Mark Sehestedt - Hand of the Hunter

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.

"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.