Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II Read Free Page B

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.”
    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