Chosen of Nendawen Book 001 - The Fall of Highwatch

by Mark Sehestedt

  Hweilan saw no other living creatures, but she could sense things watching them from the storm. Sometimes with only simple curiosity. But once, as they passed underneath an overhang of black rock, she could feel malice washing over her, like a foul stench, and Menduarthis called over the shriek of the wind, “Best stay close here!”

  She didn’t ask why, and the feeling soon passed.

  They continued on, rounding a bend in the mountain and walking into the face of the wind. Every step brought them closer to the palace. They were walking into the heart of the storm.

  By the time they reached the frozen river, the light was beginning its slow fade to evening, and the new snow was up to Hweilan’s knees. With no snowshoes, they had to wade through it. But Menduarthis had spoken truly about the clothes he’d given her: even walking into the wind, Hweilan wasn’t cold.

  Menduarthis kept near the base of the cliff, for out on the snow-covered ice, uldra were racing down the river in sleds affixed with large sails. They moved incredibly fast, and although Hweilan caught only glimpses of them through the snow, she thought by the snatches of laughter she heard that most of the sailors were children.

  As they neared the section of the cliff, on the other side of which lay the main gate, two uldra passed them riding on the back of a great swiftstag. Menduarthis spoke to them in their language—Hweilan tense and looking elsewhere the whole time—then they rode off. She watched them go until the great beast was lost to the storm.

  “I thought they rode tigers,” Hweilan said to Menduarthis.

  “Only the Ujaiyen,” he said, “the queen’s scouts. Other uldra ride swiftstags, wolves, rams. I’ve heard rumors there’s one old fellow a ways upriver who has tamed a bear. But on the rivers and fields, they love their sailsleds. Not much good up in the mountains and woods, though.”

  Another sailsled raced by, just a swift shadow passed through the swirling snow. The sound of laughter lingered after the sled was lost to sight.

  “Who said there are no benefits to a queen’s wrath?” said Menduarthis

  He led Hweilan to the cliffside. Under the snow, Hweilan could feel her boots cracking on something that felt like dry branches—many of them too thick to break and simply threatening to trip her.

  She knelt in the snow and rummaged under it until her glove brushed up against one of the branches. She grabbed it and pulled it out. It wasn’t a branch. It was a bone. A leg bone by the looks of it. She was no expert on such things, but its narrow length looked very much like a human leg bone. She tossed it aside, then found another. Definitely a rib. When her other hand brushed up against something more round, she closed her eyes and swallowed hard, fearing what it was. Her fears proved true. Her hand emerged from the snow with the upper half of a human skull.

  She looked up at Menduarthis. “What is this?”

  He pointed up. “We’re here.”

  Hweilan looked up. The falling snow obscured everything above a few dozen feet. But she could just make out where the wall of the cliff began to lean out a little.

  “We’re where?” she asked.

  “You said you wanted your things back.”

  “Roakh lives here?” Hweilan looked back down at the skull in her hand and remembered her meeting with Roakh in the palace. Memory of the old nightmare came to her again, of ravens on the battlefield, their dead, black eyes eager for hers.

  “For the moment,” said Menduarthis, and it took Hweilan a moment to catch his meaning.

  She reached behind her back and drew the knife that Menduarthis had given her. “I’m ready,” she said.

  Menduarthis extended his hand. “Very well,” he said. “Come here.”

  Hweilan walked to him, the knife held loosely at her side, and stopped just shy of his hand.

  “Don’t you trust me?” said Menduarthis.

  “I’m here, am I not?”

  “That’s not what I meant. Roakh’s up there.” He pointed to the cliff wall above them. “I can get us there, but not like this. You must suffer my embrace for a few moments.”

  Hweilan scowled. “Suffer your—?”

  Menduarthis lunged, adder-quick, taking her in a tight embrace, his arms pinning her own. She stiffened as she felt his cool skin press against her cheek, but he only held her tighter. Then the breath of his whisper in her ear. “No one likes a coward. Trust me.”

  Before she could react, she felt a great rush of air—not the storm, this gale was narrow, concentrated, and under the control of strong will. She almost panicked and tried to fight her way free, but she remembered exactly how Menduarthis had captured her in the first place, and she decided to trust him. Just this once. She could always use the knife once he let her go.

  The wind swirled around them, so fast and fierce that it felt almost solid. Menduarthis held her very tight, and she suddenly found it hard to breathe.

  The air hit them, a physical blow that knocked them off their feet.

  No, Hweilan realized. It was lifting them. They had lurched, but not down. The cyclone was lifting them up, faster and faster each moment.

  Hweilan felt a scream building in her chest, and just when she could contain it no more, the cyclone was gone, the wind simply dissipating. Still in Menduarthis’s tight embrace, Hweilan fell. Not far, but enough to clamp her teeth together.

  They hit a snow-covered ledge of rock and rolled. When they stopped, Hweilan was on her back, Menduarthis on top of her.

  He pulled the upper half of his body up and looked down on her. He had a dark smear of halbdol across one cheek where he had rubbed against her. “Do you trust me now?”

  She pushed him away with her free hand. “A lot less than I did a moment ago.”

  They got up. Hweilan found herself on a curving lip of rock several feet wide. Up here, the wind from the storm was stronger, and less snow had gathered. The litter of bones was much more evident. Four skulls—one of which still had bits of flesh and hair clinging to the scalp—and countless random bones strewn about. Even in the wind, the ledge reeked.

  Set amid the cliffside was a round window, closed by a thick shutter. It hadn’t been crafted by planks of wood, but seemed rather to have been grown or molded, almost like the parchmentlike outer wall of a wasp’s nest.

  “Follow my lead,” said Menduarthis. He walked over to the shutter and raised a fist.

  The shutter flew outward, barely missing Menduarthis and revealing the upper half of Roakh, standing on a lower floor just inside the window. Snowflakes sprinkled him, laying against his gray skin and black hair in stark contrast.

  “Govuled, Menduarthis,” he said. “I thought I heard—” His gaze found Hweilan. She felt it, almost like a physical touch, those black eyes, void of all warmth and emotion save one. Hunger. “What have we here? Brought me a gift, have you?”

  Roakh’s eyes flicked to the naked blade in Hweilan’s hand. His eager gaze was just turning to a scowl when—

  Menduarthis said, “I have.

  “And what is the precious gift’s name?”

  “Boot.”

  “Boot?” Roakh looked up at Menduarthis—

  —and Menduarthis kicked him in the face.

  Roakh fell backward into the room, and Menduarthis jumped in after him. Hweilan’s eyes, accustomed to the glare of the snowstorm—fading as it was to evening, it was still bright compared to the gloom beyond the window—could not see the two men, but she could hear Roakh’s surprised croak, followed by the sound of more blows landing.

  Inside her gloves, Hweilan’s palms felt hot and slick. She tightened her grip on the knife and approached the window. Closer up, she could see bits of the room beyond. A hallway not much wider than the window continued a short distance into a larger room beyond. Still no sign of Menduarthis or Roakh, but she could hear frenzied movement inside.

  “Hweilan!” Menduarthis called. “Do come in. It’s rude to linger outside windows. Someone watching might think we were up to something.”

  She jumped inside. Keepin
g her back to the window, she walked forward, the knife held in front of her. She could feel her arms and legs trembling like plucked harp strings, and her breath seemed very loud in her ears.

  The room beyond was a wreck. Round walls and a domed ceiling, it seemed—much like Menduarthis’s dwelling had—to be more of a cave molded from the rock of the mountain. Shelves lined the wall to her left, each crammed full with bits of clothing, old boots, weapons, jewelry, brass lamps, scrolls, books and pieces of books, and many things Hweilan couldn’t identify. Piles of similar items lay around the room, on tabletops, on the floor, and more bundles of sackcloth or net hung from the ceiling, every one packed full.

  Menduarthis, a thin trickle of blood dripping down his chin, stood in front of the far door. Roakh, his mouth a mess of blood and broken teeth, one side of his face already swelling, stood pressed against the far wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  “Treachery!” Roakh screamed, and it came out more of a croak than a cry. “You know what happens to traitors here. Kunin Gatar will flay you for this.”

  “Perhaps,” said Menduarthis. “But not today. Today, you will give us what we want.”

  “I’ll tell you where he is,” said Roakh. “Just … don’t hurt me anymore.”

  “Where who is?” said Menduarthis.

  “Lendri. Please! He’s … he’s still alive. The queen ordered him taken to the Thorns. She wants him to die where Miel Edellon died.”

  Menduarthis pursed his lips and nodded, taking this in. “Very nice,” he said. “But that’s not why we’re here, old crow.”

  Roakh’s eyes widened. “What … do you want?”

  “Hweilan here has come for her things,” said Menduarthis. “Her father’s bow.”

  Hweilan nodded. “I want it.”

  Menduarthis smiled down on Roakh, and a shiver went down Hweilan’s spine. It was the first time she had seen such an expression from him: pure, undisguised, joyful malice. “I think you know what I have come for, old crow.”

  Roakh pushed himself away from the wall and into a crouch, his limbs trembling with fury and pain. He glared at Menduarthis a long moment, then said, “Why?”

  Menduarthis shrugged. “Why not?”

  Roakh leaped at Hweilan. His form blurred and twisted to wings, feathers, and long, sharp claws, aiming for Hweilan’s face.

  Menduarthis flicked his wrist and thrust an open palm at Roakh. Wind roared through chamber, blowing scrolls off shelves, ripping pages from books, and setting the dangling nets and bundles to swaying. But one directed current of air struck Roakh full force and smashed him into an upper shelf. Hweilan winced at the sound of cracking wood and bone, then Roakh, shocked back into his elflike form again, hit a table below, smashing it beneath him and scattering jewels and coins all over the floor.

  “Best not try that again,” said Menduarthis. “Hollow bird bones break so easily.”

  Roakh lay writhing atop the smashed table, clutching at his right side and moaning.

  “You broke my arm, you—” The rest of Roakh’s rant faded into a long string of words in another language that Hweilan was quite sure were curses.

  “Give the lady her bow,” said Menduarthis as he walked over to stand over Roakh. He bent down and began to stuff his pockets with jewels and coins. “Be good, and I’ll leave you tied and gagged in one of your nets. Continue being … difficult, and—well, have you ever seen an old wineskin filled with too much wine? Imagine what would happen if the air in your wretched frame did the same thing.”

  Menduarthis stood and twirled his fingers in an intricate pattern, and Hweilan felt a breeze waft through the room. Roakh gasped—

  No, not a gasp. Air was rushing into his lungs, very much against his will. He clamped his jaws shut, then pressed his unbroken hand across his nose. His eyes widened with fear, and tears leaked down the sides of his face.

  “I can shove it in through your ears,” said Menduarthis, “though we won’t be able to continue our conversation once all the little bones in there get shoved down your throat. So give”—he kicked Roakh in the ribs once, a rib cracking under the blow—” the girl”—another kick, and Roakh dropped the hold on his nose—”what”—another kick, this one aimed at Roakh’s knee—”she wants!”

  “Ah!” Roakh screamed. “Stop! Stop, please! I’ll do it.”

  Menduarthis stopped his assault and dropped his hands to his sides.

  “Just … just help me up,” said Roakh. “I’ll, ah!” He winced in pain. “I’ll get them.”

  “No,” said Menduarthis. “You point, and we’ll get them.”

  Roakh glared at him. Menduarthis raised one hand again, his fingers already twirling again.

  “No!” Roakh screamed. He pointed in Hweilan’s direction. “Under the pile! There!”

  She turned. Shoved up against the wall not far from the hallway was a jumble of cloaks, clothes, and what looked like an old tapestry.

  “Careful, Hweilan,” said Menduarthis. “This one’s a trickster.”

  She peeled back and tossed aside the thick fabrics with the tip of her knife. At first there were just more of the same, then she came across a long tassel, a bit of rope that looked fit only for burning, then under an old leather jerkin was a familiar bundle. One of Lendri’s belt pouches. The larger one. She grabbed it and opened it. Inside was a whetstone, bowstrings, arrowheads, a few wooden phials stopped with tightly rolled felt, and a ring. Not gold. Darker and redder. More like copper, with darker etchings all around it. The ring he had used to summon the fire for Scith’s pyre. She closed the pouch and tucked it under her belt.

  Digging through more clothes and another bit of tapestry, she found her old knife and her father’s bow. She gasped with relief, tears welling in her eyes. She slipped the knife into her boot, sheathed the new blade Menduarthis had given her, and cradled the bow to her chest.

  Standing and turning to face Menduarthis, she wiped the tears from her eyes. “It’s here. Everything I need.”

  “Good.” Menduarthis looked down on Roakh. “Now, back to business.”

  He raised his hand, his fingers twirling, and Roakh’s eyes went wide. “No! You promised!”

  “And I’m a liar,” said Menduarthis, a stiff breeze already wafting through the room. “Even if I could trust you not to go cawing off to the queen the moment we leave—and I can’t do that, can I?—the truth is I never liked you, you conniving, greedy, gluttonous little bastard. You’ve had this coming for a long time, and I am going to enjoy myself.”

  Roakh clamped his jaw shut again and grabbed his nose. Tears streamed out of his eyes. The air in the room moved, eddying currents twisting every which way and then coalescing around the two men.

  But then another sound broke through the howling of the wind in the chamber. Horns. From outside. Dozens of them at least. Not the brass sound of the horns of Highwatch Hweilan knew so well. These had a lower, howling sound.

  “What is that?” Hweilan asked.

  “Ujaiyen clarions,” said Menduarthis, and he dropped his hand. The air stopped dead in the room, though bits of it still seemed to be playing in Menduarthis’s hair. Even the howling of the storm outside seemed to have hushed.

  The horns continued, and amid them Hweilan could hear the cries of voices in the distance.

  “We’re under attack,” said Menduarthis.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  GURIC SPENT THE EVENING IN PRAYER. THE LONGEST time he had ever done so since his knighthood—and the first time since Valia’s death. The small shrine devoted to Torm was set in a bit of the mountain near the gardens where most of the High Warden’s family had once had their apartments.

  In the sacking of Highwatch, the shrine had been robbed of its gold, the jewels pried from the statues, and the silver chalice of the altar itself was long gone. Probably in some Creel chief’s tent. But Guric had not allowed the altar to be desecrated. At the time, he wasn’t sure why. But now, he was glad.

  He did not feel at peace.
Only death would bring him peace now. But at least he felt determined.

  Where it had all gone wrong, he still didn’t know, and if Torm knew, the god was silent. Guric knew his own center had never been right since Valia’s death. But he often wondered if her death was Torm’s judgment for Guric’s defiance of his father, his family, and their house. In his heart of hearts, he did not believe that. Torm demanded justice, but there was no malice in his judgments. No, Guric believed his life had come to ruin at one critical juncture: Argalath.

  Had Argalath used Guric from the beginning? Deceived him? Or did the man honestly see good in the horrors he had wrought? In the end, it didn’t really matter. The man had to be stopped.

  Guric’s guards fell into step behind him as he left the shrine and crossed the winter-bare garden. Guric stopped in the middle of the garden and looked around. The ivy climbing the walls was brown, the branches on the bushes black and leafless. How fitting, Guric thought. He turned his attention to Boran and said, “Gather ten more guards. Men you trust. Hemnur and Isidor.” He hesitated. “And Sagar.”

  “Sagar?” Boran whispered and looked at the other guards, standing a respectful distance away. “You’re certain, my lord? His loyalty—”

  “I have no faith in Sagar’s loyalty to me,” said Guric. “But I am quite certain of his … antipathy for others.”

  Boran’s eyebrows rose, and he looked around. Not gathering his thoughts. He seemed to be searching for spies. “You mean—”

  “You know who I mean. No need to speak it.”

  “If I may …” Boran swallowed, and Guric saw that a fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow. “For what am I gathering these men?”

  “Nothing more than a walk, I hope,” he said. “But they should come armed. Just in case.”

  Guric, fourteen guards at his back, stood before the arched doorway that led to the southern tower where Valia had been housed. Every guard had a sword at his belt, two carried axes in their hands, and every one wore mail and helm.

  Two Nar guards had been here before. Now, nothing. The archway stood empty. Unguarded. Guric did not know whether to feel relief or dread. It delayed a possible confrontation with Argalath’s men. But that Valia’s chamber was unguarded …