Guric’s corpse lurched and would have fallen had Argalath not caught him.
“So … hungry,” he said.
Argalath waved to his men. “Bring him. Quickly!”
Vazhad took two of the acolytes back into the tunnel. They returned, dragging a bound and gagged Damaran soldier. His eyes were wide, and the blood and tears had frozen on his face, but still he thrashed and screamed behind the gag.
The thing in Guric hissed in delight and fell on his meal before the three men had even brought it to the basin. Argalath and the others left him to it. It was over in moments.
Guric stood, his eyes and teeth shining bright in the starlight amid their mask of blood. The ravaged body of the soldier steamed in the cold at his feet.
Argalath opened his mouth to speak—
The world spun around him, light lancing through his brain, shattering the darkness there. In the roar of the world’s passing, he heard—far, far away—his brother screaming.
With every beat of his heart, the world came back into focus, and the roar in his mind fell away. When Argalath could finally see again, Vazhad and Jatara were leaning over him, concern written on their faces. He realized he’d fallen and was lying in the blood-spattered snow.
“Are you hurt, master?” said Jatara.
“Ukhnar Kurhan has fallen.” The words had passed Argalath’s lips before he realized them, but he knew they were true.
“What does this mean?” asked Vazhad.
At the same time Jatara, face filled with worry and shock, said, “Kadrigul …?”
“Help me up,” said Argalath.
They did. The other acolytes were looking on, impassive. Unmoving. Not even a hint of worry—or worse, ambition—in their eyes. He had trained them well.
“Master,” said Jatara. She was trembling, her grip on his arms too tight. “Master, my brother …? Please.”
“I do not know,” said Argalath. “All I know is that Soran’s body has been destroyed. Ukhnar Kurhan will seek another or return here, weakened, bewildered, and hungry.”
“Seek another?” said Jatara, and Argalath knew her meaning.
“The only way he could possess a living being is if the person were to invite him.”
“And if the person was … not living?”
Argalath turned away from her. “I need rest. This has been … most trying. Have the acolytes see to our new guest. You should help them, Jatara. Vazhad, take me back to my rooms.”
“Master?” Jatara called after him.
Leaning on Vazhad’s shoulder for support, Argalath headed for the passageway that would take him through the tunnels and back to Highwatch. Back to his bed. Vazhad cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder, but he did not slow.
“Master!” Jatara said. “Master! My brother?”
Carnage. Absolute carnage.
On the frozen river where Tirron and his hunters had been slaughtered, a band of uldra worked in the bloody snow, gathering the corpses of the dead. They dragged the broken and torn elves onto litters. Their dead mounts they left where they lay.
Near the steep bank where the trees drew in close, one of the uldra found another corpse, neither elf nor one of their mounts. A human, dressed mostly in skins and leathers. His skin and long hair were as pale as the snow in which he lay. His limbs were twisted and back broken as if he had been pummeled by a giant.
One of the Frost Folk. The uldra who found him had fought his kind before. On hunting trips to the far north of the outside lands, where the cold almost matched that of the queen’s domain.
The horizon beyond the shore suddenly lit up, as if by a great fire, and the ground shook. In the distance, the uldra heard a scream. It hit beyond the ears, striking their very bones with its fury and pain.
The sound died away. The rumble in the ground stilled to a tremble, then stopped.
The uldra felt a stray breeze waft past his face. It almost felt … hot. But not in a pleasant way. Scalding.
He looked back down on the pale corpse. Something was different. Something—
The corpse’s hand shot out and gripped the uldra’s ankle in a crushing grip. The eyes opened. Red fire burned in their depths.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE LITTLE STONE PRESSING BACK THE DARK WITH ITS pale light, Menduarthis led Hweilan out of the hollow and down a steep path to a clearing in the wood. A mound sat in the very center. Something about it set Hweilan’s teeth on edge.
Menduarthis dragged her to it. “Quickly!’
He fell to his knees at the foot of the mound and pressed both hands into the snow. He closed his eyes, and for a moment Hweilan thought he was praying.
“What are you doing?”
He stopped his chant and glared at her. “Trying to make sure no one follows us out of here.”
“What about Lendri?”
“If he isn’t here by the time I finish, he won’t be coming.” Menduarthis closed his eyes and resumed his chant.
Hweilan looked back the way they had just come. Wind still tore through the wood, its howl masking all other sounds. No sight of Lendri.
“Time to go.”
Menduarthis stood and tossed his light stone in the snow. It was no longer glowing with a pale blue light. It pulsed yellow, and with each pulse it quickened and darkened, becoming an angry red.
“What is that going to do? “she said.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her behind him. “Blow this mound to the bottom of the Nine Hells, I hope.”
“But Lendri!”
Menduarthis ignored her and pulled her behind him. They circled the mound, and on the first full circuit, Menduarthis began an incantation. Hweilan looked back up the rise. It was hard to be certain through all the snow stirred by the wind, but she thought she saw a pale shape bounding toward them.
“Menduarthis, I think I see him!”
“Too late,” he said, and in the next swirl of shadow and light, Hweilan looked up at a clear sky, set with a million stars. Stars she recognized. And Selûne was the moon Hweilan knew. Just the right size. Her court of stars in the old familiar patterns.
Menduarthis pulled her behind him. “Not safe yet!”
Stumbling behind him down a frost-covered slope, Hweilan looked back. The mound was a mirror image of the one they had just left in the Feywild, but the shadows seemed thinner here. Less vital. Starlight glimmered on the rime-covered rocks, almost sparkling.
She tripped, righted herself, and when she looked back again, Lendri was running toward them.
Hweilan opened her mouth to call—
And the mound exploded.
She saw Lendri lifted through the air, then Menduarthis fell on top of her, taking her to the ground. A tide of rock, ice, and grit washed over them in a roar of sound. When it passed, smaller stones and a storm of soil began to rain down around them.
Menduarthis rolled off her, and she sat up on one elbow. Back where the mound had been was only a smoking crater. Eldritch lights sparked and fumed, and tiny lightnings struck the ground. They were growing with each strike.
And then Lendri was beside them, bleeding from dozens of scrapes and cuts, still naked as the day he was born.
“Whatever you did …” He looked back at the magic fury eating away at the crater. “We should go.”
Hweilan looked back at the conflagration. “That thing and the queen …?”
“The thing is dead,” said Lendri. “Kunin Gatar? I very much doubt it.”
In the crater, several bolts of lightning crackled around one another, each increasing in fury as they struck the ground.
“We need to leave!” said Lendri.
“Damned if I don’t agree with him for once,” said Menduarthis.
They were deep in the Giantspires, in the high mountains, and the stars seemed very close. Cold as it was, it was a cold Hweilan knew, and after the realm of Kunin Gatar, it almost seemed warm.
Menduarthis led them into a high valley flanked by three peaks. In the botto
m of a gully choked with boulders and bushes of iron-hard branches, he took them to a small cave. No more than a large hole in the ground, it looked like the entrance to an oversized warren.
“What is this place?” said Hweilan.
“The Ujaiyen used to camp here when they hunted this region.”
“Used to?”
“They don’t come here anymore.” “Why?”
Menduarthis looked to Lendri. “Yes, why would that be?”
Lendri scowled, then looked to Hweilan. “Inside. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
It was a simple shelter. A cave with a dirt floor. Its low ceiling was stained black by old fires, and a fissure where one wall met the ceiling let out most of the smoke. A small basin, dusty dry, hugged the back wall, but when Menduarthis chanted and waved one hand over it, it filled with clear, cold water. There was even an old cache of supplies—firewood, kindling, blankets, and food that had long spoiled or been eaten by mice. No clothes for Lendri, but he covered himself in one of the blankets while he set about fashioning a sort of loincloth and sleeveless shirt.
After they had slaked their thirst and got a small fire going, Hweilan looked to Menduarthis. “Are you certain we’re safe here?”
Menduarthis snorted. “We’re a damned long sight from safe. But with the mound gone, the Ujaiyen will have to come at us from another. That will take them most of a day at least. Still … I don’t think they’ll come here. We’re very close to a part of these mountains where I doubt even Kunin Gatar would come.” He looked to Lendri, who stared in the fire. Lendri would not meet Hweilan’s gaze.
“Lendri,” she said, “who is Nendawen?”
He flinched and looked up. “Where did you hear that name?”
“Menduarthis said I called it out in my sleep. But … but I don’t remember.”
Lendri’s eyes widened at that, and he mumbled something in his own tongue.
“Time to bare your soul, cub,” said Menduarthis. “What’s your game?”
Lendri swallowed hard and looked at Hweilan with haunted eyes. “I didn’t know it was you,” he said. “I swear it. I didn’t know. I never imagined it was you.”
His words, the desperation in his eyes … it seemed to stir a deep pool in Hweilan’s mind. She remembered parts of her dream that night she’d slept in the frozen branches of the fallen tree.
The howl of wolves …
Time to grow up, Hweilan inle Merah. Time to hunt. You do not need understanding. You need to choose. Understanding will come later … if you survive.
And the image of the antlered man that haunted the shadows at the edge of her vision.
Then Lendri began his tale.
“Our people were not born to this world, but in a place we name the Hunting Lands. Long ago, a fell being of great strength made war on the gods of our people and the primal spirits who served them. Jagun Ghen we named him. Burning Hunger. The Destroyer. For generations we fought him, but he grew stronger, destroying our homeland. We fled in exile to this world, where we have lived for many long years. But some twenty years ago, the great god Dedunan—”
“Who?” said Hweilan.
But it was Menduarthis who answered her. “Silvanus.”
Lendri and Hweilan both looked at him in surprise.
He shrugged. “I know things.”
Lendri scowled. “Yes. Silvanus. He intervened on our behalf, and for once the winds turned in our favor. Jagun Ghen was cast from the Hunting Lands, and after generations in exile, the Vil Adanrath returned home. Except for me.”
“Because of your oaths to my forefather,” said Hweilan. “Because of me.”
“In part,” said Lendri. “After my people left, I wandered for a while. I even visited Highwatch once, but Merah had no interest in renewing her ties to her heritage. I left, lost in my heart.” He looked up at Menduarthis. “It was at this time I came to live in the realm of your queen.”
Menduarthis snorted. “Hardly my queen anymore.”
“I escaped,” said Lendri.
“After betraying them and murdering their king,” said Menduarthis. He looked to Hweilan. “He’s leaving out quite a lot.”
“And so are you,” said Lendri. “I—”
“Enough!” said Hweilan. “Menduarthis, be quiet. Lendri, what does any of this have to do with me?”
“After I escaped Kunin Gatar,” said Lendri, “I fled, but the Ujaiyen pursued me. I fled to the one place I knew the Ujaiyen would not dare go. To a region of these mountains sacred to Nendawen. We are close to them now.”
Menduarthis shuddered and looked at the exit of the cave. “Very close.”
“Truth be told,” said Lendri, “I went there with little real hope. Nendawen is sacred to the Vil Adanrath. Not one of the great gods like Dedunan, but Nendawen serves him in his own way, as we serve our gods. Nendawen is a hunter. The Hunter. But to come to him without sacrifice, without blood … it is death. Nendawen loves our people in his own way, but he is not a kind master. Not forgiving. I’d hoped he might take the Ujaiyen on my trail as sacrifice, but if not … well, I thought it better to die at the hands of one of my own than his ilk.” He looked at Menduarthis.
“This ilk just saved your life, I’ll remind you,” said Menduarthis.
“He killed them?” said Hweilan. “Nendawen killed the Ujaiyen?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lendri. “But he did not count it as sacrifice. He …” His brows creased as he searched for the word. “Put off payment, you might say.”
“You mean her?” said Menduarthis. He raised one fist and glared at Lendri, and Hweilan knew he was considering which spell to use on the elf. “You’re delivering Hweilan to this monster as some sort of blood sacrifice? That … that’s—”
“No!” said Lendri. His lips pulled back in a snarl, and in the firelight Hweilan thought his teeth seemed sharper. “I would never do such a thing.” His countenance softened and he looked to Hweilan. “I would die first. I swear it.”
She believed him, but something in his gaze sent a shiver of fear through her.
“It’s … more complicated,” said Lendri. “Nendawen told me that Jagun Ghen—the Destroyer who made a wasteland of our home—had not been killed. Only vanquished. He fled the Hunting Lands. Fled here, to this world. Though his power was much reduced, it will grow again. He will bring his brothers and servants—fell spirits like him—to this world to kill and destroy. His hunger is never satisfied. He does not care to conquer. Only consume.”
Lendri looked into the fire, and Hweilan saw its warm light glistening in his eyes. They were filling with tears.
“I thought he meant me,” said Lendri. “I swear it. Nendawen said that Jagun Ghen must be stopped. But this world … it is not ours, nor our gods. Even Nendawen, his power is very limited here. Only on certain nights may he roam. Other times, he is confined to his holy places. To stop Jagun Ghen, the Hunter requires someone to go in his stead. The Hunter needs a Hand.”
Both men were staring at Hweilan, Lendri with tears in his eyes and Menduarthis with his mouth hanging open.
“You mean me?” she asked.
“I did not know,” said Lendri. “Nendawen would not tell me who. He told me only that his chosen would hold ‘death in her right hand.’”
Hweilan’s mind reeled. She looked down at her hand.
“Wait,” said Menduarthis. “Death in her right hand? You mean …?”
Lendri nodded. “Show him,” said Lendri.
Hweilan pulled off her glove, spread her palm, and turned it so that the firelight caught it full force.
“I’ve seen it already,” said Menduarthis.
“Death,” said Lendri. “Hweilan holds ‘death’ in her right hand.”
Hweilan stood.
“Where are you going?” said Menduarthis.
“I need to be alone.”
“It isn’t safe out there.”
“The sun will be up soon,” said Lendri. “She’ll be fine.” He looked at her. “Don’t str
ay far. If you need me, use your kishkoman.”
Behind her, she heard Menduarthis ranting. “Are you mad? One of your bloodthirsty beast-gods wants her and you tell her to blow a damned whistle?”
Hweilan ran, leaving them behind.
She wandered out of the gully and sought the heights. As the stars began to fade in the lightening sky, a sudden hungry longing to see the sun woke in Hweilan. How long had it been since she’d watched the sun rise? She couldn’t remember. Since well before the fall of Highwatch.
She found a way up a low offshoot of the nearest peak, her boots often slipping on the slick rocks or ice-covered grass beneath. But she made it up and found a nice perch, where she had a clear view of the eastern sky between the mountains. The Giantspires towered around her.
Nendawen …
Jagun Ghen …
She shivered. Not so much at the horror of Lendri’s tale, nor that it had a sharp ring of truth. No.
She’d heard those names before. She knew that now. Never in her waking memory, not until Menduarthis and Lendri had spoken them. But those names had haunted her dreams.
Nendawen. The Hunter. The antlered man she kept seeing from the corner of her eye. Time to grow up. Time to choose. Understanding will come later. If you survive …
Jagun Ghen. Destroyer. That voice out of the darkness. The stench of death, of rot, of carnage unimaginable.
And familiar. It hit her then. Her dream had met the waking world. When that … that thing, that monster wearing her uncle’s face had come after her. It wasn’t even a scent so much as a complete miasma. A reek that sank into the spirit.
This Nendawen had sent Lendri to claim her: Had Jagun Ghen sent something as well? That thing, that mockery of Soran? And would he keep sending them?
Chosen of Nendawen Book 001 - The Fall of Highwatch Page 29