“There!” one of the mercenaries shouted. “Shoot him down!”
Several men raised crossbows at Geran, but the swordmage quickly ducked under the wall. Bolts snapped and hissed through the air, clattering against the rocky foot of the castle or striking the stone steps. He risked a quick peek over the wall to get a better look. The Veruna men were arranged in a loose half-ring under the eaves of the dark grove beyond the fence. Thrusting his fear and anger aside, the swordmage fixed in his mind the arcane symbols of the spell he needed and spoke its single word: “Seiroch!”
The strange, cold lurch of teleportation jarred him, and he felt as if he were falling-but then he stood in the middle of the Veruna armsmen, who were busily drawing back their crossbows and making ready another shot. Geran snarled and stabbed the nearest man through the throat and then bounded past the crumpling mercenary to slash off the arm of the next one in the line. A crossbowman behind him fired at his back, but the amethyst scales of his protection spell deflected the quarrel away from him. He ignored the attack and kept going. The third man he reached had the time to drop his crossbow and draw a sword. Geran launched a furious attack, raining slashes left and right against the Veruna armsman. The mercenary parried the first few and attempted a counterattack, but Geran threw up a lightning-quick block of his own and spun inside the man’s guard to slash his belly badly. The Veruna man shrieked and reeled away.
“Watch it, Geran!” Hamil paused by the iron fence, took aim, and hurled a dagger at an armsman hurrying up behind Geran. The blade took the man just under his hauberk, biting deeply above the knee. The charging soldier stumbled and rolled in the underbrush with a savage oath. Hamil scrambled over the fence, only to be knocked spinning to the ground by a crossbow bolt that caught him just before he was going to drop down on the forest side.
“Hamil!” Geran cried. He took a step toward the place where his friend had fallen, but Hamil’s silent voice stopped him.
I’m not badly hurt. Keep at them, Geran!
Geran turned back to the Veruna armsmen around him. He counted at least a dozen more men facing him. Swords in hand, they circled closer, ready for him now. Behind the Mulmasterite mercenaries stood a hooded man in elegant black finery. Sergen Hulmaster stepped out of the shadows, his dark eyes glittering. He carried a crossbow in one hand and a long, slender rapier in the other. “I didn’t like that arrogant little popinjay very much,” he remarked. “I intended for you to die in your cell, Geran. I must tell you that I’m a little disappointed that you’ll meet your end with steel in your hand. On the other hand-” Sergen paused to toss away his empty crossbow and drew a poniard with his left hand-“I’m more than a little tired of hearing tales about your heroics. Tonight I’ll repay many old slights and insults. I’ve always known that you’re not the paragon of virtue and skill everyone seems to think you are.”
Geran smiled coldly. “You’ll meet me blade to blade, Sergen? Your mercenaries will stand aside?”
The black-garbed lord laughed. “My sense of fair play is not so well developed as that, Geran. They’ll stand aside only as long as I’m winning.” He looked at the Veruna mercenaries standing nearby and said, “If he wounds me, cut him down.” Then he came to meet Geran with his rapier in hand.
TWENTY-SIX
11 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One
Geran did not remember Sergen as a swordsman of much skill, but he hadn’t seen him with a blade since Sergen was fifteen or sixteen. Still, the fact that Sergen offered to meet him suggested that the traitor had at least some reason to feel confident, and so Geran resolved to be cautious. Should I try for a swift victory, even though the armsmen might overwhelm me? he thought. Or do I play for time and try to draw things out-knowing that every moment I’m delayed, the wraiths may find the others?
Sergen seemed to read his uncertainty and grinned at Geran’s indecision. “You must be wondering just how skillfully you should fight,” he said. “A difficult puzzle, I suspect. I am curious to see how you’ll resolve it.”
“Difficult?” Geran stalked closer, watching Sergen’s eyes. If it were only his own life at stake, that would be one thing. But Sergen was responsible for authoring a massacre, and should he fall, Sergen or his men would see to it that none of the Hulmasters survived the night. “No, not especially. Whatever else happens tonight, you’ll regret crossing blades with me. If it costs me my life to send you from this world, then you’ll have little opportunity to profit from your treachery.”
He smiled coldly at Sergen and attacked, a simple thrust at the belt buckle. Sergen parried and riposted sharply; Geran parried in turn and gave a half-step before replying with a quick slash at Sergen’s face, which the council lord likewise parried. They traded thrusts and cuts furiously for several moments before the momentum of their strikes carried them past each other, and they exchanged places.
He’s quick, Geran realized. Sergen was a good swordsman, though not as experienced as he was. However, his cousin was exceptionally fast-quicker than Geran, at least. Of all the natural gifts a swordsman desired, raw speed was certainly the most vital. Given equal skill, a fast man could beat a strong man if weight of armor was not a consideration.
“You’re more of a swordsman than I remember,” Geran admitted.
“You’re not the swordsman I feared,” Sergen replied.
He began the next exchange, lunging in to thrust with his rapier. Geran deflected the point with a sharp ring of steel; Sergen recovered and attacked again, and Geran parried that one as well; and then rather than recover Sergen suddenly leaped in close and stabbed with his poniard. Geran knocked the dagger’s point away with his forearm and received a shallow, bloody cut from its razor-sharp blade despite the spells protecting him. He put his shoulder down and shoved Sergen back out of range. The blades flew swiftly in the moonlight, ringing shrilly. Geran tested his cousin’s defenses low, then high as they circled through the brush. As best he could, he kept an eye on the Veruna soldiers who ringed them.
He managed to turn Sergen around again, so that he could see the castle’s postern gate over Sergen’s shoulder. It was difficult to tell with the tatters of mist still clinging to the doorway, but he thought he saw a furtive motion there-shadowy figures slipping down the steps. Geran redoubled the pace of his attacks, keeping Sergen and the Veruna armsmen focused on him. He knew a sword spell or two he could have used, but if he worked a spell, the Verunas around him might react. Grimacing in frustration, he fell back on his own skill.
“I think you’re holding back,” Sergen said between blows. “Perhaps you’re not as fearless as you believe you are, dear cousin.”
“You forget where I studied,” Geran retorted. “I spent years in Myth Drannor, tutored by elf blademasters. You think you’re quick? I learned to fight against elves who’d make you look like a staggering drunk!” He parried several more blows and essayed a riposte of his own that Sergen caught on his poniard. “Speed’s a fleeting advantage, Sergen. When a man tires, he slows down. If you were going to defeat me with your quickness, you would’ve done it already. Now it’s my fight.”
“Your confidence is misplaced,” Sergen snarled. He launched a lightning thrust at Geran’s heart, which Geran parried awkwardly. Instantly Sergen recovered, circled his point under Geran’s blade, and thrust again-falling into Geran’s trap. The swordmage’s awkward parry instantly became a short, brutal chop at Sergen’s sword arm as Geran twisted away from the thrust. His blade bit into Sergen’s arm just below the elbow and cracked bone. Sergen cried out and dropped his rapier, and then Geran nearly took his head off with the backhand stroke that followed. Sergen managed to duck under the blow, but not without suffering a great gash of his scalp and a jarring blow to the skull that sent him reeling to the ground.