The sharp steel moved up his inner thigh until he felt the edge rest against his groin.
“I’ll have to find something else to slice. Something I think you’ll miss.”
He reached inside his shirt, grabbed the key from where it hung on a leather cord, and yanked it off. He handed it to her.
She snatched it. “Very good. Thank you, Hratt. Now, where is Maaqua?”
He closed his eyes and swallowed. “No.”
She brought the knife up, just slightly, just enough to draw blood.
He shrieked, then said, “She’ll kill me! The queen will kill me!”
“Probably,” said Hweilan. “But she’s not here. I am. You should worry about what I’ll do, don’t you think? You can tell me what I want to know, then wait here for your queen to kill you. Or you can hold your tongue, and …”
A little more pressure on the knife.
Hratt was a sworn blade of the Razor Heart, his life pledged to protect queen and clan. But he was also a male. And so he talked. A little more pressure on that knife, and he would have sung.
Now here he was, locked in a dark store room, contemplating how he would get away and where he would go. Because if that girl didn’t kill Maaqua, then Hratt was most certainly due a painful death.
He’d heard rumors of a renegade Razor Heart and a Nar-Urdun and Gyul-living in the Giantspires, making what living they could by guiding caravans through the Gap. But no, joining up with them would put Hratt in too great a danger of running into the Razor Heart. South and east were nothing but trouble these days, and the north was no place for a lone vagabond.
“West it is, then,” he said to himself. “Damn all humans.” He used the bit of cloth he’d torn from his finest cloak and daubed at the blood leaking from the shallow cut in the fork of his legs. “And twice damn human females.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Avoiding the hobgoblins had been no more than a minor nuisance. Hweilan had just emerged from the lower levels of the fortress when she heard the horns and figured Rhan had likely been found. No matter. The hobgoblins were like a pack of hunting hounds who suddenly had a fox dropped in their midst. Angry and surprised, they were so eager to move, to be doing something, that they were mostly just making noise and bumping into each other. Buureg and their other leaders would get them organized eventually, but most everyone in the fortress was more than half drunk. Compared to an afternoon’s training with the Fox, this would be easy.
She had no doubt Hratt had told her what he knew about Maaqua’s whereabouts. Very few warriors could think up a good lie when facing imminent emasculation. And Hweilan had to find Maaqua first. She might make it out of the fortress, but she couldn’t have Razor Heart hunting her the whole way through the mountains. Otherwise, she might never reach Highwatch. But for that, she’d need help.
So Hweilan made her way to the upper regions of the fortress where its high walls became one with the mountain. She had spied this area the day before when Hratt had taken her to Mandan. One side trail had looked promising, though so steep that its steps were more ladder than stairs and overgrown with tough brush with roots that burrowed into the rock itself. Her unstrung bow and quiver riding on her back, Hweilan swiftly made her way up.
Her instincts served her well. The trail led up to a higher shelf of rock. She could tell by the detritus of bones and an old wineskin that the place was sometimes used as a watch post, but there were no permanent chambers there. The remnants of an old trail twisted a bit farther upward, but it was choked by weeds and an old rockfall. Someone might come from that way, but not without Hweilan hearing them first.
Hweilan sought the shadows near the rockface. The brush was thick there as well, and she was surprised to find the remnants of an old statue. Nothing but the feet and half of the left leg remained. The rest had either fallen or been hacked down.
She settled between them with the stone leg at her back, then reached inside her shirt and pulled at the leather cord there. Time to see if Uncle had done as she’d instructed. Her kishkoman hung from the end of the necklace. Crafted from the horn of a young swiftstag, the bottom point was still sharp enough to cut with very little pressure. But the thick end had been hollowed out into a whistle. Hweilan could not touch it without thinking of her mother, who had given it to her.
The whistle is beyond the hearing of most folk, she had told young Hweilan the day she gave it to her. But our people, Hweilan, we are … not like others. If you find yourself in danger, if you need help, blow this, and we will hear.
Hweilan put the whistle to her lips and blew, hard as she could. The shrill sound cut through her ears, and she winced from the pain. But she blew it again. And again. And then she listened.
A cloud of bats flitted past on their nightly hunt-one of them so close that she felt the wind of its wings. Then, farther down the mountain, amid the shouts of the hobgoblins, she heard a raven caw.
She put the whistle to her lips and blew again, long as her breath would hold, then twice more. Again she heard ravens, more this time. She was about to sound the whistle again when she heard it-
A long, low howl. Much closer than she’d thought he would be. Not inside the fortress, but very close. Another howl answered. And another. And more ravens, not just from the fortress below, but coming around the mountain. In moments, the entire valley was alive with wolfsong and the harsh cries of ravens.
Hweilan smiled. Uncle had done it.
She tucked the kishkoman back under her shirt, the sharp point scratching her skin, laying a thin trail of blood. Hweilan remembered the rest of her mother’s lesson on the day she’d given her the whistle-knife.
Death comes to us all. Many in this world are stronger than you, and those stronger may try to take from you. They may try to take your life, and they may succeed. But you must never give it to them. Make them pay, Hweilan. Make them pay.
Hweilan stood. “Your turn, Maaqua.”
After setting guards at the most critical areas and putting some order to the patrols, Buureg gathered his fiercest warriors and set off to protect his queen.
They were halfway there when the first ravens descended on the fortress. The birds swarmed up and down the mountain, their raucous cries drowning out the hobgoblin horns. Most were no more than a nuisance, for their sharp beaks could not penetrate the warriors’ armor, and one blow from an axe or sword killed even the largest ravens.
But then the wolves appeared. Dozens, at least, and their teeth had no trouble finding the weak spots in the hobgoblins’ armor. Cries of anger and alarm soon turned to pain and fury, and blood ran in the fortress of the Razor Heart.
Maaqua’s tower rose above a path that snaked along the outer skin of the mountain. There were also tunnels within that led to the tower’s lowest level-and Hratt had told her about every one.
But Hweilan chose neither route. The horns had been sounding for a while now. The guards there would be tense and ready. And these were Maaqua’s elite guard. They wouldn’t have been drinking-not if Maaqua was up to something that required a private tower and protection. Furthermore, she suspected more than a few of the guards might be adept at the arcane arts.
So she approached from lower paths, then took to the mountain itself. The wall itself was not perfectly vertical, but it was sheer, and she had to choose between stealth and speed. She chose speed, hoping the sounds of the wind off the mountain and the horns from the fortress would drown out her approach.
Wearing the bone mask, Hweilan looked up through Ashiin’s eyes and saw that the tower was not all that it appeared to be. It gave off an aura that hit Hweilan’s senses with a scent like burning hair. Gleed had taught her enough to recognize that it was probably nothing more than some sort of illusion, meant to hide the tower’s true shape, but she could not penetrate it.
She peeked over the lip of the cliff. The path was empty, but many guards crouched in front of the tower door.
Hweilan drew the silver knife from her belt. The whorls and
wave patterns etched into its blade glittered in the starlight. She kept it low so that no stray flicker would give her presence away to the guards. Concentrating, feeling every breath of air around her, she focused her will on the blade and recited the incantation Gleed had taught her.
The stiff wind coming off the mountain gusted, raining grit down on the guards. They turned and put a hand over the visors of their helmets to keep the dirt from their eyes. Hweilan took that moment to slip onto the path and into the nearest well of shadows. She sheathed the knife and strung her bow.
Crouching with the bow across her lap, she put her kishkoman to her lips and blew. Several wolves answered in the distance, but she heard Uncle’s voice above the others. He was close. She kept at it, blowing every few seconds so that the wolf could find her exact whereabouts.
The ravens came first. Two dozen at least. Their harsh caws echoed off the mountainside as they dipped and dived at the guards. But the birds stayed well out of reach of the guards’ spears.
The warriors had their gazes turned skyward as they batted and swiped at the ravens with spears and torches. So none of them saw the wolves coming up the path, moving low to the ground. And the raucous cries of the ravens and hobgoblins drowned out the sounds of the wolves’ feet.
The lead wolf was a huge beast, his fur black as pitch, making him almost invisible in the night. He snarled a moment, and his fangs flashed in the starlight, before his jaws locked behind the knee of the foremost warrior. The hobgoblin shrieked and struck at the wolf. But the beast leaped away and the iron spearhead struck sparks on the stone path.
The other warriors saw the danger and turned their attention to these new attackers. Hweilan watched, satisfied, as the wolves ran among the hobgoblins, dodging and snapping at the sharp spears.
After the first attack, the wolves pulled back, and all but two of the hobgoblin warriors followed. One warrior threw his spear, impaling a gray wolf. The beast let out a pitiful yip and tried to run, but its back legs were spasming beyond its control. Its forepaws scrambled on the rock, but too late. The wolf went over the edge.
The other warriors, encouraged, threw their spears. All but one missed-and that one only grazed the side of the black-pelted leader. But the wolves continued to pull back, retreating farther up the path. The warriors drew their swords and pursued.
Hweilan counted to ten, slowly, then stood, raised her bow, and pulled the fletching to her cheek.
The warrior nearest the tower watched all but one of his companions disappear around the bend in the path as they drove off the wolves. The ravens were still crying out and circling above, but they had stopped diving in to jab at his helmet.
Then a weight like a battering ram hit his right side, and he flew backward through the air and hit the tower door. His spear clattered to the ground. He looked down to see what had struck him. An arrow protruded from his right shoulder. It had pierced his mail, gone all the way through flesh and bone, then nailed him to the tower door. He let out a wordless cry of pain and tried to pull away, but the arrow held him fast.
His companion turned to look at him, his eyes widening at the black-feathered shaft. Behind him, a shadow was racing at them from the path.
“Look out!”
His companion turned around too late. The attacker kicked the spear from his hand. Starlight flickered off steel as the shadow struck. Crack! His companion’s head snapped back and he went down.
The shadow leaped over him.
It was only then that the warrior thought to call an alarm. He took a breath to call out, but then felt the cold of sharp steel at his throat.
“Don’t,” whispered a voice, muffled.
He looked down to see a face of bone staring up at him, but the eyes in the sockets were very much alive. The pale arm showing because of the torn sleeve was covered in dark designs, and he knew who this was. She had a bow in one hand, and he could feel the knife at his throat.
“Do not cry out,” she said.
He glanced sidelong at his companion, who lay senseless. She caught the movement.
“The skull,” she said. “Your brain inside that thick head of yours is floating inside a nice bath of ick. Hit someone just the right way, snap their head hard enough, the brain slams against the bone and decides to take a nap. Your friend isn’t dead. And don’t worry about that arrow I put in you. It went right under your collarbone. Don’t move around too much, and you’ll do yourself no permanent harm. Behave yourself, and I won’t either.”
Very slowly, praying her attention was focused on his face, he reached for the dagger at his belt.
“Naughty,” she said, and her knife sliced.
He closed his eyes and his entire body tensed, afraid to breathe.
But she had only sliced the chin strap of his helmet. She sheathed her knife and yanked off his helmet. He took a very careful breath. His throat was whole. She hadn’t opened his windpipe after all.
“Still,” she said, “hitting someone with enough force-especially a big one like you-that can be hard on the hands. Thank you for the helmet.”
Then she backhanded him across the face with it.
Buureg had twenty warriors at his back as they ran up the path to the tower. The last band of attacking ravens had fled, and they’d seen no wolves, though their howls were all around. Still, his warrior’s instinct was screaming in the back of his mind, fearing he was already too late. His one hope was that Maaqua had defeated the girl once already. Surely she could do it again.
The stairwell wound around the tower, leading to a door on every level. Hweilan had dealt with two guards in the first stairwell and another two in the first room. But she’d struck too high on the last hobgoblin’s midriff and heard bones shatter. She left him alive but struggling to breathe.
The next two stairwells and floors were empty. The second had a large window, open to the east, and as Hweilan stepped in, the moon broke over the far peaks, flooding the room with light.
“Razor Heart!”
A single cry came from outside, followed by the bellow of dozens of voices. Far more than the first band of guards that had pursued the wolves. Seemed they had found friends.
She shut the door behind her, latched it, and wedged the spear she had taken from the guard against the wood. It wouldn’t stop a determined troop, but it might slow them long enough for her to finish this.
She considered going out the window and climbing up the final level of the tower, but whatever spells wrapped this place still concerned her. Best to make a quick entrance, then.
She bounded up the final flight of stairs, threw back the latch on the door, and kicked it open.
Her skull mask let her take in the entire scene in a fleeting glimpse: Nine hobgoblins, three of them hulking warriors, blades in each hand, the nearest with a spear. Others were smaller, and made smaller still because they were kneeling. They wore an assortment of robes, skins, and bone jewelry.
By the time they’d turned to the door, Hweilan was already on them.
The nearest of the guards turned his spear to her, but he was too slow. Hweilan grabbed the shaft. Using the force of his swing against him, she pushed him all the way around to face the nearest guard. Trying to resist her and turn back around, he was already off balance, so when she rammed her left foot in the small of his back, he tumbled forward and barely escaped being impaled on his companion’s sword.
The third guard roared and charged. Hweilan stepped back into a defensive crouch.
“Stop this!”
The hobgoblin halted his charge, and both he and Hweilan looked to the speaker. One of the robed ones had stood, and purple energy was sparkling around her upraised fist.
Hweilan looked again at the center of the room. The hobgoblins weren’t kneeling in any ritual but around another form, crumpled on the floor. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, her jaw slack, a line of spittle running down her cheek.
“Maaqua?” said Hweilan.
The warrior took a step toward Hw
eilan, and the robed hobgoblin pointed at him with the hand holding the sparking energy. “I said, ‘Stop!’ ”
The other two guards regained their feet, the spearman with some difficulty.
“You,” the robed hobgoblin pointed at Hweilan with her free hand. “You are the one they call the Hand of the Hunter?”
Hweilan looked back and forth between the warriors and what she took for Maaqua’s disciples. “I am,” she said.
The hobgoblin pointed at Maaqua. “Then help her. Help her or you’ll never leave this tower alive.”
From the room below, Hweilan heard heavy feet kicking at the door she’d wedged shut. She lowered her knife, just slightly, though she didn’t loosen her grip. This was not how things were supposed to go. She’d come here to kill Maaqua. It would make her an eternal enemy of the Razor Heart. But she knew hobgoblins. They’d spend the first two days squabbling over who would be king or queen. Warriors might be sent after Hweilan, but there would be no strategy. And no heart. Every warrior would be wondering who would lead the clan and then determining his own loyalties. She’d have to be careful, but she could make it to Highwatch and do what needed to be done. After that, either Jagun Ghen would be destroyed, or she would be. And if she lived, she could always head east and spend the rest of her life ignoring the Razor Heart. But killing someone like this, when she lay completely helpless …
The old crone was trembling, her fingers hooked into claws. And through Ashiin’s eyes, she could see a foul miasma lurking just under the queen’s skin. It stank of Jagun Ghen.
Hweilan looked at the disciple who had spoken to her. “Tell me what happened.”
A look of relief passed over the disciple’s face. “You three,” she said, pointing at the warriors. “Meet whoever is coming up. Tell them what has happened.”
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