Avenger

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?”

“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