Frostfell

by Mark Sehestedt

  “ ‘Died.’ ” Amira laughed. “You make it sound so simple. He was killed. There’s a damnably big difference.”

  “Not in the Wastes.”

  “You ba—”

  “What happened to the others?”

  “What?”

  “The others. You said there were twenty-three of you when you found Jalan’s abdoctors.”

  Amira snorted.

  “What?” asked Gyaidun, his brows wrinkled in confusion.

  “Abductors.”

  “What?”

  “You said, ‘abdoctors.’ The word is abductors.”

  Gyaidun scowled.

  Damn him. Amira found the anger gone. One little word he hadn’t even meant to say and the fury at him evaporated. The pain at losing Mursen, the horror of the things she’d seen that night and since, the fear she’d kept barely in check every moment since … all of it was still there. But the anger at Gyaidun and his confidence and simple way of looking at the world was gone. Damn him.

  “What happened?”

  “Mursen’s … sacrifice”—she almost tripped over the word but forced herself to continue—“allowed me the chance I needed. I killed one of those pale-skinned barbarians, grabbed Jalan, and …”

  “And what?”

  “We come to why I told you all this in the first place.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I grabbed Jalan and cast a spell. One moment we were there out under the darkening sky, death all around us, and the next we were leagues away. What happened to the rest of my comrades, I don’t know. Some were still alive and fighting when I made it to Jalan. A few had fled. But at that moment all I could think about was getting Jalan away.”

  “Wait,” said Gyaidun. “You mean to tell me that you know a spell that will take you leagues away in … in the blink of an eye?”

  “More or less.”

  “Then why did we just spend an entire day running across the steppe, if you could have just … just ‘blinked’ us here or whatever it is you do?”

  Amira straightened and propped her staff up beside her. It was a pose and she knew it, but she hoped it would serve to remind Gyaidun with whom he was dealing. She was no fresh-faced maiden in distress.

  “Truth be told,” she said, “I wasn’t entirely sure I could trust you. I’m still not. And part of me … a small part, maybe, but a part hoped your belkagen was just a crazy old elf who’s spent too many days under the sun. Part of me hoped that Jalan and your friend just ran across bandits and fled with my son. You yourself said the caravan trails are thick with them this time of year.”

  The big man reached for his waterskin and, watching her, took a long drink. She could see him working all this out in his mind. She let him and didn’t rush it.

  “And now?” he said.

  “As I said, it was a small hope. A foolish one perhaps, but I knew that no common bandits would head due north this time of year. And we’ve followed them north all day.”

  “And I don’t suppose it hurt to separate these three strangers that you weren’t sure you could trust yet?”

  Amira said nothing.

  “Well played,” said Gyaidun. “But I told you already I don’t care if you trust me or not. I’m going after your son whether you like it or not. You are here because I let you come.”

  “Because you let me come?” She gripped her staff and balled her other hand into a fist. “What makes you think you could stop me?”

  “What makes you think I’d want to?” Gyaidun smiled. “But you need me to track your son’s … abductors.”

  “Not if your belkagen was right and they’re taking him to Winterkeep.”

  “You think you can find Winterkeep?”

  “I studied maps of the Wastes before leaving Cor—”

  “Maps?” Gyaidun laughed. “Did your maps tell you how you will find water when our skins run out? Or food? Did your maps tell you which tribes might help us should we run into them and which will surely try to kill us? Or which plants will keep the sting of the gaudutu from rotting away your skin? Did your maps tell you that in midwinter these lands grow so cold that the pines up north sometimes freeze and their sap explodes? Did your precious maps tell you of the whispering of the stars?”

  “I told you,” said Amira. “I’ll find my son. I am in your debt for your help. But I’ll find him with or without you.”

  “As you say.” Gyaidun bowed. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or saluting her.

  “But …”

  “But what?”

  “If your belkagen was right, if they are taking Jalan to Winterkeep …”

  “Yes?”

  “If I can take the time to rest and study, I might be able to take us there with a spell. We could get ahead of his captors. Not all the way to Winterkeep. Not with one spell. It’s too far. But we could get ahead of them and set a trap.”

  “The two of us? Alone?” Gyaidun shook his head. “We should wait for Lendri at Akhrasut Neth and see if he comes with aid. Then … then I like your plan.”

  Amira smiled. “Gyaidun?”

  “Yes?”

  “What is ‘the whispering of the stars?’ ”

  Gyaidun seemed surprised at her question. “A term among the Vil Adanrath. In deep winter, on the coldest days your breath freezes so quickly that it becomes a fine snow—like little stars—right before your eyes. Listen and you can hear it fall to your feet. Like a whisper. ‘The whispering of the stars.’ ”

  Amira shuddered, lowered her staff, and wrapped the blanket back around her. She licked her lips and said, “You … do you think my plan will work?”

  “Perhaps.” Gyaidun shrugged and threw some more dried dung on the fire. “As long as we find them before the first snow.”

  Darkness on the open steppe. A haze, high but thick, shrouded the sky, and only the waxing moon and the few brightest stars managed to shine through, their milky glow pale and diffuse. Wind came from the north, and it held the scent of winter.

  The pack trailed the elk for miles. Normally they did not hunt at night, but with the lean winter months coming, every moment not sleeping or caring for the young was spent on the hunt. The wolves had taken three young bulls from a herd numbering well over a hundred. They’d feasted in the dark and would sleep tomorrow.

  The young—only off their mothers’ milk for a few months—were just finishing when a howl wafted over the pack from the west. A moment later, another joined it from the south. The scouts.

  Every hunter in camp stood still, ears held erect. Several surrounded the young.

  The pack did not have long to wait before the scouts ran in, joining them. They spoke in the language of wolves—posture and movement and the flicking of the ears speaking just as much as the yips, whines, and occasional growls. The leader listened, a deep growl building in his throat even before his scouts had finished.

  His mate barked, her head held high, looking at the low hills to the south. The short grasses were a black shadow under the iron-gray sky, but something flashed over them—two pale forms moving down the slope at a full run.

  Most of the pack circled the young, who had sensed the tension among the group and stopped working at the slick bones of the elk carcasses. The leader led his hunters toward the intruders, his pack forming out behind him, moving silent as ghosts in the grass.

  Just shy of the base of the slope, the newcomers stopped. Both were wolves, one a mottled gray and the larger one the color of starlight on new snow. The smaller threw his head back to the sky and let out a long, plaintive howl.

  Forsaking silence for swiftness, the pack leader put on a sudden burst of speed. The newcomers did not retreat, though the larger of the two tensed, his muzzle low to the ground and his fangs bared.

  The pack leader stopped in front of them, his hunters surrounding the intruders. He did not return the big one’s threat. He could smell the southern soils on the newcomers. They had come far. They would be tired. Easy prey.

  Th
e largest of the newcomers shimmered in the dim moonlight. Shadows rippled over his fur, stretching and distorting, then disappearing. Where the pale wolf had been, there now stood a pale elf, naked upon the grass, his frost-colored hair falling over his shoulders. Lines and swirls, black in the dimness, covered his body, and three scars bisected by a fourth covered each cheek.

  His palms held open, Lendri looked at the pack leader and said, “Greetings, Brother.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Endless Wastes

  Jalan woke to the feeling of warmth. It came as a shock, for he couldn’t remember when he’d last been warm. Not since—

  Almorel. Yes, that had been it. At Almorel there had been fire, warm food, a bed …

  No dreams had come to him since Almorel. Before that, during the days when the first raiders had dragged him through Rashemen and into the Endless Wastes, nightmares had plagued him. Every night he relived the horror of High Horn.

  The shouting of the guards …

  … the screaming …

  … his mother’s maidservant pulled from the wardrobe and shrieking as the pale man, laughing, slit her throat …

  … blood pooling on the stone floor …

  … the pale men, their eyes wild, blood speckling their skin, beating him down and dragging him outside …

  The nightmare continued. Jalan had always been a vivid dreamer. His earliest memories were of dreams, and one in particular. For as long as he could remember, he’d dreamed of music, warm and bright, flowing like a breeze that smelled of blossoms. Since that night at High Horn he had not had the dream. Since Almorel he had not dreamed at all. But as conscious thought drifted away and sleep claimed him in that small hollow in the middle of the Endless Wastes, the dream came to him.

  Light flooded his mind. Always there had been the almost-voices of the song, a choir that sang beyond words, but now, as Jalan basked in the yellow warmth, he heard a voice, clear and distinct, though seeming to come from far away. What language it spoke Jalan did not know, but he understood the meaning within the words.

  Be not afraid.

  A tremor of fear passed through Jalan. Not the unreasoning terror the pale barbarians gave him. Not the cold dread of their leader. This was the fear of the unknown, the new, the fear and exhilaration a baby feels taking his first steps, or a bird feels when it first realizes that its fall has caught the wind and the wind is lifting it. It was a fear mixed with joy. It was a feeling Jalan had never known.

  His thoughts reached out to the presence, seeking the music, and as he did he heard again the voice within the music. The words were strange, melodic and deep, but their meaning was clear.

  Be not afraid.

  Gathering his courage, the little bird teetering on the edge of the nest, Jalan called out. Who are you? His voice seemed small, a tiny tinkling bell lost amid thunder.

  The song swelled, and the voice answered, I am Vyaidelon.

  The name meant nothing to Jalan, though he felt strangely comforted by it. Vyaidelon, Jalan said, savoring the name. It felt right. Maybe even familiar.

  Listen, Jalan, the voice sang.

  I don’t want to go back! Even through the music and light and warmth, Jalan remembered the pale northerners, their huge wolves, and the dark thing, the dark malice, that led them.

  Be not afraid, Jalan, sang the voice. Listen to me.

  Who are you?

  You are a closed bud, Jalan, waiting for the sun to shine. I am the root of the tree, buried far away in the cold earth.

  What? It was all gibberish to Jalan. A bud? A root? The joy he’d felt at finding clarity within the song for the first time melted away to confusion. I don’t understand! he called.

  You will. Be not afraid. Come to the Witness Tree. It is our only hope.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Endless Wastes

  One moment thick sleep bound Amira. Instant awareness slapped her awake. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Something pressed hard upon her mouth and nose, just shy of pain. She let out a small cry and struck out, but a hand caught her wrist.

  “Shh!” A deep voice whispered.

  Gyaidun. He brought his hand away, and she took a deep breath.

  “We have company,” he said.

  “What?” Amira sat up. “Who?”

  “Don’t know. Durja heard them. They’re sneaking in quiet. Your spells ready?”

  Before sleep last night she’d spent a good while bent over the reeking fire and poring over her spellbook.

  “Some,” she said, keeping her voice low. “But I was preparing for a journey, not a fight.”

  “You’re in the Wastes, girl,” said Gyaidun. “Always be ready for a fight. Start a fire. Be seen. And be ready.”

  With that, he turned away. The sky was gathering what little light it could from the oncoming sun, but there were no clouds, and the air was thin. Darkness still held the land, and in the time it took Amira to sit up, Gyaidun had disappeared into the shadows. She heard one rustle—the big man passing through the grass—then nothing. She was alone.

  “I am not a girl!” she whispered after him, but she had no idea if he heard or not.

  Annoyed at being ordered about like a lowly apprentice, her every muscle stiff and sore from running all day yesterday, and more than a little frightened, Amira kicked away her blankets and stood. She didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, but strained her ears to catch every sound. Thunder muttered far off to the south, and she saw little flickers of light. The Lake of Mists and Firepeaks gathered thunderstorms this time of year like summer caravans gathered flies. The slightest hint of a breeze whispered out of the north. She shuddered and only then realized how cold it was. As she bent to the firebed, hands trembling, her breath came out in a thick white fog.

  Last night’s fire had fallen to a bed of ash, but she could feel warmth coming off it. She took a stick from their small pile of kindling, stirred the ashes, and blew the coals into embers. She added a bit of dry grass, which smoked at once. She blew again, and tiny flames caught and grew. Adding larger twigs and finally several sticks—she would not touch the dried dung no matter what Gyaidun said—she soon had a healthy blaze going.

  Light was finally beginning to gather in the grass and tussocks above the little gully, but Amira knew the first sliver of sun would not pass over the horizon for some time yet.

  A caw shattered the silence. Amira looked up. Durja was circling the camp in low, erratic sweeps. Every third pass or so he let out a harsh cry.

  Amira was about to bend down to add more fuel to the fire when a lump of shadow she’d taken for a tussock or bush moved. She froze, watching it. Whoever it was must have seen her watching, for after a moment it moved again, standing up. It was a man, much shorter than Gyaidun, but stocky with muscle. Another about an easy stone’s throw to the man’s left stood up, then another just behind them. They started walking toward her, other shapes rising from the grass and behind bushes.

  She turned. Four others approached from the other side of the gully. Nine in all.

  Where had Gyaidun gone? Damn the man. She knew she could probably manage all nine if she could keep them at a distance—and if none of them had bows. But their build and swagger told her they were Tuigan—she couldn’t make out enough details to discern the tribe—and the Tuigan always had bows.

  Amira retrieved her staff and climbed out of the gully on the east side, putting the wide gash in the earth between her and the four coming in from the west. They’d have to cross it to get at her, and if the sun peaked over the horizon in time, they’d be staring into the sun.

  The men kept coming at an easy pace, not hurrying, obviously sizing her up. Tuigan were a superstitious lot, and even if these were nothing more than bandits outcast from their clans, even if they’d forsaken all vows of honor and hospitality, they’d still be wary of anything unknown. Especially a woman alone on the steppe. If she played this right, she might be able to scare them off.

  The nearest was only a few
dozen paces away.

  Amira raised her staff and shouted, “Stop!” in the Khassidi dialect.

  The men stopped. They stood in stark silhouette against the brightening horizon. The two on the outside held bows with arrows on the strings. The three in the middle kept their hands on the swords sheathed at their waists.

  “You are not Khassidi,” said the one in the middle.

  “No.” She lowered her staff. “I’m not.”

  “We are not Khassidi.”

  Amira sifted his words, his accent. The slight roll in his r’s and his broad vowels gave him away as a southerner. Commani, perhaps? Maybe raiding into Khassidi territory, if they were clanless bandits.

  “Who you are does not concern me,” she said. “What do you want?”

  “We saw your fire and hoped you might offer us hospitality.”

  Amira risked a quick glance over her shoulder. The other four had stopped at the opposite edge of the gully. Three of them had bows. Damn, she thought. She prayed for the sun to hurry. Direct sunlight in their faces might give her an added edge. If Gyaidun didn’t return soon, she’d need it. Where had he gone?

  Durja landed several paces behind the leader and cawed, but the men ignored him.

  “Let me gather my things,” Amira said, “and you can have the fire to yourselves. I have a long way to go.”

  “Where is a fine woman like yourself going all alone in these hard lands?”

  “I am not alone.”

  The leader chuckled and looked to his men. “Ah, yes. The big one. We saw him as we came in.”

  “Skulked in, more like.”

  The leader shrugged. “One must take care. You might have been bandits trying to lure us in by your fire.”

  “As I said, let me leave and the fire is yours. There’s enough fuel there to last a while.”

  “Your friend, the big one, where has he gone?”

  Durja cawed several times, loud and harsh. It gave her an idea.

  “That was my slave,” she said. “He displeased me, so I turned him into a raven. That raven.” She pointed at Durja with her staff and gave it a theatrical shake.