Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II by Mark Sehestedt

filled her mouth. Her stomach rumbled.
    “They’ll never let us out alive,” said the woman from Kront. “Back the way we came?”
    “Jatara?” said the man.
    Jatara spat, trying to dislodge the taste, to convince herself that the hunger rumbling in her belly didn’t feel so … 
good
.
    Forget her!” said the same man.
    And then it all happened at once. Those of her company still in their saddles turned their horses and kicked them into a gallop. The hobgoblins let out a roar and charged.
    Later, Jatara could not remember the specifics of the following moments. She remembered screaming. Especially the screaming of the horses. For some reason, they stuck in her mind more than the screams of her dying companions. In her dreams that night, she could almost hear words inthe horses’ screams. They conveyed a meaning baser than language. More primal—confusion, excitement, and above all, terror. And because they were more primal, they hit her all the stronger.
    The smell was almost overwhelming. The reek of blood. Sweat. Marrow spilling from shattered bone. Bowels loosening in death. The entrails of men and beasts. The cold, oily scent of steel.
    The thing inside her overwhelmed all control, taking over, and later Jatara knew that she had killed. Had killed many. Had even struck at one of her own companions in her berserk state of mind. But in the end, just when she might have struck down those coming for her, the presence—
    Did not leave. Did not forsake her. It simply … let go, the power draining from her, leaving her empty. Her blade, dripping blood, fell from strengthless fingers, and her knees hit the ground beside it. The world hummed. Her vision trembled as if she were seeing the reflection of the world in a pool, and someone had just tossed in a stone.
    She heard a shriek, cut off abruptly by the sound of steel through flesh and bone. Jatara could actually
feel
the new warmth in the air. So much life spilled. Wasted, wafting away …
    She saw the leather boots of the hobgoblin stop before her. Felt the slight tremble of his tread in the ground. Heard the leather-and-iron creak of his armor. Smelled his sweat and the blood dripping from his blade. Heard—
    “We really did only want the horses, you stupid bitch.”
    Then he brought the heavy iron of his blade down into the flesh between her shoulder and neck.
    There was no pain. But in the darkness that overwhelmed her, she could still feel that new presence inside her. And it was laughing.

C HAPTER EIGHT
    T HE SOUND OF DRUMS WOKE H WEILAN . H ER HEAD felt full to bursting, and she had to force her eyes open. The world was a strange array of gray and green and the shadows between. The first thought that occurred to her was—
    Why has the world gone upside down?
    And she realized that the world had stayed as it ever had, but she was hanging upside down, and the sound of drums was her own heart, filling her head with blood. Her hands, dangling so that her fingertips brushed the dead-leaf carpet of the forest floor, felt thick and ready to burst.
    Hweilan looked up at her feet.
    Thick whitish thread encased her legs, hips, and thinned out just over her navel. No, not thread. The small movement of her head set to swaying, just a little, and she felt the stickiness of the stuff over her bare skin. Not thread at all. It was webbing.
    That realization brought back the memory of Kesh Naan, the cave, and the spiders. The thousands upon thousands of spiders …
    Her head fell back. She felt sure her hands and arms and every last inch of her would be a mass of swollen flesh and fang-ravaged skin. But there wasn’t so much as a scratch. In fact, every nick and scrape she had suffered over the pastdays was completely healed, her skin flawless. Except for one: The livid burn scar across her palm, the Dethek runes spelling kan—“death” in the tongue of the Vil Adanrath. But everything else … completely healed. How long had she swooned under the spiders’