“Geran, smash the thrice-damned stone already!” Hamil shouted from the hallway outside. The halfling darted recklessly from one runehelm to another, dodging halberd blows that splintered the floor and smashed great gouges out of the walls. One of the monsters turned toward Mirya, drawing back its weapon to run her through as she fumbled with her crossbow; with a desperate lunge the halfling bounded over and dug out the back of its knee, sending its thrust aside as its leg buckled. The creature smashed at Hamil with a backhand blow of its great fist; the halfling flew a good ten feet through the air before hitting the opposite wall with bone-jarring force and crumpling. Another runehelm prepared to hew him as he lay stunned, but at that moment a brilliant green ray shot down the hall and struck it in the head. In a bright green flash the iron visor and gray clay disintegrated under Sarth’s magic, and the headless construct sank to the floor.
Battered and bleeding, the sorcerer smiled grimly at the top of the stairway they’d climbed. “I think I have finally determined how best to destroy these creatures,” he remarked. Then he was beset by the remaining runehelms in the hall, replying with a furious barrage of force darts and flame lances.
Fiery pinpricks burned here and there on Geran’s torso and arms where the droplets of acid clung, but he clenched his jaw and made himself ignore the pain. Instead of attacking the master stone directly, he darted clockwise around the great apparatus surrounding it, searching for his foe. Twice now he’d attacked the stone instead of the wizard; it was time to change tactics for a moment. He plunged through a cloud of smoke-Rhovann’s lightning spell had started a fire, it seemed-and found Rhovann only a double-arm’s length away, coming to meet him. Without a moment’s hesitation Geran stepped and lunged, driving his sword point clumsily at the elf’s midsection. Rhovann twisted aside with a sudden oath, deflecting the thrust by slapping at Umbrach Nyth with his silver hand. Sparks flew briefly as the shadow sword and the rune-marked hand met; the elf survived with a long, shallow cut under his ribs.
“Damn you!” Rhovann hissed. He jumped back as Geran recovered from his lunge, and leveled his wand at the swordmage. This time there was no dodging the mage’s fury; Rhovann shouted a spell of thundering power that picked up Geran like a child’s toy and threw him halfway across the chamber. Worktables exploded in clouds of broken glass and wooden splinters; incomplete runehelms were smashed into shapeless putty by the blast. Geran found himself stretched out on the stone floor, covered in debris and the contents of Rhovann’s vats. He groaned and shook his head, unable to stop the ringing in his ears. The room darkened and spun drunkenly as he fought for consciousness.
Slowly, he rolled to his belly and tried to push himself upright. He’d only managed to rise to his hand and knees when Rhovann kicked his sword away from him and leveled his wand in Geran’s face. “Now, at last, we see who is the better,” the mage spat. “Farewell, Geran. We shall not meet again.” He started to form a word of magic-and abruptly broke off into a choked cry, wheeling half around.
A crossbow bolt was lodged high in the back of Rhovann’s right shoulder. Geran glanced toward the workshop’s doorway and saw Mirya standing there, already working her crossbow mechanism for the next shot. “That’s for enchanting me!” she shouted. Behind her, several runehelms whirled away from Sarth and Hamil to charge at her back. She glanced over her shoulder, shrinking from the massive blades aiming for her heart. “Finish it quickly, Geran!”
“Cuilledyr!” Geran rasped, pushing himself to his feet. The shadow sword quivered once and leaped to meet his outstretched hand as he staggered forward-not at Rhovann, but instead at the master stone. With a strength born of pure desperation he rammed the chisel-like point of black steel into the center of the gouge he’d already carved from the great purple crystal. The shock of it jarred his arm so hard he bit his tongue as his jaw snapped shut, but a great white crack shot through the stone from side to side, and began to spread. The runehelms behind Mirya crumpled in silence, gray hands fumbling at their visors, halberds dropping uselessly to the floor.
“No!” Rhovann screamed. “I will not be defeated by you!” The elf seized Geran by the shirt as the swordmage drew back to finish his blow, dragging him away. Geran struggled to escape his grasp and strike again; in the space of a heartbeat they were grappling fiercely with each other. Geran fought to bring the point or edge of the shadow sword into position for a killing blow, but Rhovann managed to get his left hand on Geran’s sword hand and locked his hand of silver in a viselike grip around Geran’s throat. The metal hand was horribly strong, and the cold fingers ground into his neck, seeking to crush his windpipe. Swaying and stumbling in their desperate grapple, they blundered into a rune circle marked out on the floor.
A few feet away, the master stone’s mortal fracture split, and split again. Now the whole thing was shot through with white cracks, and the lambent flame flickering in its depths guttered and went out. In the instant the stone went dark, it shattered in a tremendous explosion of dark energy, rocking the shadow-Griffonwatch and devastating the wizard’s sanctum. The magical diagram under Geran’s straining feet pulsed to life, activated by the sudden release of shadow magic from the broken stone; even as he gasped for breath and his sight narrowed into a tunnel stretching longer and darker by the moment, he felt the jolt of magic at work.
Then all went dark as he and Rhovann were catapulted out of the Shadowfell.
TWENTY-SEVEN
15 Ches, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Thunder rumbled away to the north over the moorlands of Thar as Kara Hulmaster peered through the cold, steady rain at the lines of Marstel’s army encircling the barren hill where she was trapped. The thick clouds overhead hid the approaching dawn, but the night wasn’t completely dark; hooded lanterns and watchfires here and there gave a dim orange glow to the battlefield. The Shieldsworn were drawn up along the edge of the short, steep bluff ringing the hilltop; a half mile or so off, she could make out the jagged outline of Rosestone Abbey against the faint lightening of the coming dawn. In the smoke and gloom below her, Marstel’s mercenary army gathered to make its last assault against the Shieldsworn, spearheaded by almost one hundred of Rhovann’s great gray-skinned guardians. From time to time, when the rain slackened, Kara could hear the distant clash of arms or the roar of angry voices rising from some skirmish or another farther around the hill.
“Where are you, Geran?” Kara murmured to herself. She was supposed to be marching into Hulburg by now, Rhovann’s construct warriors dead or incapacitated, the Council Guard broken and fleeing ahead of her. Instead, she’d spent the last eight or nine hours fighting furiously to avoid annihilation as Marstel’s commanders threw wave after wave at her improvised redoubt. Only the steep scramble up to the rounded, boulder-strewn top had kept the runehelms from destroying what was left of her army; as the creatures sought to climb the last few feet of the bluff, they could be dislodged by heavy rocks rolled down from above or pushed off by a couple of strong men using a big pole. The constructs took little harm from the fall, but each time the creatures had to pick themselves up and clamber up again. Marstel had allowed his tireless automatons to attempt the task for hours before finally sending living human soldiers against the Shieldsworn at the same time-but Kara’s archers had shot Council Guards down by the score, breaking the first general assault. Now Marstel was preparing to try it again.