Richard Baker - Avenger

“The trophy room,” he whispered to his companions. “Rhovann’s device is in the trophy room.”

“I sense it too,” Sarth said. “Is there any other way in?”

“No doors, I’m afraid. There are a number of large windows, but most look out over a sheer drop. You might manage them with your flying spell, but the rest of us would need a rope.”

“It sounds like we’re going through the guards, then,” Hamil breathed. He crouched by the corner, drawing his knives as he prepared himself for his rush-and there came a loud clatter and rustling from the corridor behind them. Half a dozen of Rhovann’s constructs appeared by the postern stair, and charged wordlessly up at Geran and his companions.

“Behind us!” Mirya cried.

Sarth spat an oath in his own tongue and whirled. “Narva saizhal!” he shouted, raising his scepter at the towering monsters. A barrage of deadly icicles took shape in the air before him before sleeting through the corridor. Dozens of the icy missiles skewered the leading runehelms, to little effect-there were no vital organs to pierce, no blood vessels to sever. White patches of frostbite spread from each icicle, stiffening the constructs’ flesh and hindering their movements, but still they came on. The thin glaze of ice coating the floor and walls after Sarth’s spell proved more effective than the hail of deadly icicles; while the runehelms were hard to hurt, they could slip and fall as easily as any human might. Several of the gray guardians briefly tangled up in the hallway, but the two in the lead kept coming.

Geran drew his shadow sword and summoned up the magic for his dragon scales warding. “Theillalagh na drendir,” he breathed, conjuring a shimmering field of lambent force that rippled and flowed around his body like a loose-fitting coat of mail. Then he advanced to meet one of the charging runehelms, as Hamil scurried down the steps to engage the other.

“Geran Hulmaster, have you lost your mind?” Mirya snapped at him. “You’re in no shape for sword play!”

“I’m afraid Rhovann’s monsters think otherwise,” he replied. The creature in front of him launched a powerful thrust with the point of its halberd, trying to run him through. Rather than try to parry with his left hand against the heavy halberd and the runehelm’s terrible physical strength, he concentrated on dodging and tried to stay away from the halberd point until he saw an opening. “Ilyeith sannoghan!” he shouted, invoking a spell of lightning on the sword as he leaped forward past the halberd point. The crackling ribbons of light took on a new hue when Umbrach Nyth wore them; on his Myth Drannan blade they’d always been a bright blue-white, but on the shadow sword’s black steel they were a deep violet color. With a wild backhand slash he sliced the runehelm deeply through its thick neck. Purple lightning flashed around its iron visor and crackled under its breastplate; the construct jerked and twisted nervelessly as the lightning danced in its flesh, and then it toppled to the floor.

Geran smiled grimly. I’m not so helpless after all, he decided. Of course, the runehelms were hardly skillful opponents. They gave all their attention to destroying whatever was in front of them. He turned on the runehelm battling Hamil, and took it to the ground with a forehand cut to its leg. The creature toppled, but it lashed out with the butt of its halberd at Geran as it fell. The wooden haft caught him on his right hip and knocked him spinning to the ground a few feet away. Before the runehelm could draw back for a strike with the greataxe blade or wicked hook at the other end of the weapon, Hamil and Mirya quickly dragged Geran out of its reach.

Careful, there! Hamil told him. Mirya will never forgive me if you get yourself killed trying to guard my back .

Sarth turned another spell against the crippled runehelm, burning it down, but now the others that had momentarily tangled themselves on the slippery ice were working their way free. Worse yet, more heavy footfalls and ominous clanking of armor echoed through the castle halls. “This is madness,” the tiefling growled. “There is no point in fighting each one of these guardians. Geran, go and destroy the master stone before we are overwhelmed! I will hold off Rhovann’s creatures here.”

Geran hesitated, unwilling to leave Sarth, but Mirya caught him by the arm and pulled him up toward the hallway leading to the trophy room. “Sarth is right,” she said. “This battle can be won with a single stroke.”

“Very well,” he conceded. Sarth gave him a quick nod, and Geran turned his back on the fight by the postern stair and hurried around the corner toward the trophy hall and the runehelms guarding its door. Hamil and Mirya followed a step behind him. The door guards perceived the three of them at once; one moment they were standing as still as statues, and the next they lowered their halberds to advance a couple of steps, barring the way.

“Shoot the left one through the visor if you can,” Hamil told Mirya. “It seems to throw them off their game. Geran, you finish it off while I keep the other one busy.”

“Aye, I’ll do it,” Mirya replied. She started to draw back her crossbow-and the doors at the end of the hall flew open.

Mantled in the ghostly shapes of powerful spells, Rhovann Disarnnyl stood in the doorway, pure fury blazing in his face. Behind him the old trophy room was filled with arcane apparatuses and more runehelms beginning to stir in the great vats where they were grown. “You have the stubbornness of a troll,” the mage snarled at Geran. “You ignorant fool! What more must I do before you comprehend the fact of your defeat?”

“You would’ve been wiser to kill me when you had me in your power,” Geran answered. In the room behind the wizard he could sense the invisible currents and eddies of the wizard’s devices and spell artifices, each a subtle vibration of Rhovann’s careful weavings. The shadow sword in his hand seemed to quiver slightly, resonating with the power concentrated in the wizard’s laboratory. There was a focal point in the center of the room, an irregular crystal of dark purple in which a lambent flame flickered … the master stone for the runehelms? he wondered. His eyes narrowed as he studied it, and he resolved that whatever else happened, he’d deprive Rhovann of his toy before the wizard destroyed him. “You sent the Cyricists and their devils to slay my family in Lasparhall-assassins and monsters set loose to murder a frail old man and dozens of men and women whose only offense was their loyalty to the Hulmasters! Did you think that anything short of death would stop me after that?”

Rhovann snorted. “I should have expected no less. You simpleton, the Vaasans ordered the harmach’s death. I had nothing to do with it. You’ve sought out your demise for a mistake.”

The Vaasans? Geran wondered. Could it be true that Rhovann hadn’t ordered Grigor’s death? The elf was his enemy, and no stranger to cruelty, but Rhovann wouldn’t lie out of sheer pettiness. It certainly made little difference to Geran now; even if Rhovann hadn’t sent the assassins to Lasparhall, he’d set events in motion that were certain to result in mortal peril to Geran’s family, and he’d conspired with Sergen Hulmaster before that. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “My uncle’s death is still your doing, and I mean to see you dead for it.”

“Believe what you will. I will now correct my earlier oversight, and you can go down into death with your bitter, misconceived notions of vengeance unattained as you like.” The rumble of Sarth’s battle magic echoed through the shadowed hall, and the elf wizard sneered. “Did you truly think that I would not take steps to guard my sanctum? Your devil-born sorcerer cannot hope to overcome my defenses in the Shadowfell. You and your companions, even your beloved Mirya there, will never see the sun again.”