Mark Sehestedt: The fall of Highwatch

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.

This can't be happening — can't be happening — can't be The thoughts tumbled through Hweilan's mind as she ran.

She was no stranger to bloodshed. Narfell was a hard land. Outside of Narsek Qu'istrade, the tribes fought all the time. A warrior culture based on honor and status… bloodshed was inevitable. Most were little more than skirmishes, but now and then entire clans would feud.

Never-not once-had anyone dared to assault Highwatch.

But the smoke, the screams, the clang of steel, the harsh bellows of scythe wings…

Spring rains had not yet come, and it had been too cold for the snows to melt. Fire could spread among the dry wooden buildings of the Kistrad. An unfortunate accident. That had to be it. A spilled lantern in someone's stable. It would spread fast. Scythe wings hated fire. That explained their cries. Perhaps the horde of Nar she'd seen flooding the valley were merely coming to help.

Hweilan clung to these hopes. Tried to convince herself of them.

Then she found the bodies.

She rounded the hill and descended the final slope to the back walls of the fortress, still at least a quarter mile away. As fast as she was running, she was in the midst of corpses before her panicked mind registered them. She stopped so quickly that she skidded on the frosty ground, caught her boot on a bump in the path, and fell forward. She landed only inches from the staring eyes of a dead soldier. He lay on his stomach in the middle of the path. Two arrows sprouted from his back. Hweilan's eyes seemed drawn to them-anything but looking into the soldier's sightless stare.