Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (40 page)

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.”

C
HAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

J
AGUN
G
HEN LOOKED UP AT HER AND SMILED
. S
EEING
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.