Jalan watched as one of the pale barbarians crawled out of a shield-sized hole in the gully wall, pulling the body of another dead wolf behind him. Several of the wolves from the northerners' band began feasting on the remains of the pack whose den they'd just pillaged. Jalan grimaced and turned away. His gaze fell on the leader, snow dusting the ash-gray of his cloak, who had dismounted and was headed straight for him. Jalan pulled away, but his mount lowered to its haunches, and the leader cut him loose. The wolf bounded away, and the leader grabbed Jalan by the rope around his chest and held him up with one hand. Jalan found himself staring into the darkness of the hood. He could make out no distinct features, just a pale blur hinting at the face within. "Good," said the leader. "You're awake. It will make our business easier." Rope still bound Jalan's wrists and elbows, but his legs were free and he kicked at the leader's torso. One blow connected, but it was like striking a tree. The hand released him, and Jalan fell. After riding for so long in one position, his legs were stiff. Pain shot through his joints. He was halfway to his knees when he felt the leader's hand grabbing his hair. Jalan just had time to take a quick breath before his face was slammed into the snow. The first time was more surprise than pain, for the snow was thick. But the second truly hurt, and with the third blow his face went all the way through the snow to the rocky ground beneath. "Enough?" Jalan found himself looking up into the dark confines of the hood, though he had no memory of being picked up. "Stop struggling," said the leader,
"or I will begin truly hurting you." Jalan tasted blood, snow, and grit in his mouth, but he swallowed it, afraid that spitting it out would be seen as a sign of defiance. Again his mind scrabbled for the power inside him. He found it, but it was dormant, and nothing he did could rouse it. "This is the very behavior we are about to correct," said the leader, and he set off through the snow, dragging Jalan behind him. Jalan could see little more than the hem of the leader's cloak and boots and the snowy ground beneath, but judging from the general direction, he knew where they were headed. The leader ducked into the entrance of the wolf den and pulled Jalan after. As the darkness closed over him, panic set in, and raw instinct almost took over and set Jalan to kicking and streaming, but the last of his conscious mind and will held on. He closed his eyes and tried to prepare for the worst. The tunnel was short, turned upward near the end, and ended in a fair-sized burrow. It was dim but not altogether dark. The all-covering snow outside reflected the light quite some way into the tunnel. Scraps of bone and tufts of hair littered the ground.
Roots from the grass on the surface hung down from the ceiling. Then the light winked out-someone had covered the entrance-and Jalan found himself in complete darkness with the thing inside the ash-gray cloak.
His nose was overwhelmed with the thick, musky scent of animal, and what little warmth had been left in the den fell into the presence of the cloaked leader like water funneling down a drain. Jalan shivered.
"Long, long years it has been," said a voice from the darkness. "Long years since we found one where the blood runs as pure as it does in you. I almost wish it were my time. Gerghul will be pleased with you.
You will last a long time." "D-don't make me hurt you," Jalan said, but even he heard the empty threat. His hoarse whisper, just on the verge of tears. "I can, you know. I w-will. D-don't-" "Yes, you can. I know you can. And that is why we are here. We'll have no more of that." Hands cold as tomb frost seized Jalan and pulled him close. He kicked and tried to pull away, but the thing's strength was implacable. He could feel breath, cold and fetid on his face, and he choked. Bile rose to his throat and tears streamed down his cheeks. In the darkness before him, less than a hand's width away, he saw two rings of cold fire, like a starlight nimbus filtered through frost.
Eyes. They were eyes rimmed in ice, vast and empty. Portals to nothingness, and Jalan felt himself falling in, trying to find something to hold onto, but there was nothing. Drowning. He was drowning in emptiness. Then something was with him. In his mind.
Something hungry and very much aware of him. He could feel its full attention bearing down on him, coming closer. Jalan could no longer feel his body, but in his mind he screamed. Then the thing had him.
Hro'nyewachu During the night, the mists froze on the steppes below Akhrasut Neth, and the sky let loose a great cascade of snow-thick, wet flakes that fell harder with each passing moment. By the time the first hint of dawn-no more than a lightening of the dark curtain in the east-struck the sky, Akhrasut Neth and all the surrounding lands lay beneath new snow. Still Gyaidun, Lendri, and the nearby Vil Adanrath kept their vigil. The wolves found shelter beneath the boughs of the nearby trees-all save Mingan, who stayed with his master near the entrance to the cave. But he was restless, partially from the weather that kept trying to give him a blanket of snow he didn't want, but also from something else, perhaps some scent or sound coming from the cave. It was Gyaidun, who paced only a few feet from the entrance, who saw them first. "There!" he said. "What is it?" said Lendri, and behind him he heard the Vil Adanrath rustling among the trees. "A light." Lendri saw it then-a faint greenish glow down in the cave that grew stronger with each passing moment. Before long, it was quite bright, staining even the snow outside the entrance the color of new spring leaves. Mingan hopped around the entrance, barking and yipping, and Durja emerged from the folds of Gyaidun's cloak to alight upon an outcropping of stone beside the entrance. They saw the belkagen first, his staff held high, the flames at its tip the source of the green glow. Behind him walked Amira, huddled in her cloak, her long hair still damp. Her left hand held her cloak closed against the chill, but her right held a staff almost as tall as Gyaidun. The pair emerged from the cave. The belkagen stopped just outside the entrance, and Mingan came to lick his fingers. Gyaidun stepped to the entrance to take Amira's hand and help her up the final step. She gave him a smile of thanks. Lendri noted the weariness around her eyes. "Are you well?" Gyaidun asked her. "Well enough," she said. "Very tired." "Hear me, my people!" said the belkagen. Lendri turned and saw that the Vil Adanrath came as close as their honor would allow, hugging the treeline. His father stood just outside the nearest boughs, the falling snow dusting his head and shoulders. "Hro'nyewachu guides our road," said the belkagen. "Lady Amira has sought her wisdom and lived." The Vil Adanrath, both elves and wolves, let out a great howl, and even Mingan joined in. "Gather your strength," said the belkagen.
"For tonight we hunt!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Endless Wastes
Screaming. Jalan could hear it, made faint by distance or… something else. Some barrier or thickness. The voice was familiar. He knew it. He was sure. Then it hit him. It was his own voice, the screams and yells and shrieks finally fading to pleading-all that and more in the den of the dead wolves. Another sound intruded. Howling.
But not the malicious howling of the cloaked leader's pack that reminded Jalan of cold winter and empty places. This howling came from far away, and in it he heard the call of brothers. Jalan opened his eyes. Again he was tied to the back of one of the great wolves. The sky was dark, but the fresh snowfall seemed to gather in the tiniest bit of light and reflect it back, giving the world a muted ghostly cast. He could make out the large forms of the other wolves and their riders milling about. They'd stopped. Why? The howling. It came from the distant horizon in front of them. Jalan had once spoken to one of the rangers who patrolled around High Horn. The man told him that wolves have a language all their own, far more intricate than most people knew. They spoke not with words, but with movement, posture, the cant of ears and tail, a look of the eye, yips, barks, growls, and over great distance they howled. What they were saying now, Jalan did not know, but the wolves of the cloaked leader's band obviously did.
They seemed agitated, and Jalan could feel the growling deep within his mount's chest. The barbarians were shouting back and forth in their own tongue. Their leader allowed it for a few moments, then cut them off with a harsh command. The barbarians stiffened, and
Jalan could see that they did not approve of their lord's command but were too frightened to disagree. The leader shouted something, and the company set off again, heading northward, straight into the chorus of howls.
Amira found Gyaidun just under the northern lip of the ridge. The broad valley, now filled with snow, spread out beneath them. She sat down beside him and huddled into her cloak. Gyaidun glanced at her, then continued watching the land beneath them. There was an agitated stirring inside his cloak that Amira knew was Durja, huddled up and trying to keep warm. "Where is Lendri?" she asked. "He walks the dreamroad." Gyaidun motioned up the rise, but Amira could see nothing up there but grass and bushes covered in snow. "You have been speaking with the belkagen?" "Yes." "Your… journey to Hro'nyewachu," said Gyaidun, "it went well?" Amira shuddered and closed her eyes. After their day's journey-two more trips with her magic, followed by a long run; the Mother's Bed was now far, far behind them-she'd spent most of the evening discussing her vision with the belkagen. Even after seeking his wisdom, she still did not understand parts of it, but what she did disturbed her. She now knew that she was not merely a parent on a desperate quest to save her son. She stood in the forefront of something much larger than she'd ever imagined, perhaps no more than a page or two in a long history that had been going on for thousands of years. It made her feel very small. She'd come to Gyaidun, the only other human for miles, in hopes of feeling a little less small-and not so terribly alone. "If you don't wish to speak of it…" said Gyaidun.
"You want to know if I discovered anything to help your son." "Did you?" "I… don't know." "You don't know?" Gyaidun's voice sounded flat, on the verge of anger. "It wasn't like I thought it would be-me asking the oracle questions, her answering and demanding payment. It was-" Her body began to shiver and would not stop. "Are you cold?" asked Gyaidun. "Yes," she said, though in truth she wasn't. The belkagen had given her more kanishta roots, and beyond giving her renewed energy, they filled her body-right down to her toes and fingertips-with a pleasant, buzzing warmth. Gyaidun moved closer, put his arm around her, and wrapped them both in his huge cloak. Durja squawked in protest but soon nestled between them quite comfortably.
"The oracle," Amira continued, "showed me… things. The past mostly, farther back even than the wars between Narfell and Raumathar that destroyed them both." "What does that have to do with my son? And yours?" He was very close, and Amira could feel his breath against her ear. She was shaking so hard that her teeth were chattering. "You remember the belkagen speaking of Arantar?" "Yes," said Gyaidun.
"Everyone in these lands knows those tales." "If… if I understood correctly, it seems that Arantar is most likely one of your grandsires." Gyaidun snorted. "You can't meet anyone between the Lake of Steam and Yal Tengri who doesn't claim Arantar or Khasoreth as their grandsire." "Arantar had only one son before he… before he died. Khasoreth had no children." Speaking Khasoreth's name, the warmth coursing through her body seemed to freeze. "But Arantar's son had many children-and each of them in turn had many children. His blood spread throughout the Wastes." "What does this have to do with Erun and Jalan?" She had shared most of what she'd seen with the belkagen, his sharp brows furrowing deeper and deeper the longer she spoke. He'd taken it all in, adding his own bits of wisdom gleaned from years of study and learning the lore of the Wastes. And so they knew why young men were taken and who was taking them. But the belkagen had warned her most strongly not to tell Gyaidun. She'd balked, claiming he had as much right to know as she did-and more than the belkagen-and the old elf hadn't disagreed, but he'd told her,
"Gyaidun loved Hlessa and Erun more than anything. More than his own life and honor. He blames himself for their loss, the damned fool. And no amount of reasoning from you or me will convince him otherwise.
"All these years he has hoped of finding his son again. It is the one bit of tenderness left in his heart. Do not destroy that, Lady Amira.
Do not. It would be a wicked thing. A cruel thing." And so Amira told Gyaidun an abbreviated version of what she'd learned, but she did not tell him what the sorcerers did with those they took. That, she spared Gyaidun. "These five devil-possessed sorcerers," said Gyaidun, "they are the ones who took Erun, who have Jalan?" "At least one of them, yes," said Amira. "And what can we do to stop them? To get Jalan back and save Erun?" "I don't know." "You don't know?" His voice had returned to the edge of anger. "I'm no mage or shaman, but even I can recognize runes of power when I see them. That's no walking stick she gave you." Amira looked down at the staff across her lap. She'd spent what time she could studying it, and although the runes were like none she'd ever seen, she understood them. Whether the oracle had opened her understanding or the staff itself gave some power to its bearer, Amira did not know, but already she had learned several of its uses.
She didn't know if it would be enough to kill the thing that had her son, but based on her past encounter with him, she thought it would definitely give them an advantage. "The oracle said… said to get Jalan to the Witness Tree. 'Beyond that, I give you no assurances,' she said. 'Death and life will meet. Only those who surrender will triumph.'" "And what does that mean?" "I have no idea, Gyaidun." She felt his entire body stiffen beside her, but he said nothing. Between them, Durja ruffled his feathers, squawked, and pushed himself from between them to perch on Gyaidun's knee. "May I tell you something?" she asked. She turned to Gyaidun, though in the dark his face was no more than a dim shadow. "Will anything I say prevent it?" he replied, but she heard the humor in his voice. "My old master, my mentor, the man who was more of a father to me than my real father, told me something the night before I set out to war. He said, 'The true warrior does not fight because he hates what is in front of him. The true warrior fights because he loves what is behind him.'" "Lady," said Gyaidun, "the bastards we are hunting took away the only ones I ever loved-butchered my wife and left her body in the open for the vultures and took my son. All I have left now is hate. Hate and a thirst for vengeance." "And what then? What happens on the day you take your vengeance? What will you have left then?" He looked away.
"Gyaidun?"
"Yes?"
"Hold me."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Endless Wastes
The vanguard of winter wolves kept to their course, their pace unflagging, but every one was skittish. Winter wolves were one of the fiercest predators in the Endless Wastes, and a pack this size should have gone unchallenged. But the land ahead of them was alive with wolfsong, and in the howling the winter wolves heard a challenge. Even a huge pack of wolves should have fled before them. But these did not.
They were standing their ground and urging the winter wolves on. That made the winter wolves and their riders nervous, but still their leader urged them on. And so the vanguard, ten winter wolves in all, ran. On the crest of the rise before them they saw the smaller wolves-four furtive shadows against the white of the snow. The newcomers growled and barked, giving a show of threat, but as soon as the winter wolves headed for them, they turned tail and ran, disappearing over the hill. The winter wolves pursued, picking up their quarry's scent as they made their way over the rise. Below them the land fell into a stand of trees where a stream most likely flowed in spring and summer. The smaller wolves were just disappearing into the cover of the trees, and the winter wolves doubled their speed, bounding down the slope in great clouds of snow. The first entered the deep blue shadows beneath the trees, his fellows hard on his tail. A cold fire lit their eyes. As the last entered the wood, the first arrows hissed out from the high boughs, each one flying true into the sides of the winter wolves. Yelping, the great white wolves stopped, more shocked than hurt, and looked up into the trees. Many shapes were there, silver in the meager light reflecting off the snow, each of them holding a bow. The trees were not that high, and winter wolves were good jumpers. These silver shadows would make easy prey. Their leader growled, baring his fangs, the largest of them as long as a man's hand. The second volley tore into them, and a third just a
fter.
The winter wolves roared in pain, but only two were truly hurt-one with a shaft deep in her throat, another who had taken an arrow in the eye and was taking his last breath. The winter wolves tightened their muscles, preparing to leap into the trees and feast on their attackers. Wolves-the four who had acted as bait joined by ten more-hit them from two directions, tearing with their teeth and swiping with their claws. The archers cast aside their bows, drew blade or spear, and leaped down. It was over in moments.
A hard, cold wind sliced out of the north, driving the snow almost horizontal at times. Although Yal Tengri was many miles away, Gyaidun could taste the tang of salt in the air. He'd hoped the storm would slow their quarry, that they wouldn't make it here until the sun rose beyond the thick clouds. He remembered Amira's account of her first encounter with the sorcerer in the ash-gray cloak, how the sun had weakened him and how he had been almost no threat at all until the coming of darkness. No such luck this time. The word passed throughout the line of those waiting in ambush on the slopes above the little valley. The attack forces sent out before midnight had done their job.
Their prey was being driven right where they wanted them, and they would be here at any moment. The packs sent out to harry their quarry's scouts had annihilated every one of them, taking only minor injuries themselves. The Vil Adanrath outnumbered their foes by a great many warriors. Gyaidun had even heard-through Amira, who had heard it from the belkagen-that Leren was afraid the pack's honor might be tainted when they won such an uneven fight. Gyaidun was not so sure. He knew the Vil Adanrath were the finest, fiercest warriors for five hundred leagues. Other than Haerul, Lendri was perhaps the most dangerous being from Yal Tengri to Almorel-and that cloaked horror had almost killed him with seemingly little effort. Had they been able to hit them after sunrise-even a sun hidden through thick layers of cloud and falling snow-Gyaidun might have felt better. But as it was, crouched alone in the unquiet darkness on the hillside, frost thick on his three-day beard, a sickening apprehension filled him. It was not fear. Gyaidun had stopped fearing death long, long ago. This was something else. An unreasoning dread that left him feeling hollow and unready. The already frigid air went suddenly bone-cracking cold, and Gyaidun knew. That walking terror in the ash-gray cloak had arrived. Out there in the snowblind dark. Even as the knowledge hit him, he heard a great many padded feet tearing through the snow below him. Gyaidun drew his long knife from its sheath, gripped his iron club, and charged.
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