Cry of the Ghost Wolf

CHAPTER TWENTY

Argalath woke but could not remember where he was. His entire body felt scraped raw from the inside out. He struggled to take a deep breath, and the reek made him gag.

Preparing for the pain he knew would come, Argalath forced his eyes open. Thick tapestries covered the hall’s windows, but a little light still managed to leak around the edges. And the light pierced his brain like needles. He lay on the dais in the main court. The High Warden’s seat-the old fool had never allowed anyone to call it a throne, though he had been the closest thing to a king for hundreds of miles-lay broken and shattered on the stone. The robes Argalath usually wore were crumpled beneath him. He was naked from the waist up, his skin caked in dried blood. The remains of a goat lay at the foot of the dais. It had been gutted, but most of the flesh was gone. Mice had come out of the walls to swarm over the remains.

Feeling his belly full to bursting, Argalath knew who had eaten the goat, and with this realization, his stomach lurched. Bile and chunks of bloody goat poured out of his mouth, which only made him sicker. He heaved again and again until he brought up nothing but fresh blood from his own torn throat. The muscles of his torso cramped and he fell into his own sick. Laying there, wracked with pain, covered in his own filth, still Argalath smiled. Jagun Ghen must be running out of Nar if he had taken to eating goats.

“Soon,” Argalath said, and that one word made his raw throat burn. It would be over soon. One way or another.

For the moment, the thing inside him was dormant. The one in whom Argalath had hoped to find salvation brought only damnation. Argalath was weakened by the failed rite of the night before and the fight afterward. How long had it been since he had come out of the darkness into his own body? He could not remember.

He was broken. He knew it. All the promises-healing of his affliction, power of his enemies, perhaps even godhood itself … lies. He had been used, and he was almost used up. The fire inside him had burned too long.

“Master?” said a voice nearby.

Argalath raised his head, squinting against the light.

Beneath one of the windows stood Guric, his dead flesh sallow in the wan light. He, too, wore a coat of dried blood, and he held the remains of a goat haunch in one hand.

“Is it time?” said Guric.

“Time-?” said Argalath, then his voice caught in his throat. The thing inside him was stirring. Waking. That implacable will rising like fire through dry kindling. “No. Please … no-”

Argalath screamed, his back arching with such strength that he rapped his head on the stone floor. The mice feasting on the dead goat scattered into the shadows.

“Master?” Guric lurched forward.

“She has returned,” said Jagun Ghen. He could not open his eyes all the way and knew this frail body was about to fail him. Subduing the eladrin and that traitor Vazhad had taken too much of his strength. It was too soon. He needed more time. “I can feel her. She has come back to this world.”

“She will come to us?” said Guric.

“Oh, yes,” said Jagun Ghen. “And we must be ready for her. I must be ready for her.”

Jagun Ghen tried to push himself up, but his strength failed him and he fell again. His hands were shaking like an old man huddled next to his hearthfire. Damn Vazhad. He had done this-and then escaped punishment.

“Where is Kathkur?” said Jagun Ghen.

“The heights,” said Guric. “He wishes to perfect the eladrin’s gifts with the winds.”

“Does he?” Jagun Ghen forced himself to sit up. “The circle is prepared?”

“In blood and fire, lord.”

“Good.” He squinted up at the light leaking in around the thick curtains. “How long until darkness?”

“A while yet, lord.”

“Then I will rest. When the sun sets, bring Kathkur to me.”