Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II (30 page)

Leaping backward off the cliff, Hweilan’s right boot had slipped, just slightly, on the wet rocks. Not enough to spoil her leap, but enough that she turned in the air, and when the rope pulled taut and swung her back toward the rocks, she was just a bit too far sideways. Rather than hitting the rocks with both feet flat, knees bent to absorb the force, her feet struck sideways, slipping on the mossy wet rocks. Both boots slid out from under her, and her body slammed into the rocks. It was all she could do to keep her grip on the knife in her hand.

The loop of rope around her waist slipped up under her arms, and she felt skin rubbed off her back.

Hweilan put the blade between her teeth, biting the steel against the pain, as she used both hands to climb. Her
boots tore through the thick moss and slipped on the rocks, forcing her to take three times as many steps as she should have, but her desperation spurred her on. The other end of the rope was bound in a tight knot around the bole of an old oak whose iron-hard roots had burrowed through the rocks. But one slight pass of sharp steel, or even a good bite with sharp teeth, and Hweilan knew she’d be joining the two wolves who were probably going over the falls about now.

Her right hand gripped the lip of the cliff while her left kept hold of the rope, and she pulled herself up. Hweilan thought she must have leaped farther to one side than she’d thought, because a tree stood before her. Too late she realized—

Nendawen stood before her, spear planted on the ground beside him.

The moment’s hesitation defeated her. In that brief instant of realization that the Master stood before her, Hweilan did not know whether to strike, roll to one side, or leap back off the cliff. The indecision cost her.

Nendawen’s bloody hand shot out, gripped the rope around Hweilan’s waist, and pulled her into the air. He brought the spear around so quickly that she never saw it, only heard it and felt the wind of its passage as the sharp iron head sliced through the length of rope binding her to the tree. And then he threw her over his head and high into the air. She crashed through branches, and that told her she was not headed for the cliff. Which meant she had a hard landing—

She came down in the soft, muddy ground. Of all the trunks and roots surrounding her, she missed every one, which told her that Nendawen had not meant to injure her. She slid a long ways and used the momentum to come to her feet. When she looked up at Nendawen, the burning emerald gaze told her he had not spared her out of any mercy or kindness. He was a predator toying with his prey.

Hweilan grabbed the knife from her mouth and cut the rope off her waist. She considered drawing Menduarthis’s knife as well, but she wanted at least one free hand if she had
to grab at something—like a spear headed for her throat.

Nendawen glanced over his shoulder where his wolves had leaped over the cliff.

You did not learn that from the Fox
, he said.

“No,” she said. “I learned it from a Var warrior. And that wasn’t the only thing he taught me.”

Nendawen laughed, a sound not unlike the thunder of the nearby falls, then said,
Show me
.

Hweilan was taken aback at such a simple challenge. She had a knife in hand and another at her waist. In truth, Scith had taught her very little of knife fighting. It was not the Nar way. The knights had taught her basic skills, but in knife fighting Ashiin was her true master.

No?
said Nendawen.
Then I will show you
.

He drove his spear into the ground—so hard that Hweilan felt the ground shake under her feet—then he came for her, moving with a purposeful stride. The sheer presence of the Master almost overwhelmed Hweilan. He stood at least eight feet tall, every inch of him scarred muscle. But that was not what was so intimidating. Nendawen exuded an aura, like the heat of a forge fire, but one that hit the mind and hidden senses.

Hweilan almost ran. Every primal sense of her being knew that death was coming for her.

But no. This was the day. If she fled, she
knew
the Master of the Hunt would kill her. Without pity. Without remorse. And she would deserve it. After all she had lost—after so many who had died so that she might live—to run now would be to spit on their pyres. If she was to die today, then she wanted to be able to face her parents in the next in the afterlife—her grandfather, Scith, and even Lendri—and she wanted to stand before them without shame.

Ashiin’s teachings came to her.

An advancing foe has one disadvantage: You know he’s coming. Choose your ground, and prepare. When he strikes, make him strike on
your
terms
.

Hweilan crouched and planted one foot well behind the other. She had one chance at this.

Both hands outstretched, claws dripping blood, Nendawen lunged.

Hweilan leaped, throwing her feet and lower body first, sending her body in a slide. She had hoped Nendawen’s legs might be far enough apart for her to slide between, but there was no room. So she slid to one side, one of Nendawen’s hands brushing the top of her head. As she passed, she struck with the sharp steel in her hand, aiming for the soft flesh behind his knee, hoping to sever the tendons there. If she could cripple him, she might have a chance to finish him before the other wolves arrived.

But the muscles there were as strong as old tree roots. Hweilan had honed the knife’s edge till it was as sharp as a razor. It cut through the skin, but despite all her strength behind it, the blade only nicked a shallow wound in the tendons and muscle.

Hweilan scrambled away before Nendawen could turn and strike. She whirled, coming up in a defensive crouch, knife held before her.

Nendawen stood several paces away. He looked down at the blood dripping down the back of his leg. Hweilan thought she heard it sizzle as it struck the sodden leaves.

He looked up, his gaze locking on hers.
You drew first blood
, he said.
The Fox has taught you well
.

A scent struck Hweilan, so sudden it filled her head and so strong she could taste it—the salty iron taste of raw meat combined with the sweetness of flower buds. Her eyes were drawn down, following the scent, and she saw that her knife blade was steaming. Nendawen’s blood on the edge soaked into the steel, and even as she watched, it spread, turning the entire blade the color of heart’s blood.

She had scarcely had time to wonder what this might mean when something else broke through her senses—the sounds of something approaching through the forest,
crashing through branches and tearing up the forest floor. No, not something, but two somethings. The other two wolves had arrived.

Even as Hweilan looked back up at Nendawen, the two massive wolves joined him, one on either side. The leader looked down at the Master’s wounded leg, let out a plaintive whine, then licked it, cleaning the wound. When all the blood was gone and no more had joined it, Hweilan knew the wound had healed. The wolf returned its gaze to Hweilan, its eyes golden as a summer moonrise, and growled.

Hweilan knew she could never take all three of them at the same time. Not with only her knives.

“You won’t face me alone, then?” she said, forcing a defiance into her voice that she didn’t feel.

No
, said Nendawen. He reached out his right hand, and something struck Hweilan a glancing blow on the back of her shoulder, knocking her to the ground.

She scrambled back to her feet, but Nendawen and the wolves had come no closer. In fact, a tangled mass of roots, branches, and thorns had come up out of the ground, forming a sort of throne for the Master, and he sat with his spear across his knees. Hweilan understood what had struck her. The spear had flown through the air and returned to its master’s hand.

The wolves sat on their haunches to either side of the throne, still watching Hweilan, none of the threat gone from their eyes, but otherwise showing no sign of coming for her. Two shapes—one black, the other a shade lighter than the mists themselves—flew out of the trees and landed on Nendawen, one on each shoulder. A horned owl on his right, and a raven on his left. No sooner had they settled in than a snake, striped with every color of the rainbow, slithered out of the tangled throne and coiled around Nendawen’s leg.

“I …” Hweilan searched for the right words, searched every teaching and memory of the venom vision she had, but came up with nothing. So she simply said, “I don’t understand.”

The Fox has taught you well
, said Nendawen.
Now, we shall see if you believe that—and if she believes it
.

“Wha—?”

Something heavy landed behind Hweilan and she whirled. Ashiin stood several paces away, just close enough to be distinct in the mist, her staff in one hand.

“Ashiin?” said Hweilan.

“A good trick with the wolves,” said Ashiin. “I will remember that one.” Her voice softened, she said, “Remember your vow,” then charged.

Hweilan tried to sidestep away, but her teacher was far too quick. The staff came for her head. She ducked under it, then blocked the kick that had been coming for her midsection. Hweilan tried to drive her fist into Ashiin’s ribs, but the woman twisted away—and then the staff was coming for her again, straight down this time. Hweilan slid out of the way, but on the wet ground her feet slipped. She used the fall, turning it into a roll, and tumbled away.

“Why?” she screamed, even as Ashiin came after her again. It took all her efforts to avoid or block strike after kick after strike.

At last, Ashiin snarled in frustration, sidestepped away, and said, “You’re holding back. Use that knife!”

“I don’t understand. Why—?”

“Only one of us leaves here alive today, girl,” said Ashiin.

And then she charged again, jabbing and swinging with her staff, kicking, punching, again and again, giving Hweilan no time to do anything but evade and block.

“Hweilan,” said Ashiin, though she did not let up on her attack. “If you hold back, I will kill you. I have no choice.”

Hweilan screamed, blocked a punch, then returned one of her own. “No,” she said through clenched teeth. “I won’t kill you.”

“You swore,” said Ashiin, and she jabbed with her staff.

Hweilan twisted to the side, let the staff pass her, and grabbed it with her free hand.

“Enemies!” she said, and delivered a kick to Ashiin’s midsection that sent her back. Hweilan tried to keep her grip on the staff, but Ashiin was too strong and ripped it out of her hand. “I swore to kill
enemies
without hesi—”

Ashiin screamed and came at her again, striking so fast with the staff that Hweilan was forced to backstep. But Ashiin followed, and rather than her fist, her free hand swiped out with claws, barely missing Hweilan’s left eye and raking down her cheek.

She stepped back, out of Hweilan’s range, and licked the blood from her fingers. “Today, I am your enemy,” she said. “I am your death.”

Hweilan had one trick left, one little surprise she had brought from the tower. She reached inside her shirt pocket with her free hand, thanked her ancestors and all the benevolent gods that the pouch was still there, and pulled it out.

She had no time to undo the thick knot, for Ashiin came at her again. Hweilan blocked and counterstruck with her fist and even landed one good hit with the pommel of her knife across Ashiin’s temple. Not enough to break bone, but Ashiin’s head snapped to the side and she tumbled away.

Ashiin came to her feet, a feral smile on her face. “That’s the spirit! Had you the heart to use the blade, I’d be dead.”

Hweilan seized the moment and drove the point of her knife into the pouch and twisted, tearing open the small bag.

“I didn’t mean for you to use the knife on yourself, stupid girl,” said Ashiin, then charged again.

Hweilan threw the bag. It lost half its contents or more in the air, but there was still enough inside that when it struck Ashiin right between the eyes, a fine red cloud erupted into her face.

Ashiin screamed, and Hweilan couldn’t help but smile.

The pouch held nothing more than the ground yellow
tranta
leaves that Gleed liked to sprinkle on venison. “Gives it bite,” he’d say, and he was right. It was the strongest spice Hweilan had ever tasted, even a little sprinkle making her
eyes water. She could only imagine what it would do in a person’s eyes.

Ashiin struck out blindly with her staff, tears streaming down her cheeks as she rubbed at her eyes with her free hand.

Hweilan seized the moment. She turned the knife in her hand and gripped it, just like Ashiin had taught her—

And charged Nendawen.

He sat no more than ten or fifteen paces away. Too far for surprise, she knew, but she had to try. She had sworn. Ashiin was right. Sworn to strike her enemy without hesitation. But Ashiin was not her enemy. She couldn’t believe that. Her teacher had to have been forced into this. Forced by Nendawen. And in Hweilan’s mind, that qualified him as the enemy of the moment. Her rational mind knew she had no chance against the Master, but where her reason failed, something more primal took over. It was the need to survive that made a trapped wolf gnaw off its own foot rather than die in the trap, the defiance that made a dying man spit in his torturer’s face. It was pure, unbridled fury.

Nendawen stood. At the sudden movement, the birds on his shoulders flew into the mists, the wolves at his feet fled, and the serpent on his leg slithered back into the thorns. He planted the butt of his spear on the ground beside him and held out his bloodied hand to her. Hweilan could hardly believe it. She’d thought surely the wolves would have come for her, eager to tear her apart.

Hweilan put all of her rage and defiance and fear into her scream, holding on to just enough reason to aim, and planted the knife into the Master’s chest. Ashiin had indeed taught her well, and the point of the steel slide between Nendawen’s ribs and pierced his heart.

So stunned was Hweilan that she let go the knife and stepped back, afraid to believe that it had worked.

Nendawen looked down at the knife buried in his chest. The light in his eyes had not dimmed in the slightest.