“Nendawen,” she said, speaking aloud before she realized.
“Yes,” said Ashiin. “The Master has come. Time to go to work.”
In the distance, a wolf howled.
The old women had the fires stoked, stirred, and burning high. What food and drink they could offer, they laid out in readiness. They could have run, forsaking their tents, grabbing what they could carry, and riding away. But they had done that before, and they remembered what it had cost them. Besides, the nearest well was over ten miles away, and if they rode there only to find it occupied by a superior force, their horses would likely die before they could reach the next well.
The riders did not ride in at full gallop. No need. These were thugs coming to take what they felt was their due. Only the leader wore full armor—steel plate that looked black in the night. Covered in the dust of a long ride, it reflected little of the firelight.
He and his two guards rode into the middle of the camp, where the elders and men stood in a row. Ten riders fanned out behind the leader while two more wound their way through the camp, sneering down at any who dared to look up at them and trampling piles of belongings. One of them lowered the point of his halberd so that its blade sliced through a tent’s support rope, causing half of it to collapse.
The leader took off his helmet, handed it to the man on his left, and made quite a show of wiping the dust and sweat from his eyes.
“How many?” he said.
The old man a pace from his horse’s nose looked up and said, “My lord?”
“How many did you hide up in the rocks?”
“We hid nothing, my lord.”
The leader smiled indulgently. “It’s better that you tell me. And tell me true. I am guessing a few young girls we’ll want, hiding with the children. Those we’ll probably leave. For now. If you tell me the truth.”
The old man looked to the old woman beside him. She looked away.
“My men are tired from a long day’s ride. If they can sit by the fire and rest their bones, they will be most grateful. Most pleasant. If they have to spend half the night up in those damned rocks, rooting out your whelps … well, they might be less than pleasant. So I’ll ask you once more: how many and where are they?”
The old man looked to the old woman again, then back up at the leader, his jaw flapping. He almost told, but then he clamped his mouth shut.
The leader held out an open hand to the man on his right. The rider slapped a spear into the hand, and the leader brought the shaft down on the old man’s shoulder. Hard. Bone cracked, and the old man went down.
The men in the row of villagers cried out in anger and reached for their weapons.
“Now! Now!” The leader put the point of the spear on the old woman’s throat, and his guard to his left did the same to another woman. “You men don’t want this to go any further, do you?”
Several of the other riders dismounted and relieved the villagers of their blades.
“What were you planning on doing with this?” said one of the riders as he wrenched a short sword from the grip of a middle-aged man. The rider clenched his fist around the pommel and punched the man in the gut hard enough to knock him to the ground.
The leader counted off five of his men. “Get up in those rocks and find any lost kittens.”
The men nodded and kicked their mounts into motion.
“Stop!” the leader called. They did. “Idiots,” he said. “You’ll break your horses’ legs up in those rocks. You’ve been in the saddle all day. I’m sure your legs could use a stretch.”
The men grumbled but did as they were told, handing the reins of their horses to other riders.
The leader dismounted, clapped, and said, “Now! What’s for dinner?”
After seeing to their horses, the newcomers settled around the fires and proceeded to eat most of what little food the villagers had. The village had nothing but water to drink, but the raiders had brought their own, stronger stuff, and before they were halfway through their meals, bottles and skins were being passed around, and the men’s voices were growing louder by the moment.
“Must’ve hid the kittens particularly well this time,” said the man on the leader’s left. He laughed and passed the bottle. “They’re getting craftier.”
The leader smiled, took the bottle, and was about to say something when a shape the color of new flame bounded into the camp. Sleek and graceful, it leaped soundlessly into their midst, stopped not ten feet away, and stared right at the leader. All red fur, golden eyes that shot the fire back at him, and two triangular ears. A fox. And not the small foxes of this land, which seemed all ears covered by scraggly brown or black fur. This one was almost large as a brush wolf and red as blood, save for its paws, nose, and the last handspan of its tail, all of which were black as cold malice.
The villagers stared at the alien creature, and the newcomers all turned to see what had captured their leader’s attention.
“Have you ever seen its like?” said the leader. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s mine!” said his second, and leaped to his feet, spear already in hand. He bounded over the fire, weapon raised.
The fox seemed to smile at him, then yipped and trotted off, almost prancing.
Three men ran after it, spears raised.
Laughing, the leader watched them. Two were half drunk and one far more than half. But the beast seemed in no hurry to lose them.
One spear flew, its aim true despite the man’s drunkenness. But the fox leaped aside at the last moment and the spear struck dirt.
“Quick! We’ll lose it in the da—”
A shadow rose from behind a bush, and there was a flash as steel caught the firelight and streaked toward the man’s throat. Before he hit the ground the shadow bounded two steps to the next man, plunged the knife into and out of his throat, then kicked him away. Both men were down, their feet hammering the ground, the second man trying to scream but only producing a choking, gurgling sound.
The third men yelled as he struck with his spear, but the shadow slid out of the way and snatched it from his hands. A blur as the spear whipped around, knocking the man’s feet out from under him. The point came down, a loud crack as it shattered a rib going through him, pinning him to the ground.
“To arms!” the leader shouted. His men found their feet—more than a few swaying—and drew blade or grasped spear. Villagers scattered in every direction.
The shadow walked into camp, almost casually, and by the graceful walk and the curve of hip, the leader knew—
“A woman!”
Nearly naked but seemingly covered in the dust from which she’d sprung. Her long, dark hair pulled back. The only color the firelight rippling in her eyes and the blood dripping from the dagger she held in one hand. She seemed altogether undisturbed by the four spearmen surrounding her.
She walked until the nearest man’s spear touched the flesh just above her navel. She looked at the leader, cocked her head, and blinked once.
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Who are you?”
“My name is Hweilan.”
No fear in her voice. No deference. Not even challenge. Flat. Emotionless.
The leader shook his head, utterly perplexed. “My name is—”
“Your name doesn’t matter,” she said in the same disinterested tone.
“You’ll show some respect!” said the man to her left, and raised the butt of his spear to strike.
The woman twisted sideways around the spear at her gut, grabbed it with her free hand, and kicked its wielder so hard that he went backward with enough force to flip his feet over his head. The woman kept turning and brought the spear around to block the next man’s strike. She swiped his spear aside, then backswiped with the point of her own. The leader actually saw the iron point rip the man’s jaw from his face.
Another man screamed and threw his spear, but she simply knocked it out of the air.
“Stop this!” the leader screamed. “You men, fal
l back!”
His men retreated, their spears and blades held on guard. The leader stepped forward, his own sword held before him.
The first two men she’d struck had stopped their kicking. The one she’d impaled still had both hands gripped around the spear, but the leader was quite sure the man was dead. The one she’d kicked and robbed of his spear was on his feet again, but still doubled over and obviously having trouble breathing. The last man was on his knees, making a terrible mewling sound as he used his blood-soaked hands to try to reattach his jaw.
“The way you took out my spearmen,” said the leader, “impressive, I must admit. But they’re both half-wits and quite drunk. You stand no chance against the rest of us.”
The woman tossed the spear on the ground.
The leader smiled and opened his mouth, intending to say, Very wise. Now get down on the ground.
But the woman flipped the knife in one hand, caught with the other, then motioned for him to come for her.
“I have five more hardened warriors up that slope,” said the leader, motioning with his sword. “Elgren! Morn! You men, get down here!”
“Those five are dead,” said the woman. “Nine down. Five to go.”
The leader put on his bravest face, but he still had to swallow before he could find his voice. “You cannot count. There are six of us.”
The woman smiled, teasingly. “Oh, you I’m not going to kill.”
“Enough of this,” said the leader. “Kendremis, deal with her.”
He stepped back, and the man to his left stepped forward. He wore no armor, and only a light cloak over fine linen clothes. He extended both hands, his fingers already weaving intricate patterns.
Kendremis smiled as he began his incantation. “Uth duremmen ta—”
The point of a spear burst out from his chest, his back arched, and a gout of blood ran down his chin.
Eyes wide, the leader whirled to see one of the villagers holding the spear. He heard the snap of bowstrings, and the flifft sound of arrows cutting the air. Like that, and it was over in seconds. He stood alone. The only one of his men still making a sound was the poor fellow trying to hold his face together. But one of the old women stepped forward with a club and put an end to that.
The villagers turned their eyes on the leader.
“No!” said Hweilan.
The leader looked to her. “What—?”
“Run,” she said.
His sword dipped. The point was trembling, and the blade suddenly felt very heavy. “You’re letting me live?”
“That depends on you.”
He opened his mouth, but a great howling cut him off. Wolves. Dozens of them at least, howling from every direction. The leader swallowed and looked around. Eyes from the darkness sparkled in the light cast by the fires.
“What is this?” And even he heard the rising panic in his voice. He whirled, looking for a way of escape. And that’s when he saw it. The moon had risen high enough out of the dust to lose its bloody pallor, and it shone down like new ivory. Standing on the nearest height, framed by the moon, was a man. Or something like a man. Taller than any man he had ever seen. Crooked antlers sprouted from his brow, and even from the distance of a hundred yards or more, he could see eyes shining with green fire.
Hweilan said, “You should start running now.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HWEILAN SAT ATOP GLEED’S TOWER, HER LEGS OVER the edge, her heels drumming an irregular rhythm against the ivy-covered stone. Heavy clouds, thick with rain, hung low in the sky. With evening coming on, the light growing grayer by the moment, the woods across the lake were impenetrable gloom. When she and Ashiin had returned to the Feywild, the cool had been most welcome, and they had both bathed in the falls, washing away the blood and dirt. The shock had felt good. Welcome. After the warmth of where they’d been, she’d even welcomed the shivering. But, hours later, she was still shivering.
After coming back, after what they’d done, she’d had to seek a high place. She’d grown up in a fortress on the edge of the mountains. Her bedroom window overlooked a garden, but beyond the garden wall she’d been able to see to the horizon, and she had spent many nights watching the moon rise over the snowfields. She’d grown used to the confines of the Feywild woods, but she couldn’t bring herself to love them. To clear her head, she needed to see distance. Gleed’s tower was a poor substitute, but it was the best she had.
Today had not been Hweilan’s first blood. She’d killed before. Hunting, she’d killed more animals than she could remember. And she’d killed two people—but both times, those people had been intent on killing her. It had been kill or be killed. Today had been different. She’d gone looking for a fight. True, those she and Ashiin had killed would be no great loss to the world. After what she’d seen them doing, she knew every last one of them had it coming.
Still …
Hweilan couldn’t quite decide what she was feeling. Not guilt. Not over those men. Regret? Perhaps. Part of her missed the Hweilan that had been. The girl who always had someone to watch out for her, to take care of her.
But that only brought the anger back. She used to have people who cared for her and took care of her. But they had been taken from her. Killed. And those who had done it were still breathing. And that planted a cold shard of ice in her gut.
And so, round and round, back and forth, these thoughts went through Hweilan’s mind. No conclusion. Just a wrestling of conflicting emotions.
All the doors to the stairways and upper levels of Gleed’s tower had been locked or blocked with rubble, so Hweilan had simply used the vines to climb up the outside. Behind her, she could hear someone doing the same. The rustling vines stopped, and she heard bare feet rustling through the leaves and vines that covered the tower’s top. Gleed, then. She didn’t turn when she heard her teacher walk up behind her and stop.
“You’re thinking about what happened,” said Gleed.
Hweilan shrugged.
“This wasn’t the first time you’ve killed.”
“No.”
A long silence, then Gleed asked, “Then why are you up here? Something is troubling you.”
“I miss the high places,” said Hweilan. “I miss—”
Gleed waited. But when Hweilan didn’t finish he said, “You miss what?”
“The way I used to be.”
“You’re better than you used to be,” said Gleed, an edge entering his voice. “You think you could have dealt with those dogs without Ashiin’s training?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
Hweilan whirled to her feet. “Because I—”
Gleed stood his ground. He looked up at her, scowling. “Yes, well? Spit it out.”
“I enjoyed it.”
“Good.” Gleed turned away, chuckling. “You’re learning. That old fox is good for something after all.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, it is you who do not understand. You come from a line of warriors, girl. You think they did not enjoy the heat of battle? Of killing their enemies?”
“My father never enjoyed killing.”
“Then your father was a fool.”
Hweilan snarled and drew the knife from her belt as she lunged.
Green light washed over her and she found herself caught fast. The vines and branches had come alive, cracking the air like tiny whips as they writhed and twisted around her legs, then encased her torso, and finally her arms. Hweilan shrieked and thrashed and fought, but the vines only pulled tighter, constricting, pulling her arms close. In moments, she could barely move. She found herself staring at the old goblin, green light sparkling off his upraised staff, his free hand weaving an intricate pattern in the air.
“You really think you can take me?” said Gleed. “Even Ashiin knows better than to challenge me on my own ground.”
He was only inches away. Hweilan gathered her strength and tried once more to break free, but the vines were strong as steel wire, a
nd she could feel the power running through them.
“You ever disrespect my family again,” said Hweilan, “and I’ll kill you.”
“You really think you could?”
“Even you sleep.”
He held her gaze. Neither looked away. The green fire of his magic sparkled in his one good eye. The other dead eye was flat and gray as a stone.
He smiled. “But would you enjoy it?”
Hweilan spat in his face. “Curse your mother.”
Gleed through back his head and cackled, then wiped the spittle from his face. “Oh, I did. Believe me. And long before the shriveled old monster deserved it. Still, I guess this exchange of sentiments makes us even. Does it not?”
Hweilan tried again to move. Still nothing. She might have been encased in stone. “I meant what I said.”
“I don’t doubt you. But you’ve got a lot to learn before you can take me.”
His gaze shifted and locked on the blade held in her hand. The light from his staff seemed to catch there and glow like an emerald brand.
“She did give it to you then,” he said.
It was the blade Menduarthis had given Hweilan. More than a foot of sharp steel, etched with waves and whorls. Ashiin had been true to her word and returned the knife to her.
“Ashiin was the second one to give it to me,” said Hweilan.
“Then I shall be the second to take it away,” said Gleed, and he reached for it.
Hweilan tightened her grip.
“Let go,” Gleed said.
“No.”
Gleed twitched his fingers, and the vines around her right arm and wrist tightened even further. Hweilan felt her skin press into the muscle beneath, and the whole pressing almost flat against the bone. She gritted her teeth and forced her fingers to hold the fist around the hilt of the knife.
I will not scream, she told herself. I will not—
Skin tore, and the vines bit into the flesh beneath. She held the grip a moment longer, but when the vine began to worm its way through flesh and into bone, her body betrayed her. Her fingers went limp.
Gleed snatched the blade. “Thank you,” he said and turned away, holding the blade close to the light emanating from his staff.
Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II Page 13
