Corsair (48 page)

“Damn you, Geran!” Sergen hissed. “You have meddled in my affairs for the last time!”

The swordmage clenched his teeth together and pushed the hot agony in his shoulder from his mind. He parried Sergen’s next thrust and risked

a quick glance around to make sure his cousin was not about to drive him into some new peril. Sarth burned down the last of the Black Moon men with a jagged lightning bolt that blasted splinters from the battered deck, and then wheeled in midair to trade spells with the spider-creature threatening Mirya and Selsha—the little horror was a sorcerer too, and their magic roared and thundered across the deck. Hamil fought grimly on against the tattooed swordsman, still trying to battle his way to the ship’s helm. Beneath the rolling hull the serrated hills and crimson jungle of the dark moon drifted past, many hundreds of feet under the keel and falling away with every moment.

He returned his full attention to Sergen and adjusted his grip on his elven blade. The mithral rose of its pommel was splattered with blood, but the wire hilt was sure and certain in his hand. Anger, black and pure, swept over him—the same dark, cold loathing that had carried him away from himself in the golden woodlands of Myth Drannor on a fine fall morning two years past. He looked into Sergen’s eyes and saw nothing but duplicity, murderous scheming, and sneering superiority. His blade flowed unconsciously into a high guard position as deadly intent welled up in his heart. “You’re right about that, Sergen,” he heard himself say in a cold voice, not even realizing that he’d intended to speak. “It’s only the two of us. Time to settle scores, cousin.”

Without waiting for a reply, Geran attacked. Sergen was a good fencer, and he had the lighter blade—so Geran started with his edge, an elegant pattern of figure-eight slashes and quick overhand cuts as he advanced boldly. Driving Sergen to the defensive, Geran forced him to parry his heavier backsword. Pass by pass he knocked Sergen’s blade aside, until Sergen’s face whitened and a feral snarl twisted his face. The exiled lord swore viciously and flung himself into a desperate counterattack, but Geran let the wild thrust pass by him and stepped in close to slam his sword’s hilt into Sergen’s face. Sergen staggered back and fell to the deck, spitting blood from his mashed lips.

Geran allowed himself a low laugh at the desperate fury growing in Sergen’s face. “You’re beaten, Sergen,” he said. He held his blade at the ready and silently marked out the next wound he intended to deal his cousin in payment for all the misery and trouble Sergen had caused. His black wrath impelled him—but past the rogue lord’s shoulder, Geran’s eye fell on Mirya, who fearfully watched his duel with his cousin as she struggled to keep the helm steady. He hesitated, struggling to regain mastery over his anger. For a moment he feared that he would fail, but as quickly as the dark rage had come over him, it released him from its grip. For all the harm Sergen had done, for all the lies he’d authored against the Hulmasters, he was still a kinsman of sorts … and there was no doubt that he knew things that might be very useful in unraveling the plots against the harmach.

Geran grimaced, but he withheld his strike and forced himself to speak. “Surrender, Sergen,” he rasped. “I’ll spare your wretched life. You don’t deserve it, but maybe you can put right some of what you’ve done to our family.”

“Surrender? I hardly think so!” Sergen replied with a sneer. “It doesn’t matter if you best me with your blade—I’ve already defeated you, dear cousin. What do you thinks happened in Hulburg while you’ve been chasing after me?”

“What do you mean?” Geran demanded. “Answer me!”

“I think you’ll find an old friend of yours is waiting for you when we get home.” Sergen pushed himself to his feet, eyes narrowed, and settled back into his guard again. Then he attacked, making good use of his natural speed. His rapier point was a blur, darting quicker than a striking snake, but Geran stood his ground and weathered the onslaught. Sergen’s attack slowed, and the momentum of the duel shifted back to Geran again. The swordmage counterattacked with a spinning combination of draw cuts and quick jabs, pressing the exiled lord back against the ship’s rail.

Sergen parried the first two or three, and then he missed. Elvcn steel sliced through muscle and bone as Geran wheeled past him, laying open a long cut from right hip to left breast. Sergen made a single choking sound and reeled away, his rapier clattering from his fingers. “You … cannot… best me … so easily!” he hissed between his teeth. “I… will be … harmach …” Then he sagged over the rail and disappeared.

Geran rushed to where Sergen had fallen and peered over the side. The scarlet jungle wheeled slowly past far below the keel, and he spotted a tumbling figure in black and gold, cloak fluttering behind him. He watched in silence until Sergen’s body vanished from sight against the moonscape below. “Farewell, Sergen,” he murmured. He reminded himself that scores—perhaps hundreds—of Hulburgans had died in Sergen’s petty schemes for power. But he did not look forward to telling the harmach that

Sergen had died under his blade. Grigor Hulmaster had always hoped for the best from his sister’s stepson; it would grieve him sorely that Sergen had died before finding some measure of redemption.

A sharp thunderclap sounded behind him. Geran whirled around just in time to see Sarth blast the last of the neogi from the ship with a crackling stroke of emerald lightning. The creature screeched piercingly as it fell, its legs jerking and kicking. Then a sudden lurch of the ship threw Geran off his feet and nearly pitched him over the side as well. He seized the rail with one hand and looked around for more foes—but there were none. Hamil had defeated his larger opponent, although he held his hat crushed against his left shoulder as an improvised bandage and didn’t seem all too steady on his feet. Geran sheathed his sword and made his way back up to the quarterdeck.

Mirya looked at him, her eyes wide. “I saw Sergen fall,” she said. “Are you all right, Geran?”

“Wounded but well enough,” he answered. Part of him was glad to see Sergen dead, and he wasn’t proud that he felt that way. But when he looked at it rationally, he knew that Sergen had forced his hand—not only in the duel he’d just won, but in all of the troubles over the last few months. He took a deep breath and set aside his tangled emotions. “Sergen chose his path a long time ago. I don’t think there could ever have been peace between us.”

“No, and I believe that’s the truth of it,” Mirya answered.

No one spoke for a moment, and then Hamil cleared his throat. “Well, the ship is ours again,” he said. “Back to the keep?”

Geran nodded and then looked over to Sarth. The sorcerer watched over the ship’s deck with his rune-carved scepter in hand, waiting for any more foes to appear. “I don’t know where you came from, Sarth, but I was glad to see you at the rail.”

“I am sorry I was so late,” the tiefling said. A bloody hole in his sleeve showed where a crossbow’s bolt had marked him, and blackened splatters across his fine robes spoke to the ferocity of the neogi’s spells. “I was in the keep when Sergen made off with Seadrake. I hurried after the ship as quickly as I could, but I had to ready my spell of flying again before I could give chase.”

“Better late than never,” Hamil remarked. “I’m glad you dealt with the spider-creature, though. I certainly didn’t want to get close to it. Never cared much for spiders, especially talking ones that are as big as I am.”

“I am pleased to have been of service,” Sarth said in a dry voice.

Geran smiled. Now that the fighting was done—at least for the moment—he became all too aware of his injuries. He ached in a dozen places from the clawing the umber hulk had given him, the back of his shoulder burned, and he seemed to have a few smaller cuts he hadn’t even noticed during the fray. Well, with any luck, the voyage home would give him plenty of opportunity to rest. “Bring us about, Hamil,” he said. “We’ll pick up the rest of the ship’s company, the captives they’ve freed, and any prisoners they’ve taken. Then we’ll set course for home.”

20 Marpenoth, The Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

It was a clear fall afternoon as Seadrake sailed proudly past Hulburg’s towering Arches and began to take in her sails. The day was cool and bright, and the breeze carried just enough of the coming winter’s chill to make Geran glad for his good wool cloak. He inhaled deeply, relishing the familiar taste of the air. For all the wonders of the Sea of Night, he was very glad to have the purple-hued waters of the Moonsea beneath the keel and the clean, rocky shores of his homeland before his eyes. The day might come when he’d set his course for the starry skies again, but for now he was content with the common sights and sounds of Hulburg. The Black Moon Brotherhood was broken, their ships destroyed and their members scattered. Sergen Hulmaster, traitor and would-be usurper, was dead by his hand and would never trouble the family Hulmaster again. And Mirya and Selsha Erstenwold stood by his side on the deck, even more glad for the sight of home than he was.

“For a time I never thought to look on Hulburg again,” Mirya said quietly. “I knew we’d spend the rest of our days in chains in some far foreign land.” Geran shook his head. “I’d have found you.”

“Why, Geran? That’s the question that’s been foxing me for days now.” She looked into his face. “What am I to you that you’d sail to the moon to save me?”

“I don’t know.” he admitted before he even knew what he was saying. “I mean, you and Selsha are dear to me. I had to come after the two of you, to make sure that you were safe and home.” He searched for words for a moment before going on. “I’ve made mistakes in my time. Everyone has, I suppose. I can’t go back and choose differently, but looking after you—and

Selsha—makes me feel that there are things I can set right again. There’s a darkness in my heart. Seeing the two of you safe and well lightens it.”

Mirya didn’t answer for a long time. Then she sighed. “I’m no penance of yours, Geran Hulmaster.”

“No, it’s not that. If you were—I mean, if that’s the way I saw you—I’d resent the time I spend with you. But I don’t, Mirya.” He looked down at her and tried to find a smile. “Little by little, I think you’re healing me of hurts I didn’t know I had. That’s why I had to come after you.”

“In all the years I’ve known you, that’s the first time I think you’ve ever allowed me a glimpse of what’s truly in your heart.” She frowned and pulled back, looking away from him. “There’s nothing special about me, you know. I’ve darkness of my own, and some days it’s near to drowning me. I don’t know what power I have to heal anyone.”

He didn’t know what more to say, and so he returned his attention to the town. The familiar wharves of Hulburg drew closer, full of cart traffic and passersby on foot who were now stopping and looking seaward to see what ship was coming to call. The battered hulks of Seawolf and Daring rested on the bottom by the dockside in the center of the town, their masts and tangled rigging jutting crookedly up out of the water. “Take in all sails! Run out the oars!” called Worthel from the quarterdeck. Geran missed the gruff skill of Andurth Galehand, but Worthel was a competent shiphandler too, and he served as Seadrake’s sailing master as well as her first mate. Many of Seadrake’s sailors had more than one job to do on the voyage back from pirate’s hidden keep. They were sorely shorthanded after the fierce fighting in the Tears of Selune, having borne the brunt of the battle in Sergen’s bold attempt to steal Seadrake out from under their noses, and so the Shieldsworn and sellswords went to the oars to lend a hand with the rowing.

“Look! The soldiers are lining up to welcome us!” Selsha Erstenwold, standing a short distance from Mirya and Geran, pointed over the rail and jumped in excitement. “And look at all the people!”

Geran followed her gaze. Several companies of armsmen in the colors of several different merchant companies had appeared by the wharves and were taking up station. “I suppose they caught wind of our victory in the Sea of Night,” he said, thinking aloud. “But how they could have heard the news, I have no idea.”

“A divination or sending, perhaps?” Sarth came to join Geran and Mirya

by the rail, with Hamil close behind him. The tiefling frowned, puzzling at the question. “No, not a sending. Who was left behind in the keep to work such a spell, and why would they have done it? It must have been a divination of some sort. A merchant House wizard scried our return.”

“Then where are the Shieldsworn?” Hamil asked in a low voice. “Where are Harmach Grigor and Kara?” He frowned. No, I don’t like the looks of this, Geran. Be careful!

Seadrake shipped her oars and glided alongside the pier; sailors threw out the ship’s mooring lines and brought the caravel to a halt, riding gently at the dock. As soon as the sailors laid the gangway in place, a detachment of armsmen wearing the red and yellow surcoats of House Marstel quickly boarded and made their way directly to Geran. Their captain was a short, broad-shouldered Damaran with a sandy goatee and eyes the color of steel. “Geran Hulmaster?” he asked. “You are summoned before the harmach. Come with us peaceably, or we will subdue you by whatever means are necessary.”

“Who are you?” Mirya demanded. “And since when does the harmach send a Marstel man to carry his messages?”

“Since Maroth Marstel became harmach,” the captain answered. “I am fcdelmark, Captain of the Hulburg Guard. Now, if you please, Harmach Maroth is waiting.”

Geran stared at the man, so stunned that he could not speak for a long moment. Harmach Maroth—Maroth Marstel? His uncle, Grigor, was no longer ruler of Hulburg? He’d only been gone from the city a little more than a tenday! Finally he found his voice again. “What happened? Where is Harmach Grigor? Where is Kara Hulmaster?”

“All the Hulmasters have fled,” Captain Edelmark answered flatly. “Lord Marstel is now harmach of Hulburg, and he wants you brought to Griffonwatch without delay. I grow tired of repeating myself.”

“Are you arresting Geran?” Hamil asked. His hands rested lightly on the hilts of the daggers at his belt.

“I will do whatever I have to in order to carry out my lord’s instructions,” the officer said. “I’d take my hands off those daggers, if I were you, little man. There are two hundred armsmen on the pier behind me.”