Once they were safely around the company of Veruna mercenaries watching the main gate, they returned to the Vale Road. Geran’s wounds ached fiercely, but he set the pain aside as best he could and limped on his way. The harmach hobbled along on his walking stick, while Mirya finally had to pause and gather up Hamil in her arms like a child.
“I protest!” the halfling said. “No woman as fair and delicate as you should be expected to carry a wounded hero from the field of battle.”
Mirya snorted. “Delicate or not, I’d guess that I’m twice your weight, Hamil. It’s easier to just carry you.”
Geran looked over his shoulder constantly for some sign of pursuit, fearing that Sergen’s Council Watch or their Veruna allies would overtake them in the street at any moment. But no more enemies appeared, and the Troll and Tankard came into view. A large crowd of people stood outside its doors, pointing at the battlements of the castle-from here, they seemed to glow with an eldritch green light-and speaking together in low voices.
“Make way!” Geran called. “We’ve got wounded with us. Make way!”
“Here, let us lend a hand,” one fellow said. In a moment several Hulburgans took the young guard Orndal from Geran and Sarth. Two more helped Mirya with Hamil, and the crowd folded in around them and followed them inside the tavern.
In the warm yellow lanternlight inside, Geran saw that several dozen militiamen were gathered, helms and spears close to hand. They looked up in surprise as he and his party of survivors entered the brewer’s taproom. “Why, ’tis Geran Hulmaster!” said one man. “And the harmach!” The men and women who had gathered in the tavern quickly climbed to their feet and touched their hands to their brows, bowing to Harmach Grigor, and then the room erupted in a chaotic babble of excited questions. A table was cleared for Orndal, and the young Shieldsworn guard was stretched out on it; Hamil was shown to a bench by the wall.
“One side! One side!” The tavernkeeper Durnan Osting pushed his way through the crowd gathered around, and bowed to the harmach. “We saw that some fell magic had stricken Griffonwatch, m’lord,” he said. “We feared that you were dead or worse-glad to see you and your kin got out o’ the castle. Can you tell us what’s going on?”
“The King in Copper sent his minions to attack Griffonwatch,” the old lord said wearily. “We escaped through the postern gate, but we found House Veruna armsmen waiting there to cut down anyone trying to flee.”
“Sergen Hulmaster’s trying to seize control of Hulburg,” Geran added. “This is all his doing. He means to kill the harmach tonight, and all the Hulmasters if he can. Master Osting, can you pass the word to call out the Spearmeet and muster the companies here? We must protect the harmach.”
Osting gaped in amazement. “The black-hearted bastard!” he finally said. “Beggin’ m’lord’s pardon for speaking ill o’ his kin, that is. Of course we’ll call out the Spearmeet! We’re all the harmach’s men. No sellswords from Mulmaster are going t’ kill our lord and call themselves masters o’ this town!”
“Send word to Rosestone Abbey too,” Mirya suggested. “The clerics of Amaunator might be able to do something about the spirits haunting Griffonwatch.”
“A good idea,” Geran agreed. “Master Osting, can you see to it?”
“Yes, m’lord,” the big tavernkeeper answered. “I’ll send one of me lads at once.”
“Geran, I don’t know if this is wise,” Grigor murmured. “Sergen’s men are trained warriors, well armed and armored-”
“Forgive me, Uncle Grigor, but we’ve got no choice. Sergen and his council have declared war. The Spearmeet’s the only army remaining to you.” Geran lowered his voice and leaned closer to his uncle’s ear. “I hope it won’t come to that. No mercenary really cares to fight a pitched battle if he can help it; there’s little reward in it and lots of risk. I think the Veruna men and the Council Watch might have a change of heart once they see there’s an army to take the field against them, especially one that outnumbers them.”
“I hope you’re right, Geran,” the harmach said.
“A message for the harmach!” called one of the Hulburgans by the tavern’s door. Several other voices in the throng took up the call, and Geran looked up from the table as the crowd swirled around a young woman in a tall silver helm. She wore the white surcoat and blue griffon of the Shieldsworn, but her coat was splattered with blood and dirt. The commoners crowding around her held her motionless for a moment, and then several of the men nearby her pushed a path clear. “Make way for the messenger!” they shouted.
“Harmach Grigor?” the young woman called. “My lord?”
“Over here,” Grigor answered. He pushed himself to his feet and held his walking stick up in the air.
The Shieldsworn soldier finally caught sight of him and hurried to his side. “My lord,” she said. “I thought to find you in Griffonwatch, but when I passed by on the road the militiamen outside told me you were here. I have dire news.”
The harmach visibly steeled himself. “Go on, then,” he said gently.
“Lady Kara’s been defeated at the Vadarknoll post-tower. The Bloody Skulls and their monsters overwhelmed the army of Hulburg. Many lives were lost. Lady Kara is retreating down the east bank of the Winterspear, fighting to slow the horde with all her strength, but she told me to tell you that she expects the orcs to reach Hulburg by sunrise.” The young soldier bit her lip, but continued. “She recommends that you direct the people of the town to take refuge in Griffonwatch, Daggergard, and the best-fortified of the merchant compounds and make the strongest defense you can. She doesn’t expect her army to survive the night.”
The taproom fell silent. “Disaster compounds upon disaster tonight,” Grigor said quietly. He sank back to the bench with his head in his hands. “It seems that Sergen chose the worst possible moment for his treachery.”
“Or the best,” Geran said darkly. But perhaps Sergen had not anticipated the ferocity of the approaching horde. It would be more than a little ironic if his cousin managed to dethrone the harmach just in time to preside over the destruction of the city. More likely Sergen had simply recognized the Bloody Skull ultimatum as the opportunity to put his plans in motion, never imagining that the threat from the north would actually materialize. He looked at the men and women who filled the Troll and Tankard. Their fierce defiance had vanished in an instant at the news of the defeat. They might succeed in preserving their lives by taking shelter behind strong walls-excluding Griffonwatch for the moment, he reminded himself-but their homes, their workshops, their storehouses, and their livelihoods all lay exposed to destruction. Assuming that the orcs chose not to reduce strongholds like Daggergard or the fortified compounds, they’d still be ruined.
“It would have been wise to wall the city,” Harmach Grigor said with a sigh. “We always knew this day might come, but now that it’s at hand, I wish doom had chosen some other hour to fall upon us.”
Wall the city… Geran frowned, thinking furiously. Hulburg had been walled, once. In ancient times, when it had been a much larger city, its wall had passed right over the spot where the Troll and Tankard stood. When the town had been resettled a hundred years ago, his ancestors Angar and Lendon had faced constant orc raids against the fields and farms of the Winterspear Vale. They had raised a simple dike across the Vale to protect the closer farms.
“What about Lendon’s Dike?” he asked aloud. “If we brought the entire Spearmeet there and combined our strength with whatever’s left of Kara’s army, we might be able to stop the Bloody Skulls before they sack the town.”
“That’s a deadly gamble, m’lord,” Durnan Osting said slowly. He whistled between his teeth. “The dike’s not much o’ defense.”
“We’ll have a few hours to improve it if we begin right away,” Geran pointed out. “Yes, it might be safer to find whatever refuge we can now and give up the town. But maybe it’s not too late to save Hulburg.”