Richard Baker - Avenger

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?”