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

by Mark Sehesdedt

  That was when she heard the first cry—a raucous caw that rang clear even over the wind and the growing roar of the flames. She looked up in time to see a raven alight on the rim of the Cauldron between two hobgoblin warriors. The nearest raised his spear to shoo it away, but the warrior next to him caught his arm and pointed up.

  More ravens were coming down. Dozens of them. Hundreds. The sky was already dark with them, and more were soaring up and over the mountain. They settled on every available perch between the gathered warriors and on the cliffs above. Some even settled on the helmets of the hobgoblins themselves, who peered out from under them with wide eyes but did nothing to dislodge the visitors. Not a single bird settled within the Cauldron itself.

  The three Damarans stood with their mouths hanging open, and both Jaden and Valsun made protective signs on their body. Rhan had the bright-eyed eager look of a hungry tiger eyeing the sheep. The Razor Heart champion drew the Greatsword of Impiltur, held it over his head, and roared. Every raven on the hill—those settled and those still circling above—cawed in unison, over and over, a harsh barrage of cries.

  The fire had already burned away the burial cloth, and Hweilan could hear the flesh sizzling. The reek of it washed over her, and the wound in her hand pulsed with pain, as if reminding her of the word burned there—

  She carries death in her right hand.

  Hweilan raised the ghost stick and began the song. She sang it loud and in the tongue of her mother’s people, much as Lendri had first taught it to her.

  Flames of this world, bear this flame to our ancestors.

  Merah daughter of Thewari burned bright.

  Her exile is ended, her rest assured.

  Hweilan strode forward. The pyre was blazing high. Its flames were so hot their own wind tossed her hair back. Holding the ghost stick in one hand, she thrust it into the hottest part of the fire. A fountain of sparks shot upward, shining bright through the black smoke.

  Wincing against the heat, Hweilan prayed.

  Master of the Hunt, Hand of Dedunan,

  Accept my offering, in blood and fire.

  Let not our sacrifice be in vain.

  Bind that which was broken.

  Restore the Balance.

  That light might shine in our hearts again.

  Flames were beginning to lick up the ghost stick.

  Hweilan finished—

  And if we fall in darkness,

  grant that we might fall with our enemies’ throat in our teeth.

  She stepped back, pulling the ghost stick from the fire. The wood continued to burn a bit, but in a few moments the wind blew out the flames, leaving only embers glowing along the edges.

  “Mother, Father, I will avenge you or die trying.”

  She switched the burning shaft to her left hand, then tore away the makeshift bandage with her teeth. The blood had thickened there, but much of the forming scab came away with the cloth, and fresh blood welled in her hand.

  “I swear it,” said Hweilan, and brought the glowing hot wood across the wound. Pain shot up her entire arm and into her jaw, but she held it there, and said, “In blood and fire, I swear it.”

  She threw the ghost stick into the fire and turned away.

  The ravens cawed again, and those sitting on the ground or upon the watching warriors took to flight. The wind gusted, and they were gone, leaving only a few black feathers fluttering on the wind. The only sound was the crackle and snap of the funeral pyre.

  A sliver of sun still peeked over the western summits.

  Time is running out.

  Hweilan looked up at Rhan, who was still holding his sword high, a look of near ecstasy on his face.

  “You wish to honor my mother?”

  He lowered the sword, and for a moment Hweilan was afraid he was going to kneel. He didn’t. Instead, he planted the point on the ground in front of him and rested both hands on the pommel. “I do.”

  “Then keep vigil for me. See that no one disturbs the fire. I will come at dawn to help the wind scatter the ashes.”

  His brows creased. “Where will you—?”

  “The sun is setting,” said Hweilan. “I have some place to be.”

  Hweilan walked away. She did not look back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE LAST PURPLE LIGHT OF DAY WAS FADING FROM the sky by the time Hweilan and Uncle reached the Stone of Hoar, but Mandan was still alone. The large Damaran sat in the large stone hand. He wore nothing but a tattered loincloth. The hobgoblins hadn’t even left him a blanket, and he was shivering so hard that his ankle chains rattled. Scrapes and dried blood covered his skin, and one eye was swollen shut. Hratt told her they’d healed him, but it seemed that he’d taken several beatings since. Hweilan could tell he had tried to break free. Uncle circled the stone, a low whine coming from deep in his chest. Hweilan drew her knife, and at the sound Mandan gasped and his eyes opened.

  “You’ve looked better,” said Hweilan.

  Mandan let his head drop. “Go,” he said.

  Hweilan scowled. She had hoped to find Mandan defiant. Seeing his condition, she thought at the very least he’d ask to be cut down, hoping she’d come here to save him. Not this … despair.

  She stepped forward. “Be still. This may hurt.”

  She cut the leather cords around his knees first. Freed of their bindings, Mandan’s knees knocked together as the iron weights dangling from his ankles fell to the ground. Hweilan had to climb onto the stone hand to reach Mandan’s arms. They, too, were painted in dried blood where the leather had bitten into his skin. His fingers were purple from cold and lack of blood. Hweilan cut the cords, and Mandan’s arms fell into his lap.

  Hweilan jumped back to the ground. “Try to rub blood back into your hands while I see what I can do about the shackles. We can’t leave. I made a vow. But you can face them on your feet.”

  “Go,” said Mandan. “Get … my brother … out of here.”

  “You think Darric would leave without you?”

  He peered at her with his one good eye. “What I have done … I will face it.”

  Uncle barked and looked toward the path. Hweilan followed his gaze and saw the glow of torchlight on the stone. A moment later, Buureg, in full armor, came into view, leading four warriors with long spears, four more with swords, all holding torches. Six more followed, carrying horn bows, arrows already notched on strings. They fanned out around the Stone of Hoar, with Buureg and the spear-bearers closest, the others keeping their distance. The warchief carried his helmet under one arm, his face set and expressionless, his eyes flat.

  Bringing up the rear of the procession was a hobgoblin woman, a babe on her back and a small child in her arms. Another child walked on her left, and on her right was her oldest. He and his mother had used white paint and ash to paint their faces in a death mask.

  “Hweilan,” said Buureg, “Hand of the Hunter, I ask you to step aside.”

  Hweilan still had the knife in her hand. She kept it low, her arm loose, and turned to face the hobgoblins.

  Buureg took a long breath. “That’s how it will be, then?”

  Hweilan looked at the gathered warriors. None returned her gaze, instead fixing their eyes on her chin to avoid an obvious show of challenge. But all of them held their weapons in steady hands. If it came to a fight, Hweilan had little doubt she and Uncle could get away—but not with Mandan, and not without bloodshed.

  She looked back to Buureg and said, “I don’t want this.”

  “But you will not step aside?”

  “I can’t.”

  It was true. She’d been willing to sacrifice all the Damarans if it meant getting away to face Jagun Ghen. But if she had even a slim chance to save them, she had to take it. It was very likely she’d be dead in a few days. If she walked away to leave her friends to death and torment, she would never be able to face her mother and father in the afterlife.

  “Stepping aside,” she said, “isn’t in me. Not anymore.”

 
The hobgoblin youth in the death mask rushed forward. His mother cried out and tried to grab him, but he shrugged out of her grip and pressed his way through the warriors. None tried to stop him, but four spearpoints lowered at Hweilan, and the archers raised their bows and drew.

  Buureg dropped his helmet, turned, and grabbed the youth. His mother was screaming and trying to come forward, but two of the warriors held her. The babe on her back was wailing.

  “Stop! Stop this!” Buureg said.

  “Let! Me! Go!” Unable to break the warchief’s grip, the youth instead brought his face forward and slammed his forehead into Buureg’s nose. Hweilan tensed, readying herself, but did not raise her weapon. Buureg’s eyes went wide, but he held his grip even as blood poured out of his nose. One hand held onto the youth’s shoulder, the other held a wrist. One of the warriors was rushing forward to help.

  The youth tried another head butt, but Buureg was expecting it and twisted out of the way. Then he tried a knee to the crotch, but Buureg’s armor protected him. Growling like an animal, the youth took a step back, raised one foot, and kicked the warchief in the chest.

  It worked. Buureg’s grip broke and he reeled backward into one of his own spearmen.

  Tears streaming down his face and marring the paint, the youth drew a long knife from his belt and charged.

  One step to the side, and Hweilan placed herself between the youth and Mandan. Ruuket wailed and Buureg screamed to his archers, “Hold! Hold! Do not loose!”

  Snarling, the youth brought the blade around in a clumsy swipe. He was strong, and his fury made him stronger still, but clumsy. Hweilan caught the wrist but did not stop it, instead continuing through, directing the force, using his own strength against him and adding her own to twist the arm, turning him in the direction she wanted him to go. She ducked, planted her shoulder in his gut as he fell over her, then threw him.

  The youth hit the ground, knife still in hand, but when he started to push himself to his feet, a growl stopped him. He looked up through his tears to see Uncle’s bared teeth less than three inches from his nose.

  “Stop! Stop this—now!”

  A moment of absolute silence fell. All eyes turned to the one who had called out. Mandan had fallen forward out of the stone hand onto his hands and knees, but he was pushing himself to his feet now, the remnants of bloody leather cord still dangling from his wrists. The Damaran stood to his full height, though he was swaying like a tree in summer wind. He looked down at the youth.

  “Come here,” Mandan told him.

  The young hobgoblin cast a quick glance at Mandan, then looked back at the wolf.

  “Uncle,” she said, “Chu set. Alet.”

  The wolf snapped his jaws once, then walked away to stand beside Hweilan.

  “Aniq,” she told him. “Be ready.”

  “On your feet, boy,” said Mandan.

  The youth scrambled to his feet, a little bit of the anger coming back to him. “I have a knife,” he said.

  Mandan said, “Bring it.”

  The youth stood and gave Hweilan and the wolf a wary glance. Hweilan returned it, then kept her eyes flicking back and forth between Mandan and the hobgoblins.

  Holding the knife in front of him, the youth approached Mandan. The blade was shaking, and Hweilan saw that the boy was clenching his jaw shut to keep it from trembling as well. But she could also see that it was taking all the strength Mandan had just to stay upright.

  “You know”—Mandan’s voice caught, and he swallowed hard—“how to use that?”

  The youth scowled, and Hweilan realized he probably didn’t speak Damaran. She translated for him. He glared at her, then spit on Mandan and replied.

  “He says, ‘Enough to kill you,’ ” Hweilan told Mandan.

  The Damaran wiped the spittle from his face, then fell back onto the palm of the stone. He had to reach out and catch himself on the thumb to keep from falling.

  “I will not … stop you,” said Mandan, then looked to Hweilan. “Tell him.”

  “No.”

  Buureg translated for him, earning a glare from Hweilan. But then the warchief ordered one of his warriors to take Mandan some water. The warrior balked and opened his mouth to protest.

  “Do it!” said Buureg.

  The warrior sheathed his sword, then walked forward warily. He took a small skin from his belt, untied it, and handed it to Mandan. The Damaran took a careful drink, but it caught in his throat, and he coughed it out. He tried again, managed to swallow, then took a long drink.

  Mandan handed the skin back to the warrior, then looked at the boy, his one good eye glaring. “I killed your father.”

  Buureg translated his words.

  Mandan slapped at the youth’s knife, feebly but enough to make a point. “So you will kill me. What then?”

  Buureg opened his mouth, but Hweilan beat him to it. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she could see where this might be going.

  The youth looked to Buureg, obviously not trusting Hweilan’s words. The warchief nodded. “She spoke true.”

  “Then,” said the youth in his own tongue, “I will be a warrior this summer. I will raid. I will hunt. I will provide for my mother, my brothers, and my sister. Urlun, son of Duur! I swear it!”

  Several of the warriors hooted their encouragement.

  “You?” said Mandan, Hweilan translating. “You’ve never hunted as a warrior. Never raided. You think you will be able to feed the four of them through the winter? Winter is hard, boy. And you’re soft.”

  The youth growled and raised the knife. Hweilan took a step forward, but Mandan’s words stopped them both.

  “Is it true what I have heard?” Mandan looked past the youth to Buureg.

  “What?” said the warchief.

  “I have heard,” said Mandan, Hweilan still translating for the youth, “that if Urlun cannot provide for them, then Ruuket’s only hope is to take up a spear herself or find another mate. If she hunts and raids, her children will be left alone. If she takes another mate, he can choose whether or not to provide for her children. If he chooses not, the children are cast out to fend for themselves. Is this true?”

  The look on Urlun’s face told Hweilan everything she needed to know before Buureg answered, “It is true. It is our way.”

  Mandan said, “It is not my way.”

  He forced himself to stand. Urlun flinched but did not back away—or lower the knife.

  “Hold that blade steady, boy,” said Mandan. Hweilan let Buureg translate this, hoping the warchief’s words would hold more weight.

  “My life is yours,” Mandan told Urlun. “Yours and your family’s. Take it. Or hold it. If you hold it, I swear I will spend my days taking care of your family.”

  That stunned Ruuket and her family to silence, but some of the warriors cried out in protest.

  “Silence!” said Buureg.

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Urlun asked Mandan.

  Mandan gave the youth’s knife hand another feeble slap. “You have courage, Urlun. But you hold that blade like a boy. I can teach you to do otherwise. I will teach you to do otherwise—and more. If you let me.”

  Urlun’s jaw flapped twice. He licked his lips and looked to his mother. But she could only stare.

  “And them?” Urlun asked.

  “I will see that your family is taken care of.”

  Urlun snorted. “You? You’re down to your loincloth.”

  Several of the warriors laughed at that.

  “I am a duke’s son,” said Mandan. “I will bargain with your people to care for them now. When my duty here is done, you can come to my home with me, where I will treat you with all honor. I will send tribute once a year to your family, until your brothers and sister are grown or until your mother finds another to care for them.”

  “Ha!” one of the spear holders said. “We are Razor Heart! No one will take your word.”

  Buureg punched the speaker in the face, and the warrior went down in a clatter of ar
mor. “I will take it,” said the warchief. “If Hweilan, Hand of the Hunter, takes it with me. If she will hold the duke’s son to his word, I swear to care for your family myself, Urlun. The Damaran can repay me.”

  Hweilan had to admire Buureg’s play. He had just indebted a wealthy Damaran house to himself—and established a potential alliance. She could see how he had attained his status as warchief. She nodded her assent to his plan.

  All eyes focused on Urlun. The youth looked from Buureg to Mandan to Hweilan before turning his gaze to Ruuket. “Mother?”

  She nodded.

  Urlun looked back to Mandan.

  “Well?” said Mandan.

  “You swear?”

  Mandan surged to his feet, chains rattling. Urlun took a step back and all the warriors tensed.

  “I told you to hold that blade steady,” said Mandan, and in one quick movement he grabbed the blade in his right hand. But he didn’t yank it from the boy’s grasp. Instead, he squeezed and slid his hand down the steel, opening a deep gash in his palm. He held the fist up, dark blood pouring down his arm.

  “I killed your father, Urlun,” said Mandan. “I fought to defend myself, but I killed him in my rage. And though it felt good to do it, I left you fatherless. That is my sin. Torm sees me. May his strong right hand grant me the strength to redeem myself. I will teach you all I know. I will care for your family. I swear it.”

  And then Mandan collapsed to his knees, wavered there a moment, and fell face forward into the dirt.

  Afterward, while the warriors were bundling Mandan in a cloak and arguing over who would help him down to the fortress, Hweilan sidled up to Buureg.

  “Why?” she asked him.

  He kept his gaze on his warriors as he answered. “That’s no riddle. The Razor Heart needs all the allies it can find in these troubled times. I had the choice of fighting you, earning the ire of your master, and angering a Damaran lord—or making a friend of both. I chose the wiser path.”