Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II (23 page)

Thidrek had not been particularly worried. Concerned, yes. But such was not atypical behavior for the more aggressive mountain tribes. And so he came forward and addressed the foremost hobgoblin, offering the usual tax.

The goblin grabbed the hand of the watchman being held between two of his fellows. As the Damarans watched, the goblin cut off one of the man’s fingers, tossed it to Thidrek, and said, “He loses one each time you insult me.”

In the end, the goblins left after taking four times the usual tax and two of their pack horses. For just a moment, Thidrek considered fighting—it galled him to give in to such foul creatures—but a quick count showed a score of hobgoblins, all armed. And if he could see twenty, there were probably fifty. He knew his seasoned fighters would probably make short work of the rabble, but they still had many miles of hard country to cross, and he didn’t want to fend off attacks the whole way. So he’d paid.

There had been three more such incidents—each one costing more. Thidrek knew that if Highwatch did not resupply them, they would not have enough food to make it back to Damara. His advisors sensed his worry, and one day one of them did something one rarely did in Yarin’s court: he spoke the truth.

“The mountain tribes always feared Highwatch more than they feared anyone in Damara,” he said. “Yarin negotiated the tax, but it was Highwatch that kept the goblins in line.
If the knights in Highwatch are truly gone … we might do well to choose another way home, my lord.”

When they left the Gap, Thidrek hoped the worst of their troubles were behind them. But then they met the first Creel.

The Nar barbarians did not attack or attempt to “tax” them, but they greeted the Damaran delegation with an attitude just shy of disdain. Thidrek could not understand their uncouth tongue, but he still knew an insult when he heard one, and his face flushed when he heard the Creel snickering at him and his men.

Their leader looked down his nose at Thidrek and said, “Ride to Nar-sek Qu’istrade. Leave the road at your peril.”

And then they’d ridden away, leaving the Damarans to ride through their dust.

“They aren’t going to escort us?” said Almar, who was Thidrek’s second.

“You really want their stench the whole way?” said Thidrek. But he shared Almar’s offense. To greet a royal delegation with nothing more than an order to watch their step …

They saw more Nar at a distance as they rode for Nar-sek Qu’istrade, but none approached. The half-dozen guards who kept the gate at the entrance to the valley, the so-called Shadowed Path, let them pass without incident. But Thidrek could feel their eyes on his back, and when the gates shut and locked behind the last of his men … that was when the first true fear hit Thidrek.

His initial excitement in Damara had given way to unease in his first days in the Gap. Their encounters with the hobgoblins had filled him with confusion and—truth be told—a fair amount of shame. The Creel had shamed him further. But hearing the tall iron-shod doors clang shut and the crossbars being dragged into place …

Thidrek was afraid. The grassy valley through which they rode was miles wide, but he still felt as if the door to his cell had been slammed behind him.

Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of Creel held the valley, lounging around in filthy camps or riding around and sparring. A few stopped and watched the Damarans ride past, but none spoke a word, and there was not a hint of deference even in the gazes of warriors who were scarcely more than boys.

The mountain height on which Highwatch rested rose before them. It was not elegant, but it did have a functional beauty to it. Perched on the heights, turrets jutting out from cliffs hundreds of feet high, it looked like a castle out of a bard’s tale. Still, Thidrek felt repulsed by it. He could put no name to it, could see nothing particularly repellant about the castle, but he could
feel
it. The sight of it pushed at him. It was like walking against the current of a river.

About halfway across the valley, the horses began to feel it too. At first it was merely a few mounts tossing their heads. But soon there was not a rider among them who wasn’t struggling to keep his or her horse under control. The beasts’ eyes rolled in their heads, and Thidrek even saw one horse do its best to wrench its head around far enough to bite its rider.

“My lord, this is pointless!” Almar said. Then his horse kicked up its rear legs, and the man had to fight to keep his saddle.

“Withdraw!” Thidrek called out. “Withdraw!”

He wrenched his own horse around. Once turned away from Highwatch, the beast set off in a gallop. Thidrek gave the horse its head for a hundred yards or so, then wrenched back the reins. The rest of the company soon gathered around him.

“What’s gotten into them?” Almar said.

One of the men whom Thidrek didn’t know answered, “Could be some enchantment to keep horses back. Gods know if I lived among all these damned Nar, I’d want just such a thing.”

Thidrek forced a smile that he in no way felt. “Almar, choose twenty men to stay here with the horses. Order them to make camp. The rest of us will walk.”

“What is this place?” one of the men said as they passed the first of the buildings.

“Kistrad,” Almar answered.

It was a ghost town. Most of the buildings still stood, though here and there they passed the scorched skeleton of a house’s frame still standing amidst the ashes. Some of the stone buildings bore marks of fire, and no one had bothered to repair any of the season’s storm damage. Thidrek thought he could hear rats scuttling in the late afternoon shadows, but he saw not a soul.

“Not even a stray dog.”

“My lord?” said Almar, and it wasn’t until then that Thidrek realized he had spoken aloud.

“Nothing.”

“Nar don’t keep dogs,” said one of the other men.

“Yes,” said Thidrek. “That must be it.”

They walked on, staying to the main thoroughfare—the widest path through the village, and the only one paved. The sun sank behind the mountains before them, and the shadows grew thick and cold.

The road led to Highwatch’s main gate—though it was hardly a gate as Thidrek understood them. Castles had walls, and castle walls had gates. Highwatch’s main defenses were the heights themselves, and her main gate was twice the size of any Thidrek had ever seen. But it was not a passage through a bailey wall. It was an entrance into the mountain itself. One gate was open wide. Its timbers scorched, all but two of the massive hinges broken, it hung loose, resting against the stones of the road. All that was left of its mate were shards of blackened wood and twisted metal littering the ground around the arch. Thidrek could see a half-dozen paces or so into the tunnel, but beyond that all was darkness.

“Well,” said Almar, “what do we—”

“Quiet,” said Thidrek, who was staring into the darkness. “Something’s coming.”

Every man’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, and Almar drew his half out of the scabbard.

Shapes that were slightly less darkness than the blackness beyond moved toward them. Thidrek could hear their feet shuffling over the dust and grit on the ground, and with each step, the shapes grew more distinct.

Four men. All obviously Damarans by the cuts of their hair and their clothes. But their clothes were filthy, fraying at the seams, and hung loose on their frames. In the last moment before the nearest of them stepped fully into the light, Thidrek thought he saw red fire, like sunset through stained glass, glint deep in their eyes. Thidrek gasped and took a step back.

“Did we startle you, my lord?” said the nearest of them, and then all four men bowed. “Forgive me. You are Lord Thidrek of Goliad, are you not?”

Thidrek swallowed hard. Something in the man’s voice set Thidrek’s teeth on edge. But he managed to say, “I am. And you are …?”

“Morev,” said the man. “We have come to welcome you in the name of Lord Guric of Highwatch. And to bring you to him.”

Almar slammed his blade back into its scabbard. “You are our escort?”

Morev kept his eyes fixed on Thidrek. “We are.”

“Lords of Damara are more accustomed to being escorted through their host’s gate,” said Almar. “And
not
having to walk through a dusty ruin before being greeted.”

“My most profound apologies, Almar of Brotha. Our forces are, sadly, much reduced of late. I trust our Nar servants did not offend you.”

Almar opened his mouth to retort, but Thidrek cut him off.

“How do you know our names?”

Morev smiled, and Thidrek shivered at the sight. There was no mirth in it. Not even the feigned obsequiousness one might expect from a high-minded servant. Thidrek had once
seen a jackal, brought by some southern trader to his father’s court. He remembered that jackal and how it had seemed to grin just before it pounced on the hare that was its dinner.

“Your reputations precede you, my lords,” said Morev. “Come. You are most welcome.”

Highwatch proved to be even more of a ghost town that Kistrad. Although something deep in Thidrek’s brain thought perhaps the ghosts might be real in the fortress. They saw not a soul in the halls. No guards posted at any of the dozens of gates and doors through which they passed. No servants sweeping halls or courtyards that were in desperate need of it. No one lighting the evening lamps, for there were no lamps, and their escorts carried no torches. They walked in darkness, ever upward into the heart of Highwatch. Even when they passed through courtyards or avenues open to the sky, there was not so much as a raven or a sparrow. Highwatch was barren.

Despite the seeming emptiness, Thidrek could feel eyes on him, watching from heights above that he could only guess at, or staring from the shadows that faded to absolute black as evening gave way to night.

“I hope you will forgive our lack of lamps, my lords,” said Morev. “Since the recent … unpleasantness, I fear our supply of oil and pitch has grown thin.”

“With summer, trade should resume, yes?” said Thidrek.

“We hope.”

“We saw fires in the Nar camps we passed,” said Almar.

“Indeed,” Morev replied. “The Nar burn grass and horse dung that they cache throughout the year to dry. Here in the fortress, we do not care for the stench.”

“You mean they cook their food on … on shit?” said one of Thidrek’s men.

“Yes,” said Morev. “And for warmth and light. Narfell is not a place known for its abundant forests. What few there are hug the mountains here, but the Nar—and especially the Creel whom you saw—are creatures of unbreakable habit.”

“Remind me not to dine with the Nar.”

“Oh, not to worry. We have a most special meal prepared for you, my lords.”

Standing outside the main hall, for a moment Thidrek dared to hope that he might have been wrong, that every sense in his body and mind were raw from lack of sleep and good food. The receiving chamber was long overdue for a good sweep and scrub. Even the cobwebs overhead looked stale and abandoned. But there was blessed, blessed light. A brazier wider than a paladin’s shield burned a healthy bed of coals next to the far wall, and Thidrek could smell incense there as well. A dozen torches burned in sconces along the wall, their smoke pooling thick overhead before it finally leaked out through vents in the roof. More Damarans stood as guards, their backs as straight as the spears they held. They did not look at Thidrek and his company, and their clothes were just as dirty and worn as that of Morev and his fellows, but after occupying a sacked fortress cut off from trade with everyone except a bunch of dung-burning barbarians, what could one expect? Even the four Nar standing guard farther down the hall were dressed in their finest and looked at Thidrek and his men with proper deference.

One of the doors opened, and a huge Nar stepped out. He was dressed as the rest of his countrymen in various bits of wool, fur, and horse leather, and he wore the sides and crown of his hair in the traditional topknot, but when he spoke, his Damaran was flawless.

“I am Vazhad,” he said. “I serve Argalath, Lord Guric’s chief counselor. I have come to take you to my lords.”

The man showed nothing. No deference or respect. No contempt. No amusement. No emotion whatsoever.

“Very well,” said Thidrek. “Do your men hold our weapons while we are in the hall?”

“That is not necessary.”

“Then proceed.”

Vazhad nodded and pulled the door wide. Almar scowled when the man simply stared at them without a bow.

“I will announce you,” said Vazhad.

Thidrek led them inside. As the last man passed, Vazhad called out, “Thidrek of Goliad and company!”

More torches burned inside the main hall, but there was no brazier, and the hearths held only cold ash in their beds. Orange torchlight and dancing shadows filled the hall but gave no warmth. Full night had fallen, the upper windows stood dark, and Thidrek could see steam as he breathed.

He led his men across the hall where an impressive Damaran sat in a simple oak chair upon the dais. A smaller man, swathed completely in thick robes and a cowl, stood behind his right shoulder.

Thidrek had heard of Guric, of course, long before Yarin had told him the full story. He’d been sent by his father to Highwatch to strengthen relations between the two houses, but he’d been besotted by some lordling’s daughter whose father had chosen the wrong side during Yarin’s ascension. He’d chosen love over his inheritance and been taken into High Warden Vandalar’s household. But then his wife died. He’d given up everything for an empty bed and no heirs. However, Guric had not accepted his fate. He’d seized what he wanted and sat as the new lord of Highwatch. Thidrek couldn’t help but admire that. Should things continue to worsen for Yarin in Damara, Thidrek could do far worse than look to Guric as an ally.