Cry of the Ghost Wolf

CHAPTER THIRTY

Maaqua had been true to her word. Although she had not sent the strength of the Razor Heart-she was not so foolish as to leave her fortress undefended-she did send hundreds. One party came from the north, using ropes and ladders to scale the small shield wall where a few baazuled had been set to watch. Seeing the great flare of light in the sky, followed by the battle cry of a hundred or more hobgoblins charging the wall, the baazuled did not flee. They waited for the first warriors to mount the wall, and then the battle began.

The sheer force of numbers was overwhelming. Hacking furiously, the hobgoblins slaughtered their way into the fortress, leaving mutilated bodies strewn around. With their homes destroyed, the demons simply fled to the nearest bodies, and the hobgoblins soon found themselves fighting against their own.

But these warriors were Razor Heart, and they soon found a solution-leave no body whole. And so they smashed and slashed each body until it was no more than shattered bones and blood.

When the wall was finally taken, the three demons had fled. And of the hundred or more hobgoblins who had stormed the wall, less than fifty survived.

Yet another force came through the main gates of Nar-sek Qu’istrade, still broken and unguarded.

A third army struck from the southwest. As a child. Hweilan had known all the secret paths of Highwatch. On the day the fortress fell, Scith had taken her by the most secret way of all. And, although it had pained her to do it, Hweilan told Maaqua of this path. The daughter of Ardan, granddaughter of Vandalar, had felt like a traitor doing so. But Hweilan, Hand of the Hunter, knew that Damaran Highwatch was no more. Its secrets guarded only the dead.

And so the army had followed Hweilan’s instructions. By the time the new lords of Highwatch knew of the danger, the invaders were already in their midst, killing the last few surviving Creel who remained at the fortress, those who had been lured by promises of immortality and more. They fell beneath the Razor Heart’s blades or died on their spears. The warriors suffered great losses at the hands of the baazuled, and they scattered into the tight warrens and courtyards of the mountain fortress, rather than give the baazuled new bodies to inhabit. Others simply fled.

Stalking the unfamiliar fortress of the Razor Heart had been easy compared to re-entering Highwatch. Hweilan’s gut wrenched as she walked the halls. Every room, courtyard, and balcony held memories for her. And seeing the rampant neglect and purposeful destruction only fueled her rage.

Jagun Ghen had not been idle. All but a few of the Creel had either fled or been fed upon, and so he had tempted new allies from every back alley of Faerun-exiles from Rashemen, cutthroats and thieves from the Dalelands, assassins from Impiltur. He knew Hweilan was coming, and his lackeys waited to ambush her in courtyards, manned blockades in hallways, or stalked behind her as the alarm was raised and word passed from party to party. They had been told to expect a lone girl and perhaps maddened ravens or even wolves. Instead, many found themselves facing battle-hardened hobgoblins.

But for those of Jagun Ghen’s forces that Hweilan did run across, she had no mercy. Cutthroats and assassins fell under her knives. Thieves had their throats ripped out by her wolf. And everywhere the ravens struck, gouging out eyes with their beaks or slicing skin with their claws. She took care of those few baazuled she found with her bow, stopping only long enough to retrieve the arrows, lest some poor fool actually touch one with naked skin and free the demon inside.

Highwatch, once her home, had become a slaughterhouse.

Only one plain arrow remained. After this, Hweilan would have to rely on knifework. She did not want to waste the sacred arrows on Jagun Ghen’s mercenaries.

She could feel her enemy’s presence growing with every step-so strong that she could no longer distinguish the presence of Jagun Ghen from his baazuled. They were one presence in her mind, assaulting her from all directions, like a hundred fires giving off one vast wave of heat. She had no idea how many were waiting for her, but she felt the greatest presence in the upper areas of the fortress, where the high towers hugged the mountain itself.

A half-dozen mercenaries sprinted past her in the hall below. Hweilan crouched on one of the thick oak rafters above the passage that led to the hall where her grandfather had once welcomed visiting friends. The nearest window was several paces away, the light already growing weak with the oncoming evening and the shadows pooled thick near her hiding place. It gave her time to assess her situation.

She had not faced a serious challenge yet. The worst had been two baazuled at once, but the sacred arrows had soon dealt with them.

Still, she felt the noose tightening. She’d found passageways blocked by fire, or doors made impassable because of a rock slide. She was being herded, and she knew it.

In the distance, she heard the growl of a wolf followed by a high-pitched scream. Hweilan pulled the kishkoman from her shirt and blew three long notes, then a short call. A moment later, three harsh cries carried all through the fortress, into the valley beyond, and over the hills at the back of Highwatch.

Hweilan fitted her last plain arrow to the string, then dropped to the floor. The passage was too obvious. She pushed open the door to her grandfather’s hall and slipped inside. A window gave a good view of the east. From there, she climbed out and onto the roof.

The slate had not been tended since the summer before the fall, and she dislodged several tiles that slid off the roof to shatter on the flagstones forty feet below. A moment after the first two hit, she heard a cry from below.

Good. They’d heard her and were coming after her.

They’d taken the bait.

Hweilan ran along the roofline and blew on the kishkoman once more.

It worked. It had been one of Ashiin’s first lessons in the wild: If you’re being hunted, choose where you make your stand. When the hunter comes to you, be ready. Do not spring the trap. Be the trap.

Hweilan chose her spot well. In the middle of the fortress, in what had originally been a little valley carved by eons of running water, lay the main gardens. These were not places where the High Warden’s family walked in the evenings, full of flowers and trees. Watered by snowmelt off the heights in the spring, these gardens, in a field over a hundred yards across, were tended by Damarans who grew berries and vegetables and used braziers and bonfires to keep the plants from freezing in particularly cold springtimes.

But it was now a wasteland-little more than a wide courtyard littered with mud and stones from the broken walls. The bushes and small trees had been uprooted to feed Creel fires. The northern and western walls rose more than thirty feet above her, but the southern wall was only a yard or so high, and the eastern no more than a lip of stone. This configuration allowed sunlight to fill the garden in spring and summer. Beyond the eastern lip, the stone ran down a rock face that Hweilan and her few friends had climbed many times as children. At the bottom was another courtyard in the midst of the servants’ quarters.

The seven men and four women following her were too far back. Hweilan slowed to a comfortable trot, letting them gain on her. Then she caught a blur of movement behind the low wall off to her right, and another in the open arch beyond. Two doors directly across from her stood wide open. Hweilan saw nothing there, but her hunter’s sense told her something was waiting.

She stopped in the middle of the field near the well. Its stone rim was only a few feet high, but it would be enough if any of her pursuers had bows. She blew the kishkoman once more to let Uncle know exactly where she was, then tucked it back into her shirt. There was no reply from the wolf this time.

Her pursuers dashed into the garden. Seeing Hweilan, they fanned out and blocked the doorway behind them. Two of the men and one of the women had bows.

Keeping her eyes on them, Hweilan took a step back, hoping it would spur their next move.

Four more men emerged from the archway. Two carried a net between them and the other two had clubs. Another archer rose from behind the wall in front of them. His eyes were watery and jittered back and forth like a bird’s.

Then Hweilan heard the clank of armor, and a moment later more figures emerged from the passage to the storerooms. Three were massive brutes in dirty mail. Their helmets hid their faces, but by the tint of the skin on their bare arms, Hweilan guessed they were half-orcs. The men behind them also carried a net.

“Your running is done, girl,” said the woman with the bow. She spoke in perfect Damaran.

But it was the archer beside her that held Hweilan’s attention. Of all the faces around her, his was the only one not set in an eager smile, hesitant fear, or the insolent sneer of a tavern brawler. His face had no more emotion than a statue, but his eyes didn’t miss a movement from Hweilan or anyone else. Most of those approaching her were brawlers, thugs, or those hungry enough for power to sell their souls. This man was a killer. Hweilan knew he took no pleasure in it, nor felt any remorse. It was a means to an end, no different than scratching an itch. Hweilan was glad she had kept one arrow.

“Why the nets?” Hweilan called out. The nearest of them was only fifteen paces away.

“You’re wanted alive,” said the woman. “Something special in mind for you. A great honor, I’m told. It’s best if you come nicely.”

Holding her bow and the shaft of the arrow in her right hand, Hweilan pointed at the woman. Loud and clear, she said in Goblin, “That one first.”

One of the half-orcs cried out a warning, and then an arrow slammed into the woman’s temple.

In that instant, when everyone turned to see where the arrow had come from, Hweilan raised her bow, drew the arrow as she aimed, and loosed. By the time the sharp stone killer had turned his attention back to her, the arrow was only inches from his face. Then the arrow tore through his eye.

The garden filled with screams even before the two archers’ bodies hit the ground. Flet’s soldiers were the first over the eastern wall. His boasting proved true. Not one of them missed. By the time the Razor Heart archers were reaching for more arrows, Vurgrim, the zugruuk, and Rhan had scaled the wall.

The fight was over in moments. The last few defenders tried to flee, but the Razor Heart cut them down.

As the warriors were looting the bodies, Vurgrim looked to Hweilan and said, “What now?”

She looked up at the fortress looming over them. “Up there.”

“Your demon lord? He’s up that way?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s close. I can feel him.”

“Then you lead the way.”