Frostfell

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Endless Wastes

No dreams-good or bad-troubled Jalan's sleep the night of the massacre of the Tuigan nomads. He slept beside the fire, but with no one to tend it, the fire was nothing but cold ashes by morning. And still Jalan slept. His mind and body wrung out by fear and exhaustion, he did not even turn in his sleep as the thing in the ash-gray cloak fled the coming dawn and buried itself under blankets and hides inside one of the Tuigan yurts. Most of the pale northerners and their wolf mounts slept, scattered throughout the carnage. Around midday the high slate-colored canopy of clouds fell lower and thickened, deepening to the color of charcoal. The guard pacing near Jalan stopped and, smelling snow in the air, smiled. Behind the tapestry of clouds, the first edge of the sun was setting in the west when the first spark of awareness stirred within Jalan. Not wakefulness, for his body still slept, his breath even, and his heart beating slow. But something deep within Jalan, something buried far beneath conscious thought, was waking up. Shadows deepened in the camp, the last of the day's light gathering to a colorless glow in the west. Both wolves and their riders began to stir, the beasts blinking and yawning, the pale northerners kicking their blankets away and setting to packing.

Disturbed by the activity around him, Jalan moaned and woke, though he did not open his eyes. Why bother? He could feel the damp cold in the air, and even with his eyes closed he knew the day was over and they would soon be leaving. More than anything, he wished to fall back into the oblivion of sleep. Lying there hoping for sleep only strengthened his wakefulness, but with it his awareness sharpened and he noticed something. Still he felt hollow, as if the horror of the past few days and the crushed hope of being rescued only to be taken again had scraped his insides clean, but now… now floating in that emptiness was… something. He couldn't put a name to it. Not light exactly, nor warmth. But there was something very much alive inside him, both a part of him and separate. Be not afraid. He remembered the words from the dream, the voice amidst the song. Jalan focused his thought on that something within him and formed a single thought. Vyaidelon?

Nothing. No answer, no music, no voice. Still, it did not go away.

Night fell around him. Though he still lay with his eyes closed, Jalan sensed its coming-not the night, but the one who came with it. He was always there, that dark, cold thing, aware of him. Watching. Studying.

But in the daylight, the awareness spread out, still there but stretched thin. With the coming of night it pressed upon him again, sharp as new frost. Jalan, knowing he was coming, squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could. He heard the flap of the nearby yurt torn away, wrenched off its wood-frame hinge. Either by dread curiosity or reflex, Jalan started and his eyes opened. The thing in the ash-gray cloak stepped out and straightened to his full height. The air seemed to thicken and become brittle, and Jalan could sense the thing's anger. The leader paced round the immediate area, moving from space to space in quick bursts of speed then standing still as the shadows themselves. He sniffed at the air, opened his mouth wide, inhaled, then flinched as if bitten. He looked down at Jalan. "What are you doing?" Jalan said nothing. He squeezed his eyes shut and huddled inside his cloak. The something, that odd presence inside of him, trembled, but it was not from fear. It was as if a bell had been struck, and the more the thing in the ash-gray cloak exerted his will, the stronger the chime sang within Jalan. "Stop that," said the leader. "I… I…" "I said stop!" The leader wrenched Jalan up and pulled him close. "I sense what you are doing. I hear it in your heart's beating. Stop now or I'll bleed it out of you." Jalan heard the rustle of robes and the soft whisk of a blade being drawn. He opened his eyes and tears streamed out. Jalan gasped for air and almost gagged at the stench of the thing holding him. "Heed me, whelp," said the leader, and he pressed the edge of his knife against Jalan's cheek. The metal was so cold it burned. "I need you alive. Not unscathed. Stop what you are doing now." "I… can't," Jalan said.

"I-" The knife shifted, the point coming toward Jalan's left eye. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pull away, but the thing holding him was too strong. He could feel the point of the blade resting against his clenched eyelid, but he could pull away no further.

"Stop," said the leader, almost a whisper. "I will not say so again."

Jalan's fear had so filled his thoughts that he'd almost forgotten about the thing inside him, that indefinable livingness stirring within. The terror emptied his mind of all else, and in that instant the thing within him resounded, growing from a rhythmic hum to a battle cry. Almost of their own accord his eyes opened. The blade filled his vision, as if all the world had funneled into the knife hovering just beyond his tears. Jalan took the great thing inside of him and focused it there. The blade blazed. A pure orange light glowed outward, but the blade itself was white as the center of the sun. The thing in the ash-gray cloak shrieked and hurled Jalan and the knife away. Jalan rolled into the cold ashes of the fire, and the knife, still blazing like the noonday sun, tumbled into the grass. The howling and frightened whines of wolves filled Jalan's ears as he pushed himself to his hands and knees. He saw a pale blur coming at him-one of the northern barbarians-but he was too stunned to move. The boot caught him in the side, and he went down. Darkness and light and a hundred dancing colors filled his eyes, and his body seemed to squeeze in on itself, craving air but finding only pain. He took deep, choking breaths, his side clenching. When he could hear and see again, the camp was in turmoil. The huge wolves were running around, many growling and snapping at their fellows. The pale northerners rushed to calm them, and their cloaked leader sat in the grass, huddling away from the light and barking orders in a language that Jalan could not understand. His voice sounded stretched and thin. Desperate. One of the pale men ripped the outer felt covering off a yurt. He dragged it to where the dagger still blazed like a piece of the sun fallen to earth and threw the thick felt over it. The glow winked out, and darkness fell on the camp again. The cloaked leader stood, his robes falling around him like tides of night, and bore down on Jalan. Jalan raised his hands before his face, fearing another dagger or a blast of cold-or worst of all that sharp awareness boring into his mind.

Instead, the leader's fist emerged from the folds of his cloak. Jalan saw it, a pallid blur streaking toward his face, then a cold blackness took him.

Akhrasut Neth The howling had not subsided. In fact, it seemed to Amira that even more wolves had come, and the sounds of their singing came from every direction. Full night had fallen, bringing with it a thick, clinging fog that dampened Amira's cloak and made her hair cling to her scalp. The belkagen had not returned to camp, and Gyaidun just sat there in the shadows, staring off into nowhere. Amira heard something approaching through the trees and caught her breath. She hoped it was the belkagen, but she feared it might be Haerul. She could hold her own against this barbarian chieftain no matter what the old elf said, but like it or not she needed their help, and she knew she needed the belkagen's assistance to navigate all the intricate customs and proprieties of these people. Besides, she'd had a few encounters with werewolves before. None of them pleasant. If Amira was right and Gyaidun's account of the Vil Adanrath matched with her own recollection of the lythari, she knew she had little to fear. If the accounts she'd read were true, the lythari were not afflicted monsters like other werewolves. Still, she recalled the belkagen's words to her. They are a people of pride and honor, and their chief, Haerul, has pride and honor like none I've ever seen. Scratch it at your peril. She'd already seen Lendri angered, and war wizard that she was, remembering the gaze he'd fixed upon her still sent a shiver up her spine. Amira huddled in her elkhide blanket next to the fire and kept her eyes fixed on the direction from which she heard the sound. More than one person was coming, but she'd only just noticed the second.

Both moved with a furtive grace and quiet she'd seen only among animals. A wolf emerged from the shadows between the trees, bounding through the brush to approach the fire with no hint of fear. Amira recognized Mingan, and Lendri came into view not far behind him.

Despite the chill, he wore only a loincloth, and he carried no weapons. Gyaidun rose to greet him and they embraced, exchanging words in their own language. Lendri gave Amira a small bow, then said, "The Vil Adanrath have come." "You convinced the omah nin?" said Gyaidun.

"I did little more than offend my brother and rouse my father's ire anew. It was the belkagen who convinced Haerul to come. They are camping on the other side of the spring." A wry, almost mischievous smile broke the elf's grim countenance. "My father has heard you are here." "He won't even come to greet his daughter's husband?" said Amira. Gyaidun said nothing, but the look Lendri gave Amira made her wish she'd held her tongue. "Our ways are not your ways, Lady Amira," he said. "You need not tell me that." "He does, however, send greetings to the War Wizard of Cormyr and bids you well come to his lands." "His lands?" "Akhrasut Neth is sacred to the Vil Adanrath. As the omah nin, Haerul's word is now law here, and he welcomes you as his guest." Amira didn't know whether to be offended that he hadn't greeted her himself-at the very least with a summons-or thankful that he hadn't ordered her captured for sharing a fire with a man he'd outlawed. She remembered her mother's words, pounded into her from childhood-When you don't know the proper words, courtesy serves best-and so she simply said, "Thank you. Tell him thank you." "My father's words to me are the last he will speak," said Lendri. "And even those he gave only at the belkagen's urging. No more will his honor permit. You wish to thank him? Thank him yourself. He has sworn to kill me if I speak to him again." "How many has he brought?" asked Gyaidun. "Forty hunters arrived with us tonight," said Lendri. "He has summoned more, but I do not think he'll wait for them. A great hunger and rage fills him. Please do not provoke anything, Brother. The omah nin is thirsting for blood. Give him no excuse to spill yours."

Gyaidun opened his mouth to say something, but Durja cut him off, flapping his wings and cawing. Despite the noise, Amira thought she caught the sound of larger wings alighting in one of the trees just outside of camp, and by the time the raven had quieted, settling in atop Gyaidun's shoulder, the belkagen was walking back into the light of the fire. The old elf held his staff in a firm hand, and he looked grim, reminding Amira of a lord about to pronounce grave judgment on a vassal. He spared Lendri and Gyaidun a glance, then fixed his gaze on Amira. "It is time, Lady."