Mandan was still screaming and kicking, both hands batting at Hweilan, but he could not loosen her grip. Hratt and Jaden were screaming as well, and as the fog lifted from Darric’s mind, he was able to put sense to Hratt’s words. “What do we do? Darric, what do we do?”
Darric pushed himself to his feet. “Hweilan, stop this!”
He ran for her. She grabbed Mandan with her other hand and held him over the wolf’s jaws.
“Hweilan!”
Darric was nearly upon them-though he had no idea what he’d do once he got there-when a purple streak burned the air as it passed his face, struck Hweilan in the middle of her back, and exploded in a burst of lightning. The force of the explosion threw Darric back, something scalding hit his face, and when he hit the ground he felt the bones of his broken arm grind together. He shrieked at the pain.
When the thunder faded, he forced himself up on his good elbow and looked. Mandan was free of Hweilan’s grip, though both he and the wolf on which he lay were scorched and smoking. Of Hweilan there was no sign.
Darric heard the clatter of armor and looked back to the mountainside doorway. Jaden, Urlun, and Hratt had hit the ground at the explosion and were just now looking up. Standing in the curtain of moonlight were four hobgoblins, all archers. The one in front still held his empty bow before him.
“Flet?” said Darric.
The hobgoblin pulled another arrow from his quiver and laid it across the bow.
“You?” said Jaden, blinking away the after effects of the lightning. “You saved him.”
Flet looked to his warriors, then down at Jaden. “Yes.”
“Why?” said Darric.
“I seized my moment,” said Flet. “Saving your friend was merely an added boon. One that won’t last.”
“What?” said Jaden. “I don’t understand.”
Darric did, and Flet’s next words came as no surprise to him.
“Use knives,” he said. “Don’t waste arrows unless they run away.”
“The boy, too?” said one of the other archers, looking at Urlun.
Flet nodded. “The boy especially.”
“What is this?” said Jaden, his voice high and cracking.
“Traitors!” said Hratt. “Craven treacherous bastards!” Then he broke off into a string of curses in his own language.
Darric forced himself to his feet, his injured arm sending shards of agony all the way through his body.
Flet raised his bow. “Stay there! I got no more flashy arrows. Just plain steel for you.”
When the three hobgoblins drew knives, Darric’s companions scrambled away, but they had nothing at their backs but a drop of at least a hundred feet. Two of the hobgoblins sheathed their knives, the other put his blade in his teeth, and all of them pulled their bows taut.
Beyond them, in the darkness of the mountain, Darric saw a flicker of purple light. At first he thought it was merely the afterimage of Flet’s magic arrow, but no … there it was again. Brighter this time. Getting closer, and he knew.
“Tell me, Flet,” said Darric, spitting the name like a curse. He yelled to be heard over the wind. “Is this betrayal all you, or are you merely your queen’s cur?”
Flet smiled. “Better a queen’s cur than a duke’s dead son. Eh?”
The hobgoblin pulled the arrow to his cheek.
Darric drew his knife. “Are you afraid to fight me steel to steel? Is it true the bow is the coward’s weapon so that he can kill from afar?”
Darric saw the hobgoblin’s eyes narrow in anger, but then they shifted to suspicion. Flet was no fool, it seemed. He was beginning to sniff out Darric’s ploy.
“You can ask yourself that question,” said Flet, “in the Hells.”
A roar came out of the darkness of the mountain, and an instant later Rhan emerged, the Blacksword of Impiltur held high. The Razor Heart champion’s left arm hung limp and bloody from his side, a swath of skin hung from his chest, and his face was torn and bloody. But his eyes shone bright in the moonlight and his right arm was strong. The first swipe of the sword took off the nearest archer’s arm at the elbow. Still screaming, Rhan kicked the hobgoblin aside, and his follow-through took off the next one’s head.
The remaining archer and Flet turned their aim on Rhan. It was a good aim, but Rhan swept the sword around, cutting the loosed arrow from the air. But he never saw Flet’s strike. It pierced Rhan in the throat and might have gone all the way through had the fletching not caught under his chin. Rhan stumbled backward, his eyes wide with fury and panic.
The hobgoblin archer was reaching for another arrow when Hratt tackled him. Jaden was right behind, his short sword raised and ready to strike.
Flet was laying another arrow across his bow when Darric hit him over the head with the pommel of his dagger. Why he didn’t strike with the blade, Darric didn’t know. Flet cried out in pain and surprise, but he struck back, lowering his shoulder and bowling Darric backward.
Darric tried to swipe at him, but Flet leaped away, putting as much distance as he could between them. He stopped at the edge of the precipice, turned, and raised his bow. He sighted down his arrow, right at Darric.
Darric didn’t close his eyes. He had fled death once tonight. He would not leave again. He would die on his feet, as a knight should.
Fingers appeared over the edge, grabbing just behind Flet’s left heel. An arm followed, swinging over, the hand locking around the hobgoblin’s right ankle and then pulling.
Flet collapsed and his arrow flew off into the sky.
Darric watched as Hweilan’s green gaze came over the edge of rock. Flet screamed and tried to scramble away, but he could not break her grip.
Hweilan climbed onto the shelf of rock and held the hobgoblin upside down. His free foot kicked at her, but he might as well have been kicking an oak. She grabbed him by the back of the neck and walked over to the wolf, ignoring the others completely. The wolf lifted its head, its eyes reflecting the moonlight. Seeing Flet, Uncle opened his jaws. Hweilan pulled back the hobgoblin’s head, exposing his throat, and offered him to the wolf.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Awarmth woke Hweilan. A familiar feeling on her skin, pleasant and light as down. Sunlight. The sun was shining on her.
Hweilan opened her eyes, and saw grass-green and taller than she had ever seen-waving in the wind
She sat up and stared at the canyon walls of Nar-sek Qu’istrade in the near distance. The morning sun was already well over them. She was in the valley beyond Kistrad. How …?
Just beyond her feet, Uncle lay in the grass, watching her. Others were nearby, their backs to her, but she knew them at once. Darric, sitting and leaning upon his knees. Mandan pacing in the sun. Others, bundled in their cloaks, lay next to Darric. She saw Menduarthis’s tousled mass of hair and recognized two of the others as hobgoblins. But two shrouded figures in particular held her attention.
They had been wrapped with care. Valsun was nearest, his pale skin made paler by the dried blood on it. Stones had been placed over his eyes.
Rhan lay next to him. The color was gone from the Champion’s face-or what was left of it. His cheeks and forehead were a mass of dry cuts and scratches, but it was the throat wound that had obviously killed him.
Uncle let out a low whine, drawing Mandan and Darric’s attention. When they saw Hweilan, Mandan stopped his pacing and eyed her warily. Darric stared, blinking, then stood and approached. She saw the hesitation, even fear, in his eyes.
It was only then that Hweilan looked down at herself. The shirt Kesh Naan had made for her was no more than torn bits of scrap dangling from her neck and shoulders, barely covering her enough for modesty. And every inch of her was soaked in blood, drying but still tacky to the touch and reeking of death.
“Hweilan?” said Darric, stopping beside Uncle. “Are you …” She thought he was going to ask if she was well, but he swallowed and said, “Are you Hweilan?”