Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II (26 page)

“What I have to tell you,” Ashiin said, her own voice calm and utterly relaxed, “is best said in the light. Besides, we should get away from the stench of that thing.”

Ashiin dragged Hweilan out from under the cover of the trees. The dead weight of her legs made a despair grow in Hweilan that was worse than anything she had ever felt. Worse even than the day she’d seen her father’s dead body. Worse than the day Scith had told her that her family was dead. Worse than the day Scith himself had been killed and Hweilan had helped to burn his body. All of that had brought fury and sadness and grief. But at least there had been the hope of something else—even if it was only revenge. Now … what did she have? Her hope for vengeance, her calling as the Hand of the Hunter … all over. She’d failed.

Sunlight washed over Hweilan as they left the woods. Ashiin dragged her around a fallen tree, walked just beyond it, then dropped her.

“I switched the stakes,” Ashiin said, and she crouched beside Hweilan. “But not so that thing could kill you. If I wanted you dead, I’d have killed you myself long ago.”

“You …” Hweilan forced the words out. “Brought me … here. She … it … 
knew.
”

“Yes,” said Ashiin, and she cocked her head in that odd way that always reminded Hweilan, more than anything else, how truly inhuman Ashiin was. It was a movement that was altogether bestial. “I came here. I told that thing you’d be coming, and I brought you here. But this was a lesson, Hweilan. For you. Now what have you learned?”

“You said … this was … sacrifice. To use … the bow.”

“No,” said Ashiin. “I said that to wake the bow, to make
it your ally, Nendawen requires sacrifice. I never said
this
was the sacrifice. You really think that filth was sacrifice? That was justice. To waken your father’s bow … you have yet to make that sacrifice.”

Hweilan tried to lash out, but her strength was failing her, and the woman was just out of reach.

Ashiin laughed. “Your back is broken, and still you fight. I like that.”

“I … hate you.”

“That hardly matters. Those bandits you killed, they were meant to show me you could kill when the need arose—and to show
you
. Success in battle is not only about skill. Many skilled warriors have died under a peasant’s axe. Success in battle is about will—the willingness to kill another. To hesitate, even for a moment, means death. That’s what the bandits taught you.

“Today’s lesson was far more important: You are no match for Jagun Ghen and his minions. No matter how strong you become, how adept a fighter, no matter whose blood runs in your veins … you’re no match for them, Hweilan. And you never will be.”

That was it then. She’d failed. Nendawen could find a new Hand. All the effort and agony of the past months … all for nothing. She might as well have gone back to Highwatch that day after running from Jatara. At least then, perhaps she and Scith could have died together and she might have taken a few of her enemies with her.

Several of the tendrils of pain originating from her back had wormed their way into her chest, and even as Hweilan struggled to breathe, the tendrils seemed to constrict. Every breath cost her more than the last. Her entire torso seemed to have turned to some cold, immovable metal.

“My … back!” said Hweilan, and in the cough that followed, she tasted blood. More than her back then. Other things were broken inside her. That was some relief, at least. She no longer had to worry about the rest of her life. That
would be over soon. Hweilan closed her eyes, and despite the pain she managed a smile.

Ashiin laughed. “Little fool.”

She felt Ashiin cradle her head in one palm and lift. Hweilan thrashed out with both hands, pummeling Ashiin with her fists.

“Stop that,” said Ashiin.

Hweilan struck harder—hard as she could—though that was scarcely more than the force a small child could muster.

Ashiin reached inside her vest with her free hand and said, “Open your mouth.”

The world was beginning to go fuzzy—light and darkness bleeding together—and Hweilan couldn’t feel if her mouth was open or not.

Ashiin’s hand moved to her face, and Hweilan thought she saw something cradled in the woman’s fingers. Then the smell hit her—acrid and earthy, but with the sharp fumes of strong spirits. Hweilan’s throat closed instinctively and she tried to jerk her head away. But Ashiin had a handful of her hair in a tight grip.

“Open,” said Ashiin.

She must have done so, for in the next moment liquid fire filled her mouth and ran down her throat. Hweilan screamed, what little of the liquid was left in her mouth spewing onto Ashiin. She thrashed, breaking Ashiin’s grip, and new strength filled her limbs. The heat from the liquid caught. It didn’t spread. It went down her throat and
exploded
, sending waves of heat through her whole body. The tendrils and shoots of pain that had been growing inside her withered and evaporated, like dry petals thrown on fire.

Hweilan’s eyes flew open and she froze, afraid to move. Her whole body was in agony. Her
whole
body.

She could feel her legs again. Feel her feet. Even her toes, which felt as if ten-score hot needles were burrowing inside. In that moment of paralysis—brought on by shock and the fear that if she moved, the feelings would go
away—Hweilan actually felt hundreds of tiny strands inside her backbone writhing and twisting and burrowing as they knit back together.

Hweilan sat up and took in a great draft of air—so much so fast that it was like a scream in reverse, filling her lungs with much-needed air.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” said Ashiin. She was still crouching beside Hweilan, a mischievous grin on her face, her yellow fox eyes glowing in the sunlight. “Most things worth anything bring a certain amount of pain.”

Wide-eyed, Hweilan looked down at her feet, and just to be sure, she tried to wiggle first the right one and then the left. They moved—and better, she
felt
them move, felt the rough fiber of her stockings moving between her skin and boot. So plain. So mundane. Yet at that moment it was the most wonderful feeling in the world, better even than the clean air filling her.

She looked down. Through the rents in her shirt, her skin was still coated in blood, but it was drying, and the wounds themselves—which she knew had cut to the bone—were gone, the skin beneath smooth and almost glistening. All of her
uwethla
, the puckered scar where Gleed had stabbed her to drive in the silver spike, even the kan brand upon her palm—all still there. But of the newer wounds there was no sign.

Ashiin helped Hweilan to her feet. “Now, as I was saying: you are the Hand.” As if to demonstrate, she raised her own, waving the fingers. “That … concept—for what you are—was chosen for a reason. A hand is made of the palm and many fingers. Many parts. And the hand itself is only an extension of the arm, and the arm is part of the body. And the body itself is nothing without the head and heart.”

Hweilan could only stare at her. The woman had just led her into an ambush, watched while that … that
thing
had snapped her back like an old branch, and she was crouched there, lecturing, calm as you please.

“You’ll never defeat Jagun Ghen on your own. You are the Hand. And the Hand does not strike alone.” A slight pause, then, “When I first met you, this was what you were.”

Ashiin lowered all her fingers except one, and this one she kept loose. She wiggled it over Hweilan’s bare arm, scratching slightly with the nail.

“A minor irritant,” said Ashiin, “an annoyance. That’s all you were. But you learned. You learned from Kesh Naan—”

—the finger stiffened, and another joined it, and Ashiin poked her, not hard enough to break the skin, but close. Hweilan winced—

“—you learned from Gleed—”

—three fingers, and Ashiin poked again—

“—getting stronger, yes. But still no stronger than a nagging pain. And then you came to me—”

—all fingers open, the thumb held straight and close beside the palm, and Ashiin brought it around, striking Hweilan hard in the fleshy part of her arm. She staggered a little but did not fall over.

Hweilan said, “Stop th—”

“Now you are strong. Strong enough to deal with many enemies. But Jagun Ghen is not just any enemy. He is ancient and cunning, and he does not know mercy or pity or remorse. Strike him all you like, and you are only going to rile him.”

Ashiin gave her three quick strikes with the edge of her hand—upper arm, forearm, and a hit on her thigh hard enough to bruise.

Hweilan tried to back away, but Ashiin caught her wrist with her other hand, stopping her.

“Now,” she said, “you must learn to use it all—and more. The hand is only an extension of the greater body—of the greater mind. You must have the
whole.
”

With that, Ashiin clenched the upheld hand into a fist and punched.

But Hweilan had been expecting it, and she batted the fist aside with her forearm.

“Stop hitting me!”

“
Make
me stop.” Ashiin lashed out again, first one fist, then an open hand—the fingers out and stiff, aimed for Hweilan’s gut.

Hweilan blocked both and kicked. Ashiin pushed the strike aside.

And then they were at it—master and pupil, punching, kicking, blocking, striking and counter striking, rolling, sliding, jumping. Hweilan connected now and then, but for every one punch or kick she managed to land, Ashiin landed three.

But whatever had been in the concoction Ashiin had given her, it was still at work. Hweilan could feel its fire coursing through her system. She had to drop to avoid a kick, and on the frosty ground her feet slid from under her. The sharp stones beneath cut deep, raking a wide swath of skin from her arm, but by the time she was on her feet again, she could feel the skin closing.

“You see?” said Ashiin, circling her. “After all you’ve learned … still, you’re no match for me. And you think you can hunt Jagun Ghen? I’ve taught you only a fraction of what I know—and time is running out.”

“So …?”

Ashiin charged, one fist coming around. But it was a feint. Hweilan blocked the strike with her forearm and Ashiin grabbed her. The next thing she knew she was flying through the air—her sight registered the peak, the treetops, a bit of blue sky between, and then she hit the ground. All the breath left her body, and for a moment the world went black.

When her vision cleared again, she saw that she had skidded to a stop next to the fallen tree. Ashiin was crouched atop it, her forearms resting on her knees, both hands outstretched, palms open—a long curved shaft of wood resting across them.

Her father’s bow.

Ashiin said, “Time you learned to use this.”

Hweilan stared up at the bow a long time. Seeing it in Ashiin’s hands stoked her rage again. That had been her father’s, and she had carried it through death and worse. To see Ashiin holding it, that smug look on her face …

Hweilan reached for it. Ashiin smiled and pulled it back.

Growling, Hweilan lunged, but Ashiin leaped into the air, backflipped, and landed on her feet on the far side of the log.

Hweilan crouched atop the log and stopped, gauging the distance. She knew she could leap that far and more, but she knew Ashiin would no longer be there when she landed. The woman was too quick.

“Why do you want this?” said Ashiin. “It’s just a pretty shaft of wood. No use to you. Might as well burn it.”

“No,” Hweilan said, though it came out more of a growl, and she had to force herself not to leap. Her rage was getting the best of her. She didn’t bury it, but she channeled it. Had to
think
. Coming at Ashiin in berserk fury would be folly. Hweilan knew she had to think, to plan.

“Reminds you of your father, yes?” said Ashiin. “That’s all it is, then. Like a baby’s favorite blanket. It fuels your childishness.”

Hweilan felt something touch her left hand, and she looked down. Though her wounds had healed, much of her skin was still coated in blood, and the scent had drawn something out of the rotted crevices of the log on which she crouched. She had no idea what it was. Almost as large as her hand, it was not a spider, but its chitinous, segmented body walked on spiderlike legs, each of which ended in a tiny, sharp claw. A half-dozen fangs under the thing’s staring eyes opened, and tendrils emerged from the mouth and ran along her skin. It tickled.

Ashiin mistook Hweilan’s glance down. “Touched a nerve, did I, girl? You want your father? Shame on you. Your father and mother were warriors. What would they
think of you now? Had he lived, what would your father do with this bow? What would he do to Jagun Ghen’s minions who killed him?”

Hweilan looked up at her teacher and let the tears gathering in her eyes run down her cheeks. They were tears of rage, but if Ashiin believed otherwise … good. She needed a moment’s distraction. She held Ashiin’s gaze. She
needed
her eyes up here.

“My father was killed by a dragon,” she said. Ever so slowly, Hweilan turned her left hand so that it was palm upward. She heard the thing down in the log rattle a moment, surprised by the movement, then the tendrils tickled her fingertips, searching upward. Her palms and wrists had as much blood, and the sweat of the fight had kept them moist. The tendrils searched upward, and Hweilan felt the sharp claws on her fingers as the thing climbed onto her hand, searching for the wet blood and sweat inside her sleeve.

Ashiin scowled at Hweilan’s words. She hadn’t known how Hweilan’s father had died, and Hweilan knew Ashiin hated
nothing
more than being wrong about something.

“That does not change my point,” said Ashiin. “Were your father still alive, how would he use this weapon? Would he run through the hills looking for help? Or would he rain death on those who killed his family?”

“Rain?” said Hweilan and looked up.

It worked. Ashiin glanced up, just for a moment, and Hweilan brought her left hand around, hurling the thing of claws and fangs right at Ashiin. Surprised and enraged, the insect flailed and snapped its legs as it flew through the air. Ashiin looked back down, and her eyes widened at the sight of the claws and fangs headed for her face.