Cry of the Ghost Wolf con-3

by Mark Sehesdedt

Hratt explained how Hweilan had inspected the bow, long and hard, looking for the slightest sign of abuse while Hratt watched. He had explained to her that she could choose one weapon-any weapon-for the fight with Rhan, but a bow would do her little good. She was allowed one weapon. A bow and an arrow … well, honor dictated that was two weapons. Hweilan had said she didn’t want the bow anyway, that it was meant to “hunt vermin,” as she put it. She had chosen one of her knives instead-one with red steel.

  Hratt had tried to talk her out of it, saying that Rhan would surely fight with the Greatsword of Impiltur.

  “The weapon doesn’t matter,” Hweilan had said. “It is the hand that wields it.”

  And that was when Hratt decided to triple his wager on Hweilan.

  “She’s fighting with a knife?” said Maaqua, her eyes wide.

  “She is,” said Hratt.

  Maaqua threw back her head and laughed, long and hard. She clapped Hratt on the back, “Ah, you did well, Hratt. Your wager’s a fool’s bet, if what I hear is true, but you did well. A knife!” She shook her head. “Ah, well.”

  Hratt nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing but not wanting to offend Maaqua. She was in a fine mood this morning, but still … Hratt did not share her confidence. He was no fool. Rhan was a cold killer, no doubt-icy as a winter night’s frost. The Champion had a reputation for enjoying the heat of battle, of reveling in the sensation of his foe’s blood splattering over him as his sword bit deep. But this human girl …

  Hratt had known humans since his first raid. He’d fought them, hunted them, killed them, heard their last breath as they died on the end of his blade. He had never before met anyone like Hweilan. He saw fierceness in her gaze, but something desperate as well, something truly hungry that would not shy away from the threat of death. Hratt had heard of animals that would chew off their own leg to escape a trap. And there were animals that would stay in the trap, angry and alive, waiting for the trapper to arrive so they could sink their teeth into him. Death did not matter nearly so much as the chance to look into the killer’s eyes one final time, and spit blood and defiance at death itself. Hweilan had the look of a tooth sinker.

  After choosing her blade, Hweilan had asked to be taken somewhere where she could see the sky. The “cold light of heaven,” Hratt’s father had called it, when the sun slept and only those who dared defy death chose to shine. “The stars spit in the face of the unending dark,” his father had said. Hratt led her to a place on the mountainside where the black blanket of night covered them, broken only by the silver stars, the moon hidden behind the rocky teeth of the mountains. He had watched, sleepless and fascinated, as she sat on the stone-no coat, no cloak-and prayed to … whomever. To Hratt it did not matter. She could have prayed to the flowers of the field for all he cared. Most believed she would die under dawn’s first light, yet she sat under the stars and communed with her god, heedless of the cold that set a frost upon her skin.

  Hratt had offered a few prayers of his own for her, but he would not tell Maaqua that. If he was wrong … well, then he was only out a bit of gold. A rather large bit, to be sure, but the world was full of gold. There were more important things in life. Seeing this human girl defeat the champion of the Razor Heart might just be one of them.

  Hweilan stood at the bottom of the valley on a wide, empty space of ground surrounded by hundreds of hobgoblins. And the only thing she could think was-

  Mother, father, if you could only see me now …

  It made her smile, despite the dozens of fanged faces jeering at her.

  Darric, Valsun, and Jaden stood near the edge of the throng. The old knight looked none too pleased at his surroundings, and Jaden looked downright terrified. He knew what was at stake. Darric was the only one who surprised Hweilan, for she had no idea what he was thinking. He stood between his two companions, crowded between a tight row of hobgoblins in front of him and hundreds more behind. He didn’t scowl in displeasure. He didn’t seem to be contemplating his own death in the event of her defeat. He didn’t seem angry. He was completely stone-faced, oblivious to the taunts of the crowd and the malicious looks cast in his direction.

  Last night, they had scarcely spoken until Kaad arrived. The healer took one look at Mandan and shook his head, saying there was nothing he could do.

  “You have the gunhin?” said Hweilan.

  Kaad swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Give it to him.”

  “I cannot. It is only for-”

  “His life belongs to Ruuket and her children,” said Hweilan. “It is the way of the Razor Heart. Maaqua demands it. If he dies here …”

  Hweilan let the rest go unspoken. Very reluctantly, Kaad gave Mandan the gunhin. Not a full swallow. Not enough to make him hale and whole. But the bleeding had stopped, the peeled skin fell away, and the flesh scabbed over before their eyes. He looked a horrible mess, but he opened his eyes and spoke for a time with his brother. Hweilan walked away, not wanting to intrude.

  Later, Darric came to her outside the cell. He stepped up beside her, not looking at her but following her gaze into the darkness.

  “You said you didn’t care.”

  “I never said that,” said Hweilan. “I said I could not save his life. Nothing has changed.”

  “He’ll live the night.”

  “I’ve done him no kindness. Ruuket-”

  “Then why did you do it?” Darric had looked down at her then. He’d even reached out to touch her. But she stepped away and he flinched as if stung.

  She’d almost told him. Probably it had been the last of the gunhin running through her blood, addling her brain and making her unable to push out of her mind how well Darric’s shoulders filled his tunic. But she hadn’t. For two simple reasons. One, her plan had a cobweb’s chance in the wind of working. But more important, she knew Darric’s pride as a knight and his stupid devotion to her. He would have tried to help and ruined everything.

  So she’d looked up at him and said, “I didn’t. I came to say my farewells. It was Hratt who saved your brother.”

  Darric’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared-hurt or anger, Hweilan could not tell. Her only experience with men had been her family. All much older than she.

  “Why do you push me away?” he said.

  “Because I see what you want, and I cannot give it.”

  And that was how she’d left him. She’d hurt him. Of that she had no doubt. But it had been nothing but truth, and a cold truth was better than a warm lie. Her life was sworn to put an end to Jagun Ghen. Nothing beyond that. After …

  She couldn’t bring herself to think of after. Not yet.

  Hweilan sensed a ripple passing through the crowd, and she turned her attention to the path that led up the mountain. The crowd was parting to make way for three figures. The foremost was easily recognizable, much shorter than any around her. Maaqua, queen of the Razor Heart. She stopped to speak with a hobgoblin that Hweilan recognized as Hratt, then proceeded on, her two companions following. One was Buureg, the Razor Heart Warchief, and the other, towering above everyone in the crowd except for the bugbears, was Hweilan’s foe of the morning.

  Unlike everyone else in the crowd, Rhan wore no armor and precious little else against the morning chill. He was bare above the waist, save for the belt of his scabbard, draping him from shoulder to hip. The hilt of his sword protruded from over his right shoulder, and despite the cheers of the crowd, his eyes were fixed on Hweilan.

  She turned her back to him.

  The crowd did not miss the insult, and they cheered and howled in anticipation of their champion’s wrath upon this human interloper.

  Valsun shook his head, obviously disgusted at the foolishness of youth. Jaden closed his eyes and began muttering what Hweilan felt sure were heartfelt prayers. Darric scarcely moved. He blinked once, and that was all.

  Hweilan turned. Maaqua stood holding her staff at the edge of the crowd, but Rhan and Buureg had come forward into the center of the open space. The
warchief had donned his armor, and the gleam of the metal and the reek of oil wafting off him told Hweilan that some poor slave had spent the night polishing it.

  A hush fell over the crowd, beginning behind her, then spreading until a tense silence had settled over the valley. It was time.

  Buureg carried his helmet under one arm so that all might see his face. He raised his voice, “Razor Heart! Rhan, son of Goruun and Mileq demands the right of Blood Slake! Hweilan, Hand of the Hunter, stands ready! All bear witness!”

  The crowd roared their approval. Warriors slapped spears to shields or clapped their swords on the top of their helmets.

  “Blood for blood, let it be done!”

  With that, Buureg turned on his heel and rejoined Maaqua.

  The crowd continued their jeers and cheers, but a calm quiet descended over Hweilan. The noise in the valley continued, and she let it wash over her. They didn’t matter anymore.

  Rhan shrugged his way out of the harness holding his scabbard, then grasped the hilt of the Greatsword of Impiltur. He held it in front of him with both hands, on display, giving the crowd what they wanted, then let his left hand fall to his side. His right hand, still holding the sword, whipped outward, freeing the blade and flinging the scabbard into the crowd. They roared their approval.

  In that moment, when she hoped most eyes were on Rhan, Hweilan brought both her hands to her face, feigning a final prayer. But in her right hand was the bit of rabbit bone. She sucked out its contents-the drakthna and crushed root of white iruil, a few other things from her pouch, and a bit of water. She hadn’t been able to clean the bone thoroughly, and she hoped the remaining marrow and rabbit blood would have no ill effect upon her little concoction. She’d only done this once before, with Gleed. But he had taught her well. Still, while her hands were still in front of her face, she did offer a final prayer to Dedunan, Nendawen, and all her ancestors that this would work. Too much depended on it.

  Rhan took one step forward, and absolute silence fell over the crowd. So quiet that Hweilan could hear the breeze cutting through the canyon and the heavy breathing of the crowd. The Razor Heart champion let his massive black sword fall, its point gouging the rocky floor of the canyon. He walked forward, every limb relaxed-but Hweilan saw that it was the looseness of an adder. His eyes were fixed on her. He was ready to strike at her slightest move. His bare feet made a scratching sound against the grit.

  Hweilan didn’t move. She hadn’t even drawn her knife. Behind her, she heard Jaden whisper, “What in the unholy Hells is she doing?”

  “Be silent,” said Valsun.

  Rhan was only five paces away, and he still hadn’t raised the sword. Three more steps and he stopped, looking down on Hweilan. He raised his empty left hand, very slowly for the crowd, placed his palm on Hweilan’s forehead, and pushed.

  Hweilan fell back three steps.

  The crowd roared their approval at their champion’s insult.

  Rhan stepped forward, raised his left hand, and did the same thing again.

  Hweilan went back another three steps.

  The crowd continued their jubilation, screaming and hooting. Their cries echoed off the mountainside. Hweilan was less than five feet from the nearest spectators now, her back to a wall of hobgoblins.

  An insolent grin broke Rhan’s stony countenance, and he stepped forward again, his left hand coming up.

  Hweilan smiled, and just before his skin touched hers, she twisted out of the way. Rhan tensed and had the tip of his sword a good foot or more off the ground when Hweilan’s right foot hit him in the gut.

  The blow would’ve folded a human in half and sent him to the ground, but the hobgoblin champion only bent and staggered backward, a very surprised look on his face as all the breath he’d been holding came out in a surprised grunt. The force of kicking off an enemy that probably weighed fifteen stone sent Hweilan flying back into the crowd. The onlookers pushed her roughly back into the fight-Hweilan took the opportunity to drop the emptied rabbit bone into the dirt-and when she regained her balance in a guarded crouch, she held steel in her hand. The blade was still as red as the day Nendawen’s blood had slaked it.

  With this in your hand, part of me will be with you. Always. Nendawen’s words to her. If he was with her now, though, she could not feel it.

  Rhan raised the sword in both hands and tipped it toward her in salute. His smile was no longer insolent but impressed. “Well struck,” he said.

  Hweilan flipped the knife, caught it in her left hand, then tossed it back to her right, blatantly showing off. “Do you know how to win a fight?” she asked.

  Rhan’s only answer was a raise of his eyebrows.

  “ ‘You must land a blow,’ ” said Hweilan, quoting Ashiin, “ ‘and to be able to withstand a blow.’ You’ve only got half the skills, friend.”

  Rhan’s smile widened over his sharp teeth. “This night I will drink your blood by my fire and honor your memory.”

  She beckoned him with her free hand. “Try it.”

  He came at her, bringing the black sword down in a diagonal blow. It was quick but had little strength behind it, so Hweilan knew it for a feint. She sidestepped but did not lean in to counterstrike, instead flowing away so that when Rhan’s right foot swept up, the kick missed her midriff by well over a foot. She slapped his bare foot with her free hand as it passed and blew him a kiss.

  The crowd cheered, those few who had bet in Hweilan’s favor punching the arms and backs of their fellows.

  Rhan waded after her, swiping the black greatsword in wide swaths before him, Hweilan back-stepping all the while. She suspected that when he’d driven her all the way back to the crowd, he’d either jab or bring the sword round in a vertical swipe. Both would be easy to avoid, despite the crowd, but Hweilan knew she had to end this quickly. Her heart was beating far faster than her exertions warranted. It wouldn’t be long now before the drakthna began to take effect. No more time to dance.

  Every other blow came slightly lower than its predecessor. Rhan was right-handed, and his strikes showed it.

  On her back-step, as the point of the black iron swept past, rather than continuing her step, Hweilan planted her back foot and bent the knee, coiling her muscles to strike.

  Rhan saw it coming. His pleased smile tightened into a feral grimace, and he took a step back himself. Then he brought the sword point forward, stabbing for her stomach. Hweilan twisted in perfect timing, allowing the sharp point to slice through her shirt. Her twist continued, her torso rolling along the blade that sliced a fine line of blood along her skin. Her own blade, now held point down in her left hand, came forward at the same moment she leaped to give herself just the right amount of height. Rhan’s sword came with her, cutting deeper, but she ignored the pain and buried half her knife in the soft flesh where Rhan’s shoulder met his neck.

  She twisted and tumbled away, Rhan’s blade tearing a deep gash down her back as she heard his surprised grunt.

  Hweilan came round, crouched low, her blade up and ready even before the first gout of blood spouted like a geyser out of Rhan’s neck. Every hobgoblin surrounding them gasped at once, so strongly that Hweilan actually felt the change in air pressure along her skin. Blood, hot and wet, was coursing down her back, her accelerating heart rate pouring it out all the faster. For just a moment, the world wobbled before her, but she took in a deep breath, steadying herself.

  Rhan roared in anger and desperation. He had a death wound and knew it, but it was not an instant kill. He clamped his left hand over the wound. It would buy him a few moments before he blacked out.

  Now all Hweilan had to do was get that damned sword out of his hands.

  Rhan charged, blade raised, heedless as a charging bull. For a moment, seeing the bloody wide-eyed hobgoblin coming for her, Hweilan was almost afraid.

  But then she smiled and leaped for him, hoping to cause him to strike too soon.

  It worked.

  Rhan brought blade down, enough strength behin
d it to cut her in half.

  Hweilan slid under it, raising her knife edge as she did so. The force of Rhan’s own blow made the steel cut deep, severing veins and tendons in his arm. Cut off from the cords giving them strength, the muscles of Rhan’s right hand spasmed, and the black sword flew from his grip.

  Now! Hweilan urged Rhan in her mind.

  Rhan proved himself a warrior to the end. Weaponless and dying, he refused to give in. He removed his left hand from the neck wound and brought it down in a clenched, bloody fist.

  When Hweilan was thirteen years old, the horse of a visiting dignitary had broken its stall. Hweilan-whom horses seem to like as much as mice like cats-had unfortunately been standing in the way. In its desperation to get away, the war-horse had turned and kicked her.

  This hurt worse.

  The hobgoblin champion’s fist hit behind her left shoulder. She was quite sure that spectators fifty feet back probably heard her bones snap, but she couldn’t. A high screech filled her ears, and lights danced before her eyes.

  Still, she managed to keep her feet and back away.

  Which lost her the fight.

  Rhan brought his fist around again.

  Hweilan had just enough presence of mind to lean away. Still, she caught a great deal of the blow in her temple and went down.

  The lights before her eyes faded as darkness swallowed them. The high-pitched screech died away, and through the roar of the crowd she heard two things-

  Jaden screaming, “No! No! Sodding no!”

  And Maaqua crying, “Kaad! Kaad you halfwit, bring the gunhin! Quick, damn you! Rhan’s-”

  And then darkness and silence joined, becoming one, and swallowed Hweilan whole.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rhan had no mate. his life was battle and blood. For the past four winters he had contemplated changing that. He was not getting younger, and in truth, a glorious death in battle was his dearest wish. Still, he did not want his blood to be gone from the world. It would be good to have children through whom his fury and prowess would haunt the mountains for generations to come-and if the gods blessed him, perhaps a strong son to wield the Greatsword of Impiltur when he was long gone. But he had done no more about it than contemplate. His cave was his alone.