Hweilan sought the shadows near the rockface. The brush was thick there as well, and she was surprised to find the remnants of an old statue. Nothing but the feet and half of the left leg remained. The rest had either fallen or been hacked down.
She settled between them with the stone leg at her back, then reached inside her shirt and pulled at the leather cord there. Time to see if Uncle had done as she’d instructed. Her kishkoman hung from the end of the necklace. Crafted from the horn of a young swiftstag, the bottom point was still sharp enough to cut with very little pressure. But the thick end had been hollowed out into a whistle. Hweilan could not touch it without thinking of her mother, who had given it to her.
The whistle is beyond the hearing of most folk, she had told young Hweilan the day she gave it to her. But our people, Hweilan, we are … not like others. If you find yourself in danger, if you need help, blow this, and we will hear.
Hweilan put the whistle to her lips and blew, hard as she could. The shrill sound cut through her ears, and she winced from the pain. But she blew it again. And again. And then she listened.
A cloud of bats flitted past on their nightly hunt-one of them so close that she felt the wind of its wings. Then, farther down the mountain, amid the shouts of the hobgoblins, she heard a raven caw.
She put the whistle to her lips and blew again, long as her breath would hold, then twice more. Again she heard ravens, more this time. She was about to sound the whistle again when she heard it-
A long, low howl. Much closer than she’d thought he would be. Not inside the fortress, but very close. Another howl answered. And another. And more ravens, not just from the fortress below, but coming around the mountain. In moments, the entire valley was alive with wolfsong and the harsh cries of ravens.
Hweilan smiled. Uncle had done it.
She tucked the kishkoman back under her shirt, the sharp point scratching her skin, laying a thin trail of blood. Hweilan remembered the rest of her mother’s lesson on the day she’d given her the whistle-knife.
Death comes to us all. Many in this world are stronger than you, and those stronger may try to take from you. They may try to take your life, and they may succeed. But you must never give it to them. Make them pay, Hweilan. Make them pay.
Hweilan stood. “Your turn, Maaqua.”
After setting guards at the most critical areas and putting some order to the patrols, Buureg gathered his fiercest warriors and set off to protect his queen.
They were halfway there when the first ravens descended on the fortress. The birds swarmed up and down the mountain, their raucous cries drowning out the hobgoblin horns. Most were no more than a nuisance, for their sharp beaks could not penetrate the warriors’ armor, and one blow from an axe or sword killed even the largest ravens.
But then the wolves appeared. Dozens, at least, and their teeth had no trouble finding the weak spots in the hobgoblins’ armor. Cries of anger and alarm soon turned to pain and fury, and blood ran in the fortress of the Razor Heart.
Maaqua’s tower rose above a path that snaked along the outer skin of the mountain. There were also tunnels within that led to the tower’s lowest level-and Hratt had told her about every one.
But Hweilan chose neither route. The horns had been sounding for a while now. The guards there would be tense and ready. And these were Maaqua’s elite guard. They wouldn’t have been drinking-not if Maaqua was up to something that required a private tower and protection. Furthermore, she suspected more than a few of the guards might be adept at the arcane arts.
So she approached from lower paths, then took to the mountain itself. The wall itself was not perfectly vertical, but it was sheer, and she had to choose between stealth and speed. She chose speed, hoping the sounds of the wind off the mountain and the horns from the fortress would drown out her approach.
Wearing the bone mask, Hweilan looked up through Ashiin’s eyes and saw that the tower was not all that it appeared to be. It gave off an aura that hit Hweilan’s senses with a scent like burning hair. Gleed had taught her enough to recognize that it was probably nothing more than some sort of illusion, meant to hide the tower’s true shape, but she could not penetrate it.
She peeked over the lip of the cliff. The path was empty, but many guards crouched in front of the tower door.
Hweilan drew the silver knife from her belt. The whorls and wave patterns etched into its blade glittered in the starlight. She kept it low so that no stray flicker would give her presence away to the guards. Concentrating, feeling every breath of air around her, she focused her will on the blade and recited the incantation Gleed had taught her.
The stiff wind coming off the mountain gusted, raining grit down on the guards. They turned and put a hand over the visors of their helmets to keep the dirt from their eyes. Hweilan took that moment to slip onto the path and into the nearest well of shadows. She sheathed the knife and strung her bow.
Crouching with the bow across her lap, she put her kishkoman to her lips and blew. Several wolves answered in the distance, but she heard Uncle’s voice above the others. He was close. She kept at it, blowing every few seconds so that the wolf could find her exact whereabouts.
The ravens came first. Two dozen at least. Their harsh caws echoed off the mountainside as they dipped and dived at the guards. But the birds stayed well out of reach of the guards’ spears.
The warriors had their gazes turned skyward as they batted and swiped at the ravens with spears and torches. So none of them saw the wolves coming up the path, moving low to the ground. And the raucous cries of the ravens and hobgoblins drowned out the sounds of the wolves’ feet.
The lead wolf was a huge beast, his fur black as pitch, making him almost invisible in the night. He snarled a moment, and his fangs flashed in the starlight, before his jaws locked behind the knee of the foremost warrior. The hobgoblin shrieked and struck at the wolf. But the beast leaped away and the iron spearhead struck sparks on the stone path.
The other warriors saw the danger and turned their attention to these new attackers. Hweilan watched, satisfied, as the wolves ran among the hobgoblins, dodging and snapping at the sharp spears.
After the first attack, the wolves pulled back, and all but two of the hobgoblin warriors followed. One warrior threw his spear, impaling a gray wolf. The beast let out a pitiful yip and tried to run, but its back legs were spasming beyond its control. Its forepaws scrambled on the rock, but too late. The wolf went over the edge.
The other warriors, encouraged, threw their spears. All but one missed-and that one only grazed the side of the black-pelted leader. But the wolves continued to pull back, retreating farther up the path. The warriors drew their swords and pursued.
Hweilan counted to ten, slowly, then stood, raised her bow, and pulled the fletching to her cheek.
The warrior nearest the tower watched all but one of his companions disappear around the bend in the path as they drove off the wolves. The ravens were still crying out and circling above, but they had stopped diving in to jab at his helmet.
Then a weight like a battering ram hit his right side, and he flew backward through the air and hit the tower door. His spear clattered to the ground. He looked down to see what had struck him. An arrow protruded from his right shoulder. It had pierced his mail, gone all the way through flesh and bone, then nailed him to the tower door. He let out a wordless cry of pain and tried to pull away, but the arrow held him fast.
His companion turned to look at him, his eyes widening at the black-feathered shaft. Behind him, a shadow was racing at them from the path.