Authors: Richard Baker
“The fire ruined that much of the Sokol cargo?”
“No, not thatthe lass. She was a splendid sight, my boy. I had designs upon her, I did.”
Sergen grimaced. Kamoth was a man of violent appetites. When he said he had designs on a woman, those designs often ended in the most heinous sort of murder. It was one of the reasons his father had never bothered to establish himself in civilized society again after fleeing Hulburg years ago; his proclivities would have soon enough earned him a death sentence in all but the most lawless of settings. Sergen considered himself a pragmatic, unsentimental man, and he did not shy from the idea of taking what he wanted, but he’d never been able to understand the demonic urges that moved Kamoth. At its best Kamoth’s cruelty was simply wasteful. At its worst it was the very soul of wickedness, something so spiteful and nihilistic that even Sergen shrank from it. “I’m sure she was,” he temporized.
“How in the world did Geran know to lie in wait for me on that deserted shore?” Kamoth mused aloud. “I didn’t know myself where I’d put in until I saw the cove and decided it would serve.”
“Sheer accident. According to what my man on the council heard, Geran was off visiting his mother in Thentia. He was on his way home to Hulburg when he stumbled across your camp. A day or two to either side, and he never would have seen you.”
“By all the misfortunes of Beshaba. What did I do to deserve that?”
If ill fortune followed the guilty, Sergen thought, then his father had certainly earned his share and more. He decided not to voice that sentiment. He hesitated for a momenr, then he said, “I’m afraid there is something more to Geran’s involvement. The Harmach s Council ordered Geran to fit out a warship to deal with Kraken Queen. Geran is likely at sea by now, searching for you.”
“By all nine of the screaming Hells!” Kamoth leaned forward, his eyes fierce. “Warship? What warship?”
“Apparently the Verunas left a serviceable caravel named Seadrake behind when they abandoned the city. They’ve got a large detachment of
Shieldsworn and mercenaries aboard.” Sergen smiled. “They believe it will be easier to track you to your lair than to patrol the sea lanes near Hulburg, awaiting the next attack.”
The pirate lord stifled a snort of derision. “Grigor Hulmaster thinks one impressed ship is a match for the Black Moon Brotherhood? I should go burn Hulburg to teach the harmach some respect.”
Sergen shrugged. So far events were proceeding more or less as he’d expected. His father’s pirate flotilla had virtually strangled trade going to Hulburg by sea over the summer, creating no small amount of difficulties for the Hulmasters. He’d originally planned for Kamoth’s corsairs to slowly tighten their grip over the next few months, bringing the harmach to his knees. “We expected that the Hulmasters would take steps to protect their shipping,” he said. “They have no choice. If Grigor does nothing, the Merchant Council has to act in his place.”
“I expected that they’d arm their merchantmen, perhaps send a few soldiers to sea, or maybe strike a deal with Hillsfar or Mulmaster for protection,” Kamoth said. “I didn’t think they’d fit out a warship so quickly. Why in the world did House Veruna leave anything that useful behind?”
“She couldn’t sail, and they didn’t have enough hands for the oars.” Sergen frowned; he’d spent his last few days in Hulburg hiding in the Veruna compound, and he remembered the Mulmasterites’ retreat all too well. “I told them to burn anything they couldn’t carry off, but Darsi chose not to listen to me. She thought she’d be able to convince the High Blade of Mulmaster to demand the return of the storehouses and Seadrake from the harmach.”
Kamoth waved his hand. “Bah. If you can’t protect your own, you deserve to lose it. I don’t blame the High Blade for ignoring her complaints.” “So what do we do about Geran and his ship?”
“Let him chase his own tail all around the Moonsea, as far as I care. Or set a trap for him.” Kamoth grinned fiercely and set a hand to the pommel of his dagger. “Yes, I like the thought of that. The day I see the son of Bernov Hulmaster dead on the point of my blade would be a fine day indeed.”
Other than the fact that Sergen hoped to be the one holding the blade, he approved of his father’s sentiment. “If my source is correct, there are close to a hundred of Hulburg’s soldiers and militia aboard Seadrake … along with Geran and Kara Hulmaster. Geran is little more than a reckless
adventurer, but he is a formidable swordsman, and Kara is far and away the best commander in the harmach’s service. Can you defeat him?”
“So many, eh? Then I’d need two ships or a ruse of some kind.” Kamoth frowned, his eyes fixed on some distant vision of mayhem as he considered the problem. “Damn, but it might be better with three ships at that. I know Geran can fight, and those Shieldsworn’ll be tough bastards. It makes you wonder who’s left in Hulburg.”
Sergen looked sharply at his father and laughed. A bold idea had just occurred to him. “In fact, that is exactly what I’m wondering. With both Geran and Kara away from Hulburg and a shipful of Shieldsworn absent from the town’s defenders, I think a bold stroke might be called for.”
The pirate lord raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair. “Raid the town? Now that is a bold idea, my boy. If I summon the Black Moon together, we could land better than six hundred men. Would that be enough to take Hulburg?”
“Take it? No, you’d never be able to fight your way into all the merchant compounds or storm Griffonwatch. But with even a little bit of surprise, you could pillage the harbor district and fire as much of the town as you liked.” That would in fact serve Sergen’s plans even better than slowly choking off the town’s trade; the harmach’s weakness in the wake of such an attack would demand action. And it would wound Geran to the heart if Hulburg suffered while he was wandering aimlessly hundreds of miles away. Sergen had much to repay Geran after the swordmage’s interference in his plans.
“A bold stroke nonetheless,” Kamoth mused. “Ah, the stories they’d tell about the Black Moon Brotherhood after a feat like that! I like the thought of it, my boy. You might be worth something after all.”
Sergen allowed himself a small smile. It wasn’t often that he found a way to earn his father’s approbation. Kamoth was quick to praise one of his cutthroats or laugh at the coarse humor his crewmen enjoyed, but Sergen had always had to come up with something exceptional to earn that fierce grin. He took a deep sip of the brandy and said, “In that case, when does the Black Moon sail against Hulburg?”
29 Eleint, The Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
A cold, steady rain fell as Geran and Sarth rowed Seadrake’s skiff toward the broken towers of the ruined city. Hamil sat in the stern of the small boat, his hand on the rudder. It was a dark and dreary night, the sort of weather that would persist over the Moonsea lands until the bitter winds of winter arrived sometime in early Nightal. The steady hiss of rain falling into the sea masked the creaking of the oars in their locks and the soft slap of water under the small boat’s hull. They’d only been rowing for half an hour, but they were already soaked. Geran didn’t mind; the foul weather meant that fewer unfriendly eyes would be watching them.
Seadrake was a mile behind them, invisible in the darkness. She showed no lights, since Geran hoped that their landing in Zhentil Keep would go unnoticed. As an additional precaution, they wore the same sort of common garb that any deckhands might wear on a sodden Moonsea evening. Instead of a fine jacket and jaunty cap, Hamil glowered under a drenched hood. Geran had left his fine elven backsword in his cabin on Seadrake and carried a plain cutlass instead, while Sarth had used his magic to disguise himself as a sellsword of Teshan descent, with a thick black mustache and dark, fierce eyes under a heavy brow.
Hamil surveyed the crumbling buildings of the ruined city with a dubious expression. “That looks like the sort of place you venture into when you’ve a mind to feed yourself to some horrible monster,” he said. “Are you sure of this plan, Geran?”
“Sure of it? No, but I think it’s worth a try.” Geran paused to glance over his shoulder as the city’s ramshackle docks drew closer. Zhentil Keep sprawled on either side of the mouth of the River Tesh. In better times
it had been the busiest harbor on the Moonsea, and both banks of the riveras well as some of the lakefront toohad been lined with broad stone quays that could accommodate scores of ships at a time. He would have liked to bring Seadrake into the Tesh and drop anchor in the river mouth, but he guessed that the sort of brigands and outlaws he was looking for would have vanished into the rain and rubble at the first sight of a hostile warship. “We’ll find the sort of cutthroats we’re looking for soon enough. Or they’ll find us.”
Sarth frowned as he pulled at his oar. “Are you not concerned that the sort of villains we seek might rob and murder three strangers the moment they catch sight of us?”
“A fate easily avoided. We have to appear too poor to rob and too dangerous to pick a fight with.” Geran smiled humorlessly. “Trust me, we should fit right in.”
Hamil looked past his larger companions and shifted in his seat. “We’re getting close. Steer for the docks on the north bank here, or do you want to tie up on the other side of the river?”
“The first spot you see. If the fellow in Mulmaster was right, there may be a ship or two moored up the Tesh, and I don’t want to run into them.” Geran paused in his rowing and turned around to get a better look at the looming shadows around him.
A hundred years ago, Zhentil Keep had been the most powerful city in the Moonsea lands. Its soldiers held the Tesh vale, the mighty Citadel of the Raven in the Dragonspine Mountains, and the ruins of Yulash; Hillsfar they subdued in Myth Drannor’s War of Restoration. Gold flowed into Zhentil Keep’s coffers from a dozen far lands intimidated by Zhentarim sellswords or inveigled by Zhentarim spies. But the Zhents, for all their ruthlessness and might, had inevitably aroused the wrath of an enemy beyond their strength.
The unliving archwizards of the newly reborn Empire of Netheril did not look kindly on such an aggressive neighbor, and they’d turned their fearsome sorcery against Zhentil Keep. In the years before the Spellplague, the Netherese razed the city and scattered its lords, its priests, and its wizards to the four winds. Zhentarim expatriates dotted the lands of the Inner Sea, but their native city was now a shadow-haunted ruin that all decent folk gave a wide berth.
Except, of course, for Geran and his companions.
Geran’s eye fell on a dark quay that seemed like a safe spot to leave their boat. “There, that will do,” he said. He and Sarth resumed pulling, and in a few minutes the skiff bumped up alongside the old landing. Hamil scrambled out and looped the skiff’s bowline around a rusted bollard, then the swordmage and the tiefling followed. Geran paused on the cobblestone street to gain his bearings, hand on his sword hilt. The old buildings loomed over him, most standing five or six stories in height and crowded shoulder-to-shoulder like tired soldiers standing in ranks. Dark doorways and empty windows looked down over the street. It was said that the curse of the Netherese archwizards still lingered over the city, some nameless doom waiting to swallow anyone so foolish as to venture into the darkest shadows. Geran had no idea if that was true or not, but he sensed brooding menace just beyond his sight.
“This is an accursed place,” Sarth said. “Terrible spells were spoken here.”
“We’ll keep to the riverbank. The stories I’ve heard about this place claim that whatever lingers here doesn’t like the water, or that the Tesh has washed away some of the curse,” Geran said. “Either way, I don’t think it would be a good idea to explore any of these buildings.”
Hamil stopped and looked up at him. “It’s also a bad idea to leave a fire untended, speak a demon’s name, or run while you’ve got a knife in your hand. Is there anything else we should go over?”
Sarth snorted through his mustache. Geran sighed. “I’ve known you to ignore common sense once or twice,” he said to Hamil. “I remember some times with the Dragon Shields when you leaped before you looked.”
They left the skiff tied up by the quay. Since there were no ships visible at the river mouth, and Geran didn’t see or hear anything to suggest that other folk might be around, he decided to follow the riverside street westward, deeper into the city. They gave the old buildings on their right a wide berth, staying out in the open street.
After a half mile or so, they passed the remains of one of the city’s great bridges, now little more than a series of six stone piers in the river. Beyond the bridge piers, several ships were moored to the old quaysa couple of small coasters that were likely smugglers of some sort, a round-hulled cog, and a half galley with a long, slender hull. A few dim lanterns illuminated the streets by the riverside, and the distant strains of voices and faint music carried over the water. Geran and his friends exchanged looks, then they continued.
Along the riverbanks above the first of the bridges, a dismal little town of sorts had grown up in the city ruins. Although the looming stone buildings here were still mostly abandoned, the lower floors of a dozen or so in the immediate area had evidently been reoccupied. Lanterns hanging from posts outside marked the locations of taverns, festhalls, boardinghouses, provisioners, fences, armorers, sailmakers, and others who did business with the sort of brigands and pirates who lurked in the ruins. Despite the late hour, dozens of menand a few women loitered out in the street, staggered drunkenly from one place to the next, or simply lay sprawled on the cobblestones wherever they’d fallen asleep or passed out. More than a few seemed to be half-ores, goblins, hobgoblins, and other such creatures, but the humans seemed to pay them no special attention.
“We’ll try the taverns first and keep our ears open,” Geran said. “Let’s get the mood of the place before we start asking dangerous questions.”
They headed for the first taphouse they saw. A crude signboard hung above the door, showing the image of two busty mermaids. Directly under the sign a gray-bearded sailor slumbered in the street. Geran stepped over him and pushed open the door. Inside, raucous sailors crowded a small room that looked like it might once have been a well-off merchant’s parlor. Simple tables and benches replaced all of the old furnishings, and an overturned skiff served as the unlikely bar. In one corner, a man in a patched cape strummed at a lute, but no one was paying him much attention. They were watching a contest of knife throwing, with the target hanging close by the door. As Geran ducked through the door, a small dagger chunked into the wood not far from his face. Drunken sailors and their rented lovers roared with laughter as he flinched aside.