The Fall of Highwatch

by Mark Sehestedt

  “I can,” said Menduarthis. “But not to you … Tirron, is it? I don’t answer to you.”

  “You may not answer to me, Hound. But I answer to Kunin Gatar, and she orders any who find you to bring you to her at once. So you will come with us. Both of you. Nicely”—five spears lowered in their direction, Hweilan heard creaking wood as the bowmen drew feathers to cheeks, and Tirron smiled—”or otherwise.”

  Menduarthis bristled, his back straightening, and he gave Tirron his best withering stare. “Your orders are old. Kunin Gatar herself ordered me to take this one away. I am taking her to the Thorns. I would demand your aid, but I tire of your insolence. Send us on our way, and I might forget to tell the queen that this happened.”

  A few of the riders exchanged nervous glances, and Hweilan thought she caught a hint of doubt in Tirron’s gaze.

  But then the elf looked at her again. She had neglected to close her cloak, and her blood-spattered clothes were still on display for all to see.

  “I think not,” said Tirron. “Something is amiss here. We will take the matter to the queen.”

  The heaviness in Hweilan’s mind seemed to drop and shatter, shards stabbing her awareness. Not blinding her, but making her incredibly aware.

  Death comes!

  Every shade of light and shadow suddenly seemed clear and sharp as new steel. Every sound—the heavy breathing of the elves’ mounts, the crunch of the snow under their hooves, and something … something else. Something coming closer. Its footsteps pounding her skull like a hammer.

  Scent filled her head. Sweat from her body. The reek of Roakh’s blood in her clothes. The musky scent of the huge elklike creatures, and the stink of their breath wafting over her. The wind-through-frosty-pines smell of the elves. And a slow rot, stirred to an agonizing mockery of life by the fire within. Closer … closer …

  She felt every fiber of her clothes against her skin. The greasy coat of halbdol on her face. The bite of the cold night air in her throat. The shaking of the ice beneath her feet as some foul dread approached.

  And so it was that Hweilan was the first to see it.

  A tall, broad figure walked out of the shadow of the wood. Not rushing, but not hesitating either. Hweilan cried out and pointed.

  At the same time, the elves’ mounts began to snort, toss their heads, and fight the reins of their riders.

  One of the riders shouted. “Tir ened! Tir ened!”

  The figure stepped off the bank, landed on the snow-covered ice below, and continued its advance.

  The elves’ mounts scattered, forsaking Hweilan and Menduarthis for the moment to assess the newcomer. Tirron, lithe as a deer himself, leaped back onto his mount and turned it to face the newcomer, spear lowered. The huge elklike creatures snorted and fought their reins, and even in the dark Hweilan could see the whites of their eyes, wide and frightened.

  “Ri ened!” Tirron shouted. “Deth! Deth!” Tirrons mount pranced sideways, spraying snow in every direction as it fought its master’s control. “Liikut! Liikut! Stop!”

  If the figure understood him, it gave no sign, neither slowing nor speeding up, just coming at that same implacable pace.

  Tirron’s mount had gone well to one side now, and as the snow settled, Hweilan saw the figure’s face.

  Soran. Or at least the cold mockery of his face. The same grim, square-jawed countenance that looked as if a smile might break it. The deep set eyes. The close-cropped hair. But it was an image only. A likeness. Devoid of all life.

  Tirron shouted, “Hled et!”

  Two arrows hissed through the air. One struck Soran in the chest and bounced away. The other buried itself up to the fletching in his stomach.

  He didn’t even flinch.

  His eyes were fixed on Hweilan. She could feel the gaze burning her, like noonday summer sun. Pace unfaltering, he reached over one shoulder and drew a massive sword from its scabbard.

  Two of the elves kicked their mounts into a charge, the great antlers lowered as they closed on Soran. He spared them a glance but did not slow his pace.

  The first of the creatures veered at the last moment, and the elf threw his spear. Soran stopped long enough to smash the spear out of the air with his sword, then managed another two steps before the second creature was on him, raking with its sharp antlers.

  Soran stopped. One hand brought the sword down on the creature’s neck, while the other grabbed the antler. Hweilan heard a crack of breaking bone, a short scream cut off, the smash of bodies colliding, then all was lost in a cloud of snow.

  Soran emerged from the settling snow, the broken body of the huge elk lying beside the motionless body of its rider. She could smell the fresh blood wafting off him.

  He was less than twenty feet away now, and Hweilan could see his face clearly, even behind the mask of blood and snow. Another arrow struck him, then two more. He didn’t even flinch.

  “Hweilan?” Menduarthis said, and Hweilan heard fear in his voice.

  “Run!” she said.

  A spear struck the Soran-thing, hurled with enough force that it threw him off his stride as it pierced him, tearing flesh and shattering ribs.

  Menduarthis and Hweilan ran downstream, away from the horror. Her senses were still sharp as a razor, and she heard every hoof breaking through snow, every cry of the elf warriors behind them. She heard a snap and risked a glance over her shoulder.

  The Soran-thing still had the broken haft of a spear protruding from his side, but he had either hacked or broken off the spear’s length. Seeing his quarry fleeing, he broke into a run. Even wielding the massive sword and bearing wounds that would have killed any man, he came at them incredibly fast. Another of the elves’ mounts plowed into him.

  “Hweilan, move!” Menduarthis shouted.

  She turned and ran, fast as she could.

  Menduarthis waved his hand, and a gust of wind struck the snow before them, clearing a wide path. Another wave, and the great cloud of snow swept over and behind them, hiding the battle. She could hear elves and their mounts screaming.

  Two more riders were between them and the woods. The nearest seemed content to let them pass, concentrating on the graver foe at hand. But the second reined in his mount just under the boughs.

  A pale man, dressed all in skins and furs, white hair flowing behind him, leaped from the tree shadows. A long blade, slightly curved near the end, caught the moonlight and flashed in his hand. The elf didn’t see him.

  “You two!” the elf called. “Stop or—!”

  The pale man passed over the rump of the elklike creature, his sword swinging out beside him, and sliced the elf’s head from his body. Elf, swordsman, and a great gout of blood hit the snow at the same time. The elf’s mount screamed, almost humanlike in its fright, and bounded away.

  The pale man stood and faced them, a smile playing over his lips. He was more than pale. His skin was as white as the snow.

  “Kadrigul,” Hweilan said.

  Menduarthis kept his eyes fixed on the newcomer as he said, “Not another uncle, I hope?”

  Kadrigul swiped his sword, cutting the air. “Been awhile since I killed one of your kind.”

  “Really?” Menduarthis smirked, and his fingers began their intricate motions.

  Wind shot past Hweilan. Not a gale. Just a good breeze, but she could feel it narrowing and gathering force as it passed.

  “Been awhile since I did this trick,” said Menduarthis, “and the lady here ruined my last try.”

  Kadrigul’s chest swelled, and his eyes went wide. He dropped his sword, fell to his knees, and clamped his mouth shut.

  “Hmph,” said Menduarthis, and twirled his fingers faster.

  Kadrigul’s nostrils flared, the air whistling as it forced its way in.

  “You might want to look away, Hweilan. This can sometimes be a bit m—”

  Something dark passed over Hweilan’s right shoulder, spraying her with warmth and wetness, there was a thunk, and Menduarthis screamed and fell forward�
��

  —the pale man fell on his hands and expelled a great gout of air—

  —and Hweilan saw what had hit Menduarthis. An arm. By its size, she knew it had to have come from one of the elf riders.

  Hweilan turned and saw Soran coming, black sword in one hand. She drew the knife Menduarthis had given her and stepped in front of Menduarthis. She dropped into a defensive crouch, just like Scith had taught her, and brandished the blade.

  A gale swept down the hillside, spraying snow and branches and a million pine needles. It swept over Soran in a flood.

  Hweilan felt a tug on her arm. “Don’t be a fool, girl!” said Menduarthis. “Run!”

  They turned and ran.

  Kadrigul was back on his feet, sword in hand, fury in his gaze.

  A great ram of air—the strength of a winter gale off mountain heights, but concentrated into the force of a giant’s fist—tore through the snow beside Hweilan and struck him. He flew through the air in a cloud of snow and broken ice.

  The sounds of a savage fight still raging behind them, Hweilan and Menduarthis ran up the embankment and into the woods.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE WOODS TANGLED AROUND THEM. HWEILAN HAD never seen such trees, had never imagined such trees. Most grew no more than a few dozen feet, but hardly any grew up. Trunks twisted, turned, bent sideways, and smaller ones even wrapped around their larger neighbors. Deep winter as it was, still dark green leaves grew in abundance, so thick that they had blocked out nearly all the snow—and every trace of star- and moonlight.

  Hweilan kept a firm grip on Menduarthis’s arm and trusted that her feet would find their own way in the dark. She made it no more than twenty steps into the wood before striking a root or low branch and falling, almost pulling Menduarthis on top of her.

  Menduarthis let her go, said, “A moment,” and Hweilan could hear him searching his pockets.

  Light bloomed, blue and cold, no brighter than a small candle, but in the nearly impenetrable gloom of the wood it seemed very bright to Hweilan’s eyes. It shone forth from a round crystal, no larger than an owl’s egg, that Menduarthis held in one hand.

  In the near distance, an elf’s voice cried out in a defiant battle cry, then rose into an agonized shriek.

  “Move, girl!” Menduarthis pulled her to her feet and they plunged onward.

  The land began to climb almost at once. The trees grew larger and even more tangled the farther they went, but Menduarthis always seemed to find a path—ducking under the great arch of a branch, pushing their way through the leaves; finding narrow paths that snaked among the branches; sometimes even running along broad trunks that grew along the ground, like slightly curved roads.

  “Careful,” said Menduarthis, and Hweilan soon saw why.

  They were walking along the wide bole of a tree, but the ground fell away beneath them, the tree forming a natural bridge across a ravine. The sky opened above them, giving enough light for Hweilan to see that the cut in the ground was not that wide, and no more than thirty or forty feet deep. But the trees down there had been choked by vines covered with wicked thorns.

  When they reached the other side and stepped off the tree, Menduarthis stopped and turned. Over the sounds of their heavy breathing, they listened for pursuit. Nothing.

  Still, that nagging weight, that sense of dread pulsed in Hweilan’s mind. It had lessened somewhat in their flight from the frozen river, but now that they’d stopped again …

  “We need to keep going,” said Hweilan.

  “Half a moment,” said Menduarthis. He pulled her behind him. “And hang on to something.”

  He stood away from the tree and threw back his cloak. He began waving his arms and hands in an intricate motion, faster and faster. Wind rushed past them, snapping branches and toppling smaller trees in its path.

  It struck the tree-bridge. Roots broke and came up with such force that dirt exploded dozens of feet into the air, and the tree itself shattered in the middle. The wind died, and the broken tree fell into the ravine with a crash that shook the ground.

  “That should throw off the pursuit,” said Menduarthis.

  Hweilan wasn’t so sure.

  More and more vines—their thorns ranging from small, almost furlike protrusions along the creepers to long thorns thick as nails on the stalks—crawled through the trees as Hweilan and Menduarthis climbed the final slope. But the trees themselves didn’t seem to suffer. The foliage, rather than lessening, grew even thicker, and in some places Hweilan felt that their path was walled in by leaves and thorns. Menduarthis’s light began to catch bits of white in the air. At first, Hweilan thought that it was snowing again, and some few flakes had managed to find their way through the canopy. But no. They were tiny moths, their wings white as new frost. How they managed to survive the cold, Hweilan had no idea. The close air of the woods was warmer than it had been out on the frozen river, but it was still cold enough for Hweilan’s breath to steam before her.

  Menduarthis stopped, their path seemingly ending in a great tangle of thorns. One hand grasping the little light stone, he turned and looked at Hweilan.

  “This gets tricky here,” he said. “Once again, you must trust me.”

  “Trust you how?” she said.

  With the hand holding the light, he pointed at the wall of thorns before them. “This is our way.”

  The vines looked tough as wire, their thorns sharp as wasps’ stingers. Even the leaves looked sharp. “You can’t be serious,” she said.

  “Trust me. You’ll be safe as a babe in her cradle as long as you keep moving forward. Don’t stop. Don’t slow. And whatever you do, do not move backward. As long as you move forward, these creepers are all bark, no bite. Soft as feathers. Stop or try to move backward … well, the only thing that’ll get you out then is fire, and I don’t think you’d like that much.”

  “Wh-what if I fall?”

  “Don’t.”

  She looked back. There was no other way.

  “I’ll go first,” said Menduarthis. “But Hweilan, once I’m in, I can’t come back for you. You understand?”

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  Menduarthis pushed forward into the vines. They parted before him like smooth waters before a ship, then rustled shut behind him, thick as iron bars. He’d taken the light. Darkness engulfed Hweilan.

  “Come along,” he called, and she could hear the rustling of his movement.

  Hweilan held her father’s bow close, pulled her hood down as far as it would go, huddled in the cloak, and pressed forward. Even through all her layers of clothing, she could feel the vines. Not like wire at all. More like … snakes. They slithered and undulated around her as she moved forward, the thorns bending, pliable and harmless as feathers, just as Menduarthis had said. Unable to see anything, Hweilan squeezed her eyes shut and pushed onward, step by careful step.

  She could still hear Menduarthis ahead.

  “How much farther?” she called.

  “Not long,” he said. “Keep moving!”

  She kept moving. Once, the bow caught on a particularly thick branch, and for one terrified moment, caught. Stifling a scream, Hweilan pushed hard. The bow broke through, and the branch snapped back, striking her in the face. Her hood caught most of the blow, but she still felt the branch brush across her nose and cheek. The thick autumnal scent hit her, but the thorns didn’t even scratch, and she pressed onward.

  Her eyes squeezed shut, her mind concentrating solely on forward, forward, forward, a slow panic began to rise in Hweilan. To fight it, she began counting her steps.

  At forty-seven, another vine struck her face, harder this time. Still, the thorns brushed off her skin, but it startled her so that for an instant her step faltered. The vine’s thorns stiffened, catching in her hood. A low moan escaped her throat and she surged forward. The thorns caught in her hood, pulling it off her head. She kept going. She heard fabric tearing, then she was through. The feel of the vines and leaves against her face
sent her stomach churning, but she pressed on, even faster this time.

  “Hweilan?” Menduarthis called, and she could hear the concern in his voice.

  “Right behind you. How much farther?”

  “Not long.”

  “You said that. Quite long ago, I’m certain.”

  “Keep moving.”

  She took a breath to scream at him, but a sound cut her off. Laughter. Light and gleeful. Almost childish. And very close.

  Hweilan opened her eyes. Still she walked in darkness, vines and leaves and thorns thick about her, but she saw eyes watching her. Not the pale blue of the uldra. These eyes glowed verdant green. Two pairs of eyes off to her right, and one very close on her left. Just out of reach, in fact. Seeing her watching them, the watchers laughed, and the eyes were gone.

  “Menduarthis!” Hweilan called, panic rising in her voice.

  “Keep moving.”

  “There’s something in here with us!”

  “Many somethings,” said Menduarthis. “Keep moving. We’re almost through.”

  “Curse you, Menduarthis, how much far—?”

  She shrieked as she fell forward into open air.

  Menduarthis sat on a boulder a few paces away. The vine-wrapped trees still twisted all around them, but the light from Menduarthis’s stone showed a small grove with paths branching off in several directions. He gave her a sheepish smile. “Not long,” he said.

  Then the thorns around them moved, and Hweilan saw that many of them were not thorns at all. At least a dozen figures closed in on them. Some stood on the ground, while others crouched on the thicker branches of the surrounding trees. They stood no taller than uldra, but their skin was green as moss, their meager clothing made up entirely of leaves. They had very narrow chins, almost pointed, tiny noses, and their sharp ears swept back, framed by thick brown or reddish hair that stood off their heads in lanky points. Theirs were the eyes she’d seen. Most held bows, arrows nocked and ready, but one held a sword of sorts in both hands. At least Hweilan thought it was a sword. There was no steel or metal. The entire thing—blade, hilt, handle—seemed made entirely of stiff vines, hundreds of sharp thorns sprouting off the blade.