They cantered swiftly down the causeway toward the small square known as the Harmach’s Foot, the cold raindrops striking them as they hurried after Marstel and his company. From their height, Geran glimpsed a half-dozen thin pillars of smoke rising up to meet the low overcast. He couldn’t hear much over the thudding of his horse’s hooves on the paving stones, but here and there in the streets below he could see handfuls of people hurrying from one spot to another. There seemed to be a riot or a skirmish by the Middle Bridge, and he thought he could hear the distant clash of arms echoing through the gray morning. To his right, a couple of hundred yards ahead of them, Marstel’s company of riders was heading north on the Vale Road; the flash of spells and peals of magical thunder rang through the streets in that direction. Then he lost his vantage as the causeway descended down to meet the Vale Road.
Mirya must have seen what he had, for she turned north and galloped after the false harmach. Geran followed her, and Hamil as well. He leaned over his animal’s neck, encouraging it to greater speed. For several hundred yards they thundered madly through the muddy lane, racing toward the outskirts of the town and the partially repaired city wall by the Burned Bridge and the Troll and Tankard.
Not much besides open countryside ahead of us, Hamil called to him. Perhaps we should follow at a distance, and see if we can sneak up on them later? Or round up a larger company before we set out after them?
Geran didn’t answer for a moment. It was a sound suggestion, but he wasn’t willing to abandon the chase just yet. Finally he straightened in the saddle, and began to ease up on the reins, thinking about the best way to proceed-but a sudden skirmish broke out somewhere ahead of him, just over a small rise. More magic flashed and thundered just ahead, and the shrill sound of steel meeting steel came clearly to his ears. He spurred ahead, sharing one quick glance with Mirya as he drew abreast of her. Together they topped the rise.
Just below them, dozens of Shieldsworn ran and shouted after Marstel and his riders, who were galloping madly down the road away to the north. In their flight, Marstel and Terov had run headlong into a company of Hulmaster soldiers. Half-a-dozen Shieldsworn lay motionless on the road or in the muddy fields nearby … but just as many Vaasans and Council Guards had fallen too. Sarth sat on the roadbank, a crossbow bolt in one thigh and the other leg stretched out at an awkward angle, while a small band of Shieldsworn waited nearby. Shieldsworn archers started to draw on Geran and his companions, taking them for stragglers from Marstel’s band, before they lowered their bows with shouts of recognition. “It’s Lord Geran!” they cried. “He’s here!”
“I am sorry, Geran,” Sarth said from the ground. “I did what I could, but the Warlock Knight’s witch put a spell of negation on me and cancelled my flying spell while I was a fair distance above the ground. I fear I’ve broken my leg.”
“That always seemed a significant drawback to the tactic of fighting from the air,” Hamil remarked. “That, and the fact that everybody within half a mile can see exactly where you are, especially when you’re flinging fireballs and lightning bolts to one side and the other. A good thing the Vaasan witch didn’t catch you too much higher in the air. But how did you get that bolt in your leg?”
Sarth scowled. “One of the Vaasans shot me on the ground. I suppose he had some notion of finishing me while I was distracted.”
Geran kneeled beside his friend and gripped his shoulder. “You did as much as I could have asked for. A bit of bad luck now doesn’t diminish what you’ve done in the service of Hulburg.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry I left you with no potions to drink.”
“As am I. I think I’ll remember to save one for myself next time.”
The swordmage smiled. “I wouldn’t blame you.” He was about to say more when another group of Shieldsworn with banners flying from their stirrups galloped up from the west, cutting across the fields from the Burned Bridge. Kara Hulmaster rode at the head of the small company; Geran stood and waved. “Kara!” he called.
Kara’s mouth opened in surprise as she caught sight of him. She cantered up close and slid from the saddle, hurrying over to catch him in a quick embrace. “Geran! Where in Faerun have you been?”
“Events didn’t proceed as I’d planned.” Geran returned Kara’s hug. “Rhovann caught me yesterday and threw me in his dungeons. Mirya, Hamil, and Sarth weren’t able to rescue me until hours later. We didn’t reach Rhovann’s master stone until shortly before sunrise.”
“I feared the worst until the runehelms began to fall.” Kara studied his face and frowned. “By Ilmater, you’ve had a beating. Are you well?”
“Not as well as I’d like, but I’m still here.” He decided he’d tell her what Rhovann did to him and show her the silver hand when they had time for the whole tale; it wasn’t something he cared to do in the middle of the road with the Shieldsworn looking on. “What happened to the runehelms when we shattered the stone? And how did you come to be here?”
“The Council Guard and the runehelms drove us out of our camp at Rosestone. We were pushed back to the round, flat-topped hill a little west of the abbey-”
“Yes, I saw.”
Kara stared at him. “You saw? How-”
“I’m sorry. Rhovann showed me what his runehelms could see of your stand. He wanted me to know that you’d been beaten.”
“We almost were,” she replied. “We fought off attacks all night long. Just before dawn Marstel threw his greatest attack at us, but just as the runehelms threatened to overrun us, they suddenly faltered-whatever force that was driving them suddenly failed. That would be the moment you shattered the master stone, I suppose. They were almost helpless from that point on, and without their runehelms, the Council Guard assault failed completely. We came down from the hilltop and routed them. Then we set out for Hulburg immediately.” Kara pointed back toward the west side of the Winterspear vale. “We managed to horse most of the Third Shield on mounts we took from Marstel, and I rode ahead with them to throw a cordon around Hulburg and scout out the city. The Icehammers and the rest of the Shieldsworn-those who can still march, anyway-are following on foot. They’re probably descending into the vale by the abbey trail right now. I had a mind to send messengers to any loyalists fighting in town and see if we could join forces.”
“Send word to the Sokols and Double Moon too,” Hamil added. “They’ll help.”
“Good,” said Geran. “The castle’s ours-Marstel and his men abandoned it. Send some soldiers to hold it when you can. Even a dozen to watch the gate would be enough.”
“Marstel fled?” Kara asked.
“He was with the Vaasans who rode through. They’re trying to spirit him away, but I don’t see any reason why we should let the Warlock Knights have him, not when he has so much to answer for here.”
Kara turned and called out to Kolton, who waited nearby. “Sergeant Kolton, I need every rider you can spare! We’re going to run down Marstel and his Vaasan friends before they slip out of our reach!”
“Aye, Lady Kara!” the old soldier replied. He turned and began to bark orders at the Shieldsworn around him. The soldiers quickly moved to gather all the enemy mounts they could catch, while others climbed back up into the saddle and arranged themselves on the road.
Kara turned and caught her saddlehorn, ready to mount up again. “What about Rhovann?” she asked over her shoulder.
Geran gave her a wintry smile. “He’s dead.”
Kara gave him a grim nod. “Good.”
“It seems you must continue without me,” Sarth said to Geran. “Good hunting, my friend.”
“I’ll give the Vaasans your regards,” Geran answered. He stood up and clambered back into the saddle, ignoring the tremors of fatigue in his limbs. He could ride and fight a little more if he had to. In a matter of moments, he spurred his horse northward on the road again, racing along the Winterspear’s course as Hamil, Mirya, Kara, and fifteen Shieldsworn riders under Sergeant-Major Kolton galloped along at his back.