Swordmage

Forgotten Realms

Blades of the Moonsea: Swordmage

By Richard baker

18 Uktar, the Year of the Purloined Statue (1477DR)

It was late autumn in Myth Drannor, a bright cold morning with the first snows of the year dusting the open spaces between the trees. The fall colors were fading fast, but the forest of Cormanthor still mantled the city in a glorious cape of red, gold, and orange. The sun was brilliant on the golden treetops overhead, and the sky was perfect and clear. In the shadows beneath the trees, Geran Hulmaster fought with all his strength and lore against the elf mage Rhovann Disarnnyl, dueling with blade and spell against spell and wand. Steel glittered and rang in the morning air as Geran parried bolts of crackling white force or deflected shining veils of madness in which Rhovann tried to ensnare him.

Geran wore the dove-gray coat and silver embroidery of the Coronal’s Guard, but he was a human, tall and lean, with long black hair bound by a silver circlet. He wielded a fine backsword of elven steel, a graceful and strong weapon with a slight curve toward the point. It was longer and heavier than most such weapons, but in his hands the blade leaped and danced like a rapier. He kept his left hand free for spellcasting, fighting as elf swordmages did in the ancient bladesong tradition. Rhovann, on the other hand, was no swordsman; he had only his mahogany wand, and that was weapon enough for the elf mage.

Dueling was not permitted in Myth Drannor; this encounter

was ostensibly an invitation to demonstrate skill through the lists in a tournament of the city’s defenders. A small crowd of witnesses watched closely to ensure that the forms would be followed. Daried Selsherryn, the sun elf bladesinger who’d taught Geran his magic, stood by to serve as Geran’s second. Daried watched with a disapproving frown, since he could tell already that the contest was long past a simple challenge of skill and was a duel in fact if not in name. Beside Daried stood Alliere, her face white with worry as she watched Geran and Rhovann fight. She was beautiful beyond comparison, a slender moon elf maiden not much older than Geran himself, with hair of midnight blue in which a slim diamond tiara sparkled like the stars in a dark sky. Geran was only a rootless human freebooter, a wanderer who had drifted into Myth Drannor and won himself a place in the coronal’s service, but she had come to love him nonetheless, and in the golden light of this perfect morning, she was petrified with fear for him. But Rhovann— a proud and handsome moon elf of a high House—loved her too, and he had come to bitterly resent the affection she held for Geran. And so the human swordmage and the elf wizard fought with the passion of lions over some trivial insult one had given the other.

Rhovann hurled a mighty fire-blast from his wand, and the onlookers gasped in alarm. Geran warded himself with a countering spell, even though the violet flames singed his cloak and licked at his face and hands. The magical flames seared the frost and dead leaves beneath his feet into steam and smoke that fumed around the swordmage. Rather than retreat, Geran brought a spell of translocation to mind, fixed its symbols and syllogisms firmly in his thoughts, and snarled a single arcane word: “Seiroch!”

In the blink of an eye he stood close beside Rhovann, who’d lost sight of him for a crucial instant amid the steam and smoke. The moon elf whirled and started to raise his wand, but Geran was quicker. He brought his sword up in a disarming stroke that sent the wand spinning through the air and carried through to slash Rhovann across the side of

his face. His enemy cried out and staggered back, falling to his knees.

Geran leaped after the elf and laid his sword point at Rhovann’s breast. “Yield! You are defeated!” he shouted.

He held his blade still and steady despite the acrid stench of smoke in his nose and throat and the pain of his singed skin. Rhovann knelt in the thin snow, blood dripping from his handsome face. Brilliant hatred glittered in the wizard’s eyes, and his teeth were bared in a feral snarl. The mahogany wand waited in the snow between the man and the elf.

“I will not yield, human dog,” Rhovann hissed softly. Then he reached for the wand.

Without a moment’s thought, Geran batted the wand away from Rhovann’s hand, sending it spinning over the dead leaves and snow. The elf snarled in anger, and something dark and murderous erupted in Geran’s heart. Every cold sneer, every veiled insult, every sarcastic remark Rhovann had ever uttered against him coalesced into a black wave that swept over Geran. It was as if his anger, his hate, and his loathing for his rival had delivered him into the clutches of something he was powerless to resist.

Rhovann lunged after the wand again, his fingers stretching for his weapon. Coldly, deliberately, Geran leaned in and struck, taking off Rhovann’s hand at the wrist. Blood splattered the ice-crusted leaves. He heard cries of horror from those who looked on, and his adversary screamed in anger and fear.

Why did I do that? Geran wondered dully. He knew that maiming Rhovann in that way—cruelly, deliberately, when the duel had already been won—was a monstrous thing to do. He knew that Alliere and Daried and the other elves watching must be horrified by what he had done. Yet something spiteful beyond all understanding had driven him to it anyway. Once, when he was a boy of about nine or ten, his father had given him a fine toy lute inlaid with ivory, a gift carried back from a long journey to Deepingdale. Geran remembered how he had found himself twisting the

neck from the drum, fascinated by the flex and strain of the fragile wood. And then, deliberately, knowing what would happen, he’d flexed it too far. He’d done it just to watch the toy break.

He looked down at Rhovann, huddled around his bleeding stump. The elPs hand lay on the ground quite near the wand, palm up, the pallid fingers twitching oddly. Geran raised his sword slowly, studying the crippled elf, and even though he felt dizzy and sick with horror, he aimed carefully at the elf s face. Without knowing why, he knew he intended to cut out an eye next, almost as if having already toppled into a shocking abyss, he meant to plumb its depths to the fullest, indulging this black compulsion until he sated it.

“Geran, no!It is enough!” shouted Daried. The graceful bladesinger ended the duel by leaping into the clearing and interposing himself. By the ancient rules, that spelled defeat for Geran, since Daried was after all his second and had intervened. But Geran sensed that the rules had been laid aside already. No one in the courtyard would argue that Rhovann had won the encounter, would they?

Geran felt his arm drawing back as if to drive his sword forward one more time, and then Daried seized him by the shoulders and wrestled him away. “It is enough, Geran!” Daried hissed into his face. “Have you lost your mind? That was cruelly done!”

Geran stared at his mentor, unable to find words. The black, murderous fury ebbed away as quickly as it had come over him, leaving him weak, empty. The sword fell from his fingers, and he shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the destructive impulse that had seized him. Why did I do that? he wondered. He despised Rhovann, true, but he should have been content with besting him, especially since the mage had instigated the whole thing. All he would have had to do is take a half-step and kick the wand out of reach again or perhaps set his blade across Rhovann’s neck to demand surrender, and the coronal’s judge standing by certainly would have ended the match.

“I had no intention to cripple him, Daried,” he finally said.

The elf bladesinger sighed deeply. “Your intentions hardly matter at this point. You will be judged for this, Geran Hulmaster. And judged severely, I fear.”

Several of Rhovann’s friends were attending to the wounded mage or glaring at Geran with cold fury. Geran turned away slowly and rubbed his face with one shaking hand. When he looked up again, he found Alliere staring at him from the spot where she’d stood to watch the contest. She was as pale as the snow, her hands pressed to her mouth and her eyes wide with horror. The silk handkerchief she was to award the winner lay in the muddy snow at her feet. Their eyes met, and Alliere flinched away.

“What have I done?” Geran murmured. He took two steps toward her, reaching out. “Alliere, I didn’t mean—I don’t know—”

“Oh, Geran,” she said softly. A small, sobbing gasp escaped her throat. “How could you do such a thing?” She backed away several steps and turned to hurry away, disappearing into the shadows under the trees. Geran took one step after her before he stopped where he stood. Alliere had looked on him with fear. What could he possibly say or do to explain himself to her?

Did I mean to wound Rhovann or myself when I struck that blow? he silently asked himself.

“Geran Hulmaster, come with me.” The coronal’s judge—a stern-faced moon elf in the colors of the royal court—approached Geran, one hand riding on the pommel of his sword. Two more Velar Guards waited nearby, equally stern. “You are summoned to appear before the coronal. She must decide this matter now.”

The swordmage stared after Alliere, but she was gone.

One

11 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

The Moonsea crossing was wet and rough, three hard days of beating through whitecaps and spray in the cold, angry winds of early spring. By the time the battered coaster passed into the shelter of the Arches, every man on board was cold, tired, and soaked. Ships in the service of kings or great nobles accommodated their passengers in cabins and assigned stewards to wait on them, but the coaster was a plain Moonsea tradesman. It was a working ship that offered its passengers nothing more than a place to sleep on the deck. She finally tied up alongside the wharf at the foot of Plank Street shortly before sunset. Longshoremen swarmed aboard to begin unloading her cargo: sacks of flour, casks of wine, and countless other crates and bundles of goods from Vespin to the south. While the laborers began their work, the ship’s only two passengers—one a dark-haired man of thirty or so, the other a well-dressed halfling—carried their own satchels down the gangplank to the creaking wharf.

“So this is Hulburg,” the halfling said. He was of average height for his people, an inch or so over four feet, with a surprisingly sturdy frame under his damp green cloak. He wore daggers, several of them—two at the belt, one in the right boot, and a fourth strapped hilt-down in a large sheath between his shoulder blades—and a hard, suspicious look on his sharp-featured face. Cold water plastered his russet braids

close to his scalp, and he began squeezing the water from each braid in turn. “I doubt I’ll like it very much.”

“My business here won’t take long, Hamil,” Geran answered. He towered over the halfling, of course, but in fact he was only a little taller than average. He had the rangy, lean build and the long, well-muscled arms of a born swordsman. Geran’s hands were large and strong, well-calloused from many hours of practice. The sword he’d won in the Coronal’s Guard, a long, elfmade blade with a hilt of mithral wire, rode in a scabbard he wore low on his left hip. His black hair was cut short above wide, thoughtful eyes of gray so it wouldn’t obscure his vision in a fight, but left shoulder length and free otherwise. The swordsman had an unconscious habit of chewing his lip when deep in thought, as he was now. “We’ve already missed Jarad’s funeral. Give me a few days to look after his affairs and see my family, and we’ll be on our way.”

“I guess we might as well wait for better weather before we cross back to the southern shore, anyway,” Hamil said in resignation. He looked back out toward the Moonsea. Wild whitecaps marched and tumbled beyond the spectacular Arches, which divided the calmer waters of the harbor from the open sea. The slender stone ribs soared hundreds of feet into the air, leaping and plunging like the paths of a dozen skipping pebbles somehow frozen in pale green stone. The halfling studied them for a moment and added, “Those don’t look like they belong here. Changeland?”

“The Arches? Yes, they’re changeland. I’m told they erupted from the seabed in a single night in the Year of Blue Fire. Destroyed a quarter of the old city on the Easthead there, but they gave Hulburg the best harbor on the north shore of the Moonsea.”

“Pretty, I suppose, but not much compared to the Claws of Starmantle.” Hamil shrugged. Faerun was littered with such wonders. Not two days ago they’d sailed beneath a forest-covered islet of stone adrift in the stormy skies forty miles out of Mulmaster. Towns and cities had long ago

accommodated themselves to changelands as best they could. “So where are we going, Geran?”

The swordsman studied the town’s waterfront, establishing his bearings. Hulburg was Geran’s home, but he had left it behind him more than ten years ago, and this was only the second time he’d returned since. “Where, indeed,” he murmured to himself. In his travels he’d seen dozens upon dozens of cities and towns. It surprised him how much Hulburg resembled the rest after such a long absence.

The town climbed and rambled over a low hill overlooking a sheltered bay between high, rocky headlands two miles apart—Keldon Head to the west and Easthead opposite. The sun was setting, and cookfires by the hundreds burned in stone hearths and outdoor kitchens, sending twisting spirals of smoke into the sky to be caught and carried off by the harsh spring winds. Hulburg was a young town built atop the ruins of a larger and older city. Brash new storehouses and sprawling merchant compounds crowded the harbor district, rambling along crooked, poorly paved streets that had grown like wild roots through the rubble and byways of the old city. Beyond the harbor and its walled tradeyards stood a town whose workshops and houses were made from stone taken from the nearby ruins or sometimes simply built atop the foundations of much older buildings. Most had upper stories framed in heavy timber and roofs covered in rough wooden shakes, since Hulburg had an ample supply of timber close at hand in the forested vales of the Galena Mountains; the steep headlands and hills surrounding the town were too windswept and rocky for trees of any size to find purchase.

Geran looked north along Plank Street and glimpsed the old gray keep of Griffonwatch glowering over the town. It was a mile from the harbor, perched atop a rocky spur of the eastern ridge. While it was not very well situated to guard the city against attacks by sea, that was not why Angar Hulmaster had raised his keep there. Griffonwatch faced north, inland, a defense against the savage ores, ogres, and other monsters who dwelled in the desolate hills and moorlands