Mark Sehestedt - Hand of the Hunter

"I thought we were going after one scared girl. I thought I was sending more than enough to do the job-swatting a fly with a smith's hammer. But it seems that our little fly found unexpected aid. I swear to you that had I known the baazuled was not up to the task, I would never have sent your brother with so few."

"Baazuled?" said Jatara. She'd never heard the word, though the flavor of it reminded her of the incantations Argalath used in his most secret rites.

Argalath motioned to Guric, who still sat in the floor. "Our new friends. You see the flaw?"

Jatara shook her head.

Argalath stood, so quickly that the chair toppled behind him. Jatara flinched, and she realized that her heart was beating so hard she could hear the blood pulsing in her head. The sudden movement sent a breath of air through the room that made the fire flare, painting him in a hellish light.

"Masks," said Argalath, in a tone like a street prophet about to explain sin to the unworthy.

The two surviving Nar exchanged nervous glances. The one from whom Jatara had snatched the knife looked at it longingly where it still lay on the floor.

"We all wear them," Argalath continued. He spread both his arms. "These mortal bodies are nothing but masks-the image we present to the world, hiding the true life within. And when we die, that life… departs. Such a waste. Leaving the body an empty shell. But"-and Argalath pointed down at Guric-"that shell can be filled by those who know the ancient ways, the secret arts of our ancestors. Is it not so, Jatara?"

She tried to swallow, but her mouth held no moisture. Our ancestors? Argalath claimed that his mother had been of the Nar, but his father of her people, the Frost Folk. Which ancestors did he mean? The shamans of her people had many secret arts, but she had never heard of anything like these baazuled until Argalath.

Argalath turned, extended one hand, and his chair leaped up, its back slapping into his open palm. The two Nar each made the sign to ward off evil spirits, and she could hear one of them muttering a prayer. She could see his breath. The temperature in the room had dropped suddenly. The air had taken on a still, almost brittle state, making every sound sharp and clear, and it was then she realized what had just happened.

She'd long known of Argalath's ability granted by his spellscar. He could move things with his mind-small things only, but his cunning had learned to put it to great effect. Moving anything larger than a flagon of wine pained and weakened him. But he'd discovered that there were veins and organs inside the human body far smaller than a flagon. A slight squeeze applied to the right area could kill. The wounded pounding of her own heart reminded her of that.

But the entire chair-a heavy thing of solid oak and iron-had jumped off the floor into his waiting hand. And Argalath's spellscar had not so much as flickered.

Argalath sat down again and motioned to Guric. "He hoped that his beloved wife would return to fill her shell. It was not to be. Not even the gods themselves can force the unwilling dead to return. Instead, something came from… elsewhere."

"Demons," Jatara rasped. She had heard stories of demons and devils called forth to serve practitioners of the dark arts. Some managed to break free of their would-be masters and possess them-or worse. That Argalath managed to maintain control over such spirits proved how powerful he really was.

Argalath laughed. "Call them what you like. But that is not what we must discuss, Jatara. What we must settle. Once and for all. Look at our friend there. You shattered his leg. Even the strongest living warrior would be weeping in agony at such an injury. But there he sits, calm as you please, awaiting my command. And yet… something out there managed to best one of them. For as formidable as our baazuled are, they are not invulnerable. Can you guess it, Jatara? The weakness?"

Jatara looked down at Guric. He-no, it-just sat there. But she had seen what these baazuled could do. That Guric wasn't howling in pain over his shattered leg was impressive enough. But she'd seen them heal wounds that would have been lethal-heal before her eyes, after feeding.

"The mask," said Argalath. "The body. In this case-the corpse. A dead shell. Powerful as the spirit is, even it cannot overcome this. It is not a weakness of the physical. No. It is a weakness of the… elemental." Even though he was sitting in shadow, Jatara caught a flash of white and knew he was smiling. "The baazuled are beings of vast power-far beyond we pitiful mortals. But this world is not theirs, and though they can use our empty shells, it is not unlike a Nar warrior trying to ride a dead horse-forced to move the limbs himself, fill the lungs with air, force it to gallop. How much better, how much stronger is a living warrior upon a living horse? But what if warrior and mount could be one? One living, breathing, thinking…"

Words seemed to fail him at last, and he looked at Jatara. He took a deep breath, and when he next spoke, his tone was that of the Argalath she knew-soft spoken, almost weary, but always as if he knew something she didn't.

"Your brother died in my service. That debt must be paid. To strike one of my servants is to strike me. To strike me is to strike the one I serve. Is it not so?"

Jatara said nothing.

"So, the question you must now ask yourself is whether you will mind your place, and bring vengeance to those who killed your brother. Or whether you will blame me. You can't have both."

Jatara forced herself to sit up on the bed. It made the room spin around her and her stomach clenched, but she managed. She still felt hollow inside. Completely drained. Stripped of all will to live. But the rage was gone.

"You said my brother died in your service. I thought we were taking Highwatch, and then… whatever we please. But what you're doing… goes beyond that. Yes?"

"Oh, yes," said Argalath, and again she saw the dim flash of his teeth in the darkness. "My plans extend far beyond this hovel. Are you ready to…" He paused, and seemed to search for the right words, then said, "Expand your vision?"

"Will it bring vengeance to whoever killed my brother?"

"Oh, yes. That I swear to you."

"To strike one of your servants is to strike you. To strike you is to strike the one you serve. Your words."

A moment's silence, then, "Yes."

And so Jatara asked the one question she had never asked-had never dared, and never much cared, because to her it did not matter. It mattered now.

"Whom do you serve?"

The shivering dragged Hweilan back to consciousness. When she heard the loud rattling, she gasped and sat up, fearing some huge insect was scuttling near her face, then realized it was only the chattering of her own teeth.

She opened her eyes.

Gleed, the tower, the lake…

Gone. She was alone in the pathless forest. She remembered Gleed yammering on, feeding her some stew that was surprisingly good, then more of the herbed water. One moment she'd been listening to him extol the wonders of the Master, the next…

"That little toad put something in the drink," she said to herself.

She looked down and saw that she was dressed only in a strange sort of cloak. More like a knee-length blanket with a hole in the middle for her head. Compared to frigid Narfell, the air seemed balmy, but it was still cool enough that her breath steamed, and the thought of the old goblin taking her clothes gave her a sick feeling in her stomach.

She sat in a bed of old leaves, made sodden from last night's rain, surrounded by the roots of a massive oak. At least she thought it was an oak. The leaves were the right shape, but just one of them was larger than both her outstretched hands. And though the bark was the right texture-even encrusted in lichen as an old oak ought to be-the color was just a wisp lighter than black.