Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (33 page)

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 M
ERAH
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.”

C
HAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

H
WEILAN
, R
HAN, 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.