Satisfied, Lod recited a spell of restoration. His severed hand and the rest of his lost bones floated up into the air and converged on him to fuse themselves back into place. New gray flesh smeared itself across the wounds in his tail like butter spread by an invisible knife.
His cloak fastened, his collar upturned, and his plumed, broad-brimmed hat tugged down, Mario Bez stepped out of the turret with its cramped spiral staircase onto the wall-walk of the Iron Lord’s castle. Despite his bundling up, the bite of the cold night air made him stiffen and want to go right back inside.
That might be a good idea anyway. The point of spending the evening in the citadel was to be seen by as many Rashemi of consequence as possible. That way, even if they later tumbled to the fact that someone had killed Yhelbruna, they’d be that much more likely to assume that heroic Captain Bez, who mere days ago had delivered their land from the menace of the undead, couldn’t possibly be involved.
But curse it, Melemer or Olthe should have reported by now. Bez peered west across the peaked rooftops of Immilmar in an effort to make out some hint of what had happened, or was currently happening, aboard Dai Shan’s ice barge.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t, and he certainly wasn’t going to stroll right up to the killing field. But to have a hope in the Hells of seeing anything, he was going to have to get closer.
Fortunately, the Storm of Vengeance currently reposed on the lakeshore not too far north of the barge. And no one should think it strange if a conscientious captain paid a nocturnal visit to his vessel to make sure the lookout was awake and all was in order.
Bez stepped into a crenel and jumped far enough out that he needn’t worry about scraping any part of himself against the castle wall. Then he spoke the word of gentle falling that every skyship wizard learned, or at least every one with any sense.
He touched down so lightly that he might have been another snowflake adding to the white blanket on the ground. Then, shivering, he strode toward the shore and the docks until an unexpected sight stopped him in his tracks.
Torches burned aboard the Storm, and the wavering light just sufficed to reveal that the men holding them were berserkers of the Owlbear Lodge. His hosts and drinking companions of three nights past had evidently forced their way aboard, likely killing or taking the crewman on watch prisoner while they were about it.
It could only mean Yhelbruna had survived the attempt on her life. Now she was rousing any Rashemi warriors within reach to seize the Halruaan sellswords and the vessel that might otherwise have afforded them a means of escape.
Bez pulled off his hat and tossed it away. He hadn’t seen any Rashemi wearing one like it, and its shape might make him conspicuous even in the dark. Unfastening his cloak to facilitate access to his blades, he turned and strode south, parallel to the lakeshore. He was even colder now but, intent on the business at hand, only noticed in an abstracted and occasional sort of way.
For the capital of such a poor and backward land, Immilmar was well supplied with inns, and all the crew of the Storm had sought lodgings in one or another of them. Such accommodations provided a welcome change from the cramped quarters aboard the skyship, and Bez had hoped spreading some coin around would endear him to the locals and make them more inclined to offer him the griffons.
He, his officers, and his spellcasters had all taken rooms in Blackstone House, purportedly the finest inn in town, and the one scrap of luck Tymora had allowed him on this disastrous night was that it was close by. Catering to outlanders who arrived by boat, it too, sat near the lakeshore midway between the Storm and Dai Shan’s barge.
Bez studied the structure. No one appeared to be lying in wait outside, and despite the shuttered windows, he could just make out the mournful voice of a minstrel serving up a tragic ballad within.
By the looks of it, Bez had reached the inn ahead of the enemy. Still, his heart beat faster, and his hands fairly tingled with the urge to draw his weapons, until he stepped through the door into the light, warmth, and cheer of the common room and knew for certain he hadn’t just walked into a snare.
The ballad sobbed to an end, and the audience clapped and tossed a few coppers into the wooden bowl at the scruffy singer’s feet. Meanwhile, Bez headed for the Storm’s third mate, a white-headed, sour-faced old wizard and artilleryman named Uregaunt.
Thanks be to the Foehammer, despite the pewter cup and firewine bottle in front of him, the old man didn’t appear drunk. Evidently marking something grim in Bez’s manner, he asked, “What is it, Captain?”
“The crew needs to assemble outside, and right now. Get everyone up and moving. But don’t attract any more attention than you have to.”
“Got it.” Uregaunt rose and headed for the table where two sellswords were throwing dice with a pair of Dai Shan’s retainers.
With a twinge of regret for the possessions he was abandoning in his room, Bez stalked back outside to stand watch. Almost immediately, three Rashemi loped out of the dark. Embroidered, embossed in leather, or picked out in beadwork, images of stag heads and stylized designs representing racks of antlers identified each as a member of the Great Stag Lodge.
Bez was sure Yhelbruna meant to turn out the Great Stag Lodge-along with every other lodge and the garrison of the Iron Lord’s citadel-in force. She must have encountered these three berserkers abroad in the night as she was making her rounds and sent them on ahead to keep an eye on Blackstone House.
But they weren’t content to settle for spying now that they beheld the commander of their enemies standing right in front of them. They bellowed and shuddered, invoking their empowering rage in a heartbeat as only veteran berserkers could, and charged.
Bez retreated and snatched out his rapier and main gauche. Ice flowed down the long blade, and the promise of lightning glowed and buzzed in the shorter one. Snarling a rhyme, he thrust with the sword.
Materializing in midair, fist-sized hailstones hammered down on the onrushing berserkers. One Rashemi pitched forward onto his face in the snow with blood welling from his scalp. The other two staggered but kept coming, spreading out to flank Bez in the process. Apparently their rage didn’t preclude the use of basic tactics.
Still giving ground, Bez rattled off another incantation. On the final syllable, he whipped his rapier down pommel-first as if he were bashing an opponent with it.
Several cracks sounded in quick succession as bones snapped inside a second Rashemi’s body. The berserker fell and tried to jump back up again immediately, but despite his furious determination, pain turned the effort into floundering failure.
Bez discerned he didn’t have time for a third spell. The remaining berserker was about to close with him. It seemed unfair that the Rashemi could run so fast even in the snow.
But since he could, Bez might as well turn it against him. He retreated two more steps, then lunged, explosively reversing direction with a facility and sense of timing that, he fancied, would have satisfied the most demanding fencing master.
Any opponent who was rushing forward would have had difficulty avoiding such an attack, and the frost-coated rapier stabbed deep into the berserker’s chest. As his knees buckled, the Rashemi tried to strike back with his broadsword, and Bez parried with the main gauche. The impact jolted and stung his arm, but all that mattered was that he stopped the cut, and his opponent wouldn’t be making another. The berserker finished collapsing to his knees, flopped over onto his side, and lay there, shuddering and coughing up blood.
Bez freed the rapier and dispitched the warrior with the several broken bones. Otherwise, the man might eventually have started yelling for help. But he left the unconscious Rashemi with the gashed and battered head alone. He had nothing personal against the fellow, and nobody was paying for his death.