Richard Baker: Avenger

“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.”

Mirya grimaced, but she did as Sarth asked, leaning down to study the silver device and the blackened ruin of Geran’s wrist. As Sarth held it close, Geran realized that the hand was not a perfect match for the one he’d lost; it was a little more slender and long in the finger than his own.

Hamil came up and took Geran’s forearm in his own grip, looking up at him to silently say, I hope you know what you’re doing. The last thing this device remembers is that it was locked around your throat. Who’s to say that it won’t try to strangle you again?

“Do it,” Geran murmured.

Sarth pressed the base of the silver hand to Geran’s wrist bones; Mirya reached out to turn the device a fraction of an inch. The metal was shockingly cold against the exposed bone, a jolt of ice that ran up the marrow of Geran’s forearm. He hissed in discomfort but held his arm in place. The sorcerer studied the runes glimmering at the base of the device, and spoke the arcane words recorded there: “Izhia nur kalamakoth astet; ishurme phet hustethme …”

Nothing seemed to happen, and Geran sighed. It had been worth a try, he decided. He started to straighten up-and then the runes on the silver surface gleamed with a flash of purple fire. The silver suddenly grew warm and pliable; Sarth grunted in surprise, but held it steady against the end of Geran’s arm. A jolt of searing agony shot through Geran’s arm as the silver suddenly flowed into the wound where his arm ended. Despite his resolve, he screamed aloud and sank to his knees. Hamil swore in his native tongue, his eyes wide, but he held Geran’s arm with both of his and refused to let go. Smoke rose from burning flesh at the end of the stump as the magical device sealed itself to the bones of Geran’s forearm and reshaped itself, forming a short, smooth band around the damaged flesh. Geran felt as if the thing were filling his arm with molten metal; the pain was beyond bearing, and he swooned briefly into darkness.

A short time later, he came to in Mirya’s arms, who was kneeling behind him and holding him upright. His arm throbbed painfully, but it was no longer unendurable. He groaned and stirred in her arms.

“Geran Hulmaster, you damned fool,” Mirya snapped at him. “That’s twice in the last quarter hour I’ve seen you unconscious. Never do something like that again! I thought you were dying under some awful curse of Rhovann’s. What was in that thick head of yours?”

He didn’t answer immediately. With care he raised his right arm close to inspect the silver hand; it met the flesh of his arm in a metal band only an inch wide, but he could feel by the weight of it that the thing was anchored as firmly on the bones of his arm as his own living hand would have been. For better or worse, there would be no taking it off now. Gingerly he tried to make a fist with the device-and the smooth metal fingers answered to his desire. He could even feel the pressure of fingertips against palm, although it was strangely distant and numb. His wrist still ached, and he suspected it would for a long time yet, but his arm felt whole and sound. “It works,” he murmured.

“Best not trust it for sword play until you’ve had a chance to become used to it,” Hamil advised. “Your grip might be different, and it could throw you off.”

The swordmage started to answer, but a sudden pounding at the door interrupted him. He exchanged worried glances with his companions and scrambled to his feet. Then a voice in the hallway outside called, “Lord Rhovann, excuse the interruption, but Harmach Maroth said to fetch you right away! Are you well, my lord?”

Geran exchanged looks with Mirya, Hamil, and Sarth. “It seems Marstel is missing his wizard,” Mirya whispered. “What do we do?”

“Wait for them to leave,” Sarth advised. “We do not want to alert the whole castle.”

“My lord!” the man in the hall outside called once again. Then the heavy jingle of a key ring came clearly through the door, along with a murmured conversation.

Hamil glanced at the headless body on the floor, and back to Geran. “Forgive me for saying so,” he said, “but Marstel isn’t going to be happy with you.”

“Of all the luck,” Geran breathed. It seemed he’d find out soon enough whether the silver hand would answer his bidding.

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

Geran stood paralyzed for a moment more, searching for a way out of the room, and then keys rattled in the lock of the laboratory’s door. There was nothing for it-they’d have to deal with whoever was at the door. He nodded at Hamil, who quickly crossed the room to stand beside the door on one side, while he moved to the opposite side. When they were in position, he motioned for Hamil to wait. In his best imitation of Rhovann’s elf accent, he called angrily through the door, “Who is there?”

The key stopped at once. Geran couldn’t help but smile; apparently the idea of disturbing the harmach’s mage in his sanctum was more than a little intimidating.

“Castellan Sarvin and Guard Murrn, my lord.”

“What is it?” Geran demanded.

“You are needed, my lord-the Hulmaster army is at the gates, and the harmach requires your counsel. Something must be done!”

The Hulmaster army is at the gates? Hamil observed silently. Kara must have made the most of her opportunity when we destroyed the master stone .

Geran nodded. “Something must be done, indeed,” he said. He reached down to unlock the door with his silver hand; it seemed to answer his will deftly enough, even though he could not feel the latch under his fingertips very well. “Enter!”

There was a brief hesitation before the door pushed open. Castellan Sarvin-the big, black-bearded officer Geran had seen in the Council Hall dungeon-and his guard stepped inside with some trepidation. They halted in confusion as they took in the wreck of the laboratory, the remains of the golem, and the presence of Mirya and Sarth at the other end of the room. Then Hamil’s knife appeared at the throat of the one mercenary, while Geran set the point of Umbrach Nyth at Sarvin’s belt buckle. The two Council Guards had sense enough-or were simply surprised enough-not to make a fight of it. They froze, keeping their hands well away from their weapons.