Chosen of Nendawen Book 001 - The Fall of Highwatch

by Mark Sehestedt

  “We … we did not know,” said Argalath. “I swear it!”

  “Swear …” said the thing in Valia. “Vow, promise, mock, bleed. Call it what you like. You did not honor the pact. Our agreement is ended.”

  Guric took a breath to speak, but Argalath beat him to it.

  “No! Please. Our utmost desire is to honor the pact. Grant us another chance to appease you.”

  The thing sat there, watching Argalath through narrowed eyes. Guric noticed that no steam of breath issued from Valia’s mouth or nose. The thing seemed to take air only to speak. Guric squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back tears. His beloved was truly dead then. All this had been for nothing. He had damned himself for nothing.

  “What do you propose?” said the thing.

  “Remain in this body until a more suitable replacement can be found. Accept—”

  “No!” Guric surged to his feet, catching the acolytes by surprise and breaking free. But two more stepped forward and grabbed him. Guric punched one, but the others grabbed his arms and held firm. “No, Argalath! I’ll kill you myself if you do this!”

  After such a spectacular failure, Guric would kill him anyway. But he had to get away from the damned warlock’s brutes first.

  “Boran!” Guric called to his guards. “Gods damn you, men, help me!”

  Argalath’s spellscar flared, briefly illuminating the holy site, then fading to a dull glow again, and all five of Guric’s guards dropped senseless into the snow. Guric screamed in wordless fury and despair.

  “My lord, please,” said Argalath. “Your men are sleeping, not dead. Please listen to me.”

  Left with no other choice, Guric stopped his struggles and glared at Argalath.

  “Please, my lord,” said Argalath, and Guric saw the compassion and sincerity in his counselor’s eyes. “All is not lost. Trust me. Please. Allow me to salvage this before it is too late.”

  Guric took a deep breath and gave one swift nod. “Your life if you do not.”

  Argalath returned his attention to the thing in Valia’s body. “The sacrifice”—he motioned to Soran’s corpse—” was the most honored knight of Highwatch, and one of the most feared warriors of this realm. I beg you, take this body. Such a great warrior … would he not be a fine host?”

  The thing smiled. “The rite is unfinished. What you began cannot be undone. If I leave this body, it dies.”

  “No!” Guric screamed. “Argalath, no! Do not—”

  The thing’s laughter cut him off. “You love this one, don’t you? This body?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Then I propose a new pact.”

  “A new pact?” said Argalath.

  “That one”—the thing motioned to Soran’s mutilated corpse—”was a formidable warrior in this world, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then here is my offer. We summon another of my brothers to take this warrior’s body. This warrior will hunt down the last scion of Highwatch and bring her back to complete the rite. When Highwatch lives no more, when the girl’s blood slakes this circle, this pact shall be fulfilled. I will leave this body and complete the rite. She will be restored to you.”

  “But what of my wife until then?” said Guric.

  “I keep her, and you keep me. A show of good faith on both sides, yes?”

  Argalath turned to Guric. “My lord?”

  “This is the only way?” said Guric.

  Argalath lowered in his head. “For now, my lord. Given time—”

  “No! No, damn it all. I agree. Let it be done.”

  The thing looked to Soran’s corpse, at the mangled throat and spilled entrails. “This vessel will need some repair.”

  “It shall be done,” said Argalath.

  “And my brother will be hungry when he arrives.”

  Argalath smiled. “That should not be a problem.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  YOUR MOTHER IS DEAD.

  Your grandparents

  … the household …

  …servants …

  … dead.

  After rescuing her, Scith had dragged her into the woods and told her. He hadn’t wanted to. He’d stopped only to clean his knife, rob the corpses of their arrows, and then he was off, dragging her away.

  And then he’d told her.

  “They’re all dead, Hweilan. You are the last. The last scion of Highwatch.”

  She couldn’t remember much after that. Only running away from Highwatch, the secret way that only a few knew. Back up into the mountains and through passages cut into the rock. Up and up and up. Hweilan remembered darkness and cold. Darkness of tunnels, and darkness of the woods as night fell.

  When dawn came, still they ran, the smoke-filled sky at their back. When the first rim of the sun finally peeked over the hills to their right, Scith found a brush-choked hollow and made a small fire. It smelled clean. Not like the black burning behind them.

  Hweilan sat in front of the fire, her eyes fixed on the narrow plume of smoke but her mind registering little. Scith had been standing behind her, looking down and chewing his lip for a long time.

  He walked around and sat across the fire from her. “Hweilan, I … must go back.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “To Highwatch. You understand? I must …” He looked away, squeezed his eyes shut, and took very deep breaths.

  This more than anything brought Hweilan out of her stupor. She had never seen Scith cry.

  “Find out who did this,” said Hweilan.

  He looked back at her. “What?”

  “You said you’re going back. It isn’t to save anyone. Our family is dead.” It all came out of her in a toneless rush. “You said so yourself. You saw my mother die trying to save her maidservants. The others were dead when you found them. If Creel were able to storm the fortress, that means that the Knights are dead or fled. Any of the servants or villagers who survived are either captives or sworn to new masters. We have tools for food and fire. We can make shelter. If you’re going back, there’s only one reason: to find out who did this, and why. We must know so that we can hunt them down and kill every last one of them. That’s the only reason to go back. And I’m going with you.”

  Scith sat there in stunned silence for a long time. Finally, he said, “No, you will not come. Think. You heard those Creel golol. They wanted you. Not as spoils. They wanted you. They knew you. They had orders for you. You are being hunted.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know,” said Scith. “But we need to know. Our best hope now, I think, is to go west to your family’s allies in Damara. The Creel are savage and cunning, but they could not have done this without help. That they were hunting you specifically …” He scowled and added a bit of wood to the fire. The blood soaking his arms had frozen black, and his sleeves creaked as he moved. “If their help came from the west, then we must know from where, or we could be seeking shelter from wolves in a lion’s den.”

  “And you want me to … what? Sit here and tend the fire?”

  His scowl deepened, but part of Hweilan took great comfort in it. This was far better than tears. This was the Scith she knew. “If those golol were hunting you, if Jatara was hunting you, then by now whoever gave those orders knows you escaped. They’ll still be hunting. Every Creel and ally will probably be watching for you. But I am Nar. Change my hair, maybe even take some clothes off a corpse, and I can blend in. I can walk among them if I am careful. You cannot. You will stay here, because you are not a little girl anymore. You are a hunter. And after last night, you are a warrior. You must think. You’ll never bring vengeance to your enemies if you hand yourself to them.”

  And so he left. He took his bow and all the arrows. The thick horn was too strong for her to draw, and even if she’d had a string for her father’s bow—and she didn’t—she couldn’t draw it either. Scith told her to wait one day. If he had not returned by dawn the following day, Hweilan was to leave without him. North at first. Returning to the Gap would ta
ke her too close to Highwatch, and the lesser passes wouldn’t be safe for a woman alone. Her best hope would be to go north around the Giantspires, then turn west for Damara. A long, cold road.

  Exhausted, Hweilan tried to sleep, but she only dozed fitfully. She lay curled under her cloak beside the fire, and as sleep came upon her, so did the memories—

  Vandalar feeds the crows.

  No one can help you.

  Your mother is dead.

  But under them all was a deeper rhythm, like the sound of distant drums. With them, a sense of fear and dread seized her, and in the final moments before she clawed her way out of sleep, she thought she could hear words in the beat.

  Jagun Ghen …

  She woke shivering. The fire had burned low. Lying still on the ground, her body had soaked up the chill. She sat up and fed the fire, careful not to add too much. With the solid ceiling of low clouds—some wisping along the tops of the surrounding hills—she knew it would take a miracle for the smoke to be seen more than a few hundred feet away. But if Scith didn’t return soon, she’d need all the wood to get through the night.

  Sitting there, hunched near the fire, she dozed off again, and again the memories came, and the distant beat.

  Jagun Ghen …

  Jagun Ghen …

  She coughed. In her doze, she’d leaned in too close to the fire. The smoke was choking her. She took in a ragged breath and wiped tears on the back of her glove. Through the haze of smoke and tears, she saw the man, just at the edge of the trees, watching her. He crouched, elbows resting on his knees, a massive spear laid across them. Standing, he would have looked down on Uncle Soran. But it was his eyes that drew her. They burned with a hot, green fire, like looking at the sunset through an emerald. So bright that their glow hid his face in darkness. Beyond the darkness massive antlers protruded from his head, melding with the twisting branches of the wood.

  “Jagun Ghen …”

  The sound didn’t seem to come from the antlered man, but from the woods beyond him.

  Hweilan came fully awake and took in a breath to scream.

  The man was gone. Another trick of shadows and branches seen through the haze of smoke and tears. Probably mixed with exhaustion and nightmare as well.

  Heart hammering in her chest, Hweilan looked around. Evening was drawing nigh. The sky had taken on the deep gray color of heavy snow on the way. She was utterly alone. Ravens cawed in the distance, but nothing more.

  Night fell, and still Scith did not return. Hweilan kept the fire going. Alone in the dark, it struck Hweilan how utterly and completely alone she really was. Before, in the wild she had always had Scith with her—and usually a great many guards besides. And there was always a home to which she could return. No more. The sounds of the hills at night, sounds that Hweilan had always loved on hunting trips—the breeze through the branches, stronger gusts seeming to sigh over the hilltops, night birds in the trees, small animals rustling through the brush, now and then the hoot of an owl—seemed almost furtive. Even sinister.

  Hweilan found herself shivering. She added more wood to the fire. Her rational mind knew it was foolish. Nothing she heard was anything she had not heard dozens of times before. Nevertheless, a sense of dread grew within her.

  She hugged herself to try to still the shivering, and her hands caused something sharp to poke her chest. Her kishkoman, still under her coat and jerkin. It brought her mother’s words back to her—

  … our people, Hweilan, we are … not like others. If you find yourself in danger, if you need help, blow this, and we will hear.

  Hweilan pulled on the leather cord around her neck until she held the kishkoman with her frost-tinted gloves. She set the small horn whistle to her lips and blew, long and hard, again and again and again.

  She lost count of how many times she blew. But she forced herself to stop when lights began to dance before her eyes. Her head felt light and airy. Clutching the kishkoman in one fist with the sharp point protruding from her fist, Hweilan lay down again and tried to sleep.

  Just before she dozed off, a wolf howled in the distance.

  When she woke the next morning, her sense of unease had not lessened. If anything, it seemed stronger.

  Dawn had come, and Scith had not returned. Hweilan stood, kicked snow and dirt over the smoldering remains of the fire, and looked northward. Down in the wooded valley, she couldn’t see far, but she knew what lay that way. Mile after mile, mountain, hills, and steppe. Even if the gods smiled on her, she had a journey of many tendays ahead of her.

  “Alone.” Her voice seemed very loud in the morning stillness.

  But that one word made her decision for her. Everyone she knew and loved was dead. Everyone but Scith. She could go off alone, and if she was very, very lucky, find herself a beggar on some lord’s doorstep. Or she could go after her friend.

  Hweilan turned and headed south. Scith had trained her well, and his trail was easy to follow. She took her time. She knew that even if the invaders were sitting secure in Highwatch, feasting on their bounty, they would have scouts and guards out. Especially if Scith was right, and the invaders were hunting her.

  With every mile, her sense of unease grew, so much so that she felt as if she were pushing her way up an invisible stream.

  Shortly before midday, she was skirting her way around a clearing—she didn’t want to be out in the open—when she saw it. A wolf, watching her from the shadows of the deeper wood. She might not have seen it had it not been for its pale fur. A silver so pale to be just shy of white, like starlight on new snow. Nothing unusual about that. Narfell was thick with wolves—especially near the hills, where the swiftstag herds came to forage and take advantage of the mountain streams in summer.

  But less than a mile later, she saw it again. The same wolf. With that pale fur, there was no mistaking it.

  She kept going.

  The last time she saw it, it was standing on a treeless slope above her, looking down. Very strange behavior, especially for a lone wolf. Giving its position away like that for anyone to see. It let out a short yip that melted into a whining howl, then turned tail and disappeared over the hill.

  She smelled them before she saw anything. Wood smoke. A campfire, most likely.

  Hweilan crouched low, kept to the deep brush, and chose each step with the utmost care.

  There, in a small valley next to a frozen pool, she found Scith.

  Hweilan counted five men with him—all Creel as near as she could tell. They had picketed their horses under the nearest trees and built their fire in a basin formed by the crater left behind from an old treefall. The tree still lay next to it, its large root system gnarled and probably hard as iron. The Creel had tied Scith to the upended roots of an old tree, his arms spread, the coat and clothes covering his upper torso cut away. His skin was bloody with fresh cuts. The men were laughing as they knelt over the fire.

  One of them stood. In his hand he held a long stick, the far end glowing hot and smoking. His laughter stopped, and he stepped toward Scith.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HOW IS THE EYE?”

  Jatara’s jaw tightened and she breathed heavily through her nose. Guric saw the fury in her remaining eye, and it warmed his heart. A strip of gray cloth around her forehead bound a linen bandage over her right eye. Lord Guric, two guards behind him, faced Jatara, who stood guard outside the door of Argalath’s chamber.

  Jatara bared her teeth. Perhaps it was supposed to be a smile, but it seemed more snarl to Guric. “Which eye, my lord?”

  “Why the only one you have left, of course. I was told you lost the other in failing at the one task given you yesterday.”

  No mistaking it. He could definitely hear her teeth grinding.

  “It won’t happen again, my lord.”

  “I should hope not. Only one eye left. Tell your master I wish to speak with him. Now.”

  Jatara bowed and stepped inside the room.

  Guric suppressed a shudder. He didn’t ca
re for any of Argalath’s bodyguards, but Jatara in particular made his skin crawl. It wasn’t the too-pale skin of her people, nor the odd way she shaved off the front half of her hair. She had never shown Guric anything but the utmost deference and obedience, but he sensed no genuine respect in her. She honored Guric because Argalath wished it, and no more. What hold his chief counselor held over the woman and her twin brother, Guric neither knew nor cared. As long as they did as they were told.

  He could hear whispered voices beyond the door. Jatara and one other. Probably Vazhad, Argalath’s Nar bodyguard.

  His patience gone, Guric told his guards, “Wait here,” pushed the door open with his fist, and stepped inside. A low fire burned in the hearth, more for heat than light, since bright light pained Argalath. Jatara stood a few paces away. Vazhad was beyond the bed, helping his master into his robes. Both were scowling at Guric for barging in.

  “Out,” Guric ordered them. “I wish to speak to your master alone.”

  Both waited for Argalath’s nod before obeying, which only fueled Guric’s fury. He slammed the door behind them.

  “How may I serve you, my lord?” said Argalath.

  “I want to see her. Now.”

  “My lord?”

  “You know who I mean, Argalath. Don’t vacillate with me. I haven’t the patience for it.”

  “My lord, I … I don’t think that wise.”

  “Your wisdom brought this upon me, counselor. After last night, you’ll forgive me if your counsel holds less weight with me.”

  Argalath looked at the floor. “You wound me. I did my best. If you will remember, my lord, I did warn you that in … these matters, nothing is certain.”

  “Damn you! What have you done with my wife?”