Mark Sehestedt: The fall of Highwatch

"You will go to Soravia," said Merah. "If your fate lies elsewhere… so be it. But heed my words, daughter. Your childhood is over. You must find your fate, or it will find you."

Hweilan turned her back on them and walked away.

"We have her, my lord."

Guric turned to look at the man who had spoken. Argalath stood enveloped in dark robes and a deep cowl. The skin of the hands that protruded from his robes was mottled sickly white and covered with patches of blue. Argalath's entire body-every hairless inch of it-had been so scarred after encountering spellplague.

The last of the day's light was bleeding from the sky, but in the high valley night already held sway, and the men had lit torches against the dark. Even their meager light pained Argalath.

"The seals…?" said Guric.

"Unbroken," said Argalath. "All went as planned."

Guric let out a great breath. "I…" He struggled to find the right words, then settled on, "Thank you."

Argalath bowed.

Guric pushed past Argalath and through the graveyard gates. The common folk of Highwatch and Kistrad buried their dead outside the village walls in the valley of Nar-sek Qu'istrade. The Nar burned their dead in elaborate rites in the open grassland beyond the Shadowed Path. The dwarves had carved elaborate crypts in the deep places of the mountain. But the Damarans, so far from home, still clung to their old ways. The High Warden's family had elaborate tombs farther up the mountainside, but the other Damarans of Highwatch buried their dead here, in a small valley on the mountain above the fortress, accessible only by a small path, too narrow even for horses. The hardship in getting here was part of the point. Damarans were a hard people, a proud people.

When the day's work had begun, the light had still been strong in the sky. But after the first few strikes of the workmen's picks, Guric had fled the graveyard. The sounds of iron and steel breaking through the frozen earth had been too much for him. Every blow only served to remind him of what lay below-and of what he was about to do.

The men-a few Damarans, who were loyal to Guric, overseeing the work of Nar, who were loyal to Argalath-stood round an open grave. The Damarans held their torches high, and inky smoke wafted up into the dead air. Before them, the Nar stood over a long bundle, and one of them-one of Argalath's acolytes, Guric knew by his shaven head-was carefully using a horsetail brush to clean away the bits of frozen earth.

"My lord!" Argalath called from behind him.

Guric slowed, not because of Argalath but because of what lay before him. It looked like a large bundle of supplies, wrapped in fine linen, various symbols drawn round the knots of cord that bound it.

"Valia…" said Guric.

"My lord, please," said Argalath. "We must not break the seals until we have the blood."

Guric took one step forward. "I must see her."

"No." Argalath grabbed Guric's shoulder.

Guric looked down. "Unhand me, Argalath."

There was no anger in the words. No threat. Guric was not a man to threaten. People did as he told them or suffered the consequences.

Argalath released him and bowed. "My lord, I beg you. Seeing her now will only bring you pain. We are so close, so close…"

Guric looked down at the bundle. At his wife's corpse. He had not seen her in three years, and that last sight had haunted his dreams since.

"Those who wronged you," said Argalath, his voice pitched for all to hear, 'who wronged her, must pay."

Guric contemplated all that lay before him. His mouth felt very dry. "There is no other way?"

"No. Kill them. Kill them all, my lord. And save the youngest for last. Her blood shall bring Valia back to you."

Only once before had Hweilan ever felt such utter, black despair. Worse than fear was the certainty of hopelessness, and she had truly felt it only once. It wasn't the day she'd been told her father was dead. That day had been confusion. At ten years old, Hweilan had not been able to fathom the thought of a world without her father.

Until she saw his body. That had been the day. Her mother had insisted. Her child was the offspring of warriors, through both mother and father. She could weep. She would grieve. But she would not shrink from the stark reality of death.

Merah had taken Hweilan to the temple where her father's body lay, tended by priests in preparation for the last rites of the Loyal Fury. Her mother ordered everyone from the room and took Hweilan to the granite slab.

Hweilan did not resist. She was, in fact, curious in the way all children are. She had seen death before. Sheep, swiftstags, horses, even people. But never someone she knew. Never someone she loved.

Her father lay on the slab, draped in white linen up to his chest. She could not see the wound that had killed him. She'd heard the priests call death "eternal rest," but one look at her father, and there was no mistaking him for being asleep. His eyes were closed, but the sunken cheeks and colorless pallor of his skin, gray as the stone on which he lay, and just as lifeless…

She reached out with one hand. Her mother didn't stop her. She touched her father's cheek. It was cold and stiff, though slightly yielding, like when the outer layer of a damp cloak froze on a winter's night. It was the most awful thing she'd ever felt.

"He's dead," Hweilan said.

"Yes," said Merah.

That was when the reality had hit her.

"Who will take care of us?"

Her father had been there the day Hweilan took her first steps. He had heard her first words, begun her lessons in fighting with blade and spear, had stayed up with her through the long nights of winter, telling stories by the fire. It had never entered into her darkest fears that he would no longer be there.

"We must care for each other now," Merah said. She turned Hweilan from her father and knelt before her. "I have something for you," she said, and reached into the folds of her robes. She withdrew a small sheepskin bundle, bound with a leather cord, and handed it to Hweilan.

"What is it?"

"Look."

Holding the bundle in one hand, Hweilan worked at the knot with the other. She could feel something hard within. She peeled back the soft folds of the bundle. Nestled within was a sort of spike, slightly curved and yellowish brown like horn. Slightly longer than her ten-year-old hand. She touched her finger to the point. It was sharp. The other end broadened into a sort of handle, and little notches had been cut into it.

"My people have given these to their children for generations," said Merah.

"What is it?"

"A kishkoman."

"Kishkoman," Hweilan said in a whisper of awe. "Kish…" She searched her memory. Her mother had taught her little of her native tongue, but this word she knew. "Knife."

"Very good, Hweilan." Merah smiled, though tears were thick in her eyes. "Kishkoman means whistle-knife."

"Whistle-knife?"

Her mother took the horn knife, put one of the grooves to her lips, and blew.

A sound pierced Hweilan's ears, high and so sharp that it seemed to cut right into the center of her head.

Her mother lowered the kishkoman and smiled. "You heard it?"

"Yes. It hurt."

"I was afraid you might not. But the blood of my people runs strong in you."

Hweilan said nothing. Simply stared at her gift. For her last birthday, her family had given her dresses, gowns, cloaks, jewelry, and a doll of silk. Gifts fit for the granddaughter of the High Warden. But gifts for a little girl. Soft gifts. This was far better.

"It is made from the antler of a young swiftstag buck," her mother said. "Among my people, mothers give them to their children when they are old enough to go off on their own at times. The whistle is beyond the hearing of most folk. But our people, Hweilan, we are… not like others. If you find yourself in danger, if you need help, blow this, and we will hear."