Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (13 page)

Hratt explained how Hweilan had inspected the bow, long and hard, looking for the slightest sign of abuse while Hratt watched. He had explained to her that she could choose one weapon—any weapon—for the fight with Rhan, but a bow would do her little good. She was allowed
one
weapon. A bow
and an arrow … well, honor dictated that was two weapons. Hweilan had said she didn’t want the bow anyway, that it was meant to “hunt vermin,” as she put it. She had chosen one of her knives instead—one with red steel.

Hratt had tried to talk her out of it, saying that Rhan would surely fight with the Greatsword of Impiltur.

“The weapon doesn’t matter,” Hweilan had said. “It is the hand that wields it.”

And that was when Hratt decided to triple his wager on Hweilan.

“She’s fighting with a knife?” said Maaqua, her eyes wide.

“She is,” said Hratt.

Maaqua threw back her head and laughed, long and hard. She clapped Hratt on the back, “Ah, you did well, Hratt. Your wager’s a fool’s bet, if what I hear is true, but you did well. A knife!” She shook her head. “Ah, well.”

Hratt nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing but not wanting to offend Maaqua. She was in a fine mood this morning, but still … Hratt did not share her confidence. He was no fool. Rhan was a cold killer, no doubt—icy as a winter night’s frost. The Champion had a reputation for enjoying the heat of battle, of reveling in the sensation of his foe’s blood splattering over him as his sword bit deep. But this human girl …

Hratt had known humans since his first raid. He’d fought them, hunted them, killed them, heard their last breath as they died on the end of his blade. He had never before met anyone like Hweilan. He saw fierceness in her gaze, but something desperate as well, something truly hungry that would not shy away from the threat of death. Hratt had heard of animals that would chew off their own leg to escape a trap. And there were animals that would stay in the trap, angry and alive, waiting for the trapper to arrive so they could sink their teeth into him. Death did not matter nearly so much as the chance to look into the killer’s eyes one final time, and spit blood and defiance at death itself. Hweilan had the look of a tooth sinker.

After choosing her blade, Hweilan had asked to be taken somewhere where she could see the sky. The “cold light of heaven,” Hratt’s father had called it, when the sun slept and only those who dared defy death chose to shine. “The stars spit in the face of the unending dark,” his father had said. Hratt led her to a place on the mountainside where the black blanket of night covered them, broken only by the silver stars, the moon hidden behind the rocky teeth of the mountains. He had watched, sleepless and fascinated, as she sat on the stone—no coat, no cloak—and prayed to … whomever. To Hratt it did not matter. She could have prayed to the flowers of the field for all he cared. Most believed she would die under dawn’s first light, yet she sat under the stars and communed with her god, heedless of the cold that set a frost upon her skin.

Hratt had offered a few prayers of his own for her, but he would not tell Maaqua that. If he was wrong … well, then he was only out a bit of gold. A rather large bit, to be sure, but the world was full of gold. There were more important things in life. Seeing this human girl defeat the champion of the Razor Heart might just be one of them.

Hweilan stood at the bottom of the valley on a wide, empty space of ground surrounded by hundreds of hobgoblins. And the only thing she could think was—

Mother, father, if you could only see me now …

It made her smile, despite the dozens of fanged faces jeering at her.

Darric, Valsun, and Jaden stood near the edge of the throng. The old knight looked none too pleased at his surroundings, and Jaden looked downright terrified. He knew what was at stake. Darric was the only one who surprised Hweilan, for she had no idea what he was thinking. He stood between his two companions, crowded between a tight row of hobgoblins in front of him and hundreds more behind. He didn’t scowl in displeasure. He didn’t seem to be contemplating his own death in the event of her defeat. He
didn’t seem angry. He was completely stone-faced, oblivious to the taunts of the crowd and the malicious looks cast in his direction.

Last night, they had scarcely spoken until Kaad arrived. The healer took one look at Mandan and shook his head, saying there was nothing he could do.

“You have the
gunhin?”
said Hweilan.

Kaad swallowed hard and nodded.

“Give it to him.”

“I cannot. It is only for—”

“His life belongs to Ruuket and her children,” said Hweilan. “It is the way of the Razor Heart. Maaqua demands it. If he dies here …”

Hweilan let the rest go unspoken. Very reluctantly, Kaad gave Mandan the
gunhin
. Not a full swallow. Not enough to make him hale and whole. But the bleeding had stopped, the peeled skin fell away, and the flesh scabbed over before their eyes. He looked a horrible mess, but he opened his eyes and spoke for a time with his brother. Hweilan walked away, not wanting to intrude.

Later, Darric came to her outside the cell. He stepped up beside her, not looking at her but following her gaze into the darkness.

“You said you didn’t care.”

“I never said that,” said Hweilan. “I said I could not save his life. Nothing has changed.”

“He’ll live the night.”

“I’ve done him no kindness. Ruuket—”

“Then why did you do it?” Darric had looked down at her then. He’d even reached out to touch her. But she stepped away and he flinched as if stung.

She’d almost told him. Probably it had been the last of the
gunhin
running through her blood, addling her brain and making her unable to push out of her mind how well Darric’s shoulders filled his tunic. But she hadn’t. For two simple reasons. One, her plan had a cobweb’s chance in the wind of working. But more important, she knew Darric’s
pride as a knight and his stupid devotion to her. He would have tried to help and ruined everything.

So she’d looked up at him and said, “I didn’t. I came to say my farewells. It was Hratt who saved your brother.”

Darric’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared—hurt or anger, Hweilan could not tell. Her only experience with men had been her family. All much older than she.

“Why do you push me away?” he said.

“Because I see what you want, and I cannot give it.”

And that was how she’d left him. She’d hurt him. Of that she had no doubt. But it had been nothing but truth, and a cold truth was better than a warm lie. Her life was sworn to put an end to Jagun Ghen. Nothing beyond that. After …

She couldn’t bring herself to think of after. Not yet.

Hweilan sensed a ripple passing through the crowd, and she turned her attention to the path that led up the mountain. The crowd was parting to make way for three figures. The foremost was easily recognizable, much shorter than any around her. Maaqua, queen of the Razor Heart. She stopped to speak with a hobgoblin that Hweilan recognized as Hratt, then proceeded on, her two companions following. One was Buureg, the Razor Heart Warchief, and the other, towering above everyone in the crowd except for the bugbears, was Hweilan’s foe of the morning.

Unlike everyone else in the crowd, Rhan wore no armor and precious little else against the morning chill. He was bare above the waist, save for the belt of his scabbard, draping him from shoulder to hip. The hilt of his sword protruded from over his right shoulder, and despite the cheers of the crowd, his eyes were fixed on Hweilan.

She turned her back to him.

The crowd did not miss the insult, and they cheered and howled in anticipation of their champion’s wrath upon this human interloper.

Valsun shook his head, obviously disgusted at the foolishness of youth. Jaden closed his eyes and began muttering
what Hweilan felt sure were heartfelt prayers. Darric scarcely moved. He blinked once, and that was all.

Hweilan turned. Maaqua stood holding her staff at the edge of the crowd, but Rhan and Buureg had come forward into the center of the open space. The warchief had donned his armor, and the gleam of the metal and the reek of oil wafting off him told Hweilan that some poor slave had spent the night polishing it.

A hush fell over the crowd, beginning behind her, then spreading until a tense silence had settled over the valley. It was time.

Buureg carried his helmet under one arm so that all might see his face. He raised his voice, “Razor Heart! Rhan, son of Goruun and Mileq demands the right of Blood Slake! Hweilan, Hand of the Hunter, stands ready! All bear witness!”

The crowd roared their approval. Warriors slapped spears to shields or clapped their swords on the top of their helmets.

“Blood for blood, let it be done!”

With that, Buureg turned on his heel and rejoined Maaqua.

The crowd continued their jeers and cheers, but a calm quiet descended over Hweilan. The noise in the valley continued, and she let it wash over her. They didn’t matter anymore.

Rhan shrugged his way out of the harness holding his scabbard, then grasped the hilt of the Greatsword of Impiltur. He held it in front of him with both hands, on display, giving the crowd what they wanted, then let his left hand fall to his side. His right hand, still holding the sword, whipped outward, freeing the blade and flinging the scabbard into the crowd. They roared their approval.

In that moment, when she hoped most eyes were on Rhan, Hweilan brought both her hands to her face, feigning a final prayer. But in her right hand was the bit of rabbit bone. She sucked out its contents—the
drakthna
and crushed root of white
iruil
, a few other things from her pouch, and a bit of water. She hadn’t been able to clean the bone thoroughly, and
she hoped the remaining marrow and rabbit blood would have no ill effect upon her little concoction. She’d only done this once before, with Gleed. But he had taught her well. Still, while her hands were still in front of her face, she did offer a final prayer to Dedunan, Nendawen, and all her ancestors that this would work. Too much depended on it.

Rhan took one step forward, and absolute silence fell over the crowd. So quiet that Hweilan could hear the breeze cutting through the canyon and the heavy breathing of the crowd. The Razor Heart champion let his massive black sword fall, its point gouging the rocky floor of the canyon. He walked forward, every limb relaxed—but Hweilan saw that it was the looseness of an adder. His eyes were fixed on her. He was ready to strike at her slightest move. His bare feet made a scratching sound against the grit.

Hweilan didn’t move. She hadn’t even drawn her knife. Behind her, she heard Jaden whisper, “What in the unholy Hells is she doing?”

“Be silent,” said Valsun.

Rhan was only five paces away, and he still hadn’t raised the sword. Three more steps and he stopped, looking down on Hweilan. He raised his empty left hand, very slowly for the crowd, placed his palm on Hweilan’s forehead, and pushed.

Hweilan fell back three steps.

The crowd roared their approval at their champion’s insult.

Rhan stepped forward, raised his left hand, and did the same thing again.

Hweilan went back another three steps.

The crowd continued their jubilation, screaming and hooting. Their cries echoed off the mountainside. Hweilan was less than five feet from the nearest spectators now, her back to a wall of hobgoblins.

An insolent grin broke Rhan’s stony countenance, and he stepped forward again, his left hand coming up.

Hweilan smiled, and just before his skin touched hers, she twisted out of the way. Rhan tensed and had the tip of his
sword a good foot or more off the ground when Hweilan’s right foot hit him in the gut.

The blow would’ve folded a human in half and sent him to the ground, but the hobgoblin champion only bent and staggered backward, a very surprised look on his face as all the breath he’d been holding came out in a surprised grunt. The force of kicking off an enemy that probably weighed fifteen stone sent Hweilan flying back into the crowd. The onlookers pushed her roughly back into the fight—Hweilan took the opportunity to drop the emptied rabbit bone into the dirt—and when she regained her balance in a guarded crouch, she held steel in her hand. The blade was still as red as the day Nendawen’s blood had slaked it.

With this in your hand, part of me will be with you. Always
. Nendawen’s words to her. If he was with her now, though, she could not feel it.

Rhan raised the sword in both hands and tipped it toward her in salute. His smile was no longer insolent but impressed. “Well struck,” he said.

Hweilan flipped the knife, caught it in her left hand, then tossed it back to her right, blatantly showing off. “Do you know how to win a fight?” she asked.

Rhan’s only answer was a raise of his eyebrows.

“ ‘You must land a blow,’ ” said Hweilan, quoting Ashiin, “ ‘and to be able to withstand a blow.’ You’ve only got half the skills, friend.”

Rhan’s smile widened over his sharp teeth. “This night I will drink your blood by my fire and honor your memory.”