Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II (36 page)

When they returned to the camp, they met a grisly sight. A dead ram lay near the entrance, its throat a ravaged mess.

“Uncle has brought us breakfast,” said Hweilan.

“The wolf?” Mandan looked about, and Darric could see him bristling again. “Where is it?”

Hweilan shrugged and said, “
He
is not far. I’ll gut breakfast if you two would rouse the fire.”

Mandan scowled at them both, then ducked back inside the shelter. Darric did not follow. He turned and watched as Hweilan crouched beside a pile of gray branches. With one hand she lifted them, then reached under them with the other and retrieved her pack. When she stood and turned back, she held a long knife in one hand.

Darric took a step back and cursed himself. He sensed no threat, but she was so … 
not
what he had expected. Expected? No. Darric had to be honest with himself—and felt his face flush at the thought—what he had
hoped
.

She stood there, studying him. At last she said, “Brother?”

Darric blinked twice. “What?”

“You call him ‘brother.’ But you are Damaran, through and through. And he is … not.”

“He is as Damaran as I am.”

“And something more besides.”

She turned away, kneeling beside the dead ram, and set to work with her knife. Darric caught himself watching. Not the gruesome work of the carcass. The strap of skin she wore across her chest was indeed tied around her neck and back, but by thin strings only. It left her back almost entirely bare. He saw more inks there, more scars, but beneath the skin her muscles rippled as they worked.

“Darric, is it?” she said, not turning from her work. She reached inside the open carcass and began digging out the offal. “I think I remember you now. As a child, I never traveled west of the mountains—except once. When I was seven. My family traveled to Soravia. I don’t remember why. But I remember some of the other nobles’ children. There was one—a boy a year or two older than I was, I think. His father’s oldest and heir, but still younger than most of the other nobles’ sons. Very eager to prove himself. But the other nobles’ sons were older, bigger, and they didn’t seem to like him much. One of the games—a game I was not allowed in, being a little girl—turned rough. No, more than rough. With no adults around, it turned into a brawl, and several of the bigger boys decided they would show the younger one their dislike once and for all. Shame him. And so—”

“And so they beat me,” said Darric. He was still looking at her, though he was seeing the distant memory. “Bloodied my nose, loosened a tooth, and knocked me to the ground. I was in the process of getting up—my father always
told me it was no shame to be beaten, but there was no greater shame than
letting
yourself be beaten—when this little hellcat of a girl—half the size of the smallest boy there—stood over me, brandishing some sort of horn or antler in one fist. She cursed them all for cowards, waved her weapon at them, and dared the biggest one to step forward if he wanted a real fight. They laughed. The biggest boy did step forward, reached to take the little upstart’s weapon away, and—”

“And I stabbed his hand,” said Hweilan. She stopped her work and looked over her shoulder at him.

Darric nodded and swallowed. In the years since, he’d told that story two-score times, and thought about it hundreds more, usually laughing but at the very least with a smile. But he couldn’t smile now. Could barely even move. Seeing her here now, the memory was too fresh.

“Not badly,” she said. “But the little whoreson jerked away so fast that he opened a gash. And then my mother happened on the scene, and the real fury began.”

Darric remembered. Hweilan’s mother had dressed as a Damaran, but there was no mistaking her for one. Even without the slight cant to her eyes and the sharp ears, there was something altogether
other
about her. He’d heard, as had all the noble Houses, how Vandalar’s son and heir had married some eastern barbarian. They hadn’t known the half of it. The look in her eyes—the gaze she had cast on the gang of youths—had sent them running, and Darric knew that most of them had been fighting tears.

“That little boy’s name was Darric,” said Hweilan.

“I’m not a little boy anymore.”

Her voice went hard again. “And I’m not that girl. Now either help me or join your friend. The sooner this is done, the sooner we eat.”

They sat around the fire. The four Damarans and Hweilan. The fleeing horses had taken the Damarans’ supplies, so they
had to content themselves with water from their skins for drink. But everyone chewed greedily on the roast ram. They could hear crows feeding on the offal and bones outside.

Once the worst of their hunger had been satisfied, Hweilan looked to Darric and said, “Why are you here?”

Darric gave Mandan a pointed look. His brother returned it but kept his mouth shut.

“Not everyone in Damara has forsaken Highwatch,” said Darric. “Many try to curry favor with the usurper. Others are too weak to oppose him and so fear any association with Vandalar, who never supported Yarin. My father remembers the friendship of your House, but even he cannot openly oppose the king.”

“Tell the whole truth, Brother,” said Mandan, his voice hard. “Because we are going to get the whole truth out of her. I promise you.”

If Hweilan was bothered by the angry look in Mandan’s eyes, she gave no sign of it. She merely took another bite of meat and looked to Darric.

He could not meet her gaze, so he looked into the fire and said, “My father was saddened to hear of Highwatch, but he would send no aid beyond a few search parties in the western Gap, hoping to find survivors. I … grew angry.”

Valsun snorted. “You cursed Duke Vittamar for—what was it?—being a craven dotard. Darric told the duke if he was too timid to stand beside a sworn ally, then Darric would go himself. And so he did.”

Darric shrugged and continued, “Valsun and Mandan came with me. We hired what swords we could, and … well, here we are.”

“About that,” said Hweilan. She chewed a moment, then swallowed. “Explain the ‘brother.’ ”

Mandan said, “Why is it any of your—?”

“If you are ‘going to get the whole truth’ out of me,” said Hweilan, “then I’ll have it from you. I saved your lives last night. You can answer me out of gratitude if nothing else.”

A tense silence followed, broken only by the sound of the flames.

“Well
I’m
grateful,” said Jaden. “I could’ve done without the mountain goat walk in the middle of the night, but this particular goat makes up for that.”

Mandan growled, and Jaden flinched back, his eyes widening.

“Easy, Mandan,” said Darric, then looked to Hweilan. “Forgive my brother. You’ve cut a sore vein there.”

“I don’t give a half-damn,” said Hweilan. “Brother here has accused me of witchcraft.”

Mandan’s jaw tightened and he took a deep breath through his nose, and for a moment Darric feared things were about to move beyond his control.

“But that isn’t what’s
really
bothering you, is it?” said Hweilan, completely unconcerned. She took another bite of roast ram, swallowed, then continued, “Brother there speaks well and dresses like a proper knight, so I’m guessing our good Duke Vittamar raised him in his own household. An orphan then? Because if he’s blood to you, Darric, it’s only half-blood, and the other half isn’t human.”

Mandan sat up and was half into a lunge over the fire when the growl
hit
them. For the briefest instant only, Darric feared it was Mandan himself and that the rage was upon him. But Mandan had frozen still as a dead branch. The growl filled their little branch-covered dell, and it hit the gut like a drumbeat, low and strong.

And then Darric saw the wolf. He’d come down into the hollow by another entrance and stood just behind Jaden’s left shoulder. His black lips were pulled back over his fangs, his ears lay flat against his head, and every bit of fur around his head and neck stood on end. Jaden’s eyes were wider and brighter than new-minted coins, and his chin was trembling.

“You should sit down,” said Hweilan, her voice utterly calm, even relaxed.

“Aye,” said Jaden, just daring the slightest nod. “Do sit down. Good idea.”

Mandan gave the wolf a long, careful look, then scowled at Hweilan and sat.

The ground-shaking growl stopped, and the wolf covered its fangs. His ears rose, twitched, and he settled on his haunches to watch Mandan through narrowed eyes.

Jaden and Valsun let out a sigh, and Darric realized that he too had been holding his breath.

Hweilan took a long swallow from her waterskin, tied it shut, then looked right at Mandan. There was no apology or sympathy in her gaze, but no anger either. Darric felt very, very grateful for that.

Before the mood could sour again, Darric started talking. “Northern Soravia borders on the Great Glacier. A wild country. But still there are people who eke out a living there. Hunters, herdsmen, woodcutters … rugged folk. Some years ago, something began slaughtering their herds. And then woodsmen disappeared. A monster of some sort, said the locals. My father sent men to hunt down the beast. They heard tales of a great bear, a huge savage man, or something in between. They followed the trail of rumors into the villages near the mountains. There, they found a young woman, whom locals said had been ravished by the beast. She bore a child. She and the villagers were about to kill it—cast it on a pyre—but my father would not permit it. He said that no matter the crimes of the father, innocent blood would not be spilled in his land. In the tendays that followed, his men found a half-mad savage in the mountains, whom they said could turn into a great bear. They killed him. But my family raised the child. Mandan. His fury burns as hot as his joy, and he sometimes speaks before he thinks, but I have never known a finer man.”

“True words,” said Valsun.

In other realms, Darric knew such a thing would never have happened. Madness they would call it. But Damarans
honored deeds more than heritage, and Darric’s father—despite his faults—was Damaran to the core. He had raised Mandan in the faith and never once blamed the boy for his father’s sins. And Mandan had never disappointed them.

Hweilan said, “For a craven dotard, your father sounds like a good man.”

Darric blushed. “I do not regret my actions—coming here—but my words to my father are a shame to me. Do not make light of them.”

“Your turn,” said Mandan, his voice tight with barely controlled fury.

Hweilan nodded, considered a moment, then said, “Even fleas have fleas.”

Mandan blinked, completely taken aback. “What?”

“You accused me of witchcraft. I can see why someone who has never known the world beyond the faith of Torm might think that. But you are wrong. I am no witch and no demonbinder.”

“And what in the Nine Hells do fleas have to do with that?” said Mandan.

“Aye, good question,” said Jaden, then shrank back at the look Mandan gave him.

“Swiftstags feed on the grass,” said Hweilan. “Wolves feed on the swiftstags. Fleas feed on the wolves. But there are things smaller still that feed on the fleas. And probably even smaller things that feed on the smaller things. And when the wolves die, they feed the grass. Such is the way of all things. To live is to feed on life and, in time, to die and pass that life on to another. Life, death … the Balance.”

“You’ve gone over to Silvanus then?” said Mandan. “That’s what this is? I’ve met a druid or two in my time, and you’re—”

“No,” said Hweilan. “Fleas on fleas.”

“
What
?”

“Calm yourself and listen. The world is a bigger place than your simple answers, because you have never asked the big questions.”

Mandan shook his head in frustration.

“Please,” said Darric, “explain.”

And so Hweilan told them of her mother’s people, of their exile in this world from a war in another. And as midday began to turn to afternoon, she told of the beings they served. Not gods, for they themselves served the gods.

“Exarchs,” said Valsun, his voice fallen to a fascinated whisper. He had always loved theology and philosophy—so much so that Darric had often thought the man would’ve made a fine priest. “Or primordials perhaps.”

Hweilan shrugged. “Neither. More and less. They are … primal. They served the gods—especially the one you call Silvanus—in their own way. And here”—she gave Mandan a pointed looked—“you will understand what fleas on fleas has to do with this. As I said, to live, to eat, to die and in turn feed others … that is the way of all things. That is the way of Silvanus. But what happens if one eats and eats and eats, and then refuses to die? When one lives only to consume? When one eats too much, grows too much …”

“Disease,” said Valsun.

“Yes. To eat, to consume and devour only for the sake of devouring … it is disease and death. Any creature that does that only brings about its own doom—but perhaps not before killing everything around it. That is Jagun Ghen.”

And as afternoon turned toward evening, Hweilan told them the history of her people and their war against Jagun Ghen. Much of it she told very much as Lendri had once told it to her, sitting in that cave with Menduarthis. But she had learned—and seen and lived—so much more since then, and she put it into her own words. After a while, even Mandan’s deep scowl softened, and he listened with rapt attention.