The Fall of Highwatch

by Mark Sehestedt

  Kadrigul forsook the path and began to weave through the shards themselves, but he soon regretted his decision. In places, the bases of the shards ran together at odd angles, making it hard to find proper footing. In open ground between them, the snow was often knee deep. Either way, he’d be at a disadvantage if it came to a fight.

  As soon as he found a path again, he took it.

  He heard the tiger again. Not roaring or growling this time. It was a great scream of anguish, high-pitched and almost pitiful. But it was still behind him. He moved on.

  Kadrigul soon came to a wide part in the path, where the great shards all leaned away, forming a fence in the shape of a long V. The moon had not yet risen over the mountains, but the stars shone down, their light reflecting off the snow and shards so brightly that Kadrigul cast a long blue shadow at his feet.

  Ahead, the path took a sharp turn to the right. He was halfway there when a small figure stepped out from between the shards, blocking his path. One of the little hunters. The creature’s eyes glowed with a frosty light.

  Kadrigul stopped a half-dozen paces from the creature. Even in the starlight, he could see its skin had a bluish tint, and the ears protruding from the rim of the cap were far too sharp. The creature spread both hands outward, almost as if proffering himself, and Kadrigul saw that something was wrapped around him, from his fingertips all the way to his shoulders.

  The creature smiled, showing sharp teeth, and flicked both wrists. A length of vine fell and coiled in the snow at his feet, and as it hit the ground, soft tendrils along its length stiffened into sharp thorns. The same whiplike weapon that had taken the first Creel.

  Kadrigul turned. Another of the creatures was blocking the path behind him—this one holding a spear that was twice his own height. He heard rustling above and looked. More of the creatures were perched on the shards above, like birds on a ship’s rigging, looking down on him with their glowing eyes. He counted four on one side and three on the other. Nine in all.

  “So be it,” Kadrigul said, and drew his sword.

  The creature who had first blocked his path began swinging the thorn-covered vines, one in each hand, twirling them in intricate patterns to each side and over his head, cutting the air and sending up clouds of snow as they hissed over the ground. Kadrigul had no shield, so he held his empty scabbard in his off hand, ready to block the vines.

  The creature advanced, twirling the vines faster and faster, still smiling his feral grin. So far, the others seemed content to watch.

  The creature leaped forward and one vine shot out in a vertical swipe. Kadrigul danced to the side, the vine missing him by a foot or more, but the other was already coming across at his midsection.

  He hit it with his scabbard, and the vine whipped around it, cutting through Kadrigul’s coat, shredding it but missing the skin beneath. With the vine tangled around his scabbard, Kadrigul struck the length of it with his sword, hoping to sever it.

  His blade, which he sharpened to a razor’s edge every night, nicked a long strip of bark off the vine, then bounced away.

  The creature yanked on the vine, trying to pull the scabbard from Kadrigul’s hand, but he used the added force to his own advantage, stepping in to the pull, within striking range, and bringing his sword around in a long swipe aimed for the creature’s throat.

  The creature dropped so quickly that the tassel of his cap flew up and Kadrigul’s sword sliced it off. The creature snarled and backed away out of reach of the blade. His vine was still tangled around Kadrigul’s scabbard, but he let out enough slack to pull away. Kadrigul twirled the scabbard in an attempt to dislodge the vine, but the thorns held their grip.

  The onlookers hissed, whether in delight or consternation Kadrigul could not tell. They slapped the great shards with bare feet and hands, all in unison, and began a whispering chant. The wind picked up, howling through the structure and setting a mournful tune to counter the creatures’ song.

  Kadrigul’s opponent brought his arm back in a swift yank, hoping to dislodge the scabbard from Kadrigul’s grip. Kadrigul let him take it, but he directed the pull, throwing the scabbard at the creature’s head, using his own momentum against him. It struck the creature full in the face, causing him to stumble back.

  Kadrigul was on him, forsaking good form for brute strength, aiming the point of his sword for the creature’s midsection.

  But the creature twisted away from the blade, the edge of Kadrigul’s sword scraping his side, and brought the other vine around in a diagonal strike. Kadrigul had to fall into a crouch and roll to keep from being caught, but the thorns still raked along the back of one shoulder, tearing through clothes and skin as they passed.

  He came back to his feet, bloodied. The creature had a wicked cut along his side, and the thorns from his own weapon had pulled a great deal of skin off the left side of his face where the vine-covered scabbard had hit him. Kadrigul could feel blood soaking his side, and his left shoulder burned as if a thousand ants were biting their way through his veins. Poison.

  “Niista! Niista!” The onlookers chanted.

  Kadrigul shot a quick glance over his shoulder. The creature behind him held his spear ready, but so far he was still guarding the way, not joining in the fight.

  He had to end this quick.

  With one vine still tangled around Kadrigul’s scabbard, the creature let it go and set his remaining weapon twirling over his head. He advanced, not charging, but step by careful step, a dance in time with the onlookers’ chant. He struck diagonally, three quick swipes, spraying snow. Kadrigul backpedaled, taking him near the spearman.

  The onlookers were standing now, perched on the great shards and stamping their feet. More had come. At least twice as many as had been there before. Perhaps more.

  The vine came across in a horizontal swipe, Kadrigul dropped beneath, but this time rather than rolling to the side, he rolled back, under the spear, and brought his sword around in a backhand strike. It struck the spearman’s knee, cutting all the way through one leg and halfway through the next. The spearman hit the snow and let out a long, keening wail.

  Kadrigul came up, buried the point of his sword in the spearman’s midsection, and snatched the haft of his weapon with the other. The onlookers screamed, and the creature with the vines charged. Kadrigul stood and threw the spear at the creature with the vine. The little hunter jumped to the side, his charge spoiled, and the spear flew past him.

  Kadrigul took up a guard position, holding his sword in both hands, as the creature charged again.

  Strike and swipe and thrust. Again and again the two combatants struck at each other, drawing more blood, ripping more skin and clothes, but doing no permanent damage.

  The creature backed into the spear and seemed to stumble. Kadrigul struck, but it was a feint. The creature righted himself, hissed through bared teeth, and brought his weapon around, swift as an adder, aiming for Kadrigul’s head.

  Kadrigul had to give up his attack and bring the blade up to block the vine. It whipped around the blade, and the creature pulled, yanking the sword from Kadrigul’s grip. Vine and sword flew away into the snow.

  Kadrigul stood before him, blood leaking from a dozen cuts.

  The creature reached behind his back, and his hand emerged holding what looked like an antler, one long spike sharpened to a glistening point.

  “Niista! Niista!” the onlookers called.

  Kadrigul kept his gaze fixed on the antler.

  That was his mistake.

  The creature leaped into the air—surprisingly high for one so small—and kicked Kadrigul in the chest. He’d been hit much harder before, but it caught him off guard, and he fell back in the snow. The creature landed on top of him, straddling Kadrigul’s stomach, his weapon held high.

  “Niista!”

  The creature over Kadrigul screamed, tensed the arm holding his weapon—

  Kadrigul pushed up, easily dislodging the creature’s light weight. He seized the creature’s head i
n both hands, gripped like a falling man grasping that last ledge, and twisted. The creature’s head went around with a sharp snap! of breaking bone and torn muscle.

  The onlookers went silent at once. The only sound was that of the howling wind.

  Kadrigul threw off the dead weight, jumped for his sword, grabbed it, and ran, the sound of dozens of pursuers right behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  SOMEONE ELSE HAS CLAIM TO HER.

  Time to grow up, Hweilan inle Merah. The blood runs thin in you, perhaps, but it runs true. Time to hunt.

  —Jagun Ghen—

  A dozen voices vied for Hweilan’s attention. A hundred. Some she knew. Many she did not. Some were altogether strange, more beast than human. Others spoke in tongues she had never heard, but she felt a kinship to these. Like a wolf pup raised by hounds, who hears howling in the distance, she longed to reach out to them.

  But others—many others—filled her with a cold terror, awakening in her every instinct to flee.

  Death comes from that way. Be sure of it.

  You’re something else, too. Something … more.

  Time to choose.

  —Jagun Ghen—

  None shouted. None needed to. Hweilan couldn’t move, couldn’t reply, couldn’t shout for them to quiet. Couldn’t even cover her ears to block out the voices.

  You do listen, then. But do you understand?

  Someone else has claim …

  … something else …

  —Jagun Ghen—

  … if you survive.

  Someone else …

  … consumer …

  —Jagun Ghen—

  … despoiler …

  I require one who is of this world.

  Time to choose.

  … the Hand of the Hunter.

  She saw the great waterfall again. The animals fleeing an approaching darkness. The black wolf. Heard and felt the cackling malice in the dark. The pool, deep and dark, comforting like sleep. The woman covered in living blood.

  Something getting closer. She couldn’t see it or hear it. But she could sense it, like a blind man can feel the heat of fire.

  She heard the bells of Highwatch. For years they had called the people to shelter, the warriors to arms, and the Knights of Ondrahar to battle. But that night, they were the death knell of Hweilan the High Warden’s granddaughter, and they were the herald of Hweilan the …

  What?

  Time to grow up, Hweilan.

  Time to choose.

  Time to hunt.

  Time to—

  “Wake up, Hweilan.”

  She opened her eyes and saw a haggard-looking Menduarthis leaning over her.

  Hweilan pushed him away and sat up. She was upon a pallet of many furs, with more on top of her. The bed was set on a large shelf in an alcove. Beyond was a room that seemed equal parts living quarters, kitchen, and dining area. A table covered in the cured skin of some animal dominated the middle of the room, and four chairs sat around it, one to each side. A large goblet in the midst of the table bubbled over with what looked to be a vaporous frost, but it gave off a strong blue light, much like the little falls in Ellestharn. In the hearth on the other side of the table, a fire burned under a large kettle. Long drapes, set in the colors of snow and sky, hid what she assumed was a door, and opposite that were two windows, both oval, both shuttered. The ceiling stretched low, and Hweilan noticed it was uneven. It seemed to undulate, almost like low waves. In fact, the entire room seemed not to have been built or even cut so much as shaped.

  “Where am I?” she said.

  “My humble abode,” said Menduarthis. Stepping away from the bed, he extended his hands and twirled in a little circle. For all his bluster and power, there was still very much the element of a little boy about him. A mischievous little boy.

  She kicked away the blankets and set her feet on the floor. Her coat, gloves, and boots were gone, but she still had on her lighter clothes. “And where is … here?”

  “You are still in the realm of Kunin Gatar. We’re in the mountains between her palace and the camp where we first took you.”

  Hweilan remembered the walk from the uldra’s camp to the palace. She looked around at the walls and ceiling, wondering how strong they were, and said, “Those moving tree things …”

  “Won’t bother us.” He smiled, and when she scowled in return, his smile broadened. “You hungry?”

  She was. Starving. When had she last had a good meal?

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good! Good!” Menduarthis clapped and sauntered over to the hearth. “Have a seat at the table—any place you like. I’ll get the food.”

  Hweilan sat. Menduarthis hummed tunelessly as he set wooden bowls and spoons on the table, then stirred whatever was cooking in the kettle.

  Hweilan watched the glow bubbling up out of the goblet. She could see no light source. The liquid simply seemed to bubble up and glow as it spilled over the rim of the goblet. But it never ran out, and the vapor simply evaporated on the skin cloaking the table. She reached out and passed her fingers through the vapor. It was cool and tingling, almost pleasantly so, and when she pulled out her hand, the bits of whatever it was glowed on her hand a moment before evaporating.

  “Here we are,” said Menduarthis. He set the kettle on the table and filled Hweilan’s bowl with a thick brown stew.

  The smell of the food wafted over her, and her stomach gave a low growl. Hweilan blushed.

  Menduarthis chuckled. “Your compliments to the cook, eh?”

  “I’m starving,” said Hweilan.

  Menduarthis sat in the chair to her right and filled his own bowl. “Then eat,” he said.

  She did. With a vengeance. The stew was wonderfully warm, but not too hot to eat. And it was delicious, sprinkled with small chunks of meat, vegetables, and herbs.

  “You like it?” said Menduarthis after his first few swallows.

  “Mm,” said Hweilan. “Very much. What is it?”

  “Raven stew.”

  Hweilan coughed, spraying stew back into her bowl.

  Menduarthis erupted into laughter. “Ah, you’re too easy! Don’t worry. Even if this were raven stew—and it isn’t—I’d never eat that old bird, Roakh. Never know what he’s had in his mouth. This meat is simply a plump rabbit.”

  Hweilan studied his face for any sign of deception, then resumed eating. After two more bites, she said, “I’ve never tasted rabbit this good.”

  “You warm my heart, little flower.”

  “My name is Hweilan.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So stop calling me ‘little flower.’”

  He grinned as he swallowed, then said, “Why does it bother you so?”

  “It isn’t my name.”

  “Menduarthis isn’t my name.”

  Hweilan scowled. “But … but Lendri called you Menduarthis. I heard him. And Roakh. And the queen.”

  His smile faded. He left his spoon in the bowl and left the table. For a moment, Hweilan thought she’d offended him, but he merely went to a cabinet near the hearth, retrieved a black bottle and two glasses, then said, “So they did. But remember, Hweilan.” He placed a glass beside Hweilan’s bowl. A tapered cylinder the length of her forearm, it seemed made of finest crystal. “Remember what I told you on the night we met: “You can name yourself, or others will name you.’ I spoke from experience.”

  He tipped the bottle over her glass and filled it with a dark red liquid.

  “Wine,” he said, and filled his own before sitting down again.

  “What is your name, then?” she asked.

  “Ah, Hweilan, I don’t think we’re close enough yet for such intimacies.”

  Hweilan scowled again. “Well then, why Menduarthis? Does it mean something?”

  He took a sip of the wine, then said, “My black hound.”

  “What?” Hweilan snorted.

  “Well,” he said, “the short of it is that my coming to live here, among the q
ueen’s people, had a less than wise beginning. Perhaps even a bit foolhardy, you might say.”

  “You? I’m shocked.”

  “The flower’s thorn doth prick me,” he said and took another swallow of wine. “To tell the long tale short, I killed the queen’s most prized hunting hound—a vicious black monster named Venom. To be fair, I did not know it was the queen’s hound at the time—or even that there was a queen. She was furious at Venom’s loss, but intrigued that a … well, a person such as I had stumbled into her domain. Very much in the fashion of Kunin Gatar, she told me that she was going to kill me unless I could give her good reason not to do so. Seeing her power—not to mention the score of hunters and half-dozen guards she had with her—I told her that I would take her hound’s place. She laughed and accepted my offer, naming me My Black Hound in her language.”

  Hweilan finished the last of her stew and decided to try the wine. It was delicious, but the fumes hit her throat like fire. She choked it down and coughed. “What kind of wine is this?”

  “The strong kind. Do you like it?”

  A very pleasant warmth was spreading through her, but unlike the wines she’d taken at her grandfather’s table, this did not dull her senses. In fact, sounds and smells seem to hit her with sharper clarity, and the light seemed richer.

  She took another drink and managed to swallow this time without choking. “What’s going to happen to me? “she said.

  Menduarthis leaned back in his chair, took a slow drink, watching her over the rim of his goblet the entire time. He swallowed and said, “What do you mean?”

  “What the queen did … what she said …”

  Menduarthis let the silence build until it was becoming uncomfortable, then he set his almost empty goblet beside his bowl and said, “How much do you remember?”

  Hweilan shuddered, and her stomach clenched. Suddenly, she didn’t seem that hungry anymore. “I could feel her … inside me. In my mind.”

  She took another long drink of the wine. The queen had scraped through Hweilan’s most intimate secrets, and she still sat up there in her palace, smug with victory. But still, something had happened, something …