Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II (11 page)

He knew the demands of the pact, and he knew just the place: An open vein leading down into the darkest heart of the world—a cave in the last of the Giantspires’ northern foothills. He went alone, for he had no acolytes, no friends. His own people had never truly loved him, but after the Spellplague, they had shunned him, naming him
Kharta Vaaj
, shunned of the gods.

Down and down he went, far beyond even where bats roosted, to where his only companions were spiders and other crawling things that fled from the meager glow of his lamp. There lay a cavern, its center filled with black water, columns of stone everywhere, some thick as old pines, some thin as needles, all damp and slick and smelling of secrets.

He made the circle on the shore of the pool, scratching it into the dust with the burned, jagged end of an antler, then filling the grooves with twice-burned ashes. Muttering the incantation that would prepare his mind, he punctured the center of his left palm with the antler, then mixed the blood with the ashes to make the symbols of power inside the circle’s edge.

And here, Hweilan’s vision expanded. A part of her remembered a time from another life, long ago and far way. She had stood in a high window of a castle, looking down on a courtyard where her grandfather’s warriors gathered. The window glass was thick to keep in the heat and push back the outside cold, and when her mother entered the room from behind her, she cast a distinct reflection in the window, so it seemed as if her ghost walked over the men below. Two
scenes, separate, one atop the other, bleeding into one. This was like that.

She saw the hairless, mottled man, etching foul symbols into the dirt with his own blood and ash. But atop that she saw—

The Forest Father intervened.…

Jagun Ghen’s servants were cast from the Hunting Lands into the Abyss. But their Master fled. The Hunting Lands held no more safety for him, but neither would he suffer the Abyss. And so …

Deep within Faerûn, the spellscarred man called upon forces beyond his world, summoning them to his pact circle.

He did this alone, but in those final moments, he remembered the words of his own master, the demonbinder of the tribe—

“The circle, the words of power, the symbols that contain the words and more … properly done can open a door to beings beyond this world. But take care, Argalath. Take care. Make the sacrifice. Speak the words
exactly
. Still … with an open door into such places, one is not always certain what may come through. Make your circle well. Strengthen your own will. For such is the binding that …”

She lost the rest, and with her vision in both worlds, she saw why. Desperate in his flight Jagun Ghen fled to the first open door he found. At his first sight of the demon, the name faltered on the binder’s lips, and Jagun Ghen tore his way through the circle, overwhelming the spellscarred man.

But just as Nendawen was not of Faerûn and thus not free to roam as he pleased, Jagun Ghen could not wholly roam unbound. He fled into the one place of safety he could find—the room prepared in Argalath’s mind. He took it, making it his own, and over the ensuing years taking more and more of Argalath’s mind, fusing it with his own.

He bided his time, searching for the way to break into the prisons of the Abyss where his brothers and servants lay
locked away, tormented by their own twisted minds. At long last he found the lore, the key that would unlock their prisons.

And a new vision superimposed itself over these. She saw the moonlight mountaintop, the desecrated shrine, the gathering of acolytes and supplicants, and she recognized some of them. Argalath, Guric, and men of Guric’s company whose names she did not know. Several young Nar were there as well—by their shaved heads and scars, she thought they had to be Argalath’s acolytes. She saw poor Valia, three years dead, unwrapped from her burial shroud. Guric’s soldiers dragged forward a man, bound and gagged. She knew him as well. Soran …

That name brought forth the first pang of emotion since she had been reduced to awareness. Love, admiration, respect, but also a hint of fear. No, not fear. But real terror, and horror at something he had done, some—

And she saw Argalath unlock the foul thing’s prison, saw the demon enter the dead woman and raise her to an undeath filled with a never-ending hunger.

Here … Jagun Ghen could become a god.…

And in that state of almost pure awareness, she knew it had begun.

C
HAPTER
SEVEN

J
ATARA COULD FEEL THE PARTY APPROACHING
. S
HE’D
been trained to hunt since she was nine years old, and she had long since developed a hunter’s mindset of being in tune to the world around her, aware of the sounds and silences, the paths of local predators, the scents on the wind. But this was something more. Something new. She could sense them, like an itch on the front of her brain. Given their location and the sheer number approaching, it was most likely hobgoblins.

She knew her own party was outnumbered. She had left Highwatch with ten men and two women. None of them Nar. Even the Creel would not go into the deep mountains without being whipped the entire way, and this was not a task where Jatara could afford to be distracted by her own lackeys. And so Argalath had given her mercenaries—Damaran outlaws mostly, though the women and two of the men claimed to be exiles out of Kront. They had been part of the group of swords hired to help in the taking of Highwatch. Argalath had confided to Jatara that it would not displease him if they did not return.

Including herself, her party numbered thirteen, and Jatara knew she could probably count on at least four of her company to turn cloak if things went bad. As for the eight Damarans … well, that would depend entirely on who was
coming. But really, it didn’t matter. When it came down to it, Jatara could only depend on herself.

Jatara and her company had been following Kadrigul and the girl’s trail for almost two days. Jatara could sense both. The trail had led them into the upper foothills of the Giantspires where the woods thickened and they had to ride single file. Jatara took the lead.

She looked around. If the trees grew much thicker, they’d soon be forced to dismount and lead their horses. Not exactly the best place for swordplay. But it also meant that archers would have to come in close, making a true ambush difficult.

They were close. Perhaps watching Jatara and her party right then.

Jatara dismounted and drew her sword from where it hung against her hip.

The next rider nearest her, one of the women from Kront, reined in her own horse and said, “Problem?”

“We’re about to have company,” said Jatara, and she stepped away from her horse.

“Orders?” called out one of the Damarans. Half of them had dismounted and drawn weapons, but the others remained in their saddles, reins in one hand, weapons in the other. Their mounts whickered and tossed their heads, some of them fighting their reins. The horses could sense those approaching, probably had picked up the scent. It wouldn’t be long.

Jatara’s horse tried to turn. Seeing the way blocked, it trotted off down the path, and she let it go. She scanned the thick brush on the upper slope. Most of the hobgoblins were coming from that direction. A few were flanking them already, but most would come from uphill.

From up the path where her mount had fled came the scream of a horse. It ended abruptly, cut off.

“Orders?” the Damaran called again, a note of desperation in his voice.

“Try to stay alive,” said Jatara. “And stay out of my way.”

The slight breeze that had been rattling the branches all morning gusted, and in the same instant Jatara smelled the things coming, she saw the first of them. The smell was a musty animal reek, mingled with the oil of steel and leather. The sight matched. The creature moved with the combination of the graceful stealth of a warrior and the lumbering gait of a bear.

The thing inside Jatara
lurched
. A
thrum
filled her head, and for a moment the world blurred around her. In between one heartbeat and the next, she felt her consciousness slipping. She clenched her jaw and forced it back.

“No!” she said.

“No what?” said the woman near her.

The look Jatara turned on her made the woman gasp and take a step back. For a fleeting moment, Jatara could see the blood pulsing beneath the woman’s skin, could hear the beat of her heart and her breath rasping through her constricted throat, could smell the woman’s fear. The thing inside Jatara surged, eager, and again Jatara pushed it down.

“Damn and double damn,” she heard one of the men say.

More of the things were in sight. Jatara’s instinct had been correct. Hobgoblins. Fiercer and more cunning than their smaller cousins. They stopped just past the nearest trees. Man-sized, every one of them walking on two legs, but there the resemblance ended. In the gaps of their tarnished armor, Jatara saw unwashed skin the color of bad ale, and thick hair that bristled more like a beast than a man. Sharp ears stuck out from their helmets, and brown and yellow teeth protruded from their lips. Their narrow eyes had an unhealthy yellow cast. Their armor was simple, unadorned, and crude at best, but the thick blades and short spears they carried looked well made—some of them even new. Jatara had heard rumors for years that Yarin Frostmantle had been supplying the goblins of the Giantspires with weapons in hopes of keeping the lords of Highwatch from gaining too much power. From where she
stood, Jatara counted two dozen, but she knew more were keeping under cover.

“What do we do?” one of the men from Kront said, and when Jatara didn’t answer, he added, “My lady, what—?”

His horse reared, and he had to fight to keep it from bolting through the line.

“Off the horses,” said one of the hobgoblins in Damaran. “Weapons on the ground and you can walk out of here. We just want the horses.”

To their credit, every member of her party looked to Jatara.

“Won’t ask again,” said the hobgoblin.

“My lady?” said the man again, and when she still didn’t answer. “Jatara?”

She spared the man a glance then returned her attention to the hobgoblins. It hit her then. The sight was unnerving enough—seeing every wrinkle in their skin, every bit of tarnish in their armor or crack in their leather harnesses. The stench was worse. But then all of a sudden she could
taste
them. And not just the hobgoblins. The men. The women. Even the horses. The taste of them filled her mouth. Her stomach rumbled.

“They’ll never let us out alive,” said the woman from Kront. “Back the way we came?”

“Jatara?” said the man.

Jatara spat, trying to dislodge the taste, to convince herself that the hunger rumbling in her belly didn’t feel so … 
good
.

Forget her!” said the same man.

And then it all happened at once. Those of her company still in their saddles turned their horses and kicked them into a gallop. The hobgoblins let out a roar and charged.

Later, Jatara could not remember the specifics of the following moments. She remembered screaming. Especially the screaming of the horses. For some reason, they stuck in her mind more than the screams of her dying companions. In her dreams that night, she could almost hear words in
the horses’ screams. They conveyed a meaning baser than language. More primal—confusion, excitement, and above all, terror. And because they were more primal, they hit her all the stronger.

The smell was almost overwhelming. The reek of blood. Sweat. Marrow spilling from shattered bone. Bowels loosening in death. The entrails of men and beasts. The cold, oily scent of steel.

The thing inside her overwhelmed all control, taking over, and later Jatara knew that she had killed. Had killed many. Had even struck at one of her own companions in her berserk state of mind. But in the end, just when she might have struck down those coming for her, the presence—

Did not leave. Did not forsake her. It simply … let go, the power draining from her, leaving her empty. Her blade, dripping blood, fell from strengthless fingers, and her knees hit the ground beside it. The world hummed. Her vision trembled as if she were seeing the reflection of the world in a pool, and someone had just tossed in a stone.

She heard a shriek, cut off abruptly by the sound of steel through flesh and bone. Jatara could actually
feel
the new warmth in the air. So much life spilled. Wasted, wafting away …

She saw the leather boots of the hobgoblin stop before her. Felt the slight tremble of his tread in the ground. Heard the leather-and-iron creak of his armor. Smelled his sweat and the blood dripping from his blade. Heard—

“We really did only want the horses, you stupid bitch.”

Then he brought the heavy iron of his blade down into the flesh between her shoulder and neck.

There was no pain. But in the darkness that overwhelmed her, she could still feel that new presence inside her. And it was laughing.

C
HAPTER
EIGHT