Cry of the Ghost Wolf con-3

by Mark Sehesdedt

  “And if I ask Maaqua to throw you back in that hole until I’m well away?”

  Darric snorted. “You think you could trust that old adder not to throw us in a cook pot the moment you’re gone?”

  Hweilan sighed and looked away. “You won’t be any safer where we’re going.”

  “If we die,” said Darric, “we die fighting.”

  “It’s on your head, then. My days of saving you and your friends are over. I’m going to kill that thing. It’s going to take everything I have-and perhaps more.”

  “Then you should take everyone willing to help you.”

  It was done, then. She’d tried. Hweilan looked to Urlun and addressed him in his own tongue. “You should stay. See to your family. This hunt is too much to be your first.”

  He stood straight and glared at her. “I am no coward. And your big friend must hold to his word.”

  Mandan scowled at not being able to understand them, then pointed his chin at Rhan, who was standing apart from everyone, the fresh cuts and dried blood still prominent on his chest. “What happened to your friend?”

  Hweilan answered, “He took an oath. He’ll keep it. Don’t worry about him.” She lowered her voice. “But those eighteen over there? Watch your backs.”

  They left without ceremony or even so much as a farewell from Maaqua. Hweilan did not mind. If she never saw the queen again, that would sit with her just fine. Over the past year she’d met two queens, and both of them had imprisoned and tried to kill her. She’d had her fill of royalty.

  The Razor Heart had provisioned them well and knew how to pack in order to move fast in their country. The weather held, and they made good time, eating as they walked and stopping only to sleep the first night. Hweilan could see the toll it took on the Damarans, but she gave them each a small bit of kanishta root to keep them moving.

  Hweilan told the hobgoblins she wanted to approach Highwatch from the western mountains rather than through the main gates at the entrance of Nar-sek Qu’istrade. The hobgoblins knew their country well, and Hweilan let them lead the way. But midway through their second day the surrounding peaks began to look familiar to Hweilan, and she knew they weren’t far from the Long Road. Less than a day’s ride from where the Gap ended, the last hills broke themselves against the mountains, and the grasslands of Nar stretched to the horizon.

  The steady beat in Hweilan’s brain was growing stronger with every mile. She could feel Jagun Ghen pulling her in, like a fish on a hook. But nothing else behind or around them. None of Jagun Ghen’s minions. Either the baazuled were all waiting in Highwatch or the demon had found a way to hide them from her senses.

  They walked on a trail that cut its way through sparse brush and trees as it snaked its way midway up the side of a mountain. The hobgoblins were spread out ahead, only the last few stragglers in view. Rhan followed just behind them. The Damarans, Urlun, and Hratt brought up the rear. When the going was easy enough that they could talk, Mandan had begun teaching Urlun to speak Damaran. In return, Urlun taught Mandan a bit of the goblin language.

  They came to a small rise where the trees disappeared and the path lay open to the sky. The hobgoblins stopped, weapons in hand, eyeing Hweilan warily as she approached. Beyond, the path fell down a low rise for a mile or more before cutting through a gap. Hweilan saw ravens circling down there just as a howl sounded-four high yips followed by a long, undulating song.

  Hweilan stopped beside Rhan. “What is it?”

  Crouching on a nearby boulder, Vurgrim waited for the Damarans to catch up, then said, “See the ravens? Something down there is dead. Or lots of somethings by the number of ravens.”

  Hweilan said, “Be ready.”

  “Ready for what?” said Jaden.

  “For whatever killed them,” said Hweilan. She strung her bow.

  The path ran through the gap and, one of the hobgoblins explained, went for another half mile until it ended at the Long Road, which they would have to take for a while before breaking off to another trail that led back into the heights behind Highwatch. After that, their knowledge ended.

  When they approached the site where the ravens were circling, Hweilan could see many more were already feasting on the bodies and fighting over the choicest bits. The hobgoblins were wary and went in under strict formation. Flet and his archers held back, each with an arrow notched to his bowstring. Vurgrim and his warriors rushed forward, four at a time, then stopped and watched all directions while four more ran past them, stopped, and did the same.

  Hweilan had strung her bow, but the arrow she held was not one of her sacred weapons. She didn’t need it. If a baazuled was within ten miles, she would have sensed it, and she knew there wasn’t one for miles. Besides, ravens would never come near one of Jagun Ghen’s minions.

  Dozens of smaller fissures broke the mountainside here, and it seemed that a party had chosen one of them as a campsite. The remains of a large campfire lay on the ground in the middle of a ring of blackened stones. As Hweilan and her companions entered the hollow, the ravens on the bodies cried out and took to the air, joining their fellows above who were still calling out the feast.

  It was hard to be certain, because nothing had been left whole and the ravens had been eating awhile, but judging from the number of legs and heads strewn about, Hweilan guessed they were looking at the remains of at least fifteen horses. And the tracks they had come upon on the path suggested still others had fled.

  “Not hobgoblin work,” said Rhan. “Even if the Black Wolf or Blood Mountain clans were raiding this far, they never would have left this much meat behind.”

  Holding his hand over his mouth and nose, Valsun stepped around the entrails and blood to kneel beside what was left of one of the horses. “Saddles are Damaran, not Nar.”

  “Where are the riders?” asked Jaden.

  No one answered. Scattered among the carnage, Vurgrim’s zugruuk found discarded weapons-a shield, two swords, and a shattered lance.

  But Hweilan knew where the riders had gone. Through the reek of blood and offal and raven droppings, another scent came through, and it hit Hweilan’s brain like a spark on pitch. Baazuled had done this. The Damarans had been taken to become new homes for the demons-or to feed those who had already arrived.

  Behind her, Darric cried out.

  Hweilan whirled, bow raised, but there was no danger. Darric was on his knees beside the mangled remains of a horse’s head and neck.

  Valsun ran to him. “What is it?”

  “Look!” shouted Darric, pointing at the head. “Look at the bridle and bit.”

  Valsun did, and when he rose and turned to look at the others, his face was pale and stricken.

  “What is it?” said Jaden.

  “The symbol on the metal,” said Valsun. “It’s Soravian. From my lord’s stables.”

  “You mean … these were from your father’s house?”

  Darric was still on his knees, but his voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. “They came looking for us.”

  “No,” said Hweilan, and she made her voice as cold and heartless as she could. “They came for you, Darric. Your father sent men to find you. And now they’re dead. Or worse. How many more have to die? Go home, Darric.”

  Darric turned to look at her. Tears ran down his cheeks, but his eyes were full of rage. He pushed himself to his feet and took two steps toward Hweilan before Rhan stepped in and grabbed him by both shoulders.

  “Step back,” Rhan told him in Damaran.

  Mandan raised his club. “You should take your hands off him.”

  All the hobgoblins turned to watch. Vurgrim smiled, his eyes shining in anticipation.

  Valsun stepped between Rhan and Mandan. “That’s enough!”

  Darric shrugged out of Rhan’s grip, turned his back on all of them, and stormed off.

  “Excitable, isn’t he?” Vurgrim said in Goblin.

  “Shut your mouth,” said Rhan and Mandan at the same time, then scowled at one another.


  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  They left the place of slaughter to the ravens. Hweilan had hoped that seeing his own people butchered might finally crack Darric’s resolve and send him home. Instead it did the reverse. His companions sheathed their weapons, but Darric walked with his blade in hand. Although Valsun and Mandan tried speaking to him several times, Darric kept his mouth shut and his gaze fixed on the path.

  Late that afternoon, they left the mountains and entered the first of the foothills. But these were the Giantspires, and even the foothills were hard going. Still, they were now back in country Hweilan knew well. She had spent many happy childhood days in these woods with Scith and her family. And so Hweilan felt the change in the land much more acutely than the others did. No small animals rustled through the underbrush, but flies were thick in the shadows. Other than the occasional raven, no bird flitted through the trees. And even the few ravens seemed to be watching. As they passed an old, lightning-blasted tree, one alighted on a blackened branch. The bird did not cry out; it just sat there, watching them.

  One of Flet’s archers picked up a stone.

  “Don’t,” said Hweilan.

  He turned and glared at her, but seeing the look on her face, he dropped his stone.

  After they had moved on and the hobgoblin had walked out of earshot, Darric walked up to Hweilan. “What was that about?”

  They were the first words he had spoken to anyone since leaving the ambush site.

  “What?” she said.

  “The raven. You stopped the archer from throwing the rock at it.”

  Hweilan told him the story much as Gleed had once told it to her.

  “In the days of creation, Raven and his clan were all the colors of the rainbow and his song was the sweetest in all the airs. Of all those who fly, Raven was dearest to Dedunan, the Forest Father-the one you know as Silvanus. But then came Jagun Ghen. Raven did not fear his fire, flying through flame and smoke in his hatred of our enemy. That hatred still burns in them, and as a sign of the smoke through which they have passed and the dark ones they hunt, their feathers are black, their song made harsh by smoke and blood. And so shall it be until the Last Day.”

  Darric was silent for a while, and Hweilan thought he was preparing himself for a lecture on the holiness of Torm and how she had forsaken the path of her forefathers. But when he spoke, his voice was only curious.

  “So the ravens, they are … watchmen of Silvanus? That is what you believe?”

  A cautious smile crept onto Hweilan’s lips. “Something like that. More like allies.”

  “They fight our fight, then?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t think of them as servants. They fight the same fight we do. But if you think we can command them …”

  “You need to understand something, Hweilan.”

  Here it comes, she thought.

  “You think I disapprove of you. Of what you’ve become. Of what you’re doing.”

  “Darric-”

  “No. Let me speak, Hweilan. Please. What’s happened to you … I confess I don’t understand much of it. But over the past days I have watched you fight and risk your life to save people you barely know. You even saved Maaqua. And now you are doing it again, fighting to save others. If you honor Silvanus or this Master of the Hunt or whomever in doing so, it is your deeds that matter. You’re fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves. And whether you admit it or not, Torm is on your side. And Mandan and Valsun and I, we are his strong right hand. Stop slapping it away.”

  She watched him out of the side of her eyes as they walked. She’d never seen a look of such earnestness on anyone.

  She said, “The tree of justice grows from the blood of the just.”

  Words she had heard her father and Soran recite more times than she could count. They always did it after strapping on weapons and checking armor. They stood still with closed eyes, each man offering his own prayers, then recited those words. It gave them strength to give their lives in the service of others, believing that their sacrifice would not be in vain. Seeing that image again brought tears to Hweilan’s eyes, and she was glad for the mask covering her face.

  “Yes,” said Darric.

  “And this fight,” she said, “if it takes Mandan or Valsun’s life-or that young whelp following your brother who is only trying to care for his family-if they die in this fight, will you be able to live with that?”

  Darric sighed. “Hweilan, the only way to stop evil in this world is to stand against it. If others will stand with you, embrace them. If my brothers die in that fight, then I will do everything in my power to show them that I would do the same for them. The rest … let the gods decide.”

  That night, the group camped in a tangled copse of brush and trees on a high hill. Had any fires been burning in Highwatch, they could have seen them, for the fortress lay across the valley. In fact, they were not all that far from the graveyard where Hweilan had first faced Jatara and the Nar thug on the day Highwatch fell.

  Both Rhan and Valsun cautioned the others against lighting fires.

  “No sense in announcing our presence,” Valsun told them.

  “It won’t matter,” said Hweilan. She was sitting on the ground, her back to a tree, her bow and bone mask on her lap, and Uncle beside her. The others lounged around, rubbing sore muscles or running whetstones along their swords. “He knows I’m here. He knows right where I am. Fires or not … it doesn’t matter.”

  “Then why has no one tried to stop us,” said Jaden, “or come after us?”

  All eyes looked to Hweilan.

  “Why bother hunting your prey if it is coming to you?”

  “So we’re walking into a trap?” said Valsun. “That’s your plan? Spring the trap?”

  “Why?” said Vurgrim.

  “Because this prey intends to kill him.”

  The hobgoblins’ scowls deepened, but they kept sharpening their swords. The Damarans all exchanged glances, waiting for the other to speak.

  “Well,” said Jaden at last. “Fires or not?”

  “You cold, little man?” said Flet.

  “No,” said Jaden and spat into the brush. “I could walk with snow down my pants, and that root Hweilan gave us would keep me warm. But if any visitors from Highwatch do decide to pay us a visit, I sure as the Hells are hot don’t want to fight them in the dark.”

  And so they lit fires. They had no tea, but the Damarans heated water and threw in the strips of dried goat meat to soften them up. The waxing moon climbed high and bright into the sky, dimming the stars. No one could sleep. The Damarans were still running on the effects of the kanishta root, and the thought of a fight had the hobgoblins excited. After the meal, Darric, Mandan, and Valsun looked at each other. An unspoken thought seemed to pass between them, and they stood.

  “Where’re you lot going?” said Vurgrim.

  “We go to pray,” said Valsun.

  The hobgoblins chuckled.

  “In the dark?” said Vurgrim. “Your god will keep you safe in this dark?”

  The Damarans shrugged off the jibe.

  Mandan raised his voice for everyone, but he looked to Urlun when he spoke. “Anyone who wishes may join us.”

  Hweilan didn’t think Urlun had enough Damaran to decipher Mandan’s words, but he obviously understood the meaning behind them. He glanced at the other hobgoblin warriors, then avoided Mandan’s gaze.

  “As you wish,” said Mandan.

  The Damarans walked off into the brush, making a terrible racket as they went.

  “Hey, little man,” Vurgrim said to Jaden. “Why don’t you go pray with your friends?”

  Jaden was running his own whetstone down his short sword. He stopped long enough to throw more sticks on the fire. “The gods can hear me just fine right here.”

  The hobgoblins roared with laughter. All except for Hratt. He was sitting apart from the others, his head resting against a tree, his eyes closed. But Hweilan knew he wasn’t sleeping. She’d se
en his eyelids crack open now and then, keeping watch on his fellow hobgoblins.

  When the moon rose high enough that its blue light began to bleed through the branches, Hweilan stood and gathered her own weapons.

  “Hey,” said Vurgrim, speaking in Goblin. “You going off to pray, too?”

  “Everyone stay here,” she replied in kind. “If trouble comes from Highwatch, I’ll know it. If anything else comes at me in the dark, I’ll strike first and ask why afterward. And Vurgrim?”

  “Eh?”

  “A few prayers wouldn’t hurt you. I don’t think Maaqua would mind.”

  His warriors watched him, eager for his reaction, but he only stared daggers at Hweilan.

  She looked down at Uncle. “Chulet, Uncle. Keep an eye on them.”

  Hweilan donned her bone mask to see better in the dark, then walked away.

  “I am no one’s lackey, girl!” Vurgrim called after her. “You hear me?”

  Hweilan left by the same way Darric and the others had, but she soon veered off. She really didn’t think the hobgoblins would try anything until after Jagun Ghen had been dealt with, but she wasn’t willing to bet their lives on it. Hobgoblin warriors won status by conquest-treacherous or otherwise-and Hweilan had more faith in the benevolence of scorpions than that of Maaqua.

  At the edge of the copse, she stopped, sat cross-legged, and lay her unstrung bow across her lap. Arrows would be useless in such thick brush. She reached into her pack and withdrew the longest of the stakes she had made. Hrayeh ran down its length, and, looking at them through the bone mask’s eyes, she could see the power in them pulsing like a heartbeat. She planted the stake in the ground before her and closed her eyes.

  Times like this, with the quiet in the dark and the moon and stars as the only light, she could most strongly feel the presence of Ashiin. There were no words, and she couldn’t hear Ashiin’s voice, but the Fox’s presence was there, as both a comfort and an added strength.