Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (12 page)

Hweilan waited until they had left the light of the fires behind and were making their way along a trail that snaked along a cliffside before she said, “I would say my farewells to my other companion. Mandan. The big one.”

Hratt stopped and turned. “He belongs to Ruuket. Buureg said nothing ab—”

“Did Buureg
command
you not to allow me to see to the welfare of my companion?”

“Uh … no. Bu—”

“I’ll be dead tomorrow, if you’re right. Mandan not long after. Yes?”

“You said nothing about that. You said you wished to claim your weapons for the Blood Slake. You never said—”

“I’m saying it now. There is no harm in seeing him one last time. Am I not oathbound to keep the peace?”

“Yes, bu—”

Hweilan took a step forward, looking up at the larger warrior but very obviously invading his personal space.

“And do you question my honor?”

Hratt scowled but he did not back away. “No.”

“Then lead on, Hratt.”

He stood there a while, wrestling with his own thoughts, but at last he did as she told him. Behind them, Hweilan’s
ears caught the sound of footsteps. Furtive and keeping their distance. But no matter how many twists or turns they took, they did not lose the footsteps.

It seemed that Hratt might not trust her too much after all.

Under the light of the waxing moon, they walked on cliffside paths and climbed shelves of rock. Hweilan suspected that, though there were surely other ways from inside the fortress, Hratt was taking her by the most uncomfortable way possible out of pure spite. But Kaad’s healing concoction was still coursing through her, and she actually found the biting cold refreshing.

While they walked, she stripped away the last of the cartilage from the leg bone with her teeth. When the bone was as smooth as she could make it, she cracked it against the rock. It broke just as she hoped it would, with a sharp shard on one end. She pried off the knobby end, not caring about the jagged edge—glad for it, in fact—and then began to suck out the marrow. She watched the path as they walked, hoping for a twig or even a bit of stiff grass she could use to clean out the marrow, but she saw nothing but rocks and dirt.

Hweilan heard the footsteps behind them several more times on their way down the mountain, but she never caught sight of a shadow, and if Hratt heard the steps, he gave no sign.

After cresting an offshoot of the mountain, Hratt led her down a path that hugged the cliff wall to the left and dropped to the canyon floor on the right. They turned into a fissure that split the cliff and remained open to the sky, then emerged into a little valley, no more than a stone’s throw across. On the far side was a small cave. An iron door swung open on its hinges, and firelight bled out of the cave. She could hear harsh voices coming from inside.

Hratt stopped.

“In there?” Hweilan asked.

He nodded, then let her go first.

She jogged across the small valley but slowed before entering to allow her eyes to become used to the bright light.

After the night cold, it felt like walking into an oven. Beyond the door was a wide chamber that had probably once been a natural cave but had since been considerably expanded. Two closed iron doors faced her on the opposite wall. Most of the light and heat came from a fire pit in the middle of the floor, heaped high with glowing coals. But torches also burned in sconces on the walls, their inky smoke staining the stone before escaping through vents in the low ceiling.

Two hobgoblins, dressed only in loincloths and boots, stood near the wall to her right. One held a whip, and by the way it dangled from his hand, Hweilan knew it was studded with iron or stone. They had their backs to the door and so did not see Hweilan enter. All their attention was focused on the bloody thing strung up in front of them.

A thick chain hung from the ceiling, holding an iron bar longer than Hweilan was tall. Mandan’s arms had been bound to the crossbar with many links of jagged chain, and his legs, bound at ankle and knees with more chain, dangled less than a foot from the floor. At first Hweilan thought his clothes were hanging from him in bloody rags, but then she saw that he was completely naked, and the ragged bits hanging off him were skin. His chest and the front of his legs had been flayed, then the wounds cauterized so that he wouldn’t bleed to death. Instinctively, she reached for her knife, only to realize it wasn’t there. No matter. Bare hands would be better for this anyway.

The hobgoblin with the whip drew his arm back for a strike.

“Stop!” Hweilan shouted as she advanced on them.

They turned, their eyes widening in surprise, and the whipless one called out, “Up, you slaggers! Bring your blades!”

But then the one with the whip pointed at her. “You!”

She stopped three paces in front of him, ready to catch the whip should it come at her.

One of the iron doors slammed open, and four more hobgoblins rushed into the chamber, all of them bearing swords.

“Stop!” said the one with the whip. “This is the blood-bound! The one who fights Rhan at dawn. She touches either of us and her life is forfeit. Isn’t that right, girl?”

The hobgoblin laughed, his fellows joining in. It was all Hweilan could do not to slam her foot into his gut and throw them both into the fire pit. But his words were true.

But then a shape moved passed her with a clank of armor. Hratt smashed his gauntleted fist into the whip-holder’s face and he went down like a wet sack. His companion tried to back away, but not quickly enough. The same gauntlet backhanded him, and when he had the stupidity not to go down, Hratt brought his other fist full force into his gut. The four newcomers stood dumbstruck.

“I am not bound!” said Hratt. He yanked the whip out of the first hobgoblin’s hand and proceeded to lash them both. “You … were told … to guard him … and keep … him … alive. Nothing more!” He emphasized each word with a snap of the whip.

“You presume to stand in the place of Ruuket and her children? If this man’s blood is to be run, it is theirs to run. Not yours! Or yours! Or—yours!” Every time one of them tried to scramble away, he kicked them down again. Hweilan heard bones crack from the last kick.

One of the hobgoblins who’d come out of the door dropped his sword and grabbed Hratt’s arm. “Stop, Hratt! You’ll kill them!”

“I will! I’ll have their flea-infested heads nailed to my door!”

“Hratt, stop! Stop this!”

It took a second hobgoblin to hold Hratt and two more to drag their bleeding fellows out of his reach. The wide, frightened eyes of the warriors and the bleeding backs of the first two seemed to bring him back to his senses.

“Get them out of my sight,” he said.

The one who’d been holding the whip had to be carried out, but his companion managed to limp against one of his fellows.

The two holding Hratt released him and quickly stepped away. Hratt looked at Mandan, then turned his scowl on
the remaining guards. “You two, go get Kaad. Now. And be quick, or you’ll need him, too.”

Hweilan waited for them to leave before relaxing. She gave Hratt a small but very sincere bow of her head. “Thank you.”

The fury had still not left Hratt’s visage. “Not all the Razor Heart are honorless curs. To see a warrior treated this way … it is a shame to me.”

“But weren’t you going to torture him to death anyway?”

“Your friend killed Ruuket’s mate, leaving her children without a father. His blood is theirs. It does not belong to those two cowardly bastards. They are no better than thieves. To steal from children …”

Hweilan returned her attention to Mandan. He was still breathing, but his eyes were closed and his jaw hung open. If he was even aware of her presence—

“No!”

By the time Hweilan turned, Darric was already through the door and running straight for Hratt. He held a rock in one hand, raised to strike.

Hweilan leaped between them. A look of helpless fury crossed Darric’s face as he tried to swerve around her. But Hweilan stepped in, grabbed his raised arm with one hand and planted her other in his stomach, using Darric’s own momentum to turn him up and over. When he landed on his back, she twisted the arm she still held, turning him. She came down, one knee in the middle of his back and her free hand holding down the back of his head.

“Get off me!” he shrieked.

“Drop the rock,” she told him, keeping her voice calm.

He screamed wordlessly and tried to buck her off, but she put her weight onto the back of his head and twisted his arm further. He screeched louder and tried to bat her away with his free hand, but she was well out of his reach.

“Look what they did to him!” Darric said. “Look!”

Hweilan leaned in close so he could see her, but she kept her grip tight on his arm and scalp. “Hratt didn’t do this. Hratt caught the ones doing it and beat them senseless.
Hratt
has
sent for a healer. Now drop that rock, Darric, or I’m going to pull your arm out of its socket.”

Darric let out another growl, then the rock clattered to the ground.

“Now,” said Hweilan, “if I let you up, are you going to stop this foolishness?”

“If my brother dies—”

“Hratt told the two who did it that he’s going to nail their heads to his door. And if Mandan dies before the healer gets here, I’ll hold the nails while you hammer. But if you come after Hratt again, the healer is going to need to
see you
as well. Understand?”

She twisted his arm a bit more to drive home her point.

“I understand,” said Darric through a clenched jaw.

Hweilan let go of Darric’s scalp but kept hold of his arm while she stood. She kicked the rock into the fire pit, then released him and stepped back.

Hratt stepped forward and lowered a hand to help him up.

Darric glared at the hand. “What she says is true? You beat the ones who did this to my brother?”

“And sent for the healer,” said Hratt.

Darric allowed the hobgoblin warrior to help him to his feet. Then he pushed past them both and went to see to Mandan.

“Strangest night in my memory,” said Hratt. “I beat two Razor Heart warriors within a breath of their life, and a human girl protects me from one of her own. You have brought most interesting days to our home, Hand of the Hunter.”

Hweilan smiled. “Just wait until dawn.”

C
HAPTER
TEN

I
T SEEMED THAT ALL OF THE
R
AZOR
H
EART HAD TURNED
out. Hratt knew the clan had many parties hunting and scouting the mountains—and others doing even less savory work elsewhere—but looking at the crowd in the valley it seemed to him that every warrior, mate, youngling, priest, and oldster still in the fortress had gathered in the sheer-walled valley. Even the slaves lingered around the edges of the throng, climbing boulders or cliffside crenellations in hopes of seeing the Razor Heart champion fight the girl.

Most knew of the horrors that had been haunting the mountains over the past few months. A change in the wind had come—something hunting those horrors. Tales of what Hweilan had done: killing the monsters out of Highwatch, capturing the Razor Clan Warchief, then bargaining with Maaqua for the lives of her companions—all of it had spread throughout the clan like fire on dry grassland.

“Gods damn them all.”

Hratt turned to see the crowd parting to allow a trio to approach. Maaqua walked up to him with her staff, as always, but she did not lean upon it. Warchief Buureg walked beside her in full armor, though he held his helmet under one arm. Rhan walked a ways behind them, the Greatsword of Impiltur in its scabbard riding on his back.

Hratt said nothing.

Maaqua stopped beside him and motioned for him to lean in close. He did.

“We’re fools to allow this,” Maaqua whispered to Hratt, “and they are fools to encourage it. Dirt-munching, scum-licking fools … gods
damn
every last one of them.”

Hratt bowed his head deferentially but said nothing.

“You watched her?” Maaqua asked in a low tone. “All night?”

Hratt said, “I did.”

He spared a glance back at Rhan. It was no secret among the warriors that Hratt had bet heavily on Hweilan to prevail. The Razor Heart champion curled his upper lip over his teeth in a sneer of challenge. Hratt ignored him. Rhan could go rut a rat for all he cared.

“And …?” said Maaqua.

Hratt briefly recounted the night’s happenings—Hweilan looking after the big Damaran, subduing the pretty lad, then seeing to her belongings. She had rummaged through her pack a long while, examining a variety of dried leaves, mosses, roots, and some powder that looked to Hratt like salt but smelled of juniper berries.

“Eh?” Maaqua asked. “What was she doing with these things?”

“She said that Kaad’s ministrations had worked wonders, but she needed something to settle her stomach. Said our food didn’t agree with her.”

Maaqua snorted. “And you believed her?”

Hratt shrugged. “I’m no wizard.”

“No matter,” said Maaqua. “I examined her belongings myself. Those weapons are one thing, but her pouch holdings are nothing beyond what a cheap apothecary might have. Is that all?”