The fall of Highwatch

CHAPTER FIVE

Hweilan took to the trees and did not look back, weaving through the trunks and stumbling over roots hidden under the snow.

When the ground began to slope under her feet, she realized she'd made a poor choice. These woods ran along the arm of the mountain for a ways, then ended on a rocky escarpment. No paths and far too steep to climb.

Hweilan stopped, realizing she had to make it back to the path.

Then she heard sounds of someone coming through the woods, right on her trail. She couldn't see who it was. Among the pine and spruce that stood like silent sentinels on the hillside, she could discern little more than snow under her feet and dark shapes all around.

Hweilan turned, following the grade of the hill in hopes of the graveyard and finding the path again.

Sounds of pursuit grew closer, and she forsook stealth for speed.

"Stop!" said a voice behind her. A man's voice. She risked a glance behind her. It was the Nar. Oruk. Still a ways behind her, lurching over the uneven ground and favoring one leg, but the look of fury on his face…

Hweilan turned and ran, leaping roots and rocks and ducking under branches. She veered uphill, hoping to find the path again.

She saw it, no more than a few dozen paces ahead of her. Risking a glance back, she saw that Oruk had fallen behind but was still coming on.

Hweilan bolted out of the trees and onto the path. A sort of ululating hiss in the air was all the warning she had.

Something struck the back of her leg, right behind the knee, then pulled round both legs. Hweilan went down, throwing both hands in front of her to break the fall. Her father's bow flew out of grasp. She hit the ground hard, her breath forced out of her, and her face skidded over the thin snow on the path.

"Thank you," Jatara's voice came from behind her. "Had you stayed in the trees that never would have worked."

Hweilan rolled over and forced air into her lungs. A thin braided cord, weighted on both ends by round stones, was tangled around her legs. Jatara was walking down the path toward her.

"Stay away from me!"

Jatara reached back and pulled a coil of rope from her belt.

Hweilan let out a long, wordless scream, hoping that someone-anyone-would hear.

Jatara laughed. Only a few paces away, she stopped and her eyes hardened. "Take that knife and toss it aside. Then be still and I won't make this too tight."

Hweilan tried to scream but it came out more of a sob.

Think, she told herself. Jatara had the sword at her hip, and if even half the things Hweilan had heard were true, the woman knew how to use it. Hweilan's knife would be no match, not unless she could get in close. And then it came to her.

Hweilan sat up and reached for the cord round her knees.

"Ah-ah!" said Jatara, her hand going to her sword. "Knife first."

Scowling and doing her best to keep back the tears, Hweilan pulled her knife from the sheath at her belt and tossed it to the side of the path.

"Good," said Jatara. "Now on your knees and turn around."

Hweilan could hear Oruk getting closer. She'd have to make this quick. She turned around, putting her back to Jatara, got up on her knees, and clasped her hands in front of her, as if in prayer.

"Arms at your sides," said Jatara, as she leaned in close, the rope held out before her.

Hweilan reached inside her coat with her right hand and moved her left arm down to her side.

"Both arms," said Jatara. Almost close enough.

Almost "I said-"

— close enough.

Hweilan's fist closed around the kishkoman, the sharp spike protruding from between her middle fingers, and brought it out of her coat. She turned and punched.

Jatara saw it too late. Her eyes widened in the instant before the sharpened antler went into the right one. She shrieked and fell back, dropping the rope and both hands going to her face.

Hweilan scrambled away, her legs kicking, trying to loosen the cord around her legs. It only made it tighter.

The sounds of Oruk breaking through the brush were very close now. Hweilan lunged to the side of the path, grabbed her knife, and raked its sharp edge down the cord. The tight braided leather parted like spidersilk before her blade.

Oruk crashed through a pine branch, sending needles loose in a shower, and stared at the scene before him-Hweilan on the path, knife in hand, Jatara writhing on the path, blood leaking from between the fingers she held to her face.

"Whuh-?" said the Nar, and then Hweilan was on the move. She snatched her father's bow in one hand, keeping the knife in the other.

"Never mind me!" Jatara shouted. "Get! Her! Now!"

Hweilan ran.

She kept to the path. Many times she slipped or skidded in the frost or through the carpet of pine needles, but she kept her feet, knowing that a bad fall or twist of her ankle would be the end of her. She'd walked this path more times than she could remember. She knew every twist and curve, every tree and stone. Hweilan ran, swift as a hart. Never able to ride a horse, Hweilan had walked or run her entire life, and there were few in Highwatch or Kistrad who could outrun her. Once Scith had even said that in a long distance race between her and any horse in Highwatch, he would have laid his coin on her.

Although the sounds of pursuit grew farther behind, they did not cease. Oruk was still following. If she fell, if she stopped to rest, he'd be on her in moments.

She knew that once she reached the fortress, found the first guards, a knight, or even a servant, she'd be safe. One word in the right ear and Hweilan could have every soldier in the fortress out after Jatara and Oruk. Argalath himself would be hauled before her grandfather. A deep and vindictive part of Hweilan's heart warmed to the thought of what her Uncle Soran would do when he heard of this.

Then she saw the smoke.

A smear in the sky. Not the usual haze of evening cook-fires or wood burning against the early spring cold. A thick, gray smoke.

Hweilan rounded a bend in the path. The trees fell away and she had a clear view of Nar-sek Qu'istrade, the distant cliff walls, the fortress of Highwatch, and Kistrad huddling at its feet. At the bottom of tall columns of smoke she saw the angry glimmer of flames. Kistrad was burning. Thousands of Nar filled the valley. Some moving toward the fortress, but a great many not moving at all.

Shocked, Hweilan stopped, her breath coming in great heaves, her heart hammering against her ribs. But even over the sound of her own breathing and her frightened heartbeat, her sharp eyes caught other sounds-faint, but still clear, even over the distance.

Steel ringing against steel. The bellow of a scythe wing. The screams of the dying.

Highwatch was under attack.

Much to Guric's fury, Soran had survived the ambush. The powers of his god had protected him from the Creel spellcasters-though his guardsman had not been so fortunate-and the poisoned arrows, if they had even managed to pierce the scythe wing's thick coat and skin, had no effect.

The fiercest fighting took place in the valley between the village and the Shield Wall. Once the Knights saw Nar pouring through the Shadowed Path toward the fortress, they regrouped and attacked. Just as Guric knew they would.

He knew the tactics of the Knights, and he placed his men well. In the first wave, the scythe wings came in low, roaring and sending the Nar horses into a panic. They landed, and as the Knight set to work with bow and arrow, the scythe wing waded into the Nar. Each sweep of its wing wreaked carnage among warriors and horses alike.

It worked once, as Guric ordered. It made the Knights bold.

The second wave was a feint, and as the scythe wings landed, Creel spellcasters struck, throwing fire and lightning at the great beasts. One knight died screaming as his mail suddenly blazed, burning through the padding and clothes beneath. Had the Knights been prepared, had they not rushed in, thinking they were putting down a mere rabble of bloodthirsty raiders, most would have been able to repel the attacks. But their panic combined with Guric's feint killed all but four of them before they could take to the air again.

Seeing that this was no mere rebellion, the surviving Knights took to the air and returned to the fortress.

But again, Guric had his men well placed.

Three years ago, when relations with King Yarin had grown particularly sour, Guric had appealed to the High Warden to install several large mounted crossbows around the eyries. The Knights of Ondrahar were the only aerial cavalry within five hundred miles, yes, but they were hardly the only ones in Faerun. Should their enemies ever decide to take Highwatch, mercenaries on other aerial mounts could be found, and should the Knights be on patrol or in battle, the eyries could prove a weak spot for the fortress. Vandalar had relented.

Guric's men in Highwatch did their work even as the battle began on the plain below. The Knights were well trained for open battle and learned in the tactics of Nar warfare. But treachery from within caught them completely by surprise. Some died in their beds. Others by ambush. And those scythe wings still in the eyries died by poison and spear.

When Soran led his survivors back to the fortress, Guric's men were ready for them. They let the scythe wings come in close, wings spread, soft undersides exposed as they prepared to land. Then the crossbowmen went to work.

High in the fortress, in the courtyard known as the Horizon Garden, the surviving defenders of Highwatch made their final stand. Guric and his men-mostly Creel, but with a few Damarans guarding his back-pursued them. The fighting in the valley, through the streets of Kistrad, and into the fortress itself had been fierce. But this day had been long in the planning, and when the final fight began, Guric's men outnumbered the defenders three to one.

The Creel fanned out, facing the defenders, Guric and his guards several paces behind. The Creel held bows and spears, the soldiers of Highwatch only swords. Two still had shields. This would be a short fight.

"Listen!" Guric called. "Lay down your arms, and you will all be spared! Your comrades have done so. Even now, their wounds are being treated. Any who wish to return to their homes will be given arms and food to go."

One of the soldiers with a shield called out, "This is our home, you treasonous bastard!"

"Lay down your arms now," said Guric, 'and you can go in peace. Or stay here and serve me."

"I'd rather die."

A few of his fellows exchanged nervous glances, but none stepped forward.

"No one?" Guric called.

"The Nine Hells take you!" the shield man called.

Guric ignored him and looked to one of the nervous fellows. "You stand no chance against my archers. Last chance…"

One of the Highwatch soldiers opened his mouth to respond.

The Creel cried out.

But it was too late. The great beast landed in the middle of the Creel, crushing three underneath its massive bulk. Guric felt the ground shudder beneath his feet. A scythe wing, the bulk of its body at least four times the size of a warhorse, its wings the size of sails. The knight on the creature's back let fly an arrow, and another Nar fell. The pennant at his back whipped in the wind. It was Soran.

Guric had thought all the Knights dealt with. He himself had passed two scythe wing corpses on his way to the higher towers. If Soran had survived…

"Fall back!" Guric shouted.

It was a needless order. His men were already scrambling away. But some were too slow.

The scythe wing swept one wing outward, and the hard, sharp bone along its length plowed through his men. Two went flying, and one went flying in two pieces. Another arrow from the knight took out yet another.

"Regroup!" Guric roared to his men. "Turn and loose! Turn and loose, damn you!"

The Creel obeyed. Turning, they loosed arrows and lobbed spears at Soran and his mount. One arrow bounced off the knight's armor, and the others struck the scythe wing. They only seemed to enrage the creature. It bellowed, spittle flying from its mouth, the roar drowning out all other sound.

Guric's men drew arrows for another volley. The scythe wing lumbered forward and drew back one wing. Half the archers managed to loose before the wing mowed them down.

"Fall back!" Guric called. He ran backward, not daring to turn his back on Soran and the huge beast. The archers were the first to retreat. They turned and ran. The spearmen backed away, keeping their sharp iron barbs between them and the great beast.

The scythe wing did not pursue, but let out a great bellow. The men cowered, and a few even dropped their spears to cover their ears. The sound echoed off the mountain. Guric had always imagined it might sound like that if a wall of strong steel were ripped in half.

Soran loosed another arrow, taking down another Nar, then turned his attention to the Damarans behind them. Knowing it might be only a lull in the carnage, Guric seized the moment.

"Soran!" he called. "Soran, hear me!"

Soran returned his attention to Guric but said nothing.

"It's over, Soran," Guric said. "Lay down your arms, and on my oath all of you will be spared."

"On your oath?" Even behind the face mask, Guric could hear the ragged edge to Soran's voice. There would be no surrender. "You swore oaths to serve the High Warden. Your life for his and for his people."

"I did what I had to do," said Guric. "I took no pleasure in it. Let the bloodshed end here. Save your men. Save yourself."

"Listen to your new lord," said a voice from behind Guric. Argalath had arrived. He stepped forward to stand beside Guric, Kadrigul a pale shape just behind him. "Highwatch is fallen."

Argalath raised one hand and let the cloth of his robe fall back to reveal his hand and forearm. The red light of the fires from the village below made the pale waves and pools of his skin between the bruises seem to burn like the flames themselves. The deeper blotches of his spellscar shone blue. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pulled down his cowl.

The scythe wing let out a low growl that sounded like tumbling river stones. Argalath kept his eyes closed. Guric could feel the ground shaking as the creature approached.

The blue patches marring Argalath's skin flared with a cold, blue light, and when he opened his eyes, the same light burned in his gaze. The scythe wing stopped its approach and snorted in surprise.

Around him, Guric heard the Nar gasp, taking in a collective breath of superstitious fear. Soran was close enough now that Guric could see his eyes widen with surprise.

"No!" Soran called out.

The scythe wing opened its jaws and roared, its fangs long as daggers. The sound echoed off the cliffs and towers, and Guric could smell its fetid breath washing over him. But he stood his ground.

The blue glow emanating from Argalath flared.

The scythe wing's roar cut off, ending in something like a whimper. Its jaws snapped shut, and it shook its head. A tremor passed through its entire body, and for a moment it stood stock still. Guric was watching when the first real pain hit it. He saw it as a flash in the creature's eyes and a dilation of its nostrils. It gathered its strength for one final lunge. But halfway its muscles lost all strength. The scythe wing collapsed and slid forward, its head coming to rest almost at Guric's feet. Its breath washed out of it, ruffling the hem of Argalath's robes, but it was only the great creature's dead weight pushing the air out of lifeless lungs.

The Creel cheered.

Argalath let his arm drop. Guric could see it trembling. It had been a long night.

Soran roared in grief and fury. He threw aside his bow and drew the sword from the sheath at his back as he leaped from the saddle.