“Gods damn them all.”
Hratt turned to see the crowd parting to allow a trio to approach. Maaqua walked up to him with her staff, as always, but she did not lean upon it. Warchief Buureg walked beside her in full armor, though he held his helmet under one arm. Rhan walked a ways behind them, the Greatsword of Impiltur in its scabbard riding on his back.
Hratt said nothing.
Maaqua stopped beside him and motioned for him to lean in close. He did.
“We’re fools to allow this,” Maaqua whispered to Hratt, “and they are fools to encourage it. Dirt-munching, scum-licking fools … gods damn every last one of them.”
Hratt bowed his head deferentially but said nothing.
“You watched her?” Maaqua asked in a low tone. “All night?”
Hratt said, “I did.”
He spared a glance back at Rhan. It was no secret among the warriors that Hratt had bet heavily on Hweilan to prevail. The Razor Heart champion curled his upper lip over his teeth in a sneer of challenge. Hratt ignored him. Rhan could go rut a rat for all he cared.
“And …?” said Maaqua.
Hratt briefly recounted the night’s happenings-Hweilan looking after the big Damaran, subduing the pretty lad, then seeing to her belongings. She had rummaged through her pack a long while, examining a variety of dried leaves, mosses, roots, and some powder that looked to Hratt like salt but smelled of juniper berries.
“Eh?” Maaqua asked. “What was she doing with these things?”
“She said that Kaad’s ministrations had worked wonders, but she needed something to settle her stomach. Said our food didn’t agree with her.”
Maaqua snorted. “And you believed her?”
Hratt shrugged. “I’m no wizard.”
“No matter,” said Maaqua. “I examined her belongings myself. Those weapons are one thing, but her pouch holdings are nothing beyond what a cheap apothecary might have. Is that all?”
Hratt explained how Hweilan had inspected the bow, long and hard, looking for the slightest sign of abuse while Hratt watched. He had explained to her that she could choose one weapon-any weapon-for the fight with Rhan, but a bow would do her little good. She was allowed one weapon. A bow and an arrow … well, honor dictated that was two weapons. Hweilan had said she didn’t want the bow anyway, that it was meant to “hunt vermin,” as she put it. She had chosen one of her knives instead-one with red steel.
Hratt had tried to talk her out of it, saying that Rhan would surely fight with the Greatsword of Impiltur.
“The weapon doesn’t matter,” Hweilan had said. “It is the hand that wields it.”
And that was when Hratt decided to triple his wager on Hweilan.
“She’s fighting with a knife?” said Maaqua, her eyes wide.
“She is,” said Hratt.
Maaqua threw back her head and laughed, long and hard. She clapped Hratt on the back, “Ah, you did well, Hratt. Your wager’s a fool’s bet, if what I hear is true, but you did well. A knife!” She shook her head. “Ah, well.”
Hratt nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing but not wanting to offend Maaqua. She was in a fine mood this morning, but still … Hratt did not share her confidence. He was no fool. Rhan was a cold killer, no doubt-icy as a winter night’s frost. The Champion had a reputation for enjoying the heat of battle, of reveling in the sensation of his foe’s blood splattering over him as his sword bit deep. But this human girl …
Hratt had known humans since his first raid. He’d fought them, hunted them, killed them, heard their last breath as they died on the end of his blade. He had never before met anyone like Hweilan. He saw fierceness in her gaze, but something desperate as well, something truly hungry that would not shy away from the threat of death. Hratt had heard of animals that would chew off their own leg to escape a trap. And there were animals that would stay in the trap, angry and alive, waiting for the trapper to arrive so they could sink their teeth into him. Death did not matter nearly so much as the chance to look into the killer’s eyes one final time, and spit blood and defiance at death itself. Hweilan had the look of a tooth sinker.
After choosing her blade, Hweilan had asked to be taken somewhere where she could see the sky. The “cold light of heaven,” Hratt’s father had called it, when the sun slept and only those who dared defy death chose to shine. “The stars spit in the face of the unending dark,” his father had said. Hratt led her to a place on the mountainside where the black blanket of night covered them, broken only by the silver stars, the moon hidden behind the rocky teeth of the mountains. He had watched, sleepless and fascinated, as she sat on the stone-no coat, no cloak-and prayed to … whomever. To Hratt it did not matter. She could have prayed to the flowers of the field for all he cared. Most believed she would die under dawn’s first light, yet she sat under the stars and communed with her god, heedless of the cold that set a frost upon her skin.
Hratt had offered a few prayers of his own for her, but he would not tell Maaqua that. If he was wrong … well, then he was only out a bit of gold. A rather large bit, to be sure, but the world was full of gold. There were more important things in life. Seeing this human girl defeat the champion of the Razor Heart might just be one of them.
Hweilan stood at the bottom of the valley on a wide, empty space of ground surrounded by hundreds of hobgoblins. And the only thing she could think was-
Mother, father, if you could only see me now …
It made her smile, despite the dozens of fanged faces jeering at her.
Darric, Valsun, and Jaden stood near the edge of the throng. The old knight looked none too pleased at his surroundings, and Jaden looked downright terrified. He knew what was at stake. Darric was the only one who surprised Hweilan, for she had no idea what he was thinking. He stood between his two companions, crowded between a tight row of hobgoblins in front of him and hundreds more behind. He didn’t scowl in displeasure. He didn’t seem to be contemplating his own death in the event of her defeat. He didn’t seem angry. He was completely stone-faced, oblivious to the taunts of the crowd and the malicious looks cast in his direction.
Last night, they had scarcely spoken until Kaad arrived. The healer took one look at Mandan and shook his head, saying there was nothing he could do.
“You have the gunhin?” said Hweilan.
Kaad swallowed hard and nodded.
“Give it to him.”
“I cannot. It is only for-”
“His life belongs to Ruuket and her children,” said Hweilan. “It is the way of the Razor Heart. Maaqua demands it. If he dies here …”
Hweilan let the rest go unspoken. Very reluctantly, Kaad gave Mandan the gunhin. Not a full swallow. Not enough to make him hale and whole. But the bleeding had stopped, the peeled skin fell away, and the flesh scabbed over before their eyes. He looked a horrible mess, but he opened his eyes and spoke for a time with his brother. Hweilan walked away, not wanting to intrude.
Later, Darric came to her outside the cell. He stepped up beside her, not looking at her but following her gaze into the darkness.
“You said you didn’t care.”
“I never said that,” said Hweilan. “I said I could not save his life. Nothing has changed.”
“He’ll live the night.”
“I’ve done him no kindness. Ruuket-”
“Then why did you do it?” Darric had looked down at her then. He’d even reached out to touch her. But she stepped away and he flinched as if stung.
She’d almost told him. Probably it had been the last of the gunhin running through her blood, addling her brain and making her unable to push out of her mind how well Darric’s shoulders filled his tunic. But she hadn’t. For two simple reasons. One, her plan had a cobweb’s chance in the wind of working. But more important, she knew Darric’s pride as a knight and his stupid devotion to her. He would have tried to help and ruined everything.