The Fall of Highwatch

by Mark Sehestedt

  She pushed through a thick patch of darkness—some thick bush or scrub that kept its thick, waxy leaves throughout the winter—and the ground fell away beneath her feet.

  She tumbled, striking hard ground beneath the snow and sliding down a steep enough slope that her stomach seemed to jump up her throat.

  She hit level ground. It drove what little air she had left from her body, and for a long moment, all she could do was lie there, half her face in the snow, trying to draw breath back into her chest as bright orbs of light danced in her vision. With each breath, the lights winked and faded a little more.

  She’d managed to keep a grip on her father’s bow during the fall. She still held it, her right fist locked around it. Something else was poking her in the chest, just below the soft part of her neck. Something under her shirt. The kishkoman.

  Hweilan pushed herself up to her knees and pulled the bone whistle from her shirt. She put it to her lips, took in a deep breath, and blew a shrill note, as loud and as long as she could. The sound cut through the night, hurting her ears.

  She sat, holding her breath, straining to hear an answering call. Nothing. Only a breeze rattling winter-brittle branches. She tried again, holding the note as long as she could. Still nothing.

  Now that she was no longer running, her body began to shiver, and she could feel her own breath beginning to freeze against her face.

  A thick darkness loomed before her. It was one of the great pines, but fallen ages ago. Most of the trunk had probably gone to rot, but the thicker wood of the roots had gone iron hard, and the years of brush that grew up and around them formed a sort of woody cleft. It would do. She dared not risk a fire, not with that Soran-thing maybe still out there, but she had to keep the wind off her and find someplace close to keep in her own body heat.

  Hweilan threw herself into the cleft, branches and nettles and thorns ripping her clothes and skin. There was no wide way through, but her body found the path of least resistance, and she pushed and pushed, turning herself sideways to squeeze through the crack. She hit a wall of tangled brush, rotted wood, and soil, all frozen hard as stone. Exhausted, terrified, and cold, Hweilan wept.

  She had no idea how much time passed, wedged between old roots and frozen soil. Her body shivered so badly that the roots and frost around her were rattling. She could no longer feel her fingers, toes, or face.

  One clear thought rose in her mind: You have to move, or you’re going to die.

  Hweilan moved, the roots digging into her clothes again. She thought they were most likely scraping her face, as well, but she could no longer feel her exposed skin. The farther she went, the easier it became.

  She was nearly out when she heard it: something coming through the brush.

  Hweilan held her breath and kept her body perfectly still.

  The sounds came closer, and besides the crunching of branches and snow, she heard something sniffing.

  Hweilan took a chance. With fingers she could no longer feel, she brought the kishkoman to her numb lips and blew one note—very softly, scarcely above a whisper.

  A plaintive whine came from the darkness.

  “Hechin?” she called out.

  But whatever it had been was running away.

  Hweilan waited, counting to a hundred, listening. If anything was out there, it wasn’t moving. Never in her life had she been so cold. Lendri’s packs still rode her back. Surely he had flint and steel. Maybe even dry grass for kindling. But she could not get the image of Soran out of her mind—

  The dead face.

  The implacable approach.

  The red fire, all malice and hunger, flashing behind the dead eyes.

  And she knew that any fire would be seen, even if she could muster the will to gather dry wood.

  Her teeth would not stop chattering, and she was shaking so hard that her jaw ached. Gooseflesh prickled her from head to toe, and she felt as if every hair on her head was standing straight up. She had to keep closing her eyes to keep the moisture on them from freezing. Each time, she had to force her eyelids open again. Her body cried out for rest, but she feared that if she slept, she’d never wake again.

  She knew her only two choices were to build a fire and risk being seen by the Nar and … that thing. Or freeze to death. Given the two fates …

  Scith had once told her that freezing to death became painless after a certain point. One even began to feel warm again, before the end came.

  Hweilan closed her eyes, and remembering that moment, the thing she cherished the most was the fire that had burned merrily between her and Scith, wafting long, slow breaths of warmth over her open hands.

  Just thinking of it, Hweilan felt warm again.

  She stood on black rocks, looking down on clouds and listening to the roar of the world. Above her, a clear night sky rimmed the horizon. There was no moon, but the stars burned like fresh-cut diamonds set on velvet tapestry. One star just topping the horizon burned bright as a small sun, though it shone blue and cold.

  Behind her, a great wall of mountains pushed up against the sky. Their heights dwarfed any mountains she had ever seen. Fully half their slopes were draped in snow, and even the nearer foothills were taller than the Giantspires near her home.

  She stood on the fingertip of the mountains’ last grasp, and the world fell away at her feet. Miles away to her right, a river thundered over the chasm, its voice so powerful that it shook the rocks beneath her. Hweilan had no way to fathom the depth of the valley, for it was all a mass of starlit mist stirred by the cataract. Woods covered the lower slopes of the mountains and the distant lowlands, and they were black amid the trails of mist winding through their boughs.

  Turning her back on the valley, she faced the woods of the mountainside. Mists curled through the trunks, and here and there she could see birds or small animals flitting from branch to branch.

  She relaxed her eyes and took it all in, not focusing on any one spot. Just the way Scith had taught her. Let your eyes drink every dreg of light. In the darkness or in thick cover, watch for movement. If you see something, do not focus on it. Keep it at the edge of your sight. That part of your eye takes in more light than looking at it straight on.

  There it was. Pale shapes moving amid the boughs. Just a shade paler than the mists themselves. They moved without haste, and now and then one or more would stop, and Hweilan knew they were watching her.

  She looked to each side. A broken, uneven chasm all around. To her left, climbing up again to the mountain’s heights. To her right, sloping down and finally curving to the edge of the falls. No paths anywhere, and the few protruding rocks that might serve as holds or even the occasional shelf to rest upon … all were slick with spray from the falls. One slip, and Hweilan would soon find out how deep the valley was inside the mists.

  Howling wafted down the mountainside, and when she turned back, the shapes had come much closer. Dozens of them at least. Maybe a hundred or more, and the nearest ones were only a stone’s throw away. She could see that although most were pale as ghosts, some were a darker gray, some brown, and one was black as dreamless sleep.

  She reached for her knife, only to discover that she had no knife. No belt. In fact, she wore no clothes at all, and it wasn’t until that realization that she felt cold. Goosebumps shot up all over her, her hair standing on end.

  The first wolf—a beautiful thing, white as new snow—was almost upon her. Hweilan crouched and raised her arms to protect her throat.

  But the wolf rushed right past her, so close that its fur brushed her leg. The final step it leaped into the air and plummeted into the mist. Another wolf followed it, then another, then three more. In moments it seemed an entire river of wolves rushed past her, their claws clicking on the rocks, and their panting breaths enveloping her in thick, warm fog. Every one leaped into the open air and fell without a sound, the mist swallowing them.

  Only the black wolf remained. It stood a few paces in front of Hweilan, watching her for a moment, then
turning back to look into the woods. A low whine escaped it, and she could see tension in its movements. Fear. What could have—?

  Then she sensed it.

  It had not been the wolves’ eyes intent upon her. Something from the woods was watching her, from up there in the dark where she couldn’t see it. And it was getting closer. She could sense it, like a sudden lightness to the summer air that meant a storm was on the way.

  She heard rustling and shrieking in the woods, and as she watched a great cloud of birds erupted from the trees for miles around. They flew every which way, most seeking the heights and speeding away, but she saw some of the stragglers stop their fluttering midair and fall back to the ground as if dead. More creatures ran past her—mice, squirrels, bears, and many strange creatures that she’d never seen. Those who could scrambled down the cliffside. The others leaped, much like the wolves had done. Even the insects were leaving the shelter of the woods.

  Most of the breeze had been coming up from the valley itself, pushed upward by the great fall of water. But now the wind shifted, coming from the woods itself, and Hweilan smelled something putrid and foul.

  The black wolf gave her a final look that seemed to shout—Run!—then it too leaped off the cliff.

  Hweilan coughed at the foul stench coming from the woods. What could make such a foul reek?

  Then she heard laughter and singing. The voices were sweet, but in the laughter she sensed hot malice, and even though she could not understand the words of the song, she sensed blasphemy in the words.

  Whatever it was, it was getting closer.

  Time to choose, said a voice from behind her. Something about it reminded her of her mother.

  She turned, but no one was there. Only the distant falls and a long, long drop.

  She turned back to the woods. Death, said the voice again. Death comes from that way. Be sure of it. Hweilan faced the chasm again. And that way …

  The voice trailed off. Death? Something worse? The animals had leaped that way, without hesitation, choosing the drop into nothingness over whatever approached from the dark.

  Choose, Hweilan.

  She took a deep breath, gagging on the reek, then took two quick steps and leaped, pushing as far as she could in hopes of clearing the cliffside rocks below.

  Her mind swirled, her body took in one great gulp of air.

  She plunged into the mist, the wetness hitting her naked skin like a cold slap. Her whole world went gray, she took in another breath to scream—

  It came out a cough. Water sprayed out of her nose and throat, and she found herself on her hands and knees on a rock floor, bits of grit and sand raking into her skin. Her hair hung in heavy, dripping clumps, and water streamed off her, as if she’d just been dumped from a bath.

  A cold bath. She was shivering, and her breath clouded in front of her face.

  Still on her hands and knees, she looked up.

  She was in a cavern. Bigger than any she’d ever been in. Her grandfather’s hall could have fit inside with room to spare. Great columns of stone went from floor to ceiling in no particular order. In other places, long cones of stone hung from the ceiling or pushed up from the floor. A red glow lit the cavern, making the damp stone seem almost bloody. But she couldn’t see where the glow was coming from. It certainly gave no heat.

  Still shivering, Hweilan stood.

  Cold, said a voice. The same one that had spoken to her on the cliffside. But this is a lifeless place now. I am gone. Empty dens, dead hearts … cold.

  “Who are you?” said Hweilan. “What is this place?”

  Hweilan heard a light splashing behind her and turned. A pool took up the back half of the cavern, its water almost black in the dim light. Emerging from the pool was a tall figure, moving with a bestial grace, all willful intent commanding smooth movement. Not a wasted motion, as if the body were more raiment than flesh.

  A woman’s body, but Hweilan could not put the word woman to this figure. She was far too … other. Her frame was thin, but there was no hint of weakness or want in her limbs. Hweilan could not discern the exact color of her skin, for a slick wetness covered the woman from forehead to toes. The wetness was too thick and dark for water; the figure before her was covered with blood.

  Although she was wet in it from head to toe, the woman’s hair was stainless, woven into scores of tight braids that hung to her waist. Amid the locks were smooth stones, bits of bone, feathers, and dozens upon dozens of tiny flowers. Even through the strong, metallic scent of the blood, Hweilan could smell the flowers, almost as if they were newly bloomed and still growing.

  The figure stopped upon the shore and looked down on Hweilan. Her Uncle Soran had been the tallest man she’d ever known, but even he would have looked up to this woman’s chin.

  Hweilan swallowed and said, “Wh-who are you?”

  The woman cocked her head, almost birdlike. Her lips did not move, but Hweilan heard the words, My name holds no more power in your world. For generations I guarded and guided your people like a mother to her cubs. But the cubs have gone home. All but two. And you do not need a mother. Time to grow up, Hweilan inle Merah. Time to hunt.

  “I … I don’t understand.”

  You do not need understanding. You need to choose. Understanding will come later … if you survive.

  “Hweilan!”

  She jumped, and her eyes snapped open. How long—?

  “Hweilan!”

  It was Lendri. Whispering, but most definitely Lendri. And close.

  “H-h-here!” she called out, and was surprised at the weak rasp of her voice.

  She sensed movement outside her shelter, but she didn’t have the strength to look up. Strong hands helped her out.

  “You’re freezing,” Lendri said.

  “It’s … not s-so bad … nuh-n-n-ow.”

  Lendri muttered something in his own language, then said, “Do your hands and feet hurt?”

  She shook her head again, and managed, “H-haven’t … f-felt ‘em, f-f-for a w-while.”

  Lendri rummaged through the one pouch on his belt. “I have something,” he said. “Not a permanent solution, but we can’t risk fire just yet. This will help.”

  He held out a small, dark something to her.

  “Kanishta,” said Lendri. “A root that has been … treated. It will give you some strength back and keep you warm. For a while.” Gently, he opened her mouth and shoved the root between her cheek and teeth. “Chew.”

  At first, she could barely open her mouth wide enough to wedge the root between her teeth. But whatever the root was, the tissue in her mouth responded to it almost immediately, flooding her cheek with fresh spit. The taste of the root hit then, and she almost gagged, but one swallow and a tingling warmth spread from her mouth and throat to her head. She managed to chew, coaxing more juice out of the root. It was beyond bitter, but with each swallow, she felt warm, and vigor began to work its way back into her limbs.

  “Better?” Lendri asked.

  “Much,” she said. “Tastes like garden soil, but it’s … warm. Oh, that’s magical.”

  “Only somewhat. Are you hurt?”

  “Scrapes and bruises,” she said.

  Now that she could feel her limbs again—and feel something besides cold—her mind seized on …

  “The Nar, the tigers, are they …?”

  “I killed two Nar,” said Lendri. “And Hechin scattered their horses. But they are still out there. Can you walk?”

  “If they’re still out there, I can run.”

  Lendri let out a short bark of a laugh, then said, “Besthunit nenle will do.”

  “What?”

  “A proverb,” he said. ““Hurry up slowly.’ We need to move fast, but not so fast that we announce our presence to anyone within a half mile.” He took their packs from her and fit them on his back. “Now let’s move.”

  He turned and headed off into the dark.

  Hweilan followed. “But, Lendri … oh, gods, what was … tha
t … that thing? It looked like my uncle. My uncle! But it wasn’t. I swear it wasn’t. It—”

  He didn’t turn or slow. “I know.”

  “What was it?” she whispered.

  “I do not know. But I could feel its …”

  “Wrongness.”

  “Yes.” Lendri stopped on the trail and turned to her.

  “Like the taste of meat gone bad,” she said. “Yet somehow still …”

  “Yes. I know. It’s—”

  “And those … those other … th-things?” She was having a hard time catching her breath. She could hear herself beginning to babble, but she couldn’t stop. “I-I-I s-saw them! Like children! But one of them was riding a tundra tiger. Riding! No one rides tundra tigers. And the ravens … when Kadrigul was after me.”

  “Kadrigul?” said Lendri. “The Siksin Nene?”

  “Siksin what?”

  “The pale one. Frost Folk your people name them. This Kadrigul …?”

  “Yes, that’s him,” said Hweilan. “You saw. Didn’t you see? Ravens … hit him. Dozens of them. Hundreds maybe. That was … you?”

  “No,” said Lendri. He had gone very still, save for his head, which he turned this way and that as if listening. She could hear him sniffing the air. His voice dropped to a whisper. “That was … I don’t know what that was.”

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Shirt!” Lendri stepped forward—more of a pounce really—and grabbed her arm in a painful grip. She looked down. Too dark to see clearly, but she could see that his glove and much of his sleeve was smeared with something dark. The scent hit her. Blood. He still had the blood of dead men on his hands.

  “Lendri?”

  He drew an arrow from his quiver and placed it on the string of his bow. “Run!”

  He pulled the arrow to his cheek, and in that instant the moon peeked out from a rent in the clouds. In the new light, Hweilan saw that Lendri had nocked a fowling arrow—no arrowhead, just a hardened tip of wood, meant to stun birds without spoiling the meat.