Cry of the Ghost Wolf con-3

by Mark Sehesdedt

  Uncle barked and looked toward the path. Hweilan followed his gaze and saw the glow of torchlight on the stone. A moment later, Buureg, in full armor, came into view, leading four warriors with long spears, four more with swords, all holding torches. Six more followed, carrying horn bows, arrows already notched on strings. They fanned out around the Stone of Hoar, with Buureg and the spear-bearers closest, the others keeping their distance. The warchief carried his helmet under one arm, his face set and expressionless, his eyes flat.

  Bringing up the rear of the procession was a hobgoblin woman, a babe on her back and a small child in her arms. Another child walked on her left, and on her right was her oldest. He and his mother had used white paint and ash to paint their faces in a death mask.

  “Hweilan,” said Buureg, “Hand of the Hunter, I ask you to step aside.”

  Hweilan still had the knife in her hand. She kept it low, her arm loose, and turned to face the hobgoblins.

  Buureg took a long breath. “That’s how it will be, then?”

  Hweilan looked at the gathered warriors. None returned her gaze, instead fixing their eyes on her chin to avoid an obvious show of challenge. But all of them held their weapons in steady hands. If it came to a fight, Hweilan had little doubt she and Uncle could get away-but not with Mandan, and not without bloodshed.

  She looked back to Buureg and said, “I don’t want this.”

  “But you will not step aside?”

  “I can’t.”

  It was true. She’d been willing to sacrifice all the Damarans if it meant getting away to face Jagun Ghen. But if she had even a slim chance to save them, she had to take it. It was very likely she’d be dead in a few days. If she walked away to leave her friends to death and torment, she would never be able to face her mother and father in the afterlife.

  “Stepping aside,” she said, “isn’t in me. Not anymore.”

  The hobgoblin youth in the death mask rushed forward. His mother cried out and tried to grab him, but he shrugged out of her grip and pressed his way through the warriors. None tried to stop him, but four spearpoints lowered at Hweilan, and the archers raised their bows and drew.

  Buureg dropped his helmet, turned, and grabbed the youth. His mother was screaming and trying to come forward, but two of the warriors held her. The babe on her back was wailing.

  “Stop! Stop this!” Buureg said.

  “Let! Me! Go!” Unable to break the warchief’s grip, the youth instead brought his face forward and slammed his forehead into Buureg’s nose. Hweilan tensed, readying herself, but did not raise her weapon. Buureg’s eyes went wide, but he held his grip even as blood poured out of his nose. One hand held onto the youth’s shoulder, the other held a wrist. One of the warriors was rushing forward to help.

  The youth tried another head butt, but Buureg was expecting it and twisted out of the way. Then he tried a knee to the crotch, but Buureg’s armor protected him. Growling like an animal, the youth took a step back, raised one foot, and kicked the warchief in the chest.

  It worked. Buureg’s grip broke and he reeled backward into one of his own spearmen.

  Tears streaming down his face and marring the paint, the youth drew a long knife from his belt and charged.

  One step to the side, and Hweilan placed herself between the youth and Mandan. Ruuket wailed and Buureg screamed to his archers, “Hold! Hold! Do not loose!”

  Snarling, the youth brought the blade around in a clumsy swipe. He was strong, and his fury made him stronger still, but clumsy. Hweilan caught the wrist but did not stop it, instead continuing through, directing the force, using his own strength against him and adding her own to twist the arm, turning him in the direction she wanted him to go. She ducked, planted her shoulder in his gut as he fell over her, then threw him.

  The youth hit the ground, knife still in hand, but when he started to push himself to his feet, a growl stopped him. He looked up through his tears to see Uncle’s bared teeth less than three inches from his nose.

  “Stop! Stop this-now!”

  A moment of absolute silence fell. All eyes turned to the one who had called out. Mandan had fallen forward out of the stone hand onto his hands and knees, but he was pushing himself to his feet now, the remnants of bloody leather cord still dangling from his wrists. The Damaran stood to his full height, though he was swaying like a tree in summer wind. He looked down at the youth.

  “Come here,” Mandan told him.

  The young hobgoblin cast a quick glance at Mandan, then looked back at the wolf.

  “Uncle,” she said, “Chu set. Alet.”

  The wolf snapped his jaws once, then walked away to stand beside Hweilan.

  “Aniq,” she told him. “Be ready.”

  “On your feet, boy,” said Mandan.

  The youth scrambled to his feet, a little bit of the anger coming back to him. “I have a knife,” he said.

  Mandan said, “Bring it.”

  The youth stood and gave Hweilan and the wolf a wary glance. Hweilan returned it, then kept her eyes flicking back and forth between Mandan and the hobgoblins.

  Holding the knife in front of him, the youth approached Mandan. The blade was shaking, and Hweilan saw that the boy was clenching his jaw shut to keep it from trembling as well. But she could also see that it was taking all the strength Mandan had just to stay upright.

  “You know”-Mandan’s voice caught, and he swallowed hard-“how to use that?”

  The youth scowled, and Hweilan realized he probably didn’t speak Damaran. She translated for him. He glared at her, then spit on Mandan and replied.

  “He says, ‘Enough to kill you,’ ” Hweilan told Mandan.

  The Damaran wiped the spittle from his face, then fell back onto the palm of the stone. He had to reach out and catch himself on the thumb to keep from falling.

  “I will not … stop you,” said Mandan, then looked to Hweilan. “Tell him.”

  “No.”

  Buureg translated for him, earning a glare from Hweilan. But then the warchief ordered one of his warriors to take Mandan some water. The warrior balked and opened his mouth to protest.

  “Do it!” said Buureg.

  The warrior sheathed his sword, then walked forward warily. He took a small skin from his belt, untied it, and handed it to Mandan. The Damaran took a careful drink, but it caught in his throat, and he coughed it out. He tried again, managed to swallow, then took a long drink.

  Mandan handed the skin back to the warrior, then looked at the boy, his one good eye glaring. “I killed your father.”

  Buureg translated his words.

  Mandan slapped at the youth’s knife, feebly but enough to make a point. “So you will kill me. What then?”

  Buureg opened his mouth, but Hweilan beat him to it. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she could see where this might be going.

  The youth looked to Buureg, obviously not trusting Hweilan’s words. The warchief nodded. “She spoke true.”

  “Then,” said the youth in his own tongue, “I will be a warrior this summer. I will raid. I will hunt. I will provide for my mother, my brothers, and my sister. Urlun, son of Duur! I swear it!”

  Several of the warriors hooted their encouragement.

  “You?” said Mandan, Hweilan translating. “You’ve never hunted as a warrior. Never raided. You think you will be able to feed the four of them through the winter? Winter is hard, boy. And you’re soft.”

  The youth growled and raised the knife. Hweilan took a step forward, but Mandan’s words stopped them both.

  “Is it true what I have heard?” Mandan looked past the youth to Buureg.

  “What?” said the warchief.

  “I have heard,” said Mandan, Hweilan still translating for the youth, “that if Urlun cannot provide for them, then Ruuket’s only hope is to take up a spear herself or find another mate. If she hunts and raids, her children will be left alone. If she takes another mate, he can choose whether or not to provide for her children. If he chooses not
, the children are cast out to fend for themselves. Is this true?”

  The look on Urlun’s face told Hweilan everything she needed to know before Buureg answered, “It is true. It is our way.”

  Mandan said, “It is not my way.”

  He forced himself to stand. Urlun flinched but did not back away-or lower the knife.

  “Hold that blade steady, boy,” said Mandan. Hweilan let Buureg translate this, hoping the warchief’s words would hold more weight.

  “My life is yours,” Mandan told Urlun. “Yours and your family’s. Take it. Or hold it. If you hold it, I swear I will spend my days taking care of your family.”

  That stunned Ruuket and her family to silence, but some of the warriors cried out in protest.

  “Silence!” said Buureg.

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Urlun asked Mandan.

  Mandan gave the youth’s knife hand another feeble slap. “You have courage, Urlun. But you hold that blade like a boy. I can teach you to do otherwise. I will teach you to do otherwise-and more. If you let me.”

  Urlun’s jaw flapped twice. He licked his lips and looked to his mother. But she could only stare.

  “And them?” Urlun asked.

  “I will see that your family is taken care of.”

  Urlun snorted. “You? You’re down to your loincloth.”

  Several of the warriors laughed at that.

  “I am a duke’s son,” said Mandan. “I will bargain with your people to care for them now. When my duty here is done, you can come to my home with me, where I will treat you with all honor. I will send tribute once a year to your family, until your brothers and sister are grown or until your mother finds another to care for them.”

  “Ha!” one of the spear holders said. “We are Razor Heart! No one will take your word.”

  Buureg punched the speaker in the face, and the warrior went down in a clatter of armor. “I will take it,” said the warchief. “If Hweilan, Hand of the Hunter, takes it with me. If she will hold the duke’s son to his word, I swear to care for your family myself, Urlun. The Damaran can repay me.”

  Hweilan had to admire Buureg’s play. He had just indebted a wealthy Damaran house to himself-and established a potential alliance. She could see how he had attained his status as warchief. She nodded her assent to his plan.

  All eyes focused on Urlun. The youth looked from Buureg to Mandan to Hweilan before turning his gaze to Ruuket. “Mother?”

  She nodded.

  Urlun looked back to Mandan.

  “Well?” said Mandan.

  “You swear?”

  Mandan surged to his feet, chains rattling. Urlun took a step back and all the warriors tensed.

  “I told you to hold that blade steady,” said Mandan, and in one quick movement he grabbed the blade in his right hand. But he didn’t yank it from the boy’s grasp. Instead, he squeezed and slid his hand down the steel, opening a deep gash in his palm. He held the fist up, dark blood pouring down his arm.

  “I killed your father, Urlun,” said Mandan. “I fought to defend myself, but I killed him in my rage. And though it felt good to do it, I left you fatherless. That is my sin. Torm sees me. May his strong right hand grant me the strength to redeem myself. I will teach you all I know. I will care for your family. I swear it.”

  And then Mandan collapsed to his knees, wavered there a moment, and fell face forward into the dirt.

  Afterward, while the warriors were bundling Mandan in a cloak and arguing over who would help him down to the fortress, Hweilan sidled up to Buureg.

  “Why?” she asked him.

  He kept his gaze on his warriors as he answered. “That’s no riddle. The Razor Heart needs all the allies it can find in these troubled times. I had the choice of fighting you, earning the ire of your master, and angering a Damaran lord-or making a friend of both. I chose the wiser path.”

  “The Hunter has no friends, Buureg.”

  “And you, Hand of the Hunter, what do you have?”

  Hweilan walked away. She had no answer to give him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Hweilan heard the confrontation long before she saw it. Voices raised in argument-and one voice above all the others. When she walked up to the campfire, Valsun was holding Darric, who was screaming and facing down five hobgoblin warriors, all of whom had clubs in their hands and looked eager to use them. Jaden stood several paces away, eating a bowl of stew. His gaze flitted between the confrontation and four other warriors keeping an eye on him. All too easy to read him. If a fight broke out, Jaden was ready to run.

  “Take me to him now, damn you!” Darric screamed. “You take me or I’ll-!”

  “Darric!” Hweilan shouted as she approached the fire.

  Everyone turned to look at her and the wolf and hobgoblin warriors walking behind her.

  “Hweilan?” said Darric.

  “What do you think you’re doing? You really think you can threaten them into giving you what you want?”

  “They still won’t let me see Mandan! Hweilan, my-”

  “Mandan is fine,” said Hweilan. “I just left him. Kaad was seeing to him. I expect your brother will be here before long.”

  A look of almost comical bewilderment passed over Darric’s face. “I … I don’t understand. They said-they told me Mandan was to be killed.”

  “He was,” said Hweilan. “But we made a deal.”

  “A deal?” said Valsun.

  “What kind of deal?” said Darric.

  Hweilan kept her face still. “The Razor Heart have agreed to release Mandan … if Jaden will marry the queen’s daughter.”

  “What?” said one of the hobgoblins near Darric. “Maaqua has no daughter.” But he spoke it in Goblin, so none of the Damarans understood him. But his companion seemed to have caught on and nudged him to silence.

  “Your friend here offers his congratulations,” said Hweilan to Jaden.

  That did it. Jaden let out a squawk, then ran for it.

  None of the hobgoblins bothered to try to stop him. Indeed, none could have. Not only was Jaden surprisingly swift for someone so small and thin, but the hobgoblins all began laughing so hard that they had trouble standing.

  Hweilan looked down at Uncle. “I supposed you’d better go get him before he does something stupid. Wutheh Jaden.”

  The wolf bounded off into the dark. Hweilan picked up the bowl and finished the contents.

  “I still don’t understand,” said Darric. “Jaden married?”

  “Who would want to marry that git?” said Valsun. “Poor girl.”

  Hweilan smiled. “There’s no marriage. A little fun on my part, I’m afraid.” She set the bowl back down by the fire.

  Darric’s jaw tightened in anger. “My brother-!”

  “Is fine,” said Hweilan. “We bargained for his life. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when he gets here.”

  “He’s really coming, then?” said Valsun.

  “As I said, Kaad is seeing to him now. I’m sure you’ll be one of the first things on his mind. So don’t do anything stupid until he gets here. I’m done trying to rescue people for the day.”

  She turned and walked away.

  “Where are you going?” Darric called after her.

  “War council.”

  Maaqua held her council in a chamber deep inside the mountain. The vast cavern, wider than a tourney field, overwhelmed the small gathering. Witchlights fluttered around the chamber like down on a breeze, giving a bluish-green light to the proceedings. Those attending sat in the very center of the chamber so that no one could approach without being seen.

  Maaqua and Elret were there, as were a few others in rune-decorated robes that Hweilan took to be priestesses or disciples of some sort. Warchief Buureg attended with his favored warriors, and the elders of the Razor Heart’s most prominent families finished the roster. All told, there were only two dozen hobgoblins and Hweilan assembled in the chamber.

  When they were all settled, Maaqua looked a
round the room and scowled. “Where is Rhan?”

  Buureg gave Hweilan a warning glance, but she ignored it.

  “The Cauldron of the Slain,” said Hweilan. “He stands vigil.”

  Maaqua’s scowl deepened, but she said no more.

  The queen laid out her intentions to the council. She would send Hweilan and the Damarans on their way with whatever warriors wanted to accompany them. The old schemer phrased it as if Hweilan was going out at Maaqua’s behest to fight the Razor Heart’s enemies. But Hweilan said nothing to contradict her. If the queen had to embellish a bit to get her people on her side, so be it. Maaqua would also send other parties of warriors throughout the mountains in hopes of distracting Highwatch’s attention.

  “That won’t matter,” said Hweilan.

  “Eh?” said Maaqua.

  “Jagun Ghen”-Maaqua flinched at the name-“can sense me. You could send every warrior you have to light fire to the mountains, and he would still know I’m coming. He’ll know right where I am.”

  “So what do you intend?” said Buureg. “To just walk right in to Highwatch and challenge him?”

  Hweilan shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “Fool,” one of the elders muttered.

  Hweilan ignored him and fixed her gaze on Maaqua. “But I know where he is. Finding him isn’t the trouble. Getting to him … that is where you could be of help.”

  “What do you mean?” said Maaqua.

  “Send your warriors. But not to harry any baazuled in the mountains. Attack Highwatch with every warrior you can spare. It won’t be easy. In fact, it will be bloody and brutal. But if your people can keep enough of Jagun Ghen’s forces busy … perhaps I can get to him. And if I can get to him, I can end this.”

  None of the councilors balked. They had either seen the baazuled apparate on their doorstep or heard the tale from those who had. There was no question they had to take action. And if they could send an outsider to do the work for them … all the better. Hweilan explained where she needed them to attack and when.

  “Very well,” said Maaqua. “It shall be done.”

  Hweilan thought the worst of the talking was over and was about to get up to leave-the gunhin was finally wearing off and she actually felt sleepy-when Maaqua said, “There is one other matter.”