Mark Sehestedt: The fall of Highwatch

"But what if you are too far to hear?"

Merah's smile did not lessen, and in her eyes, behind the tears, a new light shone. Not pleasure. Not even pride.

Ferocity.

"Then you use it like this."

Her mother brought the sharp horn around in a punch so swift that Hweilan heard it cutting the air. Merah's fist stopped with the point of the kishkoman touching the soft flesh behind Hweilan's chin.

Eyes wide, breath caught in her throat, Hweilan looked up at her mother and saw not the widow of the High Warden's only son, not a grieving wife, but a barbarian queen, proud and fierce.

"Your father is dead, Hweilan. Death comes to us all. Many in this world are stronger than you. They may try to take your life, and they may succeed. But you must never give it to them. Make them pay, Hweilan. Make them pay."

Hweilan sat on the ground near her father's tomb, thinking on these things.

The final resting places of the family of the High Warden were high above the fortress. The cemetery was on a wide shelf of rock that looked down upon Highwatch. Boulders and tough bushes, their thick leaves green year round, were the only wall. Rugged, scraggly pines, their gnarled roots clinging like talons to the broken rock, lined the path to the graveyard before spreading out into a small grove that separated the tombs from the path. Rather than digging into the hard rock to bury the dead, thick stone coffins lay in the yard in even rows. Over two score in all, and only four of them empty. They were simple in design, unadorned save for the inscription bearing the name of the deceased and a few words of devotion to Torm. Of all the bodies laid to rest here, her father was the only one she'd known.

That had been the darkest day of her life, but her mother had given her hope and courage to face a world that had suddenly seemed uncertain and decidedly cruel. But she had still been a girl then. A girl who needed her mother. And now, her mother was part of that cruel world. Had it always been so? Was that realization what it meant to become an adult?

You're not a little girl anymore. Your childhood is over. You must find your fate, or it will find you. Her mother's words.

Hweilan reached under her leather jerkin and pulled out a braided leather thong, old and weathered with age. The kishkoman hung from it. She seldom went without it, and even after all these years, the point was still sharp. Once, while hunting with Scith on the open steppe, she had fallen down an ice-slick slope, landed hard, and the kishkoman had given her a nasty cut.

Scith…

Of the Var tribe, he had served the High Warden as his chief advisor and ambassador to the Nar tribes. But after the death of Hweilan's father, Scith had been much more than that to her. Hweilan had taken to following Scith when he went onto the steppe to meet with the tribes or to hunt. The first few times, she had sneaked away, and after being caught, she had been punished. But her mother-and much to her surprise, her grandfather-had spoken for her. It would be good for one of the family to learn the ways of the land and the native people.

The priests taught her to read and write, and instructed her in history and the faith. But it was Scith who gave her the education she loved. How to speak the native tongue of the Nar. How to track both beasts and men. How to find shelter and survive the harsh Nar winters. How to hunt and live off the land. He was a good teacher. Hweilan loved him like a beloved uncle, both mentor and confidant.

Hweilan missed their closeness, and the division that had grown between them hurt like a thorn under the skin.

Hweilan had not been the only one in need, not the only one with a hole left by her father's death. As one of the chief servants of the house and Hweilan's teacher, Scith spent much time with the family. He and Merah had grown close. Many whispered that they had grown too close. Hweilan had even heard it said in Kistrad that Scith the Var had found enough favor in Highwatch that he now shared the Lady Merah's bed. The looks that some in the household gave her mother told Hweilan that the rumors were not isolated to the common folk. Had they been lies, Hweilan would have known how to deal with them. But the plain fact was that Hweilan feared there might be some truth to the rumors.

It had soured her friendship with Scith. She still took lessons from him, still sometimes accompanied him among the tribes, but their once warm affection had turned cold. He had not said anything to her. A Nar warrior did not speak of such things. But she sometimes saw the regret in his eyes.

"Find your fate, or it will find you," Hweilan muttered to herself. She looked at the stone coffin that held her father's body. Sometimes, no matter what choices you made, fate found you anyway. Found you, smashed you to the ground like some great wheel, then just kept on rolling, merciless and uncaring.

Swift shadows passed over the ground. Hweilan looked up. The sun was no more than a blurry disk in the gray murk of the sky, and beneath it several winged shapes circled. Even as she watched, one of them tucked its wings and dropped.

Scythe wings were not graceful fliers like hawks or the great mountain eagles, who rode the skies like a fine ship might ride the waves. Scythe wings conquered the sky by brute strength and ferocity. Called orethren by the priests and scholars, the beasts looked like some sort of unholy combination of a monkey, bear, and bat. But they were loyal mounts for the Knights of Ondrahar. The Nar held them in superstitious dread, and the goblin tribes in the Giantspires were absolutely terrified of them. The wing of the orethren- jointed like a bat's, the final spur of which curved forward in a sharp bone-gave them their more common name 'scythe wings."

The beast spread its wings just in time, its free fall turning into a glide that swept the graveyard with a harsh wind as it passed overhead. The pennant whipping behind the rider's back bore the standard of an open gauntlet flanked by two golden wings. It was Soran's standard.

Hweilan stuffed the kishkoman back under her jerkin.

The scythe wing circled back around and settled on the rocks above the tombs. It sniffed the air and glared at Hweilan. Even from the distance of forty feet or more, Hweilan could feel the ground trembling at the roar building deep in its chest.

Horses could not abide Hweilan's presence, nor her mother's. No horses would bear them, and the knights' scythe wings were even worse. A horse would merely roll its eyes and run, only kicking and biting if she inadvertently cornered it. But the scythe wings…

The one time Hweilan had come near, the great beast had tried to swipe her with the great wing bone that earned them their name. Had her Uncle Soran not had the beast under tight rein, Hweilan would have died.

"Easy, Arvund," said Soran. He climbed out of the saddle and stroked the scythe wing to calm him. The creature kept its gaze locked on Hweilan, but its growl changed into something more like a purr, and it lowered its head to rest on a snow-covered rock.

Soran was the single most imposing man Hweilan had ever seen. His elder brother Vandalar, High Warden and Hweilan's grandfather, was taller, but not by much, and Soran's frame was wrapped in thick muscle. Middle age softened many men. Soran had only grown harder, like old oak. And now that even middle age was passing, he was harder still. The Chief Priest of Torm at Highwatch, Commander of the Knights of Ondrahar, Soran was one of the most feared and respected men within five hundred miles. No one who met him ever forgot him. He was solemn to the point of grimness, but he was also the most fair, just, and uncompromising man Hweilan knew. He demanded much from his men and his family, but he demanded the most from himself.

Soran hadn't chosen the best landing place, not that there were many to come by up here, and it took him awhile to get down. He walked up to Hweilan, not removing his helmet, but loosening the straps on the face mask so that it slapped against his chest as he walked. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright from exertion, and his face set in their usual deep lines.