Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II
Page 2
A large object falling down the cliff face. Something heavy crashed through the branches of the brush nearest the cliff, and Darric felt his chest tighten. If their attackers had gained the height, they could hurl rocks down on Darric and his company.
“Beware above!” he shouted. “They—”
But his breath caught in his throat. Whatever had fallen from the height and struck with bone-breaking force was standing up. It rose in the shadow cast by a tree, and Darric could see only the outline of its shape—man-sized, but hunched over and swaying as if it was having trouble keeping its feet.
One of Darric’s men had been hiding behind the tree. The man charged, blade held high. The two shapes merged. Darric squinted, trying to make out what was hap—
A strong hand grabbed the collar of Darric’s coat and pulled him to the ground behind a tree.
“Watch out, my lord!” came Valsun’s voice. “Wizard’s shield is gone. He—”
A shriek cut off his words. Men had been screaming since the attack began—taunting the attackers, calling those wounded in the initial attack or by the horses, shouting words of encouragement to Hureleth. This drowned out all that.
As a child, Darric had been playing in the courtyard outside the kitchens when one of the dogs tripped a maid carrying a pot of boiling water. She’d pitched forward, spilling the boiling water all over the dog and down the back of the head cook. The shriek of the cook and the dog was one of the few sounds that had been forever seared into Darric’s brain. He’d been no more than four at the time, and for months after he’d woken from a nightmare with that sound echoing down the corridors of the crumbling dream. It embodied everything that surprise and utter, complete, mind-numbing agony ought to sound like. Without a doubt, it had been the most awful sound he’d ever heard. Until now.
Valsun had been holding Darric down, covering his lord with his own body. But he turned away at the sound, and Darric sat up. Together they watched one of their men bound past them, shrieking as he ran.
Make him stop! Darric’s mind screamed, and he’d half-opened his mouth to give the words voice when he saw why the man was screaming.
The man’s right arm was gone from the elbow down. Blood pulsed from it like a fountain spout, and by the bits of ragged cloth, skin, and muscle Darric saw—in that brief instant, no matter how hard he tried, he could not look away—he knew that no blade had taken the man’s arm. It had been torn off.
The horror of that had just sunk in when their campsite was lit by another flash from the wizard’s spell. In the harsh white light Darric saw the man’s face—or what was left of it. One eye, white and round as the waxed winter moon, stared out from a mass of blood, ravaged skin, and here and there—oh, gods, yes it was true—the ivory glow of bone. His other eye was gone, as was most of his scalp.
“What could have—?” Valsun managed, then they both saw it coming at them.
The thing had the semblance of a man. A Damaran even. It wore the uniform and mail of a Damaran knight, though the cloth was torn and soiled. Its hair was cropped short, like a knight’s. But the eyes …
Darric could find nothing human in them. Just a blackness, empty but somehow still alive. It was not the empty of nothingness. More like the void of hunger, of want, of lust. A fire lurked in the very center of those twin black orbs, and Darric knew instinctively that it was not a reflection. Something hot and hungry burned behind those eyes. Some famine that would stop at nothing to feast.
“Behind us!” Darric called, and pushed himself to his feet. Valsun tried to pull him back down, but Darric shrugged him off and called, “Wizard, behind us, damn you! Now! Now!”
From some part of his mind that still held on to reason, Darric heard the wizard laugh—actually laugh!—and then the attackers were among them, steel and spears striking at Darric’s company. Swinging his club in a wide arc, Mandan shattered two spears and one skull—and after that none would come near him. The rest of the Damarans struck back when they could, for most had not yet seen the horror that walked among them.
Another flash, and a spear of light shot over Darric’s right shoulder—he actually felt the heat of its passing, even through all the layers of his clothes—then it struck the thing advancing on them. The bolt struck it square in the chest. Clothes and flesh and bone burned away like parchment in fire, but still the thing came on, its eyes fixed on Darric.
Three more steps …
Darric brought his blade around. A clumsy blow. One Valsun would have berated him for. No grace. No thought for counterstrike. No balance. Just raw force behind sharp steel. Darric knew if he missed he’d find himself flat on his back, staring at the sky.
His sword hit the thing where its shoulder met its neck. A bit of skin and soft flesh covering a thick net of muscle over bone. Darric’s blade cut through them all, sending a shock up both his arms, even rattling his teeth.
His eyes locked on the thing’s face, saw the lips peel back. Not in pain. It was pure, gleeful malice. Even with a yard of steel lodged in its neck, its left fist shot out, striking Darric’s double-handed grip on the sword. It felt like a smith’s hammer hitting him, breaking Darric’s grip. Darric fell forward, rolling into his foe.
It was like hitting a wall. And then Darric was in the thing’s grip, being pulled upward. The thing’s eyes narrowed to slits, which made their inner fire seem all the more intense. Its hands were iron strong. They squeezed Darric’s arms into his ribs and kept squeezing. Darric screamed and kicked at its shins and knees, then drove his knee into the crotch. His captor didn’t even flinch.
The thing gave Darric a quick shake, back and forth just once, but with enough force that Darric’s teeth clamped shut over his tongue, and he tasted blood. He stopped struggling and looked up, afraid that one more shake like that would break his neck.
The thing opened its mouth and inhaled, taking in a deep draft of air, tasting it. A shiver passed through the thing’s entire body—so strong that Darric felt it in his bones, so sudden and fierce that the thing’s skin actually rippled. It was like watching a cocoon in the final moments before the moth tore through.
The thing looked down at the yard of steel imbedded in its shoulder. Not with pain or concern. Just an odd sort of curiosity. It released Darric’s left shoulder and grabbed its neck.
“Be still, little mouse,” it said, and again the fetid breath washed over Darric, so strong that it made his eyes water. “Be still or I snap your neck. It’s better … so much better if you’re still alive for me.”
Still alive? Darric’s mind seized at the words. For what?
The thing released his other arm and used the free hand to wrench the sword out of its shoulder. Darric hard the snap of steel working its way through shattered bone, and heard the sucking sound of the skin and muscle clinging to the sword, but there was no surge of blood when the weapon broke free. It was as if no heart beat in the thing’s chest. It was only then that Darric’s mind seized on the obvious—
Call for help, you fool! But he could hear the clash of steel on steel, and from somewhere that seemed all too far away the sound of Valsun shouting, “Help him! Damn you! Help—!” And then more steel and screams.
The thing lowered Darric until his knees rested on the ground, then it planted the point of Darric’s own sword against his cheek.
“Scream,” it said.
“No,” Darric said through clenched teeth. With the grip crushing just under his jaw, it was all he could manage. His mind came up with a dozen defiant curses, but he didn’t have the breath for one of them.
“How will you scream, I wonder,” said the thing, “if I cut you here—and here?” It ran the edge of the blade down Darric’s cheek, first one side, then the other, just hard enough to break the skin. “If I unhinge your jaw, are you strong enough to scream while I eat your tongue? Or will you swoon like a tavern drunkard?”
Darric renewed his punches and kicks, aiming for every vulnerable spot he’d been trained to strike.
Darric was looking right at the thing when the arrow hit it. A perfect strike, missing the top of Darric’s head by less than a foot, then hitting the soft flesh between the thing’s throat and chest, going in deep. The sheer force made the thing stumble back a step, but it didn’t fall or loosen its grip on Darric’s neck. Just stood there looking down at the black shaft of the arrow. The beginning of a snarl twisted the thing’s lips.
But then a crack of green fire sparked along the black shaft of the arrow. No, Darric saw. Not a crack. The light expanded, like flame running along oil, and Darric could see that the fire traced a pattern of intricate runes all along the shaft.
“No!” The thing’s eyes widened and it let Darric go. He hit the ground and forced air through his throat.
“No! No! No-no-no! N-n-no! N-n-n-n-n—!”
Darric heard genuine panic in the thing’s voice. It grabbed the arrow with both hands. Close as he was, Darric heard the flesh hiss as if he’d grasped a branding iron fresh out of the coals.
The thing shrieked. It was a cry beyond sound, bypassing Darric’s ears and raking down his spine like jagged fingernails on slate. It was beyond human, beyond anything he could have imagined.
The red embers in the thing’s gaze died, and green fire shot from its eyes and mouth. Fumes poured out of its nose and ears—black and heavy, falling over its shoulders and down its face, a thick miasma. The shriek died, fading away like a final echo. With it, all strength left the thing’s body, and it fell to the ground like the dead flesh it was.
Later, looking back at that moment, Darric felt sure what happened next lasted no more than a moment. Certainly no longer than the time it took for the body to hit the ground. But time seemed to stretch, every detail clear in Darric’s sight, every sound distinct. The Nar stood dumbstruck. More than a few jaws dropped, and every eye, round and wide, fixed on the lifeless corpse that only moments ago had been their feared leader.
But the stillness broke. Someone out of Darric’s sight cried out an order in Nar. Darric’s command of the language was limited at best, but he caught one word clearly—“Kill!”
Three Nar, blades in hand, ran for him.
Darric pushed himself up and scrambled for his sword. But the thing’s death grip was locked around the hilt and he couldn’t pry the fingers loose. Cursing, Darric reached for the dagger at his belt.
He was halfway to his feet when he felt the wind of the arrow’s flight. He heard it pass overhead like an angry wasp, and there was a crack as the arrow struck the nearest Nar. The man flew backward, his arms thrust before him, and hit the ground a good six feet away from where he’d left his feet.
His nearest companion stopped in his tracks. He crouched, causing the arrow to hit him in the head. The man’s head went back with such force that Darric heard the neck snap, and the entire body flipped backward. When the torso hit the ground, the feet were still in the air.
Through the dust Darric found himself staring at the man. The arrow had gone all the way through so that a good six inches of the shaft protruded out of the back of the man’s skull. What kind of bow—?
The Nar evidently had the same thought, for they scattered in every direction, forsaking the fight. Within moments, it was over.
Wide-eyed, panting, his heart still hammering, Darric looked around. Mandan was several paces away, club still raised, looking back at him. Valsun was a ways behind him, standing over two dead Nar. As near as Darric could tell, none of the blood on Valsun was his own. Just beyond him was one of the sellswords Darric had hired. He thought the man’s name was Jaden, but he couldn’t be sure. Darric suspected the man might be more cutpurse than sellsword, but he fought well.
The rest of the Damarans and hired blades lay unmoving. Hureleth lay closest to Darric. His body sprouted two arrows, and it looked as if someone had given him several good blows with a sword, just to be sure. His open wounds steamed in the cold night air.
For several moments, the survivors just looked at one another, the only sounds that of their labored breathing and the fire consuming the tree. For his part, Darric was almost overwhelmed by two conflicting feelings—horror and disgust at what had just happened, and heartfelt gratitude that he and his two dearest comrades were still standing.
“There!” Valsun pointed with his sword.
Something in the darkness moved.
A shape emerged from the shadows and into the flickering orange light cast by the burning tree. The figure stepped with such grace that its footsteps made not a sound. Darric could tell by the body’s curves that it was a woman. She held a bow that was almost as tall as she was. She wore dark, fitted clothes that seemed to drink in the darkness, but her face …
There was no face. Darric instinctively tried to gasp, but it came out more of a strangled choke. No face!
Two bright eyes, wide with a feral glee, stared out from a face of bone. But as the woman stepped fully into the light, Darric saw that, horrible as it was, the mask was just that—a mask made from the skull of some animal. Not old and ivory white. Still fresh and slick, so that the firelight wavering off it made it seem almost the color of fresh blood, and the eyes looking out from the deep sockets watched them with something very close to …
He knew not what. But Darric shivered.
From the distant dark came an agonized scream. Darric looked nervously in the direction, and the other men did the same as they sat up.
“Don’t mind them,” said the woman. “It’s just Uncle taking care of any lingerers.”
“Uncle?” said Darric. “Who is Uncle? And who are you?”
The woman looked at Darric and said, “My name is Hweilan.”
Darric’s jaw dropped.
He heard Valsun gasp.
Mandan gaped at her and said, “Shar’s sullied shit.”
Jaden looked at them all in turn, then said, “What in the smoking Hells is going on?”
The woman picked up one of the larger rocks that the Damarans had used as a campfire ring, then she walked over to the dead man with the arrow through his head and kneeled beside him. Without looking at any of them she said, “Do I know you?”
Darric said, “My name is Darric.”
Mandan said, “He came to find you.”
At the same time Valsun cried, “What are you doing?”
The woman brought the rock down sharply on the dead man’s skull. It didn’t crack so much as crunch.
“Holy gods,” said Jaden, then turned on his hands and knees and was violently sick.
Hweilan smashed the dead man’s skull twice more then tossed the rock aside.
“What are you doing?” said Mandan, more curious than horrified.
“Retrieving my arrow,” she said. “Can’t cut through bone, so I have to break it out. A good arrow is hard to make, so I’d much rather break a dead man’s skull than my arrow.”
She pulled the arrow out of the broken wreck of the dead Nar’s head and proceeded to clean it on his clothes. Once satisfied, she slid it back into the quiver on her back, then walked over to the corpse holding her arrow in his chest. She looked down, and Darric heard her murmur, “Damn. Going to ruin the fletching.”
She kneeled, turned the corpse on its side and grasped the haft of the arrow where it was protruding from the Nar’s back. Holding it in a firm grip, she twisted and pulled, dragging the fletching through the chest cavity. It emerged bloody and featherless.
“I don’t know anyone named Darric,” she said as she used the dead man’s clothes to clean the arrow.
“If you are Hweilan of Highwatch,” Darric said, “daughter of Ardan and Merah, granddaughter of Vandalar, High Warden, then you do
know me.”
She looked at him. When he’d first seen those eyes, he’d seen a feral glee in them. There was no glee now. Just pure ferocity. More like an animal’s eyes than a woman’s. Darric could not look away. His mouth opened and shut once, then again, but he could not think of a thing to say.
“Tell me how you know those names,” she said.
Silence held them for a long time, the only sound that of the fire.
Mandan spoke up at last, “Forgive my brother’s lack of eloquence. He is indeed Darric, heir of Duke Vittamar of Soravia, and he has come—”
“We heard of Highwatch.” Darric found his voice at last. He gave Valsun and Mandan a sharp look, hoping they saw it and divined its meaning. “That it had fallen. To Nar. No one believed it, of course. But when our messenger hawks did not return … we came to find the truth for ourselves, and offer what aid we could.”
Mandan smirked and said, “He came to find you.”
“Be silent, Brother!”
Hweilan looked at Mandan. And Darric saw it—her nostrils widened as she scented the air, and then her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She studied Mandan a moment, then looked back at Darric. He could see her considering, and he thought—
She knows. I don’t know how, but she knows. I’d bet my inheritance on it.
“Brother?” she said at last and looked at Darric.
Mandan tensed and raised his club. A moment later, Darric saw why.
The wolf padded out of the darkness, silent as a ghost. In the dim torchlight, Darric could not tell if it was white or a very pale gray, but he was quite certain that the dark wetness staining its muzzle almost up to its eyes was blood.
“Beware!” said Mandan. He ran forward, grabbed Hweilan, and tried to pull her behind him.
Instead, the woman twisted in his grasp, used Mandan’s own weight and momentum against him, and the much-bigger man found himself flat on his back, looking up at the woman and the wolf, who stood calmly beside her, licking the blood from his muzzle.