The wind rose to a scream, and Jagun Ghen shrieked a final word, the harsh syllables like hot needles in Vazhad’s ears.
And then it was over. The wind died, but not gradually as natural gales do. It ceased all at once. Leaves and grit fell in a rattle on the flagstones of the courtyard.
Vazhad emerged, wiping his sleeve over eyes teary from dust. He fully expected to see the eladrin’s dead body splayed over the stones. But when he opened his eyes, he saw his master leaning against the far wall, the blue light of his spellscar still flickering as it faded. Jagun Ghen was breathing hard, like a man who’s just run a long ways uphill.
The eladrin lay crumpled nearby, also breathing heavily and still very much alive, despite the dagger protruding from his ribs. Vazhad could tell by the steady, pulsing glow of the rune on his forehead and the way the skin was pulled tight over his face, as if every muscle were tensed like a drawn bowstring, that the true eladrin had been subdued. The demon was now holding the reins again.
The guard who had done the stabbing lay curled in a fetal position just beyond the eladrin’s feet, his arms covering his head. He was mumbling something that Vazhad thought sounded like desperate prayers.
The eladrin’s head lolled to one side, then the other. Then strength finally seemed to come back to him, and he looked up.
“Thank you, Master,” he said.
Jagun Ghen, hood down and bare-headed to the dim morning light in the shadowed courtyard, kept his eyes closed. For all his power, he could not entirely escape the weaknesses of Argalath’s body. But he managed a smile as his breathing slowed.
“This one … is powerful … indeed. Perhaps we should find more eladrin for our new home?”
“It is not his lineage,” said Kathkur. “Not his flesh. He once was eladrin, but his studies, his rites and dabblings, have made him … something more. So strong. My claws are sunk deep in his soul, but he still manages to squirm out of my grip.”
“We shall do all that we can to aid you.”
Kathkur looked down at the hilt protruding from his chest. His brow wrinkled, confused and annoyed, as if he had just discovered a loose button on a shirt. He grasped the hilt and pulled. The steel slipped out, spouting droplets of blood that spattered over the Creel and the flagstones. Kathkur studied the blade a moment, then licked his blood from it.
“So … hungry,” he said.
“Then feed, my brother,” said Jagun Ghen.
Vazhad looked away as Kathkur fell upon the whimpering Creel. Only then did he realize that the other guard, the tall one, was nowhere to be seen. He had fled at last.
Vazhad wished him gods’ speed, pissed trousers and all, then snorted in disgust. How far he had fallen, wishing the gods’ blessings upon such a coward.
The feeding didn’t take long. Vazhad kept his distance and his back to the spectacle. The sight of death had little effect on him. He’d killed a dozen men or more in his time, two with his bare hands. But the wet, tearing sound of the monster feeding unnerved him.
“You may go, if you wish.”
Vazhad turned to see Jagun Ghen watching him. His eyes squinted against the full morning light, but Vazhad had no doubt he could see in other ways. Vazhad almost took the opportunity. But he knew he walked a delicate edge here.
So he gave a small bow and said, “I wish only to serve, Master.”
Jagun Ghen did not smile. But his lips twitched and settled into something like a pleased leer. “If only I had a hundred more like you,” he said.
On the other side of the courtyard, Kathkur stood up. The figure on the flagstones beneath him was no longer recognizably human. It was only a pile of blood, bone, and mangled entrails.
“You feel stronger now?” said Jagun Ghen.
“Oh, yes.” Kathkur had none of the reputed grace of the eladrin. His limbs were taut, his fingers curled into claws. “But still … he fights me. Every moment.”
“We shall deal with that,” said Jagun Ghen, “if you let me.”
“I am yours, lord and master.”
“Good. Then we shall put this eladrin in his place.”
CHAPTER SIX
Maaqua had left the door open when she departed, and bright daylight spilled across the floor. Hweilan flinched, remembering the queen’s words about sunlight hitting the muck on her arm, wondering if it might have any effect on her. But as the sunlight fell on her legs, she felt nothing but warmth.
Kaad pushed himself to his feet, put his hand to his temple, then pulled it away, looking at the blood on his fingers. Now that he stood in the full light, Hweilan could pick out more details. He was more than scrawny and old. Pale tracks of fading scars marred his face and forehead and even the back of his hands. He dipped the edge of his robe in the cauldron of water and daubed at his bleeding temple.
“Not the first time she’s hit you,” said Hweilan.
Kaad didn’t look as he replied. “I am a slave. But I am also a healer. I have a balm. This wound will not fester.”
“Not the skin anyway,” she told him, and he gave her a sly smile. “You are not Razor Heart?”
“Black Wolf.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Thirty years,” he said. “Thirty years since I last walked the Dunwood. Long years in these cold mountains.”
“Why stay, then?”
He sneered, the look an older brother might give a sister who had just said something stupid. “I am a slave,” he said. “I have no say in where I go.”
“You are a healer,” said Hweilan. “You know the herbs and roots that mend. I’d wager you know the ones that kill just as well.”
Kaad dipped the edge of his robe into the water again and dabbed some more at his temple. “You have nothing to wager. I will live to see the sunset tomorrow.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I owe you nothing.”
“And if you’re right, I’ll be dead tomorrow. You have nothing to lose.”
“Why do you care?”
Hweilan said nothing. She’d learned-most often from her mother when she’d done something wrong-that silence and a firm gaze did more to make people talk than anything else.
Kaad sighed and turned away, and for a moment Hweilan thought she had lost him. But then he said, “Why have I stayed? My son. He was my apprentice. Neither of us were fighters. But warriors have need of healers. It was not a bad life in the Black Wolf. But Razor Heart captured us. At first, I stayed and served willingly, for Maaqua told me that as long as I was faithful, my son would live.”
There was a long silence, but Hweilan did not break it. She knew Kaad would either say his next bit or he wouldn’t. He stared into the fire and continued.
“My son excelled at my teachings. In time, he would have surpassed me. Quite a valuable prize. So Maaqua sold him to the Blood Mountain tribe nine years ago. I stay now … because I have nowhere else to go.”
Hweilan let the silence hold a while, leaving Kaad to nurture his grief. Then she struck.
“What was his name? Your son?”
Kaad looked at her, studying her expression. Hweilan was careful to keep her face a perfect mask.
“Gluured,” said Kaad at last.
Hweilan closed her eyes and nodded slowly. “I will remember it.” She opened her eyes and held Kaad’s gaze. “You know who I am, Kaad. You know what I am. When I am done with Highwatch, I will have no home. My hearth will be the hunt, my only bed the blood of my enemies. Help me now, and the Blood Mountain clan will be my enemies. But I will remember the name of Gluured.”
Kaad shook his head and laughed, but the look in his eyes told Hweilan she had him. He had not decided yet, but he was considering.
“You’ll be dead tomorrow,” said Kaad.
“Not if you help me.”
“I cannot help you escape,” he said. His hands were shaking. She was losing him. “It would mean worse than death for me. Maaqua …”
“I’m not asking you to cut me loose,” she said. “You are a healer, Kaad. I just need you to bring me something.”