"Thank you," Jatara's voice came from behind her. "Had you stayed in the trees that never would have worked."
Hweilan rolled over and forced air into her lungs. A thin braided cord, weighted on both ends by round stones, was tangled around her legs. Jatara was walking down the path toward her.
"Stay away from me!"
Jatara reached back and pulled a coil of rope from her belt.
Hweilan let out a long, wordless scream, hoping that someone-anyone-would hear.
Jatara laughed. Only a few paces away, she stopped and her eyes hardened. "Take that knife and toss it aside. Then be still and I won't make this too tight."
Hweilan tried to scream but it came out more of a sob.
Think, she told herself. Jatara had the sword at her hip, and if even half the things Hweilan had heard were true, the woman knew how to use it. Hweilan's knife would be no match, not unless she could get in close. And then it came to her.
Hweilan sat up and reached for the cord round her knees.
"Ah-ah!" said Jatara, her hand going to her sword. "Knife first."
Scowling and doing her best to keep back the tears, Hweilan pulled her knife from the sheath at her belt and tossed it to the side of the path.
"Good," said Jatara. "Now on your knees and turn around."
Hweilan could hear Oruk getting closer. She'd have to make this quick. She turned around, putting her back to Jatara, got up on her knees, and clasped her hands in front of her, as if in prayer.
"Arms at your sides," said Jatara, as she leaned in close, the rope held out before her.
Hweilan reached inside her coat with her right hand and moved her left arm down to her side.
"Both arms," said Jatara. Almost close enough.
Almost "I said-"
— close enough.
Hweilan's fist closed around the kishkoman, the sharp spike protruding from between her middle fingers, and brought it out of her coat. She turned and punched.
Jatara saw it too late. Her eyes widened in the instant before the sharpened antler went into the right one. She shrieked and fell back, dropping the rope and both hands going to her face.
Hweilan scrambled away, her legs kicking, trying to loosen the cord around her legs. It only made it tighter.
The sounds of Oruk breaking through the brush were very close now. Hweilan lunged to the side of the path, grabbed her knife, and raked its sharp edge down the cord. The tight braided leather parted like spidersilk before her blade.
Oruk crashed through a pine branch, sending needles loose in a shower, and stared at the scene before him-Hweilan on the path, knife in hand, Jatara writhing on the path, blood leaking from between the fingers she held to her face.
"Whuh-?" said the Nar, and then Hweilan was on the move. She snatched her father's bow in one hand, keeping the knife in the other.
"Never mind me!" Jatara shouted. "Get! Her! Now!"
Hweilan ran.
She kept to the path. Many times she slipped or skidded in the frost or through the carpet of pine needles, but she kept her feet, knowing that a bad fall or twist of her ankle would be the end of her. She'd walked this path more times than she could remember. She knew every twist and curve, every tree and stone. Hweilan ran, swift as a hart. Never able to ride a horse, Hweilan had walked or run her entire life, and there were few in Highwatch or Kistrad who could outrun her. Once Scith had even said that in a long distance race between her and any horse in Highwatch, he would have laid his coin on her.
Although the sounds of pursuit grew farther behind, they did not cease. Oruk was still following. If she fell, if she stopped to rest, he'd be on her in moments.
She knew that once she reached the fortress, found the first guards, a knight, or even a servant, she'd be safe. One word in the right ear and Hweilan could have every soldier in the fortress out after Jatara and Oruk. Argalath himself would be hauled before her grandfather. A deep and vindictive part of Hweilan's heart warmed to the thought of what her Uncle Soran would do when he heard of this.
Then she saw the smoke.
A smear in the sky. Not the usual haze of evening cook-fires or wood burning against the early spring cold. A thick, gray smoke.
Hweilan rounded a bend in the path. The trees fell away and she had a clear view of Nar-sek Qu'istrade, the distant cliff walls, the fortress of Highwatch, and Kistrad huddling at its feet. At the bottom of tall columns of smoke she saw the angry glimmer of flames. Kistrad was burning. Thousands of Nar filled the valley. Some moving toward the fortress, but a great many not moving at all.
Shocked, Hweilan stopped, her breath coming in great heaves, her heart hammering against her ribs. But even over the sound of her own breathing and her frightened heartbeat, her sharp eyes caught other sounds-faint, but still clear, even over the distance.
Steel ringing against steel. The bellow of a scythe wing. The screams of the dying.
Highwatch was under attack.
Much to Guric's fury, Soran had survived the ambush. The powers of his god had protected him from the Creel spellcasters-though his guardsman had not been so fortunate-and the poisoned arrows, if they had even managed to pierce the scythe wing's thick coat and skin, had no effect.
The fiercest fighting took place in the valley between the village and the Shield Wall. Once the Knights saw Nar pouring through the Shadowed Path toward the fortress, they regrouped and attacked. Just as Guric knew they would.
He knew the tactics of the Knights, and he placed his men well. In the first wave, the scythe wings came in low, roaring and sending the Nar horses into a panic. They landed, and as the Knight set to work with bow and arrow, the scythe wing waded into the Nar. Each sweep of its wing wreaked carnage among warriors and horses alike.
It worked once, as Guric ordered. It made the Knights bold.
The second wave was a feint, and as the scythe wings landed, Creel spellcasters struck, throwing fire and lightning at the great beasts. One knight died screaming as his mail suddenly blazed, burning through the padding and clothes beneath. Had the Knights been prepared, had they not rushed in, thinking they were putting down a mere rabble of bloodthirsty raiders, most would have been able to repel the attacks. But their panic combined with Guric's feint killed all but four of them before they could take to the air again.
Seeing that this was no mere rebellion, the surviving Knights took to the air and returned to the fortress.
But again, Guric had his men well placed.
Three years ago, when relations with King Yarin had grown particularly sour, Guric had appealed to the High Warden to install several large mounted crossbows around the eyries. The Knights of Ondrahar were the only aerial cavalry within five hundred miles, yes, but they were hardly the only ones in Faerun. Should their enemies ever decide to take Highwatch, mercenaries on other aerial mounts could be found, and should the Knights be on patrol or in battle, the eyries could prove a weak spot for the fortress. Vandalar had relented.
Guric's men in Highwatch did their work even as the battle began on the plain below. The Knights were well trained for open battle and learned in the tactics of Nar warfare. But treachery from within caught them completely by surprise. Some died in their beds. Others by ambush. And those scythe wings still in the eyries died by poison and spear.
When Soran led his survivors back to the fortress, Guric's men were ready for them. They let the scythe wings come in close, wings spread, soft undersides exposed as they prepared to land. Then the crossbowmen went to work.