Frostfell

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Endless Wastes

Sitting in the grass, his wrists and elbows bound behind his back with rough strips of elkhide cord, Lendri watched the first edge of the sun peek over the horizon. He sat in the middle of the Vil Adanrath, wolves and their elf brothers seeming to mix in equal measure, on a long rise of land that was not quite steep enough to be called a hill. Nearly a quarter mile of land rose at his back, and twice that fell at his feet so that he seemed to look down upon the sunrise. Mingan lay near his feet, sound asleep. Tension ran through the camp like mice in the grass-more felt and heard than seen. Every elf or wolf walking about or lounging in the grass shot furtive, suspicious glances at them. Some stared in open malice. Still, once Mingan had realized there would be no immediate violence, he had settled down. It was the first time he'd been among his own kind in many seasons. The elves, both men and women, had the same pale complexion and hair as Lendri, but they wore even less clothing-barely enough for modesty, and none wore any covering on their feet. They too had skin decorated in many swirls and thorns-the younger members of the pack sporting only a few while the elders seemed more black lines than white skin. This had been a hunt, not a permanent camp, and they were still a ways from the nearest cache, so few of the elves had weapons. A dagger or rough spear here and there, but nothing more.

Many of the elves walked the dreamroad next to their sleeping wolf brothers, but a half dozen or so of each patrolled the area, scanning the horizon and sniffing the breeze while the others kept close watch on Lendri and Mingan. Lendri did not know whether to cling to hope or despair. They had not killed him on sight, which was good, he supposed, but every attempt to speak to them had been met with either cold silence or a command to close his mouth. After his fourth attempt, his brother Leren had threatened to gag him, so Lendri sat and waited. Little brother had grown in the years they'd been apart.

His limbs were lean but filled with a hard strength, and he walked with the poise and confidence of a true pack leader. Pride and sadness filled Lendri's heart-pride that little brother had taken his place in the pack and sadness that it had to be so. The bottom rim of the sun was a finger's width over the horizon when Lendri first noticed the long shadows in the distant grass-several of them headed right for the pack. It wouldn't be long now. Leren, pacing not far away, saw them as well. He was one of the few in camp with a weapon-a long knife that he held naked in his hand. He watched the shadows a while, then turned and looked down on Lendri. "They are coming," he said. "Thank you, Brother," said Lendri. "Don't call me that, hrayek," said the warrior, and he spat on the ground beside Lendri. Mingan raised his head, and a growl, more felt than heard, rumbled deep within the wolf's throat.

Leren ignored him. Hrayek, thought Lendri. Outcast. Oathbreaker. This was not going as well as he'd hoped. It was not altogether unexpected, but still it saddened him. He and Leren had been close once. With full light bathing the rise, the Vil Adanrath stirred out of dreamwalk and sleep. The news spread quickly. The omah nin was coming. Several of the wolves sent up a song to greet him. A pack of twenty wolves, led by a massive male with fur the color of new snow, ran among the gathered pack. The hunters greeted their lord and his guard, dancing about him, yipping and barking, the greatest of the pack licking his muzzle and bowing with lowered ears and tail. The huge wolf allowed it for a time, then snarled and barked till the others cleared a path for him. He walked up the slope to Leren, wolves and elves following him.

Mingan circled Lendri a few times, then settled on his haunches beside his friend and watched. Leren knelt, lowering his head and opening his palms. "Well come to the pack, Omah Nin." The wolf looked at Leren, then glanced at Lendri and Mingan. His fur bristled, then began to ripple as if stirred by a hundred tiny breezes. Fur faded to a misty light, the pale shadow within stretching. When the light cleared, an elf stood in front of Leren. This newcomer was the tallest elf in camp. His snow white hair fell well past his waist, and his entire body was a maze of black tattoos and old wounds. Runes the color of fresh blood lined his arms and chest. Three scars marred his skin from scalp to cheek to chin, leaving empty tracks through his pale eyebrows. His eyes stood out like jewels burning with the light of a winter sky. This was Haerul, Omah Nin of the Vil Adanrath. Chieftain of chieftains. What the Tuigan would have named khahan. Haerul knelt by the wolf next to him, which had a light pack on its back. He reached into the pack, removed a loincloth, and covered his nakedness before looking down on Leren. "Rise, my son," he said. Leren stood, and together the elves turned to face Lendri. "Hrayek," Haerul said, no warmth in his eyes. "You know the penalty for returning to the pack. There is no help for you here. You know that." Lendri looked into the chieftain's eyes. "I know, Father." For the briefest instant, sorrow clouded Haerul's countenance, then he suppressed it and turned to his younger son with his hand open. Leren slapped the blade into his father's palm. "Then," said Haerul, "I suggest you speak quickly.

I would like to know the reason I must kill flesh of my flesh." Mingan growled at the sight of the blade, but Lendri shushed him to silence.

The wolf quieted, but Lendri could feel his tension. His friend's muscles were taut as oak roots, and his hackles stood tall like summer grass. Lendri kept his eyes low. To look his father in the eye would be seen as a challenge. If it came to the blade, then perhaps he would challenge his father. Until then… Lendri told his tale, of the rescue of Jalan and the war wizard from the slavers, of others-though he did not say who-coming for the boy afterward. "What does this have to do with the Vil Adanrath?" asked Leren. "Why lose your life's blood to tell us a tale of this out-clanner and her son?" "The ones who came for the wizard's son," said Lendri, "the ones I fought and who almost killed me. They were Siksin Neneweth. A man-or something like a man-led them. A man in an ash-gray cloak who walks with winter before and behind him." Lendri heard several gasps, and even the wolves went silent and still. Every member of the Vil Adanrath, even the youngest, knew the tale of Gyaidun and Hlessa's son. It was told around winter fires and under summer stars. Leren stared at Lendri with his mouth hanging open. He shut it, looked at his father, then back to Lendri.

"You speak of the one who took Erun-or one like him. You-" "Be silent," said Haerul. Lendri risked a glance up at his father. A storm was gathering in his winter-sky eyes. "But-" said Leren. "Silence."

Lendri could feel his father's gaze upon him, but he did not dare look up. Long moments passed, the only sound a slight breeze rippling the grasses. "Leren speaks what everyone here knows," said Lendri. "The raiders I speak of, those who took the woman's son, they are the ones who took Erun. Or ones like them. Your daughter's son. Your grandchild. Gyaidun and I are hrayeket, but Erun is not. He is your blood." "Erun is dead," said Haerul. Lendri could hear the rage and sorrow in his father's voice. Lendri stood in one swift motion and faced his father, only a half-pace between them, his eyes carefully fixed no higher than his father's chin. The surrounding warriors tensed but did not move forward. Lendri said loud enough for all to hear, "Then there is still vengeance." Snarling, Haerul backhanded Lendri, knocking him to the ground. "You dare speak to me of vengeance?" Haerul shouted. "You? Were it not for you, your sister would still be alive. It was your treachery that lost her to us!"

Mingan growled and bared his fangs. "Chu set, Mingan!" Lendri spat blood and struggled to his feet. "Hlessa gave her heart to Gyaidun, and their love gave them a child. It was my sacred duty to her child-beyond all oaths of clan and family. I held my honor, and I would do it again." "Curse your honor," said Haerul. "Your honor killed your sister and her son." "Erun may still live." Haerul's eyes hardened. "Twelve years, hrayek. Twelve years the boy has been gone.

Even if he is still alive, what will he be? After all these years? He was never more than-" The chieftain stopped and looked to the surrounding warriors. "Never more than what?" said Lendri, his voice cold. "A half breed? And you curse my honor. He is your grandson, your blood!" Haerul roared, more than a little of the wolf entering his voice. He punched Lendri to the ground and raised the knife. "Enough!" said a new voice. The omah nin froze, and every eye turned to the figure approaching from outside the ring of gathered warriors. At first glance, he seemed an old man, for he walked with a tall staff and his hair was long and wild, as if it had seen no brush but the wind for years. Tattoos in hues of black, green, and blue covered his face and arms, and red runes much like the omah nin's shown above and below each eye. He was dressed in skins and furs, but a great elkhide cloak draped his shoulders so that as the wind caught it he seemed some dark and angry bird of prey descending on the scene. But he was an elf, no doubt. Pointed ears protruded from his hair, no wrinkle creased his skin, and his eyes held the cant of the others. Seeing him, Haerul stepped back from Lendri, turned to the newcomer, and fell to his knees. "Belkagen Kwarun! I did not know you were among us." "I have just arrived," said the belkagen. He looked at Lendri, who lay in the grass, arms bound behind his back and blood smeared down his chin.

He shook his head and sighed. "No matter how old I get, the foolishness of the young never ceases to give me wonder." "Holy one, I was about to mete out the hrayek's punishment," said Haerul, raising the knife. "You need not trouble yourself." The belkagen rapped his staff across the chieftain's head, not hard but as if chastising a child. "Fool! I meant you! The scars of the omah nin are supposed to mean you've learned to think before you act." "But he has broken the clan oath." "To keep his blood oath!" The belkagen raised his staff but seemed to think better of striking and lowered it again. He looked down on Haerul and said, "Do you know the meaning of tragedy?" Haerul opened his mouth, but the belkagen cut him off. "Hold your tongue, Omah Nin. I am about to tell you." He walked around Haerul and addressed the gathered warriors. "To punish the guilty is not tragedy.

That is justice. Tragedy is when two parties are both right but must choose different, even opposing, paths." He looked down at Haerul and Lendri. "Here we have tragedy. The omah nin and his son are both warriors of honor who bring honor to their clan, but in keeping justice each must betray the other's oath. The omah nin speaks of the oaths and laws of the clan-as well he should, for such is the omah nin's duty. But law is not justice. Law is the guide to justice, but in the face of tragedy, law can be an imperfect guide." "Are you saying we should forsake our law for one warrior?" said Haerul, and a sharp edge had entered his voice. "Even the firstborn of the omah nin?" Lendri looked at his father. It was the first time in more than sixteen years that Haerul had called him his firstborn and not hrayek.

The belkagen turned his back on the pack and looked at Haerul. "Law is the path to justice, not its end, as the path to the water is not the water itself. Once you have arrived at the river, you do not forsake the path. You have fulfilled it." Haerul glared and said, "Lendri betrayed the covenant of clan." "To keep his covenant of blood," said the belkagen. "We all know this," said Haerul. His voice was firm, but much of the heat had gone out of it. "It changes nothing, holy one. To keep his honor, a warrior may have to reach into the fire, but honor or no, still he will burn." "The omah nin is wise." The belkagen offered a small bow. "But that is not why Lendri has come." He looked down at Lendri and raised an eyebrow. "Is it?" Lendri struggled to his feet and looked to his father. "I am not asking the clan to help me. I am telling you that your grandson may be alive. Hlessa's only child.

All we have left of her." Haerul looked at his son a long time. He still held the naked blade in his hand. He turned to the belkagen.

"This is true, holy one?" The belkagen frowned. "Whether Erun is alive or not… I do not know. There is hope, but I will not lie. It is a slim one. A small flame in the rain. But another boy-about the same age as Erun when he was taken-has been captured, and the trail is still fresh." Haerul turned back to Lendri, stepped forward, and placed the edge of the blade against his son's throat. "So, Hlessa's son may be dead." Lendri looked into his father's eyes, putting every bit of challenge he could into his gaze. "Yes. If he is dead, I can take you to his killers. But time is running out."