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 you unconscious. Never do something like that again! I thought you were dying under some awful curse of Rhovann’s. What was in that thick head of yours?”
He didn’t answer immediately. With care he raised his right arm close to inspect the silver hand; it met the flesh of his arm in a metal band only an inch wide, but he could feel by the weight of it that the thing was anchored as firmly on the bones of his arm as his own living hand would have been. For better or worse, there would be no taking it off now. Gingerly he tried to make a fist with the device-and the smooth metal fingers answered to his desire. He could even feel the pressure of fingertips against palm, although it was strangely distant and numb. His wrist still ached, and he suspected it would for a long time yet, but his arm felt whole and sound. “It works,” he murmured.
“Best not trust it for sword play until you’ve had a chance to become used to it,” Hamil advised. “Your grip might be different, and it could throw you off.”
The swordmage started to answer, but a sudden pounding at the door interrupted him. He exchanged worried glances with his companions and scrambled to his feet. Then a voice in the hallway outside called, “Lord Rhovann, excuse the interruption, but Harmach Maroth said to fetch you right away! Are you well, my lord?”
Geran exchanged looks with Mirya, Hamil, and Sarth. “It seems Marstel is missing his wizard,” Mirya whispered. “What do we do?”
“Wait for them to leave,” Sarth advised. “We do not want to alert the whole castle.”
“My lord!” the man in the hall outside called once again. Then the heavy jingle of a key ring came clearly through the door, along with a murmured conversation.
Hamil glanced at the headless body on the floor, and back to Geran. “Forgive me for saying so,” he said, “but Marstel isn’t going to be happy with you.”
“Of all the luck,” Geran breathed. It seemed he’d find out soon enough whether the silver hand would answer his bidding.
TWENTY-NINE
15 Ches, the Year of Deep Water Drifting (1480 DR)
Geran stood paralyzed for a moment more, searching for a way out of the room, and then keys rattled in the lock of the laboratory’s door. There was nothing for it-they’d have to deal with whoever was at the door. He nodded at Hamil, who quickly crossed the room to stand beside the door on one side, while he moved to the opposite side. When they were in position, he motioned for Hamil to wait. In his best imitation of Rhovann’s elf accent, he called angrily through the door, “Who is there?”
The key stopped at once. Geran couldn’t help but smile; apparently the idea of disturbing the harmach’s mage in his sanctum was more than a little intimidating.
“Castellan Sarvin and Guard Murrn, my lord.”
“What is it?” Geran demanded.
“You are needed, my lord-the Hulmaster army is at the gates, and the harmach requires your counsel. Something must be done!”
The Hulmaster army is at the gates? Hamil observed silently. Kara must have made the most of her opportunity when we destroyed the master stone.
Geran nodded. “Something must be done, indeed,” he said. He reached down to unlock the door with his silver hand; it seemed to answer his will deftly enough, even though he could not feel the latch under his fingertips very well. “Enter!”
There was a brief hesitation before the door pushed open. Castellan Sarvin-the big, black-bearded officer Geran had seen in the Council Hall dungeon-and his guard stepped inside with some trepidation. They halted in confusion as they took in the wreck of the laboratory, the remains of the golem, and the presence of Mirya and Sarth at the other end of the room. Then Hamil’s knife appeared at the throat of the one mercenary, while Geran set the point of Umbrach Nyth at Sarvin’s belt buckle. The two Council Guards had sense enough-or were simply surprised enough-not to make a fight of it. They froze, keeping their hands well away from their weapons.
“A good idea,” Geran told the two guards. “Rhovann is dead, and I’m here to take back my castle. Now, where might I find Maroth Marstel?”
The two guards kept still until Hamil prodded his man with his knife. “The courtyard!” the guard answered. “The harmach is abandoning Griffonwatch. The Vaasans have offered us sanctuary. He sent us to see what was keeping Lord Rhovann.”
The Vaasans? Hamil remarked. What in the world do they have to do with this?
Geran scowled. He wasn’t sure what the Vaasans were doing in Hulburg, but here was a second piece of evidence of Warlock Knight meddling in the space of the last few hours. A year earlier, the Warlock Knights had aided Warchief Mhurren’s Bloody Skull horde; he’d dueled a Vaasan sorcerer during the battle at Lendon’s Wall. And Rhovann had said that the Vaasans had put Valdarsel up to his murder. Now Vaasans were waiting to spirit away the false harmach? No good could come of that. “How long before they ride?” he demanded.
“He’s waiting in the courtyard with the Vaasans now,” Castellan Sarvin answered. “We have no more quarrel with you, Lord Hulmaster. All we want is to be quit of this place.”
“You should have thought of that before you took Marstel’s coin,” Mirya replied. “What do we do with these two, Geran?”
“Bind them and leave them here. They answered, and for that I’ll spare their lives.” He smiled grimly. “After that, I think I’d like to go down to the courtyard and have a word or two with Harmach Marstel and these Vaasans before they depart.”
Hamil and Mirya quickly secured the two guardsmen. Geran noticed that the castellan wore a fine pair of light leather gauntlets; he tried on the right-hand gauntlet over the silver hand. He felt more than a little self-conscious about wearing Rhovann’s hand at the end of his own arm, and felt like he ought to keep it out of sight. Satisfied with the fit, he nodded to his friends, and they set out into the castle.
The halls of Griffonwatch were eerily quiet as Geran, Mirya, Sarth, and Hamil hurried down toward the lower courtyard. None of the castle servants or clerks seemed to be about; Geran guessed that they’d quietly slipped out of the castle in the last few hours to join loyalists in the streets or simply lay low and wait out events. Nor were any of Marstel’s mercenaries at their posts, since the towers and battlements seemed abandoned. They did find a number of runehelms as they descended, but Rhovann’s constructs were listless and unmoving. The magical glyphs marking their flesh had almost completely faded, and thin black ichor dripped from beneath their iron visors.
“Should we destroy these things as we pass them?” Hamil asked as they made their way through a motionless band of four gray guardians gathered around the upper entrance to the great hall.
“They are unlikely to pose a threat,” Sarth observed. “I suspect that the master stone’s destruction erased whatever orders or instructions Rhovann provided them, and clearly Rhovann will provide no new instructions now. With a little time, I might be able to determine whether the runehelms are crippled, awaiting new orders, or have simply ceased to function altogether.”
“Never mind that,” Geran answered. “We have no time to waste on the runehelms now-we must stop Marstel’s escape.”
“I’ve no reason to think kindly of Maroth Marstel, but does he matter at all now?” Mirya asked. “He was only a figurehead for Rhovann’s rule. Without the wizard, he’s naught but a drunken old fool.”