The wraiths swirled around him, streaking in to stab and slash with their ghostly blades, but Geran’s elf-wrought blade still glimmered with the radiance of his spirit-bane spell. He parried their attacks as if they were striking with weapons of iron, passing one blade past his hip, knocking another’s point down to the ground, and then whirling close to draw his edge across a wraith’s neck as he leaped aside from the third. The shining steel of his blade bit deep into the wraith’s shadowy substance, and a jet of dark mist boiled away from Geran’s cut as he turned to face the remaining two. The wraiths were not stupid; when they came at him again they did so much more cautiously, almost like living warriors who feared his strike. For a moment it was all Geran could do to keep himself alive as the two wraiths sought to trap him between their swords and assailed him from both sides at once. He devoted himself entirely to his own defense, parrying one blade after the other as he continued to circle away from them.
Hamil reached the top of the stairs in a sudden rush of soft footsteps. The halfling took in the situation in a glance and threw himself headlong into the fight, daggers in hand. “We’re coming, Geran!” he cried. He set in against one of the wraiths, his small blades moving in a silver blur as he slashed and punched at his ghostly foe. The wraith screeched and retreated from Hamil’s assault. Even though the daggers weren’t quite real to the phantom, they were enchanted and their magic bit into its spectral flesh. As with Sarth’s spells in the castle’s lower courtyard, the wounds did not last long. In a matter of moments the fraying ghost-stuff knitted itself together again, almost as fast as the halfling could slice it apart. “How do you kill these things?” Hamil snarled.
Geran took advantage of the distraction Hamil was providing to change foes, abandoning his wraith for a moment to jam his gleaming swordpoint in the center of the other’s back. The creature threw back its head and wailed horribly before discorporating. A black chill shocked Geran’s hands as the thing died-so to speak-on the point of his blade.
Mirya hurried into the room, holding her skirts with her hands to manage the stairs. The last wraith whirled and darted for her, and she cried out and threw herself out of the way. Behind her, Sarth leveled his rune-carved rod at the spirit and let loose with a gout of yellow flame. The wraith screeched once and veered away, plunging into a solid brick wall as it fled.
“Have all the shades of the Shadowland got loose in the castle?” Mirya muttered. “Madness and mayhem, that’s the name of this night!”
“Geran, we must leave this place,” the tiefling said. “I do not have magic enough to defeat all of these grim specters. Nor do you.”
“I’ve got to see my family to safety first,” Geran answered. “I can’t leave without them.” Harmach Grigor, Natali and Kirr, Erna, his aunt Terena… none of them would stand a chance against the ghostly warriors. He had to believe that his young cousins were still unharmed. The thought of the two Hulmaster children under the pale blades of Aesperus’s wraiths left him almost helpless with dread.
“They may already-” Sarth began to say, then winced and halted himself. The tiefling’s face was not made for compassion, but his voice was softer when he spoke again. “Of course. I should have thought of that. Lead on.”
Deciding that haste was more important than stealth, Geran turned to his right and ran for the doors leading out into the upper courtyard. He burst out into the cold, pale moonlight. Wraiths darted and flew through the shadows, eyes aglow with malice and hunger. The swordmage crossed the small courtyard quickly, passing two more dead Shieldsworn, and ducked into the Harmach’s Tower. His companions followed. The great room in the tower’s lower floor was deserted. A fire guttered and popped in the hearth, but none of the Hulmasters were there. Quickly Geran dashed up the stairs to the family’s bedchambers, throwing open each door as he passed. He found no one on the second floor, and in a growing panic he ran up to the third floor and began to search the rooms there as well. “They’re not here!” he cried.
“They might’ve fled already,” Hamil said. “Where would they go, Geran?”
“The postern gate?” he guessed. It was far below them now, but passages below the trophy room led to deeper armories and Griffonwatch’s small, well-protected side gate. He shook his head and checked the rooms again. Then he hurried back down the steps to the great room. It was possible that no one remained alive in the castle other than the four of them, but he could still make out the occasional distant scream echoing through the halls, so at least some of the guards or servants were still fighting for their lives. “Let me check the library first, the harmach’s often there.”
He rushed back out into the courtyard. Ghostly forms flitted through the shadows; he reached out and grasped Mirya’s hand. “Stay close,” he warned. He started along the side of the court, heading for the castle’s library. But Mirya suddenly stopped and pulled back.
“Geran, look!” she whispered. “The chapel!”
Geran halted and looked around. Across the upper courtyard, the castle’s disused chapel was surrounded by a dozen of Aesperus’s minions. The spirits were forming ranks before the door leading to the shrine. As each wraith took its place alongside its fellows, all of the spirits gathered there grew sharper, clearer, and more substantial. More of the spirits were streaming up to join their fellows. “Of course,” he murmured. Holy ground often deterred evil spirits, and Grigor certainly would have known that.
“I think the wraiths are gathering for an assault,” Hamil said in a low voice.
“Can they get in?” Mirya asked.
“I don’t know,” Geran replied. He looked over to Sarth. “Can they?”
The tiefling’s eyes glowed faintly red in the dark courtyard. He studied the scene and shook his head. “Not yet, but the old spells and blessings on the chapel do not seem very strong to me. They will not last long. And even if they can keep out the wraiths, there may be more powerful undead nearby. Should Aesperus himself come here, nothing will impede him.”
One of the wraiths reached out with its spectral hand and tested the door, which trembled a little at the ghost’s touch. Inside a child screamed in panic. Without another moment’s thought, Geran ran across the courtyard, brandishing his glowing sword, and darted into the middle of the assembled wraiths, swinging wildly. The blade left swaths of sparkling white light in its path like a wake of tiny stars. The wraiths shrieked in their cold, terrible voices and recoiled from its touch. Sarth joined in then, hurling blasts of fire that singed the wraiths’ shadowstuff and drove them back. “Hold on!” Geran shouted. “We’re coming!”
He fought his way to the door amid a swirl of phantom blades and leering dead faces. One icy cold blade kissed the nape of his neck, and another seared his left hip, but he cleared the ghostly warriors away. Mirya and Hamil darted into the doorway and fumbled at the door. Geran put his back to them and wove a web of brilliant elven steel in the icy night, keeping the wraiths at bay. “Hamil, the door!”
I’m working on it! Hamil answered. He worked frantically with the point of one dagger, trying to get it beneath the bar on the far side. There! The bar clattered to the floor, and Hamil threw open the door.
Inside the chapel the Hulmasters stood clustered close by the altar of Tyr. Harmach Grigor held a magic wand in one hand and stood a little in front of his daughter-in-law, Erna, and his grandchildren, Natali and Kirr. The children sobbed quietly, both frightened terribly but doing their best to be brave. Geran’s Aunt Terena-sister of the harmach, Kara’s mother, and Sergen’s stepmother-knelt on the flagstone floor, tending a Shieldsworn armsman who had collapsed from white wounds.
“Thank Tymora,” Geran breathed in relief. “You’re all alive.”
“Yes, though five Shieldsworn died to see us into this refuge,” Harmach Grigor said with a bitter tone. “I was of little help. I’m afraid that I’m not much of a wizard.” The old lord looked at Geran and frowned. “I feared that you would be killed in your cell, Geran. How did you survive? And who is that with you?”