Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III (4 page)

“Or we could stand here jawing until you swoon from all that blood leaking out of your arm,” said Maaqua. “I’d wager that’ll happen long before your three friends are out of the hole, much less the big one and your”—she snorted—“wolf.”

Hweilan considered that a moment. She thought she’d probably last a good deal longer than that. But not forever. Her right sleeve was already heavy with blood.

“Listen, girl,” said Maaqua. “I have no desire to tempt the ire of your master. And your friends—”

“They aren’t my friends,” said Hweilan. “I just met them.”

“Yet you’re standing here bleeding while bargaining for their lives.”

Hweilan heard footsteps and the rattle of armor. Someone must have sounded an alarm or gone for help. More hobgoblins topped the rise and began working their way down. All wore armor and carried weapons. On the cliff tops behind her she heard more.

“This is all unnecessary, you idiot girl,” said Maaqua. “I have no desire to hurt you.”

“So you knocked me unconscious and threw me in a hole as a way to show your hospitality?”

Hweilan could feel her right arm—the one holding Maaqua and leaking blood—beginning to tremble. She could no longer feel her fingers on that hand. She had to end this quickly, one way or the other.

“Let me go,” said Maaqua, “and we can discuss this in a more courteous fashion.”

Hweilan pressed the point of her whistle knife a bit harder, just enough to break the skin. “Talk now or you can explain it all in the Hells.”

A bit of steel entered Maaqua’s tone. “You’ll be right there with me.”

“Talk.”

“I am Maaqua, queen of the Razor Heart and disciple of Soneillon. Do you really think I bow to the threats of that upstart fiend sitting in Highwatch?”

Hweilan had no idea how long she’d been out. Had the attack from the thing wearing her mother’s body been yesterday or today? She had no idea. But she remembered the thing’s words to Maaqua all too clearly.

We know where you are. Bring us the girl, and we’ll let you live
.

Hweilan did her best to tighten her grip around the old hobgoblin, but she could feel her strength waning by the moment. “Explain your actions then, old crone,” she said.

“
You
left me no choice. Had you and that big oaf with the club surrendered—like any person would when surrounded by an army!—had you come nicely, you’d probably all be sitting by a fire now. Instead we had to … subdue you.
Think
, girl. If I really wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.”

“Then why—?”

“I said
think!
That, that … 
thing
managed to apparate on my doorstep. Mine! This entire valley has more spells and wards on it than your grandfather’s hounds had fleas, yet that walking mound of goat dung managed to get through them. Even after it left, I had no idea if we were being watched or if it was about to come back with forty of its brothers. I had to make it
look
like we were capturing you and your friends until I could figure out how that thing got past my wards, past the … chink in my armor.”

“And …?”

“And I found the chink and … unchinked it.”

“So you came to get me out and apologize? You really expect me to believe that?”

Maaqua gave a low chuckle. “Can you smell it yet?”

“Smell?” Hweilan’s tongue felt oddly thick, and now that she thought about it, her head was filled with a new scent. Strong enough that she could taste it on the back of her tongue. Almost like …

“A bit like pine smoke, yes?” said Maaqua. “Only sweeter.”

Pine smoke … it set off a flood of memory. Midwinter celebrations in Highwatch. The servants spent a day decking the feast hall with pine boughs and holly from the mountains and knotted wreaths of sweetgrass from the steppe. The ladies twined mistletoe in their hair, and the knights drank to the health of the High Warden over goblets of bilberry wine. At midnight, the darkest time of the darkest night of the year, the priests would hurl the pine boughs into the sacred hearth. The flames caught in the green pine and flared in tiny, very bright flames, which the priests said burned in defiance of the cold and dark. In the warm light of the hall, Hweilan had always thought the thick smoke seemed more blue than gray, and she could smell it in her hair for days afterward. It was that smell filling her head now. With every breath the scent filled her head more and more.

“The arrow,” said Maaqua. “Poison.”

Hweilan was looking up at the old hobgoblin, her wispy mane turned dark by the sky. Looking up? When …?

She couldn’t remember falling. But the swiftly fraying threads of her reason knew she was lying on the ground. She could still feel her body—in fact, every pain seemed even sharper, every pulse of her heart sending another tiny jolt through her limbs—but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t even force her eyes to close.

Maaqua’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “I was afraid you might have bled out most of the poison, tearing your wound like you did. Lucky me. Stupid you.”

C
HAPTER
THREE

V
AZHAD HAD TO STOP A MOMENT TO GATHER HIS
courage. The lamps in the hall were burning through the last of their oil. A few had already sputtered out, their dried wicks spitting an acrid smoke that gathered at the ceiling. There would be no more oil coming to Highwatch. Once the supply was gone, what little fire burned at night in Highwatch would be the pitch-soaked torches—and Vazhad knew the pitch was running low as well. Soon, darkness would rule Highwatch after sunset.

He closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to whomever might be listening. It gave him no small amount of pride that his hand did not shake when he rapped twice upon the door.

No response. Vazhad waited. He heard scuffling from the hall. His heart skipped a beat, then started again double time. But when he turned, he saw only a rat, braving the meager lamplight, scuttling along the wall. It saw Vazhad watching, stopped, then proceeded on its way.

Vazhad knocked again, slightly harder this time.

“Yes?” said a voice from the other side.

“It is Vazhad,” he called. “Dawn is near.”

Sending one of the baazuled all the way into the Giantspires the day before had taken a great deal of Argalath’s strength. Subduing the eladrin had taken the last of it. Vazhad had carried his master all the way back to his chamber.

Argalath had never been a large man. He had the build of a scholar who preferred poring over books to a good meal. But Vazhad had been shocked at how light his master had become, scarcely heavier than a child. As he’d laid his master in bed, Argalath’s head had lolled to one side, exposing his neck.

A chicken.

The thought entered Vazhad’s mind, seemingly out of nowhere. The former lords of Highwatch had kept the foul birds, raising them for food, feathers, and eggs. Vazhad had once watched one of the kitchen servants removing the feathers. It had shocked him how scrawny and strengthless the thing looked in only its skin. The servant had set it aside, retrieved his next squawking victim from the cage, and snapped its neck with no more effort than plucking a flower.

That last image came clearly to Vazhad’s mind, as he stared down at his master’s frail neck. Vazhad had been a warrior all his life. Serving Argalath had kept him out of the saddle more than he liked, but his hands were still strong. Argalath had no hair to grab, but if Vazhad planted one hand on the neck, he could grab an ear, or even the jaw. One quick twist—

And then Argalath’s eyes had opened. Argalath’s eyes. Not the … thing inside him. It had taken Vazhad a long time to recognize the difference, but since that night on the mountain when Argalath killed Soran, there was no mistaking one for the other. Argalath the half-Nar demonbinder was weak. His gaze had no more strength than that of an old man in the last stages of sickness. But the other … it burned hot, bright, and hungry.

“Vazhad … my friend,” Argalath had said. “Thank you.”

“For what, Master?” Vazhad asked.

But Argalath’s eyes closed again. Vazhad thought he had drifted off again. Perhaps he had, for the voice that then spoke was the other. Jagun Ghen. Every word spoken so carefully that Vazhad knew it was more than a foreigner speaking a strange tongue. This was a will for whom words were a necessary inconvenience. This mind wanted only to burn and consume. Everything else … was only a means to that end.

“Wake this one before dawn.”

The dead, cold voice stopped any thoughts of wringing necks. Vazhad’s hands no longer felt strong. He had to tighten them into fists to keep them from trembling.

“As you wish, my lord.” Vazhad had bowed and left the room.

It seemed some strange sort of madness to be standing here again. Another torch sputtered out.

“Come in,” said the voice from the other side of the door. Not Argalath’s voice. It was the other. The burning hunger.

Vazhad’s hand trembled as he grasped the knob.

The sun had not yet broken over the eastern walls when Vazhad escorted his master into the empty courtyard. The wind rattled in the dead leaves of the ivy creeping up the walls. The high haze over the foothills glowed a deep orange like dying embers. Vazhad treasured the last of the light in the courtyard, then he and his master entered the door in the cliff and walked back into the darkness of the inner fortress.

His master leaned against Vazhad as they walked. But the voice that spoke had no hint of weakness in it.

“You have seen my brother Kathkur since I slept?” Jagun Ghen asked.

“No, my lord,” said Vazhad.

“He has eaten?”

“No. The others took him to the chamber.”

“Everything is prepared?” asked Jagun Ghen.

“As you commanded.”

“Very good.”

Vazhad did not understand all the rituals that brought Jagun Ghen’s brethren into the world. He had seen firsthand that those who were given a dead body to inhabit had to be fed almost immediately. But for those who possessed living flesh, things seemed to be different. So far, those few his master had managed to create had all been humans. Vazhad suspected the runes and other symbols gouged into their skin had something to do with opening the way for the spirit.
Perhaps something like a beacon showing the way in, then a sort of magic lock to help keep the thing inside. But this newcomer was something else, something other than mortal.

“Master—” Vazhad’s voice caught, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “How is it that this one is able to resist your brother?”

“This one, this … 
eladrin
”—Jagun Ghen sneered at the word—“he is the first of his kind to house us. The eladrin are no stronger than the other sheep of this world. Their strengths and weaknesses are simply different. But this one … he is still more than that. He has the stink of the Ice Queen about him. Whatever he did with her—or she did to him—it left him … changed.”

“Changed? Changed how?”

Jagun Ghen chuckled, a hollow rattling sound. “We shall find out.”

They walked a while longer, the silence seeming even heavier than the darkness. As they descended a small flight of stairs, Jagun Ghen leaned on Vazhad for support. “Tell me, my friend,” he said, “do you long for your … metamorphosis? Does it still haunt your dreams? Are you ready?”

It was all Vazhad could do to keep his feet moving down the steps. He had sworn his service to Argalath for the promise of immortality, that he would become like Argalath—both himself and joined to another of great power. But now that he saw where that path had taken Argalath …

“I live to serve,” said Vazhad. It took all his strength and control to keep his voice even.

“Your day will come. Fear not. But first we must deal with our new friend. He must learn to submit. His strengths are unexpected, but they are not beyond our control. Besides, he knows the Hand. I can taste it on his breath. What he knows might prove useful.”