Once more, Hweilan put the open end of the vial to her lips-both of which already felt their normal size-and upended it. She drank every bit of the foul concoction, then did her best to suck out what little remained in the hollow horn.
She waited, taking careful breaths. And then it hit all at once-the prickling and freezing on the inside, the feel of her skin vibrating like a struck drum, blood burning hot and coursing through her veins at double speed. And then the pain. Far worse than before. She felt the cracked bone on her head snap! back into place.
Hweilan didn’t remember falling, but the next thing she realized, she was face down in the dirt, panting, a thick film of drool and blood running out of her mouth.
She spat out a glob of grit and what she thought might have been the shattered remains of a tooth-now completely healed-and pushed herself up. Her vision had come back and then some. There was little brush around her, and so the only shadows were cast by the stones themselves. High clouds blurred the moon and stars like a sheet of the finest silk. By the meager light, Hweilan realized for the first time that she was not alone.
A large bundle lay a pace away. It was completely covered in a dark cloth, the edges of which had been weighted down by several rocks. But there was no mistaking the shape of a body. Hweilan had seen far too many in the past year to mistake it for anything else.
On one end, two bits of the blanket rose into points, looking very much like feet. Hweilan walked over to the other end, kneeled, and removed the nearest rocks from the blanket. She grasped the edge of the thick cloth …
And stopped. A shiver passed through her, some primal warning originating in the deepest part of her brain, a part that was long dormant in most humans. But hers had been awakened by her master, and it was sending a clarion warning to her now.
She knew whose body this was. Knew it before she held her breath and pulled the edge of the blanket aside.
The corpse was headless, but the head had been replaced face-up upon the bloody remains of the neck.
Her mother.
The taut demonic fury that had marred the woman’s features was gone, replaced by the slackness of death. Hweilan could not bring herself to touch the skin, but she knew that had she done so, it would have been cold, and in this weather probably hard as old leather. Someone had placed a stone over each eye. Not just common rocks from the ground. These were black and smooth as oil, and Hweilan could see a rune carved on each one.
Someone had treated her mother’s body with the honor and respect due a renowned warrior.
Who would-?
A noise. Hweilan held her breath and listened, head cocked to one side.
She heard the faintest of footfalls. Thick pads on the dirt. Four steps. A stone’s throw away, the ground rose into a lip-Hweilan noted that she was actually kneeling in the middle of a wide bowl-and then fell away. The wall of the mountain rose some forty yards or so beyond, but it was broken by a wide fissure. Considering her current location, Hweilan suspected that a path wound through the fissure. She looked toward the path and saw a pale form emerge from the shadows. Uncle. She had no idea how the wolf had managed to avoid capture. Had he been hiding in the fortress all this time?
He stopped a few paces away, gave the corpse a wary glance, then his eyes settled on Hweilan.
She opened her mouth to say something when the wolf whirled. His ears stiffened forward, and he focused all his attention on the path. The hairs on his back rose.
Hweilan heard it, too. Someone was coming up the path, boots scuffling on the grit, making no effort at all to be quiet.
Hweilan looked around. Nowhere to go. Besides, she didn’t need to run and hide. She needed to take care of whoever was coming. Otherwise, that person might raise an alarm, making it all the more difficult to get her weapons back.
She looked down at the blanket, and an idea occurred to her. An old ambush trick Scith had once taught her.
“Uncle,” she whispered. “Here. Dig. Fast.”
The wolf didn’t hesitate. He went to work.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said, and she swiped the blanket.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"You”-a voice broke through the first beginnings of a dream-“get up. Now.” But the dream wasn’t a pleasant one, so Hratt wasn’t entirely sorry to open his eyes and roll over.
The dungfire in the hearth was still breathing, the flames just now burning low. He hadn’t been asleep long then. Raucous cries and bits of song from the celebration came through the open door. Had Hratt not drunk himself senseless after giving up half the gold he’d hoarded for five summers, he’d never have been able to sleep.
Meager as the firelight was, it still had to burrow its way through the swirling dizziness in his head. A hobgoblin warrior stood over Hratt and glared down at him. The warrior wore full armor, so he hadn’t been joining in the celebrations. Perhaps he had just come in from a patrol, or was on some other duty. Hratt squinted to clear his vision and noted the talon symbol painted on the warrior’s breastplate. One of Buureg’s spears then.
“I said, ‘Up.’ ”
Hratt untangled himself from the blanket and sat up on his elbows. “Wha’ for?”
“I am Drureng.”
“I don’t care,” said Hratt. “Why are you here?”
“Maaqua wants you.”
A weight seemed to settle on Hratt’s chest and he had trouble standing. “Wh-why?” he asked.
“She wants the human’s things.”
Hratt swayed unsteadily on his feet. “The human?”
“The girl Rhan killed this morning. Maaqua wants the girl’s things brought to her. Weapons and such. You and the forge chief have the keys to the chamber, and no one can find him. So that leaves you and me. Now move.”
Drureng stood by the door, pounding the flat of his hand against his mail skirt while Hratt dressed. No need for armor. But since he was going to see Maaqua, he chose his finest clothes and a cloak he had looted from a Blood Mountain tribe raid. It was too good for them, and Hratt suspected it had probably originated in a caravan through the Gap.
“You’re fetching something for the queen, not dining with her,” said Drureng.
“Out,” said Hratt.
Drureng’s eyes narrowed, and his hand inched toward the sword at his belt. He obviously thought Hratt felt insulted and was preparing to fight should Hratt challenge him.
“I need to get the key,” Hratt explained, “and this is my den. I don’t want anyone knowing where I keep my valuables.”
Drureng barked a laugh at that. “From what I hear, you don’t have many valuables left after today. Betting on a girl like you did. Learned your lesson?”
“Out.”
Drureng left and even shut the door behind him, chuckling.
Hratt and Drureng walked through the inner chambers of the fortress to the armories. Unlike the upper chambers, most of these halls were empty as tombs-their former inhabitants enjoying the celebration above. Both hobgoblins stopped long enough to light a torch each, then proceeded on their way.
The air grew thicker and warmer as they descended. And soon the twisting tunnels and open halls, lit only by their torches, smelled more of soot and slag than stone. The Razor Heart fortress had many forges, large and small, used for repairing armor, weapons, and other tools. But the real masterworks were done in the deep caverns, where the Master of the Forge mixed magic with his crafts.