Chosen of Nendawen Book 001 - The Fall of Highwatch

by Mark Sehestedt

  At the edge of the pool, right where the glowing vapors evaporated, a tundra tiger lay in a frozen pool of its own blood. Its limbs twitched feebly, and it let out a horrible mewling sound. Its bottom jaw had been broken and ripped open. In fact, it had been damned near ripped off. Only a few bits of bloody skin still held it to the head.

  Kadrigul walked up to it. The tiger’s eye rolled to watch him, but its claws did no more than twitch. Closer up, Kadrigul could see where its back had been broken just above its back legs. The pain had to be so great that Kadrigul couldn’t understand how the beast was still conscious.

  Before he could change his mind, Kadrigul brought his blade around and down, plunging the sharp point deep into the tiger’s throat. He twisted and yanked down, opening a deep gash, then removed the steel. Blood streamed out, and the tiger was dead in moments.

  Kadrigul stepped back and knelt to clean the blood from his sword in the snow.

  “You have killed my favorite pet,” said a voice behind him.

  Kadrigul stood and whirled, his blade held before him. A tall figure stepped out of one of the passageways. He was dressed all in black, loose-fitting clothing and a long cloak of ermine. A crown of twisted leather held long, black hair back from pale skin. His features were lean and sharp, and pointed ears emerged from the locks of hair. An elf or eladrin. At this distance, Kadrigul couldn’t tell for sure.

  Another stood behind him, so alike in appearance and manner that the two might have been brothers.

  “Thrana was my best hunting cat,” said the first.

  “Where is your friend?” said the second. “The big one?”

  Kadrigul said nothing.

  Four of the little blue-skinned creatures emerged from the passage behind them. Between them, they dragged one of the Creel, tangled in at least four of the thorned vines and bleeding from dozens of cuts and scrapes. His eyes were wide and seemed to stare into nothing, but he was still alive. His entire body trembled, and by the smell, Kadrigul could tell he’d soiled himself.

  “I’ll ask you once more,” said the second elf. “Where is the big one?”

  Kadrigul wished he knew.

  “Take him,” said the elf.

  The four creatures dropped their hold on the vines and charged. They held no weapons that Kadrigul could see.

  Kadrigul brought his sword back to strike.

  The elf pointed at the blade, shouted, “Saet tua!” and the sword flew out of Kadrigul’s grip as if snatched by an invisible giant. It struck one of the great shards and bounced off.

  Then the creatures were on him, bearing him to the ground and tearing with tooth and claw. Like rats.

  The thick hide of Kadrigul’s coat and the tough fabric of his clothes were no help against the creatures’ sharp teeth. They shredded through them and into the flesh beneath. Their fingernails were tough as claws and raked at his face and the skin of his ungloved hand. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to protect them from their ravages.

  Then he heard shouting. From the elves, he thought.

  And part of the biting, clawing weight left him. The creatures cried out, and more weight was gone.

  Kadrigul dared to open his eyes.

  Soran stood over him, grabbing the creatures one by one and throwing them. Even as Kadrigul watched, he grabbed another. The creature snarled and bit into Soran’s wrist, but it didn’t save him. Soran whirled and hurled the creature. It flew through the air and smashed into the nearest archway with a bone-crunching smash.

  The remaining creature leaped off Kadrigul and at Soran.

  Soran’s fist caught him in midair. The creature hit the snow and did not move again. But Soran did. He brought his boot down on the creature’s skull, smashing it.

  The elves spread out. One held a long, silver sword in one hand. Green light rippled along its curved edge. The other was waving his hands in an intricate pattern and chanting an incantation.

  Soran went for them, approaching relentlessly like a rising tide.

  The first elf twirled his hand in a final flourish, then balled his fist and struck the air in front of him.

  Hundreds of shards of white light erupted around Soran, whirling and striking him again and again like a cloud of fiery wasps. Skin, flesh, and bits of gray hair were torn from Soran’s face. He growled, but he did not slow his approach.

  The other elf stepped between his fellow and Soran. He screamed something in his own language, then charged, running Soran through with half the length of his blade. Soran coughed up a great gout of black blood—the elf smiled in grim satisfaction—and then Soran grabbed the elf’s sword arm. Even from the distance, Kadrigul could hear the bone crumbling like shale as Soran squeezed. The elf shrieked. Soran reached forward with his other hand, grabbed the elf’s throat, and ripped. The elf fell soundlessly to the ground.

  The remaining elf turned to run, but Soran was too close now. He leaped over the dead elf, the sword still protruding from him, and bore the sole survivor to the ground.

  “No, Soran!” Kadrigul called. “We need him alive!”

  Sitting on the elf’s back, Soran looked over his shoulder, growled, “Very well,” then turned and dislocated both the elf’s arms.

  The elf screamed and writhed, and Soran got off him. Brutal as it was, it was effective. They needed the elf alive—at least for now—but they couldn’t have him casting any more spells.

  Kadrigul’s limbs ached from the bites and claw marks he’d endured. He retrieved his sword from the far side of the pool, and when he returned, Soran was removing the last of the vines from the Creel.

  The man seemed to have come back to his senses somewhat. He was looking back and forth from Soran to Kadrigul. But the sword still protruding from Soran’s stomach seemed to have him very disconcerted.

  Soran looked very much like the corpse Kadrigul knew him to be. His skin was dry and gray as shale. The wounds he’d endured from the elf’s spell would have sent any normal man to the ground, screaming in agony. Soran’s didn’t even bleed. The thorns from the vines had shredded most of the skin from his fingers and palms, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “Ah, gods,” said the Creel. He pointedly looked away from Soran and up at Kadrigul. “Th-thank you. Oh, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” said Kadrigul.

  Soran threw away the last vine and buried his teeth in the man’s throat. The Creel kicked and screamed. But not for long. Soran savaged the man’s throat like a tiger on a deer. Blood sprayed. The sight of it, Kadrigul could take. But the sound of Soran gulping it down like a deprived drunkard turned his stomach.

  Kadrigul turned away. He walked over to the elf, lying on his back near his dead companion. Both his arms hung at crooked angles, and the elf was weeping with the pain.

  Behind him, Kadrigul heard breaking bone and tearing flesh. The elf cried out and shut his eyes. Kadrigul wasn’t sure if it was from terror or pain. Probably both.

  When Soran joined them, he had the Creel’s heart in one bloody fist and was still chewing from where he’d bitten a large chunk. Most of the wounds on his face and hands were gone. With his other hand, he removed the sword from his midsection, spraying the prone elf with dark, stinking blood, then threw the blade away.

  “I feel much better,” said Soran. He took another bite from the heart, chewed, and swallowed.

  The elf cried out something in his own language.

  Wincing at the pain from his many cuts, Kadrigul knelt beside him and said, “Now. You are going to tell us where the girl is.”

  The patrol had still not returned. Jijoku, whose task it was to remain by the portal and watch, had expected them long ago. After the capture of the exile and the girl, the Ujaiyen had suspected there might be more lurking in the valleys. The Nar never came close to their hills. Where two mortals did come, there were sure to be more. No one came that close to their lands unless they were up to something. So the Ujaiyen had continued their hunt.

  But they should have been back by n
ow.

  The storm’s fury had begun shortly after dawn. Jijoku relished the fresh cold and the beauty that the snowfall brought to his home. But it was falling so heavily now that he could no longer see the portal.

  If it had just been Jijoku’s brothers and the tiger, it might have not been so worrisome. The uldra often reveled in their hunts too long when game—two-legged or four-legged—was plentiful. But the eladrin Amarhan and Teirel had been leading the company. They were never late.

  Unless they’d found something.

  “They should have been back by now,” Jijoku muttered to himself.

  It was snowing even harder. He’d waited longer than he should have. A sentry who could no longer see what he was supposed to be watching wasn’t much of a sentry. Time to move.

  Jijoku retrieved his spears and hopped down from the outcropping of rocks where he’d been hiding. His bare feet had no trouble finding traction in the snow as he hopped and slid down the incline.

  Even as the ancient tree, bowed over as if forever frozen in the wind, came back into sight, Jijoku thought he saw the last of telltale shimmer fading from its branches. Had something just come through?

  He gripped his spears—one ready in one hand, two held loosely in the other—and advanced more cautiously.

  Something was leaning against the bole of the ancient tree. It didn’t move of its own accord, but the gusting wind caused something to ripple. Some sort of fabric.

  Jijoku raised his spear and approached.

  It was Amarhan. Both of his arms hung at twisted angles that made Jijoku wince. The eladrin’s eyes were wide with panic, and he panted like a deer brought to ground by wolves.

  Amarhan’s eyes locked on Jijoku, and his mouth moved.

  Jijoku stepped closer. “What?”

  “Run!” Amarhan gasped.

  Jijoku turned in time to see the sword descending. Then he saw no more.

  “No,” Kadrigul said, as he knelt to clean his sword. “Don’t.”

  Soran emerged from the swirling snow like a ship through a storm.

  “Are there more guards?” Kadrigul asked him.

  “Not anymore.” Soran closed his eyes and leaned his head back, like a man might bask in the sun. A smile spread across his lips, but it was the most inhuman thing Kadrigul had ever seen. No joy. Not even malice. Just the pulling of lips back over the teeth.

  “You can sense her again?” said Kadrigul.

  “Oh, yes. She burns like sun’s first light. So much brighter here.”

  Kadrigul scowled. He had no idea what that meant. “You can find her? You’re certain?”

  “Quite certain,” said Soran.

  Kadrigul stood and walked over to the eladrin. They wouldn’t be needing him any longer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I’M NOT LEAVING WITHOUT MY FATHERS BOW,” SAID Hweilan.

  Menduarthis frowned. The warm light from the hearth fire burned low, setting a flamelike halo around his hair. But the blue light from the goblet on the table lit his pale face, setting his eyes and the folds of his frown in deep shadows. All in all, it gave him a maniacal aspect.

  “Hmm,” he said. “That could be difficult, I’m afraid. I may be the queen’s hound, but Roakh is her main meddler. Your things are with him.”

  “Then we go see Roakh.”

  “You think he’s just going to hand over your things?”

  “We ask nicely,” said Hweilan. “If he refuses, we take them. Less than nicely if necessary.”

  “You’re ready to cross that bridge?” Menduarthis said. “Once you do, there’s no coming back.”

  “I’m not leaving without my father’s bow. It’s all I have left of him.”

  “You have your blood. If you rouse the queen’s ire, she’ll take that as well.”

  “Not without a fight.”

  Menduarthis watched her in silence. She returned his gaze without flinching.

  “How far are you prepared to go?” he asked.

  “As far as necessary.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone before, Hweilan? I mean a person—not a beast, not something intended for your table.”

  She remembered her first day on the run. The Creel chasing her down. The fear and anger in the man’s voice—Face me! Come out and—

  If she tried, she could still feel the shock going up her arms as she plunged her knife into the man’s throat. She had killed him. No doubt.

  But that had been different. The man had been hurting her, and she’d struck out. This would be different. This would be going after what she wanted and being faced with the stark reality of killing whoever got in her way.

  “Are you a killer, Hweilan?” Menduarthis asked.

  “Not … not like this,” she said. “But I have to start some time.”

  Menduarthis donned the armor he had worn the first time she’d seen him then donned a blue cloak over it. Had his wild, black hair not spoiled the image, he would have looked every inch the prince.

  He disappeared into the hallway again and returned with a large bundle. Fresh clothes for Hweilan. Not the leather and animal hides Lendri had provided for her, but fine clothing of an excellent cut. The material felt soft as fine linen over her skin, but it was thick as tent cloth and, he assured her, would keep her warm. Loose trousers and tunic, a jerkin that fell past her hips, all a dark gray that would fade into shadows, snow, and stone. Over that a sort of sleeveless robe with a deep cowl, rimmed in fur, all black, as were the belt, gloves, and boots he gave her. And over that a thick cloak made from the white fur of some animal. He even had the grace to turn his back while she changed.

  “How do I look?” she asked when all was done.

  “You don’t look like you,” he said, “and that’s the important thing. Keep the hood up, and you’ll pass a casual glance for one of the eladrin. Just pretend everyone is beneath you. Also very eladrin.”

  He turned and rummaged through a chest of black wood set against the wall. Peeking over his shoulder, Hweilan could see only more clothes, but when he stood and extended his hands, a long knife in a scabbard rested across both his palms.

  “In case we run into trouble before … well, before.”

  She took it from him and drew the blade. It was single-edged, the point ending in a slight curve. The blade alone was as long as her forearm, and the silver steel was etched in curving designs that seemed to evoke wind and clouds.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Keep it under the cloak,” he said. “No sense in asking for trouble.” He reached inside his own jacket and pulled out a small phial. “One more thing.”

  “Halbdol?”

  “You’re still in Kunin Gatar’s realm, and it’s still very cold. You’ll want it. Trust me.”

  “Why don’t you need it?”

  “A long tale. For another day.”

  She closed her eyes, and Menduarthis applied a thick coat all around her eyes, painting a sort of mask. But her hair kept falling in the way. Her eyes still closed, she felt him brushing the hair back behind her ear, very gently with the backs of his fingers. His touch lingered a bit too long, and she pulled away.

  “Let me do something about my hair,” she said. Feeling her face flush, she turned away.

  “Here,” said Menduarthis. “Try this.”

  She turned back around. He was holding out a long silk scarf, a dark red, like heart’s blood.

  “It’s lovely,” she said. As she took it, the scent of a feminine perfume wafted out from it—fading, but still there. She gave him a wicked smile. “Something tells me I’m not the first lady to enjoy your hospitality.”

  He grinned back. “So you are enjoying me, then?”

  Hweilan took the scarf, swept her hair back off her head, and bound the cloth atop her head.

  She held out her hand for the phial. “I can do the rest.”

  “As you wish,” said Menduarthis.

  Rather than another death mask, Hweilan smeared the hal
bdol on one finger and covered most of her face, neck and ears.

  “Most fearsome,” said Menduarthis. “Let’s do this.”

  He walked over to an open space on the floor between the shuttered windows and motioned toward the floor with one fist. With a rush of air, a door flew up from the floor and banged against the wall.

  Remembering the night she’d first met Menduarthis, and being reminded of his powers now, Hweilan asked, “You’re a sorcerer?”

  “Nothing so droll,” he said. “Let’s get today over with, then we can get to know each other properly.”

  Hweilan felt herself blushing again and was grateful for the black paste covering her face.

  They stepped outside, into a gust of frigid air and snow. The cold hit like a slap, and Hweilan cried out.

  “Hmm,” said Menduarthis. “Good thing you painted yourself with the halbdol after all. Looks as if Kunin Gatar’s in a mood today.”

  They stood on the broad ledge of a cliff. How far it ascended over the ledge and fell below, she couldn’t tell, for the snow hid everything beyond a few dozen feet. She saw another round door and shuttered window peeking through the snow. Whether they were other dwellings or more of Menduarthis’s, it didn’t much matter now. Hweilan knew she’d either be dead or gone from this place before the day was done.

  Menduarthis led her down more steps—none with rails, and she walked as close as she could to the rock wall—along more paths along cliffside ledges, and across stone bridges where the wind seemed determined to push her over the edge. She clutched at the insides of her cloak to keep it near her body, not just for warmth, for she feared if the wind caught it, it would fill like a sail and throw her into depths where she might fall forever.

  Only the halbdol kept her face and eyes from freezing, but her breath came out in great clouds that froze into snow only inches from her face before being swept away by the gale.