Frostfell w-4

by Marc Sehestedt

  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 t
he 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."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Endless Wastes

  Early morning on the open steppe. The sun still ran low on the horizon, and shadows cast by grass and shrub lay long on the land. A hare, the beginnings of its white winter coat just coming in, nibbled at the leaves of a tiny shrub. The owls had gone back to their nests, and the hawks were not yet awake. Best time for breakfast. The hare sat up, its ears standing straight up, its eyes wide. For ten beats of its heart it sat that way, unmoving, then leaped away, leaving only a tiny cloud of dust in its wake. The last of the dust was just beginning to settle when the air where the hare had sat parted in a great whoosh that sent a ring of dirt billowing outward. Amira looked around, coughing and waving away dirt. "Ugh," she said. "I hate the Wastes." Behind her stood Gyaidun, one hand clasping a rope that bound three ponies. With the other hand he cradled Durja to his chest. The raven's eyes were only slightly less wide and frightened than those of the ponies. Amira smiled. Durja let out a harsh cry and took to the air. They stood in the midst of a gently rolling sea of grass, now turning shades of yellow and brown with winter's coming. To the north of them, painted half in light and half in shadow by the low morning sun, a great hill rose out of the lowlands. Much of it had the rounded-off look of a bastion of rock and soil that had stood through hundreds of years of wind and rain, but the top of it was smooth and almost flat. Standing up there, Amira imagined, someone could see for miles in every direction. Greenery crowned the hill and spread in jagged lines, following the ravines. From this distance, Amira could not tell if they were trees or simply large brush. "Is this it?" she asked. "Close enough," said Gyaidun. He pointed to the hill. "That is Akhrasut Neth, the Mother's Bed. Lendri will meet us there." "Mother's Bed?" "A sacred site to the Vil Adanrath. The belkagenet say it is the place where the Vil Adanrath first came to this world in the time of their greatest grandfathers." "Is there water there?" "A sacred spring, yes. Why?" He hefted the waterskin dangling from his pack, then pointed to the two carried by the lead pony. "We have more than enough." "We spent all day yesterday running," said Amira. "I could use a bath. And so could you." Gyaidun nodded, his face neutral, but Amira thought she saw a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "Ah, yes. I didn't want to say anything, but…" Amira scowled. "Lead on." Pulling the tethered ponies behind him, Gyaidun set off toward the Mother's Bed. Amira followed for a while, then quickened her pace to walk beside Gyaidun. He walked at an easy pace, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Why do we not ride the ponies?" she said. "Horses." "What?"

  "They are horses, not ponies." Amira looked at them. "My family breeds the finest horses in Cormyr," she said. "These look like ponies to me." "We're not in Cormyr. Tuigan horses are smaller than other horses, but they're hardier, as well. Someone who spent so much time among the Tuigan should know that." "They spent most of their time trying to kill me, so you'll forgive me if I didn't discuss the finer points of horseflesh with them." "I forgive you." He said it with a perfectly straight face. "It's an expression." "What is?" "Never mind," she said. "You went to the trouble of taking the-horses, scaring that boy near to death. Why aren't we riding them?" "Would you rather I'd killed him?" "Of course not. But why take horses and then walk all this way?" Gyaidun shrugged. "Climb on one if you wish. I'm used to walking." "I thought everyone in the Wastes were famed horsemen." "Not the Vil Adanrath. Horses cannot abide their presence."

  "Why?" she said. "They're elves like Lendri, are they not?" Gyaidun, not slowing his pace, looked at her sideways. "You Cormyrean wizards are scholars of a sort, aren't you?" "It requires years of study, if that's what you mean." "And you still haven't realized what Lendri is?" Amira's eyebrows creased. "I've never heard of moon elves this far east. His build and complexion are all wrong for a sun elf. I took him to be some sort of wild elf. An offshoot family, perhaps?" Gyaidun snorted. "Do the wild elves run with wolves?" "I said an offshoot, perhaps. No? Well, what is he, then, he and these Vil Adanrath? The mention of their name certainly made Walloch's hired blades tuck their tails and run." "The Vil Adanrath are not native to his world," said Gyaidun. "They came here many thousands of years ago." "That's true of all elves." "Can all elves take the form of a wolf?" Amira gasped.

  She'd heard of such things, down in the Wealdath in Tethyr, but it had been years since she'd studied that particular tome in her old master's library. She scrambled for the memory, and at last it came to her. "Lendri and the Vil Adanrath, they are lythari?" she said.

  "Lythari?" said Gyaidun, and he shook his head. "I don't know this word. The Vil Adanrath are what they are-elves who can walk as wolves.

  Or wolves who can walk as elves, depending on their mood, I suppose."

  "You are not Vil Adanrath, then?" Gyaidun did not answer. "May I ask you something?" Amira asked. The big man broke off his gazing long enough to glance at her. "Ask all you want. Whether or not I answer depends on your question." "What is Lendri to you? The belkagen said he was your rathla. What is that?" "Lendri is my friend." "Where I come from, that would hardly explain his devotion to you," she said.

  "We're a long way from where you come from." Gyaidun didn't look at her. He continued along the horizon. "We adhere to the old ways out here." "Old ways?" Gyaidun spared her a glance, and Amira could tell he was weighing whether to tell her. Finally he looked off into the dist
ance, his attention obviously elsewhere, and said, "You westerners, you shake hands when you take an oath, do you not?"

  "There's more to it than that, and customs vary from realm to realm, but yes." "Do you know why?" Amira shrugged. "Custom." Gyaidun smiled, though his eyes continued to scan the horizon. "See. You have forgotten the old ways. When the Vil Adanrath pledge their lives to one another, there is always the mingling of blood. Always." Gyaidun took the horses' tether in his left hand and raised his right palm toward her. There, Amira saw a deep scar dividing the big man's palm.

  "Blood to blood," he said, "oath for oath, and may all the gods damn us and spirits speed us on our way to the grave should we break the oath. It is… beyond sacred. The Tuigan take blood oaths as well.

  You've heard them speak of anda-'blood brothers'-yes? But among the Vil Adanrath, the joining of the blood has true power." "Magic?" asked Amira. Gyaidun's brow furrowed. "I would not call it that, but I don't know all the theories of you western spellcasters." He shrugged. "Call it what you like." "You became one of them, the Vil Adanrath?" Gyaidun shook his head. "I will never be Vil Adanrath." "Then…" Amira shook her head. "I don't understand. If you aren't Vil Adanrath, yet you and Lendri are blood brothers, what does that make you? The other night, you said you were born a slave." "I was." "Then how did you come to… 'hunt' with the Vil Adanrath?" Gyaidun did not answer at first. Amira looked at him. His lips were pressed razor thin, and the muscles of his jaw and neck stood out taught and hard. For a moment, Amira feared she'd offended him. The people of the Wastes had many strange customs and traditions of hospitality that were completely foreign to the people of Cormyr. She knew much of the Tuigan's strange ways, having spent much of her youth fighting them, but these pale elves and this big man who lived among them were a new mystery altogether. Finally, Gyaidun spoke. "My mother was a slave, the property"-he almost spat the word-"of Uchun Koro, a merchant who made his living along the Golden Way, trading in slaves, horses, camels, and whatever else he might turn to profit. I do not know who my father was. Another slave, probably, or perhaps a guest to whom Koro sold a night's pleasure with my mother. I was a child on the caravan trails.