Cry of the Ghost Wolf

CHAPTER SEVEN

Everything had been prepared, just as his master ordered. It had not been easy. Vazhad had expected to find something in the dungeons of Highwatch that suited their needs. He had heard that Yarin the Usurper had special advisors who designed ways to torture and kill his prisoners in the most painful ways. But there was nothing. The dungeons were simply cells with stout doors. Vandalar had apparently been a softer kind of ruler. He did not even have iron rings in the walls from which to hang particularly troublesome occupants.

But some of the last remaining Creel had found something-near the stables of all places. Not up in the high aeries where the knights had kept their scythe wings but in the bottom-most area of the fortress, where the Damarans had housed their horses.

A narrow alley that smelled of manure snaked along the mountainside to a high-walled yard. A stone basin lay near the farthest wall. A sluice led out of the wall. Far too small to allow anyone to enter the fortress, it was wide enough that blood and muck could be rinsed out from the cattle slaughters. Vazhad had watched it once. Jatara and Kadrigul had brought him, for the process amused them.

The Damarans would lead the cow or ox down the alley-dragging it the last stretch as the beast caught the scent of blood and animal remains. It had been a young bull ox on the day Vazhad was present.

Two iron rings had been affixed to either side of the basin. Vazhad had watched four servants pull and prod the screaming animal into the basin. The ox had a thick harness around its throat, almost like a leash. And only this leash had two leads of strong rope. Two men bound the rope into the rings, then stood back as the ox bucked and kicked, its hooves making a terrible racket against the stone basin. But it had been unable to break free. The servants stepped well away, and a stout man, short but with the muscles of a lifelong blacksmith, stepped to the edge of the basin. He’d worn a bright red wool tunic, and in his right hand he carried an iron-headed mallet.

Seeing the man stepping so close, the ox had charged. But the ropes pulled taut and stopped the charge just shy of the basin’s edge-and within reach of the mallet. The man brought it round, hitting the ox right between the eyes, and down it went.

At the time, Vazhad had wondered if the beast was truly dead or merely struck senseless. But it hardly mattered. The other servants came forward with their knives to bleed and skin the carcass. And Vazhad watched as the red liquid flowed down the sluice.

There was still time until full dark, but the yard’s walls kept out most of the light, so Vazhad had ordered torches lit. He suspected they were some of the last in the fortress, but that would hardly matter before long. If he spent much more time walking in darkness, his nerves would snap, and he needed them to hold. Just a little longer.

Looking at the basin in the orange torchlight, Vazhad suspected that the Damarans, who were nothing if not obsessively clean, had washed, scrubbed, and sanded the basin after each use. But years of slaughter had stained the stone black. There was no mistaking it for anything but a place of murder.

However, this was no ox they were bringing here, and Vazhad did not trust even the stoutest ropes in the fortress. The Creel had bolted a steel chain to each iron ring, and from the end of each chain hung a manacle.

Vazhad heard the others approaching behind him, and he stepped aside.

The alley leading to the yard had been made purposefully narrow so that cattle had no room to turn around. Two men could have walked side-by-side had they wished, but the newcomers walked into the yard single file.

The thing that had once been Guric came first. His feet were bare, but he wore new clothes. Vazhad wondered what had happened to the old ones. Probably they had become so stained and sodden with blood that they had fallen off him. He didn’t even glance at Vazhad as he passed.

His master came next. The cowl of his hood was down, showing his hairless, blue-mottled head, and by the strength in his stride and the fact that he did not flinch from the torchlight, Vazhad knew that he was looking upon Jagun Ghen.

He looked at Vazhad, and for a moment the torchlight caught in his eyes, making him look very much like one of the undead baazuled whose black gazes were lit with a tiny spark of fire. But then he looked to the basin. “Well done,” he said. “Well done, indeed. This suits our purposes perfectly.”

Two more baazuled came next-one a Creel Vazhad had never known, even in life; the other a Damaran who Vazhad thought seemed vaguely familiar. The Creel was carrying a leather bag that sagged with a heavy weight.

Behind them, Kathkur strode into the yard. The muscles in the eladrin’s face were pulled taut, his left eye twitched incessantly, and the symbol gouged into his forehead flickered with a flamelike light. Kathkur ignored Vazhad, for his eyes were fixed on the basin and the chains that lay there. “What is this?” he asked.

Three others entered the yard behind him-two more baazuled and the Damaran that Yarin had sent. Vazhad searched his memory for the name. Thudreg? Thidrek? Something like that. He had been the first of the living vessels seized by Jagun Ghen’s brother as a new home. The symbol on his forehead was different than that on the eladrin, and Vazhad wondered if it had something to do with the demon’s name. But it flickered with the same unsettling light.

“This,” said Jagun Ghen, pointing at the basin, “is a necessary discomfort. Your host is becoming … a nuisance. But an intriguing one. I need to speak to him. But I want him to behave himself when I do so.”

Kathkur stopped walking and fell into a crouch. His eyes flitted back and forth. “You mean-”

“You said this one keeps … ‘squirming out’ of your grip, I believe you said. We cannot have that.”

Kathkur looked back to the alleyway, but the three who had followed him in were blocking the way. “Please … I can control him, lord. I-”

Jagun Ghen cut him off, “Of all our brethren who have come into the world, only this one has managed to resist us. I must know why.”

“I-I won’t go back. I-”

“You will do as I say. I am not sending you anywhere, Brother. After all I have sacrificed to bring you here? I would never do that. But I need you to … relent on this one. Just for a short time.”

“B-but his screams …”

Jagun Ghen laid a hand on the eladrin’s shoulder. With another, this might have been seen as an attempt at comfort or reassurance. But Vazhad saw how the fingers tightened, the thumb almost tearing the skin.

“Let us hear those screams, Brother,” said Jagun Ghen. “Just for a while.”

Kathkur shook his head. “I-”

He tried to pull away, but Jagun Ghen tightened his grip, and two baazuled stepped forward, grabbing the eladrin’s arms.

“No!” Kathkur shrieked. “Please, lord! I-”

But then he lost all words-at least in any language Vazhad had ever heard. The eladrin thrashed and kicked and screamed as the baazuled dragged him into the basin. The symbol on his forehead flared, and inky smoke slithered down onto his face.

The baazuled fixed the shackles to the eladrin’s wrists and stepped away. Kathkur’s arms were stretched straight out. The chains were almost too short, but they kept his thrashing under control. He couldn’t even stand fully upright, only managing a low crouch. Still, it did not stop him from trying, and his wrists were already torn and bleeding.

The Creel baazuled with the leather bag stepped forward, and again Vazhad remembered the man in the red tunic stepping forward to smash the skull of the ox. The baazuled held the bottom of the bag and let the top fall, upending the contents. A brass collar fell to the dust. The torchlight winked on symbols that had been etched into its surface.

Jagun Ghen said, “Put it on him.”

Kathkur’s eyes widened, he cried even louder, and the tears streaming down his cheeks began to steam and mix with the foul miasma leaking from the rune on his forehead.

The baazuled approached Kathkur from behind to avoid his flailing kicks. Still, Kathkur twisted his head and tried to bite, but the baazuled did his business quickly, bending the brass just wide enough to allow the eladrin’s neck to pass through, then squeezing it shut again. As soon as the ends came together, every symbol on the collar’s surface blazed red. The baazuled took a few steps back but remained in the basin.

Jagun Ghen stepped forward until the toe of his boot touched the stone rim. “Kathkur,” he said, calm as if he were beginning a conversation over the evening table.

The eladrin stopped screaming, fell to his knees, and stared treason at his master.

“That’s better,” said Jagun Ghen. “The sooner you relent, the sooner this will be over, and we can release you.”

“The”-Kathkur spoke through a jaw clenched so tightly that his entire head was trembling-“the … c-collar!”

“Intended for the eladrin, not you. Let me speak to him. Now.”

“N-no. No, I won’t. I … can’t!”

Jagun Ghen reached inside the sleeve of his robe and withdrew a rod. Scarcely longer than a man’s hand, Vazhad saw that it was made of brass, like the collar, and etched with the same sorts of symbols.

Kathkur’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “No. You said it was not for me. You-”

“You will submit,” said Jagun Ghen, raising the brass rod, “one way or another.”

Kathkur shrieked and thrashed, ripping skin and flesh from his wrists, pulling against the chains.

Jagun Ghen spoke an incantation, and the symbols etched in the brass rod he held flickered, flared, and then settled to a steady red glow. Vazhad had seen the rod only once before, when Argalath had first purchased it from a Thayan.

The eladrin kicked at the basin with such force that the bones in one foot shattered-Vazhad heard them even over the screaming. Kathkur’s back arched, and the light from the rune on his forehead blazed, and then went out. The eladrin’s eyes rolled back in his head, a final tremor shook him, and he sagged. Only the chains kept him from falling on his face. He hung there, his chest heaving, and when he looked up, even Vazhad could see that the demon had gone.

“Who are you?” said Jagun Ghen.

The eladrin looked around, his gaze passing Jagun Ghen, counting the baazuled, lingering on Vazhad for an instant, then the high walls around him.

“Highwatch?” he said, his voice a raw rasp.

The mottled blue of Argalath’s spellscar flickered, just for a moment, almost imperceptible against the torchlight. But the eladrin flinched as if he’d been jabbed with a dagger, took in a great draught of air, and clenched his jaw against the pain.

The eladrin swallowed, then said, “She … told me. About you. You’re even scrawnier than-”

The spellscar flared again, brighter this time. The eladrin’s jaw dropped as he struggled for breath.

“We will discuss her shortly,” said Jagun Ghen. “Ignore my question again and I will have one of my brothers bite off a finger. Now, who are you?”

It took the eladrin a long time to catch his breath. But he looked up at Jagun Ghen at last and said, “Ko … vannon. My name. Is Kovannon.”

The Creel baazuled said, “He lies. The one called Kovannon I left alive. His companions-Durel, Ulender-those two I killed.”

The eladrin tried to twist his head around to see who was speaking, but he could not quite manage it.

“My brother,” said Jagun Ghen, “did not always wear this form. Once, he had the skin of Jatara. A most faithful servant. So you see. I know you lie. I can smell Ellestharn and its bitch queen on you. You reek of winter.” He stepped forward, grasped the eladrin by the chin, and raised his head. “It would be best if you give me what I want. If not, I will take it.”

The eladrin held his gaze a long time. He must have seen something there that shook him, for he tried to look away, but Jagun Ghen held him firm.

“Men … duarthis,” said the eladrin. “Menduarthis. Of Isan Meidan.”

“Of Isan Meidan?” Jagun Ghen chuckled. “I think not. You dwelled there long enough, no doubt. But still you try to hide lies behind a little truth. Yes?”

The eladrin clenched both fists, rattling the chains, and for a moment Vazhad felt the air in the yard begin to stir. And then the eladrin screamed. The symbols on the collar flared like forge fire, and wisps of steam eked out of his pores.

“I am most curious how you control the air,” said Jagun Ghen. “It is not a spell. Some skill you learned in the depths of Ellestharn, perhaps?”

But Menduarthis did not hear him. He had passed out from the pain and hung limply from the chains. Jagun Ghen released his hold on the eladrin’s chin and turned to Vazhad.

“My friend,” he called. “I have need of you. Come. Please.”

Vazhad spared a glance at the alleyway, but the three baazuled still blocked that way. One of them peeled back his lips. Nothing like a smile. A predator’s baring of teeth, as if the thing sensed what Vazhad was thinking. Vazhad stepped forward, stopping just out of Jagun Ghen’s reach.

“My faithful servant,” said Jagun Ghen, “I fear I must … let go of this host. Just for a time. Care for it well, as you have always done.”

Vazhad bowed. “As you command, Master.”

Jagun Ghen turned back to Menduarthis and grabbed his head. Vazhad winced, waiting for the snap of the eladrin’s neck. But Jagun Ghen placed one foot down into the basin and leaned forward, so that his own bald pate touched the smoldering symbol on Menduarthis’s forehead. The eladrin mumbled something, then a shiver passed through him.

Jagun Ghen fell backward into Vazhad’s arms. But when Vazhad looked down, he saw that it was not Jagun Ghen. The jaw hung slack, and a trail of spittle trailed down Argalath’s jawline. His breath came in a harsh rattle, and the odor coming out of him was worse than a midden pit. He tried to open his eyes, but the light stung, and he flinched, squeezing them shut.

“Vazhad? Is that … is that you?” The last words came out barely above a whisper.

“I am here, Master.”

Argalath’s mouth moved again, but Vazhad missed the words.

Vazhad turned his ear toward his master’s face and leaned in closer. “What was that, my master?”

“Kuh!” Argalath rasped. “Kill … me. P-please. I … beg.”

Vazhad looked up. The Creel baazuled was still standing behind the eladrin, but all the others had stepped closer. The nearest was only a pace away, and they were all watching Vazhad. Full dark had fallen, and their eyes seemed black as the heart of the Hells. The fires burning deep in that blackness beckoned to Vazhad.

He heard the rattle of steel and looked back to Menduarthis. The chains still held, but the rest of the eladrin’s body was floating above the bloodstained basin, and every bit of exposed skin trembled and squirmed, as if maggots had hatched in the muscles and were trying to break free.

Vazhad cradled Argalath’s head against his chest and tried to ignore the pleading.