Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (39 page)

She had not faced a serious challenge yet. The worst had been two baazuled at once, but the sacred arrows had soon dealt with them.

Still, she felt the noose tightening. She’d found passageways blocked by fire, or doors made impassable because of a rock slide. She was being herded, and she knew it.

In the distance, she heard the growl of a wolf followed by a high-pitched scream. Hweilan pulled the
kishkoman
from her shirt and blew three long notes, then a short call. A moment
later, three harsh cries carried all through the fortress, into the valley beyond, and over the hills at the back of Highwatch.

Hweilan fitted her last plain arrow to the string, then dropped to the floor. The passage was too obvious. She pushed open the door to her grandfather’s hall and slipped inside. A window gave a good view of the east. From there, she climbed out and onto the roof.

The slate had not been tended since the summer before the fall, and she dislodged several tiles that slid off the roof to shatter on the flagstones forty feet below. A moment after the first two hit, she heard a cry from below.

Good. They’d heard her and were coming after her.

They’d taken the bait.

Hweilan ran along the roofline and blew on the
kishkoman
once more.

It worked. It had been one of Ashiin’s first lessons in the wild:
If you’re being hunted, choose where you make your stand. When the hunter comes to you, be ready. Do not spring the trap
. Be
the trap
.

Hweilan chose her spot well. In the middle of the fortress, in what had originally been a little valley carved by eons of running water, lay the main gardens. These were not places where the High Warden’s family walked in the evenings, full of flowers and trees. Watered by snowmelt off the heights in the spring, these gardens, in a field over a hundred yards across, were tended by Damarans who grew berries and vegetables and used braziers and bonfires to keep the plants from freezing in particularly cold springtimes.

But it was now a wasteland—little more than a wide courtyard littered with mud and stones from the broken walls. The bushes and small trees had been uprooted to feed Creel fires. The northern and western walls rose more than thirty feet above her, but the southern wall was only a yard or so high, and the eastern no more than a lip of stone. This configuration allowed sunlight to fill the garden in spring and summer. Beyond the eastern lip, the stone ran down a
rock face that Hweilan and her few friends had climbed many times as children. At the bottom was another courtyard in the midst of the servants’ quarters.

The seven men and four women following her were too far back. Hweilan slowed to a comfortable trot, letting them gain on her. Then she caught a blur of movement behind the low wall off to her right, and another in the open arch beyond. Two doors directly across from her stood wide open. Hweilan saw nothing there, but her hunter’s sense told her something was waiting.

She stopped in the middle of the field near the well. Its stone rim was only a few feet high, but it would be enough if any of her pursuers had bows. She blew the
kishkoman
once more to let Uncle know exactly where she was, then tucked it back into her shirt. There was no reply from the wolf this time.

Her pursuers dashed into the garden. Seeing Hweilan, they fanned out and blocked the doorway behind them. Two of the men and one of the women had bows.

Keeping her eyes on them, Hweilan took a step back, hoping it would spur their next move.

Four more men emerged from the archway. Two carried a net between them and the other two had clubs. Another archer rose from behind the wall in front of them. His eyes were watery and jittered back and forth like a bird’s.

Then Hweilan heard the clank of armor, and a moment later more figures emerged from the passage to the storerooms. Three were massive brutes in dirty mail. Their helmets hid their faces, but by the tint of the skin on their bare arms, Hweilan guessed they were half-orcs. The men behind them also carried a net.

“Your running is done, girl,” said the woman with the bow. She spoke in perfect Damaran.

But it was the archer beside her that held Hweilan’s attention. Of all the faces around her, his was the only one not set in an eager smile, hesitant fear, or the insolent sneer of a tavern brawler. His face had no more emotion than a statue,
but his eyes didn’t miss a movement from Hweilan or anyone else. Most of those approaching her were brawlers, thugs, or those hungry enough for power to sell their souls. This man was a killer. Hweilan knew he took no pleasure in it, nor felt any remorse. It was a means to an end, no different than scratching an itch. Hweilan was glad she had kept one arrow.

“Why the nets?” Hweilan called out. The nearest of them was only fifteen paces away.

“You’re wanted alive,” said the woman. “Something special in mind for you. A great honor, I’m told. It’s best if you come nicely.”

Holding her bow and the shaft of the arrow in her right hand, Hweilan pointed at the woman. Loud and clear, she said in Goblin, “
That one first
.”

One of the half-orcs cried out a warning, and then an arrow slammed into the woman’s temple.

In that instant, when everyone turned to see where the arrow had come from, Hweilan raised her bow, drew the arrow as she aimed, and loosed. By the time the sharp stone killer had turned his attention back to her, the arrow was only inches from his face. Then the arrow tore through his eye.

The garden filled with screams even before the two archers’ bodies hit the ground. Flet’s soldiers were the first over the eastern wall. His boasting proved true. Not one of them missed. By the time the Razor Heart archers were reaching for more arrows, Vurgrim, the
zugruuk
, and Rhan had scaled the wall.

The fight was over in moments. The last few defenders tried to flee, but the Razor Heart cut them down.

As the warriors were looting the bodies, Vurgrim looked to Hweilan and said, “What now?”

She looked up at the fortress looming over them. “Up there.”

“Your demon lord? He’s up that way?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s close. I can feel him.”

“Then you lead the way.”

C
HAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

H
WEILAN LED THE WARRIORS UP INTO THE HIGHEST
reaches of the fortress, where passages had been carved out of the mountain itself and watchtowers rose beside sheer cliff walls. They met no resistance. The sounds of fighting drifted up to them from the lower regions, and more fires had sprung up in Kistrad, staining the red evening sky with black smoke.

Passing through a large courtyard, Flet asked Hweilan, “Where’s your wolf?”

“Don’t worry about him,” she replied. She had an arrow fitted on her bowstring, and five more of the unused sacred arrows in her quiver. She could still feel many more baazuled nearby. But they didn’t really matter. It was their master she wanted.

“And the ravens?”

They, too, had left. Now and then Hweilan still heard them crying far below, but the skies above were empty.

“Forget about ravens and wolves,” Rhan told Flet. The Razor Heart champion held the greatsword in one hand. It was still wet with blood from their last fight, but small tongues of purple light were running down the blade. “The enemy is close.”

Hweilan pressed on. She passed an iron-bound door and took a staircase next to the wall. The presence of her enemy was so strong now that climbing them was like trying to swim upriver against an unrelenting current.

At last the stairs ended at another large courtyard that circled a tower. A second series of steps led up to the tower door. Daylight was fading fast, and the doorway seemed to hold only shadows. But then, as Hweilan put her boot on the final step, the shadows moved. She raised her bow.

A figure, swathed in thick robes and a deep hood, lurched onto the porch.

“You … have … come.”

Each word came out a rasp. Hweilan was shocked at the frail voice, for the power washing off of the figure burned her mind. It was Argalath—or what was left of him. As he steadied himself, he spread both his arms, almost as if offering an embrace, and the tattered robes fell open, revealing peeling skin and bits of flesh going to rot.

She stepped into the courtyard and walked into the center, giving the hobgoblins room to come up but still leaving plenty of ground between her and her enemy.

“I am … most pleased,” he said. “Waited … so long.”

Two more baazuled emerged from behind him to stand on either side. One had the glowing symbol on his forehead, but the other was undead, his eyes black and lifeless.

She drew back the bow. Something was wrong. This was too easy.

The hobgoblins quickly spread out. Vurgrim and his
zugruuk
took position behind Hweilan, and Flet and the archers fanned out behind them all.

More baazuled appeared. Some still wore the armor they’d had in life, all had weapons in hand.

“You don’t … have arrows … enough,” said Argalath, “for us all. Come … with me now. And your … friends … shall live.”

“Flet?” Hweilan called out, though she kept her eyes fixed on the baazuled.

“Eh?”

“Maaqua give you any more special arrows?”

“A few.”

The baazuled on Argalath’s left chuckled. “You think your pretty lights will hurt us?”

Hweilan had no idea if the baazuled could understand the Goblin tongue, but she thought if they didn’t, it might buy a moment. She called out, “
Take out the five on the right!
”

She pulled the arrow to her cheek, aimed for Argalath, and loosed. He tried to move out of the way, but in his weakened state it turned into a fall and he pulled one of the baazuled with him. The arrow struck the other baazuled in the chest, and he fell on top of his master.

The courtyard erupted in screams and the clash of weapons. Flet and his archers loosed arrow after arrow at their onrushing enemies. The first few sparked as they flew, causing the baazuled to erupt in flame. But that didn’t stop them. As the
zugruuk
warriors rushed forward with swords and axes, the burning baazuled grabbed their attackers and the magic-fueled flames spread among the hobgoblins.

All this happened in a rush, and Hweilan saw it unfold out of the corner of her eye. For no sooner had Argalath fallen, than Hweilan fitted another arrow and charged.

The surviving baazuled saw her coming and set out to meet her. Two iron braziers stood at the foot of the stairs, one on each end. No fires burned there, and both held nothing more than cold ash, but the baazuled grabbed one to use as a shield.

Hweilan stopped to steady her aim, fixing the arrow’s point in the monster’s gut. He saw her intention and lowered the brazier over his belly as he ran. She raised her arm, and he raised his makeshift shield. Less than ten paces away now. Hweilan knew if she missed, she wouldn’t have time to fit another arrow before he was on her.

A lifeless hobgoblin, his chest torn open, flew through the air and hit the ground in front of the baazuled, who leaped over the body with scarcely a glance.

And then a raven hit the baazuled in the face, raking its claws across his eyes. The thing screamed, not so much in pain as in frustration, and struck at the bird. Black feathers flew and the bird went down, but three more took its place.
Dozens of them had joined the battle, not calling out but striking silently, their black eyes reflecting the flames of the burning combatants.

A raven latched onto the baazuled’s shoulder, claws digging deep as it jabbed at the man’s face with its beak. The baazuled wrenched it away, taking a good deal of his own flesh and skin with it. His gaze lit on another huge bird descending on him, and he used the brazier to bat it away.

This distraction gave Hweilan the opening she needed. She loosed the bowstring. The baazuled was still looking up at his raven attackers when the arrow hit him under the chin. It pierced all the way into his skull and threw him back with such force that he flew over the dead hobgoblin and slid across the courtyard to strike the bottom-most step.