“It was no spell of mine,” Geran replied. “That was a thrice-damned simulacrum, not the real Marstel! It must have been!” He was no expert on such magic, but Rhovann certainly was. Now that it was dead, it was reverting to the alchemical brew that the wizard had made it from.
“A simulacrum?” Terov snarled. The Warlock Knight had lost his horned helm in his fall; beneath it he seemed surprisingly ordinary, a man with stern features and steel gray hair. Only his crimson eyes marked the touch of the supernatural in his face. “It was a simulacrum I tried to spirit away? Curse Rhovann Disarnnyl’s perfidy! He’s made a fool of me, and kept the real Marstel for himself.” He finally dragged his feet free of the stirrups and started to stand, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet.
“Whether he did or not, it was little help to him,” Geran replied. He turned his attention to the Vaasan lord and advanced on him, setting the point of Umbrach Nyth at Terov’s neck before the Warlock Knight found his feet. “I have you at a disadvantage, my lord. Yield, and order your men to yield as well, or I’ll slay you where you stand.”
Terov glowered at Geran for a moment before he sighed and raised his hand to the handful of soldiers still on their feet. “Very well,” he said. “I yield. Borys, Naran, you others-lower your weapons. We can do no more here.”
Kara trotted forward and dismounted beside Geran. “Where is the real Marstel?” she demanded of Terov.
“I have no idea,” the Warlock Knight answered. “If you don’t have him, and I don’t have him, then I would guess that he is either dead or locked away in some secure dungeon of Rhovann’s. This one here”-he nodded at the sodden, bubbling puddle in the empty armor-“has ruled in Hulburg for a couple of months now.”
Geran risked a glance at the frozen skirmish behind him. Several Shieldsworn were on the ground, but none of the Council Guards were still in the saddle, and only four of the Vaasans remained. Hamil and Mirya slowly rode forward along the road as Sergeant Kolton directed his Shieldsworn to dismount and disarm their prisoners. Mirya closed her eyes and murmured a prayer of thanks as she saw that Geran was unhurt; Hamil took in the scene with a broad grin, and gave Geran a wink.
Looks like you’ve got the rascal right where you want him, he said to Geran. Run him through already, and let’s go have breakfast.
“Not quite yet,” Geran murmured. He looked back to the Vaasan. “Who are you? And what is your quarrel with Hulburg?”
The Warlock Knight’s face might have been made of stone. “I am Kardhel Terov, fellthane and Warlock Knight. I have no particular quarrel with Hulburg. It is simply not in Vaasa’s interest to leave Hulburg in the hands of a weak ruler who might fall under the sway of Mulmaster or Hillsfar.”
“You say you’ve got no quarrel with us, but I don’t see it so. Last year on this very spot I fought Vaasan knights who were aiding the Bloody Skulls in their attack on Hulburg. Mhurren and his orcs would have razed Hulburg to the ground if we hadn’t fought and bled here to stop them. Now I find that you meant to keep Maroth Marstel as a pawn to use against us whenever you felt like it.” Geran narrowed his eyes. “You’ve caused my family and my people a great deal of blood, grief, and tears, Vaasan. Don’t play games with me if you value your life.”
“There are repercussions for slaying a Warlock Knight, Hulmaster.”
“Which I care nothing for at the moment.”
Terov grimaced. “I am not toying with you. We have done nothing more than back the strongest faction in our designs to bring Hulburg within our orbit. Last year the rising power in the Moonsea North was Warchief Mhurren. This year the master mage of Hulburg was ascendant. If your position had seemed strongest to us, we would have approached you, but in fact the survival of House Hulmaster seemed highly unlikely until the last day or two. I would dearly like to know how you ruined Rhovann’s construct warriors at a single stroke, by the way. In any event, the grief we caused your family was incidental to your own lack of strength.”
“We seemed weak, so what you did to us was justified?” Geran snapped. “Show me your iron ring!”
Terov hesitated, but the shadow sword at his throat did not waver. He drew off his gauntlet and held up his right hand. The ring was surprisingly plain in appearance, a simple band of iron.
Geran shifted Umbrach Nyth to his left hand and seized Terov’s right hand in the clasp of his leather-gauntleted silver fist. “Swear on your ring that you will truthfully answer the next question I ask.”
“That is hardly necessary-”
“Swear it or I’ll kill you myself,” Kara said from beside Geran. Terov’s eyes blazed with anger, but he nodded. “I swear I shall answer truthfully.”
“Did you direct the Cyricist priest Valdarsel to arrange the assassination of my family?” asked Geran in a cold voice.
Terov flinched-not much, only a slight flick of the eyes, but a flinch nonetheless. “Yes,” he answered. “But, as I said-”
“Shut your mouth!” Geran snarled. Before he knew what he meant to do, he released Terov’s hand and struck him in the face with his right hand. A sharp jolt of fresh pain seared his arm as the damaged bones of his wrist took the impact, and a trickle of fresh blood started from beneath the silver cuff at the end of his arm. But Terov’s jaw broke under the weight of the silver fist. The Warlock Knight spun to the ground, spitting blood and broken teeth. Geran strode forward and seized Terov by the gorget, setting the point of his sword at the Vaasan’s throat.
“Murdering bastard,” Hamil said aloud. “If you don’t kill him, Geran, I’ll be happy to take care of it for you.”
“I yielded, damn you!” Terov snarled through his bloody lips.
Geran glared at the Vaasan, but in his mind’s eye he saw Harmach Grigor gasping out the last breaths of his life in Lasparhall, and dead Shieldsworn and servants strewn through the manor. His sword arm almost quivered with the need to take the Vaasan’s life. He felt Mirya frown in deep distaste, shrinking from the blow she sensed gathering in him. Somehow he found that he didn’t want her to see what he meant to do next; her disapproval held him from striking for a heartbeat as he looked down at the villain helpless under his blade. There was no question that Kardhel Terov deserved whatever fate he chose to mete out, that the blood of Grigor Hulmaster and perhaps hundreds more Hulburgans was on his hands. But slaying the Warlock Knight, however richly he deserved death, would not deter Vaasa from meddling in Hulburg’s affairs again.
As a Hulmaster I can justly take his life, Geran thought through his cold fury. But as the Lord Hulmaster, is this the right thing for Hulburg?
“Strike if you think it is right, Geran,” Kara said softly. “He has earned it.”
Geran’s eye fell on the leather gauntlet covering the silver hand he now wore in place of his own. A spot of blood stained the cuff, dripping from where Rhovann’s hand joined his arm. Suddenly he felt exhausted, tired of the never-ending circle of strife and suffering he seemed to be caught in. Looking down at Terov, he realized that he didn’t hate the man. After all, he hardly knew him. He might hate the things Terov had done, but that was not the same thing. And he knew that a war with Vaasa could end in only one way for Hulburg. “Nothing will be ended if I do,” he murmured aloud.
This is why I shouldn’t be harmach, he told himself. Compromise isn’t in my nature. He sighed, and lowered his blade from Terov’s throat. “Can you speak for Vaasa?” he said. “Will the Council of Knights be bound by what you agree to here?”
Terov wiped the blood from his chin and nodded. “Yes,” he replied.
“Swear to it.”
“Damn it, yes, I swear it by my ring. My word can bind the Council of Knights.”