Mark Sehestedt: The fall of Highwatch

So Hweilan took another path that led her round a shoulder of the mountain and into deeper woods. The feeling of being watched did not lessen.

The sun fell behind the peaks, and the woods dimmed. Shadows fell together and deepened, like a convergence of streams.

Hweilan's new path took her through another graveyard-the one used by the Damarans of Highwatch who were not of the High Warden's family. Situated on broader, more level ground, this yard housed real graves. Gravestones, ranging from small slabs set level with the ground to marble pillars taller than Hweilan, marked each resting place.

Statues of Torm in all his manifestations-a young warrior, a knight mounted on a golden dragon, a venerable knight, and an armored warrior with the head of a lion-stood watch at the four corners of the graveyard, all looking outward. Black iron rails fenced the graveyard between the statues, and the path ran between two gates, one on each end.

Hweilan passed through the first, quickening her pace. The feeling of being watched pressed on her.

She smelled it before she saw it.

The aroma of freshly turned soil. Thick and loamy. Rich. But something else. Beyond smell really. More of a heaviness on the brain. Something… foul.

Then she saw it. An open grave.

No one had died recently. Why would there be a freshly dug grave? Hweilan's throat had gone very dry. She tried to swallow.

Just go, she told herself. Run back. Tell someone.

She lifted one foot to do just that. Then stopped. She'd feel ten times the fool going back without at least having a closer look.

She left the path and took a few steps toward the fresh hole. It was not a new grave. It was an old one. Hweilan read the inscription upon the rectangular pillar of stone at the far end of the wounded ground:

VALIA

BELOVED

Guric's wife. Her death had scarred him deeply.

Hweilan took another two steps. Just enough to peer down.

The soil was almost black, and darkness welled thick inside the open grave. But there was no mistaking what was down there.

The grave was empty.

Hweilan could not look away. She felt locked in time and place. The scent of fresh earth, overlaid by the foul stench, drowned out all other smells. Far away she could hear the wind howling over the peaks, but down here in the steep valleys, the air was still. Not even a breeze. The air, cold though it was, felt heavy and close on the exposed skin of her face.

The open grave, filled with shadow-something about it seemed to pull at her, as if she stood in the midst of water being sucked down into a fissure. Her chin began to fall, and she lurched forward, the open hole seeming to spread out.

Hweilan screamed and stepped back, the spell broken.

Her scream came back at her, faintly, echoing off the mountainsides, which suddenly seemed very close.

A harsh caw came from behind her.

She whirled.

A tall figure stood under the trees, draped in shadows. Man-shaped, but antlers protruded from his skull. A raven sat upon his shoulder.

Hweilan took in a breath-to scream or call for help, she didn't know-and the raven took wing, crying out again and again as it left the graveyard. But her eyes were fixed on the antlered figure.

The shadows thinned under her scrutiny, and she saw that it wasn't a man at all. Just an old stump of a lightning-blasted tree. Another smaller tree behind it, its branches winter gaunt, gave the illusion of antlers. Just a trick of light and shadow.

She let out her breath with relief. Her heart hammered so hard she could feel its pulse in her ears.

Foolish, she told herself. Jumping at shadows.

"Better step away from there. You'll hurt yourself."

Hweilan turned at the voice. Jatara.

Jatara and her brother were the personal bodyguards of Argalath, a spellscarred shaman who had managed to worm his way into the service of Captain Guric. She stood just inside the gate, another man at her back. The woman was dressed in assorted animal skins and untreated leathers. She wore no cloak against the cold, and her pale skin told why.

She was one of the Frost Folk-a people of the far, far north, said to be distant relations of the Sossrim. They had a dark reputation among the Nar and were rarely seen south of the ice fields. Her hair-a blonde so pale that it was only a glimmer away from white-hung almost to her waist, but she shaved the front of her head completely bald. The man behind Jatara was a Nar that Hweilan didn't recognize, though she suspected he was another of Argalath's sycophants. Who else would take company with Jatara?

"What are you doing here?" said Hweilan.

Jatara walked into the graveyard, the Nar at her heels. Sheathed swords bumped against their legs as they walked.

"Many in the fortress search for you," said Jatara. Her command of Damaran was not flawless, but very precise and lightly accented.

"I've been told," said Hweilan. "Have you been following me?"

Jatara stopped at the edge of the path. She cocked her head to the side, almost birdlike, no sign of deference, amusement, or any emotion whatsoever on her face. Just… coldness.

"Why are you here, woman?" Hweilan said again.

"Why are you here, little girl?" said Jatara. The Nar behind her chuckled.

"How dare you!" said Hweilan. "I am the daughter of-"

"I know who you are," said Jatara, her voice still low, calm, completely unaffected by Hweilan's rage. "You will come with me now."

Hweilan was so struck by the woman's casual command, her sheer confidence, that for a long moment she could think of nothing to say.

Jatara motioned to the man, and he walked toward Hweilan.

"Do not give Oruk any trouble," said Jatara. "It makes him… unpleasant."

In that moment Hweilan knew something was very, very wrong. She was in real danger. Servants of the Captain of the Guard did not give orders to the High Warden's granddaughter.

As Hweilan's foot came down, her heel dipped low. She'd come up against the edge of the open grave.

She held her father's unstrung bow in front of her. "Keep away from me."

The Nar's grin widened.

Hweilan turned and leaped over the grave, landing in the pile of freshly turned soil.

She heard the Nar grunt in mild surprise at her move.

On her hands and knees in the grave soil, her father's bow still clutched in one hand, Hweilan turned to look at them. Jatara had still not moved. But the Nar was coming around the foot of the grave, his smile gone. He reached out one hand to grab her.

Hweilan turned and threw a handful of dirt in his face.

He stood back, sputtering and rubbing at his eyes.

Hweilan rose to her knees and swung the bow at his head. It connected about two-thirds of the way down the shaft. The Nar stumbled from surprise more than any real pain. But it put him off balance.

Scith had taught Hweilan to fight. Nar methods were neither graceful nor fair-at least by Damaran standards. The Nar were brawlers and completely unashamed in fighting with fists, feet, elbows, knees, and teeth.

Pivoting on one knee, Hweilan brought her other leg around in a wide swipe. The thick, flat toe of her boot connected with the side of the Nar's knee.

He cried out-in real pain this time-and crumpled. One leg slid into the open grave. Overbalanced and caught completely by surprise, he tumbled in.

Jatara still had not moved. The woman crossed her arms beneath her breasts, blinked once, and said, "Impressive. But you are still coming with me."

Hweilan came to her feet running, leaping gravestones and dodging monuments. She threw her father's bow between the iron rails of the fence, then leaped atop it.

"Hweilan!"

Jatara's voice, raised for the first time, stopped Hweilan cold. She turned. The Nar was struggling to climb out of the open grave. Jatara stood over him, but her eyes were on Hweilan.