Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III

by Mark Sehesdedt

  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.”

  Drureng snorted. “It’ll be dawn before our duty’s done, at this rate.”

  Hratt ignored him and kept going. The tunnel grew no wider, but the ceiling rose high into the dark. Their torches cast many small shadows on the roughly hewn walls.

  They turned around a bend to the left, and there was the storage room.

  Hratt stopped and stared.

  “What?” said Drureng. By his whisper, Hratt knew the warrior could sense his surprise.

  “The door,” said Hratt. “Look.”

  He held his torch forward and pointed. The thick iron door was still shut. It had two slide latches—one near the top and the other about a foot off the floor—that had been secured with locks. Both locks had been smashed open. The dented and scarred central pieces lay on the floor surrounded by the broken and misshapen bits of iron link. The main lock—the one set just slightly to the right of the door’s center—was also dented and scarred. It looked as if someone had taken one of the heavier forge hammers to it, then used something else to try to pry the whole latch off. But the welded bolts had held.

  Hratt reached for his sword, and only then realized he had left it in his chamber. He hadn’t even brought his dagger.

  Drureng stepped to the side of Hratt to get a better look. “Who could h—”

  Hratt heard a sound like someone smashing a fist on a thick table, and then Drureng fell sideways toward Hratt. The armored warrior’s torch hit the ground a moment before he did.

  Hratt whirled, waving his torch before him. Drureng lay motionless on the ground.

  A dark shape, crouching well beyond the reach of his torch, straightened, and Hratt heard a relieved sigh followed by a chuckle.

  “Hratt, is that you?”

  Wide-eyed, Hratt took another step back and held his torch high. As the shadows stopped dancing and the firelight settled over the shape in front of him, Hratt recognized her at once. It took every bit of his warrior’s self-control to keep his feet.

  “You’re dead,” he said to Hweilan.

  “Not yet.” She smiled at him, though her eyes lost none of their hardness. “I am very glad to see you, though. I’m having a damnable time getting that door open. Please tell me you have the key.”

  Near the outermost borders of the fortress, a band of hobgoblins gnawed on the remains of their meal and passed around the skin. It was the third they had drained.

  “Back soon,” said one as he handed off the skin and stood.

  “Where you going?” said another.
<
br />   “Gotta make room for more drink.”

  His companions laughed and cheered him on.

  The hobgoblin took his spear with him. Even in the best of years, the Giantspires were not a safe place, and they had become particularly dangerous over the past few months.

  He hesitated as he approached the farthest edge of the firelight. He could have sworn he’d heard something. A sound of something moving in the dirt.

  One of his companions must have seen him pause, for he called out, “Need me to hold that spear for you?”

  “Which one?” another answered, and they all roared laughter.

  The hobgoblin turned halfway back so his voice would carry. “Be quiet!”

  The laughter died slowly. “What is it?” one of them called, still chuckling.

  “I heard something.”

  “If you want someone to—”

  There.

  “Silence!” he called. He’d heard it again. He was certain this time.

  His bladder was full to bursting, but he gripped his spear with both hands and took two steps back.

  “Over here,” the hobgoblin said. “All of you.”

  He could hear his companions coming up behind, so he ventured forward, leaving the last of the firelight behind, his gaze sifting every bit of shadow behind the rocks.

  The other warriors fell in around him. “What is it? What did—?”

  Another sound.

  “I heard it that time.”

  “Who’s there?” the first hobgoblin called.

  “Here, damn you!” The voice was deep and raspy, but it spoke perfect Goblin.

  “Name yourself!”

  “Rhan,” said the voice. “Come here. Now. Or I’ll kill every last one of you.”

  The hobgoblins exchanged a worried glance, then moved forward, spears and swords held before them. They put some distance between each other as they walked to give those with swords room to swing.

  “There!” said one of the hobgoblins, pointing.

  A large shape lay on the ground, a dark, wet trail in the dirt and rock behind it.

  “It is Rhan!”

  The hobgoblins rushed forward.

  It was indeed the Champion of the Razor Heart. He gripped the Greatsword of Impiltur in one hand. Even in the dim light, the hobgoblins could see he was covered in dirt, made sticky by his own blood.

  “Someone’s hamstrung him!”

  Bits of some cloth were bound round Rhan’s knees, but they were black with blood and dirt, and more blood was leaking out. Crippled, he had crawled all this way from … wherever this had been done to him.

  “Wh-what … what happened?”

  Rhan looked up at the warriors with such ferocity that the hobgoblins gasped and took a step back.

  “She’s back,” said Rhan through a clenched jaw. “She’s alive. Sound the horns!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BUUREG HAD NOT JOINED IN THE CELEBRATIONS. Something about the day’s events had left him unsettled, so he walked throughout the fortress, speaking with warriors and slaves, listening to every rumor and being asked a dozen times whether they would raid east or west of the mountains this season. He was in one of the outer courtyards when the horns broke through the sounds of celebration.

  The warriors with whom he’d been speaking sat still as stones, their mouths hanging open, skins half-raised to their lips.

  One of them looked to Buureg. “What—?”

  “Drop the drink and get steel in your hands,” Buureg ordered. Then he ran in the direction of the horns.

  Three wide-eyed warriors met him as he was leaving the courtyard. They wore no armor, but every one of them had a weapon.

  “What’s happening?” Buureg asked.

  “It’s the girl, she—”

  “Rhan! It’s Rhan!”

  “Silence!” Buureg cut them off. He pointed at the foremost. “You, speak.”

  The warrior swallowed hard, then said, “Arngul and his band found Rhan.”

  “Found him?”

  “Yes, warchief. He’d been hamstrung. She sliced the tendons in both legs. He had to crawl all the way back.”

  “She?” said Buureg. “She who?”

  “That human girl.”

  “The Hand of the Hunter,” said his companion, and Buureg saw the warrior was clutching a talisman in his left hand.

  “She’s alive?” said Buureg. “You’re sure of it?”

  “So says Rhan.”

  “Come with me,” said Buureg, and he turned on his heels.

  They ran back into the fortress, where celebrations were swiftly ending. Buureg gathered the first warriors he found, made sure they were armed, then sent them to guard the Damarans. He then counted off ten warriors, three of whom were actually wearing armor, and said, “You’re with me.”

  “Where are we going?” one of them asked as they fell into step behind him.

  “To the deep forge.”

  Finding the main door of the deep forge open, Buureg and his men proceeded with extreme caution. Every warrior had a blade or a spear in hand, and more than one was praying under his breath. If the girl had managed to hamstring the Champion of the Razor Heart …

  Buureg led the way into the chamber where the girl’s weapons and other belongings were being kept. He knew that Maaqua had ordered Hratt to bring them to her. On the way into the deeper parts of the fortress, Buureg asked every warrior and slave they passed if they had seen Hratt. None had.

  The door had obviously been battered, but it was still shut.

  “What now?” said the warrior behind Buureg.

  “Who’s there?” called a voice from the other side of the iron door.

  The warriors tensed and raised weapons, but Buureg recognized it.

  “Hratt?” he called.

  “It’s me,” said Hratt. “That wench locked us in here!”

  “Us?” said Buureg.

  “Me and”—a moment’s hesitation—“oh, Hells, I think he said his name is Drureng. She knocked him senseless. He’s still breathing, but I can’t rouse him.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Gone! She took all her things and locked us in here.”

  Buureg jabbed a finger at the nearest warrior, said, “Get them out of there!” then turned back up the hall, the other warriors following.

  “How?” the warrior called.

  Buureg ignored him and ran.

  The fortress soon reminded Buureg very much of an ant bed stirred by bored children. The horns had stopped, but the word was out. The Hand of the Hunter had survived and wounded their champion. She might have fled, or she might be loose in the fortress. Every hobgoblin in the fortress held a weapon, warriors had donned armor, and those not set at guard were prowling the fortress, searching for the girl.

  Buureg found one of his senior warriors who had just returned from seeing to the Damaran prisoners.

  “Quiet as cornered rabbits,” said the warrior. “All of ’em. No sign of the girl. Maybe she ran off?”

  Buureg didn’t think that likely. The first day he’d met her, she could have easily fled and left the Damarans to the Razor Heart. Instead, she’d held a knife to Buureg’s throat and bargained for their lives.

  “If she isn’t trying to save them,” he wondered aloud, “then what …?”

  “What says Maaqua?” said the warrior.

  Buureg’s next breath seemed to freeze his heart. “Maaqua …”

  Maaqua had her private chambers in the deepest caverns on the northern side of the fortress. Few beyond her disciples had ever been there. She sometimes summoned the warchief, but he never spoke of what he saw. Once, Buureg had brought two of his strongest warriors to carry some new treasure the Razor Heart had acquired in a raid. One had boasted of a vast chamber, with a floor that descended in terraces. Shelves lined the walls and terrace edges. Every one stuffed with books, scrolls, and tablets. The room itself was filled with tables on which sat iron-bound tomes, loose manuscripts, animal cages, skeleton
s, goblets of colored glass and precious metals, and the huge black skull of a dragon. Pedestals lined one of the lower terraces, and on them sat reliquaries of at least a dozen different faiths—some under such powerful spells that they smoked on the brass stands that held them. And scattered among all of it was treasure beyond imagining—jewels of every color, gold, silver, and metals of such strange colors that the warrior who told the tale said that he was certain they had not come from this world. That warrior had gone to his den that night, smug in the admiration of his companions. He had not been seen since. Maaqua made sure of it. Years later, the memory still brought a smile to her face.

  The time had come for Maaqua to roll the dice. She could wait no longer. She had held some small hope that she could trick or browbeat Hweilan into doing her bidding. But that was no longer a possibility. There were ways to raise the dead and make them bend to your will, Maaqua knew. But she would not risk that with the Hand. The girl’s ties to the Master of the Hunt were too strong.

  If you must strike the hornet’s nest—stand well away and be ready to run. A proverb she’d often heard in the south in her younger days. This was a good lesson to keep in mind when it came to Nendawen and his ilk.

  Maaqua had only days until the full moon, and what the girl had told her was true. The Master of the Hunt would not take kindly to what had been done to his servant. Maaqua had to prepare. And, come high summer, she would have to deal with angry Damarans, too. But Highwatch … that was the immediate concern.

  Bring us the girl and we’ll let you live. The demon’s words before disappearing from her doorstep.

  Would a corpse suffice? Perhaps. She was willing to bargain. But she would not beg. This meant she needed to know her enemy. She had already sent for the girl’s weapons. Now she wanted to have a better idea of what she was up against before she probed those secrets.