Mark Sehesdedt

Cry of the Ghost Wolf

PROLOGUE

The candle in the middle of the floor guttered, drowning in its own wax. Soon the flame would die, plunging the stone chamber into absolute blackness. Dim as the light was, though, Argalath could not bear to look at it. Its meager glow stabbed into the back of his skull like hot needles. It had been a long day, fraught with effort, and his strength was failing him. Despite the power that burned inside him, his body would have to rest soon.

He sat cross-legged on the stone floor. He must hold the power in check. But it was more of a struggle with each moment. If she didn’t return soon …

When Jagun Ghen had first possessed Argalath, joining with him at the most elemental level, it had felt like riding the back of a dragon-lord and master of all he desired. Argalath could do so much more now. The price he paid had been worth it. But over the years, he had begun to suspect that the power was consuming him, like the wick’s fire ate away the candle wax., Each time he allowed Jagun Ghen to bleed through, it left Argalath feeling like a burst wineskin. And the distinction between them … he wasn’t sure it was there anymore. He and the thing of flame and hunger had become one, and darkness was his lone comfort from the burning. Only in darkness could Argalath touch the last of his humanity. He looked down at his hands in his lap. They were shaking like those of an old man.

The air in the room stirred, causing the candle flame to dance.

“Kathkur returns,” said Guric, his voice coming out of the darkness. The former lord of Highwatch stood against the far wall where the light of the flame could not reach.

The breeze in the room rose to a scream, snuffing out the candle and plunging them into absolute darkness. Argalath allowed himself a moment of relief.

And then the air in the middle of the room split. Black as the chamber was, Argalath could see with more than his eyes, and he watched the thing surge into the room.

Kathkur stepped through the door, but Argalath saw at once that the demon wore a new form. The woman Merah was gone, and the demon stood clad in the frame of a tall eladrin, his face and hair caked in drying blood and grit. The portal closed behind him and he stood, the symbol gouged onto his forehead still dripping tiny bits of red-orange light. The eladrin swayed on his feet a moment, then fixed his gaze on Argalath. “She was there.”

It took Argalath a moment to grasp his meaning. “The Hand?” he said. “She is with Maaqua already?”

Kathkur growled his assent.

“Why didn’t you kill her?”

“It was all I could do to get away. This one … is not like the others. Far more powerful. She … she reeks of … of him. His stench bleeds out of her pores. I could not go near her. Not alone.”

The symbol on the eladrin’s forehead spit one last flicker and died. He took a lurching step forward and fell to his hands and knees, his long hair falling over his face. A tremor passed through his body so violently that Argalath heard his teeth clack together.

Then Argalath sensed the power change in the room, like a chord in which one note suddenly turned high and shrill. Guric must have sensed it, too, for he rushed forward. The eladrin shrieked, thrust one fist in front of him, and the air in the room swirled and coalesced into a solid current that he sent outward like a whip. Guric’s body took the brunt of it, and he flew against the wall with bone-crunching force.

“Let me go!” the eladrin screamed. “Hweilan, help me!”

Jagun Ghen stirred inside Argalath, like a dragon rising from its nest. The demon’s power combined with that of Argalath’s spellscar, and the blue skin that swirled and splotched over his entire body flared with a sickly blue light. Argalath’s muscles cramped, and he felt his eyeballs turning up in his skull.

Power surged in him, filling him with fire, both agony and ecstasy, like dark wine running through the threads of cloth, staining it. Argalath felt it, reveled in the strength that connected him to everything in the room.

Like a spider detects the vibration of one thread and so knows where the moth struggles in its web, Argalath could feel the eladrin struggling against Kathkur. Argalath followed, writhing under skin, through muscle, flowing over bone until he found the vessel that supplied the brain with blood. Argalath surrounded it, like water covering a root, and when it was completely enmeshed, Argalath flexed. His power moved like water no longer, but solidified and tightened, like jagged ice. Argalath groaned at the pain this caused his own body, but he did not weaken his grip.

The eladrin’s cries of fury and defiance turned to pain. “Let me …! Hweil-!”

And then he pitched forward.

Argalath released the power. He wanted the eladrin unconscious, not dead. Hot blood resumed its flow into the eladrin’s brain. The glow of Argalath’s spellscar faded, and the last of the power dissipated, like smoke scattered by cold winds.

He crumpled to the floor. As the last fragment of consciousness shattered and fled from him, he thought he heard, just for a moment, the sound of laughter-a rumble of consuming fire.

CHAPTER ONE

Howling. It filled Hweilan’s ears, and her first thought was that the Master was coming for her again. Hunting her. He would find her. And he would kill her teacher while she watched.

Hweilan had grown up listening to wolf songs, and they had never before frightened her. Scith had taught her all about the animals held in great respect by the Nar people. It was the wolves that had first taught men to hunt.

But since that night in the Feywild when Nendawen hunted her and she swore herself to him, the howling had haunted her dreams. It was a reminder that the Master was never far away.

She sat up.

The sheer weight of the evening sky almost pressed her back down again. No forest. No Feywild. She sat near the crest of a long highland, looking down upon a gold and green steppe that disappeared into forever. She could see from horizon to horizon in every direction. Not even a wisp of cloud marred the firmament. Off to her left, where heaven met earth, the sky still glowed a pale blue where the sun had just dipped beneath the rim of the world, but in the east darkness was swiftly gaining hold, and the first stars were already out.

Howls drifted over her again, as if borne on the breeze hissing through the grass. Looking down into the lowlands, she saw a stain marring the steppe, a vast dark blotch moving across the land. Looking closer, she saw it was not a solid mass but made up of many hundreds of shapes moving across the grassland. Swiftstags or something very like them.

Other shapes, some dark, some pale as snowflakes, nipped at the edge of the vast herd. Wolves.

Hunters. Like you.

The voice spoke directly into her mind, but she sensed something watching her and turned.

On the crest behind her, no more than a few paces away, stood a wolf, white as frost. More milled around behind him-a gray-and-white female, her tail held high, signifying her as the chief’s mate. A huge male, brown as a cave bear. And others, some wise and lean from years of hunting; others small and hale, barely more than pups. As Hweilan’s gaze took them in, stars blazed to life in the sky overhead, and their light glinted off the wolves’ coats in dozens of colors, like moonlight glinting off ice. The chief wolf’s eyes drew her in. The pupils were black and wide in the dying light, but around them was a blue that shone like a cloudless winter sky.

Well met, Hweilan.

“Where am I?” she said. She looked down and saw that she was still dressed in the clothes she had been wearing when … when … what? “How did I get here?”

The wolf tilted its head, and something about it hinted at a smile.

“Who are you?” she asked.

We are always with you. Watching.

Thin is the veil that separates us.

Where had she heard that before? And then she remembered. On that day in the Feywild when Gleed had first taught her to cleanse the demons from the sacred weapons of the Master. She had seen Scith and her parents in the midst of the Witness Cloud. And the ghost wolves.

“Hweilan!”

A new voice intruded on her thoughts with so much force that it brought a twinge of pain to her head. It seemed to come from both sky and earth, but she thought she recognized it. Almost.

Time is running out, said the wolf.

“Time for what?” she said. “Who are-?”

“Hweilan!”

The voice sounded familiar, but under it she could hear a deeper sound, like distant thunder. It grew stronger by the moment, and Hweilan felt the ground trembling. She looked back down the slope and saw that the herd of swiftstags had turned. The wolves were driving them uphill, straight for her. Their hooves tore the soil, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. Their great antlers made them look like a leafless forest on the move.

“Hweilan, please w-!”

The roar of thousands of hooves drowned out the rest of the words. And then she saw it. Amid the herd, just behind the lead stags, ran another antlered shape, this one on two legs. A mask of bone hid his features, but green light, hot and alive, burned from the sockets. He held a massive black iron spear in one hand, and his other hand, tipped in sharp claws, dripped fresh blood.

“Hweilan, you have to wake up!”

This time the voice didn’t seem to come from all around but right in her ears. Even as the first of the beasts ran past her and the antlered hunter raised his spear, the sky and grasslands tore apart, like smoke scattered by the breeze. The stars winked out. She turned to run, and for a moment, the wolf before her filled all the world, its eyes shining like the sun through high clouds, and then he and his pack were gone, leaving darkness behind.

“Hweilan?”

She opened her eyes and saw the outline of a head and shoulders bending over her. But no antlers. The head turned, just slightly, looking beyond her, and dim light lit up his profile. Darric.

“She’s coming to,” he said.

Hweilan pushed herself up on her elbows. Darric, who had been shaking her shoulders, sat back. Behind him, the skinny Damaran who talked too much-Jaden, she remembered-was shivering on the ground with his back against a stone wall. Hweilan looked around and saw the older knight Valsun sitting not far behind her. Frost clotted his beard from his own frozen breath.

Rock walls riddled with holes and cracks hemmed them in on every side, the farthest of them no more than a few paces away. The walls rose over them a good fifteen feet or more where they ended in a ceiling of gray sky. With all the holes in the rock, Hweilan knew she could have easily climbed out, but not far above their heads was a cross section of black iron bars. They came right out of one wall and slid into the next. No sign of a door or lock.

Hweilan tensed her muscles to stand, then thought better of it. Her entire body ached. She felt as if she’d been stretched to the point of tearing, then rolled in hot gravel. Even the roots of her teeth hurt. She had no idea how she’d come here. The last thing she remembered was facing that abomination in front of the hobgoblin fortress. The thing had taken Menduarthis, possessing him like a warrior fitting into a new shirt of mail, and disappeared. The hobgoblin queen Maaqua had said, “Seize them,” and then-

“Where am I?” said Hweilan. Looking down, she saw that her equipment was gone-her knives and arrows, her pouches with all her supplies, the bone mask, and the bow that had cost her so much-all gone. “How did I get here?”

“When you went down,” said Darric, “I thought she’d killed you. It wasn’t until they threw us in here that Valsun said you were still breathing. But when we couldn’t wake you …”

Hweilan looked down at him, opened her mouth to retort, and realized she had no idea what he was talking about.

“You thought who had killed me?”

“Maaqua,” said Darric. “She ordered her folk to seize us. You and Mandan held out the longest, but Maaqua used her magic. Something shot out of her staff. Some kind of … lightning. You staggered, tried to get back up, and then she hit you again. And again. And then …” He looked around at his companions again.

“They threw us in here,” said Valsun.

It hit Hweilan then that not all of them were here. “Where is Mandan?”

The looks on their faces told her that the news wasn’t good.

“We don’t know,” said Darric. “The big brute broke Mandan’s club with that black sword of his. After that, the others swarmed him. He …” Darric swallowed hard and looked away.

“You don’t know he’s dead,” said Valsun. “Mandan took a great many of them down, though even he couldn’t stand against all their nets and clubs. But I don’t think he’s dead.”

Jaden snorted.

“Why would they bother using nets to kill him?” said Valsun. “Nets means capture. Had they wanted him dead, they could’ve filled him full of arrows and spears.”

“Had they wanted to wine and pamper him, they wouldn’t have used nets,” said Jaden. “Nets means they likely have something nastier in mind for him. And for us.”

Time is running out …

Words from her dream. If it had only been a dream. But dream or not, she knew the words to be true.

Despite her aching body, Hweilan forced herself to her feet, knocking Darric back on his rump. Spots of light filled her vision and the rock walls seemed to waver around her. A loud hum filled her ears, but she took a deep breath, and the world slowly solidified around her. The pain didn’t lessen, but now that she was on her feet, she realized she’d had worse. This was nothing compared to what Ashiin had put her through.

Hweilan slammed the flat of her hand on the bars over their head. The action made the lights flash before her eyes again. But the bars didn’t budge in the slightest.

“You think we didn’t try that already?” said Jaden.

She glared down at him, but he only shrugged and looked away.

“Please, Hweilan,” said Darric.

She shifted her glare to him. “Please what?”

Darric flinched and looked to Valsun, then back at her. “Are you hurt?”

“Do I look hurt?” She took two paces to the left where the bars met the stone wall and hit it with her palm. Nothing. The metal scarcely even rattled. Not pretty, but as solid and as well made as she’d ever seen.

Hweilan braced her feet, then reached up, grabbed the middle-most section of the bars with both hands, and pushed as hard as she could. The pain in her joints and muscles flared so that it felt like hot needles were working their way through her flesh, but she clenched her jaw and pushed more. The bars didn’t move in the slightest.

“Hweilan, it’s no use,” said Darric. “Please-”

“There has to be a door or a hinge. How in the Hells did they get us in here?”

“Dropped us,” said Jaden. “My arse can still feel it.”

“The bars,” said Darric, “slid into place-out of the rock-after we were down here.”

“Slid?” said Hweilan. “Slid how?”

“Like a portcullis, I’d guess. Only sideways.”

Hweilan grabbed the bars again and tried to force them to slide, first one way and then the other. Nothing.

“Please, Hweilan. We did try that already.”

She gave up and screamed a long chain of curses in every language she knew.

“Such language!” said a voice from above.

They all looked up.

CHAPTER TWO

Silhouetted against the gray sky, four figures looked down into the hole. The smallest had wispy hair in such disarray that it formed a sort of crazed halo. Maaqua. Hweilan still couldn’t recall the fight that had led her to this damned hole. But she remembered meeting the hobgoblin queen on the mountain, the fight when the demon wearing her mother’s body had attacked them, the hobgoblin champion Rhan hacking off her mother’s head …

All that was clear. After that, there was only the dream of the wolves.

Hweilan looked up and saw that Maaqua held her staff in one hand and leaned on a much larger figure next to her. The hilt of a massive sword peeked over his shoulder. That would be Rhan. With them were more hobgoblins, wearing helmets and holding spears. Guards. Which told Hweilan two things: they were prisoners, but Maaqua still felt the need for guards. That was good.

Maaqua called down, “For the Chosen of Nendawen and the granddaughter of the High Warden, you have quite a tongue on you. Dear pious Vandalar would be most ashamed.”

Hweilan glared up through the bars. “You’re making a grave mistake holding me here.”

“Is that so?”

“What day is it, Maaqua?”

“Eh?”

“More to the point, what night will it be? How long until the moon is full?”

Maaqua said nothing, and Hweilan let the question hang a while.

“You know who I am,” said Hweilan. “And you know what I am. The next full moon, do you really think my master will look kindly on anyone keeping me in a hole?”

Maaqua hunched her shoulders, almost as if she were hugging herself, and trembled. Hweilan thought she might be laughing, though she could hear nothing beyond the breathing of her companions, made eerily loud by the confines of the rock walls.

“I like you, girl,” said Maaqua. “You have teeth. I’m sorry we never met before things went bad.”

Hweilan gave the old crone her best glare and hoped there was enough light for it to be seen. “Things can always get worse,” she said.

Maaqua did laugh then, throwing back her head back and baying, almost like a hound. It ended in a wheeze that broke into a cough, and she said, “That’s why I’m here. You and I, we must speak.”

“Come down and we’ll have quite a conversation.”

“Don’t let my liking for you lead you to think that gives you leave to threaten me, girl,” said Maaqua. “You listen to old Maaqua. We can talk now. No more demons apparating on my doorstep. While you were sleeping down in that hole, I raised such a forbiddance around the fortress that Ao himself might have trouble peeking. I’m going to get you-and only you-out. The others will stay put for now. Any foolishness from you-anything at all!-and my guards will pull a lever up here. That lever will open a little floodgate. Once it’s opened, this hole will fill up with water. Not to the rim. No, I designed it too well. It’ll stop less than a foot over those bars. Your friends will be able to reach their hands into the air and see the sky even as they drown.”

Maaqua let that sink in.

Darric, Valsun, and Jaden all exchanged a worried glance.

“Do we understand each other?” said Maaqua.

Hweilan called up, “We do.”

The hobgoblins’ silhouettes backed out of sight.

“Is it me,” said Jaden, “or did that sound less than sincere?”

“Be silent, Jaden!” said Darric.

There was a wrenching sound, metal grinding on stone, and then the bars over their heads moved slowly into one side of the wall. A rope appeared overhead, hanging in the air a moment before falling down the length of the shaft to land on the ground between Hweilan and Jaden. It was thick and hairy, and sported a knotted loop on one end.

“Put the loop under your arms,” Maaqua called down. “Then walk up the wall, and we’ll pull from up here.”

Hweilan fitted her arms through the loop and grabbed the thick knot with one hand. She ran the other over the front of her shirt, just below her breasts. It was still there. Something stiff and unyielding, ending in a point. Good.

“Ready!” she called, then looked sidelong at Darric and whispered, “Be ready.”

The slack in the rope pulled taut, and Hweilan began her ascent up the stone wall.

“You heard what she said, Hweilan!” said Darric.

Hweilan said nothing, but kept looking up.

“Told you,” said Jaden. “Drowning … Could be worse, I suppose. Maybe the water’ll be warm.”

Valsun said, “Be silent, Jaden.”

The rope dug into Hweilan’s sides and back, scraping her skin even through her thick clothing, and the unnatural position of walking up the wall made her sore muscles scream for relief. She ground her jaw and took measured breaths through her nose to get through the pain. One of Ashiin’s lessons learned well: pain couldn’t be banished, but it could be focused, so use it. Hweilan knew she’d have one chance at this. The bars were still open below her. Good. This might just work.

Looking up, she saw that no one was watching. One hand still grasping the rope, she reached into her shirt with her other, found the braided leather thong, and pulled. She felt the point scrape against her skin, perhaps even drawing fresh blood as she drew it out, but it was no worse than the pain she was already feeling.

She thanked her gods and ancestors that the goblins hadn’t taken the kishkoman from her. If they’d found it, they’d probably thought it no more than a trinket or piece of jewelry, much like the bits of bone and stone they themselves wore. There was certainly no magic in it. Quickly, she pulled off the necklace, wound the leather around her free wrist, and palmed the sharpened antler tip. Below, she heard a sharp whisper from Darric that sounded much like a curse.

Another four steps and she could see over the edge of the pit. Rhan stood only a couple of paces beyond the edge, pulling the rope hand over hand, his breath making a great cloud around him. Despite the cold, he was bare to the waist, except for the belt of his scabbard that rode his back, and his own breath had coated his skin in a thin sheen of frost.

Maaqua was pacing beyond her champion, and half a dozen guards watched the proceedings. Some leaned on their spears. No problem there. Another hobgoblin, whose scars and facepaint marked him as a soldier of rank, had a sword belted at his waist and a wicked-looking axe dangling from one hand. No real problem there, either. Not for what she had planned. But two others, standing on the lowest bit of the rise that led up a small escarpment to the heights overhead, were holding bows. The weapons lay lax in their hands, but each hobgoblin had an arrow nocked to the string and was watching Hweilan carefully. She’d have to make this quick.

Hweilan came out of the hole with a final pull from Rhan. She feigned overbalancing, let out a small gasp of pain-genuine but exaggerated-and stumbled toward the massive hobgoblin. He cast down the lank of rope and reached for her.

She twisted under his hands and brought her leg around in a hard kick, planting the top of her foot in the side of Rhan’s knee. He tensed at the last moment, and she didn’t hear the hoped-for crunch of bone, but the leg buckled and he fell forward. Her other foot came up as he came down, and her heel came up straight into his belly. It felt like kicking a tree, but his breath shot out of him in a great cloud of steam. She used his own massive weight and momentum against him, using her leg as a lever and sending him arse over head into the pit. The Damarans screamed, Jaden loudest of them all.

But the brute had proved even heavier than he looked, and whatever Maaqua had done to Hweilan must’ve taken more of a toll than she’d first thought. She’d hoped to be on her feet and moving again before the two archers managed to pull feathers to cheek, but when she tried to push herself up, her right leg gave out and she stumbled.

Maaqua screamed, “Stop this, idiot girl!”

The hobgoblin of rank rushed forward, raising his axe and reaching for his sword. The others lowered their spears and charged. Behind her, the Damarans were still screaming down in the hole.

Hweilan kept her eyes fixed on Maaqua as she renewed her charge, but from the edge of her vision she saw the archers aiming. No help for it. She dodged slightly to the left to put Maaqua in between her and one of the archers.

She heard the thwut of a bowstring being released. Something slammed into her right arm, just below the shoulder, hard enough to knock her off her stride. But she kept going.

Maaqua raised her staff, her other hand already twirling the preparation of a spell. “Fool! I’ll-!”

And then Hweilan leaped. Despite her pain-Ashiin’s training had hardened her muscles, and she also suspected Nendawen’s blood had changed her in other ways-that one jump cleared the distance between Hweilan and the old hobgoblin while the nearest soldier was still yards away. Hweilan tackled Maaqua and rolled. She heard a snap and fresh pain shot up her arm, going all the way to the roots of her scalp. Her vision blurred for a moment, but when she came up, she had one arm tight around the old hobgoblin’s torso and the other held the point of her whistle knife at Maaqua’s temple, just behind her right eye. Maaqua’s staff lay in the dirt just behind Hweilan.

“Everyone back or she dies!” Hweilan shouted at the onrushing hobgoblins.

Maaqua stiffened under her grip but did not resist. “Do as she says.”

The guards obeyed, though they kept their weapons ready. The soldier with the scars of rank was only a couple of paces away, and he had both axe and sword in hand now. The archers held their bows taut, the points of their arrows aimed in her direction. But Hweilan knew they’d have to be fools to risk it with their queen in the way.

“Back up!” Hweilan ordered the hobgoblin officer.

He looked to Maaqua.

“Do it,” said the old crone.

He backed up three steps.

“More,” said Hweilan.

He took another three.

The Damarans were still shouting from the hole, but Hweilan could make out no words.

“Rhan!” Maaqua called out. “Rhan, do not kill them! Yet!”

Hweilan heard a smack that sounded very much like a fist striking flesh, then the screams stopped.

“You flood that hole, and your champion dies, too,” Hweilan told Maaqua.

Maaqua chuckled. “Clever girl.”

Hweilan risked a quick glance down at her right arm. Just as she’d feared. The hobgoblin’s arrow had hit her in the arm, and she knew it had gone at least to the bone, perhaps even cracking it and lodging inside. It hurt like damnation. Her tackle of Maaqua had broken the shaft just over an inch outside Hweilan’s shirt and caused it to tear enough of her flesh that she already had a thick clot of blood freezing on her sleeve. She could feel a warm trickle running off her elbow.

“Where’s my wolf?” she asked.

“Wolf?”

“You know who I mean.”

“He’s behaving himself,” said Maaqua, “which is more than I can say for you.”

“And Mandan? The big Damaran with the club?”

“We have other plans for him.”

“Not anymore,” said Hweilan, and pressed the point of the bone until it dimpled the old hobgoblin’s flesh. “Your soldiers are going to put down their weapons and get those three halfwits out of the hole. Your champion can stay for a while. Then you’re going to have Mandan and my wolf brought to us. And then we’re all going to leave. Once we’re safely away, I’ll let you go.”

“Or we could stand here jawing until you swoon from all that blood leaking out of your arm,” said Maaqua. “I’d wager that’ll happen long before your three friends are out of the hole, much less the big one and your”-she snorted-“wolf.”

Hweilan considered that a moment. She thought she’d probably last a good deal longer than that. But not forever. Her right sleeve was already heavy with blood.

“Listen, girl,” said Maaqua. “I have no desire to tempt the ire of your master. And your friends-”

“They aren’t my friends,” said Hweilan. “I just met them.”

“Yet you’re standing here bleeding while bargaining for their lives.”

Hweilan heard footsteps and the rattle of armor. Someone must have sounded an alarm or gone for help. More hobgoblins topped the rise and began working their way down. All wore armor and carried weapons. On the cliff tops behind her she heard more.

“This is all unnecessary, you idiot girl,” said Maaqua. “I have no desire to hurt you.”

“So you knocked me unconscious and threw me in a hole as a way to show your hospitality?”

Hweilan could feel her right arm-the one holding Maaqua and leaking blood-beginning to tremble. She could no longer feel her fingers on that hand. She had to end this quickly, one way or the other.

“Let me go,” said Maaqua, “and we can discuss this in a more courteous fashion.”

Hweilan pressed the point of her whistle knife a bit harder, just enough to break the skin. “Talk now or you can explain it all in the Hells.”

A bit of steel entered Maaqua’s tone. “You’ll be right there with me.”

“Talk.”

“I am Maaqua, queen of the Razor Heart and disciple of Soneillon. Do you really think I bow to the threats of that upstart fiend sitting in Highwatch?”

Hweilan had no idea how long she’d been out. Had the attack from the thing wearing her mother’s body been yesterday or today? She had no idea. But she remembered the thing’s words to Maaqua all too clearly.

We know where you are. Bring us the girl, and we’ll let you live.

Hweilan did her best to tighten her grip around the old hobgoblin, but she could feel her strength waning by the moment. “Explain your actions then, old crone,” she said.

“You left me no choice. Had you and that big oaf with the club surrendered-like any person would when surrounded by an army!-had you come nicely, you’d probably all be sitting by a fire now. Instead we had to … subdue you. Think, girl. If I really wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.”

“Then why-?”

“I said think! That, that … thing managed to apparate on my doorstep. Mine! This entire valley has more spells and wards on it than your grandfather’s hounds had fleas, yet that walking mound of goat dung managed to get through them. Even after it left, I had no idea if we were being watched or if it was about to come back with forty of its brothers. I had to make it look like we were capturing you and your friends until I could figure out how that thing got past my wards, past the … chink in my armor.”

“And …?”

“And I found the chink and … unchinked it.”

“So you came to get me out and apologize? You really expect me to believe that?”

Maaqua gave a low chuckle. “Can you smell it yet?”

“Smell?” Hweilan’s tongue felt oddly thick, and now that she thought about it, her head was filled with a new scent. Strong enough that she could taste it on the back of her tongue. Almost like …

“A bit like pine smoke, yes?” said Maaqua. “Only sweeter.”

Pine smoke … it set off a flood of memory. Midwinter celebrations in Highwatch. The servants spent a day decking the feast hall with pine boughs and holly from the mountains and knotted wreaths of sweetgrass from the steppe. The ladies twined mistletoe in their hair, and the knights drank to the health of the High Warden over goblets of bilberry wine. At midnight, the darkest time of the darkest night of the year, the priests would hurl the pine boughs into the sacred hearth. The flames caught in the green pine and flared in tiny, very bright flames, which the priests said burned in defiance of the cold and dark. In the warm light of the hall, Hweilan had always thought the thick smoke seemed more blue than gray, and she could smell it in her hair for days afterward. It was that smell filling her head now. With every breath the scent filled her head more and more.

“The arrow,” said Maaqua. “Poison.”

Hweilan was looking up at the old hobgoblin, her wispy mane turned dark by the sky. Looking up? When …?

She couldn’t remember falling. But the swiftly fraying threads of her reason knew she was lying on the ground. She could still feel her body-in fact, every pain seemed even sharper, every pulse of her heart sending another tiny jolt through her limbs-but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t even force her eyes to close.

Maaqua’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “I was afraid you might have bled out most of the poison, tearing your wound like you did. Lucky me. Stupid you.”

CHAPTER THREE

Vazhad had to stop a moment to gather his courage. The lamps in the hall were burning through the last of their oil. A few had already sputtered out, their dried wicks spitting an acrid smoke that gathered at the ceiling. There would be no more oil coming to Highwatch. Once the supply was gone, what little fire burned at night in Highwatch would be the pitch-soaked torches-and Vazhad knew the pitch was running low as well. Soon, darkness would rule Highwatch after sunset.

He closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to whomever might be listening. It gave him no small amount of pride that his hand did not shake when he rapped twice upon the door.

No response. Vazhad waited. He heard scuffling from the hall. His heart skipped a beat, then started again double time. But when he turned, he saw only a rat, braving the meager lamplight, scuttling along the wall. It saw Vazhad watching, stopped, then proceeded on its way.

Vazhad knocked again, slightly harder this time.

“Yes?” said a voice from the other side.

“It is Vazhad,” he called. “Dawn is near.”

Sending one of the baazuled all the way into the Giantspires the day before had taken a great deal of Argalath’s strength. Subduing the eladrin had taken the last of it. Vazhad had carried his master all the way back to his chamber.

Argalath had never been a large man. He had the build of a scholar who preferred poring over books to a good meal. But Vazhad had been shocked at how light his master had become, scarcely heavier than a child. As he’d laid his master in bed, Argalath’s head had lolled to one side, exposing his neck.

A chicken.

The thought entered Vazhad’s mind, seemingly out of nowhere. The former lords of Highwatch had kept the foul birds, raising them for food, feathers, and eggs. Vazhad had once watched one of the kitchen servants removing the feathers. It had shocked him how scrawny and strengthless the thing looked in only its skin. The servant had set it aside, retrieved his next squawking victim from the cage, and snapped its neck with no more effort than plucking a flower.

That last image came clearly to Vazhad’s mind, as he stared down at his master’s frail neck. Vazhad had been a warrior all his life. Serving Argalath had kept him out of the saddle more than he liked, but his hands were still strong. Argalath had no hair to grab, but if Vazhad planted one hand on the neck, he could grab an ear, or even the jaw. One quick twist-

And then Argalath’s eyes had opened. Argalath’s eyes. Not the … thing inside him. It had taken Vazhad a long time to recognize the difference, but since that night on the mountain when Argalath killed Soran, there was no mistaking one for the other. Argalath the half-Nar demonbinder was weak. His gaze had no more strength than that of an old man in the last stages of sickness. But the other … it burned hot, bright, and hungry.

“Vazhad … my friend,” Argalath had said. “Thank you.”

“For what, Master?” Vazhad asked.

But Argalath’s eyes closed again. Vazhad thought he had drifted off again. Perhaps he had, for the voice that then spoke was the other. Jagun Ghen. Every word spoken so carefully that Vazhad knew it was more than a foreigner speaking a strange tongue. This was a will for whom words were a necessary inconvenience. This mind wanted only to burn and consume. Everything else … was only a means to that end.

“Wake this one before dawn.”

The dead, cold voice stopped any thoughts of wringing necks. Vazhad’s hands no longer felt strong. He had to tighten them into fists to keep them from trembling.

“As you wish, my lord.” Vazhad had bowed and left the room.

It seemed some strange sort of madness to be standing here again. Another torch sputtered out.

“Come in,” said the voice from the other side of the door. Not Argalath’s voice. It was the other. The burning hunger.

Vazhad’s hand trembled as he grasped the knob.

The sun had not yet broken over the eastern walls when Vazhad escorted his master into the empty courtyard. The wind rattled in the dead leaves of the ivy creeping up the walls. The high haze over the foothills glowed a deep orange like dying embers. Vazhad treasured the last of the light in the courtyard, then he and his master entered the door in the cliff and walked back into the darkness of the inner fortress.

His master leaned against Vazhad as they walked. But the voice that spoke had no hint of weakness in it.

“You have seen my brother Kathkur since I slept?” Jagun Ghen asked.

“No, my lord,” said Vazhad.

“He has eaten?”

“No. The others took him to the chamber.”

“Everything is prepared?” asked Jagun Ghen.

“As you commanded.”

“Very good.”

Vazhad did not understand all the rituals that brought Jagun Ghen’s brethren into the world. He had seen firsthand that those who were given a dead body to inhabit had to be fed almost immediately. But for those who possessed living flesh, things seemed to be different. So far, those few his master had managed to create had all been humans. Vazhad suspected the runes and other symbols gouged into their skin had something to do with opening the way for the spirit. Perhaps something like a beacon showing the way in, then a sort of magic lock to help keep the thing inside. But this newcomer was something else, something other than mortal.

“Master-” Vazhad’s voice caught, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “How is it that this one is able to resist your brother?”

“This one, this … eladrin”-Jagun Ghen sneered at the word-“he is the first of his kind to house us. The eladrin are no stronger than the other sheep of this world. Their strengths and weaknesses are simply different. But this one … he is still more than that. He has the stink of the Ice Queen about him. Whatever he did with her-or she did to him-it left him … changed.”

“Changed? Changed how?”

Jagun Ghen chuckled, a hollow rattling sound. “We shall find out.”

They walked a while longer, the silence seeming even heavier than the darkness. As they descended a small flight of stairs, Jagun Ghen leaned on Vazhad for support. “Tell me, my friend,” he said, “do you long for your … metamorphosis? Does it still haunt your dreams? Are you ready?”

It was all Vazhad could do to keep his feet moving down the steps. He had sworn his service to Argalath for the promise of immortality, that he would become like Argalath-both himself and joined to another of great power. But now that he saw where that path had taken Argalath …

“I live to serve,” said Vazhad. It took all his strength and control to keep his voice even.

“Your day will come. Fear not. But first we must deal with our new friend. He must learn to submit. His strengths are unexpected, but they are not beyond our control. Besides, he knows the Hand. I can taste it on his breath. What he knows might prove useful.”

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 Faerun 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.

CHAPTER FOUR

She’s waking.” Goblin 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.”

“Mistress?” said Kaad from behind Maaqua.

The old crone stepped to one side so that Kaad could kneel beside Hweilan. On his right hand he wore a thick rawhide glove, tattered and scorched, so that he could hold the steaming cauldron.

“This really would be better if she were asleep,” Kaad said to Maaqua in Goblin.

“Too late for that,” said Maaqua, then she looked down at Hweilan. “Just do it.”

Kaad removed something from his robe. Hweilan forced herself to look, half afraid it was going to be a razor or a long needle, but it was only a large spoon made from some reddish gold metal. Runes were etched along its length, but Hweilan couldn’t read them. They weren’t in Goblin or, for that matter, any language Hweilan had ever seen. Kaad held it vertically before his face, closed his eyes, and whispered an incantation. A shimmer of purple light ran down the length of the spoon, catching and sparkling in the runes. He dipped the spoon into the cauldron and removed another large dollop of the steaming muck.

“You might want to look away,” said Maaqua.

Hweilan didn’t.

With a half-apologetic glance, Kaad poured the contents of the spoon onto her wound.

The pain was worse than pouring hot oil on skin. Oil burned and slid away. This new muck reacted with the stuff already on her arm, sizzling and bubbling and burrowing into her wound. Hweilan felt her skin crisping away. She clenched her jaw shut and tears streamed down her cheeks, but she did not scream.

Instead, she looked up at Maaqua, staring at her through the blur of her tears. “Wh-where is my wolf? Where is my mother’s body? And th-those … Damaran … idiots?”

“Your damned wolf is gone. The monster got away. Turned tail and ran. Had two arrows in him last we saw, but no one has found a trace of him. Your mother’s body has been … taken care of.” A strange look flitted across Maaqua’s face at that. Hweilan thought the old queen almost looked annoyed.

“ ‘Taken care of?’ What do you mean my mother has been ‘taken care of?’ ”

“That isn’t your most grave concern at the moment,” said Maaqua. “Your three friends are still in their hole, though I had my soldiers throw some blankets down to them so that the scrawny one would stop his whining.”

Kaad returned to the fire and the cauldron. The end of the spoon was still glowing when he put it back in his robes.

What Maaqua’s brutes might have done to her mother’s body filled Hweilan with a cold rage, and she swore to herself that if she lived through this, every one of them would pay. But Maaqua’s words were not completely without merit. If Hweilan wanted a hope of seeing to her mother or raining bloody vengeance on anyone who had dishonored her, she had to get out of this first. Still, there was one more thing she had to know.

“A-and … Mandan?” said Hweilan.

Hweilan caught the careful glance Kaad gave his mistress.

“You mean the big one?” said Maaqua.

“That’s him.”

Maaqua leaned on her staff and looked Hweilan directly in the eye. There was no anger there, but neither could Hweilan miss the steel in the old hobgoblin’s voice. “This … Mandan … killed two of my warriors and kept Kaad here quite busy healing five others. One of the warriors he killed had a mate. And children. Mandan will be bound to the Stone of Hoar, and the dead warrior’s family will … do as they will, until the big one is quite dead. His body will remain there. Food for crows. After ten tendays, anything that remains will be thrown in the midden pits.”

Kaad left the hearth and walked out of Hweilan’s sight. She looked at her wound again. The worst of the pain was over. Most of her right arm had gone numb. She could feel only a lingering warmth there, pulsing with her heartbeat. “You’re making a mistake,” she said.

“Let’s not start that again,” said Maaqua. “I know of your master, and I know it’s less than a tenday until the moon is fat. I have no desire to provoke the ire of Nendawen. But I served Soneillon. If you don’t know who that is, you can ask Kaad after I leave. Enough that you know I am not without means to defend myself, even against the Master of the Hunt. So if you persist in threatening me, I’ll cut off the middle two fingers of your right hand. See how well you wield a bow then.”

Kaad shuffled back into view. The mitt was gone, and he balanced a silver bowl in both hands. “Drink this,” he said, and lowered it to Hweilan’s face.

Hweilan pulled her head back. It had an earthy, wet scent, like sodden leaves.

“The medicine I put on your arm killed what was left of the poison in your flesh and blood,” said Kaad. “So you will not die, yes? This will heal the arm.”

“What else will it do?” Hweilan asked.

“Eh?”

“No more sleeping?”

Kaad smiled. “Ah. Nothing like that. Quite other, I fear-at least with our kind. This is gunhin. It restores the body to health. Those who take it sometimes cannot sleep for two or three days after. Very … invigorating.”

Hweilan could see he was trying to suppress a smile.

“You lie,” she said.

“No.”

“Out with it, Kaad,” said Maaqua. “Tell her what you mean by invigorating. Speak our tongue if you have to.”

Kaad bowed his head to his mistress before returning his gaze to Hweilan, and spoke in Goblin, “Understand that its effects upon a human may differ. But when hobgoblin warriors take this, it makes them not only very vigorous, but very … focused in their vigor. It is no accident that after a particularly fierce raid we heal many wounded-and have many little ones born the next season.”

“I wouldn’t let that worry you,” said Maaqua. “The three idiots are still in their hole, and the big brute is in no condition for loving. So unless you have a liking for hobgoblins, a roll in the snow should set you right. Or perhaps I’ll just keep you tied up until it wears off, eh?”

Kaad offered Hweilan the bowl again, and she drank. She forced it at first, because it tasted worse than the smell of rotting leaves, but then she gulped with more enthusiasm, for the effect was almost instantaneous. It reminded her of the kanishta root-a sort of slow warmth like strong spirits, only without the numbing of the mind. But soon there was a mix of sensations, like the ecstasy of a steaming hot bath on a cold winter’s night combined with the relief of a cool breeze on a summer’s day-only it was on the inside. Hweilan felt the tiniest fibers in her muscles trembling like plucked harpstrings, and for a moment she felt the roots of her hair sizzling.

All the pain of the past days-sore muscles, scrapes, even the gouge on her cheek from Maaqua’s fingernail-flared for just a moment in an exquisite pain that bordered on pleasure, then melted away.

“Better, yes?” said Kaad.

“Yes,” said Hweilan, and she blushed at the genuine pleasure in her voice. Her bindings suddenly itched worse than sand in her bed linens. She could feel every rough fiber in the twine, every crease in her skin where the bindings were too tight. Even her clothes and boots suddenly seemed constraining. Not being able to move became worse as slow fire spread through every limb, making her want to run, to punch out her frustrations on the nearest flesh, to sing out all the battle songs Scith had taught her. Worse still, a warmth spread through her torso and loins … a warmth she had not felt in a very long time, one that made her want another’s flesh in very different ways.

Maaqua sat down just beyond Hweilan’s feet, settled her robes around her knees, and laid her staff across her lap.

“Shall I have my warriors fetch the young prince?” Maaqua said, looking at Hweilan with a wicked grin.

“What?” said Hweilan as she felt her neck and face fill with blood.

“I didn’t think your taste would be for the old man,” said Maaqua. “And the scrawny one whines too much. But the princeling seems quite mountable as humans go, eh?”

Kaad grabbed another cauldron sitting in the far corner. For a moment, Hweilan thought she was in for some new torment, but it was only water. Kaad put it to good use scrubbing the muck from her arm with a large, hairy cloth that Hweilan suspected had been shorn from the back of one of the local rams.

“Why are you doing this?” said Hweilan.

“Eh?”

“Healing me.”

“Hm. Now that is a tangle.” Maaqua scratched at her chin while she gathered her thoughts.

Hweilan had no time for this. She had to get away. She’d been a fool to try to help Darric and the others. She knew this, but had always talked herself out of leaving. What a fool she’d been.

With new energy making her limbs quiver with strength, Hweilan struggled against her bonds. The ironwood rack to which she was tied gave the faintest cracking sound, but her bindings held.

Time is running out, the wolf had said. She hadn’t understood in the dream, but she thought she did now. Jagun Ghen and his ilk were far away, but she could still sense them, much as birds could sense the coming winter and knew to fly south. It was like an itch in the farthest part of her brain. Had her hands been free, they could have pointed straight at Highwatch. He was out there, and every passing moment allowed him to build his strength.

Hweilan remembered the words she had heard in the vision of Kesh Naan’s lair: In the Hunting Lands, Jagun Ghen almost conquered. Only hundreds of years of blood and sacrifice vanquished him. Here in this corrupt world beneath its cold stars, here Jagun Ghen could become a god.

“Why are we healing you?” asked Maaqua. “That depends on you, I’d say. You’ve presented me with quite a puzzle, girl. When you first appeared on my doorstep, with Menduarthis speaking for you, I had half a mind to help you. I have no love for you or your master, but there’s no denying what you’ve been doing in the mountains, killing those things out of Highwatch. Enemy of my enemy is … well, if not my friend, then at least someone worth helping, eh?”

Hweilan surreptitiously tested her bonds again. They didn’t budge. Much more pressure, and Hweilan knew she’d only tear her skin. The ironwood rack creaked louder.

Maaqua chuckled. “You’re strong, girl. But not that strong. Save your strength. I said I had half a mind to help you, but that was before that thing appeared at my fortress and took your friend Menduarthis right out from under my nose. I don’t take kindly to threats, even from Highwatch’s new master. However, faced with an army of those things coming here …”

“You’re no fool,” said Hweilan. “You know giving me up will buy you only a little time. No more.”

“True,” said Maaqua. “But a little time might be all I need to figure out how to deal with Highwatch’s new master myself.”

Hweilan hung her head and laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I take my words back. You are a fool.”

Maaqua’s staff came down with a thwack! on Hweilan’s thighs, but they were so wrapped in the thick rope that it didn’t hurt.

“Manners, pup,” said Maaqua. “Or you might make me change my mind again.”

Hweilan raised her head. “You’re letting me go?”

Maaqua gave her a wicked smile. “That depends on you. You asked a good question before. Why are we healing you? Well, I had hoped to bring you up out of your hole to discuss how we might help one another, but I fear your stupidity has robbed us of that chance.”

“Please get to the point.”

The knobby end of Maaqua’s staff came round again and hit Hweilan’s cheek with enough force to make lights flash in her vision. Through the pain in her face, Hweilan felt a warm trickle of blood coursing down her cheek.

“There you go with more stupid willfulness,” said Maaqua. “Just hold your tongue and listen. That big one with the black sword? Rhan? He is the champion of the Razor Heart. Among the warriors, he is second only to the warchief-though his pride is far pricklier. You did a most unwise thing kicking him down that hole. He has demanded the Blood Slake of you for the insult.”

Blood Slake. Guush ukh in the Goblin tongue. It was not a concept Gleed had taught her. “What is that?”

“The right to restore his honor. Put simply, you shamed him. A little girl like you kicking him arse over ears into a hole. He has made the demand of the warchief, me, the whole damned War Council. We cannot refuse him. So we’re obligated to heal you so that you’ll be at your full strength to fight him before all the Razor Heart. To the death.”

“And what do you say to this?”

Maaqua shrugged. “I have no desire to see you dead. Contrary to what you seem to think, I could handle your master. It is simply a complication I do not need, considering all the other problems we face right now. But neither do I wish to lose my champion.”

“Then command him,” said Hweilan. “You’re the queen.”

Both Maaqua and Kaad chuckled. The queen said, “Things are not that simple with our kind, girl. I could command him, and he might obey. But Rhan is a proud one. If he defied me … well, then I’d be forced to deal with him myself. That would win me no friends among the clan. And if he obeyed me, his shame would remain. I can’t have that, either.”

“So?”

“So that’s why you’re here,” said Kaad. The healer wrung out the cloth on the floor, dipped it back in the basin, and resumed scrubbing the muck and blood from her arm.

“I have an idea,” Maaqua said. “One that satisfies everyone.”

“I’m listening.”

“You escape. Once I leave, Kaad will fray the ropes under your legs. I’ll have a guard bring you food later. I’ll tell him to untie your arms so that you may eat. I’m sure you can take care of the rest.”

“And the Damarans?”

“Why do you care?” said Maaqua.

Now that it came to it, she did care. Getting involved with them had been foolish and had landed her in this predicament. But Darric had risked everything to help her, and Valsun and Mandan’s devotion to him were admirable.

At the same time, Hweilan knew what Jagun Ghen would do. Kesh Naan had showed her. She had seen through the eyes of her ancestors the suffering he would bring to thousands if she did not stop him. Were four men really worth that? No. As much as it pained Hweilan, she had to admit that nothing could justify saving four lives while putting thousands at risk. Everything she had been brought up to believe by her parents, her grandfather, her Uncle Soran, and everything she had learned from Gleed, Kesh Naan, Ashiin, and even the Master himself … no. She would desecrate all of that if she let Jagun Ghen win in order to save these four men.

And so in her mind, she let them go. She had no doubt the guilt would nag her till the end of her days. But if she didn’t deal with the real enemy, the end of all their days would come too soon.

Kaad’s scrubbing stopped again. “That is interesting,” he muttered.

“Eh? What?” said Maaqua, then in Goblin-“What is interesting? Speak!”

Hweilan looked down at her arm and immediately saw what he meant. Below her shoulder she had a large patch of brand new skin, completely smooth and hairless, and pale as goose down. The dark inks of the tattoos on her arm ended at the healed wound, but the pattern continued across the new skin, not in black but in a deep red. Like blood.

“These were not made with normal inks, were they?” said Kaad, touching them cautiously with one finger.

“No,” said Hweilan. She remembered all too clearly the searing pain as Gleed carved them into her flesh with the glowing metal rod.

Kaad looked at her and raised his brows questioningly.

Hweilan raised hers in mockery.

Maaqua didn’t seem impressed. “The girl is marked. You know what she is.”

Kaad shrugged, then stood and returned the water cauldron to its place, tossing the sodden goatskin onto the floor.

Hweilan returned her attention to Maaqua. “You’ll let me go? Just like that? What do you want in return?”

Maaqua sat back and put the staff back in her lap. But by the tightness of her jaw and narrowed eyes, Hweilan knew the queen was holding on to her anger very carefully. “These … things coming out of Highwatch. They have become a problem. Rhan killed one, but only after it killed several of our warriors.”

“I told you already,” said Hweilan, “Rhan did not kill it. He may have destroyed the flesh it wore, but the spirit inside survived and went to find a new host.”

“I believe you,” said Maaqua, and Hweilan could sense no deceit in her tone. “I’m older and wiser than you are, girl. I have not sat idle while these vermin infested my homeland. I have learned a thing or two. But …”

“But you still don’t know how to kill them,” said Hweilan.

Maaqua smiled. “And you do.”

“So now we come to it.”

“I’ve changed my mind. You teach me how to kill these things, and I’ll let you go. You’ll keep your life. You don’t teach me … and I’ll make your pretty Damaran boy watch while I flay you alive.”

Hweilan held Maaqua’s gaze for a long time. Hweilan was no fool. Once Maaqua got what she wanted, she had no reason to let Hweilan live. What the queen was asking, however … Hweilan couldn’t have given it even if she wanted to. But as soon as the queen believed that, she would have no reason to let Hweilan go, much less keep her alive. Menduarthis taken by Jagun Ghen. The Damarans captured. Uncle gone. Hweilan’s only hope was the full moon, still days away. Her one strategy-keep Maaqua hungry. A trick every hunter knew: no matter how smart your prey was, get it hungry enough, and it will eventually snatch the bait.

So Hweilan let it out. It wasn’t hard. Perhaps it was the gunhin still coursing through her system. Or the desperation of her situation. After all she’d gone through, to meet her end at the hands of a viper like Maaqua … it was funny in a way. Hweilan threw her head back against the ironwood and laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks.

Maaqua pushed herself to her feet and raised her staff.

“My queen, please!” said Kaad.

But the queen ignored him. She struck Hweilan across the face with her staff, then again on the crown of her head with the backstroke.

Kaad stepped forward and tried to grab the staff, but Maaqua turned it on him. One sharp crack across his temple, and the scrawny healer collapsed. The hobgoblin queen stared down at Hweilan, her eyes narrowed to angry slits, her upper lip curled over her yellow teeth.

Hweilan laughed harder.

That only stoked Maaqua’s fury. She took a step back, raised the staff, and spoke the beginning of an incantation. Purple light sparked around her staff, each syllable she spoke bringing another, each stronger than the last.

“Stop!” said Hweilan, trying to stifle her laughter. “No need for that. You want to know how to deal with the baazuled? I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

Maaqua blinked. The arcane light gathering around her staff fizzled out. “Eh? What’s that? You’ll what?”

“You want to know how to kill them?”

“Yes!” said Maaqua, a manic light in her eye.

“First, you have to taste the venom of a thousand spiders, until their poison so fills your brain that only the mercy of the spiders’ god keeps you alive, filling you with visions. You’ll live a thousand lives. Die a thousand deaths. Joys, sorrows, triumphs, losses … you will know them all. And then spend your days being beaten senseless by the Fox, until you learn to fight back. Until the Fox becomes your sister. And then you’ll watch her die and drink the blood of her killer. I have done all that and more, you greedy, flea-bitten rat. So if you think your petty threats frighten me in the least, then go ahead. Kill me. On the next full moon, I’ll meet you in the Hells and teach you different.”

The queen stared down at Hweilan a long time, and Hweilan was beginning to think she’d gone too far. Finally, the old hobgoblin put her staff on the ground, leaned upon it, and looked down on her.

“Have it your way, you ungrateful little nit. But know this. I’ll find a way to deal with Highwatch. I have your weapons. It’s only a matter of time before I decipher all those symbols you’ve burned and scratched into them. If I can’t find the answers, I know those who can, be they gods or demons or devils. And when your horn-headed master comes-if he dares-I’ll throw your skin at him and spit. Meet you in the Hells? Heh. I’ve been there. And back.”

Maaqua nudged Kaad with her toe. The healer stirred and looked up at her, but made no move to get up.

“Get her ready,” said Maaqua. “I’ve decided to let Rhan kill the bitch.”

CHAPTER FIVE

When Vazhad finally emerged into the courtyard, with his master and the eladrin following, it was midmorning. The sky overhead was a cloudless blue, but the sun had still not managed to climb the high eastern wall. Vazhad wondered if the guards would still be there as he’d ordered them. He wouldn’t have blamed them if they’d fled. But he suspected they’d stayed. He didn’t know these two, but he’d known many like them-men so eager for power that they’d betray clan and family. Their lust for reward would outweigh their instinct for self-preservation.

He was right.

Both men were crouched against the far wall of the courtyard where the sun would strike first. The way they sat, face to face, looking at the ground, Vazhad knew they were tossing dice or stones, probably gambling away what gold or silver they still had from the ransacking of Highwatch.

Vazhad emerged from the tunnel first, making sure he stepped loudly enough to announce their presence.

The guards stood and turned to face them. At first, they looked relieved to see only Vazhad, but when he stepped aside and Jagun Ghen and Kathkur followed, both men stood at attention and looked down in deference.

Jagun Ghen’s hood was pulled so low that only a fraction of his chin showed. Vazhad suspected the guards did not know enough to discern the true will inside the body. Most likely, they saw only Argalath, demonbinder and conqueror of Highwatch. Though that was enough to cause even the hardiest and greediest of the Creel to fear, Vazhad doubted even their avarice would have kept them here had they known the truth of what walked out next.

Kathkur stopped beside his master, his gaze fixed on the two Creel. “These two, then?”

“They are yours,” said Jagun Ghen.

The rune on the eladrin’s forehead flared suddenly, like a breeze stirring an ember. He shivered and hunched his shoulders, as if struck with a sudden chill, and then he charged.

The Creel, used to obeying orders, held their ground a moment longer than they should have. Then both men’s eyes went wide and bright like freshly minted coins. The big one screamed, “No! Please! Plea-” while his companion simply fled.

Kathkur pursued the runner, cackling with the glee of a naughty child. He caught the man after five strides, both hands seizing the man’s shoulders, and pushed him to the flagstones.

The big one still stood, not moving, wide-eyed, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked to Vazhad and said in Nar, “Kinsman, please-”

Vazhad shrugged and replied in kind, “Run if you wish. You might stand a chance if your friend struggles a while.”

Beside him, Jagun Ghen chuckled.

The man let out all his breath, and Vazhad saw the front of his trousers darkening with wetness. Vazhad turned away in disgust. No shame in dying, but to die craven …

Still laughing, Kathkur turned the other Creel over with no more difficulty than a scholar turning the page of a book, then came down atop him, pinning one arm under his leg. The man screamed and swung his other hand. It held a dagger. He buried it to the hilt between the eladrin’s ribs.

“That hurt, you little morsel,” said Kathkur.

Vazhad could not see his face, but the sound of the possessed eladrin’s voice was not that of a man with half a foot of steel in his side. He almost sounded … pleased. But he spoke in Damaran, and Vazhad doubted the guard even understood him.

Kathkur grabbed the man’s hand and squeezed. Vazhad heard bones snap, then crumble, and the Creel’s screams turned to agony. Vazhad clenched his jaw and breathed very carefully through his nose. He would not look away. With his free hand, the eladrin grabbed the man’s chin and pushed his head back, exposing his neck.

“There,” he said. “I think I’ll start with the soft bits first.”

He bent close. The Creel’s screaming turned so shrill that Vazhad feared the man might tear his throat. Still, Vazhad did not look away. He had seen death many times, and his own choices had brought him here. If his soul were to be damned, at least he would not flinch from it.

But then, his teeth just inches from the Creel’s throat, Kathkur stopped. He trembled. But the tremble didn’t stop. It grew until the eladrin’s whole body was shaking with such force that Vazhad could hear the grit on the flagstones scraping under the two men.

Beside Vazhad, Jagun Ghen tensed, bellowed, “No!” and then rushed forward.

The eladrin screamed-a ragged-edged awful sound that began like the roar of an animal, and then rose to something that seemed … afraid, horrified, and in terrible pain, yes, but … normal. Of this world.

This was not Kathkur any longer. This was Menduarthis.

Still straddling the Creel, the eladrin turned and raised a hand at the onrushing Jagun Ghen.

Before his master stepped in front of his view, Vazhad saw the eladrin’s face. The rune on his forehead was blazing, a hot, angry red, the skin around it scorched and smoking. His expression was that of a man in terrible pain.

Then Vazhad heard it before he felt it. Wind. Not the late spring breeze of Narfell. This was a monster gale, with gusts that came out of the mountains in the darkest months of winter. It fell over the courtyard walls with the force of a cataract, shattering the dry, dead ivy on the walls, swirling around the eladrin, gathering its strength. He shrieked-Vazhad thought there might have been words in the cry-and the wind shot out from his grasp with the power of a battering ram.

But Jagun Ghen seemed to have been expecting as much. He stopped his charge and raised his own counterstrike. The wind struck, but it hit something that Jagun Ghen held up in front of him. Vazhad saw flames flickering in the air as the gale broke around his master, whipping at his robes and throwing off his hood, but otherwise doing him no harm.

And then the cloud of dust and grit and dry leaves washed over Vazhad, and he had to close his eyes and turn away. Even over the roar of the wind, he could hear the eladrin screaming, and Jagun Ghen shouting incomprehensible words.

When Vazhad opened his eyes again, his torch was no more than a smoldering branch, nearly extinguished by the wind. Vazhad tossed it aside and sought refuge inside the tunnel, going in just far enough to escape the worst of the wind but stopping well before the light ran out.

Vazhad reached into his sleeve and grabbed the talisman, holding on to it like a little boy holds a horse’s mane during his first ride alone. He could feel the point of it piercing his palm-deep, drawing blood-but he did not care.

The wind rose to a scream, and Jagun Ghen shrieked a final word, the harsh syllables like hot needles in Vazhad’s ears.

And then it was over. The wind died, but not gradually as natural gales do. It ceased all at once. Leaves and grit fell in a rattle on the flagstones of the courtyard.

Vazhad emerged, wiping his sleeve over eyes teary from dust. He fully expected to see the eladrin’s dead body splayed over the stones. But when he opened his eyes, he saw his master leaning against the far wall, the blue light of his spellscar still flickering as it faded. Jagun Ghen was breathing hard, like a man who’s just run a long ways uphill.

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.”

CHAPTER SIX

Maaqua 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.”

“So be it,” said Hweilan.

Buureg sighed, then reached into his sleeve and withdrew a black dagger. “Hand of the Hunter, do you swear to stay your hand against the Razor Heart and abide in peace by our fires until life or death be decided?”

Hweilan kept her gaze fixed on Maaqua-she was the dangerous one. Rhan held no fear for her. Nor even Buureg and his brutes. Hweilan knew their kind. They would not hesitate to kill her, but they would do so openly, wanting to look her in the eye as they did it. Maaqua was an adder in the cleft, hidden by shadows.

“I do,” said Hweilan. “In the name of Nendawen, Master of the Hunt, I so swear. May his wrath strike me down if I break this vow.”

“So be it,” said Buureg. He spared another glance to Maaqua, then he bent and cut away Hweilan’s bonds.

“Someone’s coming,” said Valsun, startling Darric out of his doze.

Both men stood. Darric could hear it, too. Footsteps above, and the occasional clank of metal.

“Think they’ve come to feed us?” said Darric. They hadn’t eaten since that night in the mountains when Hweilan’s wolf had brought them the ram.

This roused Jaden. He didn’t sit up from his bed of blankets, but his eyes widened and he looked up expectantly.

“In armor?” said Valsun. “Not likely.”

At the rim of the pit, a helmeted silhouette came into view, looking down on them. Then another.

“Damn all of you!” Valsun shouted. “Either feed us or kill us!”

The two warriors above glanced at each other. One said something Darric could not understand, then they both disappeared.

“At least give us water!” Darric said.

No answer.

“They’re still up there,” said Valsun. “I can hear them. And more than two.”

Another shape came into view. Unhelmeted, her long hair was tossed by the breeze.

“Hweilan?” said Darric, disbelieving.

“Are you hurt?” she called.

A warm flood of relief washed over Darric. She was alive. That meant they might not be doomed after all.

“Half starved and more than half frozen,” Valsun called up. “And Jaden has convinced himself he’s dying, but I fear the gods have not blessed us that far.”

There was a sharp clank from the other side of the wall, and the bars overhead began to slide into the stone.

“They are going to get you out,” said Hweilan. “But I am bid to tell you that you are bound to behave yourselves. I have spoken for you. Try anything foolish, and I am sworn to kill you myself.”

Darric and Valsun exchanged a concerned look.

“What’s happening up there, lady?” said Valsun.

The last of the bars disappeared into the wall, and the same rope that had hauled Hweilan out earlier fell into the pit.

“I’ll explain everything up here. Let’s get you warm and fed first.”

“I’m not sure Jaden can climb,” Darric called up to her.

One of the hobgoblin warriors looked down the hole. “Tie it round his ankles! We’ll drag ’im up!”

“Oh, gods,” Jaden moaned as he rolled in his blankets. “Help me, for pity’s sake.”

“Help yourself,” said Valsun and nudged him with his boot. “Get that loop under your arms, or I swear on my mother’s name I’ll tie the damned thing around your neck.”

Darric went up first. He had to squint and blink as he came up into the full daylight. But when he could finally open his eyes, he saw three hobgoblins pulling on the rope; another eight warriors, all armed; and four more with bows crouched on the rocks overhead.

Hweilan stood apart from the warriors, her dark hair unbound. The right sleeve of her shirt was gone, and she wore no coat. Not even a cloak. But she seemed completely unbothered by the cold.

“Hweilan,” Darric said, then stopped. He’d been about to say are you well? But it was obvious she was. Not a scratch on her. The skin on her right arm had an oddly pale patch, and something about the tattoo there looked odd, but then she caught him staring.

“Yes?” she said sharply.

Darric blushed. “I’m … uh, grateful. For getting us out. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, then turned away.

Stung, Darric turned to watch as Jaden half-stumbled and was half-dragged out of the pit. As he cleared the lip of stone, blinking against the light, two hobgoblins grabbed his shirt, hauled him out, and dumped him on the ground. The scrawny Damaran had somehow managed to keep one of the blankets wrapped around his shoulders during the ordeal.

As the two hobgoblins got Jaden out of the rope, he looked to Hweilan. “Next time you plan on dropping a hobgoblin on a fellow’s head, you might want to let him know.”

“Stop whining,” she said. “I told you to be ready.”

When Valsun came out of the pit, he shrugged his way out of the rope, and by the way he was studying their surroundings, Darric knew the old knight was weighing their chances of escape. His grim expression a moment later showed that he’d come to the same conclusion Darric had.

Hweilan looked down at Jaden, who was still sitting on the ground, shivering despite his blanket. Then she walked over to Valsun and gave his bruised and battered face a critical look. She spared Darric only a quick glance, then turned to one of the hobgoblins and said, “Get Kaad. Tell him these men need some gunhin.”

All the warriors around them erupted in laughter, and a few of them even hooted and pounded their chests.

“Which one needs it the most, eh?” said one of the warriors, and the others hooted even louder.

Darric had no idea what was going on, but nothing could have shocked him more than what he saw next. Hweilan gave him the briefest of glances, blushed like a maiden caught bathing, then turned and walked away.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Everything had been prepared, just as his master ordered. It had not been easy. Vazhad had expected to find something in the dungeons of Highwatch that suited their needs. He had heard that Yarin the Usurper had special advisors who designed ways to torture and kill his prisoners in the most painful ways. But there was nothing. The dungeons were simply cells with stout doors. Vandalar had apparently been a softer kind of ruler. He did not even have iron rings in the walls from which to hang particularly troublesome occupants.

But some of the last remaining Creel had found something-near the stables of all places. Not up in the high aeries where the knights had kept their scythe wings but in the bottom-most area of the fortress, where the Damarans had housed their horses.

A narrow alley that smelled of manure snaked along the mountainside to a high-walled yard. A stone basin lay near the farthest wall. A sluice led out of the wall. Far too small to allow anyone to enter the fortress, it was wide enough that blood and muck could be rinsed out from the cattle slaughters. Vazhad had watched it once. Jatara and Kadrigul had brought him, for the process amused them.

The Damarans would lead the cow or ox down the alley-dragging it the last stretch as the beast caught the scent of blood and animal remains. It had been a young bull ox on the day Vazhad was present.

Two iron rings had been affixed to either side of the basin. Vazhad had watched four servants pull and prod the screaming animal into the basin. The ox had a thick harness around its throat, almost like a leash. And only this leash had two leads of strong rope. Two men bound the rope into the rings, then stood back as the ox bucked and kicked, its hooves making a terrible racket against the stone basin. But it had been unable to break free. The servants stepped well away, and a stout man, short but with the muscles of a lifelong blacksmith, stepped to the edge of the basin. He’d worn a bright red wool tunic, and in his right hand he carried an iron-headed mallet.

Seeing the man stepping so close, the ox had charged. But the ropes pulled taut and stopped the charge just shy of the basin’s edge-and within reach of the mallet. The man brought it round, hitting the ox right between the eyes, and down it went.

At the time, Vazhad had wondered if the beast was truly dead or merely struck senseless. But it hardly mattered. The other servants came forward with their knives to bleed and skin the carcass. And Vazhad watched as the red liquid flowed down the sluice.

There was still time until full dark, but the yard’s walls kept out most of the light, so Vazhad had ordered torches lit. He suspected they were some of the last in the fortress, but that would hardly matter before long. If he spent much more time walking in darkness, his nerves would snap, and he needed them to hold. Just a little longer.

Looking at the basin in the orange torchlight, Vazhad suspected that the Damarans, who were nothing if not obsessively clean, had washed, scrubbed, and sanded the basin after each use. But years of slaughter had stained the stone black. There was no mistaking it for anything but a place of murder.

However, this was no ox they were bringing here, and Vazhad did not trust even the stoutest ropes in the fortress. The Creel had bolted a steel chain to each iron ring, and from the end of each chain hung a manacle.

Vazhad heard the others approaching behind him, and he stepped aside.

The alley leading to the yard had been made purposefully narrow so that cattle had no room to turn around. Two men could have walked side-by-side had they wished, but the newcomers walked into the yard single file.

The thing that had once been Guric came first. His feet were bare, but he wore new clothes. Vazhad wondered what had happened to the old ones. Probably they had become so stained and sodden with blood that they had fallen off him. He didn’t even glance at Vazhad as he passed.

His master came next. The cowl of his hood was down, showing his hairless, blue-mottled head, and by the strength in his stride and the fact that he did not flinch from the torchlight, Vazhad knew that he was looking upon Jagun Ghen.

He looked at Vazhad, and for a moment the torchlight caught in his eyes, making him look very much like one of the undead baazuled whose black gazes were lit with a tiny spark of fire. But then he looked to the basin. “Well done,” he said. “Well done, indeed. This suits our purposes perfectly.”

Two more baazuled came next-one a Creel Vazhad had never known, even in life; the other a Damaran who Vazhad thought seemed vaguely familiar. The Creel was carrying a leather bag that sagged with a heavy weight.

Behind them, Kathkur strode into the yard. The muscles in the eladrin’s face were pulled taut, his left eye twitched incessantly, and the symbol gouged into his forehead flickered with a flamelike light. Kathkur ignored Vazhad, for his eyes were fixed on the basin and the chains that lay there. “What is this?” he asked.

Three others entered the yard behind him-two more baazuled and the Damaran that Yarin had sent. Vazhad searched his memory for the name. Thudreg? Thidrek? Something like that. He had been the first of the living vessels seized by Jagun Ghen’s brother as a new home. The symbol on his forehead was different than that on the eladrin, and Vazhad wondered if it had something to do with the demon’s name. But it flickered with the same unsettling light.

“This,” said Jagun Ghen, pointing at the basin, “is a necessary discomfort. Your host is becoming … a nuisance. But an intriguing one. I need to speak to him. But I want him to behave himself when I do so.”

Kathkur stopped walking and fell into a crouch. His eyes flitted back and forth. “You mean-”

“You said this one keeps … ‘squirming out’ of your grip, I believe you said. We cannot have that.”

Kathkur looked back to the alleyway, but the three who had followed him in were blocking the way. “Please … I can control him, lord. I-”

Jagun Ghen cut him off, “Of all our brethren who have come into the world, only this one has managed to resist us. I must know why.”

“I-I won’t go back. I-”

“You will do as I say. I am not sending you anywhere, Brother. After all I have sacrificed to bring you here? I would never do that. But I need you to … relent on this one. Just for a short time.”

“B-but his screams …”

Jagun Ghen laid a hand on the eladrin’s shoulder. With another, this might have been seen as an attempt at comfort or reassurance. But Vazhad saw how the fingers tightened, the thumb almost tearing the skin.

“Let us hear those screams, Brother,” said Jagun Ghen. “Just for a while.”

Kathkur shook his head. “I-”

He tried to pull away, but Jagun Ghen tightened his grip, and two baazuled stepped forward, grabbing the eladrin’s arms.

“No!” Kathkur shrieked. “Please, lord! I-”

But then he lost all words-at least in any language Vazhad had ever heard. The eladrin thrashed and kicked and screamed as the baazuled dragged him into the basin. The symbol on his forehead flared, and inky smoke slithered down onto his face.

The baazuled fixed the shackles to the eladrin’s wrists and stepped away. Kathkur’s arms were stretched straight out. The chains were almost too short, but they kept his thrashing under control. He couldn’t even stand fully upright, only managing a low crouch. Still, it did not stop him from trying, and his wrists were already torn and bleeding.

The Creel baazuled with the leather bag stepped forward, and again Vazhad remembered the man in the red tunic stepping forward to smash the skull of the ox. The baazuled held the bottom of the bag and let the top fall, upending the contents. A brass collar fell to the dust. The torchlight winked on symbols that had been etched into its surface.

Jagun Ghen said, “Put it on him.”

Kathkur’s eyes widened, he cried even louder, and the tears streaming down his cheeks began to steam and mix with the foul miasma leaking from the rune on his forehead.

The baazuled approached Kathkur from behind to avoid his flailing kicks. Still, Kathkur twisted his head and tried to bite, but the baazuled did his business quickly, bending the brass just wide enough to allow the eladrin’s neck to pass through, then squeezing it shut again. As soon as the ends came together, every symbol on the collar’s surface blazed red. The baazuled took a few steps back but remained in the basin.

Jagun Ghen stepped forward until the toe of his boot touched the stone rim. “Kathkur,” he said, calm as if he were beginning a conversation over the evening table.

The eladrin stopped screaming, fell to his knees, and stared treason at his master.

“That’s better,” said Jagun Ghen. “The sooner you relent, the sooner this will be over, and we can release you.”

“The”-Kathkur spoke through a jaw clenched so tightly that his entire head was trembling-“the … c-collar!”

“Intended for the eladrin, not you. Let me speak to him. Now.”

“N-no. No, I won’t. I … can’t!”

Jagun Ghen reached inside the sleeve of his robe and withdrew a rod. Scarcely longer than a man’s hand, Vazhad saw that it was made of brass, like the collar, and etched with the same sorts of symbols.

Kathkur’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “No. You said it was not for me. You-”

“You will submit,” said Jagun Ghen, raising the brass rod, “one way or another.”

Kathkur shrieked and thrashed, ripping skin and flesh from his wrists, pulling against the chains.

Jagun Ghen spoke an incantation, and the symbols etched in the brass rod he held flickered, flared, and then settled to a steady red glow. Vazhad had seen the rod only once before, when Argalath had first purchased it from a Thayan.

The eladrin kicked at the basin with such force that the bones in one foot shattered-Vazhad heard them even over the screaming. Kathkur’s back arched, and the light from the rune on his forehead blazed, and then went out. The eladrin’s eyes rolled back in his head, a final tremor shook him, and he sagged. Only the chains kept him from falling on his face. He hung there, his chest heaving, and when he looked up, even Vazhad could see that the demon had gone.

“Who are you?” said Jagun Ghen.

The eladrin looked around, his gaze passing Jagun Ghen, counting the baazuled, lingering on Vazhad for an instant, then the high walls around him.

“Highwatch?” he said, his voice a raw rasp.

The mottled blue of Argalath’s spellscar flickered, just for a moment, almost imperceptible against the torchlight. But the eladrin flinched as if he’d been jabbed with a dagger, took in a great draught of air, and clenched his jaw against the pain.

The eladrin swallowed, then said, “She … told me. About you. You’re even scrawnier than-”

The spellscar flared again, brighter this time. The eladrin’s jaw dropped as he struggled for breath.

“We will discuss her shortly,” said Jagun Ghen. “Ignore my question again and I will have one of my brothers bite off a finger. Now, who are you?”

It took the eladrin a long time to catch his breath. But he looked up at Jagun Ghen at last and said, “Ko … vannon. My name. Is Kovannon.”

The Creel baazuled said, “He lies. The one called Kovannon I left alive. His companions-Durel, Ulender-those two I killed.”

The eladrin tried to twist his head around to see who was speaking, but he could not quite manage it.

“My brother,” said Jagun Ghen, “did not always wear this form. Once, he had the skin of Jatara. A most faithful servant. So you see. I know you lie. I can smell Ellestharn and its bitch queen on you. You reek of winter.” He stepped forward, grasped the eladrin by the chin, and raised his head. “It would be best if you give me what I want. If not, I will take it.”

The eladrin held his gaze a long time. He must have seen something there that shook him, for he tried to look away, but Jagun Ghen held him firm.

“Men … duarthis,” said the eladrin. “Menduarthis. Of Isan Meidan.”

“Of Isan Meidan?” Jagun Ghen chuckled. “I think not. You dwelled there long enough, no doubt. But still you try to hide lies behind a little truth. Yes?”

The eladrin clenched both fists, rattling the chains, and for a moment Vazhad felt the air in the yard begin to stir. And then the eladrin screamed. The symbols on the collar flared like forge fire, and wisps of steam eked out of his pores.

“I am most curious how you control the air,” said Jagun Ghen. “It is not a spell. Some skill you learned in the depths of Ellestharn, perhaps?”

But Menduarthis did not hear him. He had passed out from the pain and hung limply from the chains. Jagun Ghen released his hold on the eladrin’s chin and turned to Vazhad.

“My friend,” he called. “I have need of you. Come. Please.”

Vazhad spared a glance at the alleyway, but the three baazuled still blocked that way. One of them peeled back his lips. Nothing like a smile. A predator’s baring of teeth, as if the thing sensed what Vazhad was thinking. Vazhad stepped forward, stopping just out of Jagun Ghen’s reach.

“My faithful servant,” said Jagun Ghen, “I fear I must … let go of this host. Just for a time. Care for it well, as you have always done.”

Vazhad bowed. “As you command, Master.”

Jagun Ghen turned back to Menduarthis and grabbed his head. Vazhad winced, waiting for the snap of the eladrin’s neck. But Jagun Ghen placed one foot down into the basin and leaned forward, so that his own bald pate touched the smoldering symbol on Menduarthis’s forehead. The eladrin mumbled something, then a shiver passed through him.

Jagun Ghen fell backward into Vazhad’s arms. But when Vazhad looked down, he saw that it was not Jagun Ghen. The jaw hung slack, and a trail of spittle trailed down Argalath’s jawline. His breath came in a harsh rattle, and the odor coming out of him was worse than a midden pit. He tried to open his eyes, but the light stung, and he flinched, squeezing them shut.

“Vazhad? Is that … is that you?” The last words came out barely above a whisper.

“I am here, Master.”

Argalath’s mouth moved again, but Vazhad missed the words.

Vazhad turned his ear toward his master’s face and leaned in closer. “What was that, my master?”

“Kuh!” Argalath rasped. “Kill … me. P-please. I … beg.”

Vazhad looked up. The Creel baazuled was still standing behind the eladrin, but all the others had stepped closer. The nearest was only a pace away, and they were all watching Vazhad. Full dark had fallen, and their eyes seemed black as the heart of the Hells. The fires burning deep in that blackness beckoned to Vazhad.

He heard the rattle of steel and looked back to Menduarthis. The chains still held, but the rest of the eladrin’s body was floating above the bloodstained basin, and every bit of exposed skin trembled and squirmed, as if maggots had hatched in the muscles and were trying to break free.

Vazhad cradled Argalath’s head against his chest and tried to ignore the pleading.

CHAPTER EIGHT

An escort of fifteen Razor Heart warriors led Hweilan and the Damarans into a fissure in the mountainside, leaving the sunlight behind. The hobgoblins lit no torches. In the close blackness of the passageway, through dozens of twists and turns and up flight after flight of stairs, Darric gave up trying to keep any sense of direction. The smell of the hobgoblins in such close quarters was almost overpowering.

Not far ahead of Darric, Jaden managed to walk, but his moaning and complaining increased until-

“Hey!” said one of the hobgoblins in Damaran. “You keep quiet and you have food and fire. You keep mewling and we leave you in the dark. You hear my words?”

“Just keep quiet and walk,” said Valsun from somewhere ahead in the darkness.

Soon, a thin, gray light began to illuminate their surroundings, growing brighter with every step. It was the late afternoon light struggling through fractures in the rock overhead, but soon the group passed by true windows. Some had the smooth edges and irregular shapes of natural caves, but Darric could tell by the hewn rock that others had been hacked out of the mountainside.

The tunnel widened, and they walked by other passageways and even a few doors. Their own path branched off now and again. Darric heard voices coming from some of the other tunnels, and once a shriek that ended abruptly.

“What was that?” Jaden whispered.

“Keep walking or I show you,” said the warrior at his back, prodding him along.

The hobgoblins led them into a firelit chamber. It was so broad that Darric could not see the far walls, lost in shadow beyond the reach of the fires. But the ceiling was low enough that he could reach up and brush the rock with his fingers. The floor sloped upward slightly farther on and ended at open sky.

A few others puttered around the chamber, dressed in hides that were only a few washes away from rags. Smaller than the warriors escorts, they reminded Darric of goblins or some other cousins to the hobgoblins-slaves at any rate, by their outfits and the way they avoided looking at the warriors.

The slaves brought in several brass urns that glistened with moisture. A pair of them tended fires. There were no chimneys or vents that Darric could see, so the smoke’s only escape was up the very slight incline of the ceiling to the cave entrance. A large cauldron bubbled over one fire, and a variety of meats sizzled on a rack over another.

A month ago, Darric might have wrinkled his nose at the smell, but now his was not the only stomach that growled as the men walked toward the aroma.

The guards motioned to a row of blankets thrown around another fire. “Sit,” one of the hobgoblins told them. “Slaves will serve you.”

The three Damarans sat-Jaden collapsing onto the thickest of the blankets. Even though there was a pile of furs next to Darric almost deep enough to form a nest, Hweilan kept to her feet on the other side of the fire.

The hobgoblin warriors walked off to their own places; all but one, who looked down at the Damarans, then turned to Hweilan and spoke in his own language. She replied in kind, then the hobgoblin walked away.

“What’s happened, Hweilan?” said Darric. “Why have they let us out? And where is Mandan?”

He watched her for a reaction, some hint at his brother’s fate, but Hweilan’s expression might as well have been set in stone, and her eyes seemed to gaze inward. Pacing back and forth like a hound testing its leash, she gave them a brief explanation of what had happened after she’d been pulled out of the pit. How she could have such energy after what they’d been through …

Halfway through her story, two of the goblin slaves brought over a large platter of food. Bowls of some sort of thick, brown stew, filled to the brim, topped by strips of meat that Darric guessed-hoped-were goat. They were each given a sort of curved wedge of flat wood that served as a spoon, and another goblin set a pitcher of water next to Darric.

“No cups?” said Darric, but the slave only averted his eyes and scuttled off.

“And so the hobgoblins healed you?” said Valsun. “This … Kad?”

“Kaad,” said a voice from behind them, and Darric turned to see an old hobgoblin dressed in robes almost exactly as Hweilan had described. A brown paste had dried on his left temple, and the skin around it sported an ugly bruise. The newcomer looked at Hweilan. “Hratt said your companions need some mending.”

“The little one first,” said Hweilan. “He’s done nothing but complain.”

“Although I see it hasn’t affected his appetite,” said Valsun.

Jaden’s scowl deepened, but he kept his mouth shut.

Kaad placed a rolled bundle on the ground, then kneeled beside Jaden and began examining him.

“I didn’t think humans had a taste for one another,” said Kaad as he began to clean the cut in Jaden’s scalp.

“What do you mean?” Valsun asked him.

“Your meal,” said Kaad. “You’re eating what’s left of the last Nar tribe the Razor Heart raided.”

The three Damarans went still as tree stumps, but Hweilan kept chewing as she walked back and forth, back and forth. Darric’s stomach took a wet tumble, and he felt bile rising in his throat. How could she-?

“Stop teasing them, Kaad,” said Hweilan around a mouthful of food. “He’s only having a bit of sport with you. It’s goat. An old, ill-tempered goat by the taste of it, but it’s just goat.”

Jaden still hadn’t been able to swallow what was in his mouth, and Valsun stared down at his platter. “And the … stew?”

“Only roots, herbs, and a bit of deer,” said Kaad.

Valsun picked something out of his mouth and tossed it in the fire. “Which bits? The damned hooves?”

Kaad chuckled. “Be still,” he told Jaden, then unrolled the bundle he’d brought. Inside were an assortment of herbs and roots, along with many stoppered vials in sleeves along the inside of the bundle. The old hobgoblin selected one of them, opened it, and smeared a pungent paste onto Jaden’s wound.

He hissed. “Unholy Hells! That burns!”

“Only a moment,” said Kaad. “It will deaden the flesh so that I can clean and stitch it.”

“Just give them some gunhin,” said Hweilan.

Darric caught the amused smile Kaad gave Hweilan, but then the old hobgoblin shook his head. “Forbidden, I fear. Gunhin is for warriors bled in battle. Not for prisoners.”

“What is … gunhin?” asked Valsun.

“The reason the lady can’t sit still and avoids looking at the duke’s son,” said Kaad.

Hweilan scowled at the healer, but the old hobgoblin didn’t see it, busy as he was cleaning the paste from Jaden’s scalp. “What did you do to tear such a gouge in your head?” he asked.

Jaden pointed at Hweilan. “She threw one of your warriors on top of me. A damned big one.”

Kaad put away the vial and began to thread a needle that Darric thought looked far too big for stitching skin.

“Rhan, you mean?” said Kaad.

“Big brute with a black sword?” said Jaden. “That’s him.”

“You have told them, then?” said Kaad. The healer was squinting at the needle, so it took Darric a moment to realize he’d been speaking to Hweilan.

“Told us what?” said Darric.

Kaad finished working the thread into the needle and set about stitching Jaden’s scalp. Darric knew when he was being purposefully ignored. He looked to Hweilan over the fire. She held his gaze, but he didn’t like what he saw there.

“Where is my brother, Hweilan?” said Darric.

“He’s alive,” she said. “For now. But he has been condemned to death.”

And then she told them the rest.

Darric thought there had to be more, some sane resolution to her tale. But when she walked around the fire to take a long drink from the pitcher, he realized she’d said all she was going to say.

“Have you gone completely mad?” Darric stood. “You can’t fight that monster!”

Hweilan opened her mouth for what looked to be an angry retort, but Kaad cut her off.

“If she doesn’t, you three won’t fare much better than your big friend. If Maaqua is in a generous mood, she will give you to some of the unblooded warriors for practice. A quick death, but still not pleasant.”

“But-” said Darric.

“Lady,” said Valsun, though he looked to Darric. “We are most grateful for your attempt to help us. But if what you told us is true, we cannot just leave while our brother is tortured to death.”

“So what is your plan?” Darric asked Hweilan.

“My plan? I plan to kill Rhan, get my things back, and go to Highwatch.”

“And what of Mandan?”

“I have other concerns.”

“Other concerns?” Darric screamed. He stood to his feet so quickly that he rapped his head against the stone ceiling. He noted that his outburst had caught the attention of the warriors at nearby fires, but none of them had made a move to intervene. They were just watching the show. “What’s the matter with you, Hweilan? We can’t just leave him!”

Hweilan kept her voice low, but there was no less heat in it. “If you have an army on the way that you neglected to tell me about, now would be the time. I tried to bargain for Mandan, but even the warchief refused to intervene. Me beating the Razor Heart champion gets the four of us out of here. I can do nothing more.”

“They’re going to torture him. To death!”

For a moment, he thought he had her. Something in her expression, some crack in the mask … but then it was gone, and she said, “I know. There’s nothing I can do.”

“I …” Darric stopped. He didn’t know what. She refused to help and he didn’t know what to say.

“I fight, Rhan,” said Hweilan, “I leave. If you choose to stay … you’re on your own.”

“You won’t help us?”

“I can’t help you!” she shouted. All the hobgoblin warriors were watching now, intent on every word. “Not against the entire Razor Heart in their own fortress! And even if I could, I wouldn’t. I have more important-”

“More important? More-” Darric found himself completely at a loss for words. But then he found the one question that summed it all up. “What kind of monster are you?”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment Darric was reminded of the night he first saw her on the mountain, that predator’s gaze staring out from the bone mask. He had thought her a monster then, too. It saddened and enraged him that he’d been right.

“I’m no monster, Darric,” she said. “But I’m not a child anymore, either. The world isn’t a court bard’s tale. Honor may help you sleep at night, but it won’t keep the dark at bay.”

“I forbid it,” said Darric, and as soon as he’d said it he felt an utter fool.

“Forbid?” Hweilan snorted. “You’re in no position to forbid anything.”

“Mandan is my brother,” said Darric. “If they won’t let you fight for him, I will.”

Hweilan studied him a moment, and for the life of him Darric could not guess her thoughts. But damned if she didn’t look … hungry. He felt the blood rising to his cheeks but forced himself not to look away. Perhaps the fire and smoke would hide his blush.

“They won’t allow it,” said Hweilan. “Your lives belong to the Razor Heart. If I defeat the champion, your lives are returned. Mandan’s life belongs to this … Ruuket. Besides, you wouldn’t make it through the crowd’s first cheer. Not against Rhan.”

“Oh, and you will?”

“You’re not a killer, Darric.”

“I’m a knight! I’ve killed more p-”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“What?” Darric looked to Valsun for support, but the old knight was watching Hweilan.

“You’re a knight,” said Hweilan. “You kill to defend yourself or others. But you don’t like killing.”

“And you do?”

The smile she gave him had no humor or good will in it. It was the bared-teeth look of a wolf warning a lesser member of the pack to step away and wait its turn. If there was anything left of the girl he had known years ago, he couldn’t see it. Not anymore. And he thought, Oh, gods, Hweilan, what have they done to you?

CHAPTER NINE

Part of Hweilan-a very small part, she admitted-regretted being so hard on Darric. It was not her intention to shame him. But in their current situation, his sense of honor was only going to get him and all his companions killed. She didn’t doubt his courage, but neither did she doubt Rhan might spend a while toying with Darric for the pleasure of the crowd, then put a quick and bloody end to him.

Kaad completed his ministrations of Jaden and Valsun, confirming that Darric was suffering from nothing more than a few bruises and lack of sleep.

“Now,” Kaad said to Hweilan, “I’ll look at that arm.”

“It’s fine.”

Kaad glanced quickly over each shoulder, then said, “Drakthna is nothing to take lightly. Can’t let that fester.”

Hweilan caught his meaning. She stood still and presented her bare arm to Kaad. He bent close, seeming to examine the tattoo and new skin-and pressed a small bundle into her hand. It was soft, like lamb’s skin, but she could feel the contents. She shoved the whole thing into her pocket.

“Drakthna,” he whispered. “And three roots of white iruil. Hm?”

“Thank you,” she said, just as quietly. “I will not forget Gluured.”

Kaad nodded and stepped back. “Your arm is healing nicely. Try not to plant any more arrows in it.”

He turned away, but Hweilan caught his sleeve and said, “Kaad, Maaqua said my mother’s body had been ‘taken care of.’ I want to see her.”

Kaad looked away. “If you survive tomorrow, it will be done. If not …”

Then it won’t matter, Hweilan knew. No need to say it.

The healer packed up his things and left. The sky outside the cave mouth had turned black. After finishing their meal in an uneasy silence, the Damarans stoked the fire, huddled into their blankets, and lay down.

Hweilan waited until she thought they were asleep, then walked over to one of the other fires. The hobgoblins seated around it were passing around a skin of spirits so pungent that its reek was already leaking out of their pores.

“One of the warriors who brought us here,” Hweilan said in Goblin, “Kaad said his name is Hratt. Where is he?”

“Near the entrance,” one of them replied. He stood up. He wobbled on his feet and put a hand on his companion’s shoulder for support. “I’ll take you.”

“I can find him.” Hweilan walked away, not bothering to see if he followed.

With the coming of night, the air had gone from chill to cold, but Hweilan still felt the effect of the healing concoction, and even her naked right arm wasn’t bothered.

She found Hratt huddled close to a fire near the edge of the cave entrance. Three others were with him, all wrapped in blankets but still wearing their armor. This close to the entrance, the night breeze found its way into the cave and made the meager flames of their fire dance. All four warriors looked up at her approach, but none stood.

“You always sleep in drafty caverns?” Hweilan asked Hratt.

Hratt grinned around the bit of dried flesh he was eating. His companions raised their eyebrows at one another, seemingly impressed that she spoke their language so well.

“Maaqua said to feed and free your friends,” said Hratt. “She didn’t say to make them comfortable.”

“Are you my keeper?” she asked.

“Eh?”

“The one commanded to guard me?”

Hratt finished chewing and swallowed before he responded. “Buureg says you are oathbound. He says he thinks you will keep it. You may go as you please. Until dawn. Then you face Rhan. I am to take you.”

“And until then …?”

He shrugged. “As you please.”

“Good. Then it would please me to have my belongings returned to me.”

Hratt shook his head. “You haven’t won the Blood Price yet. You have no belongings.”

“Rhan chooses his weapon for the Blood Slake, does he not?”

One of the other hobgoblins said, “If Rhan fights with anything but the Greatsword of Impiltur, I’m a gnoll.”

His companions laughed louder than the comment warranted, which told Hweilan they’d started drinking long before she and the Damarans arrived.

“You know he does,” said Hratt. “Buureg warned me-”

“I have agreed to the Blood Slake. I will choose my own weapon.”

“-about you,” continued Hratt. “Said you were no typical Damaran. Said you knew our ways too well.”

“Too well for his liking, I’m sure. Will you take me or not?”

“You wish to prepare your weapon for the morning?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t wish to rest?”

Hweilan shrugged and gave them what she hoped was her most wicked smile. “Gunhin.”

The warriors laughed, slapping their knees in approval.

Hratt stood and let his blanket fall. “Come with me.”

Hweilan looked down at the remains of the warrior’s meal. “Is that mountain hare?” she asked.

Hratt followed her gaze. “Did the slaves not feed you?”

“Goat. And just the meat. It’s been a long time since I had a mountain hare, and I have a desire to gnaw a bone.”

The hobgoblins exchanged an amused look, then one of them handed Hweilan the remains of a backbone with a few other bones and bits of flesh dangling from it.

“No leg?” she said.

“A wise beggar makes no demands,” one of them said.

“Ah, give her a leg, Gunt. She’ll be dead tomorrow morning.”

The one called Gunt dropped his first offer back into the communal pile, then handed her a leg. All the flesh and most of the cartilage had been stripped away. She took it with a nod of thanks, then followed Hratt out of the cave.

Hweilan waited until they had left the light of the fires behind and were making their way along a trail that snaked along a cliffside before she said, “I would say my farewells to my other companion. Mandan. The big one.”

Hratt stopped and turned. “He belongs to Ruuket. Buureg said nothing ab-”

“Did Buureg command you not to allow me to see to the welfare of my companion?”

“Uh … no. Bu-”

“I’ll be dead tomorrow, if you’re right. Mandan not long after. Yes?”

“You said nothing about that. You said you wished to claim your weapons for the Blood Slake. You never said-”

“I’m saying it now. There is no harm in seeing him one last time. Am I not oathbound to keep the peace?”

“Yes, bu-”

Hweilan took a step forward, looking up at the larger warrior but very obviously invading his personal space.

“And do you question my honor?”

Hratt scowled but he did not back away. “No.”

“Then lead on, Hratt.”

He stood there a while, wrestling with his own thoughts, but at last he did as she told him. Behind them, Hweilan’s ears caught the sound of footsteps. Furtive and keeping their distance. But no matter how many twists or turns they took, they did not lose the footsteps.

It seemed that Hratt might not trust her too much after all.

Under the light of the waxing moon, they walked on cliffside paths and climbed shelves of rock. Hweilan suspected that, though there were surely other ways from inside the fortress, Hratt was taking her by the most uncomfortable way possible out of pure spite. But Kaad’s healing concoction was still coursing through her, and she actually found the biting cold refreshing.

While they walked, she stripped away the last of the cartilage from the leg bone with her teeth. When the bone was as smooth as she could make it, she cracked it against the rock. It broke just as she hoped it would, with a sharp shard on one end. She pried off the knobby end, not caring about the jagged edge-glad for it, in fact-and then began to suck out the marrow. She watched the path as they walked, hoping for a twig or even a bit of stiff grass she could use to clean out the marrow, but she saw nothing but rocks and dirt.

Hweilan heard the footsteps behind them several more times on their way down the mountain, but she never caught sight of a shadow, and if Hratt heard the steps, he gave no sign.

After cresting an offshoot of the mountain, Hratt led her down a path that hugged the cliff wall to the left and dropped to the canyon floor on the right. They turned into a fissure that split the cliff and remained open to the sky, then emerged into a little valley, no more than a stone’s throw across. On the far side was a small cave. An iron door swung open on its hinges, and firelight bled out of the cave. She could hear harsh voices coming from inside.

Hratt stopped.

“In there?” Hweilan asked.

He nodded, then let her go first.

She jogged across the small valley but slowed before entering to allow her eyes to become used to the bright light.

After the night cold, it felt like walking into an oven. Beyond the door was a wide chamber that had probably once been a natural cave but had since been considerably expanded. Two closed iron doors faced her on the opposite wall. Most of the light and heat came from a fire pit in the middle of the floor, heaped high with glowing coals. But torches also burned in sconces on the walls, their inky smoke staining the stone before escaping through vents in the low ceiling.

Two hobgoblins, dressed only in loincloths and boots, stood near the wall to her right. One held a whip, and by the way it dangled from his hand, Hweilan knew it was studded with iron or stone. They had their backs to the door and so did not see Hweilan enter. All their attention was focused on the bloody thing strung up in front of them.

A thick chain hung from the ceiling, holding an iron bar longer than Hweilan was tall. Mandan’s arms had been bound to the crossbar with many links of jagged chain, and his legs, bound at ankle and knees with more chain, dangled less than a foot from the floor. At first Hweilan thought his clothes were hanging from him in bloody rags, but then she saw that he was completely naked, and the ragged bits hanging off him were skin. His chest and the front of his legs had been flayed, then the wounds cauterized so that he wouldn’t bleed to death. Instinctively, she reached for her knife, only to realize it wasn’t there. No matter. Bare hands would be better for this anyway.

The hobgoblin with the whip drew his arm back for a strike.

“Stop!” Hweilan shouted as she advanced on them.

They turned, their eyes widening in surprise, and the whipless one called out, “Up, you slaggers! Bring your blades!”

But then the one with the whip pointed at her. “You!”

She stopped three paces in front of him, ready to catch the whip should it come at her.

One of the iron doors slammed open, and four more hobgoblins rushed into the chamber, all of them bearing swords.

“Stop!” said the one with the whip. “This is the blood-bound! The one who fights Rhan at dawn. She touches either of us and her life is forfeit. Isn’t that right, girl?”

The hobgoblin laughed, his fellows joining in. It was all Hweilan could do not to slam her foot into his gut and throw them both into the fire pit. But his words were true.

But then a shape moved passed her with a clank of armor. Hratt smashed his gauntleted fist into the whip-holder’s face and he went down like a wet sack. His companion tried to back away, but not quickly enough. The same gauntlet backhanded him, and when he had the stupidity not to go down, Hratt brought his other fist full force into his gut. The four newcomers stood dumbstruck.

“I am not bound!” said Hratt. He yanked the whip out of the first hobgoblin’s hand and proceeded to lash them both. “You … were told … to guard him … and keep … him … alive. Nothing more!” He emphasized each word with a snap of the whip.

“You presume to stand in the place of Ruuket and her children? If this man’s blood is to be run, it is theirs to run. Not yours! Or yours! Or-yours!” Every time one of them tried to scramble away, he kicked them down again. Hweilan heard bones crack from the last kick.

One of the hobgoblins who’d come out of the door dropped his sword and grabbed Hratt’s arm. “Stop, Hratt! You’ll kill them!”

“I will! I’ll have their flea-infested heads nailed to my door!”

“Hratt, stop! Stop this!”

It took a second hobgoblin to hold Hratt and two more to drag their bleeding fellows out of his reach. The wide, frightened eyes of the warriors and the bleeding backs of the first two seemed to bring him back to his senses.

“Get them out of my sight,” he said.

The one who’d been holding the whip had to be carried out, but his companion managed to limp against one of his fellows.

The two holding Hratt released him and quickly stepped away. Hratt looked at Mandan, then turned his scowl on the remaining guards. “You two, go get Kaad. Now. And be quick, or you’ll need him, too.”

Hweilan waited for them to leave before relaxing. She gave Hratt a small but very sincere bow of her head. “Thank you.”

The fury had still not left Hratt’s visage. “Not all the Razor Heart are honorless curs. To see a warrior treated this way … it is a shame to me.”

“But weren’t you going to torture him to death anyway?”

“Your friend killed Ruuket’s mate, leaving her children without a father. His blood is theirs. It does not belong to those two cowardly bastards. They are no better than thieves. To steal from children …”

Hweilan returned her attention to Mandan. He was still breathing, but his eyes were closed and his jaw hung open. If he was even aware of her presence-

“No!”

By the time Hweilan turned, Darric was already through the door and running straight for Hratt. He held a rock in one hand, raised to strike.

Hweilan leaped between them. A look of helpless fury crossed Darric’s face as he tried to swerve around her. But Hweilan stepped in, grabbed his raised arm with one hand and planted her other in his stomach, using Darric’s own momentum to turn him up and over. When he landed on his back, she twisted the arm she still held, turning him. She came down, one knee in the middle of his back and her free hand holding down the back of his head.

“Get off me!” he shrieked.

“Drop the rock,” she told him, keeping her voice calm.

He screamed wordlessly and tried to buck her off, but she put her weight onto the back of his head and twisted his arm further. He screeched louder and tried to bat her away with his free hand, but she was well out of his reach.

“Look what they did to him!” Darric said. “Look!”

Hweilan leaned in close so he could see her, but she kept her grip tight on his arm and scalp. “Hratt didn’t do this. Hratt caught the ones doing it and beat them senseless. Hratt has sent for a healer. Now drop that rock, Darric, or I’m going to pull your arm out of its socket.”

Darric let out another growl, then the rock clattered to the ground.

“Now,” said Hweilan, “if I let you up, are you going to stop this foolishness?”

“If my brother dies-”

“Hratt told the two who did it that he’s going to nail their heads to his door. And if Mandan dies before the healer gets here, I’ll hold the nails while you hammer. But if you come after Hratt again, the healer is going to need to see you as well. Understand?”

She twisted his arm a bit more to drive home her point.

“I understand,” said Darric through a clenched jaw.

Hweilan let go of Darric’s scalp but kept hold of his arm while she stood. She kicked the rock into the fire pit, then released him and stepped back.

Hratt stepped forward and lowered a hand to help him up.

Darric glared at the hand. “What she says is true? You beat the ones who did this to my brother?”

“And sent for the healer,” said Hratt.

Darric allowed the hobgoblin warrior to help him to his feet. Then he pushed past them both and went to see to Mandan.

“Strangest night in my memory,” said Hratt. “I beat two Razor Heart warriors within a breath of their life, and a human girl protects me from one of her own. You have brought most interesting days to our home, Hand of the Hunter.”

Hweilan smiled. “Just wait until dawn.”

CHAPTER TEN

It seemed that all of the Razor Heart had turned out. Hratt knew the clan had many parties hunting and scouting the mountains-and others doing even less savory work elsewhere-but looking at the crowd in the valley it seemed to him that every warrior, mate, youngling, priest, and oldster still in the fortress had gathered in the sheer-walled valley. Even the slaves lingered around the edges of the throng, climbing boulders or cliffside crenellations in hopes of seeing the Razor Heart champion fight the girl.

Most knew of the horrors that had been haunting the mountains over the past few months. A change in the wind had come-something hunting those horrors. Tales of what Hweilan had done: killing the monsters out of Highwatch, capturing the Razor Clan Warchief, then bargaining with Maaqua for the lives of her companions-all of it had spread throughout the clan like fire on dry grassland.

“Gods damn them all.”

Hratt turned to see the crowd parting to allow a trio to approach. Maaqua walked up to him with her staff, as always, but she did not lean upon it. Warchief Buureg walked beside her in full armor, though he held his helmet under one arm. Rhan walked a ways behind them, the Greatsword of Impiltur in its scabbard riding on his back.

Hratt said nothing.

Maaqua stopped beside him and motioned for him to lean in close. He did.

“We’re fools to allow this,” Maaqua whispered to Hratt, “and they are fools to encourage it. Dirt-munching, scum-licking fools … gods damn every last one of them.”

Hratt bowed his head deferentially but said nothing.

“You watched her?” Maaqua asked in a low tone. “All night?”

Hratt said, “I did.”

He spared a glance back at Rhan. It was no secret among the warriors that Hratt had bet heavily on Hweilan to prevail. The Razor Heart champion curled his upper lip over his teeth in a sneer of challenge. Hratt ignored him. Rhan could go rut a rat for all he cared.

“And …?” said Maaqua.

Hratt briefly recounted the night’s happenings-Hweilan looking after the big Damaran, subduing the pretty lad, then seeing to her belongings. She had rummaged through her pack a long while, examining a variety of dried leaves, mosses, roots, and some powder that looked to Hratt like salt but smelled of juniper berries.

“Eh?” Maaqua asked. “What was she doing with these things?”

“She said that Kaad’s ministrations had worked wonders, but she needed something to settle her stomach. Said our food didn’t agree with her.”

Maaqua snorted. “And you believed her?”

Hratt shrugged. “I’m no wizard.”

“No matter,” said Maaqua. “I examined her belongings myself. Those weapons are one thing, but her pouch holdings are nothing beyond what a cheap apothecary might have. Is that all?”

Hratt explained how Hweilan had inspected the bow, long and hard, looking for the slightest sign of abuse while Hratt watched. He had explained to her that she could choose one weapon-any weapon-for the fight with Rhan, but a bow would do her little good. She was allowed one weapon. A bow and an arrow … well, honor dictated that was two weapons. Hweilan had said she didn’t want the bow anyway, that it was meant to “hunt vermin,” as she put it. She had chosen one of her knives instead-one with red steel.

Hratt had tried to talk her out of it, saying that Rhan would surely fight with the Greatsword of Impiltur.

“The weapon doesn’t matter,” Hweilan had said. “It is the hand that wields it.”

And that was when Hratt decided to triple his wager on Hweilan.

“She’s fighting with a knife?” said Maaqua, her eyes wide.

“She is,” said Hratt.

Maaqua threw back her head and laughed, long and hard. She clapped Hratt on the back, “Ah, you did well, Hratt. Your wager’s a fool’s bet, if what I hear is true, but you did well. A knife!” She shook her head. “Ah, well.”

Hratt nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing but not wanting to offend Maaqua. She was in a fine mood this morning, but still … Hratt did not share her confidence. He was no fool. Rhan was a cold killer, no doubt-icy as a winter night’s frost. The Champion had a reputation for enjoying the heat of battle, of reveling in the sensation of his foe’s blood splattering over him as his sword bit deep. But this human girl …

Hratt had known humans since his first raid. He’d fought them, hunted them, killed them, heard their last breath as they died on the end of his blade. He had never before met anyone like Hweilan. He saw fierceness in her gaze, but something desperate as well, something truly hungry that would not shy away from the threat of death. Hratt had heard of animals that would chew off their own leg to escape a trap. And there were animals that would stay in the trap, angry and alive, waiting for the trapper to arrive so they could sink their teeth into him. Death did not matter nearly so much as the chance to look into the killer’s eyes one final time, and spit blood and defiance at death itself. Hweilan had the look of a tooth sinker.

After choosing her blade, Hweilan had asked to be taken somewhere where she could see the sky. The “cold light of heaven,” Hratt’s father had called it, when the sun slept and only those who dared defy death chose to shine. “The stars spit in the face of the unending dark,” his father had said. Hratt led her to a place on the mountainside where the black blanket of night covered them, broken only by the silver stars, the moon hidden behind the rocky teeth of the mountains. He had watched, sleepless and fascinated, as she sat on the stone-no coat, no cloak-and prayed to … whomever. To Hratt it did not matter. She could have prayed to the flowers of the field for all he cared. Most believed she would die under dawn’s first light, yet she sat under the stars and communed with her god, heedless of the cold that set a frost upon her skin.

Hratt had offered a few prayers of his own for her, but he would not tell Maaqua that. If he was wrong … well, then he was only out a bit of gold. A rather large bit, to be sure, but the world was full of gold. There were more important things in life. Seeing this human girl defeat the champion of the Razor Heart might just be one of them.

Hweilan stood at the bottom of the valley on a wide, empty space of ground surrounded by hundreds of hobgoblins. And the only thing she could think was-

Mother, father, if you could only see me now …

It made her smile, despite the dozens of fanged faces jeering at her.

Darric, Valsun, and Jaden stood near the edge of the throng. The old knight looked none too pleased at his surroundings, and Jaden looked downright terrified. He knew what was at stake. Darric was the only one who surprised Hweilan, for she had no idea what he was thinking. He stood between his two companions, crowded between a tight row of hobgoblins in front of him and hundreds more behind. He didn’t scowl in displeasure. He didn’t seem to be contemplating his own death in the event of her defeat. He didn’t seem angry. He was completely stone-faced, oblivious to the taunts of the crowd and the malicious looks cast in his direction.

Last night, they had scarcely spoken until Kaad arrived. The healer took one look at Mandan and shook his head, saying there was nothing he could do.

“You have the gunhin?” said Hweilan.

Kaad swallowed hard and nodded.

“Give it to him.”

“I cannot. It is only for-”

“His life belongs to Ruuket and her children,” said Hweilan. “It is the way of the Razor Heart. Maaqua demands it. If he dies here …”

Hweilan let the rest go unspoken. Very reluctantly, Kaad gave Mandan the gunhin. Not a full swallow. Not enough to make him hale and whole. But the bleeding had stopped, the peeled skin fell away, and the flesh scabbed over before their eyes. He looked a horrible mess, but he opened his eyes and spoke for a time with his brother. Hweilan walked away, not wanting to intrude.

Later, Darric came to her outside the cell. He stepped up beside her, not looking at her but following her gaze into the darkness.

“You said you didn’t care.”

“I never said that,” said Hweilan. “I said I could not save his life. Nothing has changed.”

“He’ll live the night.”

“I’ve done him no kindness. Ruuket-”

“Then why did you do it?” Darric had looked down at her then. He’d even reached out to touch her. But she stepped away and he flinched as if stung.

She’d almost told him. Probably it had been the last of the gunhin running through her blood, addling her brain and making her unable to push out of her mind how well Darric’s shoulders filled his tunic. But she hadn’t. For two simple reasons. One, her plan had a cobweb’s chance in the wind of working. But more important, she knew Darric’s pride as a knight and his stupid devotion to her. He would have tried to help and ruined everything.

So she’d looked up at him and said, “I didn’t. I came to say my farewells. It was Hratt who saved your brother.”

Darric’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared-hurt or anger, Hweilan could not tell. Her only experience with men had been her family. All much older than she.

“Why do you push me away?” he said.

“Because I see what you want, and I cannot give it.”

And that was how she’d left him. She’d hurt him. Of that she had no doubt. But it had been nothing but truth, and a cold truth was better than a warm lie. Her life was sworn to put an end to Jagun Ghen. Nothing beyond that. After …

She couldn’t bring herself to think of after. Not yet.

Hweilan sensed a ripple passing through the crowd, and she turned her attention to the path that led up the mountain. The crowd was parting to make way for three figures. The foremost was easily recognizable, much shorter than any around her. Maaqua, queen of the Razor Heart. She stopped to speak with a hobgoblin that Hweilan recognized as Hratt, then proceeded on, her two companions following. One was Buureg, the Razor Heart Warchief, and the other, towering above everyone in the crowd except for the bugbears, was Hweilan’s foe of the morning.

Unlike everyone else in the crowd, Rhan wore no armor and precious little else against the morning chill. He was bare above the waist, save for the belt of his scabbard, draping him from shoulder to hip. The hilt of his sword protruded from over his right shoulder, and despite the cheers of the crowd, his eyes were fixed on Hweilan.

She turned her back to him.

The crowd did not miss the insult, and they cheered and howled in anticipation of their champion’s wrath upon this human interloper.

Valsun shook his head, obviously disgusted at the foolishness of youth. Jaden closed his eyes and began muttering what Hweilan felt sure were heartfelt prayers. Darric scarcely moved. He blinked once, and that was all.

Hweilan turned. Maaqua stood holding her staff at the edge of the crowd, but Rhan and Buureg had come forward into the center of the open space. The warchief had donned his armor, and the gleam of the metal and the reek of oil wafting off him told Hweilan that some poor slave had spent the night polishing it.

A hush fell over the crowd, beginning behind her, then spreading until a tense silence had settled over the valley. It was time.

Buureg carried his helmet under one arm so that all might see his face. He raised his voice, “Razor Heart! Rhan, son of Goruun and Mileq demands the right of Blood Slake! Hweilan, Hand of the Hunter, stands ready! All bear witness!”

The crowd roared their approval. Warriors slapped spears to shields or clapped their swords on the top of their helmets.

“Blood for blood, let it be done!”

With that, Buureg turned on his heel and rejoined Maaqua.

The crowd continued their jeers and cheers, but a calm quiet descended over Hweilan. The noise in the valley continued, and she let it wash over her. They didn’t matter anymore.

Rhan shrugged his way out of the harness holding his scabbard, then grasped the hilt of the Greatsword of Impiltur. He held it in front of him with both hands, on display, giving the crowd what they wanted, then let his left hand fall to his side. His right hand, still holding the sword, whipped outward, freeing the blade and flinging the scabbard into the crowd. They roared their approval.

In that moment, when she hoped most eyes were on Rhan, Hweilan brought both her hands to her face, feigning a final prayer. But in her right hand was the bit of rabbit bone. She sucked out its contents-the drakthna and crushed root of white iruil, a few other things from her pouch, and a bit of water. She hadn’t been able to clean the bone thoroughly, and she hoped the remaining marrow and rabbit blood would have no ill effect upon her little concoction. She’d only done this once before, with Gleed. But he had taught her well. Still, while her hands were still in front of her face, she did offer a final prayer to Dedunan, Nendawen, and all her ancestors that this would work. Too much depended on it.

Rhan took one step forward, and absolute silence fell over the crowd. So quiet that Hweilan could hear the breeze cutting through the canyon and the heavy breathing of the crowd. The Razor Heart champion let his massive black sword fall, its point gouging the rocky floor of the canyon. He walked forward, every limb relaxed-but Hweilan saw that it was the looseness of an adder. His eyes were fixed on her. He was ready to strike at her slightest move. His bare feet made a scratching sound against the grit.

Hweilan didn’t move. She hadn’t even drawn her knife. Behind her, she heard Jaden whisper, “What in the unholy Hells is she doing?”

“Be silent,” said Valsun.

Rhan was only five paces away, and he still hadn’t raised the sword. Three more steps and he stopped, looking down on Hweilan. He raised his empty left hand, very slowly for the crowd, placed his palm on Hweilan’s forehead, and pushed.

Hweilan fell back three steps.

The crowd roared their approval at their champion’s insult.

Rhan stepped forward, raised his left hand, and did the same thing again.

Hweilan went back another three steps.

The crowd continued their jubilation, screaming and hooting. Their cries echoed off the mountainside. Hweilan was less than five feet from the nearest spectators now, her back to a wall of hobgoblins.

An insolent grin broke Rhan’s stony countenance, and he stepped forward again, his left hand coming up.

Hweilan smiled, and just before his skin touched hers, she twisted out of the way. Rhan tensed and had the tip of his sword a good foot or more off the ground when Hweilan’s right foot hit him in the gut.

The blow would’ve folded a human in half and sent him to the ground, but the hobgoblin champion only bent and staggered backward, a very surprised look on his face as all the breath he’d been holding came out in a surprised grunt. The force of kicking off an enemy that probably weighed fifteen stone sent Hweilan flying back into the crowd. The onlookers pushed her roughly back into the fight-Hweilan took the opportunity to drop the emptied rabbit bone into the dirt-and when she regained her balance in a guarded crouch, she held steel in her hand. The blade was still as red as the day Nendawen’s blood had slaked it.

With this in your hand, part of me will be with you. Always. Nendawen’s words to her. If he was with her now, though, she could not feel it.

Rhan raised the sword in both hands and tipped it toward her in salute. His smile was no longer insolent but impressed. “Well struck,” he said.

Hweilan flipped the knife, caught it in her left hand, then tossed it back to her right, blatantly showing off. “Do you know how to win a fight?” she asked.

Rhan’s only answer was a raise of his eyebrows.

“ ‘You must land a blow,’ ” said Hweilan, quoting Ashiin, “ ‘and to be able to withstand a blow.’ You’ve only got half the skills, friend.”

Rhan’s smile widened over his sharp teeth. “This night I will drink your blood by my fire and honor your memory.”

She beckoned him with her free hand. “Try it.”

He came at her, bringing the black sword down in a diagonal blow. It was quick but had little strength behind it, so Hweilan knew it for a feint. She sidestepped but did not lean in to counterstrike, instead flowing away so that when Rhan’s right foot swept up, the kick missed her midriff by well over a foot. She slapped his bare foot with her free hand as it passed and blew him a kiss.

The crowd cheered, those few who had bet in Hweilan’s favor punching the arms and backs of their fellows.

Rhan waded after her, swiping the black greatsword in wide swaths before him, Hweilan back-stepping all the while. She suspected that when he’d driven her all the way back to the crowd, he’d either jab or bring the sword round in a vertical swipe. Both would be easy to avoid, despite the crowd, but Hweilan knew she had to end this quickly. Her heart was beating far faster than her exertions warranted. It wouldn’t be long now before the drakthna began to take effect. No more time to dance.

Every other blow came slightly lower than its predecessor. Rhan was right-handed, and his strikes showed it.

On her back-step, as the point of the black iron swept past, rather than continuing her step, Hweilan planted her back foot and bent the knee, coiling her muscles to strike.

Rhan saw it coming. His pleased smile tightened into a feral grimace, and he took a step back himself. Then he brought the sword point forward, stabbing for her stomach. Hweilan twisted in perfect timing, allowing the sharp point to slice through her shirt. Her twist continued, her torso rolling along the blade that sliced a fine line of blood along her skin. Her own blade, now held point down in her left hand, came forward at the same moment she leaped to give herself just the right amount of height. Rhan’s sword came with her, cutting deeper, but she ignored the pain and buried half her knife in the soft flesh where Rhan’s shoulder met his neck.

She twisted and tumbled away, Rhan’s blade tearing a deep gash down her back as she heard his surprised grunt.

Hweilan came round, crouched low, her blade up and ready even before the first gout of blood spouted like a geyser out of Rhan’s neck. Every hobgoblin surrounding them gasped at once, so strongly that Hweilan actually felt the change in air pressure along her skin. Blood, hot and wet, was coursing down her back, her accelerating heart rate pouring it out all the faster. For just a moment, the world wobbled before her, but she took in a deep breath, steadying herself.

Rhan roared in anger and desperation. He had a death wound and knew it, but it was not an instant kill. He clamped his left hand over the wound. It would buy him a few moments before he blacked out.

Now all Hweilan had to do was get that damned sword out of his hands.

Rhan charged, blade raised, heedless as a charging bull. For a moment, seeing the bloody wide-eyed hobgoblin coming for her, Hweilan was almost afraid.

But then she smiled and leaped for him, hoping to cause him to strike too soon.

It worked.

Rhan brought blade down, enough strength behind it to cut her in half.

Hweilan slid under it, raising her knife edge as she did so. The force of Rhan’s own blow made the steel cut deep, severing veins and tendons in his arm. Cut off from the cords giving them strength, the muscles of Rhan’s right hand spasmed, and the black sword flew from his grip.

Now! Hweilan urged Rhan in her mind.

Rhan proved himself a warrior to the end. Weaponless and dying, he refused to give in. He removed his left hand from the neck wound and brought it down in a clenched, bloody fist.

When Hweilan was thirteen years old, the horse of a visiting dignitary had broken its stall. Hweilan-whom horses seem to like as much as mice like cats-had unfortunately been standing in the way. In its desperation to get away, the war-horse had turned and kicked her.

This hurt worse.

The hobgoblin champion’s fist hit behind her left shoulder. She was quite sure that spectators fifty feet back probably heard her bones snap, but she couldn’t. A high screech filled her ears, and lights danced before her eyes.

Still, she managed to keep her feet and back away.

Which lost her the fight.

Rhan brought his fist around again.

Hweilan had just enough presence of mind to lean away. Still, she caught a great deal of the blow in her temple and went down.

The lights before her eyes faded as darkness swallowed them. The high-pitched screech died away, and through the roar of the crowd she heard two things-

Jaden screaming, “No! No! Sodding no!”

And Maaqua crying, “Kaad! Kaad you halfwit, bring the gunhin! Quick, damn you! Rhan’s-”

And then darkness and silence joined, becoming one, and swallowed Hweilan whole.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rhan had no mate. his life was battle and blood. For the past four winters he had contemplated changing that. He was not getting younger, and in truth, a glorious death in battle was his dearest wish. Still, he did not want his blood to be gone from the world. It would be good to have children through whom his fury and prowess would haunt the mountains for generations to come-and if the gods blessed him, perhaps a strong son to wield the Greatsword of Impiltur when he was long gone. But he had done no more about it than contemplate. His cave was his alone.

But Rhan was no dotard. Gunhin affected him the same way it did anyone else. After he had felled the human girl in the arena-not even with the Greatsword of Impiltur but with his bare hands!-he managed to keep his feet. Barely. A loud whine had filled his ears, bringing the first hint of fear that Rhan had felt in a very long time. A thousand black spots were beginning to cloud his vision. Then that old meddler Kaad had rushed forward and upended a skin into his mouth.

Rhan drank down the bitter liquid eagerly, still swallowing even as he felt the first of its effects. Fire flooded his muscles and seemed to sizzle just under the pores of his skin. The whine in his ears faded, replaced by the ecstatic cheers of the crowd and cries of the few dozen fools who had dared bet against him. His vision cleared so that he actually had the clarity to watch the deep gash in his arm knit back together.

He threw back his head and roared. The crowd joined him.

Only then did he notice that Maaqua and Buureg had come forward with Kaad. The queen was beaming up at him, and the warchief kneeled beside the human, his fingers probing her neck, the back of his other hand held in front of her mouth and nose.

“Well?” said Maaqua.

Buureg stood and looked up at Rhan. “No breath. No beat to her veins.”

“She’s dead?” said Maaqua.

Buureg nodded.

Maaqua laughed, a short bark, then patted Rhan’s arm. “Well done, Champion of the Razor Heart. Killed the little chit with your bare hands.” She turned to the crowd and raised both fists over her head. “Killed her with his bare hands!”

The crowd roared, drowning out all other sound. Rhan saw a few fights breaking out here and there. A few of the losers in the wagering seemed to be reluctant to pay up.

Maaqua leaned in close to Buureg to be heard, but Rhan picked up her words.

“Have the Damarans thrown back into their hole until I make up my mind about how to deal with them.”

“And the condemned?” said Buureg.

Maaqua shrugged and laughed. “Condemned. To the Stone of Hoar with him.”

“And her?” Buureg pointed down at Hweilan’s body.

“A feast!” said Maaqua.

“No!” The nearest hobgoblins who were able to hear Rhan were stunned into silence by the vehemence in his tone.

Maaqua looked up at him, confused and angry. “Eh?”

Rhan pointed down at her with his newly healed hand. “She fought for her friend and fought with courage. She is the first warrior to strike me since I picked up the Greatsword. We will treat her as such.”

Maaqua scowled up at him. “You still insist on going through with that?”

“I do.”

She sighed and waved it away. “As you wish. Buureg, have her body placed with the other. Let Rhan finish his foolishness.”

Buureg did not follow Maaqua as she walked away, the crowd parting for her. The warchief held out a hand to Rhan. It held Hweilan’s knife.

“Yours now,” said Buureg.

Rhan took it with a nod of thanks. Even stained with his blood, it was a beautiful thing in its own way, if strange and inelegant. Not a princeling’s weapon. The runes along the blade had obviously come from a master craftsman, but the hilt was bound in plain leather, well-worn and loved. A fine weapon. But no matter how he wiped at it, the steel never lost its look of being coated in fresh blood. He tucked it into his belt.

After that, Rhan was swallowed up in the accolades of the crowd. Someone slapped his empty scabbard into his hand. The Greatsword of Impiltur lay where it had fallen. All present knew that to touch it meant death at Rhan’s hands. He stopped long enough to retrieve the sword and slide it home into his scabbard, then he walked away.

The effects of the gunhin were boiling in him, and he waded through the crowd, searching for the comeliest female to take back to his cave. Never in his life had he come so close to dying. Perhaps it was time to take a mate after all.

Kaad saw to the disposition of Hweilan’s body. He was far too frail to carry her, but Buureg called Hratt over to help. It was a long walk to the high place, and Hratt had to stop and rest twice. Once, Kaad heard him muttering something about losing gold, but he looked away. A slave knew his place.

Hratt laid Hweilan’s body next to the other one-after two days, the crows still would not touch it-and stood for a moment looking down on Hweilan. Kaad heard him mutter, “Damn it all,” shake his head, then walk away. The roar of the crowd could still be heard in the distance. It did not take much to give the Razor Heart reason to revel, and Kaad suspected they would be at it long into the night. With all the fights sure to break out, some of which would eventually draw steel as the strong spirits flowed, Kaad knew he would be kept busy most of the day.

He looked down at Hweilan’s body. The combination of the tattoos and the bruise from Rhan’s fist had turned the entire left half of Hweilan’s face black. Her lip had split and poured blood across one cheek. But not much. Her heart had stopped quickly. Her eyes were closed, which Kaad found strange. A blow like that, and one might expect her eyes to roll up in her head, certainly. But they were relaxed.

Kaad was about to turn away and follow Hratt back to the center of the fortress when he saw it. Her eyelid twitched, like a dreamer in deep sleep.

He stopped, wide-eyed and staring. It didn’t happen again, but he knew what he’d seen.

Kaad looked around to make sure Hratt was well and truly gone. Then he kneeled and placed his rough, calloused hand against Hweilan’s throat. No beat of her heart. Nothing. He looked at her chest. Not the slightest rise and fall of breath. Her skin was cool to the touch-but not cold. No. Despite the early spring chill, her body wasn’t cold.

There! Just as Kaad was about to remove his hand, he felt it. A pulse. Just once. But it was strong.

He looked down at her again. All the crowd had heard bone break when Rhan struck Hweilan’s back. Looking at her face, he suspected the last blow had cracked her skull as well. The old healer reached inside his robes, removed a vial made from goat horn, and placed it in Hweilan’s palm.

Then he chuckled the whole way back down into the fortress. He suspected it would be quite a night indeed.

The revelry went on all that morning, quieted some during midday meal time, then came back with a vengeance as the sun sank beneath the peaks. Dark came quickly, even as winter loosened its grip on the mountains, and fires sparked to life both inside and outside the fortress.

Years ago, this never would have happened. The knights out of Highwatch sometimes patrolled after dark, and the slightest fire would have revealed the location of the Razor Heart’s fortress. But the knights and their flying terrors were no more. Truth be told, the new horrors in Highwatch worried Maaqua far more, but they already knew where the fortress lay, and should they come again, it was better to have fire close at hand.

So, despite the drain it put on their winter stores, Maaqua encouraged the festivities to rouse the blood of the clan. She would need that for the days of struggle ahead of them. It had been a long time since the clan had reason to celebrate. Joy spread through the fortress like fresh flame on oil.

Except for two places.

The three Damarans lay in their hole, the iron bars firmly locked over their heads so that no warriors need be kept from the celebrations to guard them. Valsun sat, staring at the few stars far overhead. He was quite sure that once the feast was over-probably when the first warriors woke after their night of hard drinking-Maaqua would simply have one of the brutes pull the lever, drown the three of them, and be done with it. It was not the way he had hoped to leave this life, but he supposed it could be worse. Jaden, however, was quite sure they’d be tortured in the cruelest possible ways. He’d heard that fear sweetens the meat, and he was sure the hobgoblins would find every conceivable way to kill them with fire and sharp things. But when he shared this with his companions, they made no reply. And what Darric thought, he would not say.

The other place free of any celebration was on the northern edge of the fortress, within sight of the last guard post. There, a block of stone thrust up from the mountainside. One had to brave a steep trail to reach its height, occasionally clinging to iron-hard roots that broke through the mountain’s jagged hide. The stone itself had been shaped by eons of wind and rain into the vague shape of a hand. But the hobgoblins had improved upon it with hammer and chisel so that the stone now had the distinct shape of grasping fingers and the suggestion of a coin in the palm. This was the Stone of Hoar, Lord of Doom and Watcher of the Revenged.

It had taken four Razor Heart warriors to bring the naked Damaran up the hill. His hands and elbows were bound behind his back and cinched to his waist with the finest leather rope. A small length of cord bound him at knees and ankles to keep him from running or kicking. And they’d even muzzled him, just in case he became riled enough to try his teeth. Kaad’s ministrations from the previous night had seemed to revive him, and he remembered every hurt. He’d growled and cursed the whole way up the height, and the warriors had dragged and beaten him. Finally, at the most treacherous parts of the trail, they’d clubbed him senseless and lifted him by the leash tied round his arms.

Once they reached the stone, two of the warriors stood with spears only inches from the Damaran’s throat while their two companions bound him to the stone. Leather ropes bound his wrists to two of the stone’s middle fingers. They sat his rump in the palm, then bound one thigh to the thumb and the other to the smallest finger, spreading both legs. Since the Damaran had killed Duur, Ruuket’s mate, when she came for her vengeance, it was very likely that his manhood would be the first thing to go.

Then they locked a shackle around each ankle, from each of which dangled less than a foot of chain bound to a three-stone weight of iron. A big one like this might be able to lift his lower legs, but he wouldn’t be able to kick. Satisfied that he was well and truly secure, the warriors slapped him-once each, just hard enough to dribble blood from his lip-then tromped back to the celebration.

While the rest of the Razor Heart reveled, Ruuket climbed to the Stone of Hoar. Her face was bloody from the grief gouges she had raked into both cheeks with her own hands.

That Mandan could have faced with warrior’s pride. But she also brought her children with her. The oldest was only a year or two away from his warrior’s growth. Two others walked beside her, and she carried a babe in the cloth sling on her back. They stood before the bloodied Damaran.

He looked up at them and said, “Do your worst.”

The oldest child stepped forward, the knife in his hand already coming up.

But his mother’s hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. He bared his teeth in a growl, but he obeyed his mother.

“I am Ruuket,” she said in hesitant Damaran. “You killed Duur. My mate. These are his children.”

The Damaran held her gaze a long while, then seemed to tear away with great difficulty to stare at the younglings, each in turn. His eyes hardened as he fixed upon the eldest son, his knife in hand. He glanced quickly over the other male child, only a head shorter than his brother. But when he saw the little one clinging to his mother’s left leg-another son, only five summers old-something changed in Mandan’s countenance. His eyes closed once in a slow blink, and when they opened again, they glistened with moisture.

He looked away, staring at the ground.

“Your … mate,” he said. “I … I did not mean to kill him.” But as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he didn’t believe them; even he could smell the lie there. When the fury was upon him, little else mattered but satisfying the bloodlust inside him. Not only had he meant to kill those hobgoblin warriors, he had enjoyed it. Now, though … seeing Duur’s children before him …

Would they be fed through the winter?

Would their mother be able to care for them?

Would she have to take another mate into her bed, and would he care for the children? Or would they be cast out into the snow?

He didn’t know. He had heard awful tales of the hobgoblin tribes and their ways, but he did not know the truth of them. If they were true, then not only was the death of a warrior on his soul but that of his family.

“He was trying to kill me,” he said, knowing that he was doing his best to convince himself as much as them. “I was only defending myself and my companions, as any knight should.”

“Tonight,” said Ruuket, “you think on that. Tonight, my children and I will chant Duur’s soul to the Fire of the High Chieftain. We will feast. When the sun comes, we will sleep. When the sun goes, we will come back. For you. Think on that.”

She turned and left, taking her children with her.

Rhan had not slept. He spent the day in his chamber with Ghir of Orlung’s brood. She had proved herself most exertive, and after their third bout, he was giving serious consideration to taking her as a mate. She was beautiful, and all her older sisters had borne strong children-except for Vuurl and Gorueg, who had sworn off the cave in favor of wielding steel in battle. Once the gunhin wore off, if nothing else happened to change his mind, he would ask her and prepare the proper price to Orlung.

His ears occasionally still caught the sound of revelry. None had dared to come down the tunnel to his chamber, but at least some of the celebration had made its way to the outer halls. Rhan felt no desire to join them. They would press food and drink into his hand and slap his arms, congratulating him on his victory over the Hand.

Still … it felt like no victory.

He was glad to be alive. No mistake. Rhan hoped to die in glorious battle-perhaps thirty or forty years from now. But something about the fight with the girl stuck in his throat. Her prowess had both surprised and pleased him. She had not flinched when he pushed her back, insulting and taunting her. She had taken it once, then twice, then struck back and come at him with a smile. If only half the humans had her mettle, then Rhan suspected his people would not be long for the world. But he knew that killers like the human girl-and like himself-were as rare as blue tigers. Perhaps it was the gods’ way of keeping the peoples of the world in their place.

But she had gone down too easily. He had hit her with all he had-and he had cracked the skulls of many warriors with far less strength behind his fist. But he had also felt the power behind her first kick. It had taken all his strength not to fall on his arse in front of the entire clan-yet he knew, instinctively, as one warrior knows another-that she had been holding back, playing with him.

He reached up and touched the soft new skin near his neck. That one strike of her knife had been the closest he had ever come to dying. And it hadn’t even hurt all that much. Sharp and quick, it had almost been pleasant-a moment of cold, followed by flowing warmth. He was even a little disappointed that the gunhin had healed it completely, that he would bear no scar. A good scar could serve a warrior well, to remind him of the nearness of death.

“I should be dead,” he said to himself.

Ghir mumbled something in her sleep and burrowed deeper into the blankets. The fire in the pit had burned low, and a chill had returned to his chamber.

Rhan threw off the fur coverlets, climbed back into his trousers, and pulled on his boots. He hadn’t worn them in the fight, but he would want them where he was going.

“Rhan …?” Ghir leaned up on one elbow and looked at him.

“Sleep,” he said. “I will be back.”

“Where’re y’going?” she said, sleep tugging at her words.

“Sleep,” he told her again. Then he grabbed his sword, snatched up Hweilan’s knife, and left the chamber.

The outer hall was stiflingly warm from all the fires burning there. Warriors gnawed on haunches of meat and passed around skins as they entertained each other with tales of past battles and current gossip. Catching sight of Rhan, they hailed him.

But he ignored them and stomped into the dark tunnel. The gunhin had still not worn off, and the cooler air was a relief upon his bare skin.

He walked outside, his breath steaming in the night cold. He could see the orange glow of fires burning throughout the fortress. He passed many groups of hobgoblins, some celebrating, some fighting, some halfway in between. Rhan ignored them all and kept on his way to the High Place.

Once he left the celebration behind, he hung his scabbard on his back to free his hands. He knew a smoother way up the mountainside on more level paths with well-cut steps, but it was three times the distance. Instead, he took shorter paths that required a certain amount of climbing. His fingers and palms were bloody by the time he reached the final stretch of path, but he did not care.

A high haze hid all but the moon and brightest of stars, and yet Rhan’s sharp night sight served him well. He listened intently for the sound of ravens or other carrion feeders.

There were none. Strange, but not unexpected.

He rounded the final bend in the path, topped the last rise and stared. He clenched his jaw so tightly that he heard his teeth grinding.

Only one body. And the cloak he had laid over it was missing.

Hweilan was gone.

Rhan cursed. Surely even that old meddler Kaad was not foolish enough to thwart Rhan’s will and disobey a direct order from Maaqua. If he had done something to her …

No.

Rhan ran forward and kneeled beside the body. Even in the dark, he could see that the soil beside it had been disturbed, and there was even a small amount of blood staining the ground. Another body had been here. Then what-?

There. He saw it only a few paces away. He walked over to it, kneeled, and picked it up. A small vial, cut from a young ram’s horn. Rhan brought it under his nose and sniffed.

“Gunhin,” he said, then his eyes narrowed. “Kaad. That med-”

A rattle-the sound of soil falling down the lip of the bowl. Rhan looked up, and there, on the rim of stone, was a large shape, pale in the dim light. But its eyes shone with more than reflected moonlight. Hweilan’s wolf. It made no move to approach. Other than the slight whisper of its footfall, it still hadn’t made a sound. Very slowly, Rhan’s hand moved toward the hilt of his sword.

A leg erupted out of the dirt and swept his own legs out from under him. Rhan went down and rolled away. It was the wrong choice.

A weight came down on him, stopping him from rolling further. His sword would do him little good in this position. He grabbed the knife. As he lifted his legs, hoping to buck off the attacker, he swept backward with the knife.

Some of the weight lifted off him, but something soft wrapped round his knife hand, tightened, and pulled. The angle was so precise, the right amount of strength applied just so by using Rhan’s own strength against him, that his arm twisted backward and his hand released the weapon. He half-expected to feel it fall beside him, but he didn’t.

Instead, his body hit the dirt and he tensed to try to throw off his attacker, but the feel of a sharp point of steel jabbing into his flesh, right where his jaw curved into his ear, changed his mind.

“Thank you for bringing my knife,” said a voice above him.

He recognized it at once. Hweilan.

He kept the look of fury on his face, but inside he was smiling. He braved a glance upward and saw that the cloak he had left over the other body was twisted around his arm. He knew he could free himself with little trouble-but probably not before Hweilan buried the knife in his skull. Sand still fell from the cloak, and he realized what had happened. The little fox had dug a shallow trench in the dirt, lay down, pulled the cloak over her, covered it all with sand, and then waited. Had it been full daylight, no doubt he would have been able to discern the disturbed soil, perhaps seen the bits of cloak she hadn’t been able to cover. But in the dark …

“Now,” she said, “here is what’s going to happen.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Scent came back to Hweilan first.She smelled cool, dry air, spring grass, flower petals, and … something else. Something hot and choking. Blood. Fresh blood. So strong that it filled her head like wine.

That is you, that smell.

She opened her eyes and saw wolves before her. A huge pack, two dozen or more, and in their midst the chief, a massive male with fur the color of new snow. The same wolf who had spoken in her dream the day before.

A plain stretched all around them. Not Narfell. The breeze on her cheeks felt too warm. In the grasses, too many shades of green mottled the brown, and there were no mountains to crack the horizon. Grass undulated into forever, rising and falling on shallow hills like sea swells.

The pack scattered, some running away and others merely receding before their lord. The chief wolf lowered his head and looked at her. His eyes …

Not like any wolf’s she had ever seen. They were too bright-the color of a clear winter sky. A gust of wind stirred his fur, and for just a moment Hweilan thought she saw him covered in uwethla, much like her own. She saw the blood there, pulsing in the skin, and for the briefest instant he was not a wolf at all. He stood on two legs, his white hair hanging well past his waist. Three scars marred his skin from scalp to cheek to chin, leaving empty tracks through his frosty eyebrows. But then the vision passed, and he was a wolf again.

“You know me,” she said, before she’d even thought the words.

Blood of my blood, said the wolf. A clever ruse. That old lizard by the lake taught you well. One drink to stop your heart-just for a time. Another to bring you back. And what if that hobgoblin had killed you anyway?

“I think he very nearly did,” she said.

The wolf padded up to her and licked at her face. His musky scent washed over her, and again she was struck by the familiarity of it. She almost had it … but something else was drowning it. Something hot and … metallic. Clouding her senses.

The wolf stepped away, then turned and sat, looking at her eye-to-eye. Broken bones are the least of your worries. You’re bleeding inside your skull. That’s your blood you smell. Only a little at the moment. But it only takes a little to kill you.

“Who are you?”

I am the father of your grandmother’s grandmother.

Hweilan struggled through her memories. They tasted red. But she reached through and found what she wanted.

“Ashiin, she told me of you. You are Haerul. She said you were the father of my grandfather’s grandfather.”

The wolf barked, and Hweilan heard the laugh there. Fox had no pack. She did not know a great many things. But I know you, girl. The Witness Cloud … we are always watching. Your mother’s father-

The wolf yipped in surprise and turned. Hweilan followed his gaze.

“What-?”

He turned and said something, but she could not hear the words. Lightning struck the plains, some so close she felt the burning air, and thunder drowned out all other sound.

The grasses burned away, and the sky split with a crack of lightning that pierced to the heart of the world.

When her vision cleared, the blue-eyed wolf was gone and an antlered figure stood before her. He held a black iron spear in his right hand, gripping it so hard that she heard the crack of his tendons. Blood dripped from his right hand. Green fire burned out of his mask of bone.

He looked down on her, and the ground and sky trembled at the sound of his voice.

“Fool! Time is running out.”

Hweilan could not respond, could not speak, could not … not …

Breathe!

The antlered man held his bloody hand over her, and as the sky let loose a torrent of rain, Nendawen’s hot blood showered down upon Hweilan, covering her face, filling her mouth and nose. She could not cry out, could not look away, could not draw air into her lungs, though everything in her screamed to-

Breathe!

Hweilan sat up, inhaling so strongly that it was an inward scream. Pain filled her head with such forcefulness that for a moment she feared the hobgoblins had buried her own knife in her head as a farewell gift.

She reached up. The entire left side of her face was swollen and sensitive to the touch. An area just under the edge of her scalp was soft as a half-full wineskin. She could feel the fluid gathering there under her skin, and just beneath it-

Her probing finger barely touched it, but it felt like an ice cold nail twisting through her skull, sending threads of agony down her neck, rattling her teeth, and causing her arms to spasm.

“Cracked my skull,” she said to herself, and only then realized her lips were swollen to twice their normal size. She could feel congealed blood clogging her inner cheek.

She tried to spit, but the pain in her head flared and the world tumbled around her and she had to reach out with both hands to catch herself before she fell.

Her left hand came down on something. Taking slow, careful breaths, she waited for her vision to clear and for the world to stop moving around her. But sight never came back to her left eye. All dark. And her head seemed to get fuller with every beat of her heart. Much more and she feared it might burst.

This was not good.

She picked up whatever her hand had found and held it before her right eye. The sun had set long ago, but the moon and brightest stars burned through the hazy sky just enough to reflect off the surrounding rocks. She couldn’t make out the thing in her hand. Her head …

But her fingers recognized what it was and sent the message to her brain.

A vial.

Bone, by the feel of it. Or horn, for it was pointed at the bottom. The other end had a piece of waxed felt as a plug. She considered prying it out with her teeth. But with the pain in her broken lips and head, she feared that might cause her to pass out. And then, she probably would not wake again.

Hweilan fumbled at the stopper with her other hand. Her fingers were cold, and it took her several tries to even get a grip. Then, a quick twist, and it came out.

The wet, loamy scent washed over her. Gunhin.

Kaad. He had been true to his word.

The vial didn’t hold nearly as much as he had given her before. But then, he had been healing the effects of poison, scalding, and whatever Maaqua’s magic arts had done to her.

Very carefully, so as not to spill a drop or cause her head any unnecessary movements, Hweilan brought the vial to her lips and dribbled in a few drops of the liquid. It hit her tongue like flaming spirits. The skin inside her cheeks and throat sizzled. Between one heartbeat and the next, every pore of her skin seemed to breathe outward, and Hweilan thought if she’d opened her eyes she might have seen steam coming out of her nose. The darkness in her left eye swirled and came back a blur, dark shadows mixed with slightly brighter shadows. But at least it was something.

Once more, Hweilan put the open end of the vial to her lips-both of which already felt their normal size-and upended it. She drank every bit of the foul concoction, then did her best to suck out what little remained in the hollow horn.

She waited, taking careful breaths. And then it hit all at once-the prickling and freezing on the inside, the feel of her skin vibrating like a struck drum, blood burning hot and coursing through her veins at double speed. And then the pain. Far worse than before. She felt the cracked bone on her head snap! back into place.

Hweilan didn’t remember falling, but the next thing she realized, she was face down in the dirt, panting, a thick film of drool and blood running out of her mouth.

She spat out a glob of grit and what she thought might have been the shattered remains of a tooth-now completely healed-and pushed herself up. Her vision had come back and then some. There was little brush around her, and so the only shadows were cast by the stones themselves. High clouds blurred the moon and stars like a sheet of the finest silk. By the meager light, Hweilan realized for the first time that she was not alone.

A large bundle lay a pace away. It was completely covered in a dark cloth, the edges of which had been weighted down by several rocks. But there was no mistaking the shape of a body. Hweilan had seen far too many in the past year to mistake it for anything else.

On one end, two bits of the blanket rose into points, looking very much like feet. Hweilan walked over to the other end, kneeled, and removed the nearest rocks from the blanket. She grasped the edge of the thick cloth …

And stopped. A shiver passed through her, some primal warning originating in the deepest part of her brain, a part that was long dormant in most humans. But hers had been awakened by her master, and it was sending a clarion warning to her now.

She knew whose body this was. Knew it before she held her breath and pulled the edge of the blanket aside.

The corpse was headless, but the head had been replaced face-up upon the bloody remains of the neck.

Her mother.

The taut demonic fury that had marred the woman’s features was gone, replaced by the slackness of death. Hweilan could not bring herself to touch the skin, but she knew that had she done so, it would have been cold, and in this weather probably hard as old leather. Someone had placed a stone over each eye. Not just common rocks from the ground. These were black and smooth as oil, and Hweilan could see a rune carved on each one.

Someone had treated her mother’s body with the honor and respect due a renowned warrior.

Who would-?

A noise. Hweilan held her breath and listened, head cocked to one side.

She heard the faintest of footfalls. Thick pads on the dirt. Four steps. A stone’s throw away, the ground rose into a lip-Hweilan noted that she was actually kneeling in the middle of a wide bowl-and then fell away. The wall of the mountain rose some forty yards or so beyond, but it was broken by a wide fissure. Considering her current location, Hweilan suspected that a path wound through the fissure. She looked toward the path and saw a pale form emerge from the shadows. Uncle. She had no idea how the wolf had managed to avoid capture. Had he been hiding in the fortress all this time?

He stopped a few paces away, gave the corpse a wary glance, then his eyes settled on Hweilan.

She opened her mouth to say something when the wolf whirled. His ears stiffened forward, and he focused all his attention on the path. The hairs on his back rose.

Hweilan heard it, too. Someone was coming up the path, boots scuffling on the grit, making no effort at all to be quiet.

Hweilan looked around. Nowhere to go. Besides, she didn’t need to run and hide. She needed to take care of whoever was coming. Otherwise, that person might raise an alarm, making it all the more difficult to get her weapons back.

She looked down at the blanket, and an idea occurred to her. An old ambush trick Scith had once taught her.

“Uncle,” she whispered. “Here. Dig. Fast.”

The wolf didn’t hesitate. He went to work.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, and she swiped the blanket.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"You”-a voice broke through the first beginnings of a dream-“get up. Now.” But the dream wasn’t a pleasant one, so Hratt wasn’t entirely sorry to open his eyes and roll over.

The dungfire in the hearth was still breathing, the flames just now burning low. He hadn’t been asleep long then. Raucous cries and bits of song from the celebration came through the open door. Had Hratt not drunk himself senseless after giving up half the gold he’d hoarded for five summers, he’d never have been able to sleep.

Meager as the firelight was, it still had to burrow its way through the swirling dizziness in his head. A hobgoblin warrior stood over Hratt and glared down at him. The warrior wore full armor, so he hadn’t been joining in the celebrations. Perhaps he had just come in from a patrol, or was on some other duty. Hratt squinted to clear his vision and noted the talon symbol painted on the warrior’s breastplate. One of Buureg’s spears then.

“I said, ‘Up.’ ”

Hratt untangled himself from the blanket and sat up on his elbows. “Wha’ for?”

“I am Drureng.”

“I don’t care,” said Hratt. “Why are you here?”

“Maaqua wants you.”

A weight seemed to settle on Hratt’s chest and he had trouble standing. “Wh-why?” he asked.

“She wants the human’s things.”

Hratt swayed unsteadily on his feet. “The human?”

“The girl Rhan killed this morning. Maaqua wants the girl’s things brought to her. Weapons and such. You and the forge chief have the keys to the chamber, and no one can find him. So that leaves you and me. Now move.”

Drureng stood by the door, pounding the flat of his hand against his mail skirt while Hratt dressed. No need for armor. But since he was going to see Maaqua, he chose his finest clothes and a cloak he had looted from a Blood Mountain tribe raid. It was too good for them, and Hratt suspected it had probably originated in a caravan through the Gap.

“You’re fetching something for the queen, not dining with her,” said Drureng.

“Out,” said Hratt.

Drureng’s eyes narrowed, and his hand inched toward the sword at his belt. He obviously thought Hratt felt insulted and was preparing to fight should Hratt challenge him.

“I need to get the key,” Hratt explained, “and this is my den. I don’t want anyone knowing where I keep my valuables.”

Drureng barked a laugh at that. “From what I hear, you don’t have many valuables left after today. Betting on a girl like you did. Learned your lesson?”

“Out.”

Drureng left and even shut the door behind him, chuckling.

Hratt and Drureng walked through the inner chambers of the fortress to the armories. Unlike the upper chambers, most of these halls were empty as tombs-their former inhabitants enjoying the celebration above. Both hobgoblins stopped long enough to light a torch each, then proceeded on their way.

The air grew thicker and warmer as they descended. And soon the twisting tunnels and open halls, lit only by their torches, smelled more of soot and slag than stone. The Razor Heart fortress had many forges, large and small, used for repairing armor, weapons, and other tools. But the real masterworks were done in the deep caverns, where the Master of the Forge mixed magic with his crafts.

It was here that Maaqua had chosen to keep Hweilan’s weapons and other belongings. When Hratt had first been told of this, he had thought it strange that Maaqua put Hweilan’s things so far inside the fortress. But if they were as powerful as Maaqua said, it did make a certain amount of sense. The caves were probably the most warded area of all the fortress-save for Maaqua’s private chambers-and Hratt suspected she had reasons of her own for being suspicious of the tools of the Hand of the Hunter. With the Hand now dead, perhaps the queen felt safer.

The main door of the deep forge was not only unlocked but standing wide open. That struck Hratt as unusual, but not entirely unexpected, considering the night’s revelries. Although it was unlikely the master had left the door open, the soldiers sent to look for him certainly might have done so.

The forge itself was a vast room, its ceiling well out of the reach of their torchlight. Vents high overhead carried the smoke away. But tonight the fires lay cold, not even the hint of a glow in the coals. The reek of soot and oil and iron clung to every surface. Hratt hated the place. The air itself felt burned, and with his brain still thick from his day of drinking, it was all he could do to keep his stomach from spilling.

“Where are they?” asked Drureng.

“This way.” Hratt threaded a path through the dozens of heaps of iron, steel, copper, and brass. Tables and tool racks and anvils made islands in the room. On the far side, doors opened to other halls and storage rooms. Hratt chose a doorway so small that they had to duck into it before emerging into a larger tunnel beyond. They left the forge behind and went up a winding narrow hall that burrowed upward slightly into the mountain.

“You said they were in the deep forge,” said Drureng. His loud voice carried far through the tunnel.

“These are the deep-forge storage chambers,” said Hratt. “Same thing.”

Drureng snorted. “It’ll be dawn before our duty’s done, at this rate.”

Hratt ignored him and kept going. The tunnel grew no wider, but the ceiling rose high into the dark. Their torches cast many small shadows on the roughly hewn walls.

They turned around a bend to the left, and there was the storage room.

Hratt stopped and stared.

“What?” said Drureng. By his whisper, Hratt knew the warrior could sense his surprise.

“The door,” said Hratt. “Look.”

He held his torch forward and pointed. The thick iron door was still shut. It had two slide latches-one near the top and the other about a foot off the floor-that had been secured with locks. Both locks had been smashed open. The dented and scarred central pieces lay on the floor surrounded by the broken and misshapen bits of iron link. The main lock-the one set just slightly to the right of the door’s center-was also dented and scarred. It looked as if someone had taken one of the heavier forge hammers to it, then used something else to try to pry the whole latch off. But the welded bolts had held.

Hratt reached for his sword, and only then realized he had left it in his chamber. He hadn’t even brought his dagger.

Drureng stepped to the side of Hratt to get a better look. “Who could h-”

Hratt heard a sound like someone smashing a fist on a thick table, and then Drureng fell sideways toward Hratt. The armored warrior’s torch hit the ground a moment before he did.

Hratt whirled, waving his torch before him. Drureng lay motionless on the ground.

A dark shape, crouching well beyond the reach of his torch, straightened, and Hratt heard a relieved sigh followed by a chuckle.

“Hratt, is that you?”

Wide-eyed, Hratt took another step back and held his torch high. As the shadows stopped dancing and the firelight settled over the shape in front of him, Hratt recognized her at once. It took every bit of his warrior’s self-control to keep his feet.

“You’re dead,” he said to Hweilan.

“Not yet.” She smiled at him, though her eyes lost none of their hardness. “I am very glad to see you, though. I’m having a damnable time getting that door open. Please tell me you have the key.”

Near the outermost borders of the fortress, a band of hobgoblins gnawed on the remains of their meal and passed around the skin. It was the third they had drained.

“Back soon,” said one as he handed off the skin and stood.

“Where you going?” said another.

“Gotta make room for more drink.”

His companions laughed and cheered him on.

The hobgoblin took his spear with him. Even in the best of years, the Giantspires were not a safe place, and they had become particularly dangerous over the past few months.

He hesitated as he approached the farthest edge of the firelight. He could have sworn he’d heard something. A sound of something moving in the dirt.

One of his companions must have seen him pause, for he called out, “Need me to hold that spear for you?”

“Which one?” another answered, and they all roared laughter.

The hobgoblin turned halfway back so his voice would carry. “Be quiet!”

The laughter died slowly. “What is it?” one of them called, still chuckling.

“I heard something.”

“If you want someone to-”

There.

“Silence!” he called. He’d heard it again. He was certain this time.

His bladder was full to bursting, but he gripped his spear with both hands and took two steps back.

“Over here,” the hobgoblin said. “All of you.”

He could hear his companions coming up behind, so he ventured forward, leaving the last of the firelight behind, his gaze sifting every bit of shadow behind the rocks.

The other warriors fell in around him. “What is it? What did-?”

Another sound.

“I heard it that time.”

“Who’s there?” the first hobgoblin called.

“Here, damn you!” The voice was deep and raspy, but it spoke perfect Goblin.

“Name yourself!”

“Rhan,” said the voice. “Come here. Now. Or I’ll kill every last one of you.”

The hobgoblins exchanged a worried glance, then moved forward, spears and swords held before them. They put some distance between each other as they walked to give those with swords room to swing.

“There!” said one of the hobgoblins, pointing.

A large shape lay on the ground, a dark, wet trail in the dirt and rock behind it.

“It is Rhan!”

The hobgoblins rushed forward.

It was indeed the Champion of the Razor Heart. He gripped the Greatsword of Impiltur in one hand. Even in the dim light, the hobgoblins could see he was covered in dirt, made sticky by his own blood.

“Someone’s hamstrung him!”

Bits of some cloth were bound round Rhan’s knees, but they were black with blood and dirt, and more blood was leaking out. Crippled, he had crawled all this way from … wherever this had been done to him.

“Wh-what … what happened?”

Rhan looked up at the warriors with such ferocity that the hobgoblins gasped and took a step back.

“She’s back,” said Rhan through a clenched jaw. “She’s alive. Sound the horns!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Buureg had not joined in the celebrations. Something about the day’s events had left him unsettled, so he walked throughout the fortress, speaking with warriors and slaves, listening to every rumor and being asked a dozen times whether they would raid east or west of the mountains this season. He was in one of the outer courtyards when the horns broke through the sounds of celebration.

The warriors with whom he’d been speaking sat still as stones, their mouths hanging open, skins half-raised to their lips.

One of them looked to Buureg. “What-?”

“Drop the drink and get steel in your hands,” Buureg ordered. Then he ran in the direction of the horns.

Three wide-eyed warriors met him as he was leaving the courtyard. They wore no armor, but every one of them had a weapon.

“What’s happening?” Buureg asked.

“It’s the girl, she-”

“Rhan! It’s Rhan!”

“Silence!” Buureg cut them off. He pointed at the foremost. “You, speak.”

The warrior swallowed hard, then said, “Arngul and his band found Rhan.”

“Found him?”

“Yes, warchief. He’d been hamstrung. She sliced the tendons in both legs. He had to crawl all the way back.”

“She?” said Buureg. “She who?”

“That human girl.”

“The Hand of the Hunter,” said his companion, and Buureg saw the warrior was clutching a talisman in his left hand.

“She’s alive?” said Buureg. “You’re sure of it?”

“So says Rhan.”

“Come with me,” said Buureg, and he turned on his heels.

They ran back into the fortress, where celebrations were swiftly ending. Buureg gathered the first warriors he found, made sure they were armed, then sent them to guard the Damarans. He then counted off ten warriors, three of whom were actually wearing armor, and said, “You’re with me.”

“Where are we going?” one of them asked as they fell into step behind him.

“To the deep forge.”

Finding the main door of the deep forge open, Buureg and his men proceeded with extreme caution. Every warrior had a blade or a spear in hand, and more than one was praying under his breath. If the girl had managed to hamstring the Champion of the Razor Heart …

Buureg led the way into the chamber where the girl’s weapons and other belongings were being kept. He knew that Maaqua had ordered Hratt to bring them to her. On the way into the deeper parts of the fortress, Buureg asked every warrior and slave they passed if they had seen Hratt. None had.

The door had obviously been battered, but it was still shut.

“What now?” said the warrior behind Buureg.

“Who’s there?” called a voice from the other side of the iron door.

The warriors tensed and raised weapons, but Buureg recognized it.

“Hratt?” he called.

“It’s me,” said Hratt. “That wench locked us in here!”

“Us?” said Buureg.

“Me and”-a moment’s hesitation-“oh, Hells, I think he said his name is Drureng. She knocked him senseless. He’s still breathing, but I can’t rouse him.”

“Where is she?”

“Gone! She took all her things and locked us in here.”

Buureg jabbed a finger at the nearest warrior, said, “Get them out of there!” then turned back up the hall, the other warriors following.

“How?” the warrior called.

Buureg ignored him and ran.

The fortress soon reminded Buureg very much of an ant bed stirred by bored children. The horns had stopped, but the word was out. The Hand of the Hunter had survived and wounded their champion. She might have fled, or she might be loose in the fortress. Every hobgoblin in the fortress held a weapon, warriors had donned armor, and those not set at guard were prowling the fortress, searching for the girl.

Buureg found one of his senior warriors who had just returned from seeing to the Damaran prisoners.

“Quiet as cornered rabbits,” said the warrior. “All of ’em. No sign of the girl. Maybe she ran off?”

Buureg didn’t think that likely. The first day he’d met her, she could have easily fled and left the Damarans to the Razor Heart. Instead, she’d held a knife to Buureg’s throat and bargained for their lives.

“If she isn’t trying to save them,” he wondered aloud, “then what …?”

“What says Maaqua?” said the warrior.

Buureg’s next breath seemed to freeze his heart. “Maaqua …”

Maaqua had her private chambers in the deepest caverns on the northern side of the fortress. Few beyond her disciples had ever been there. She sometimes summoned the warchief, but he never spoke of what he saw. Once, Buureg had brought two of his strongest warriors to carry some new treasure the Razor Heart had acquired in a raid. One had boasted of a vast chamber, with a floor that descended in terraces. Shelves lined the walls and terrace edges. Every one stuffed with books, scrolls, and tablets. The room itself was filled with tables on which sat iron-bound tomes, loose manuscripts, animal cages, skeletons, goblets of colored glass and precious metals, and the huge black skull of a dragon. Pedestals lined one of the lower terraces, and on them sat reliquaries of at least a dozen different faiths-some under such powerful spells that they smoked on the brass stands that held them. And scattered among all of it was treasure beyond imagining-jewels of every color, gold, silver, and metals of such strange colors that the warrior who told the tale said that he was certain they had not come from this world. That warrior had gone to his den that night, smug in the admiration of his companions. He had not been seen since. Maaqua made sure of it. Years later, the memory still brought a smile to her face.

The time had come for Maaqua to roll the dice. She could wait no longer. She had held some small hope that she could trick or browbeat Hweilan into doing her bidding. But that was no longer a possibility. There were ways to raise the dead and make them bend to your will, Maaqua knew. But she would not risk that with the Hand. The girl’s ties to the Master of the Hunt were too strong.

If you must strike the hornet’s nest-stand well away and be ready to run. A proverb she’d often heard in the south in her younger days. This was a good lesson to keep in mind when it came to Nendawen and his ilk.

Maaqua had only days until the full moon, and what the girl had told her was true. The Master of the Hunt would not take kindly to what had been done to his servant. Maaqua had to prepare. And, come high summer, she would have to deal with angry Damarans, too. But Highwatch … that was the immediate concern.

Bring us the girl and we’ll let you live. The demon’s words before disappearing from her doorstep.

Would a corpse suffice? Perhaps. She was willing to bargain. But she would not beg. This meant she needed to know her enemy. She had already sent for the girl’s weapons. Now she wanted to have a better idea of what she was up against before she probed those secrets.

Maaqua had considered using her private chambers, protected as they were by dozens of spells and guards both arcane and unholy. But she was still unsure of herself and did not want to deal with any unforeseen consequences there.

So she took her most skilled acolytes and climbed to the top of the third watchtower. It was not the highest point, but it afforded the best view to the east, which was where she needed to direct her attention.

The jagged crenellation that served as a tower had a large window, but Maaqua took her acolytes to the top of the rock under the open sky. She posted guards in the room below, and more in the stairwells.

Her acolytes used ram’s blood to paint the boundaries of protection on the stone itself, while Maaqua began the incantation to loosen the wards she’d set around the fortress. She did not dispel them entirely-that would be dangerous. But she knew that if the arcane energies served as a sort of outer wall of a castle, then she needed a window through it-one that she hoped would look only outward.

Once all was set, the acolytes kneeled on the outer edges of the lines of blood and began their own incantations. Maaqua sat cross-legged inside the circle and muttered a prayer. She then removed a silk bag from her robes, opened the drawstring, and poured out the contents-a large mound of feathers, plucked from a snow owl, whose flesh was digesting in her belly. She sprinkled the ash from a mountain oak on the feathers, then reached inside her robe again.

Fire flashed in her palm. It came from an orb she held, slightly smaller than a lamb’s skull and red as pulsing blood.

Maaqua swallowed hard. She had done this many times, but never against the new master of Highwatch.

She set the orb on the bed of owl feathers, then adjusted the crown on her head. The gold circlet had two points rising above each temple and a third above her forehead. Three rubies sat in the circlet, just above Maaqua’s eyes, and they reflected the light of the orb. The Crown of Whispers, which Maaqua had taken from the hands of Soneillon herself. Maaqua hoped it would give her the edge she needed.

She closed her eyes and continued the incantation. Something flickered over Maaqua’s head, the barest bit of light, no more than the spark from touching metal after rubbing dry wool. But the green spark grew in brilliance. It shot off tiny jolts of jagged lightning in every direction, each slightly larger than the last, until it was the same size as the red orb in front of Maaqua. The green fire flared a final time, then settled into a steady glow. A crack formed across its middle, widening like the lids of an opening eye.

Maaqua smiled, though her words did not falter. The eye looked eastward, over mountains and valleys, needing no light and piercing every shadow, until its gaze settled upon Nar-sek Qu’istrade and the castle that looked down upon it. Highwatch lay dark under the night sky, no fires burning in its stone chambers. The queen burrowed deeper, seeking the mind of her enemy.

There.

In what had once been the chambers of the High Warden’s family, a mind of fire and hunger burned inside the failing body of a mortal. There were others throughout the fortress, but they were only flickering torches against the mountain heartbeat of this one. Jagun Ghen.

Maaqua’s smile widened.

From below the tower came the sound of horns. Someone had raised the alarm. Maaqua dismissed the sound. She balanced on a razor’s edge now. The slightest misstep …

The queen burrowed deeper with her magic, her vision going beyond mere sight to the will and intent of the thing that lurked in Highwatch. If it was aware of her presence, it gave no hint. Pleased, she fathomed the outer whispers of the thing’s mind, learning a thing or two and confirming much of what she already expected. Then one thing surprised her so much she actually gasped and opened her eyes.

No. She had learned too much. What else might there be? Her curiosity unsated, she closed her eyes, concentrated, and went deeper.

Then Maaqua screamed.

Hratt sat in the pitch black chamber, with his back and head resting against the door. After he’d told the warrior outside who had the other key what had happened, he’d been left alone with the still-unconscious Drureng. It gave him time to think.

Which way to go? Which way to run?

For run he surely must. He’d betrayed his queen.

When Hweilan demanded the key to the room, he had of course refused. But then she’d raised her hands, showing one of the forge hammers in her left and the red knife in the other, and said, “Please.”

Hratt had been a warrior for almost ten years. After watching her fight, though, he knew he stood little chance against her. But it wasn’t in him to give in. He lunged at her with the torch, hoping at most to get past her and run for help.

She smirked-actually smirked!-at him, batted the torch away with the hammer, then brought the flat of its head into Hratt’s belly. He folded over, all breath gone, and from the edge of his vision saw the knife coming for him. He clenched his jaw and prepared for the worst.

He felt the edge of the knife slide down his torso-but not stabbing or even cutting his flesh. Hweilan sliced neatly through his belt, kicked his feet out from under him, then yanked his trousers down around his knees and twisted, tangling his feet. Her full weight came down on his back and he felt cold steel rest against his thigh.

“Now, Hratt,” she said, “I know you have that key. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. I am not stealing. Everything in that room belongs to me, and I want it back. You’re going to give me the key, then you’re going to tell me where Maaqua is.”

Hratt gave a quick look around. His torch was well out of reach, as was the spear Drureng had dropped. Nothing but his bare hands.

“Well?” she said.

“To the Hells with you!”

“Hratt!” The knife didn’t move, but she gave his trousers a sharp yank. “Not all that long ago, I sliced Rhan’s legs so he couldn’t follow me. But I’m done slicing legs.”

The sharp steel moved up his inner thigh until he felt the edge rest against his groin.

“I’ll have to find something else to slice. Something I think you’ll miss.”

He reached inside his shirt, grabbed the key from where it hung on a leather cord, and yanked it off. He handed it to her.

She snatched it. “Very good. Thank you, Hratt. Now, where is Maaqua?”

He closed his eyes and swallowed. “No.”

She brought the knife up, just slightly, just enough to draw blood.

He shrieked, then said, “She’ll kill me! The queen will kill me!”

“Probably,” said Hweilan. “But she’s not here. I am. You should worry about what I’ll do, don’t you think? You can tell me what I want to know, then wait here for your queen to kill you. Or you can hold your tongue, and …”

A little more pressure on the knife.

Hratt was a sworn blade of the Razor Heart, his life pledged to protect queen and clan. But he was also a male. And so he talked. A little more pressure on that knife, and he would have sung.

Now here he was, locked in a dark store room, contemplating how he would get away and where he would go. Because if that girl didn’t kill Maaqua, then Hratt was most certainly due a painful death.

He’d heard rumors of a renegade Razor Heart and a Nar-Urdun and Gyul-living in the Giantspires, making what living they could by guiding caravans through the Gap. But no, joining up with them would put Hratt in too great a danger of running into the Razor Heart. South and east were nothing but trouble these days, and the north was no place for a lone vagabond.

“West it is, then,” he said to himself. “Damn all humans.” He used the bit of cloth he’d torn from his finest cloak and daubed at the blood leaking from the shallow cut in the fork of his legs. “And twice damn human females.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Avoiding the hobgoblins had been no more than a minor nuisance. Hweilan had just emerged from the lower levels of the fortress when she heard the horns and figured Rhan had likely been found. No matter. The hobgoblins were like a pack of hunting hounds who suddenly had a fox dropped in their midst. Angry and surprised, they were so eager to move, to be doing something, that they were mostly just making noise and bumping into each other. Buureg and their other leaders would get them organized eventually, but most everyone in the fortress was more than half drunk. Compared to an afternoon’s training with the Fox, this would be easy.

She had no doubt Hratt had told her what he knew about Maaqua’s whereabouts. Very few warriors could think up a good lie when facing imminent emasculation. And Hweilan had to find Maaqua first. She might make it out of the fortress, but she couldn’t have Razor Heart hunting her the whole way through the mountains. Otherwise, she might never reach Highwatch. But for that, she’d need help.

So Hweilan made her way to the upper regions of the fortress where its high walls became one with the mountain. She had spied this area the day before when Hratt had taken her to Mandan. One side trail had looked promising, though so steep that its steps were more ladder than stairs and overgrown with tough brush with roots that burrowed into the rock itself. Her unstrung bow and quiver riding on her back, Hweilan swiftly made her way up.

Her instincts served her well. The trail led up to a higher shelf of rock. She could tell by the detritus of bones and an old wineskin that the place was sometimes used as a watch post, but there were no permanent chambers there. The remnants of an old trail twisted a bit farther upward, but it was choked by weeds and an old rockfall. Someone might come from that way, but not without Hweilan hearing them first.

Hweilan sought the shadows near the rockface. The brush was thick there as well, and she was surprised to find the remnants of an old statue. Nothing but the feet and half of the left leg remained. The rest had either fallen or been hacked down.

She settled between them with the stone leg at her back, then reached inside her shirt and pulled at the leather cord there. Time to see if Uncle had done as she’d instructed. Her kishkoman hung from the end of the necklace. Crafted from the horn of a young swiftstag, the bottom point was still sharp enough to cut with very little pressure. But the thick end had been hollowed out into a whistle. Hweilan could not touch it without thinking of her mother, who had given it to her.

The whistle is beyond the hearing of most folk, she had told young Hweilan the day she gave it to her. But our people, Hweilan, we are … not like others. If you find yourself in danger, if you need help, blow this, and we will hear.

Hweilan put the whistle to her lips and blew, hard as she could. The shrill sound cut through her ears, and she winced from the pain. But she blew it again. And again. And then she listened.

A cloud of bats flitted past on their nightly hunt-one of them so close that she felt the wind of its wings. Then, farther down the mountain, amid the shouts of the hobgoblins, she heard a raven caw.

She put the whistle to her lips and blew again, long as her breath would hold, then twice more. Again she heard ravens, more this time. She was about to sound the whistle again when she heard it-

A long, low howl. Much closer than she’d thought he would be. Not inside the fortress, but very close. Another howl answered. And another. And more ravens, not just from the fortress below, but coming around the mountain. In moments, the entire valley was alive with wolfsong and the harsh cries of ravens.

Hweilan smiled. Uncle had done it.

She tucked the kishkoman back under her shirt, the sharp point scratching her skin, laying a thin trail of blood. Hweilan remembered the rest of her mother’s lesson on the day she’d given her the whistle-knife.

Death comes to us all. Many in this world are stronger than you, and those stronger may try to take from you. They may try to take your life, and they may succeed. But you must never give it to them. Make them pay, Hweilan. Make them pay.

Hweilan stood. “Your turn, Maaqua.”

After setting guards at the most critical areas and putting some order to the patrols, Buureg gathered his fiercest warriors and set off to protect his queen.

They were halfway there when the first ravens descended on the fortress. The birds swarmed up and down the mountain, their raucous cries drowning out the hobgoblin horns. Most were no more than a nuisance, for their sharp beaks could not penetrate the warriors’ armor, and one blow from an axe or sword killed even the largest ravens.

But then the wolves appeared. Dozens, at least, and their teeth had no trouble finding the weak spots in the hobgoblins’ armor. Cries of anger and alarm soon turned to pain and fury, and blood ran in the fortress of the Razor Heart.

Maaqua’s tower rose above a path that snaked along the outer skin of the mountain. There were also tunnels within that led to the tower’s lowest level-and Hratt had told her about every one.

But Hweilan chose neither route. The horns had been sounding for a while now. The guards there would be tense and ready. And these were Maaqua’s elite guard. They wouldn’t have been drinking-not if Maaqua was up to something that required a private tower and protection. Furthermore, she suspected more than a few of the guards might be adept at the arcane arts.

So she approached from lower paths, then took to the mountain itself. The wall itself was not perfectly vertical, but it was sheer, and she had to choose between stealth and speed. She chose speed, hoping the sounds of the wind off the mountain and the horns from the fortress would drown out her approach.

Wearing the bone mask, Hweilan looked up through Ashiin’s eyes and saw that the tower was not all that it appeared to be. It gave off an aura that hit Hweilan’s senses with a scent like burning hair. Gleed had taught her enough to recognize that it was probably nothing more than some sort of illusion, meant to hide the tower’s true shape, but she could not penetrate it.

She peeked over the lip of the cliff. The path was empty, but many guards crouched in front of the tower door.

Hweilan drew the silver knife from her belt. The whorls and wave patterns etched into its blade glittered in the starlight. She kept it low so that no stray flicker would give her presence away to the guards. Concentrating, feeling every breath of air around her, she focused her will on the blade and recited the incantation Gleed had taught her.

The stiff wind coming off the mountain gusted, raining grit down on the guards. They turned and put a hand over the visors of their helmets to keep the dirt from their eyes. Hweilan took that moment to slip onto the path and into the nearest well of shadows. She sheathed the knife and strung her bow.

Crouching with the bow across her lap, she put her kishkoman to her lips and blew. Several wolves answered in the distance, but she heard Uncle’s voice above the others. He was close. She kept at it, blowing every few seconds so that the wolf could find her exact whereabouts.

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.”

Elret’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Is there a portal here in the fortress?”

Palpable tension ran through the group, and Hweilan did not miss the warning glance Elret cast the others.

“Do you want your queen to live or not?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Hweilan realized the danger. Hobgoblins generally attained positions of high status by defeating their predecessor. If Maaqua were to die …

“Yes, there’s a portal,” said Buureg.

Elret cast the warchief a murderous glance, but the magic swirling around her fist dimmed. “I’ll have your head for this, warchief.”

“If Maaqua dies,” said Buureg, “I’ll eat your heart.”

Hweilan looked at Elret. “Well …?”

“Below the temple,” said Elret. “In the queen’s private chambers. Few know of it.”

“If you want your queen to see the dawn, you have to take us there. Now. But I have a few demands of my own.”

“You dare?” Buureg roared. “I’ll kill you where you stand!”

“And your queen will die!” said Hweilan.

Buureg looked down at Maaqua, and Hweilan wondered what the story was there. Surely not love. Maaqua was at least twice the warchief’s age. Perhaps more. But there was no mistaking the loyalty in his gaze that bordered on zealotry.

“What are your demands?” said Buureg.

“First,” said Hweilan, “I want your oath that no harm will come to Mandan until we return. And I want those three idiots brought out of their hole, set beside a warm fire, and given a good meal.”

“The one you call Mandan is not mine to protect,” said Buureg. “His life belongs to Ruuket and her children. The rest shall be done.”

“Mandan lives or your queen dies.”

“His life is not mine to give!”

Hweilan pointed at Maaqua with her dagger. “Her life is mine to save. Or not.”

Buureg growled. “I will send warriors to speak to Ruuket and explain to her what is happening. I will have them beg her in my name to do your friend no harm until you can speak to her. This is the best I can do.”

Hweilan thought on it for a bit, then nodded. “Done. Now let’s move.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

By the time they left the tower, the only remaining ravens were dead, and the wolves gave no more resistance, fleeing back the way they had come. All but one.

As Hweilan walked out the tower door, Uncle padded out of the darkness. Blood dripped from his muzzle.

The hobgoblin warriors cried out, and the archers among them raised their bows.

“Stop!” said Hweilan.

“Do as she says,” said Buureg as he walked out behind her. He looked to Hweilan. “Your wolf will do us no harm?”

“Not unless you try to harm him. Or me.”

Four warriors bore Maaqua on a litter deep into the heart of the fortress. One could have easily carried the frail old hobgoblin, but Elret insisted that the queen be treated as gently as the finest crystal. It occurred to Hweilan that any gods watching her this night must be laughing. She had decided to forsake her friends to kill Jagun Ghen, and here she was risking her life to save the one person within a thousand leagues that she would love to see dead.

Buureg and two warriors led the way, Hweilan and Uncle just behind them, and Maaqua’s other acolytes following. Green and blue witchlights lit their way, flying soundlessly around them as they walked.

As someone who had grown up in a land where most of the moisture fell as snow, Hweilan was truly awed by the size of the hobgoblins’ cistern deep under the mountain. The cavern ceiling hung low over the water. Some of the stone columns actually descended into the water itself. And the glow of the witchlights could not reach to the far side. One could have easily drowned an entire herd of swiftstags in the lake and left not so much as a ripple on the shore.

Once they passed the lake and went into the underground caverns, Elret stepped forward so that she could “set the wards to sleep,” as she put it. Still wearing her bone mask, Hweilan occasionally caught glimpses of the auras, but she had no idea what they were. It was like reading a book written in a language she couldn’t speak, much less read.

They crossed passages of absolute darkness that caused the witchlights to dim. And the smell emanating from them made Hweilan’s gorge rise. In one she distinctly heard something moving.

They crossed a chamber more than twice the size of the temple sanctuary in Highwatch and stopped before a set of double doors. To Hweilan they looked like plain wooden doors, but she could feel the magic radiating off them like heat from an open oven.

Elret turned to them. “Buureg, your warriors can come no farther. We will take the queen from here.”

Buureg nodded to his warriors, and they carefully handed the litter over to the acolytes.

“Wait here until we return,” Buureg told the warriors.

“And if you don’t return?”

“Don’t be foolish!” said Elret. She turned to the only acolyte not holding a corner of the litter. “Stay here and see that they do nothing stupid.”

The acolyte bowed.

Elret turned to the door, threw her head back, and spread both her arms. Hweilan knew the Goblin tongue well, but she could not understand a word of Elret’s chant. When she stopped, everyone was so still that the only sound was Maaqua’s labored breathing. Elret clapped her hands suddenly and the hobgoblin warriors jumped. Then she spoke a final incantation and traced an intricate pattern on the door. Hweilan saw an after-image behind her finger’s trail, an angry red light that faded slowly, and with it the aura of power emanating from the door.

Elret turned and fixed her gaze on Hweilan. “If you ever speak outside these walls of what you see beyond this door, your life is forfeit.”

Hweilan kept the anger from her voice. “Lead on.”

Beyond the door they walked a short while in darkness, for the witchlights did not follow. Hweilan could feel the closeness of the air, and the sounds of their footfalls came back to her ears sharp and fast. They were in a tunnel. Hweilan counted just under fifty steps before they emerged into light again.

It was another chamber, even larger than the last. At first, Hweilan thought it was open to the sky, but no, the ceiling was simply far, far overhead, and hundreds of thousands of lights sparkled there, all swimming in a miasma of sickly purple. A wide stone stairway wound up the wall and ended at a cave over halfway to the ceiling. More cave entrances pierced the wall in a dozen places-some with no paths so that only bats could have reached them.

“Follow closely,” Elret told Buureg and Hweilan. “Do not trust your eyes.”

She walked off to the left. The acolytes bearing Maaqua followed, with Hweilan, Uncle, and Buureg coming behind. Hweilan noticed that, despite the light overhead, none of them cast a shadow on the floor.

Elret took a step and her foot disappeared into the floor. Another two and she had seemingly sunk to her knees in the stone.

“An illusion,” she said. “After the first step, you will see your way.”

Soon she was gone altogether. The acolytes continued, and Hweilan made note of where they stepped, then followed.

Elret spoke truly. Hweilan’s right foot disappeared. But as soon as it came down on solid stone, the illusion dissipated before her eyes, and she saw that they were descending a wide staircase made from smooth, green stone. It descended a long way, then turned to the left. It did this again and again. Hweilan stopped counting steps somewhere in the high three hundreds. Even though she could see no discernible light source, a soft green glow lit their way.

A final turn and the company found themselves standing in what may have been the most perfectly round chamber Hweilan had ever seen. Even the walls bent upward into a perfect, smooth dome. In the center of the room was a perfect half-circle arch. It was twisted and braided like metal in the hands of a master craftsman, but its texture had the look of stone. Under the arch, the air shimmered, much like Hweilan had seen in Vaasa, when the heat made the distance blur and waver. But the thing that struck Hweilan the most was the utter lack of smell. Up until now she had been surrounded by the scent of stone and damp and the otherworldly fragrance of the spells that hid just beyond sight. But after crossing the threshold into the room, Hweilan could not even smell the hobgoblins, which in itself was a relief.

Elret turned a wary eye on Hweilan. “This portal leads to only three places that we know of-one in the far west, one to another portal in the mountains, and the other to a realm where the very air burns. You are certain you know how to use this?”

“No,” said Hweilan. “But I have no better idea. All I can do is try, yes?”

“Know this,” said Elret. “If you intend some treachery, if Maaqua dies, or any one of us does not return, your friends will be disemboweled, then healed, then have a fresh limb chopped off every day. They will-”

“I understand,” said Hweilan.

“I have shown you one of the Razor Heart’s most guarded secrets,” said Elret. “Now tell me where you’re taking us.”

“To the one person I think might be able to help your queen.” Hweilan reached into the largest of the pouches riding her belt. “Everyone should stand back,” she said.

She removed the sacred drum from her pouch. It was only three finger widths thick and had a skin only along one side. The back was a web of taut cords, both binding the skin and serving as a handle. Symbols had been burned all around the wooden rim and painted on the skin itself. Hweilan saw Elret studying them carefully.

“And who is this person?”

“If this works,” said Hweilan, stepping forward, “you’ll meet him soon enough. If not …”

And she honestly had no idea if this would work. She knew that the portals scattered across Faerun were different from kingdom to kingdom. They had never been entirely reliable, and after the Spellplague, many had become outright dangerous. She had only tried this before on two portals, and both times a master had been watching. And the ways between Faerun and the Feywild were not set. She knew if she didn’t get the rhythm exactly right, they might well return to find that a hundred years had passed during the day they spent in the Feywild.

Hweilan held the web of the drum in her right hand and curled her left into a fist with her thumb and smallest finger extended to strike the drumskin. She beat a steady rhythm, first in time with her own heart, then varying as she remembered the ebb and flow of the portal to which she called. The tempo tumbled like water over rocks. She matched her breathing to the rhythm and forced her mind to recall the places she sought-every sound, every smell-the dampness of the air, the smell of mud and rock and living things. Once she had the rhythm and held the vision, she began the chant.

The shimmering air under the arch darkened, and tiny red sparks appeared in its depths. Light shot out from spark to spark, like hundreds of cracks forming on thin ice, each flaring to the rhythm of the drum. Green light joined the red, replaced it, faded to a fireheart blue, then melted together to a silver, like bright sunlight on unquiet water.

“Stay close,” said Hweilan, then looked over her shoulder. “And you should cover the queen’s face.”

“Why?” said Elret.

But Hweilan ignored her and stepped through the portal. She stepped quickly-not so much out of fear of the waterfall soaking as wanting to be out of the way, for she was sure that-

Buureg leaped out of the falls, sword in hand. His eyes widened when he beheld his surroundings. Much of the Giantspires had forest, but nothing like this. The smallest trees overlooking the river here were larger than even the oldest giants of Buureg’s homeland. Only hints of the sky could be seen as a breeze wafted through leaves, some of which were bigger than Razor Heart shields.

Watching Buureg’s fear and awe, Hweilan was struck by something: the perpetual twilight of the thick forest, the sounds of the river and the birds and the breeze, the very smell of the air … she felt home. Highwatch and the plains of Narfell had once held fond childhood memories for her. But all hope of finding home there was gone. Here was where she belonged, and she had missed it. Hweilan turned away so that the warchief would not see her scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.

Uncle emerged, along with the hobgoblins. Elret cried out, finding herself under a waterfall, then looked around suspiciously, eyeing every shadow for a trap. When she saw that nothing had taken Buureg, and Hweilan was standing relaxed on the riverbank, she pushed one arm back through the portal to wave the acolytes through.

The queen’s litter came through feet first, her bearers moving quickly to keep from soaking their burden. Maaqua’s head passed through the water, and she gasped, breathing in water. Her back arched, and her limbs shook with such force that the acolytes almost dropped her.

Hweilan’s first thought was that the water of the river had simply revived her. But one look at Maaqua’s face showed this was something worse. Her eyelids were open, but her eyes had rolled back in her head, and as her servants struggled to get her back in the litter her trembling increased.

“Get the water out of her throat before she chokes!” Buureg screamed.

Elret turned and pointed at Hweilan. “What treachery is this? What have you done?”

Hweilan’s right hand moved toward her knife. “I did nothing.”

One of the acolytes spoke up. “It happened as she came through the portal. Perhaps-”

“She knew!” said Elret. “That wench planned this!”

“No,” said Hweilan, taking great care to keep her voice even.

“I’ll have your heart for this!”

“If the queen dies,” Buureg, told Elret, “I’ll hand it to you myself. But until then, we have no choice but to trust her.” He looked to Hweilan. “Now, how do we find this person you’re looking for?”

“I suspect he’ll find us,” said Hweilan. Maaqua coughed out water, and Hweilan saw it was tinged with blood. “But there’s no reason we can’t meet him halfway. Come.”

The hobgoblins did not follow at first.

Hweilan kept walking, but called out, “Stay close. There are things in these woods meaner than me.”

Even Elret rushed to catch up.

Jagun Ghen sat in the middle of the pact circle. He was naked from the waist up, his skin coated in sweat, and his staff lay across his knees. His brothers kneeled around the outer edge of the circle, their chant a rhythmic counterpoint to his own. The bloody gouges on their foreheads gave off an angry orange glow, the only light in the room.

The grin stretching over Jagun Ghen’s face twitched. He had not blinked since the rite began, and his eyes were now so dry that, as they moved left and right, left and right, over and over again, they made a soft scritch-scritch like a scribe’s pen across fine parchment. His breath came quicker as his chanting lowered to a guttural whisper. Every muscle vibrated like a lute string on the verge of breaking. He threw his head back, spraying droplets of perspiration. His body rose off the floor, and he opened his mouth wide-

– and screamed.

His torso snapped forward as if he’d been punched in the gut, and he fell to the floor.

The power that had been running through the circle dissipated, and the disciples moaned like starving men denied a last meal. One of them reached out, careful not to cross the pact circle.

“Master …?”

“Gone,” said Jagun Ghen. “They’re gone.”

“How much farther?” Elret asked.

Uncle had long since disappeared into the forest, and Hweilan led them along the twisting course of the river. Through the forest would have been quicker had she been on her own, but she knew that bearing Maaqua through such rough country would have slowed them too much.

“Not far,” she replied.

“You said that a half-mile ago.”

Hweilan kept going, not even turning as she spoke. “Distances can be odd here sometimes.”

“Then how do you know where you’re going?”

“I used to live here.”

“Then tell me where we’re going.”

“No.”

“No? Why?”

Hweilan did see the wisdom in giving her the simple truth. The river ended at Gleed’s lake. But in truth, she didn’t want to tell Elret out of pure spite. So she said nothing.

“I asked you a question,” said Elret.

Still not turning. “I heard you.”

Hweilan heard Elret approaching-the swish of her robes through the brush, the angry footsteps.

“You will answer m-”

It was the hand on her shoulder that did it. Elret grabbed Hweilan, trying to stop and turn her at the same time. Hweilan did turn, but she grabbed Elret’s arm and twisted as she did so, bringing it behind the hobgoblin’s back.

Elret screamed, more in fury than pain, and arched her back to ease the tension on her tendons. Hweilan planted her right boot in the small of Elret’s back and pushed her in the river.

The other disciples’ eyes went wide, and they looked at each other, not sure if they should put down their queen to help Elret.

Buureg cursed, but it seemed directed at both of them.

The swift current took Elret a few yards downstream, but the water here was not deep, and she was soon on her feet again. She rose, her eyes staring daggers at Hweilan. She pointed at Hweilan and raised her staff. Purple fire played along its length.

Buureg stepped between them. “Enough of this! Both of you!”

Elret spat. “You-”

And then the river rose up, a great palm of water, and slapped her back down. Mud bubbled around Buureg’s feet, soil and roots rising up to cover him below his waist. The warchief shrieked and batted at the soil with his sword, but he succeeded only in trapping the blade. Vines from the nearby trees writhed outward, entangling the four disciples and their queen. They screamed and thrashed, but the vines tightened around their throats, and their cries ceased.

Elret came out of the river, recognizable only by her terrified face. River mud and the roots of trees had bound her just as snugly as her companions.

Then everything settled, the only sounds those of the river and the ragged breathing of the hobgoblins.

“Hweilan!” said a voice from the woods.

A wizened figure stepped out from behind one of the trees. He was very much as Hweilan had last seen him. He had the sharp features and elongated ears of the hobgoblins, but his skin had a decidedly greenish cast in this light. He tinkled as he walked, for from his tattered robes hung dozens of tiny amulets, bits of chain, coins, and scraps of precious metal. He was standing to his full height-which was scarcely up to Hweilan’s chest-one hand weaving an intricate pattern in the air, the other holding his staff that glowed with an emerald light.

“Well met, Gleed,” she said.

“You did come back. I so hoped you would.” He looked at the captured hobgoblins. “And I see you even brought dinner. How thoughtful.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A section of the mud holding Elret exploded, sending mud and rocks and smoking roots splashing in the river. Her arm emerged from the gaping hole, and in it she held her staff, purple fire and sparks of light sizzling around its length.

Gleed spared Hweilan a glance, then said, “Hm” and flickered his fingers.

The mud closed around Elret again. A tree root slithered out of the soil, wrapping itself around Elret’s arm and tightening. A section of the root held her elbow while another part pressed down upon her forearm, bending the arm backward. Elret shrieked, equal parts fury and pain.

“Drop your plaything,” said Gleed.

Elret could not move her head, but her eyes searched out Buureg and the other disciples. “Help me, you cowards!”

But the other hobgoblins were just as bound as she.

Gleed made another motion with his fingers, and the tree root pressed harder.

Elret screamed, all pain now, and the arcane energies flickering around her staff began to fall all around her. But she kept her grip.

Gleed smiled at Hweilan. “This one has spirit.”

“I think she’s just mean.”

Elret screamed again.

“Drop your staff,” Hweilan told her, “or he will break your arm.”

“I’ll kill you both! I swear on my mother’s ashes! I-”

Hweilan shrugged. “Break it.”

Elret opened her mouth, but before she could say anything-

“Gleed!”

The voice was so frail and fraught with pain that Hweilan barely heard it.

Gleed looked to the tangle of vines holding the disciples and the litter. Taking a good look at it for the first time, his brow crinkled, but when his gaze fixed on the wrinkled face peeking out amid the leaves and vines, his eyes went wide.

“Maaqua?”

Her eyes were open, but by the way they looked every which way, Hweilan knew the old queen was blind.

“Gleed?” she said, her voice coming out more a croak. “Help … me.”

Gleed looked back to Elret. Sparks were still spouting out of her staff, but her eyes were fixed on her queen.

“Will you stop this foolishness?” said Gleed.

“You can help her?” said Elret.

“Not if you persist in keeping me from it. Now drop the stick.”

The arcane energies sputtered out, and the glow emanating from the staff died away. “I’ll stop-if you help her. But I keep the staff.”

Gleed waved as if shooing a gnat. The mud and roots holding Elret and Buureg fell away, and the vines holding the four disciples relaxed. Gleed rushed over to Maaqua, examining her for wounds. He looked up at the nearest of the disciples. “What happened to her?”

The disciple looked to Elret.

“Now, damn you!” said Gleed.

Hweilan walked over to look down on the queen while Elret gave Gleed a brief version of what had happened.

Gleed looked down at Maaqua. “You old fool. You never did know not to meddle in affairs beyond your skills.”

Maaqua’s eyes closed, but Hweilan thought she saw the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.

Gleed waved the disciples back. “Get back, all of you!”

He raised his staff, his free hand’s fingers weaving a pattern in the air as he muttered. The vines rose up again, holding Maaqua, but just enough to keep her from falling.

“What is this?” said Elret, raising her own staff.

“Be still, Elret!” said Buureg. “Can’t you see he’s helping her?”

The vines took on the vague form of a man-shaped, headless hulk. Maaqua was cradled in its arms like a sleeping child. Agile as a monkey, Gleed climbed up its legs and arms to rest on the shoulders, then pointed with his staff. The mass of vines lumbered off into the forest.

“Where’s he taking her?” said Elret.

Gleed did not turn back as he answered. “Hweilan will show you the way. But wash yourselves first. I won’t have you dripping mud all over my home!”

By the time Hweilan led four very sodden hobgoblins to where the river emptied into the lake, evening was settling over the lake, and they could see a fire burning on the nearby island.

“He lives in that?” said Buureg, taking in the sight of Gleed’s ramshackle tower. The thousands of bits of metal encasing it like scales on a fish reflected the fire burning on the island. “The vines are the only things keeping it from toppling into the lake.”

Hweilan felt strangely moved by the sight of the tower, her mind suddenly flooding with memories. Not all pleasant, but every one of them precious.

“It’s stronger than it looks,” said Hweilan.

Elret and the four other disciples were staring wide-eyed at the tower. Two of the disciples, whom Hweilan thought were the youngest by the lesser amount of runes and symbols stitched into their robes, looked unmistakably terrified.

Buureg followed Hweilan’s gaze. “What is it?”

“The power …,” said one of the disciples, then seemed to forget the rest of her sentence.

Elret said, “The power coming off that place … it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It … it …” She finally looked away, and the gaze she locked on Buureg looked almost pleading. “I don’t have the words.”

Buureg reached for his sword. “Is it dangerous?”

“Deadly,” said Hweilan. “But behave yourselves and you have nothing to worry about.”

Hweilan walked over to the extension of land that pointed into the lake like a crooked finger. The first of the night’s bats fluttered overhead as Hweilan spoke the words. Not an incantation, Gleed had said on the day he explained it to her. Think of it more like an invitation for it is a living thing you summon.

The water rippled before her, and a tangle of old flagstones, rock, waterweed, and massive tree roots twisted out of the water, forming a bridge to the island.

“Choose your steps carefully,” Hweilan said as she proceeded over the bridge. “The weeds are slippery.”

Buureg followed, but stopped when he saw that the others weren’t following. “What is it?”

Hweilan turned and saw that one of the disciples was shaking her head. “I can’t go out there. I won’t go out there. You can’t make me. It … it …”

“I told you,” said Hweilan, “you’ll be safe as long as you stay on your most courteous behavior. And I promise you: you don’t want to be in the woods after dark. That power you sense from the tower? It keeps the really nasty things away.”

Very reluctantly, the four hobgoblins made their way onto the bridge, Elret bringing up the rear. Hweilan waited and let them pass. The youngest was still trembling.

“Think of it like sleeping in the wolves’ den to keep the bears away,” Hweilan told her.

The hobgoblin looked up at her with wide eyes. “Look at it!” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “This is no wolf’s den. More like a dragon’s lair.”

Elret scowled at Hweilan as she passed.

The fire had attracted swarms of moths, but Gleed and Maaqua were nowhere to be found. Buureg stood near the fire, keeping a wary eye upward as bats swooped in to feast on the moths.

A kettle bubbled over the fire, and the smell coming from it made Hweilan’s stomach growl. She realized she had not eaten since the night before she’d fought Rhan. Gleed had even left a pile of wooden platters and spoons on a small rug near the fire.

“Where is the queen?” said Elret, staring at the tower.

“I’m sure Gleed is tending to her,” said Hweilan. “Eat.”

Hweilan shooed the moths off the topmost platter, then filled it from the kettle.

“What is it?” said Buureg.

“Stew,” said Hweilan.

He sniffed at it. “What’s in it?”

“Do you care?” Hweilan took her first bite. Rabbit, mixed with a few roots, vegetables, and that spice Gleed put in everything.

Buureg and the disciples watched Hweilan clear her platter, then go for more. When she showed no signs of falling over dead, they filled their own platters and settled around the fire.

Elret kept her back to them and watched the tower long into the night.

After finishing all the food, and cleaning the cauldron and platters in the lake, Buureg and the disciples lay down around the fire and went to sleep. The warchief slept in his armor, his arms curled around his sheathed sword like a child’s favorite blanket. Elret still stood, watching the tower.

Hweilan closed her eyes and wrestled with her thoughts. She did not sleep. Kaad had told her that gunhin sometimes kept one awake for days afterward, and she had drunk two doses in the past two days. But she was back in a place where she felt safe, with a full belly, so she felt relaxed and awake. She thought of the Damarans back at the Razor Heart fortress. She had no reason to think Buureg wouldn’t be true to his word. If Gleed was able to help Maaqua, Hweilan felt sure the hobgoblins would release her companions. And then …?

Her calling as the Hand of the Hunter had not changed. This ordeal with the Damarans and the Razor Heart had been a complication, a distraction, nothing else. Jagun Ghen was waiting for her at Highwatch. Until she sent him back to the Abyss or wherever Nendawen sent him, everything else was only a side trail. But after …

Hweilan needed to talk to Gleed.

Morning light was soaking into the sky and the last of the bats were returning home when the door at the base of the tower opened. The old wood scraped on the mossy flagstones with a sound like dying cats, and the sleeping hobgoblins stumbled to their feet. Hweilan still had not slept. After bathing in the creek, she wandered the near woods, mulling her thoughts, bringing herself back to a sort of … peace. Back in the Feywild, back in her element, she was able to put herself at ease for the first time in … well, since she had left, she realized.

I’m home. The thought brought her no happiness. A calmness yes. She felt balanced here. But that was tinged with its own sadness, for all that she had lost to be here.

Gleed and Maaqua emerged, the hobgoblin queen leaning heavily on her staff and on Gleed for support. Her skin still had the look of wet parchment. Her arms shook, and she took small, careful steps.

Elret rushed forward to help her, but the queen waved her back with her staff.

“Back, girl.” Her voice was still raspy and weak, but much of the cold edge had returned to it. “I’m not dead yet.”

Chagrined, Elret stepped aside but hovered close as Gleed helped Maaqua settle beside the smoking ashes of the fire.

Gleed looked to Hweilan. “Stir the fire, would you?”

“No,” said Maaqua. “This one and I must speak. Kiir and Ogsut can do it.”

The two youngest disciples set to adding more sticks to the fire and stirring the embers.

“Do you need anything, my queen?” said Elret, who was standing just behind Maaqua.

“I need you to stop hovering over me. Sit and be silent.”

Elret scowled at Hweilan and sat just out of reach of the queen. Buureg kept a respectful distance but watched the proceedings with interest. Gleed sat to Maaqua’s right.

“You”-Maaqua pointed at Hweilan with a trembling hand-“you seem to have saved my life. So please tell me how in all the unholy Hells you are still alive.”

Hweilan looked to Gleed, who nodded. The fire now crackling again, Kiir and Ogsut looked on with great interest, as did the other hobgoblins. Hweilan told of the concoction Gleed had taught her that slowed the heart and breath just to the edge of death.

“You let Rhan defeat you?” said Buureg.

Hweilan shrugged. “He hit me harder than I’d hoped. But when I woke up, someone had left some gunhin for me.”

“Kaad.”

Hweilan said nothing.

“I’ll tie him in a sack and let the younglings beat him for a tenday.”

“You will not,” said Gleed. “Whoever this Kaad is, he has my thanks. He saved Hweilan’s life. And you are in my debt. I saved yours.”

Hweilan nodded. “Had Kaad not left the gunhin, I would be dead. As would you. Like it or not, Maaqua, you owe him. You owe him his freedom.”

Maaqua growled and spat into the fire.

“Elret says you were spying on Highwatch,” said Hweilan. “I take it you found something?”

Maaqua glared at her disciple. “Rather free with your tongue, eh?”

Elret blinked. “I-”

“Had she not told Hweilan,” said Gleed, “you’d now be dead. Or worse. You seem to owe a great many debts, Maaqua, and I know how you hate that.”

“Die in a dung heap, old toad!” said Maaqua. But then her eyes half-rolled in her head and she swayed.

Gleed had to catch the queen to keep her from falling into the fire. “I told you not to excite yourself, twisted old weed.”

Maaqua leaned against Gleed, but her eyes opened again. Hweilan saw something there that surprised her. Maaqua was afraid.

“You saw Jagun Ghen, didn’t you?” said Hweilan.

“Do not say his name!” said Maaqua, again sounding like nothing so much as a very tired, very old woman. “Not even here. Do not say it.”

The other hobgoblins, seeing their revered queen so stricken, looked like they might bolt at any moment. Buureg made the sign to ward off evil, and both of Elret’s hands tightened around her staff. The young disciple Kiir closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

“You’ve brought doom to my people, girl,” said Maaqua. “And maybe to the world.”

They sat in silence a moment, the hobgoblins staring into the fire.

“You captured me, as I remember,” said Hweilan. “I didn’t exactly come knocking on your door.”

“Do you know what he is, girl?” said Maaqua. “What he’ll do? You think he’s content just to bring more of his ‘brothers’ into Faerun? They are like worms feeding off the scraps of a dragon. If Ja-if he has his way, he could become a god. Our world is not like the others. His power is growing so fast. He’s gathering what he needs now. Time is running out. And there’s no one to oppose him.”

Hweilan said, “There’s me.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Vazhad could not sleep. He knew he should. If he survived until the morning, he planned to make his escape, and he would need all his strength. His master’s baazuled were more active at night, and he did not want to execute his plan in the darkness. Vazhad intended to leave by Highwatch’s upper paths, the way he and Jatara had once gone to try to capture the High Warden’s granddaughter. Had that only been months ago? It seemed a lifetime.

Jatara … dead. Kadrigul … dead. Vazhad was the last of Argalath’s chosen. He had lived long enough to see his master become something unspeakable. And Vazhad had stayed too long, endangering not only his life but his soul. Time to be gone, before it was too late.

Once he got into the mountains, he could turn south and emerge well beyond Nar-sek Qu’istrade into the steppe. He had enough food in his pack to last perhaps three days. In the grasslands, he could seek out other Nar and hope that they didn’t know him from Highwatch. Replenish his supplies, steal a horse, then head east. Vazhad intended to keep going until he saw the next ocean. Perhaps then he would be sufficiently far away from what Argalath had become.

“Enough,” he said to himself. He would leave now. It would take some time to make his way carefully to the upper paths anyway. If anyone stopped him, he would say-truthfully-that dawn was the best time to seek a deer in the lower hills.

Vazhad stuffed a good blanket and empty waterskin on top of the food in his pack. He already had his blades and a small axe strapped to his belt. His sword, a bow, and a quiver full of arrows lay on his pallet. If he were caught on the way out, the bow and arrows he could explain. Going hunting for meat. It was no secret that Highwatch’s larders were almost empty. The knives were for dressing game. The sword he would have a harder time explaining. He reached for it anyway.

Something slammed into his door. Not a knock. Just one strike, hard enough that the door rattled in its frame.

“Who is there?” Vazhad said in Nar.

“Vazhad.” The slow, contemptuous tone of one of the baazuled. Unless they were speaking to Jagun Ghen, every word from their mouths dripped insolence. “You are summoned.”

Vazhad looked down at the weapons on his pallet. “Who summons me?”

“The master wants you.”

His breath caught in his throat, and he could feel his pulse in his temples. Had he waited too long? Vazhad looked out the window. There was not even a hint of light in the eastern sky. He loosened the string on the top of his shirt, reached inside, and pulled out the antler talisman he had hung on a leather cord around his neck. He gripped it and offered a prayer.

The baazuled slammed a fist into the door again.

“I’m coming,” said Vazhad. He hid the talisman inside his left sleeve, threw a blanket over the weapons on his pallet, and went to the door.

The baazuled was one of the Damarans of Highwatch who had survived the massacre only to find a worse fate. Blood, both old and new, covered the entire front of his body, and he reeked worse than a charnel ditch. Only his eyes showed any kind of spirit. They were mostly as black as the sky outside, but a red fire burned deep inside them.

Much to Vazhad’s surprise, the baazuled led him higher into the fortress, rather than into the deep tunnels or the desecrated temple. Vazhad actually allowed himself to hope he might survive the day after all. They went into the upper chambers, many of which had been cut into the mountain itself, and finally emerged onto a large terrace that had been built out of the mountain’s side. Vazhad remembered one of the ladies of Highwatch had once had a garden here. There were no flowers, but it was filled with trees and vines that stayed green even in deepest winter and sometimes even bore tiny red berries.

As Vazhad stepped through the door and into the garden, all hope he’d had of surviving the day disappeared.

A fire burned in an urn by the door, and by its light Vazhad saw that all the trees had been uprooted, the bushes ripped out or burned, and the vines torn from the walls. All that remained was the stone parapet wall and bare soil. More baazuled-inhabiting both living and dead bodies-stood around the yard. In the center of the garden, Jagun Ghen and Kathkur, both bare from the waist up, were making a large pact circle in blood. It was at least a dozen feet across, the interior filled with arcane symbols. The stench wafted over Vazhad. So much blood. From where …?

And then he saw the horse. One of his favorite mares. Her throat had been sliced open, the blood gathered in a wide brass basin. Her magnificent tail that Vazhad had once spent an entire morning twisting in intricate braids had been chopped off, and the two monsters were using it as a brush to paint the pact circle.

Jagun Ghen looked up and saw Vazhad staring at his dead horse.

“Ah, my friend,” he said. “I am so happy you are here. Your time has come, and I thought Windrunner’s blood would be most suited for the occasion.”

Vazhad tore his gaze away from the horse. He tried to speak, but his voice broke. He swallowed hard and tried again. “My … time?”

“You have served me well all these years. Your reward has come at last. Immortality.”

The eladrin stood and smiled lazily at Vazhad. He held a bloody knife in one hand, and Vazhad knew that he had been the one who killed Windrunner. At least he had used the knife and struck true. She hadn’t suffered but a few moments at most.

Then the meaning of Jagun Ghen’s words finally struck. “Immor-?” He couldn’t say the word, because he knew what kind of immortality Jagun Ghen meant. He looked around, blind panic setting in, searching for a way out.

The Damaran baazuled blocked the doorway behind him. More stood all around-seven more. And for the first time Vazhad noticed three Nar, an old man and two warriors, who had obviously resisted being brought up here. Their skin was torn and bloody, and one of them seemed to be nursing a broken arm. The old man was simply staring into nothingness, rocking back and forth and muttering to himself.

“It doesn’t seem pleased,” said Kathkur.

“Is that true, Vazhad?” said Jagun Ghen.

Turning, Vazhad lowered his body and tried to barrel past the baazuled. It was like running into a stone pillar. The baazuled took a step back, absorbing the impact of the much larger Nar, then simply grabbed him-one hand gripping Vazhad’s chin, the other seizing his belt-and threw him.

Vazhad flew and landed on his back. His head bounced off the hard soil. He must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he knew, he was looking up at Jagun Ghen through a field of stars.

“Do not struggle, my friend,” said Jagun Ghen. “Only a few more-the most powerful of my brothers-and all will be ready for my final ascension. You will join with one of the most powerful beings these lands have ever known. You should feel honored. You shall sit at my left hand in glory, Vazhad.”

Vazhad rolled onto his belly and tried to scramble away. A low, whimpering noise was coming from deep in his throat.

“Hold him,” said Jagun Ghen.

Two of the baazuled sprang forward and grabbed Vazhad. Their reek filled his head, and he retched all over himself. He kicked and thrashed, but their grips on his arms were like steel.

“Keep him still until we have finished the final preparations.”

Vazhad screamed.

“I don’t want it … I don’t want … don’t want …”

The wailing went on and on. Vazhad realized it was his own voice.

He opened his eyes. He couldn’t remember having shut them.

The two baazuled still held him, kneeling in the pact circle, and Vazhad could smell the burned-hair scent of the air. Four other baazuled joined them. Jagun Ghen stood in the very center, holding his arms to the sky as he chanted. The eladrin kneeled in front of him, the knife held in both hands. Vazhad twisted his head around. The other baazuled was standing over the Nar.

Jagun Ghen’s back arched as he chanted louder, the rhythm coming faster, the consonants harder. The very words hurt Vazhad’s ears. One of the Nar warriors was making a high, keening noise.

The blood-drawn symbols inside the circle began to glow with light. Vazhad could feel the heat growing in the circle. The grains of dirt inside the circle began to hop and dance like water droplets on a hot pan.

Jagun Ghen screamed, and the sound hit Vazhad’s ears like a door slamming. He could hear laughter in the back of his mind.

Then the two baazuled released him and he fell forward. The baazuled prostrated themselves, writhing in the bloody soil and moaning in pleasure.

Kathkur rose in one swift movement.

Vazhad tried to push himself off the ground, but his legs would not obey him.

Jagun Ghen turned and smiled, eyes blazing with ruby fire.

Kathkur walked toward Vazhad. He raised the knife.

Vazhad felt a scream building in his throat.

But as the eladrin continued his approach, he turned the knife on himself, planting the point just above his left breast, then drawing a line down to his navel. Blood welled and ran down his torso. He breathed in deeply through his mouth, like a man enjoying the caress of a lover. He brought the knife up and drew a second line across the first.

Three steps away from Vazhad, he raised his free hand, pointing one finger at Vazhad’s forehead. The fingernail had grown long and sharp, yellowed with grime.

Vazhad still could not move. The air was almost too hot to breathe. Sweat was pouring down his face.

But something cut through his panic. In all that, there was one spot of coolness along the inner part of his left forearm. The talisman! He still had it.

The eladrin’s sharp nail dug into Vazhad’s forehead.

Vazhad brought both his hands together, for just a moment looking like a devout man in prayer. But his right hand reached inside his left sleeve, and in one quick movement he drew out the antler talisman. He had just enough sanity left to notice that the runes held the faintest blue glow.

He stabbed the pointed end of the antler into the eladrin’s arm.

The effect was shattering. The laughter haunting Vazhad’s brain rose to a shriek of pain and fury before it was suddenly cut off.

Kathkur reeled backward, the fire in his eyes dying.

In that moment Vazhad could feel his legs again. He lurched forward onto his hands, then pushed himself up. One of the writhing baazuled reached for him, but Vazhad sidestepped away, stumbling, then found his feet again and ran.

Agony hit his chest, radiating out to both arms and locking his legs. Vazhad fell forward into the dirt. The pain eased, just slightly, and he rolled over.

The spellscar on Jagun Ghen’s stolen skin was glowing a sickly blue.

“Fool.” There was fury in Jagun Ghen’s voice. “I will-”

Wind shrieked down from the mountain, gathering and narrowing as it approached so that when it hit Jagun Ghen in the chest, it had the force of a battering ram. Even over the sound of the wind, Vazhad heard bones shatter as Jagun Ghen’s body flew backward.

Someone else was screaming. But not in pain. In absolute rage. Vazhad turned his gaze and saw that the eladrin had seized control of himself again.

The other baazuled charged him. The eladrin’s fist shot out, channeling the wind and sent the nearest two monsters tumbling over the ground. A fog of bloody mud collapsed in their wake.

Another strike at a baazuled behind the eladrin, and the creature flew, screaming, over the parapet.

Two other baazuled closed in, and two more were not far behind. Seeing the odds, the eladrin swept both hands outward, and the air funneled around him, bearing him up into the air. But it was too late.

The nearest baazuled leaped, reaching out one hand, and grabbed the eladrin’s ankle. The force of the wind turned, slamming them both back to the ground.

The eladrin rolled over, both hands shooting outward, but the baazuled was too quick. He grabbed one of the eladrin’s arms and forced it down. The other arm flailed, avoiding the baazuled’s grip, then pointed up.

Vazhad felt the air rushing past him, converging on the combatants. The baazuled opened its mouth to scream an instant before its head exploded.

The eladrin threw him off and both hands shot outward. A cyclone took him in, obscuring everything in a maelstrom of dirt.

Cursing himself for waiting so long, Vazhad stood up and ran for the doorway. He made it four steps before something crashed into him, forcing him to the ground. Vazhad struggled and reached for one of his knives.

He heard a growl and something hit him in the side of the face with such force that for a moment Vazhad went blind.

“You”-the voice of one of the baazuled-“you stay.”

And then Vazhad was flying. He crashed to the ground, skidded on the dirt, and slammed into stone. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was against the parapet, and the doorway was very far away.

“Enough!”

The voice hit Vazhad’s mind like the tolling of a great bell. His surroundings swirled around him, as if the world had suddenly been taken into the eladrin’s cyclone. When his senses cleared again, the dirt was settling to the ground. Five of the baazuled were struggling to their feet again. The eladrin was down, unmoving.

The two Nar warriors were gone, too. Fled most likely. But the old man’s bloody, ravaged corpse lay at Jagun Ghen’s feet. The monster had fed on the poor wretch to heal. Jagun Ghen’s eyes blazed with savagery. Real fire leaked from their edges, scorching the skin around them.

“You,” he said, pointing at Vazhad. “You caused this.”

His way of escape blocked, Vazhad screamed, “Forgive me!” But he was not speaking to Jagun Ghen. He pleaded to his ancestors, begged any benevolent gods who might be watching. His life was forfeit. He knew that. But he could still save his soul.

Vazhad pushed himself to his feet and shrieked again, “Forgive me!” Then he leaped over the parapet toward the cliffs below.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Late morning was giving way to midday when the hobgoblins made their preparations to leave. Maaqua admitted she was still too weak to walk all the way back, but her pride would not allow her to be “carried like a corpse,” as she put it. So her disciples were doing their best to turn the litter into a sort of portable chair. And not having a very successful time of it. They had broken one of the poles in hopes of shortening it to chair-back size, only to find they’d made it too short. Buureg, sword in hand, took two of them back across the bridge into the forest to search for a replacement.

Maaqua sat hunched over by the fire, half-dozing and muttering. Elret was pacing the length of the island, alternately looking to her queen, hoping to be of service, and scowling at Gleed and Hweilan.

On a rock at the very edge of the lake, Gleed kneeled and cursed his fish traps as he pulled them out of the water. Lines and hooks were intact, and several fish had snared themselves on the hooks, but most of the fish had been gnawed away or bitten off just below the head.

“Damned eels,” muttered Gleed. “Thick as gnats this time of year.”

Hweilan cleared her throat. “Gleed?”

He didn’t turn as he ripped off the shredded fish and tossed them back into the lake. “Yes?”

“I need to talk to you. Alone.”

Gleed tossed the line back into the lake and rinsed his hands in the water. “A ‘not-for-eager-ears’ talk, I take it?”

“Yes.”

He stood, retrieved his staff, and walked back toward his tower. “Come.”

But he didn’t go inside right away, as Hweilan had hoped he wouldn’t. Instead, he held his staff in one hand and climbed up the vines on the outside of the tower. Gleed had always amazed Hweilan with his agility, and she often wondered if his hobbling gait on the ground was more of an act than actual necessity.

Hweilan held her bow in one hand-she didn’t trust Elret any farther than she could have thrown Gleed’s tower-and followed her old teacher.

“And where are you two going?” called Elret.

“Hush, girl,” Hweilan heard Maaqua say. “Gleed’s off to his hidey hole so old Maaqua won’t hear.”

A little over halfway up the tower’s length, Gleed stopped and whispered an incantation. The leaves and vines writhed apart, revealing the decaying stone window into the tower. Gleed climbed in, and Hweilan followed. Another few words from Gleed, and the brush closed behind them.

“Light?” said Gleed.

It was black as the bottom of a mountain in the chamber, but Hweilan suspected Gleed had other ways of seeing. “Yes,” she said.

Gleed spoke another minor spell. Light flickered off his staff and caught in the hundreds of symbols decorating the chamber. Many had been painted in ink that reflected light like metal, and others had been etched into the stone itself. Those that shone brightest were the ones made from braided and twisted roots and branches of the vegetation that grew over the floor, up the walls, and hung from the ceiling. It was one of the few places where Gleed felt safe saying anything without fear of being overheard.

Gleed’s milky white eyes caught every sparkle of light in the room, and Hweilan was sure the old goblin could see far more things than she could.

“Something is troubling you,” he said.

“Lendri still won’t talk.”

“Still hiding in his fur?”

“Yes. But Gleed, I’ve been having dreams. Visions.”

“You are the Chosen of Nendawen. This doesn’t surprise me. The Master’s blood courses in your veins.”

“What do you know of Haerul?”

Gleed’s eyes narrowed, and Hweilan saw he was holding his breath. At last the old goblin said, “What do you know of Haerul?”

“Ashiin told me of him, once. She said he was once a great warrior who lived in the East and frightened even the fiercest rulers of that land.”

“Ashiin was too modest by half,” said Gleed. “You know of the Witness Cloud, Hweilan. Your ancestors …”

Hweilan remembered the words of her father’s ghost. “Thin is the veil that separates us,” she repeated.

“And it can be torn,” said Gleed. “But that goes both ways, Hweilan. At times, the spirits of the dead may come to our aid. And mortals can sometimes slip into the realms of the dead. Especially in dreams. But you say … Haerul … he sought you out?”

“I saw him as a wolf mostly. But at times he was almost …”

“A sight that would make a khan soil his saddle?”

Hweilan smiled. “Something like that.”

“It sounds like Haerul. But tread carefully, girl. There are other things in the realms of the dead-and not all of them love us. They can deceive.”

“He told me I was dying-which I was. And he started to tell me something about my mother’s father. But then the Master came, and I couldn’t hear Haerul’s words.”

“Then we know no more than we did before. Only that your mother’s father may be the key to …”

“To what I am.”

Gleed scowled at her bluntness, then said, “Yes. But know this. Haerul was the one who banished Lendri, who began his exile. That Lendri has bound himself to you, and now Haerul comes to you in your dreams … you are a fool if you don’t know this means great things are happening. The fate of your people in this world has come down to you.”

Hweilan swallowed hard. “I know the responsibility I’ve been given.”

“You feel its weight, don’t you?” said Gleed, his voice low and full of compassion.

“I face Jagun Ghen. In only a matter of days, at most.”

“You are afraid?”

“Not … not like you think. I’m not afraid to die.” A short laugh burst out of her but there was no humor in it. “Death would almost be a relief. But I am afraid to fail.”

“You do not stand alone, Hweilan. You are the Hand of the Hunter. You are not the whole body. Do your part. That is all anyone can ask of you.”

Gleed looked away and chewed on his bottom lip. Hweilan had seen this many times. Her old teacher was wrestling with whether or not to tell her something. Hweilan let him make up his own mind.

When Gleed finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, just barely short of breaking. “When you face him … when you stand against Jagun Ghen, you must do it when the moon shines full. You must. It is the only hope of the world.” He put one gnarled hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

“And my mother’s father? You still think-”

“You have eaten the sacred heart, Hweilan.” A shadow of fear passed over Gleed’s face. “You drank the blood and pledged yourself to the Master. Much of his power flows in your veins, in your spirit. But that … presence runs both ways. You must be very careful, Hweilan.”

Hweilan held her teacher’s gaze. There was still something he was not telling her. She knew it. “You still think, even if I defeat Jagun Ghen, the Master will destroy me?”

Gleed let go of her shoulder and gave her a playful slap across the arm. “I never said destroy, girl. I said the master is a hunter. Nendawen is not evil, but neither is he kind nor benevolent. The hunt is his essence. It is not what he does. It is what he is.”

“But you still think there is something about me that he hadn’t bargained for? Something in me?”

“I’d wager my good eye on it.”

They sat in silence a while, then Hweilan said, “Thank you, Gleed. I have to go soon. There are others back in that old fortress who need my help. And if half of what she said is true, time is growing short. I have to end this. End him.”

“One more thing, Hweilan. Even if Maaqua agrees to help you-and I think she will-do not trust her. You can loose a snake in your house to be rid of the rats, but once the rats are gone, you’ll still have a snake problem. And Maaqua is a mean old snake.”

When Hweilan and Gleed emerged from the tower, Maaqua’s disciples had finished their makeshift chair for the queen and were giving it the first test. It hardly looked comfortable, but it would hold.

“Done with your plotting?” Maaqua said. “I want to be well gone from this place before dark.”

“And I want you well gone long before then,” said Gleed, though Hweilan heard more teasing than contempt in his voice.

“Still not over me, are you?”

“Being over you was fine,” said Gleed. “It was being under you that used to scare the hair off my toes.”

Maaqua threw back her head and cackled so fiercely that her disciples nearly dropped her. Elret looked torn between shock and indignation. Buureg gave Gleed a wicked smile but turned before his queen could see it.

“Come here, girl,” said Maaqua. “I want this old toad to hear what I have to say before I leave.”

Hweilan walked over and stood in front of Maaqua. Elret looked at Hweilan as if she expected her to kneel, but Hweilan kept her feet.

“I have decided to help you,” said Maaqua.

“Help me?”

“Be rid of that thing nesting in your old home. I won’t lie to you, girl, because I know you’re no fool. I had made up my mind to give that demon what he wants-namely, you-in hopes of buying myself enough time to know how to deal with him. This latest … experience has changed my mind.” The steel and insolence left Maaqua’s countenance, and once again she looked like nothing more than a very old and tired hobgoblin. “There is no dealing with that … thing. Your blood might placate him for a time, but that one has no allies. Or even slaves. Just … prey.”

“No,” said Gleed, his voice grave. “Hunter and prey share a sacred relationship. They serve one another’s purpose. Jagun Ghen”-Maaqua flinched at the mention of the name-“exists only to consume.”

“I’m not here to debate theology with you,” said Maaqua, then she returned her attention to Hweilan. “An army would do you little good, even if I could raise one. But I will aid you and your friends in what ways I can.”

“Thank you,” said Hweilan. But she remembered Gleed’s warning.

Now that they knew where they were going, the hobgoblins proceeded with more eagerness. Though as they walked into the deep gloom of the forest, Buureg kept his sword in hand, and Elret had a tight grip on her staff. Gleed walked just behind Maaqua’s bearers so that they could talk on the way. Despite their constant bickering, both of them seemed to take great pleasure in the conversation.

When they reached the falls, Hweilan retrieved her drum to open the portal. A wicked glint entered the queen’s eye.

“One more thing I haven’t yet told you, girl,” she said. Hweilan said, “Yes?”

“When I was … spying, I did find out one more thing you might be interested in. Your friend Menduarthis … he is still alive.”

“Alive?” said Hweilan. “You’re sure? What is he doing?”

Maaqua scowled as if she’d bitten down on a sore tooth. “What Menduarthis ever does: be a pain in a host’s arse.”

“But I saw him taken,” said Hweilan, “by one of Jagun Ghen’s minions. When Rhan”-her voice caught at the memory-“when he cut off my mother’s head, the thing inside her possessed Menduarthis.”

“True enough,” said Maaqua. “But it didn’t kill the old wind wasp. He has been … taken over, I guess you would say. ‘Possessed’ is the term your Damaran priests prefer, yes? But he’s still alive. And still fighting.”

“What is this?” Gleed said. He stamped one foot, and all the metal on his robes tinkled like tiny chimes. He jabbed Hweilan with his staff. “You told me this Menduarthis died protecting you.”

All eyes turned to the little goblin.

“Old meddler doesn’t know everything after all, eh?” said Maaqua, her grin stretching from ear to ear.

Hweilan said, “He’s-”

But Maaqua cut her off. “Menduarthis is an eladrin whose only loyalty is to himself. He spent decades studying with that Frost Bitch in Ellestharn. He became quite an adept at anything having to do with air and wind. Fits him, since he likes nothing more than the sound of his own voice. But I think he was already chafing under that leash when your little pet came along.”

“And now Jagun Ghen has him?” said Gleed. “Why didn’t you tell me about this, Hweilan?”

“Because she hasn’t made up her mind about him yet.”

“What?” Gleed looked back and forth from Maaqua to Hweilan, who was scowling at the queen.

Maaqua chuckled. “Menduarthis has been chasing this one for quite some time now, and she hasn’t yet made up her mind about whether or not she wants to be caught.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hweilan, but she could feel blood rushing to her face.

“Don’t I?” said Maaqua. “I wasn’t always this old and shriveled, girl. Ask Gleed. He remembers.”

Then her eyes narrowed. “You can tell your girl was brought up in a court. She keeps her eyes straight ahead and thinks of her duty. But all the while her heart is hoping the man’ll keep after her. Or the men, in this case.”

“What’s this?” said Gleed.

“Darric,” said Maaqua. “That’s his name, isn’t it? She’s gone through all this-haggling with Menduarthis, slicing up my Champion, feathering my guards to tower doors, and damned near killing me-to keep me from eating that boy’s heart. So which will it be, girl? The fetching eladrin who has probably bedded more women than you’ll ever meet, or the soft richling who has been mooning over you for years? You want my advice? Let Menduarthis teach you a few things, but don’t grow attached. He won’t. He’ll get what he wants, then grow bored. Have about with the eladrin, then go home to the richling. Soft men make better bedmates, because they’re so good at doing what you tell them.”

Hweilan stood there gawking a moment, all eyes on her. Maaqua’s smile widened even further.

Then Hweilan threw back her head and laughed-so long and hard that tears streamed down her face and her stomach hurt. Maaqua’s smile turned into a scowl.

“Oh, Gleed,” said Hweilan. “You were so right about her.”

“Eh?” said Maaqua.

Gleed nodded. “A mean old snake.”

But Hweilan could tell by the look in Gleed’s eyes that the old snake’s words had troubled him.

“Tell me I’m wrong, then,” said Maaqua.

“Maaqua,” said Hweilan, and Elret bristled at her familiar tone, “you could not be more wrong if you tried.”

Then Hweilan opened the portal and stood back for the hobgoblins to go through first. The four disciples carried Maaqua through the river and were about to step through the falls when Maaqua raised a hand, stopping them.

“Turn me,” she said.

They did, sidestepping in the knee-high water so that their queen could face Hweilan and Gleed on the bank.

“Gleed,” she said. “I suppose I owe you my thanks. You saved my life.”

Gleed smiled and bowed. “The gods will forgive me, I hope.”

The queen chuckled, but it had an ugly tone to it. “It is also good to know where you’ve been hiding.”

Gleed’s smile did not falter as he said, “Come here uninvited and I’ll pull down that rock you live in and bury you so deep even your pet demons won’t be able to find you.”

They held each other’s gazes a long moment, then the queen motioned for her servants to continue. They stepped through the falls and back into Faerun. Elret followed, glaring over her shoulder just before she stepped through.

Buureg stepped into the water, turned, bowed to Gleed, then stepped toward the waterfall.

“Warchief,” said Gleed, stopping him.

Buureg stopped and looked over his shoulder at Gleed.

“You can do better than her, you know,” said Gleed. “You love the Razor Heart, have sworn your life and blood to it. Maaqua uses your clan for her own ends. If you ever come to believe that and need help …”

Buureg watched the little hobgoblin a long time, then gave a sharp nod, and walked through the falls, leaving Hweilan and Gleed alone.

“Strange friends you’re making,” said Gleed.

“You really think she’ll help?” said Hweilan.

“As long as it suits her purposes, yes. But as I warned you: don’t trust her.”

“I don’t.”

“Hweilan-”

“I know my place. What Maaqua said … she was just trying to goad me. You need not fear. Destroying that monster sitting in my home … that’s all that matters to me.”

“And then? It’s no shame to want more in life.”

“Is it a shame to want less?”

Gleed snorted. “Idiot. Love and family are not less. They are everything. Destroying Jagun Ghen is the reason your heart beats blood in your veins, girl. But never forget why. The true warrior fights not because she hates what is in front of her but because she loves what she’s left behind.”

Buureg had been true to his word. When the group returned to the Razor Heart fortress, he led Hweilan and Uncle to the cave where they had shared a meal the night before. She found Darric, Jaden, and Valsun around a fire. They had been fed and given fur blankets. All three were sound asleep, so Hweilan let them be.

“And Mandan?” she asked when she and Buureg were back in the sunlight.

The warchief looked away, staring into the wind. “I told you, Hand. His life is not mine to give or take. Ruuket has sworn to come to him at sundown. It is not my place to interfere.”

“Damn it, what exactly is your place, Buureg?”

He smiled, showing sharp yellow teeth. “Suffering the wrath of willful women.”

Hweilan couldn’t help but smile at that. She reached down and scratched the fur between Uncle’s ears. “That’s it?”

“That is all I can do.”

“Then I will be there at sundown, too.”

He looked back at her, anger in his gaze. “You would harm a grieving mate and her children?”

“No,” said Hweilan. “But I won’t allow them to harm Mandan.”

“You may have to choose one over the other. And if you harm Ruuket or her children, my warriors will be there to stop you.”

Hweilan cursed and looked away. She had wasted so much time already settling things at the Razor Heart. She did not want to start up trouble again. “Can I talk to Ruuket?”

“At sundown.”

Hweilan sighed and let it go. One battle at a time.

“By the way, Maaqua has called a war council,” said Buureg. “For midnight.”

“She is going to help then?”

He narrowed his eyes. “She said she would.”

“Then I will be there, too.”

After leaving Buureg-the warchief was a tough old root, but even he needed sleep-Hweilan went back up to the high places, her wolf at her heels. The combination of gunhin in her veins and her return to the Feywild had renewed her vigor. She didn’t feel the least bit tired. A restless energy filled her, fueling her determination.

Time is running out.

But there was one thing she still had to do. And it shamed her that she had left the duty so long.

The way wasn’t difficult to find. Uncle sniffed at the trail now and then, and under the full light of day, she saw the blood smeared on the dirt and rocks.

“Bastard really did drag himself the whole way down the mountain,” she said to herself, and smiled at the image of Rhan crawling and cursing.

They weren’t far now.

The wolf stopped on the trail ahead. He’d gone very still. Only his ears twitched forward and his nostrils flared as he sniffed the air.

Hweilan’s bow was strapped unstrung on her back. She drew both her knives, the red one in her left hand, the silver in her right. She kneeled on the path, held the silver blade before her, and spoke the words of invitation. The runes along the blade sparkled, light running down their length, and the wind off the mountain changed directions, coming directly into Hweilan’s face. She closed her eyes and inhaled.

There. The pungent, putrid stench of death and worse. Desecration. But she smelled something else as well. Something alive. Anger filled Hweilan, and her jaw clenched so tight she heard her teeth grind. Uncle growled and flattened his ears.

She stood and together they ran up the path.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Argalath woke but could not remember where he was. His entire body felt scraped raw from the inside out. He struggled to take a deep breath, and the reek made him gag.

Preparing for the pain he knew would come, Argalath forced his eyes open. Thick tapestries covered the hall’s windows, but a little light still managed to leak around the edges. And the light pierced his brain like needles. He lay on the dais in the main court. The High Warden’s seat-the old fool had never allowed anyone to call it a throne, though he had been the closest thing to a king for hundreds of miles-lay broken and shattered on the stone. The robes Argalath usually wore were crumpled beneath him. He was naked from the waist up, his skin caked in dried blood. The remains of a goat lay at the foot of the dais. It had been gutted, but most of the flesh was gone. Mice had come out of the walls to swarm over the remains.

Feeling his belly full to bursting, Argalath knew who had eaten the goat, and with this realization, his stomach lurched. Bile and chunks of bloody goat poured out of his mouth, which only made him sicker. He heaved again and again until he brought up nothing but fresh blood from his own torn throat. The muscles of his torso cramped and he fell into his own sick. Laying there, wracked with pain, covered in his own filth, still Argalath smiled. Jagun Ghen must be running out of Nar if he had taken to eating goats.

“Soon,” Argalath said, and that one word made his raw throat burn. It would be over soon. One way or another.

For the moment, the thing inside him was dormant. The one in whom Argalath had hoped to find salvation brought only damnation. Argalath was weakened by the failed rite of the night before and the fight afterward. How long had it been since he had come out of the darkness into his own body? He could not remember.

He was broken. He knew it. All the promises-healing of his affliction, power of his enemies, perhaps even godhood itself … lies. He had been used, and he was almost used up. The fire inside him had burned too long.

“Master?” said a voice nearby.

Argalath raised his head, squinting against the light.

Beneath one of the windows stood Guric, his dead flesh sallow in the wan light. He, too, wore a coat of dried blood, and he held the remains of a goat haunch in one hand.

“Is it time?” said Guric.

“Time-?” said Argalath, then his voice caught in his throat. The thing inside him was stirring. Waking. That implacable will rising like fire through dry kindling. “No. Please … no-”

Argalath screamed, his back arching with such strength that he rapped his head on the stone floor. The mice feasting on the dead goat scattered into the shadows.

“Master?” Guric lurched forward.

“She has returned,” said Jagun Ghen. He could not open his eyes all the way and knew this frail body was about to fail him. Subduing the eladrin and that traitor Vazhad had taken too much of his strength. It was too soon. He needed more time. “I can feel her. She has come back to this world.”

“She will come to us?” said Guric.

“Oh, yes,” said Jagun Ghen. “And we must be ready for her. I must be ready for her.”

Jagun Ghen tried to push himself up, but his strength failed him and he fell again. His hands were shaking like an old man huddled next to his hearthfire. Damn Vazhad. He had done this-and then escaped punishment.

“Where is Kathkur?” said Jagun Ghen.

“The heights,” said Guric. “He wishes to perfect the eladrin’s gifts with the winds.”

“Does he?” Jagun Ghen forced himself to sit up. “The circle is prepared?”

“In blood and fire, lord.”

“Good.” He squinted up at the light leaking in around the thick curtains. “How long until darkness?”

“A while yet, lord.”

“Then I will rest. When the sun sets, bring Kathkur to me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In full sunlight, Hweilan got a good look at the place where the hobgoblins had brought her the night before, where she had found her mother’s corpse and robbed it of its covering. It was shaped like a bowl, with a rim that rose up toward the sky. And nearly every inch had been decorated with pictures and symbols drawn in blood or carved into the stone itself. Hundreds of old fires had scorched the bottom.

Hweilan reached the entrance, the wolf just behind her. Her mother’s corpse had been wrapped again in new cloth and bound in leather cords. A bed of dry brush, twigs, branches, and even a few logs lay in the very center of the bowl.

Just then, Uncle gave another growl. A large hobgoblin was kneeling next to her mother’s body.

It was Rhan. The Greatsword of Impiltur lay on the ground beside him. He stood and returned her gaze.

“What are you doing?” she said. “Why are you here?”

His gaze locked on the knives she held, but he made no move for his sword. “I honor the slain.”

“What?”

He held out his arms. “This place,” he said. “We call it the Cauldron of the Slain. This is where we bring our most honored heroes to rejoin their gods.”

Hweilan blinked. “You had my mother brought here?”

“Your mother’s spirit has moved on,” said Rhan. “But I intend to honor her.”

Hweilan looked down at the wolf, whose attention was fixed on the Razor Heart Champion. The hobgoblin had still not so much as glanced at his sword. Hweilan lowered her knives, but she did not sheathe them.

“Why?” she said.

“She was a warrior.”

“No,” said Hweilan. “I mean, why are you doing this? After what I did to you?”

Rhan held her gaze a long time. “I do not regret my challenge. You tricked me. Shamed me before the Razor Heart. You owed me that fight.”

“And now?”

“Now we stand even. Unless you wish otherwise.” He looked down at his sword, holding his gaze there to be sure she noticed, then back at her. There was no mistaking the challenge in his face. “Then, I stand ready.”

“We are even,” she said, and she sheathed her knives. “For now.”

He closed his eyes and gave her a small bow. When he opened them, there was the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “You are much like she was, then.”

Hweilan approached, Uncle following silently just behind. “Explain.”

“I met your mother once.”

She stopped, her mother’s corpse between them. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her palms sweating. “You lie,” she said.

“No,” said Rhan. “When I was young. Only my third summer as a warrior. We left the mountains to raid into the grassland. Gureng, our chief, had a taste for horseflesh, and we wanted to impress him. We numbered seventeen, but the Nar who found us had more than twice that. It was a fierce, bloody fight. We were scattered, and five horsemen cornered me in a valley. No trees. Not even a bush to hide under. I managed to kill one, but the others captured me, beat me, and dragged me back to their fellows. They were Creel. They tied me up and were about to flay me when a shadow passed overhead. The horses screamed in panic. Great beasts came down from the sky. Three of them.”

“Scythe wings,” said Hweilan.

“Yes,” said Rhan. “Knights from your Highwatch. Led by one named Ardan.”

“My father.”

“And your mother was with him.”

It was so preposterously outlandish that Hweilan knew Rhan wasn’t making it up. No one would be stupid enough to lie about something like that. Not when she stood ready to gut him.

“Most of the Creel scattered, but the knights hemmed in a few. They demanded to know why Creel were so far out of their homeland. The Creel claimed they were ridding the land of hobgoblins. Seeing a beaten and bloody warrior, the knights were ready to believe them. But your mother saw true. She saw that a dozen warriors had been beating one. She told your father that the only thing she hated more than a brute was a cowardly brute. A dozen against one … that was a coward’s fight. She cut me loose, put one of the Creel’s spears in my hand, and announced that if four of them could beat me in a fair fight, it would prove their words true.”

“And you beat four of them, even after suffering a beating?”

“I beat six of them,” said Rhan. “Sent them to the Hells. Your mother spoke true. They were cowards and broke the honor of the fight. When I killed the first two, more joined in.”

“My father allowed this?”

Rhan chuckled. It was the first time Hweilan could remember anything like laughter coming out of him. “He and the other knights were none too happy about the whole thing. But they didn’t like craven brutes, either. I think they knew Creel for the treacherous liars they are. And your mother … she had a way about her. A strong spine, I think your people say. She had a rage on her that day. A real burning anger. Had the knights tried to stop her, I think she might have fought them herself. When it was over, she gave me food and water from her own pack and told me to get back to the mountains where I belonged.” He paused. “Your mother was a true warrior.”

Hweilan looked up at him, and only when she saw him through a shining blur did she realize she was crying. “Yet you didn’t hesitate to kill her.”

“What I killed … that wasn’t your mother, and you know it. I killed the thing defiling her.”

Hweilan turned away. She wiped her face on her remaining sleeve.

“No, you didn’t,” she said. “You just freed it so that it could take another.”

“Menduarthis?” Rhan snorted. “No loss there.”

Hweilan chuckled, then said, “He grows on you after a while.”

“Yes,” said Rhan. “Like a rash.”

Hweilan looked down at the covered corpse, and all mirth left her.

Rhan gave her a long silence, then said, “We must burn the body. Soon.”

He didn’t elaborate, but Hweilan knew what he meant. The body had been outside for too long. Much longer, and it would begin to rot. The nights were still cold enough to freeze a thick skin of ice on the surface cisterns, which might have slowed the putrefaction. But Hweilan could sense something amiss anyway. So could Uncle. The wolf had come near the body more than once, sniffed, then whined and backed away. Hweilan’s own sense of smell was far more sensitive than most people’s-the final rites she had endured with Nendawen had made it sharper still-and she picked up a foulness around the body. Perhaps being a home for one of Jagun Ghen’s minions had left some sort of stain inside the flesh itself. It didn’t matter. This had been her mother once, and Hweilan needed to honor that. She owed it to her mother.

Hweilan looked over the bed of brush and sticks Rhan had gathered. Nothing looked suitable.

“May I ask a favor of you, Rhan?”

“For you or your mother?”

She looked up at him, uncertain if he was trying to provoke her. She could see nothing but genuine curiosity in his gaze, but then, she wasn’t exactly an expert on hobgoblin wit.

“Both,” she said.

“Ask.”

“I need a spear.”

Rhan frowned.

“Or just the haft,” she said. “It needs to be about as long as my forearm. But straight and smooth.” She motioned to the pyre. “None of these will do.”

“As you wish.” He shrugged, picked up his sword, and walked away. Uncle watched him until he was out of sight, then looked up at Hweilan.

She returned the wolf’s gaze, and neither of them blinked. “Why won’t you talk? Why won’t you-” she struggled for the right word, then gave up-“change? Or can you not change?”

She’d asked Gleed, and the old goblin had confessed he didn’t know. Living, Lendri had been able to change from wolf to elf whenever he wished. But he wasn’t living any more. Not dead either, but some state in between. Not even undead, though Gleed had explained to her it was something like it. Ken kucheh, he had calling it. “Living dead.” Even though the wolf’s heart did not beat and he only breathed to make a sound or find a scent, the spirit in him moved the body. Gleed did not know if this new state of being kept Lendri in his present form, if his mind and spirit had somehow been damaged, or if he was keeping this form out of pure spite. And if Gleed didn’t know, Hweilan could only guess. She had named him Uncle out of spite, that was certain. If he would not speak to her, she would not grace him with his given name.

She kneeled so she could look him in the eye. “Tell me of my mother’s father.”

Uncle blinked. Nothing more.

“A name,” said Hweilan. “That’s all I want.”

Nothing.

Hweilan ground her jaw, thinking, then said, “I’ll tell you a name, then. Someone I met on the dream path. Haerul.”

Uncle growled. That low rumble from deep in his chest. Close as he was now, Hweilan could feel the ground trembling with the force of it.

“Tell me my grandfather’s name,” said Hweilan.

Uncle snapped at her, his teeth closing less than an inch from her nose. But she didn’t flinch. The wolf turned and walked a few paces away.

Hweilan stood and called after him. “If you won’t speak, at least keep watch while I prepare.”

The wolf padded off to guard the path.

Hweilan sat down next to her mother’s body, facing it. Even though she knew it was a corpse and the demon that had used it was long gone, she could not bring herself to turn her back on it.

Rhan had done a masterful job of wrapping the body in the cloth, then binding it. The hobgoblin champion had taken great care, and Hweilan had to admit she was touched. It almost made her feel guilty for severing the tendons in his leg the night before.

Hweilan closed her eyes and prayed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When the thing had first seized Menduarthis, he had never before been so afraid. Over the years, he had learned the value of caution, though with the power he had gained in Ellestharn, there were few things that he truly feared. But the one that still haunted him, the one secret he told absolutely no one, was the one that had been with him the longest. Since childhood. More than anything, being confined in a tight place terrified him. Small rooms made his skin feel too tight, and he could not even abide heavy blankets while he slept.

On Maaqua’s doorstep, he thought he had done a reasonably good job of hiding his growing panic. When the rotten thing had gouged her yellowed fingernail into his forehead, even then he had held on to reason-he’d suffered far worse wounds in his days than a little ripped skin. But then-so quickly he hadn’t even had time to resist-that wound had opened a doorway into his mind, and some thing had entered him.

That had been his worst moment. It had been confinement not just of his body but of his mind as well. Every movement, every sensation, taste, touch, sight, all of it had been taken from him. It had felt like drowning, pressure, sinking, blackness-but it had burned like fire.

Since then, awareness had come to him in broken images and sounds. Like dreams. Only they were all confused. He tasted light, felt sounds, heard smells-all of them tinged with the reek of flame. Now and then, the dream splintered, and he woke to fight. But every time the black fire returned.

Menduarthis was growing weaker, and he knew it. He could no longer put names to many of the images in his dreams, could not remember the feel of winter or the smell of flowers. But always the fire burned in his mind.

And then it was gone. All at once the substance of Menduarthis’s reality-fraught with hundreds of cracks and fissures-shattered entirely.

He fell to the ground, fighting to breathe, and only then remembered what ground and breath were. Dry grass rasped between his fingers, and he could feel wind-real wind and not the foul miasmas of his dreams-stirring his hair. His tongue felt swollen, his skin dry and cracked.

“It’s awake,” said a deep voice from nearby.

Menduarthis opened his eyes, and the sheet of silver stars overhead struck him as the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, their light pure and unsullied. Then a deeper darkness moved between him and the sky.

It took most of his strength and all of his will to raise his head. He was outside. It was full dark, but the starlight seemed very bright, and Selune, riding a third of the way up the sky, was only a few days from her fullness. The wall of cliffs in the distance told Menduarthis where he was. He’d never been here, but the place had a reputation. Nar-sek Qu’istrade, the grass-covered valley at the foot of Highwatch, hemmed in by the last embrace of the Giantspires.

“I know you,” said another voice.

The sound that hit Menduarthis’s ears cracked with the effort of speaking. But under it he sensed a will that was far stronger than anything he had ever faced. Kunin Gatar’s power would melt and steam away before this flame.

“I know who you are. I know what you are. And what you tried to become. You reached far, grasping at mist. And when true power came into your reach … you let her go. I know what you are. And I name you: fool.”

… her? Her who? Hweilan.

The name floated up out of the darkness to settle in Menduarthis’s mind. And around it, more of reality solidified. Beyond the sensation of his surroundings, Menduarthis remembered who Hweilan was, who he was … and who was speaking to him.

He raised his head. Other figures stood nearby. Not pacing. But every one of them swayed or twitched with nervous energy, and Menduarthis was reminded of cocoons twitching as moths struggled to break free.

Beyond all of them was a deeper shadow that the moon and starlight seemed unable to touch. It gave off a presence-not one Menduarthis could feel on his skin, but it burned his spirit. Jagun Ghen. Menduarthis knew it beyond a doubt. He had scoffed at Lendri’s tale to Hweilan. But his derision had only been to mask his own fear. Even he had heard of the Destroyer. The Burning Hunger from the Abyss.

Menduarthis knew he was doomed. However, now that he could see starlight and feel the wind again, it didn’t seem so bad. And even though he did not have the strength to rise, neither would he cringe.

So instead he laughed. It was little more than a rasping croak, and it hurt so badly that it brought tears to his eyes. But he clenched his jaw against the pain and forced words out of his mouth. “Let … her go. You make it … sound easy. You’ve been chasing her. For months. Me? I wasn’t even trying. Not much. And I still came closer to her than you. Me a fool? Heh. Name thyself.”

He felt the shadow stir, but nothing more. He cursed his luck. Infuriating others had always been one of his greatest talents. He’d hoped to stir this monster to a rage, to provoke the demon into killing him before the fire returned to bind Menduarthis and pull him back down to darkness.

“The spider,” said Jagun Ghen.

“What?”

“Your … little flower. She fancies herself a hunter. She learned from the Old Spider. All the lore and knowledge of her people. But she missed the most important lesson. Of all the hunters, the spider is the wisest. It never leaves its lair. It spins its web … and waits for the fly.”

“If you think Hweilan is a fly, then you are a fool.”

The silence lasted long enough that Menduarthis began to hope he had finally stirred the demon to wrath. But no. When Jagun Ghen spoke again, there was no hint of anger in his voice. If anything, he seemed … curious.

“You don’t seem afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

Jagun Ghen laughed. “You are a vain thing. Were I to slice open your throat, I suspect you’d use your last breath to spit in my face. But I know the truth.”

“And what-” Menduarthis’s throat constricted, and he had to swallow hard before he could continue. “What is that?”

“You are not afraid because you think you have nothing left to lose. I named you true. You are a fool.”

The shadow surged toward him. Just for a moment, Menduarthis saw what lived inside that shape, and he screamed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The wind turned from cold to frigid, and the sky took on the thicker blue cast of late afternoon by the time Hweilan heard Rhan return. She was ready.

She stood and turned to face him. He held a long spear in both hands and lifted it for display. “This will do?”

The shaft had not come from the mountain ash and pine of the Giantspires. The wood was pale but strong. Some westerner’s weapon, where trees grew under a warmer sun. Taken in a raid, most likely.

“A fine weapon,” she said. “Thank you.”

Uncle let out a warning yip, then padded to her side. Footsteps approached quickly, obviously trying to keep quiet and not doing a very good job of it. She looked over Rhan’s shoulder and saw Darric peeking from around the stone where the broken rim of the Cauldron met the path. “Why are you here?” she called to him. Rhan turned as Darric, Valsun, and Jaden stepped into view. Darric and Valsun had a rock in each hand and Jaden held a stout branch in his shaking left hand.

“We heard him”-Jaden pointed at Rhan-“and Darric thought you might be in trouble.”

Hweilan looked at Rhan. “Why would they think that?”

Rhan said, “Nuurgen did not wish to part with his spear.”

“We heard him,” said Darric as he approached warily, “say he needed the spear ‘for Hweilan.’ And when that other hobgoblin wouldn’t hand it over, this one here smashed his face, took the spear, and walked off. We thought …”

“Thought he meant the spear for me?” One side of Hweilan’s mouth twisted up in a half-grin.

“Does he?” said Darric, looking up at the champion.

“And your plan was to stop him with a stick and some stones?” Hweilan took the proffered spear and turned her back on them. “Idiots.”

She walked over to the rim of the Cauldron and set the spear so that its steel point rested on the ground and the haft lay against the stone wall. Looking at it, she decided the angle was fine, then brought her right boot down in the center of the shaft. It bent, just for an instant, before snapping like a bone. She picked up the butt end and left the point in the dirt.

“What’s she doing?” said Jaden. He called to Hweilan, “Why ruin a perfectly good weapon?”

She ignored him, sat beside her mother’s corpse, and took out her knife. Then she set to work carving runes into the wood and did not look up as she spoke.

“I’m burning her,” she said. “My mother. I gave her funeral rites once before.”

Her voice caught at the memory. It had been after the fall of Highwatch, when she had first met Lendri. The day they burned Scith’s body. Lendri had been the first to teach her the funeral rites of her people, though since then she had seen it a thousand times in the visions of Kesh Naan. Lendri had added all the names of Hweilan’s friends and family to the litany, including her mother’s. But there had been no body to burn that day. Hweilan had seen her mother’s spirit and believed she had passed on to her reward. But even so, Hweilan needed this.

“But now,” she said, “I can do it right. Please go.”

“I want to stay,” said Darric.

She looked at him, wanting to ask why but not trusting herself to speak.

“I knew her, too, Hweilan, if only for a short time.” Darric stood tall, working his jaw, his gaze daring her to defy him. “And in that time … I came to admire her. I would like to pay my respects.”

Valsun nodded in agreement. “We would all be honored, lady. I never knew your mother, save by reputation, but if she was half the woman you are, it would be a sin not to honor her memory.”

Jaden was still eyeing Rhan warily and keeping a death grip on the makeshift cudgel in his hand, but when he caught Hweilan looking at him, he blinked, swallowed and said, “Yes. Me, too. Would be most honored, my lady.”

Hweilan returned her attention to carving her mother’s name in the ghost stick. “You may stay. But don’t interfere.”

With the tension seemingly broken, the three Damarans seemed unsure what to do. Jaden looked to each of his companions, Hweilan, and Rhan. His eyes widened and he took a step back when he caught Rhan staring back at him.

“What?”

“Get rid of the stick and stones. You dishonor the Cauldron of the Slain.”

Valsun dropped the stones he was holding.

“Not here,” said Rhan. “Take them back to the path. This is holy ground.”

Valsun nodded, picked up the rocks, and motioned Jaden back to the path. Darric handed the stones he was carrying to Valsun. “If you would, please.”

Nodding, Valsun cradled the four stones in his arm. “Come, Jaden.”

As they walked back to the path, Hweilan heard Jaden grumbling. “Bastard’s got that black sword big as a log strapped to his back and I have to toss my tiny stick? What’s-”

“Be silent, Jaden,” said Valsun. “For once in your miserable life, just … stop talking.”

Darric sighed, and said, “Torm save us.”

Hweilan smiled but didn’t look up. “He babbles to mask his fear. The same reason you go all silent and broody. You make a fine pair. Once you return to your father’s house, you could do worse than keep him as your counsel.”

“Or court jester,” said Darric.

She’d hoped the mention of his father’s house might prompt him to speak of his intentions. He’d sworn to help her, and Hweilan had no reason to think his intentions had changed.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Uskeche tet,” she said. “It means ‘ghost stick.’ I am carving my mother’s name in the wood so that her name may burn in her fire. In our tongue, uskeche is the word for both ‘fire’ and ‘ghost.’ ”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Hweilan heard the unspoken accusation in his voice. This was no rite of Torm. Not a proper rite for a Damaran House.

“My mother was not Damaran.” She finished the R rune, and cleaned out the groove with her thumb. “And neither am I.”

“Your father-”

“Deeds, not blood,” said Hweilan. “That belief is the heart of every Damaran house, is it not?”

“It is,” said Darric.

Hweilan began carving the A rune. “Truth be told, Darric, I never … fit in with my father’s people. I loved them, but I was always more comfortable out on the steppe with the Nar. You insulted your father and ran off, hoping to find a court lady in need of saving. I’m sorry I am less than you expected.”

“Less?” Darric snorted. “Hweilan, you’re-”

“My lord!”

Hweilan looked up to see Valsun and Jaden returning. Jaden still had his stick in hand and his eyes were wide and shining as a priest’s new medallions.

Darric said, “What is it?”

“Hobgoblins, my lord,” said Valsun.

“Hundreds of them,” said Jaden.

Valsun scowled at him, then said, “Dozens perhaps. But they’re headed this way.”

“I’ll see what this is,” said Rhan. He swiped the stick out of Jaden’s hand and marched back toward the path.

“Are they armed?” Darric asked Valsun.

“Have you seen anyone in this stinking place that isn’t armed?” said Jaden.

Hweilan did her best to ignore the exchange and concentrated on carving the last rune. Rhan hadn’t seemed bothered by the news. And if he’d come this far to honor her mother’s body, she didn’t think he would let any trouble near the place without a fight.

He was gone long enough that Hweilan was beginning to reconsider. But when she looked up, Rhan was returning at an easy gait, his sword still on his back. He stopped near her, though he purposefully avoided looking her in the eye.

“There are others-warriors of the Razor Heart-who wish to bear witness.”

“Why?”

“It seems that word has spread of your mother’s history. And all the Razor Heart have heard of the Hand of the Hunter-saw her nearly kill their Champion. They wish to honor her. And you. To honor a true warrior.”

“You did this?”

“I asked no one to come,” said Rhan, looking her in the eye at last. “But many asked why I brought an enemy’s body to the Cauldron of the Slain. I told them the truth. Nothing more.”

“And what does Maaqua say?”

Rhan bared his teeth in what probably passed for a smile from him. “Do you care?”

“Not very much.” She set to work finishing the last rune. “They can stay.”

Hweilan did not have any sunche, the sticky resin made from pine sap, to rub into the runes so that they would burn bright in the fire. But she knew that the Vil Adanrath had not always used sunche. So she chose the old way. She opened her right palm. The scars there were still sharp and clear from the first time she had burned a ghost stick. KAN, they read, in the Dethek runes. It meant “death.” She had suffered many cuts and scrapes over them since then, all of which had healed, but those three letters never faded. She had sometimes wondered if she cut off the hand, would it grow back just to show the scars and spite her.

She chose her red blade. And when she slid the edge along her palm, slicing her skin, the blood that flowed out was the same color as the steel. She clenched her hand in a tight fist, squeezing the blood so that it dripped into the runes on the stick. Then she put the knife away and, with her thumb, rubbed the blood into the runes, staining them. Messy, but it would do. She set the ghost stick beside the pyre.

Standing, she looked up at the sky. Nearly evening. Then she saw how many hobgoblins had come. None had entered the Cauldron itself, but they crouched on the rim or stood on boulders where they could look down into the bowl. Many had even climbed up a nearby cliff face and stood on precarious ledges so they could see the proceedings. It was not the “hundreds” Jaden had first claimed, but a quick glance told her how he could have easily made that mistake. Hweilan counted two score and saw she hadn’t yet counted half.

Darric stepped forward and held something out to her. A long strip of cloth he’d cut from his own cloak.

“You should staunch that bleeding.”

She nodded her thanks, for she didn’t trust her voice at that moment. She wrapped the makeshift bandage around her hand a few times, then used her teeth and free hand to attempt the knot.

Darric reached for her hand. “Allow me. Please.”

Hweilan didn’t need his help. She’d tied scores of knots with only one hand. Training with Ashiin, her lessons hadn’t slacked even when nursing a broken arm or fingers. But she gave him her hand, anyway.

“Not too tight,” she said.

“That was a deep cut,” he said as he carefully tied the knot. “I watched.”

“I’ve had worse.” She pulled her hand away and made a fist. The congealing blood filling the bandage felt warm and thick. She could salve it later. Time was running short.

Hweilan allowed no one to help her lift her mother’s body onto the pyre, though the stench of it made her head swim, and the dead, stiff weight threatened to raise a sob in her throat. Once it was atop the pile of kindling, she rearranged the wood, making gaps to let air in to feed the flames. Rhan had layered the pyre well, but Hweilan’s hands needed something to do until she could calm herself.

Satisfied at last, she took a good-sized branch from the pyre and returned to her pouch, which lay nearby with her other belongings.

Simple flint and steel would never catch in this wind. Hweilan found the small brass vial, stoppered with thick felt. A gift from Gleed. A bit of the oil smeared even on wet wood, and the tiniest spark would catch and burn. It had disturbed her when he’d taught her to make it, since more than half of the ingredients were the same herbs he put on their meals. She pulled the felt out with her teeth and carefully tapped a few drops onto the wood. Then she twisted the felt back into the vial, put it back into her pouch, and kneeled beside the pyre.

Setting the branch near the bottom of the pile, she drew both her knives. Her hands were shaking. She’d known for a long time that her mother was dead. Her mother, her father, her entire family …

But something inside her, some deep part of the old castle-girl Hweilan revolted at putting flames to her mother’s body. No going back after this.

The image of the thing that appeared in front of her, wearing her mother’s body, using her mouth to speak … that hardened her will. The old fury stirred, and Hweilan understood the real reason she needed this pyre. Gleed and Ashiin had trained her. Kesh Naan had given her wisdom. Nendawen had given her new birth. But the old Hweilan still haunted her. These flames would not only send away her mother’s body but also the teary-eyed little-girl inside Hweilan. And it was time to lay that ghost to rest.

Hweilan turned the red knife in her hand and set the pommel near the oil-smeared branch. An ingenious bit of practicality. The iron hoop at the knife’s pommel encircled a flint stone. Hweilan knew from Gleed’s study of her other knife that it was more than steel, but it still flashed when she swiped the blade against the flint. A bright blue spark filled Hweilan’s nose with a metallic smell, like air after a lightning strike. The first didn’t catch, nor the second. But on the third hard strike, a shower of sparks crackled over the glistening edge of the branch. The oil ignited with a snap! and bright orange flames soon spread throughout the bed of wood. Hweilan stood, sheathed her knives, and picked up the ghost stick.

That was when she heard the first cry-a raucous caw that rang clear even over the wind and the growing roar of the flames. She looked up in time to see a raven alight on the rim of the Cauldron between two hobgoblin warriors. The nearest raised his spear to shoo it away, but the warrior next to him caught his arm and pointed up.

More ravens were coming down. Dozens of them. Hundreds. The sky was already dark with them, and more were soaring up and over the mountain. They settled on every available perch between the gathered warriors and on the cliffs above. Some even settled on the helmets of the hobgoblins themselves, who peered out from under them with wide eyes but did nothing to dislodge the visitors. Not a single bird settled within the Cauldron itself.

The three Damarans stood with their mouths hanging open, and both Jaden and Valsun made protective signs on their body. Rhan had the bright-eyed eager look of a hungry tiger eyeing the sheep. The Razor Heart champion drew the Greatsword of Impiltur, held it over his head, and roared. Every raven on the hill-those settled and those still circling above-cawed in unison, over and over, a harsh barrage of cries.

The fire had already burned away the burial cloth, and Hweilan could hear the flesh sizzling. The reek of it washed over her, and the wound in her hand pulsed with pain, as if reminding her of the word burned there-

She carries death in her right hand.

Hweilan raised the ghost stick and began the song. She sang it loud and in the tongue of her mother’s people, much as Lendri had first taught it to her.

Flames of this world, bear this flame to our ancestors.

Merah daughter of Thewari burned bright.

Her exile is ended, her rest assured.

Hweilan strode forward. The pyre was blazing high. Its flames were so hot their own wind tossed her hair back. Holding the ghost stick in one hand, she thrust it into the hottest part of the fire. A fountain of sparks shot upward, shining bright through the black smoke.

Wincing against the heat, Hweilan prayed.

Master of the Hunt, Hand of Dedunan,

Accept my offering, in blood and fire.

Let not our sacrifice be in vain.

Bind that which was broken.

Restore the Balance.

That light might shine in our hearts again.

Flames were beginning to lick up the ghost stick.

Hweilan finished-

And if we fall in darkness,

grant that we might fall with our enemies’ throat in our teeth.

She stepped back, pulling the ghost stick from the fire. The wood continued to burn a bit, but in a few moments the wind blew out the flames, leaving only embers glowing along the edges.

“Mother, Father, I will avenge you or die trying.”

She switched the burning shaft to her left hand, then tore away the makeshift bandage with her teeth. The blood had thickened there, but much of the forming scab came away with the cloth, and fresh blood welled in her hand.

“I swear it,” said Hweilan, and brought the glowing hot wood across the wound. Pain shot up her entire arm and into her jaw, but she held it there, and said, “In blood and fire, I swear it.”

She threw the ghost stick into the fire and turned away.

The ravens cawed again, and those sitting on the ground or upon the watching warriors took to flight. The wind gusted, and they were gone, leaving only a few black feathers fluttering on the wind. The only sound was the crackle and snap of the funeral pyre.

A sliver of sun still peeked over the western summits.

Time is running out.

Hweilan looked up at Rhan, who was still holding his sword high, a look of near ecstasy on his face.

“You wish to honor my mother?”

He lowered the sword, and for a moment Hweilan was afraid he was going to kneel. He didn’t. Instead, he planted the point on the ground in front of him and rested both hands on the pommel. “I do.”

“Then keep vigil for me. See that no one disturbs the fire. I will come at dawn to help the wind scatter the ashes.”

His brows creased. “Where will you-?”

“The sun is setting,” said Hweilan. “I have some place to be.”

Hweilan walked away. She did not look back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The last purple light of day was fading from the sky by the time Hweilan and Uncle reached the Stone of Hoar, but Mandan was still alone. The large Damaran sat in the large stone hand. He wore nothing but a tattered loincloth. The hobgoblins hadn’t even left him a blanket, and he was shivering so hard that his ankle chains rattled. Scrapes and dried blood covered his skin, and one eye was swollen shut. Hratt told her they’d healed him, but it seemed that he’d taken several beatings since. Hweilan could tell he had tried to break free. Uncle circled the stone, a low whine coming from deep in his chest. Hweilan drew her knife, and at the sound Mandan gasped and his eyes opened.

“You’ve looked better,” said Hweilan.

Mandan let his head drop. “Go,” he said.

Hweilan scowled. She had hoped to find Mandan defiant. Seeing his condition, she thought at the very least he’d ask to be cut down, hoping she’d come here to save him. Not this … despair.

She stepped forward. “Be still. This may hurt.”

She cut the leather cords around his knees first. Freed of their bindings, Mandan’s knees knocked together as the iron weights dangling from his ankles fell to the ground. Hweilan had to climb onto the stone hand to reach Mandan’s arms. They, too, were painted in dried blood where the leather had bitten into his skin. His fingers were purple from cold and lack of blood. Hweilan cut the cords, and Mandan’s arms fell into his lap.

Hweilan jumped back to the ground. “Try to rub blood back into your hands while I see what I can do about the shackles. We can’t leave. I made a vow. But you can face them on your feet.”

“Go,” said Mandan. “Get … my brother … out of here.”

“You think Darric would leave without you?”

He peered at her with his one good eye. “What I have done … I will face it.”

Uncle barked and looked toward the path. Hweilan followed his gaze and saw the glow of torchlight on the stone. A moment later, Buureg, in full armor, came into view, leading four warriors with long spears, four more with swords, all holding torches. Six more followed, carrying horn bows, arrows already notched on strings. They fanned out around the Stone of Hoar, with Buureg and the spear-bearers closest, the others keeping their distance. The warchief carried his helmet under one arm, his face set and expressionless, his eyes flat.

Bringing up the rear of the procession was a hobgoblin woman, a babe on her back and a small child in her arms. Another child walked on her left, and on her right was her oldest. He and his mother had used white paint and ash to paint their faces in a death mask.

“Hweilan,” said Buureg, “Hand of the Hunter, I ask you to step aside.”

Hweilan still had the knife in her hand. She kept it low, her arm loose, and turned to face the hobgoblins.

Buureg took a long breath. “That’s how it will be, then?”

Hweilan looked at the gathered warriors. None returned her gaze, instead fixing their eyes on her chin to avoid an obvious show of challenge. But all of them held their weapons in steady hands. If it came to a fight, Hweilan had little doubt she and Uncle could get away-but not with Mandan, and not without bloodshed.

She looked back to Buureg and said, “I don’t want this.”

“But you will not step aside?”

“I can’t.”

It was true. She’d been willing to sacrifice all the Damarans if it meant getting away to face Jagun Ghen. But if she had even a slim chance to save them, she had to take it. It was very likely she’d be dead in a few days. If she walked away to leave her friends to death and torment, she would never be able to face her mother and father in the afterlife.

“Stepping aside,” she said, “isn’t in me. Not anymore.”

The hobgoblin youth in the death mask rushed forward. His mother cried out and tried to grab him, but he shrugged out of her grip and pressed his way through the warriors. None tried to stop him, but four spearpoints lowered at Hweilan, and the archers raised their bows and drew.

Buureg dropped his helmet, turned, and grabbed the youth. His mother was screaming and trying to come forward, but two of the warriors held her. The babe on her back was wailing.

“Stop! Stop this!” Buureg said.

“Let! Me! Go!” Unable to break the warchief’s grip, the youth instead brought his face forward and slammed his forehead into Buureg’s nose. Hweilan tensed, readying herself, but did not raise her weapon. Buureg’s eyes went wide, but he held his grip even as blood poured out of his nose. One hand held onto the youth’s shoulder, the other held a wrist. One of the warriors was rushing forward to help.

The youth tried another head butt, but Buureg was expecting it and twisted out of the way. Then he tried a knee to the crotch, but Buureg’s armor protected him. Growling like an animal, the youth took a step back, raised one foot, and kicked the warchief in the chest.

It worked. Buureg’s grip broke and he reeled backward into one of his own spearmen.

Tears streaming down his face and marring the paint, the youth drew a long knife from his belt and charged.

One step to the side, and Hweilan placed herself between the youth and Mandan. Ruuket wailed and Buureg screamed to his archers, “Hold! Hold! Do not loose!”

Snarling, the youth brought the blade around in a clumsy swipe. He was strong, and his fury made him stronger still, but clumsy. Hweilan caught the wrist but did not stop it, instead continuing through, directing the force, using his own strength against him and adding her own to twist the arm, turning him in the direction she wanted him to go. She ducked, planted her shoulder in his gut as he fell over her, then threw him.

The youth hit the ground, knife still in hand, but when he started to push himself to his feet, a growl stopped him. He looked up through his tears to see Uncle’s bared teeth less than three inches from his nose.

“Stop! Stop this-now!”

A moment of absolute silence fell. All eyes turned to the one who had called out. Mandan had fallen forward out of the stone hand onto his hands and knees, but he was pushing himself to his feet now, the remnants of bloody leather cord still dangling from his wrists. The Damaran stood to his full height, though he was swaying like a tree in summer wind. He looked down at the youth.

“Come here,” Mandan told him.

The young hobgoblin cast a quick glance at Mandan, then looked back at the wolf.

“Uncle,” she said, “Chu set. Alet.”

The wolf snapped his jaws once, then walked away to stand beside Hweilan.

“Aniq,” she told him. “Be ready.”

“On your feet, boy,” said Mandan.

The youth scrambled to his feet, a little bit of the anger coming back to him. “I have a knife,” he said.

Mandan said, “Bring it.”

The youth stood and gave Hweilan and the wolf a wary glance. Hweilan returned it, then kept her eyes flicking back and forth between Mandan and the hobgoblins.

Holding the knife in front of him, the youth approached Mandan. The blade was shaking, and Hweilan saw that the boy was clenching his jaw shut to keep it from trembling as well. But she could also see that it was taking all the strength Mandan had just to stay upright.

“You know”-Mandan’s voice caught, and he swallowed hard-“how to use that?”

The youth scowled, and Hweilan realized he probably didn’t speak Damaran. She translated for him. He glared at her, then spit on Mandan and replied.

“He says, ‘Enough to kill you,’ ” Hweilan told Mandan.

The Damaran wiped the spittle from his face, then fell back onto the palm of the stone. He had to reach out and catch himself on the thumb to keep from falling.

“I will not … stop you,” said Mandan, then looked to Hweilan. “Tell him.”

“No.”

Buureg translated for him, earning a glare from Hweilan. But then the warchief ordered one of his warriors to take Mandan some water. The warrior balked and opened his mouth to protest.

“Do it!” said Buureg.

The warrior sheathed his sword, then walked forward warily. He took a small skin from his belt, untied it, and handed it to Mandan. The Damaran took a careful drink, but it caught in his throat, and he coughed it out. He tried again, managed to swallow, then took a long drink.

Mandan handed the skin back to the warrior, then looked at the boy, his one good eye glaring. “I killed your father.”

Buureg translated his words.

Mandan slapped at the youth’s knife, feebly but enough to make a point. “So you will kill me. What then?”

Buureg opened his mouth, but Hweilan beat him to it. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she could see where this might be going.

The youth looked to Buureg, obviously not trusting Hweilan’s words. The warchief nodded. “She spoke true.”

“Then,” said the youth in his own tongue, “I will be a warrior this summer. I will raid. I will hunt. I will provide for my mother, my brothers, and my sister. Urlun, son of Duur! I swear it!”

Several of the warriors hooted their encouragement.

“You?” said Mandan, Hweilan translating. “You’ve never hunted as a warrior. Never raided. You think you will be able to feed the four of them through the winter? Winter is hard, boy. And you’re soft.”

The youth growled and raised the knife. Hweilan took a step forward, but Mandan’s words stopped them both.

“Is it true what I have heard?” Mandan looked past the youth to Buureg.

“What?” said the warchief.

“I have heard,” said Mandan, Hweilan still translating for the youth, “that if Urlun cannot provide for them, then Ruuket’s only hope is to take up a spear herself or find another mate. If she hunts and raids, her children will be left alone. If she takes another mate, he can choose whether or not to provide for her children. If he chooses not, the children are cast out to fend for themselves. Is this true?”

The look on Urlun’s face told Hweilan everything she needed to know before Buureg answered, “It is true. It is our way.”

Mandan said, “It is not my way.”

He forced himself to stand. Urlun flinched but did not back away-or lower the knife.

“Hold that blade steady, boy,” said Mandan. Hweilan let Buureg translate this, hoping the warchief’s words would hold more weight.

“My life is yours,” Mandan told Urlun. “Yours and your family’s. Take it. Or hold it. If you hold it, I swear I will spend my days taking care of your family.”

That stunned Ruuket and her family to silence, but some of the warriors cried out in protest.

“Silence!” said Buureg.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Urlun asked Mandan.

Mandan gave the youth’s knife hand another feeble slap. “You have courage, Urlun. But you hold that blade like a boy. I can teach you to do otherwise. I will teach you to do otherwise-and more. If you let me.”

Urlun’s jaw flapped twice. He licked his lips and looked to his mother. But she could only stare.

“And them?” Urlun asked.

“I will see that your family is taken care of.”

Urlun snorted. “You? You’re down to your loincloth.”

Several of the warriors laughed at that.

“I am a duke’s son,” said Mandan. “I will bargain with your people to care for them now. When my duty here is done, you can come to my home with me, where I will treat you with all honor. I will send tribute once a year to your family, until your brothers and sister are grown or until your mother finds another to care for them.”

“Ha!” one of the spear holders said. “We are Razor Heart! No one will take your word.”

Buureg punched the speaker in the face, and the warrior went down in a clatter of armor. “I will take it,” said the warchief. “If Hweilan, Hand of the Hunter, takes it with me. If she will hold the duke’s son to his word, I swear to care for your family myself, Urlun. The Damaran can repay me.”

Hweilan had to admire Buureg’s play. He had just indebted a wealthy Damaran house to himself-and established a potential alliance. She could see how he had attained his status as warchief. She nodded her assent to his plan.

All eyes focused on Urlun. The youth looked from Buureg to Mandan to Hweilan before turning his gaze to Ruuket. “Mother?”

She nodded.

Urlun looked back to Mandan.

“Well?” said Mandan.

“You swear?”

Mandan surged to his feet, chains rattling. Urlun took a step back and all the warriors tensed.

“I told you to hold that blade steady,” said Mandan, and in one quick movement he grabbed the blade in his right hand. But he didn’t yank it from the boy’s grasp. Instead, he squeezed and slid his hand down the steel, opening a deep gash in his palm. He held the fist up, dark blood pouring down his arm.

“I killed your father, Urlun,” said Mandan. “I fought to defend myself, but I killed him in my rage. And though it felt good to do it, I left you fatherless. That is my sin. Torm sees me. May his strong right hand grant me the strength to redeem myself. I will teach you all I know. I will care for your family. I swear it.”

And then Mandan collapsed to his knees, wavered there a moment, and fell face forward into the dirt.

Afterward, while the warriors were bundling Mandan in a cloak and arguing over who would help him down to the fortress, Hweilan sidled up to Buureg.

“Why?” she asked him.

He kept his gaze on his warriors as he answered. “That’s no riddle. The Razor Heart needs all the allies it can find in these troubled times. I had the choice of fighting you, earning the ire of your master, and angering a Damaran lord-or making a friend of both. I chose the wiser path.”

“The Hunter has no friends, Buureg.”

“And you, Hand of the Hunter, what do you have?”

Hweilan walked away. She had no answer to give him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hweilan heard the confrontation long before she saw it. Voices raised in argument-and one voice above all the others. When she walked up to the campfire, Valsun was holding Darric, who was screaming and facing down five hobgoblin warriors, all of whom had clubs in their hands and looked eager to use them. Jaden stood several paces away, eating a bowl of stew. His gaze flitted between the confrontation and four other warriors keeping an eye on him. All too easy to read him. If a fight broke out, Jaden was ready to run.

“Take me to him now, damn you!” Darric screamed. “You take me or I’ll-!”

“Darric!” Hweilan shouted as she approached the fire.

Everyone turned to look at her and the wolf and hobgoblin warriors walking behind her.

“Hweilan?” said Darric.

“What do you think you’re doing? You really think you can threaten them into giving you what you want?”

“They still won’t let me see Mandan! Hweilan, my-”

“Mandan is fine,” said Hweilan. “I just left him. Kaad was seeing to him. I expect your brother will be here before long.”

A look of almost comical bewilderment passed over Darric’s face. “I … I don’t understand. They said-they told me Mandan was to be killed.”

“He was,” said Hweilan. “But we made a deal.”

“A deal?” said Valsun.

“What kind of deal?” said Darric.

Hweilan kept her face still. “The Razor Heart have agreed to release Mandan … if Jaden will marry the queen’s daughter.”

“What?” said one of the hobgoblins near Darric. “Maaqua has no daughter.” But he spoke it in Goblin, so none of the Damarans understood him. But his companion seemed to have caught on and nudged him to silence.

“Your friend here offers his congratulations,” said Hweilan to Jaden.

That did it. Jaden let out a squawk, then ran for it.

None of the hobgoblins bothered to try to stop him. Indeed, none could have. Not only was Jaden surprisingly swift for someone so small and thin, but the hobgoblins all began laughing so hard that they had trouble standing.

Hweilan looked down at Uncle. “I supposed you’d better go get him before he does something stupid. Wutheh Jaden.”

The wolf bounded off into the dark. Hweilan picked up the bowl and finished the contents.

“I still don’t understand,” said Darric. “Jaden married?”

“Who would want to marry that git?” said Valsun. “Poor girl.”

Hweilan smiled. “There’s no marriage. A little fun on my part, I’m afraid.” She set the bowl back down by the fire.

Darric’s jaw tightened in anger. “My brother-!”

“Is fine,” said Hweilan. “We bargained for his life. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when he gets here.”

“He’s really coming, then?” said Valsun.

“As I said, Kaad is seeing to him now. I’m sure you’ll be one of the first things on his mind. So don’t do anything stupid until he gets here. I’m done trying to rescue people for the day.”

She turned and walked away.

“Where are you going?” Darric called after her.

“War council.”

Maaqua held her council in a chamber deep inside the mountain. The vast cavern, wider than a tourney field, overwhelmed the small gathering. Witchlights fluttered around the chamber like down on a breeze, giving a bluish-green light to the proceedings. Those attending sat in the very center of the chamber so that no one could approach without being seen.

Maaqua and Elret were there, as were a few others in rune-decorated robes that Hweilan took to be priestesses or disciples of some sort. Warchief Buureg attended with his favored warriors, and the elders of the Razor Heart’s most prominent families finished the roster. All told, there were only two dozen hobgoblins and Hweilan assembled in the chamber.

When they were all settled, Maaqua looked around the room and scowled. “Where is Rhan?”

Buureg gave Hweilan a warning glance, but she ignored it.

“The Cauldron of the Slain,” said Hweilan. “He stands vigil.”

Maaqua’s scowl deepened, but she said no more.

The queen laid out her intentions to the council. She would send Hweilan and the Damarans on their way with whatever warriors wanted to accompany them. The old schemer phrased it as if Hweilan was going out at Maaqua’s behest to fight the Razor Heart’s enemies. But Hweilan said nothing to contradict her. If the queen had to embellish a bit to get her people on her side, so be it. Maaqua would also send other parties of warriors throughout the mountains in hopes of distracting Highwatch’s attention.

“That won’t matter,” said Hweilan.

“Eh?” said Maaqua.

“Jagun Ghen”-Maaqua flinched at the name-“can sense me. You could send every warrior you have to light fire to the mountains, and he would still know I’m coming. He’ll know right where I am.”

“So what do you intend?” said Buureg. “To just walk right in to Highwatch and challenge him?”

Hweilan shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Fool,” one of the elders muttered.

Hweilan ignored him and fixed her gaze on Maaqua. “But I know where he is. Finding him isn’t the trouble. Getting to him … that is where you could be of help.”

“What do you mean?” said Maaqua.

“Send your warriors. But not to harry any baazuled in the mountains. Attack Highwatch with every warrior you can spare. It won’t be easy. In fact, it will be bloody and brutal. But if your people can keep enough of Jagun Ghen’s forces busy … perhaps I can get to him. And if I can get to him, I can end this.”

None of the councilors balked. They had either seen the baazuled apparate on their doorstep or heard the tale from those who had. There was no question they had to take action. And if they could send an outsider to do the work for them … all the better. Hweilan explained where she needed them to attack and when.

“Very well,” said Maaqua. “It shall be done.”

Hweilan thought the worst of the talking was over and was about to get up to leave-the gunhin was finally wearing off and she actually felt sleepy-when Maaqua said, “There is one other matter.”

The hobgoblins looked at each other, all of them obviously at a loss as to what she meant. Except for Buureg, Hweilan noted.

The warchief motioned to the guards who were standing at the edge of the chamber near the entrance. “Bring him!”

Four hobgoblin warriors in full armor led another. Walking between them, this one wore only a ragged pair of trousers. Even his feet were bare. He didn’t quite limp, but walked very carefully, as if-

It was Hratt, and Hweilan knew exactly why he was walking that way.

The procession stopped just shy of the council. One of the guards behind Hratt raised his spear and struck him behind the knees, knocking the hobgoblin to the floor.

Buureg said, “Hratt, you know why you are here. You were a sworn blade of the Razor Heart. A good killer who served our people well. Until now.”

Hratt raised his head, but his eyes were downcast.

Maaqua cleared her throat and began the accusations. “You beat the guards assigned to watch the condemned Damaran-one of them nearly to death.”

“He saved their lives,” said Hweilan.

“Eh?” said Maaqua. “How in the fuming Hells do you figure that?”

“If Hratt hadn’t beaten them, I would have killed them. They were torturing my friend-and stealing from Ruuket and her children. Whichever way you look at it, what Hratt did to those rats, he did to serve the Razor Heart.”

Maaqua started to reply, but Buureg spoke first.

“I agree.”

The queen shot him a venomous look, and several of the others shook their heads in disappointment.

“I know those Hratt beat,” said Buureg, “or know of them. It is no accident that warriors their age are still doing midnight guard duty. They are worthless curs. Hratt did right.”

Maaqua waved it away. Hweilan caught the slight tremble in the queen’s hand. It seemed she still wasn’t entirely healed after her ordeal with Jagun Ghen.

“As you say, warchief,” said Maaqua. “But what this one did … that I cannot forgive.”

Buureg nodded. “On this, I also agree.”

The warchief stood and drew his knife. “Hratt, you betrayed your oaths. You betrayed your queen. You betrayed the Razor Heart.”

He paused, letting the gravity of the accusations sink in. Hratt did not move. Did not even look up.

“You know the punishment,” said Buureg. “You are condemned to the life of a slave-to continue your service to the Razor Heart as the worthless skulker you are-or to death. You choose.”

Hweilan groaned. She only thought she was done rescuing people tonight.

Hratt stood. Glaring at his guards, daring them to strike him again, he said, “I choose death.”

“So be it,” said Buureg, his tone approving, even proud. He stepped forward, knife raised.

Hweilan surged to her feet, but before she could speak, Maaqua said, “Stop! Warchief, a moment.”

Buureg looked to Maaqua. “My queen?”

“When your warriors found this one trying to flee, what was it he told them?”

“He told them nothing.”

“Ah,” said Maaqua, a mischievous glint in her eye. “But what was it he told you? Afterward?”

The warchief swallowed and cast a sidelong glance at Hweilan. “Hratt said-”

“She threatened to geld me,” said Hratt, pointing at Hweilan. “Subdued me like a lost lamb, stuck my crotch with her knife, and told me she’d finish the cut if I didn’t talk.”

“And you talked?” said Maaqua.

Hratt looked at Buureg’s knife, which he still had not lowered. “I did.”

“Hm,” said Maaqua. “So you betrayed your people to save your manhood. Then death it is. A most just judgment, warchief. But I am not satisfied.”

“What do you mean?” said Buureg.

“Hratt the rat chose to betray me to save his manhood. I demand satisfaction. Take your knife and bring me his manhood. Now.”

A low moan escaped Hratt, and his knees buckled. For a moment Hweilan thought he was fainting, but his collapse turned into a lunge. He barreled into the nearest guard with his shoulder, throwing the hobgoblin into Buureg, then lunged at the next.

The air sizzled, and a flash of light shot past Hweilan, striking Hratt between the shoulder blades. He screamed and collapsed.

Hweilan turned to see Elret standing behind her queen, a wand in one hand, still giving off faint sparks.

Maaqua yawned, then said, “Get up and do your duty, warchief. I’m growing tired.”

“No,” said Hweilan.

Maaqua rolled her eyes. “You aren’t starting that again, are you? Ruuket isn’t going to kill your big friend, and your three idiots are out of their hole. Why do you care what happens to that one?”

Hweilan did care, but it didn’t surprise her. She’d known Hratt only a day and had no strong affection for him. But this wasn’t about Hratt. Maaqua was still stinging from Hweilan tricking her and then having the audacity to save her life. Though she couldn’t strike Hweilan directly, she’d indulge her cruelty for all to see, all the while making it Hweilan’s fault. It was the queen’s way of getting back at the Hand. And her petty cruelty angered Hweilan. But she’d learned-from Gleed, from Ashiin, and even from Buureg today-that the best way to strike an enemy was with reason.

And so she said, “It’s my fault he betrayed you.”

“Don’t be an idiot, girl,” said Maaqua. “He made his choice. He will face the consequences.”

“No.”

Elret pointed the wand at Hweilan.

“Her wand won’t kill you,” said Maaqua. “But it will ruin your evening. I remind you that you are a guest here, girl. You make no demands on me. You are not Razor Heart. You have no say in our judgments.”

“Hratt can come with me.”

“Eh?”

“He chose death. You heard him. Let him come with me to Highwatch. Chances are very good that is a death sentence. And if he does live, will that not prove his loyalty to queen and clan?”

“No,” said Maaqua. “That would only prove he’d do anything to save his danglies.”

“Then I’ll buy him.”

Maaqua threw back her head and laughed. Several of the council joined in. Not Elret. She still held the wand steady on Hweilan.

Buureg pushed himself to his feet. “You heard Hratt. He chose death, not slavery.”

Hweilan looked down at Hratt, who still lay senseless. All four guards stood over him, their spearpoints lowered at his back. “I think,” said Hweilan, “he chose your knife between his ribs or a quick slash across the throat. Not death by gelding.”

One of the elders pushed herself to her feet. The old hobgoblin didn’t look as old as Maaqua, but Hweilan had no doubt it would have taken all ten fingers and then some to add up her decades. Her robes bore many of the same markings and runes of Maaqua and her disciples, but the medallion around her neck gave her away. A double axe head made of steel, its edges stained in what Hweilan was sure was real blood. A priestess of Maglubiyet. Hweilan was no expert on the rituals of goblin religion. But growing up in the shadow of the Giantspires, she and her people would have been fools not to learn the ways of the enemy.

“What he intended doesn’t matter,” said the priestess. “He made his choice. We all heard him. Only a coward turns his back when the rocks grow sharp.”

The councilors slapped their knees in approval as the priestess sat down.

“You speak for the High Chieftain, yes?” said Hweilan.

“I am Nesh,” said the priestess. “I read the omens and slake the Battle Lord’s thirst for blood.”

“Then read his will now,” said Hweilan. “Does the High Chieftain not love treachery when it preserves the strength of his people?”

The priests gathered nodded their assent, while the elders pointedly looked away from Maaqua. Elret’s eyes narrowed, and she still had not lowered the wand.

“He does,” said Nesh.

Hweilan turned her gaze on Maaqua. “Then tell the council, Maaqua, what would have happened had I not found you in your tower and taken you … where I did?”

“Sit down, girl!” said Elret. “The queen has already decided.”

“And you!” said Hweilan. “You were the one who asked me to do it. Begged me.”

All eyes turned to Elret, but the disciple said nothing. Her nostrils flared wide, and Hweilan could actually hear Elret’s teeth grinding.

Hweilan continued, “And I would never have been there-couldn’t have been there-had Hratt not told me the way. His …” Hweilan twisted her lip in an expression of utter disdain. “His ‘treachery’ saved your queen. Saved the Razor Heart. I ask you, Nesh, was this not the will of Maglubiyet?”

The elders and guards all looked to the queen, but every representative from the priesthood turned their eyes on Nesh.

Maaqua stared murderously at Hweilan. Finally, she smiled thinly, shrugged, and looked up at Elret. “Lower that wand and sit.”

Elret stood her ground.

“You defy your queen?” said Buureg.

Elret lowered her wand, then turned and spat. But she sat.

“Read the signs, Nesh,” said Maaqua, though she was watching Hweilan. “Read very carefully.”

The old hobgoblin pulled up the sleeve of her robe, revealing a scrawny arm that seemed more veins and bones than muscle. The forearm was a mass of old scar tissue. She took the axe head medallion, held it up to her forehead as she whispered a prayer, then drew the sharp blade across the back of her arm. She reverently placed the medallion back on her chest.

As she raised the bare arm for all to see, dark blood ran down it in four long rivulets. Nesh closed her eyes, whispered another prayer, then ran her tongue through the blood. She lowered the arm and studied the bloody pattern on her skin.

“Well?” said one of the elders.

“The omen …” Nesh’s voice sounded old and very, very tired. “Unclear. The omen is unclear.”

Behind Hweilan, Hratt was stirring. He groaned and tried to push himself up, but the nearest guard planted his foot on the scorched bit of skin between his shoulders and pressed him back down.

“Get your foot off him,” said Hweilan.

The guard pulled his lips over his teeth in a malicious grin and tightened his grip on his spear. “Make me.”

Hweilan looked to Buureg for support, but the warchief only raised his eyebrows. Hweilan was no expert in reading hobgoblin expressions, but his meaning seemed clear enough: Your move.

She turned her gaze back to the guard. “Last chance.”

The guard twisted his right foot, putting more weight on Hratt’s wound. The other three guards lowered their spears. Two of them were behind Hweilan, and she could feel the nearest spearpoint just above her waist.

Hratt’s right hand shot out, sweeping the guard’s left foot out from under him and rolling before the hobgoblin’s weight could come down on top of him.

Hweilan seized the moment of surprise and turned, grabbing the spear away from the nearest guard behind her. The other was already stabbing for her. She struck the spear aside with the shaft of her own weapon, then followed through, bringing the butt end around in an arc to crash into the weaponless guard’s helmet, sending him staggering into his companion. She brought the shaft around again before either could regain their balance. The guard’s iron braces saved his hand, but the sheer force of Hweilan’s strike broke his arm and he dropped the spear.

“You dare!”

Hweilan glanced aside to see Elret had raised her wand again, but Maaqua seized the disciple’s arm and twisted it aside. The other councilors were simply staring at the show. Even Buureg stood aside, his arms crossed over his chest.

Stepping well away so she could keep an eye on the two guards and members of the council, Hweilan returned her attention to the fight. Hratt held the spear of the first guard, who was on his feet again, but standing well out of reach. The other guard held his own spear in front of him. He kept his eyes fixed on Hratt but called out, “Orders?”

“Kill him,” said Buureg. “If you can.”

Hratt gave the guard no time to consider. Roaring in fury, he charged, swinging his spear to knock aside his opponent’s. The spearless guard barged in behind him. But Hratt continued his charge. With his opponent’s spear out of the way, Hratt brought his own around in a circle, reversing it so that the iron spike sliced behind him while the butt end slammed into the fork of the guard’s legs. Breath and every bit of strength whooshed out of the guard, and he collapsed. The onrushing guard tried to stop before impaling himself on Hratt’s spear, but his feet slipped and he skidded onto his rump. Hratt planted the spearpoint under the guard’s chin and pressed until the hobgoblin’s head was on the ground, the sharp iron making a bloody dimple in the cleft of his throat. Hratt’s chest was heaving, spittle flying from his lips. Hweilan saw the great effort it took him to press the spear no further.

“Warchief?” said Hratt through clenched teeth.

Buureg looked to Maaqua.

Maaqua released her hold on Elret and called to Hratt. “You chose death, did you not?”

“If my warchief wants my throat, I’ll bare it,” said Hratt. “If he wants my heart, I’ll plunge the steel myself. But no one is gelding me.”

Hweilan saw several of the elders nod in admiration. Maaqua saw it, too, for her eyes almost disappeared in the depth of her scowl.

“This human girl wants you as her slave,” said Maaqua. “Would you change you mind and choose that?”

Hratt glanced up at Hweilan, and his gaze lost none of its anger. “I am no one’s slave. Not today. Not ever.”

Maaqua sighed. “Alas, Hand of the Hunter, it seems you will not add another Razor Heart to your collection. Do you renounce your claim?”

Hweilan wasn’t aware that she had made any true claim. She’d been trying to save Hratt’s life. Nothing more. But she said, “I do.”

“The omens are unclear,” said Maaqua. “It would be foolish to rush to judgment, since Hratt did play a part-however small-in helping me to spy out our enemy’s intentions.”

No mention of saving her life, Hweilan noted.

“So, Warchief,” said Maaqua, “do you not agree that we should place Hratt’s fate in the hands of the High Chieftain? If his treachery was indeed tied to Hweilan, and if that treachery did help the clan, then do you not think it best that he continue?”

Buureg shook his head, confused. “What do you mean, my queen?”

“Send him with this girl,” said Maaqua. “Let him prove that his actions serve the Razor Heart.”

Buureg looked to Hratt. “What say you?”

Hratt looked at Hweilan, then to Buureg. “I agree.”

“So be it,” said Maaqua. “But know this, Hratt. If you betray the Razor Heart in this, I’ll do far worse than geld you.”

After the council, Maaqua returned to chambers she kept in the middle regions of the fortress. Not her private chambers, in which only her disciples were permitted to go, but a series of comfortable caves where she received visitors and supplicants.

Maaqua had to drink one of her least favorite potions just to keep her eyes open long enough for the one she had summoned to arrive. She was still weak from her ordeal with that demon sitting in Highwatch. Weaker than she had been in as long as she could remember. The years were catching up with her. Had it not been for Gleed …

Thinking on that put Maaqua in a murderous mood, but she had to handle this matter carefully.

A knock at her chamber door, followed by Elret’s voice. “My queen?”

“Open,” said Maaqua.

The door opened and Elret led in the warrior Maaqua had summoned. There was certainly no lack of warriors in the Razor Heart willing to do what she needed, but those who had the cunning to accomplish it … that was a small list.

“Thank you for coming.”

The hobgoblin kneeled, his head low to the ground.

Maaqua looked to Elret. “Leave us,” she said. “Wait in the outer chamber and see that we are not disturbed.”

Maaqua did not miss the look of wounded pride on her disciple’s face. That was another gnat Maaqua might have to swat soon. She did not doubt Elret’s devotion, nor underestimate her ambition, but the girl was a sycophant. That made her weak. And Maaqua could not afford a weak ring in her armor. Not at her age.

Elret closed the door. The sound of her footfalls receded.

Maaqa placed her right hand on the orb in the bed next to her and muttered an incantation. A minor cantrip, but it ensured they would not be overheard.

“Strange days,” said Maaqua. “Strange days for the Razor Heart.”

“Yes, my queen.” The hobgoblin still had not risen from his bow.

“It seems they will grow stranger still,” she continued. “A time of great change is upon us. Highwatch will soon be empty of our enemies for the first time in generations. Damara is weak because of the squabblings brought on by their usurper. The Razor Heart will triumph, but we will need strong wills to conquer. Yes?”

“Yes, my queen.”

“Times of change … times of struggle … such times reveal things to the wise. In such times do we find our strengths in unforeseen places-and reveal our weaknesses.”

The hobgoblin said nothing. His head was still bowed, but he had raised his eyes. Curious eyes. A hungry gaze. Good. Just what she needed.

“It pains me to say this, but these strange days have shown to me that those I thought strong are weak. This girl, this”-Maaqua’s lip twisted into a sneer-“Hand of the Hunter, this Feywild witch has captured the devotion of the Champion of the Razor Heart. Even Warchief Buureg has fallen under her spell.”

“It pains me to hear it, my queen.”

“I am old, but I am no fool. This witch is going east with the dawn, to destroy the demon in Highwatch. I have no doubt that Rhan will go with her, as will more of our warriors. I don’t know if she will succeed, but I do know that she has the strength to weaken our enemy. If she dies in her struggle, I will finish off this monster. I will bind him to serve me. If she survives … well, she will have served her purpose. But I cannot allow her to spread further sickness among the Razor Heart. Do you agree?”

“I do, my queen.”

“You will go with her,” said Maaqua. “You will serve her in any and every way. You will guard and protect her. Until the demon is vanquished. And then … then you will do what needs to be done. You understand?”

“Yes, my queen.”

“Do this for me. Do this for the Razor Heart. And when you return in triumph, the Razor Heart will need a new champion. And perhaps a new warchief.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

After leaving the war council, Hweilan returned to the cavern where she’d last seen the Damarans. She thought the hour was past midnight. Their fire had burned down to embers, and all four men were snoring in their pallets. Hweilan used her pack for a pillow and curled inside her own furs. Uncle stood over her, still, absolutely silent.

Hweilan closed her eyes. It was the first moment of absolute quiet she had enjoyed in days. With it came the faint but steady beat in the deep part of her mind, the pulse that let her know the presence of the Enemy. Even with her eyes closed in the cave, she could have pointed straight to Highwatch. The relentless rhythm of that connection reminded her of the danger she faced. But the action of the past days weighed on her, and she could not longer resist the exhaustion.

She did not dream. Not in images, anyway. But something else joined the drumbeat in her mind. It was like a fading echo, with music that brought other sensations-

Warmth like summer on her skin.

The caress of wind stirring her hair.

The smell of a flower for which she had no name.

The taste of cold, unsullied water.

Wolfsong from distant hills.

Hweilan woke, not gradually, but instantly. Fully awake. Uncle was watching her, his eyes reflecting the firelight.

Firelight …?

Hweilan sat up and saw the fire crackling again. The Damarans were still sleeping. But someone had added the last of their wood. She put her hand on the blanket to throw it off, and noted the feel of the fabric. Not the fur in which she’d bundled herself for sleep. She looked down and saw a cloak. A Damaran cloak. She looked back to her four companions and saw that Darric no longer wore his cloak and had lain closer to the fire for the extra warmth. He’d covered her while she slept.

She studied his face. He was filthy, having gone far too many days without laying a razor to his cheeks, but gone were all signs of the fear, anger, or determination that she’d seen on him over the past few days. Watching him sleep, she could just barely see the boy she had once met.

The other boys had knocked him down in their game, and when they saw that their words wouldn’t keep him down, they used their fists. There had been five of them-three at least two years older than Darric and all of them larger. Hweilan had been watching for some time, hiding in the shadows under the ivy. The only children she’d play with in Highwatch were servants and Nar. She hadn’t been afraid of the young Damarans, but they seemed strange to her, their play both boisterous and mannered, every last one of them aware of whose parents were of highest station.

When the largest boy punched Darric in the gut, Darric bent over, struggling to breathe. But he hadn’t cried. He’d charged and swiped a fist at his opponent, even though he was clumsy and hurt. The larger boy batted away the punch and slammed his own fist into Darric’s nose.

Darric went down. The other boys cheered and laughed, and when Darric got up, they cheered even louder. Their leader ordered Darric to kneel. He didn’t, so the brute hit him again. But Darric got up again.

Then three of them went after him. And that had been all Hweilan could stand. Scith had always taught her there was no warrior’s glory in the strong defeating the weak or many attacking few. Perhaps that had been in her mind. Or perhaps it was all the times her father, her uncle, and her grandfather had told her it was a knight’s sworn duty to defend those who could not defend themselves. Perhaps …

But probably not. Hweilan knew, knew to this day, that those five boys had simply made her mad. There was no thought of glory. No desire to defend another. Seeing their cruelty made Hweilan furious beyond any reason.

She took out out the length of swiftstag antler that Scith had given her. He’d been teaching her how to carve it into an intricate piece of jewelry like the ones treasured by his people. It was no dagger, but it was still sharp on one end. She brandished it and charged, calling them all cowards and craven. The big one doing most of the beating had laughed, which only fueled Hweilan’s fury. He stepped forward, reaching for her weapon, and promised to teach her a lesson if she didn’t run back to her mother.

And so Hweilan had stabbed him. Not badly. She’d simply jabbed at his palm. But she’d put her strength into it, and when the boy jerked his hand back, it tore a nasty gouge down his palm. He’d screamed, and for a moment there had been genuine anger in his gaze along with the pain, and he might have come after her.

Had she let him. Hweilan charged first, screaming and fully intending to swipe that sneer off his face. She probably would have, too, had her mother not come on the scene. Merah had actually had to wrestle the antler out of Hweilan’s grip.

Later, when punishments were being handed out to all involved, Hweilan had gone to the chamber in the holdfast where she stayed with her mother’s maidservant. But she’d been alone in the room, forcing herself not to cry. Before banishing her to the chamber, her father had given her the lecture of when to fight and when not to and how to know the difference. Hweilan had scarcely listened. But when Merah realized this, she became furious. Gone was the lady of the court. Hweilan beheld the true wrath of her “barbarian” mother. But still, Hweilan did not cry.

As she sat by the chamber window, she had heard her parents talking in the courtyard below. Her father spoke of how furious the duke was at what Hweilan had done to his son, even though the other boy, the young Soravian named Darric, had said the other boys were in the wrong. Still, it had not assuaged the duke’s anger.

“The duke’s son is a brute and a coward,” Merah said. “And if the duke understood half of what true honor really means, he’d have thanked Hweilan and thrashed the boy.”

Hweilan watched as her father took her mother’s hand and said, “Hweilan is the granddaughter of the High Warden. She is the child of a knight. She must learn to behave as such.”

Much of the fury Merah had directed at Hweilan still lit in her gaze. “Those five were beating on that other boy. Hweilan was the only one there behaving as a knight should.”

Her father had laughed at that, then said, “I think it might be best if you stay with Hweilan tomorrow. I fear the duke’s court would not take kindly to such honesty.”

Three years later, next to her father’s dead body, her mother gave her the kishkoman and told her: Your father is dead, Hweilan. Death comes to us all. Many in this world are stronger than you. They may try to take your life, and they may succeed. But you must never give it to them. Make them pay, Hweilan. Make them pay.

Hweilan pulled the kishkoman out of her shirt and looked at it, remembering that day. Since then, many had tried to take her life. They’d tried, and paid the price.

When Darric reminded her of their first meeting, he’d told her something his own father had told him: It was no shame to be beaten, but there was no greater shame than letting yourself be beaten.

“Good advice,” Hweilan said.

Uncle gave a low whine.

“Yes,” she said. “Time to go.”

She was on her way up the mountain when dawn was only a hint of light in the east. Uncle padded along beside her. Despite only a few hours of sleep, she felt wide awake. Even jittery. Aftereffects of the gunhin, or perhaps just excitement about what the day would bring. If the hobgoblins knew the mountain paths half as well as they claimed, and if they didn’t run into too much trouble, she could be back in Highwatch in three days. On the third evening, the moon would rise full. Hweilan did not miss the implications of that. She knew she would need all her skills and all the help she could get to vanquish Jagun Ghen.

… Jagun Ghen is not just any enemy. He is ancient and cunning, and he does not know mercy or pity or remorse. Strike him all you like, and you are only going to rile him.

Ashiin’s words. Hweilan had not forgotten them.

But Jagun Ghen had taken everything she loved. She had trained and sacrificed and fought and killed with only one goal in front of her: revenge. Stopping Jagun Ghen before he could become a god, preventing his demonic contagion from spreading … all well and good. But the plain fact was that Hweilan had felt nothing but fury and loss for so long. And in three days she would either be dead, or faced with finding another reason to live.

She smelled the smoke long before she and Uncle reached the height. Uncle fell back, still following but at a distance.

Hweilan walked into the Cauldron of the Slain just as true dawnlight began to peek over the mountain. Her mother’s pyre had burned down to a heap of smoldering ashes. Rhan sat cross-legged, back straight as a new arrow, his black sword across his lap. He was bare-chested despite the cold, his breath steaming. Dried blood caked his chest from two cuts, running from his left shoulder to his waist, and another crossing them.

He saw her staring at the blood.

“I swore an oath,” said Rhan, “to honor your mother. One cut for each symbol in her name.” He ran a finger down the two long cuts. The Razor Heart, like many of the goblin peoples, used syllabic runes, so that MERAH was rendered with only two symbols. Then he ran a finger down the cross cut. “And one over my heart, a vow to avenge her death. In blood I have sworn it.”

Hweilan nodded her thanks but could not bring herself to speak. Looking down into the ashes, she saw that Rhan had done his work well. Her mother’s flesh had gone to ash. All that remained were scorched and shattered bits of the larger bones.

Rhan stood in one fluid motion, planted the point of his sword in the ground, and said, “Death to our enemies, Hweilan daughter of Merah.”

Hearing those words, something inside Hweilan snapped. She was the Hand of the Hunter. Ashiin had made her hard, sharp, and swift. Gleed had taught her craft and cunning. And Kesh Naan had given her wisdom. They had planted the seeds, and the blood of Nendawen had made them grow. But the soil nourishing all of it was still Hweilan of Highwatch. Hweilan, daughter of Merah and Ardan. A child of warriors.

Rhan’s brow furrowed as he watched the tears running down Hweilan’s cheeks. “Death to our enemies, Hweilan,” he said, quieter this time but with more feeling.

“And gods help anyone … anyone who gets in our way,” said Hweilan, and in that moment she wasn’t thinking of Jagun Ghen at all. The only image in her mind was of an antlered figure, his hand dripping blood, his eyes shining green fire.

Hweilan drew the knife Menduarthis had given her and Gleed had taught her how to use. She held it in front of her and whispered the incantation. The fine etchings in the blade sparkled in the growing dawnlight, and a wind swirled around the Cauldron of the Slain. It roared, a maelstrom of air and dirt gathering force. Then Hweilan released it. The whirlpool of air shot out in a river, slamming into the pile of ashes at her feet, scattering them in a huge cloud. Rhan’s and Hweilan’s hair whipped at their faces.

Hweilan channeled the air upward, not unlike how Menduarthis had used the wind to lift himself in their flight from Kunin Gatar. But she sent her mother’s ashes upward, farther and farther until she could hold the spell no longer. It was enough. The wind summoned by the knife faded, blending with the upper air currents.

Uncle stood on the rim of the Cauldron and let out a long, low howl.

Hweilan’s tears had stopped, but ash had caked to her wet cheeks. She did not wipe it away. She took the bone mask from where it rode on her belt, slipped it over her face, and tied it on. It fit like a second skin, and the familiar presence of Ashiin settled around her.

“Come, Rhan,” she said. “Death to our enemies.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Hweilan, Rhan, and the Wolf did not go back to the heart of the fortress, but took the outer paths and walked to the main gates, where Hweilan had first met Maaqua days ago. A large gathering was already waiting for her.

Hweilan saw Darric, Valsun, and Jaden standing in the main courtyard. The men were still dressed in their ragged clothes and armor, and their weapons had been returned to them.

Mandan stood with them, and by the heat in his eyes Hweilan knew Kaad had been generous with the gunhin. He still wore his armor, but over it he wore the furs and leather of a hobgoblin warrior-and it suited him. With his long hair blowing in the morning breeze and his full beard, he looked much more like a fierce tribal bone-crusher than a Damaran knight. He even had a new club. Not as thick as his Damaran weapon, but it was longer and banded in black iron.

Beside Mandan, the young hobgoblin Urlun stood leaning on a brand-new spear, an axe tucked into his belt. A fine weapon for cutting wood or cleaving skulls. Urlun looked very much like the dozens of young Nar Hweilan had seen growing up-his face set in a fierce scowl that he desperately hoped would hide the fear in his eyes.

Standing apart from this first group, eighteen hobgoblin warriors in light armor lounged around piles of supplies stuffed into packs. Volunteers. Hweilan didn’t doubt that many of them had been sent by Maaqua.

Lingering in obvious discomfort between the two groups was Hratt. He had no armor at all. Just warm clothes. But he had two daggers and a wicked hand axe strapped to his belt, another knife tucked into a pocket on his boot, a sword on his back next to a full quiver of arrows, and an unstrung horn bow in one hand.

Hweilan walked up to him. “Are you going to be able to walk with all of that?”

He did not smile. “I know where we’re going. I don’t want to get killed for lack of fighting back.”

“None of that is going to be any use against what is waiting for us at Highwatch.”

Hratt cocked his head toward the group of hobgoblins. “It isn’t Highwatch I’m worried about.”

Hweilan nodded her understanding and walked over to the hobgoblins, two of which stood to meet her. Rhan stepped forward to make the introductions.

“This one,” he said, pointing to a lanky brute with only one ear, “is Vurgrim. He leads the twelve zugruuk.”

This was not a word Hweilan knew. “Zugruuk?”

“It means,” said Vurgrim, “that in battle, we are the first ones in. The real killers.”

The swords he and his twelve wore looked suited to the task. They weren’t even two feet long, but they were wider than her palm and looked as thick as two of her fingers. With enough strength behind them, Hweilan knew they would crack even thick plate armor. Each one of the small shields strapped to the zugruuk’s forearms had a curved spike off the top and bottom rim, and every one was bloodstained.

“Did Maaqua or Buureg send you?” asked Hweilan.

Vurgrim sneered. “No one sent us. We heard you needed killing done. That means you need us.”

“And the other raiding parties?”

“Already gone,” said Vurgrim. “Left before first light. They’ll take the northern and southern trails to Highwatch, while we come up the middle.”

Hweilan turned her attention to the other hobgoblin. Two full quivers of arrows rode his back, and he held a horn bow in one hand. Tucked into his belt was a wood-handled weapon capped with an iron hammerhead with a sharp spike behind it.

“And you?” Hweilan asked.

“Flet,” he said. “I lead the four archers.”

“Your warriors are good?”

“We’re the best.”

Vurgrim bristled at this.

“If it comes to a fight,” she said, “aim for the eyes. Plant an arrow in each one. And you”-she turned to Vurgrim-“tell your warriors to lop off pieces. The head if you can. If not, take out the arms.”

“This will kill the monsters of Highwatch?” asked Vurgrim.

“No,” said Hweilan. “But it might slow them down long enough for me to kill them.”

Hweilan turned her back before they could barrage her with more questions. She walked over to the Damarans. Darric and Valsun stood straighter and offered her a small bow, but both eyed her bone mask warily. She knew it could be an unsettling sight, which was rather the point.

“Good morning, lady,” said Valsun.

Hweilan looked at each of them in turn. They all needed a shave and a bath, but there was none of the fear she’d hoped to find. If anything, they looked eager.

“You don’t have to come,” said Hweilan. “You know what we’re getting into. Darric, take your people and go home.”

Darric held her gaze. “Where you go, I go.”

Valsun chuckled and said, “And where he goes, I go.”

“We owe you our lives,” said Mandan. “I will not shirk that debt.”

They all looked to Jaden, who blinked and looked at each of them in turn. “Well, I’m not walking back to Damara by myself, now, am I?”

Darric was the weak link then. If he broke and decided to leave, the others would follow.

“You remember that horror you faced in the mountains? How only one of them slaughtered most of your party? Even the wizard-”

“You think I could forget?” Anger flashed in Darric’s eyes. “Those men died because of me.”

She didn’t agree but didn’t contradict him either. She needed him thinking like a leader.

“Where I’m going,” she said, “there won’t be just one of those monsters. There will be dozens. Perhaps hundreds. And their lord …” Hweilan looked to each of the men in turn. “That thing you faced in the mountains was a puppy. Jagun Ghen is a rabid hound. You think those men died because of you, Darric? Yet you want to lead these men into a place a hundred times worse.”

Darric opened his mouth to speak, but Valsun spoke first. “We are knights. We swore an oath. If this demon is half as bad as you say, he’s building a kingdom near our homeland. We cannot allow that. If we turn away, we’re worse than cowards. We’re traitors. If I die fighting this lord of demons, I will not be ashamed when I stand before Torm.”

“And if I ask Maaqua to throw you back in that hole until I’m well away?”

Darric snorted. “You think you could trust that old adder not to throw us in a cook pot the moment you’re gone?”

Hweilan sighed and looked away. “You won’t be any safer where we’re going.”

“If we die,” said Darric, “we die fighting.”

“It’s on your head, then. My days of saving you and your friends are over. I’m going to kill that thing. It’s going to take everything I have-and perhaps more.”

“Then you should take everyone willing to help you.”

It was done, then. She’d tried. Hweilan looked to Urlun and addressed him in his own tongue. “You should stay. See to your family. This hunt is too much to be your first.”

He stood straight and glared at her. “I am no coward. And your big friend must hold to his word.”

Mandan scowled at not being able to understand them, then pointed his chin at Rhan, who was standing apart from everyone, the fresh cuts and dried blood still prominent on his chest. “What happened to your friend?”

Hweilan answered, “He took an oath. He’ll keep it. Don’t worry about him.” She lowered her voice. “But those eighteen over there? Watch your backs.”

They left without ceremony or even so much as a farewell from Maaqua. Hweilan did not mind. If she never saw the queen again, that would sit with her just fine. Over the past year she’d met two queens, and both of them had imprisoned and tried to kill her. She’d had her fill of royalty.

The Razor Heart had provisioned them well and knew how to pack in order to move fast in their country. The weather held, and they made good time, eating as they walked and stopping only to sleep the first night. Hweilan could see the toll it took on the Damarans, but she gave them each a small bit of kanishta root to keep them moving.

Hweilan told the hobgoblins she wanted to approach Highwatch from the western mountains rather than through the main gates at the entrance of Nar-sek Qu’istrade. The hobgoblins knew their country well, and Hweilan let them lead the way. But midway through their second day the surrounding peaks began to look familiar to Hweilan, and she knew they weren’t far from the Long Road. Less than a day’s ride from where the Gap ended, the last hills broke themselves against the mountains, and the grasslands of Nar stretched to the horizon.

The steady beat in Hweilan’s brain was growing stronger with every mile. She could feel Jagun Ghen pulling her in, like a fish on a hook. But nothing else behind or around them. None of Jagun Ghen’s minions. Either the baazuled were all waiting in Highwatch or the demon had found a way to hide them from her senses.

They walked on a trail that cut its way through sparse brush and trees as it snaked its way midway up the side of a mountain. The hobgoblins were spread out ahead, only the last few stragglers in view. Rhan followed just behind them. The Damarans, Urlun, and Hratt brought up the rear. When the going was easy enough that they could talk, Mandan had begun teaching Urlun to speak Damaran. In return, Urlun taught Mandan a bit of the goblin language.

They came to a small rise where the trees disappeared and the path lay open to the sky. The hobgoblins stopped, weapons in hand, eyeing Hweilan warily as she approached. Beyond, the path fell down a low rise for a mile or more before cutting through a gap. Hweilan saw ravens circling down there just as a howl sounded-four high yips followed by a long, undulating song.

Hweilan stopped beside Rhan. “What is it?”

Crouching on a nearby boulder, Vurgrim waited for the Damarans to catch up, then said, “See the ravens? Something down there is dead. Or lots of somethings by the number of ravens.”

Hweilan said, “Be ready.”

“Ready for what?” said Jaden.

“For whatever killed them,” said Hweilan. She strung her bow.

The path ran through the gap and, one of the hobgoblins explained, went for another half mile until it ended at the Long Road, which they would have to take for a while before breaking off to another trail that led back into the heights behind Highwatch. After that, their knowledge ended.

When they approached the site where the ravens were circling, Hweilan could see many more were already feasting on the bodies and fighting over the choicest bits. The hobgoblins were wary and went in under strict formation. Flet and his archers held back, each with an arrow notched to his bowstring. Vurgrim and his warriors rushed forward, four at a time, then stopped and watched all directions while four more ran past them, stopped, and did the same.

Hweilan had strung her bow, but the arrow she held was not one of her sacred weapons. She didn’t need it. If a baazuled was within ten miles, she would have sensed it, and she knew there wasn’t one for miles. Besides, ravens would never come near one of Jagun Ghen’s minions.

Dozens of smaller fissures broke the mountainside here, and it seemed that a party had chosen one of them as a campsite. The remains of a large campfire lay on the ground in the middle of a ring of blackened stones. As Hweilan and her companions entered the hollow, the ravens on the bodies cried out and took to the air, joining their fellows above who were still calling out the feast.

It was hard to be certain, because nothing had been left whole and the ravens had been eating awhile, but judging from the number of legs and heads strewn about, Hweilan guessed they were looking at the remains of at least fifteen horses. And the tracks they had come upon on the path suggested still others had fled.

“Not hobgoblin work,” said Rhan. “Even if the Black Wolf or Blood Mountain clans were raiding this far, they never would have left this much meat behind.”

Holding his hand over his mouth and nose, Valsun stepped around the entrails and blood to kneel beside what was left of one of the horses. “Saddles are Damaran, not Nar.”

“Where are the riders?” asked Jaden.

No one answered. Scattered among the carnage, Vurgrim’s zugruuk found discarded weapons-a shield, two swords, and a shattered lance.

But Hweilan knew where the riders had gone. Through the reek of blood and offal and raven droppings, another scent came through, and it hit Hweilan’s brain like a spark on pitch. Baazuled had done this. The Damarans had been taken to become new homes for the demons-or to feed those who had already arrived.

Behind her, Darric cried out.

Hweilan whirled, bow raised, but there was no danger. Darric was on his knees beside the mangled remains of a horse’s head and neck.

Valsun ran to him. “What is it?”

“Look!” shouted Darric, pointing at the head. “Look at the bridle and bit.”

Valsun did, and when he rose and turned to look at the others, his face was pale and stricken.

“What is it?” said Jaden.

“The symbol on the metal,” said Valsun. “It’s Soravian. From my lord’s stables.”

“You mean … these were from your father’s house?”

Darric was still on his knees, but his voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. “They came looking for us.”

“No,” said Hweilan, and she made her voice as cold and heartless as she could. “They came for you, Darric. Your father sent men to find you. And now they’re dead. Or worse. How many more have to die? Go home, Darric.”

Darric turned to look at her. Tears ran down his cheeks, but his eyes were full of rage. He pushed himself to his feet and took two steps toward Hweilan before Rhan stepped in and grabbed him by both shoulders.

“Step back,” Rhan told him in Damaran.

Mandan raised his club. “You should take your hands off him.”

All the hobgoblins turned to watch. Vurgrim smiled, his eyes shining in anticipation.

Valsun stepped between Rhan and Mandan. “That’s enough!”

Darric shrugged out of Rhan’s grip, turned his back on all of them, and stormed off.

“Excitable, isn’t he?” Vurgrim said in Goblin.

“Shut your mouth,” said Rhan and Mandan at the same time, then scowled at one another.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

They left the place of slaughter to the ravens. Hweilan had hoped that seeing his own people butchered might finally crack Darric’s resolve and send him home. Instead it did the reverse. His companions sheathed their weapons, but Darric walked with his blade in hand. Although Valsun and Mandan tried speaking to him several times, Darric kept his mouth shut and his gaze fixed on the path.

Late that afternoon, they left the mountains and entered the first of the foothills. But these were the Giantspires, and even the foothills were hard going. Still, they were now back in country Hweilan knew well. She had spent many happy childhood days in these woods with Scith and her family. And so Hweilan felt the change in the land much more acutely than the others did. No small animals rustled through the underbrush, but flies were thick in the shadows. Other than the occasional raven, no bird flitted through the trees. And even the few ravens seemed to be watching. As they passed an old, lightning-blasted tree, one alighted on a blackened branch. The bird did not cry out; it just sat there, watching them.

One of Flet’s archers picked up a stone.

“Don’t,” said Hweilan.

He turned and glared at her, but seeing the look on her face, he dropped his stone.

After they had moved on and the hobgoblin had walked out of earshot, Darric walked up to Hweilan. “What was that about?”

They were the first words he had spoken to anyone since leaving the ambush site.

“What?” she said.

“The raven. You stopped the archer from throwing the rock at it.”

Hweilan told him the story much as Gleed had once told it to her.

“In the days of creation, Raven and his clan were all the colors of the rainbow and his song was the sweetest in all the airs. Of all those who fly, Raven was dearest to Dedunan, the Forest Father-the one you know as Silvanus. But then came Jagun Ghen. Raven did not fear his fire, flying through flame and smoke in his hatred of our enemy. That hatred still burns in them, and as a sign of the smoke through which they have passed and the dark ones they hunt, their feathers are black, their song made harsh by smoke and blood. And so shall it be until the Last Day.”

Darric was silent for a while, and Hweilan thought he was preparing himself for a lecture on the holiness of Torm and how she had forsaken the path of her forefathers. But when he spoke, his voice was only curious.

“So the ravens, they are … watchmen of Silvanus? That is what you believe?”

A cautious smile crept onto Hweilan’s lips. “Something like that. More like allies.”

“They fight our fight, then?”

She shook her head. “Don’t think of them as servants. They fight the same fight we do. But if you think we can command them …”

“You need to understand something, Hweilan.”

Here it comes, she thought.

“You think I disapprove of you. Of what you’ve become. Of what you’re doing.”

“Darric-”

“No. Let me speak, Hweilan. Please. What’s happened to you … I confess I don’t understand much of it. But over the past days I have watched you fight and risk your life to save people you barely know. You even saved Maaqua. And now you are doing it again, fighting to save others. If you honor Silvanus or this Master of the Hunt or whomever in doing so, it is your deeds that matter. You’re fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves. And whether you admit it or not, Torm is on your side. And Mandan and Valsun and I, we are his strong right hand. Stop slapping it away.”

She watched him out of the side of her eyes as they walked. She’d never seen a look of such earnestness on anyone.

She said, “The tree of justice grows from the blood of the just.”

Words she had heard her father and Soran recite more times than she could count. They always did it after strapping on weapons and checking armor. They stood still with closed eyes, each man offering his own prayers, then recited those words. It gave them strength to give their lives in the service of others, believing that their sacrifice would not be in vain. Seeing that image again brought tears to Hweilan’s eyes, and she was glad for the mask covering her face.

“Yes,” said Darric.

“And this fight,” she said, “if it takes Mandan or Valsun’s life-or that young whelp following your brother who is only trying to care for his family-if they die in this fight, will you be able to live with that?”

Darric sighed. “Hweilan, the only way to stop evil in this world is to stand against it. If others will stand with you, embrace them. If my brothers die in that fight, then I will do everything in my power to show them that I would do the same for them. The rest … let the gods decide.”

That night, the group camped in a tangled copse of brush and trees on a high hill. Had any fires been burning in Highwatch, they could have seen them, for the fortress lay across the valley. In fact, they were not all that far from the graveyard where Hweilan had first faced Jatara and the Nar thug on the day Highwatch fell.

Both Rhan and Valsun cautioned the others against lighting fires.

“No sense in announcing our presence,” Valsun told them.

“It won’t matter,” said Hweilan. She was sitting on the ground, her back to a tree, her bow and bone mask on her lap, and Uncle beside her. The others lounged around, rubbing sore muscles or running whetstones along their swords. “He knows I’m here. He knows right where I am. Fires or not … it doesn’t matter.”

“Then why has no one tried to stop us,” said Jaden, “or come after us?”

All eyes looked to Hweilan.

“Why bother hunting your prey if it is coming to you?”

“So we’re walking into a trap?” said Valsun. “That’s your plan? Spring the trap?”

“Why?” said Vurgrim.

“Because this prey intends to kill him.”

The hobgoblins’ scowls deepened, but they kept sharpening their swords. The Damarans all exchanged glances, waiting for the other to speak.

“Well,” said Jaden at last. “Fires or not?”

“You cold, little man?” said Flet.

“No,” said Jaden and spat into the brush. “I could walk with snow down my pants, and that root Hweilan gave us would keep me warm. But if any visitors from Highwatch do decide to pay us a visit, I sure as the Hells are hot don’t want to fight them in the dark.”

And so they lit fires. They had no tea, but the Damarans heated water and threw in the strips of dried goat meat to soften them up. The waxing moon climbed high and bright into the sky, dimming the stars. No one could sleep. The Damarans were still running on the effects of the kanishta root, and the thought of a fight had the hobgoblins excited. After the meal, Darric, Mandan, and Valsun looked at each other. An unspoken thought seemed to pass between them, and they stood.

“Where’re you lot going?” said Vurgrim.

“We go to pray,” said Valsun.

The hobgoblins chuckled.

“In the dark?” said Vurgrim. “Your god will keep you safe in this dark?”

The Damarans shrugged off the jibe.

Mandan raised his voice for everyone, but he looked to Urlun when he spoke. “Anyone who wishes may join us.”

Hweilan didn’t think Urlun had enough Damaran to decipher Mandan’s words, but he obviously understood the meaning behind them. He glanced at the other hobgoblin warriors, then avoided Mandan’s gaze.

“As you wish,” said Mandan.

The Damarans walked off into the brush, making a terrible racket as they went.

“Hey, little man,” Vurgrim said to Jaden. “Why don’t you go pray with your friends?”

Jaden was running his own whetstone down his short sword. He stopped long enough to throw more sticks on the fire. “The gods can hear me just fine right here.”

The hobgoblins roared with laughter. All except for Hratt. He was sitting apart from the others, his head resting against a tree, his eyes closed. But Hweilan knew he wasn’t sleeping. She’d seen his eyelids crack open now and then, keeping watch on his fellow hobgoblins.

When the moon rose high enough that its blue light began to bleed through the branches, Hweilan stood and gathered her own weapons.

“Hey,” said Vurgrim, speaking in Goblin. “You going off to pray, too?”

“Everyone stay here,” she replied in kind. “If trouble comes from Highwatch, I’ll know it. If anything else comes at me in the dark, I’ll strike first and ask why afterward. And Vurgrim?”

“Eh?”

“A few prayers wouldn’t hurt you. I don’t think Maaqua would mind.”

His warriors watched him, eager for his reaction, but he only stared daggers at Hweilan.

She looked down at Uncle. “Chulet, Uncle. Keep an eye on them.”

Hweilan donned her bone mask to see better in the dark, then walked away.

“I am no one’s lackey, girl!” Vurgrim called after her. “You hear me?”

Hweilan left by the same way Darric and the others had, but she soon veered off. She really didn’t think the hobgoblins would try anything until after Jagun Ghen had been dealt with, but she wasn’t willing to bet their lives on it. Hobgoblin warriors won status by conquest-treacherous or otherwise-and Hweilan had more faith in the benevolence of scorpions than that of Maaqua.

At the edge of the copse, she stopped, sat cross-legged, and lay her unstrung bow across her lap. Arrows would be useless in such thick brush. She reached into her pack and withdrew the longest of the stakes she had made. Hrayeh ran down its length, and, looking at them through the bone mask’s eyes, she could see the power in them pulsing like a heartbeat. She planted the stake in the ground before her and closed her eyes.

Times like this, with the quiet in the dark and the moon and stars as the only light, she could most strongly feel the presence of Ashiin. There were no words, and she couldn’t hear Ashiin’s voice, but the Fox’s presence was there, as both a comfort and an added strength.

With Ashiin’s mind touching her own, she could hear every leaf and branch rattle and scratch in the breeze. She could hear the voices of the hobgoblins and even the crackle of the fires a hundred yards away. The stench of the hobgoblins and unwashed Damarans was a constant presence, but she could sift through them to find other smells in the air-cold soil, dead underbrush, new summer growth, even the metallic scent of snow carried by the breeze off the high mountains.

Hweilan closed her eyes and recalled the faces of family and friends.

Her grandfather the High Warden. Her mother and father. She had not seen her father in many years, but tonight his proud, smiling face came to her very clearly. She saw Scith, who had been a second father to Hweilan. Every skill and value Hweilan’s parents had planted in her, Scith had nourished and cherished. Her Uncle Soran, the strongest, most unyielding man she had ever known. But his unbending sense of justice had never blinded him to compassion and mercy. Jagun Ghen had murdered him and used his body as a mask to come after her. Remembering that, remembering the hungry fire in Soran’s eyes, Hweilan felt no fear. Just fury and hot rage. Her heartbeat quickened, her breath came faster, and she felt blood rushing under her skin. She saw Lendri and Menduarthis, who both had helped her, fought to protect her, and who were both now twisted versions of their former selves. And Ashiin herself, slain by Nendawen so that she could be free of her body to hunt Jagun Ghen across the worlds.

She held all their images in her mind, remembering Gleed’s words-The true warrior fights not because she hates what, is in front of her, but because she loves what she’s left behind.

Hweilan felt them all around her. The Ebun Nakweth, the Witness Cloud-those who had left this world but still watched with their gods, giving strength to those who stayed behind to continue the fight.

And through it all, Hweilan could sense that other presence. The gaze of green fire and the antlered hunter, watching, waiting.

Fury, loss, regret, fear, eagerness … all of it burned in Hweilan, robbing her of the proper words to pray. She could not find them. And so she simply held all of them in her heart and mind, until the words came on their own, spoken in the ancient tongue of her people. No chant. No formal prayer. Just pure need.

“Time is running out. Help me.”

Some time later, she heard the three Damarans finish their rites and return to the camp. But then two left again-and by the sounds she knew who it was. One lumbered through the brush with all the grace of a bull, branches catching on his mail and grabbing at the scabbard that rode his hip. Leading him was another, whose four feet made much less noise on the carpet of leaves and who managed to wend his way through all but the smallest branches.

Uncle led Darric to Hweilan, gave her a long look, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes, then turned and left.

Darric stood before her, unable to see her eyes in the dark and hesitant to disturb her.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“You wish to be alone?”

She opened her mouth to say yes, but stopped herself. Stop slapping it away, he had told her, and damn if it wasn’t good advice. Thinking on her friends and family had reminded her of that.

“Thank you, Darric. For coming. And for your words earlier.”

He gave a bow that on anyone else would have seemed comical. But his sincerity touched her.

Darric cleared his throat, then said, “I fear I wasn’t entirely truthful, Hweilan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Earlier. All my talk of fighting evil and defending the faith. All true. Every word. But that isn’t why I’m here. Valsun and Mandan have known it all along, yet still they stay with me. They are better men than I will ever be. True knights.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I came for you. I’m still here … for you.”

“Darric, I-”

“No. Let me speak. Hweilan, I … I have been in love with you since I was a boy. Since that day you helped me in the fight.”

“Darric, stop.”

She didn’t want to hear any more. Not now. Still, Gleed’s words came to her mind again. Hweilan had left nothing behind that she could ever go back to. It had all been taken from her. Of course, if she did manage to destroy the one responsible … what then? But she could not allow herself to be distracted. Not now. Not when she was so close. And yet, she had no desire to hurt Darric.

“You loved a fantasy. A hope of what I might be. But not the real me. You don’t know the real me.”

“You’re wrong. Last year when my father told me that he had been talking with the High Warden, and that you would be coming to stay at my home in hopes of … well, you know what they were hoping. I asked everyone-anyone who had ever heard the slightest rumor of you.”

And Hweilan had no doubt what he’d been told. Child of a half-breed barbarian who would rather spend her days hunting with the Nar than stitching with the court ladies.

Darric snorted. “My father told me that if half the stories about you were true, it would be up to me to tame you and make you a proper lady, fit to rule a Damaran house. My weapons master-when my father was not around, mind you-told me not to tame all the fire out of you. That a little wildness in a woman was a good thing, if …”

Darric stopped suddenly, aware that he’d said too much. Hweilan felt herself blushing and was grateful for the dark. She didn’t know whether to be furious at the gossiping court hens saying such things about her or furious that the court men had been envious at the prospect of their lord’s son taking such a wild one to his bed.

“You should go back to camp, Darric,” she said. “Now.”

“They were fools, Hweilan,” he said. “All of them. If they’d only met you, none of them would have talked of taming you. A man would have more success taming the wind. And the gods would damn the man who tried.”

Hweilan’s blush returned in full force, which only fueled her anger. “You-”

“No, listen. Please. When you first found us in the mountains, I admit I was horrified. I thought you were nothing like what I had expected. And I was right.”

“Darric-”

“You were more,” he said. “Damn it all, Hweilan, I won’t pretend to understand what you’ve become. But I swear to you that I’ll give my life for you. I was a fool to doubt you. You’re all I hope for and more than I deserve.”

He stopped. She waited for more. When none came, she took a deep breath and said, “Darric, do you really want to help me?”

“I swear it.”

“Swear?”

“On my life and the honor of my house.”

Hweilan smiled, though she knew he couldn’t see it in the dark. For all his bravery, Darric was still a boy in many ways. Boys swore so easily. She had seen enough to know better.

“Then listen …”

The moon had long gone behind the mountains and the first hints of dawn were creeping into the sky when those in camp heard Hweilan and Darric returning. A dotard with only half his hearing in one ear could have heard them. A graceful woodsman Darric was not, but even Hweilan crashed heedless through the branches and stomped over the carpet of leaves. Both of them were shouting.

“… all we’ve done for you!” said Darric. “You ungrateful wench! You-!”

“I never asked for your help,” said Hweilan.

“And we never asked for your help. Ever since we took up with you, we’ve been captured, tortured, and-”

Hweilan reached camp first. Darric was at her heels. All eyes turned to them, and Valsun stood, ever wanting to be the peace maker, but stunned into inaction by the vehemence of their words.

“And you’d still be there if not for me!” said Hweilan. She looked to the other Damarans. “Every last one of you.” She turned back to Darric and softened her tone. “Listen to me. If you love those men-if you’ve ever loved your people-take them and go home. Warn them about what’s coming. If I win today, then your father will need to know that Highwatch stands empty. And if I die … you need to warn them about what’s coming.”

Darric stepped forward and jabbed his finger in her shoulder. “I won’t turn tail and-”

Hweilan grabbed his wrist, twisted, and turned his whole arm. Then she shoved him in the chest, sending him sprawling into the nearest campfire. Sparks and ashes flew, but his thick wool and mail saved him from a scorching. He scrambled to his feet and slapped the embers off his tabard.

“Touch me again and I’ll break the arm next time,” she said.

The hobgoblins laughed at this, but Mandan stepped between Darric and Hweilan, his club raised. “You try and-”

“You’ll step back,” said Rhan, still calmly sitting by a fire and rubbing cold ashes into the cuts on his chest. The Greatsword of Impiltur lay naked on his lap. “You finish that thought and I’ll shove that club down your-”

“Enough!” Valsun found his voice at last. “Darric, Hweilan, please! This … there is no point in fighting among ourselves.”

“No,” said Darric, his voice cold. “We left our home to try to help yours, Hweilan, and you’ve shown us nothing but ingratitude and disdain. You dishonor us-and yourself. Valsun is right. Enough is enough.” He looked to his companions. “Gather your things. We’re leaving.”

Valsun’s jaw dropped and Mandan whirled to look at his brother. “What?” he said. “But we … you …”

“Have had enough,” said Darric. “She’s right. Damara must be warned. We’ve done all we can do here. Our fight lies elsewhere.”

“But-” said Valsun.

But Mandan cut him off. “Damn it, Brother! You love her!”

“I thought I did,” said Darric, and he looked at Hweilan as he spoke. “You’re sure about this?”

“I am,” said Hweilan. “Get gone.”

Darric nodded and grabbed his pack.

Valsun said, “My lord-”

“Enough!” said Darric. Then softer, “Enough, my friend. We’re done here. Come.”

He bent, picked up Valsun’s pack, and shoved it at him.

Valsun took it, but his eyes were wide, stunned.

Darric turned and stomped out of camp.

“Valsun,” said Mandan. “You can’t let him do this.”

Valsun looked to Hweilan. “We’ll talk to him.”

“You do that,” said Hweilan, then looked at Mandan and Jaden. “All of you. Go talk to him. But walk while you talk. Now.”

She put one hand on the dagger at her waist. Uncle padded to her side and growled.

Vurgrim stood. “You heard. Go.”

Trembling and looking like a faithful hound who had just been whipped by his master, Valsun followed after Darric.

Mandan looked to Rhan, then Vurgrim, and finally down at Urlun. “Come.”

He grabbed his own pack, slung his club over his shoulder, and followed his companions.

Jaden slammed his short sword back into the scabbard, shouldered his pack, and gave Hweilan a hesitant smile. “Said I wasn’t walking back by myself. Looks like I’m not by myself anymore.” He gave her a slight bow. “Good luck, lady.”

With that, he followed after Mandan.

Urlun was still sitting, startled. He looked after them, then at the hobgoblins.

“Time to choose, boy,” said Vurgrim.

Urlun grabbed his axe and his pack, and ran after the Damarans.

“And you?” Vurgrim called to Hratt. “You going to run off with your new friends?”

Hratt was still sitting with his head back against the bole of a tree. His eyes were closed, but his hand lay curved around the hilt of the sword that lay beside him. He opened his eyes and sat up. “I serve the Razor Heart,” he said.

The hobgoblins laughed. “And I sup with Shar!” one of them said, bringing more laughter.

The warriors stood and began to gather their own things.

Flet walked up to Hweilan and spoke, his voice low. “Should I take my archers after those five? We don’t want any surprises at our backs.”

“Let them go,” said Hweilan. “You’re going to need all your arrows for what’s in front.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

They stayed in the copse until well past midday. The hobgoblins were used to sleeping in the daylight anyway, and they needed to wait to make sure the other attack parties were in place. While the warriors snored, wrapped up in their cloaks, Hweilan sat with her back to a tree, her mind racing. She could not sleep. Not with the feeling of her enemy so close.

When at last the sun began its downward descent and the shadows in the wood lengthened, Hweilan roused Rhan.

“It’s time.”

Jagun Ghen sat in the middle of the pact circle. His eyes were closed, though for once the harsh sunlight on his skin gave him no pain. His brothers had carved the circle in the stone where the altar had once stood, before his brothers hacked it up and threw it off the cliff.

The circle … how fitting. It was here that his first brother had come into the world. And it was here that he would take the next step to transcendence.

The bleak, rocky shelf on which he sat overlooked the bulk of the ruined fortress. And the battered wall behind him had once held elegant runes and symbols, all in praise of Torm, the Loyal Fury. All gone, torn away. Soon, these people would learn the meaning of true fury.

He could feel the growing power in the circle, like the first trickles of water seeping through the cracks in the dam. Soon, he promised himself.

He could feel her. So close, he could almost taste her on the air.

A shudder passed through him.

His brothers felt it, too.

“What is it, lord?”

“She comes. At last.”

Now that they were back in her country, Hweilan took the lead. Something was happening in Highwatch. The steady beat in her mind had not grown any stronger, so she knew no danger was coming at them, but she could sense a change in the world around her. It was as if Jagun Ghen were thrashing in the middle of a dark pool, and Hweilan sat at the edge, feeling the ripples. But she didn’t know what it was. And so she strung her bow, put one of the hrayeh-etched arrows to the string, and donned her bone mask.

Hweilan led the hobgoblins along the saddle of the hill, taking the high paths. On the heights above and to their left lay the Damaran tombs where her father’s body rested. There, she found the path that snaked around the shoulder of the mountain and into the deeper woods. Throughout Narfell and the foothills, summer was well underway. The snows were melting, the pines had green buds, and the grasses were enjoying their few weeks of green. Damaran land had once been healthier than the woods where they had spent the night. But a blight had since settled in here. The pine and spruce had turned a sickly gray or brown, and many of the trees were shedding their needles. The moss on the barks had blackened and curled, giving off a foul reek when stepped on.

Hweilan could sense the tension in the hobgoblins. Vurgrim had a permanent sneer twisting his face and baring his sharp teeth. His one good ear stood out erect and twitched at every sound.

At the bend in the path where the trees thinned, Hweilan stopped. The sight almost overwhelmed her. From here, they had an unobstructed view of Nar-sek Qu’istrade, the distant cliff walls, and Highwatch itself-the charred husk of Kistrad clinging to its feet. The last time she stood here, thousands of Nar filled the valley and flames ran through Kistrad. Now, there was not so much as a dog roaming the streets or even a wisp of smoke from a torch. The valley where large herds of horses and sheep had once roamed over the grass was barren, save for the remains of a few ragged tents. All was still, yet Hweilan could feel a will fixed upon her. Not the same as being watched exactly, but she knew she held Jagun Ghen’s attention, just as he held hers. He wasn’t deep in the fortress, as she might have expected, but on the heights above it where the Knights had once held their most sacred rites.

She turned and faced Vurgrim, who stared down at the landscape with his warriors. They had long known of and feared this place, but none of them had ever been so close.

“The others are in place?” she said.

“They should be,” said Vurgrim, still not looking up, “if Maaqua kept her word.”

Hweilan looked to Rhan, but his face was expressionless.

“This is where we part,” she said.

Vurgrim tore his gaze off the view and blinked at her. “Eh? What say you? We are zugruuk. We came to fight, not to walk you home.”

His warriors mumbled their agreement, but none shouted out. Something about the fortress before them seemed to demand quiet. But even Rhan looked at her with a disapproving scowl.

“You’ll get your fight,” said Hweilan. “But unless you do what I say, you’ll die fighting. Wouldn’t you rather enjoy a fine slaughter, then go back home as heroes?”

Vurgrim scowled, looked to his warriors, then said. “I’m listening.”

“That demon down there can sense me coming. Anyone going with me will have a big target painted on them.”

Vurgrim snorted. “We don’t fear that.”

“I know you won’t flinch when there’s killing to do. But we are going into a trap. Let me spring the trap, then-”

“We trap the trapper,” said Flet. He smiled. “I like it.”

Hweilan checked the position of the sun again. Just above the western peaks. Down in the valleys and the lower regions of the fortress, shadows were already lengthening.

She looked to Flet. “It’s time. Do it.”

Flet reached into one of his quivers and withdrew a long bundle, an arrow wrapped in tight lambskin. He broke the knots of string with his teeth and unwrapped it. It was like no arrow Hweilan had ever seen. The fletching was not feathers but the membrane from a bat’s wing, and they curved a full hand span down the length of the shaft. The arrow had no head, but instead a small jewel had been fixed there, and it sparkled with a light all its own.

“Eh? What’s that?” said Vurgrim, scowling. “What else is going on?”

“It’s the signal to attack,” said Hweilan. She looked at Flet. “Count to two hundred, then loose it.”

Flet notched the strange arrow onto his bowstring, smiled, and said, “One …”

Hweilan crashed through the trees. No attempt at stealth. A scullion who’d never left the castle walls could have tracked her. But it didn’t matter. The warning call in her brain had intensified, no longer a steady beat so much as a constant vibration, a plucked harp string. When she shrugged out of her pack and hung it from a branch, she noticed that her hands were trembling.

She clenched her fists and closed her eyes. Every instinct in the human part of her brain told her to run away from the tide into which she was wading-that it meant not just death but something far worse. Something not meant for this world. A profanity against creation itself. However, another part of her, the part nourished by the blood of Nendawen and her own animal thirst for vengeance, spurred her on. Death lay before her, yes, but if she could die killing her enemy, she’d do it a thousand times.

It was growing, gaining strength daily as it fed upon the life of this world. Soon there would be no stopping it. No stopping him. Hweilan had to force herself to think of the foulness around her as Jagun Ghen. It was so other from anything in this world, so much more like a force of nature than a person. But no question. There was a will and a mind behind this hunger. A cunning intelligence, ancient and cruel.

He does not know mercy or pity or remorse. Strike him all you like, and you are only going to rile him … Ashiin’s words, spoken only a few days before she died.

And there was something else as well. Hweilan could feel it building under the warning hum in her mind. She could put no words to it, only feelings. It was like the scent of storm on the wind long before the clouds ran up the mountains. Different than the wrongness she felt coming out of Highwatch, but no less frightening.

“Enough,” she told herself, then stripped off every bit of equipment she didn’t need-cloak, belt, pouches. They would only slow her. She stood in the clothes Kesh Naan had given her, still missing the sleeve Kaad had torn off. Menduarthis’s knife was tucked in its sheath on her right boot, the red knife sacred to Nendawen at her waist. She slid back into her quiver, now too loose. She tightened the strap and adjusted it so the fletchings rode just behind her right shoulder. Within easy reach but not so close they’d gouge her neck if she had to move fast. She had crafted three leather loops on the strap that crossed her chest, and into these she tucked the sharpened stake carved with the hrayeh. She only had a score of arrows that would capture the baazuled spirits, and she had no idea how many were in Highwatch. Once the arrows ran out, she would have to use the stake. Eight other arrows, well-made but plain, rode in a separate section of the quiver.

She reached up to her hair. Still in a tight braid, some strands had come loose and were tickling her face in the breeze. She put a hand into the largest of the pouches and found what she was looking for. A red silk scarf, two hands wide, that Menduarthis had given to her in the realm of Kunin Gatar. She wound it atop her head, knotting it in a sort of cap to keep her hair out of her eyes.

She looked up. Any time now.

There! A purple spark climbed into the sky. Flet’s arrow reached the top of its flight and hung there. Then just before it began its descent, the jewel exploded. Thunder rolled down the mountain, as whips of violet lightning shot across the sky, spiraling and sizzling. No sooner had the sound died than in the distance Hweilan heard the sound of war horns.

Hweilan retrieved her bow, fitted the bone mask on her face, and took off, her wolf at her heels.

Hweilan slowed when she saw the bones. Catching her breath, she realized she had been here before, too, at the back of the fortress. The day Highwatch fell, she had escaped from Jatara and her Creel thug, and she’d come upon the bodies of those fleeing Highwatch. Ravens and wolves had gnawed on them before the scavengers themselves had fled the area, and now all that was left of her people were a few bits of browned bones and tattered cloth.

For a moment she forgot her fear and cold fury gripped her instead. These had been good people. Her people. They deserved better than this.

The rear walls of Highwatch rose before her. Uncle stood a few paces beyond Hweilan, tail low but ears erect. Shadows lay thick in the windows high on the wall, but she could sense none of the baazuled nearby.

She glanced over her shoulder, up the forested mountainside. Rhan, Vurgrim, and the others had had more than enough time to do as she’d told them. Only half of the sun still peeked above the western mountains. Very soon, the shadows would begin to lengthen. And the torchless passages inside the fortress would be lit only by dying light creeping in through the windows. When Selune rose full in the east, Hweilan had to be in place.

Uncle felt it first, just an instant before Hweilan. The wolf snapped at the air and whirled.

Hweilan’s mind screamed a warning, and she raised the bow, pulling the feathers to her cheek. The hrayeh carved along the arrow shaft lit a bright green.

At the edge of the tree line, four small cyclones appeared, and then blew apart, showering Hweilan and the wolf in dirt and pine needles. Standing where the air had split were four figures-three men and a woman. The men were obviously Nar by their features, and each of them had a symbol carved into his forehead that leaked a fiery light. Baazuled. So close, Hweilan could taste them on the air.

The woman, however, was still alive-no demon had seized control of her. She wore dark woolens, and her thick cloak swirled in the wind. She held a staff above her head, and the jewel set in its crown gave off a sickly light, like that of an oil lamp seen through dirty glass.

Hweilan looked down the shaft of her arrow and set her aim. The woman was only twenty paces away. The arrow would barely drop an inch before it hit her. Hweilan set the point in the middle of the woman’s left breast.

But she only lowered the staff and offered a mocking bow. “Haweelan, you are, yes?”

Her words were thick, and Hweilan did not recognize the accent, nor the odd cut of the woman’s clothes. But by the pale skin and round eyes she knew the strange woman was not Nar nor from any of the lands east. From the far west or south, then. It seemed that Jagun Ghen was now gathering vessels from abroad. How many poor fools had lost their lives while Hweilan lingered in the mountains?

Uncle flattened his ears and bared his teeth.

As the woman lowered her staff, a spark shot out to whip the air in front of her. “Your pet moves and I kill it.”

“You’re a little late on that score,” said Hweilan.

“What do you mean?” The woman adjusted the staff slightly. Her three companions had their gaze locked on the sacred arrow, but they had made no move to come nearer.

“I mean, he’s been killed once already and he’s still not quite over it.”

She watched the woman try to puzzle out the meaning of her words. But the woman shook her head, obviously giving up.

“We bring you this message from the Master,” she announced.

A raven cawed, just once, but very loudly, startling the newcomers. She glanced up, her eyes widening at the black bird on the branch above and behind her. It was huge, even for a mountain raven. Its beak was easily as long as Hweilan’s hand. The dead branch on which it sat creaked under its weight. More black eyes watched them from the deeper woods. Hweilan knew-as the four newcomers did as well, judging by their open jaws and frightened eyes-that the birds had not been there moments before. And in the high hills above the fortress, wolves howled.

Uncle threw back his head and returned the call.

The woman swallowed hard and stepped away from the tree. The large raven followed her with its gaze. She raised the staff again, and Hweilan could see that it trembled in her grasp.

“We bring you a message,” the woman said again. Her voice held none of its former arrogance.

“You serve Jagun Ghen?”

The woman smiled, and Hweilan saw the light of a zealot in her eyes. “We serve the Master.”

“What has he promised you? Power? Immortality?”

“More! I am-”

“Honestly,” said Hweilan, “I don’t care what you are.”

She brought the arrow out of her quiver and laid it across the bow in one smooth motion, so swiftly that the fletching was already at her cheek again by the time the newcomers reacted.

The three baazuled charged, and the woman held her staff crosswise in front of her, her free hand already weaving a spell from the air. Hweilan saw the space in front of the woman thicken and sparkle with a shield.

At the same time, hundreds of ravens erupted from the trees-a cloud of black feathers, sharp beaks, and rending claws. They screamed and Hweilan heard the words in their cries-iskwe! iskwe! iskwe! Blood! Blood! Blood!

The baazuled crouched and swiped at the birds. Feathers and blood flew, but where one raven fell five more took its place, talons raking at skin and beaks jabbing at eyes.

The woman finished her spell and the ravens beat against her shield, unable to break through. Hweilan knew her arrow would fare no better.

Silent as death, Uncle slipped in low, hitting the shield at its vulnerable point where it met the ground. The sparkling air slowed him only a moment, as if he had broken through a thin skin of ice. He turned his head sideways and closed his jaws around the woman’s thigh, just above the knee. She shrieked and instinctively batted at the wolf with her staff. But Uncle knew his business and was already leaping away. The jeweled knob of the staff only grazed his shoulder, and then he was well out of reach.

Much to Hweilan’s surprise, the shield held. The ravens still could not get through. But the wolf had known right where to strike. His teeth had savaged the woman’s flesh, and blood poured out of her wound, soaking both her legs.

One of the baazuled was already down, still moving but completely covered in a mass of flapping black wings and vicious beaks. Its scream seemed to rake down Hweilan’s ears, and she saw the feathers covering him beginning to smolder and burn.

The other two were also beset by ravens, but they were still on their feet and heading right for her. Hweilan set her aim, loosed, and was already reaching for another arrow when the first one struck true. One baazuled took a step back, his limbs stiffening, and the ravens abandoned him. Hweilan’s second arrow struck his companion an instant later, with the same result. The runes on the shafts flared, and the baazuled screamed. The light on their foreheads dimmed, and a thick miasma leaked out of their mouths and ears. They fell to the ground, both bodies now only lifeless flesh.

The woman swayed and fell to her knees. She still held the staff aloft, but it was trembling like a storm-tossed tree. Blood loss was killing her, and by the look in her eyes, she knew it.

She cried out something in her native tongue, the final syllable drowning in slur. Her eyes rolled up in her head, she fell backward, and the ravens fell upon her.

Hweilan left them to their business as she dealt with the last of the baazuled.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Maaqua had been true to her word. Although she had not sent the strength of the Razor Heart-she was not so foolish as to leave her fortress undefended-she did send hundreds. One party came from the north, using ropes and ladders to scale the small shield wall where a few baazuled had been set to watch. Seeing the great flare of light in the sky, followed by the battle cry of a hundred or more hobgoblins charging the wall, the baazuled did not flee. They waited for the first warriors to mount the wall, and then the battle began.

The sheer force of numbers was overwhelming. Hacking furiously, the hobgoblins slaughtered their way into the fortress, leaving mutilated bodies strewn around. With their homes destroyed, the demons simply fled to the nearest bodies, and the hobgoblins soon found themselves fighting against their own.

But these warriors were Razor Heart, and they soon found a solution-leave no body whole. And so they smashed and slashed each body until it was no more than shattered bones and blood.

When the wall was finally taken, the three demons had fled. And of the hundred or more hobgoblins who had stormed the wall, less than fifty survived.

Yet another force came through the main gates of Nar-sek Qu’istrade, still broken and unguarded.

A third army struck from the southwest. As a child. Hweilan had known all the secret paths of Highwatch. On the day the fortress fell, Scith had taken her by the most secret way of all. And, although it had pained her to do it, Hweilan told Maaqua of this path. The daughter of Ardan, granddaughter of Vandalar, had felt like a traitor doing so. But Hweilan, Hand of the Hunter, knew that Damaran Highwatch was no more. Its secrets guarded only the dead.

And so the army had followed Hweilan’s instructions. By the time the new lords of Highwatch knew of the danger, the invaders were already in their midst, killing the last few surviving Creel who remained at the fortress, those who had been lured by promises of immortality and more. They fell beneath the Razor Heart’s blades or died on their spears. The warriors suffered great losses at the hands of the baazuled, and they scattered into the tight warrens and courtyards of the mountain fortress, rather than give the baazuled new bodies to inhabit. Others simply fled.

Stalking the unfamiliar fortress of the Razor Heart had been easy compared to re-entering Highwatch. Hweilan’s gut wrenched as she walked the halls. Every room, courtyard, and balcony held memories for her. And seeing the rampant neglect and purposeful destruction only fueled her rage.

Jagun Ghen had not been idle. All but a few of the Creel had either fled or been fed upon, and so he had tempted new allies from every back alley of Faerun-exiles from Rashemen, cutthroats and thieves from the Dalelands, assassins from Impiltur. He knew Hweilan was coming, and his lackeys waited to ambush her in courtyards, manned blockades in hallways, or stalked behind her as the alarm was raised and word passed from party to party. They had been told to expect a lone girl and perhaps maddened ravens or even wolves. Instead, many found themselves facing battle-hardened hobgoblins.

But for those of Jagun Ghen’s forces that Hweilan did run across, she had no mercy. Cutthroats and assassins fell under her knives. Thieves had their throats ripped out by her wolf. And everywhere the ravens struck, gouging out eyes with their beaks or slicing skin with their claws. She took care of those few baazuled she found with her bow, stopping only long enough to retrieve the arrows, lest some poor fool actually touch one with naked skin and free the demon inside.

Highwatch, once her home, had become a slaughterhouse.

Only one plain arrow remained. After this, Hweilan would have to rely on knifework. She did not want to waste the sacred arrows on Jagun Ghen’s mercenaries.

She could feel her enemy’s presence growing with every step-so strong that she could no longer distinguish the presence of Jagun Ghen from his baazuled. They were one presence in her mind, assaulting her from all directions, like a hundred fires giving off one vast wave of heat. She had no idea how many were waiting for her, but she felt the greatest presence in the upper areas of the fortress, where the high towers hugged the mountain itself.

A half-dozen mercenaries sprinted past her in the hall below. Hweilan crouched on one of the thick oak rafters above the passage that led to the hall where her grandfather had once welcomed visiting friends. The nearest window was several paces away, the light already growing weak with the oncoming evening and the shadows pooled thick near her hiding place. It gave her time to assess her situation.

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.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Hweilan 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.

Hweilan’s hand went to her quiver. She had four of the sacred arrows left. The presence of so many of the enemy was overwhelming, and she had no sense of which was the closest. Meanwhile, Argalath was struggling out from under the baazuled that had fallen on him.

She notched an arrow to the bowstring and ran for the stairs.

“Watch out!”

Something struck Hweilan from behind, throwing her off balance. But Ashiin’s training served her well. She fell into a roll, came to her feet, and whirled with the bow pulled taut and the arrow set in the direction of whoever had struck her.

It was Vurgrim, and he stood between her and a baazuled. The thing held the remnants of a broadsword in one hand, but the last third of the blade had broken off into a jagged point. The entire length of the weapon and most of the baazuled’s arm dripped blood.

Hweilan shouted, “Vurgrim, down!”

She couldn’t loose the arrow for fear of hitting the hobgoblin. But he ignored her, raising his own spiked shield between himself and the baazuled and pulled back his sword arm to strike.

The baazuled swiped at him crosswise with the broken sword. Vurgrim ducked it easily and struck with his own blade. This baazuled had no armor and the sharp steel sliced open his belly. But even as his entrails spilled out, the baazuled lunged and grabbed the hobgoblin, pulling him close.

Vurgrim screamed but could not get away. Too close for his sword to be effective, he plunged the spike of his shield into his foe. Again and again he stabbed, his boots kicking at the monster’s shins.

The baazuled opened its mouth wide and found the closest bit of flesh not covered by armor-Vurgrim’s throat.

Seeing the opening, Hweilan adjusted her aim and loosed her arrow. The baazuled snapped his head back, ripping open Vurgrim’s throat. Hweilan’s arrows flew through the gush of blood and struck the baazuled just under the ear. He went down, pulling the dying Vurgrim on top of him.

Hweilan was reaching for another arrow even as she turned. “Sorry, Vurgrim,” she said to herself.

To one side of the stairs, Rhan was holding another one of the baazuled at bay. Purple lightning played along the length of the Greatsword of Impiltur. The monster had several broken arrow shafts protruding from its body and two still intact sticking out from its back. Its left arm was gone at the elbow, but still it tried to get at the huge hobgoblin, avoiding one strike of Rhan’s massive black sword, then lunging forward. It was obviously what Rhan had intended, for he kept the momentum of the blow and whirled, bringing the sword around again. His foe was well within range this time, and the blade sliced through the baazuled just above the waist. Rhan had cut him in half with one blow.

Hweilan passed them as she ran up the stairs. She hoped Rhan had the sense not to turn his back on the thing. She had no doubt that the monster would use its one good arm to crawl after the nearest meal.

Argalath had found his feet again. His robe had tangled in the arrow protruding out of the baazuled that was not simply a corpse again. Hweilan stopped, kneeled, and pulled an arrow to her cheek.

Rather than risk touching the arrow, Argalath shrugged out of his robes and let them fall. He stood in the dying daylight, and Hweilan saw the wreck of his body. He was naked above the waist. The blue of his spellscar looked a sickly gray, and a large portion of skin had slaked off his back, leaving raw flesh. The reek of pestilence struck Hweilan even through the stench of blood and burning flesh.

He must have sensed her presence, for he turned to look down at her. His eyes blazed bright.

Hweilan loosed the arrow. It hit him in the middle of his chest, and even over the sounds of battle and cries of the ravens, Hweilan heard bones shatter. The force of the arrow’s flight threw him backward out of sight. Hweilan grabbed another arrow, laid it across the bow, and climbed the stairs.

She stopped at the top. Most of Argalath’s body had fallen back into the shadows, making the green flow from the arrow’s symbols shine all the brighter.

She had done it. Argalath, the Nar demonbinder, the one who had started this slaughter, lay only a few paces away, dead as the stone around him. Hweilan let out a disbelieving laugh-

– and then it struck her that she didn’t believe it. Not only had this been too easy, but her sense of Jagun’s power hadn’t lessened in the slightest. It was growing stronger …

Hweilan heard the shriek of the gale an instant before it struck.

She had never experienced a cyclone before, but she had heard the Nar tell of the “demon winds” that sometimes swept through the grasslands.

The gust threw Hweilan into the side of the tower. She saw baazuled and hobgoblins, both living and dead, swept into the air. Some crashed back to the ground again, but more than a few hurtled over the parapet wall. One of the burning baazuled tumbled end over end through the air and disappeared around the far side.

But then the wind focused-no longer striking the entire tower, but swirling around it in tight currents.

And then Hweilan knew.

A figure descended out of the sky. He still wore the remnants of his once-fine clothes and armor, and his long hair swirled like a maddened halo around his face. He landed in the middle of the courtyard and swept out both his hands, sending living and dead to smash against the walls.

“Menduarthis,” whispered Hweilan. But no sooner had she uttered it than she knew the lie of it. The symbol the baazuled had carved onto his forehead at the Razor Heart fortress glowed with a hellish light. When she had last seen him, one of Jagun Ghen’s ilk had possessed him. No longer.

“Hand of the Hunter,” he called to her as the last of the winds died. “So good of you to come. At last.”

The one standing before her was not Menduarthis, nor even some demon dragged into this world. It was the one who had destroyed all Hweilan held dear, the reason she had come through death and worse, the reason her parents were dead, the thing for which she had prepared and trained and struggled.

Hweilan stood, raised her bow, and said, “Jagun Ghen.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Jagun Ghenlooked up at her and smiled. Seeing the enemy before her at last, but looking at her through the gaze of Menduarthis … it filled Hweilan with an unreasoning rage. She pulled the arrow to her cheek and aimed.

Jagun Ghen smiled wider and proffered both hands. It was such a Menduarthis-like expression that Hweilan found her arm trembling.

“Put down your weapon,” said Jagun Ghen. “It cannot serve you. Not here.”

Hweilan whispered, “Forgive me,” and let go the bowstring. The runes along the arrow’s shaft blazed as it flew.

Jagun Ghen swatted one hand, and the air around him whipped out, striking the arrow, shattering it, and sending the pieces clattering over the courtyard.

“Only one arrow left,” he said.

Hweilan grabbed the bow and aimed again. Two of the surviving baazuled walked to join their master. One was burned beyond recognition. The galeforce winds had killed the flames, but his body still smoked as he walked-a blackened, bloody husk, his teeth the only lightness. Other baazuled stood up.

The few hobgoblins left alive-Hweilan saw Flet stirring-were watching the confrontation, but the worst of the fight had gone out of them. One of them got to his feet and bounded down the stairs. Ravens circled overhead, but none dared attack.

“Our time is short, girl,” said Jagun Ghen. “You can come quietly, or we can make you come. But come you will.”

Hweilan kept her aim fixed on Jagun Ghen, but she began a slow, careful walk down the steps. Perhaps if she could get close enough …

“The last time you faced one of us in the body of one you loved, you hesitated. Another struck in your place. I am pleased to see that you have learned courage since. Or perhaps you did not care much for this one after all? I will be sure he knows of it when I am done with him.”

From the corner of her eye, Hweilan saw Rhan. He lay against the fortress where the wind had thrown him, but he still had the Greatsword of Impiltur in his hand. If she could take out Jagun Ghen, and if Flet had another special arrow or two … they might stand a chance. Hweilan’s foot came off the bottom step, and she kept going, her aim still fixed on Jagun Ghen. If she could just get a little closer …

“Done with him?” she said. “Like you were done with Argalath?”

“The halfbreed was a broken fool when I found him-”

“When he found you, you mean,” said Hweilan, slowly placing a foot forward. She didn’t miss the small drop of the corner of Menduarthis’s mouth. She had surprised Jagun Ghen.

“This one,” said Jagun Ghen, “is deliciously stronger. I could spend decades chewing his soul, tasting his essence. Alas, my perfect vessel awaits.”

Hweilan’s step faltered. “Perfect vessel?”

“You.”

She stopped. His presence, so close, was almost overwhelming. Part of his mind touched on hers, and she could not resist it. Her gorge rose. It was like drowning in sewage. But she could sense no lie in his words.

“It was always you, Hweilan. Grandmother Spider knew it. The Fox knew it. That meddling old toad by his lake knew it. Even your precious Nendawen knew it. And you know it, too, don’t you girl? You can feel it. Feel me. Your soul crying out, hungry, starving for-”

A sob escaped Hweilan, and she let go of the bowstring.

It was a near thing. But again Jagun Ghen summoned a cord of wind, striking the arrow less than a yard from his chest. It flew away.

Then he opened his arms, put his head back, and sucked in a deep breath through his mouth. He looked down at her. “You taste so wonderful. Now all your arrows are gone. Time at last. Time to-”

Hweilan threw down the bow and charged, one hand pulling the stake from the band at her chest, the other reaching for her red knife.

Jagun Ghen took one step back and swept both his hands forward. Air hit Hweilan like a battering ram. The stake flew from her grip as Hweilan shot through the air. She struck stone, and the steady throb in her mind rose up and swallowed her.

Hweilan struck the wall of the fortress not five feet from where Rhan lay.

He kept himself absolutely still, save for tightening his grip around the hilt of his sword. The girl had failed. Maaqua had feared she might. Even Hweilan had warned him that she was less than sure of her victory; that they were marching toward death. Still, he had let himself dare to hope, to believe …

Watching through the bare crack of his eyelids, seeing her sprawled senseless on the ground, Rhan raged. But he swallowed it, stoking the fire in his heart, and thought like a warrior.

Arrows were no good against Jagun Ghen. Whatever sorcery he commanded protected him. That meant Rhan had to get in close.

He’d seen the monster he cut in half still come crawling after him. Even after he’d smashed the skull open, still the thing had twitched and clawed in pursuit. Hweilan had warned him that he had no power to kill these things. Slaughter the bodies, perhaps, but the demons inside them Rhan could not kill. Even had he not believed her, the dead zuugruk standing with the others proved her true. Which meant Rhan had a lot of hacking to do.

Jagun Ghen sauntered toward Hweilan. He waved, and a gust of wind swept the red blade from her hand. She moaned but did not wake. Two baazuled followed behind their master.

Jagun Ghen stopped-no more than four paces away now-and looked down at Rhan. In the presence of so many demons, the purple light danced furiously along the Greatsword of Impiltur. Rhan could feel their power crackling against his skin. Jagun Ghen flicked his hand, almost as if he were shooing a fly, and Rhan felt the air around the blade tighten and try to rip the sword from his grasp.

No time to get any closer. It was now or never.

Rhan kept hold of the blade and lunged. He didn’t try to regain his feet, but instead kicked away from the wall, hit the ground, and rolled, bringing the sword around with all his strength toward the monster’s legs.

Jagun Ghen took to the air, and the black iron sliced under his feet. He came down, light and graceful as a dancer, and swept his hands toward the Razor Heart champion. Rhan braced himself for the battering to come. But what did come was much worse.

Air forced its way inside Rhan’s body, filling his lungs almost to bursting. He clamped his jaw shut, but still the air came in his nose. Pain ravaged him, pain like he had never known, and he couldn’t even scream. Every muscle in his body had locked up. A sound like stone cracking shot through Rhan’s right ear, and a moment later he felt a wet warmth leaking out. Lights danced before his eyes, bright and blinding-

And then his breath burst out of him. He fell to the stone, taking ragged breaths through his torn throat.

“I could pop you like a boil,” said Jagun Ghen.

Rhan could only hear out of his left ear. His hand went to the right side of his head and came away bloody. His empty hand. He had lost the sword.

“But you are a strong one. One of my brothers might find you a more suitable home than these other broken wretches. Yes?”

Rhan looked up. Jagun Ghen was walking away with Hweilan in his arms. He looked over his shoulder at the other baazuled.

“Gather her arrows-carefully!-and come to the circle. Bring enough bodies. And hurry. Time grows short.”

Another gale roared off the mountain, but rather than battering those in the courtyard, it coalesced around Jagun Ghen and Hweilan, lifting them up and out of sight.

Rhan heard a shuffling gait, and when he looked around, the dead hobgoblin was coming toward him. It saw him and said, “I like this one better.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Hweilan drifted down the dreamroad. Once, she managed to fight her way to consciousness, saw Jagun Ghen looking down at her through Menduarthis’s eyes, and the sheer power of his will pushed her back down again.

She saw the day her mother had taken her to see her father’s corpse. But there was no sound, only the overwhelming taste of blood in her mouth and the scent of smoke. Her father opened his eyes. They had gone black, save for a red ember that burned deep in their depths. Hweilan buried a stake in his chest, and the dream dissipated, like smoke in the breeze. No more taste of blood or smell of smoke, but in the far distance she heard music.

She saw the day Gleed had taught her to cleanse Nendawen’s weapons of the foul spirits within, how the little goblin capered around the sacred circle. But this time, he was on fire, his clothes and wispy hair an angry orange halo, his skin crisping and fuming, and the ravens came to claw his skin and gouge his flesh. But still he danced and laughed. This time, the music seemed closer, and Hweilan’s mind seized on it.

The dream faded, replaced by the sight of Nendawen, standing in the woods over the falls. He threw his spear, killing Hweilan’s friend and teacher. But when she turned, it wasn’t Ashiin but Hweilan’s mother, dying on the Master’s spear. Even as her mother fell, Hweilan heard the music, only this time there was meaning, not with words, but an understanding that revealed itself in her mind-

See the way …

Hweilan chased the song and beheld a place she had never seen before. Hills rolled in long swells like the ocean, miles long and covered in short grass of green and gold. Black rocks broke through the soil, and trees grew only in the valleys where the rivers gathered. Under a thick tangle of trees, she saw a tall man, his long mane of white hair bound in braids. His ears curved up in points, and he had the lean, angular features of an elf. He held a long spear, and with it he fought against another man, similar in build, but his hair was black, his skin dark as rich soil, and he held large, forklike weapons in each hand. As she drew closer, she saw they were antlers, their ends sharpened to needle points, and the white-haired elf’s skin already bore a mass of bloody tracks.

A flash of green from the depths of the trees drew her attention. Cloaked in forest shadows, a huge figure sat on a throne made from roots, branches, and leaves. A raven sat on one shoulder, an owl on the other. Serpents coiled around his legs, and spiders massed on his chest. Two wolves, each as large as a bear, lounged on either side of the throne. The skull of some great cat hid his features, but Hweilan recognized the gaze burning in the eye sockets. Nendaw-

No, said the music. See the way of it.

The dark figure on the throne wasn’t Nendawen. The body was different-large, yes, but lean and hairy as a northman. And the bone mask had no antlers. It was most definitely the skull of a tiger or lion. But the will behind those eyes … it was the Master of the Hunt. Of that, Hweilan had no doubt.

A cry broke her concentration, and when she looked back to the fight, the dark-haired man was on his knees, one of his weapons laying far out of reach, the other broken in his left hand. The white-haired elf held the point of his spear at his opponent’s throat. Tears streamed down the elf’s cheeks. His mouth moved as he spoke, as did the man’s at his feet. Hweilan could not hear the words, but she knew what they were saying. She and Ashiin had once had the same conversation.

The Master of the Hunt stood and pointed at the man on his knees. The elf screamed, turned, and threw the spear at the Master, who held his arms open. The spear plunged into his chest-

The vision faded, broken again by the music, but Hweilan knew the rest. The truth of it burned in her blood. The elf would drink the blood of the Master, eat of his sacred heart-and then the Master would kill his friend and teacher. The elf would burn his friend and use his skull as his own mask, joining their minds that they might hunt the enemy together. Hweilan did not see it, but she knew that mask had antlers. The Hand would wear it as he hunted the worlds for Jagun Ghen and his minions.

And after his last hunt in that world, when his enemy lay dead on the end of his spear, the Master would come to him. Burning in holy fire and the spirit within, the true Primal Master of the Hunt had hunted the darkness between the stars when Faerun was only a gathering of dust around its sun. His mind knew only that the hunt would take on the body of his Hand. And so it went, through world after world, time after time …

Jagun Ghen and his “brothers” were only a perversion and mockery of this sacred bond that had existed for millennia.

And at last Hweilan knew her fate. Gleed had tried to warn her-

When Jagun Ghen is beaten and his sickness purged from the worlds … what then? You think the Master will free you? Nendawen is the Hunter. He has always been the Hunter. He will always be the Hunter. It is his nature. His only … beingness. The Hunter does not free his prey.

Nendawen’s time had come, and the Master would need a new body to continue the hunt. He needed Hweilan.

But Jagun Ghen had her-his own “perfect vessel.” Thus the eternal circle would be broken. If Jagun Ghen took her, the Hunt would end, and the Destroyer would be free to roam the worlds, burning and consuming …

Wake now, said the music. You have to fight.

“I can’t! Too strong. He’s too strong.”

You do not fight alone. You don’t have to be strong enough. You only have to do your part.

And then Gleed’s words came back to her-You were chosen. By Nendawen himself. But there’s something about you that even the Master had not planned on.

The dream was no longer a road. It had become a river, and Hweilan knew it would be all too easy to drown. Indeed she almost took that path, almost let the river carry her to … wherever. She was so tired.

But then she saw her father’s face again, and those of her mother, her grandfather, Scith, Lendri, Soran, Menduarthis, and Darric. The river tried to push her down to silence, but Hweilan fought to the surface and swam.

She could hear a voice. Not only in her mind, like the visions, but filling her ears. The words were beyond her understanding, but the very sound of them was foul, blasphemous.

She could not move. It was an effort even to breathe. She opened her eyes.

She lay in shadow, and the day’s light was dying in the sky. Not two paces away stood Jagun Ghen, his arms outstretched, his back arched, his head whipping back and forth, as if Menduarthis was fighting the profane words that were being forced out of his throat. But Hweilan could sense their power. Each syllable tore at her mind, like claws rending flesh. And through each rent she could feel Jagun Ghen’s will seeping through, infecting her soul.

Hweilan screamed, but Jagun Ghen ignored her. She looked down and saw that she was bound at the wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles. She lay in the midst of a circle that had been gouged into the stone itself. Every sacred arrow she had put into a baazuled since coming to Highwatch had been planted in the grooves of the pact circle. The runes along their shafts still held a green light, but it flickered and was shot through with bits of molten metal. A fresh body lay next to each arrow. Other baazuled, some undead and some living with the glowing runes etched into their foreheads, stood beyond the bodies. They kneeled and joined in their master’s chant.

She looked beyond them all, searching for any sign of hope or help. It was a place she’d never been before, a high shelf of rock overlooking the fortress. The wall of the mountain rose to one side, broken by a doorway. The sun had long since sunk behind the mountain. In the east …

Hweilan could feel it, as she had felt it that evening in Vaasa with Ashiin. The very air held the tautness of a drumskin. And then she saw it.

The sky over the fortress was thick with smoke, and when the first rim of the full moon rose over the far grasslands, it was red as blood. In her mind, Hweilan felt the BOOM as a presence older than the fabric of Faerun entered the world. The mountain shook, and stones and dust rained down on them from above.

Jagun Ghen laughed.

The baazuled around the pact circle stood up. The symbols on their foreheads blazed. Their fingers twisted into claws, and those few holding weapons raised them. All of them looked to the doorway in the mountain.

Hweilan felt it, too. The Master was coming.

Jagun Ghen’s chant rose to a scream, but he did not turn to face the threat. The symbol on his forehead leaked smoke that hung round his thrashing head like a black halo.

Hweilan writhed and tugged at her bonds but succeeded only in tearing her skin. She felt blood mixing with the sweat under her clothes. The runes in the arrows were leaking tiny tongues of flame, and the wooden shafts were beginning to catch. The ground beneath her trembled.

Huge shapes burst from the mountainside door. Wolves almost as large as bears, three gray and one black as obsidian. They leaped for the baazuled, teeth and claws rending, their growls shaking the ground. The baazuled fought back with blade and fist and claws. Ravens descended on the combatants.

Jagun Ghen’s chant broke-just for a moment-and wind roared down the mountainside, sweeping the ravens away. Hweilan saw one of the gray wolves leap onto a baazuled, her jaws closing on the monster’s throat, and both of them tumbled over the edge.

The arrows around the pact circle exploded, and Hweilan felt the spirits within pass over her like a fiery wind. The other gray wolf went down under the blades of three baazuled and did not get up again. The black wolf burst into flames, but still it fought. It pushed three baazuled over the precipice, and took another with it when it fell.

The dead bodies, several of which had been torn or dragged away in the attack, stood. They spared their master a glance, then every one of them leaped over the side. Hweilan was alone with Jagun Ghen.

The wind died, and Hweilan felt the presence. She turned, and there in the mountainside stood Nendawen. Inside his mask, his gaze burned like green suns, and emerald flames danced along the length of his spear.

Jagun Ghen turned to face him, and the air between them sizzled and sparked.

Nendawen raised his spear and charged. As soon as he stood fully in the light of the moon, he threw the weapon. It cut the air like a falling star, but Jagun Ghen slapped at the air in front of him, and the wind swiped it away. The spear tumbled through the air, riding the current, then turned. Jagun Ghen held out his hand, caught the spear, and planted it on the ground beside him.

“Your time is over,” he said.

Nendawen charged, both hands outstretched into bloody claws-and ran full force into his own spear. The long iron barb tore through his stomach and came out his back. But he didn’t stop. He grabbed the shaft with his left hand and pulled himself up the length of the spear. His blood steamed in the air. He struck out with his right hand, but Jagun Ghen caught it, almost casually, and twisted. The sound of breaking bone hit Hweilan with the force of a slap.

Still holding the spear with one hand, Jagun Ghen struck Nendawen’s bone mask with his other. It cracked. He struck again and again, shattering the mask, then the skull beneath. The antlers fell to the ground. The face beneath the mask was broken and tattered, a bloody ruin pierced by Nendawen’s green gaze.

Jagun Ghen grabbed his ancient enemy by the throat, squeezed, then pulled. Nendawen’s head fell forward, and the light in his eyes died. Then Jagun Ghen released the spear, and the lifeless body slumped to the ground. The primal spirit of the Hunter fled the dead flesh. Hweilan felt it rise and try to flee, but the symbols of the pact circle blazed, flames leaping from them, and a power reached out, seizing the spirit like a fish on a hook. It was caught inside the pact circle.

Jagun Ghen turned and looked down upon Hweilan.

“Now,” he said, “we finish.”

He bent down, grabbed the ropes, and broke them with no more trouble than a seamstress snapping an old thread. First those around her ankles, then working his way up. When the last of them snapped, Hweilan screamed, kicked, punched, used every skill Ashiin had taught her. But she might as well have been striking the waves of the ocean.

Jagun Ghen seized her, pinning her arms to her side, and lifted her. Hweilan thrashed, then slammed her head forward, smashing his nose. Blood flowed down his chin, but he smiled through it.

“Break it all you like,” he said. “I am through with it.”

He grabbed her head and used his thumbnail to gouge a symbol into her forehead. She shook her head and tried to get away, but he was too strong. Blood ran into her eyes.

He clutched a handful of hair and pulled her head back. The force of his power and will pressed on her mind, smothering her. Looking into his eyes was like walking into a forge fire.

Jagun Ghen opened his mouth and forced it onto hers. It was nothing like a kiss. More of an invasion. He inhaled, drawing her own breath out of her, and as it left, Hweilan felt her awareness being pressed down. She tried to scream, but her breath was gone.

Black spots filled her vision. She closed her eyes, still thrashing but unable to free herself. When she opened her eyes again, she could see nothing. And then the sheer force of Jagun Ghen’s mind buried her.

The river took her again, and this time she was too weak to fight against it. Memories flowed over her-childhood, the fall of Highwatch, all the visions of Kesh Naan, learning from Gleed and training with Ashiin. Jagun Ghen tore through them all, opened them up, and poured himself in, like dye staining the weave of a cloth.

Every secret thought, every desire and shame and hidden guilt he ripped apart, consuming them, making them a part of himself. But for every one he swallowed, it only made him hungrier for more.

One vision ran through all the others, and she saw each memory through two images at once. There were the remembrances of her past and those of her ancestors, but above them all she saw the mountainside over the fortress. She saw the broken baazuled finding fresh prey among the hobgoblins in Highwatch, killing them, taking their life essence to heal their wounds, then running, scattering to the four winds.

On the shelf of rock, in the midst of the pact circle, Jagun Ghen clutched Hweilan in a profane parody of a lover’s embrace, his jaws locked over her mouth, his essence pouring into her, filling her.

Something glimmered within the darkness of the doorway in the mountainside. Just a hint of light at first, but then it became fire. A makeshift torch appeared, held high by a young man dressed in a filthy knight’s tabard and mail. Darric … that was his name. Hweilan had to struggle, but eventually she recognized him. Mandan and Valsun ran behind him, Hratt and Urlun following, and then Jaden, wide-eyed and frightened. Darric had brought them. He’d done as she’d asked. But late … too late …

They ran onto the shelf, their mouths open in screams, though Hweilan could not hear them, could hear only the beating of Jagun Ghen’s heart, in perfect unison with her own.

Darric raised his sword and ran for them.

And then Hweilan fell into darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

A burning brand in one hand, his sword in the other, Darric hurtled out of the tunnel. A strong breeze off the mountain reduced his torch to a flicker, but there was enough light from the moon and stars to reveal the ruin of battle before him. The hacked corpse of a massive wolf lay near the edge of the precipice, and beyond the doorway lay the body of a large man, his face a ruin, a massive spear run all the way through him. Flames burned in a circle cut into the rock floor of the wide shelf. But it was the spectacle in the midst of it that drew all Darric’s attention.

Menduarthis held Hweilan in a tight embrace. Her arms were pinned beneath his, and the first thing that went through Darric’s mind was the memory of the eladrin’s playful lechery. For an instant he dared let himself hope. If Menduarthis had been freed of the demon-free enough to cajole more kisses-then Hweilan had won.

Then both figures dropped to the ground, like puppets whose strings had been cut. The flames in the circle flickered out. Still, an oppressive presence bore down on the shelf. The wind was no more than a strong breeze off the mountain, but Darric could feel great forces moving, brushing against his mind.

Darric cast his torch aside and ran to Hweilan, falling to his knees beside her. Her entire body trembled as if with fever. Her forehead was a mess of torn skin and blood. He reached out one hand to touch her face. Her skin was cool to the touch, and he saw that both her eyes were twitching back and forth beneath the lids, as if she were caught in a deep dream.

“Is she-?” Valsun came to a halt behind Darric.

“Not dead,” said Darric. “But-”

Menduarthis moaned.

Darric raised his sword, ready to strike, and he heard the clatter of armor behind him. He grabbed Hweilan by the elbow. “Help me get her away from him!”

Menduarthis rolled over and looked up at them. Mandan was standing over him, club raised to strike. Darric spared a quick glance over one shoulder and saw Jaden and Urlun backing away, but Hratt stood his ground. The hobgoblin had his bow raised, an arrow pulled to his cheek and pointed straight at Menduarthis.

“What …?” said Menduarthis, then he blinked. His head fell back on the ground, and he looked up at Mandan and said, “Where …?”

Through the filthy tangle of the eladrin’s hair, Darric saw the rune carved into his forehead. It was scabbed over and smeared with dirt and dried blood, but it was just a wound now. No fiery light leaked from it. And the eladrin’s muscles were not pulled taut as harpstrings. His skin sagged over the sharp bones of his cheeks and chin, and under the smoky light of the moon, he looked downright ghastly.

“Burns …,” said Menduarthis. “It …”

Under his hand, Darric felt Hweilan’s arm stiffen, hard as steel, and she thrashed out of his grip. Her boot struck his shoulder, sending him sprawling, and it was all Darric could do to keep hold of his sword. Valsun screamed something, but Darric didn’t catch the words.

Darric pushed himself to his feet and looked. Hweilan crouched several paces away, her arms held out and low, her fingers twisted into claws. The rising moon was at her back, her face in shadow, and the lines of a jagged, twisting symbol glowed from her forehead. Darric felt his heart stop, just for a moment, then he gasped, “No!”

Valsun cast aside his sword and grabbed the talisman hanging from a chain round his neck. Both the chain and the talisman, crafted in the shape of a gauntlet, were no more than steel, but they had once been blessed by a high cleric. Darric hoped the talisman might suddenly blaze with holy light. It didn’t. But as Valsun held it before him, Hweilan flinched and took a step back.

“By the True Resurrection,” Valsun said, “in the name of the Loyal Fury, Torm the Just, I re-!”

Hweilan growled and took a step forward. There was nothing human in the sound, and it confirmed Darric’s fear. Jagun Ghen had taken Hweilan.

Valsun held his ground. “You have no place in this world, demon!”

“Try this!” Hratt stepped forward to stand beside Hweilan. He had dropped the bow. In one hand he held the stake that they had found in the courtyard below. Hratt had insisted he recognized the symbols carved on it to be in the same style as the inks on Hweilan’s skin. In his other hand he held the red knife they had also found.

Hweilan laughed. “Those hold no more fear for me. All their power I left to rot.”

It was Hweilan’s voice but … not. Something in it wasn’t just wrong but absolutely profane.

“Let her go,” said Darric.

She turned her gaze on him. “I will kill you last. I will eat you, and she will watch. She will taste your blood.”

Valsun took a step forward, the talisman held before him. Hratt was right beside him, the red knife raised to strike, the stake held low. Mandan had moved around to approach her from behind.

“Don’t hurt her!” said Darric.

Mandan ran forward, his club raised crosswise in both hands. But he didn’t hit her. He brought the length of the club in front of her and pulled her to him.

“Now, Valsun!” He shouted.

Hweilan grabbed the club, stepped forward, and threw Mandan over her back. He was much taller and more than twice her weight, but he flew through the air and struck Hratt, sending them both crashing to the ground. Hweilan whirled, and when she came around she threw Mandan’s club.

Had Valsun been wearing full plate, he might have only been knocked down, but he wore only mail over his clothes. So when the thick end of the club struck him in the chest, Darric heard a crunch! of bone. The talisman went flying as Valsun landed on his back. Hweilan was on him in an instant. One swipe of her right hand, and a fountain of blood washed over Darric.

Tears streaming down his face, Darric charged.

He was nearly there when a pale shadow shot out of the mountain doorway, knocking Urlun to the ground, and leaped. It hit Hweilan and they both tumbled backward. Its enraged growl drowned out all other sound. It was Hweilan’s wolf, and his eyes blazed with a feral light. Uncle’s jaws closed around Hweilan’s forearm. Green light leaked from the wound, and the wolf’s fur glowed with more than moonlight. The demon in Hweilan shrieked, cutting through even the sound of the wolf’s growls, and she thrashed and punched, trying to break free.

Darric came to his senses and ran for the talisman that Valsun had lost. He was scrambling on the ground, his hands feeling for it in the dark, when the wolf’s growls turned to a high shriek. His frantic searching hit the small steel gauntlet and knocked it away, but his other hand closed over it. He pulled it to him and turned.

Hweilan had regained her feet. She held her arm out, the wolf still latched to it. But with her other hand she had grabbed the wolf’s side and her fingers were tearing through the flesh between the beast’s ribs.

Darric pushed himself to his feet.

Hweilan’s hand disappeared up to the elbow inside the wolf’s body.

Uncle released her arm, his forepaws leaning on her chest, and let loose a cry, high-pitched enough to hurt Darric’s ears. The cry became a wail, then a keening-a shriek that went on and on, unending and echoing off the mountainside. Darric and the others covered their heads and fell to the ground.

Hweilan could feel her mind tearing apart. Something like this had happened once before, on the night Lendri had died and she first saw Nendawen. The Hunter had taken off his mask, and Hweilan had screamed in horror, for the primal instincts of her mind saw her own future in that face.

You are mine, Hweilan, he said. You were always mine. But her spirit had recognized the true meaning behind those words: This is what you will be. I am both your salvation and your damnation.

And then his mind had been inside hers, ripping through her essence, consuming every memory, every hope, every secret shame. But the Hunter had intended to take them as his own, to meld his essence to hers. To make them one.

But with Jagun Ghen, there was no sharing, no communion. The burning hunger wanted only to take. When his terrible will penetrated her own, he devoured her to taste. There was no nourishment. For every bit of Hweilan he swallowed, his hunger for more only intensified. He swallowed and spat and raged. He took what he wanted and tore the rest, simply out of the pure joy of destruction.

Still, Hweilan could see. As she felt her sanity being torn away, she could see everything around her, as if in a dream. Darric running out of the doorway, casting aside his torch. Urlun and Jaden backing away when they understood what she’d become. Valsun stepping forward, clinging to his faith and defying Jagun Ghen. She even felt Mandan’s club trap her in a crushing embrace. She could feel, but she could not move. Like a dream … able to behold everything, feel everything, but her will given over, like a leaf being swept down a river, inevitably, toward the waterfall ahead. Hweilan knew that when she reached that point, there would be no going back.

And through all this, Jagun Ghen continued to tear through her spirit, infecting every vein of her essence. She saw images of her family and friends as if through bloody water. The hugs from her father, the embraces from her mother, every time Scith had tugged playfully on her braid … she felt them all burned by fire. Every scent and taste she had ever cherished now had the flavor of smoke and corruption.

But Jagun Ghen was still not satisfied. The burning hunger burned deeper, consuming and rending.

Hweilan saw a light blaze in the darkness of the mountain doorway. A wolf-her wolf-blazing like unstained moonlight, leaped out of the darkness. In that new light, Hweilan saw it. Jagun Ghen’s pact circle had indeed trapped the Hunter’s ghost, but it was still here, still fighting, unable to break free. But as the wolf leaped over the pact circle, Hweilan saw a tiny crack open in the Hunter’s bonds.

And then Uncle’s jaws closed over her arm. She felt every tooth tear through her flesh, cracking the bone, but the deeper pain was far worse. The Master’s power inside the wolf hit Jagun Ghen, like cold water thrown on the hot stones of a campfire. In her mind, Hweilan felt the hiss and steam and the shattering like stones cracking and the Hunter’s power found a way inside.

Still, Jagun Ghen proved stronger.

Hweilan felt her left arm rise, the wolf’s jaws still locked around it, his immense weight pulling on her. She felt her right hand-

– She carries death in her right hand-

– strike, her fingers digging into the flesh between the wolf’s ribs. She heard his shriek of pain, felt him struggling, his claws rending at her shirt and the skin beneath, but his grip on her arm did not lessen, and still the power of the Hunter found ways into her mind, like the tiniest roots slowly shattering rock.

– There’s something in you, something I suspect has made even the Master wary-

She felt her hand close around the wolf’s unbeating heart and squeeze. For a moment there was nothing, but then Jagun Ghen funneled his unholy power through her grip.

The wolf’s jaws let go of her arm, and he threw back his head, and howled.

But it was not a howl. It went far beyond that. This cry was wolf, Lendri, and the power that had brought him back altogether. The last of Jagun’s power binding the Hunter’s ghost shattered at that cry. He was free.

Free but bodiless, no more than a raging will in the wind.

Hweilan flung the wolf away. He was still moving, but broken and hurt, unable to stand.

The threads of power from the Master burned away in Hweilan’s mind, and Jagun Ghen continued tearing through her. Almost done now. Soon, the tiny leaf that was Hweilan would be swept over the cataract, to drown in darkness.

She heard laughter, like the roar of fire, as Jagun Ghen tore through her, going deeper, to the very heart-

The destroyer bit-

– and something bit back.

Something hidden. Something that had been dormant in the life and spirit that was Hweilan. But it was dormant no longer. It blazed. Not a light of flame like Jagun Ghen, full of smoke and ash and destruction. This was the light of a newborn star, shining purest white, bringing light and life to the darkness.

The destroyer screamed, a shriek of a shattered spirit.

Jagun Ghen fled, burning in his own fire.

In the emptiness he left behind, Hweilan heard the music that had haunted her dreams. She followed it.

Free from Jagun Ghen, and free from Nendawen, she saw the light and song for what it was. Her grandfather. His countenance had the sad wisdom of ages, but he still had the face and strong gait of a man in his prime. And then she saw his eyes.

Golden. He had golden eyes, and she realized that they saw her.

You remind me of your mother, he said. I felt her passing. I am so sorry. Still, I weep for her at night. I have been searching for you ever since. But something has kept you from me.

What are you?

I am your mother’s father. My name is Jalan.

No. What are you? Your eyes … and the light around you, like the sun …

He smiled. You see truly. What I am is a long story. Suffice to say that my father was … not of this world. That thing trying to hurt you, it has no power over me.

You can defeat him?

No. That is not my calling. But you can. I can sense it in you. You know the way, Hweilan. You know what to do. And after, come to me. I am in the east, beyond the Sunrise Mountains. There are things here I cannot leave undone. Find me, Hweilan. When tonight is over, I may be your only hope.

The music and light faded. For a moment Hweilan was alone, in the darkness of her mind.

And then she opened her eyes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

MOONLIGHT STAINED BY SMOKE FELL ON THE mountainside, but it was still more than bright enough for Hweilan to see. She lay on the ground, and for a moment she could see into both worlds-this one and the invisible spirits around them all-

Jagun Ghen, a massive thing of fire and darkness, hurt and weakened but still raging and strong.

And the Hunter, a green light of fangs and claws.

Seeing his ancient foe, Jagun Ghen fled into the nearest refuge-the body of Nendawen.

And then the spirit sight faded, and Hweilan saw only the carnage around her-

Her wolf lay broken and bloody not three paces away. His paws scrabbled at the ground as he tried to rise, but he was too weak.

Menduarthis was sprawled not far from the wolf. He had tried to crawl away, but found only the sheer drop-off beyond, and he was looking to the others for his next move.

Darric stood several paces away from Hweilan, looking down at her with some sort of medallion dangling from his raised hand.

Behind him, Valsun lay in a pool of wet darkness.

Mandan and Hratt were scrambling to their feet.

The young hobgoblin Urlun was sitting up, his wide, fear-filled eyes taking in the scene before him.

She just caught sight of Jaden fleeing back into the mountain doorway.

And then she saw Nendawen rising, the spear still protruding from him. But Hweilan knew the truth of it. This was not the Master of the Hunt. This was his ancient enemy stealing his body, profaning it. The symbol gouged into her forehead, a mass of pain, suddenly felt cool, as if she had been splashed with cool water.

Urlun screamed, for he was the closest to Jagun Ghen. The others turned at his cry and saw the dead man standing up.

Hweilan pushed herself into a sitting position. Her limbs trembled. She felt utterly wrung out.

Darric began approaching Jagun Ghen, the medallion held before him. But Hratt ran past, and Hweilan saw he held something in his bare hand-the stake she had prepared for Jagun Ghen.

“Hratt, no!” she called out.

He stopped and looked at her, confusion on his face.

Jagun Ghen raised himself to his full height, facing them. The eyes in the ruin of his face were no longer green, but glowed red and hungry. They locked on the stake in the hobgoblin warrior’s hand.

Hweilan pushed herself to her feet. “Hratt, run!”

Too late.

Jagun Ghen raised one hand, his eyes blazed, and the stake in Hratt’s hand erupted in fire. The hobgoblin screamed and flung the burning wood away, but flames were already licking their way up his sleeve. He flung himself down, falling on his own arm in an attempt to quell the fire.

Darric held the medallion higher and renewed his advance. “By the Loyal Fury-!”

Jagun Ghen grabbed the haft of the spear, one hand in front, one in back, and snapped it with no more effort than a man snapping a dry twig over his knee. The breeze off the mountain swept over Nendawen’s body and carried with it the scent of flowers, and Hweilan couldn’t help but laugh at the mad absurdity of it. He pulled the broken shaft out of his front and the end with the spearhead out his back.

Mandan ran to help, holding Hweilan’s red knife. Darric was almost within reach of Jagun Ghen.

“No!” Hweilan screamed.

Jagun Ghen swiped the spear haft outward. Bone cracked and the talisman went flying. Darric fell to his knees, grasping his shattered arm.

Hweilan stumbled forward on trembling legs, tears streaming down her face. The wind swirled around her, and for a moment she thought-

But no, Menduarthis had fallen back to the ground and wasn’t moving.

The scent of flowers grew stronger, and brought with it something else-a wetter, iron-tinged flavor in her mouth. Blood. But not dead, reeking blood. Alive.

Tasting that, it all came to her.

Gleed’s words-Nendawen is the Hunter. He has always been the Hunter. He will always be the Hunter. It is his nature.

The vision she had seen of another Hand, who had watched as his teacher and friend was killed. That Hand had fulfilled his calling, giving himself up to the Master, becoming the new host for the Hunter so that the Hunt might continue.

Yes, Hweilan understood. And she recognized that bloody sweet breeze and the tingling on the rune in her forehead, seeking a way inside.

Jagun Ghen raised the black iron spearhead and took a step toward Darric.

Hweilan understood, and she gave in.

Darric saw the monster coming for him, spear raised. He started to rise, but then thought better of it. If he ran …

No. A knight did not run, and a knight did not die on his knees. He could at least buy his brother time.

He stood, let his broken arm fall to his side, and reached for his dagger.

The horror before him had the pointed end of the spear raised to strike-that jagged black iron barb was as long as Darric’s forearm-but the monster instead threw the broken shaft. It tumbled past Darric’s head so close that he felt the wind of its passage, then heard a thunk! as it struck something behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mandan falling, one side of his face a torn and bloody ruin.

When he turned again, the monster was upon him. Jagun Ghen grabbed a bloody fistful of Darric’s tabard and shoved. Darric fell onto his back, the impact on his arm shooting such agony through him that lights flashed in his vision.

Jagun Ghen planted one foot on Darric’s hip, pressing down, then jabbed the point of the spear into Darric’s stomach.

“You have changed my mind, boy.” His words were slurred as he spoke through the torn lips. Blood dribbled onto Darric’s tabard. “I will no longer kill you last. But I will kill you slow.”

He leaned on the spear, and Darric felt the point break through his mail, piercing his skin. Desperate, he brought his good hand up to try to grab the shaft, to push it away-

But another hand grabbed it first. Smaller than the bloody hand that held the spear, smaller even than Darric’s hand, it gripped the shaft with such strength that the wood creaked. Darric could feel the trembling of opposing forces, one pressing down and another pulling it away.

Darric’s gaze moved from the hand up the arm to the face. Hweilan-!

– only … not. Not any Hweilan he had ever seen. He had seen her fight before with a savage bloodlust that both sickened and-he had to admit-attracted him. The gaze of a beast overtaking its prey. But even that Hweilan was gone.

Her eyes burned with a green fire, and the mind looking out of them did not belong to Hweilan, nor even to a beast, but instead to something primal, an ancient gaze that had seen Faerun’s first sunrise.

Jagun Ghen looked up at her at the same time. “You!”

“I end this,” said Hweilan. The voice was hers but not hers. “I end you. Now.”

Jagun Ghen screamed and struck at her, tearing the spear away from Darric. She caught his arm and held. He tried to bring the half-spear around, but she caught his wrist and held it as well. The body the demon wore was at least three feet taller than Hweilan, his frame corded in tight muscle, but as they grappled it was obvious Jagun Ghen was weaker. His red gaze no longer looked hungry but afraid. Where Hweilan’s hands held him, the skin sizzled and steamed.

The breeze off the mountain strengthened, becoming a strong wind. It scattered the fumes lingering over the fortress, and for the first time the light of the moon shone unsullied on them. Even the stars seemed to bathe them in their cold, hard light.

Jagun Ghen’s eyes dimmed. A black miasma leaked out of his eyes, thicker than tears, and fell out of his mouth, ears, and nose, running down his chest. The reek of it made Darric gag.

The demon thrashed and kicked and shrieked. There were words in there somewhere, but in an ancient, vile tongue that hurt Darric’s ears.

Something grabbed his shoulder. “Help me!”

It was Mandan. Blood ran down his face, but his eyes were wide and bright. Hratt was with him, holding his right arm cradled to his chest, still smoking. Each warrior grabbed the shoulder of Darric’s tabard and pulled him away.

A loud crack! broke through the screams, following by the sound of rending and tearing. Darric looked back to the battle. Hweilan ripped off the arm that held the spear, tossed it aside, and grabbed the monster’s throat. Growling, she pulled him forward, her mouth opening.

Darric looked away.

“Is it over?”

Darric could not see, but he recognized Jaden’s voice.

They had fled back into the mountain, Mandan dragging Darric as he screamed for them to turn back, that he would not leave her.

“She’s already gone, Brother!” Mandan had said. “You saw …”

He had. Mandan hadn’t been able to describe it, but Darric had seen it. Hweilan was gone.

And so they’d run-Darric, Mandan, Hratt, and the young hobgoblin Urlun. It made Darric heartsick to leave Valsun behind. He thought the old knight might have still been alive, but he knew there was no helping him. Had they still had some of the hobgoblins’ gunhin, perhaps … but they did not.

With no torch, the tunnel was black as a dreamless sleep. They rounded the first bend-and crashed right into someone. It was Jaden, who had fled the carnage above. At first he had stopped, he claimed, because the dark tunnel was too damned unsettling after all the horrors they had witnessed. But then he said he found his courage and was coming back to help.

“There’s no help,” said Hratt. “This fight is beyond us.”

They had argued briefly about whether to go on in the dark or back above to rejoin the fight. The sounds coming down to them through the tunnel made their blood run cold. The demon shrieked words that seemed to offend the ground and air. But for Darric, the savage roars coming from Hweilan’s throat were far worse.

And then they had stopped. The only sound was the new wind howling down the mountain not far away.

And so the five of them huddled in the tunnel, listening for any sound of pursuit from above or more trouble coming up from below.

Nothing.

It was Jaden who first broke the silence. “Is it over?”

No one answered. They sat there, ears straining to catch every sound. The air was too close, full of the smell of their own sweat and the reek of Hratt’s half-cooked arm.

“I have to go back,” said Darric.

“Are you mad?” said Hratt.

“I won’t leave Valsun up there.”

“Your friend is dead,” said Hratt, not unkindly.

“Then I must give him the final rites.”

“You may need them yourself if you go back up there.”

Before Darric could reply, Mandan said, “Where you go. I go.”

“Then why did you drag him down here in the first place?” said Hratt.

There was short silence, and when Mandan spoke again, Darric could hear the shame in his voice. “I was afraid.”

“You were right to be afraid!” said Hratt. “You saw what happened. Nothing we did hurt that monster.”

“Hweilan did,” said Darric.

“That wasn’t Hweilan,” said Hratt. “Just a meaner monster. You saw!”

“We’re going,” said Mandan.

“You’re fools,” said Hratt. “You were right to be afraid, damn you! A warrior knows when he is beat and flees to fight another day.”

“We are not warriors,” said Mandan.

“That’s right. We’re knights,” said Darric. “Afraid or not, we’re going back.”

Hratt growled and said, “Ah, fuming farging Hells, then I’m going with you.”

“But you said-”

“Fortune favors the foolish. But no one likes a coward.”

Darric led the way, Mandan right behind him. He heard the others following, even Jaden and the young hobgoblin. When Darric could smell the air growing fresh, he drew his dagger. He knew it would probably be useless against anything still alive up there, but the feel of steel in his hand helped him to push down his fear and keep his feet moving.

Darric emerged into the moonlight, the others at his heels. Nothing was moving. The scene was much as they’d left it, except that what was left of Nendawen was barely recognizable. All the limbs had been ripped away, the chest cavity torn open, the viscera scattered about.

“Where’s the head?” Darric whispered. He didn’t think any of the others could have heard him over the wind.

But Mandan stepped beside him and raised his arm. “Look, Brother.”

Darric’s gaze followed where he pointed.

Hweilan stood over the ruined body of her wolf. It was still moving piteously, but its body was broken and torn. Hweilan had her back to them, and Nendawen’s head dangled from her right hand. Blood still dripped from the ravaged neck.

Mandan kneeled, and Darric saw him retrieve something from the ground. It was the first time Darric got a good look at his brother since the fight. The left side of his face was one solid bruise, much of the skin torn and dripping blood, and his left eye was swollen shut. He handed it to Darric. It was Valsun’s talisman.

Valsun … a deep sense of shame washed over Darric. Valsun had been the only one to act a true knight. He had been struck down for his courage, but Darric knew he had still been moving when they left him. And they had left him, fleeing for their lives.

Darric walked forward, careful not to scuff his boots on the ground. Mandan followed. Hratt took a few steps forward and then stopped. Jaden stayed where he stood. After a moment’s hesitation, Urlun followed Mandan.

Darric kept his eyes on Hweilan-no, the thing that had possessed Hweilan-as he took the final few steps to where Valsun lay. When he kneeled beside him, his trousers soaked up the blood in which the old knight lay. He took Valsun’s hand in his good hand. At the touch, Valsun’s eyes fluttered open.

“Valsun,” Darric whispered. “I’m so sorry, my truest friend.”

The slightest flicker of a smile came to Valsun’s face. He took a deep breath, trying to speak but only succeeded in spitting up blood. Darric wiped it away on his sleeve and bent close.

Valsun tried again. “Boy”-his hoarse whisper sent a fine spray of blood into Darric’s face-“I’m … proud …”

He could get no more out, but his hand squeezed Darric’s hard, and Darric was looking right into his eyes when the light left them and all the strength went out of his grip. Mandan kneeled on the other side, took Valsun’s other hand and closed it over the talisman. He laid the old knight’s fist on his chest and said, “Torm the True welcomes you home.”

“May you shine in the light of the True Resurrection,” said Darric, and he placed Valsun’s left hand on top of his right.

Hweilan turned at the sound of their voices, her green gaze locking on them. Her eyes narrowed as she studied them.

“My wolf,” she said, “needs nourishment. Living blood.”

She walked toward them, her green eyes fixed on Mandan. “Darric …?” he said.

“Hweilan, what are you doing?” said Darric.

She lunged, grabbing a fistful of Mandan’s hair. He screamed and struggled, but he could not break her grip as she dragged him.

Darric ran for them. “Hweilan! Hweilan, stop!”

He grabbed her shoulder, and without even turning she backhanded him with Nendawen’s head. It felt like being hit by a bull, and for a moment Darric lost all sense of sight and sound. When he swam up out of the darkness, he found himself sitting on the ground, Nendawen’s battered head in his lap.

Mandan was still screaming and kicking, both hands batting at Hweilan, but he could not loosen her grip. Hratt and Jaden were screaming as well, and as the fog lifted from Darric’s mind, he was able to put sense to Hratt’s words. “What do we do? Darric, what do we do?”

Darric pushed himself to his feet. “Hweilan, stop this!”

He ran for her. She grabbed Mandan with her other hand and held him over the wolf’s jaws.

“Hweilan!”

Darric was nearly upon them-though he had no idea what he’d do once he got there-when a purple streak burned the air as it passed his face, struck Hweilan in the middle of her back, and exploded in a burst of lightning. The force of the explosion threw Darric back, something scalding hit his face, and when he hit the ground he felt the bones of his broken arm grind together. He shrieked at the pain.

When the thunder faded, he forced himself up on his good elbow and looked. Mandan was free of Hweilan’s grip, though both he and the wolf on which he lay were scorched and smoking. Of Hweilan there was no sign.

Darric heard the clatter of armor and looked back to the mountainside doorway. Jaden, Urlun, and Hratt had hit the ground at the explosion and were just now looking up. Standing in the curtain of moonlight were four hobgoblins, all archers. The one in front still held his empty bow before him.

“Flet?” said Darric.

The hobgoblin pulled another arrow from his quiver and laid it across the bow.

“You?” said Jaden, blinking away the after effects of the lightning. “You saved him.”

Flet looked to his warriors, then down at Jaden. “Yes.”

“Why?” said Darric.

“I seized my moment,” said Flet. “Saving your friend was merely an added boon. One that won’t last.”

“What?” said Jaden. “I don’t understand.”

Darric did, and Flet’s next words came as no surprise to him.

“Use knives,” he said. “Don’t waste arrows unless they run away.”

“The boy, too?” said one of the other archers, looking at Urlun.

Flet nodded. “The boy especially.”

“What is this?” said Jaden, his voice high and cracking.

“Traitors!” said Hratt. “Craven treacherous bastards!” Then he broke off into a string of curses in his own language.

Darric forced himself to his feet, his injured arm sending shards of agony all the way through his body.

Flet raised his bow. “Stay there! I got no more flashy arrows. Just plain steel for you.”

When the three hobgoblins drew knives, Darric’s companions scrambled away, but they had nothing at their backs but a drop of at least a hundred feet. Two of the hobgoblins sheathed their knives, the other put his blade in his teeth, and all of them pulled their bows taut.

Beyond them, in the darkness of the mountain, Darric saw a flicker of purple light. At first he thought it was merely the afterimage of Flet’s magic arrow, but no … there it was again. Brighter this time. Getting closer, and he knew.

“Tell me, Flet,” said Darric, spitting the name like a curse. He yelled to be heard over the wind. “Is this betrayal all you, or are you merely your queen’s cur?”

Flet smiled. “Better a queen’s cur than a duke’s dead son. Eh?”

The hobgoblin pulled the arrow to his cheek.

Darric drew his knife. “Are you afraid to fight me steel to steel? Is it true the bow is the coward’s weapon so that he can kill from afar?”

Darric saw the hobgoblin’s eyes narrow in anger, but then they shifted to suspicion. Flet was no fool, it seemed. He was beginning to sniff out Darric’s ploy.

“You can ask yourself that question,” said Flet, “in the Hells.”

A roar came out of the darkness of the mountain, and an instant later Rhan emerged, the Blacksword of Impiltur held high. The Razor Heart champion’s left arm hung limp and bloody from his side, a swath of skin hung from his chest, and his face was torn and bloody. But his eyes shone bright in the moonlight and his right arm was strong. The first swipe of the sword took off the nearest archer’s arm at the elbow. Still screaming, Rhan kicked the hobgoblin aside, and his follow-through took off the next one’s head.

The remaining archer and Flet turned their aim on Rhan. It was a good aim, but Rhan swept the sword around, cutting the loosed arrow from the air. But he never saw Flet’s strike. It pierced Rhan in the throat and might have gone all the way through had the fletching not caught under his chin. Rhan stumbled backward, his eyes wide with fury and panic.

The hobgoblin archer was reaching for another arrow when Hratt tackled him. Jaden was right behind, his short sword raised and ready to strike.

Flet was laying another arrow across his bow when Darric hit him over the head with the pommel of his dagger. Why he didn’t strike with the blade, Darric didn’t know. Flet cried out in pain and surprise, but he struck back, lowering his shoulder and bowling Darric backward.

Darric tried to swipe at him, but Flet leaped away, putting as much distance as he could between them. He stopped at the edge of the precipice, turned, and raised his bow. He sighted down his arrow, right at Darric.

Darric didn’t close his eyes. He had fled death once tonight. He would not leave again. He would die on his feet, as a knight should.

Fingers appeared over the edge, grabbing just behind Flet’s left heel. An arm followed, swinging over, the hand locking around the hobgoblin’s right ankle and then pulling.

Flet collapsed and his arrow flew off into the sky.

Darric watched as Hweilan’s green gaze came over the edge of rock. Flet screamed and tried to scramble away, but he could not break her grip.

Hweilan climbed onto the shelf of rock and held the hobgoblin upside down. His free foot kicked at her, but he might as well have been kicking an oak. She grabbed him by the back of the neck and walked over to the wolf, ignoring the others completely. The wolf lifted its head, its eyes reflecting the moonlight. Seeing Flet, Uncle opened his jaws. Hweilan pulled back the hobgoblin’s head, exposing his throat, and offered him to the wolf.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Awarmth woke Hweilan. A familiar feeling on her skin, pleasant and light as down. Sunlight. The sun was shining on her.

Hweilan opened her eyes, and saw grass-green and taller than she had ever seen-waving in the wind

She sat up and stared at the canyon walls of Nar-sek Qu’istrade in the near distance. The morning sun was already well over them. She was in the valley beyond Kistrad. How …?

Just beyond her feet, Uncle lay in the grass, watching her. Others were nearby, their backs to her, but she knew them at once. Darric, sitting and leaning upon his knees. Mandan pacing in the sun. Others, bundled in their cloaks, lay next to Darric. She saw Menduarthis’s tousled mass of hair and recognized two of the others as hobgoblins. But two shrouded figures in particular held her attention.

They had been wrapped with care. Valsun was nearest, his pale skin made paler by the dried blood on it. Stones had been placed over his eyes.

Rhan lay next to him. The color was gone from the Champion’s face-or what was left of it. His cheeks and forehead were a mass of dry cuts and scratches, but it was the throat wound that had obviously killed him.

Uncle let out a low whine, drawing Mandan and Darric’s attention. When they saw Hweilan, Mandan stopped his pacing and eyed her warily. Darric stared, blinking, then stood and approached. She saw the hesitation, even fear, in his eyes.

It was only then that Hweilan looked down at herself. The shirt Kesh Naan had made for her was no more than torn bits of scrap dangling from her neck and shoulders, barely covering her enough for modesty. And every inch of her was soaked in blood, drying but still tacky to the touch and reeking of death.

“Hweilan?” said Darric, stopping beside Uncle. “Are you …” She thought he was going to ask if she was well, but he swallowed and said, “Are you Hweilan?”

“What?” she said, and then the taste in her mouth hit her senses. Blood. And oh, gods and ancestors, was that bits of skin between her teeth? Hweilan leaned over and retched into the grass. Lanks of hair fell into her face, and she saw that even her hair was clotted with blood. Looking down, she saw what she was throwing up, and retched even more.

When she was done, she rolled over and crawled away from her sick. Her limbs were trembling, her head hurt and felt light … empty.

It was gone. He was gone. The steady presence of Jagun Ghen like a hollow drumbeat in her skull … gone. There was a weaker pulse, very faint, and she could sense lesser enemies, but they were in a dozen different directions, and all of them far away.

She wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. It was no less bloody, but at least it was mostly dry. Hweilan forced herself to look back at Darric. “What … happened?”

He looked down at her, pity and relief warring in his countenance. “You don’t remember? Not any of it?”

Hweilan looked away and searched her memory. The battle in the courtyard, Jagun Ghen looking on her through Menduarthis’s eyes … that was all horrifyingly clear. After that, she had no more than blurry images, echoes … and music. The music in which she finally heard the words and saw that light, so pure and clean. And the name … “Jalan.”

“Jalan?” said Darric, his brows creased in confusion. “Who …?”

“Tell me what happened,” said Hweilan, more of the steel returning to her voice. “Tell me everything.”

Darric did, explaining how he and the others had followed her into Highwatch as she’d asked, staying behind the hobgoblins, watching and waiting for their treachery. He told her how they had found her on the mountainside. He recounted the final battle, the manner of Valsun’s and Rhan’s deaths. How she had fed Flet to the wolf to heal the animal’s wounds.

“When … when you were done …,” started Darric. He swallowed hard at the memory and would not look at her. “You looked at us, and I thought … I thought we were next. I didn’t know what to say, how to reach you, so I just said, ‘What are you going to do?’ You looked at me-only, only I knew it wasn’t you. It was him, the Hunter, looking at me through your eyes. You said, ‘I will hunt,’ and then … then you leaped! Over the side. A hundred feet at least, but when I looked down, I couldn’t see anything of you. Not in the dark.”

He sat silent a long time, staring at the wind tossing the grass, and Hweilan knew he was reliving what had happened.

“I … I would not leave the dead. Not our dead, anyway. We found a bit of gunhin on Flet and his band. Enough to heal the worst of our wounds and rouse Menduarthis. Mandan and I carried Valsun’s body.” Darric stopped, unable to continue.

“Jaden, Urlun, and I brought Rhan,” said Hratt, walking up. “But even with the three of us, we still had to drag him. Your wolf brought us through the mountain.”

“We had no torches,” Darric said. “No fire. We couldn’t see, We only knew we had to get back to Highwatch. It took us most of the night, but we made it back there at last. Your home holds nothing but the dead now.”

Hweilan knew of the battle she had instigated. But she knew there had been many Razor Heart still alive when Jagun Ghen took her.

“The Razor Heart warriors?” she asked. “They fled?”

Darric looked at her with haunted eyes, and Mandan would not make eye contact.

“Perhaps,” said Darric. “But I don’t think so. As we made our way out of the fortress, the dead … were everywhere. Torn to pieces. The cries of ravens and wolves echoed off the mountainside. That … that will haunt my sleep, Hweilan. What you did …”

She looked away and at last knew the full truth. Nendawen had given himself wholly to his master, becoming not just the Hand but the Hunter himself. That man had died in the fight with Jagun Ghen. But the Hunter, that primal spirit for which there could be no true death, was still here. Inside Hweilan. And the forces that kept the Hunter from this world except for one night each month … those forces still bound him. He would be free to hunt only under the light of the full moon. The Hunter was not of this world. But Hweilan was.

Find me, Hweilan. I may be your only hope.

The words came to her mind again, and she thought she could almost hear them at the back of the wind. The wind out of the east.

Hweilan stood and walked away from the men. The wolf rose and followed at her heels.

“Where are you going?” called Darric.

“To find a well,” she replied. “I need to wash.” She felt her stomach turn over again.

“Is it over, then?” said Darric. “Jagun Ghen, he’s … defeated? Gone?”

Hweilan nodded, but could not speak. Yes, Jagun Ghen had been defeated, his spirit weakened and bound in the Abyss. But she knew many baazuled had fled, scattering in every direction. More would not be able to come into the world, and Jagun Ghen’s play for godhood was as dead as Rhan and all the rest. But the undead would still be a danger, and she was the only one who knew how to deal with them. Walking through the grass, she saw the years stretching before her, hunt after hunt, kill after kill, and every full moon, shining over it all … Hweilan wept. She passed bones and the burned earth of old campfires. With no horses or cattle in the valley, the grass was already waist-high, and she had to rely on her wolf to find the well-a hole three feet across, ringed by a knee-high wall of mud and stone. A thick plank of wood crossed the well, a rope dangling from its middle.

Hweilan pulled up the bucket, again and again, drinking first, then soaking and scrubbing, soaking and scrubbing, using dirt and grass to scour the blood and gore from her skin. She undressed and soaked the remains of her shirt and trousers, squeezing and twisting the blood from the wet fabric. Whatever material Kesh Naan had used to make them shed the blood easily. Since Hweilan had nothing else to wear, she reluctantly put on the mostly clean, ragged wet clothes again.

Then she threw the bucket back down the well, and collapsed. She could not face the others. Not yet.

But her shadow had scarcely moved an inch along the ground before Uncle gave a slight yip, and Hweilan saw Darric approaching.

He stopped a few paces away, looked down at her, and said, “You look better.”

She said nothing.

“What now?” he said. “Now that the hunt has ended …”

Hweilan stood and looked him in the eye. Darric was taller than her, but not by much. “It hasn’t ended,” said Hweilan, her voice hard. “Not for me.” She took a breath and softened her tone. “First, I am going back to Highwatch. To find my bow and other things. The arrows especially are dangerous if another should find them.”

“Hratt has one of your knives.”

“And … and I need to say farewell to my home.”

“You sound like you aren’t coming back.”

Hweilan shrugged. “The gods know. Not me.”

Darric cleared his throat and said, “And then?”

Hweilan turned toward the castle, thrusting out of the northern horizon. She could not say this while looking at him. “I suggest you search the village and fortress. You’ll find shovels to bury our dead-or I will help you place them in my family’s tombs. Then, find what supplies you can and leave. It will not be long before Nar and every mountain clan will be eager to claim Highwatch as their own. You should be long gone by then.”

“Gone?” said Darric. “To where? The six of us through the Gap? We’ll never make it. Not even with you. Not with Maaqua roused and watching for us.”

“I’m not going with you.”

“What?” Darric grabbed her arm, and she heard the hurt in his voice.

She pulled away and put her back to him. “I will tell you of paths northward-you should avoid all routes to the south. It will take a long time, but if you go around the mountains and watch every step, you might make it back into Damara before winter. Especially if we can find you some horses.”

“But … but where will you go?”

“At first?” said Hweilan. “I’ll go east. There’s someone I have to find.”

“Someone?”

She turned back to him and was surprised at what she saw. She’d thought to find a look of hurt on his face to match the pain in his voice. But he looked grim, and for just a moment she saw a bit of her father and Uncle Soran in him. They were of the same people, she thought, as I was. Once.

“My grandfather,” she said. “My mother’s father. I think he can help me.”

“How?” said Darric.

“The Hunter …” Hweilan’s voice broke.

“Nendawen?” said Darric. “I thought he was … dead. We saw …”

“Nendawen was not the Hunter. Only the vessel. And now …”

“Now it’s you,” said Darric, understanding in his voice.

Hweilan nodded. “Most times, I will be … me, I think. I hope. But when the full moon rises …”

“You will hunt,” said Darric.

She nodded. “Jagun Ghen … is gone. To the Abyss. But many of his ilk escaped. I’m the only one who knows how to stop them. I can’t leave them to roam the world. It would be …”

“Wrong,” said Darric. She heard a hint of pride in his voice. “It would be a sin, Hweilan. And you know it.”

She held his gaze but said nothing.

“I will go with you.”

“No,” said Hweilan. “It’s not safe. You won’t be safe. Not with me, not at the full moon.”

Darric smiled. “But you-he didn’t kill us last night. Not after he found Flet to feed to Uncle. He could have. He certainly didn’t hesitate to kill every Razor Heart in the fortress. But he didn’t. Perhaps he is not as powerful as you think. He is part of you, you say. Perhaps you are part of him as well, now?”

Hweilan opened her mouth to argue, but then Gleed’s words came to her again-There’s something about you that even the Master had not planned on.

And she knew what that was now, or at least a part of it. Suffice to say that my father was … not of this world.

Whatever Jalan’s father was, that blood ran in her as well. She would have to ask Gleed about it someday.

“The others will need your help getting to Damara,” she said, but even she heard the weakness in her argument.

“Mandan will not go,” said Darric. “I know it, as do you. And Urlun will follow him. Buureg swore to protect the boy’s family, and I think he’ll keep that promise. And Hratt’s no fool. He knows if he goes home, he’s dead. As for Jaden? He may well leave off with the first caravan we run into, but until then, I think we are stuck with him.”

“Your family-”

“My father has other sons.”

“You are his heir.”

“I don’t want his lands or his titles.”

“Family is more than that. You have a responsibility-”

Darric grabbed her, one arm round her shoulders, one encircling her waist, and kissed her. She let herself return it, just for a moment, then pushed her face away.

“Stop it.”

She looked to the wolf, hoping he’d come snarling to her rescue. But he merely tilted his head, then turned and walked away. Darric’s arms were still around her. She planted both her hands on his chest and pushed.

“Let me go now, or you’re going in the well.”

He held her a moment, staring at her eye to eye, then released her and took a step back.

“You spoke truly, Hweilan. I do have a responsibility. To you. I love you, and whether you feel the same way or not, I won’t forsake you.”

Darric stared at her, his jaw working, waiting.

When no response came, he said, “And do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Feel … anything. For me?”

She wanted to escape, but that was the coward’s way. So she returned his gaze. “I don’t know, Darric. Right now … I only feel …” She searched for the word. There was only one. “Tired.”

A faint smile broke on Darric’s face, then disappeared. Hweilan almost missed it.

“It’s a lonely road, Hweilan. Do you want to walk it by yourself?”

He stepped forward, slowly this time, and held her. She buried her face in him.

“No.”

Content

Mark Sehesdedt
Cry of the Ghost Wolf

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX