“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 after. 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.
Amira had lost sight of Gyaidun some time ago. He’d taken a position only a few dozen paces downslope from her, but in the darkness and driving snow, she was nearly blind. She’d never seen such weather, not even in the deepest winter at High Horn, and it was still autumn here. The snow was already knee deep in places, and the wind blew the flakes so hard that they struck any exposed flesh like tiny stones.
She pulled her left glove off with her teeth, just long enough to rummage in her pouch for another kanishta root and put the root in her mouth. Bitter as they were, she was developing a taste for them, and they worked wonders in keeping her warm.
The temperature dropped so swiftly that Amira saw her breath go from steam to snow before being pulled away by the wind. Her next intake of breath hurt. In that moment of pain coursing down her throat, she knew that the cold bit deeper than the physical. Knew beyond doubt. The devil-possessed sorcerer had come, and somewhere in the near darkness, Jalan waited for her.
She stood and gripped her new staff so tightly she felt the tendons in her fingers creak. A sudden gust of wind tried to push her over. She uttered a quick prayer and charged.
Gyaidun saw the viliniket before it saw him—but only barely. The horse-sized shadow loomed out of the snow, one of the pale Siksin Neneweth perched on his back, and almost ran over Gyaidun before it saw him.
He took advantage of the huge wolf’s surprise and swung his iron club at its jaws. The beast pulled back, causing the blow to just graze its nose, then snapped forward, its jaws shutting so close that spittle hit Gyaidun’s face and froze there.
A quick swipe of his knife sent the huge wolf back, and the creature reared on its hind legs. Gyaidun saw its rider raising his spear—and an arrow struck the rider in the throat. He jerked back, and the sudden change in weight overbalanced the wolf. It fell back, raising a huge cloud of snow that the wind tore away. Now riderless, it regained its footing, faced Gyaidun—and three arrows struck it in quick succession. What began as a snarl ended in a scream, then the wolves of the Vil Adanrath were on it, clawing and biting and tearing.
Amira heard the clash of steel on steel and followed it. In the darkness, she almost ran into the combatants. Two warriors faced off, their swords clashing, and in the murk of the predawn storm, Amira could not at first tell them apart. Both had skin only slightly darker than the snow in which they stood, and both sported a long mane of silver hair tossed by the wind. Each wore clothes cut and sewn from animal hides, but one was taller and had the larger form of a human, and the other—now that she was close enough, she could hear it, no mistake—was growling like a beast unchained.
She raised her staff, pointed it at the larger of the two combatants—and the sky overhead blazed. A burst of light, like a tiny piece of the sun itself, glowed in the air several dozen feet above the valley, lighting all the land beneath in harsh contrasts of frost white and blue shadow. A spell from the belkagen, Amira felt sure. Still, in the fierceness of the snowstorm she could see little but whirling white beyond the two men trying to kill each other.
The human—in the new light, she saw him clearly as one of the Frost Folk—was startled by the sudden flare. The elf before him was not. The Vil Adanrath warrior brought his single-edged blade across the human’s stomach in a horizontal swipe—so hard that Amira felt blood splatter her face four paces away. The pale human’s knees collapsed even as his entrails spilled on the snow before him, but the elf was already gone, seeking another foe.
Amira followed him.
Even with the new light blazing overhead, Gyaidun could not see more than a dozen paces in any direction. But he knew where to go. Just as a blindfolded man can come to the fire by following the heat in the air, so Gyaidun knew where to find the thing in the ash-gray cloak. This cold was beyond anything an autumn snowstorm could muster. Gyaidun had the protection from the elements offered to him by the blessings of his covenant as athkaraye to the Vil Adanrath, and his body was swathed in thick hides and furs, but even he was beginning to feel the harsh bite of the unnatural cold. Rather than fleeing, he waded into it, following the source of the thing that drank in all warmth and life.
Trudging through snow that reached almost to his knees, Gyaidun passed the corpses of one of the Vil Adanrath and his wolf brother, both mangled and torn. The sounds of battle surrounded him—the growling of wolves, steel striking steel, and the screams of men and elves killing and dying.
In the near distance, through the sounds of fighting, Gyaidun thought he heard the belkagen, his voice raised in chant. Power within the words infused the air. Even a warrior like Gyaidun, unskilled in the arcane, could feel it, a drumbeat rhythm in the earth that resonated in the air around him. The wind slowed, then stilled, and like the drawing aside of a curtain, the snow stopped falling. One moment the air in the valley was thick with snow, and the next the night air was clear as starshine.
Twenty paces away, seated on the back of a winter wolf so huge that it would have dwarfed a Tuigan horse, was a figure of frost and shadow, the ash-gray cloak swathing a deeper darkness within. In the bloodied snow before him were two dead winter wolves, their bodies a garden of arrow shafts, two dead Siksin Neneweth, one lying a few feet from his head, the other with his throat torn out, and the bodies of a dozen or more Vil Adanrath, both elves and wolves.
Three Siksin Neneweth stood before their dark master, two with blades frosted with blood and one carrying a long, barbed spear hung with tiny red icicles. Another Siksin Neneweth stood beside his master’s winter wolf. In one hand he held a reddened battle-axe and in the other a boy on the verge of manhood, his arms and wrists bound tight behind his back. The boy seemed unharmed, but his eyes stared blankly at the carnage around him.
“Jalan!”
Gyaidun stopped his advance long enough to glance over his shoulder. Amira, her new staff held high, charged down the slope in the midst of a band of Vil Adanrath. Gyaidun turned back around and resumed his advance, slowing a little to give the others a chance to catch up. The boy had looked up at the sound of his name, but he seemed more confused than elated at the sight of his mother.
Arrows fell toward the dark sorcerer and his men. The sorcerer raised his hand, and the shafts burned in midair, raining to the snow as ashes, the metal points falling as bits of molten metal to steam in the snow.
Gyaidun dropped his club and felt the leather leash linking its handle to his wrist pull taut. He grabbed the leash and set the heavy iron to twirling in a figure eight.
The dark sorcerer and his mi
nions stood, seemingly frozen for an instant, staring at the dozens of elves and men descending upon them, then things began happening too fast for Gyaidun to plot and calculate. He became a creature of instinct, action and reaction happening faster than thought.
The Siksin Neneweth, except for the one holding the boy, ran to meet their attackers. Their master turned his mount to face them even as his hands began twisting a spell in the air.
Gyaidun was closest. He could hear the Vil Adanrath hard on his heels but knew he would still be the first to face an enemy. The barbarian with the barbed spear was advancing fast. Gyaidun increased the speed of his twirling club. It moved in a black iron blur, humming as it ripped the air.
The dark sorcerer shouted something in a language that hurt Gyaidun’s ears. Five seasons ago he and Lendri had spent the winter in the pine forests that clothed the foothills of the Hagga Shan. In the deepest heart of winter, when the sun was no more than a pale, distant fire lingering behind clouds thick with snow, some nights would grow so cold that the woods echoed with the sound of trees exploding as their sap froze and expanded. In the sorcerer’s words, the tone haunting his incantation, Gyaidun heard again that sound—a cold so complete that it froze life’s blood and cracked bone.
The sorcerer raised his hand—palm open, fingers writhing like the legs of a dying spider—and at the height of his incantation, the air around his hand froze, turning blue-white, and shot forth, gathering force and fury from the air as it arrowed straight at Gyaidun.
Gyaidun tensed his muscles to leap out of the way, but his warrior’s instincts knew he’d never make it.
Green fire, a great wall of it three times his own height, erupted from the snow almost at his very feet and spread outward in a straight line to his left and right. The dark sorcerer’s magic hit the fire and exploded in a hissing cloud of steam. Wide-eyed, Gyaidun followed its course and saw the belkagen at the base of the far hill, his staff held high as he chanted.
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