The fall of Highwatch

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Argalath's eyes rolled back into place. The final shudder shook him so hard that he fell to his knees, and his free hand came down right in the middle of the corpse. He could feel the hot blood and viscera between his fingers. The reek wafted upward so strong that he could taste it in the back of his throat, coppery and searing.

But he could see again. The eviscerated corpse of the Damaran. Sagar…? Had that been his name? It no longer mattered.

The other corpse-the one kept so carefully whole, tended so well after death, and laid so carefully beside the sacrifice-was sitting up. The corpse that had once been Guric turned its head and smiled down on Argalath.

Half of Argalath's vision was still in the other world, and he could see the furnace of black fire blazing behind those eyes.

"Well come, brother," he said.

"Come at last," said the thing inside Guric.

They stood together and turned to face the Ring of Ten-Vazhad, Jatara, and eight of Argalath's acolytes. The last of his acolytes. The strongest. The others had not been found worthy and had been put to other uses. They stood round the basin on the great rock shelf where once the Knights of Ondrahar had held their holy rites, where the final stages of Argalath's plan had begun with Valia. How fitting that Guric should now join her. Sooner than expected, to be sure. The man had surprised Argalath, had come to his senses and seen through the lies far sooner than Argalath had thought he would. No matter. The hardest part of the plan was done. Planting season was over. From here, it would be a matter of tending the healthy crop of his designs.

Guric's corpse lurched and would have fallen had Argalath not caught him.

"So… hungry," he said.

Argalath waved to his men. "Bring him. Quickly!"

Vazhad took two of the acolytes back into the tunnel. They returned, dragging a bound and gagged Damaran soldier. His eyes were wide, and the blood and tears had frozen on his face, but still he thrashed and screamed behind the gag.

The thing in Guric hissed in delight and fell on his meal before the three men had even brought it to the basin. Argalath and the others left him to it. It was over in moments.

Guric stood, his eyes and teeth shining bright in the starlight amid their mask of blood. The ravaged body of the soldier steamed in the cold at his feet.

Argalath opened his mouth to speak The world spun around him, light lancing through his brain, shattering the darkness there. In the roar of the world's passing, he heard-far, far away-his brother screaming.

With every beat of his heart, the world came back into focus, and the roar in his mind fell away. When Argalath could finally see again, Vazhad and Jatara were leaning over him, concern written on their faces. He realized he'd fallen and was lying in the blood-spattered snow.

"Are you hurt, master?" said Jatara.

"Ukhnar Kurhan has fallen." The words had passed Argalath's lips before he realized them, but he knew they were true.

"What does this mean?" asked Vazhad.

At the same time Jatara, face filled with worry and shock, said, "Kadrigul…?"

"Help me up," said Argalath.

They did. The other acolytes were looking on, impassive. Unmoving. Not even a hint of worry-or worse, ambition-in their eyes. He had trained them well.

"Master," said Jatara. She was trembling, her grip on his arms too tight. "Master, my brother…? Please."

"I do not know," said Argalath. "All I know is that Soran's body has been destroyed. Ukhnar Kurhan will seek another or return here, weakened, bewildered, and hungry."

"Seek another?" said Jatara, and Argalath knew her meaning.

"The only way he could possess a living being is if the person were to invite him."

"And if the person was… not living?"

Argalath turned away from her. "I need rest. This has been… most trying. Have the acolytes see to our new guest. You should help them, Jatara. Vazhad, take me back to my rooms."

"Master?" Jatara called after him.

Leaning on Vazhad's shoulder for support, Argalath headed for the passageway that would take him through the tunnels and back to Highwatch. Back to his bed. Vazhad cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder, but he did not slow.

"Master!" Jatara said. "Master! My brother?"

Carnage. Absolute carnage.

On the frozen river where Tirron and his hunters had been slaughtered, a band of uldra worked in the bloody snow, gathering the corpses of the dead. They dragged the broken and torn elves onto litters. Their dead mounts they left where they lay.

Near the steep bank where the trees drew in close, one of the uldra found another corpse, neither elf nor one of their mounts. A human, dressed mostly in skins and leathers. His skin and long hair were as pale as the snow in which he lay. His limbs were twisted and back broken as if he had been pummeled by a giant.

One of the Frost Folk. The uldra who found him had fought his kind before. On hunting trips to the far north of the outside lands, where the cold almost matched that of the queen's domain.

The horizon beyond the shore suddenly lit up, as if by a great fire, and the ground shook. In the distance, the uldra heard a scream. It hit beyond the ears, striking their very bones with its fury and pain.

The sound died away. The rumble in the ground stilled to a tremble, then stopped.

The uldra felt a stray breeze waft past his face. It almost felt… hot. But not in a pleasant way. Scalding.

He looked back down on the pale corpse. Something was different. Something The corpse's hand shot out and gripped the uldra's ankle in a crushing grip. The eyes opened. Red fire burned in their depths.