Stalking the unfamiliar fortress of the Razor Heart had been easy compared to re-entering Highwatch. Hweilan’s gut wrenched as she walked the halls. Every room, courtyard, and balcony held memories for her. And seeing the rampant neglect and purposeful destruction only fueled her rage.
Jagun Ghen had not been idle. All but a few of the Creel had either fled or been fed upon, and so he had tempted new allies from every back alley of Faerûn—exiles from Rashemen, cutthroats and thieves from the Dalelands, assassins from Impiltur. He knew Hweilan was coming, and his lackeys waited to ambush her in courtyards, manned blockades in hallways, or stalked behind her as the alarm was raised and word passed from party to party. They had been told to expect a lone girl and perhaps maddened ravens or even wolves. Instead, many found themselves facing battle-hardened hobgoblins.
But for those of Jagun Ghen’s forces that Hweilan did run across, she had no mercy. Cutthroats and assassins fell under her knives. Thieves had their throats ripped out by her wolf. And everywhere the ravens struck, gouging out eyes with their beaks or slicing skin with their claws. She took care of those few baazuled she found with her bow, stopping only long enough to retrieve the arrows, lest some poor fool actually touch one with naked skin and free the demon inside.
Highwatch, once her home, had become a slaughterhouse.
Only one plain arrow remained. After this, Hweilan would have to rely on knifework. She did not want to waste the sacred arrows on Jagun Ghen’s mercenaries.
She could feel her enemy’s presence growing with every step—so strong that she could no longer distinguish the presence of Jagun Ghen from his baazuled. They were one presence in her mind, assaulting her from all directions, like a hundred fires giving off one vast wave of heat. She had no idea how many were waiting for her, but she felt the greatest presence in the upper areas of the fortress, where the high towers hugged the mountain itself.
A half-dozen mercenaries sprinted past her in the hall below. Hweilan crouched on one of the thick oak rafters above the passage that led to the hall where her grandfather had once welcomed visiting friends. The nearest window was several paces away, the light already growing weak with the oncoming evening and the shadows pooled thick near her hiding place. It gave her time to assess her situation.
She had not faced a serious challenge yet. The worst had been two baazuled at once, but the sacred arrows had soon dealt with them.
Still, she felt the noose tightening. She’d found passageways blocked by fire, or doors made impassable because of a rock slide. She was being herded, and she knew it.
In the distance, she heard the growl of a wolf followed by a high-pitched scream. Hweilan pulled the kishkoman from her shirt and blew three long notes, then a short call. A moment later, three harsh cries carried all through the fortress, into the valley beyond, and over the hills at the back of Highwatch.
Hweilan fitted her last plain arrow to the string, then dropped to the floor. The passage was too obvious. She pushed open the door to her grandfather’s hall and slipped inside. A window gave a good view of the east. From there, she climbed out and onto the roof.
The slate had not been tended since the summer before the fall, and she dislodged several tiles that slid off the roof to shatter on the flagstones forty feet below. A moment after the first two hit, she heard a cry from below.
Good. They’d heard her and were coming after her.
They’d taken the bait.
Hweilan ran along the roofline and blew on the kishkoman once more.
It worked. It had been one of Ashiin’s first lessons in the wild: If you’re being hunted, choose where you make your stand. When the hunter comes to you, be ready. Do not spring the trap. Be the trap.
Hweilan chose her spot well. In the middle of the fortress, in what had originally been a little valley carved by eons of running water, lay the main gardens. These were not places where the High Warden’s family walked in the evenings, full of flowers and trees. Watered by snowmelt off the heights in the spring, these gardens, in a field over a hundred yards across, were tended by Damarans who grew berries and vegetables and used braziers and bonfires to keep the plants from freezing in particularly cold springtimes.
But it was now a wasteland—little more than a wide courtyard littered with mud and stones from the broken walls. The bushes and small trees had been uprooted to feed Creel fires. The northern and western walls rose more than thirty feet above her, but the southern wall was only a yard or so high, and the eastern no more than a lip of stone. This configuration allowed sunlight to fill the garden in spring and summer. Beyond the eastern lip, the stone ran down a rock face that Hweilan and her few friends had climbed many times as children. At the bottom was another courtyard in the midst of the servants’ quarters.
The seven men and four women following her were too far back. Hweilan slowed to a comfortable trot, letting them gain on her. Then she caught a blur of movement behind the low wall off to her right, and another in the open arch beyond. Two doors directly across from her stood wide open. Hweilan saw nothing there, but her hunter’s sense told her something was waiting.
She stopped in the middle of the field near the well. Its stone rim was only a few feet high, but it would be enough if any of her pursuers had bows. She blew the kishkoman once more to let Uncle know exactly where she was, then tucked it back into her shirt. There was no reply from the wolf this time.
Her pursuers dashed into the garden. Seeing Hweilan, they fanned out and blocked the doorway behind them. Two of the men and one of the women had bows.
Keeping her eyes on them, Hweilan took a step back, hoping it would spur their next move.
Four more men emerged from the archway. Two carried a net between them and the other two had clubs. Another archer rose from behind the wall in front of them. His eyes were watery and jittered back and forth like a bird’s.
Then Hweilan heard the clank of armor, and a moment later more figures emerged from the passage to the storerooms. Three were massive brutes in dirty mail. Their helmets hid their faces, but by the tint of the skin on their bare arms, Hweilan guessed they were half-orcs. The men behind them also carried a net.
“Your running is done, girl,” said the woman with the bow. She spoke in perfect Damaran.
But it was the archer beside her that held Hweilan’s attention. Of all the faces around her, his was the only one not set in an eager smile, hesitant fear, or the insolent sneer of a tavern brawler. His face had no more emotion than a statue, but his eyes didn’t miss a movement from Hweilan or anyone else. Most of those approaching her were brawlers, thugs, or those hungry enough for power to sell their souls. This man was a killer. Hweilan knew he took no pleasure in it, nor felt any remorse. It was a means to an end, no different than scratching an itch. Hweilan was glad she had kept one arrow.
“Why the nets?” Hweilan called out. The nearest of them was only fifteen paces away.
“You’re wanted alive,” said the woman. “Something special in mind for you. A great honor, I’m told. It’s best if you come nicely.”
Holding her bow and the shaft of the arrow in her right hand, Hweilan pointed at the woman. Loud and clear, she said in Goblin, “That one first.”
One of the half-orcs cried out a warning, and then an arrow slammed into the woman’s temple.
In that instant, when everyone turned to see where the arrow had come from, Hweilan raised her bow, drew the arrow as she aimed, and loosed. By the time the sharp stone killer had turned his attention back to her, the arrow was only inches from his face. Then the arrow tore through his eye.
The garden filled with screams even before the two archers’ bodies hit the ground. Flet’s soldiers were the first over the eastern wall. His boasting proved true. Not one of them missed. By the time the Razor Heart archers were reaching for more arrows, Vurgrim, the zugruuk, and Rhan had scaled the wall.
The fight was over in moments. The last few defenders tried to flee, but the Razor Heart cut them down.
As the warriors were looting the bodies, Vurgrim looked to Hweilan and said, “What now?”
She looked up at the fortress looming over them. “Up there.”
“Your demon lord? He’s up that way?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s close. I can feel him.”
“Then you lead the way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
HWEILAN LED THE WARRIORS UP INTO THE HIGHEST reaches of the fortress, where passages had been carved out of the mountain itself and watchtowers rose beside sheer cliff walls. They met no resistance. The sounds of fighting drifted up to them from the lower regions, and more fires had sprung up in Kistrad, staining the red evening sky with black smoke.
Passing through a large courtyard, Flet asked Hweilan, “Where’s your wolf?”
“Don’t worry about him,” she replied. She had an arrow fitted on her bowstring, and five more of the unused sacred arrows in her quiver. She could still feel many more baazuled nearby. But they didn’t really matter. It was their master she wanted.
“And the ravens?”
They, too, had left. Now and then Hweilan still heard them crying far below, but the skies above were empty.
“Forget about ravens and wolves,” Rhan told Flet. The Razor Heart champion held the greatsword in one hand. It was still wet with blood from their last fight, but small tongues of purple light were running down the blade. “The enemy is close.”
Hweilan pressed on. She passed an iron-bound door and took a staircase next to the wall. The presence of her enemy was so strong now that climbing them was like trying to swim upriver against an unrelenting current.
At last the stairs ended at another large courtyard that circled a tower. A second series of steps led up to the tower door. Daylight was fading fast, and the doorway seemed to hold only shadows. But then, as Hweilan put her boot on the final step, the shadows moved. She raised her bow.
A figure, swathed in thick robes and a deep hood, lurched onto the porch.
“You … have … come.”
Each word came out a rasp. Hweilan was shocked at the frail voice, for the power washing off of the figure burned her mind. It was Argalath—or what was left of him. As he steadied himself, he spread both his arms, almost as if offering an embrace, and the tattered robes fell open, revealing peeling skin and bits of flesh going to rot.
She stepped into the courtyard and walked into the center, giving the hobgoblins room to come up but still leaving plenty of ground between her and her enemy.
“I am … most pleased,” he said. “Waited … so long.”
Two more baazuled emerged from behind him to stand on either side. One had the glowing symbol on his forehead, but the other was undead, his eyes black and lifeless.
She drew back the bow. Something was wrong. This was too easy.
The hobgoblins quickly spread out. Vurgrim and his zugruuk took position behind Hweilan, and Flet and the archers fanned out behind them all.
More baazuled appeared. Some still wore the armor they’d had in life, all had weapons in hand.
“You don’t … have arrows … enough,” said Argalath, “for us all. Come … with me now. And your … friends … shall live.”
“Flet?” Hweilan called out, though she kept her eyes fixed on the baazuled.
“Eh?”
“Maaqua give you any more special arrows?”
“A few.”
The baazuled on Argalath’s left chuckled. “You think your pretty lights will hurt us?”
Hweilan had no idea if the baazuled could understand the Goblin tongue, but she thought if they didn’t, it might buy a moment. She called out, “Take out the five on the right!”
She pulled the arrow to her cheek, aimed for Argalath, and loosed. He tried to move out of the way, but in his weakened state it turned into a fall and he pulled one of the baazuled with him. The arrow struck the other baazuled in the chest, and he fell on top of his master.
The courtyard erupted in screams and the clash of weapons. Flet and his archers loosed arrow after arrow at their onrushing enemies. The first few sparked as they flew, causing the baazuled to erupt in flame. But that didn’t stop them. As the zugruuk warriors rushed forward with swords and axes, the burning baazuled grabbed their attackers and the magic-fueled flames spread among the hobgoblins.
All this happened in a rush, and Hweilan saw it unfold out of the corner of her eye. For no sooner had Argalath fallen, than Hweilan fitted another arrow and charged.
The surviving baazuled saw her coming and set out to meet her. Two iron braziers stood at the foot of the stairs, one on each end. No fires burned there, and both held nothing more than cold ash, but the baazuled grabbed one to use as a shield.
Hweilan stopped to steady her aim, fixing the arrow’s point in the monster’s gut. He saw her intention and lowered the brazier over his belly as he ran. She raised her arm, and he raised his makeshift shield. Less than ten paces away now. Hweilan knew if she missed, she wouldn’t have time to fit another arrow before he was on her.
A lifeless hobgoblin, his chest torn open, flew through the air and hit the ground in front of the baazuled, who leaped over the body with scarcely a glance.
And then a raven hit the baazuled in the face, raking its claws across his eyes. The thing screamed, not so much in pain as in frustration, and struck at the bird. Black feathers flew and the bird went down, but three more took its place. Dozens of them had joined the battle, not calling out but striking silently, their black eyes reflecting the flames of the burning combatants.
A raven latched onto the baazuled’s shoulder, claws digging deep as it jabbed at the man’s face with its beak. The baazuled wrenched it away, taking a good deal of his own flesh and skin with it. His gaze lit on another huge bird descending on him, and he used the brazier to bat it away.
This distraction gave Hweilan the opening she needed. She loosed the bowstring. The baazuled was still looking up at his raven attackers when the arrow hit him under the chin. It pierced all the way into his skull and threw him back with such force that he flew over the dead hobgoblin and slid across the courtyard to strike the bottom-most step.
Hweilan’s hand went to her quiver. She had four of the sacred arrows left. The presence of so many of the enemy was overwhelming, and she had no sense of which was the closest. Meanwhile, Argalath was struggling out from under the baazuled that had fallen on him.
She notched an arrow to the bowstring and ran for the stairs.
“Watch out!”
Something struck Hweilan from behind, throwing her off balance. But Ashiin’s training served her well. She fell into a roll, came to her feet, and whirled with the bow pulled taut and the arrow set in the direction of whoever had struck her.
It was Vurgrim, and he stood between her and a baazuled. The thing held the remnants of a broadsword in one hand, but the last third of the blade had broken off into a jagged point. The entire length of the weapon and most of the baazuled’s arm dripped blood.
Hweilan shouted, “Vurgrim, down!”
She couldn’t loose the arrow for fear of hitting the hobgoblin. But he ignored her, raising his own spiked shield between himself and the baazuled and pulled back his sword arm to strike.
The baazuled swiped at him crosswise with the broken sword. Vurgrim ducked it easily and struck with his own blade. This baazuled had no armor and the sharp steel sliced open his belly. But even as his entrails spilled out, the baazuled lunged and grabbed the hobgoblin, pulling him close.
Vurgrim screamed but could not get away. Too close for his sword to be effective, he plunged the spike of his shield into his foe. Again and again he stabbed, his boots kicking at the monster’s shins.
The baazuled opened its mouth wide and found the closest bit of flesh not covered by armor—Vurgrim’s throat.
Seeing the opening, Hweilan adjusted her aim and loosed her arrow. The baazuled snapped his head back, ripping open Vurgrim’s throat. Hweilan’s arrows flew through the gu
sh of blood and struck the baazuled just under the ear. He went down, pulling the dying Vurgrim on top of him.
Hweilan was reaching for another arrow even as she turned. “Sorry, Vurgrim,” she said to herself.
To one side of the stairs, Rhan was holding another one of the baazuled at bay. Purple lightning played along the length of the Greatsword of Impiltur. The monster had several broken arrow shafts protruding from its body and two still intact sticking out from its back. Its left arm was gone at the elbow, but still it tried to get at the huge hobgoblin, avoiding one strike of Rhan’s massive black sword, then lunging forward. It was obviously what Rhan had intended, for he kept the momentum of the blow and whirled, bringing the sword around again. His foe was well within range this time, and the blade sliced through the baazuled just above the waist. Rhan had cut him in half with one blow.
Hweilan passed them as she ran up the stairs. She hoped Rhan had the sense not to turn his back on the thing. She had no doubt that the monster would use its one good arm to crawl after the nearest meal.
Argalath had found his feet again. His robe had tangled in the arrow protruding out of the baazuled that was not simply a corpse again. Hweilan stopped, kneeled, and pulled an arrow to her cheek.
Rather than risk touching the arrow, Argalath shrugged out of his robes and let them fall. He stood in the dying daylight, and Hweilan saw the wreck of his body. He was naked above the waist. The blue of his spellscar looked a sickly gray, and a large portion of skin had slaked off his back, leaving raw flesh. The reek of pestilence struck Hweilan even through the stench of blood and burning flesh.
He must have sensed her presence, for he turned to look down at her. His eyes blazed bright.
Hweilan loosed the arrow. It hit him in the middle of his chest, and even over the sounds of battle and cries of the ravens, Hweilan heard bones shatter. The force of the arrow’s flight threw him backward out of sight. Hweilan grabbed another arrow, laid it across the bow, and climbed the stairs.
Cry of the Ghost Wolf Page 26
