Avenger

shoulders. “Are you ready?” she asked.

He nodded, and they set off for Erstenwold’s. It was a little shy of a mile away, on the other side of the Winterspear. From Mirya’s lane they hurried down River Street, skirting the Tailings proper. Geran did his best to keep his stride quick but confident, maintaining a cool distance from Mirya. He’d already established for himself that his disguise was good enough to protect him in Hulburg’s streets, but now that he was accompanying Mirya, it felt far more risky. Mirya was a known friend of his, of course, and anybody who noticed her going about on the streets when most folk were taking to their homes might wonder why she was dealing with some foreign mage. Worse yet, if one of Marstel’s soldiers or spies saw through his disguise, they’d also catch Mirya. She could hardly deny that she was in league with loyalists if they were caught together, and he feared it would go hard with her.

I should have left her safe in her house, he told himself. This is far too dangerous.

They turned on Cinder Way and came to the Middle Bridge. Half-a-dozen runehelms stood guard over the span. Geran steeled himself to walk past them, feigning the same sort of dismissiveness he’d shown before. But Mirya’s steps faltered as they drew closer to the towering creatures. He risked a quick glance at her, and realized that she was shaking. Her lips moved softly, saying something he couldn’t hear, and her eyes were fixed on the nearest of the clay warriors. She’s terrified! he realized with horror. He hadn’t expected that, but then again, there was a difference between flouting the authorities with a secret meeting and brazenly walking down the street in his company.

Geran grimaced. It was already too late to go back the way they came without being conspicuous about avoiding the monsters. And even if they did, they’d have to cross the Winterspear at the Lower Bridge or the Burned Bridge to get to the west bank and Erstenwold’s, and they’d run into more of the runehelms at the other bridges. He sidled up as close to her as he dared. “Courage, Mirya!” he hissed under his breath. “You’ve walked past these things a hundred times before. Just ignore them and keep on!”

She didn’t reply, and her steps slowed even more. In desperation Geran reached out to take her arm, gently pulling her along and doing his best to ignore the hulking creatures looming around them. Human guards would certainly have suspected something by now, but these were automatons, endowed only with the power to execute the orders they were given. They possessed no intuition, no empathy; they might not notice Mirya’s distress or the solicitude of a foreign wizard toward her.

He put his arm around her shoulders and urged her on more forcefully. But as they drew abreast of the first pair of runehelms, she stopped suddenly in her steps. With a dull, sick look on her face, she looked up at the blank visors of the tall creatures, now regarding them both in silence. “Mirya!” he hissed again. “Come on!”

Looking up at the runehelms, Mirya said clearly, “Tell Rhovann that this is Geran Hulmaster. He is here with me.”

Geran stared at her in horror. Mirya did not just betray me, he tried to tell himself. But she had. She stood, frowning at the monsters around them, not paying any attention to him at all. And the runehelms were already swinging into motion, swiveling to face him as their massive black halberds lowered.

Somehow he found the presence of mind to step away from Mirya, so that she wouldn’t be hacked down by a careless swing of those terrible axes, and drew the shadow sword from its scabbard. If he could teleport out from the middle of these creatures, he might have a chance to elude them-but the monsters were on him before he could even draw breath or seize the calm focus he needed to wield magic. Automatically he ducked beneath the first halberd, twisted away from a second, and lunged wildly at a third. Umbrach Nyth gleamed with an eerie purple radiance as it slashed deep into the gray flesh of the runehelm, and this time a great gout of thick black vapor spurted from the cut. The creature sank to the ground as the enchantment binding it frayed and failed under the shadow sword’s touch.

“It works!” Geran said aloud, and allowed himself a fierce smile. The runehelms had no instinct of self- preservation, and gave no thought at all to defending themselves from his blows-an acceptable strategy so long as they were nearly immune to injury. But now he had a weapon that could slay them as easily as it would any mortal opponent. He blocked several more halberd thrusts with a flurry of slashes and jabs. The shadow sword sliced deep into gray flesh, and oily black ichor splattered from the wounds. For a moment he’d hoped that a simple cut from Umbrach Nyth would be sufficient to unbind a runehelm’s animating spell, but he found that the creatures stayed on their feet under his attack-he had to strike deep into their substance to reach the magical essence they harbored, something that would have been a mortal wound in a living foe.

He turned on the nearest of the constructs, trying to draw it farther from Mirya-why had she betrayed him to Rhovann? — and sliding in under its guard to bury the shadow sword’s point just under the creature’s breastbone, or whatever it had in place of one. The runehelm crumpled, and Geran began to hope that he might be able to fight his way free despite the superior numbers of his enemies. He wheeled back to engage the next of the monsters, but a hard-driven halberd blade glanced from his wardings and knocked him off balance toward the others. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the thick haft of a halberd loomed right before his eyes and struck him a terrific blow across the forehead. The bridge and the town around him turned upside down, and darkness reached up to embrace him.

“Mirya,” he croaked. His mouth was dry, and it was difficult to speak. “Why?”

She did not answer him. She didn’t even give any sign that she’d heard him. The last thing he saw was her gazing down at him, a small puzzled frown creasing her brow.

It seemed that he flailed and struggled in dark dreams for a long time, somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. Full wakefulness hovered just out of reach; it felt as if he’d been buried in warm, thick blankets that clung to his limbs and smothered him in blackness. Eventually it was the throbbing ache in his skull that brought him back around. His forehead stung fiercely whenever anything brushed the crust of dried blood above his eyes, and trickles of warm fresh blood dripped down his face. He was dully aware of being dragged down stone steps, his arms pinioned in the cold clay grip of a pair of the towering runehelms. Then he was stripped and stood up against a rough wall while iron fetters were locked around his wrists. He sagged weakly, held up only by the cruel chains.

“Where am I?” he rasped. No one answered. Slowly he forced his eyes open, and found himself gazing down at a brick floor, covered with a thin handful of straw. The Council Hall dungeons, he realized. He’d been imprisoned here once before, when Kendurkkel Ironthane took service with his cousin Sergen and set out to trap him. Strange to be able to recognize the dungeon he was held in by a glimpse of its floor; clearly, he was spending too much time in dungeons. For a moment Geran was lost in the incongruity of it all, and wondered how long Sergen would be able to have him held here before Kara and Harmach Grigor made the Merchant Council surrender him. Sergen hated him, and he was plotting to seize the throne for himself … “No, that’s not right,” Geran mumbled aloud. “Sergen’s dead. I killed him.”

With a start, he came fully awake. He was exactly where he’d thought, chained to a wall in the prison beneath the Council Hall. Two Council Guards were making a careful inventory of his clothing and belongings at a table on the other side of the iron bars, leaving him only his smallclothes for his decency. Two of the runehelms stood close by him on either side, their blank helms fixed unwaveringly upon him. His forehead throbbed abominably, and when he glanced up at the small barred window near his cell, the sudden motion made him feel dizzy and nauseated with the blinding white pain. Outside he could see the orange gleam of a streetlamp on wet cobblestones in the gray light-it was after sunset, but not by much. In a few hours he was supposed to meet Sarth and Hamil to venture into the Shadowfell and search out Rhovann’s master stone, but Mirya had put a stop to that.

She betrayed me, he told himself again. He didn’t want to examine it, didn’t want to believe that he’d heard her say what she’d said, but the thing was undeniable. Not only had she told the runehelms who he was, she’d suggested that they should go to Erstenwolds, and led him to automatons guarding the Middle Bridge. She’d planned it while they were talking in her kitchen … while he was opening his heart to her, and asking her if she would be his wife.

Whether it was the blow to his head or the wound in his heart, his knees gave out again. “Was it all a lie?” he mumbled to himself. Had she allowed him to dote on her all the months that he’d been back in Hulburg? That he couldn’t believe. It simply wasn’t possible. He’d rescued her from the clutches of the Black Moon pirates and brought her safely back home. At that moment five months before there’d been no doubt in his heart that they were drawing closer again … and he’d been exiled from Hulburg before anything more could come of it. So no, her affection for him hadn’t been feigned, at least not at the moment when he was driven out of Hulburg.

“Ah, our dreaming prince is awake,” one of the Council Guards, a burly half-orc, remarked. He stepped into