The eladrin clenched both fists, rattling the chains, and for a moment Vazhad felt the air in the yard begin to stir. And then the eladrin screamed. The symbols on the collar flared like forge fire, and wisps of steam eked out of his pores.
“I am most curious how you control the air,” said Jagun Ghen. “It is not a spell. Some skill you learned in the depths of Ellestharn, perhaps?”
But Menduarthis did not hear him. He had passed out from the pain and hung limply from the chains. Jagun Ghen released his hold on the eladrin’s chin and turned to Vazhad.
“My friend,” he called. “I have need of you. Come. Please.”
Vazhad spared a glance at the alleyway, but the three baazuled still blocked that way. One of them peeled back his lips. Nothing like a smile. A predator’s baring of teeth, as if the thing sensed what Vazhad was thinking. Vazhad stepped forward, stopping just out of Jagun Ghen’s reach.
“My faithful servant,” said Jagun Ghen, “I fear I must … let go of this host. Just for a time. Care for it well, as you have always done.”
Vazhad bowed. “As you command, Master.”
Jagun Ghen turned back to Menduarthis and grabbed his head. Vazhad winced, waiting for the snap of the eladrin’s neck. But Jagun Ghen placed one foot down into the basin and leaned forward, so that his own bald pate touched the smoldering symbol on Menduarthis’s forehead. The eladrin mumbled something, then a shiver passed through him.
Jagun Ghen fell backward into Vazhad’s arms. But when Vazhad looked down, he saw that it was not Jagun Ghen. The jaw hung slack, and a trail of spittle trailed down Argalath’s jawline. His breath came in a harsh rattle, and the odor coming out of him was worse than a midden pit. He tried to open his eyes, but the light stung, and he flinched, squeezing them shut.
“Vazhad? Is that … is that you?” The last words came out barely above a whisper.
“I am here, Master.”
Argalath’s mouth moved again, but Vazhad missed the words.
Vazhad turned his ear toward his master’s face and leaned in closer. “What was that, my master?”
“Kuh!” Argalath rasped. “Kill … me. P-please. I … beg.”
Vazhad looked up. The Creel baazuled was still standing behind the eladrin, but all the others had stepped closer. The nearest was only a pace away, and they were all watching Vazhad. Full dark had fallen, and their eyes seemed black as the heart of the Hells. The fires burning deep in that blackness beckoned to Vazhad.
He heard the rattle of steel and looked back to Menduarthis. The chains still held, but the rest of the eladrin’s body was floating above the bloodstained basin, and every bit of exposed skin trembled and squirmed, as if maggots had hatched in the muscles and were trying to break free.
Vazhad cradled Argalath’s head against his chest and tried to ignore the pleading.
CHAPTER EIGHT
An escort of fifteen Razor Heart warriors led Hweilan and the Damarans into a fissure in the mountainside, leaving the sunlight behind. The hobgoblins lit no torches. In the close blackness of the passageway, through dozens of twists and turns and up flight after flight of stairs, Darric gave up trying to keep any sense of direction. The smell of the hobgoblins in such close quarters was almost overpowering.
Not far ahead of Darric, Jaden managed to walk, but his moaning and complaining increased until-
“Hey!” said one of the hobgoblins in Damaran. “You keep quiet and you have food and fire. You keep mewling and we leave you in the dark. You hear my words?”
“Just keep quiet and walk,” said Valsun from somewhere ahead in the darkness.
Soon, a thin, gray light began to illuminate their surroundings, growing brighter with every step. It was the late afternoon light struggling through fractures in the rock overhead, but soon the group passed by true windows. Some had the smooth edges and irregular shapes of natural caves, but Darric could tell by the hewn rock that others had been hacked out of the mountainside.
The tunnel widened, and they walked by other passageways and even a few doors. Their own path branched off now and again. Darric heard voices coming from some of the other tunnels, and once a shriek that ended abruptly.
“What was that?” Jaden whispered.
“Keep walking or I show you,” said the warrior at his back, prodding him along.
The hobgoblins led them into a firelit chamber. It was so broad that Darric could not see the far walls, lost in shadow beyond the reach of the fires. But the ceiling was low enough that he could reach up and brush the rock with his fingers. The floor sloped upward slightly farther on and ended at open sky.
A few others puttered around the chamber, dressed in hides that were only a few washes away from rags. Smaller than the warriors escorts, they reminded Darric of goblins or some other cousins to the hobgoblins-slaves at any rate, by their outfits and the way they avoided looking at the warriors.
The slaves brought in several brass urns that glistened with moisture. A pair of them tended fires. There were no chimneys or vents that Darric could see, so the smoke’s only escape was up the very slight incline of the ceiling to the cave entrance. A large cauldron bubbled over one fire, and a variety of meats sizzled on a rack over another.
A month ago, Darric might have wrinkled his nose at the smell, but now his was not the only stomach that growled as the men walked toward the aroma.
The guards motioned to a row of blankets thrown around another fire. “Sit,” one of the hobgoblins told them. “Slaves will serve you.”
The three Damarans sat-Jaden collapsing onto the thickest of the blankets. Even though there was a pile of furs next to Darric almost deep enough to form a nest, Hweilan kept to her feet on the other side of the fire.
The hobgoblin warriors walked off to their own places; all but one, who looked down at the Damarans, then turned to Hweilan and spoke in his own language. She replied in kind, then the hobgoblin walked away.
“What’s happened, Hweilan?” said Darric. “Why have they let us out? And where is Mandan?”
He watched her for a reaction, some hint at his brother’s fate, but Hweilan’s expression might as well have been set in stone, and her eyes seemed to gaze inward. Pacing back and forth like a hound testing its leash, she gave them a brief explanation of what had happened after she’d been pulled out of the pit. How she could have such energy after what they’d been through …
Halfway through her story, two of the goblin slaves brought over a large platter of food. Bowls of some sort of thick, brown stew, filled to the brim, topped by strips of meat that Darric guessed-hoped-were goat. They were each given a sort of curved wedge of flat wood that served as a spoon, and another goblin set a pitcher of water next to Darric.
“No cups?” said Darric, but the slave only averted his eyes and scuttled off.
“And so the hobgoblins healed you?” said Valsun. “This … Kad?”
“Kaad,” said a voice from behind them, and Darric turned to see an old hobgoblin dressed in robes almost exactly as Hweilan had described. A brown paste had dried on his left temple, and the skin around it sported an ugly bruise. The newcomer looked at Hweilan. “Hratt said your companions need some mending.”
“The little one first,” said Hweilan. “He’s done nothing but complain.”
“Although I see it hasn’t affected his appetite,” said Valsun.
Jaden’s scowl deepened, but he kept his mouth shut.
Kaad placed a rolled bundle on the ground, then kneeled beside Jaden and began examining him.
“I didn’t think humans had a taste for one another,” said Kaad as he began to clean the cut in Jaden’s scalp.
“What do you mean?” Valsun asked him.
“Your meal,” said Kaad. “You’re eating what’s left of the last Nar tribe the Razor Heart raided.”