Free Cry of the Ghost Wolf: Neverwinter NiChosen of Nendawen, Book III by Mark Sehesdedt Page B

tunic stepping forward to smash the skull of the ox. The baazuled held the bottom of the bag and let the top fall, upending the contents. A brass collar fell to the dust. The torchlight winked on symbols that had been etched into its surface.
    Jagun Ghen said, “Put it on him.”
    Kathkur’s eyes widened, he cried even louder, and the tears streaming down his cheeks began to steam and mix with the foul miasma leaking from the rune on his forehead.
    The baazuled approached Kathkur from behind to avoid his flailing kicks. Still, Kathkur twisted his head and tried to bite, but the baazuled did his business quickly, bending the brass just wide enough to allow the eladrin’s neck to pass through, then squeezing it shut again. As soon as the ends came together, every symbol on the collar’s surface blazed red. The baazuled took a few steps back but remained in the basin.
    Jagun Ghen stepped forward until the toe of his boot touched the stone rim. “Kathkur,” he said, calm as if he were beginning a conversation over the evening table.
    The eladrin stopped screaming, fell to his knees, and stared treason at his master.
    “That’s better,” said Jagun Ghen. “The sooner you relent, the sooner this will be over, and we can release you.”
    “The”—Kathkur spoke through a jaw clenched so tightly that his entire head was trembling—“the … c-collar!”
    “Intended for the eladrin, not you. Let me speak to him. Now.”
    “N-no. No, I won’t. I … can’t!”
    Jagun Ghen reached inside the sleeve of his robe and withdrew a rod. Scarcely longer than a man’s hand, Vazhad saw that it was made of brass, like the collar, and etched with the same sorts of symbols.
    Kathkur’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “No. You said it was not for me. You—”
    “You will submit,” said Jagun Ghen, raising the brass rod, “one way or another.”
    Kathkur shrieked and thrashed, ripping skin and flesh from his wrists, pulling against the chains.
    Jagun Ghen spoke an incantation, and the symbols etched in the brass rod he held flickered, flared, and then settled to a steady red glow. Vazhad had seen the rod only once before, when Argalath had first purchased it from a Thayan.
    The eladrin kicked at the basin with such force that the bones in one foot shattered—Vazhad heard them even over the screaming. Kathkur’s back arched, and the light from the rune on his forehead blazed, and then went out. The eladrin’s eyes rolled back in his head, a final tremor shook him, and he sagged. Only the chains kept him from falling on his face. He hung there, his chest heaving, and when he looked up, even Vazhad could see that the demon had gone.
    “Who are you?” said Jagun Ghen.
    The eladrin looked around, his gaze passing Jagun Ghen, counting the baazuled, lingering on Vazhad for an instant, then the high walls around him.
    “Highwatch?” he said, his voice a raw rasp.
    The mottled blue of Argalath’s spellscar flickered, just for a moment, almost imperceptible against the torchlight. But the eladrin flinched as if he’d been jabbed with a dagger, took in a great draught of air, and clenched his jaw against the pain.
    The eladrin swallowed, then said, “She … told me. About you. You’re even scrawnier than—”
    The spellscar flared again, brighter this time. The eladrin’s jaw dropped as he struggled for breath.
    “We will discuss her shortly,” said Jagun Ghen. “Ignore my question again and I will have one of my brothers bite off a finger. Now, who are you?”
    It took the eladrin a long time to catch his breath. But he looked up at Jagun Ghen at last and said, “Ko … vannon. My name. Is Kovannon.”
    The Creel baazuled said, “He lies. The one called Kovannon I left alive. His companions—Durel, Ulender—those two I killed.”
    The eladrin tried to twist his head around to see who was speaking, but he could not quite manage it.
    “My brother,” said Jagun Ghen, “did not always wear this form. Once,