Cry of the Ghost Wolf con-3

by Mark Sehesdedt

  A leg erupted out of the dirt and swept his own legs out from under him. Rhan went down and rolled away. It was the wrong choice.

  A weight came down on him, stopping him from rolling further. His sword would do him little good in this position. He grabbed the knife. As he lifted his legs, hoping to buck off the attacker, he swept backward with the knife.

  Some of the weight lifted off him, but something soft wrapped round his knife hand, tightened, and pulled. The angle was so precise, the right amount of strength applied just so by using Rhan’s own strength against him, that his arm twisted backward and his hand released the weapon. He half-expected to feel it fall beside him, but he didn’t.

  Instead, his body hit the dirt and he tensed to try to throw off his attacker, but the feel of a sharp point of steel jabbing into his flesh, right where his jaw curved into his ear, changed his mind.

  “Thank you for bringing my knife,” said a voice above him.

  He recognized it at once. Hweilan.

  He kept the look of fury on his face, but inside he was smiling. He braved a glance upward and saw that the cloak he had left over the other body was twisted around his arm. He knew he could free himself with little trouble-but probably not before Hweilan buried the knife in his skull. Sand still fell from the cloak, and he realized what had happened. The little fox had dug a shallow trench in the dirt, lay down, pulled the cloak over her, covered it all with sand, and then waited. Had it been full daylight, no doubt he would have been able to discern the disturbed soil, perhaps seen the bits of cloak she hadn’t been able to cover. But in the dark …

  “Now,” she said, “here is what’s going to happen.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Scent came back to Hweilan first.She smelled cool, dry air, spring grass, flower petals, and … something else. Something hot and choking. Blood. Fresh blood. So strong that it filled her head like wine.

  That is you, that smell.

  She opened her eyes and saw wolves before her. A huge pack, two dozen or more, and in their midst the chief, a massive male with fur the color of new snow. The same wolf who had spoken in her dream the day before.

  A plain stretched all around them. Not Narfell. The breeze on her cheeks felt too warm. In the grasses, too many shades of green mottled the brown, and there were no mountains to crack the horizon. Grass undulated into forever, rising and falling on shallow hills like sea swells.

  The pack scattered, some running away and others merely receding before their lord. The chief wolf lowered his head and looked at her. His eyes …

  Not like any wolf’s she had ever seen. They were too bright-the color of a clear winter sky. A gust of wind stirred his fur, and for just a moment Hweilan thought she saw him covered in uwethla, much like her own. She saw the blood there, pulsing in the skin, and for the briefest instant he was not a wolf at all. He stood on two legs, his white hair hanging well past his waist. Three scars marred his skin from scalp to cheek to chin, leaving empty tracks through his frosty eyebrows. But then the vision passed, and he was a wolf again.

  “You know me,” she said, before she’d even thought the words.

  Blood of my blood, said the wolf. A clever ruse. That old lizard by the lake taught you well. One drink to stop your heart-just for a time. Another to bring you back. And what if that hobgoblin had killed you anyway?

  “I think he very nearly did,” she said.

  The wolf padded up to her and licked at her face. His musky scent washed over her, and again she was struck by the familiarity of it. She almost had it … but something else was drowning it. Something hot and … metallic. Clouding her senses.

  The wolf stepped away, then turned and sat, looking at her eye-to-eye. Broken bones are the least of your worries. You’re bleeding inside your skull. That’s your blood you smell. Only a little at the moment. But it only takes a little to kill you.

  “Who are you?”

  I am the father of your grandmother’s grandmother.

  Hweilan struggled through her memories. They tasted red. But she reached through and found what she wanted.

  “Ashiin, she told me of you. You are Haerul. She said you were the father of my grandfather’s grandfather.”

  The wolf barked, and Hweilan heard the laugh there. Fox had no pack. She did not know a great many things. But I know you, girl. The Witness Cloud … we are always watching. Your mother’s father-

  The wolf yipped in surprise and turned. Hweilan followed his gaze.

  “What-?”

  He turned and said something, but she could not hear the words. Lightning struck the plains, some so close she felt the burning air, and thunder drowned out all other sound.

  The grasses burned away, and the sky split with a crack of lightning that pierced to the heart of the world.

  When her vision cleared, the blue-eyed wolf was gone and an antlered figure stood before her. He held a black iron spear in his right hand, gripping it so hard that she heard the crack of his tendons. Blood dripped from his right hand. Green fire burned out of his mask of bone.

  He looked down on her, and the ground and sky trembled at the sound of his voice.

  “Fool! Time is running out.”

  Hweilan could not respond, could not speak, could not … not …

  Breathe!

  The antlered man held his bloody hand over her, and as the sky let loose a torrent of rain, Nendawen’s hot blood showered down upon Hweilan, covering her face, filling her mouth and nose. She could not cry out, could not look away, could not draw air into her lungs, though everything in her screamed to-

  Breathe!

  Hweilan sat up, inhaling so strongly that it was an inward scream. Pain filled her head with such forcefulness that for a moment she feared the hobgoblins had buried her own knife in her head as a farewell gift.

  She reached up. The entire left side of her face was swollen and sensitive to the touch. An area just under the edge of her scalp was soft as a half-full wineskin. She could feel the fluid gathering there under her skin, and just beneath it-

  Her probing finger barely touched it, but it felt like an ice cold nail twisting through her skull, sending threads of agony down her neck, rattling her teeth, and causing her arms to spasm.

  “Cracked my skull,” she said to herself, and only then realized her lips were swollen to twice their normal size. She could feel congealed blood clogging her inner cheek.

  She tried to spit, but the pain in her head flared and the world tumbled around her and she had to reach out with both hands to catch herself before she fell.

  Her left hand came down on something. Taking slow, careful breaths, she waited for her vision to clear and for the world to stop moving around her. But sight never came back to her left eye. All dark. And her head seemed to get fuller with every beat of her heart. Much more and she feared it might burst.

  This was not good.

  She picked up whatever her hand had found and held it before her right eye. The sun had set long ago, but the moon and brightest stars burned through the hazy sky just enough to reflect off the surrounding rocks. She couldn’t make out the thing in her hand. Her head …

  But her fingers recognized what it was and sent the message to her brain.

  A vial.

  Bone, by the feel of it. Or horn, for it was pointed at the bottom. The other end had a piece of waxed felt as a plug. She considered prying it out with her teeth. But with the pain in her broken lips and head, she feared that might cause her to pass out. And then, she probably would not wake again.

  Hweilan fumbled at the stopper with her other hand. Her fingers were cold, and it took her several tries to even get a grip. Then, a quick twist, and it came out.

  The wet, loamy scent washed over her. Gunhin.

  Kaad. He had been true to his word.

  The vial didn’t hold nearly as much as he had given her before. But then, he had been healing the effects of poison, scalding, and whatever Maaqua’s magic arts had done to her.

 
Very carefully, so as not to spill a drop or cause her head any unnecessary movements, Hweilan brought the vial to her lips and dribbled in a few drops of the liquid. It hit her tongue like flaming spirits. The skin inside her cheeks and throat sizzled. Between one heartbeat and the next, every pore of her skin seemed to breathe outward, and Hweilan thought if she’d opened her eyes she might have seen steam coming out of her nose. The darkness in her left eye swirled and came back a blur, dark shadows mixed with slightly brighter shadows. But at least it was something.

  Once more, Hweilan put the open end of the vial to her lips-both of which already felt their normal size-and upended it. She drank every bit of the foul concoction, then did her best to suck out what little remained in the hollow horn.

  She waited, taking careful breaths. And then it hit all at once-the prickling and freezing on the inside, the feel of her skin vibrating like a struck drum, blood burning hot and coursing through her veins at double speed. And then the pain. Far worse than before. She felt the cracked bone on her head snap! back into place.

  Hweilan didn’t remember falling, but the next thing she realized, she was face down in the dirt, panting, a thick film of drool and blood running out of her mouth.

  She spat out a glob of grit and what she thought might have been the shattered remains of a tooth-now completely healed-and pushed herself up. Her vision had come back and then some. There was little brush around her, and so the only shadows were cast by the stones themselves. High clouds blurred the moon and stars like a sheet of the finest silk. By the meager light, Hweilan realized for the first time that she was not alone.

  A large bundle lay a pace away. It was completely covered in a dark cloth, the edges of which had been weighted down by several rocks. But there was no mistaking the shape of a body. Hweilan had seen far too many in the past year to mistake it for anything else.

  On one end, two bits of the blanket rose into points, looking very much like feet. Hweilan walked over to the other end, kneeled, and removed the nearest rocks from the blanket. She grasped the edge of the thick cloth …

  And stopped. A shiver passed through her, some primal warning originating in the deepest part of her brain, a part that was long dormant in most humans. But hers had been awakened by her master, and it was sending a clarion warning to her now.

  She knew whose body this was. Knew it before she held her breath and pulled the edge of the blanket aside.

  The corpse was headless, but the head had been replaced face-up upon the bloody remains of the neck.

  Her mother.

  The taut demonic fury that had marred the woman’s features was gone, replaced by the slackness of death. Hweilan could not bring herself to touch the skin, but she knew that had she done so, it would have been cold, and in this weather probably hard as old leather. Someone had placed a stone over each eye. Not just common rocks from the ground. These were black and smooth as oil, and Hweilan could see a rune carved on each one.

  Someone had treated her mother’s body with the honor and respect due a renowned warrior.

  Who would-?

  A noise. Hweilan held her breath and listened, head cocked to one side.

  She heard the faintest of footfalls. Thick pads on the dirt. Four steps. A stone’s throw away, the ground rose into a lip-Hweilan noted that she was actually kneeling in the middle of a wide bowl-and then fell away. The wall of the mountain rose some forty yards or so beyond, but it was broken by a wide fissure. Considering her current location, Hweilan suspected that a path wound through the fissure. She looked toward the path and saw a pale form emerge from the shadows. Uncle. She had no idea how the wolf had managed to avoid capture. Had he been hiding in the fortress all this time?

  He stopped a few paces away, gave the corpse a wary glance, then his eyes settled on Hweilan.

  She opened her mouth to say something when the wolf whirled. His ears stiffened forward, and he focused all his attention on the path. The hairs on his back rose.

  Hweilan heard it, too. Someone was coming up the path, boots scuffling on the grit, making no effort at all to be quiet.

  Hweilan looked around. Nowhere to go. Besides, she didn’t need to run and hide. She needed to take care of whoever was coming. Otherwise, that person might raise an alarm, making it all the more difficult to get her weapons back.

  She looked down at the blanket, and an idea occurred to her. An old ambush trick Scith had once taught her.

  “Uncle,” she whispered. “Here. Dig. Fast.”

  The wolf didn’t hesitate. He went to work.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, and she swiped the blanket.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "You”-a voice broke through the first beginnings of a dream-“get up. Now.” But the dream wasn’t a pleasant one, so Hratt wasn’t entirely sorry to open his eyes and roll over.

  The dungfire in the hearth was still breathing, the flames just now burning low. He hadn’t been asleep long then. Raucous cries and bits of song from the celebration came through the open door. Had Hratt not drunk himself senseless after giving up half the gold he’d hoarded for five summers, he’d never have been able to sleep.

  Meager as the firelight was, it still had to burrow its way through the swirling dizziness in his head. A hobgoblin warrior stood over Hratt and glared down at him. The warrior wore full armor, so he hadn’t been joining in the celebrations. Perhaps he had just come in from a patrol, or was on some other duty. Hratt squinted to clear his vision and noted the talon symbol painted on the warrior’s breastplate. One of Buureg’s spears then.

  “I said, ‘Up.’ ”

  Hratt untangled himself from the blanket and sat up on his elbows. “Wha’ for?”

  “I am Drureng.”

  “I don’t care,” said Hratt. “Why are you here?”

  “Maaqua wants you.”

  A weight seemed to settle on Hratt’s chest and he had trouble standing. “Wh-why?” he asked.

  “She wants the human’s things.”

  Hratt swayed unsteadily on his feet. “The human?”

  “The girl Rhan killed this morning. Maaqua wants the girl’s things brought to her. Weapons and such. You and the forge chief have the keys to the chamber, and no one can find him. So that leaves you and me. Now move.”

  Drureng stood by the door, pounding the flat of his hand against his mail skirt while Hratt dressed. No need for armor. But since he was going to see Maaqua, he chose his finest clothes and a cloak he had looted from a Blood Mountain tribe raid. It was too good for them, and Hratt suspected it had probably originated in a caravan through the Gap.

  “You’re fetching something for the queen, not dining with her,” said Drureng.

  “Out,” said Hratt.

  Drureng’s eyes narrowed, and his hand inched toward the sword at his belt. He obviously thought Hratt felt insulted and was preparing to fight should Hratt challenge him.

  “I need to get the key,” Hratt explained, “and this is my den. I don’t want anyone knowing where I keep my valuables.”

  Drureng barked a laugh at that. “From what I hear, you don’t have many valuables left after today. Betting on a girl like you did. Learned your lesson?”

  “Out.”

  Drureng left and even shut the door behind him, chuckling.

  Hratt and Drureng walked through the inner chambers of the fortress to the armories. Unlike the upper chambers, most of these halls were empty as tombs-their former inhabitants enjoying the celebration above. Both hobgoblins stopped long enough to light a torch each, then proceeded on their way.

  The air grew thicker and warmer as they descended. And soon the twisting tunnels and open halls, lit only by their torches, smelled more of soot and slag than stone. The Razor Heart fortress had many forges, large and small, used for repairing armor, weapons, and other tools. But the real masterworks were done in the deep caverns, where the Master of the Forge mixed magic with his crafts.

  It was here that Maaqua had chosen to keep Hweilan’
s weapons and other belongings. When Hratt had first been told of this, he had thought it strange that Maaqua put Hweilan’s things so far inside the fortress. But if they were as powerful as Maaqua said, it did make a certain amount of sense. The caves were probably the most warded area of all the fortress-save for Maaqua’s private chambers-and Hratt suspected she had reasons of her own for being suspicious of the tools of the Hand of the Hunter. With the Hand now dead, perhaps the queen felt safer.

  The main door of the deep forge was not only unlocked but standing wide open. That struck Hratt as unusual, but not entirely unexpected, considering the night’s revelries. Although it was unlikely the master had left the door open, the soldiers sent to look for him certainly might have done so.

  The forge itself was a vast room, its ceiling well out of the reach of their torchlight. Vents high overhead carried the smoke away. But tonight the fires lay cold, not even the hint of a glow in the coals. The reek of soot and oil and iron clung to every surface. Hratt hated the place. The air itself felt burned, and with his brain still thick from his day of drinking, it was all he could do to keep his stomach from spilling.

  “Where are they?” asked Drureng.

  “This way.” Hratt threaded a path through the dozens of heaps of iron, steel, copper, and brass. Tables and tool racks and anvils made islands in the room. On the far side, doors opened to other halls and storage rooms. Hratt chose a doorway so small that they had to duck into it before emerging into a larger tunnel beyond. They left the forge behind and went up a winding narrow hall that burrowed upward slightly into the mountain.

  “You said they were in the deep forge,” said Drureng. His loud voice carried far through the tunnel.

  “These are the deep-forge storage chambers,” said Hratt. “Same thing.”