Mark Sehestedt - The fall of Highwatch

NAR-SEK QU'ISTRADE.

A spur of the Giantspire Mountains thrust into the Nar grassland. At its tip a fissure splits the mountain, only wide enough for two riders to go abreast. The Shadowed Path locals named it, for so high is the rock that even in summer the sun only shines into the path for a short time.

At the end of the path the fissure opens into a valley-a great basin of grass, surrounded by high cliffs. For generations the Nar used the valley as a winter refuge, one of the few places where rival tribes maintained an oath of peace.

In the year 1371 DR, King Gareth Dragonsbane of Damara obtained permission from Thalaman Harthgroth-the closest thing the Nar had to a supreme ruler-to mine the eastern slopes of the Giantspire Mountains. What began as a trickle of hopeful Damaran miners soon grew into a flood.

Then a warrior named Ondrahar, recently granted titles for service to his king, came to Nar-sek Qu'istrade to found a permanent settlement and a new order of knights, sworn to the service of Torm. All peoples-Damarans, Nar, Vassans-were welcome, provided that they maintained the peace.

The Nar had long been content to fill the valley with their tents for a season and then move on, but the newcomers desired a more permanent home. The shallow caves that lined the walls of the valley were a start, but their first year the settlers began expansion. Skilled stonemasons from Damara carved the caves into halls and rooms. When rich deposits of bloodstone and iron were found in the surrounding hills, dwarves began to settle the area.

In the year 1375 DR, work on a mountain fortress began. Highwatch, the Damarans named it, for its towers perched on the peaks and looked out upon the steppe for miles. Here the Knights of Ondrahar made their home, and their lord took the title High Warden.

In the years since, the fortunes of Damara have waned, and Narfell has grown colder. But under the wisdom and fair hand of the High Warden, Highwatch has become a bastion of prosperity and safety in the Bloodstone Lands. Walled in by the mountains themselves and watched by the Knights, Highwatch has enjoyed generations of peace. -Uluin of Merkurn, Annals of Soravia, 1454 DR

He crossed the frozen stream, knowing his pursuers would not. The knowledge of what lurked on the mount-the fear of it-would hold them back.

Still they might loose a few arrows if they caught sight of him. So he moved on. Over the ice-slick rocks of the riverbank, through the winter-bare branches of the trees that leaned over the river like eager listeners, and on into the deeper shadows of the pines.

He'd made it. He was… not free. But he was away from them.

Up the slope he ran, crouching under branches thick with snow, finding his way as much by scent as sight, for the pines blocked out the starlight. His boots kicked at old bones-and some not so old. But he kept going, up and up, to the very height of the hill. He knew the futility of trying to run or hide. His only hope was to find the horror before it found him.

Bare of trees, the summit gave him a wide view of the lands below. To the north, the peaks of the Icerim, starlit snow creased with black rock, a wall against the sky. Southward, the wooded hills fell away into the steppes of Narfell.

He had never been to this place, but he had visited others like it in other lands, had stood vigil while others sought the secrets in the holy places of the land-the Hearts. A thick tower of bare rock broke from the soil of the mount. Cracks and fissures marred it from top to bottom. Frost filled them, reflecting the starlight and giving the entire rock the appearance of being shattered by pale light.

Except near the bottom, where the largest fissure opened into blackness-the cave leading to the Heart. It waited like an open mouth, a jagged row of icicles making it seem not so much to yawn as prepare to bite. The breeze, which down in the valley had only whispered in the topmost branches, quickened to a wind and howled over the cave mouth.

A new light rained down upon the height. He looked up. The rim of the moon was climbing over the mountains. The full moon. Called by his people the Hunter's Moon. That meant All at once, he knew he was not alone on the mount. Eyes watched him. Hungry mouths tasted his scent on the breeze. The very air held a Presence.

He turned and looked back down the slope.

Eyes burned from the moving shadows under the trees. Dozens of them. Some large and close to the ground, their gazes mean and hungry. Wolves' eyes. Winged silhouettes watched him from the treetops, and dozens upon dozens of shadows hopped and flapped against the white background of the snow. Ravens.

Why have you come?

The voice thundered in his head, so strong that he fell, his knees breaking through the snow. He caught himself on both hands. The sharp rocks under the frost scraped the skin from his palms.

From the trees came the howl of wolves and the caw of ravens. They did not advance. Still, their meaning was clear. You are surrounded. You are caught.

He looked back to the cave, and something tugged his gaze upward.

The rising moonlight fell on a figure crouched on the rocks above. Larger than a man, his frame thick with muscle, his flesh patched with scars. Clothed in ragged skins, some of which still dripped and steamed in the cold air. Antlers rose like a twisted crown from the skull he wore as a mask, and from within the sockets his gaze burned with green fire. In his right hand he gripped the shaft of a long spear, its black iron head barbed. His left hand dripped blood.

Nendawen. Master of the Hunt.

Why have you come? said Nendawen.

"Salvation from my enemies," he said.

And who are you?

"Lendri," he said.

You know the covenant. To come without sacrifice means death.

Lendri felt the world shake around him, and a great roar filled his ears. He opened his eyes-he could not remember closing them-and looked up into the visage of the Hunter. Nendawen stood over him, the point of his spear on Lendri's throat.

I see no sacrifice.

"My sacrifice awaits you in the valley. A living sacrifice. Not one. I brought many."

You brought nothing, said Nendawen. They pursued you. And now you come to me, begging me to save you. He crouched, the spear never wavering, and brought his head close, the skull mask only inches from Lendri's face. The stench of death washed over Lendri, thick and close. You have blood on your hands. The blood of a king.

"Y-yes."

You are an exile. Cast out from your clan. Your people gone from this world. Returned home in victory. But you? Left behind in dishonor.

Lendri said nothing. He knew these things already.

But did you know that our victory was incomplete? Your people returned home, yes, but to a home despoiled by Jagun Ghen. We defeated him in the end, but he fled our vengeance. Did you know this?

"N-no."

Jagun Ghen escaped. Fled the Hunting Lands. Fled here. To this world. And here you are, Lendri, killer of kings.

It was not a question, but Lendri could see that Nendawen waited for a response. The point of the spear touched his throat, pressed, drawing blood.

"Wh-what do you want, holy one?"

What I ever want, said Nendawen. Blood. I want Jagun Ghen, him and all his ilk, delivered to me.

Lendri swallowed. He could feel the movement of his throat touching the cold iron of Nendawen's spear.

What do you want, little one?

"I…" He'd come here looking for no more than a night's safety. But Nendawen's question seemed to ask for more.

Salvation, you said. From your enemies.

"Yes."

I grant your request, said Nendawen.