The Fall of Highwatch Page 6

  “My lord …?” said Boran.

  “This place is sac red to the K nights of Ondrahar,” said Guric. He took a deep breath of the mountain air and let it out in a great plume that turned to frost before it hit the ground. The snowstorm had blown over, the clouds had broken, and the air was almost painfully cold.

  Argalath walked over and bowed before Guric. “Well met, my lord,” he said.

  “All is ready?” said Guric.

  “It is.”

  “And she …?”

  “My servants have tended her well, my lord. Soon, you shall have her back.”

  Guric thought that at those words a feeling of profound relief would have flooded him. He’d done so much to come to this moment. But now that it was done, all he could feel was dark apprehension.

  Argalath cleared his throat. “My lord, the sacrifice …?”

  “On its way,” said Guric.

  “Very good, my lord,” said Argalath. He bowed again and returned to his acolytes.

  “My lord,” said Boran, his voice pitched not to carry. “What sacrifice?”

  Guric swallowed hard, then turned to his men. “I … I need a few moments. You men, go back down and help the others with their burden.”

  The four guards bowed—Boran with a frown—then turned and disappeared back into the tunnel. Once the glow of their torchlight was gone, Guric walked over to Argalath and his acolytes. Closer, he could see their tracks in the snow, and the bundle they had laid in the very middle of the basin. Guric approached, slowly at first, but gaining speed so that when he fell to his knees before the shroud, he slid in the snow. Five years in the frozen ground had made the outer layers of the linen wrappings deteriorate. The runes written on them had faded to bruiselike splotches. Guric reached forward, reverently, and touched the shroud. The weakened fabric crumbled beneath his touch, but beneath, the linen seemed almost new, barely even stained from its burial. Wrapped in thick linens and bound with braided ribbons, it was still obvious what lay within. The head lay back, turned slightly to the side. Guric swallowed hard. She used to lie that way when in deep sleep. He remembered lying there, watching her as the lamp burned low, the low flame off the red tapestries of their chamber making her pale skin seem warm and soft, like summer sunset through thin clouds.

  Guric tore his gaze from the bundle and looked to Argalath. He knew four of Argalath’s acolytes—three Creel and one Qu’ima, the oldest of them no more than twenty. But two he didn’t recognize. They wore the same robes of swiftstag hides and had shaved all but the topknot of their hair. But they had the bearing and hard build of seasoned warriors.

  Argalath stepped to the side and presented them. “Durel and Gued. My acolytes.”

  “I don’t know them.”

  “They begin their disciplines tonight, my lord.”

  Guric grunted. He’d been with Argalath long enough to recognize that more was going on here.

  “Your spells worked?” said Guric.

  “Perfectly, my lord,” said Argalath behind him. “She has not changed since the day we put her in the ground.”

  “I …” Guric gulped, part of him recoiling at what he was about to do. He hadn’t seen his wife in five years, except in memory. “I must see her.”

  “The outer wrappings must be removed for the rite,” said Argalath. “If you will stand back, I will have my man remove the linens. He is most skilled with a blade.”

  “No!” Guric looked up at Argalath. “No one touches her but me.”

  Argalath closed his eyes and bowed. “As you wish, my lord. But I urge utmost caution. Cut away layer by layer. We must not damage the—”

  “I know!” Guric drew the dagger from the sheath at his belt, then peeled off his gloves with his teeth. His hands were trembling, and not from the cold.

  Using only his thumb and one finger, he gently peeled up the top layer of linen, set his blade under it, and pushed upward, slicing through the cloth. Rather than going layer by layer down the length of the shroud, he pressed into the lower layers with his fingers, pulled the cloth up and well away from the treasure beneath, and cut away all the upper layers, peeling them back like the pages of a book. Layer by layer he cut, his heart hammering faster with each layer. After five layers, the thick cloth was completely dry, and he thought he could still smell a faint waft of the burial oils.

  That sudden scent brought the memory back, stronger and more vivid than he had experienced in years. Even in the depths of his grief, he had not allowed others to handle Valia’s corpse in those final moments. After Argalath had performed the rituals to preserve his wife’s body and the servants lowered her into the grave, Guric had ordered everyone away. He had filled in the hole himself. Every last grain of soil and the rocks over it. In the moment when the black soil covered the last glimpse of the linen shroud, Guric’s grief had almost overwhelmed him. Even his thirst for vengeance—no, for justice—had not been enough. It had been the promise of Argalath’s words that held him.

  I can bring her back. I can give her back to you.

  Guric breathed in the scent and kept cutting away, layer by layer, until he could feel something beneath the cloth. Hard and unyielding. Cold. Dead. Nothing in that touch held any hint of life. Guric’s gorge rose, and he had to force himself to lift that final layer, pierce it with his dagger, and cut it away.

  Silk. The finest silk. Guric knew the wine red cloth had three layers, joined by intricate embroidery. The gown in which his wife had been wrapped in her shroud. Guric knew it because he had been the one to put it on her. Part of him longed to touch it, to feel the flesh beneath, but another part of him recoiled in horror at the thought, knowing that the flesh was cold, heavy, and lifeless.

  Guric swallowed and took in deep breaths through his nose.

  “Are you well, my lord?” said Argalath.

  He couldn’t respond.

  Argalath knelt on the other side of the shroud and said, “Shall I do the rest, my lord?”

  “No,” said Guric, with much more force than he’d intended. “Make your preparations, Argalath. I do this alone. No one touches her but me.”

  When Guric peeled back the last scrap of shroud, Valia lay before him, her wrists bound by red ribbon under her breasts. A gold scarf—it looked off-white in the reflected moonlight, but Guric knew it was gold, for he’d chosen it himself, almost five years ago—had been wrapped around her eyes to keep them closed. Above the fabric, strands of her hair wafted in the breeze off the mountain. Her flesh was pale as the snow around her, and just as cold. Her lips were gray and lifeless. That they were slightly parted was the worst of all. He could see the rim of her teeth, and even in the dim light he could see the tip of her tongue, cold and colorless like a slug creeping out of a crevice. There was nothing of the softness and warmth he remembered. The sight revolted Guric, but he could not look away.

  “Lord Guric,” said Argalath, and Guric realized that his counselor stood beside him, hand on his shoulder, shaking him. How long had he been there?” Your men return with the sacrifice. Be strong, my lord. Soon now, you shall have your reward. But now your men must see their lord, commanding and sure. Be strong.”

  Guric looked up. He saw the red hue of torchlight flickering on the snow. He turned.

  Boran, his five other personal guards, the closest Guric had to friends, and five other soldiers whose names he did not even know were coming out of the stone doorway. His personal guard and one other bore torches. The other four carried a man between them—taller than any of them, but bound at wrists and knees so that he had to be carried. Soran. Tough leather ropes at elbows and wrists bound his arms behind his back, and a stick was wedged in his jaws and bound with a thick strap to keep him quiet. He wasn’t struggling, but the men carrying him panted from the exertion of carrying the large man up thousands of steps.

  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.

  “Ru!” Argalath said. “A shyen. A kyet!”

  Valia threw back her head and screamed. There was nothing human in that sound. It was the cry of something that knew only cold, dark, and hunger.

  Still brandishing the knife at Valia, Argalath turned to one of his acolytes and nodded.

  The young man stepped to th
e acolyte standing next to him—one of the new ones; Durel?—grabbed both his shoulders, and shoved him at Valia. The man was too surprised to resist.

  The man stumbled in the snow, and Valia fell on him, her teeth tearing into his throat.

  That broke Guric out of his shock. He screamed and rushed forward, part of him wanting to pull Valia away and plead for her to stop and part of him wanting to pummel the life out of Argalath for allowing this to happen. Damn him, he had promised!

  But before he’d made it three steps, two of Argalath’s acolytes tackled him. Guric screamed and thrashed and called for his guards.

  “Stop this!” Argalath roared, and his eyes and the dark splotches of his skin began to glow blue. “Stop this madness now!”

  Unable to break free, Guric looked up at his counselor. “You promised I’d have her back. You promised!”

  “You shall, my lord,” said Argalath. “You—”

  “Defiler!” said a new voice, as cruel and lacking in warmth as the winter. It was Valia. She crouched over the dead acolyte, fresh blood steaming in the cold, soaking them both. The man’s throat had been torn to shreds. “You break the pact.”

  “No!” said Argalath. “The line of the House of Highwatch is ended.” He pointed at Soran’ corpse. “This man’s blood—”

  “Lies!” she screamed, and bloody spittle flew from her mouth.

  The meaning of the conversation began to sink in to Guric’s mind. Something had gone wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. Whatever was speaking through his beloved’s body now … it was not Valia.

  “You lie!” she said. “One still lives. The House of Highwatch still walks this world. Still breathes. Her blood runs hot.”

  “Who?” said Argalath.

  “The youngest. The girl.”

  “Hweilan,” said Guric, and all the strength left his body.

  Argalath had sent Jatara to retrieve the girl. But Jatara had come back missing an eye, claiming that the girl had tricked her and run away. The Creel sent after her had only managed to chase her back into the fighting. She’d been killed. Looking for her family, she’d made it all the way to the middle bailey, where the dogs had found her. Creel hunting hounds that had been used to sniff out anyone hiding, they’d gone mad at the scent of the girl. By the time their masters had pulled them off, her features were mangled beyond recognition. Guric remembered the torn and bloody corpse on the flagstones. No way to tell who it might have been, save for the word of the men chasing her. Guric had trusted the competence of the damned Creel. What a fool he’d been. His own eagerness to see this done had blinded him.