Realms of War

MERCY'S REWARD

The Year of the Serpent (1359 DR)

"Wake."

The side of Gethred's face stung, and there was a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

"Wake."

He felt it on the other cheek this time. Someone slapped him. Hard.

"Open your eyes or I cut the lids off. Now."

The voice was deep and had the precise pronun shy;ciation of one not used to speaking Common.

Gethred opened his eyes and winced. A meager gray light suffused the gloom, but even that was enough to stab through to the center of his head. He groaned and tried to reach for his forehead. His hands didn't move, so he tried harder, and he felt the bite of rope cutting into his arms.

Massive hands grabbed him by the shoulders, hauled him into a sitting position, then let go. Gethred fell back, and his head bounced off a stone wall. He cried out and squeezed his eyes shut.

"I said open your eyes."

Gritting his teeth, Gethred forced his eyes to open.

The gray light wrapped around the edges of a massive figure standing before him. In the gloom, the man seemed as tall as an ogre. Standing between Gethred and the source of light, the man's features were hidden, but he could make out a great mass of hair, though where it ended and the man's clothes began, Gethred could not tell. The man dressed all in skins and furs. Most wise. So near the edge of the open steppe at the base of the mountains, the winter cold could kill quicker than the Horde.

Around the massive man Gethred could see what only the most magnanimous man ever born would have graced to call a hovel. It was a cave, dry but far from clean, with only the barest signs of human habitation-a few hide blankets, a pack, and a smattering of bones. Bits of flesh still clung to one wolf skull.

The man nudged Gethred with his boot and said, "Who are you?"

"Just a starving, half-frozen traveler," said Gethred.

The man crouched, and the sound he made sounded half sigh and half growl. "You're a liar. You're no Rashemi, and Westerners don't wander these foothills with no supplies. But you're no Thayan by your coloring. You're a mystery. A mystery I don't care to solve. You robbed my trap. Why?"

"The wolf was suffering."

"So were you."

"I only wanted to show another creature a little kindness before I lay down to die."

"Hmph. You had your first wish. I'll grant your second." A moment's silence, then, "You don't know them, then?"

"Them?"

The man just crouched there, watching. Gethred squinted and tried to make out the man's features. He could not. But the stench he emitted said enough.

"If you lie," said the man, "I'll hurt you before you die. Hurt you a long time."

"Lie?" said Gethred. "About what? I… don't understand."

The man took a deep breath through his nose. "You hold your tongue, but I can sense you're hiding something. I smell it. But you don't hold the stink of the shen gusen. And you're a man. Magic, then?"

"Magic?"

"The shen gusen are cunning. Powerful. You could be a spy."

Gethred swallowed. His throat hurt. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what a shen gusen is. I swear."

"You swear to your gods?"

"Yes."

"Good," said the man. "Let's send you to them."

The man stood, reached behind his back, and when his hand reappeared Gethred saw the light glinting off the edge of a huge dagger. The blade was almost as wide as Gethred's palm. It looked more like a cleaver with a point, and when the man turned it, brandishing the blade, Gethred saw runes carved into the metal-sharp etchings that he could not read but which nevertheless made the back of his eyelids itch.

"Please-"

"Please what?" said the man.

"I'm no spy," said Gethred. "I swear. Please."

"But you are a robber. And it pleases me to give you justice."

Gethred tried to scramble away, but ropes bound his ankles, knees, and thighs, and he could do little more than wiggle like a stiff caterpillar. He only succeeded in sliding farther along the back wall of the cave.

"Nowhere to go." The man laughed and snatched the ropes around Gethred's ankles. He pulled his legs up and planted the point of his dagger in Gethred's crotch. "Think your gods will mind if you come to them less than a man?"

"Please!"

Gethred closed his eyes and stiffened his entire body. The agony in his head was forgotten as he lay there, panting and waiting for the steel to pierce.

Nothing. Gethred opened his eyes. The man stood over him, still as stone, head cocked as if listening. He didn't even seem to be breathing.

In the sudden silence Gethred heard it too. Horses approaching. Not at a gallop, but there was no mistaking the slow, careful approach of several horses.

Growling, the man dropped Gethred's legs and turned away. Blinding light filled the cave as he opened the thick matt of sticks and twigs that served as a door. He looked over his shoulder once-his eyes were still deep in the shadow of his great tangle of hair-then left the cave, slamming the rickety door behind him.

In the gloom of the cave Gethred lay listening, straining to hear beyond the sound of his own panicked breathing.

The first words he heard were in one of the Tuigan dialects, calling from a near distance.

Then the voice of the massive man-"Speak a tongue a man's ears can bear to hear, not your slathering steppe speech."

The other speaker replied in hesitant Rashemi, "We ride from the horde of the Yamun Khahan. We ride from victory at the Citadel Rashemar. For five days we ride, hunting spies of the west who escaped the vengeance of the Yamun Khahan. Two days before now, we caught them. We fought. Three of our warriors died killing the spies. But one escaped. We followed his trail to a valley a few miles from here. Then we followed larger tracks. Yours, I believe, now that I see you."

"And what is this to me?" said the man. "I have no hospitality for beggars off the steppe. Go back to your Khahan."

"We do not ask for your hospitality. We seek the spy."

"Why?"

"We will take him back to the Yamun Khahan. Our lords wish to question him."

There was a long silence. Gethred thought he might have heard a horse whicker, then stomp the snow. The man spoke again. "I know of no spy. I have only one thief. And he is mine."

"This thief," said the Tuigan, still speaking a hesitant Rashemi, "our spy he might be."

"Your spy? You have nothing but those nags upon which you sit and the stink that follows you."

A longer silence followed. Gethred wondered how many Tuigan were out there. It couldn't be too many for one man to speak so boldly to them.

"We ask that you let us see this thief," said the Tuigan.

"No."

"The Yamun Khahan asks you to let us see this thief."

"Then let him come and ask me himself."

"We ask in his name."

"After my meal tonight I will piss your Khahan's name in the snow."

Shouts-two that seemed genuinely surprised at the man's effrontery, then many raised in anger-followed by the sounds of hoofbeats. No careful approach this time.

This was a charge. Gethred could feel the ground shaking beneath him.

He thought he heard a brief shout of surprise, fear even, then a roar so loud that dust fell from the cave ceiling. After that, the din was so deafening and so many sounds mixed together that Gethred could not separate them-the cries of men, the all-too-humanlike sound of a dying horse, bodies running, and over it all the roaring of some great animal.

The clamor slackened, then died off into a deafening silence, the only sound that of dirt and grit raining down upon Gethred. Then something else. He actually felt the approach of footsteps before he heard them.

The door was wrenched back so hard that one of the hinges tore free. Two Tuigan, both holding swords, one bloodied, slunk into the cave. Their eyes were wide with fear and their skin flushed with exertion. The one with the unbloodied sword pointed it at Gethred and said something in his native tongue. Gethred could not understand their speech, save for one word: "Cormyrean."

The Tuigan dragged Gethred from the cave. The bright light of midafternoon blazed off the snow pocketing the valley. He winced but forced his eyes to stay open to survey the scene.

The cave pierced the base of one of the hills that ringed the feet of the Sunrise Mountains. Many boulders had been strewn about through the ages, and pines blanketed the slopes. The past night's snowfall lay heavy everywhere except under the boughs, making the world a blinding white-except for the bodies.

A horse lay sprawled not fifty feet from the cave, its head hanging on by only a few strips of flesh. Blood had fountained out ten feet in every direction. Three Tuigan warriors lay nearby. Two were missing limbs, and one seemed to have run a good forty feet before death took him. His entrails were spread the final twenty feet behind him. More Tuigan-half a dozen at least, all mounted-milled around, two of them holding spare horses. Of the massive man who had held Gethred captive, there was no sign.

The two Tuigan dragged Gethred over the ground, heedless of the stones cutting him and the snow seeming to find every crevice and gap through his clothes. They threw him over a spare horse, not even bothering to cut his bonds, and in moments the entire troop was galloping east for the open steppe.

By the time they stopped, Gethred could no longer feel his face. They'd fled at full gallop for what seemed like a dozen miles at least, with Gethred tied lengthwise and facedown over the back of a horse. Had he eaten anything over the past three days, he surely would have lost every bit of it. The Tuigan horses had a smooth gait, but the land so near the mountains was rough and broken by many gulches that would fill with water come spring. Gethred was jostled, shaken, and seemingly beaten over every mile, and the ropes holding him into the saddle bit into his skin. But the Tuigan did not slow, and the wind flowing over his exposed face froze his skin to numbness. He felt sure that the only thing holding the frostbite out of his nose and ears was the thick heat given off by the horse.

Their leader called a halt as the sun slipped behind the mountains and the snow-covered steppe took on the flower-petal blue of evening. They made camp in a wide gully that ran north to south and would protect them from the wind off the mountains.

As the rest of the Tuigan made camp, one of them-Gethred recognized him as the one who had come in the cave bearing the unbloodied sword-came to the horse, loosened the ropes binding Gethred to the saddle, and threw him to the ground. He led the horse away, leaving Gethred bound in the snow. Something hard-a rock or an old root-jabbed between his shoulders, but he was too exhausted and sore to move.

The Tuigan warrior returned with another. They grabbed the ropes binding Gethred's ankles and dragged him to the nearest fire. The warriors had lit only three, and they took Gethred to the smallest.

The two warriors stood over Gethred, glowering down. Both had knives in their hands. Gethred heard footsteps crunching through the snow, then a third warrior came into view. He was taller than the other two, and two braids descended from his fur cap. His features were younger and leaner than his companions', and Gethred thought he saw the last curls of a tattoo protruding from the collar of his wool kalat, the large knee-length tunic worn by many of the Tuigan.

This third warrior knelt and spoke in Common. "I am Holwan, of the Khassidi. My brothers here are of the Oigur. They do not know these lands, nor your tongue. I speak for us."

Not knowing what else to say, Gethred said, "Brothers?"

One of the two Oigur said something to Holwan. It sounded harsh, and Holwan flinched. He returned his attention to Gethred and said, "Since the coming of Yamun Khahan, it is said that all Tuigan are brothers."

"Do you say this?"

Holwan's scowl deepened and he said, "How did you come to be in the house of the shu t'met?"

Gethred swallowed. His mouth felt dry as windswept rock. He said, "Shootemet?"

"The large man in whose house we found you."

A shudder began in Gethred's chest and spread outward till his teeth were chattering. "H-he. . captured me. Y-yesterd shy;day, I think."

"Captured?"

"Please," said Gethred. "Water."

Gethred had fled the sack of Citadel Rashemar with four others, all Cormyreans sent by King Azoun himself, for word of the gathering Horde had reached even Cormyr. Melloren had died before they were out of sight of the citadel, a Tuigan arrow lodged in his eye. The survivors fled. But all of that Gethred left out of his tale. Likely Holwan and his companions knew or suspected much of it already. True or not, Gethred wasn't going to confess. He had little doubt he was a dead man. If not today, then certainly when this lot returned him to the Horde. But he would not betray the memory of his companions, nor their mission. He would not stand before Mielikki in the afterlife a traitor and coward.

Two days ago, this very band had caught up with Gethred and his companions. Gethred had been the only one to escape alive. He'd fled north, hugging the foothills of the Sunrise Mountains. East was only the open steppe and certain death. He'd hoped that he might be able to find some outlying Rashemi settlement and beg for shelter and supplies, perhaps even find another pass westward through the mountains. This, too, he did not tell.

Cormyr had winters, and Gethred had often traveled into the north for king and country. He knew the ways of the wild, even in the darkest days of winter. But he'd never experienced anything like the Hordelands, even though he was only skirt shy;ing the edges of it. The only water to be found was snow and ice, and he knew that eating the snow would only cause him to freeze faster. He'd eaten well the night before the attack but had nothing since then. He'd been lucky to escape the sacking of the citadel with warm clothes, a good coat and cloak, his knife, and his life, but there'd been no time for supplies.

Still, the cold and thirst were worse than the hunger. Since the night their fire had led the Tuigan to them, he'd dared not light one, and so yesterday as the day drew on, despair had set in. When all your life is cold, thirst, and mile after endless mile of hard country buried in snow, when all your friends are dead, when an army lies between you and home, and you know you are being hunted, it's damned hard to hold on to hope. Although an experienced woodsman like Gethred knew he could survive many more days without food, he also knew that cold or thirst would soon claim him-that or the Tuigan still hunting him.

Holwan did not smile at that part in Gethred's tale. Gethred thought one of his countrymen would have, had he crouched where the Khassidi crouched just then, but Holwan's face was a mask, bereft of emotion.

And so Gethred decided to let the cold kill him. His grand shy;father had always said that the build-up to freezing to death was the worst. Death itself came painlessly, even warmly, as the body fell at first to sleep, then the endless sleep. Gethred had often wondered how even wilderness-wise men like his grandfather could have known such things. Did they call a priest to speak to their frozen friends? If so, Gethred could have thought of something better to ask the dead than, "How was it?" But Gethred's grandfather had not been the type of man to ask such questions.

Faced with the choice of allowing the cold or the Tuigan to kill him, Gethred had chosen the cold. Not so much out of fear-though that was certainly a consideration-but out of plain spite. He did not want to give his enemies the satisfaction of taking him down. Better to find a nice place to lie down and fall into Mielikki's embrace.

These had been his thoughts as he'd made his way down a valley between two long arms of the Sunrise Mountains. Trees filled the valley, and he'd figured that at the very least he could have a little shelter before he lay down to die.

He'd just made it to the bottom of the valley when he heard something-the sound of struggling beyond a stand of nearby bracken. Drawing his knife, he'd crept forward.

Pushing his way through the thick green of a holly bush, the first thing he'd seen was the body of a wolf, fur a pale gray, but the corpse had been gutted, the entrails strewn about. Crudest of all, the jaw had been pulled open till it broke and the skin tore. Simple wanton cruelty that tightened Gethred's stomach. But the strangest thing was a large rune-all wicked angles and sharp spurs-that had been branded onto the wolf's side. In the crisp air, Gethred thought he could still smell the singed fur.

The sudden shaking of brush had turned Gethred's head, and nearby he saw another wolf, still very much alive, its throat wrapped in a snare. The line drew up to a thick branch that pulled the wolf to the height of its front legs, and with each movement the knotted loop round its neck tightened. One look, and Gethred knew it was only a matter of time before the animal's struggles would choke it to death.

Gethred's first thought was to wait for the hunter to come along so that he might beg for food and shelter, but the thought shamed him and he prayed to Mielikki to forgive him. Besides, seeing the cruel way the other wolf had been slaughtered-whether as bait or the first kill, he could not tell-and reflecting upon the rune burned there, Gethred decided he'd rather not meet this hunter. Something about the rune bothered him even more than the malice evident in the slaughter.

Gethred sheathed his knife and removed his cloak. Freeing a wolf from a snare was no easy task, even for a team of men. Moved to panic, the wolf would try to kill anyone who came near. His one hope would be to cover the animal's head long enough to cut the snare. After that, he hoped the wolf would be more concerned about getting away than ripping his throat out. If not… well, it spared him the choice between death by cold or death from the Tuigan warriors.

Holding his cloak spread out before him, Gethred approached, nice and slow, making no sudden movements.

The wolf's lips peeled back, revealing long teeth. The foam around the wolf's black lips was flecked with blood. Another step, and the wolf growled and lunged. But it only succeeded in pulling the noose tighter, and its growl broke off into a choked whine. Gethred took the opportunity to dive forward, throwing his thick cloak over the wolf's head and grabbing it in a tight hug. He was probably twice the wolf's weight, but still its desperate thrashing nearly threw him off. Had it not been for the tight line around its neck, Gethred knew it would have thrown him and gone for his throat.

Keeping his right arm around the wolf's neck so that the cloak enveloped its head like a hood, he made a quick grab for his knife, brought it out, and swiped at the line. The blade caught and slipped, and for one panicked moment Gethred almost dropped it. The line seemed to have been braided from some sort of tendon, and it was as strong as wire. Gethred tightened his grip and brought the blade down again.

The line snapped, and the branch holding it shot upward, shattering winter dry branches. Suddenly freed from the tension of the snare, the wolf twisted beneath Gethred and raked him with its back paws. Had it not been for his canvas coat and the leather vest beneath it, the wolf would have disemboweled him.

Gethred let go, tucked his chin to his chest, and covered his head with his arms. He knew that if the wolf came for him, it would go for the neck. If it got his throat, he could take a while to die, but the creature could snap the back of his neck with one crunch of its jaws, and he'd likely be dead before the breath left his body.

But no bite came.

Nice and slow, Gethred rolled to his side and looked up. The wolf stood at the far end of the clearing. The severed snare was still around its neck, but the tension was gone, and the line hung loose. The creature just stood there, the play of light and shadow through the boughs dappling its fur as it watched Gethred. Its gaze unnerved him. But then, wolves' eyes always had. He'd tracked, hunted, and even tamed many beasts in his life, and he'd always thought that a wolf's eyes seemed the most human.

Then something happened. At first he thought a breeze had come up, setting the boughs to swaying and moving the shadows beneath. But there was no breeze. The light around the wolf seemed to be breaking and bending, and the minuscule shadows in its fur rippled as if alive. The wolf's shape twisted and distorted, and when the shimmering of light and shadow slowed and cleared, the wolf was gone. Where the wolf had been stood a young woman, her skin and hair only a shade darker than the snow. She stood naked and barefoot in the frost, but the cold did not seem to bother her. Her gaze was fixed on Gethred, and he saw by the slight cant of her eyes and the line of her jaw that she resembled an elf more than a human.

With one hand she took the loose bit of snare from around her neck, pulled it over her head, and tossed it aside. She said something, a word or two only, in a language that Gethred had never before heard.

Dumbstruck, Gethred said, "I-"

The woman cocked her head as if listening. Though the rest of her body hadn't moved, Gethred could see every muscle was taut and tense.

"What-?" Gethred began, but the woman turned and ran away. There was a brief rustling in the brush, a soft whisper as snow fell from a dislodged branch, and she was gone.

Then Gethred heard it, too. Something approaching from the way he had come through the thick holly. Something big.

But Gethred was too tired, too hungry, and too stunned to run. He was done with running.

He was reaching for his knife, which had fallen a few paces away, when the largest man Gethred had ever seen lumbered out of the brush. The man was dressed all in skins and furs, and his beard and head of hair stood out in a great tangle. Seeing the empty snare and Gethred beside it reaching for a knife, the man let loose a bellow that rebounded off the moun shy;tainside. He descended upon Gethred.

Holwan said nothing at first, just maintained his easy crouch and watched Gethred. Finally he stood and spoke at length to his two companions in their own language. They conversed back and forth, the fire crackling beside them, then Holwan knelt again so that he faced Gethred eye to eye.

"The girl you said you saw… she was one of the Rashemi witches?"

"I don't know who she was."

"But you are from Cormyr."

Gethred held Holwan's gaze and said, "I'd like some more water, please."

"What is your name?" Holwan asked.

He thought a moment before deciding there was no harm in this answer. "Gethred," he said.

Holwan nodded, and something in his gaze hardened. "Gethred Cormyrean, heed my words. I am going to cut your bonds. At first light, we need you to ride. The man who had you was a shu t'met, a fell spirit of great power. He killed three of our company before escaping. You robbed him of his prey. Foolish. Your only hope is to stay with us. Close. If the shu t'met finds you, he'll kill you."

"And you won't?"

"Our khan ordered us to capture the spies from Cormyr who escaped Citadel Rashemar. Alive, he will be pleased. Dead he will be … less pleased. Your comrades are dead. For now, it pleases us to keep you alive."

"And your Khahan?"

"That is up to him. But I would suggest that you find a way to loosen your tongue before meeting him. In mercy, Yamun Khahan is most generous. In wrath. . well, loosen your tongue. You are a long way from Cormyr."

That night, after being fed for the first time in days-though he was a little afraid to ask what the meat was he was eating-Gethred slept in a thick blanket beside a warm fire. He almost thanked the gods for his captivity. If the Khahan had him killed in a few days, at least tonight he was warm and fed. For now, that is enough, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

How long he'd been drifting he didn't know, but when he woke it was still dark, the sky a blue darker than the sea, and every star seemed a diamond reflecting distant fire. What had woken him?

Then he heard it. Howling. Far away, he thought, but in the winter-hardened air of the steppe, sound traveled far, and the plaintive sound seemed very clear.

Gethred sat up. The fire still crackled, but it had burned low, only a few tiny tongues of blue flame licked the dried dung the Tuigan used for fuel.

The howling came again, and the picketed horses whickered and stamped their feet. The howls seemed closer. Somewhere off to the east.

A dark shape moved on the other side of the fire. "You rest," said Holwan. "We ride hard and fast at first light."

"I hear wolves," said Gethred.

"Among my people, it is said that the sight of a wolf on a journey is a good omen."

"And what do your people say that hearing a wolf portends?"

"Of that, we say nothing."

Gethred lay down again. Another series of howls wafted over the camp as he settled back into his blankets and closed his eyes. Sleep took him, and in his dreams he saw the pale girl, standing between shadow and snow.

Gethred's rest did not last. He woke to Holwan's boot in his ribs. Gethred started and looked up. The Khassidi stood over him, a bow in hand with an arrow nocked.

Holwan spared a quick glance down at Gethred and said, "Up. We ride."

Gethred sat up and looked around. It was still dark, but the eastern sky had begun to pale. The camp was a bustle of activity: two Tuigan packing, two others preparing the horses, and another standing on the other side of the camp with a spear.

"What's wrong?" asked Gethred.

"One of the sentries has not returned," said Holwan. "He does not respond to our call. Dayan and Kobed went to find him. They have not returned. We ride."

Gethred had little to pack. He rolled his blanket and donned his cloak-he'd slept in his coat. That done, he stood ready.

"Come," said Holwan, and he led the way to the horses.

Before they'd made it half the distance, Holwan stopped and looked east. Gethred heard it as well-another horse approaching at full gallop.

"Dayan!" one of the Tuigan called.

A rider thundered into camp, spraying snow over one of the smoldering fires. He pulled his horse to halt, but still the animal fought the reins, side-stepping, eyes rolling. The rider fell from the saddle. Two of the Oigur lunged for the animal, but they were too late. Released from the tight bit, the horse's hooves caught the snow, and it was gone.

One of the Oigur started for another horse, but he stopped after two steps. Gethred followed his gaze to the fallen rider. Blood drenched the man from the waist down, and liberal amounts of it streaked him above that. The man clutched his midsection, and Gethred saw something pale between the man's fingers. The man was using one hand to hold in his own entrails.

Holwan opened his mouth to speak, but a voice from the near distance cut him off. It spoke in Rashemi.

"Horse lovers! You attacked Vurzhad's home and robbed him of his robber! Leave the wretch by your dead fires, ride away, and the rest of you will live long enough to return to your mongrel horde!"

Gethred recognized the voice as the massive man whose trap he had robbed and who had taken him captive and threatened to geld him. He couldn't tell how far away the man was, but he sounded close.

One of the Oigur whispered something harshly in his own tongue, and the Tuigan made for the horses.

Gethred followed. He looked to Holwan and said, "I take it that you aren't accepting his offer?"

"Stay close," said Holwan.

"You don't have t-"

One of the Oigur nearing the horses jerked and flew through the air. He slid through the snow and came to a rest near Gethred's feet. A spear protruded from his chest. The light was still not strong enough to be certain, but Gethred thought he could see runes burned into the haft of the spear.

Gethred heard something whisper through the air, then another Oigur fell, a massive-and familiar-dagger lodged in his throat.

The horses screamed and pulled at their picket lines. Someone shouted, and Gethred looked to the lip of the gully. A shape stood silhouetted against the lightening eastern sky. A massive form that blotted out the fading stars.

Gethred heard the twang of bows-one of them Holwan's-but Vurzhad simply waved a hand, and three arrows shattered in the air before him.

The massive man stood looking down on them and said, "Now you have my spear and dagger as well as my robber. Leave them and those of you still breathing can go. This is my last mercy."

Gethred saw two of the Tuigan warriors reaching for another arrow, but beside him Holwan took his free hand and reached inside his kalat. Something hung on a leather braid around the Khassidi's neck, and he held it aloft. In the gloom of predawn Gethred thought he could see a twisted mass of bone, twigs, and either feather or tufts of fur.

Above them, Vurzhad snarled. "You caught me by surprise earlier," he said. "Before my own home you bested me, little shaman, because I was not ready for you. I am ready now."

Vurzhad's deep voice dropped even further, and he spoke words that even Gethred's untrained ears recognized as arcane. The man threw his head back, and his form seemed to ripple and twist and grow all at the same time. Even as the other Tuigan drew their arrows to their cheeks, Vurzhad transformed into a huge bear.

The Tuigan released their bowstrings. Their arrows struck the gigantic bear, but it did not even slow. The bear dropped to all fours and leaped into the gully, an avalanche of fur and claws that shook the ground beneath Gethred's feet.

Terrified, the Tuigans' horses reared and broke their picket lines. They jostled, bumping into one another in their haste to be away, then scattered in all directions. One of the Tuigan warriors tried to jump aside, but he was too late and the horse trampled him into the snow.

Holwan was quicker. He lunged as the horse shot past him. Throwing his bow aside, the Khassidi latched onto the horse's long mane and pulled himself into the saddle. He grabbed the reins and pulled the fighting horse around.

Another arrow stuck in the bear's side, but still it came on. It slowed long enough to swipe one of the Tuigans to the ground. Gethred winced at the sound of ripping leather and breaking bone, then a horse was thundering up on him. He looked up in time to see Holwan leaning down from the saddle, one arm reaching down.

Without thinking Gethred grabbed Holwan's arm, pulled himself onto the horse's rump behind the saddle, and they were off, leaving the camp behind and following the course of the gully.

Holwan let the horse have its lead for the first few twists of the gully, then he forced it up a shallow incline back onto the open steppe. As they crested the rise, Gethred shouted, "What about the others?"

"The shu t'met comes for you," said Holwan. "He will follow. Pray for us, not my brothers." Gethred did.

Tuigan horses are not large. In fact, most people west of the Sunrise Mountains called them ponies, though Gethred knew that was a misconception. Shorter than western horses the Tuigan mounts were, but they were also heartier and more suited to life in the Hordelands. Still, hearty as they were, the beast was not suited to bearing two riders at full gallop for long, and before they had made it past two shallow hills, Gethred could hear the ragged edge to their mount's breathing.

Still, the horse's terror lent it strength, and Holwan drove the beast hard.

Gethred risked a glance back. The eastern sky was a glow shy;ing pale curtain, and the only stars still visible rode the top of the Sunrise Mountains to their right. The lightening sky shone brightly off the snowfields, and what Gethred saw lurched his stomach into a tight knot.

Their mount left a wake of flying snow behind them, but another cloud-much larger than the one they made-erupted from the snow behind them. Before it was a massive, dark shape. The bear. And it was gaining on them.

"Holwan, faster!" Gethred screamed.

The Khassidi kicked the horse's flanks, and it managed another burst of speed. Hope lit in Gethred's heart, and he looked over his shoulder-

— in time to see a claw as large as a pikeman's shield swiping at the horse's hind legs.

He opened his mouth to scream, but the horse's shriek cut him off, and both Holwan and his mount crashed beneath him. They went down in a great cloud of frost.

Gethred slid-on ice at first, but the force of his fall ground him through weeks' worth of snow, and soon his face scraped soil and rock.

Struggling to force air back into his bruised chest, Gethred forced himself to his feet. He coughed and spat, hoping to rid his mouth and throat of snow and dirt, but a fair amount of blood and at least two teeth came out with them. He scraped the snow and mud from his face and looked up.

The bear had the horse's neck in its jaws. The poor creature was kicking and screaming. The bear threw its head up and to the side, the horse's neck broke with a snap, and the pitiful scream stopped.

The bear dropped the carcass into the snow and turned its attention to Gethred. Its face was incapable of smiling, of course, but Gethred could see the all-too-human look of gleeful malice in its eyes.

A tottering form stepped forward from behind Gethred: Holwan. The man held a knife in one hand, but in the other he held his holy symbol high. Gethred could hear the Khassidi chanting something in his own language. Gethred couldn't understand a word of it, but he could hear the fear in the man's tone.

Fury lit the bear's eyes, and it growled low and deep, like tumbling river stones. It approached, but pain tinged the fury in its gaze. The bear did not like whatever Holwan was doing. Still it advanced, snarling. It came in slowly, each step forced and deliberate. Soon it would be in striking distance.

"Holwan-?" said Gethred, and he took a step back.

The bear lunged. One paw raked out-Gethred felt the wind of its passage-and Holwan went down.

A shudder shook the bear, and it returned its attention to Gethred. He could feel its growl shaking the earth beneath his feet.

But then something else-

Above the bear's growl, coming down from the hill behind them, was the howling of wolves. Many wolves.

The bear looked up, and Gethred followed its gaze. Wolves-dozens at least-stood at the rim of the hills.

The bear circled, looking around. More wolves. They were surrounded.

Three wolves-one of them as tall as a wolfhound but much more muscular-came down the slope at an easy run. They stopped ten paces away.

Gethred watched as the wolves' forms rippled and blurred, like mist passing over moonlight on the water. As the first light of dawn broke over the eastern horizon and hit the hollow, three elves stood before them. They were the strangest elves Gethred had ever seen. Like the woman he'd seen in the wood, they stood naked, their pale skin seemingly unbothered by the frigid air. Unlike the woman, their skin was crisscrossed with many scars, some from battles and some in such patterns that they were obviously intentional. Stylized patterns had been set into their skin with ink.

The tallest of them stood where the massive wolf had been only moments before. His snow white hair fell well past his waist, and his entire body from brow to feet was a maze of black tattoos marred by old wounds. Runes that seemed the color of wet blood in the dawn sunlight lined his arms and chest. Three deep scars marred his skin from scalp to cheek to chin, leaving empty tracks through his eyebrows. Beneath those brows his eyes stood out like frosty jewels.

He looked on the bear without fear and said, "Wear your true form before me, Vurzhad."

So transfixed was Gethred by the sight of these newcomers that he'd forgotten the bear. He wrenched his gaze away and looked back. The bear was gone and in its place stood the massive man who had trapped the wolf-girl, who had taken Gethred captive, and who had slaughtered the Tuigan.

"Haerul," said Vurzhad. "Why are you here? This is not your hunt."

The tall elf glanced at Gethred. "This one saved my son's daughter from one of your snares, and she returned to tell me that you slaughtered one of the Vil Adanrath for bait."

Vurzhad looked at Gethred, and Gethred saw something in the man's eyes. The last thing he'd expected to see. It was fear. No, not fear. Sheer terror. Vurzhad was terrified of the naked elf, even though he was twice the elf's size at least.

"So. . you wish me to let you have this robber?" said Vurzhad. "I let him go, and you let me go. Is that it?"

"You presume too much," said Haerul. "You snared my son's daughter. You drew the blood of my people. You think because you hide near the mountains that you are beyond my reach? You have seen your last sunrise, Vurzhad. No one harms my family. My son's daughter will sleep in your skin tonight."

Vurzhad screamed in defiance, and the scream became a roar-the roar of a massive bear. Gethred fell to his knees beside the still form of Holwan and covered his ears. But he could not cover the sounds of the roaring and howling.

It was over. Gethred sat in the snow, looking down upon the cold corpse of the Khassidi who had been his enemy days before and his captor for less than a day. He doubted that he would ever remember Holwan as a friend, but still… Gethred was sorry he was dead. Holwan had saved his life and stood beside him till the very end. Whether out of any concern for Gethred or simply to fulfill his oath to his khan… either way, Holwan had shown courage and upheld his honor.

Gethred sat on the other side of the hill from where Vurzhad had … died. Died did not seem the proper word for it. Gethred had only seen a little of what the wolves had done to the bear, and even that brief sight had caused every bit of his last meal to come back up.

He heard footsteps. Not the crunch of heavy feet breaking through snow, but the light tread that-damn it all-reminded him of nothing but the careful pace of a wolf. But this wolf walked on two legs.

The elf crouched in the snow on the other side of Holwan's corpse. Gethred looked up. It was not the tall one who had challenged Vurzhad. But it was one of the others who had accompanied him. The elf wore clothes now-all leather, skins, and fur, simple but expertly crafted. Where he'd come by them, Gethred did not know.

"I am called Leren," said the elf.

Gethred swallowed and said, "Gethred."

"Gethred, you saved the life of my daughter. I am in your debt. Thank you."

Gethred did not know what to say, so he simply nodded.

"Are you hurt?" asked the elf. "Your face …"

"Just scraped and bruised, I think."

"We will see to your injuries. You are hungry?"

Gethred's throat burned, and his mouth still tasted of bile. "No."

The elf nodded then looked down on Holwan. "This one was your friend?"

Gethred almost said, "No," but he thought better of it and said, "He died defending me."

"We will honor his body as you wish."

"Thank you." The thought of a funeral made Gethred realize he had no idea how the Khassidi dealt with their dead. Burial? A pyre? A tomb? He had no idea. Then he remembered something else. "There may be … others."

"Others?"

"Like this one. Tuigan. They are… not my friends."

The elf's brows knit together in confusion. "You mean the other horsemen?"

Gethred nodded.

"They were not your friends?"

"No."

Leren's scowl deepened.

"It is a long story," said Gethred.

"The horsemen," said the elf, "several died, as did their horses. A few survived. When last our people saw them, they were headed east into the steppe as if the Beastlord himself nipped their heels. Does this please you?"

Gethred shrugged.

"Are you well, Gethred?"

"What is going to happen to me?"

"Happen?"

"What do you plan to do with me?"

"Do?" The elf cocked his head, and a grin seemed to be trying to break out on his mouth.

"Those… horsemen. They were my captors."

"Those horsemen are gone," said Leren. "It is as I said: You saved my only daughter. I am in your debt. We will see to your needs, then lead you on your way. At the very least. The Vil Adanrath honor our debts. The son of the omah nin will do no less."

"Omah…?"

"The chief of my people," said Leren. "The chief of chiefs. My father."

"So you are… a prince?"

Leren's grin finally broke. "Something like that."

"Where is"-a sudden shudder shook Gethred so hard that his teeth rattled-"the omah nin?"

"When last I saw him he was ordering our warriors to gather enough of Vurzhad's hide to make a blanket."

"A blanket?"

"The omah nin swore that my daughter would sleep in Vurzhad's skin tonight, but in the fight… his anger got the better of him."

"He's really making the bearskin into a blanket? I thought that was only a boast."

Leren's face became very grave. "The omah nin does not give empty boasts. What he says, he does."

"Gods," said Gethred. "I want to go home."

The author would like to thank Teresa Tsimmu Marino for her gracious assistance in answering his many questions on the best way to free an injured wolf from a snare. Be sure to check out her website at www.wolftown.org.