Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II Read online

  DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, D&D, FORGOTTEN REALMS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  ©2010 Wizards.

  CHOSEN FOR WHAT SHE WAS

  Hundreds of ravens looked down on her, their black eyes reflecting the moonlight. Yellow wolves’ eyes watched her from the shadows under the trees. Waiting and hungry, held back only by the will of the antlered thing before her—neither man nor beast, but something far older.

  “You are mine, Hweilan. You were always mine.”

  FOR WHAT SHE WANTS

  “What is the one thing you desire most?”

  “Vengeance,” she said without thinking.

  “Truth at last. But know this: The Master is not one to bargain. You do not make demands of the Master of the Hunt. Obey him, or do not. There is no middle ground.”

  AND FOR WHAT SHE MUST BECOME

  “She’s trying to make me into a beast,” said Hweilan. She’d been raised in a household of knights, to whom honor was more precious than life. To them, battle was an art, could even be a sacred act of devotion. To Ashiin, killing seemed a primal instinct, a need, no different than hunger or fear. To Ashiin, being a killer was not a matter of doing, but being, and Hweilan feared that she could never become that.

  “She is not.” Gleed turned away from the iron cauldron he had been stirring. “A beast cannot be made, stupid girl. A beast is woken. No. Ashiin is not making you into a beast. She is trying to beat the scared, spoiled little girl out of you so that when the beast does come—and it will; it will—a little of the woman might survive.”

  CHOSEN OF NENDAWEN

  Book I

  The Fall of Highwatch

  Book II

  Hand of the Hunter

  Book III

  Cry of the Ghost Wolf

  December 2011

  ALSO BY MARK SEHESTEDT

  THE WIZARDS

  Frostfell

  Slavers stole her son and she would sacrifice everything to get him back. In the uncaring, frozen north, will it be enough?

  THE CITADELS

  Sentinelspire

  With the powers of an archdruid at hand, the mad master of the fortress of Sentinelspire will bring death to more than just his enemies—he will call down doom on all of Faerûn.

  Chosen of Nendawen, Book II

  Hand of the Hunter

  ©2010 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. FORGOTTEN REALMS, DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Jaime Jones

  Map by Robert Lazzaretti

  First Printing: December 2010

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5812-2

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  Visit our web site at www.wizards.com

  v3.1

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Ed Greenwood, for creating such a vast world for the rest of us to play in.

  Special thanks to the Cocktail Slippers for streaming their albums on their Myspace page. During many late nights of writing, you were my soundtrack. If the royalty checks are kind, I will buy the albums. Promise. And if I ever save Brooke Shields from drowning, you will be the band playing my birthday party!

  And extra special thanks to Erin Evans for being such a great editor, equal parts encouragement and threatening the breaking of fingers. Several of the really cool ideas in the story were Erin’s ideas, and I’ll never tell which are which.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  Part One - The Giantspires Chapter One

  Part Two - The Feywild Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Ninteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Part Three - The Giantspires Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  About the Author

  PART ONE

  THE GIANTSPIRES

  CHAPTER ONE

  Toril

  The Giantspires

  NIGHT CAME QUICKLY TO THE MOUNTAINS, AND Darric wanted their camp secured by dark. They chose a small valley—little more than a wide spot in the path, really—but it had a swath of trees hugging a cliff wall that would provide shelter from the wind and help to hide the light from their fires. Midsummer though it was, they were in the mountains west of Narfell, and a bone-chilling cold settled in with the dark. After picketing the horses near the cliff wall, those men not on watch huddled in their blankets close to the fires.

  Darric sat by the fire and tried to rub the soreness out of his legs. For two days they’d been on mountain trails too treacherous for riding, so every man walked, leading his mount. They’d already had to put down one horse because of a broken leg. A sad loss, but it had added to their meat stores.

  Darric rubbed his knuckles into a knot that had taken up residence a few inches above his right ankle. All this … all this for one girl. He had railed at his father, citing friendship and honor and justice for the fallen of Highwatch. But really, this was all about a girl he hadn’t seen in years. And yet in all those years since, not a day had gone by he hadn’t thought of her.

  “The scouts are back, my lord.”

  The words brought Darric out of his reverie. His mind had been wandering. Not good. Not in their current situation. If they were to have any chance of getting out of this alive, they all had to stay sharp.

  Valsun stood before him, helmet in his hand. In his early fifties, he was the oldest in their company—the only tried and true man that Darric had managed to talk into defying Duke Vittamar and coming with Darric to Narfell. Valsun was one of the finest knights in Vittamar’s service. But looking at him in the dim firelight, his tabard dirty and worn from days of hard travel, he looked much as the rest of them: a vagabond. The bits of mail peeking from under his cloak and the sword riding his hip hinted at the veteran warrior he was.<
br />
  “They’ve found something?” said Darric.

  Valsun shrugged, then spat into the dust. “I’m not sure, my lord. The Nar demands to talk to you and no other.”

  “Ah, well,” Darric said as he pulled his boot on. “Feet were getting cold anyway.”

  They walked to the edge of the camp, just at the barest edge of the firelight, to where their scouts waited under the watchful eyes of two men—one a sellsword Darric had hired on their last day in Damara. The other was Darric’s adopted brother Mandan—easily the biggest man in their company.

  Just shy of seven feet and with a frame that made the most hardened blacksmith look soft as new butter, Mandan probably weighed more than both the scouts put together. He dressed in the armor, tabard, and cloak of a Damaran knight. At home, he usually kept himself clean shaven, but they had been on the road many days, and unlike the others who looked a few days past scraggly, Mandan’s beard was already full. His eyes, a brown so light that they were almost yellow, shone out from under thick brows, and they had the odd tendency to reflect the firelight, which unnerved many of the newcomers to their company. While most of the men carried a sword or spear, cradled in Mandan’s arms was an iron-banded club thick as a man’s arm. At tournaments, Darric had seen other knights mock Mandan and his club. But their mouths closed when they saw him shattering broadswords.

  Neither scout seemed particularly bothered by the Damarans’ mistrustful gazes. On one side of the path crouched Gyul, elbows on knees. No mistaking him for a human. His leathery skin had an orange cast. His eyes, which seldom opened more than a lazy squint, were yellow, and sharp canines thrust out of his bottom lip. He spoke broken Common, and fluent Damaran and Nar, but in this part of the world that wasn’t all that unusual for a hobgoblin.

  His companion stood beside him, leaning on his spear. Urdun. The man had the features of a Nar—dark skin, straight black hair that hung down his back, and a slight cant to the eyes that showed West was giving way to East. But in dress he looked more hobgoblin than human—a combination of coarse leather, fur, and metal. How an outcast Nar and a hobgoblin who claimed to be Razor Heart clan came to be such steadfast companions … well, Darric knew there was surely a story there. But he had more pressing concerns.

  “What have you found?” Darric asked them.

  The hobgoblin and Nar exchanged a glance. “Me and Gyul go no farther,” said Urdun.

  “What?”

  “We agreed to take you through the mountains by other paths than the Gap,” said Urdun. He pointed to the two peaks before them—one high and sharp, the other no less sharp but half the height of its companion. “Through that pass. Turn south, and you will be a hard day’s ride from Nar-sek Qu’istrade.”

  “Then why—?”

  “To go any closer to Nar-sek Qu’istrade”—the man grabbed some sort of relic made of bone that hung from his neck, kissed it, and finished—“is to risk your soul. Things now haunt Highwatch that mortals dare not challenge. It is a cursed place. Go if you wish, but you go without Gyul and me. We have fulfilled our bargain.”

  With that, Gyul stood, and the two of them started walking back westward through the line of men and horses.

  “Stop!” said Valsun. “I command both of you—”

  “No,” said Darric. “Let them go.”

  Mandan tore his gaze off the retreating scouts and glared at Darric. “Are you mad?”

  “They fulfilled their bargain. We’re here. We need them no longer.”

  “We don’t need them?” said Mandan. “How are we supposed to get home?”

  “There are scouts in Narfell.” Darric forced a confidence into his voice he did not feel. “And if not, we know the way now, eh?”

  Darric clapped Mandan on the back, and they headed back to the fire. But he saw the look Mandan and Valsun exchanged.

  “What do you think he meant?” said Valsun later. “About Highwatch being cursed?”

  Valsun, Mandan, and the wizard were the only three who shared Darric’s fire. The wizard, a youngish westerner named Hureleth, was not Damaran, and he spoke the language with a heavy accent. Darric had found him in Merkurn, just one step ahead of the hangman’s noose. Hureleth had been only too happy to join up with them. Valsun didn’t trust him. And truth be told, Darric didn’t either. But he had to admit that without him they never would have escaped the last raid two days back.

  Hureleth snorted into his cup. “Do not worry yourself about such things. Nar are barbarians and far too … what is the word? Supple stitches?”

  “Superstitious,” said Valsun.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Hureleth. “Superstitious. As for this Nar’s hobblegob friend …”

  “Hobgoblin,” said Mandan.

  “Hobgoblin, yes. Well, Highwatch knights terrified them for years. Nothing new is there.”

  “Vandalar and his knights rule Highwatch no more,” Valsun told him, though he watched Darric as he spoke.

  “If the rumors are true,” said Darric.

  The wizard chuckled into his cup, then said, “When one man says a thing”—he shrugged—“truth? lie? Who knows? When many people say a thing, it is a rumor. But when every people say a thing, bet your gold there.”

  Sleep was only a few breaths away from Darric when the horses began to whicker, stamp, and pull at their pickets. Darric stood and threw off his blankets, as did Mandan, his massive club in one hand. Valsun sat up a moment later.

  “What is it?”

  “The horses,” said Darric. “Something’s spooked them. Wake that damned wizard.” He unbuckled his cloak and let it fall to the ground. Midnight cold bit into him, but his sword arm was free.

  Others had begun stirring as well. The campfires were still flickering, and by their light Darric saw one of the men, sword in hand, moving off to check on their mounts.

  “De-sist!”

  Darric turned to see the wizard slap at Valsun’s boot, which was nudging his ribs.

  “Here,” said Mandan, “like this.” With one hand he grabbed the wizard’s ankle, blankets and all, and lifted, dangling the wizard upside down a good foot or more off the ground.

  “Smoking Hells!” Hureleth shrieked as he tried to untangle himself from his blanket and cloak. “Unhand me!”

  Mandan set the wizard’s head and shoulders gently on the ground, then dropped the rest. “He’s awake now.”

  “Awake and bruised!” said Hureleth. “What is the meaning of—?”

  “Quiet,” said Darric. “Something’s spooked the horses.”

  The wizard sat up, still clutching his blankets around him. “We are less than a day from the steppe. Probably just wolves.”

  Mandan lifted his head and inhaled deeply through his nose. “No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

  From the edge of the trees where the sentries kept watch came a cry—a scream that ended all too abruptly.

  “Ah,” said Hureleth. “Perhaps not wolves then.”

  Darric never saw the arrow before it hit him. A sound of air ripping, then something slammed into his chest. He wore two layers of clothing under his mail, and a tabard and coat on top of it all. The arrow bounced away, but it struck with enough force to knock him back a step.

  The wizard stood, reached inside his vest, and when he removed his hand, the orb he held was alight with inner fire. Hureleth thrust his free hand forward. At a word, light churned from his fingers and formed a transparent red wall, slightly curved, in front of them. Three arrows struck it in quick succession, one of them shattering in a cloud of sparks. Two arrows flew over their heads from behind as their own archers returned a volley.

  “Fools!” Valsun shouted. “Save your arrows till you see your targets!”

  “Allow me,” said the wizard. He thrust forth his hand holding the orb and spoke another incantation. Sparks flew out of the orb, spun around the wizard’s arm, then shot outward, passing through his shield with a popping hiss like water thrown on hot iron. They struck a tree several yards away, and
every branch and needle erupted in flame. It lit their campsite and the canyon for a hundred yards in every direction.

  “Idiot,” said Mandan. “You’ve just lit a beacon for anyone within ten miles!”

  But Darric didn’t think the wizard had even heard. By the light of the burning tree their attackers were clearly visible—long-haired men dressed in skins and leathers, spears and swords in hand. Hureleth laughed as shards of white light, nail-thin but each as long as a knight’s lance, shot from the pulsing orb in his fist. When one struck a man, he went down screaming, clothes and skin giving off thick smoke.

  After the first few went down, the others realized the danger and took cover behind the trees. A few farther back loosed arrows, but none could penetrate the wizard’s shield.

  The screaming of men and horses had become such a constant that Darric put them in the back of his mind to concentrate on the attack. And so when the first horse ran past them, his first thought was that the men behind them had organized a charge.

  “Stop!” he called out. The trees were too thick to make a mounted charge effective. Then he noticed that the horse was riderless. Turning, he saw that their mounts had broken their picket line and were fleeing in every direction. The horses seemed frightened of the wizard’s shield and gave it a wide berth, but Darric saw one of his men run down.

  “Let them go!” Valsun shouted, then quieter so only Darric could hear, “No help for it now.”

  “Back to the trees,” said the wizard, though he kept his gaze fixed on the fight. “Shield will not be lasting much longer.”

  Together the four of them backed toward the cover of the nearest trees. Hureleth held the shield, but even Darric, who had no knowledge of magic, could see its light dimming, and the last arrow to strike it stuck there a moment before falling to the ground.

  Darric turned. The light from the wizard’s spells and the burning tree painted dark shadows against the cliff. A flash of light as Hureleth cast another shard from his palm, and in the sudden white-brightness Darric saw it—