Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (44 page)

Darric saw the monster coming for him, spear raised. He started to rise, but then thought better of it. If he ran …

No. A knight did not run, and a knight did not die on his knees. He could at least buy his brother time.

He stood, let his broken arm fall to his side, and reached for his dagger.

The horror before him had the pointed end of the spear raised to strike—that jagged black iron barb was as long as Darric’s forearm—but the monster instead threw the broken
shaft. It tumbled past Darric’s head so close that he felt the wind of its passage, then heard a
thunk!
as it struck something behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mandan falling, one side of his face a torn and bloody ruin.

When he turned again, the monster was upon him. Jagun Ghen grabbed a bloody fistful of Darric’s tabard and shoved. Darric fell onto his back, the impact on his arm shooting such agony through him that lights flashed in his vision.

Jagun Ghen planted one foot on Darric’s hip, pressing down, then jabbed the point of the spear into Darric’s stomach.

“You have changed my mind, boy.” His words were slurred as he spoke through the torn lips. Blood dribbled onto Darric’s tabard. “I will no longer kill you last. But I
will
kill you slow.”

He leaned on the spear, and Darric felt the point break through his mail, piercing his skin. Desperate, he brought his good hand up to try to grab the shaft, to push it away—

But another hand grabbed it first. Smaller than the bloody hand that held the spear, smaller even than Darric’s hand, it gripped the shaft with such strength that the wood creaked. Darric could feel the trembling of opposing forces, one pressing down and another pulling it away.

Darric’s gaze moved from the hand up the arm to the face. Hweilan—!

—only … not. Not any Hweilan he had ever seen. He had seen her fight before with a savage bloodlust that both sickened and—he had to admit—attracted him. The gaze of a beast overtaking its prey. But even that Hweilan was gone.

Her eyes burned with a green fire, and the mind looking out of them did not belong to Hweilan, nor even to a beast, but instead to something primal, an ancient gaze that had seen Faerûn’s first sunrise.

Jagun Ghen looked up at her at the same time. “You!”

“I end this,” said Hweilan. The voice was hers but not hers. “I end you. Now.”

Jagun Ghen screamed and struck at her, tearing the spear away from Darric. She caught his arm and held. He tried to
bring the half-spear around, but she caught his wrist and held it as well. The body the demon wore was at least three feet taller than Hweilan, his frame corded in tight muscle, but as they grappled it was obvious Jagun Ghen was weaker. His red gaze no longer looked hungry but afraid. Where Hweilan’s hands held him, the skin sizzled and steamed.

The breeze off the mountain strengthened, becoming a strong wind. It scattered the fumes lingering over the fortress, and for the first time the light of the moon shone unsullied on them. Even the stars seemed to bathe them in their cold, hard light.

Jagun Ghen’s eyes dimmed. A black miasma leaked out of his eyes, thicker than tears, and fell out of his mouth, ears, and nose, running down his chest. The reek of it made Darric gag.

The demon thrashed and kicked and shrieked. There were words in there somewhere, but in an ancient, vile tongue that hurt Darric’s ears.

Something grabbed his shoulder. “Help me!”

It was Mandan. Blood ran down his face, but his eyes were wide and bright. Hratt was with him, holding his right arm cradled to his chest, still smoking. Each warrior grabbed the shoulder of Darric’s tabard and pulled him away.

A loud
crack!
broke through the screams, following by the sound of rending and tearing. Darric looked back to the battle. Hweilan ripped off the arm that held the spear, tossed it aside, and grabbed the monster’s throat. Growling, she pulled him forward, her mouth opening.

Darric looked away.

“Is it over?”

Darric could not see, but he recognized Jaden’s voice.

They had fled back into the mountain, Mandan dragging Darric as he screamed for them to turn back, that he would not leave her.

“She’s already gone, Brother!” Mandan had said. “You saw …”

He had. Mandan hadn’t been able to describe it, but Darric had seen it. Hweilan was gone.

And so they’d run—Darric, Mandan, Hratt, and the young hobgoblin Urlun. It made Darric heartsick to leave Valsun behind. He thought the old knight might have still been alive, but he knew there was no helping him. Had they still had some of the hobgoblins’
gunhin
, perhaps … but they did not.

With no torch, the tunnel was black as a dreamless sleep. They rounded the first bend—and crashed right into someone. It was Jaden, who had fled the carnage above. At first he had stopped, he claimed, because the dark tunnel was too damned unsettling after all the horrors they had witnessed. But then he said he found his courage and was coming back to help.

“There’s no help,” said Hratt. “This fight is beyond us.”

They had argued briefly about whether to go on in the dark or back above to rejoin the fight. The sounds coming down to them through the tunnel made their blood run cold. The demon shrieked words that seemed to offend the ground and air. But for Darric, the savage roars coming from Hweilan’s throat were far worse.

And then they had stopped. The only sound was the new wind howling down the mountain not far away.

And so the five of them huddled in the tunnel, listening for any sound of pursuit from above or more trouble coming up from below.

Nothing.

It was Jaden who first broke the silence. “Is it over?”

No one answered. They sat there, ears straining to catch every sound. The air was too close, full of the smell of their own sweat and the reek of Hratt’s half-cooked arm.

“I have to go back,” said Darric.

“Are you mad?” said Hratt.

“I won’t leave Valsun up there.”

“Your friend is dead,” said Hratt, not unkindly.

“Then I must give him the final rites.”

“You may need them yourself if you go back up there.”

Before Darric could reply, Mandan said, “Where you go. I go.”

“Then why did you drag him down here in the first place?” said Hratt.

There was short silence, and when Mandan spoke again, Darric could hear the shame in his voice. “I was afraid.”

“You were right to be afraid!” said Hratt. “You saw what happened. Nothing we did hurt that monster.”

“Hweilan did,” said Darric.

“That wasn’t Hweilan,” said Hratt. “Just a meaner monster. You saw!”

“We’re going,” said Mandan.

“You’re fools,” said Hratt. “You were
right
to be afraid, damn you! A warrior knows when he is beat and flees to fight another day.”

“We are not warriors,” said Mandan.

“That’s right. We’re knights,” said Darric. “Afraid or not, we’re going back.”

Hratt growled and said, “Ah, fuming farging Hells, then I’m going with you.”

“But you said—”

“Fortune favors the foolish. But no one likes a coward.”

Darric led the way, Mandan right behind him. He heard the others following, even Jaden and the young hobgoblin. When Darric could smell the air growing fresh, he drew his dagger. He knew it would probably be useless against anything still alive up there, but the feel of steel in his hand helped him to push down his fear and keep his feet moving.

Darric emerged into the moonlight, the others at his heels. Nothing was moving. The scene was much as they’d left it, except that what was left of Nendawen was barely recognizable. All the limbs had been ripped away, the chest cavity torn open, the viscera scattered about.

“Where’s the head?” Darric whispered. He didn’t think any of the others could have heard him over the wind.

But Mandan stepped beside him and raised his arm. “Look, Brother.”

Darric’s gaze followed where he pointed.

Hweilan stood over the ruined body of her wolf. It was still moving piteously, but its body was broken and torn. Hweilan had her back to them, and Nendawen’s head dangled from her right hand. Blood still dripped from the ravaged neck.

Mandan kneeled, and Darric saw him retrieve something from the ground. It was the first time Darric got a good look at his brother since the fight. The left side of his face was one solid bruise, much of the skin torn and dripping blood, and his left eye was swollen shut. He handed it to Darric. It was Valsun’s talisman.

Valsun … a deep sense of shame washed over Darric. Valsun had been the only one to act a true knight. He had been struck down for his courage, but Darric knew he had still been moving when they left him. And they
had
left him, fleeing for their lives.

Darric walked forward, careful not to scuff his boots on the ground. Mandan followed. Hratt took a few steps forward and then stopped. Jaden stayed where he stood. After a moment’s hesitation, Urlun followed Mandan.

Darric kept his eyes on Hweilan—no, the thing that had possessed Hweilan—as he took the final few steps to where Valsun lay. When he kneeled beside him, his trousers soaked up the blood in which the old knight lay. He took Valsun’s hand in his good hand. At the touch, Valsun’s eyes fluttered open.

“Valsun,” Darric whispered. “I’m so sorry, my truest friend.”

The slightest flicker of a smile came to Valsun’s face. He took a deep breath, trying to speak but only succeeded in spitting up blood. Darric wiped it away on his sleeve and bent close.

Valsun tried again. “Boy”—his hoarse whisper sent a fine spray of blood into Darric’s face—“I’m … proud …”

He could get no more out, but his hand squeezed Darric’s hard, and Darric was looking right into his eyes when the
light left them and all the strength went out of his grip. Mandan kneeled on the other side, took Valsun’s other hand and closed it over the talisman. He laid the old knight’s fist on his chest and said, “Torm the True welcomes you home.”

“May you shine in the light of the True Resurrection,” said Darric, and he placed Valsun’s left hand on top of his right.

Hweilan turned at the sound of their voices, her green gaze locking on them. Her eyes narrowed as she studied them.

“My wolf,” she said, “needs nourishment. Living blood.”

She walked toward them, her green eyes fixed on Mandan. “Darric …?” he said.

“Hweilan, what are you doing?” said Darric.

She lunged, grabbing a fistful of Mandan’s hair. He screamed and struggled, but he could not break her grip as she dragged him.

Darric ran for them. “Hweilan! Hweilan, stop!”

He grabbed her shoulder, and without even turning she backhanded him with Nendawen’s head. It felt like being hit by a bull, and for a moment Darric lost all sense of sight and sound. When he swam up out of the darkness, he found himself sitting on the ground, Nendawen’s battered head in his lap.

Mandan was still screaming and kicking, both hands batting at Hweilan, but he could not loosen her grip. Hratt and Jaden were screaming as well, and as the fog lifted from Darric’s mind, he was able to put sense to Hratt’s words. “What do we do? Darric, what do we do?”

Darric pushed himself to his feet. “Hweilan, stop this!”

He ran for her. She grabbed Mandan with her other hand and held him over the wolf’s jaws.

“
Hweilan
!”

Darric was nearly upon them—though he had no idea what he’d do once he got there—when a purple streak burned the air as it passed his face, struck Hweilan in the middle of her back, and exploded in a burst of lightning. The force of the explosion threw Darric back, something scalding hit his face, and when he hit the ground he felt the bones of his broken arm grind together. He shrieked at the pain.

When the thunder faded, he forced himself up on his good elbow and looked. Mandan was free of Hweilan’s grip, though both he and the wolf on which he lay were scorched and smoking. Of Hweilan there was no sign.

Darric heard the clatter of armor and looked back to the mountainside doorway. Jaden, Urlun, and Hratt had hit the ground at the explosion and were just now looking up. Standing in the curtain of moonlight were four hobgoblins, all archers. The one in front still held his empty bow before him.