Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (8 page)

The eladrin lay crumpled nearby, also breathing heavily and still very much alive, despite the dagger protruding from his ribs. Vazhad could tell by the steady, pulsing glow of the rune on his forehead and the way the skin was pulled tight over his face, as if every muscle were tensed like a drawn bowstring, that the true eladrin had been subdued. The demon was now holding the reins again.

The guard who had done the stabbing lay curled in a fetal position just beyond the eladrin’s feet, his arms covering his head. He was mumbling something that Vazhad thought sounded like desperate prayers.

The eladrin’s head lolled to one side, then the other. Then strength finally seemed to come back to him, and he looked up.

“Thank you, Master,” he said.

Jagun Ghen, hood down and bare-headed to the dim morning light in the shadowed courtyard, kept his eyes closed. For all his power, he could not entirely escape the weaknesses of Argalath’s body. But he managed a smile as his breathing slowed.

“This one … is powerful … indeed. Perhaps we should find more eladrin for our new home?”

“It is not his lineage,” said Kathkur. “Not his flesh. He once was eladrin, but his studies, his rites and dabblings, have made him … something more. So strong. My claws are sunk deep in his soul, but he still manages to squirm out of my grip.”

“We shall do all that we can to aid you.”

Kathkur looked down at the hilt protruding from his chest. His brow wrinkled, confused and annoyed, as if he had just discovered a loose button on a shirt. He grasped the hilt and pulled. The steel slipped out, spouting droplets of blood that spattered over the Creel and the flagstones. Kathkur studied the blade a moment, then licked his blood from it.

“So … hungry,” he said.

“Then feed, my brother,” said Jagun Ghen.

Vazhad looked away as Kathkur fell upon the whimpering Creel. Only then did he realize that the other guard, the tall one, was nowhere to be seen. He had fled at last.

Vazhad wished him gods’ speed, pissed trousers and all, then snorted in disgust. How far he had fallen, wishing the gods’ blessings upon such a coward.

The feeding didn’t take long. Vazhad kept his distance and his back to the spectacle. The sight of death had little effect on him. He’d killed a dozen men or more in his time, two with his bare hands. But the wet, tearing sound of the monster feeding unnerved him.

“You may go, if you wish.”

Vazhad turned to see Jagun Ghen watching him. His eyes squinted against the full morning light, but Vazhad had no doubt he could see in other ways. Vazhad almost took the opportunity. But he knew he walked a delicate edge here.

So he gave a small bow and said, “I wish only to serve, Master.”

Jagun Ghen did not smile. But his lips twitched and settled into something like a pleased leer. “If only I had a hundred more like you,” he said.

On the other side of the courtyard, Kathkur stood up. The figure on the flagstones beneath him was no longer recognizably human. It was only a pile of blood, bone, and mangled entrails.

“You feel stronger now?” said Jagun Ghen.

“Oh, yes.” Kathkur had none of the reputed grace of the eladrin. His limbs were taut, his fingers curled into claws. “But still … he fights me. Every moment.”

“We shall deal with that,” said Jagun Ghen, “if you let me.”

“I am yours, lord and master.”

“Good. Then we shall put this eladrin in his place.”

C
HAPTER
SIX

M
AAQUA HAD LEFT THE DOOR OPEN WHEN SHE
departed, and bright daylight spilled across the floor. Hweilan flinched, remembering the queen’s words about sunlight hitting the muck on her arm, wondering if it might have any effect on her. But as the sunlight fell on her legs, she felt nothing but warmth.

Kaad pushed himself to his feet, put his hand to his temple, then pulled it away, looking at the blood on his fingers. Now that he stood in the full light, Hweilan could pick out more details. He was more than scrawny and old. Pale tracks of fading scars marred his face and forehead and even the back of his hands. He dipped the edge of his robe in the cauldron of water and daubed at his bleeding temple.

“Not the first time she’s hit you,” said Hweilan.

Kaad didn’t look as he replied. “I am a slave. But I am also a healer. I have a balm. This wound will not fester.”

“Not the skin anyway,” she told him, and he gave her a sly smile. “You are not Razor Heart?”

“Black Wolf.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Thirty years,” he said. “Thirty years since I last walked the Dunwood. Long years in these cold mountains.”

“Why stay, then?”

He sneered, the look an older brother might give a sister who had just said something stupid. “I am a slave,” he said. “I have no say in where I go.”

“You are a healer,” said Hweilan. “You know the herbs and roots that mend. I’d wager you know the ones that kill just as well.”

Kaad dipped the edge of his robe into the water again and dabbed some more at his temple. “You have nothing to wager. I will live to see the sunset tomorrow.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“And if you’re right, I’ll be dead tomorrow. You have nothing to lose.”

“Why do you care?”

Hweilan said nothing. She’d learned—most often from her mother when she’d done something wrong—that silence and a firm gaze did more to make people talk than anything else.

Kaad sighed and turned away, and for a moment Hweilan thought she had lost him. But then he said, “Why have I stayed? My son. He was my apprentice. Neither of us were fighters. But warriors have need of healers. It was not a bad life in the Black Wolf. But Razor Heart captured us. At first, I stayed and served willingly, for Maaqua told me that as long as I was faithful, my son would live.”

There was a long silence, but Hweilan did not break it. She knew Kaad would either say his next bit or he wouldn’t. He stared into the fire and continued.

“My son excelled at my teachings. In time, he would have surpassed me. Quite a valuable prize. So Maaqua sold him to the Blood Mountain tribe nine years ago. I stay now … because I have nowhere else to go.”

Hweilan let the silence hold a while, leaving Kaad to nurture his grief. Then she struck.

“What was his name? Your son?”

Kaad looked at her, studying her expression. Hweilan was careful to keep her face a perfect mask.

“Gluured,” said Kaad at last.

Hweilan closed her eyes and nodded slowly. “I will remember it.” She opened her eyes and held Kaad’s gaze. “You know who I am, Kaad. You know what I am. When I am done with Highwatch, I will have no home. My hearth will be the hunt, my only bed the blood of my enemies. Help me now, and the Blood Mountain clan will be my enemies. But I will remember the name of Gluured.”

Kaad shook his head and laughed, but the look in his eyes told Hweilan she had him. He had not decided yet, but he was considering.

“You’ll be dead tomorrow,” said Kaad.

“Not if you help me.”

“I cannot help you escape,” he said. His hands were shaking. She was losing him. “It would mean worse than death for me. Maaqua …”

“I’m not asking you to cut me loose,” she said. “You are a healer, Kaad. I just need you to bring me something.”

“Bring you? Bring you what?”

“
Drakthna
,” said Hweilan. “It’s a mushroom that—”

“I know what it is.” And by the look in his eyes, he obviously knew what it did as well. “I have some.”

“Good,” said Hweilan. “I need only a little. And do you know
iruil
?”

“White or green?”

“White. But I need the root, not the flower.”

The sound of heavy boots came from outside. Heading their way.

Kaad leaped to his feet, and Hweilan saw his skin go pale. He was trembling even more now, guilt written all over his face. Hweilan could hear the clink of armor along with the heavy tread of boots, and the breeze coming in through the door brought the mingled stink of oiled steel, leather, and unwashed hobgoblins.

The room darkened as two hobgoblin warriors filled the doorway. One held an iron studded club in one hand, and his companion had a jagged-edged dagger. Their helmets hid
most of their faces, but she could see a wariness in their eyes as they stared at her.

Hweilan kept her face still, emotionless, but she looked the larger one directly in the eye, and the warrior dropped his gaze first.

They came inside and walked behind her, one to each side. Kaad scrambled to the far corner and stared at the floor. Hweilan tried to turn around to see what the warriors were up to, but her bonds held her too tight. More shadows fell across the floor. Maaqua shuffled back into the room, with another hobgoblin behind her.

Hweilan recognized him. She’d last seen him in armor, and now he was dressed only in furs and skins, but the scar that ran diagonally across his face, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent frown, and the left ear that was only half there gave him away. She’d seen him on the mountainside when she’d held the point of her knife under his throat.

Maaqua looked down on Hweilan. “You have met Buureg, Warchief of the Razor Heart.”

Buureg blinked once but otherwise displayed no emotion whatsoever. Then he looked down on her and said, “Rhan, Champion of the Razor Heart, wielder of the Greatsword of Impiltur, demands the right of Blood Slake. With you, Hweilan of Highwatch.”

None of them had yet spared Kaad so much as a glance. Hweilan had to keep it that way.

She growled and spit on the warchief’s boot. “I am not of Highwatch. You will call me by my right name or I will demand Blood Slake of you after I have eaten your champion’s heart.”

Kaad gasped, and even Maaqua’s eyes widened at Hweilan’s words.

“Stop!” Buureg raised his head, and Hweilan figured that the warrior behind her with the club had raised it to strike her.

Then Buureg stared at her, long and hard. He lowered his hand and said, “What would you have me call you?”

“I am the Hand of the Hunter. You will address me as such or hold your tongue.”

Maaqua was leaning on her staff and studying Hweilan through narrowed eyes. Not much got past the old toad, Hweilan knew. The old crone sensed Hweilan was up to something. Let her. She had brought this on herself.

Buureg called, “Slave!” and pointed at his boot. Kaad scrambled over and went to his knees, his tendons popping like snapping twigs. He pulled his ragged sleeve down over his hand and scrubbed Hweilan’s spittle off the boot. Buureg pulled his foot back, examined the boot, and grunted. Kaad crawled back to his corner, and the warchief returned his attention to Hweilan.

“Proud words,” said Buureg, “for someone who just came out of a hole and is tied at my feet.”

Hweilan hung her head. Her hair fell over her face, and she closed her eyes. Gleed had taught her many things beyond the sacred rites of Nendawen and the properties of plants and herbs and roots. When lessons were over, his talk would sometimes turn to other matters. Hweilan soon learned that he held little love for his goblin forebears and their ways, and he sometimes lost himself in particularly long rants about goblinkind and their stupid, narrow, backward customs. Many times, Hweilan had let her mind wander, but when he spoke of their rituals and beliefs, she paid close attention, and even prodded him with an occasional question. As a young girl who had often grown frustrated with the strict rules of her own Damaran household, she developed an interest in the ways of other peoples. And so, yet again, Gleed’s lessons proved useful.

She raised her head, looked Buureg in the eye, and said, “Your Champion demands Blood Slake of the Hand. Let it be done. But the Hand demands Blood Price of the Razor Heart.”

Buureg blinked and took a step back, surprised by her words, then looked to Maaqua.

The old crone smiled, but her eyes went feral. “Watch this one, Buureg. She’s a crafty fox. One of Gleed’s little monsters. Probably knows our ways better than you do.”

Buureg said, “If she accepts the Blood Slake, we must honor the Blood Price. Honor demands—”

“Piss on honor!” said Maaqua. She leaned in close to Hweilan. “Enough with your mummer’s show, girl. Speak. What do you want?”

Hweilan raised her voice and spoke in her most formal Goblin. “I am the Hand of the Hunter. I will stand, and the Razor Heart may have my blood, if they can take it. But if they cannot, I demand my life, the lives of my four companions, and all our belongings be returned to us. Life for life. Death for death. If I win, you will set us free as you found us. I demand nothing more than what is mine.”

She could have asked for more. By all rights, she could have demanded the Razor Heart Champion’s sword. But had she done that, Hweilan knew that she very likely would have met with a fatal accident long before she could face Rhan.

Buureg looked to Maaqua. His face betrayed no emotion.

The queen shrugged. “Rhan will make short work of her. It hardly matters.”

Buureg said, “You and the three in the hole will have your lives, your belongings, and your freedom. The big one killed Ruuket’s mate. His life is not mine to spare. All the rest, you shall have—if you win.”