Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (10 page)

“B-but his screams …”

Jagun Ghen laid a hand on the eladrin’s shoulder. With another, this might have been seen as an attempt at comfort or reassurance. But Vazhad saw how the fingers tightened, the thumb almost tearing the skin.

“Let us hear those screams, Brother,” said Jagun Ghen. “Just for a while.”

Kathkur shook his head. “I—”

He tried to pull away, but Jagun Ghen tightened his grip, and two baazuled stepped forward, grabbing the eladrin’s arms.

“No!” Kathkur shrieked. “Please, lord! I—”

But then he lost all words—at least in any language Vazhad had ever heard. The eladrin thrashed and kicked and screamed as the baazuled dragged him into the basin.
The symbol on his forehead flared, and inky smoke slithered down onto his face.

The baazuled fixed the shackles to the eladrin’s wrists and stepped away. Kathkur’s arms were stretched straight out. The chains were almost too short, but they kept his thrashing under control. He couldn’t even stand fully upright, only managing a low crouch. Still, it did not stop him from trying, and his wrists were already torn and bleeding.

The Creel baazuled with the leather bag stepped forward, and again Vazhad remembered the man in the red tunic stepping forward to smash the skull of the ox. The baazuled held the bottom of the bag and let the top fall, upending the contents. A brass collar fell to the dust. The torchlight winked on symbols that had been etched into its surface.

Jagun Ghen said, “Put it on him.”

Kathkur’s eyes widened, he cried even louder, and the tears streaming down his cheeks began to steam and mix with the foul miasma leaking from the rune on his forehead.

The baazuled approached Kathkur from behind to avoid his flailing kicks. Still, Kathkur twisted his head and tried to bite, but the baazuled did his business quickly, bending the brass just wide enough to allow the eladrin’s neck to pass through, then squeezing it shut again. As soon as the ends came together, every symbol on the collar’s surface blazed red. The baazuled took a few steps back but remained in the basin.

Jagun Ghen stepped forward until the toe of his boot touched the stone rim. “Kathkur,” he said, calm as if he were beginning a conversation over the evening table.

The eladrin stopped screaming, fell to his knees, and stared treason at his master.

“That’s better,” said Jagun Ghen. “The sooner you relent, the sooner this will be over, and we can release you.”

“The”—Kathkur spoke through a jaw clenched so tightly that his entire head was trembling—“the … c-collar!”

“Intended for the eladrin, not you. Let me speak to him. Now.”

“N-no. No, I won’t. I … can’t!”

Jagun Ghen reached inside the sleeve of his robe and withdrew a rod. Scarcely longer than a man’s hand, Vazhad saw that it was made of brass, like the collar, and etched with the same sorts of symbols.

Kathkur’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “No. You said it was not for me. You—”

“You will submit,” said Jagun Ghen, raising the brass rod, “one way or another.”

Kathkur shrieked and thrashed, ripping skin and flesh from his wrists, pulling against the chains.

Jagun Ghen spoke an incantation, and the symbols etched in the brass rod he held flickered, flared, and then settled to a steady red glow. Vazhad had seen the rod only once before, when Argalath had first purchased it from a Thayan.

The eladrin kicked at the basin with such force that the bones in one foot shattered—Vazhad heard them even over the screaming. Kathkur’s back arched, and the light from the rune on his forehead blazed, and then went out. The eladrin’s eyes rolled back in his head, a final tremor shook him, and he sagged. Only the chains kept him from falling on his face. He hung there, his chest heaving, and when he looked up, even Vazhad could see that the demon had gone.

“Who are you?” said Jagun Ghen.

The eladrin looked around, his gaze passing Jagun Ghen, counting the baazuled, lingering on Vazhad for an instant, then the high walls around him.

“Highwatch?” he said, his voice a raw rasp.

The mottled blue of Argalath’s spellscar flickered, just for a moment, almost imperceptible against the torchlight. But the eladrin flinched as if he’d been jabbed with a dagger, took in a great draught of air, and clenched his jaw against the pain.

The eladrin swallowed, then said, “She … told me. About you. You’re even scrawnier than—”

The spellscar flared again, brighter this time. The eladrin’s jaw dropped as he struggled for breath.

“We will discuss her shortly,” said Jagun Ghen. “Ignore my question again and I will have one of my brothers bite off a finger. Now, who are you?”

It took the eladrin a long time to catch his breath. But he looked up at Jagun Ghen at last and said, “Ko … vannon. My name. Is Kovannon.”

The Creel baazuled said, “He lies. The one called Kovannon I left alive. His companions—Durel, Ulender—those two I killed.”

The eladrin tried to twist his head around to see who was speaking, but he could not quite manage it.

“My brother,” said Jagun Ghen, “did not always wear this form. Once, he had the skin of Jatara. A most faithful servant. So you see. I know you lie. I can smell Ellestharn and its bitch queen on you. You reek of winter.” He stepped forward, grasped the eladrin by the chin, and raised his head. “It would be best if you give me what I want. If not, I will take it.”

The eladrin held his gaze a long time. He must have seen something there that shook him, for he tried to look away, but Jagun Ghen held him firm.

“Men … duarthis,” said the eladrin. “Menduarthis. Of Isan Meidan.”

“Of Isan Meidan?” Jagun Ghen chuckled. “I think not. You dwelled there long enough, no doubt. But still you try to hide lies behind a little truth. Yes?”

The eladrin clenched both fists, rattling the chains, and for a moment Vazhad felt the air in the yard begin to stir. And then the eladrin screamed. The symbols on the collar flared like forge fire, and wisps of steam eked out of his pores.

“I am most curious how you control the air,” said Jagun Ghen. “It is not a spell. Some skill you learned in the depths of Ellestharn, perhaps?”

But Menduarthis did not hear him. He had passed out from the pain and hung limply from the chains. Jagun Ghen released his hold on the eladrin’s chin and turned to Vazhad.

“My friend,” he called. “I have need of you. Come. Please.”

Vazhad spared a glance at the alleyway, but the three baazuled still blocked that way. One of them peeled back his lips. Nothing like a smile. A predator’s baring of teeth, as if the thing sensed what Vazhad was thinking. Vazhad stepped forward, stopping just out of Jagun Ghen’s reach.

“My faithful servant,” said Jagun Ghen, “I fear I must … let go of this host. Just for a time. Care for it well, as you have always done.”

Vazhad bowed. “As you command, Master.”

Jagun Ghen turned back to Menduarthis and grabbed his head. Vazhad winced, waiting for the snap of the eladrin’s neck. But Jagun Ghen placed one foot down into the basin and leaned forward, so that his own bald pate touched the smoldering symbol on Menduarthis’s forehead. The eladrin mumbled something, then a shiver passed through him.

Jagun Ghen fell backward into Vazhad’s arms. But when Vazhad looked down, he saw that it was not Jagun Ghen. The jaw hung slack, and a trail of spittle trailed down Argalath’s jawline. His breath came in a harsh rattle, and the odor coming out of him was worse than a midden pit. He tried to open his eyes, but the light stung, and he flinched, squeezing them shut.

“Vazhad? Is that … is that you?” The last words came out barely above a whisper.

“I am here, Master.”

Argalath’s mouth moved again, but Vazhad missed the words.

Vazhad turned his ear toward his master’s face and leaned in closer. “What was that, my master?”

“Kuh!” Argalath rasped. “Kill … me. P-please. I … beg.”

Vazhad looked up. The Creel baazuled was still standing behind the eladrin, but all the others had stepped closer. The nearest was only a pace away, and they were all watching Vazhad. Full dark had fallen, and their eyes seemed black as the heart of the Hells. The fires burning deep in that blackness beckoned to Vazhad.

He heard the rattle of steel and looked back to Menduarthis. The chains still held, but the rest of the eladrin’s
body was floating above the bloodstained basin, and every bit of exposed skin trembled and squirmed, as if maggots had hatched in the muscles and were trying to break free.

Vazhad cradled Argalath’s head against his chest and tried to ignore the pleading.

C
HAPTER
EIGHT

A
N ESCORT OF FIFTEEN
R
AZOR
H
EART WARRIORS
led Hweilan and the Damarans into a fissure in the mountainside, leaving the sunlight behind. The hobgoblins lit no torches. In the close blackness of the passageway, through dozens of twists and turns and up flight after flight of stairs, Darric gave up trying to keep any sense of direction. The smell of the hobgoblins in such close quarters was almost overpowering.

Not far ahead of Darric, Jaden managed to walk, but his moaning and complaining increased until—

“Hey!” said one of the hobgoblins in Damaran. “You keep quiet and you have food and fire. You keep mewling and we leave you in the dark. You hear my words?”

“Just keep quiet and walk,” said Valsun from somewhere ahead in the darkness.

Soon, a thin, gray light began to illuminate their surroundings, growing brighter with every step. It was the late afternoon light struggling through fractures in the rock overhead, but soon the group passed by true windows. Some had the smooth edges and irregular shapes of natural caves, but Darric could tell by the hewn rock that others had been hacked out of the mountainside.

The tunnel widened, and they walked by other passageways and even a few doors. Their own path branched off now and again. Darric heard voices coming
from some of the other tunnels, and once a shriek that ended abruptly.

“What was that?” Jaden whispered.

“Keep walking or I show you,” said the warrior at his back, prodding him along.

The hobgoblins led them into a firelit chamber. It was so broad that Darric could not see the far walls, lost in shadow beyond the reach of the fires. But the ceiling was low enough that he could reach up and brush the rock with his fingers. The floor sloped upward slightly farther on and ended at open sky.

A few others puttered around the chamber, dressed in hides that were only a few washes away from rags. Smaller than the warriors escorts, they reminded Darric of goblins or some other cousins to the hobgoblins—slaves at any rate, by their outfits and the way they avoided looking at the warriors.

The slaves brought in several brass urns that glistened with moisture. A pair of them tended fires. There were no chimneys or vents that Darric could see, so the smoke’s only escape was up the very slight incline of the ceiling to the cave entrance. A large cauldron bubbled over one fire, and a variety of meats sizzled on a rack over another.

A month ago, Darric might have wrinkled his nose at the smell, but now his was not the only stomach that growled as the men walked toward the aroma.

The guards motioned to a row of blankets thrown around another fire. “Sit,” one of the hobgoblins told them. “Slaves will serve you.”

The three Damarans sat—Jaden collapsing onto the thickest of the blankets. Even though there was a pile of furs next to Darric almost deep enough to form a nest, Hweilan kept to her feet on the other side of the fire.

The hobgoblin warriors walked off to their own places; all but one, who looked down at the Damarans, then turned to Hweilan and spoke in his own language. She replied in kind, then the hobgoblin walked away.

“What’s happened, Hweilan?” said Darric. “Why have they let us out? And where is Mandan?”

He watched her for a reaction, some hint at his brother’s fate, but Hweilan’s expression might as well have been set in stone, and her eyes seemed to gaze inward. Pacing back and forth like a hound testing its leash, she gave them a brief explanation of what had happened after she’d been pulled out of the pit. How she could have such energy after what they’d been through …

Halfway through her story, two of the goblin slaves brought over a large platter of food. Bowls of some sort of thick, brown stew, filled to the brim, topped by strips of meat that Darric guessed—
hoped
—were goat. They were each given a sort of curved wedge of flat wood that served as a spoon, and another goblin set a pitcher of water next to Darric.

“No cups?” said Darric, but the slave only averted his eyes and scuttled off.

“And so the hobgoblins healed you?” said Valsun. “This … Kad?”

“Kaad,” said a voice from behind them, and Darric turned to see an old hobgoblin dressed in robes almost exactly as Hweilan had described. A brown paste had dried on his left temple, and the skin around it sported an ugly bruise. The newcomer looked at Hweilan. “Hratt said your companions need some mending.”