be days more of hard fighting to pry them out.”
“Not for you, there won’t be,” Mirya said. “You’ve done enough for now, Geran. You need your wounds properly tended, and then a good rest. Others can see this through to its end now.”
He gave her a wry smile. “I’m afraid that’s up to Marstel, seeing as we’re now in the middle of the castle I presume he still holds. Getting out of Griffonwatch might be a challenge. In fact, we’ve probably delayed here long enough. Rhovann will certainly be missed by Marstel and his captains; sooner or later they’ll investigate.”
“Geran, have a look at this,” said Sarth. The tiefling stood by Rhovann’s body. He pointed down; Geran looked, and saw that the mage’s silver hand had detached from the wrist. Small, dark runes encircled the replica around the place where it had joined its bearer’s arm. “Did you strike it off?” Sarth asked.
“No, I didn’t. He nearly strangled me to death with it, but it was still on his wrist when I took his head. It must have come off after he died.” Geran reached up to rub gently at his bruised throat. He doubted that he had much more fight left in him, not with his sword hand gone. With Umbrach Nyth in his right hand instead of his left, he could have carved his way through the runehelms in the Shadowfell with hardly a scratch, he could have smashed the master stone in a single stroke, and Rhovann wouldn’t have lived ten heartbeats once he’d closed to sword’s reach. Left-handed, he was less than half the swordsman he needed to be. It was only a matter of pure luck that his injury hadn’t cost him his life in the last few hours—or, for that matter, the life of Hamil or Mirya. And they might be far from done with the fighting.
To the Nine Hells with it, he decided. He couldn’t afford to be crippled at the moment. “Sarth, let me see that,” he said.
The tiefling gave him an odd look, but he stooped and picked up Rhovann’s artificial hand. He studied it carefully, murmuring the words of a detection spell as he examined it. “It is a complex and subtle magic,” he finally said. “I cannot say for certain what it might do. Are you certain you wish to try this?”
“Try what?” Mirya demanded.
“The silver hand. It served Rhovann as a replacement for his own. It may work for me as well.” Geran used his left hand and his teeth to worry at the bandages on his right wrist, then began to unwrap them. A flood of fresh pain washed over his arm as the pressure eased and new sensation returned to the stump; even after two healing potions, it was far from whole. A faint, acrid reek—the remnant of the acid, he thought—came to his nostrils.
Mirya shuddered. “Have you lost your mind? How could you think about wearing that thing on your wrist? Who knows what spells Rhovann wove to bind it to his flesh?”
“I have read of such things before,” Sarth replied. “Magical devices that replace limbs are often enchanted to join themselves to the wearer’s body. It’s how they are customarily made, and the experiment is simple enough to perform. But I still think it is reckless to place your trust in Rhovann’s craftsmanship or intentions. Until you know what he paid for that hand, or whether it can be removed once you join it to your arm, you would be wiser to wait.”
“Not this day,” Geran said. “Lives may depend on me. I can’t afford to be crippled, not if I have any alternative.” He held out his left hand for the silver device, intending to try it himself.
Sarth sighed, and shook his head. “No, if you insist on proceeding, it’s best to let someone else align it. For all we know it may graft itself instantly to you, and if that is the case, you will want to be absolutely certain it is arranged correctly. Here, set your arm on this table. Hamil, hold his arm firmly in place. Mirya, you watch too, and help me to marry it evenly to the stump.”
Mirya grimaced, but she did as Sarth asked, leaning down to study the silver device and the blackened ruin of Geran’s wrist. As Sarth held it close, Geran realized that the hand was not a perfect match for the one he’d lost; it was a little more slender and long in