Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II (7 page)

“You know better, Jatara.” Argalath’s voice, seeming faint and far away. “Now stop this foolishness. I did not kill Kadrigul.”

The pain left her as swiftly as it had come. But with it went the last of her strength and the will to fight. All she had left was the hollowness inside. She couldn’t even muster the strength to cry.

“Help her up,” said Argalath. “Put her on the bed.”

The Nar obeyed, laying her atop the thick fur coverlets. Guric was sitting up and staring at the lower half of his leg, which bent outward.

“Your brother is dead, Jatara,” said Argalath. “And even if your grief makes you think otherwise, I am indeed sorry. I loved him as you did.” His gaze flicked away, and for a moment the barest hint of a smile bent his lips. “Well, perhaps not exactly as you did, but I loved him nonetheless. I did not kill him. But I know who did. We will discuss it here, now, and then never again. You know me. You know my word. Do you understand?”

He leaned forward in his chair, his chin resting on his clasped fingertips. He stared at Jatara, where she still lay strengthless on the bed. The flames in the hearth were burning low, and the room was more shadow than light. She could not see Argalath’s eyes. Just two wells of darkness. But she could feel his gaze on her. Her heartbeat still felt stiff and strained, as if it had just been thawed and was straining to its work. Her limbs were tingling, and she couldn’t stop the shivering in her body.

Jatara made a sound of assent. Her mouth was bone dry and she didn’t yet trust herself to speak.

“Very well,” said Argalath. “Your brother died in my service. You and he have both faced death in my service more
times than I can remember. You did so with honor. Without complaint. With eagerness even. Why do you now blame me?”

Tears welled in Jatara’s eye. Her brother, the only one in the world she truly loved, was dead, and she hadn’t even been there. Wolves and ravens would eat his corpse.

“You sent him,” she said, forcing the words out through a throat that still seemed narrow as a pipe stem. “With that … monster.”

Argalath sat silent a moment, as if waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he said, “That
monster
as you call it did not kill your brother. He was, in fact, the best protection I could have sent with Kadrigul.”

“You could have sent me.”

“Then you, too, would be dead.”

Had the knife been within reach, had she been able to muster the strength to move, she would have tried to kill him again. The damned, cursed fool. Didn’t he know she’d rather
be
dead than have to live without Kadrigul?

“But,” Argalath continued, and she heard a strange note in his voice, “here you do speak—speak truly—of my mistake, and I beg your forgiveness, Jatara.”

Nothing he could have said could have shocked her more. She’d heard him ask forgiveness from others before—those whom he served or who stood in higher station than him. But never to one who served him. And never with such sincerity.

“I thought we were going after one scared girl. I thought I was sending
more
than enough to do the job—swatting a fly with a smith’s hammer. But it seems that our little fly found unexpected aid. I swear to you that had I known the baazuled was not up to the task, I would never have sent your brother with so few.”

“Baazuled?” said Jatara. She’d never heard the word, though the flavor of it reminded her of the incantations Argalath used in his most secret rites.

Argalath motioned to Guric, who still sat in the floor. “Our new friends. You see the flaw?”

Jatara shook her head.

Argalath stood, so quickly that the chair toppled behind him. Jatara flinched, and she realized that her heart was beating so hard she could hear the blood pulsing in her head. The sudden movement sent a breath of air through the room that made the fire flare, painting him in a hellish light.

“Masks,” said Argalath, in a tone like a street prophet about to explain sin to the unworthy.

The two surviving Nar exchanged nervous glances. The one from whom Jatara had snatched the knife looked at it longingly where it still lay on the floor.

“We all wear them,” Argalath continued. He spread both his arms. “These mortal bodies are nothing but masks—the image we present to the world, hiding the true life within. And when we die, that life … departs. Such a waste. Leaving the body an empty shell. But”—and Argalath pointed down at Guric—“that shell can be filled by those who know the ancient ways, the secret arts of our ancestors. Is it not so, Jatara?”

She tried to swallow, but her mouth held no moisture.
Our ancestors?
Argalath claimed that his mother had been of the Nar, but his father of her people, the Frost Folk. Which ancestors did he mean? The shamans of her people had many secret arts, but she had never heard of anything like these baazuled until Argalath.

Argalath turned, extended one hand, and his chair leaped up, its back slapping into his open palm. The two Nar each made the sign to ward off evil spirits, and she could hear one of them muttering a prayer. She could see his breath. The temperature in the room had dropped suddenly. The air had taken on a still, almost brittle state, making every sound sharp and clear, and it was then she realized what had just happened.

She’d long known of Argalath’s ability granted by his spellscar. He could move things with his mind—small things only, but his cunning had learned to put it to great effect.
Moving anything larger than a flagon of wine pained and weakened him. But he’d discovered that there were veins and organs inside the human body far smaller than a flagon. A slight squeeze applied to the right area could kill. The wounded pounding of her own heart reminded her of that.

But the entire chair—a heavy thing of solid oak and iron—had jumped off the floor into his waiting hand. And Argalath’s spellscar had not so much as flickered.

Argalath sat down again and motioned to Guric. “He hoped that his beloved wife would return to fill her shell. It was not to be. Not even the gods themselves can force the unwilling dead to return. Instead, something came from … elsewhere.”

“Demons,” Jatara rasped. She had heard stories of demons and devils called forth to serve practitioners of the dark arts. Some managed to break free of their would-be masters and possess them—or worse. That Argalath managed to maintain control over such spirits proved how powerful he really was.

Argalath laughed. “Call them what you like. But that is not what we must discuss, Jatara. What we must
settle
. Once and for all. Look at our friend there. You shattered his leg. Even the strongest living warrior would be weeping in agony at such an injury. But there he sits, calm as you please, awaiting my command. And yet … something out there managed to best one of them. For as formidable as our baazuled are, they are not invulnerable. Can you guess it, Jatara? The weakness?”

Jatara looked down at Guric. He—no,
it
—just sat there. But she had seen what these baazuled could do. That Guric wasn’t howling in pain over his shattered leg was impressive enough. But she’d seen them heal wounds that would have been lethal—heal before her eyes, after feeding.

“The mask,” said Argalath. “The body. In this case—the corpse. A dead shell. Powerful as the spirit is, even it cannot overcome this. It is not a weakness of the physical. No. It is a weakness of the … 
elemental.”
Even though he was sitting in shadow, Jatara caught a flash of white and knew he
was smiling. “The baazuled are beings of vast power—far beyond we pitiful mortals. But this world is not theirs, and though they can use our empty shells, it is not unlike a Nar warrior trying to ride a dead horse—forced to move the limbs himself, fill the lungs with air,
force
it to gallop. How much better, how much
stronger
is a living warrior upon a living horse? But what if warrior and mount could be one? One living, breathing, thinking …”

Words seemed to fail him at last, and he looked at Jatara. He took a deep breath, and when he next spoke, his tone was that of the Argalath she knew—soft spoken, almost weary, but always as if he knew something she didn’t.

“Your brother died in my service. That debt must be paid. To strike one of my servants is to strike me. To strike me is to strike the one I serve. Is it not so?”

Jatara said nothing.

“So, the question you must now ask yourself is whether you will mind your place, and bring vengeance to those who killed your brother. Or whether you will blame me. You can’t have both.”

Jatara forced herself to sit up on the bed. It made the room spin around her and her stomach clenched, but she managed. She still felt hollow inside. Completely drained. Stripped of all will to live. But the rage was gone.

“You said my brother died in your service. I thought we were taking Highwatch, and then … whatever we please. But what you’re doing … goes beyond that. Yes?”

“Oh, yes,” said Argalath, and again she saw the dim flash of his teeth in the darkness. “My plans extend far beyond this hovel. Are you ready to …” He paused, and seemed to search for the right words, then said, “Expand your vision?”

“Will it bring vengeance to whoever killed my brother?”

“Oh, yes. That I swear to you.”

“To strike one of your servants is to strike you. To strike you is to strike the one you serve. Your words.”

A moment’s silence, then, “Yes.”

And so Jatara asked the one question she had never asked—had never dared, and never much cared, because to her it did not matter. It mattered now.

“Whom do you serve?”

C
HAPTER
FOUR

T
HE SHIVERING DRAGGED
H
WEILAN BACK TO
consciousness. When she heard the loud rattling, she gasped and sat up, fearing some huge insect was scuttling near her face, then realized it was only the chattering of her own teeth.

She opened her eyes.

Gleed, the tower, the lake …

Gone. She was alone in the pathless forest. She remembered Gleed yammering on, feeding her some stew that was surprisingly good, then more of the herbed water. One moment she’d been listening to him extol the wonders of the Master, the next …

“That little toad put something in the drink,” she said to herself.

She looked down and saw that she was dressed only in a strange sort of cloak. More like a knee-length blanket with a hole in the middle for her head. Compared to frigid Narfell, the air seemed balmy, but it was still cool enough that her breath steamed, and the thought of the old goblin taking her clothes gave her a sick feeling in her stomach.

She sat in a bed of old leaves, made sodden from last night’s rain, surrounded by the roots of a massive oak. At least she thought it was an oak. The leaves were the right shape, but just one of them was larger than both her outstretched hands.
And though the bark was the right texture—even encrusted in lichen as an old oak ought to be—the color was just a wisp lighter than black.

Hweilan had grown up in a land nestled between mountains and steppe, where most of the moisture fell as snow and clung as ice for six months out of the year. What few woods there were clung to the foothills and mountain valleys—mostly pine and spruce, trees that could survive the harsh cold. The forest she’d seen in the realms of Kunin Gatar had been dense. But nothing like what surrounded her.

Nothing but trees and brush in every direction. Trunks and branches turned and twisted, almost as if they’d been dancing and had frozen in place at the sight of the strange girl blinking at them. Never had she seen such monsters as these trees. Some of the leaves were big as shields. The sky lay hid beneath the ceiling of the leaves, and Hweilan could only guess at the trees’ height. A hundred feet? More? No way to know. They might climb all the way to tickle the moon for all she could tell.

But the faces …

As a child enjoying Narfell’s brief summers, she had often lain in the tall grass of the steppe and seen shapes in the clouds or the profile of a face on some crag. But the knots and holes in the trees around her …

The trunks had knots that looked much too much like eyes, and they seemed to watch her. A broken branch looked very much like a nose. And the cracked and split bark in the trunks stretched like mouths. Some seemed almost sad, or frozen in a scream. But far too many held a malicious glee.

Hweilan stood. She had no idea where she was, had no idea what time of day it was—the wood seemed caught in a perpetual twilight; enough light to see, but plenty of shadows in which anything could be hiding. She knew she wanted to be anywhere but there.

Leaves rustled far overhead as the upper boughs caught a slight breeze, but down below the air was still. She could hear the chirps of birds, but they stayed hidden in the upper
branches. There was no sound of the waterfall. She was obviously far away from Gleed’s tower but had no memory of how she’d come here. What had that little beast put in her drink?

Hweilan started walking. She had no idea where she was or where she was going, so she simply went down the slope. Other than her bath and bed, Hweilan had never gone shoeless in her life. To do so in Narfell would be folly. But here, the floor of wet leaves was soft and easy on her feet. Still, it was cool, and even after walking briskly for what seemed a mile or more, she couldn’t stop shivering.