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

by Mark Sehesdedt

  Hweilan held the web of the drum in her right hand and curled her left into a fist with her thumb and smallest finger extended to strike the drumskin. She beat a steady rhythm, first in time with her own heart, then varying as she remembered the ebb and flow of the portal to which she called. The tempo tumbled like water over rocks. She matched her breathing to the rhythm and forced her mind to recall the places she sought—every sound, every smell—the dampness of the air, the smell of mud and rock and living things. Once she had the rhythm and held the vision, she began the chant.

  The shimmering air under the arch darkened, and tiny red sparks appeared in its depths. Light shot out from spark to spark, like hundreds of cracks forming on thin ice, each flaring to the rhythm of the drum. Green light joined the red, replaced it, faded to a fireheart blue, then melted together to a silver, like bright sunlight on unquiet water.

  “Stay close,” said Hweilan, then looked over her shoulder. “And you should cover the queen’s face.”

  “Why?” said Elret.

  But Hweilan ignored her and stepped through the portal. She stepped quickly—not so much out of fear of the waterfall soaking as wanting to be out of the way, for she was sure that—

  Buureg leaped out of the falls, sword in hand. His eyes widened when he beheld his surroundings. Much of the Giantspires had forest, but nothing like this. The smallest trees overlooking the river here were larger than even the oldest giants of Buureg’s homeland. Only hints of the sky could be seen as a breeze wafted through leaves, some of which were bigger than Razor Heart shields.

  Watching Buureg’s fear and awe, Hweilan was struck by something: the perpetual twilight of the thick forest, the sounds of the river and the birds and the breeze, the very smell of the air … she felt home. Highwatch and the plains of Narfell had once held fond childhood memories for her. But all hope of finding home there was gone. Here was where she belonged, and she had missed it. Hweilan turned away so that the warchief would not see her scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.

  Uncle emerged, along with the hobgoblins. Elret cried out, finding herself under a waterfall, then looked around suspiciously, eyeing every shadow for a trap. When she saw that nothing had taken Buureg, and Hweilan was standing relaxed on the riverbank, she pushed one arm back through the portal to wave the acolytes through.

  The queen’s litter came through feet first, her bearers moving quickly to keep from soaking their burden. Maaqua’s head passed through the water, and she gasped, breathing in water. Her back arched, and her limbs shook with such force that the acolytes almost dropped her.

  Hweilan’s first thought was that the water of the river had simply revived her. But one look at Maaqua’s face showed this was something worse. Her eyelids were open, but her eyes had rolled back in her head, and as her servants struggled to get her back in the litter her trembling increased.

  “Get the water out of her throat before she chokes!” Buureg screamed.

  Elret turned and pointed at Hweilan. “What treachery is this? What have you done?”

  Hweilan’s right hand moved toward her knife. “I did nothing.”

  One of the acolytes spoke up. “It happened as she came through the portal. Perhaps—”

  “She knew!” said Elret. “That wench planned this!”

  “No,” said Hweilan, taking great care to keep her voice even.

  “I’ll have your heart for this!”

  “If the queen dies,” Buureg, told Elret, “I’ll hand it to you myself. But until then, we have no choice but to trust her.” He looked to Hweilan. “Now, how do we find this person you’re looking for?”

  “I suspect he’ll find us,” said Hweilan. Maaqua coughed out water, and Hweilan saw it was tinged with blood. “But there’s no reason we can’t meet him halfway. Come.”

  The hobgoblins did not follow at first.

  Hweilan kept walking, but called out, “Stay close. There are things in these woods meaner than me.”

  Even Elret rushed to catch up.

  Jagun Ghen sat in the middle of the pact circle. He was naked from the waist up, his skin coated in sweat, and his staff lay across his knees. His brothers kneeled around the outer edge of the circle, their chant a rhythmic counterpoint to his own. The bloody gouges on their foreheads gave off an angry orange glow, the only light in the room.

  The grin stretching over Jagun Ghen’s face twitched. He had not blinked since the rite began, and his eyes were now so dry that, as they moved left and right, left and right, over and over again, they made a soft scritch-scritch like a scribe’s pen across fine parchment. His breath came quicker as his chanting lowered to a guttural whisper. Every muscle vibrated like a lute string on the verge of breaking. He threw his head back, spraying droplets of perspiration. His body rose off the floor, and he opened his mouth wide—

  —and screamed.

  His torso snapped forward as if he’d been punched in the gut, and he fell to the floor.

  The power that had been running through the circle dissipated, and the disciples moaned like starving men denied a last meal. One of them reached out, careful not to cross the pact circle.

  “Master …?”

  “Gone,” said Jagun Ghen. “They’re gone.”

  “How much farther?” Elret asked.

  Uncle had long since disappeared into the forest, and Hweilan led them along the twisting course of the river. Through the forest would have been quicker had she been on her own, but she knew that bearing Maaqua through such rough country would have slowed them too much.

  “Not far,” she replied.

  “You said that a half-mile ago.”

  Hweilan kept going, not even turning as she spoke. “Distances can be odd here sometimes.”

  “Then how do you know where you’re going?”

  “I used to live here.”

  “Then tell me where we’re going.”

  “No.”

  “No? Why?”

  Hweilan did see the wisdom in giving her the simple truth. The river ended at Gleed’s lake. But in truth, she didn’t want to tell Elret out of pure spite. So she said nothing.

  “I asked you a question,” said Elret.

  Still not turning. “I heard you.”

  Hweilan heard Elret approaching—the swish of her robes through the brush, the angry footsteps.

  “You will answer m—”

  It was the hand on her shoulder that did it. Elret grabbed Hweilan, trying to stop and turn her at the same time. Hweilan did turn, but she grabbed Elret’s arm and twisted as she did so, bringing it behind the hobgoblin’s back.

  Elret screamed, more in fury than pain, and arched her back to ease the tension on her tendons. Hweilan planted her right boot in the small of Elret’s back and pushed her in the river.

  The other disciples’ eyes went wide, and they looked at each other, not sure if they should put down their queen to help Elret.

  Buureg cursed, but it seemed directed at both of them.

  The swift current took Elret a few yards downstream, but the water here was not deep, and she was soon on her feet again. She rose, her eyes staring daggers at Hweilan. She pointed at Hweilan and raised her staff. Purple fire played along its length.

  Buureg stepped between them. “Enough of this! Both of you!”

  Elret spat. “You—”

  And then the river rose up, a great palm of water, and slapped her back down. Mud bubbled around Buureg’s feet, soil and roots rising up to cover him below his waist. The warchief shrieked and batted at the soil with his sword, but he succeeded only in trapping the blade. Vines from the nearby trees writhed outward, entangling the four disciples and their queen. They screamed and thrashed, but the vines tightened around their throats, and their cries ceased.

  Elret came out of the river, recognizable only by her terrified face. River mud and the roots of trees had bound her just as snugly as her companions.

  Then everything settled, the only sounds those of the river and the ragged breathing o
f the hobgoblins.

  “Hweilan!” said a voice from the woods.

  A wizened figure stepped out from behind one of the trees. He was very much as Hweilan had last seen him. He had the sharp features and elongated ears of the hobgoblins, but his skin had a decidedly greenish cast in this light. He tinkled as he walked, for from his tattered robes hung dozens of tiny amulets, bits of chain, coins, and scraps of precious metal. He was standing to his full height—which was scarcely up to Hweilan’s chest—one hand weaving an intricate pattern in the air, the other holding his staff that glowed with an emerald light.

  “Well met, Gleed,” she said.

  “You did come back. I so hoped you would.” He looked at the captured hobgoblins. “And I see you even brought dinner. How thoughtful.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ASECTION OF THE MUD HOLDING ELRET EXPLODED, sending mud and rocks and smoking roots splashing in the river. Her arm emerged from the gaping hole, and in it she held her staff, purple fire and sparks of light sizzling around its length.

  Gleed spared Hweilan a glance, then said, “Hm” and flickered his fingers.

  The mud closed around Elret again. A tree root slithered out of the soil, wrapping itself around Elret’s arm and tightening. A section of the root held her elbow while another part pressed down upon her forearm, bending the arm backward. Elret shrieked, equal parts fury and pain.

  “Drop your plaything,” said Gleed.

  Elret could not move her head, but her eyes searched out Buureg and the other disciples. “Help me, you cowards!”

  But the other hobgoblins were just as bound as she.

  Gleed made another motion with his fingers, and the tree root pressed harder.

  Elret screamed, all pain now, and the arcane energies flickering around her staff began to fall all around her. But she kept her grip.

  Gleed smiled at Hweilan. “This one has spirit.”

  “I think she’s just mean.”

  Elret screamed again.

  “Drop your staff,” Hweilan told her, “or he will break your arm.”

  “I’ll kill you both! I swear on my mother’s ashes! I—”

  Hweilan shrugged. “Break it.”

  Elret opened her mouth, but before she could say anything—

  “Gleed!”

  The voice was so frail and fraught with pain that Hweilan barely heard it.

  Gleed looked to the tangle of vines holding the disciples and the litter. Taking a good look at it for the first time, his brow crinkled, but when his gaze fixed on the wrinkled face peeking out amid the leaves and vines, his eyes went wide.

  “Maaqua?”

  Her eyes were open, but by the way they looked every which way, Hweilan knew the old queen was blind.

  “Gleed?” she said, her voice coming out more a croak. “Help … me.”

  Gleed looked back to Elret. Sparks were still spouting out of her staff, but her eyes were fixed on her queen.

  “Will you stop this foolishness?” said Gleed.

  “You can help her?” said Elret.

  “Not if you persist in keeping me from it. Now drop the stick.”

  The arcane energies sputtered out, and the glow emanating from the staff died away. “I’ll stop—if you help her. But I keep the staff.”

  Gleed waved as if shooing a gnat. The mud and roots holding Elret and Buureg fell away, and the vines holding the four disciples relaxed. Gleed rushed over to Maaqua, examining her for wounds. He looked up at the nearest of the disciples. “What happened to her?”

  The disciple looked to Elret.

  “Now, damn you!” said Gleed.

  Hweilan walked over to look down on the queen while Elret gave Gleed a brief version of what had happened.

  Gleed looked down at Maaqua. “You old fool. You never did know not to meddle in affairs beyond your skills.”

  Maaqua’s eyes closed, but Hweilan thought she saw the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.

  Gleed waved the disciples back. “Get back, all of you!”

  He raised his staff, his free hand’s fingers weaving a pattern in the air as he muttered. The vines rose up again, holding Maaqua, but just enough to keep her from falling.

  “What is this?” said Elret, raising her own staff.

  “Be still, Elret!” said Buureg. “Can’t you see he’s helping her?”

  The vines took on the vague form of a man-shaped, headless hulk. Maaqua was cradled in its arms like a sleeping child. Agile as a monkey, Gleed climbed up its legs and arms to rest on the shoulders, then pointed with his staff. The mass of vines lumbered off into the forest.

  “Where’s he taking her?” said Elret.

  Gleed did not turn back as he answered. “Hweilan will show you the way. But wash yourselves first. I won’t have you dripping mud all over my home!”

  By the time Hweilan led four very sodden hobgoblins to where the river emptied into the lake, evening was settling over the lake, and they could see a fire burning on the nearby island.

  “He lives in that?” said Buureg, taking in the sight of Gleed’s ramshackle tower. The thousands of bits of metal encasing it like scales on a fish reflected the fire burning on the island. “The vines are the only things keeping it from toppling into the lake.”

  Hweilan felt strangely moved by the sight of the tower, her mind suddenly flooding with memories. Not all pleasant, but every one of them precious.

  “It’s stronger than it looks,” said Hweilan.

  Elret and the four other disciples were staring wide-eyed at the tower. Two of the disciples, whom Hweilan thought were the youngest by the lesser amount of runes and symbols stitched into their robes, looked unmistakably terrified.

  Buureg followed Hweilan’s gaze. “What is it?”

  “The power …,” said one of the disciples, then seemed to forget the rest of her sentence.

  Elret said, “The power coming off that place … it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It … it …” She finally looked away, and the gaze she locked on Buureg looked almost pleading. “I don’t have the words.”

  Buureg reached for his sword. “Is it dangerous?”

  “Deadly,” said Hweilan. “But behave yourselves and you have nothing to worry about.”

  Hweilan walked over to the extension of land that pointed into the lake like a crooked finger. The first of the night’s bats fluttered overhead as Hweilan spoke the words. Not an incantation, Gleed had said on the day he explained it to her. Think of it more like an invitation for it is a living thing you summon.

  The water rippled before her, and a tangle of old flagstones, rock, waterweed, and massive tree roots twisted out of the water, forming a bridge to the island.

  “Choose your steps carefully,” Hweilan said as she proceeded over the bridge. “The weeds are slippery.”

  Buureg followed, but stopped when he saw that the others weren’t following. “What is it?”

  Hweilan turned and saw that one of the disciples was shaking her head. “I can’t go out there. I won’t go out there. You can’t make me. It … it …”

  “I told you,” said Hweilan, “you’ll be safe as long as you stay on your most courteous behavior. And I promise you: you don’t want to be in the woods after dark. That power you sense from the tower? It keeps the really nasty things away.”

  Very reluctantly, the four hobgoblins made their way onto the bridge, Elret bringing up the rear. Hweilan waited and let them pass. The youngest was still trembling.

  “Think of it like sleeping in the wolves’ den to keep the bears away,” Hweilan told her.

  The hobgoblin looked up at her with wide eyes. “Look at it!” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “This is no wolf’s den. More like a dragon’s lair.”

  Elret scowled at Hweilan as she passed.

  The fire had attracted swarms of moths, but Gleed and Maaqua were nowhere to be found. Buureg stood near the fire, keeping a wary eye upward as bats swooped in to feast on the moths.

  A kettle b
ubbled over the fire, and the smell coming from it made Hweilan’s stomach growl. She realized she had not eaten since the night before she’d fought Rhan. Gleed had even left a pile of wooden platters and spoons on a small rug near the fire.

  “Where is the queen?” said Elret, staring at the tower.

  “I’m sure Gleed is tending to her,” said Hweilan. “Eat.”

  Hweilan shooed the moths off the topmost platter, then filled it from the kettle.

  “What is it?” said Buureg.

  “Stew,” said Hweilan.

  He sniffed at it. “What’s in it?”

  “Do you care?” Hweilan took her first bite. Rabbit, mixed with a few roots, vegetables, and that spice Gleed put in everything.

  Buureg and the disciples watched Hweilan clear her platter, then go for more. When she showed no signs of falling over dead, they filled their own platters and settled around the fire.

  Elret kept her back to them and watched the tower long into the night.

  After finishing all the food, and cleaning the cauldron and platters in the lake, Buureg and the disciples lay down around the fire and went to sleep. The warchief slept in his armor, his arms curled around his sheathed sword like a child’s favorite blanket. Elret still stood, watching the tower.

  Hweilan closed her eyes and wrestled with her thoughts. She did not sleep. Kaad had told her that gunhin sometimes kept one awake for days afterward, and she had drunk two doses in the past two days. But she was back in a place where she felt safe, with a full belly, so she felt relaxed and awake. She thought of the Damarans back at the Razor Heart fortress. She had no reason to think Buureg wouldn’t be true to his word. If Gleed was able to help Maaqua, Hweilan felt sure the hobgoblins would release her companions. And then …?

  Her calling as the Hand of the Hunter had not changed. This ordeal with the Damarans and the Razor Heart had been a complication, a distraction, nothing else. Jagun Ghen was waiting for her at Highwatch. Until she sent him back to the Abyss or wherever Nendawen sent him, everything else was only a side trail. But after …