Hweilan pulled the kishkoman out of her shirt and looked at it, remembering that day. Since then, many had tried to take her life. They’d tried, and paid the price.
When Darric reminded her of their first meeting, he’d told her something his own father had told him: It was no shame to be beaten, but there was no greater shame than letting yourself be beaten.
“Good advice,” Hweilan said.
Uncle gave a low whine.
“Yes,” she said. “Time to go.”
She was on her way up the mountain when dawn was only a hint of light in the east. Uncle padded along beside her. Despite only a few hours of sleep, she felt wide awake. Even jittery. Aftereffects of the gunhin, or perhaps just excitement about what the day would bring. If the hobgoblins knew the mountain paths half as well as they claimed, and if they didn’t run into too much trouble, she could be back in Highwatch in three days. On the third evening, the moon would rise full. Hweilan did not miss the implications of that. She knew she would need all her skills and all the help she could get to vanquish Jagun Ghen.
… Jagun Ghen is not just any enemy. He is ancient and cunning, and he does not know mercy or pity or remorse. Strike him all you like, and you are only going to rile him.
Ashiin’s words. Hweilan had not forgotten them.
But Jagun Ghen had taken everything she loved. She had trained and sacrificed and fought and killed with only one goal in front of her: revenge. Stopping Jagun Ghen before he could become a god, preventing his demonic contagion from spreading … all well and good. But the plain fact was that Hweilan had felt nothing but fury and loss for so long. And in three days she would either be dead, or faced with finding another reason to live.
She smelled the smoke long before she and Uncle reached the height. Uncle fell back, still following but at a distance.
Hweilan walked into the Cauldron of the Slain just as true dawnlight began to peek over the mountain. Her mother’s pyre had burned down to a heap of smoldering ashes. Rhan sat cross-legged, back straight as a new arrow, his black sword across his lap. He was bare-chested despite the cold, his breath steaming. Dried blood caked his chest from two cuts, running from his left shoulder to his waist, and another crossing them.
He saw her staring at the blood.
“I swore an oath,” said Rhan, “to honor your mother. One cut for each symbol in her name.” He ran a finger down the two long cuts. The Razor Heart, like many of the goblin peoples, used syllabic runes, so that MERAH was rendered with only two symbols. Then he ran a finger down the cross cut. “And one over my heart, a vow to avenge her death. In blood I have sworn it.”
Hweilan nodded her thanks but could not bring herself to speak. Looking down into the ashes, she saw that Rhan had done his work well. Her mother’s flesh had gone to ash. All that remained were scorched and shattered bits of the larger bones.
Rhan stood in one fluid motion, planted the point of his sword in the ground, and said, “Death to our enemies, Hweilan daughter of Merah.”
Hearing those words, something inside Hweilan snapped. She was the Hand of the Hunter. Ashiin had made her hard, sharp, and swift. Gleed had taught her craft and cunning. And Kesh Naan had given her wisdom. They had planted the seeds, and the blood of Nendawen had made them grow. But the soil nourishing all of it was still Hweilan of Highwatch. Hweilan, daughter of Merah and Ardan. A child of warriors.
Rhan’s brow furrowed as he watched the tears running down Hweilan’s cheeks. “Death to our enemies, Hweilan,” he said, quieter this time but with more feeling.
“And gods help anyone … anyone who gets in our way,” said Hweilan, and in that moment she wasn’t thinking of Jagun Ghen at all. The only image in her mind was of an antlered figure, his hand dripping blood, his eyes shining green fire.
Hweilan drew the knife Menduarthis had given her and Gleed had taught her how to use. She held it in front of her and whispered the incantation. The fine etchings in the blade sparkled in the growing dawnlight, and a wind swirled around the Cauldron of the Slain. It roared, a maelstrom of air and dirt gathering force. Then Hweilan released it. The whirlpool of air shot out in a river, slamming into the pile of ashes at her feet, scattering them in a huge cloud. Rhan’s and Hweilan’s hair whipped at their faces.
Hweilan channeled the air upward, not unlike how Menduarthis had used the wind to lift himself in their flight from Kunin Gatar. But she sent her mother’s ashes upward, farther and farther until she could hold the spell no longer. It was enough. The wind summoned by the knife faded, blending with the upper air currents.
Uncle stood on the rim of the Cauldron and let out a long, low howl.
Hweilan’s tears had stopped, but ash had caked to her wet cheeks. She did not wipe it away. She took the bone mask from where it rode on her belt, slipped it over her face, and tied it on. It fit like a second skin, and the familiar presence of Ashiin settled around her.
“Come, Rhan,” she said. “Death to our enemies.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hweilan, Rhan, and the Wolf did not go back to the heart of the fortress, but took the outer paths and walked to the main gates, where Hweilan had first met Maaqua days ago. A large gathering was already waiting for her.
Hweilan saw Darric, Valsun, and Jaden standing in the main courtyard. The men were still dressed in their ragged clothes and armor, and their weapons had been returned to them.
Mandan stood with them, and by the heat in his eyes Hweilan knew Kaad had been generous with the gunhin. He still wore his armor, but over it he wore the furs and leather of a hobgoblin warrior-and it suited him. With his long hair blowing in the morning breeze and his full beard, he looked much more like a fierce tribal bone-crusher than a Damaran knight. He even had a new club. Not as thick as his Damaran weapon, but it was longer and banded in black iron.
Beside Mandan, the young hobgoblin Urlun stood leaning on a brand-new spear, an axe tucked into his belt. A fine weapon for cutting wood or cleaving skulls. Urlun looked very much like the dozens of young Nar Hweilan had seen growing up-his face set in a fierce scowl that he desperately hoped would hide the fear in his eyes.
Standing apart from this first group, eighteen hobgoblin warriors in light armor lounged around piles of supplies stuffed into packs. Volunteers. Hweilan didn’t doubt that many of them had been sent by Maaqua.
Lingering in obvious discomfort between the two groups was Hratt. He had no armor at all. Just warm clothes. But he had two daggers and a wicked hand axe strapped to his belt, another knife tucked into a pocket on his boot, a sword on his back next to a full quiver of arrows, and an unstrung horn bow in one hand.
Hweilan walked up to him. “Are you going to be able to walk with all of that?”
He did not smile. “I know where we’re going. I don’t want to get killed for lack of fighting back.”
“None of that is going to be any use against what is waiting for us at Highwatch.”
Hratt cocked his head toward the group of hobgoblins. “It isn’t Highwatch I’m worried about.”
Hweilan nodded her understanding and walked over to the hobgoblins, two of which stood to meet her. Rhan stepped forward to make the introductions.
“This one,” he said, pointing to a lanky brute with only one ear, “is Vurgrim. He leads the twelve zugruuk.”