Chosen of Nendawen Book 001 - The Fall of Highwatch

by Mark Sehestedt

  “All the Creel in Narfell could not have taken Highwatch,” said Lendri. “Not without—”

  “Treachery. I know.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I was … away when it happened. But on my way back, I ran into servants of Argalath, sent to find me. Scith”—she had to stop and breathe deeply to keep from crying—’saved me.”

  “Who is this Argalath?”

  “A Nar shaman,” said Hweilan. “Or half-Nar maybe. I’ve heard stories … But he wormed his way into the confidence of Guric, Highwatch’s Captain of the Guard.”

  Lendri nodded and sheathed his knife. “Captain of the Guard? Yes, he could plan such an attack.”

  “I’ll kill them.” Hweilan had not even thought it until the words were out of her mouth. But she didn’t regret them. She looked over to the man she had stabbed. The open wound at his throat was still steaming a little. “Just like that one.”

  “A trained soldier and a Nar shaman—perhaps even a demonbinder? You will walk up to them and stab them? When at least one of them—probably both—are looking for you? And how will you do this?”

  Hweilan suddenly felt weary to her bones, as if she could crawl off into the nearest tree shadows and sleep for a tenday. “I don’t know.”

  Lendri looked down on Scith. The wolf nudged under his arm, sniffed at the corpse, then let out a long, low whine. Lendri took the tattered remains of Scith’s shirt and coat and folded them over his cut and bruised torso. “This one—Scith you called him—he was a friend to you?”

  Hweilan could hardly believe that the lifeless shell before her was the Scith she knew, the man who had been the closest thing to a father she had known since her real father’s death. Scith had been dead only a few moments—she knew if she reached out and touched him with her naked skin, he wouldn’t even be cold yet—but already there was something other about him. Still in every feature the man she knew, but in every way that truly mattered, something altogether separate from her. Only a shell. A lifeless image.

  And so she simply said, “He was.”

  “Then we must do him honor.” Lendri stood and inspected the old tree against which Scith lay. “This will do.”

  “Do for what?”

  “A pyre. We will use this tree. The wood is old and will burn well.”

  Hweilan stood and looked at it. “It’s covered with ice.”

  Lendri slid a steel-headed hatchet out of his belt and handed it to her. “Get the ice off first, then hack out a bed in the wood. Save the kindling.”

  She hefted the hatchet, testing its weight. “You’ll never get that wood to burn.”

  “I will. Get to work.”

  With that, he turned away and headed back into the woods, his wolf at his heels.

  “Where are you going?” she called after him.

  “To look for an uskeche tet.” He melted into the shadows of the wood.

  Hweilan walked to the side of the tree, purposefully not looking at Scith. She knew that if she did, she might not be able to hold back the tears anymore.

  She set to work.

  Lendri returned before she finished. She had cleared off most of the ice—taking a great deal of old bark with it—and had begun hollowing out a bed. The more she worked, the more it began to look like a coffin.

  The elf was carrying a straight piece of wood, slightly longer than his forearm. He had stripped off the bark. He sat down next to the cold fire bed and, using what to Hweilan looked like a long iron nail, began carving the stick.

  “What are you doing?”

  He answered without looking up. “Making the uskeche tet.”

  “The what?”

  “It means … ‘ghost stick,’ “said Lendri. “But also ‘fire stick.’ The uskeche tet is for both fire and ghosts to our people.”

  Our people. Hweilan’s mind was still wrestling with that one. She found no fault in the elf’s story. It matched with things that her mother had told her over the years. But Lendri seemed so … different, so other from what she had always imagined her mother’s people to be like.

  “Where are the others?” Hweilan said.

  Lendri did look up at that. “Others?”

  “Your people,” she said. “Vil Adanrath.”

  He frowned and set back to work. “I am the last.”

  “What?”

  He looked to the log and frowned. “The pyre is ready?”

  Hweilan began chopping again. “I can listen while I work.”

  “Our people were exiles in this world for many generations,” said Lendri. “But it was never home. They have returned to the Hunting Lands. Your mother had the choice. To return with her people or stay here with your father and you. She chose you. Now, all that remains of their blood in Faerûn is me—and you.”

  Hweilan stuck the hatchet in the side of the log, then scooped out all the loose kindling and dropped it onto her already considerable pile. “Why?” she said.

  “That is a long, long tale,” said Lendri.

  “No. I mean why are they gone but you are … not?”

  “Another tale, though not quite so long. But in short, because of my oaths to your forefather.” Lendri’s lips compressed and he thought a moment before continuing. “Rathla … the most sacred of oaths, save marriage. Rathla live, die, and kill for one another. Understand: To harm my rathla is to harm me. To bless my rathla is to bless me. Gyaidun and I were brothers, and long were the shadows we cast. But he was a man, and I am Vil Adanrath. Long after I lit his pyre and mourned his passing, still my oaths bound me to his children. And his grandchildren. And to you, Hweilan inle Merah.”

  “You and I,” said Hweilan, “we are this … rathla?”

  “No,” he said. “Your forefather was my rathla. But the Vil Adanrath walk the world far longer than the children of men. And my oath to him binds me to you.”

  “But I’m not … like you. I am not Vil Adanrath. My mother—”

  “Loved a Damaran, yes,” said Lendri. “Bound herself to him in marriage. She was not the first to find love outside the people. Her own mother did so. But my rathla’s blood ran in her still. And it runs in you. My dearest sister was your foremother, Hweilan. We are k’che. We are family, you and I.”

  Her distant foremother’s brother. That made Lendri her uncle. Of sorts. Hweilan retrieved the hatchet and went back to work, considering the elf’s words. Some of his tale she knew already. She knew her mother was not Damaran, not even fully human by the sharp curve of her ears and her slightly offset eyes. Her mother had been born among some ‘barbarian” people to the east. Everyone in Highwatch knew that. Hweilan had even heard the name Vil Adanrath pass her mother’s lips from time to time. But she had never known that she had family beyond her aunts, uncles, and grandsires—the Damarans. Now … the dead.

  “Why have I never heard of you?” she said. “Never seen you? My mother never—”

  “Merah put the ways of her people behind her,” said Lendri. “Not without reason.”

  “Then why are you here?” said Hweilan. It came out harsh. Accusing. But she didn’t care. Her mother and her entire family lay dead in the ruins of their home, and this buckskin-clad brute whom she’d never met or even been told about sat across from her, calm as a summer morning, telling her that they were family while he whittled on a stick. “Why now?” she said. “Scith recognized you, and he didn’t seem happy about it.”

  Sadness passed over Lendri’s face, and he set back to work on the stick. “I came. Once. Not too many years ago. But your mother would not have me. She honored her people, but her life was among the Damarans now. And I think she did not want me influencing you. She told me to leave. I honored her wishes.”

  Hweilan attacked the fallen tree with sudden savagery, sending bits of wood flying. “Doesn’t death release you from your oaths?”

  “I am not dead.”

  “But Gyaidun. Your … rathla. And my mother—”

  “The oaths were mine,” said Lendri. “Only
my death will free me.”

  “You said you heard my whistle-knife,” she said. “But why were you here at all? The Vil Adanrath dwelled far to the east.”

  “I am … looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I am … not sure yet.”

  Hweilan stopped her work and stared. The elf was so damnably odd. “What does that mean?”

  “Later,” said Lendri. “We see to Scith, then we must decide what to do with you. Now work.”

  Once Lendri had finished, he set the uskeche tet carefully aside, then used his heavy knife to help Hweilan finish her work. Once it was done, they stood and looked down at the corpse. Ravens had begun circling overhead, and Hweilan could hear more off in the woods, already eating. Together she and Lendri stood over Scith. In the short time they had worked, his skin had taken on a grayish cast, and frost now caked him.

  “I can’t do this,” Hweilan whispered, more to herself than Lendri.

  “You must. I cannot lift him in by myself. Honor your friend. Would you leave him as carrion?”—1

  She did it. Hweilan cried the entire time, but she helped Lendri lift Scith into the shell they had hollowed out inside the tree. A heavy, completely dead weight. They covered him with the kindling.

  “It will never burn,” said Hweilan. “Too wet.”

  “Stand back,” said Lendri. He peeled the glove off his right hand and curled it into a fist. A small ring, a dull yellow like brass, circled one finger. He pointed it at the log and said, “Lamathris!”

  The air round his fist ignited, and a gout of flame shot outward, striking the tree and enveloping it in bright orange fire. A hot gale swept over Hweilan as the fire heated and pushed back the air. Flames rose, tumbling over one another and sending up thick clouds of gray smoke. Somewhere out in the woods, Hechin howled.

  Lendri retrieved the stick he had spent so much time carving. He handed it to Hweilan. She examined it by the light of Scith’s pyre. Into the pale wood, Lendri had etched many Dethek runes in a spiral down the length of the shaft, and within the carving he had rubbed some sort of resin. Turning the stick, she read them.

  MERAH INLE THEWARI

  SORAN OF HIGHWATCH

  VANDALAR OF HIGHWATCH

  SCITH OF THE VAR

  KNIGHTS OF ONDRAHAR

  PEOPLE OF HIGHWATCH

  “Your honored dead,” said Lendri. “I will sing. Add your own prayers if you wish.”

  Lendri sang. More of a whispered chant really, like a soft breeze through dry branches. At first he sang in his own tongue. Hweilan listened, understanding nothing but the names.

  “Sing with me,” he said.

  “I … I don’t know the words,” said Hweilan.

  “We will sing them in the tongue of the Damarans.”

  And so they did, Lendri chanting one line, Hweilan following.

  Flames of this world, bear this flame to our ancestors

  Our family burned bright

  Our family …

  Lendri took the stick back from her. Holding one end with both hands, he stepped forward and thrust it into the middle of the fire, sending a great shower of sparks fluttering amid the smoke. He held it there as long as he could bear to be near the flames, then he stepped back. The end of the stick was black, but the resin pressed into the runes burned a hot red.

  Merah daughter of Thewari burned bright,

  Soran of Highwatch burned bright,

  Vandalar of Highwatch burned bright,

  Scith of the Var burned bright,

  The Knights of Ondrahar burned bright,

  The people of Highwatch burned bright.

  Their exile is ended, their rest assured.

  Lendri looked up to the sky and sang in his native tongue, but this time loud—more of a shout than a chant. Then he looked down at Hweilan. His eyes seemed hard, not with any sort of religious passion. More in expectation.

  “You still wish to bring justice to your family’s murderers?” he said.

  “Yes.” No hesitation.

  “Then do as I do. Take off your gloves.”

  She did.

  He raised his right hand, long fingers outstretched, and he sang, “Our family burned bright. Those who robbed the world of their light will rest no more.”

  She repeated his words, not singing but speaking them clearly.

  Lendri brought his open palm down on the top of the stick. Hweilan heard skin and flesh sizzle, a sharp intake of breath from Lendri, then he pulled his hand away. She looked at him with wide eyes.

  “Hurry,” he said, “before the fire consumes the wood.”

  She hesitated. What kind of fool put his naked hand on burning wood? But Lendri’s gaze on her was fierce and unwavering. She raised her right hand. It trembled.

  “Do it, Hweilan!”

  In her mind, she saw Scith’s last moments. She saw the last look her mother had given her, heard their last words, spoken in anger. She heard again her father’s parting words to her on the day he’d ridden out of the fortress—Listen to your mother, Hweilan. She does what is best for you. Make me proud. The next time she’d seen him, his face had been pale and cold, more like lifeless stone than the always-quick-to-smile face of her father.

  Hweilan slapped her hand down and grabbed the stick. Pain seized her entire arm. She gasped and tried to let go, but the muscles in her hand convulsed, squeezing tighter. She could feel the skin of her palm and the insides of her fingers burning away, her flesh fusing to the wood.

  Control returned. She let go, flesh that did not want to come away from the hot wood tearing and peeling away. She stumbled back and landed hard on the icy ground. The world seemed to spin around her, going black, and she could hear nothing but a roar.

  When the world cleared again, she could see the great cloud of her breath mixing with Lendri’s. The elf knelt over her, his brows creased in concern.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Foolish girl,” he said, and it was then that Hweilan first noticed that he held her burned hand between his own. He was pressing snow into her palm. She couldn’t feel the cold. Everything from her wrist down was only pain. “You were supposed to touch the stick, not grasp it. Why?”

  She smiled weakly. “It felt like a good idea at the time. My family …” Tears began to well in her eyes again.

  Lendri held her gaze a long time, then nodded. “Grieve for them, Hweilan. Honor them. But do not punish yourself. Punish those who killed them. I will help you.”

  “When do we start?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HWEILAN’S HAND WAS STILL IN AGONY, BUT THE COLD snow she held helped. Now that all of her attention was not focused on her arm, she felt a pounding headache coming on. Not like others she’d had in the past—pain behind her eyes or her forehead. This was a nagging pulse right at the base of her skull. Almost like a drumbeat.

  “Try to open it,” said Lendri.

  Clenching her teeth against the pain, Hweilan opened her hand slowly. Pain shot up her forearm. She turned her palm down and dropped the snow. She could feel tiny tugs as bits of skin came away with the ice.

  “I have some salve,” said Lendri. He gently turned her hand and opened his mouth as if to say more. He gasped and his grip tightened, pulling her closer.

  Hweilan winced and tried to pull away. “You’re hurting me!”

  He let go and looked at her, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

  Hweilan looked down at her hand. Most of the skin was gone, the flesh beneath burned. But across her palm, three of the letters from the names that Lendri had carved into the stick were clearly visible, branded right into the flesh of her hand in raised, puffy red flesh:

  K

  A

  N

  “Kan?” said Hweilan.

  Lendri closed his mouth and looked down at the brand again.

  “What?” said Hweilan. “What does it mean?”

  “Death …” he said, though hi
s eyes were distant, and he seemed to be talking to himself. “She carries death in her right hand.”

  “What are you talking about? Lendri?”

  He shook his head, almost as if waking from a dream. His haunted eyes focused on her, and he said, “That word … it means ‘death’ in our people’s language.”

  Hweilan studied the scar. “Maybe it is a good sign?” she said. “I swore to bring vengeance to those who killed my family. Now I have ‘death’ branded on my right hand. A sign?”

  “Perhaps.” Lendri’s looked away. “Rub some clean snow on it. I will put on some salve and a clean bandage. Then we must leave. Quickly.”

  “Wait,” said Hweilan. “Go? Go where?”

  Lendri pointed at the fire, and his upper lip curled over his teeth in a very wolflike snarl. “That smoke will draw any Nar within ten miles. You want to be here when they come for a look?”

  Hweilan looked away. The pounding in her skull was getting worse. She knelt and rubbed snow on her hand. “What makes you think I’m going anywhere with you? You come out of nowhere claiming—”

  A shrill sound cut the air, bringing a sharp pain to her ears. She looked up. Lendri was holding a kishkoman to his lips, much like her own, but brown with age.

  He dropped it back into his shirt and walked over to her. He loomed over her and said, “I am Vil Adanrath. I am blood to you, by oaths and birth.” He crouched and leaned in close, his nose only inches from hers. “But if that is not enough, I am the only hope you have.”

  They were getting close.

  Soran, riding out front, had set an unrelenting pace. Almost dangerously so, since the ground was not only uneven and rocky, but covered with snow and ice.

  Argalath had been forced to ensorcel all their horses before they would tolerate the Soran-thing’s presence. But it had worked, and their “hound” never hesitated in his chosen path. He led, and they followed—Kadrigul and eight Nar behind him. He thought all were Creel, but it didn’t matter to him. Nar were all alike.

  They crossed a slight rise—a thickly forested saddle between two hills—and Soran disappeared between the trees. Kadrigul reached for the amulet Argalath had given him and whispered the words to activate it. Through the cured leather of his glove, he felt the metal tingle.