She could not move. It was an effort even to breathe. She opened her eyes.
She lay in shadow, and the day’s light was dying in the sky. Not two paces away stood Jagun Ghen, his arms outstretched, his back arched, his head whipping back and forth, as if Menduarthis was fighting the profane words that were being forced out of his throat. But Hweilan could sense their power. Each syllable tore at her mind, like claws rending flesh. And through each rent she could feel Jagun Ghen’s will seeping through, infecting her soul.
Hweilan screamed, but Jagun Ghen ignored her. She looked down and saw that she was bound at the wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles. She lay in the midst of a circle that had been gouged into the stone itself. Every sacred arrow she had put into a baazuled since coming to Highwatch had been planted in the grooves of the pact circle. The runes along their shafts still held a green light, but it flickered and was shot through with bits of molten metal. A fresh body lay next to each arrow. Other baazuled, some undead and some living with the glowing runes etched into their foreheads, stood beyond the bodies. They kneeled and joined in their master’s chant.
She looked beyond them all, searching for any sign of hope or help. It was a place she’d never been before, a high shelf of rock overlooking the fortress. The wall of the mountain rose to one side, broken by a doorway. The sun had long since sunk behind the mountain. In the east …
Hweilan could feel it, as she had felt it that evening in Vaasa with Ashiin. The very air held the tautness of a drumskin. And then she saw it.
The sky over the fortress was thick with smoke, and when the first rim of the full moon rose over the far grasslands, it was red as blood. In her mind, Hweilan felt the BOOM as a presence older than the fabric of Faerûn entered the world. The mountain shook, and stones and dust rained down on them from above.
Jagun Ghen laughed.
The baazuled around the pact circle stood up. The symbols on their foreheads blazed. Their fingers twisted into claws, and those few holding weapons raised them. All of them looked to the doorway in the mountain.
Hweilan felt it, too. The Master was coming.
Jagun Ghen’s chant rose to a scream, but he did not turn to face the threat. The symbol on his forehead leaked smoke that hung round his thrashing head like a black halo.
Hweilan writhed and tugged at her bonds but succeeded only in tearing her skin. She felt blood mixing with the sweat under her clothes. The runes in the arrows were leaking tiny tongues of flame, and the wooden shafts were beginning to catch. The ground beneath her trembled.
Huge shapes burst from the mountainside door. Wolves almost as large as bears, three gray and one black as obsidian. They leaped for the baazuled, teeth and claws rending, their growls shaking the ground. The baazuled fought back with blade and fist and claws. Ravens descended on the combatants.
Jagun Ghen’s chant broke—just for a moment—and wind roared down the mountainside, sweeping the ravens away. Hweilan saw one of the gray wolves leap onto a baazuled, her jaws closing on the monster’s throat, and both of them tumbled over the edge.
The arrows around the pact circle exploded, and Hweilan felt the spirits within pass over her like a fiery wind. The other gray wolf went down under the blades of three baazuled and did not get up again. The black wolf burst into flames, but still it fought. It pushed three baazuled over the precipice, and took another with it when it fell.
The dead bodies, several of which had been torn or dragged away in the attack, stood. They spared their master a glance, then every one of them leaped over the side. Hweilan was alone with Jagun Ghen.
The wind died, and Hweilan felt the presence. She turned, and there in the mountainside stood Nendawen. Inside his mask, his gaze burned like green suns, and emerald flames danced along the length of his spear.
Jagun Ghen turned to face him, and the air between them sizzled and sparked.
Nendawen raised his spear and charged. As soon as he stood fully in the light of the moon, he threw the weapon. It cut the air like a falling star, but Jagun Ghen slapped at the air in front of him, and the wind swiped it away. The spear tumbled through the air, riding the current, then turned. Jagun Ghen held out his hand, caught the spear, and planted it on the ground beside him.
“Your time is over,” he said.
Nendawen charged, both hands outstretched into bloody claws—and ran full force into his own spear. The long iron barb tore through his stomach and came out his back. But he didn’t stop. He grabbed the shaft with his left hand and pulled himself up the length of the spear. His blood steamed in the air. He struck out with his right hand, but Jagun Ghen caught it, almost casually, and twisted. The sound of breaking bone hit Hweilan with the force of a slap.
Still holding the spear with one hand, Jagun Ghen struck Nendawen’s bone mask with his other. It cracked. He struck again and again, shattering the mask, then the skull beneath. The antlers fell to the ground. The face beneath the mask was broken and tattered, a bloody ruin pierced by Nendawen’s green gaze.
Jagun Ghen grabbed his ancient enemy by the throat, squeezed, then pulled. Nendawen’s head fell forward, and the light in his eyes died. Then Jagun Ghen released the spear, and the lifeless body slumped to the ground. The primal spirit of the Hunter fled the dead flesh. Hweilan felt it rise and try to flee, but the symbols of the pact circle blazed, flames leaping from them, and a power reached out, seizing the spirit like a fish on a hook. It was caught inside the pact circle.
Jagun Ghen turned and looked down upon Hweilan.
“Now,” he said, “we finish.”
He bent down, grabbed the ropes, and broke them with no more trouble than a seamstress snapping an old thread. First those around her ankles, then working his way up. When the last of them snapped, Hweilan screamed, kicked, punched, used every skill Ashiin had taught her. But she might as well have been striking the waves of the ocean.
Jagun Ghen seized her, pinning her arms to her side, and lifted her. Hweilan thrashed, then slammed her head forward, smashing his nose. Blood flowed down his chin, but he smiled through it.
“Break it all you like,” he said. “I am through with it.”
He grabbed her head and used his thumbnail to gouge a symbol into her forehead. She shook her head and tried to get away, but he was too strong. Blood ran into her eyes.
He clutched a handful of hair and pulled her head back. The force of his power and will pressed on her mind, smothering her. Looking into his eyes was like walking into a forge fire.
Jagun Ghen opened his mouth and forced it onto hers. It was nothing like a kiss. More of an invasion. He inhaled, drawing her own breath out of her, and as it left, Hweilan felt her awareness being pressed down. She tried to scream, but her breath was gone.
Black spots filled her vision. She closed her eyes, still thrashing but unable to free herself. When she opened her eyes again, she could see nothing. And then the sheer force of Jagun Ghen’s mind buried her.
The river took her again, and this time she was too weak to fight against it. Memories flowed over her—childhood, the fall of Highwatch, all the visions of Kesh Naan, learning from Gleed and training with Ashiin. Jagun Ghen tore through them all, opened them up, and poured himself in, like dye staining the weave of a cloth.
Every secret thought, every desire and shame and hidden guilt he ripped apart, consuming them, making them a part of himself. But for every one he swallowed, it only made him hungrier for more.
One vision ran through all the others, and she saw each memory through two images at once. There were the remembrances of her past and those of her ancestors, but above them all she saw the mountainside over the fortress. She saw the broken baazuled finding fresh prey among the hobgoblins in Highwatch, killing them, taking their life essence to heal their wounds, then running, scattering to the four winds.
On the shelf of rock, in the midst of the pact circle, Jagun Ghen clutched Hweilan in a profane parody of a lover’s embrace, his jaws locked over her mouth, his essence pouri
ng into her, filling her.
Something glimmered within the darkness of the doorway in the mountainside. Just a hint of light at first, but then it became fire. A makeshift torch appeared, held high by a young man dressed in a filthy knight’s tabard and mail. Darric … that was his name. Hweilan had to struggle, but eventually she recognized him. Mandan and Valsun ran behind him, Hratt and Urlun following, and then Jaden, wide-eyed and frightened. Darric had brought them. He’d done as she’d asked. But late … too late …
They ran onto the shelf, their mouths open in screams, though Hweilan could not hear them, could hear only the beating of Jagun Ghen’s heart, in perfect unison with her own.
Darric raised his sword and ran for them.
And then Hweilan fell into darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ABURNING BRAND IN ONE HAND, HIS SWORD IN THE other, Darric hurtled out of the tunnel. A strong breeze off the mountain reduced his torch to a flicker, but there was enough light from the moon and stars to reveal the ruin of battle before him. The hacked corpse of a massive wolf lay near the edge of the precipice, and beyond the doorway lay the body of a large man, his face a ruin, a massive spear run all the way through him. Flames burned in a circle cut into the rock floor of the wide shelf. But it was the spectacle in the midst of it that drew all Darric’s attention.
Menduarthis held Hweilan in a tight embrace. Her arms were pinned beneath his, and the first thing that went through Darric’s mind was the memory of the eladrin’s playful lechery. For an instant he dared let himself hope. If Menduarthis had been freed of the demon—free enough to cajole more kisses—then Hweilan had won.
Then both figures dropped to the ground, like puppets whose strings had been cut. The flames in the circle flickered out. Still, an oppressive presence bore down on the shelf. The wind was no more than a strong breeze off the mountain, but Darric could feel great forces moving, brushing against his mind.
Darric cast his torch aside and ran to Hweilan, falling to his knees beside her. Her entire body trembled as if with fever. Her forehead was a mess of torn skin and blood. He reached out one hand to touch her face. Her skin was cool to the touch, and he saw that both her eyes were twitching back and forth beneath the lids, as if she were caught in a deep dream.
“Is she—?” Valsun came to a halt behind Darric.
“Not dead,” said Darric. “But—”
Menduarthis moaned.
Darric raised his sword, ready to strike, and he heard the clatter of armor behind him. He grabbed Hweilan by the elbow. “Help me get her away from him!”
Menduarthis rolled over and looked up at them. Mandan was standing over him, club raised to strike. Darric spared a quick glance over one shoulder and saw Jaden and Urlun backing away, but Hratt stood his ground. The hobgoblin had his bow raised, an arrow pulled to his cheek and pointed straight at Menduarthis.
“What …?” said Menduarthis, then he blinked. His head fell back on the ground, and he looked up at Mandan and said, “Where …?”
Through the filthy tangle of the eladrin’s hair, Darric saw the rune carved into his forehead. It was scabbed over and smeared with dirt and dried blood, but it was just a wound now. No fiery light leaked from it. And the eladrin’s muscles were not pulled taut as harpstrings. His skin sagged over the sharp bones of his cheeks and chin, and under the smoky light of the moon, he looked downright ghastly.
“Burns …,” said Menduarthis. “It …”
Under his hand, Darric felt Hweilan’s arm stiffen, hard as steel, and she thrashed out of his grip. Her boot struck his shoulder, sending him sprawling, and it was all Darric could do to keep hold of his sword. Valsun screamed something, but Darric didn’t catch the words.
Darric pushed himself to his feet and looked. Hweilan crouched several paces away, her arms held out and low, her fingers twisted into claws. The rising moon was at her back, her face in shadow, and the lines of a jagged, twisting symbol glowed from her forehead. Darric felt his heart stop, just for a moment, then he gasped, “No!”
Valsun cast aside his sword and grabbed the talisman hanging from a chain round his neck. Both the chain and the talisman, crafted in the shape of a gauntlet, were no more than steel, but they had once been blessed by a high cleric. Darric hoped the talisman might suddenly blaze with holy light. It didn’t. But as Valsun held it before him, Hweilan flinched and took a step back.
“By the True Resurrection,” Valsun said, “in the name of the Loyal Fury, Torm the Just, I re—!”
Hweilan growled and took a step forward. There was nothing human in the sound, and it confirmed Darric’s fear. Jagun Ghen had taken Hweilan.
Valsun held his ground. “You have no place in this world, demon!”
“Try this!” Hratt stepped forward to stand beside Hweilan. He had dropped the bow. In one hand he held the stake that they had found in the courtyard below. Hratt had insisted he recognized the symbols carved on it to be in the same style as the inks on Hweilan’s skin. In his other hand he held the red knife they had also found.
Hweilan laughed. “Those hold no more fear for me. All their power I left to rot.”
It was Hweilan’s voice but … not. Something in it wasn’t just wrong but absolutely profane.
“Let her go,” said Darric.
She turned her gaze on him. “I will kill you last. I will eat you, and she will watch. She will taste your blood.”
Valsun took a step forward, the talisman held before him. Hratt was right beside him, the red knife raised to strike, the stake held low. Mandan had moved around to approach her from behind.
“Don’t hurt her!” said Darric.
Mandan ran forward, his club raised crosswise in both hands. But he didn’t hit her. He brought the length of the club in front of her and pulled her to him.
“Now, Valsun!” He shouted.
Hweilan grabbed the club, stepped forward, and threw Mandan over her back. He was much taller and more than twice her weight, but he flew through the air and struck Hratt, sending them both crashing to the ground. Hweilan whirled, and when she came around she threw Mandan’s club.
Had Valsun been wearing full plate, he might have only been knocked down, but he wore only mail over his clothes. So when the thick end of the club struck him in the chest, Darric heard a crunch! of bone. The talisman went flying as Valsun landed on his back. Hweilan was on him in an instant. One swipe of her right hand, and a fountain of blood washed over Darric.
Tears streaming down his face, Darric charged.
He was nearly there when a pale shadow shot out of the mountain doorway, knocking Urlun to the ground, and leaped. It hit Hweilan and they both tumbled backward. Its enraged growl drowned out all other sound. It was Hweilan’s wolf, and his eyes blazed with a feral light. Uncle’s jaws closed around Hweilan’s forearm. Green light leaked from the wound, and the wolf’s fur glowed with more than moonlight. The demon in Hweilan shrieked, cutting through even the sound of the wolf’s growls, and she thrashed and punched, trying to break free.
Darric came to his senses and ran for the talisman that Valsun had lost. He was scrambling on the ground, his hands feeling for it in the dark, when the wolf’s growls turned to a high shriek. His frantic searching hit the small steel gauntlet and knocked it away, but his other hand closed over it. He pulled it to him and turned.
Hweilan had regained her feet. She held her arm out, the wolf still latched to it. But with her other hand she had grabbed the wolf’s side and her fingers were tearing through the flesh between the beast’s ribs.
Darric pushed himself to his feet.
Hweilan’s hand disappeared up to the elbow inside the wolf’s body.
Uncle released her arm, his forepaws leaning on her chest, and let loose a cry, high-pitched enough to hurt Darric’s ears. The cry became a wail, then a keening—a shriek that went on and on, unending and echoing off the mountainside. Darric and the others covered their heads and fell to the ground.
Hweilan could feel he
r mind tearing apart. Something like this had happened once before, on the night Lendri had died and she first saw Nendawen. The Hunter had taken off his mask, and Hweilan had screamed in horror, for the primal instincts of her mind saw her own future in that face.
You are mine, Hweilan, he said. You were always mine. But her spirit had recognized the true meaning behind those words: This is what you will be. I am both your salvation and your damnation.
And then his mind had been inside hers, ripping through her essence, consuming every memory, every hope, every secret shame. But the Hunter had intended to take them as his own, to meld his essence to hers. To make them one.
But with Jagun Ghen, there was no sharing, no communion. The burning hunger wanted only to take. When his terrible will penetrated her own, he devoured her to taste. There was no nourishment. For every bit of Hweilan he swallowed, his hunger for more only intensified. He swallowed and spat and raged. He took what he wanted and tore the rest, simply out of the pure joy of destruction.
Still, Hweilan could see. As she felt her sanity being torn away, she could see everything around her, as if in a dream. Darric running out of the doorway, casting aside his torch. Urlun and Jaden backing away when they understood what she’d become. Valsun stepping forward, clinging to his faith and defying Jagun Ghen. She even felt Mandan’s club trap her in a crushing embrace. She could feel, but she could not move. Like a dream … able to behold everything, feel everything, but her will given over, like a leaf being swept down a river, inevitably, toward the waterfall ahead. Hweilan knew that when she reached that point, there would be no going back.
And through all this, Jagun Ghen continued to tear through her spirit, infecting every vein of her essence. She saw images of her family and friends as if through bloody water. The hugs from her father, the embraces from her mother, every time Scith had tugged playfully on her braid … she felt them all burned by fire. Every scent and taste she had ever cherished now had the flavor of smoke and corruption.
Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III Page 28