“Bring you? Bring you what?”
“Drakthna,” said Hweilan. “It’s a mushroom that-”
“I know what it is.” And by the look in his eyes, he obviously knew what it did as well. “I have some.”
“Good,” said Hweilan. “I need only a little. And do you know iruil?”
“White or green?”
“White. But I need the root, not the flower.”
The sound of heavy boots came from outside. Heading their way.
Kaad leaped to his feet, and Hweilan saw his skin go pale. He was trembling even more now, guilt written all over his face. Hweilan could hear the clink of armor along with the heavy tread of boots, and the breeze coming in through the door brought the mingled stink of oiled steel, leather, and unwashed hobgoblins.
The room darkened as two hobgoblin warriors filled the doorway. One held an iron studded club in one hand, and his companion had a jagged-edged dagger. Their helmets hid most of their faces, but she could see a wariness in their eyes as they stared at her.
Hweilan kept her face still, emotionless, but she looked the larger one directly in the eye, and the warrior dropped his gaze first.
They came inside and walked behind her, one to each side. Kaad scrambled to the far corner and stared at the floor. Hweilan tried to turn around to see what the warriors were up to, but her bonds held her too tight. More shadows fell across the floor. Maaqua shuffled back into the room, with another hobgoblin behind her.
Hweilan recognized him. She’d last seen him in armor, and now he was dressed only in furs and skins, but the scar that ran diagonally across his face, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent frown, and the left ear that was only half there gave him away. She’d seen him on the mountainside when she’d held the point of her knife under his throat.
Maaqua looked down on Hweilan. “You have met Buureg, Warchief of the Razor Heart.”
Buureg blinked once but otherwise displayed no emotion whatsoever. Then he looked down on her and said, “Rhan, Champion of the Razor Heart, wielder of the Greatsword of Impiltur, demands the right of Blood Slake. With you, Hweilan of Highwatch.”
None of them had yet spared Kaad so much as a glance. Hweilan had to keep it that way.
She growled and spit on the warchief’s boot. “I am not of Highwatch. You will call me by my right name or I will demand Blood Slake of you after I have eaten your champion’s heart.”
Kaad gasped, and even Maaqua’s eyes widened at Hweilan’s words.
“Stop!” Buureg raised his head, and Hweilan figured that the warrior behind her with the club had raised it to strike her.
Then Buureg stared at her, long and hard. He lowered his hand and said, “What would you have me call you?”
“I am the Hand of the Hunter. You will address me as such or hold your tongue.”
Maaqua was leaning on her staff and studying Hweilan through narrowed eyes. Not much got past the old toad, Hweilan knew. The old crone sensed Hweilan was up to something. Let her. She had brought this on herself.
Buureg called, “Slave!” and pointed at his boot. Kaad scrambled over and went to his knees, his tendons popping like snapping twigs. He pulled his ragged sleeve down over his hand and scrubbed Hweilan’s spittle off the boot. Buureg pulled his foot back, examined the boot, and grunted. Kaad crawled back to his corner, and the warchief returned his attention to Hweilan.
“Proud words,” said Buureg, “for someone who just came out of a hole and is tied at my feet.”
Hweilan hung her head. Her hair fell over her face, and she closed her eyes. Gleed had taught her many things beyond the sacred rites of Nendawen and the properties of plants and herbs and roots. When lessons were over, his talk would sometimes turn to other matters. Hweilan soon learned that he held little love for his goblin forebears and their ways, and he sometimes lost himself in particularly long rants about goblinkind and their stupid, narrow, backward customs. Many times, Hweilan had let her mind wander, but when he spoke of their rituals and beliefs, she paid close attention, and even prodded him with an occasional question. As a young girl who had often grown frustrated with the strict rules of her own Damaran household, she developed an interest in the ways of other peoples. And so, yet again, Gleed’s lessons proved useful.
She raised her head, looked Buureg in the eye, and said, “Your Champion demands Blood Slake of the Hand. Let it be done. But the Hand demands Blood Price of the Razor Heart.”
Buureg blinked and took a step back, surprised by her words, then looked to Maaqua.
The old crone smiled, but her eyes went feral. “Watch this one, Buureg. She’s a crafty fox. One of Gleed’s little monsters. Probably knows our ways better than you do.”
Buureg said, “If she accepts the Blood Slake, we must honor the Blood Price. Honor demands-”
“Piss on honor!” said Maaqua. She leaned in close to Hweilan. “Enough with your mummer’s show, girl. Speak. What do you want?”
Hweilan raised her voice and spoke in her most formal Goblin. “I am the Hand of the Hunter. I will stand, and the Razor Heart may have my blood, if they can take it. But if they cannot, I demand my life, the lives of my four companions, and all our belongings be returned to us. Life for life. Death for death. If I win, you will set us free as you found us. I demand nothing more than what is mine.”
She could have asked for more. By all rights, she could have demanded the Razor Heart Champion’s sword. But had she done that, Hweilan knew that she very likely would have met with a fatal accident long before she could face Rhan.
Buureg looked to Maaqua. His face betrayed no emotion.
The queen shrugged. “Rhan will make short work of her. It hardly matters.”
Buureg said, “You and the three in the hole will have your lives, your belongings, and your freedom. The big one killed Ruuket’s mate. His life is not mine to spare. All the rest, you shall have-if you win.”
“So be it,” said Hweilan.
Buureg sighed, then reached into his sleeve and withdrew a black dagger. “Hand of the Hunter, do you swear to stay your hand against the Razor Heart and abide in peace by our fires until life or death be decided?”
Hweilan kept her gaze fixed on Maaqua-she was the dangerous one. Rhan held no fear for her. Nor even Buureg and his brutes. Hweilan knew their kind. They would not hesitate to kill her, but they would do so openly, wanting to look her in the eye as they did it. Maaqua was an adder in the cleft, hidden by shadows.
“I do,” said Hweilan. “In the name of Nendawen, Master of the Hunt, I so swear. May his wrath strike me down if I break this vow.”
“So be it,” said Buureg. He spared another glance to Maaqua, then he bent and cut away Hweilan’s bonds.
“Someone’s coming,” said Valsun, startling Darric out of his doze.
Both men stood. Darric could hear it, too. Footsteps above, and the occasional clank of metal.
“Think they’ve come to feed us?” said Darric. They hadn’t eaten since that night in the mountains when Hweilan’s wolf had brought them the ram.
This roused Jaden. He didn’t sit up from his bed of blankets, but his eyes widened and he looked up expectantly.
“In armor?” said Valsun. “Not likely.”
At the rim of the pit, a helmeted silhouette came into view, looking down on them. Then another.
“Damn all of you!” Valsun shouted. “Either feed us or kill us!”
The two warriors above glanced at each other. One said something Darric could not understand, then they both disappeared.
“At least give us water!” Darric said.
No answer.
“They’re still up there,” said Valsun. “I can hear them. And more than two.”
Another shape came into view. Unhelmeted, her long hair was tossed by the breeze.
“Hweilan?” said Darric, disbelieving.
“Are you hurt?” she called.
A warm flood of relief washed over Darric. She was alive. That meant they might not be doomed after all.