Suddenly Duvessa ran into the room. Seeing Traax, she hurried to the bed. Her dark eyes searched his face. “Hello, my love,” he said.
Reaching up, Traax touched the ruby pin attached to his body armor. Despite his exhaustion he managed a smile.
“Your token stayed with me all the way there and back,” he said. “It’s a good omen for our upcoming marriage. But I hadn’t planned to announce our betrothal this way. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Smiling, she stroked his long hair. “It’s of no matter, my lord,” she answered. “Welcome home.”
Standing alone in the morning sun, Shailiha steadied herself as she wiped her eyes. Holding the mask in one hand, she grasped the gold medallion hanging around her neck with the other. For some reason she had never been able to understand, whenever she and her twin brother were separated, holding the medallion gave her a small measure of relief.
She looked out over the manicured grounds that her late mother had so loved. She could almost see the Eutracian queen, tending her gardens as Shailiha’s father, the king, watched. They were all dead, killed by the Coven. If she also lost her brother, Shailiha knew her heart could never stand it.
Tristan, her mind whispered. Where have you gone?
CHAPTER XXVI
TURNING OVER IN HIS SLEEP, TRISTAN GROANED. HISbody was stiff and sore. His skin stung hotly from being blasted by windblown sand. As he slowly awoke, he thought he sensed something odd. Impossible, his tired mind said. He tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t.
Slowly opening his eyes, he sat up. His weapons were still beside him. Curled up on the floor a short distance away, Xanthus lay asleep.
Still tired and groggy, Tristan stood. That was when he first saw the strange substance lying on the cave floor. Picking some up, he rubbed it between two fingers.
It was snow.
As he stood, he suddenly realized how cold it had become. As always, the wind moaned through the desolate cave. But this time it brought a mind-numbing frostiness-a chill so deep that it froze his lungs and rattled his bones. His breath exhaled as ghostlike vapors. Looking to the horses he saw that they had sidled up against one another, trying to keep from freezing to death. The red cave walls had become shiny with frost. As the cold sank into his core, he started to shake.
After quickly strapping his weapons into place he ran toward the cave entrance. Rounding the bend and skidding to a halt, he looked out with unbelieving eyes.
As far as Tristan could see, the Borderlands were buried in deep, white snow. The wind was as fierce as before. Rather than red dust, it carried giant snowflakes the size of his hand. The swirling crystals were so large that their patterns could be seen before they hit the ground.
The mountain ranges were no longer red. Dark and ominous, their snow-covered peaks reminded him of the Tolenkas. The sky had changed as well. No longer red and angry, every color of the rainbow swirled faintly through its vastness, like mother-of-pearl.
“Do not be deceived,” he heard a voice say from behind him. “Although it is more beautiful, this sudden shift in the Borderlands is equally deadly.”
Tristan turned to see Xanthus. The Darkling did not seem surprised by what he saw. He held two saddle blankets in his arms. He handed one to the prince.
Understanding, Tristan took one, then removed a throwing knife from its quiver. After cutting through the blanket’s center he put his head through the hole, letting the blanket drape over his upper body. Taking Tristan’s knife, Xanthus did the same with his blanket. They returned their eyes to the amazingly changed valley.
“This is what you were talking about, isn’t it?” Tristan asked.
“What do you mean, Jin’Sai?”
“When we first entered the cave,” Tristan answered. “You said that we would have to ration the water, ‘unless things change.’”
“Yes,” Xanthus answered. “We now have all the water we want-unless the Borderlands morph again.”
Using one hand to shield his eyes from the pearly sky, Tristan looked toward the distant mountain range lying against the horizon. The gap Xanthus had referred to earlier still seemed a thousand leagues away.
“We’ll never survive it,” Tristan said softly.
“Probably not,” Xanthus answered. “But we must try. It’s our only hope.”
Tristan turned to look at the Darkling. “How is this possible?” he asked. “Only hours ago this place was a scorching wasteland.”
“As with all things in the Borderlands, the transformation was caused by the Heretics,” Xanthus answered. “Magic may not be employed by those who tread here, but from far away the Heretics can control the elements.”
“Why foster such a change?” Tristan asked. “The red wasteland was deadly enough.”
“Perhaps, but consider my next words carefully,” Xanthus answered. “If an army of the Ones tried to cross the desert they would surely come prepared. That would mean vast amounts of water, food, and proper clothing. If the Borderlands suddenly change into what you see now, the Ones’ water and food will freeze, and their clothing will become woefully inadequate. Their chances of survival would lessen drastically. Without magic to change the nature of their supplies, they would only perish faster. It’s a clever trap, don’t you think?”
Although the Borderlands had been created by the Heretics to slaughter the Ones, Tristan had to marvel at this impersonal way to kill. The Borderlands was an ingenious weapon, devised by a race that was vastly superior to his. He could only imagine what their other powers might be like.
“You come from the Heretics’ midst,” he said. “Do they look like us?”
“If you live, you will see them. If not, it won’t matter. That’s enough discussion for now. Pack your canteen tightly with snow and saddle your horse. We must head for the mountains.”
On returning to the cave’s end they saddled their mounts. After packing their canteens, they led the horses to the entrance.
Nothing had changed. The falling snow swirled, and the mother-of-pearl sky gleamed with every imaginable color. As they led their mounts from the cave, the Borderlands’ new form of cruelty hit them full blast.
The wind slicing through Tristan was so cold that he thought his lungs would literally freeze. He found that if he took measured breaths, it was easier. Xanthus climbed onto his horse; Tristan did the same. The Darkling started leading Tristan down the slope and toward the seemingly unreachable gap.
The snow was deep, making the going even harder this time. Shadow stumbled often as he waded his way along, and anything except a trudging pace was impossible. Frost formed on the riders’ brows and lashes, making it difficult to see. When his unprotected hands went numb Tristan flexed them incessantly, trying to delay frostbite.
The wildly blowing wind simultaneously created and destroyed huge snowdrifts, their white dunes sometimes appearing, then vanishing in seconds. Sometimes Xanthus chose to climb them to stay on track. Other times they were so high that he and the prince had no choice but go around, losing valuable time. Tristan looked back to see whether Shadow was leaving marks in the snow. Immediately after the heavyset horse abandoned his tracks, they filled in again.
As the time passed Tristan nearly fell asleep. He finally resorted to slapping himself to stay awake. He knew from his Royal Guard training that falling asleep in the cold was a fatal mistake. But even the tough Royal Guard lessons had never prepared him for anything as brutal as this.
After climbing another high snowbank, Xanthus stopped his horse. Coming up alongside, Tristan gave him a questioning look. The Darkling pointed into the distance.
Tristan gasped. At first he was sure he was hallucinating, due to the terrible cold and lack of food. Closing his eyes, he opened them again. To his amazement, the scene remained the same.
Xanthus indicated that they should retreat a bit, so that their horses couldn’t be seen. Tristan obeyed. Leaving their mounts behind, they crawled back to the snowdrift’s summit and peered over the ed
ge.
Far in the distance, a massive army tried to forge its way across the Borderlands. But because of the swirling snow and the vast distance, the force appeared to be little more than a dark line against a white canvas.
His eyes wide, Tristan looked over at Xanthus. “Is that the Ones’ army?” he shouted, trying to be heard above the wind. His heart was beating so wildly at the prospect of finally seeing the Ones that for a moment he thought it might burst through his chest.
“It’s probably only a small patrol,” Xanthus answered. “They might have become separated from the main body when the Borderlands changed, and lost their way.”
“That’s apatrol?” Tristan shouted against the wind. “But their numbers are huge!”
“Yes,” Xanthus answered. “You will find that the scale of conflict on this side of the Tolenkas dwarfs anything you have ever experienced. Your Sorceresses’ War lasting three centuries was a mere skirmish compared to what goes on here. If you are lucky enough to survive the Borderlands and then go home again, your perspective on war will be forever changed.”
Tristan looked back down at the slowly moving columns. For a moment his curiosity was so great that he hardly felt the searing cold. Watching the army as best he could, he tried to estimate its size.
It was impossible to be sure, but the slowly moving force seemed to be at least a league wide by several leagues long. Tiny pinpricks of color could be seen here and there-war banners, he guessed. Taken as a whole, from this distance the army looked like a great dark snake, gradually winding its way through the snow.
“Why do you say that they are lost?” Tristan shouted. “It seems that they travel toward the mountain gap, just as we do.”
Xanthus looked over at him. “I say that because our destination is a well-kept secret,” he shouted back. “That army travels in the same direction by sheer coincidence. Given the Borderlands’ huge scale, it’s astounding that we would cross paths at all.”
Then Xanthus’ expression hardened. “I know what you’re thinking, Jin’Sai, ” he shouted. “That you could render me unconscious while I’m in my human state, then somehow hurry to join the Ones as they trudge across the snow. Don’t try it! Your plan won’t work!”
Tristan scowled. It was almost like the Darkling had read his mind.
Xanthus pointed at the slowly moving columns. “They are as good as dead!” he shouted. “They just don’t know it yet! They are heading off into nothingness! The only refuge for thousands of leagues in any direction is where I am leading us. It would be a complete impossibility for that struggling army to find it. Your only chance to remain alive is to stay by my side. I know that you hate me, but I have never lied to you. Assuming you could reach them you would only die, just as they will!”
As the freezing wind tore at him, Tristan’s anger and frustration boiled up to such a point that he started pounding the freezing snowdrift with his bare fists. He glared hatefully at the Darkling.
“Someday I will kill you,” he growled. “And I’ll enjoy it!”
His voice had been nearly drowned out by the raging wind. But Xanthus understood.
Before the Darkling could respond, Tristan felt the ground start to shake, followed by an earsplitting cracking sound. Tristan and Xanthus immediately turned to look back down into the valley.
To his horror, the prince saw gigantic cracks forming in the snow. Starting at the mountain bases on either side, they came from several directions at once as they stretched fingerlike across the valley. Like the army columns, they had to be at least a league wide. As they tore across the landscape, snow by the ton tumbled into their quickly forming abysses. Even from where the prince and Xanthus lay watching, the fissures’ depths seemed endless. There were at least eight, with more forming by the moment. Amid the shaking ground and the terrible noise, Tristan held his breath. The fissures were heading straight for the Ones’ struggling army.
The columns tried to scatter to avoid the coming threat, but the snow was far too deep for them to move quickly enough. His eyes wild with disbelief, Tristan watched helplessly.
Soon the fissures converged toward one point-the army’s center. With a mighty crash the ground beneath the columns started collapsing.
Watching the awful spectacle from such a great distance was strange. As if in slow motion, the Ones tumbled into the fissures’ vast abysses. And then there was nothing, save for a gigantic, dark crater lying in the valley’s center.
Tears started streaming down Tristan’s face. As his rage took over he raised his fists toward the heavens. “No!” he screamed.
But the only answer was his lonely voice, ricocheting off the mountain walls. He fell to his knees and hung his head. After a time he glared at the Darkling.
“Was that your doing?” he demanded.
Xanthus shook his head. “No,” he answered. “You know that here in the Borderlands, I am as powerless to cause such things as you are.”
“Tell me the truth!” Tristan shouted back. “I refuse to believe that was a coincidence!”
“No, Jin’Sai, it was no coincidence. But it wasn’t my doing, either. What you just saw was an act of war, performed by the Heretics.”
Tristan got to his feet and walked closer toward the drift’s edge. He stared down into the valley. Only the huge, dark circle remained in the snow. It was easily the size of Tammerland, if not larger.
He was about to speak when he heard another rumbling sound. The circle was disappearing. With a massive crash the crater closed in on itself, then it was gone. Snow soon washed over the scene, and rapidly forming drifts left no trace of what had happened.
Tristan still couldn’t believe that hundreds of thousands of Ones had been destroyed in seconds, simply because of an order given by the Heretics. Xanthus was right. If he survived to see his homeland again, his perspective about war would be forever changed. But this did not seem like war. This was mass annihilation, on a scale so vast that it could scarcely be fathomed.
“It is time to go, Jin’Sai, ” Xanthus said. “There is nothing for us here.” The pair mounted their horses and again headed toward the distant mountains.
Three hours later, Tristan was near death. Struggling to stay in his saddle, he could no longer feel his feet, hands, or face. His exposed skin had turned blue. Xanthus was little better. If they didn’t find shelter soon, they would perish. Too weak to stay in his saddle, the prince finally fell from his horse.
Tristan crashed to the snow and lay like the dead. Shadow immediately stopped to walk stiffly back to his master. Nudging Tristan with his nose, the stallion let go a loud whinny.
Xanthus stopped. Seeing the prince lying in the snow, he went back. He jumped down from his horse to examine him. TheJin’Sai was dying.
Xanthus looked around. There was no shelter for as far as he could see. Looking across the valley, the gap in the mountains seemed no closer.
There was only one thing left to do. The measure was drastic. It would keep them alive a little longer, but would also lessen their overall chances.
Finally deciding, Xanthus reached down and drew Tristan’s dreggan from its scabbard. His hands were so useless that he could barely hold the heavy sword.
He lowered his head for a moment. Then he raised the shiny blade high over his head. With all his remaining strength, he lashed out.
The dreggan’s razor-sharp blade came around in a perfect arc, catching Xanthus’ horse unaware. The blade sliced the stallion’s throat easily, nearly severing his head from his body. Blood erupted from the open wound to fall red onto the snow. Letting go a tortured scream, the horse fell dead to the ground.
Rushing to the horse’s carcass, Xanthus used the dreggan to slice open its belly. Steam filled the air as the horse’s innards slid out onto the snowy ground. Working quickly, he found the major artery leading from the horse’s heart, then slit it open with one of Tristan’s knives. Carefully squeezing the artery, he emptied as much warm blood into his canteen as he could.
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br /> Then he cut out the heart. Slicing its base, he pumped it between his hands, also squeezing its blood into the canteen. Xanthus then cut the heart into pieces.
Rushing back to Tristan, he dragged the prince’s body near the dead horse. Xanthus sat in the snow beside Tristan. Propping Tristan’s head in his lap, he poured the warm blood into the prince’s mouth.
His eyes still closed, Tristan instinctively sensed the warmth. Soon he was drinking eagerly. Xanthus saved some for himself, then also drank.
Taking up Tristan’s knife, Xanthus finished gutting the horse, then shoved the steaming innards to one side. He had no worry about wasting the organs or meat, for they would soon freeze. Grabbing Tristan’s useless hands, he thrust them into the horse’s still-warm body cavity. Placing the heart pieces into his duster, he saved them for later. Then he slid his hands into the horse’s abdomen alongside Tristan’s.
Soon Xanthus’ hands came alive again. The life-giving heat was like a welcome drug surging through his system. He removed his hands, then positioned Tristan’s body lengthwise along the horse’s wound and shoved the prince as far back into it as he could. Knowing that there was nothing else he could do, Xanthus leaned back against the dead horse to wait.
TheJin’Saiwill either live or die, he thought. But he must live-live to meet my masters. But even as he hovers near death, there remains so much I cannot tell him. Things he deserves to know but might never learn.
Looking toward the distant mountain range, Xanthus’ heart fell. TheJin’Sai was right. They could never travel that far-especially with one horse gone. If Tristan regained consciousness they would take some horse meat with them. But Xanthus feared that death was just around the corner.
Xanthus looked down into Tristan’s face. No Jin’Saihas ever come this far, he thought. Is this where our journey will end?
Just then another blast of whirling snow sliced its razor-sharp coldness through the Darkling. Pulling his duster closer, Xanthus waited.
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