"She is unarmed," said the elf. "You will wait, or I will feather you where you stand." He fixed those eyes on Hweilan. "Get your knife. Now."
She tugged and twisted. The blade moved, making a mangled mess of the dead man's throat, but the point was lodged deep in bone.
"Put your boot on his throat and pull," said the elf. "But take care not to slice your foot when the blade comes free."
She looked at him. Who was this stranger, and why was he helping her? Or was he? Was he only waiting until she had steel in hand to turn the bow on her? He raised an eyebrow in question.
Hweilan planted her left boot on the corpse's throat, grabbed the knife with both hands, and pulled. A moment's resistance, and the blade came free. Hweilan fell hard on her rump, and a line of blood-still warm and steaming-splattered across her face.
The Creel was looking back and forth between her and the elf. He was panting, and by the look in his eyes, Hweilan knew he was barely holding back panic.
"Crooked Knife!" the Creel shrieked, a ragged edge to his voice. "Help!"
"Your friend is dead," said the elf. "Your horses are gone." He looked to Hweilan again. "I can kill him now, or you can. By rights, he is yours. But you seem rather…" He shrugged. "Out of sorts."
"You want me to kill him?"
The elf relaxed the tension on his bow, then slid the arrow into a quiver on his belt. He scowled, seeming a little puzzled, then said, "I ask what you want. His life is yours, by right."
The Creel screamed and charged the elf.
The elf looked up, almost casually, and drew a sword from a scabbard he wore on his back. It was somewhere between a short and long sword, sharp only on one edge, and slightly curved near the end. A long tassel of braided leather and bits of fur dangled from the end of the leather-wrapped hilt.
Several paces away from the elf, the Creel threw the spear. The elf leaped aside, and the shaft sailed past him to land in the bushes.
The Creel looked at the elf's sword, looked at the knife in his hand, then turned and ran. He made it into the trees, and the elf did nothing.
"You aren't-?" she said, then she heard the growling of an animal, followed by the shrieks of the Creel. He didn't scream long.
"He is… taken care of," said the elf.
He sheathed his sword and walked over to stand before her. Still holding his bow in one hand, he spread the other in an open gesture and said, "I am called Lendri. You are Hweilan, daughter of Merah, are you not?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
One of the great disadvantages, in Guric's mind, of a fortress the size of Highwatch was that it took so damnably long to get from one place to the next. All the winding stairways and halls of the outer fortress were bad enough, but Vandalar's dwarves had burrowed dozens of tunnels through the western cliffs. It was into these that Argalath, after retrieving Jatara and Guric's two guards, led them. Into the deep dark of the mountain itself.
The tunnel was tall enough for Guric to walk upright, but the walls and ceiling were still unfinished stone, broken only by occasional support beams.
Argalath had buried his face deep in his crimson cowl. Even now, he kept it up, for both of Guric's guards-one leading, one trailing-held lamps, and in the close confines of the tunnel, their light was very bright.
"What is this place?" the lead guard asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
"A mine at first," said Argalath.
He spoke like a host giving his guests a tour. The patronizing tone rekindled Guric's anger. How could the man seem so damnably content when their plans had gone so wrong?
"When the mine turned up nothing," Argalath continued, "the burrowers began expanding it for storage and future dwellings. See there."
They passed a doorway on their right. A stout frame of worked stone supported the arch, but there was no door, and beyond the stone floor had been smoothed only a few feet. The rest of chamber was raw rock.
"See," said Argalath. "Very new."
"Enough talk," said Guric. "Get this done."
They passed two more such chambers when they saw light before them. In the middle of the floor, a large lamp filled the tunnel with yellow light and the strong scent of oil. More light glowed from a doorway to the left. This one showed no stonework whatsoever, beyond the cutting of the tunnel itself.
Argalath stopped. "My lord," he said, "our men should wait here."
Guric nodded at his own men and gave Jatara a look that told her that "our men" included her. He reached out for Argalath to lean upon him.
One of the strange Nar with the shaven head and single topknot stepped into the doorway. One quick glance took in their procession. His eyes settled on Guric and Argalath, and he gave a slight bow. The man and Argalath exchanged a series of words, then the Nar stepped aside.
"Ah," said Argalath. "It seems we are just in time. Our hound is ready for the hunt."
Another Nar stepped out of the doorway and into the tunnel. A third man followed. He was bare from the waist up, his chest and stomach smeared and spattered with blood, and his hands and forearms were covered with blackish gore.
Kadrigul emerged from the room, whispered, "It is done, master," to Argalath, and then he too stepped aside.
Another figure stepped into the doorway, and all the breath escaped Guric in a gasp of utter shock.
The newcomer had to stoop to get through the doorway. He was taller even than Guric, who looked down on everyone else in the tunnel. The figure was naked, save for a ragged loincloth. His pale skin had a sickly yellow cast in the soft lamplight.
It was Soran. No mistaking that carved-from-granite visage, the square jaw and deep-set eyes. But now the eyes were black, whether from the unnatural light in the tunnel or something else, Guric could not determine. And the wounds that had killed him-he'd been gutted like a deer-were completely healed.
"Gods, Argalath," said Guric. "What have we done?"
"What all strong leaders must do," said Argalath. "What is necessary."
Later that morning, Guric and Argalath, their guards keeping a respectful distance, stood behind the parapet of the outer bailey wall, watching the hunting party disappear in the distance.
"You're certain it can find her?" Guric asked Argalath.
"Yes, my lord."
"How?"
Argalath thought a moment before replying. "Soran's flesh is dead. Still the flesh is of Hweilan's family. His blood runs in her veins through Vandalar. What's inside Soran can use that. He will be able to sense her."
"Like a hound."
"Something like that, yes. Furthermore, seeing her uncle riding after her, the girl might not flee. She might even run to his arms."
Guric grunted. "Once she's close enough… she'd never mistake that thing for Soran."
Argalath smiled. "Once she's close enough, it won't much matter."
CHAPTER TWELVE
How do you know my name?" said Hweilan.
"I heard the kishkoman," said the elf. "Yesterday. In these lands, a human with a kishkoman… there's only two people you could be. Hweilan or Merah. You are too young to be Merah."
Her mother's words came back to her.
The whistle is beyond the hearing of most folk. But our people, Hweilan, we are… not like others. If you find yourself in danger, if you need help, blow this, and we will hear.
"You… you're Vil Adanrath," she said.
The elf cocked his head, and his brows narrowed. "Of course. What did you think?"
"I…" She didn't know what to say.
"We should see to this one." The elf waved in Scith's direction.
Hweilan stumbled over to Scith. Her heartbeat was calming, and her knees suddenly felt weak. She dropped her bloody knife and sat beside him. His head had fallen again, his chin resting on his chest. But a faint trickle of blood still leaked from his shoulder wound.
The elf knelt on the other side of Scith. He frowned.
"I am no priest," said the elf. "His wounds are beyond my skills." He looke
d to Hweilan and set a hand to the knife at his belt. "I could ease his passing."
"No!"
At her shout, Scith's eyes fluttered. He tried to raise his head but failed.
Fighting back tears, Hweilan took his face in her hands and lifted his head. She eased it back against the frost-encrusted soil between the fallen tree's roots. His eyes opened, focused on Hweilan, then looked to the elf.
"You!" he gasped.
"You know each other?" said Hweilan.
"You…" Scith said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. "Stay… away. From. Her!"
"I have done as the lady asked," said the elf. "I have honored her wishes."
"What are you talking about?" said Hweilan.
Scith's gazed returned to Hweilan. She saw his pupils flare, then his eyes rolled back in his head. His entire body trembled as he exhaled his last breath. Blood no longer flowed from his open wound.
"Scith?" said Hweilan. "Scith?" She shook him. His head flopped forward and struck his chest, causing his jaw to snap shut. Lifeless as a canvas doll. "Scith!"
"I am sorry," said the elf.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and the tears spilled, freezing on her cheeks. She scrubbed at them with the back of her glove.
"Hweilan-"
She grabbed her knife with both hands and pointed it at the elf. "Who are you, and how do you know my name?"
The elf looked down, seemingly unconcerned at the blood-smeared steel trembling only a few inches from his nose. "I have told you my name," he said. "Lendri."
A growl, so deep that Hweilan felt it rattling her gut, came from behind her. Still holding the knife, she turned her head and saw a wolf standing on the edge of the campsite. The largest wolf she had ever seen, it easily outweighed her. One paw stood off the ground, as if frozen in midstep. Every gray hair on its body stood on end, it held its ears erect and forward, and its lips-still smeared with blood-were peeled back from long teeth.
"Lower your knife," said Lendri. "You're making me uneasy. Hechin doesn't like it when I'm uneasy."
Hweilan remembered the sounds of the men screaming in the woods and how they had suddenly cut off. Seeing the wolf's bloody muzzle…
She lowered the knife.
The wolf opened its jaws wide, almost in a yawn, then padded over to nuzzle the elf, a low whine emanating from its throat.
"A friend of yours?" said Hweilan.
The elf smiled. "More of a cousin."
"I want some answers."
The smile melted off Lendri's face, and he pushed the wolf away. "We should see to your friend first."
Lendri spoke as he worked. He drew his knife-a long flat piece of silvery steel, shining like ice, etched with runes, hilt bound in thin strips of some dark leather-and cut the thick coils of horsehair rope around Scith's wrists.
"I am Vil Adanrath," he said as he sliced. Scith's right hand fell limp to the ground. "As was your mother-or half so, anyway. Her mother was Thewari, of the Red Horizon band. Her father… well, that's another tale. Thewari's grandfather"-he reached over and sliced the rope binding Scith's left hand; it fell, limp as a wet coil, onto Hweilan's knee, and she recoiled-"was Gyaidun, who was rathla to me."
"Rathla," said Hweilan. "I… I know this word. My… my mother told me. Told me stories. It means…" She searched her memory for the right words.
"Blood-bound, in your tongue," said Lendri. He opened his right hand and pretended to draw his blade across it. There, bisecting his palm, was an old scar, almost blue against his pale white skin. "Brothers of the same mother are yachinehra, 'milk-brothers.' It is said that the gods choose your yachinehra, but rathla choose each other. Brothers in blood."
"I… I don't know what that means," said Hweilan.
"It means that I swore an oath to your grandmother's grandfather. Blood to blood. His blood binds me still. To you and to your mother."
"My mother is dead." Hweilan couldn't believe how easily it came out. After the horror of this day, it already seemed distant. But saying the words, her next breath caught in her throat and threatened to come out a sob.
The elf's eyebrows shot up. The wolf, sensing his tension, let out another low growl. "Merah is… dead?"
"Yesterday," said Hweilan. She took a deep, calming breath. "Creel sacked Highwatch. Vandalar, the Knights… my mother. All dead."
"All the Creel in Narfell could not have taken Highwatch," said Lendri. "Not without-"
"Treachery. I know."
"Who?"
"I don't know. I was… away when it happened. But on my way back, I ran into servants of Argalath, sent to find me. Scith"-she had to stop and breathe deeply to keep from crying-'saved me."
"Who is this Argalath?"
"A Nar shaman," said Hweilan. "Or half-Nar maybe. I've heard stories… But he wormed his way into the confidence of Guric, Highwatch's Captain of the Guard."
Lendri nodded and sheathed his knife. "Captain of the Guard? Yes, he could plan such an attack."
"I'll kill them." Hweilan had not even thought it until the words were out of her mouth. But she didn't regret them. She looked over to the man she had stabbed. The open wound at his throat was still steaming a little. "Just like that one."
"A trained soldier and a Nar shaman-perhaps even a demonbinder? You will walk up to them and stab them? When at least one of them-probably both-are looking for you? And how will you do this?"
Hweilan suddenly felt weary to her bones, as if she could crawl off into the nearest tree shadows and sleep for a tenday. "I don't know."
Lendri looked down on Scith. The wolf nudged under his arm, sniffed at the corpse, then let out a long, low whine. Lendri took the tattered remains of Scith's shirt and coat and folded them over his cut and bruised torso. "This one-Scith you called him-he was a friend to you?"
Hweilan could hardly believe that the lifeless shell before her was the Scith she knew, the man who had been the closest thing to a father she had known since her real father's death. Scith had been dead only a few moments-she knew if she reached out and touched him with her naked skin, he wouldn't even be cold yet-but already there was something other about him. Still in every feature the man she knew, but in every way that truly mattered, something altogether separate from her. Only a shell. A lifeless image.
And so she simply said, "He was."
"Then we must do him honor." Lendri stood and inspected the old tree against which Scith lay. "This will do."
"Do for what?"
"A pyre. We will use this tree. The wood is old and will burn well."
Hweilan stood and looked at it. "It's covered with ice."
Lendri slid a steel-headed hatchet out of his belt and handed it to her. "Get the ice off first, then hack out a bed in the wood. Save the kindling."
She hefted the hatchet, testing its weight. "You'll never get that wood to burn."
"I will. Get to work."
With that, he turned away and headed back into the woods, his wolf at his heels.
"Where are you going?" she called after him.
"To look for an uskeche tet." He melted into the shadows of the wood.
Hweilan walked to the side of the tree, purposefully not looking at Scith. She knew that if she did, she might not be able to hold back the tears anymore.
She set to work.
Lendri returned before she finished. She had cleared off most of the ice-taking a great deal of old bark with it-and had begun hollowing out a bed. The more she worked, the more it began to look like a coffin.
The elf was carrying a straight piece of wood, slightly longer than his forearm. He had stripped off the bark. He sat down next to the cold fire bed and, using what to Hweilan looked like a long iron nail, began carving the stick.
"What are you doing?"
He answered without looking up. "Making the uskeche tet."
"The what?"
"It means… 'ghost stick,' "said Lendri. "But also 'fire stick.' The uskeche tet is for both fire and ghosts to our people."
&nb
sp; Our people. Hweilan's mind was still wrestling with that one. She found no fault in the elf's story. It matched with things that her mother had told her over the years. But Lendri seemed so… different, so other from what she had always imagined her mother's people to be like.
"Where are the others?" Hweilan said.
Lendri did look up at that. "Others?"
"Your people," she said. "Vil Adanrath."
He frowned and set back to work. "I am the last."
"What?"
He looked to the log and frowned. "The pyre is ready?"
Hweilan began chopping again. "I can listen while I work."
"Our people were exiles in this world for many generations," said Lendri. "But it was never home. They have returned to the Hunting Lands. Your mother had the choice. To return with her people or stay here with your father and you. She chose you. Now, all that remains of their blood in Faerun is me-and you."
Hweilan stuck the hatchet in the side of the log, then scooped out all the loose kindling and dropped it onto her already considerable pile. "Why?" she said.
"That is a long, long tale," said Lendri.
"No. I mean why are they gone but you are… not?"
"Another tale, though not quite so long. But in short, because of my oaths to your forefather." Lendri's lips compressed and he thought a moment before continuing. "Rathla… the most sacred of oaths, save marriage. Rathla live, die, and kill for one another. Understand: To harm my rathla is to harm me. To bless my rathla is to bless me. Gyaidun and I were brothers, and long were the shadows we cast. But he was a man, and I am Vil Adanrath. Long after I lit his pyre and mourned his passing, still my oaths bound me to his children. And his grandchildren. And to you, Hweilan inle Merah."
"You and I," said Hweilan, "we are this… rathla?"
"No," he said. "Your forefather was my rathla. But the Vil Adanrath walk the world far longer than the children of men. And my oath to him binds me to you."
"But I'm not… like you. I am not Vil Adanrath. My mother-"
"Loved a Damaran, yes," said Lendri. "Bound herself to him in marriage. She was not the first to find love outside the people. Her own mother did so. But my rathla's blood ran in her still. And it runs in you. My dearest sister was your foremother, Hweilan. We are k'che. We are family, you and I."
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