Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (20 page)

The ravens came first. Two dozen at least. Their harsh caws echoed off the mountainside as they dipped and dived
at the guards. But the birds stayed well out of reach of the guards’ spears.

The warriors had their gazes turned skyward as they batted and swiped at the ravens with spears and torches. So none of them saw the wolves coming up the path, moving low to the ground. And the raucous cries of the ravens and hobgoblins drowned out the sounds of the wolves’ feet.

The lead wolf was a huge beast, his fur black as pitch, making him almost invisible in the night. He snarled a moment, and his fangs flashed in the starlight, before his jaws locked behind the knee of the foremost warrior. The hobgoblin shrieked and struck at the wolf. But the beast leaped away and the iron spearhead struck sparks on the stone path.

The other warriors saw the danger and turned their attention to these new attackers. Hweilan watched, satisfied, as the wolves ran among the hobgoblins, dodging and snapping at the sharp spears.

After the first attack, the wolves pulled back, and all but two of the hobgoblin warriors followed. One warrior threw his spear, impaling a gray wolf. The beast let out a pitiful yip and tried to run, but its back legs were spasming beyond its control. Its forepaws scrambled on the rock, but too late. The wolf went over the edge.

The other warriors, encouraged, threw their spears. All but one missed—and that one only grazed the side of the black-pelted leader. But the wolves continued to pull back, retreating farther up the path. The warriors drew their swords and pursued.

Hweilan counted to ten, slowly, then stood, raised her bow, and pulled the fletching to her cheek.

The warrior nearest the tower watched all but one of his companions disappear around the bend in the path as they drove off the wolves. The ravens were still crying out and circling above, but they had stopped diving in to jab at his helmet.

Then a weight like a battering ram hit his right side, and he flew backward through the air and hit the tower door. His spear clattered to the ground. He looked down to see what had struck him. An arrow protruded from his right shoulder. It had pierced his mail, gone all the way through flesh and bone, then nailed him to the tower door. He let out a wordless cry of pain and tried to pull away, but the arrow held him fast.

His companion turned to look at him, his eyes widening at the black-feathered shaft. Behind him, a shadow was racing at them from the path.

“Look out!”

His companion turned around too late. The attacker kicked the spear from his hand. Starlight flickered off steel as the shadow struck.
Crack!
His companion’s head snapped back and he went down.

The shadow leaped over him.

It was only then that the warrior thought to call an alarm. He took a breath to call out, but then felt the cold of sharp steel at his throat.

“Don’t,” whispered a voice, muffled.

He looked down to see a face of bone staring up at him, but the eyes in the sockets were very much alive. The pale arm showing because of the torn sleeve was covered in dark designs, and he knew who this was. She had a bow in one hand, and he could feel the knife at his throat.

“Do
not
cry out,” she said.

He glanced sidelong at his companion, who lay senseless. She caught the movement.

“The skull,” she said. “Your brain inside that thick head of yours is floating inside a nice bath of ick. Hit someone just the right way, snap their head hard enough, the brain slams against the bone and decides to take a nap. Your friend isn’t dead. And don’t worry about that arrow I put in you. It went right under your collarbone. Don’t move around too much, and you’ll do yourself no permanent harm. Behave yourself, and I won’t either.”

Very slowly, praying her attention was focused on his face, he reached for the dagger at his belt.

“Naughty,” she said, and her knife sliced.

He closed his eyes and his entire body tensed, afraid to breathe.

But she had only sliced the chin strap of his helmet. She sheathed her knife and yanked off his helmet. He took a very careful breath. His throat was whole. She hadn’t opened his windpipe after all.

“Still,” she said, “hitting someone with enough force—especially a big one like you—that can be hard on the hands. Thank you for the helmet.”

Then she backhanded him across the face with it.

Buureg had twenty warriors at his back as they ran up the path to the tower. The last band of attacking ravens had fled, and they’d seen no wolves, though their howls were all around. Still, his warrior’s instinct was screaming in the back of his mind, fearing he was already too late. His one hope was that Maaqua had defeated the girl once already. Surely she could do it again.

The stairwell wound around the tower, leading to a door on every level. Hweilan had dealt with two guards in the first stairwell and another two in the first room. But she’d struck too high on the last hobgoblin’s midriff and heard bones shatter. She left him alive but struggling to breathe.

The next two stairwells and floors were empty. The second had a large window, open to the east, and as Hweilan stepped in, the moon broke over the far peaks, flooding the room with light.

“Razor Heart!”

A single cry came from outside, followed by the bellow of dozens of voices. Far more than the first band of guards that had pursued the wolves. Seemed they had found friends.

She shut the door behind her, latched it, and wedged the spear she had taken from the guard against the wood. It
wouldn’t stop a determined troop, but it might slow them long enough for her to finish this.

She considered going out the window and climbing up the final level of the tower, but whatever spells wrapped this place still concerned her. Best to make a quick entrance, then.

She bounded up the final flight of stairs, threw back the latch on the door, and kicked it open.

Her skull mask let her take in the entire scene in a fleeting glimpse: Nine hobgoblins, three of them hulking warriors, blades in each hand, the nearest with a spear. Others were smaller, and made smaller still because they were kneeling. They wore an assortment of robes, skins, and bone jewelry.

By the time they’d turned to the door, Hweilan was already on them.

The nearest of the guards turned his spear to her, but he was too slow. Hweilan grabbed the shaft. Using the force of his swing against him, she pushed him all the way around to face the nearest guard. Trying to resist her and turn back around, he was already off balance, so when she rammed her left foot in the small of his back, he tumbled forward and barely escaped being impaled on his companion’s sword.

The third guard roared and charged. Hweilan stepped back into a defensive crouch.

“Stop this!”

The hobgoblin halted his charge, and both he and Hweilan looked to the speaker. One of the robed ones had stood, and purple energy was sparkling around her upraised fist.

Hweilan looked again at the center of the room. The hobgoblins weren’t kneeling in any ritual but around another form, crumpled on the floor. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, her jaw slack, a line of spittle running down her cheek.

“Maaqua?” said Hweilan.

The warrior took a step toward Hweilan, and the robed hobgoblin pointed at him with the hand holding the sparking energy. “I said, ‘Stop!’ ”

The other two guards regained their feet, the spearman with some difficulty.

“You,” the robed hobgoblin pointed at Hweilan with her free hand. “You are the one they call the Hand of the Hunter?”

Hweilan looked back and forth between the warriors and what she took for Maaqua’s disciples. “I am,” she said.

The hobgoblin pointed at Maaqua. “Then help her. Help her or you’ll never leave this tower alive.”

From the room below, Hweilan heard heavy feet kicking at the door she’d wedged shut. She lowered her knife, just slightly, though she didn’t loosen her grip. This was not how things were supposed to go. She’d come here to kill Maaqua. It would make her an eternal enemy of the Razor Heart. But she knew hobgoblins. They’d spend the first two days squabbling over who would be king or queen. Warriors might be sent after Hweilan, but there would be no strategy. And no heart. Every warrior would be wondering who would lead the clan and then determining his own loyalties. She’d have to be careful, but she could make it to Highwatch and do what needed to be done. After that, either Jagun Ghen would be destroyed, or she would be. And if she lived, she could always head east and spend the rest of her life ignoring the Razor Heart. But killing someone like this, when she lay completely helpless …

The old crone was trembling, her fingers hooked into claws. And through Ashiin’s eyes, she could see a foul miasma lurking just under the queen’s skin. It stank of Jagun Ghen.

Hweilan looked at the disciple who had spoken to her. “Tell me what happened.”

A look of relief passed over the disciple’s face. “You three,” she said, pointing at the warriors. “Meet whoever is coming up. Tell them what has happened.”

None of them moved. They looked from the disciple to Hweilan and flexed their hands around their weapons.

“Go!” The energy crackling around the hobgoblin woman’s fist flared and lit in her eyes. “Go or I’ll boil the blood in you where you stand. You think I can’t handle this whelp?”

The three warriors obeyed. They’d scarcely left when the sound of heated conversation came from the stairwell. Buureg
himself emerged a moment later, a half-dozen warriors right behind him. The warchief gave Hweilan a hard look, then focused all his attention on Maaqua.

“It’s true, then?” he said. “Elret, this is true?”

“Buureg,” said the disciple, the one whom he’d called Elret. “You and any two you choose may stay. Send the rest away. Quickly!”

Buureg motioned sharply to two of his warriors and the rest filed back through the door.

“Shut the door,” said one of the other disciples.

The last warrior on the stairs looked to Buureg, who nodded. The door closed, but Hweilan noticed the latch didn’t slide home.

“You three stay where you are,” said Hweilan. She still had her knife in hand.

“The queen was using a ritual to spy on our enemy in Highwatch,” said Elret. “It was working at first. All of us could feel it. But then … something went wrong.”

“What?” said Hweilan.

The disciple cradling Maaqua’s head in her lap looked up. “She encountered something and …”

“It caught her,” said Elret.

“
Caught
her?” said Buureg. “What—?”

“If we need something sliced or stabbed, I will call for you,” said Elret. “Until then, hold your jaw. If half of what this girl said is true, she knows our enemy better than anyone. She may be Maaqua’s only chance.”

Hweilan looked down at Maaqua. The old crone had seemed ancient the first time Hweilan had seen her, but now she appeared absolutely frail. Her skin had the look of wet parchment. She spared Buureg a glance, then put her full attention on Elret. “I can’t help your queen,” she said. “But I know someone who can.”