“When at last you’d finally demonstrated the quality of a human of your high breeding with your craven, savage stroke against me when I was helpless before you, and even Ilsevele had to admit that you had no place among the teu Tel’Quessir, still you ruined me. Your friends at court could not abide the idea of their favorite human pet punished, and so they began to whisper against me, to spread malicious lies and suggestions until all my affairs were laid bare and I was forced to endure the same ignominious fate that had been decreed for you!” Rhovann’s teeth were bared in pure fury as he leaned close to Geran’s face. “And finally we come to perhaps your most galling offense against me: I, the scion of a House thirty centuries old, was treated like a common human criminal and turned out of my ancient homeland on your account! What for you was the end of a casual visit was for me the denial of everything I might ever have had or striven for! Now, tell me again that I am manufacturing my indignation! Tell me again!”
Geran tried to blink some of the crusted blood from his eyes. He knew that he should choose his words with care, but he was weary. “You brought much of that on yourself, Rhovann,” he said. “Alliere’s heart was never yours to begin with. You chose to dabble in arts forbidden in Myth Drannor. And when you and I fought, you reached for your wand when I’d beaten you. Your fate is your own doing, and you’re a fool if you blame it on me.”
A door slammed down the corridor, and Geran heard the sound of heavy footsteps and rustling mail. Rhovann scowled in irritation as a beefy, black-bearded Council Guard officer appeared, flanked by several council soldiers. Geran recognized him as Sarvin, castellan of Griffonwatch under Edelmark; he’d seen the fellow at a distance in his earlier visits to occupied Hulburg. The castellan’s face was set in a fierce scowl, broken only by a small snort of satisfaction as he glanced toward Geran in his chains. “Forgive the interruption, my lord,” he said to Rhovann. “I have urgent news that cannot wait.”
“Well?” Rhovann snapped. “What is it?” Castellan Sarvin glanced at Geran again, and Rhovann rolled his eyes and moved to the far corner of the room, taking the officer by the arm. The fellow whispered urgently to the elf, as Geran strained to hear what news he was bringing Rhovann. He was too far away to make it out, but after a moment Rhovann simply nodded and gave the castellan some answer that satisfied him. With a shallow bow to the mage, Sarvin marched out of the room again, motioning for his guards to join him. Rhovann stood silent for a moment, absorbed in his thoughts, then wheeled around to approach Geran again.
“Ill tidings, I hope?” Geran asked.
“It seems I let Mirya Erstenwold go too soon,” Rhovann replied. “The Hulmaster loyalists are arming themselves to rise against the harmach all across the town. And of course much of my army is scattered across the Highfells in pursuit of yours. Doubtless that was not part of your plan, but the timing of it may cause some inconvenience. Well, no matter. Within a few hours the loyalists will be put down. After tomorrow, no one will ever dare to challenge my grip on Hulburg again.” He paused, allowing the swordmage to consider what he’d said. “Never fear, Geran. I’ll make certain that you live to see the destruction of your House and the final futility of your efforts to unseat my harmach before I allow you to die.”
Geran set his face in an iron mask, refusing to let Rhovann see him wince. If he hadn’t allowed himself to be captured, the runehelms the elf mage was so proud of would have been sabotaged by now, and the battle for Hulburg already won. But unless Sarth and Hamil somehow found a way to proceed without him, Rhovann would keep his constructs for the foreseeable future. He glanced again at the pile of clothing and gear that had been taken from him when he was brought in. The scrolls of shadowalking and Umbrach Nyth were lying with his other belongings on the table by the cell’s door. So far Rhovann hadn’t thought to make any close inspection of the things Geran had been carrying with him … and if there was any hope of striking an unexpected blow against the master stone to which the creatures were all bound, he couldn’t let Rhovann guess that he attached any special importance to dealing with the mage’s powerful constructs.
“You might pay your mercenaries and build your automatons, but no one is truly loyal to you,” he said to the mage. “You trust no one, and therefore no one trusts you. How long can you keep Hulburg under your thumb without allies?”
“Allies come and go; as long as I hold the reins of power in this city, I’ll never want for them.” Rhovann studied him coldly, and a cruel smile crept across his features. “As much as I might like to continue this conversation, I have to admit that it would inconvenience me to let your misguided loyalists cause any great amount of damage. Unfortunately, that means I have no more time to bandy words with you now. But before I go, I think I’ll leave you with a little something to remember me by, and a promise of many more conversations to come.”
The mage motioned to the runehelms hovering close by Geran. The creatures moved in to take Geran by the arms and pin him firmly against the wall of the cell, his arms outstretched in the fetters. He drew his wand from the slender holster at his hip, and advanced on the helpless swordmage. “I am nothing if not a creature of reason,” Rhovann remarked. “You brought about my exile from my home; I did the same to you. You humiliated and disgraced me; I will think long and hard about how best to give you the same, measure for measure. But first and foremost, you maimed me. What compensation should I require for that, I wonder?”
Despite his determination not to show any weakness to his enemy, Geran felt his stomach tighten in sudden fear. He pressed his lips together, refusing to say anything.
“No suggestions?” Rhovann raised an eyebrow, waiting for Geran to speak. When Geran kept his silence, he suddenly scowled. “As you will, then,” he said. He pointed the wand at Geran’s right hand and snarled, “Aitharach na viarl!”
From the wand green-glowing liquid jetted forth, a splatter not much larger than half a good-sized mug. It covered Geran’s palm and most of his fingers-and instantly began to blacken his flesh, bubbling and sizzling. The acid was appallingly strong, stripping away the skin in mere heartbeats and dissolving its way to muscle and tendon underneath. Despite his determination not to give Rhovann even the slightest flinch, Geran howled in agony as a thousand red-hot needles skewered his flesh and began to chew deeper and deeper. The smell of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils. He looked again, and saw bare black bones emerging from the ruin. Nausea and pain overwhelmed him.
Suddenly his arm swung free from the fetters, and he sagged toward the floor, held now only by the chains around his left wrist. For an instant he thought that somehow he’d slipped out of his manacles and saved his hand-but when he looked at his right wrist, there was only a pocked, blackened stump, throbbing with unbelievable agony, a pain so intense his shoulder ached and his heart hammered in his chest. An animal-like sound of misery escaped his mouth.
“Not so clean or swift as the wound you dealt me, but the end result is much the same,” Rhovann snarled. He looked to the runehelms. “Send for a healer to clean and bandage the injury. He is not to die before I permit him to do so. I will return when I am done dealing with the Hulmaster loyalists.” Then he wheeled and strode out of the dungeon, his cloak fluttering behind him.