Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II

by Mark Sehestedt

  Every man among them had collapsed from exhaustion. Valsun and Jaden had been snoring even before Hweilan had the fire going, and they were still sleeping. As for Hweilan … no sign of her or the wolf.

  “How long did I sleep?” Darric asked Mandan.

  “All the night and most of the morning.”

  “Midday already?”

  “Just past.” Mandan’s voice was strangely flat. Not angry exactly, but it had a solemnity to it that Darric recognized. Something was bothering Mandan. Something serious.

  “What is it?” Darric asked.

  Mandan growled deep in his throat. “Follow me.”

  With that he rose to a crouch—the deadfall ceiling was far too low for him to stand to his full height—and crawled out of the pit. Darric secured his cloak and followed.

  Cold hit his face and bit into his lungs, waking him instantly. Damara had bitterly cold winters, but nothing like this. Since entering the Giantspires, he’d slowly acclimated to the cold. But they’d been for the most part in valleys or the fissures between the mountains where their guides had led them. They were much higher now. Thin as the air was, it seemed to make it only all the easier for the cold to pierce. Down in the passes, morning cold cut like a knife. Up here, Darric felt like he was breathing in a fume of needles.

  “Where is … she?” Darric couldn’t bring himself to say her name.

  “Shh,” Mandan said. “That’s what you need to see.”

  He led Darric to the edge of the valley where the trees hugged the broken wall of the mountainside. And then they climbed again, over boulders and through fissures in the mountain formed by eons of ice and wind. They were almost at the height of the pines when the ground leveled out somewhat, and Darric saw that it was not really mountainside at all, but a sort of saddle of rock that dropped away again on the other side.

  Behind a boulder near the far edge Mandan crouched, turned to Darric, and put a single finger to his lips. Darric kneeled beside him, and they peeked over the rock into the next valley. It was much shallower and wider than the one in which they’d camped. It had once held trees, but every one had been laid flat—probably by an avalanche. Most still lay there, like a fallen army of statues. The dead trees filled the entire valley for miles down the mountainside—except for one spot, right below them. There, a great wedge of rock, large as a farmhouse, thrust upward, and it was easy to see how the river of snow and ice had passed around it, leaving a little island of bare earth, open to the sky. In the very midst of that bare patch, Darric could just make out a circle, drawn in some dark soil, or perhaps a scattering of ash.

  “I’m so glad you woke me for this,” said Darric. “Truly I have never seen such a circle.” He put a smile on his face as he said it, trying to soften the sarcasm and stir Mandan’s sense of humor.

  But Mandan only scowled. “She was here! I swear it. Her and the wolf, and she—”

  A raven cawed, so loud and so close that both Darric and Mandan jumped. The bird—without a doubt the largest raven Darric had ever seen—sat on the nearest boulder to their right, just upslope. It glared at them, completely without fear, then flapped its wings and let out a long croak.

  Had it been there the whole time? Darric couldn’t remember. Surely they would have heard such a large creature landing. But how could they have missed—?

  And then Darric saw beyond the bird. The saddle of the mountain continued upward until it hit the mountainside proper, no more than twenty feet from where they hid. But there at the foot of the cliff the rock split in a fissure. Not huge, but big enough for someone to fit in. And someone had.

  Darric saw the eyes first, bright and fierce, then the glow of skin, and Hweilan emerged a moment later.

  Her bone mask was gone, but paint still adorned much of her face and the rest of her skin. So much skin—far more than modesty allowed even in the most decadent Damaran court. She still wore the same close-fitting trousers and high boots from the night before, but above that was only a strip of cloth tied around her neck, covering her breasts, and then bound around her back. It left her entire midriff and arms exposed. Darric saw that more of the strange symbols adorned her—most with blue ink, but he saw that some were scars—and she was drenched in sweat. So much so that it steamed off her in the cold. How—?

  She walked toward them. The raven hopped halfway around, gave her a baleful look, then flew off.

  Hweilan almost made it to them before her knees gave out, and she leaned heavily against the rock before sliding to the ground. Darric saw that she had a fresh bandage around her right hand. Blood and some greener substance had soaked through on her palm.

  “Are you hurt?” said Darric.

  She took a moment to catch her breath, then glared at them both. “I’ve never liked spies.”

  Darric and Mandan exchanged a glance.

  “We—”

  “Have all the stealth of a swiftstag herd. I heard your friend up here awhile ago. Now here you both are. Why?”

  Darric opened his mouth to speak, but Mandan beat him to it.

  “Something woke me. The others were still asleep—except you. No sign of you. I thought … well, I went to look, and I saw …” His voice had had an apologetic tone to it, but suddenly it hardened. “I saw what you were doing. What you did.”

  Hweilan said nothing, but her gaze did not soften.

  “She was dancing in the circle,” Mandan continued. “Dancing around something—an arrow, I think—and chanting. Like some damned witch.” He pointed at her hand. “I saw her slice open her own hand, making some cursed bloodpact with who knows what. And then … in all those fallen trees, under all the branches and shadows, I … I thought I saw …”

  “What?” Darric asked.

  “Yes,” said Hweilan. Her eyes had narrowed. There was still ferocity there, but something else as well. Curiosity. “Tell us what you saw.”

  “Thought I saw,” said Mandan. “Shapes. But I … I don’t know. But then she”—he pointed at Hweilan—“fell on her knees in front of the arrow and I know I saw a flash of light—green, damn it all!—and I thought I heard …” He swallowed hard and clutched at his chest. Darric knew what lay there under all his layers of clothes—a silver medallion in the form of a gauntlet, holy symbol of Torm the Loyal Fury. “No. I know I heard a scream. But not from her, and not from the direction of our camp. And … by the True Resurrection not by anything I’ve ever heard in this world. It …”

  A shudder shook him, so violently that Darric heard the mail rattle under his coat.

  Darric looked to Hweilan. She’d caught her breath and managed to sit up without leaning against the stone. But she still sat watching Mandan warily, like a hound who has happened upon a strange, new scent.

  “Do you deny this?” Darric asked her.

  Her eyes shifted to him, but she didn’t otherwise move. “I don’t know what he did or didn’t see or what he did or didn’t hear.” No hint of apology in her tone.

  “You know what he asks,” said Mandan. “The circle, the black arrow, the chanting, all those etchings on your skin, and that … that scream. What witchcraft is this?”

  But Hweilan chuckled. “Witchcraft?”

  “Answer me,” said Mandan.

  “I don’t answer to you.”

  Darric could see his brother getting very riled. His thick hair was beginning to stand on end, and even in the cold his skin was flushed. He put a hand on Mandan’s shoulder, “Brother, we—”

  “No!” Mandan turned his gaze on Darric, who flinched back. “No I will have an answer from her. You told us we were coming to aid any who survived from Highwatch and to find out what happened. But I’ve known all along it was her you were really after. And damn it all, Brother, we find her as some sort of savage demonbinder calling upon gods-know-what foul powers. It’s her soul needs saving!”

  Darric held Mandan’s gaze a long time, searching for a retort. But he had none. So he looked to Hweilan. “Do you deny his words?”


  She sighed and her shoulders slumped. Darric could see she was trembling. Had she slept at all during the night?

  “We’ll talk,” she said. “But back by the fire. The rite always makes my blood run hot, but now …” She shivered. “And besides, I’m famished.”

  When they returned to the camp, they met a grisly sight. A dead ram lay near the entrance, its throat a ravaged mess.

  “Uncle has brought us breakfast,” said Hweilan.

  “The wolf?” Mandan looked about, and Darric could see him bristling again. “Where is it?”

  Hweilan shrugged and said, “He is not far. I’ll gut breakfast if you two would rouse the fire.”

  Mandan scowled at them both, then ducked back inside the shelter. Darric did not follow. He turned and watched as Hweilan crouched beside a pile of gray branches. With one hand she lifted them, then reached under them with the other and retrieved her pack. When she stood and turned back, she held a long knife in one hand.

  Darric took a step back and cursed himself. He sensed no threat, but she was so … not what he had expected. Expected? No. Darric had to be honest with himself—and felt his face flush at the thought—what he had hoped.

  She stood there, studying him. At last she said, “Brother?”

  Darric blinked twice. “What?”

  “You call him ‘brother.’ But you are Damaran, through and through. And he is … not.”

  “He is as Damaran as I am.”

  “And something more besides.”

  She turned away, kneeling beside the dead ram, and set to work with her knife. Darric caught himself watching. Not the gruesome work of the carcass. The strap of skin she wore across her chest was indeed tied around her neck and back, but by thin strings only. It left her back almost entirely bare. He saw more inks there, more scars, but beneath the skin her muscles rippled as they worked.

  “Darric, is it?” she said, not turning from her work. She reached inside the open carcass and began digging out the offal. “I think I remember you now. As a child, I never traveled west of the mountains—except once. When I was seven. My family traveled to Soravia. I don’t remember why. But I remember some of the other nobles’ children. There was one—a boy a year or two older than I was, I think. His father’s oldest and heir, but still younger than most of the other nobles’ sons. Very eager to prove himself. But the other nobles’ sons were older, bigger, and they didn’t seem to like him much. One of the games—a game I was not allowed in, being a little girl—turned rough. No, more than rough. With no adults around, it turned into a brawl, and several of the bigger boys decided they would show the younger one their dislike once and for all. Shame him. And so—”

  “And so they beat me,” said Darric. He was still looking at her, though he was seeing the distant memory. “Bloodied my nose, loosened a tooth, and knocked me to the ground. I was in the process of getting up—my father always told me it was no shame to be beaten, but there was no greater shame than letting yourself be beaten—when this little hellcat of a girl—half the size of the smallest boy there—stood over me, brandishing some sort of horn or antler in one fist. She cursed them all for cowards, waved her weapon at them, and dared the biggest one to step forward if he wanted a real fight. They laughed. The biggest boy did step forward, reached to take the little upstart’s weapon away, and—”

  “And I stabbed his hand,” said Hweilan. She stopped her work and looked over her shoulder at him.

  Darric nodded and swallowed. In the years since, he’d told that story two-score times, and thought about it hundreds more, usually laughing but at the very least with a smile. But he couldn’t smile now. Could barely even move. Seeing her here now, the memory was too fresh.

  “Not badly,” she said. “But the little whoreson jerked away so fast that he opened a gash. And then my mother happened on the scene, and the real fury began.”

  Darric remembered. Hweilan’s mother had dressed as a Damaran, but there was no mistaking her for one. Even without the slight cant to her eyes and the sharp ears, there was something altogether other about her. He’d heard, as had all the noble Houses, how Vandalar’s son and heir had married some eastern barbarian. They hadn’t known the half of it. The look in her eyes—the gaze she had cast on the gang of youths—had sent them running, and Darric knew that most of them had been fighting tears.

  “That little boy’s name was Darric,” said Hweilan.

  “I’m not a little boy anymore.”

  Her voice went hard again. “And I’m not that girl. Now either help me or join your friend. The sooner this is done, the sooner we eat.”

  They sat around the fire. The four Damarans and Hweilan. The fleeing horses had taken the Damarans’ supplies, so they had to content themselves with water from their skins for drink. But everyone chewed greedily on the roast ram. They could hear crows feeding on the offal and bones outside.

  Once the worst of their hunger had been satisfied, Hweilan looked to Darric and said, “Why are you here?”

  Darric gave Mandan a pointed look. His brother returned it but kept his mouth shut.

  “Not everyone in Damara has forsaken Highwatch,” said Darric. “Many try to curry favor with the usurper. Others are too weak to oppose him and so fear any association with Vandalar, who never supported Yarin. My father remembers the friendship of your House, but even he cannot openly oppose the king.”

  “Tell the whole truth, Brother,” said Mandan, his voice hard. “Because we are going to get the whole truth out of her. I promise you.”

  If Hweilan was bothered by the angry look in Mandan’s eyes, she gave no sign of it. She merely took another bite of meat and looked to Darric.

  He could not meet her gaze, so he looked into the fire and said, “My father was saddened to hear of Highwatch, but he would send no aid beyond a few search parties in the western Gap, hoping to find survivors. I … grew angry.”

  Valsun snorted. “You cursed Duke Vittamar for—what was it?—being a craven dotard. Darric told the duke if he was too timid to stand beside a sworn ally, then Darric would go himself. And so he did.”

  Darric shrugged and continued, “Valsun and Mandan came with me. We hired what swords we could, and … well, here we are.”

  “About that,” said Hweilan. She chewed a moment, then swallowed. “Explain the ‘brother.’ ”

  Mandan said, “Why is it any of your—?”

  “If you are ‘going to get the whole truth’ out of me,” said Hweilan, “then I’ll have it from you. I saved your lives last night. You can answer me out of gratitude if nothing else.”

  A tense silence followed, broken only by the sound of the flames.

  “Well I’m grateful,” said Jaden. “I could’ve done without the mountain goat walk in the middle of the night, but this particular goat makes up for that.”

  Mandan growled, and Jaden flinched back, his eyes widening.

  “Easy, Mandan,” said Darric, then looked to Hweilan. “Forgive my brother. You’ve cut a sore vein there.”

  “I don’t give a half-damn,” said Hweilan. “Brother here has accused me of witchcraft.”

  Mandan’s jaw tightened and he took a deep breath through his nose, and for a moment Darric feared things were about to move beyond his control.

  “But that isn’t what’s really bothering you, is it?” said Hweilan, completely unconcerned. She took another bite of roast ram, swallowed, then continued, “Brother there speaks well and dresses like a proper knight, so I’m guessing our good Duke Vittamar raised him in his own household. An orphan then? Because if he’s blood to you, Darric, it’s only half-blood, and the other half isn’t human.”

  Mandan sat up and was half into a lunge over the fire when the growl hit them. For the briefest instant only, Darric feared it was Mandan himself and that the rage was upon him. But Mandan had frozen still as a dead branch. The growl filled their little branch-covered dell, and it hit the gut like a drumbeat, low and strong.

  And then Darric saw the wolf.
He’d come down into the hollow by another entrance and stood just behind Jaden’s left shoulder. His black lips were pulled back over his fangs, his ears lay flat against his head, and every bit of fur around his head and neck stood on end. Jaden’s eyes were wider and brighter than new-minted coins, and his chin was trembling.

  “You should sit down,” said Hweilan, her voice utterly calm, even relaxed.

  “Aye,” said Jaden, just daring the slightest nod. “Do sit down. Good idea.”

  Mandan gave the wolf a long, careful look, then scowled at Hweilan and sat.

  The ground-shaking growl stopped, and the wolf covered its fangs. His ears rose, twitched, and he settled on his haunches to watch Mandan through narrowed eyes.

  Jaden and Valsun let out a sigh, and Darric realized that he too had been holding his breath.

  Hweilan took a long swallow from her waterskin, tied it shut, then looked right at Mandan. There was no apology or sympathy in her gaze, but no anger either. Darric felt very, very grateful for that.

  Before the mood could sour again, Darric started talking. “Northern Soravia borders on the Great Glacier. A wild country. But still there are people who eke out a living there. Hunters, herdsmen, woodcutters … rugged folk. Some years ago, something began slaughtering their herds. And then woodsmen disappeared. A monster of some sort, said the locals. My father sent men to hunt down the beast. They heard tales of a great bear, a huge savage man, or something in between. They followed the trail of rumors into the villages near the mountains. There, they found a young woman, whom locals said had been ravished by the beast. She bore a child. She and the villagers were about to kill it—cast it on a pyre—but my father would not permit it. He said that no matter the crimes of the father, innocent blood would not be spilled in his land. In the tendays that followed, his men found a half-mad savage in the mountains, whom they said could turn into a great bear. They killed him. But my family raised the child. Mandan. His fury burns as hot as his joy, and he sometimes speaks before he thinks, but I have never known a finer man.”