Swordmage (20 page)

“I will have no more talk of this,” Harmach Grigor said firmly. “My father decreed that no slave would be taken or sold in Hulburg, and I will not be the harmach to reverse his law. We will buy no slaves to send to the ores.”

“Then you must fight, or you must send one hundred of your own to become thralls,” Darsi Veruna coolly observed. “I suppose you might try to negotiate with Mhurren and see

if he can be persuaded to accept a lesser tribute. But I suspect that he is not inclined to bargain with you, Lord Grigor.”

Silence fell over the great hall. The harmach looked down at his lap, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally he shook his head and slowly stood. “We all must think on this more,” he said. “Keeper Wulreth, prepare an exact accounting to see if we could possibly meet the demand. Kara, send out your riders. I want to know if Glister has been sacked—and if it has, there may be refugees abroad in Thar who are trying to find their way to safety in our lands. And I want to know where the Bloody Skull horde is, and its true numbers.”

“Yes, Harmach Grigor,” Kara answered. “I’ll see to it now.” She rose with a jingling of mail, bowed to her uncle, and headed for the door. As she left, she heard the arguing begin again.

Thirteen

eran and Hamil rode out from Rosestone Abbey two hours after sunrise. The morning was dank and gray, but the bitter cold of the previous night had passed in the dark hours before dawn. It was wet and windy on the Highfells, but there was no sign of the grim specters that had dogged their heels the night before.

They rode for most of the morning in silence, heading westward from the abbey. The city of Thentia stood a little less than fifty miles off in that direction, and the two travelers soon found their way onto a rough, lightly traveled trail between Hulburg and Thentia that meandered past Rosestone. Most traffic between the two cities went by sea or followed the so-called Ruined Way closer to the coast, which was relatively level and wide enough for cart traffic. Geran had come by the abbey’s path once or twice as a young man, but he’d never followed it all the way to Thentia.

A few miles from the abbey, the trail started to climb along the bare shoulders of brown, sere hills, some of the highest prominences to be found in the Highfells. Geran began to watch the trailside more carefully for the landmark the Initiate Mother had told him about, and soon he found it—the old stone foundations of a long-vanished watchtower.

“We turn here,” he told Hamil.

The halfling glanced at the old ruins. “Who put a tower here?” he wondered.

“Mother Mara said that this old path used to be an important road of old Thentur. I suppose it fell into disuse when war wrecked the kingdom and Hulburg—the old city, that is—was destroyed.” Geran turned his mount uphill and left the path, picking his way toward the bare stony hilltop. “It shouldn’t be far now.”

There was a very faint track above the old trail. It wound higher up the hillside. Geran supposed that the view over the moorlands would have been spectacular on a clear day, but as the weather was overcast, the hilltop was shrouded in blowing mist. They crossed over a shallow saddle, and there on the south-facing slope of the hill stood a large, solitary burial mound.

“I think this is it,” Geran said. He reined in before the mound and swung himself down from the saddle. Like the other barrows they had visited in the last couple of days, it was a circular mound covered with turf. A waist-high wall of crumbling fieldstone edged the mound, so that the whole thing looked a little like a large, windowless storehouse half-sunk into the dry grass of the hillside. He scrambled up onto its turf roof and climbed to the peak; it was perhaps twenty-five yards in diameter, a little larger than some of the others they had seen, but not by much. Near the top Geran found a shallow set of stone steps that descended four or five feet and ended in a mortared wall beneath a large keystone—a keystone engraved with an ancient sunrise design. “It’s got Lathander’s mark on it,” he called to Hamil.

“It seems to be the right age and construction,” the halfling answered. He shaded his eyes and scanned the hillside around them for a long moment, looking for any sign that they were not alone, and then shrugged and slid down from his Teshan pony. “Is it open?”

“No, we’ll have to dig.”

“What about the harmach’s law?”

“If I’ve got good reason for what I’m doing, my uncle will

understand,” Geran answered. He didn’t like the idea of being the first to open a barrow, but if Mara was right and this was the tomb of Terlannis, then it was likely warded against the minions of Aesperus or any other undead spirits that might otherwise have taken up residence inside. He simply hoped that he truly had a good reason.

The Verunas already know that they’re looking for a tomb under Lathander’s mark, he told himself. It was only a matter of time until they discovered this one. He could try to disguise it—perhaps destroying or altering the sunrise mark on the keystone, for instance—but the mercenaries might be using some kind of divination magic to find the tombs they meant to search, and Geran couldn’t be certain that any steps he took to disguise the mound would fool them.

“Of course, this tomb might be better warded than anything I could come up with, and if the book’s here, then it might be best to leave it where it lies,” Geran murmured to himself. “But I won’t know that it’s safe until I see for myself. If it’s well protected, I can leave it here and do what I can to disguise the mound. If it’s not, then I have to hope that the Verunas never stumble across this place, or I’ve got to remove it if I want to keep it away from the Verunas … as well as that tiefling we met.”

Do you have a better hiding spot in mind? Hamil said silently. The halfling might not have been close enough to hear Geran muttering to himself, but apparently he’d been close enough to catch Geran’s thoughts with his mind.

“Keep it in the vaults of Griffonwatch? Or give it to the Initiate Mother and let her look after it since it belonged to a priestess of Lathander?” Geran ttotted back down to the mound’s edge and hopped down. “For that matter, I could do worse than to hide it under a rock in some lonely hollow out here in the Highfells. If we actually find it, I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

They picketed the horses at the base of the mound and carried their saddlebags and provisions back to the stairwell at the top. Then Geran took a heavy pry bar down the

filled-in stairway and set to work on the old mortar and stone under the sunrise symbol. There was not room for more than one to work at a time, but Hamil helped carry up the stones Geran dislodged. The halfling was careful to spread out the rubble instead of leaving it in a pile that might be seen from a distance.

After half an hour of vigorous work, Geran broke through the mortared wall to a space beyond. Cold, stale air sighed out of the opening. He quickly backed away to avoid breathing in the barrow-air. Old, foul air could kill the unwary, so he decided to let the barrow breathe while he and Hamil sat a short distance away and ate a cold lunch. At one point Geran stood to stretch, and he thought he glimpsed a shadow slinking beneath the bare stone of the hilltop, a shadow where one shouldn’t have been. But when he stared up at the spot, he saw nothing unusual.

“Is our friend back?” Hamil asked.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t get a very good look—it could have been anything.” Geran glanced over to the picket line, but the horses placidly grazed, plainly unconcerned. “The horses don’t seem nervous.”

“I’m not reassured.”

“Nor am I.” Geran rested a little longer before he returned to the stairwell and attacked the wall again, working to make a hole big enough to wriggle through. Despite the chill mist that blew over the Highfells, Geran was soon streaming with sweat, but he shed his cloak and kept at it until he had an opening he could squeeze through.

“You should knock out a few more stones,” Hamil observed. “You might get a small pony through there, but I don’t think you could fit a draft horse yet.”

“Feel free to have a go at it,” Geran said with a snort.

“It’s not my fault that my people have a sensible stature, while all you Big Folk take up three times as much room as a normal person and manage to get half as much done. I could’ve been in that barrow half an hour ago.”

“Well, then, why didn’t you go on ahead?”

“I didn’t want to get lonely,” Hamil answered.

Geran shook his head and turned away. He decided to examine his shields and wards before going any farther; the barrows they’d seen before had been opened by others, but this one hadn’t felt fresh air in hundreds of years. They’d seen no evidence of traps or guardians in the other Lathanderian tombs, but that didn’t mean the tomb of Terlannis would be safe. Closing his eyes, he stilled his thoughts and focused his awareness into a single bright point. The Elvish swordmage spells rolled easily from his heart and will as he renewed the spells he routinely wore. To these he added another defense and whispered the words to summon the pale aura of the silversteel veil. Finally, for good measure, he drew his elfmade sword and passed his palm over the eldritch steel. “Reith arroch, reith ne sylle,” he chanted softly. A thin white radiance began to shine in the blade.

Hamil looked up from where he stood, stringing his bow. “I don’t recognize that one.”

“It’s a spell of sharpness, but it’s especially baleful to ghosts and other such spirits.” Sword in hand, Geran descended the narrow stairwell again and peered once more through the dark opening he’d made below. A small, dusty passage led deeper into the mound, but he saw nothing else. Carefully he set one foot on the far side and ducked under the sill, working his way inside. In the shadows, the pale radiance of his sword began to shine more brightly, driving back the darkness. Geran advanced a few steps down the passage, and Hamil followed a moment later, an arrow laid across his small horn bow. The air was cold and stale.

The passage led to an antechamber, where two dark doorways beckoned. A niche in the wall between the low doorways held a small statue of an angel, made from some porous white stone that was splotched green and black with mildew. Geran ventured right first and descended two steps into a larger, barrel-vaulted chamber. Here stood two full-sized statues of armored warriors, one on each side of a heavy frieze in bronze that was set into the far wall. A faint yellow light spell still

glimmered in a small, tarnished lantern suspended from the ceiling. The swordmage studied the chamber from the doorway for a long moment and nodded. “I think it’s a memorial,” he told Hamil. “The crypt must be in the other room.” “What does it say?” Hamil asked.

Geran moved closer to the frieze. It showed a battle scene; a lady in armor riding a great charger led soldiers over a drawbridge against the gates of a dark castle. Mailed skeletons stood in serried ranks against the lady and her soldiers, but she was raising high a rod with a sunburst device for its head. Rays sprang from the rod, striking the dark castle’s gates, which seemed to go up in fire at their touch, while skeletons in the way withered away like autumn leaves. Dethek runes nearly filled in with dust and debris were cut into the smoothly dressed stone beneath. Geran knelt and brushed his hand over the old runes until he could make them out.

“Old Tesharan again,” he murmured. “I think it says something like, ‘The downfall of the Wailing Tower … the—glory? fire?—of Lathander burns the’ … something ‘warriors’ .. . ‘Aesperus is cast down in defeat … High’ … something … ‘Terlannis in her hour of victory, may Lathander’s … blessing?. .. follow after her forever.’ “

“So this is Terlannis’s crypt.” Hamil padded closer and studied the frieze himself before pointing to the far corner of the work. “Look, I bet that’s Aesperus there. He doesn’t seem very happy.”

Geran followed Hamil’s finger. Flanked by knights in black armor, a skeletal king in regal robes fled from the destruction of the gates, going down into some sort of tunnel or doorway that disappeared from view. “It shows events pretty much as Mother Mara explained them. Terlannis destroyed the tower, and Aesperus fled into some dungeon or retreat below his fortress. Let’s have a look around and see if the book is hidden somewhere in this room.”

They carefully tapped, poked, and prodded at the frieze, the warrior statues, even the walls and the floors as thoroughly as they could, but they found no secret compartments

or hidden doors. Giving up for the moment, Geran returned to the antechamber and tried the other doorway. This led down several steps into another barrel-vaulted room, dominated by a great stone crypt. Its lid was carved in the image of a stern woman in plate armor lying in repose, her hands holding a great sunburst emblem over her heart. The walls and floor were finished with smooth, polished stone, but the chamber was otherwise bare.

“Terlannis, I presume,” Hamil said.

“So it would seem.” Geran could make out her name cut in runes at the foot of the sarcophagus. He looked at the big stone structure and frowned. Was the book actually entombed with her remains? Digging out the stairwell to gain access to the chamber in the mound was one thing, but he found that he didn’t want to be the one to actually damage the crypt. It was possible that they might be able to drive anchoring pitons into the ceiling over the crypt and rig some sort of block and tackle … but he would still have to disturb the ancient priestess’s bones, and somehow he felt that Amaunator—Lathander—would not look kindly on that. “I hate the idea of breaking into the sarcophagus.”

“Afraid of curses? Guardian spirits?”

“Among other things, yes.” Geran looked around and sighed. “Let’s check everything else before we try the tomb itself.”

They carefully examined every corner of the room, feeling along the walls and tapping the flagstones with the pommels of their daggers. After a long, careful search, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Not really expecting much, Geran finally took a few minutes to speak a simple elven finding charm. He’d learned a thing or two about finding well-hidden things in Myth Drannor; he’d seen more than one elfmade door that simply couldn’t be found by someone who didn’t already know it was there. Doubtless the tomb was warded against such minor magic, but he figured it was worth a try. He whispered the words in Elvish … and he felt a slight tug, a gleaming in the corner of his eye, from the antechamber outside the tomb.