Cry of the Ghost Wolf

CHAPTER SIX

Maaqua had left the door open when she departed, and bright daylight spilled across the floor. Hweilan flinched, remembering the queen’s words about sunlight hitting the muck on her arm, wondering if it might have any effect on her. But as the sunlight fell on her legs, she felt nothing but warmth.

Kaad pushed himself to his feet, put his hand to his temple, then pulled it away, looking at the blood on his fingers. Now that he stood in the full light, Hweilan could pick out more details. He was more than scrawny and old. Pale tracks of fading scars marred his face and forehead and even the back of his hands. He dipped the edge of his robe in the cauldron of water and daubed at his bleeding temple.

“Not the first time she’s hit you,” said Hweilan.

Kaad didn’t look as he replied. “I am a slave. But I am also a healer. I have a balm. This wound will not fester.”

“Not the skin anyway,” she told him, and he gave her a sly smile. “You are not Razor Heart?”

“Black Wolf.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Thirty years,” he said. “Thirty years since I last walked the Dunwood. Long years in these cold mountains.”

“Why stay, then?”

He sneered, the look an older brother might give a sister who had just said something stupid. “I am a slave,” he said. “I have no say in where I go.”

“You are a healer,” said Hweilan. “You know the herbs and roots that mend. I’d wager you know the ones that kill just as well.”

Kaad dipped the edge of his robe into the water again and dabbed some more at his temple. “You have nothing to wager. I will live to see the sunset tomorrow.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“And if you’re right, I’ll be dead tomorrow. You have nothing to lose.”

“Why do you care?”

Hweilan said nothing. She’d learned-most often from her mother when she’d done something wrong-that silence and a firm gaze did more to make people talk than anything else.

Kaad sighed and turned away, and for a moment Hweilan thought she had lost him. But then he said, “Why have I stayed? My son. He was my apprentice. Neither of us were fighters. But warriors have need of healers. It was not a bad life in the Black Wolf. But Razor Heart captured us. At first, I stayed and served willingly, for Maaqua told me that as long as I was faithful, my son would live.”

There was a long silence, but Hweilan did not break it. She knew Kaad would either say his next bit or he wouldn’t. He stared into the fire and continued.

“My son excelled at my teachings. In time, he would have surpassed me. Quite a valuable prize. So Maaqua sold him to the Blood Mountain tribe nine years ago. I stay now … because I have nowhere else to go.”

Hweilan let the silence hold a while, leaving Kaad to nurture his grief. Then she struck.

“What was his name? Your son?”

Kaad looked at her, studying her expression. Hweilan was careful to keep her face a perfect mask.

“Gluured,” said Kaad at last.

Hweilan closed her eyes and nodded slowly. “I will remember it.” She opened her eyes and held Kaad’s gaze. “You know who I am, Kaad. You know what I am. When I am done with Highwatch, I will have no home. My hearth will be the hunt, my only bed the blood of my enemies. Help me now, and the Blood Mountain clan will be my enemies. But I will remember the name of Gluured.”

Kaad shook his head and laughed, but the look in his eyes told Hweilan she had him. He had not decided yet, but he was considering.

“You’ll be dead tomorrow,” said Kaad.

“Not if you help me.”

“I cannot help you escape,” he said. His hands were shaking. She was losing him. “It would mean worse than death for me. Maaqua …”

“I’m not asking you to cut me loose,” she said. “You are a healer, Kaad. I just need you to bring me something.”

“Bring you? Bring you what?”

“Drakthna,” said Hweilan. “It’s a mushroom that-”

“I know what it is.” And by the look in his eyes, he obviously knew what it did as well. “I have some.”

“Good,” said Hweilan. “I need only a little. And do you know iruil?”

“White or green?”

“White. But I need the root, not the flower.”

The sound of heavy boots came from outside. Heading their way.

Kaad leaped to his feet, and Hweilan saw his skin go pale. He was trembling even more now, guilt written all over his face. Hweilan could hear the clink of armor along with the heavy tread of boots, and the breeze coming in through the door brought the mingled stink of oiled steel, leather, and unwashed hobgoblins.

The room darkened as two hobgoblin warriors filled the doorway. One held an iron studded club in one hand, and his companion had a jagged-edged dagger. Their helmets hid most of their faces, but she could see a wariness in their eyes as they stared at her.

Hweilan kept her face still, emotionless, but she looked the larger one directly in the eye, and the warrior dropped his gaze first.

They came inside and walked behind her, one to each side. Kaad scrambled to the far corner and stared at the floor. Hweilan tried to turn around to see what the warriors were up to, but her bonds held her too tight. More shadows fell across the floor. Maaqua shuffled back into the room, with another hobgoblin behind her.

Hweilan recognized him. She’d last seen him in armor, and now he was dressed only in furs and skins, but the scar that ran diagonally across his face, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent frown, and the left ear that was only half there gave him away. She’d seen him on the mountainside when she’d held the point of her knife under his throat.

Maaqua looked down on Hweilan. “You have met Buureg, Warchief of the Razor Heart.”

Buureg blinked once but otherwise displayed no emotion whatsoever. Then he looked down on her and said, “Rhan, Champion of the Razor Heart, wielder of the Greatsword of Impiltur, demands the right of Blood Slake. With you, Hweilan of Highwatch.”

None of them had yet spared Kaad so much as a glance. Hweilan had to keep it that way.

She growled and spit on the warchief’s boot. “I am not of Highwatch. You will call me by my right name or I will demand Blood Slake of you after I have eaten your champion’s heart.”

Kaad gasped, and even Maaqua’s eyes widened at Hweilan’s words.

“Stop!” Buureg raised his head, and Hweilan figured that the warrior behind her with the club had raised it to strike her.

Then Buureg stared at her, long and hard. He lowered his hand and said, “What would you have me call you?”

“I am the Hand of the Hunter. You will address me as such or hold your tongue.”

Maaqua was leaning on her staff and studying Hweilan through narrowed eyes. Not much got past the old toad, Hweilan knew. The old crone sensed Hweilan was up to something. Let her. She had brought this on herself.

Buureg called, “Slave!” and pointed at his boot. Kaad scrambled over and went to his knees, his tendons popping like snapping twigs. He pulled his ragged sleeve down over his hand and scrubbed Hweilan’s spittle off the boot. Buureg pulled his foot back, examined the boot, and grunted. Kaad crawled back to his corner, and the warchief returned his attention to Hweilan.

“Proud words,” said Buureg, “for someone who just came out of a hole and is tied at my feet.”

Hweilan hung her head. Her hair fell over her face, and she closed her eyes. Gleed had taught her many things beyond the sacred rites of Nendawen and the properties of plants and herbs and roots. When lessons were over, his talk would sometimes turn to other matters. Hweilan soon learned that he held little love for his goblin forebears and their ways, and he sometimes lost himself in particularly long rants about goblinkind and their stupid, narrow, backward customs. Many times, Hweilan had let her mind wander, but when he spoke of their rituals and beliefs, she paid close attention, and even prodded him with an occasional question. As a young girl who had often grown frustrated with the strict rules of her own Damaran household, she developed an interest in the ways of other peoples. And so, yet again, Gleed’s lessons proved useful.

She raised her head, looked Buureg in the eye, and said, “Your Champion demands Blood Slake of the Hand. Let it be done. But the Hand demands Blood Price of the Razor Heart.”

Buureg blinked and took a step back, surprised by her words, then looked to Maaqua.

The old crone smiled, but her eyes went feral. “Watch this one, Buureg. She’s a crafty fox. One of Gleed’s little monsters. Probably knows our ways better than you do.”

Buureg said, “If she accepts the Blood Slake, we must honor the Blood Price. Honor demands-”

“Piss on honor!” said Maaqua. She leaned in close to Hweilan. “Enough with your mummer’s show, girl. Speak. What do you want?”

Hweilan raised her voice and spoke in her most formal Goblin. “I am the Hand of the Hunter. I will stand, and the Razor Heart may have my blood, if they can take it. But if they cannot, I demand my life, the lives of my four companions, and all our belongings be returned to us. Life for life. Death for death. If I win, you will set us free as you found us. I demand nothing more than what is mine.”

She could have asked for more. By all rights, she could have demanded the Razor Heart Champion’s sword. But had she done that, Hweilan knew that she very likely would have met with a fatal accident long before she could face Rhan.

Buureg looked to Maaqua. His face betrayed no emotion.

The queen shrugged. “Rhan will make short work of her. It hardly matters.”

Buureg said, “You and the three in the hole will have your lives, your belongings, and your freedom. The big one killed Ruuket’s mate. His life is not mine to spare. All the rest, you shall have-if you win.”

“So be it,” said Hweilan.

Buureg sighed, then reached into his sleeve and withdrew a black dagger. “Hand of the Hunter, do you swear to stay your hand against the Razor Heart and abide in peace by our fires until life or death be decided?”

Hweilan kept her gaze fixed on Maaqua-she was the dangerous one. Rhan held no fear for her. Nor even Buureg and his brutes. Hweilan knew their kind. They would not hesitate to kill her, but they would do so openly, wanting to look her in the eye as they did it. Maaqua was an adder in the cleft, hidden by shadows.

“I do,” said Hweilan. “In the name of Nendawen, Master of the Hunt, I so swear. May his wrath strike me down if I break this vow.”

“So be it,” said Buureg. He spared another glance to Maaqua, then he bent and cut away Hweilan’s bonds.

“Someone’s coming,” said Valsun, startling Darric out of his doze.

Both men stood. Darric could hear it, too. Footsteps above, and the occasional clank of metal.

“Think they’ve come to feed us?” said Darric. They hadn’t eaten since that night in the mountains when Hweilan’s wolf had brought them the ram.

This roused Jaden. He didn’t sit up from his bed of blankets, but his eyes widened and he looked up expectantly.

“In armor?” said Valsun. “Not likely.”

At the rim of the pit, a helmeted silhouette came into view, looking down on them. Then another.

“Damn all of you!” Valsun shouted. “Either feed us or kill us!”

The two warriors above glanced at each other. One said something Darric could not understand, then they both disappeared.

“At least give us water!” Darric said.

No answer.

“They’re still up there,” said Valsun. “I can hear them. And more than two.”

Another shape came into view. Unhelmeted, her long hair was tossed by the breeze.

“Hweilan?” said Darric, disbelieving.

“Are you hurt?” she called.

A warm flood of relief washed over Darric. She was alive. That meant they might not be doomed after all.

“Half starved and more than half frozen,” Valsun called up. “And Jaden has convinced himself he’s dying, but I fear the gods have not blessed us that far.”

There was a sharp clank from the other side of the wall, and the bars overhead began to slide into the stone.

“They are going to get you out,” said Hweilan. “But I am bid to tell you that you are bound to behave yourselves. I have spoken for you. Try anything foolish, and I am sworn to kill you myself.”

Darric and Valsun exchanged a concerned look.

“What’s happening up there, lady?” said Valsun.

The last of the bars disappeared into the wall, and the same rope that had hauled Hweilan out earlier fell into the pit.

“I’ll explain everything up here. Let’s get you warm and fed first.”

“I’m not sure Jaden can climb,” Darric called up to her.

One of the hobgoblin warriors looked down the hole. “Tie it round his ankles! We’ll drag ’im up!”

“Oh, gods,” Jaden moaned as he rolled in his blankets. “Help me, for pity’s sake.”

“Help yourself,” said Valsun and nudged him with his boot. “Get that loop under your arms, or I swear on my mother’s name I’ll tie the damned thing around your neck.”

Darric went up first. He had to squint and blink as he came up into the full daylight. But when he could finally open his eyes, he saw three hobgoblins pulling on the rope; another eight warriors, all armed; and four more with bows crouched on the rocks overhead.

Hweilan stood apart from the warriors, her dark hair unbound. The right sleeve of her shirt was gone, and she wore no coat. Not even a cloak. But she seemed completely unbothered by the cold.

“Hweilan,” Darric said, then stopped. He’d been about to say are you well? But it was obvious she was. Not a scratch on her. The skin on her right arm had an oddly pale patch, and something about the tattoo there looked odd, but then she caught him staring.

“Yes?” she said sharply.

Darric blushed. “I’m … uh, grateful. For getting us out. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, then turned away.

Stung, Darric turned to watch as Jaden half-stumbled and was half-dragged out of the pit. As he cleared the lip of stone, blinking against the light, two hobgoblins grabbed his shirt, hauled him out, and dumped him on the ground. The scrawny Damaran had somehow managed to keep one of the blankets wrapped around his shoulders during the ordeal.

As the two hobgoblins got Jaden out of the rope, he looked to Hweilan. “Next time you plan on dropping a hobgoblin on a fellow’s head, you might want to let him know.”

“Stop whining,” she said. “I told you to be ready.”

When Valsun came out of the pit, he shrugged his way out of the rope, and by the way he was studying their surroundings, Darric knew the old knight was weighing their chances of escape. His grim expression a moment later showed that he’d come to the same conclusion Darric had.

Hweilan looked down at Jaden, who was still sitting on the ground, shivering despite his blanket. Then she walked over to Valsun and gave his bruised and battered face a critical look. She spared Darric only a quick glance, then turned to one of the hobgoblins and said, “Get Kaad. Tell him these men need some gunhin.”

All the warriors around them erupted in laughter, and a few of them even hooted and pounded their chests.

“Which one needs it the most, eh?” said one of the warriors, and the others hooted even louder.

Darric had no idea what was going on, but nothing could have shocked him more than what he saw next. Hweilan gave him the briefest of glances, blushed like a maiden caught bathing, then turned and walked away.