Frostfell

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Endless Wastes

The land lay on the verge of true darkness when the lone guard saw them. They came from the west-a dozen ghostlike shapes only slightly darker than the surrounding snow. Still crouching in the shadow of the great rock, the guard took a wooden pipe out of his belt pouch and put it to his lips. He blew a long note that rose and fell with the wind.

The nearest of the approaching shapes stopped. The guard stood and stepped out of the shadows. He waved his spear in three wide arcs. The figures resumed their run, and by the time full dark had fallen they had gathered around the rock-twelve winter wolves and eight Frost Folk riding. Their leader brought his mount forward until he towered over the guard. Steam from the great beast's breath enveloped the guard in an icy cloud. "We have come," said the new arrival. "To where does the master call us?" The deepest shadow under the great rock moved. It stood, a tall man wearing the tattered remains of an ash-gray cloak and cowl. Snow and frost clung to him, and there was no warmth in his breath to cloud before him. He stepped forward until he stood beside the guard. The winter wolf before them let out a small whine and took several steps backward, its ears low and its tail between its legs.

"To Winterkeep," said the sorcerer. "We go to Winterkeep."

Sitting before the meager fire, Jalan curled up next to her, Amira gripped her new staff as she studied its runes. She'd never seen their like, and she had studied most of the languages of Faer?n, both ancient and modern, living and dead. Still, there was something familiar about them, something she felt she ought to recognize. It nagged at her, just as the staff itself seemed to… to sing to her.

It was not unlike the times she'd lulled Jalan to sleep as a baby with a lullaby-oftentimes nonsense words where the sound and melody were more important than the meaning. Something within the staff spoke to her like that-not in words or even meaning, but in a deeper connection that had more to do with the beating of her heart and the passions of her flesh than the knowledge of her mind. Even now, she could feel it flowing through her, and she felt a strange communion with the golden wood, and through it to all the land around her. So strong was the sensation, that she could feel the sun setting in the distance, even though it was hidden behind countless miles of falling snow and cloud.

She heard movement and looked up to see a pale elf sitting down across the fire from her. At first she thought it was Lendri, but it was not.

In his exile, Lendri had collected various bits of other cultures upon his person. His clothes and supplies showed he had traveled among half the peoples of the Wastes, but the one before her now was all Vil Adanrath, dressed only in leathers and the fur of various animals. His hair was wild and free, and though it was now sprinkled with snow, still it drank in the firelight and seemed to glow with its own warmth. "I am Leren," said the elf, speaking each word with careful precision. He held his palms open before him and offered a small bow.

"Son of Haerul, Omah Nin of the Vil Adanrath." "I am Amira," she said, her voice low so as not to wake Jalan. "Amira Hiloar, War Wizard of Cormyr. Yes, I know." Amira did not know what to say, so she said nothing. "I have seen you with the belkagen. He speaks well of you."

"He saved me and my son," she said, and placed a gentle hand on Jalan's shoulder. "He and Gyaidun and Lendri. They saved our lives."

Leren flinched at the mention of his brother and Gyaidun's names. "I did not come to speak to you of the hrayeket." "Then why did you come?" "My father sent out summons to all the packs. Many have come, and others may come still, but he and the belkagen agree on this: We cannot wait. The belkagen says our enemies will be here soon, and he says you know this also." Amira nodded. "The belkagen speaks the truth." "Then we must prepare. The omah nin will make amrulugek. You know what this means?" "Yes. A council." "Council, yes. The omah nin asks you to come." A shiver went up Amira's spine. She'd spoken with a few of the Vil Adanrath over the last day or so, but for the most part they kept to themselves. She thought it was mostly because they avoided Lendri, and when he was in camp, he was most often around Amira's fire. The belkagen had acted as a sort of go-between, and Amira had liked that just fine. The Vil Adanrath made every hair on her body stand on end. She'd known elves all her life, but none like these. Shapeshifters who could walk as wolves as easily as elves- and even when they walked on two legs the wolf never quite left their stride or their eyes. "Will the belkagen be there?" she asked. "He will." "And Lendri?" Leren flinched. "That one is hrayek. Exiled. He cannot join our council." "He may join our fight and risk his blood but not sit at our fire?" Leren said nothing, simply sat and watched her. "I will come," she said. "But I do not like Lendri being excluded." "You do not know his crimes," said Leren, though there was a tone of respect in his voice. "And you do not know mine, but still you ask me to your council." "Your crimes were not against the Vil Adanrath." Amira scowled. "Fine. When is the council?" "The scouts should return soon. We meet then. Someone will come for you." Leren stood to go. "My son," said Amira. "I will not leave him." The elf looked down on Jalan. "Your son may come."

Amira did not have long to wait. Leren had been gone just long enough for full dark to fall when the belkagen trudged up to her fire, his long cloak trailing in the snow. "It is time, Lady," he said. "The council of the omah nin gathers." Amira gave Jalan a gentle shake.

"Jalan," she said. "Jal, you must wake up." He stirred, turning so that the blanket fell away from his face. His eyes went wide and he gasped. "It's dark," he said. "I know, dear. We're in camp. We're safe. But you must wake up, just for a little while. You and I have been invited to a council." Jalan squeezed his eyes shut, and his whole body shuddered. But he forced himself up, and he and Amira followed the belkagen, his staff emitting its cold green fire and lighting their way. The camp was spread out in a shallow valley that probably turned into a river in spring and early summer. Autumn-bare trees, their branches drooping under a heavy load of snow, lined the ground between the valley and steep embankment, and the Vil Adanrath had made fires and erected small lean-tos beneath them. Wolves and elves slept in some of the campsites, others were empty, and a few sat beside fires and watched the trio pass. The omah nin had built his fire at the very edge of the camp where the eastern embankment fell to a flat area of scrub and boulders, all made into formless humps of snow. Behind a large fire stood Haerul himself, shirtless but with a long cape of black fur draping his shoulders. His hair was unbound and hung heavy with snow well below his waist. He was almost as tall as Gyaidun, but his frame had the lean strength of the elves. Scars crisscrossed his torso, and one particularly nasty gash, long healed, streaked down his neck and chest. Like the rest of the Vil Adanrath, only bits of pale skin peeked out from a twisting maze of black tattoos. As she approached the chieftain, Amira caught glints of red among the darker inks and thought at first that they were new scars, still raw from healing. But her breath caught in her throat when she took a closer look. They were runes, and although there were differences, she recognized them. She couldn't read them, but there was no doubt that they were the same language as was carved into her new staff. "Belkagen," she whispered. "Those marks upon the omah nin.

What are they?" The belkagen slowed his pace and turned to her. "Those are the marks of a chieftain. In the west, your kings wear crowns and wield scepters. Among the Vil Adanrath, those red runes mark him omah nin." "What do they say?" "Not now, Lady." "But they are much like the runes on the staff given to me by the oracle." The belkagen nodded.

"Most likely they were carved by the same hand." "You mean the omah nin has been to the oracle?" "All omah seek Hro'nyewachu, who chooses the omah nin. Now hush, Lady. Please. This is not the time." They walked amid the gathered crowd. Amira counted ten other Vil Adanrath gathered-elves anyway. The wolves milled about so that she had trouble counting them, and they came in every color, from a black deep as coal to a white that became one with the snow. Among the elves, Amira was surprised to see three women. They looked no less fierce than the men.

One had a disfigured face, half of which was a mottled burn-scar, and one eye stared out milky white. The belkagen stood across the fire from the omah nin and bowed. "Omah Nin, I have come to your council, and I bring Lady Amira Hiloar, War Wizard of Cormyr, Inisach tin Nekutha Hro'nyewachwe. I request that those who speak the common tongue of the west do so, that we might honor her presence." The omah nin turned his heavy gaze on her, and she was bowing before she realized it. "Well come to my fire, Lady Amira," said the omah nin.

"You honor us with your presence." He motioned to each of those seated around the fire, calling each of their names. Leren was the only one she had already met. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss." The belkagen sat on the ground amid the ring of elves. Amira and Jalan settled in beside him, and she leaned toward him and whispered, "What was that you called me? Inisaktin Neku-something?" The belkagen turned to her and said, "Inisach tin Nekutha Hro'nyewachwe. It means you sought Hro'nyewachu and lived." "Why did you tell them that?" "So that they will know you are their equal." "I-" A great howl from beyond the camp cut her off, and everyone seated round the fire stiffened. The wolves stopped their pacing and stood still, only their ears moving.

"The sentries-" said one of the elves beside the omah nin. The wind, which had blown out of the north all day, suddenly rose to a tumultuous gale and blew up a great cloud of snow. The fire went out, and as darkness gripped them, Jalan grabbed his mother. She could feel him trembling beside her. Amira felt the belkagen rise beside her and heard his incantation. A moment later the green fire from his staff lit the camp, reflecting off the snow in the air so that it seemed as if they were suspended in a spring-green cloud. The wind shrieked even harder, and the belkagen shouted, "No one move! Be still!" A cackle came from somewhere in the blizzard. It was one of the most inhuman sounds Amira had ever heard, like the sound of breaking icicles given life and a gleeful malice. "Behind me!" shouted the belkagen as he stepped away from the main body of the camp, his staff held high, the flames on its tip blazing like an emerald star. "Everyone back! Stay behind my light!" The wind blew even stronger, sending the belkagen's great cloak billowing behind him. Amira could hear him shouting but could not understand the words. The gale pummeled them, blowing no longer from the north but switching direction again and again. Amira thought it was beginning to slacken a bit, but then she realized that it was only gathering in the darkness just beyond the reach of the belkagen's light. Amira watched in horror as the wind gathered into a single cyclone, dozens of feet high. It stayed in one spot, gathering snow, ice, leaves, and other bits of debris as it swayed back and forth. Gripping her staff, Amira began to form the words of a spell.

"Be still!" said the belkagen. "I beg you, Lady." Out of the snow, a small form staggered, leaning heavily upon a gnarled staff dangling with thorns and bits of hair and bone. She stepped into the green light, and Amira saw that it was indeed a she-a hideous old crone, her skin blue as a drowned corpse, the flesh round her rheumy eyes black with decay. She seemed about Amira's height, but bent over as she was, Jalan could have looked down on her. Gripped in one hand she was dragging a pale, silver-haired body-one of the Vil Adanrath, either dead or unconscious; Amira could not be sure. The old crone came forward until she was only a few paces from the belkagen, then she spat. "Ach! Cursed wolf-elf. Blech! Who could eat such a thing?" She dropped the unconscious sentry into the snow, sniffed the air, and fixed her eyes on everyone gathered around the dead fire. "But I do smell a human. Tasty manflesh." The belkagen lowered his staff, and it seemed to glow even brighter as he spoke. "There is no meal for you here, Tselelka. Leave our sentry there and be off." The old woman cackled and thrust her staff toward them, and a great deluge of hail and ice fell with a loud roar. Only a few shards hit before the belkagen raised his own staff, spoke a harsh incantation, and a half-globe shield, faintly sparkling, covered them all. The old woman stamped her foot, and the ice storm died away. "Kwarun. It is you, eh?

I feared as much. Damn and damn. I thought you were meddling in the south these days." The belkagen lowered his staff, and the magic shield flickered away. "How was your hunting this season, Tselelka?"

"Pfah. No more than a few gems and an amulet. Hardly worth my time, though the amulet will give me something to puzzle over this winter.

What might you be up to, old meddler?" "Our business is none of your concern." "If you're here, your business is Winterkeep. Tselelka is old, but she's no fool. And only fools find themselves at Winterkeep after the first snow falls." "You're here." "I am leaving." The belkagen fixed her with a hard glare. "Then don't let us keep you. But leave our hunter behind. If you've hurt him, I'll make finding you my first order of business come spring." The old crone cackled. She seemed genuinely pleased. "Kwarun, you always did know how to warm a girl's heart. Don't worry. I took no more than a nibble out of your watchdog. He can tell the rest of his litter it's a love bite from old Tselelka." Amira pushed her way forward. "You've come from Winterkeep, old woman. What is there?" Tselelka's eyes lit with a sudden fire at the sight of Amira. Her nostrils flared and she licked her lips as she took an eager step forward. The belkagen stepped in front of Amira and pushed her back. "Back, hag! I said you'll find no meal here." The old woman scowled, and the hunger in her eyes only seemed to increase.

"Cruel, Kwarun. Poor old Tselelka's had nothing but rats and worse for months. Haven't had a bit of manflesh since last summer, and this one smells sweet." "I said no, Tselelka. Now be gone." The old woman craned her neck to try to catch a glimpse of Amira. "Give old Tselelka a taste and I'll answer your question, girlie." The belkagen flicked his staff and said, "Crithta!" White fire shot from his staff and struck the ground in front of the old woman. Tselelka shielded her eyes and stepped back from the steaming hole in the snow before her.

"Missed, old meddler!" "I hit where I aimed," said the belkagen. He lowered his staff, pointing the end right at the old woman. "And the next one will hit as well. Now off with you! You and your orglash!"

The hag looked at the belkagen through narrowed eyes. "I hope we meet again, meddler, when Tselelka is rested and fed. I hope you survive your latest folly so that I can teach you some manners. Flee Winterkeep. Listen to the wind, and perhaps we'll meet again." The old woman motioned to the cyclone behind her, which suddenly grew and spread, hitting everyone with galeforce winds and blinding them in the snow. Amira had a spell half cast when the wind died away and the snow settled. The old hag was gone, leaving the senseless sentry on the ground. "Listen to the wind?" Amira asked. "What's that mean?"

"Listen," said Haerul. Amira did. With the orglash gone, the north wind had returned, but now it seemed colder, and besides the hissing of the snow, Amira could almost swear she heard voices, fell and dark, chanting at the back of the wind.

Far away, on the tattered edges of the storm, a long tear opened in the clouds, and the waxing moon shone through like a baleful eye peeking through a torn curtain. Its pale light reflected off miles of steppe, now covered with a fresh blanket of white. On the very edge of the moon's light, the blanket of snow rose, shedding snow in places as the ground rose to a great height-a high hill shaped like a broken and weathered fang that had long since given up biting at the sky. The Mother's Bed. At its summit, amid a thick grove of trees that even now still bore green, a large rock leaned out of the soil, a great crack forming a cave at its base. Gyaidun, all alone, no sacrifice in hand, watched that yawning darkness a long time. He remembered the words spoken only three days ago. "Hro'nyewachu will be hungry," the belkagen had said. "If you have no gift…" "What?" Amira had asked.

"Feed Hro'nyewachu or she will feed on you," Gyaidun had told her.

"What kind of Oracle is this?" "I told you," the belkagen said. "She is a being of need-both in fulfilling and needing to be fulfilled.

Nothing comes free. Blood for blood." "So be it," said Gyaidun. "Blood for blood." He raised his knife and walked into the hungry darkness.