The Council Hall prison was not a very large one, no more than a pair of intersecting corridors, with perhaps a total of a dozen or so cells. Reaching the intersection, they saw Geran-naked except for his smallclothes-in the cell at the far end of the rightmost passage, slumped unconscious with one hand shackled to the wall. Two runehelms stood watch over him. The powerful constructs flowed into motion as soon as the loyalist band came into sight, drawing short-hafted maces from their harnesses since there was little space to wield their massive halberds.
“They do not feel pain, and they do not bleed,” Sarth warned the others. “But they are knitted together with bone and sinew, and these can be destroyed. Break bones and sever limbs until they can fight no more.”
“I think I brought a knife to an axe fight,” Hamil muttered. But he threw himself forward, rolling neatly under one powerful mace swing and attacking the construct’s knee. Brun and Lodharrun joined in, while Sarth turned on the second monster and blasted at it with a jet of roaring green flames. For a moment the loyalists’ assault seemed like it might actually overpower the creatures, as steel bit and clods of claylike flesh flew. But a backhand slap staggered Brun in his tracks, and before the brewer could resume his place at Lodharrun’s side, the left-hand runehelm wheeled away from Sarth’s fire to hammer its mace down on the dwarf. It missed the smith’s head, but crushed shoulder, collarbone, and ribs with an awful sound of crunching bone, smashing Lodharrun to the floor. The smith writhed on the ground with a thin, wet scream before he fell still.
Mirya sighted and shot with her crossbow in the sudden space opened in the fight; the weapon was the wrong tool for the job, but maybe it would distract the creature for a moment. Her quarrel took the first runehelm square in the middle of its visor, and actually punched through the armor. To her surprise, the monster staggered, drops of thick black blood streaming from beneath its steel-plated face. It reached up to try and dislodge the quarrel-and Brun Osting leaped in with a snarl of pure rage, hewing off its weapon arm at the shoulder. As the creature crumpled, the brewer went to work on its neck, and managed to take off its head with several vicious chops.
“The visor protects a weak point!” Hamil called. “Good shooting, Mirya! Do the same to the other one!”
As quickly as she could, Mirya worked the mechanism of her crossbow, and laid in another bolt for the second runehelm. This one advanced remorselessly on Sarth, shrugging off everything the sorcerer could throw at him until Sarth melted its iron visor with another intense blast of flame. The creature flailed blindly until Hamil climbed up its back and surgically planted his dagger between its skull and its spine. The runehelm crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Mirya set down her crossbow and hurried over to Geran’s side. He was slumped in an awkward position, crumpled over his right arm, his left arm still stretched out above his head by the fetters. “Geran, wake up!” she cried, kneeling beside him. “We’re here to get you away from this place.” She gently turned his face up to peer into his eyes; he groaned, his eyes fluttering open. His right arm fell away from his chest as he stirred.
His right hand was missing.
Mirya recoiled in horror, covering her mouth to stifle a scream. “Oh, no,” she moaned. A simple dressing covered the stump, and around its edges small patches of blackened skin showed around the wound. She couldn’t bear to look at it. This is what I’ve done to the man I love? she berated herself. He trusted you, Mirya Erstenwold, and look what it’s cost him! You put him in the power of his enemies, and they’ve maimed him!
“By Bane’s black heart,” Hamil swore viciously. “The bastards!” His face dark with fury, the halfling threw down his knives and hurried up with the sergeant’s key ring, fumbling for the lock to the fetters. In a moment he had it open, and Geran fell forward into Mirya’s arms as he was released.
“Geran, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault-” she cried. Tears streamed down her face. She buried her face against his neck, and gave herself up to her tears-grieving for the harm done to him.
“What did you think would happen if you gave me up to Rhovann?” he said hoarsely. His face was pale and pinched with pain, but he rallied enough to shrug her aside, and reached for Hamil’s hand to pull himself upright. “I wish you’d just told me he had some hold on you. I would’ve protected you and Selsha from him.”
Mirya drew back, mortified. He knew that she hadn’t wanted to do what she did, but he still hated her for it. “Geran, I-” she said, trying to find words through her tears.
“Mirya was enchanted, Geran,” Hamil said. “Whatever she did was no fault of hers.”
“Enchanted?”
“I examined her and discovered the lingering impression of the spell not an hour ago,” Sarth said.
Geran met Mirya’s eyes, and bowed his head. “Of course. I should have known. I’m sorry that I thought anything else.” He reached out to her; she hurried back and draped his arm around her shoulders, supporting him as he shuffled out the cell’s open door.
“Can you walk?” Mirya asked him.
“I’ll damned well walk out of here,” he replied. “Let me fetch my belongings there, and we can go.”
Hamil hurried over to grab Geran’s clothing, while Brun checked on Lodharrun. The brewer shook his head, and came back to lend Mirya a hand with Geran. Then the small band hurried back out of the council prison.
TWENTY-FIVE
15 Ches, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Geran didn’t recall much of the next half hour. Despite his brave words, he was hardly steady on his feet, and he wasn’t far from simply passing out in pain. His missing hand burned as if he’d thrust it into a brazier full of hot coals and left it there; needlelike jolts of agony raced up his arm with every beat of his heart. In the guardroom Sarth unleashed a hellstorm of shrieking fireballs, scouring the chamber clear of the Council Guards clattering down the stairs to hinder his escape. Mirya ushered him through the corridors of the Council Hall and out into the driving, cold rain of an early spring thunderstorm. Icy water on his bare back and shoulders shocked him into wakefulness as they crossed to the old tailor’s shop behind the Council Hall. He caught one glimpse of orange smoke billowing out of broken windows and doors blown from their hinges before Mirya urged him down into the cellars. Brun Osting followed, then Sarth and last of all Hamil.
“Keep going!” the halfling called. “No point lingering here!”
They hurried through the buried streets, passing through several cellars and dusty old passages until Geran was no longer certain of where they were. Mirya knew where she was and guided him along. He felt his legs growing steadier under him as they went along, and when they finally halted in an old wine cellar, he was able to stand up straight and push the pain of his injury to one side of his mind, focusing his thoughts on what to do next. The rest of the band filled in behind him and Mirya; Hamil took up a post by the passage they’d just used, looking and listening back the way they’d come.
Brun brought his belongings over, and set them down. “Your things, Lord Geran,” he said.
“My thanks, Brun. I’ll remember who came to fetch me out of Marstel’s prison.” Geran clapped the big brewer on the shoulder with his left hand.
Sarth reached into a small pouch at his belt, withdrew a small vial, and unstopped it. “Drink this, Geran,” the sorcerer said. “It’s a healing potion. I took the liberty of providing myself with a couple before we left Thentia. It should help a little with the pain.”
“I appreciate your foresight,” Geran said. He took the vial and drank down the contents. The elixir felt like warm mead in his mouth, sweet but heady. It left a glow in his stomach, and a flood of fresh strength filled his limbs. A deep, vital warmth seemed to gather at his right wrist, almost too hot to endure, and he grimaced as the potion did its work. When the magic faded, he felt much better-still a trifle weak in his stride, perhaps, but he was no longer hunched over his wounded arm. He was tempted to peek under the bandages that swathed the stump, but decided not to; the dressing was secure, and he didn’t want to redo it.