Chosen of Nendawen Book 001 - The Fall of Highwatch

by Mark Sehestedt

  A YOUNG WOMAN

  ALONE IN A COLD WORLD

  “You have to understand, Hweilan, your world … your cities and walls and castles and fires that keep out the night. Your wizards waving their wands and warriors strutting with their swords on their hips … they think they’ve tamed the world. Made it serve them. And maybe in their little cities and towers they have. They’ve tamed it by keeping it out. By hiding.”

  FIGHTING TO SURVIVE

  LONG ENOUGH TO

  AVENGE HER DEAD

  “But there are powers in the world that were ancient when the greatest grandfathers of men still huddled in caves by their fires and prayed for the gods to keep out the night. These older powers … they don’t fear the dark or the things that stalk in it. They revel in the dark. They are the things that stalk it.”

  THE HUNTER HAS CHOSEN.

  “You speak of good and evil. When a wolf pack takes down a doe, are they evil? When a falcon takes a young rabbit, is it evil? Or are they merely reveling in their nature?”

  CHOSEN OF NENDAWEN

  Book I

  The Fall of Highwatch

  Book II

  Hand of the Hunter

  December 2010

  Book III

  Cry of the Ghost Wolf

  December 2011

  ALSO BY

  MARK SEHESTEDT

  THE WIZARDS

  Frostfell

  Slavers stole her son and she would sacrifice everything to get him back. In the uncaring, frozen north, will it be enough?

  THE CITADELS

  Sentinelspire

  With the powers of an archdruid at hand, the mad master of the fortress of Sentinelspire will bring death to more than just his enemies—he will call down doom on all of Faerûn.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Mr. Ed Greenwood, for creating the Realms and letting the rest of us play in it.

  Thanks to Erin Evans, for all her hard editorial work and creative contributions.

  And special thanks to Brian Bell of Brunswick, Maine. If the world had more booksellers like Brian, there’d be no such thing as readers with no idea what to read next, and there’d be a lot fewer starving authors.

  PROLOGUE

  NAR-SEK QU’ISTRADE.

  A spur of the Giantspire Mountains thrust into the Nar grassland. At its tip a fissure splits the mountain, only wide enough for two riders to go abreast. The Shadowed Path locals named it, for so high is the rock that even in summer the sun only shines into the path for a short time.

  At the end of the path the fissure opens into a valley—a great basin of grass, surrounded by high cliffs. For generations the Nar used the valley as a winter refuge, one of the few places where rival tribes maintained an oath of peace.

  In the year 1371 DR, King Gareth Dragonsbane of Damara obtained permission from Thalaman Harthgroth—the closest thing the Nar had to a supreme ruler—to mine the eastern slopes of the Giantspire Mountains. What began as a trickle of hopeful Damaran miners soon grew into a flood.

  Then a warrior named Ondrahar, recently granted titles for service to his king, came to Nar-sek Qu’istrade to found a permanent settlement and a new order of knights, sworn to the service of Torm. All peoples—Damarans, Nar, Vassans—were welcome, provided that they maintained the peace.

  The Nar had long been content to fill the valley with their tents for a season and then move on, but the newcomers desired a more permanent home. The shallow caves that lined the walls of the valley were a start, but their first year the settlers began expansion. Skilled stonemasons from Damara carved the caves into halls and rooms. When rich deposits of bloodstone and iron were found in the surrounding hills, dwarves began to settle the area.

  In the year 1375 DR, work on a mountain fortress began. Highwatch, the Damarans named it, for its towers perched on the peaks and looked out upon the steppe for miles. Here the Knights of Ondrahar made their home, and their lord took the title High Warden.

  In the years since, the fortunes of Damara have waned, and Narfell has grown colder. But under the wisdom and fair hand of the High Warden, Highwatch has become a bastion of prosperity and safety in the Bloodstone Lands. Walled in by the mountains themselves and watched by the Knights, Highwatch has enjoyed generations of peace.

  —Uluin of Merkurn, Annals of Soravia, 1454 DR

  CHAPTER ONE

  HE CROSSED THE FROZEN STREAM, KNOWING HIS pursuers would not. The knowledge of what lurked on the mount—the fear of it—would hold them back.

  Still they might loose a few arrows if they caught sight of him. So he moved on. Over the ice-slick rocks of the riverbank, through the winter-bare branches of the trees that leaned over the river like eager listeners, and on into the deeper shadows of the pines.

  He’d made it. He was … not free. But he was away from them.

  Up the slope he ran, crouching under branches thick with snow, finding his way as much by scent as sight, for the pines blocked out the starlight. His boots kicked at old bones—and some not so old. But he kept going, up and up, to the very height of the hill. He knew the futility of trying to run or hide. His only hope was to find the horror before it found him.

  Bare of trees, the summit gave him a wide view of the lands below. To the north, the peaks of the Icerim, starlit snow creased with black rock, a wall against the sky. Southward, the wooded hills fell away into the steppes of Narfell.

  He had never been to this place, but he had visited others like it in other lands, had stood vigil while others sought the secrets in the holy places of the land—the Hearts. A thick tower of bare rock broke from the soil of the mount. Cracks and fissures marred it from top to bottom. Frost filled them, reflecting the starlight and giving the entire rock the appearance of being shattered by pale light.

  Except near the bottom, where the largest fissure opened into blackness—the cave leading to the Heart. It waited like an open mouth, a jagged row of icicles making it seem not so much to yawn as prepare to bite. The breeze, which down in the valley had only whispered in the topmost branches, quickened to a wind and howled over the cave mouth.

  A new light rained down upon the height. He looked up. The rim of the moon was climbing over the mountains. The full moon. Called by his people the Hunter’s Moon. That meant—

  All at once, he knew he was not alone on the mount. Eyes watched him. Hungry mouths tasted his scent on the breeze. The very air held a Presence.

  He turned and looked back down the slope.

  Eyes burned from the moving shadows under the trees. Dozens of them. Some large and close to the ground, their gazes mean and hungry. Wolves’ eyes. Winged silhouettes watched him from the treetops, and dozens upon dozens of shadows hopped and flapped against the white background of the snow. Ravens.

  Why have you come?

  The voice thundered in his head, so strong that he fell, his knees breaking through the snow. He caught himself on both hands. The sharp rocks under the frost scraped the skin from his palms.

  From the trees came the howl of wolves and the caw of ravens. They did not advance. Still, their meaning was clear. You are surrounded. You are caught.

  He looked back to the cave, and something tugged his gaze upward.

  The rising moonlight fell on a figure crouched on the rocks above. Larger than a man, his frame thick with muscle, his flesh patched with scars. Clothed in ragged skins, some of which still dripped and steamed in the cold air. Antlers rose like a twisted crown from the skull he wore as a mask, and from within the sockets his gaze burned with green fire. In his right hand he gripped the shaft of a long spear, its black iron head barbed. His left h
and dripped blood.

  Nendawen. Master of the Hunt.

  Why have you come? said Nendawen.

  “Salvation from my enemies,” he said.

  And who are you?

  “Lendri,” he said.

  You know the covenant. To come without sacrifice means death.

  Lendri felt the world shake around him, and a great roar filled his ears. He opened his eyes—he could not remember closing them—and looked up into the visage of the Hunter. Nendawen stood over him, the point of his spear on Lendri’s throat.

  I see no sacrifice.

  “My sacrifice awaits you in the valley. A living sacrifice. Not one. I brought many.”

  You brought nothing, said Nendawen. They pursued you. And now you come to me, begging me to save you. He crouched, the spear never wavering, and brought his head close, the skull mask only inches from Lendri’s face. The stench of death washed over Lendri, thick and close. You have blood on your hands. The blood of a king.

  “Y-yes.”

  You are an exile. Cast out from your clan. Your people gone from this world. Returned home in victory. But you? Left behind in dishonor.

  Lendri said nothing. He knew these things already.

  But did you know that our victory was incomplete? Your people returned home, yes, but to a home despoiled by Jagun Ghen. We defeated him in the end, but he fled our vengeance. Did you know this?

  “N-no.”

  Jagun Ghen escaped. Fled the Hunting Lands. Fled here. To this world. And here you are, Lendri, killer of kings.

  It was not a question, but Lendri could see that Nendawen waited for a response. The point of the spear touched his throat, pressed, drawing blood.

  “Wh-what do you want, holy one?”

  What I ever want, said Nendawen. Blood. I want Jagun Ghen, him and all his ilk, delivered to me.

  Lendri swallowed. He could feel the movement of his throat touching the cold iron of Nendawen’s spear.

  What do you want, little one?

  “I …” He’d come here looking for no more than a night’s safety. But Nendawen’s question seemed to ask for more.

  Salvation, you said. From your enemies.

  “Yes.”

  I grant your request, said Nendawen.

  Gratitude filled Lendri, but he said nothing.

  This night, under the Hunter’s Moon, I will hunt. Those sniffing your trail will not survive to see the sun. But when the Hunter’s Moon sets, I may hunt no longer.

  “Wh-why are you telling me this?”

  Jagun Ghen cannot be allowed to roam free. In the Hunting Lands, Jagun Ghen almost conquered. Only hundreds of years of blood and sacrifice vanquished him. Here, in this corrupt world beneath its cold stars, Jagun Ghen could become a god. This cannot be allowed. You know the pact. In our holy places, within the shrines, I may enter this world, but beyond … only my sight may roam, except under the Hunter’s Moon. Other nights, and days beneath the sun … another must hunt in my place. My Eye requires a Hand.

  “What has this to do with me?” Lendri said, though he feared he already knew the answer.

  Thunder shook the sky, and a deep rumbling filled the earth, and Lendri realized that Nendawen was laughing.

  You are not to be the Hand of the Hunter. You may have ties to this world, but you are of the Hunting Lands … heart, soul, and blood. To hunt Jagun Ghen, I require one who is of this world.

  Lendri swallowed. He could feel a trickle of blood running down his neck from where Nendawen’s spear had pierced it.

  You will bring me my chosen Hand, said Nendawen. Do this, and you may return to the Hunting Lands. When next the Hunter’s Moon rises, I will have my Hand, or I will have your blood, Lendri, killer of kings.

  “How will I find this … Hand?”

  Hunt.

  “And how will I know him?”

  She carries death in her right hand.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HWEILAN?” THE LADY MERAH LOOKED UP, HER GAZE catching the young woman in the shadows. “Hweilan, is that you?”

  Lady Merah was sitting on a bench near the far wall of the garden. Her long hair wafted unbound in the morning breeze, save for a braid over each ear. Scith leaned against the wall behind her, his thick arms crossed over his chest. Where she was lithe and fair to the point of paleness, he was dark and thick, giving the impression of immovable stone. Deep lines creased the corners of his eyes, and a bit of gray had begun to pepper the hair over his temples, but middle age had not softened him.

  Hweilan stood in the corridor that led from the eastern towers to the garden. Clear sunlight bathed the garden. It gave little warmth. Her breath steamed in the air before her. The priests’ calendar proclaimed that spring was here, but one would never know it. Both Merah and Scith wore heavy cloaks, rimmed in fur. But Hweilan wore only her ‘rough” clothing—suited for a day spent outside the castle walls: thick breeches, her heaviest tunic, jerkin, and boots. She had left her room in such haste that she hadn’t donned a coat or cloak.

  “How long have you been standing there?” said Merah. Her voice was firm, but Hweilan saw the look of guilt on her face. She was trying to hide it, but Hweilan knew her mother too well.

  “I saw nothing I shouldn’t, if that’s what you’re worried about,” said Hweilan. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” said Merah.

  “That I am being sent away,” said Hweilan. She walked across the courtyard. It was broad as a tourney field, surrounded by a low wall not far from the edge of a fifty-foot drop to another courtyard below. A grove of windbent pines, frosted in snow, grew in the middle of the garden, surrounded by bushes and shrubs that sprouted bright white and blue flowers in the summer. Their branches were bare and sparkled with rime. Ivy clung to the walls, forming a ring of green about the place.

  The Garden of First Light. So called because it was the best place in Highwatch to watch the rise of sun and moon. Merah often came here for the latter. Though she worshiped in the temple of Torm along with the knights and the rest of the household, her heart had always tended more to Selûne. Hweilan had vague memories of other rituals dedicated to the minor gods of her mother’s people. The Lady Merah was only half human. Raised among elf “barbarians” (a term Hweilan’s grandmother was fond of using until her grandfather had put a stop to it) in the east, Merah had clung to her people’s faith even after wedding Hweilan’s father. But after her father’s death, things had changed. Too many things.

  Merah sighed and said, “Who told you?”

  “Grandmother. I called her a liar. But it is true. Isn’t it?”

  Merah looked away, and it gave Hweilan a small flicker of hope. There was little love between her mother and her father’s mother. If this was the doing of her grandmother, then her mother might—

  “You will apologize to your grandmother,” said Merah.

  “What?”

  “She should not have told you yet, but you will show her—”

  “It is true!”

  “You are not being “sent away,’ Hweilan. In these troubled times, alliances are important. You are going to accompany a delegation to Soravia where you will be—”

  “Married off! To the highest bidder, is that it?”

  “No one is forcing you.”

  “Really? Then I will stay here.”

  “You will not,” said Merah. “Your family has decided—” “Who?”

  The first hint of anger entered Merah’s voice. “Who what?”

  “You said our family has decided.” Not true. She had said your family. Not our. But Hweilan knew that sting—had felt it herself. “Was it grandfather or grandmother? I know Uncle Soran would never—”

  “Hweilan, calm yourself.” Merah moved over to one side of the bench—away from Scith—to make room. “Please sit. We will—”

  “I don’t want to sit,” said Hweilan.

  “Hweilan!” Merah stood to her full height. She was a formidable woman, her beauty undiminished by middle age, and she lo
oked down on her only daughter. “You will not interrupt me again.”

  Hweilan ground her teeth, breathing heavily through her nose, and held her mother’s gaze. She gave Scith a sidelong glance. He looked elsewhere.

  Hweilan looked away. “I won’t go,” she said.

  “And what will you do? Spend your days wandering the wild and hunting with Scith? You’re not a little girl anymore. You will serve your people and your family.”

  “How? By bedding some fat lordling’s son? How does that serve my people?”

  “No one is forcing you into marriage, Hweilan.”

  “Really?”

  “A delegation is going to Soravia to solidify relations between our houses. Your Uncle Soran is going as well.”

  “But he isn’t staying,” said Hweilan.

  “You will be fostered there for at least one year in hopes—”

  “I know what hopes are. The duke’s son—and heir, grandmother was quick to point out—is ready to marry.”

  “Your grandmother … misspoke,” said Merah.

  “Did she?”

  Merah sighed. “Hweilan, you’re seventeen. You’re a member of a noble house. Did you really think you were going to spend the rest of your life wandering the wilds?”

  “I can serve my people here.”

  “How?”

  Hweilan scowled. She had no good answer for that, and it made her even angrier.

  “Perhaps you will,” said Merah. “But for now, you will go. As soon as the Knights deem the Gap safe for travel—”

  “The Gap is never safe, no—”

  Merah’s voice rose to override her daughter’s. “—you will go west, and you will conduct yourself in a manner worthy of your family. You will not shame me or this house.” Her mother closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and softened her tone. “I will not lie to you, Hweilan. Your grandmother hopes that you will marry this duke’s son. It would bring a strong alliance between our houses. And who knows? He might be a fine man. But your grandmother does not rule Highwatch, and she does not rule my children. You are going. If things warm between you and the duke’s son … well and good. If not, I promise that you will not be forced into anything.”