Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (5 page)

No lamps or torches had burned in the deep chambers in a long time, and Vazhad ran one hand along the wall to keep
his bearings. As they left the upper regions of the fortress, the darkness became complete, an almost physical sensation so strong that Vazhad felt it pressing against his skin.

He was relieved when he saw the glow ahead. The guards had torches, which meant that they were not yet the baazuled that haunted many of the dark places of Highwatch these days. This brought a small consolation to Vazhad. Many Nar still camped in the valley outside the main fortress, but there were very few humans left in Highwatch.

Vazhad knew that rumors were already thick in the valley. Very few of those Nar called into Highwatch came out again. The tale that they were being sent into the high mountains to prepare for a summer campaign had been believed at first. But the Nar were no fools. Already, some had begun to trickle away in the night. His master had ordered the main gate locked and guarded by baazuled, which meant that those managing to leave were doing so through the mountains.

As they rounded the final bend in the tunnel, Argalath raised his hood and pulled it low over his eyes. Even the meager light given off by two torches pained him.

Vazhad saw two Creel hunched against the wall across from a door. The taller guard had to stoop to keep from bashing his head on the low ceiling.

The guards’ eyes widened when they saw Argalath. Both leaned back as far as they could against the wall.

Argalath ignored them. He was still leaning against Vazhad, and so Vazhad felt the tremor that suddenly ran through his master. Then Jagun Ghen stepped away, and there was no sign of weakness in him. He walked over to the door, placed one palm flat against the iron, and leaned close.

Vazhad saw the guards exchange a nervous glance, and one of them swallowed hard.

“Be gone,” Vazhad told them. “Wait for us above. Give me the key.”

The tall one slapped the key into Vazhad’s palm while his companion reached for the sconce.

“Leave the torches,” said Vazhad.

“Both of them?” said the guard.

Vazhad said nothing and just stared at him, his face expressionless.

“That means we’ll have to go up in the dark.”

“You know the way. Go now. Or stay here. But the torches remain.”

The tall one took off at just short of a full run. His companion spared Vazhad a glare as he followed, one hand running along the wall.

The sound of their footfalls faded, and Vazhad was left with only the sound of the soft whisper of the torches. There was a little smoke, though Vazhad could see no holes in the ceiling. These tunnels had once been the deep storage area for Highwatch’s dwarves. Despite their uselessness otherwise, there was no doubting the craftsmanship of the stone.

Jagun Ghen still had not moved, but Vazhad thought he saw the tiniest blue flicker along the back of his master’s hand where the spellscar was particularly thick.

“My brother will need to feed,” said Jagun Ghen without turning.

“Yes,” said Vazhad.

“You should have kept one of the guards here.”

“Shall I go get one of them?”

“No.”

Jagun Ghen let the ensuing silence linger, just long enough for Vazhad to begin to wonder if his time had come at last. He had a dagger in his right boot, and tucked inside his left sleeve was a sharpened swifstag antler, held by two strips of linen. Vazhad had bought it for three pieces of silver from a priest in one of the camps. It wasn’t the pointed end that had interested Vazhad but the runes and spells burned into the bone itself. He did not know if the priest’s words were true, if it would guard him against even the most savage demons of the Abyss. But he had seen how his master’s “brothers” fed, and he would go down fighting.

“No,” said his master, “I think my brother might enjoy a hunt. Being fed and feeding—truly
feeding
—do your people distinguish these concepts, Vazhad?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Then you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good.” He straightened and turned to face Vazhad. Fire burned in his eyes, and Vazhad knew little of it was a reflection from the torches. They were too red and hungry. “Have no fear, my friend. The seals have held here in the cold dark, as I’d hoped they would. My brother is quite safe at the moment. Stronger, rested, and more secure in his new home. Please open the door.”

Vazhad stepped past his master, threw back the three iron bolts that ran all the way across the door, then fitted the key into the hole at the very center of the door. The lock turned smoothly. He left the key in the lock and pulled the door. It swung open. It was well made and didn’t scrape the floor, but the hinges had gone too long without oil and shrieked as metal ground on metal.

The darkness beyond was so absolute that for a moment Vazhad thought it might smother the torches in the hall. The air inside was oven hot, and a charnel stench wafted out. He heard something rustle in the room.

“Thank you, Vazhad,” said Jagun Ghen, and he gave him an expectant look.

Vazhad stepped back to allow his master to pass. Jagun Ghen bent under the door frame and his red robes disappeared into the room. A moment later, there was the tiniest flicker of light—bright orange like a waking ember—but it failed to light anything around it. Vazhad heard the voices of his master and another speaking in a language he could not understand.

Vazhad turned his back to the room, loosened the antler talisman in his sleeve, and pulled one of the torches from the walls. When he turned, something was emerging from the room.

The figure bent to pass through the low door and then straightened as much as he could. He could not stand to his full height in the low corridor, crouching instead so that Vazhad thought he was preparing to pounce.

It was the eladrin. Or at least his flesh. The mind staring out from those eyes was nothing of this world. Kathkur, his master had named him. The eladrin’s body had been stripped of the armor and fine clothes he’d been wearing and now wore nothing more than a loincloth knotted at one hip. Arcane symbols decorated his entire torso and both arms—not painted but cut into the skin itself so that the man was red from head to toe in his own smeared blood. The deepest and most ragged of the runes, the one on his forehead, flickered with a faint light, like a distant wind-tossed torch. But unlike the baazuled, with their dead flesh and black eyes, this one had the jewel-colored eyes of all eladrin, and they glowed as if a fire burned behind them.

“This one?” Kathkur said, and its hands curled into claws.

Vazhad tightened the grip around his torch and relaxed his other arm. One quick flick of his wrist and the talisman would drop out of his sleeve and into his hand. He had hoped for some sign that the priest’s words
might
have been true—some sudden heat or intense cold from the antler on his skin. But there was nothing.

A deep chuckle came out of the chamber, and Jagun Ghen followed it a moment later. “No, Brother. This one is far too valuable to me.”

A look of such disappointed petulance crossed the eladrin’s face that Vazhad had to force himself not to sneer. It was a curse of his kind. Granted such long lives and seemingly eternal youth, even an eladrin who had walked Faerûn for a hundred years could still look like a spoiled chieftain’s son.

“Don’t worry,” said Jagun Ghen. “We will find you another.”

“Only one?” said Kathkur, sneering.

C
HAPTER
FOUR

S
HE’S WAKING.”
G
OBLIN TONGUE, THE TONE AND ACCENT
different enough from the language Gleed had taught her that the words sounded strange to her ears, but she caught their general meaning. She had just enough time to think, Who—?

And then a pain so great hit her arm that for a moment all the world flashed white. She screamed and opened her eyes as she tried to move somewhere—
anywhere
—away from the pain. But something bit into her arms and torso and held her back.

Looking down, she saw—

Spiders! Dozens of them. Huge, hairy spiders covering her arms and shoulders. And for a moment Hweilan thought she was back in the lair of Kesh Naan, about to be devoured by the Grandmother’s children until their venom filled her with visions. But—

No. The spiders in Kesh Naan’s cavern had been tiny, sparkling with hundreds of colors, even … beautiful.

Then Hweilan’s vision cleared, and she saw that there were no spiders. It was only rope. Thick, hairy twine wrapped round and round her arms and chest, binding her to some sort of ironwood rack. She was sitting on a dirty stone floor, but her legs were also bound, and a thick splint of wood ran down one leg to keep her from bending her legs to kick.

The only light came from a hearth fire a yard or so beyond her feet. And the near walls were gritty stone just a shade lighter than black.

“Forgive the accommodations,” said a familiar voice from behind her, speaking Damaran. Maaqua. “But the sun is still high, and if your medicine drinks in even a hint of sunlight, it turns to the most deadly poison.”

“Medicine?” said Hweilan, and looked more closely at the source of her pain. Her right sleeve was gone—not cut away but torn, judging by the ragged bits of cloth remaining at the edge of her shirt. Just below her shoulder were several links of the rope, and even more bound her from elbow to wrist. But in the bit of skin between the twine was a dark paste, glistening in the firelight and giving off a thin steam. As her heartbeat began to slow and her breathing calmed, Hweilan could hear the muck sizzling against her skin.

“Hurts, yes?” said Maaqua.

Hweilan just clenched her jaw and glared at the old hobgoblin.

“Such a thing you did, tackling me with an arrow in your arm. Tore the muscle quite badly. Brave and stupid. You should know better, girl.”

Someone moved past her toward the fire. Another hobgoblin—a scrawny thing in tattered fur robes covering clothes that looked as if they’d be relegated to rags upon their next wash. He was completely bald on top, but the sides and back of his hair were still black as onyx and lay on his back in a tight braid.

“This is Kaad,” said Maaqua. “My slave. He excels in the healing arts, whereas my own strengths are … elsewhere.”

The hearth fire caught in the hobgoblin queen’s eyes, giving her a malevolent aspect. Kaad returned to the fire and stirred something in a cauldron.

Hweilan took a deep breath through her nose, trying to pick up the scent of the concoction pasted over her wound. Most of the air in the chamber was filled with the dank scent of stone and the acrid smoke from the dung fire. But the steam
wafting out of the black muck was very close to her head, and when she took in the second draught of air, she caught the distinct aroma of thistle root, mountain sweet grass, figwort, and dried blood. No … not dried. Burnt. Whether her own or from someone else, she could not determine.

Maaqua saw what she was doing. “Don’t worry. I told you. Just medicine.”

Hweilan ground her teeth against the pain, and said, “What d-day is this?”

She heard Maaqua chuckle behind her. “Counting the days until the fat moon, eh?”

Hweilan wasn’t sure how long she had been unconscious. But at most the full moon was a tenday away. She took a deep breath and steadied herself so that her voice wouldn’t shake, then said, “You’re going to die.”

Maaqua laughed at that, then said, “A common failing of mortals, I’m afraid.”

“You should be.”

Maaqua ran her hand through Hweilan’s hair, ruffling it like a matron might do for a favorite grandchild. Then the old hobgoblin shuffled around so that she stood between Hweilan and Kaad, who was still stirring the cauldron. The ancient crone bent and leaned in close until her nose was only a few inches from Hweilan’s.

Hweilan pushed her head back against the ironwood rack, not out of fear but because the old hobgoblin’s breath was absolutely foul.

“You listen good, girl,” said Maaqua. “I admire boldness. Even brashness I can forgive. But if you think I am going to swallow your disrespect, you are very much mistaken.”

Maaqua straightened, raised her free hand, and slapped Hweilan across the face. The blow itself wasn’t much, but one of the old hobgoblin’s nails raked a new gouge across Hweilan’s left cheek. Maaqua raised her hand again. Hweilan stared up through the hair that had fallen across her face and refused to flinch.

Maaqua slapped her again. She raised her hand for a third, but Kaad grabbed her wrist.

“Please, my queen,” he said. “I beg you. Don’t give me more scrapes to mend.”

Maaqua jerked her arm out of Kaad’s grip and shoved him away, then looked down at Hweilan. “You will speak to me with respect, and I’ll stop hitting you. What say you, eh?”

Hweilan smiled up at her, her gaze daring Maaqua to hit her again.

“Can’t speak with respect, so you won’t speak, eh? Eh?” Maaqua waited for a response. When none came, she said, “Very good. Better that way. If you want to get out of here alive, I talk. You listen.”