Frostfell

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Isle of Witness

Nothing moved on the Isle of Witness. The island itself was really just a huge pinnacle of rock breaking the surface of the Great Ice Sea. Nothing but moss and a few shoots grew there. The soil was too rocky and the wind was too harsh. Even the great dead tree at the island's summit stood implacable, as it had for hundreds of years.

Only the thickest boughs remained, and they were hard as iron from the countless ages of bitter cold and salt-tinged air. A stone stairway-once decorated with many signs both sacred and arcane, but now weathered and broken-descended from the base of the Witness Tree to the northern shore of the island. At the base of the stair the air rippled, almost like a heat mirage, then darkened and solidified into the folds of a greatcloak. It was made from the skin of some great animal, and bits of fur lined the hem. The arcane symbols upon it glowed briefly, a warm green light. The great hump of a cloak rose and billowed. Straightening, the belkagen drew back the folds of his greatcloak, and Lendri and Jalan emerged. The trio straightened.

Lendri's eyes were wide with uneasiness, and he flinched at being exposed to the wind off the sea, snow and sleet striking his face.

Their breath steamed for an instant before crystallizing and joining the snow, and even Lendri, who was seldom bothered even by intense cold, shivered. Only the boy seemed unaffected, and his eyes had a dullness to them, like resignation or even drunkenness. The belkagen's brow creased. Cold was to be expected, but this… already his hair had frozen to bits of ice, and even blinking hurt. Realization of what this meant hit him. "No. Oh, no!" He turned. On the hill above them, emerging from behind the thick trunk of the Witness Tree, stood the Fist of Winter-all five of them, and they looked down at the belkagen and his two charges. "Back!" shouted the belkagen, throwing the folds of his cloak around Lendri and Jalan. He held them tight and ducked under his hood. One of the sorcerers stepped forward, laughing. He lowered his tattered hood. Pallid skin and dead, black eyes seemed unconcerned as he smiled into the full force of the storm. It was Erun. He motioned with his hands and mouthed the words of a spell. The belkagen froze. His cloak wasn't working. Erun-or what had once been Erun-had used his own foul arts to nullify the power in the cloak.

"Give us the boy," said Erun, shouting to be heard over the wind and waves. His voice was harsh and subhuman, as if his will forced his throat to utter sounds strange to it. The belkagen stood and pushed Lendri and Jalan behind him. He held his staff up, shielding them.

"You cannot have him," said the belkagen. "Not again." But the belkagen stumbled forward as Jalan pushed past him and rushed up the stairs. Lendri lunged after him, but Erun drew a single-edged sword with one fluid motion and shouted, "Silo'at!" Biting frost tunneled outward against the gale and struck Lendri full-force, sending him flying back into the rocks, frost and ice coating him from chin to waist. He hit hard then rolled over, groaning, trying to rise only to have his body betray him. Jalan ascended the last few steps on all fours, then fell and hugged Erun's legs. While the belkagen watched, dumbstruck, Erun placed one emaciated hand on the boy's neck and spoke an incantation. Jalan flinched as if he'd been slapped across the face, then collapsed. "What-?" the belkagen spoke his thought aloud.

Erun smiled. There was no humor in it, merely the baring of teeth. "My hold on him is no longer necessary." "All this time…" "I let you take him, old fool. You think that wench could have beaten me so easily? I let him go, and through him I watched you. Heard you. And so when I knew you'd be bringing him back to me, I… let you." He shrugged, though coming from the sorcerer it seemed an obscene gesture, unnatural. The shoulders moving beneath the tattered cloak and robes reminded the belkagen of a dung beetle flexing its carapace.

"It has long been a weakness of mine," Erun continued. "I like to play with my prey." The enchantment broken, Jalan, trembling from cold and terror, tried to scramble back down the steps, but the sorcerer bent and snatched him, quick as a scorpion. He held the boy by the hair and pulled him back. Jalan screamed. "Jalan, no!" said the belkagen.

"Erun, don't hurt him!" The sorcerer shook the boy until tears leaked out of Jalan's terror-stricken eyes and froze on his cheeks. "Erun?" said the sorcerer. "That is not my name. I merely wear that boy's skin. What was Erun has been sleeping for a long time-and having most unpleasant dreams. Oh, how the boy screams."

Amira stood on the black, ice-slick rocks of the shore, looking across the water to the island. Staring into the storm, snow and sleet stinging her face, she could just make out five figures standing beneath an old, long-dead tree. The wind off the Great Ice Sea tossed their cloaks, but through the waving fabric she was sure she saw Jalan. She clenched her fist and punched her hip in frustration. The great pinnacle of rock was several hundred paces offshore, but it might as well have been a league. She'd tried again and again to use her magic to transport her out there, but something was blocking her spell. The core of her mind could feel the power hammering against some unseen barrier, and nothing she tried could break through. Even if the water hadn't been broken by tall white-capped waves, the temperature itself would've made swimming impossible. She'd freeze before she got halfway, assuming she didn't drown. She turned to the elf who had accompanied her to the shore. It was Turha, one of the female omah from last night's council. "Is there any way out there?"

Amira asked. "Boats? Anything?" Turha shook her head. "Nothing. In summer, one must swim. In winter, we walk the ice. Now…" Two other Vil Adanrath, one coated in blood, were coming toward them, three wolves at their heels. The bloody one had a bow. "You!" Amira shouted.

She pointed to the figures on the island. "Can you hit them from here?" The elf looked at the target. "Not in this wind. Even if I could, my arrows would not stop th-" "Damn you all!" Amira shouted.

"Does no one have anything useful to say?" Desperate, Amira peeled her gloves off with her teeth, dropped them, and began to work at the knot of her cloak. "Lady," said Turha, "what are you-?" Tears were filling Amira's eyes. "If I take off most of these damned clothes and the boots, maybe I can make it." "The cold will kill you," said Turha.

"Even the Vil Adanrath would not attempt this." "I'm not one of the damned Vil Ad-" A great commotion behind them cut her off. Elves shouting and wolves growling. Amira turned, fearing that more Frost Folk or winter wolves had found them. Three elves, their wolves milling about, were trying to restrain a huge figure, covered head to heels in thick, dark blood so that his eyes shone bright from his feral visage. The elves were armed, and their shouts and enraged faces showed their fury, but they did not attack the figure. They seemed to be trying to restrain him and were cursing him in their native tongue.

But they were unable to slow him. Amira's hammering heart skipped a beat and she held her breath, for as the figure drew close she recognized him. It was Gyaidun, his shirt hanging off him in tatters, his pants ripped, his hair unbound and sticky with blood, his iron club in one hand and his knife bare in the other, both thick with gore. From the scratches and cuts lining his torso, Amira knew that at least some of the blood was his. He stopped before her, panting, and the stench hit her-the salty tang of blood, the acidic bite of darker heart's blood, and wafting through it all the scent of spring blossoms. The smell caused a memory to hit her like a club:

Hro'nyewachu. No other odor matched it-the stench of death and the fragrance of new life. Amira blinked. "Gyaidun? How…? What hap-?"

Turha looked as if she were ready to stab Gyaidun with her spear, and three of the surrounding elves grabbed at his arms and tried to drag him away, one of them shouting, "Hrayek! You have no place here!"

"Stop!" Amira shouted. "Let him be! Gyaidun how did you get h-?" "He is hrayek!" said Turha. "He cannot be in our presence!" Amira glared at the lady omah. "Then leave, damn you." Turha turned to the Vil Adanrath warriors and said, "Get him out of here. Drag him if you must." But Gyaidun held them off with his knife and club. "No time!" he said. "That bastard out there has some sort of link with Jalan. He knows everything you've planned." This renewed Amira's panic, and she finally managed to tear loose the knot of her cloak and throw it to the ground. "What are you doing?" Gyaidun said. "I have to get out there!" "Swimming? You'll never make it. The cold will kill you."

"What choice do I have?" "Your magic," he said. "It brought you here last night. Use it to get us out there." "Us? But Erun-" "I know how to stop this!" he said. "But I have to get out there before it's too late." The words of the oracle came back to her. She hadn't heard them, had been lost in some dark dream forced on her by the oracle.

But the belkagen had asked the oracle, face to face, if the staff she'd given would save Jalan, and she had replied, No. That task is for another. Hope and despair tore at her heart. "Amira!" Gyaidun said. "Get us out there. Now!" "I can't!" she shrieked. "Don't you think I've tried? Something is blocking the magic. Some counterspell-"

"Can you get us above it-out of range?" asked Gyaidun. "In the water?

But… the cold. You said-" "Not the water!" He pointed to the sky above the distant island. "The air!" "The fall will kill us!" "You're a wizard, aren't you?"