“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 the cell and advanced to seize a handful of Geran’s hair and raise his head fully upright. “Are there any other Hulmaster spies wandering about in Harmach Maroth’s realm, my lord? Speak up now, and it may go easier on you.”
Geran winced in pain, but said nothing.
The half-orc guardsman tightened his grip. “You didn’t slip into town just to pay a visit to Mirya Erstenwold,” he sneered. “Who else did you see? What are your plans?”
“My plans are to kill or run off Rhovann Disarnnyl, that fat oaf Marstel, and all the brigands and thugs who call themselves their soldiers,” Geran replied. “What else would I be here for?”
The half-orc’s face darkened. He stepped back and delivered a jarring backhand slap to Geran’s jaw. The swordmage reeled in his chains as his already-throbbing skull filled with hot red pain, and he found himself spitting blood on the cell floor. The Council Guard raised his hand for another blow, but one of the runehelms standing nearby reached out to catch his arm.
The blank visor swiveled down to gaze at the half-orc guard. “Do not damage Geran Hulmaster further,” the creature intoned. “I am coming to attend to him soon. Do you understand?”
The guard paled and stepped back. “Yes, Lord Rhovann. We will be ready for you,” he replied. “What shall we do with Mirya Erstenwold? She is waiting upstairs.”
“Send her home,” the creature replied. “She’s been of great service to me.” The runehelm let go of the guard’s arm, and he quickly retreated.
Geran closed his eyes, hoping that would dull the pain. The guards ignored him, and he returned to the question of Mirya’s betrayal. He knew that nothing could have turned her against him before he was exiled from Hulburg, so what had changed between then and now? “Selsha,” he whispered aloud. That had to be it. When he’d returned to Hulburg and called on her at Erstenwold’s, Mirya had said that she’d sent Selsha away for safekeeping. But what if Rhovann or his captains had threatened her daughter? That was the only thing that he could imagine to explain Mirya’s betrayal. She wouldn’t have done it for money-she wouldn’t have done it to save her own life.