Richard Baker - Avenger

“Can you walk?” Mirya asked him.

“I’ll damned well walk out of here,” he replied. “Let me fetch my belongings there, and we can go.”

Hamil hurried over to grab Geran’s clothing, while Brun checked on Lodharrun. The brewer shook his head, and came back to lend Mirya a hand with Geran. Then the small band hurried back out of the council prison.

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

Geran didn’t recall much of the next half hour. Despite his brave words, he was hardly steady on his feet, and he wasn’t far from simply passing out in pain. His missing hand burned as if he’d thrust it into a brazier full of hot coals and left it there; needlelike jolts of agony raced up his arm with every beat of his heart. In the guardroom Sarth unleashed a hellstorm of shrieking fireballs, scouring the chamber clear of the Council Guards clattering down the stairs to hinder his escape. Mirya ushered him through the corridors of the Council Hall and out into the driving, cold rain of an early spring thunderstorm. Icy water on his bare back and shoulders shocked him into wakefulness as they crossed to the old tailor’s shop behind the Council Hall. He caught one glimpse of orange smoke billowing out of broken windows and doors blown from their hinges before Mirya urged him down into the cellars. Brun Osting followed, then Sarth and last of all Hamil.

“Keep going!” the halfling called. “No point lingering here!”

They hurried through the buried streets, passing through several cellars and dusty old passages until Geran was no longer certain of where they were. Mirya knew where she was and guided him along. He felt his legs growing steadier under him as they went along, and when they finally halted in an old wine cellar, he was able to stand up straight and push the pain of his injury to one side of his mind, focusing his thoughts on what to do next. The rest of the band filled in behind him and Mirya; Hamil took up a post by the passage they’d just used, looking and listening back the way they’d come.

Brun brought his belongings over, and set them down. “Your things, Lord Geran,” he said.

“My thanks, Brun. I’ll remember who came to fetch me out of Marstel’s prison.” Geran clapped the big brewer on the shoulder with his left hand.

Sarth reached into a small pouch at his belt, withdrew a small vial, and unstopped it. “Drink this, Geran,” the sorcerer said. “It’s a healing potion. I took the liberty of providing myself with a couple before we left Thentia. It should help a little with the pain.”

“I appreciate your foresight,” Geran said. He took the vial and drank down the contents. The elixir felt like warm mead in his mouth, sweet but heady. It left a glow in his stomach, and a flood of fresh strength filled his limbs. A deep, vital warmth seemed to gather at his right wrist, almost too hot to endure, and he grimaced as the potion did its work. When the magic faded, he felt much better-still a trifle weak in his stride, perhaps, but he was no longer hunched over his wounded arm. He was tempted to peek under the bandages that swathed the stump, but decided not to; the dressing was secure, and he didn’t want to redo it.

Sarth smiled as he saw Geran’s posture straighten and some of the pain fade from his face. “I wish there was more I could do,” he said.

“Good,” said Mirya. “Now get yourself dressed, and we’ll see you out of Hulburg. We’ve a few ways to slip out of town without being seen.”

He shook his head, trying to ignore the trembling in his limbs. “I’m not leaving. We still have a job to do in the Shadowfell, and Kara is counting on us to see it through.” In fact, based on what he’d seen through the runehelm’s eyes, Kara and the Shieldsworn were in dire danger.

“But you’re in no condition for a fight!” Mirya protested. “What more do you expect of yourself?”

“There is no dishonor in withdrawing, Geran,” Sarth told him. “We will see to what must be done.”

“Trust me, I have little stomach for fighting right now, but Rhovann showed me Marstel’s army and his runehelms surrounding the Shieldsworn. Destroying Rhovann’s hold over his runehelms might be the only thing that can save them. I mean to cross into the shadow and finish what I started-the sooner, the better.”

His companions were silent for a moment. Finally Hamil nodded. “All right. We’ll see you to where you need to go, and help you do what Aesperus told you to do. But you’re to leave the fighting to Sarth and me.”

He met Mirya’s eyes. After a long time, she nodded too. “Very well. Sometimes wisdom comes disguised as foolishness, and this might be one of those times.”

Geran looked at the bundle of clothes, and frowned. “I’m afraid I’ll need some help getting dressed,” he said.

“Of course,” Mirya said. While Hamil and Sarth waited, she helped him with his shirt and buttons, held the right side of his breeches as he pulled them over his smallclothes, pulled on his boots for him, and then helped him shrug on his jacket. They shared an awkward grimace when he fumbled at his belt before she leaned close to cinch it for him. The difficult part was his scabbard and baldric, which were rigged to ride on his left hip for a right-handed draw. Mirya solved the puzzle by putting the baldric on him backwards, then unhooking the scabbard and turning it around. The sword hilt was a little farther back around his hip than Geran would have liked, which would slow his draw. But then again, he hardly felt like he was up to a duel at the moment.

“I’m ready,” he announced. “It’s now or never.”

Hamil looked at him dubiously. “Can you fight left-handed?”

“A little. Daried used to make me train with my left hand from time to time. Many bladesingers are ambidextrous, or very nearly so, and he thought it was important that I learn as much of the technique as I could. But I’m hoping that you and Sarth can handle any trouble we meet up with.”

“I’d better come with you,” Mirya said.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea-” Geran began.

“Nor am I, but I’m coming nonetheless,” Mirya interrupted. “You said yourself a few moments ago that you had no certain idea of what to expect. Well, I might very well be able to help, especially if Sarth and Hamil find themselves too busy to aid you with whatever you might have to do. And don’t you dare tell me it’s too dangerous, when you’re set on trying it injured as you are.”

I think she has you there , Hamil remarked to Geran.

The swordmage stood his ground, then sighed. “All right. The shadowcrossing will work as well for four as it would for three. Besides, I doubt that there’s any place in Hulburg that’s truly safe tonight, so I might as well have you where I can keep an eye on you. But you must promise to do whatever I ask you to, without hesitation. The Shadowfell is no place to be trifled with. Brun, you’d better do what you can to gather whatever loyalist bands you can find and avoid any serious fighting until it’s the right time to strike.”

The brewer frowned. “How will I know the moment?”

“Watch the runehelms, I guess,” Geran replied. “Now be on your way, or you may be pulled into the shadow with the rest of us when we make the crossing.” Brun gave a sharp nod and backed away. Ducking under a low archway, he hurried off into the tunnels.

“Do you want the scrolls?” Hamil asked.

The swordmage shook his head. “If Sarth is willing, I’d rather save the scrolls in case something goes amiss.” After all, if they used up the scrolls and Sarth were incapacitated or killed, they’d be unable to return to the Shadowfell if some other work of Rhovann’s demanded their attention.