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

by Mark Sehesdedt

  Menduarthis was growing weaker, and he knew it. He could no longer put names to many of the images in his dreams, could not remember the feel of winter or the smell of flowers. But always the fire burned in his mind.

  And then it was gone. All at once the substance of Menduarthis’s reality—fraught with hundreds of cracks and fissures—shattered entirely.

  He fell to the ground, fighting to breathe, and only then remembered what ground and breath were. Dry grass rasped between his fingers, and he could feel wind—real wind and not the foul miasmas of his dreams—stirring his hair. His tongue felt swollen, his skin dry and cracked.

  “It’s awake,” said a deep voice from nearby.

  Menduarthis opened his eyes, and the sheet of silver stars overhead struck him as the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, their light pure and unsullied. Then a deeper darkness moved between him and the sky.

  It took most of his strength and all of his will to raise his head. He was outside. It was full dark, but the starlight seemed very bright, and Selûne, riding a third of the way up the sky, was only a few days from her fullness. The wall of cliffs in the distance told Menduarthis where he was. He’d never been here, but the place had a reputation. Nar-sek Qu’istrade, the grass-covered valley at the foot of Highwatch, hemmed in by the last embrace of the Giantspires.

  “I know you,” said another voice.

  The sound that hit Menduarthis’s ears cracked with the effort of speaking. But under it he sensed a will that was far stronger than anything he had ever faced. Kunin Gatar’s power would melt and steam away before this flame.

  “I know who you are. I know what you are. And what you tried to become. You reached far, grasping at mist. And when true power came into your reach … you let her go. I know what you are. And I name you: fool.”

  … her? Her who? Hweilan.

  The name floated up out of the darkness to settle in Menduarthis’s mind. And around it, more of reality solidified. Beyond the sensation of his surroundings, Menduarthis remembered who Hweilan was, who he was … and who was speaking to him.

  He raised his head. Other figures stood nearby. Not pacing. But every one of them swayed or twitched with nervous energy, and Menduarthis was reminded of cocoons twitching as moths struggled to break free.

  Beyond all of them was a deeper shadow that the moon and starlight seemed unable to touch. It gave off a presence—not one Menduarthis could feel on his skin, but it burned his spirit. Jagun Ghen. Menduarthis knew it beyond a doubt. He had scoffed at Lendri’s tale to Hweilan. But his derision had only been to mask his own fear. Even he had heard of the Destroyer. The Burning Hunger from the Abyss.

  Menduarthis knew he was doomed. However, now that he could see starlight and feel the wind again, it didn’t seem so bad. And even though he did not have the strength to rise, neither would he cringe.

  So instead he laughed. It was little more than a rasping croak, and it hurt so badly that it brought tears to his eyes. But he clenched his jaw against the pain and forced words out of his mouth. “Let … her go. You make it … sound easy. You’ve been chasing her. For months. Me? I wasn’t even trying. Not much. And I still came closer to her than you. Me a fool? Heh. Name thyself.”

  He felt the shadow stir, but nothing more. He cursed his luck. Infuriating others had always been one of his greatest talents. He’d hoped to stir this monster to a rage, to provoke the demon into killing him before the fire returned to bind Menduarthis and pull him back down to darkness.

  “The spider,” said Jagun Ghen.

  “What?”

  “Your … little flower. She fancies herself a hunter. She learned from the Old Spider. All the lore and knowledge of her people. But she missed the most important lesson. Of all the hunters, the spider is the wisest. It never leaves its lair. It spins its web … and waits for the fly.”

  “If you think Hweilan is a fly, then you are a fool.”

  The silence lasted long enough that Menduarthis began to hope he had finally stirred the demon to wrath. But no. When Jagun Ghen spoke again, there was no hint of anger in his voice. If anything, he seemed … curious.

  “You don’t seem afraid.”

  “You don’t seem very frightening.”

  Jagun Ghen laughed. “You are a vain thing. Were I to slice open your throat, I suspect you’d use your last breath to spit in my face. But I know the truth.”

  “And what—” Menduarthis’s throat constricted, and he had to swallow hard before he could continue. “What is that?”

  “You are not afraid because you think you have nothing left to lose. I named you true. You are a fool.”

  The shadow surged toward him. Just for a moment, Menduarthis saw what lived inside that shape, and he screamed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE WIND TURNED FROM COLD TO FRIGID, AND THE sky took on the thicker blue cast of late afternoon by the time Hweilan heard Rhan return. She was ready.

  She stood and turned to face him. He held a long spear in both hands and lifted it for display. “This will do?”

  The shaft had not come from the mountain ash and pine of the Giantspires. The wood was pale but strong. Some westerner’s weapon, where trees grew under a warmer sun. Taken in a raid, most likely.

  “A fine weapon,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Uncle let out a warning yip, then padded to her side. Footsteps approached quickly, obviously trying to keep quiet and not doing a very good job of it. She looked over Rhan’s shoulder and saw Darric peeking from around the stone where the broken rim of the Cauldron met the path. “Why are you here?” she called to him. Rhan turned as Darric, Valsun, and Jaden stepped into view. Darric and Valsun had a rock in each hand and Jaden held a stout branch in his shaking left hand.

  “We heard him”—Jaden pointed at Rhan—“and Darric thought you might be in trouble.”

  Hweilan looked at Rhan. “Why would they think that?”

  Rhan said, “Nuurgen did not wish to part with his spear.”

  “We heard him,” said Darric as he approached warily, “say he needed the spear ‘for Hweilan.’ And when that other hobgoblin wouldn’t hand it over, this one here smashed his face, took the spear, and walked off. We thought …”

  “Thought he meant the spear for me?” One side of Hweilan’s mouth twisted up in a half-grin.

  “Does he?” said Darric, looking up at the champion.

  “And your plan was to stop him with a stick and some stones?” Hweilan took the proffered spear and turned her back on them. “Idiots.”

  She walked over to the rim of the Cauldron and set the spear so that its steel point rested on the ground and the haft lay against the stone wall. Looking at it, she decided the angle was fine, then brought her right boot down in the center of the shaft. It bent, just for an instant, before snapping like a bone. She picked up the butt end and left the point in the dirt.

  “What’s she doing?” said Jaden. He called to Hweilan, “Why ruin a perfectly good weapon?”

  She ignored him, sat beside her mother’s corpse, and took out her knife. Then she set to work carving runes into the wood and did not look up as she spoke.

  “I’m burning her,” she said. “My mother. I gave her funeral rites once before.”

  Her voice caught at the memory. It had been after the fall of Highwatch, when she had first met Lendri. The day they burned Scith’s body. Lendri had been the first to teach her the funeral rites of her people, though since then she had seen it a thousand times in the visions of Kesh Naan. Lendri had added all the names of Hweilan’s friends and family to the litany, including her mother’s. But there had been no body to burn that day. Hweilan had seen her mother’s spirit and believed she had passed on to her reward. But even so, Hweilan needed this.

  “But now,” she said, “I can do it right. Please go.”

  “I want to stay,” said Darric.

  She looked at him, wanting to ask why but not trusting herself to speak.

  “I knew her, too,
Hweilan, if only for a short time.” Darric stood tall, working his jaw, his gaze daring her to defy him. “And in that time … I came to admire her. I would like to pay my respects.”

  Valsun nodded in agreement. “We would all be honored, lady. I never knew your mother, save by reputation, but if she was half the woman you are, it would be a sin not to honor her memory.”

  Jaden was still eyeing Rhan warily and keeping a death grip on the makeshift cudgel in his hand, but when he caught Hweilan looking at him, he blinked, swallowed and said, “Yes. Me, too. Would be most honored, my lady.”

  Hweilan returned her attention to carving her mother’s name in the ghost stick. “You may stay. But don’t interfere.”

  With the tension seemingly broken, the three Damarans seemed unsure what to do. Jaden looked to each of his companions, Hweilan, and Rhan. His eyes widened and he took a step back when he caught Rhan staring back at him.

  “What?”

  “Get rid of the stick and stones. You dishonor the Cauldron of the Slain.”

  Valsun dropped the stones he was holding.

  “Not here,” said Rhan. “Take them back to the path. This is holy ground.”

  Valsun nodded, picked up the rocks, and motioned Jaden back to the path. Darric handed the stones he was carrying to Valsun. “If you would, please.”

  Nodding, Valsun cradled the four stones in his arm. “Come, Jaden.”

  As they walked back to the path, Hweilan heard Jaden grumbling. “Bastard’s got that black sword big as a log strapped to his back and I have to toss my tiny stick? What’s—”

  “Be silent, Jaden,” said Valsun. “For once in your miserable life, just … stop talking.”

  Darric sighed, and said, “Torm save us.”

  Hweilan smiled but didn’t look up. “He babbles to mask his fear. The same reason you go all silent and broody. You make a fine pair. Once you return to your father’s house, you could do worse than keep him as your counsel.”

  “Or court jester,” said Darric.

  She’d hoped the mention of his father’s house might prompt him to speak of his intentions. He’d sworn to help her, and Hweilan had no reason to think his intentions had changed.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “Uskeche tet,” she said. “It means ‘ghost stick.’ I am carving my mother’s name in the wood so that her name may burn in her fire. In our tongue, uskeche is the word for both ‘fire’ and ‘ghost.’ ”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Hweilan heard the unspoken accusation in his voice. This was no rite of Torm. Not a proper rite for a Damaran House.

  “My mother was not Damaran.” She finished the R rune, and cleaned out the groove with her thumb. “And neither am I.”

  “Your father—”

  “Deeds, not blood,” said Hweilan. “That belief is the heart of every Damaran house, is it not?”

  “It is,” said Darric.

  Hweilan began carving the A rune. “Truth be told, Darric, I never … fit in with my father’s people. I loved them, but I was always more comfortable out on the steppe with the Nar. You insulted your father and ran off, hoping to find a court lady in need of saving. I’m sorry I am less than you expected.”

  “Less?” Darric snorted. “Hweilan, you’re—”

  “My lord!”

  Hweilan looked up to see Valsun and Jaden returning. Jaden still had his stick in hand and his eyes were wide and shining as a priest’s new medallions.

  Darric said, “What is it?”

  “Hobgoblins, my lord,” said Valsun.

  “Hundreds of them,” said Jaden.

  Valsun scowled at him, then said, “Dozens perhaps. But they’re headed this way.”

  “I’ll see what this is,” said Rhan. He swiped the stick out of Jaden’s hand and marched back toward the path.

  “Are they armed?” Darric asked Valsun.

  “Have you seen anyone in this stinking place that isn’t armed?” said Jaden.

  Hweilan did her best to ignore the exchange and concentrated on carving the last rune. Rhan hadn’t seemed bothered by the news. And if he’d come this far to honor her mother’s body, she didn’t think he would let any trouble near the place without a fight.

  He was gone long enough that Hweilan was beginning to reconsider. But when she looked up, Rhan was returning at an easy gait, his sword still on his back. He stopped near her, though he purposefully avoided looking her in the eye.

  “There are others—warriors of the Razor Heart—who wish to bear witness.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems that word has spread of your mother’s history. And all the Razor Heart have heard of the Hand of the Hunter—saw her nearly kill their Champion. They wish to honor her. And you. To honor a true warrior.”

  “You did this?”

  “I asked no one to come,” said Rhan, looking her in the eye at last. “But many asked why I brought an enemy’s body to the Cauldron of the Slain. I told them the truth. Nothing more.”

  “And what does Maaqua say?”

  Rhan bared his teeth in what probably passed for a smile from him. “Do you care?”

  “Not very much.” She set to work finishing the last rune. “They can stay.”

  Hweilan did not have any sunche, the sticky resin made from pine sap, to rub into the runes so that they would burn bright in the fire. But she knew that the Vil Adanrath had not always used sunche. So she chose the old way. She opened her right palm. The scars there were still sharp and clear from the first time she had burned a ghost stick. KAN, they read, in the Dethek runes. It meant “death.” She had suffered many cuts and scrapes over them since then, all of which had healed, but those three letters never faded. She had sometimes wondered if she cut off the hand, would it grow back just to show the scars and spite her.

  She chose her red blade. And when she slid the edge along her palm, slicing her skin, the blood that flowed out was the same color as the steel. She clenched her hand in a tight fist, squeezing the blood so that it dripped into the runes on the stick. Then she put the knife away and, with her thumb, rubbed the blood into the runes, staining them. Messy, but it would do. She set the ghost stick beside the pyre.

  Standing, she looked up at the sky. Nearly evening. Then she saw how many hobgoblins had come. None had entered the Cauldron itself, but they crouched on the rim or stood on boulders where they could look down into the bowl. Many had even climbed up a nearby cliff face and stood on precarious ledges so they could see the proceedings. It was not the “hundreds” Jaden had first claimed, but a quick glance told her how he could have easily made that mistake. Hweilan counted two score and saw she hadn’t yet counted half.

  Darric stepped forward and held something out to her. A long strip of cloth he’d cut from his own cloak.

  “You should staunch that bleeding.”

  She nodded her thanks, for she didn’t trust her voice at that moment. She wrapped the makeshift bandage around her hand a few times, then used her teeth and free hand to attempt the knot.

  Darric reached for her hand. “Allow me. Please.”

  Hweilan didn’t need his help. She’d tied scores of knots with only one hand. Training with Ashiin, her lessons hadn’t slacked even when nursing a broken arm or fingers. But she gave him her hand, anyway.

  “Not too tight,” she said.

  “That was a deep cut,” he said as he carefully tied the knot. “I watched.”

  “I’ve had worse.” She pulled her hand away and made a fist. The congealing blood filling the bandage felt warm and thick. She could salve it later. Time was running short.

  Hweilan allowed no one to help her lift her mother’s body onto the pyre, though the stench of it made her head swim, and the dead, stiff weight threatened to raise a sob in her throat. Once it was atop the pile of kindling, she rearranged the wood, making gaps to let air in to feed the flames. Rhan had layered the pyre well, but Hweilan’s hands needed something to do until she could calm herself.
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  Satisfied at last, she took a good-sized branch from the pyre and returned to her pouch, which lay nearby with her other belongings.

  Simple flint and steel would never catch in this wind. Hweilan found the small brass vial, stoppered with thick felt. A gift from Gleed. A bit of the oil smeared even on wet wood, and the tiniest spark would catch and burn. It had disturbed her when he’d taught her to make it, since more than half of the ingredients were the same herbs he put on their meals. She pulled the felt out with her teeth and carefully tapped a few drops onto the wood. Then she twisted the felt back into the vial, put it back into her pouch, and kneeled beside the pyre.

  Setting the branch near the bottom of the pile, she drew both her knives. Her hands were shaking. She’d known for a long time that her mother was dead. Her mother, her father, her entire family …

  But something inside her, some deep part of the old castle-girl Hweilan revolted at putting flames to her mother’s body. No going back after this.

  The image of the thing that appeared in front of her, wearing her mother’s body, using her mouth to speak … that hardened her will. The old fury stirred, and Hweilan understood the real reason she needed this pyre. Gleed and Ashiin had trained her. Kesh Naan had given her wisdom. Nendawen had given her new birth. But the old Hweilan still haunted her. These flames would not only send away her mother’s body but also the teary-eyed little-girl inside Hweilan. And it was time to lay that ghost to rest.

  Hweilan turned the red knife in her hand and set the pommel near the oil-smeared branch. An ingenious bit of practicality. The iron hoop at the knife’s pommel encircled a flint stone. Hweilan knew from Gleed’s study of her other knife that it was more than steel, but it still flashed when she swiped the blade against the flint. A bright blue spark filled Hweilan’s nose with a metallic smell, like air after a lightning strike. The first didn’t catch, nor the second. But on the third hard strike, a shower of sparks crackled over the glistening edge of the branch. The oil ignited with a snap! and bright orange flames soon spread throughout the bed of wood. Hweilan stood, sheathed her knives, and picked up the ghost stick.