Hand of the Hunter con-2 Read online

  The thing opened its mouth and inhaled, taking in a deep draft of air, tasting it. A shiver passed through the thing's entire body-so strong that Darric felt it in his bones, so sudden and fierce that the thing's skin actually rippled. It was like watching a cocoon in the final moments before the moth tore through.

  The thing looked down at the yard of steel imbedded in its shoulder. Not with pain or concern. Just an odd sort of curiosity. It released Darric's left shoulder and grabbed its neck.

  "Be still, little mouse," it said, and again the fetid breath washed over Darric, so strong that it made his eyes water. "Be still or I snap your neck. It's better… so much better if you're still alive for me."

  Still alive? Darric's mind seized at the words. For what?

  The thing released his other arm and used the free hand to wrench the sword out of its shoulder. Darric hard the snap of steel working its way through shattered bone, and heard the sucking sound of the skin and muscle clinging to the sword, but there was no surge of blood when the weapon broke free. It was as if no heart beat in the thing's chest. It was only then that Darric's mind seized on the obviousCall for help, you fool! But he could hear the clash of steel on steel, and from somewhere that seemed all too far away the sound of Valsun shouting, "Help him! Damn you! Help-!" And then more steel and screams.

  The thing lowered Darric until his knees rested on the ground, then it planted the point of Darric's own sword against his cheek.

  "Scream," it said.

  "No," Darric said through clenched teeth. With the grip crushing just under his jaw, it was all he could manage. His mind came up with a dozen defiant curses, but he didn't have the breath for one of them.

  "How will you scream, I wonder," said the thing, "if I cut you here-and here?" It ran the edge of the blade down Darric's cheek, first one side, then the other, just hard enough to break the skin. "If I unhinge your jaw, are you strong enough to scream while I eat your tongue? Or will you swoon like a tavern drunkard?"

  Darric renewed his punches and kicks, aiming for every vulnerable spot he'd been trained to strike.

  "Ahhh…" The thing twitched, blinked, and again Darric was struck with the image of something trying to break out of a cocoon. "I can feel your heart beating. So fast. Hammering. You are scared, yes?" Its eyes opened wide, glistening black eyes with hearts of fire, and looked down at Darric. "Good. Fear makes the blood run fast. Makes-"

  Darric was looking right at the thing when the arrow hit it. A perfect strike, missing the top of Darric's head by less than a foot, then hitting the soft flesh between the thing's throat and chest, going in deep. The sheer force made the thing stumble back a step, but it didn't fall or loosen its grip on Darric's neck. Just stood there looking down at the black shaft of the arrow. The beginning of a snarl twisted the thing's lips.

  But then a crack of green fire sparked along the black shaft of the arrow. No, Darric saw. Not a crack. The light expanded, like flame running along oil, and Darric could see that the fire traced a pattern of intricate runes all along the shaft.

  "No!" The thing's eyes widened and it let Darric go. He hit the ground and forced air through his throat.

  "No! No! No-no-no! N-n-no! N-n-n-n-n-!"

  Darric heard genuine panic in the thing's voice. It grabbed the arrow with both hands. Close as he was, Darric heard the flesh hiss as if he'd grasped a branding iron fresh out of the coals.

  The thing shrieked. It was a cry beyond sound, bypassing Darric's ears and raking down his spine like jagged fingernails on slate. It was beyond human, beyond anything he could have imagined.

  The red embers in the thing's gaze died, and green fire shot from its eyes and mouth. Fumes poured out of its nose and ears-black and heavy, falling over its shoulders and down its face, a thick miasma. The shriek died, fading away like a final echo. With it, all strength left the thing's body, and it fell to the ground like the dead flesh it was.

  Later, looking back at that moment, Darric felt sure what happened next lasted no more than a moment. Certainly no longer than the time it took for the body to hit the ground. But time seemed to stretch, every detail clear in Darric's sight, every sound distinct. The Nar stood dumbstruck. More than a few jaws dropped, and every eye, round and wide, fixed on the lifeless corpse that only moments ago had been their feared leader.

  But the stillness broke. Someone out of Darric's sight cried out an order in Nar. Darric's command of the language was limited at best, but he caught one word clearly-"Kill!"

  Three Nar, blades in hand, ran for him.

  Darric pushed himself up and scrambled for his sword. But the thing's death grip was locked around the hilt and he couldn't pry the fingers loose. Cursing, Darric reached for the dagger at his belt.

  He was halfway to his feet when he felt the wind of the arrow's flight. He heard it pass overhead like an angry wasp, and there was a crack as the arrow struck the nearest Nar. The man flew backward, his arms thrust before him, and hit the ground a good six feet away from where he'd left his feet.

  His nearest companion stopped in his tracks. He crouched, causing the arrow to hit him in the head. The man's head went back with such force that Darric heard the neck snap, and the entire body flipped backward. When the torso hit the ground, the feet were still in the air.

  Through the dust Darric found himself staring at the man. The arrow had gone all the way through so that a good six inches of the shaft protruded out of the back of the man's skull. What kind of bow-?

  The Nar evidently had the same thought, for they scattered in every direction, forsaking the fight. Within moments, it was over.

  Wide-eyed, panting, his heart still hammering, Darric looked around. Mandan was several paces away, club still raised, looking back at him. Valsun was a ways behind him, standing over two dead Nar. As near as Darric could tell, none of the blood on Valsun was his own. Just beyond him was one of the sellswords Darric had hired. He thought the man's name was Jaden, but he couldn't be sure. Darric suspected the man might be more cutpurse than sellsword, but he fought well.

  The rest of the Damarans and hired blades lay unmoving. Hureleth lay closest to Darric. His body sprouted two arrows, and it looked as if someone had given him several good blows with a sword, just to be sure. His open wounds steamed in the cold night air.

  For several moments, the survivors just looked at one another, the only sounds that of their labored breathing and the fire consuming the tree. For his part, Darric was almost overwhelmed by two conflicting feelings-horror and disgust at what had just happened, and heartfelt gratitude that he and his two dearest comrades were still standing.

  "There!" Valsun pointed with his sword.

  Something in the darkness moved.

  A shape emerged from the shadows and into the flickering orange light cast by the burning tree. The figure stepped with such grace that its footsteps made not a sound. Darric could tell by the body's curves that it was a woman. She held a bow that was almost as tall as she was. She wore dark, fitted clothes that seemed to drink in the darkness, but her face…

  There was no face. Darric instinctively tried to gasp, but it came out more of a strangled choke. No face!

  Two bright eyes, wide with a feral glee, stared out from a face of bone. But as the woman stepped fully into the light, Darric saw that, horrible as it was, the mask was just that-a mask made from the skull of some animal. Not old and ivory white. Still fresh and slick, so that the firelight wavering off it made it seem almost the color of fresh blood, and the eyes looking out from the deep sockets watched them with something very close to…

  He knew not what. But Darric shivered.

  From the distant dark came an agonized scream. Darric looked nervously in the direction, and the other men did the same as they sat up.

  "Don't mind them," said the woman. "It's just Uncle taking care of any lingerers."

  "Uncle?" said Darric. "Who is Uncle? And who are you?"

  The woman looked at Darric and said, "My name is Hweilan."
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  Darric's jaw dropped.

  He heard Valsun gasp.

  Mandan gaped at her and said, "Shar's sullied shit."

  Jaden looked at them all in turn, then said, "What in the smoking Hells is going on?"

  The woman picked up one of the larger rocks that the Damarans had used as a campfire ring, then she walked over to the dead man with the arrow through his head and kneeled beside him. Without looking at any of them she said, "Do I know you?"

  Darric said, "My name is Darric."

  Mandan said, "He came to find you."

  At the same time Valsun cried, "What are you doing?"

  The woman brought the rock down sharply on the dead man's skull. It didn't crack so much as crunch.

  "Holy gods," said Jaden, then turned on his hands and knees and was violently sick.

  Hweilan smashed the dead man's skull twice more then tossed the rock aside.

  "What are you doing?" said Mandan, more curious than horrified.

  "Retrieving my arrow," she said. "Can't cut through bone, so I have to break it out. A good arrow is hard to make, so I'd much rather break a dead man's skull than my arrow."

  She pulled the arrow out of the broken wreck of the dead Nar's head and proceeded to clean it on his clothes. Once satisfied, she slid it back into the quiver on her back, then walked over to the corpse holding her arrow in his chest. She looked down, and Darric heard her murmur, "Damn. Going to ruin the fletching."

  She kneeled, turned the corpse on its side and grasped the haft of the arrow where it was protruding from the Nar's back. Holding it in a firm grip, she twisted and pulled, dragging the fletching through the chest cavity. It emerged bloody and featherless.

  "I don't know anyone named Darric," she said as she used the dead man's clothes to clean the arrow.

  "If you are Hweilan of Highwatch," Darric said, "daughter of Ardan and Merah, granddaughter of Vandalar, High Warden, then you do know me."

  She looked at him. When he'd first seen those eyes, he'd seen a feral glee in them. There was no glee now. Just pure ferocity. More like an animal's eyes than a woman's. Darric could not look away. His mouth opened and shut once, then again, but he could not think of a thing to say.

  "Tell me how you know those names," she said.

  Silence held them for a long time, the only sound that of the fire.

  Mandan spoke up at last, "Forgive my brother's lack of eloquence. He is indeed Darric, heir of Duke Vittamar of Soravia, and he has come-"

  "We heard of Highwatch." Darric found his voice at last. He gave Valsun and Mandan a sharp look, hoping they saw it and divined its meaning. "That it had fallen. To Nar. No one believed it, of course. But when our messenger hawks did not return… we came to find the truth for ourselves, and offer what aid we could."

  Mandan smirked and said, "He came to find you."

  "Be silent, Brother!"

  Hweilan looked at Mandan. And Darric saw it-her nostrils widened as she scented the air, and then her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She studied Mandan a moment, then looked back at Darric. He could see her considering, and he thoughtShe knows. I don't know how, but she knows. I'd bet my inheritance on it.

  "Brother?" she said at last and looked at Darric.

  Mandan tensed and raised his club. A moment later, Darric saw why.

  The wolf padded out of the darkness, silent as a ghost. In the dim torchlight, Darric could not tell if it was white or a very pale gray, but he was quite certain that the dark wetness staining its muzzle almost up to its eyes was blood.

  "Beware!" said Mandan. He ran forward, grabbed Hweilan, and tried to pull her behind him.

  Instead, the woman twisted in his grasp, used Mandan's own weight and momentum against him, and the much-bigger man found himself flat on his back, looking up at the woman and the wolf, who stood calmly beside her, licking the blood from his muzzle.

  "Darric of Soravia," said the woman, and she looked around at the others, "and company, meet Uncle."

  Darric could take no more, so he said, "Hweilan, what in the Hells happened to you?"

  PART TWO

  THE FEYWILD

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Oh, no."

  The small figure scrambled and slid down the slope. The dark did not bother him, and the thick canopy of the forest held back the worst of the rain. But the runoff flowing down the hill made footing treacherous and swelled the already swift valley stream well past its banks.

  The body lay half in the stream-her legs on the bank, her hips and everything above them all the way in the water. The current undulated her hair, and her left hand bobbed and waved in the current. At least she was on her back, her face just out of the water. That was some small mercy. But her eyes…

  Her eyes were open to the storm. Sightless. Water dripping off the branches rained down on her, some of it right into her empty gaze, and she didn't blink. Didn't even flinch.

  "Dead," he said as he dropped his staff in the mud and jumped into the water. "Still the bells and sod the Hells. Oh, gods she's dead and he'll kill-me-kill-me-kill-me."

  He dropped to his knees, lifted her head out of the water, and cradled it in his lap. She was shivering.

  All breath left him in one long hiss. Alive! She was alive!

  He patted her cheek, softly at first, then once with a hard smack. Nothing. He shook her. "Hey! Hey, girl!"

  Lightning flickered overhead, but only nail-thin shafts of light made it through the thick canopy of trees. Thunder washed over the valley, shaking the stones in the river. The rain, an endless rattle on the leaves, became a torrent, a roar. The swell of the river quickened. She'd be underwater soon.

  He scrambled out of the stream. The girl was wearing fur-lined boots, suitable for a much colder place than this. Braided leather laces bound them up to her knees. He worked his fingers under the laces, planted both feet in the ground, and pulled. She moved, perhaps an inch. Then two more. A relieved smile creased his face.

  Then both his feet skidded out from under him and he went down, mud and water slipping into his clothes.

  He sat up, spat water and grit, and let loose with a long litany of curses.

  Water was coming right off the hillside into the stream, and his fall had opened a nice little rivulet so that water was flowing over the girl. He leaped back into the stream and lifted her head out of the water. She made a choking noise then coughed. He looked at her, saw her eyes blink once-knew that in the darkness there was no way she could see a damned thing-and had time to say, "Are y-?"

  The girl screamed and surged upwardThe horror had not passed. But it had retreated. No longer ripping and tearing through her mind, it had pulled back to-

  Watch. Watch and wait. For now.

  She fought to get back to light and breath and sound. But the darkness would not let her. More than the absence of light. This darkness had weight. Presence. And worst of all, a will.

  "… he'll kill-me-kill-me-kill…"

  A small voice. Not weak, but far away, as if she lay at the bottom of a well, listening to voices far above.

  "Hey! Hey, girl!"

  Something broke through the darkness. Not pain exactly. A jarring sensation. It seemed that she lay still, but the world shifted around her.

  Cold. A wet cold was the first sensation to break through. Water, flooding in, choking her. She drew in breath to scream, and the water poured down her throat.

  All her senses snapped back, and the darkness disintegrated like the bursting of a bubble.

  Night. Dark, yes, but not that other presence that had tried to consume her. This darkness held no weight. An incessant roar filled the air. Rain. Storm. And all around her-washing over her-water, water, and more water. All the world had become a cold, lightless wet.

  But a little of the darkness before her had a solidness to it. Then it spoke.

  "Are y-?"

  Instinctively, she screamed and lashed out. Her arm came around, and the back of one fist connected with flesh and bone. The figure fell
back and the river swallowed it.

  She ran. Her clothes were sodden, heavy, and they pulled at her. Her boot slipped in the mud, she went down in a splash, then came up again. She made it perhaps half-a-dozen steps, but then her boots sank into the muck. Momentum carried her upper half forward, and when her hands thrust out to break her fall, they too sank up to her wrists. She pulled, but the ground pulled back, yanking her until she was up to her elbows in mud.

  She screamed, and only then did she realize she could see. Green light lit the wood around her. Where-?

  The ground heaved, encasing her up to her chest, lifting her, and turning her around. For a moment, she thought she'd been caught in a mudslide brought on by the storm, but then she saw the figure standing at the water's edge.

  Only a little over half her height had he been standing upright, he was made smaller still by his hunched posture. His right hand held a staff longer than he was tall. It twinkled with tiny lights in a hundred shades of green-sparks cast by dozens upon dozens of tiny amulets, coins, bits of chain, and random scraps of metal that tinkled with even the slightest movement. He held his other hand beside his face, and she could see his fingers working in intricate patterns. More light shone from there. Patterns-runes, most sharp edged-decorated his skin, and each of them blazed with an emerald fire.

  She screamed.

  The mud encasing her surged forward in a wave, then stopped and settled so that she was only a few feet from the small person.

  "Be silent," he said.

  The mud pressed on her. She couldn't move her arms, and the weight of it made breathing an effort.

  "My name is Gleed," said the figure. "I just saved your life. The Master has sent you to me. Your name is Meyla. It means 'little girl' in my mother's tongue, for that is what you are-an ignorant little girl-until I say differently. Until you prove differently. Understand, Meyla?"

  Rain and grit was streaming into her eyes, but she could not wipe them away.

  "My name… is Hweilan."