren’t counting, but Marstel’s men still outnumber us about ten to one,” Hamil observed. The halfling was trying to calm a skittish mare that was a little on the small side, the horse least ill-suited to his stature. “What exactly do you propose to do if we catch them?”
“I’ll work that out when we do. Are you ready?”
“Almost,” Hamil replied.
“I’m ready,” Mirya replied. She’d found a mount of her own and had quickly slit her skirt at front and back to ride with a foot in each stirrup.
Geran frowned. “Mirya-”
“I’ll have none of that nonsense now, Geran Hulmaster, not after the daft things I’ve watched you do in the last few hours,” she said sharply. “If I followed you into the Shadowfell, I can damn well ride with you now.”
He hesitated before answering. “Then at least promise me you’ll stay well back from any fighting we come to.”
“If it makes you feel better.” She kicked her heels to her horse’s flanks and rode hard through the castle gate. Geran scowled and spurred his black charger after her; behind him, Hamil managed to get himself into the saddle and rode out after the two of them.