"Bisk."
The Nightsong murmured in his head, but these days, he barely noticed it. Ice crystallized into snowflakes that whirled away from his hand. Soon after, through the baffling principles that governed magic, heat began to spread through him.
He sighed. The warmth was a relief, to be sure. But it was the use of sorcery that had become his true joy. During the long, dull days of travel, he'd often used the time to practice the cantrips he knew, to the annoyance of his companions. Wren complained of the draft his ice spells blew back to her, while Aelyn griped that he should not practice without close supervision.
But in just the week they'd been trekking, he had progressed leaps and bounds over what little proficiency he'd possessed in Elendol. Gone were his doubts and fears, and from them emerged the reckless curiosity that had been lying dormant. Before, he had not dared to practice between lessons; now, he worked magic every moment he could manage it. Cantrips were becoming intuitive to summon. And whether it was because he was growing used to it, or if it had quieted, the Nightsong no longer bothered him as it once had.
There was more to his desire to learn than mere curiosity. He and his companions journeyed through a land reputed far and wide for being dangerous and rife with monsters, Ravagers, and Silence knew what else. He had a sword belted at his side and a shield hanging from his stor's panniers, but sorcery was the deadliest tool he owned.
He meant to make every use of it.
And there was more than himself to protect. Though Wren could hold her own, as could most of their party, Garin would never forgive himself if something happened to her or his companions, not if he might have prevented it.
There was also the matter of the Singer. Though Ilvuan had often risen to protect him, he could not do so now. Garin guessed it had taken much of his strength to manifest as an incorporeal dragon and do battle with the fire demon. It promised to be awhile longer before he recovered.
But more than that, Ilvuan still had an untold task for Garin. And he'd be damned if he was forced to do his bidding. Perhaps the Singer wasn't a devil. But once, he'd forced Garin to stab Kaleras and try to harm his friends. He would never forget that, nor how it might affect his future.
"What shall we sing next?" Falcon spoke into the snow-deadened silence, startling Garin from his reverie.
"No more singing," Aelyn snapped back. "I've had enough of your 'Legend of Tal' as it is."
"How else am I to mentor Rolan in bardship?"
The mage barked a laugh. "The last thing my nephew needs is tutelage in the most frivolous of arts."
Rolan twisted in the saddle to peer around his mother. "But I want to learn, Uncle Aelyn! Why else would Momua let me bring my lute?"
"Why, indeed?" Aelyn muttered, loud enough to be audible to all the company, bunched together as they were.
Garin glanced at Helnor to see the Prime Warder sporting a weary frown. More than once, he'd warned them to keep down the noise. But it was difficult to restrain the Court Bard for long, much less Ashelia's energetic son.
"Precisely!" Falcon exclaimed. "Young as he is, Rolan has divined the truth that all men and women implicitly know: music transcends borders, be they blood or country. And a charming little troubadour may come in handy in a pinch, wouldn't you say? Who knows — at some point, Rolan might be the protector of us all!"
The boy grinned at the bard, delighted at the prospect.
Before anyone else could speak, Helnor raised a hand. Their party immediately fell silent. Garin's heart thumped against his ribs, wondering what the Prime had seen. Ahead, a break in the trees allowed them a view of the snow-covered landscape below.
The elf dismounted, and they all followed suit, leading their stors to the overlook. Helnor kneeled for a moment, then rose.
"He came here," he announced. His gaze traveled to the trees downhill from them. "Then he went down to the road."
"The road?" Garin walked his stor to the edge, having to tug harder the closer they neared. His mount, Horn, did not seem fond of heights. Standing next to Helnor, he saw what the Prime had: a pass a mile ahead that led between the mountains along a river. It looked just wide enough for a wagon to pass through, were the path not covered in snow.
"What was once a road, at least. It was part of your High Road at one point, when there was still trade between the Westreach and Easterners." Helnor gave him a half-hearted smile. "But like much of the World, it has fallen into disrepair over the past millennium. Not much more than crumbling stones now, I suspect."
Garin had not even thought of relations between the East and the Westreach before Yuldor. But though he burned to know more, he turned his focus back to the task at hand.
At times throughout their hunt, they had come across signs of Tal's passage. A copse of blasted trees, and not by an errant strike of lightning. A gulley, once frozen, but rent apart and drained. Garin had stretched himself forward at these places, and though he had expected nothing to come of his investigations, he had felt… something. It had been like Ilvuan's tug on his mind when he pursued Tal in the alleys of the Mire. Garin felt himself compelled to continue east, as if Tal were calling to him.
Though he knew that his old mentor summoning him was not likely. After all, if he had wanted Garin and the others to come, he would have told them rather than fled without a parting word.
Garin felt nothing of the sensation now. Yet, since they had resolved to help a man who evidently wanted no aid, and in a task none of them could hope to succeed in, there was only one thing he could say.
"I guess we should follow his lead," he spoke with heavy resignation.
Helnor nodded and, mounting his stor again, gestured for the others to follow.
That Which Stalks the Hunter
Tal slowed his and his stor's approach as the end of the caravan appeared ahead.
He tried on his old smile, but it didn't seem to fit any longer. His skin, numbed and chapped by the cold, failed to stretch that way. He had more often worn a grimace as he labored across the winter-veiled woods and through the foothills of the mountains that dominated the East.
He gave up the effort and hurried after the sleighs, walking through the deep furrows the runners left behind in the snow.
Though his mind had spun in indecision all the while he had pursued the caravan, he still had not arrived at what he would do. He knew the safest course. Steal the map. Silence any who stand in your way. With the sorcery brimming inside of him, he knew he could manage it. He had spied a dozen armed guards and suspected more were hidden within the sleighs, yet no amount of them could be his match now.
But as he imagined red blood staining the white snow, his gut clenched, and a weariness claimed his limbs. Memories of Elendol ablaze, with its people lying butchered in the lower streets, and the scarlet film upon his sword — they intruded every time he plotted to take the map by force.
He was no longer Gerald Barrows to revel in the making of corpses.
But he wasn't sure he was Tal Harrenfel, either. The Man of a Thousand Names was a folk hero, an individual with an indomitable will, who would stop at nothing to achieve his aims. Tal Harrenfel would know what to do.
He possessed none of that certainty now. All he carried were doubts.
He'd left behind his companions to protect them. Even with civil war claiming the city, he knew they were safer in Elendol than traveling with him. And with the sorcery running rampant through his veins, that had never been more true.
If he had ventured out here alone to protect, how could he now bring harm again? He didn't know the answer. He only knew the first step toward uncovering it.
So he trailed the caravan, sometimes walking, sometimes riding Folly, his stor, but always following the road by the tracks they left. Whenever the end of the caravan came into view, he would fall back. He had to be careful; a casual glance behind would reveal him, and the caravan's guards wouldn't last long in the East if they were laggardly in their duties. Yuldor's Kin assured of that.
The road passed back and forth, back and forth, winding up switchbacks as the land grew ever higher and the sky ever nearer. The river down to his left grew steadily more frozen, only parts of it sluggishly churning downhill. Tal ate his little remaining food as he trudged along, knowing he could not put off the decision another day. He had to recover that chart, or risk being lost in the frozen wilderness for the entire winter.
Silence only knew what horrors might find him then.
Part of him wished a town would appear soon, one where the merchant train might stop and he could attempt to hunt and resupply in the surrounding forest. But it was a vain hope. Though it was early in the season, the snow had already piled up several feet deep in drifts around the road. No town could hope to survive this high in the mountains in his estimation.
It had been morning when he'd spied the sleighs from the ridge. As he trailed them now, the sallow sky dulled to a steely gray as the short day passed quickly. Night began to fall again. Despair dragged at his weary legs as much as exhaustion. The nights went slowly. He was not able to sleep, yet with the moons cloud-covered, he could not safely travel, either.
An itch against his senses brought Tal out of his complaints and fully back to awareness.
He lifted his head and looked about as his hand fell to Velori's hilt. He was tempted to open himself to his sorcery and use it to expand his senses, but he pushed the urge back down. He had indulged it far too much as it was. His eyes scanned the gray slopes to either side, trying to pick out shapes from among the dark trees and rocks that peppered the snow. His ears strained to hear any disturbances over the plodding of his stor and the faint gurgle of the river below.
Nothing. Despite the feeling to the contrary, it appeared he remained alone in the dreary dusk.
"Perhaps you're going mad," he muttered with a cheerless smile.
Just as he began to settle back into his morose musings, a scuff against rock sounded up the slope to his right. A small cascade of snow drifted down the hill.
Tal jerked around, tugging back his hood. Against the hoary landscape stood a dark figure he had not noticed before. It was unfamiliar in its shape. At first glance, it resembled a full-grown bull caribou, with antlers rising high from its head, and a white ruff of fur thick down its chest.
But as Tal's eyes flicked over the beast, it shifted. Its head and chest morphed into a human woman's, though with the same white fur covering her belly, breasts, and arms. Her hair was black and coarse where it fell from her head, and a caribou's antlers still sat atop it, appearing impossibly heavy for her thin neck to support. Her eyes were dark in her pale face, studying him with a predator's calm regard. Her hands were curled, and long, dark nails grew at the ends of them.
Folly pulled at his reins, uneasy before this foreign creature. Tal let the stor slip free as he backed away and drew his sword. He had a feeling he would need both hands to ward off this danger.
He'd never heard of such a beast before, not even when he'd studied the monsters of the East as a warlock's apprentice. It was reminiscent of a centaur, the half-human horses said to rule the groves near the Eastern shores. Yet this didn't match the descriptions he'd seen of those, nor were centaurs supposed to be creatures of snowy mountains. As his eyes moved, its appearance shifted back and forth, a haziness always hovering around its upper body.
The winter beast slowly picked its way down the slope, small showers of snow accompanying its hoof falls. Tal held Velori at the ready and continued to back away, sneaking glances behind him to make sure he didn't accidentally fall down the hill and into the icy river below. His boots, made for traveling over dirt and grass, lacked the traction for steady footing, and he slipped slightly with each step before finding a hold.
But the beast was only one of his concerns. He couldn't afford to alert the caravan to his presence. Give himself away now, and he risked losing his chance at a map — or worse, having to fight for it.
Bracing himself, Tal released his sorcery.
It flooded through him at once, racing down his veins and inundating his blood. Tal gasped with the shock of it — the raw power, the beautiful absence of pain! It felt like seeing the faces of the Whispering Gods, who were said to be blinding in their divinity. For a long moment, he reveled in awe and terror.
But as the beast reached the other side of the road, he clawed back to himself, fighting against the pulsating magic, and attempted to wrangle it to his will.
As had happened atop House Elendola, his vision split in two. A plane existed beneath the material one his body occupied, a plane rife with veins of sorcery, interweaving throughout — and, he suspected, sustaining — the World. Here, he could perceive all the connections that were invisible to the eye, ear, and nose.
The beast walked like a spider over its web, many threads connecting it to the surrounding land. This was its territory; here, it reigned supreme. It approached him with all the confidence of a hunter, its sorcery curling in a menacing veil around it.
But where the creature's sorcery moved in rivulets, his raged in torrents. It battered him with mind-crushing might. As the Nightkin beast advanced, he tapped the smallest part of his magic and wielded it with the World's fundamental language.
"Fisk kord ferd."
The bubble of silence raised from the river to shimmer about him. With his hidden eye open, he could see its effect extending out nearly as far as the stalking beast. Now, the sounds of the oncoming conflict would not travel to the caravan ahead.
Yet even as the sorcery bowed to his will, something rose with it. His insides twisted themselves into knots. His skin felt as if it stretched too tight. His heart beat against his rib cage like a soldier battering the shield of his foe.
Tal pushed down his discomfort and confusion and raised his sword toward the advancing hunter. Soon, it would step within the spell, and then he would strike. Incantations, long forgotten in the intervening years, sprang back to mind. Despite the strange effects of his sorcery — or perhaps because of them — a smile curled his lips.
He would not fail, not out here in the wilderness. He would not be his own undoing.
He felt the beast step inside the spell as much as saw it. Tal wasted no time, but thrust his free hand forward and cried, "Kald bruin!"
The lines of energy converged at his command. Underneath the hoofed feet of the caribou-woman, the snow began to steam, then melt. But as the plume of flames blossomed from the ground, the winter beast leaped lightly to the side.
It confirmed what he had already suspected: it could sense sorcery just as he could.
His casting came at a cost. The nausea worsened. His head rang like a tolling bell. His balance reeled. Frantic theories flew through his mind: that he was overwrought; that the creature was interfering, though he sensed no intrusions. But it did not matter; the conclusion was obvious. He could not win against this Nightkin without his sorcery.
He would have to gamble, and hope the price was not too high to pay.
Tal followed up his first attempt with a charge and another called spell. Velori flashed with sparks, and fresh pain wracked his body. Yet with sorcery bolstering his movements, his strike was quick and true. Lightning arced from the steel, and both sword and sorcery cut into the winter beast's chest.
As the Nightkin faltered under the assault, the caribou morphed back to the woman. Untold agony wrote itself across her expression.
He should have driven home the attack. He should have finished his assailant with a second spell and a final slash.
But when he saw her pain, Tal hesitated.
The woman's face twisted back into fury, and she lowered the broad crown atop her head. Belatedly, Tal pivoted and caught the creature on the horns with Velori and another rapid hex. Sorcery curled through him, intoxicating and biting, as his blade sawed half of her antlers away.
The pain spiked, and for a moment, he was lost to it. Next he knew, the winter beast had caught him with the other half of its antlers and was b
earing him off the road.
A moment's suspension — then they crashed down the hill, rolling and spinning toward the river.
But even as the ground pummeled his body, the greater pain seared from within. The World knotted together, senses crossing. Blood pounded in his ears. The streams of sorcery pooling inside him bulged as too much poured through him, more than he could hope to survive.
Icy cold sucked at him. Gray swelled over his eyes. The river. We're in the river. Though he burned hotter than a conflagration, he knew his body couldn't endure the cold water for long.
He was caught between fire and ice, pain and confusion. So he fled the only way he could.
Tal let go and slipped into murk.
A Cold Trail
There was no noticeable path through the woods, and the way that Tal had taken fit a stor and its rider poorly. Garin often found himself bending flat against Horn's neck to keep from being scraped by low-hanging branches. The stor's antlers still caught many of them, showering him with cedar needles and filling his nose with their scent.
Before long, the trees stopped, and a heavy drift marked where the ancient road began. Garin glanced around as they emerged from the forest. Snow had started to fall, though lightly for the moment. It was enough to reduce visibility, however, and make him nervous about standing out in the open.
Any Ravagers searching for them could not miss this decrepit pass.
But for the moment, he saw no one, so Garin followed Helnor, Ashelia, and Aelyn deeper into the mountains. To their left, down a steep embankment, a slushy river slithered. The pools in it had mostly frozen over, and the rest promised to follow suit before long.
His eyes settled on a swath of broken river ice. Garin frowned, wondering what could have caused it. An errant stone? A rapid change in the weather?
"Halt!"
Again, the company pulled to a stop. Wren, walking her stor next to Garin, exchanged a look with him. Calling for another break so soon could not be a good sign.
An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3) Page 2