Avenger botm-3

by Richard Baker

  Kara scowled, considering the question. She needed to speak to Geran, the sooner the better; the appearance of the Warlock Knights was not something they’d expected. “Not when they’ve got more riders here than we do,” she finally answered. “We’ll send a couple of scouts to keep an eye on them and make sure they’re headed for home, and we’ll wait for more of our Shieldsworn before we press them.”

  Wheeling Dancer around, she left Marstel and his Vaasan companions to their own devices, and hurried back to rejoin the fighting around the foot of the hill.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  15 Ches, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)

  The gray light of morning seemed to rush in on Geran from an immeasurable distance, as if he were falling through pure blackness into a tiny circle of luminescence. He glimpsed the dim shapes of great copper vats and cluttered worktables racing past him; his head whirled with a maddening sense of tremendous velocity when all his reason told him that he had to be standing still. Then, suddenly, he and Rhovann no longer tumbled through shadow, but instead stood and swayed in a diagram of silver runes that gleamed on the floor of a cluttered conjury-the old trophy hall of the Hulmasters, now filled with Rhovann’s devices and arcane apparatuses. And Rhovann’s silver hand was still locked around his throat.

  “You reckless fool,” the elf wizard hissed. “Do you have any idea what you have destroyed? That stone was irreplaceable, worth more than this whole miserable hovel your family calls a castle!”

  Geran opened his mouth to answer, and found he couldn’t speak. Nothing but a thin rattle of air escaped his lips. Desperately he tried to find the words for a spell to break Rhovann’s grip, but even as the magical sigils glowed and tumbled in his mind’s eye he couldn’t begin to give voice to them. His chest burned with the ache for a breath, and dark spots danced before his eyes. He felt his knees begin to give way as his struggle with the mage dragged the two of them out of the silver circle and into the nearest worktable, scattering notes and glassware to the floor.

  A malicious grin crept into Rhovann’s features as the wizard sensed Geran weakening. “This is unseemly for a mage of my caliber,” the elf said between clenched teeth. “I should slay you with my spells, not strangle you like a common murderer. But there is a certain irony to dispatching you with the hand you gave me. It might be enough for me. What say you, Geran?”

  Geran could manage nothing more than a thin wheeze. He struggled once again to pull his left hand free or twist out of Rhovann’s grasp, but the wizard merely followed his staggering steps before jerking him around abruptly and slamming him into another worktable. The swordmage battled with all his will, his determination, to cling to consciousness, but it was a battle he was mere heartbeats away from losing. With his right hand gone, he had no way to pull Rhovann’s hand from his neck, no way to strike back, only an aching stump under a thin, oozing bandage. The wizard bent him steadily back over the table, and Geran’s vision swam with darkness … but in one brief glimpse he spotted the red feathers of Mirya’s quarrel standing out behind Rhovann’s back.

  He couldn’t strike much of a blow with his missing hand-but he didn’t need to. Flailing clumsily, he batted at the quarrel sticking out of the back of Rhovann’s shoulder. With the hard bone at the inside of his forearm, midway between wrist and elbow, he struck the wooden quarrel and jammed it cruelly in the wound.

  Rhovann screamed in agony and staggered back, reaching behind his back in pure reflex. Suddenly the crushing pressure at Geran’s throat was gone, and he was able to draw breath again. He raised the shadow sword to strike-but the wizard retained enough presence of mind to seize his sword arm before he could, this time catching Geran with his silver hand. “Bastion!” the elf cried. “Help me!”

  By the chamber’s door, a great gray creature in a brown cassock and hood swiveled to regard Geran with black, dead eyes. It was almost nine feet tall, taller and more thickly built than even the runehelms were, a golem of dense clay the size of an ogre. The creature reached out with one huge hand, seized a big wooden table that easily weighed a couple of hundred pounds, and flung the table out of its path as if it was nothing more than a wicker chair. Then it strode purposefully toward Geran, its eyes fixed on his face. Rhovann glanced once over his shoulder, and snarled in triumph as his towering minion drew near. “Destroy Geran!” the wizard cried.

  Geran looked up at the approaching monster, and his stomach turned to water. While he stood grappling with his old foe, the golem would snap his neck or rip off his limbs, and that would be the end of him. He managed to buy himself a few more heartbeats of life by twisting around the table, moving a few steps away from Bastion’s lethal grasp. Somehow Geran found the determination to rip his gaze away from the golem and focus on his struggle with Rhovann. Desperately he sought the clarity of mind to bring a spell to his lips. “Sanhaer astelie!” he rasped, speaking the words for a spell of strength. In the next heartbeat he sensed the arcane currents of the room flooding into his limbs, charging his muscles with supernatural strength for a brief moment. Rhovann snarled a spell of his own, and flickers of emerald flame erupted around his silver hand, singing Geran’s left arm. But with his strength spell Geran ripped his sword arm out of Rhovann’s grip, Umbrach Nyth gleaming dully in his hand.

  He had time for one backhand slash, a fierce cut that passed through Rhovann’s neck in a short, vicious arc. The shadow sword made no sound at all; Rhovann gaped in blank astonishment for an instant before his head tumbled from his shoulders and his body sank to the floor. Green flames danced on his silver hand before they guttered out. Geran stared down at the mage’s corpse for a moment, wheezing for breath. “Damn you, Rhovann,” he rasped. “Is that what you were looking for?”

  The mage’s corpse made no answer, but at the last instant heavy footsteps warned Geran of Bastion’s charge. He glanced up as the golem hurled itself forward, its huge hands reaching for him. The swordmage retreated two quick steps and sought quickly for a spell of teleportation … only to discover that he had no such spell fixed in his mind at the moment. Stumbling backward, he set his feet and managed a fierce cut at the golem’s right hand as it reached for him. Umbrach Nyth sheared through the clay flesh of the creature, carving off two fingers and half its hand, but the golem seized Geran by the collar with its undamaged hand. Instantly it wheeled and hurled Geran against the windows at the far end of the room.

  Geran flew through the air as if he’d been flung by a catapult and crashed into the heavy panes. Leaded glass shattered all around him, and likely would have cut him to pieces if his dragon scale spell hadn’t guarded him from the cruel shards. Only the heavy wooden crosspieces that supported the great windows stopped him from sailing through into the dizzying drop beyond, where the castle’s bluff fell well over a hundred feet to the clearing by the postern gate, but he paid a price in cracked ribs and a jarring blow to his head that gashed his scalp and left bright stars whirling in his vision. He fell to the floor in a shower of broken glass and splintered wood, shaking his head groggily.

  “That’s what you get for forgetting about the golem,” he told himself. Daried would have been disappointed in him; his old bladesinger master seemed to have eyes in the back of his head when it came to staying aware of his surroundings. Geran groaned and pushed himself upright, grasping the shadow sword’s hilt just in time to meet Bastion’s next assault. For a moment he held the golem at bay, fending it off with the point of his sword; the towering monster was clever enough not to run itself onto his blade, fighting with grim, silent ferocity to get its hands on him again. Geran limped and hobbled away from the window, finding one new ache or stab of pain after another. Then Bastion swatted his sword point out of the way, and stepped forward to smash its half fist into the center of Geran’s torso. The blow drove Geran’s breath out of him again and knocked him sprawling fifteen feet away, rolling feet-over-head to end up lying on his belly on the cold stone floor.

  Umbrach Nyth clattered across the floor,
fetching up by the baseboard ten feet away.

  It’s almost funny, he thought thickly. I defeat Rhovann, but now his damned golem’s going to beat me to death. It didn’t seem worth the trouble to keep fighting, not when he was going to be bludgeoned or broken in a matter of moments anyway, but slowly Geran began to crawl toward the place where the sword waited, grunting with the effort.

  Bastion studied him in silence; no doubt it was considering the last directions of its creator. The golem wasn’t malicious, and wouldn’t bother to inflict pain for its own sake. In its own implacable logic it would simply decide upon the quickest and most effective way to carry out his death, and then implement its plan. It would not stop, could not stop, until he was no more. Observing that he was not dead yet, it swung into motion and strode after him. Geran winced and tried to crawl faster.

  Bastion’s undamaged hand closed on his ankle as his fingers reached the shadow sword’s hilt. The golem yanked Geran back, raising him in the air as it reached for his flailing arm with its half hand. Whether it intended to carry him back to the window and force him out, bludgeon him to death against the stone floor, or simply pull his arms and legs off, Geran couldn’t tell; he dangled and twisted upside down, held by his foot. But his sword arm was momentarily free.

  Stabbing at the golem’s torso from his inverted position, he drove Umbrach Nyth up under its breastbone. The golem groaned aloud, still holding Geran in its grasp. Then, slowly, its binding enchantment failed, and it collapsed like a broken marionette. Geran had time for one startled cry before the huge creature toppled over on him; his head struck the hard flagstones, and then Bastion’s immense weight buried him. He struggled briefly, feebly trying to pull himself free, but then the wounds and exhaustion he’d been fighting off for hours overwhelmed him. Darkness swam up from the laboratory floor to claim him.

  He knew nothing more for a long time, drifting in and out of a gray, featureless dream. Somehow he felt that he needed to get up, to swim up through the gray to wakefulness, but he couldn’t seem to manage it. A pleasant lassitude held him in its soft grip, soothing his hurts. For a time Geran wondered if he were dying, and if so, why he wasn’t more concerned about it … but finally the sound of his name roused him-minutes, hours later, he had no idea. A vast weight was crushing him, but then it shifted aside, and he felt hands dragging him out from underneath. A small swallow of something that tasted like warm mead filled his mouth, and he swallowed. With a weak cough he stirred, beginning the long and wearying climb back up to awareness.

  “There, the potion’s doing its work. I think he’s coming around.” A familiar voice, somewhere close by.

  “Geran! Geran, can you hear me? Are you hurt?” He opened his eyes to see Mirya leaning over him, his remaining hand clutched in both of hers as she looked closely into his face. “Say something!”

  “I’ve had better days,” he mumbled. He felt Mirya’s hands moving to cup his face, and then she stooped down to kiss him even as he was about to say something more. Tears streaked her face, salty on his lips.

  After a long moment, she released him and straightened. “Geran Hulmaster, don’t you ever do that to me again! I thought for certain that you were lying here dead!”

  “So did I.” He sat up carefully, giving himself a moment to find his balance again. The light flooding in the broken windows was still gray with the overcast. The massive shape of the destroyed golem was beside him; he realized that he’d been pinned under Bastion when the creature collapsed. Hamil kneeled on his other side, and Sarth stood close by, latching his belt pouch closed again. Geran frowned, trying to make sense of it. “Another healing potion?” he asked.

  “My last, I fear,” Sarth replied. “I advise against any more serious injuries today.”

  “That seems a sound idea in any circumstances,” Geran replied. The healing magic dulled the pain in his back, his singed leg, his aching throat. There was something strange with the room, though … the light was much brighter than he remembered. It was full daylight outside behind the overcast. “What time of day is it?”

  “Nearly noon, I think,” Mirya replied.

  “Noon? It was dawn when Rhovann and I passed through the portal …” Geran murmured. He must have been unconscious much longer than he’d thought. What was happening with Kara’s army? Or the Hulmaster loyalists in town? “Have you been waiting to rouse me?”

  “No, we arrived only moments ago,” said Sarth. The tiefling stood nearby, studying the wrecked laboratory. “We could not cross back from the shadow right away. I believe Rhovann’s crossing point was disrupted by the master stone’s destruction. It took me some time to enact the translation ritual; I am sorry we were not swifter.”

  “I thought for certain you must be dead,” Mirya said. “The last I saw of you, you were grappling with Rhovann, and then the two of you vanished from sight …”

  “Speaking of Rhovann, it seems you’ve resolved your difficulties with him,” Hamil observed. He nodded at the mage’s corpse, lying on the floor in a pool of blood. “Good riddance!”

  Mirya looked down at Rhovann, and grimaced. “He’s truly dead,” she said quietly. “Have we really seen the end of the troubles he’s caused us?”

  “Almost,” Geran answered. “We’ve still got Marstel to deal with, and the merchant costers that are allied with him.” He hadn’t forgotten what Rhovann had said about the Vaasans, either. He stood, limped over to Umbrach Nyth, and stooped to pick up the sword. He noticed that no blood clung to the dark steel, despite the copious amounts of Rhovann’s that he’d spilled on the floor. He ached from head to toe despite the healing potion-his wounded wrist throbbed, his back pained him when he turned too quickly, his chest was sore and tender, and somehow in the beating he’d received from Bastion he’d given himself a good knock on the skull as well as twisting his knee. But for the moment, he was on his feet again. With a sigh, he sheathed the blade.

  Hamil frowned. “Now that I think on it, we never seemed to get this far in our planning for the liberation of Hulburg. Did we expect to be dead by now? Or did we imagine that defeating Rhovann’s magic would simply unravel the whole puzzle at once? What comes next?”

  “We need to learn where Kara’s army is and whether the loyalists are fighting still. They might need all the help we can give them. If Marstel holes up in Griffonwatch or the Merchant Council withdraws to their compounds, there might be days more of hard fighting to pry them out.”

  “Not for you, there won’t be,” Mirya said. “You’ve done enough for now, Geran. You need your wounds properly tended, and then a good rest. Others can see this through to its end now.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “I’m afraid that’s up to Marstel, seeing as we’re now in the middle of the castle I presume he still holds. Getting out of Griffonwatch might be a challenge. In fact, we’ve probably delayed here long enough. Rhovann will certainly be missed by Marstel and his captains; sooner or later they’ll investigate.”

  “Geran, have a look at this,” said Sarth. The tiefling stood by Rhovann’s body. He pointed down; Geran looked, and saw that the mage’s silver hand had detached from the wrist. Small, dark runes encircled the replica around the place where it had joined its bearer’s arm. “Did you strike it off?” Sarth asked.

  “No, I didn’t. He nearly strangled me to death with it, but it was still on his wrist when I took his head. It must have come off after he died.” Geran reached up to rub gently at his bruised throat. He doubted that he had much more fight left in him, not with his sword hand gone. With Umbrach Nyth in his right hand instead of his left, he could have carved his way through the runehelms in the Shadowfell with hardly a scratch, he could have smashed the master stone in a single stroke, and Rhovann wouldn’t have lived ten heartbeats once he’d closed to sword’s reach. Left-handed, he was less than half the swordsman he needed to be. It was only a matter of pure luck that his injury hadn’t cost him his life in the last few hours-or, for that matter, the life of Hamil or Mirya. And
they might be far from done with the fighting.

  To the Nine Hells with it, he decided. He couldn’t afford to be crippled at the moment. “Sarth, let me see that,” he said.

  The tiefling gave him an odd look, but he stooped and picked up Rhovann’s artificial hand. He studied it carefully, murmuring the words of a detection spell as he examined it. “It is a complex and subtle magic,” he finally said. “I cannot say for certain what it might do. Are you certain you wish to try this?”

  “Try what?” Mirya demanded.

  “The silver hand. It served Rhovann as a replacement for his own. It may work for me as well.” Geran used his left hand and his teeth to worry at the bandages on his right wrist, then began to unwrap them. A flood of fresh pain washed over his arm as the pressure eased and new sensation returned to the stump; even after two healing potions, it was far from whole. A faint, acrid reek-the remnant of the acid, he thought-came to his nostrils.

  Mirya shuddered. “Have you lost your mind? How could you think about wearing that thing on your wrist? Who knows what spells Rhovann wove to bind it to his flesh?”

  “I have read of such things before,” Sarth replied. “Magical devices that replace limbs are often enchanted to join themselves to the wearer’s body. It’s how they are customarily made, and the experiment is simple enough to perform. But I still think it is reckless to place your trust in Rhovann’s craftsmanship or intentions. Until you know what he paid for that hand, or whether it can be removed once you join it to your arm, you would be wiser to wait.”

  “Not this day,” Geran said. “Lives may depend on me. I can’t afford to be crippled, not if I have any alternative.” He held out his left hand for the silver device, intending to try it himself.

  Sarth sighed, and shook his head. “No, if you insist on proceeding, it’s best to let someone else align it. For all we know it may graft itself instantly to you, and if that is the case, you will want to be absolutely certain it is arranged correctly. Here, set your arm on this table. Hamil, hold his arm firmly in place. Mirya, you watch too, and help me to marry it evenly to the stump.”