Cry of the Ghost Wolf con-3

by Mark Sehesdedt

  But Rhan was no dotard. Gunhin affected him the same way it did anyone else. After he had felled the human girl in the arena-not even with the Greatsword of Impiltur but with his bare hands!-he managed to keep his feet. Barely. A loud whine had filled his ears, bringing the first hint of fear that Rhan had felt in a very long time. A thousand black spots were beginning to cloud his vision. Then that old meddler Kaad had rushed forward and upended a skin into his mouth.

  Rhan drank down the bitter liquid eagerly, still swallowing even as he felt the first of its effects. Fire flooded his muscles and seemed to sizzle just under the pores of his skin. The whine in his ears faded, replaced by the ecstatic cheers of the crowd and cries of the few dozen fools who had dared bet against him. His vision cleared so that he actually had the clarity to watch the deep gash in his arm knit back together.

  He threw back his head and roared. The crowd joined him.

  Only then did he notice that Maaqua and Buureg had come forward with Kaad. The queen was beaming up at him, and the warchief kneeled beside the human, his fingers probing her neck, the back of his other hand held in front of her mouth and nose.

  “Well?” said Maaqua.

  Buureg stood and looked up at Rhan. “No breath. No beat to her veins.”

  “She’s dead?” said Maaqua.

  Buureg nodded.

  Maaqua laughed, a short bark, then patted Rhan’s arm. “Well done, Champion of the Razor Heart. Killed the little chit with your bare hands.” She turned to the crowd and raised both fists over her head. “Killed her with his bare hands!”

  The crowd roared, drowning out all other sound. Rhan saw a few fights breaking out here and there. A few of the losers in the wagering seemed to be reluctant to pay up.

  Maaqua leaned in close to Buureg to be heard, but Rhan picked up her words.

  “Have the Damarans thrown back into their hole until I make up my mind about how to deal with them.”

  “And the condemned?” said Buureg.

  Maaqua shrugged and laughed. “Condemned. To the Stone of Hoar with him.”

  “And her?” Buureg pointed down at Hweilan’s body.

  “A feast!” said Maaqua.

  “No!” The nearest hobgoblins who were able to hear Rhan were stunned into silence by the vehemence in his tone.

  Maaqua looked up at him, confused and angry. “Eh?”

  Rhan pointed down at her with his newly healed hand. “She fought for her friend and fought with courage. She is the first warrior to strike me since I picked up the Greatsword. We will treat her as such.”

  Maaqua scowled up at him. “You still insist on going through with that?”

  “I do.”

  She sighed and waved it away. “As you wish. Buureg, have her body placed with the other. Let Rhan finish his foolishness.”

  Buureg did not follow Maaqua as she walked away, the crowd parting for her. The warchief held out a hand to Rhan. It held Hweilan’s knife.

  “Yours now,” said Buureg.

  Rhan took it with a nod of thanks. Even stained with his blood, it was a beautiful thing in its own way, if strange and inelegant. Not a princeling’s weapon. The runes along the blade had obviously come from a master craftsman, but the hilt was bound in plain leather, well-worn and loved. A fine weapon. But no matter how he wiped at it, the steel never lost its look of being coated in fresh blood. He tucked it into his belt.

  After that, Rhan was swallowed up in the accolades of the crowd. Someone slapped his empty scabbard into his hand. The Greatsword of Impiltur lay where it had fallen. All present knew that to touch it meant death at Rhan’s hands. He stopped long enough to retrieve the sword and slide it home into his scabbard, then he walked away.

  The effects of the gunhin were boiling in him, and he waded through the crowd, searching for the comeliest female to take back to his cave. Never in his life had he come so close to dying. Perhaps it was time to take a mate after all.

  Kaad saw to the disposition of Hweilan’s body. He was far too frail to carry her, but Buureg called Hratt over to help. It was a long walk to the high place, and Hratt had to stop and rest twice. Once, Kaad heard him muttering something about losing gold, but he looked away. A slave knew his place.

  Hratt laid Hweilan’s body next to the other one-after two days, the crows still would not touch it-and stood for a moment looking down on Hweilan. Kaad heard him mutter, “Damn it all,” shake his head, then walk away. The roar of the crowd could still be heard in the distance. It did not take much to give the Razor Heart reason to revel, and Kaad suspected they would be at it long into the night. With all the fights sure to break out, some of which would eventually draw steel as the strong spirits flowed, Kaad knew he would be kept busy most of the day.

  He looked down at Hweilan’s body. The combination of the tattoos and the bruise from Rhan’s fist had turned the entire left half of Hweilan’s face black. Her lip had split and poured blood across one cheek. But not much. Her heart had stopped quickly. Her eyes were closed, which Kaad found strange. A blow like that, and one might expect her eyes to roll up in her head, certainly. But they were relaxed.

  Kaad was about to turn away and follow Hratt back to the center of the fortress when he saw it. Her eyelid twitched, like a dreamer in deep sleep.

  He stopped, wide-eyed and staring. It didn’t happen again, but he knew what he’d seen.

  Kaad looked around to make sure Hratt was well and truly gone. Then he kneeled and placed his rough, calloused hand against Hweilan’s throat. No beat of her heart. Nothing. He looked at her chest. Not the slightest rise and fall of breath. Her skin was cool to the touch-but not cold. No. Despite the early spring chill, her body wasn’t cold.

  There! Just as Kaad was about to remove his hand, he felt it. A pulse. Just once. But it was strong.

  He looked down at her again. All the crowd had heard bone break when Rhan struck Hweilan’s back. Looking at her face, he suspected the last blow had cracked her skull as well. The old healer reached inside his robes, removed a vial made from goat horn, and placed it in Hweilan’s palm.

  Then he chuckled the whole way back down into the fortress. He suspected it would be quite a night indeed.

  The revelry went on all that morning, quieted some during midday meal time, then came back with a vengeance as the sun sank beneath the peaks. Dark came quickly, even as winter loosened its grip on the mountains, and fires sparked to life both inside and outside the fortress.

  Years ago, this never would have happened. The knights out of Highwatch sometimes patrolled after dark, and the slightest fire would have revealed the location of the Razor Heart’s fortress. But the knights and their flying terrors were no more. Truth be told, the new horrors in Highwatch worried Maaqua far more, but they already knew where the fortress lay, and should they come again, it was better to have fire close at hand.

  So, despite the drain it put on their winter stores, Maaqua encouraged the festivities to rouse the blood of the clan. She would need that for the days of struggle ahead of them. It had been a long time since the clan had reason to celebrate. Joy spread through the fortress like fresh flame on oil.

  Except for two places.

  The three Damarans lay in their hole, the iron bars firmly locked over their heads so that no warriors need be kept from the celebrations to guard them. Valsun sat, staring at the few stars far overhead. He was quite sure that once the feast was over-probably when the first warriors woke after their night of hard drinking-Maaqua would simply have one of the brutes pull the lever, drown the three of them, and be done with it. It was not the way he had hoped to leave this life, but he supposed it could be worse. Jaden, however, was quite sure they’d be tortured in the cruelest possible ways. He’d heard that fear sweetens the meat, and he was sure the hobgoblins would find every conceivable way to kill them with fire and sharp things. But when he shared this with his companions, they made no reply. And what Darric thought, he would not say.

  The other place free of any celebrat
ion was on the northern edge of the fortress, within sight of the last guard post. There, a block of stone thrust up from the mountainside. One had to brave a steep trail to reach its height, occasionally clinging to iron-hard roots that broke through the mountain’s jagged hide. The stone itself had been shaped by eons of wind and rain into the vague shape of a hand. But the hobgoblins had improved upon it with hammer and chisel so that the stone now had the distinct shape of grasping fingers and the suggestion of a coin in the palm. This was the Stone of Hoar, Lord of Doom and Watcher of the Revenged.

  It had taken four Razor Heart warriors to bring the naked Damaran up the hill. His hands and elbows were bound behind his back and cinched to his waist with the finest leather rope. A small length of cord bound him at knees and ankles to keep him from running or kicking. And they’d even muzzled him, just in case he became riled enough to try his teeth. Kaad’s ministrations from the previous night had seemed to revive him, and he remembered every hurt. He’d growled and cursed the whole way up the height, and the warriors had dragged and beaten him. Finally, at the most treacherous parts of the trail, they’d clubbed him senseless and lifted him by the leash tied round his arms.

  Once they reached the stone, two of the warriors stood with spears only inches from the Damaran’s throat while their two companions bound him to the stone. Leather ropes bound his wrists to two of the stone’s middle fingers. They sat his rump in the palm, then bound one thigh to the thumb and the other to the smallest finger, spreading both legs. Since the Damaran had killed Duur, Ruuket’s mate, when she came for her vengeance, it was very likely that his manhood would be the first thing to go.

  Then they locked a shackle around each ankle, from each of which dangled less than a foot of chain bound to a three-stone weight of iron. A big one like this might be able to lift his lower legs, but he wouldn’t be able to kick. Satisfied that he was well and truly secure, the warriors slapped him-once each, just hard enough to dribble blood from his lip-then tromped back to the celebration.

  While the rest of the Razor Heart reveled, Ruuket climbed to the Stone of Hoar. Her face was bloody from the grief gouges she had raked into both cheeks with her own hands.

  That Mandan could have faced with warrior’s pride. But she also brought her children with her. The oldest was only a year or two away from his warrior’s growth. Two others walked beside her, and she carried a babe in the cloth sling on her back. They stood before the bloodied Damaran.

  He looked up at them and said, “Do your worst.”

  The oldest child stepped forward, the knife in his hand already coming up.

  But his mother’s hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. He bared his teeth in a growl, but he obeyed his mother.

  “I am Ruuket,” she said in hesitant Damaran. “You killed Duur. My mate. These are his children.”

  The Damaran held her gaze a long while, then seemed to tear away with great difficulty to stare at the younglings, each in turn. His eyes hardened as he fixed upon the eldest son, his knife in hand. He glanced quickly over the other male child, only a head shorter than his brother. But when he saw the little one clinging to his mother’s left leg-another son, only five summers old-something changed in Mandan’s countenance. His eyes closed once in a slow blink, and when they opened again, they glistened with moisture.

  He looked away, staring at the ground.

  “Your … mate,” he said. “I … I did not mean to kill him.” But as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he didn’t believe them; even he could smell the lie there. When the fury was upon him, little else mattered but satisfying the bloodlust inside him. Not only had he meant to kill those hobgoblin warriors, he had enjoyed it. Now, though … seeing Duur’s children before him …

  Would they be fed through the winter?

  Would their mother be able to care for them?

  Would she have to take another mate into her bed, and would he care for the children? Or would they be cast out into the snow?

  He didn’t know. He had heard awful tales of the hobgoblin tribes and their ways, but he did not know the truth of them. If they were true, then not only was the death of a warrior on his soul but that of his family.

  “He was trying to kill me,” he said, knowing that he was doing his best to convince himself as much as them. “I was only defending myself and my companions, as any knight should.”

  “Tonight,” said Ruuket, “you think on that. Tonight, my children and I will chant Duur’s soul to the Fire of the High Chieftain. We will feast. When the sun comes, we will sleep. When the sun goes, we will come back. For you. Think on that.”

  She turned and left, taking her children with her.

  Rhan had not slept. He spent the day in his chamber with Ghir of Orlung’s brood. She had proved herself most exertive, and after their third bout, he was giving serious consideration to taking her as a mate. She was beautiful, and all her older sisters had borne strong children-except for Vuurl and Gorueg, who had sworn off the cave in favor of wielding steel in battle. Once the gunhin wore off, if nothing else happened to change his mind, he would ask her and prepare the proper price to Orlung.

  His ears occasionally still caught the sound of revelry. None had dared to come down the tunnel to his chamber, but at least some of the celebration had made its way to the outer halls. Rhan felt no desire to join them. They would press food and drink into his hand and slap his arms, congratulating him on his victory over the Hand.

  Still … it felt like no victory.

  He was glad to be alive. No mistake. Rhan hoped to die in glorious battle-perhaps thirty or forty years from now. But something about the fight with the girl stuck in his throat. Her prowess had both surprised and pleased him. She had not flinched when he pushed her back, insulting and taunting her. She had taken it once, then twice, then struck back and come at him with a smile. If only half the humans had her mettle, then Rhan suspected his people would not be long for the world. But he knew that killers like the human girl-and like himself-were as rare as blue tigers. Perhaps it was the gods’ way of keeping the peoples of the world in their place.

  But she had gone down too easily. He had hit her with all he had-and he had cracked the skulls of many warriors with far less strength behind his fist. But he had also felt the power behind her first kick. It had taken all his strength not to fall on his arse in front of the entire clan-yet he knew, instinctively, as one warrior knows another-that she had been holding back, playing with him.

  He reached up and touched the soft new skin near his neck. That one strike of her knife had been the closest he had ever come to dying. And it hadn’t even hurt all that much. Sharp and quick, it had almost been pleasant-a moment of cold, followed by flowing warmth. He was even a little disappointed that the gunhin had healed it completely, that he would bear no scar. A good scar could serve a warrior well, to remind him of the nearness of death.

  “I should be dead,” he said to himself.

  Ghir mumbled something in her sleep and burrowed deeper into the blankets. The fire in the pit had burned low, and a chill had returned to his chamber.

  Rhan threw off the fur coverlets, climbed back into his trousers, and pulled on his boots. He hadn’t worn them in the fight, but he would want them where he was going.

  “Rhan …?” Ghir leaned up on one elbow and looked at him.

  “Sleep,” he said. “I will be back.”

  “Where’re y’going?” she said, sleep tugging at her words.

  “Sleep,” he told her again. Then he grabbed his sword, snatched up Hweilan’s knife, and left the chamber.

  The outer hall was stiflingly warm from all the fires burning there. Warriors gnawed on haunches of meat and passed around skins as they entertained each other with tales of past battles and current gossip. Catching sight of Rhan, they hailed him.

  But he ignored them and stomped into the dark tunnel. The gunhin had still not worn off, and the cooler air was a relief upon his bare skin.

 
He walked outside, his breath steaming in the night cold. He could see the orange glow of fires burning throughout the fortress. He passed many groups of hobgoblins, some celebrating, some fighting, some halfway in between. Rhan ignored them all and kept on his way to the High Place.

  Once he left the celebration behind, he hung his scabbard on his back to free his hands. He knew a smoother way up the mountainside on more level paths with well-cut steps, but it was three times the distance. Instead, he took shorter paths that required a certain amount of climbing. His fingers and palms were bloody by the time he reached the final stretch of path, but he did not care.

  A high haze hid all but the moon and brightest of stars, and yet Rhan’s sharp night sight served him well. He listened intently for the sound of ravens or other carrion feeders.

  There were none. Strange, but not unexpected.

  He rounded the final bend in the path, topped the last rise and stared. He clenched his jaw so tightly that he heard his teeth grinding.

  Only one body. And the cloak he had laid over it was missing.

  Hweilan was gone.

  Rhan cursed. Surely even that old meddler Kaad was not foolish enough to thwart Rhan’s will and disobey a direct order from Maaqua. If he had done something to her …

  No.

  Rhan ran forward and kneeled beside the body. Even in the dark, he could see that the soil beside it had been disturbed, and there was even a small amount of blood staining the ground. Another body had been here. Then what-?

  There. He saw it only a few paces away. He walked over to it, kneeled, and picked it up. A small vial, cut from a young ram’s horn. Rhan brought it under his nose and sniffed.

  “Gunhin,” he said, then his eyes narrowed. “Kaad. That med-”

  A rattle-the sound of soil falling down the lip of the bowl. Rhan looked up, and there, on the rim of stone, was a large shape, pale in the dim light. But its eyes shone with more than reflected moonlight. Hweilan’s wolf. It made no move to approach. Other than the slight whisper of its footfall, it still hadn’t made a sound. Very slowly, Rhan’s hand moved toward the hilt of his sword.