Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III

by Mark Sehesdedt

  Maaqua had considered using her private chambers, protected as they were by dozens of spells and guards both arcane and unholy. But she was still unsure of herself and did not want to deal with any unforeseen consequences there.

  So she took her most skilled acolytes and climbed to the top of the third watchtower. It was not the highest point, but it afforded the best view to the east, which was where she needed to direct her attention.

  The jagged crenellation that served as a tower had a large window, but Maaqua took her acolytes to the top of the rock under the open sky. She posted guards in the room below, and more in the stairwells.

  Her acolytes used ram’s blood to paint the boundaries of protection on the stone itself, while Maaqua began the incantation to loosen the wards she’d set around the fortress. She did not dispel them entirely—that would be dangerous. But she knew that if the arcane energies served as a sort of outer wall of a castle, then she needed a window through it—one that she hoped would look only outward.

  Once all was set, the acolytes kneeled on the outer edges of the lines of blood and began their own incantations. Maaqua sat cross-legged inside the circle and muttered a prayer. She then removed a silk bag from her robes, opened the drawstring, and poured out the contents—a large mound of feathers, plucked from a snow owl, whose flesh was digesting in her belly. She sprinkled the ash from a mountain oak on the feathers, then reached inside her robe again.

  Fire flashed in her palm. It came from an orb she held, slightly smaller than a lamb’s skull and red as pulsing blood.

  Maaqua swallowed hard. She had done this many times, but never against the new master of Highwatch.

  She set the orb on the bed of owl feathers, then adjusted the crown on her head. The gold circlet had two points rising above each temple and a third above her forehead. Three rubies sat in the circlet, just above Maaqua’s eyes, and they reflected the light of the orb. The Crown of Whispers, which Maaqua had taken from the hands of Soneillon herself. Maaqua hoped it would give her the edge she needed.

  She closed her eyes and continued the incantation. Something flickered over Maaqua’s head, the barest bit of light, no more than the spark from touching metal after rubbing dry wool. But the green spark grew in brilliance. It shot off tiny jolts of jagged lightning in every direction, each slightly larger than the last, until it was the same size as the red orb in front of Maaqua. The green fire flared a final time, then settled into a steady glow. A crack formed across its middle, widening like the lids of an opening eye.

  Maaqua smiled, though her words did not falter. The eye looked eastward, over mountains and valleys, needing no light and piercing every shadow, until its gaze settled upon Nar-sek Qu’istrade and the castle that looked down upon it. Highwatch lay dark under the night sky, no fires burning in its stone chambers. The queen burrowed deeper, seeking the mind of her enemy.

  There.

  In what had once been the chambers of the High Warden’s family, a mind of fire and hunger burned inside the failing body of a mortal. There were others throughout the fortress, but they were only flickering torches against the mountain heartbeat of this one. Jagun Ghen.

  Maaqua’s smile widened.

  From below the tower came the sound of horns. Someone had raised the alarm. Maaqua dismissed the sound. She balanced on a razor’s edge now. The slightest misstep …

  The queen burrowed deeper with her magic, her vision going beyond mere sight to the will and intent of the thing that lurked in Highwatch. If it was aware of her presence, it gave no hint. Pleased, she fathomed the outer whispers of the thing’s mind, learning a thing or two and confirming much of what she already expected. Then one thing surprised her so much she actually gasped and opened her eyes.

  No. She had learned too much. What else might there be? Her curiosity unsated, she closed her eyes, concentrated, and went deeper.

  Then Maaqua screamed.

  Hratt sat in the pitch black chamber, with his back and head resting against the door. After he’d told the warrior outside who had the other key what had happened, he’d been left alone with the still-unconscious Drureng. It gave him time to think.

  Which way to go? Which way to run?

  For run he surely must. He’d betrayed his queen.

  When Hweilan demanded the key to the room, he had of course refused. But then she’d raised her hands, showing one of the forge hammers in her left and the red knife in the other, and said, “Please.”

  Hratt had been a warrior for almost ten years. After watching her fight, though, he knew he stood little chance against her. But it wasn’t in him to give in. He lunged at her with the torch, hoping at most to get past her and run for help.

  She smirked—actually smirked!—at him, batted the torch away with the hammer, then brought the flat of its head into Hratt’s belly. He folded over, all breath gone, and from the edge of his vision saw the knife coming for him. He clenched his jaw and prepared for the worst.

  He felt the edge of the knife slide down his torso—but not stabbing or even cutting his flesh. Hweilan sliced neatly through his belt, kicked his feet out from under him, then yanked his trousers down around his knees and twisted, tangling his feet. Her full weight came down on his back and he felt cold steel rest against his thigh.

  “Now, Hratt,” she said, “I know you have that key. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. I am not stealing. Everything in that room belongs to me, and I want it back. You’re going to give me the key, then you’re going to tell me where Maaqua is.”

  Hratt gave a quick look around. His torch was well out of reach, as was the spear Drureng had dropped. Nothing but his bare hands.

  “Well?” she said.

  “To the Hells with you!”

  “Hratt!” The knife didn’t move, but she gave his trousers a sharp yank. “Not all that long ago, I sliced Rhan’s legs so he couldn’t follow me. But I’m done slicing legs.”

  The sharp steel moved up his inner thigh until he felt the edge rest against his groin.

  “I’ll have to find something else to slice. Something I think you’ll miss.”

  He reached inside his shirt, grabbed the key from where it hung on a leather cord, and yanked it off. He handed it to her.

  She snatched it. “Very good. Thank you, Hratt. Now, where is Maaqua?”

  He closed his eyes and swallowed. “No.”

  She brought the knife up, just slightly, just enough to draw blood.

  He shrieked, then said, “She’ll kill me! The queen will kill me!”

  “Probably,” said Hweilan. “But she’s not here. I am. You should worry about what I’ll do, don’t you think? You can tell me what I want to know, then wait here for your queen to kill you. Or you can hold your tongue, and …”

  A little more pressure on the knife.

  Hratt was a sworn blade of the Razor Heart, his life pledged to protect queen and clan. But he was also a male. And so he talked. A little more pressure on that knife, and he would have sung.

  Now here he was, locked in a dark store room, contemplating how he would get away and where he would go. Because if that girl didn’t kill Maaqua, then Hratt was most certainly due a painful death.

  He’d heard rumors of a renegade Razor Heart and a Nar—Urdun and Gyul—living in the Giantspires, making what living they could by guiding caravans through the Gap. But no, joining up with them would put Hratt in too great a danger of running into the Razor Heart. South and east were nothing but trouble these days, and the north was no place for a lone vagabond.

  “West it is, then,” he said to himself. “Damn all humans.” He used the bit of cloth he’d torn from his finest cloak and daubed at the blood leaking from the shallow cut in the fork of his legs. “And twice damn human females.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AVOIDING THE HOBGOBLINS HAD BEEN NO MORE THAN a minor nuisance. Hweilan had just emerged from the lower levels of the fortress when she heard the horns and figured Rhan had likely been found. No matter. The hobgobli
ns were like a pack of hunting hounds who suddenly had a fox dropped in their midst. Angry and surprised, they were so eager to move, to be doing something, that they were mostly just making noise and bumping into each other. Buureg and their other leaders would get them organized eventually, but most everyone in the fortress was more than half drunk. Compared to an afternoon’s training with the Fox, this would be easy.

  She had no doubt Hratt had told her what he knew about Maaqua’s whereabouts. Very few warriors could think up a good lie when facing imminent emasculation. And Hweilan had to find Maaqua first. She might make it out of the fortress, but she couldn’t have Razor Heart hunting her the whole way through the mountains. Otherwise, she might never reach Highwatch. But for that, she’d need help.

  So Hweilan made her way to the upper regions of the fortress where its high walls became one with the mountain. She had spied this area the day before when Hratt had taken her to Mandan. One side trail had looked promising, though so steep that its steps were more ladder than stairs and overgrown with tough brush with roots that burrowed into the rock itself. Her unstrung bow and quiver riding on her back, Hweilan swiftly made her way up.

  Her instincts served her well. The trail led up to a higher shelf of rock. She could tell by the detritus of bones and an old wineskin that the place was sometimes used as a watch post, but there were no permanent chambers there. The remnants of an old trail twisted a bit farther upward, but it was choked by weeds and an old rockfall. Someone might come from that way, but not without Hweilan hearing them first.

  Hweilan sought the shadows near the rockface. The brush was thick there as well, and she was surprised to find the remnants of an old statue. Nothing but the feet and half of the left leg remained. The rest had either fallen or been hacked down.

  She settled between them with the stone leg at her back, then reached inside her shirt and pulled at the leather cord there. Time to see if Uncle had done as she’d instructed. Her kishkoman hung from the end of the necklace. Crafted from the horn of a young swiftstag, the bottom point was still sharp enough to cut with very little pressure. But the thick end had been hollowed out into a whistle. Hweilan could not touch it without thinking of her mother, who had given it to her.

  The whistle is beyond the hearing of most folk, she had told young Hweilan the day she gave it to her. But our people, Hweilan, we are … not like others. If you find yourself in danger, if you need help, blow this, and we will hear.

  Hweilan put the whistle to her lips and blew, hard as she could. The shrill sound cut through her ears, and she winced from the pain. But she blew it again. And again. And then she listened.

  A cloud of bats flitted past on their nightly hunt—one of them so close that she felt the wind of its wings. Then, farther down the mountain, amid the shouts of the hobgoblins, she heard a raven caw.

  She put the whistle to her lips and blew again, long as her breath would hold, then twice more. Again she heard ravens, more this time. She was about to sound the whistle again when she heard it—

  A long, low howl. Much closer than she’d thought he would be. Not inside the fortress, but very close. Another howl answered. And another. And more ravens, not just from the fortress below, but coming around the mountain. In moments, the entire valley was alive with wolfsong and the harsh cries of ravens.

  Hweilan smiled. Uncle had done it.

  She tucked the kishkoman back under her shirt, the sharp point scratching her skin, laying a thin trail of blood. Hweilan remembered the rest of her mother’s lesson on the day she’d given her the whistle-knife.

  Death comes to us all. Many in this world are stronger than you, and those stronger may try to take from 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 stood. “Your turn, Maaqua.”

  After setting guards at the most critical areas and putting some order to the patrols, Buureg gathered his fiercest warriors and set off to protect his queen.

  They were halfway there when the first ravens descended on the fortress. The birds swarmed up and down the mountain, their raucous cries drowning out the hobgoblin horns. Most were no more than a nuisance, for their sharp beaks could not penetrate the warriors’ armor, and one blow from an axe or sword killed even the largest ravens.

  But then the wolves appeared. Dozens, at least, and their teeth had no trouble finding the weak spots in the hobgoblins’ armor. Cries of anger and alarm soon turned to pain and fury, and blood ran in the fortress of the Razor Heart.

  Maaqua’s tower rose above a path that snaked along the outer skin of the mountain. There were also tunnels within that led to the tower’s lowest level—and Hratt had told her about every one.

  But Hweilan chose neither route. The horns had been sounding for a while now. The guards there would be tense and ready. And these were Maaqua’s elite guard. They wouldn’t have been drinking—not if Maaqua was up to something that required a private tower and protection. Furthermore, she suspected more than a few of the guards might be adept at the arcane arts.

  So she approached from lower paths, then took to the mountain itself. The wall itself was not perfectly vertical, but it was sheer, and she had to choose between stealth and speed. She chose speed, hoping the sounds of the wind off the mountain and the horns from the fortress would drown out her approach.

  Wearing the bone mask, Hweilan looked up through Ashiin’s eyes and saw that the tower was not all that it appeared to be. It gave off an aura that hit Hweilan’s senses with a scent like burning hair. Gleed had taught her enough to recognize that it was probably nothing more than some sort of illusion, meant to hide the tower’s true shape, but she could not penetrate it.

  She peeked over the lip of the cliff. The path was empty, but many guards crouched in front of the tower door.

  Hweilan drew the silver knife from her belt. The whorls and wave patterns etched into its blade glittered in the starlight. She kept it low so that no stray flicker would give her presence away to the guards. Concentrating, feeling every breath of air around her, she focused her will on the blade and recited the incantation Gleed had taught her.

  The stiff wind coming off the mountain gusted, raining grit down on the guards. They turned and put a hand over the visors of their helmets to keep the dirt from their eyes. Hweilan took that moment to slip onto the path and into the nearest well of shadows. She sheathed the knife and strung her bow.

  Crouching with the bow across her lap, she put her kishkoman to her lips and blew. Several wolves answered in the distance, but she heard Uncle’s voice above the others. He was close. She kept at it, blowing every few seconds so that the wolf could find her exact whereabouts.

  The ravens came first. Two dozen at least. Their harsh caws echoed off the mountainside as they dipped and dived at the guards. But the birds stayed well out of reach of the guards’ spears.

  The warriors had their gazes turned skyward as they batted and swiped at the ravens with spears and torches. So none of them saw the wolves coming up the path, moving low to the ground. And the raucous cries of the ravens and hobgoblins drowned out the sounds of the wolves’ feet.

  The lead wolf was a huge beast, his fur black as pitch, making him almost invisible in the night. He snarled a moment, and his fangs flashed in the starlight, before his jaws locked behind the knee of the foremost warrior. The hobgoblin shrieked and struck at the wolf. But the beast leaped away and the iron spearhead struck sparks on the stone path.

  The other warriors saw the danger and turned their attention to these new attackers. Hweilan watched, satisfied, as the wolves ran among the hobgoblins, dodging and snapping at the sharp spears.

  After the first attack, the wolves pulled back, and all but two of the hobgoblin warriors followed. One warrior threw his spear, impaling a gray wolf. The beast let out a pitiful yip and tried to run, but its back legs were spasming beyond its control. Its forepaws scrambled on the rock, but too late. The wo
lf went over the edge.

  The other warriors, encouraged, threw their spears. All but one missed—and that one only grazed the side of the black-pelted leader. But the wolves continued to pull back, retreating farther up the path. The warriors drew their swords and pursued.

  Hweilan counted to ten, slowly, then stood, raised her bow, and pulled the fletching to her cheek.

  The warrior nearest the tower watched all but one of his companions disappear around the bend in the path as they drove off the wolves. The ravens were still crying out and circling above, but they had stopped diving in to jab at his helmet.

  Then a weight like a battering ram hit his right side, and he flew backward through the air and hit the tower door. His spear clattered to the ground. He looked down to see what had struck him. An arrow protruded from his right shoulder. It had pierced his mail, gone all the way through flesh and bone, then nailed him to the tower door. He let out a wordless cry of pain and tried to pull away, but the arrow held him fast.

  His companion turned to look at him, his eyes widening at the black-feathered shaft. Behind him, a shadow was racing at them from the path.

  “Look out!”

  His companion turned around too late. The attacker kicked the spear from his hand. Starlight flickered off steel as the shadow struck. Crack! His companion’s head snapped back and he went down.

  The shadow leaped over him.

  It was only then that the warrior thought to call an alarm. He took a breath to call out, but then felt the cold of sharp steel at his throat.

  “Don’t,” whispered a voice, muffled.

  He looked down to see a face of bone staring up at him, but the eyes in the sockets were very much alive. The pale arm showing because of the torn sleeve was covered in dark designs, and he knew who this was. She had a bow in one hand, and he could feel the knife at his throat.

  “Do not cry out,” she said.