Mark Sehestedt: The fall of Highwatch

At the sight of the once-proud knight, a cold dread built in Guric. The old Guric, the one who had known life and laughter, who had been Valia's lover and husband and given up his inheritance for her, seemed to rouse and whisper, After this, there's no going back. Before was battle. This is murder.

He turned to Argalath. "You're sure this is the only way?"

"Yes," said Argalath. "If you still want Valia back, this is the only way. If you wish to let her rest in peace, to lose her forever, then-"

"No!" Guric said, so loudly that it echoed off the mountainside. He lowered his voice then for only Argalath to hear. "If this is the only way, so be it. Soran denied her life. Let him answer to his god tonight. Face to face."

Argalath bowed his head. "So be it." He turned to the guards. "Bring forth the sacrifice!"

Guric sent the extra guards back into the tunnel, with strict orders to go down at least two hundred steps and remain there, no matter what they heard. His personal bodyguard stood with the acolytes and Guric himself, forming a ring of thirteen around the rim of the basin. Guric had not told his men exactly what to expect, but when it became obvious what was about to happen, they had not flinched. Their loyalty filled Guric with pride and love for them.

Soran lay next to Valia. He still moaned and struggled, but his bonds kept him from getting away, and the tight rope going from his elbow bindings to the loop round his throat kept his thrashings to a minimum. Too much movement and he could not breathe. Guric's men knew their business.

"Ignore his noise, my lord," Argalath said. "Soon, it will no longer matter."

"It doesn't matter now." Guric took his place on the rim of the basin.

They waited. Argalath paced the inner ring of the basin, muttering various incantations and sprinkling a dark powder of who-knew-what into the snow. It had a charnel stink, but Guric did not care. He'd bathe in the reek if it would bring Valia back to him.

After what seemed his hundredth journey round the circle, Argalath stopped over the two prone figures, one still thrashing weakly, the other cold and still. He lifted one hand to the eastern horizon and pointed at a gathering of stars.

"Behold," he said, his voice low and rasping. "H' Catharises over the rim of the world. Korvun the Stone of Sacrifice bears witness above."

He lowered his arm and began a new incantation. At first Guric thought it was in one of his native tongues-Argalath's mother was of the Nar, but his father had come from Frost Folk, like Kadrigul and Jatara. But Guric knew much of the Nar speech, and he had listened to Argalath over the years to pick up the flavor, if not the precise meaning, of the language of the Frost Folk, and this was neither. The words were sharper, harsher, and seemed to speak of malice, hunger, and things that lurk in the dark.

Argalath lurched to a halt, wavering, and for a moment Guric feared his counselor was going to fall over in the snow. But then a great shudder passed through Argalath, he threw his head back, and Guric saw that his eyes had rolled back in his head. The voice that spoke was deeper and rougher than Guric had ever heard his counselor speak, and it held a timbre of malicious glee.

Argalath looked down on the figures lying in the snow, one dead and still, the other watching him with wide eyes. Argalath reached inside his robes and withdrew a knife, not long but curved and of such pure steel that it caught every fragment of starlight.

Soran renewed his struggles, but in so doing pulled the noose tight around his neck. He thrashed even harder, and when he struck Valia, Guric growled and stepped forward.

"No!" said Argalath, still in that alien voice. "You must not break the circle."

Soran lay there panting, his eyes closed. Guric stepped back onto the rim of the basin.

Argalath resumed his pace, walking in a tight circle around Soran and Valia. Something in the way he moved set Guric's teeth on edge. He moved with an unusual, even beautiful, grace. But one that was decidedly inhuman. He raised the knife, resuming his chant, and Guric saw that more than starlight reflected off the blade. The edge of the curve blade glowed red, as if it had been sheathed in hot embers.

Argalath's incantation grew in volume, echoing off the mountainside, and took on a repetitive rhythm, almost like an incessant pounding upon a locked door. The words were still gibberish to Guric, but he picked up one phrase often repeated:

"Jagun Ghen…"

"… resh Jagun Ghen ye…"

"… Jagun Ghen!"

Argalath's eyes rolled back in his head again, and he seemed rapt in a fit of ecstasy. The hand holding the knife trembled and shook.

Soran began screaming again. His jaws ground into the stick wedged between his jaws. Guric heard a cracking sound, and he didn't know if it was the wood or the man's teeth.

The knife flashed down.

Guric had known what was coming. He'd expected a slash to the throat, as a butcher might put down a young bull or goat. A quick slice. A few moments of pain followed by a rush of euphoria, then death.

No.

The knife plunged up to the hilt just below Soran's navel, then Argalath pulled, opening up a wide gash until the blade struck bone and stopped. Dark blood and pale blue offal welled out, steaming in the cold air. Soran screamed, a wail of agony that Guric had never heard even on the most brutal battlefields. It drowned out Argalath's final words.

Soran thrashed like a live fish thrown onto hot coals. Blood flew outward to stain the surrounding snow black. From the corner of his eye, Guric saw all but one of his guards turn away.

With his free hand Argalath grabbed Soran's head and pressed it into the snow. He brought the dagger to his throat at last, but not a quick slash. He pressed the point inward, almost lovingly, and slowly twisted open a jagged wound. Soran's screams died away in a wet gurgle, and he coughed with such power that a mist of blood shot out of his nose and around the wood still wedged in his jaw.

Guric opened his mouth to scream, Enough!

But then Valia moved.

The words died in Guric's throat.

Guric's stared at his wife's corpse. It had been the slightest movement, her left arm pulling against the binding ribbon. Soran's struggles caused her arm to move, he told himself. He watched for it again. So much blood had darkened the scene, covering both Valia and Soran, that it was hard to Valia's back arched, her jaw opened, and she took in a great breath, so much air rushing through her throat that she let out a sort of reverse howl. Her arms tensed, straining at the ribbon around her wrists, then the soft fabric snapped. Her back hit the ground again. Violent tremors shook her body, and she thrashed with hands and feet, sending bloody slush flying over the onlookers. Her gown ripped open, exposing one shoulder and breast.

"Argalath-!" Guric called, but he was too frightened to move.

"Be still!" Argalath said.

The tremors ceased. Both Soran and Valia lay still. For one instant, no one moved, and not even a whisper of steam came from anyone's mouth. No one dared to breathe.

Valia sat up. Even though she moved, there seemed to be no warmth about her. And even as he watched, Guric saw her cheeks sink, the skin stretch tight around her hands, like some half-starved refugee. For the first time that night, Guric felt suddenly and terribly cold. Chilled to his core.

With one hand, Valia reached up and removed the bit of cloth blindfold. She threw it away and looked at Guric. Looked him right in the eyes.

There was no welcome there. No love. No recognition. Not even confusion. What Guric saw in those eyes was hunger.

Snarling, Valia scrambled to her feet and lunged at Guric.

But Argalath stepped between them, brandishing the still glowing blade. Valia flinched and drew back at the sight of the knife.