Cry of the Ghost Wolf con-3

by Mark Sehesdedt

  “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.”