The man with the knife began to creep forward again. He gave her a bloody smile. “We’ll be rich.”
“You need to catch her first,” said the leader. He’d brought his horse in behind the man on the ground and was trying to bring it around to her left, but the beast seemed reluctant to get too close. “Put the knife down, girl. We’ll get the fire going again, have some hot food, then go back to your home. We’ll even see what we can do for your friend.”
“Home?” Hweilan had a hard time spitting out the word. She remembered the smoke, the glow of fires in the distance. The corpses outside the wall.
Vandalar feeds the crows. …
Your mother is dead. …
She screamed, more grief than fury, and charged.
The leader’s horse shrieked and bucked away, its rider cursing as he tried to get it under control. Part of Hweilan’s mind heard the other horses charging, but she focused all her attention on the man with the knife.
She made her attack clumsy. A feint, bringing the open edge of her knife around in a wide arc aimed for the man’s face. He stepped back, caught her wrist easily, and squeezed.
“Now,” he said. “Drop the kn—
All breath shot out of his body as the toe of Hweilan’s boot hit him between the legs. His grip on her wrist melted away. She yanked her hand free and felt the edge of her knife slice through his glove and into flesh. He tried to scream and lurch away at the same time, but his knees collapsed beneath him.
Hweilan raised the knife and lunged.
Something hard struck her in the back. Pain flared through both shoulders and she fell, the Creel she’d kicked scrambling away. She rolled over to see the man who had first recognized her. He’d forsaken his horse and was running toward her on foot. A few paces away, Hweilan saw the spear that had hit her. He’d thrown it shaft first.
“Got her!”
Another Creel fell on her right arm, both his hands locked around her wrist.
Hweilan shrieked and punched at him with her free hand, but he held on. She got in four good hits before another man grabbed her arm.
“No!” Hweilan screamed and kicked and twisted, but the men were too strong. “Let me go!” Hweilan looked up. The leader was standing nearby, a spear in hand.
“You will drop the knife,” he said. “Hard way or easy. You w—”
He stumbled, his jaw went slack, and he fell face forward. An arrow—pale shaft, black feathers—sprouted from his back. It had pierced his heart.
The men holding her let go and scrambled to their feet. Another arrow hit the man on her right. He screamed and went down. The other ran for the woods. He was only a few paces away from the nearest trees when another arrow took him in the back. He went down and did not move again.
The second man to be hit was still screaming as he struggled to his feet. The arrow protruded from his side, just above his hip. His face was a grimace of agony, but he held a spear in one hand and knife in the other as he faced the woods.
“Face me!” he screamed. “Come out and—”
Hweilan took three quick steps toward him and buried her knife in his throat. The shock of the steel hitting bone traveled up her arm. The man stumbled back, staring at her, his eyes wide with shock. His mouth moved, trying to speak, then he fell. The knife was caught in bone, and she could not keep hold of it. The man’s legs kicked once, the breath went out of him, and for a moment only, all was silence.
She could not look away. The world around her seemed to stop, everything focused on the dead man at her feet. She had killed him. Killed a man. She had killed many animals in her life. But this was the first time she had killed another thinking being. He would never love or laugh or cry again. Never breathe. Because of what she had done.
But she was not sorry. In fact, something deep inside her, some smoldering rage, exulted in it. She had to resist the urge to throw back her head and bellow.
Then she heard the horses galloping away. Somewhere in the woods, a man was screaming. There was the brief growl of an animal, then the man screamed no more.
Hweilan heard movement behind her and turned. The only surviving Creel, the one who had first confronted her, was standing in a sort of crouch, his knees still trembling. Blood streaked down his chin. He held his knife again, but his hand was shaking.
“You …” he said.
Hweilan spun and grabbed the hilt of her knife. She pulled, twisted, and pulled again, but the knife would not come free.
“You!” The man was coming for her.
“Stop!” said a new voice, speaking Damaran.
Both of them turned in the direction of the voice. A figure stood just at the edge of the trees. Tall, lean, dressed all in skins and furs. The bits of skin showing between his coat and fur cap were pale as the snow, but intricate inks twisted vinelike patterns across his cheeks and round his eyes, making them seem very bright. One was a blue pale as winter sky, but the left eye was a vibrant green. His hair was light as his skin and gossamer fine. The slightest breeze set the long locks wisping around his face, save for two thick braids knotted before each ear. And those ears rose into sharp points. An elf.
The newcomer held a thick bow of some pale wood, an arrow nocked and ready, though he held it low, with only the slightest tension on the string.
The elf looked to Hweilan. “Get your knife,” he said.
“I kill you!” said the Creel. “Kill you both!”
“She is unarmed,” said the elf. “You will wait, or I will feather you where you stand.” He fixed those eyes on Hweilan. “Get your knife. Now.”
She tugged and twisted. The blade moved, making a mangled mess of the dead man’s throat, but the point was lodged deep in bone.
“Put your boot on his throat and pull,” said the elf. “But take care not to slice your foot when the blade comes free.”
She looked at him. Who was this stranger, and why was he helping her? Or was he? Was he only waiting until she had steel in hand to turn the bow on her? He raised an eyebrow in question.
Hweilan planted her left boot on the corpse’s throat, grabbed the knife with both hands, and pulled. A moment’s resistance, and the blade came free. Hweilan fell hard on her rump, and a line of blood—still warm and steaming—splattered across her face.
The Creel was looking back and forth between her and the elf. He was panting, and by the look in his eyes, Hweilan knew he was barely holding back panic.
“Crooked Knife!” the Creel shrieked, a ragged edge to his voice. “Help!”
“Your friend is dead,” said the elf. “Your horses are gone.” He looked to Hweilan again. “I can kill him now, or you can. By rights, he is yours. But you seem rather …” He shrugged. “Out of sorts.”
“You want me to kill him?”
The elf relaxed the tension on his bow, then slid the arrow into a quiver on his belt. He scowled, seeming a little puzzled, then said, “I ask what you want. His life is yours, by right.”
The Creel screamed and charged the elf.
The elf looked up, almost casually, and drew a sword from a scabbard he wore on his back. It was somewhere between a short and long sword, sharp only on one edge, and slightly curved near the end. A long tassel of braided leather and bits of fur dangled from the end of the leather-wrapped hilt.
Several paces away from the elf, the Creel threw the spear. The elf leaped aside, and the shaft sailed past him to land in the bushes.
The Creel looked at the elf’s sword, looked at the knife in his hand, then turned and ran. He made it into the trees, and the elf did nothing.
“You aren’t—?” she said, then she heard the growling of an animal, followed by the shrieks of the Creel. He didn’t scream long.
“He is … taken care of,” said the elf.
He sheathed his sword and walked over to stand before her. Still holding his bow in one hand, he spread the other in an open gesture and said, “I am called Lendri. You are Hweilan, daughter of Merah, are you not?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ONE OF THE GREAT DISADVANTAGES, IN GURIC’S mind, of a fortress the size of Highwatch was that it took so damnably long to get from one place to the next. All the winding stairways and halls of the outer fortress were bad enough, but Vandalar’s dwarves had burrowed dozens of tunnels through the western cliffs. It was into these that Argalath, after retrieving Jatara and Guric’s two guards, led them. Into the deep dark of the mountain itself.
The tunnel was tall enough for Guric to walk upright, but the walls and ceiling were still unfinished stone, broken only by occasional support beams.
Argalath had buried his face deep in his crimson cowl. Even now, he kept it up, for both of Guric’s guards—one leading, one trailing—held lamps, and in the close confines of the tunnel, their light was very bright.
“What is this place?” the lead guard asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
“A mine at first,” said Argalath.
He spoke like a host giving his guests a tour. The patronizing tone rekindled Guric’s anger. How could the man seem so damnably content when their plans had gone so wrong?
“When the mine turned up nothing,” Argalath continued, “the burrowers began expanding it for storage and future dwellings. See there.”
They passed a doorway on their right. A stout frame of worked stone supported the arch, but there was no door, and beyond the stone floor had been smoothed only a few feet. The rest of chamber was raw rock.
“See,” said Argalath. “Very new.”
“Enough talk,” said Guric. “Get this done.”
They passed two more such chambers when they saw light before them. In the middle of the floor, a large lamp filled the tunnel with yellow light and the strong scent of oil. More light glowed from a doorway to the left. This one showed no stonework whatsoever, beyond the cutting of the tunnel itself.
Argalath stopped. “My lord,” he said, “our men should wait here.”
Guric nodded at his own men and gave Jatara a look that told her that “our men” included her. He reached out for Argalath to lean upon him.
One of the strange Nar with the shaven head and single topknot stepped into the doorway. One quick glance took in their procession. His eyes settled on Guric and Argalath, and he gave a slight bow. The man and Argalath exchanged a series of words, then the Nar stepped aside.
“Ah,” said Argalath. “It seems we are just in time. Our hound is ready for the hunt.”
Another Nar stepped out of the doorway and into the tunnel. A third man followed. He was bare from the waist up, his chest and stomach smeared and spattered with blood, and his hands and forearms were covered with blackish gore.
Kadrigul emerged from the room, whispered, “It is done, master,” to Argalath, and then he too stepped aside.
Another figure stepped into the doorway, and all the breath escaped Guric in a gasp of utter shock.
The newcomer had to stoop to get through the doorway. He was taller even than Guric, who looked down on everyone else in the tunnel. The figure was naked, save for a ragged loincloth. His pale skin had a sickly yellow cast in the soft lamplight.
It was Soran. No mistaking that carved-from-granite visage, the square jaw and deep-set eyes. But now the eyes were black, whether from the unnatural light in the tunnel or something else, Guric could not determine. And the wounds that had killed him—he’d been gutted like a deer—were completely healed.
“Gods, Argalath,” said Guric. “What have we done?”
“What all strong leaders must do,” said Argalath. “What is necessary.”
Later that morning, Guric and Argalath, their guards keeping a respectful distance, stood behind the parapet of the outer bailey wall, watching the hunting party disappear in the distance.
“You’re certain it can find her?” Guric asked Argalath.
“Yes, my lord.”
“How?”
Argalath thought a moment before replying. “Soran’s flesh is dead. Still the flesh is of Hweilan’s family. His blood runs in her veins through Vandalar. What’s inside Soran can use that. He will be able to sense her.”
“Like a hound.”
“Something like that, yes. Furthermore, seeing her uncle riding after her, the girl might not flee. She might even run to his arms.”
Guric grunted. “Once she’s close enough … she’d never mistake that thing for Soran.”
Argalath smiled. “Once she’s close enough, it won’t much matter.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?” SAID HWEILAN. “I heard the kishkoman,” said the elf. “Yesterday. In these lands, a human with a kishkoman … there’s only two people you could be. Hweilan or Merah. You are too young to be Merah.”
Her mother’s words came back to her.
The whistle is beyond the hearing of most folk. But our people, Hweilan, we are … not like others. If you find yourself in danger, if you need help, blow this, and we will hear.
“You … you’re Vil Adanrath,” she said.
The elf cocked his head, and his brows narrowed. “Of course. What did you think?”
“I …” She didn’t know what to say.
“We should see to this one.” The elf waved in Scith’s direction.
Hweilan stumbled over to Scith. Her heartbeat was calming, and her knees suddenly felt weak. She dropped her bloody knife and sat beside him. His head had fallen again, his chin resting on his chest. But a faint trickle of blood still leaked from his shoulder wound.
The elf knelt on the other side of Scith. He frowned.
“I am no priest,” said the elf. “His wounds are beyond my skills.” He looked to Hweilan and set a hand to the knife at his belt. “I could ease his passing.”
“No!”
At her shout, Scith’s eyes fluttered. He tried to raise his head but failed.
Fighting back tears, Hweilan took his face in her hands and lifted his head. She eased it back against the frost-encrusted soil between the fallen tree’s roots. His eyes opened, focused on Hweilan, then looked to the elf.
“You!” he gasped.
“You know each other?” said Hweilan.
“You …” Scith said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “Stay … away. From. Her!”
“I have done as the lady asked,” said the elf. “I have honored her wishes.”
“What are you talking about?” said Hweilan.
Scith’s gazed returned to Hweilan. She saw his pupils flare, then his eyes rolled back in his head. His entire body trembled as he exhaled his last breath. Blood no longer flowed from his open wound.
“Scith?” said Hweilan. “Scith?” She shook him. His head flopped forward and struck his chest, causing his jaw to snap shut. Lifeless as a canvas doll. “Scith!”
“I am sorry,” said the elf.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and the tears spilled, freezing on her cheeks. She scrubbed at them with the back of her glove.
“Hweilan—”
She grabbed her knife with both hands and pointed it at the elf. “Who are you, and how do you know my name?”
The elf looked down, seemingly unconcerned at the blood-smeared steel trembling only a few inches from his nose. “I have told you my name,” he said. “Lendri.”
A growl, so deep that Hweilan felt it rattling her gut, came from behind her. Still holding the knife, she turned her head and saw a wolf standing on the edge of the campsite. The largest wolf she had ever seen, it easily outweighed her. One paw stood off the ground, as if frozen in midstep. Every gray hair on its body stood on end, it held its ears erect and forward, and its lips—still smeared with blood—were peeled back from long teeth.
“Lower your knife,” said Lendri. “You’re making me uneasy. Hechin doesn’t like it when I’m uneasy.”
Hweilan remembered the sounds of the men screaming in the woods and how they had suddenly cut off. Seeing the wolf’s bloody muzzle …
She lowered the knife.
The wolf opened its
jaws wide, almost in a yawn, then padded over to nuzzle the elf, a low whine emanating from its throat.
“A friend of yours?” said Hweilan.
The elf smiled. “More of a cousin.”
“I want some answers.”
The smile melted off Lendri’s face, and he pushed the wolf away. “We should see to your friend first.”
Lendri spoke as he worked. He drew his knife—a long flat piece of silvery steel, shining like ice, etched with runes, hilt bound in thin strips of some dark leather—and cut the thick coils of horsehair rope around Scith’s wrists.
“I am Vil Adanrath,” he said as he sliced. Scith’s right hand fell limp to the ground. “As was your mother—or half so, anyway. Her mother was Thewari, of the Red Horizon band. Her father … well, that’s another tale. Thewari’s grandfather”—he reached over and sliced the rope binding Scith’s left hand; it fell, limp as a wet coil, onto Hweilan’s knee, and she recoiled—”was Gyaidun, who was rathla to me.”
“Rathla,” said Hweilan. “I … I know this word. My … my mother told me. Told me stories. It means …” She searched her memory for the right words.
“Blood-bound, in your tongue,” said Lendri. He opened his right hand and pretended to draw his blade across it. There, bisecting his palm, was an old scar, almost blue against his pale white skin. “Brothers of the same mother are yachinehra, ‘milk-brothers.’ It is said that the gods choose your yachinehra, but rathla choose each other. Brothers in blood.”
“I … I don’t know what that means,” said Hweilan.
“It means that I swore an oath to your grandmother’s grandfather. Blood to blood. His blood binds me still. To you and to your mother.”
“My mother is dead.” Hweilan couldn’t believe how easily it came out. After the horror of this day, it already seemed distant. But saying the words, her next breath caught in her throat and threatened to come out a sob.
The elf’s eyebrows shot up. The wolf, sensing his tension, let out another low growl. “Merah is … dead?”
“Yesterday,” said Hweilan. She took a deep, calming breath. “Creel sacked Highwatch. Vandalar, the Knights … my mother. All dead.”
Chosen of Nendawen Book 001 - The Fall of Highwatch Page 9
