Chosen of Nendawen Book 001 - The Fall of Highwatch

by Mark Sehestedt

  Argalath started at Guric’s shout, then bowed low and did not rise again. “She is being well cared for, I swear. I beg you, my lord, heed my counsel.”

  Guric ground his teeth together and took a deep breath. “Stand straight and look at me.”

  Argalath straightened but still did not look him in the eye. “My lord, please. Listen to me. Your wife’s body is being given the utmost care, under the watch of the best guards. But you must understand: The body moves, speaks, sees, hears … but whatever is inside the body, that is not Valia.”

  “You think I don’t know?” Guric could feel his fury rising again, but he kept his voice low. “I was there, Argalath. I saw what she … it did. I looked into its eyes. But—”

  “It is not too late. Do not despair, my lord. The rite did not fail.”

  “Did not fail? Are you mad? I—”

  “The rite worked perfectly. It was our knowledge that failed. The Nar sent after Hweilan were mistaken. They swore that the body we saw was hers, that the House of Highwatch was gone from the world. They were wrong. Once that error is rectified, your wife will be restored to you. I swear it.”

  Guric winced and turned away. “She’s just a girl, Argalath.”

  “You regret our actions?”

  “No! What was done two days ago, that was justice. That was battle, and innocent lives are sometimes lost in battle. But this … this feels like murder.”

  “And murder it is.” Guric felt Argalath’s hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t even heard his counselor cross the room. “But it is the only way to return your beloved Valia to you.”

  They stood in silence a moment, the only sounds Guric’s heavy breathing and a slight crackling from the low fire in the hearth.

  “It is not too late,” said Argalath. “Kadrigul leads the hunters. If you find this whole business too distasteful, we can call them off, exorcise the … thing from Valia’s body, and set her to rest. But if we do that, there is no going back. She will be beyond my powers to restore.”

  Guric swiped Argalath’s hand off his shoulder and said, “Where is my wife?”

  Argalath sighed. “My lord, nothing has changed. I fear seeing her will only bring you further pain.”

  Guric looked down on Argalath with the full weight of his authority. “Pain is part of the price of leadership. Take me to her. Now.”

  After crossing several courtyards and many stairs to one of the upper sections of the fortress, they had climbed well over two hundred steps to the top of one of the northern towers. At Guric’s insistence, they had left their guards behind. Guric cursed the time it had taken. Argalath leaning on him was no burden, but the man was damnably slow.

  Guric looked down at Argalath. His chief counselor’s cheeks were even more sunken than usual, and lines of fatigue creased the corners of his eyes. Still … Guric’s anger and frustration at Argalath’s failure—no matter how the man painted it or placed blame elsewhere, the rite had failed; spectacularly so—were strong enough that they drowned out any feelings of remorse or pity. After last night, Argalath deserved to feel a little pain.

  A door stood along the right wall and two more guards, both Nar, stood before it. The men showed no emotion whatsoever. No deference at the sign of the two most powerful men of Highwatch suddenly appearing at their post.

  Still leaning on Guric, Argalath took a moment to catch his breath, then said something to the men in their own tongue. Guric had only a basic understanding of the Nar language, and this one had a different sound to the words, the accent strange. He caught only trouble and the word signifying a question.

  “Nyekh,” said the guard on the right, followed by a short string of words.

  “What did he say?” Guric asked.

  “I asked if she had given them any trouble,” said Argalath. “He replied that she has not, that she has not even spoken.”

  Both guards bowed, then one stepped aside while the other removed a long iron key from a chain around his neck. He fitted it into the lock, twisted—the old mechanisms tumbled with a creak that set Guric’s teeth on edge—then stepped back.

  Guric stepped to the door and pushed it open. Beyond, all was darkness.

  “It’s black as pitch in there,” said Guric.

  “We don’t mind,” said a voice from the darkness, and Guric stepped back. The voice was strong but cold, and although it was utterly inhuman, there was a timbre to it that still held hints of Valia’s voice. Guric felt a shiver go up his spine, and his mouth suddenly felt very dry.

  “Here, my lord.” Argalath had lit a torch from a brazier the guards used for warmth. He stepped around Guric into the room, holding the torch high and averting his eyes.

  The light pushed back the shadows, revealing a small cell of stone walls and floor, with old clumps of dirty straw the only flooring. The roof was old timber beams and planking of the roof.

  The creature—one glance and Guric could not think of it as Valia—was on the far side of the cell. She crouched against the far wall, still in the fine robes of her burial, though the skirt had been torn to shreds. The skin of her legs and one arm was pale as bone, but blood covered her other arm and face, for in one hand she held a rat, its legs dangling and entrails spilling from where she had torn out its underside with her teeth.

  Guric felt his gorge rise. He clamped one hand over his mouth and took deep breaths through his nose. But that only made it worse, for he could smell the reek of blood and offal—and all around it, something worse. It reminded Guric of an animal stench. An animal of the cold and dark places.

  “Where is my brother?” she said, then buried her face in the rat’s entrails for another mouthful.

  “He has other duties now,” said Argalath. “As we agreed.”

  She swallowed and smiled. There was nothing human or even bestial in the expression. It was merely a movement of muscles and dead skin pulled tight over the teeth. “And what are my … duties?”

  “Your time has not yet come,” said Argalath.

  “And when will my time come?”

  “When your brother has fulfilled his promise.”

  “Hm.” She looked down at the dead rat in her hand. “That might take some time. The tall one there … this one’s body means something to him?”

  “It does. We must take great care of it.”

  “Then I must be fed, or this shell will decay. This”—she dropped the rat and stood—”dulled the edge off my hunger. But if I have to feed off vermin, the tall one here will not like what it does to this body, I think. I will require more fitting food.”

  Guric fled the room.

  Outside the cell, the door shut and locked once again, Argalath put a hand on Guric’s shoulder. The lord of Highwatch leaned against the wall, stared out the window, and took in deep draughts of air.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” said Argalath.

  “Did I … did I take her—” Guric shook his head and cursed. “Its. Did I take its meaning correctly?” “I fear so, my lord.”

  Guric groaned. He swallowed and took in another deep breath before turning to face his chief counselor. “There is no other way?”

  Argalath shook his head. “She will not need to be fed often. We could withhold as much as possible, but I fear the damage that might do to your wife’s body. The body itself—forgive my bluntness, my lord—is still dead, animated only by the spirit occupying her flesh. That … life-force must be fed, lest the body decay.”

  “Fed … people?”

  “Yes. But is the return of your beloved Valia not worth the sacrifice?”

  “This is not sacrifice,” said Guric. “If it were me, that would be sacrifice. To take another’s life … that is murder. Again. More murder.”

  Argalath shrugged and at least had the good sense to try to appear uneasy. “I know of no other way, my lord.”

  Guric turned back to the window. His voice hardened with resolve. “You are certain this hunting party of Kadrigul’s can find the girl?”

  “Q
uite certain,” said Argalath. “We have one who will find her for us.”

  Remembering Soran’s eviscerated corpse and that horror’s talk of summoning her brother, Guric shuddered.

  “Show me.”

  Argalath leaned on Guric for their descent down the stairs. As they took their first steps, Guric said, “You said this happened because a few of our Nar lied about killing Hweilan?”

  “Five of them, my lord,” said Argalath. “And I do not know that they lied. They might have been mistaken.”

  “Find those five, Argalath. They will be that thing’s first dinner guests.”

  “As you command, my lord.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  HWEILAN KNEW THE PREFERRED TORTURE METHODS of the Creel. Scith himself had taught her. If they wanted a victim to take days dying, their favorite method was to bury the victim up to his neck, then slice off the eyelids. But digging a hole in the frozen earth was hard work, and Creel were notoriously lazy. Thus, this was their so-called “summer torture.”

  The rest of the year, their favorite method was to hamstring the victim, sever the tendons at elbows and shoulders, cauterize the wounds, then wait for the wolves to do the rest. Seeing Scith covered in blood and the Creel heating sticks in the fire, Hweilan feared the worst. Feared she might be too late.

  The only bow she had, she could not draw, and she had no arrows. Only her knife and the kishkoman. And there were five Creel down there.

  Then it came to her. Creel, for all their faults, were still Nar, and the life of any Nar warrior was his horse.

  Get the horses.

  She knew the beasts would go mad near her. Horses always did. But that might help. It would certainly take the Creels’ attention off Scith. If she could get close enough to cut the lines, the horses would flee. If she could keep out of sight, most of the Creel would go after the horses.

  If …

  She stashed her father’s bow under the thick leaves of a bush, then set off. She was within a short bowshot of the horses when they began to snort, stamp, and pull at their picket line.

  One of the Creel said, “What is that?”

  Hweilan pulled her knife and ran. Crouching low, she pushed her way through the brush. The horses went mad, screaming and pulling at the single line of rope to which they’d been tethered.

  She could hear the Creel even over the screaming of the horses.

  ‘… horses!”

  “What is it?”

  “If that wolf is back …”

  Hweilan reached the tree around which the picket line had been tied. The horses reared and pulled, their eyes rolling back in their heads.

  From where she stood, she was in full view of the Creel, all of whom had turned to see to their horses. They saw her.

  “Hey!”

  She leaped forward and brought her blade across the picket line in a swift swipe. It snapped, and the horses surged away.

  “Charge!” Hweilan screamed. “Loose arrows! Get them! Get them!”

  Her ruse worked. Every Creel reached for weapons, their eyes scanning the trees.

  Hweilan turned and ran. It worked. She couldn’t believe it. But it worked.

  Creel knew the open grasslands better than the castle chambermaids knew every cell and hallway of Highwatch. But they didn’t know these hills. Not like Hweilan. And they were unused to the trees and thick underbrush.

  Tired, cold, and hungry as she was, Hweilan still managed to lose them. By the time the Creel realized that there were no arrows hissing from the trees and no soldiers bearing down upon them, Hweilan was up in the rocks again, where there was little grass, but lots of the thick bushes whose roots cracked the stone and grew branches tough and pliable as wire. They left few tracks but gave good cover. The first place to hide she found, she took. She couldn’t see their camp, burrowed as she was among the thick evergreen leaves. But she could hear them shouting, some apparently going after the horses while others came after her. None came close.

  Hweilan took deep, careful breaths, slowing her hammering heart. She listened to them arguing which way to chase.

  After awhile, she heard horses galloping away, following the gap between this hill and the next. When the hoofbeats had faded, Hweilan waited, listening. Ravens in the distance. An intermittent breeze rattling the leaves higher up the hill. Nothing more.

  Knife still in hand, Hweilan made her way back down the hill.

  Nothing moved in the camp. All the horses were gone. Not a Creel in sight. Scith lay against the roots of the fallen tree, his chin resting on his blood-spattered chest.

  Hweilan ran to him. It was even worse than she’d feared. The Creel had cut both of Scith’s ankles and sliced through the thick tendons that ran from his shoulders to chest. To keep him from bleeding to death, they’d burned him from heels to halfway up each calf. His left side had been scalded so badly that his shoulder was a blackened husk that faded into red blisters and peeling skin to the center of his chest. But the right shoulder had only been singed and was still leaking blood. The weak pulse of red fluid was the only sign Scith was still alive. Hweilan had seen worse. But the smell … a sickly sweet reek; it caused her stomach to wrench and brought bile up to the back of her throat.

  “Oh, Scith …”

  She reached out but could not bring herself to touch him.

  He’d never walk. Not without a healer.

  Scith lifted his head. Scith was the strongest man she had ever known. Even more than Soran, whose strength lay in his unyielding rigidity. Scith’s strength was deeper. Both kinder and crueler. Primal. But now, his head wobbled with no more strength than an infant’s. His jaw hung slack, and bits of bloody drool ran from the corner of his mouth.

  He took a ragged breath and said, “Behind you!”

  Hweilan whirled.

  One of the Creel was coming out of the brush, a long, curved knife in hand. Watching her watching him, he froze. Neither of them moved. Neither breathed. Then the Creel straightened and smiled.

  “You … no moving,” he said in Damaran. Then he screamed in Nar, “Back! Come back! She’s here!”

  “No!” Hweilan said.

  “You no worry,” the man said. His lips peeled back in what he obviously intended as a smile, but emerged more of a leer. “You beautiful. No cutting for you.”

  “Run,” Scith rasped.

  Hweilan kept her eyes fixed on the Creel. “I’m not leaving you.”

  The Creel’s leer melted away and his eyes hardened. “You drop knife now.”

  She raised it. “No.”

  The Creel tossed his own knife from hand to hand, then twirled it in his right. He began taking slow steps toward her. “You drop it. Or I make you drop it.”

  “Run!” Scith said.

  Hoofbeats in the distance. The other Creel returning. It had all been a ruse to draw her in, and she’d fallen for it.

  The Creel flipped his knife, caught the blade, then flipped it again. The leather-wrapped hilt slapped his naked palm. “Last chance, girl.”

  Hweilan lowered her knife. “I will. Just … just don’t hurt me.”

  Scith let out a long, low groan. “Run,” he whispered.

  Keeping her gaze fixed on the Creel, who was still slowly advancing, Hweilan crouched and set her knife on the ground. Right next to the campfire.

  “Good,” said the Creel. “Good, girl. Step back. Now. By your friend.”

  Hweilan’s hand grasped one of the rocks the Creel had used to surround their fire. The outside of her glove was wet, and it sizzled against the hot stone.

  “What—?” said the man. The sound of hoofbeats was very close now.

  Hweilan stood and threw the rock as hard as she could. Wearing the thick gloves, her aim wasn’t perfect, but the man was only a few paces away now. She aimed for his forehead, but the stone smashed into his mouth. He fell screaming.

  She kicked the contents of the fire over him, then went for her knife. She was shaking all over, and her hand, encumbered by the thick le
ather of the glove, fumbled around the handle. As she scrambled for it, her eyes met Scith’s.

  In that moment of frozen time, that one brief instant between one heartbeat and the next, she saw it. Scith was dying. Each beat of his heart weaker than the last. Each breath a struggle. Every thought a battle. One he would soon fight no more.

  Her fingers closed around the knife, and she turned.

  The Creel was already on his feet, knife in hand. His eyes looked more shocked than hurt or angry. The burning coals she’d kicked on him had singed his outer clothes in spots but done no real harm. He spat a black glob of saliva and blood. Hweilan thought she saw a small chip of white—a tooth—in it.

  “Stupid girl,” he said in Nar. “Maybe I cut you anyway.” A rider broke through the brush and reined in his mount on the edge of the campsite. Three others came in behind him, the last leading the fifth horse. They took in the scene, and all but one of them erupted in laughter.

  “Seems we’re just in time,” the leader in Nar. “Lucky she didn’t kill you.”

  The man on the ground spit another gob of blood and said, “She tricked me.”

  “It’s her,” the man said.

  Everyone looked to who had spoken. It was the rider leading the extra horse. The one who hadn’t shared in the laughter. He was studying Hweilan intently. “The one Argalath wants. The one who hurt Jatara. That’s her.”

  The Creel all returned their attention to Hweilan. None were laughing now, and the man on the ground looked more apprehensive than angry. The riders fanned out, and the unsmiling one let go of the riderless horse. The beast tossed its head, snorted, then trotted back into the woods.

  Hweilan waved her knife. “Stay back!” she said in Nar.

  The nearest rider was only a few dozen paces away now, but he was having trouble getting his horse to come farther. His mount pranced and fought at the reins. Two other riders had gone back to the brush, and Hweilan could hear them trying to circle in behind her.

  Hweilan couldn’t gather her thoughts. Everything in her screamed at her to run, but she knew that even if she could get away—and that seemed very unlikely—she couldn’t leave Scith. Not like this.