Hweilan had strung her bow, but the arrow she held was not one of her sacred weapons. She didn’t need it. If a baazuled was within ten miles, she would have sensed it, and she knew there wasn’t one for miles. Besides, ravens would never come near one of Jagun Ghen’s minions.
Dozens of smaller fissures broke the mountainside here, and it seemed that a party had chosen one of them as a campsite. The remains of a large campfire lay on the ground in the middle of a ring of blackened stones. As Hweilan and her companions entered the hollow, the ravens on the bodies cried out and took to the air, joining their fellows above who were still calling out the feast.
It was hard to be certain, because nothing had been left whole and the ravens had been eating awhile, but judging from the number of legs and heads strewn about, Hweilan guessed they were looking at the remains of at least fifteen horses. And the tracks they had come upon on the path suggested still others had fled.
“Not hobgoblin work,” said Rhan. “Even if the Black Wolf or Blood Mountain clans were raiding this far, they never would have left this much meat behind.”
Holding his hand over his mouth and nose, Valsun stepped around the entrails and blood to kneel beside what was left of one of the horses. “Saddles are Damaran, not Nar.”
“Where are the riders?” asked Jaden.
No one answered. Scattered among the carnage, Vurgrim’s zugruuk found discarded weapons-a shield, two swords, and a shattered lance.
But Hweilan knew where the riders had gone. Through the reek of blood and offal and raven droppings, another scent came through, and it hit Hweilan’s brain like a spark on pitch. Baazuled had done this. The Damarans had been taken to become new homes for the demons-or to feed those who had already arrived.
Behind her, Darric cried out.
Hweilan whirled, bow raised, but there was no danger. Darric was on his knees beside the mangled remains of a horse’s head and neck.
Valsun ran to him. “What is it?”
“Look!” shouted Darric, pointing at the head. “Look at the bridle and bit.”
Valsun did, and when he rose and turned to look at the others, his face was pale and stricken.
“What is it?” said Jaden.
“The symbol on the metal,” said Valsun. “It’s Soravian. From my lord’s stables.”
“You mean … these were from your father’s house?”
Darric was still on his knees, but his voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. “They came looking for us.”
“No,” said Hweilan, and she made her voice as cold and heartless as she could. “They came for you, Darric. Your father sent men to find you. And now they’re dead. Or worse. How many more have to die? Go home, Darric.”
Darric turned to look at her. Tears ran down his cheeks, but his eyes were full of rage. He pushed himself to his feet and took two steps toward Hweilan before Rhan stepped in and grabbed him by both shoulders.
“Step back,” Rhan told him in Damaran.
Mandan raised his club. “You should take your hands off him.”
All the hobgoblins turned to watch. Vurgrim smiled, his eyes shining in anticipation.
Valsun stepped between Rhan and Mandan. “That’s enough!”
Darric shrugged out of Rhan’s grip, turned his back on all of them, and stormed off.
“Excitable, isn’t he?” Vurgrim said in Goblin.
“Shut your mouth,” said Rhan and Mandan at the same time, then scowled at one another.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
They left the place of slaughter to the ravens. Hweilan had hoped that seeing his own people butchered might finally crack Darric’s resolve and send him home. Instead it did the reverse. His companions sheathed their weapons, but Darric walked with his blade in hand. Although Valsun and Mandan tried speaking to him several times, Darric kept his mouth shut and his gaze fixed on the path.
Late that afternoon, they left the mountains and entered the first of the foothills. But these were the Giantspires, and even the foothills were hard going. Still, they were now back in country Hweilan knew well. She had spent many happy childhood days in these woods with Scith and her family. And so Hweilan felt the change in the land much more acutely than the others did. No small animals rustled through the underbrush, but flies were thick in the shadows. Other than the occasional raven, no bird flitted through the trees. And even the few ravens seemed to be watching. As they passed an old, lightning-blasted tree, one alighted on a blackened branch. The bird did not cry out; it just sat there, watching them.
One of Flet’s archers picked up a stone.
“Don’t,” said Hweilan.
He turned and glared at her, but seeing the look on her face, he dropped his stone.
After they had moved on and the hobgoblin had walked out of earshot, Darric walked up to Hweilan. “What was that about?”
They were the first words he had spoken to anyone since leaving the ambush site.
“What?” she said.
“The raven. You stopped the archer from throwing the rock at it.”
Hweilan told him the story much as Gleed had once told it to her.
“In the days of creation, Raven and his clan were all the colors of the rainbow and his song was the sweetest in all the airs. Of all those who fly, Raven was dearest to Dedunan, the Forest Father-the one you know as Silvanus. But then came Jagun Ghen. Raven did not fear his fire, flying through flame and smoke in his hatred of our enemy. That hatred still burns in them, and as a sign of the smoke through which they have passed and the dark ones they hunt, their feathers are black, their song made harsh by smoke and blood. And so shall it be until the Last Day.”
Darric was silent for a while, and Hweilan thought he was preparing himself for a lecture on the holiness of Torm and how she had forsaken the path of her forefathers. But when he spoke, his voice was only curious.
“So the ravens, they are … watchmen of Silvanus? That is what you believe?”
A cautious smile crept onto Hweilan’s lips. “Something like that. More like allies.”
“They fight our fight, then?”
She shook her head. “Don’t think of them as servants. They fight the same fight we do. But if you think we can command them …”
“You need to understand something, Hweilan.”
Here it comes, she thought.
“You think I disapprove of you. Of what you’ve become. Of what you’re doing.”
“Darric-”
“No. Let me speak, Hweilan. Please. What’s happened to you … I confess I don’t understand much of it. But over the past days I have watched you fight and risk your life to save people you barely know. You even saved Maaqua. And now you are doing it again, fighting to save others. If you honor Silvanus or this Master of the Hunt or whomever in doing so, it is your deeds that matter. You’re fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves. And whether you admit it or not, Torm is on your side. And Mandan and Valsun and I, we are his strong right hand. Stop slapping it away.”
She watched him out of the side of her eyes as they walked. She’d never seen a look of such earnestness on anyone.
She said, “The tree of justice grows from the blood of the just.”
Words she had heard her father and Soran recite more times than she could count. They always did it after strapping on weapons and checking armor. They stood still with closed eyes, each man offering his own prayers, then recited those words. It gave them strength to give their lives in the service of others, believing that their sacrifice would not be in vain. Seeing that image again brought tears to Hweilan’s eyes, and she was glad for the mask covering her face.