Merah daughter of Thewari burned bright.
Her exile is ended, her rest assured.
Hweilan strode forward. The pyre was blazing high. Its flames were so hot their own wind tossed her hair back. Holding the ghost stick in one hand, she thrust it into the hottest part of the fire. A fountain of sparks shot upward, shining bright through the black smoke.
Wincing against the heat, Hweilan prayed.
Master of the Hunt, Hand of Dedunan,
Accept my offering, in blood and fire.
Let not our sacrifice be in vain.
Bind that which was broken.
Restore the Balance.
That light might shine in our hearts again.
Flames were beginning to lick up the ghost stick.
Hweilan finished-
And if we fall in darkness,
grant that we might fall with our enemies’ throat in our teeth.
She stepped back, pulling the ghost stick from the fire. The wood continued to burn a bit, but in a few moments the wind blew out the flames, leaving only embers glowing along the edges.
“Mother, Father, I will avenge you or die trying.”
She switched the burning shaft to her left hand, then tore away the makeshift bandage with her teeth. The blood had thickened there, but much of the forming scab came away with the cloth, and fresh blood welled in her hand.
“I swear it,” said Hweilan, and brought the glowing hot wood across the wound. Pain shot up her entire arm and into her jaw, but she held it there, and said, “In blood and fire, I swear it.”
She threw the ghost stick into the fire and turned away.
The ravens cawed again, and those sitting on the ground or upon the watching warriors took to flight. The wind gusted, and they were gone, leaving only a few black feathers fluttering on the wind. The only sound was the crackle and snap of the funeral pyre.
A sliver of sun still peeked over the western summits.
Time is running out.
Hweilan looked up at Rhan, who was still holding his sword high, a look of near ecstasy on his face.
“You wish to honor my mother?”
He lowered the sword, and for a moment Hweilan was afraid he was going to kneel. He didn’t. Instead, he planted the point on the ground in front of him and rested both hands on the pommel. “I do.”
“Then keep vigil for me. See that no one disturbs the fire. I will come at dawn to help the wind scatter the ashes.”
His brows creased. “Where will you-?”
“The sun is setting,” said Hweilan. “I have some place to be.”
Hweilan walked away. She did not look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The last purple light of day was fading from the sky by the time Hweilan and Uncle reached the Stone of Hoar, but Mandan was still alone. The large Damaran sat in the large stone hand. He wore nothing but a tattered loincloth. The hobgoblins hadn’t even left him a blanket, and he was shivering so hard that his ankle chains rattled. Scrapes and dried blood covered his skin, and one eye was swollen shut. Hratt told her they’d healed him, but it seemed that he’d taken several beatings since. Hweilan could tell he had tried to break free. Uncle circled the stone, a low whine coming from deep in his chest. Hweilan drew her knife, and at the sound Mandan gasped and his eyes opened.
“You’ve looked better,” said Hweilan.
Mandan let his head drop. “Go,” he said.
Hweilan scowled. She had hoped to find Mandan defiant. Seeing his condition, she thought at the very least he’d ask to be cut down, hoping she’d come here to save him. Not this … despair.
She stepped forward. “Be still. This may hurt.”
She cut the leather cords around his knees first. Freed of their bindings, Mandan’s knees knocked together as the iron weights dangling from his ankles fell to the ground. Hweilan had to climb onto the stone hand to reach Mandan’s arms. They, too, were painted in dried blood where the leather had bitten into his skin. His fingers were purple from cold and lack of blood. Hweilan cut the cords, and Mandan’s arms fell into his lap.
Hweilan jumped back to the ground. “Try to rub blood back into your hands while I see what I can do about the shackles. We can’t leave. I made a vow. But you can face them on your feet.”
“Go,” said Mandan. “Get … my brother … out of here.”
“You think Darric would leave without you?”
He peered at her with his one good eye. “What I have done … I will face it.”
Uncle barked and looked toward the path. Hweilan followed his gaze and saw the glow of torchlight on the stone. A moment later, Buureg, in full armor, came into view, leading four warriors with long spears, four more with swords, all holding torches. Six more followed, carrying horn bows, arrows already notched on strings. They fanned out around the Stone of Hoar, with Buureg and the spear-bearers closest, the others keeping their distance. The warchief carried his helmet under one arm, his face set and expressionless, his eyes flat.
Bringing up the rear of the procession was a hobgoblin woman, a babe on her back and a small child in her arms. Another child walked on her left, and on her right was her oldest. He and his mother had used white paint and ash to paint their faces in a death mask.
“Hweilan,” said Buureg, “Hand of the Hunter, I ask you to step aside.”
Hweilan still had the knife in her hand. She kept it low, her arm loose, and turned to face the hobgoblins.
Buureg took a long breath. “That’s how it will be, then?”
Hweilan looked at the gathered warriors. None returned her gaze, instead fixing their eyes on her chin to avoid an obvious show of challenge. But all of them held their weapons in steady hands. If it came to a fight, Hweilan had little doubt she and Uncle could get away-but not with Mandan, and not without bloodshed.
She looked back to Buureg and said, “I don’t want this.”
“But you will not step aside?”
“I can’t.”
It was true. She’d been willing to sacrifice all the Damarans if it meant getting away to face Jagun Ghen. But if she had even a slim chance to save them, she had to take it. It was very likely she’d be dead in a few days. If she walked away to leave her friends to death and torment, she would never be able to face her mother and father in the afterlife.
“Stepping aside,” she said, “isn’t in me. Not anymore.”
The hobgoblin youth in the death mask rushed forward. His mother cried out and tried to grab him, but he shrugged out of her grip and pressed his way through the warriors. None tried to stop him, but four spearpoints lowered at Hweilan, and the archers raised their bows and drew.
Buureg dropped his helmet, turned, and grabbed the youth. His mother was screaming and trying to come forward, but two of the warriors held her. The babe on her back was wailing.
“Stop! Stop this!” Buureg said.
“Let! Me! Go!” Unable to break the warchief’s grip, the youth instead brought his face forward and slammed his forehead into Buureg’s nose. Hweilan tensed, readying herself, but did not raise her weapon. Buureg’s eyes went wide, but he held his grip even as blood poured out of his nose. One hand held onto the youth’s shoulder, the other held a wrist. One of the warriors was rushing forward to help.
The youth tried another head butt, but Buureg was expecting it and twisted out of the way. Then he tried a knee to the crotch, but Buureg’s armor protected him. Growling like an animal, the youth took a step back, raised one foot, and kicked the warchief in the chest.
It worked. Buureg’s grip broke and he reeled backward into one of his own spearmen.
Tears streaming down his face and marring the paint, the youth drew a long knife from his belt and charged.