The fall of Highwatch con-1

by Mark Sehestedt

  Menduarthis stopped his assault and dropped his hands to his sides.

  "Just… just help me up," said Roakh. "I'll, ah!" He winced in pain. "I'll get them."

  "No," said Menduarthis. "You point, and we'll get them."

  Roakh glared at him. Menduarthis raised one hand again, his fingers already twirling again.

  "No!" Roakh screamed. He pointed in Hweilan's direction. "Under the pile! There!"

  She turned. Shoved up against the wall not far from the hallway was a jumble of cloaks, clothes, and what looked like an old tapestry.

  "Careful, Hweilan," said Menduarthis. "This one's a trickster."

  She peeled back and tossed aside the thick fabrics with the tip of her knife. At first there were just more of the same, then she came across a long tassel, a bit of rope that looked fit only for burning, then under an old leather jerkin was a familiar bundle. One of Lendri's belt pouches. The larger one. She grabbed it and opened it. Inside was a whetstone, bowstrings, arrowheads, a few wooden phials stopped with tightly rolled felt, and a ring. Not gold. Darker and redder. More like copper, with darker etchings all around it. The ring he had used to summon the fire for Scith's pyre. She closed the pouch and tucked it under her belt.

  Digging through more clothes and another bit of tapestry, she found her old knife and her father's bow. She gasped with relief, tears welling in her eyes. She slipped the knife into her boot, sheathed the new blade Menduarthis had given her, and cradled the bow to her chest.

  Standing and turning to face Menduarthis, she wiped the tears from her eyes. "It's here. Everything I need."

  "Good." Menduarthis looked down on Roakh. "Now, back to business."

  He raised his hand, his fingers twirling, and Roakh's eyes went wide. "No! You promised!"

  "And I'm a liar," said Menduarthis, a stiff breeze already wafting through the room. "Even if I could trust you not to go cawing off to the queen the moment we leave-and I can't do that, can I? — the truth is I never liked you, you conniving, greedy, gluttonous little bastard. You've had this coming for a long time, and I am going to enjoy myself."

  Roakh clamped his jaw shut again and grabbed his nose. Tears streamed out of his eyes. The air in the room moved, eddying currents twisting every which way and then coalescing around the two men.

  But then another sound broke through the howling of the wind in the chamber. Horns. From outside. Dozens of them at least. Not the brass sound of the horns of Highwatch Hweilan knew so well. These had a lower, howling sound.

  "What is that?" Hweilan asked.

  "Ujaiyen clarions," said Menduarthis, and he dropped his hand. The air stopped dead in the room, though bits of it still seemed to be playing in Menduarthis's hair. Even the howling of the storm outside seemed to have hushed.

  The horns continued, and amid them Hweilan could hear the cries of voices in the distance.

  "We're under attack," said Menduarthis.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Guric spent the evening in prayer.The longest time he had ever done so since his knighthood-and the first time since Valia's death. The small shrine devoted to Torm was set in a bit of the mountain near the gardens where most of the High Warden's family had once had their apartments.

  In the sacking of Highwatch, the shrine had been robbed of its gold, the jewels pried from the statues, and the silver chalice of the altar itself was long gone. Probably in some Creel chief's tent. But Guric had not allowed the altar to be desecrated. At the time, he wasn't sure why. But now, he was glad.

  He did not feel at peace. Only death would bring him peace now. But at least he felt determined.

  Where it had all gone wrong, he still didn't know, and if Torm knew, the god was silent. Guric knew his own center had never been right since Valia's death. But he often wondered if her death was Torm's judgment for Guric's defiance of his father, his family, and their house. In his heart of hearts, he did not believe that. Torm demanded justice, but there was no malice in his judgments. No, Guric believed his life had come to ruin at one critical juncture: Argalath.

  Had Argalath used Guric from the beginning? Deceived him? Or did the man honestly see good in the horrors he had wrought? In the end, it didn't really matter. The man had to be stopped.

  Guric's guards fell into step behind him as he left the shrine and crossed the winter-bare garden. Guric stopped in the middle of the garden and looked around. The ivy climbing the walls was brown, the branches on the bushes black and leafless. How fitting, Guric thought. He turned his attention to Boran and said, "Gather ten more guards. Men you trust. Hemnur and Isidor." He hesitated. "And Sagar."

  "Sagar?" Boran whispered and looked at the other guards, standing a respectful distance away. "You're certain, my lord? His loyalty-"

  "I have no faith in Sagar's loyalty to me," said Guric. "But I am quite certain of his… antipathy for others."

  Boran's eyebrows rose, and he looked around. Not gathering his thoughts. He seemed to be searching for spies. "You mean-"

  "You know who I mean. No need to speak it."

  "If I may…" Boran swallowed, and Guric saw that a fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow. "For what am I gathering these men?"

  "Nothing more than a walk, I hope," he said. "But they should come armed. Just in case."

  Guric, fourteen guards at his back, stood before the arched doorway that led to the southern tower where Valia had been housed. Every guard had a sword at his belt, two carried axes in their hands, and every one wore mail and helm.

  Two Nar guards had been here before. Now, nothing. The archway stood empty. Unguarded. Guric did not know whether to feel relief or dread. It delayed a possible confrontation with Argalath's men. But that Valia's chamber was unguarded…

  A thin curtain of dread draped itself over Guric's mind, and for the first time since leaving his prayers, he felt his determination cracking.

  He turned to Boran. "I want you, Isidor, and two others with me. Everyone else, guard this entrance. No one comes in or out without my leave. And I mean no one. Understood?"

  The men bowed.

  Boran said, "Yes, my lord," and chose two men to accompany them. The axemen.

  Guric's unease grew as they mounted the stairs. Something was not right. No lamps or torches burned in the sconces. It was cold enough in the tower that their breath steamed before them, and the sounds of their footfalls echoed against profound emptiness.

  Long before they reached the top, Guric began to suspect. But before they rounded the final bend in the stairs to the top platform and the door, he knew.

  No guards stood vigil on the platform. The door to her cell stood open. The chamber beyond still held a foul reek, but nothing stirred within. Even the rats had forsaken the chamber.

  Valia was gone.

  Guric rejoined the rest of the guards at the bottom of the stairway. Seeing the fury on his face, they stepped back. Two bowed their heads and did not look up.

  "Did anyone try to come this way?" Guric asked.

  "No one, my lord."

  Guric turned to Boran. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, reconsidering. He'd been about to say, We must find Argalath. Now.

  But no. He would not go to Argalath, making demands and begging like a cur under his master's table.

  No.

  Argalath would come to him.

  "My lord?" said Boran. "What are your orders?"

  "I am going to my chambers. I want a flagon of wine waiting for me when I get there. Before I am finished draining the dregs, I want Argalath in front of me."

  Sagar smiled. "I'll fetch him, my lord."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  "Under attack?" said Hweilan.

  "Those clarions," said Menduarthis. "That is the call to arms. Something has come into the realm of Kunin Gatar."

  Hweilan felt it then. The pulsing at the back of her skull. Not strong yet, but steady as a drumbeat. She had not felt it since…

  And she knew who it was.

  "Soran," s
he said. "That… that thing that looks like my uncle. It's him. I know it."

  Roakh tried to laugh, but it came out more of a cough, and black blood dribbled out on his cheek. "Haak! They'll be coming for you, Menduarthis. Your Ujaiyen. And for me. You to lead your scouts. Me to… do what I do. They'll be coming. They'll… find you. See what y-"

  Menduarthis kicked him again. Then he looked to Hweilan. "He's right. If we're under attack, the queen's hound and her favorite snoop will soon be summoned."

  Roakh coughed up more blood, then began to roll away from Menduarthis, closer to the shelves.

  "Where are you going, old bird?" Menduarthis asked. He bent down to turn the man over.

  But Roakh rolled back on his own, and as he did so he used his unbroken arm to punch at Menduarthis.

  Menduarthis jumped back, laughing, and said, "What do you th-?"

  And then something struck him in the face. It hadn't been a punch from Roakh after all. A throw.

  The small brown bag bounced off Menduarthis's forehead, surprising him more than anything, but as it did so, its contents spilled out in a cloud of white powder.

  "Wha-?" said Menduarthis, then he screamed and slapped at his face. He lurched backward, stumbling as his knees gave way, then fell face first on the floor. Only the bundle of junk saved him from cracking his head on the stone.

  Hweilan screamed, "Menduarthis!"

  "Don't worry," said Roakh, as he pushed himself to his feet. "He's not… dead." He coughed, and a fine spittle of blood flew out of his mouth. "Not after what he's done. Death's"-he took in a deep breath, and Hweilan could hear the broken, wet rattle in his chest-" too quick… for him. Now, what shall we do with you?"

  One twisted arm hung limp and useless by Roakh's side. He tried to move it, winced in pain, then gave up. He took a big step to Hweilan, almost slipped on all the detritus littering the floor, then leaned against the near shelf.

  "Keep away from me!" said Hweilan, and she thrust the bow in front of her, holding it crossways like a staff. She glanced over her shoulder to the still open window. Beyond was the ledge, and after that a drop of a good forty feet or more. Too high.

  "Half a… moment!" Roakh coughed up more blood. He turned and used his good hand to rummage through the shelf behind him. An old plate fell to the floor and shattered. He turned back to Hweilan. Still leaning on the shelf for support, he now held a small phial in his trembling fist. Wincing at the pain, he used his teeth to pull the cork, spat it out, then drank the contents of the phial.

  Roakh screamed-an agonized shriek that caused Hweilan to take an involuntary step back. He fell back onto the remains of the table where he had received his beating. His back arched. He hammered the floor with one fist, his scream growing into a ravenlike cry. Then, like the tension leaving a cut string, he collapsed.

  For an instant, Hweilan thought-hoped-Roakh was dead.

  But then he took a deep draught of air and sat up. He moved his right arm. It was no longer broken. He made a tight fist then wiggled his fingers.

  "Ahh." Roakh chuckled and looked at Hweilan. "Much better. Still not quite hale as ever." His smile widened. The sharp teeth had mended, though blood from his previous wounds still smeared his face and mouth. In the fading light, it looked black against his gray skin. "A good meal will mend that, I think," he said, and pushed himself to his feet.

  "Stay away!" Hweilan said, and raised her bow in both hands, like a club.

  Roakh's smile melted, his face losing all semblance of emotion, and he cocked his head to one side. Like a raven. A raven scavenging the quiet battlefield, disturbed only by the endless drone of flies and the caws of his fellows. He charged her.

  Hweilan screamed and swung the bow.

  He laughed and caught the bow in one hand, the wood striking his palm with a loud slap. He tightened his grip, twisted, and yanked the bow from her hands. Hweilan tried to hang on to it, but he was too strong-unbelievably strong, considering his small stature and almost frail frame-and he almost pulled her off her feet.

  Roakh caught her. She pushed at him, and again he used her own strength against her, throwing her across the room. Her back struck the wall under the window, knocking every last bit of breath from her body, then she hit the floor, and bright lights danced before her eyes.

  Her vision cleared. Roakh advanced on her. She screamed and scrambled to her feet. A forty-foot drop suddenly seemed a lot more inviting than it had a few moments ago.

  She was halfway out the window when Roakh grabbed her, threw her to the ground, and put his full weight on top of her. He didn't weigh more than a child, but his strength was incredible. She aimed a backhanded punch at his face, but he caught her wrist and pinned it to the ground beside her head. She tried to bring her left arm around, but it was pinned beneath his leg.

  Roakh opened his mouth, dark spittle fell down onto her cheek, and his teeth lunged down. Hweilan screamed, still unable to move her hands, and twisted beneath him. Strong as Roakh was, he was still much lighter than Hweilan, and she managed to get him halfway off her. His jaws snapped shut, barely missing her face and instead closing around a mouthful of hair. He growled and spat it out.

  Hweilan's right arm was still pinned under his grip, but she'd wormed her left free. Rather than aiming another useless punch, she raised her knee and thrust her hand inside her boot. With the glove on, it took her a moment to find the knife. She managed to wrap three fingers around the hilt and pull, the knife coming halfway out.

  Roakh used his free hand to grab a handful of Hweilan's hair. He gripped and yanked, turning her head to expose her throat.

  Hweilan grabbed the hilt.

  His lips wet with blood and drool, Roakh lunged.

  Hweilan drew the knife. Her leg and arm were twisted at such an angle that the blade sliced through her trousers and nicked the skin beneath as it came free.

  Sharp teeth and warm, wriggling flesh, like grave worms, hit her throat.

  Hweilan screamed and stabbed upward.

  Roakh shrieked, the sound deafening so close to her ear, and his teeth scraped away skin and flesh as he flung himself away.

  Hweilan rolled to her feet and looked down. Dark blood drenched the entire length of the knife and much of the glove holding it. Roakh leaned against the opposite wall, both hands clutching his side just below his ribs. Blood wasn't leaking out from between his fingers. It was pouring.

  "You stabbed me, you-!" Roakh pulled his hands away, twisting them into claws, and lunged.

  Hweilan dodged sideways and swept the knife in front of her. She was too frightened to aim, to think of anything more than keeping the monster away from her. But the knife sliced one arm, opening another deep gash.

  Roakh twisted and came after her.

  She brought the blade around again, stabbing this time instead. She felt the shock up her entire arm as the point slid between two ribs, the blade catching there a moment before the force of Roakh's charge twisted the blade, forcing it in deeper.

  They fell. One of Roakh's clawed hands went for Hweilan's throat while the other batted at her knife hand. She screamed through clenched teeth, desperate to keep hold of the knife, and pushed him with her free hand as they hit the floor. It forced Roakh away, the blade coming out with another gush of hot blood.

  "You-!" Roakh screamed, and there was desperation as well as fear and anger in his eyes now.

  But Hweilan gave him no time to finish. All the rage and fear of the past days-her family massacred; chased by Nar and some monster wearing her uncle's face; captured, having her mind violated by a capricious queen; and this foul creature putting his wet, slavering mouth on her-all the railing against her powerlessness and the injustice of the world… all of Hweilan's terror and rage twisted and tightened into a tight cord, humming and vibrating under the tension.

  And then snapped.

  She fell on Roakh, the knife rising and falling again and again, sometimes hitting bone and scraping away, tearing more skin and cloth than flesh. But
others sinking deep. First into the soft flesh where his neck met his shoulder. The blade sank all the way in, and Roakh's black eyes went wide with shock and his mouth opened in a silent scream. She yanked it out, blood spraying over her, and then brought it down again and again and again, ravaging his neck and face.

  She was still stabbing and pulling, stabbing and pulling, stabbing and pulling, long after Roakh stopped moving.

  "Hweilan!"

  A strong hand caught her wrist.

  She shrieked and twisted, lunging after her new attacker.

  "Hweilan, enough!" Menduarthis said as Hweilan came down on top of him.

  She lay there, panting. The scarf on her head had been ripped off in the fight, blood soaked her hair, and it hung in matted lanks in front of her face. The knife, raised over her head and ready to plunge into Menduarthis's face, was trembling, and a steady drip-drip-drip of blood fell off the blade and pattered onto the floor.

  Menduarthis still had bits of the powder on his face, and his lovely blue eyes were shot through with ugly red veins. Still, he gave her a weak smile and said, "I see my knife proved useful."

  Hweilan slid off him and onto her knees. She clutched the knife to her chest in both hands, not caring in the least about the gore covering it.

  "Lendri's," she said. She held the knife up. "Lendri's knife."

  Now that her breath was coming easier and the hammering in her heart was slowing, she heard the horns again. She opened her mouth to ask, What are we going to do? But then her gaze caught the mangled mess that had once been Roakh.

  She dropped the knife, fell forward on her hands, and vomited all over the floor.

  Menduarthis let her finish, then pulled her gently to her feet and held her against his chest.

  "I killed him." He throat and mouth ached from the burning bile.

  Menduarthis brushed the bloody hair out of her face and said, "The world is a better place without the little bastard. He can plague the Nine Hells with his chatter now."

  She pushed Menduarthis away and retrieved her knife. Considering the bloody wreck of her clothes, it seemed pointless to clean the knife, but she did, kneeling down and wiping away the blood on an old curtain. The sounds of horns still wafted through the air.