Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II by Mark Sehestedt Read Free Book Online Page A

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 hewas 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?”

C HAPTER FOUR
    T HE SHIVERING DRAGGED H WEILAN 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