Richard Baker: Avenger

“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.