The Fall of Highwatch

by Mark Sehestedt

  Lendri.

  She couldn’t leave him. She knew it now. Not after everything he had done for her. The knife he’d given her had saved her life, and he himself had done so at least twice, risking his own life for hers. Was he using her as Menduarthis said? Perhaps. But if so, she needed to hear it from his own lips. Look into his eyes as he admitted it. And then—

  A life on the run with Menduarthis? To what end? Where? And how soon before he expected to share her blankets in return for helping her?

  “No,” she said.

  “No what?” said Menduarthis, his voice equal parts exasperation and fear.

  “We can’t leave yet. Not without Lendri.”

  Menduarthis’s jaw dropped, shut again, and he laughed. “You’re serious?”

  “I’m not leaving without him.”

  “He’s using you, Hweilan!”

  “I won’t forsake him unless I hear that from his own lips.”

  Menduarthis turned and kicked a pile of junk on the floor. Jewelry, utensils, an old shoe, and a few books went flying. He kicked another pile for good measure, toppled a small table, and screamed, “Are you serious?”

  Hweilan opened her mouth to answer, but the sound of pounding cut her off. she could hear voices yelling outside, though they were too faint, the door too thick, for her to understand. But then she heard one, raised above all the others. “Roakh!”

  “Gods buck my bottom, they’ve come for him,” said Menduarthis. His eyes were round and shiny as new-minted coins.

  “What do we do?” Hweilan whispered.

  Menduarthis paced the room, muttering to himself the whole time, kicking aside piles of clothes as he went. Mice scuttled squeaking from a few of them. He ran out of piles to kick at the wall, then came back toward Hweilan, shoving Roakh’s belongings aside as he went.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “Looking. Help me!”

  “Looking for what?”

  He kicked a large pile of robes, clothes, and old tassels aside, and said, “This!”

  Hweilan stepped over, and Menduarthis pulled at an old iron ring set in the floor. A hidden door swung upward, revealing a ladder leading down into darkness.

  “Roakh?” said a voice from the other room. Someone had come in through the window, the same as Menduarthis had.

  “Where was it Roakh said Lendri is?” Menduarthis whispered.

  “The Thorns?”

  “The Thorns it is then. In you go.” Menduarthis motioned to the ladder.

  From the other room came a loud cry. “Roakh! Aivilulta! Aivilulta! Roakh aiviluldulaik!

  In she went.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  WHAT HERE A MOMENT,” SAID MENDUARTHIS, HIS voice scarcely above a whisper. “Don’t make a sound.”

  He turned away and shuffled off around a bend in the tunnel. Hweilan was still trying to catch her breath, and she could hear little beyond the hammering of her own heart.

  After their frantic flight down the ladder from Roakh’s dwelling, Menduarthis had led Hweilan through a series of tunnels. For a while, they had been followed by the sounds of pursuit—light footsteps and the occasional shout. And once their pursuers had come close enough for Hweilan to catch the faint green glow of the lights they held. But then a strong breeze had shot through the tunnel—Menduarthis working his magic—and they scuttled quick as they dared down a series of steps and through a series of several quick turns. It had worked, and there had been no sounds of pursuit since.

  They kept on for a long while after that, no longer running but keeping a quick pace. Hweilan’s eyes strained, hungry for light, but there was only the dark, intense cold, and the sounds of their own footsteps. In places, Hweilan could feel fresh air against her skin as they passed fissures in the rock. But full night must have fallen outside, for no light leaked through. They walked in utter darkness, Menduarthis keeping a first grip on her cloak.

  But then Hweilan realized she could see again. At first she thought it was only a trick of her eyes—the swirling lights and shadows that dance before everyone’s sight at times. But no. It was not clear or distinct, but there was no mistaking the shape of Menduarthis before her—a solid blackness in front of only a slightly-less-than-black background. The farther they went, the stronger the light became. It was only moon and starlight, but so hungry were her eyes for even the tiniest fragment of light that by the time they neared the end of the tunnel, Hweilan could see quite well.

  She heard furtive movement, and Menduarthis stepped back around the bend. He saw her and said, “All clear, as near as I can tell. Come.”

  Hweilan followed him out of a cave mouth only slightly larger than the door in Roakh’s floor. She had to crouch to get through, and the back of her cloak scraped on icicles. She stood and was struck at the cold brilliance of the night. The storm clouds had broken, and only a few tattered remnants remained—black ribbons tinged almost white by the brilliance of the moon rising over distant mountains. Only a thin crescent, but it was huge, far larger than any moon Hweilan had ever seen, and its silver light was almost painful to her eyes. A million stars rode the sky. Under their combined light, the snow and ice of the world around her shone a brilliant blue, broken only by the black of winter bare trees and jagged rocks.

  The cave from which they emerged wormed out of a broad riverbank, but the river itself was a jumble of ice rolling down a gentle slope. Presumably a smaller offshoot of the great river whose fall formed the main gates of Ellestharn. But rather than the sharp cliff of the palace, this bit of the river had taken more of a boulder-riding journey than a fall, before freezing, seemingly in an instant.

  Nothing moved for as far as Hweilan could see. Even the wind had died.

  “Where are we?” she whispered, and her breath fell as snow before her.

  “Downriver from Ellestharn,” said Menduarthis. He stood beside her, his gaze roaming over the wide valley before them, his face creased with concern.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The horns,” said Menduarthis. “They’ve stopped.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Perhaps. It could mean that they’ve caught whoever was causing the trouble. Or it could mean all the watches are set, and the entire force of the Ujaiyen is waiting in ambush.”

  She followed his gaze, imagining the woods lining each side of the valley and every boulder hiding watching eyes. And there was something else. Something she had first felt in the Giantspires with Lendri. That pounding in the base of her skull, mingled with a growing dread. The way she imagined some animals could sense bad weather on the way. A heaviness. An itch. And it was growing stronger by the moment.

  “I think we need to go now,” she said.

  Menduarthis still didn’t move. Didn’t even look at her. There was an edge to his voice when he said, “You’re sure about this? About going after Lendri?”

  “He saved my life. Twice.”

  “For his own reasons. He’s using you.”

  She looked down at her hands, at the bow she held, already gathering a coat of frost from her breath. Were it not for Lendri, she would be some Creel bandit’s slave right now, and her father’s bow long gone.

  “If that’s true,” she said, “I have to hear it from him.”

  “If?” Menduarthis’s jaw clenched and his eyes went narrow as slits, though he still didn’t look at her. “That’s it, then? You don’t believe me?”

  She considered a moment, then said, “Much of what you say rings true. Most, in fact. But damn it, Menduarthis, the man saved me from death and worse. If he is using me, perhaps there is more to it than you know. And even if there isn’t, I have to hear it from his lips before I forsake him. I owe him that.”

  Menduarthis muttered something in his own language that sounded less than flattering.

  “You can find him?” she asked. “You know where these … thorns are?”

  “The Thorns,” said Menduarthis, “and yes, I do.”

  “So we ca
n find Lendri?”

  “We?”

  “You promised to help me.”

  “Escape. I promised to help you escape, not kill one of Kunin Gatar’s chief servants, then deliver you to her with silk in your hair.”

  “You were going to kill him!” she said.

  Menduarthis hissed and waved his hands at her. “Quiet, quiet. Sound travels far out here.” He dropped his own voice to just above a whisper and finally looked at her. “True enough, though. I was. And then I was going to run fast and far away. Not run off rescuing the one person Kunin Gatar has dreamed of killing for years!”

  “So you won’t help me?”

  “Why should I?”

  “He’s kin to me.”

  Menduarthis snorted. “No. He’s blood brother to some distant forebear of yours. Hardly a favorite uncle.”

  “And blood oaths mean nothing to you?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve never been damned fool enough to make one.”

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll do it on my own.”

  Menduarthis grabbed her shoulder. “Hold a moment! At least answer my question before trotting off to your untimely death.”

  Her hands stopped halfway to her hood. “What question?”

  He smiled. The mischievous boy smile again. “Why should I help you?”

  She tucked the ends of her hair into the hood and raised it. “Get to the point. What do you want?”

  “For helping you steal from the queen and rescue an honor-obsessed elf?”

  “Yes.”

  “A kiss.”

  Hweilan felt her cheeks and ears flushing and was very glad for the deep hood and the dark halbdol masking her skin. “That’s it? Just a kiss?”

  “Well, it’s a start. But that’s all I’ll obligate to you.”

  “Very well,” she said. “Get me to Lendri, then help us to get out again, and afterward, I will … kiss you.”

  “Us? Get us out? You mean you, me, and Lendri?”

  “That’s going to depend very much on what Lendri has to tell me.”

  They took their time getting down the slope of the hill and into the valley proper. Menduarthis kept them to the shadows of the wood, going from shadow to shadow until they reached the wide expanse of the frozen river.

  He stopped and gave Hweilan a chance to catch her breath. “This is where things get tricky,” he said. “How do you mean?”

  He pointed across the river. It was hard to be certain by moon- and starlight, but it looked to be close to a mile across. A mile of flat snow and ice, with no cover. “We have to cross that,” he said.

  “Why is that bad?” Hweilan asked. “Is this ice thin?”

  “Thin? Ha. No. Solid ice straight to the bottom, I’d wager. But we’ll have no cover. Anyone watching for as far as eyes can see will see us—and many have eyes out there that are much sharper than mine.” Menduarthis sighed. “We go. Quick, but not too quick. We want to look urgent, but not hurried. And if we do come across someone—or they come across us—you let me do the talking. All the talking, mind you.”

  Hweilan nodded.

  “And one more thing. Where we’re going … the Thorns. Not a nice place. Not nice at all. I’ll do my best for you, Hweilan, but no promises. We may not be able to get through there, much less get Lendri out. Not if the guards have been warned against me.”

  “You think they are? Looking for you I mean?”

  He shrugged. “We know they’ve found Roakh. And since they don’t know where I am or where you are … add to that the little trick I played back in the tunnels, and it won’t take long for our people to start wanting to ask me a lot of questions. Much depends on how far word has spread and how fast.”

  The heaviness in her mind was almost pounding now. Hweilan could feel it, right behind her eyes.

  “We need to go,” she said. “Now.”

  They left the trees, hopped down the final bit of the embankment, and set off across a mile of frozen river.

  They tried to run, but with no snow shoes and almost a foot of new snow covering the ice, the best they could manage was a quick shuffle, pushing their way through and sending waves of powdery white pluming in front of their knees.

  Hweilan kept her eyes fixed on the dark line of woods ahead, fearing at any moment to see signs of movement. Once, she thought she saw a shape pass in front of the moon, but if so, it was either very small or very far away, and she could not find it against the night sky.

  They were about halfway across when a great noise broke the silence. Not just horns this time, but horns, howls, and cries, wafting out of the distance to their right.

  Menduarthis stopped in his tracks, listening.

  “What is that?” said Hweilan.

  “Kunin Gatar has returned to Ellestharn.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “If we get out of here soon, it doesn’t matter. Move.”

  They kept on, Menduarthis pushing them faster now. Hweilan’s legs and back were beginning to ache, but she knew they couldn’t stop. Not until they were well away from Kunin Gatar’s realm.

  The snow began to get shallower as they neared the far side. Most of the storm’s fury seemed to have struck the palace side of the river. The bank and nearest trees were only a stone’s throw away, and still there were no signs of pursuit. Hweilan believed they might actually make it. Still … that nagging weight in her mind seemed to grow with every step.

  Looking at the dark line of the trees before her, the dream from days ago hit her again, not simply as a memory, but as an assault on her senses.

  The smell—foul, putrid, rotting.

  The black wolf, its yellow eyes suddenly brighter than the moon in her mind’s eye, its voice—Run!

  Laughter, devoid of all goodwill. The giggle of a girl ripping the wings of a butterfly. The eager smile of a boy, tearing the legs off a grasshopper and heading for the anthill.

  Singing. Sweet voices. True melody. All set to blasphemies.

  The motherly voice—

  Death comes … be sure of it.

  It hit her with such force that she stumbled, for a moment her mind separate from her body. She fell in the snow, her father’s bow striking her painfully in the ribs.

  “Hweilan?” Menduarthis’s voice. “Are you—?”

  She heard them before she saw them. Something large—or more likely many large somethings—breaking through the brush, and the sounds of many heavy hooves churning through snow. When the herd broke out of the woods just upriver from them, Hweilan actually felt the ice vibrating under their feet. Running against the dark backdrop of the forest, Hweilan could not make out what they were at first, but as they came out onto the snow- covered ice, she saw huge antlers crowning the herd. Swiftstags? If so, they were the largest she had ever seen.

  “Stay calm,” said Menduarthis as he helped her to feet. “Act like we’re going about our business. And remember, I do all the talking.”

  Hweilan opened her mouth to ask how he planned on talking to giant deer, but then she saw them. The creatures were almost upon them now, the sound of their hooves on the ice like slow thunder. She thought she saw nine, though it was hard to tell through the great cloud of snow and frost churned up by their legs. Every one of them bore a rider, and every rider carried weapons.

  The herd split into a V formation to surround Menduarthis and Hweilan. As they rode past, spraying her and Menduarthis with snow, she saw the riders’ pale faces turn to watch her. Beautiful, lean faces, but solemn. Starlight played off the frost in their dark hair—elves. She saw two carrying bows, but most bore long, black spears.

  Menduarthis stood unmoving as the ring of creatures closed around them. Not swiftstags after all, but something like them. Draped in shaggy gray fur, the smallest of the beasts was easily seven feet tall at the shoulder, and their antlers, which ended in curved points, spread more than ten feet across, so that as their masters turned them to face Hweilan and Menduarthis, the beasts had to stand well apart. Their b
reath froze as they panted, painting Menduarthis and Hweilan in fine frost.

  Hweilan looked wistfully past them. They’d been so close. The embankment and nearest trees were only a few dozen feet beyond the riders.

  “Menduarthis?” said one of the riders, as he slid off the back of his mount and approached them. He held a spear in one hand, and he didn’t even have to duck to make it under the antlers. He was nearly the same height as Menduarthis, but leaner, his features sharper, and his ears ended in an upward curve. Definitely an elf. He stopped a few paces away and said something to Menduarthis in his own tongue.

  Menduarthis answered in kind, then said, “I am taking this one to the Thorns.”

  The elf glanced at Hweilan and scowled. “Why do you speak the vulgar tongue?”

  “She goes to the Thorns.” Menduarthis gave Hweilan a sly smile over his shoulder. “I wish to remind her of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Pain tastes sweeter if it is seasoned with fear.”

  The elf’s scowl deepened as his eyes lit on her bow, and his fist tightened around the haft of his spear. “You are taking her to the Thorns, but she goes armed?”

  “It is my bow,” said Menduarthis. “She bears it because I command her to carry it.”

  “You have no bow like this.”

  Menduarthis shrugged. “Recent spoils.”

  “Indeed?” The elf lowered his spear and used its point to peel the heavy fur cloak back from Hweilan. Several of the other elves, still on their mounts, tensed. One of the bowmen reached for an arrow. “Word flies on the wings that Roakh lies murdered in his roost. And here is this one, covered with blood. Recent spoils, you say. Spoils from where? Where exactly, Menduarthis?”

  “You accuse me?”

  The elf pulled his spear back and planted its butt in the snow. “Accuse? No. But … you never liked Roakh. That much is known. He lies dead, with you nowhere to be found. Until now. And I find you with a captive covered with blood. You can explain this?”