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

by Mark Sehesdedt

  Uncle stood on the rim of the Cauldron and let out a long, low howl.

  Hweilan’s tears had stopped, but ash had caked to her wet cheeks. She did not wipe it away. She took the bone mask from where it rode on her belt, slipped it over her face, and tied it on. It fit like a second skin, and the familiar presence of Ashiin settled around her.

  “Come, Rhan,” she said. “Death to our enemies.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  HWEILAN, RHAN, AND THE WOLF DID NOT GO BACK to the heart of the fortress, but took the outer paths and walked to the main gates, where Hweilan had first met Maaqua days ago. A large gathering was already waiting for her.

  Hweilan saw Darric, Valsun, and Jaden standing in the main courtyard. The men were still dressed in their ragged clothes and armor, and their weapons had been returned to them.

  Mandan stood with them, and by the heat in his eyes Hweilan knew Kaad had been generous with the gunhin. He still wore his armor, but over it he wore the furs and leather of a hobgoblin warrior—and it suited him. With his long hair blowing in the morning breeze and his full beard, he looked much more like a fierce tribal bone-crusher than a Damaran knight. He even had a new club. Not as thick as his Damaran weapon, but it was longer and banded in black iron.

  Beside Mandan, the young hobgoblin Urlun stood leaning on a brand-new spear, an axe tucked into his belt. A fine weapon for cutting wood or cleaving skulls. Urlun looked very much like the dozens of young Nar Hweilan had seen growing up—his face set in a fierce scowl that he desperately hoped would hide the fear in his eyes.

  Standing apart from this first group, eighteen hobgoblin warriors in light armor lounged around piles of supplies stuffed into packs. Volunteers. Hweilan didn’t doubt that many of them had been sent by Maaqua.

  Lingering in obvious discomfort between the two groups was Hratt. He had no armor at all. Just warm clothes. But he had two daggers and a wicked hand axe strapped to his belt, another knife tucked into a pocket on his boot, a sword on his back next to a full quiver of arrows, and an unstrung horn bow in one hand.

  Hweilan walked up to him. “Are you going to be able to walk with all of that?”

  He did not smile. “I know where we’re going. I don’t want to get killed for lack of fighting back.”

  “None of that is going to be any use against what is waiting for us at Highwatch.”

  Hratt cocked his head toward the group of hobgoblins. “It isn’t Highwatch I’m worried about.”

  Hweilan nodded her understanding and walked over to the hobgoblins, two of which stood to meet her. Rhan stepped forward to make the introductions.

  “This one,” he said, pointing to a lanky brute with only one ear, “is Vurgrim. He leads the twelve zugruuk.”

  This was not a word Hweilan knew. “Zugruuk?”

  “It means,” said Vurgrim, “that in battle, we are the first ones in. The real killers.”

  The swords he and his twelve wore looked suited to the task. They weren’t even two feet long, but they were wider than her palm and looked as thick as two of her fingers. With enough strength behind them, Hweilan knew they would crack even thick plate armor. Each one of the small shields strapped to the zugruuk’s forearms had a curved spike off the top and bottom rim, and every one was bloodstained.

  “Did Maaqua or Buureg send you?” asked Hweilan.

  Vurgrim sneered. “No one sent us. We heard you needed killing done. That means you need us.”

  “And the other raiding parties?”

  “Already gone,” said Vurgrim. “Left before first light. They’ll take the northern and southern trails to Highwatch, while we come up the middle.”

  Hweilan turned her attention to the other hobgoblin. Two full quivers of arrows rode his back, and he held a horn bow in one hand. Tucked into his belt was a wood-handled weapon capped with an iron hammerhead with a sharp spike behind it.

  “And you?” Hweilan asked.

  “Flet,” he said. “I lead the four archers.”

  “Your warriors are good?”

  “We’re the best.”

  Vurgrim bristled at this.

  “If it comes to a fight,” she said, “aim for the eyes. Plant an arrow in each one. And you”—she turned to Vurgrim—“tell your warriors to lop off pieces. The head if you can. If not, take out the arms.”

  “This will kill the monsters of Highwatch?” asked Vurgrim.

  “No,” said Hweilan. “But it might slow them down long enough for me to kill them.”

  Hweilan turned her back before they could barrage her with more questions. She walked over to the Damarans. Darric and Valsun stood straighter and offered her a small bow, but both eyed her bone mask warily. She knew it could be an unsettling sight, which was rather the point.

  “Good morning, lady,” said Valsun.

  Hweilan looked at each of them in turn. They all needed a shave and a bath, but there was none of the fear she’d hoped to find. If anything, they looked eager.

  “You don’t have to come,” said Hweilan. “You know what we’re getting into. Darric, take your people and go home.”

  Darric held her gaze. “Where you go, I go.”

  Valsun chuckled and said, “And where he goes, I go.”

  “We owe you our lives,” said Mandan. “I will not shirk that debt.”

  They all looked to Jaden, who blinked and looked at each of them in turn. “Well, I’m not walking back to Damara by myself, now, am I?”

  Darric was the weak link then. If he broke and decided to leave, the others would follow.

  “You remember that horror you faced in the mountains? How only one of them slaughtered most of your party? Even the wizard—”

  “You think I could forget?” Anger flashed in Darric’s eyes. “Those men died because of me.”

  She didn’t agree but didn’t contradict him either. She needed him thinking like a leader.

  “Where I’m going,” she said, “there won’t be just one of those monsters. There will be dozens. Perhaps hundreds. And their lord …” Hweilan looked to each of the men in turn. “That thing you faced in the mountains was a puppy. Jagun Ghen is a rabid hound. You think those men died because of you, Darric? Yet you want to lead these men into a place a hundred times worse.”

  Darric opened his mouth to speak, but Valsun spoke first. “We are knights. We swore an oath. If this demon is half as bad as you say, he’s building a kingdom near our homeland. We cannot allow that. If we turn away, we’re worse than cowards. We’re traitors. If I die fighting this lord of demons, I will not be ashamed when I stand before Torm.”

  “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 f
irst 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.”