Frostfell
Page 1
DAUGHTER OF HOUSE HILOAR
WAR WIZARD OF CORMYR
RENEGADE
AMIRA
Let Jalan get away. My life for his.
“You are his mother.”
“Not his real mother,” Amira said, but even she heard the hollowness in her words.
“Would you die for him?” A bit of the anger was creeping back into the belkagen’s voice, and he shook his staff as he spoke. “Kill for him? Would you shed your last drop of life’s blood to keep him safe? Breathe your last breath?”
“Yes!” Amira looked away from them to wipe away the tears.
“Then you are his mother, Lady Amira,” said the belkagen. “In all ways that matter.”
BUT WILL HER SACRIFICE
SAVE HER SON?
THE WIZARDS
Blackstaff
Steven Schend
Bloodwalk
James P. Davis
Darkvision
Bruce R. Cordell
Frostfell
Mark Sehestedt
FROSTFELL
The Wizards
©2006 Wizards of the Coast, LLC.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, U11 1AZ. UK.
FORGOTTEN REALMS, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.
All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Cover art by: Duane O. Myers
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6422-2 (ebook)
640A2934000001 EN
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www.DungeonsandDragons.com
v3.1
Dedication
Hey, my first novel! Who’d’a thunk? This one is for Andi, who thunk and never stopped believing.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Susan Morris for editorial guidance, patience (ah, especially the patience), encouragement, and all the good story suggestions.
Thanks to Don Bassingthwaite, whose gift of the Tuscarora dictionary helped me to flesh out the culture and language of a band of elves roaming the Endless Wastes.
Thanks to Ed Greenwood. When I asked Susan for any additional information on the War Wizards of Cormyr, she suggested I contact Mr. Greenwood. I did, asking if he had any notes on the War Wizards beyond what have already appeared in published FORGOTTEN REALMS® material. He said he had “a few notes”—and sent me forty-nine pages. I kid you not! And he took time from his busy schedule to answer my many questions.
Thanks must also go to James Wyatt, Christopher Perkins, Darrin Drader, and Skip Williams. Their work on the DUNGEONS & DRAGONS® titles Book of Exalted Deeds and Races of the Wild was a major source of inspiration for the characters in Frostfell. If I got anything wrong, the blame is on me.
Special thanks to the many artists whose albums helped the late nights of writing pass with a lot more inspiration—especially the Dropkick Murphys, Garbage, Maria McKee, the Band, the Police, Willie Nelson, the Alarm, and Johnny Cash.
I would like to thank the Academy—
The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red,
For the flame of the sun is flown,
The gods lie cold where the leaves lie gold,
And a Child comes forth alone.
—G.K. Chesterton
“A Child of the Snows”
Contents
Cover
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
A Guide to the Words and Phrases of the Vil Adanrath
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
The Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
The woods north of the Lake of Mists
in the lands of the Khassidi
Dim dusklight bled from the boughs, and Amira ran through a cloud. The mists grew thicker with each step, dampening her skin and hair. It could mean only one thing: They were nearing the lake.
“Run, Jalan! Don’t look back!”
Amira ran behind her son, and she had to strain to keep up with him. Over their pounding feet and her heavy breathing, she could hear the men behind them, and they sounded as if they were getting closer. She didn’t know if Walloch had brought the hounds. The slaver sliced the vocal cords of his hounds so that they could never bark above a hoarse whisper. Not that he’d really need the dogs. She had no idea where she was going. She and Jalan were running blind. They didn’t know this land, and their enemies did.
Jalan stumbled, almost falling. Amira pulled him to his feet and urged him forward.
“Need … rest,” said Jalan.
“Not here. Move. Up!”
Jalan pounded on, heedless of the noise he made, and Amira followed. If Walloch had brought the hounds, hiding would do no good. Their one hope was to reach the lake. If they could only make it there, they could hide themselves in the mists and lose their scent in the water.
The trees and underbrush clustered thick before them. The ground became rocky and uneven, and they found themselves running downhill. Amira and Jalan stumbled over roots, branches, and thick ferns, but they kept going.
“Ut ish vet! Ut!”
The voice came from behind them—much too close. During the years Amira spent fighting the Tuigan Horde, she picked up a bit of the speech—enough to understand the meaning behind the words. Ut ish vet. Ut. There she is! There!
Amira didn’t slow. She swore she could smell the heady scent of the lake, but the mists were growing thicker with the onset of evening, and she could see nothing but more trees and brush in every direction. She dared a look back. Three figures, no more than blurry forms in the mist, ran on the trail behind them—and they were gaining. She could hear more not far away.
<
br /> The ground fell away before Jalan’s feet, and he slid down the slope. Amira half-ran and half-fell behind him. She hit the brushy ground beside Jalan, the sudden stop rattling her teeth, but she pushed the pain away and got them both to their feet. She grabbed Jalan’s shoulders, leaned in close, and said, “Keep going! Make for the water.”
Jalan turned to look at her, his eyes wide with fear. He looked far younger than his fourteen years. “Mother, no! I—”
She shoved him and said, “Go!” as she choked back tears. “Lose them in the water. I’ll find you.”
“You promise?”
The earnestness and fear in her son’s gaze almost undid her resolve, but she clenched her jaw, took a deep breath, and pushed him onward. “Go, Jalan!”
She turned to fight, the words of an incantation already forming on her lips. Behind her, she heard Jalan sobbing, then the sound of the boy blundering off through the forest. Amira raked her sleeve over her eyes to clear the tears, then her hands began the intricate patterns to complete her last spell, the one she’d been saving, hoping she wouldn’t have to use it. She was Jalan’s last hope. Amira had never been much of a praying person, but as the sounds of Jalan fleeing faded behind her, she sent out a silent plea—Let Jalan get away. My life for his.
One of Walloch’s Tuigan mercenaries came to the slope and began his sliding descent. He saw Amira about halfway down. He hit the ground running, a wild light of triumph in his eyes, and his body slammed into hers full-force.
Amira hit the ground. The full weight of the Tuigan came down on top of her, forcing the breath from her lungs. Bright orbs of light danced before her eyes, and she fought to stay conscious.
The Tuigan grabbed her right forearm in a grip that she thought might crack stone, then seized her collar and hauled her back to her feet. Two other men—another Tuigan with a naked blade in his hand and one whose short, muscular body and long horsetail of hair made him a Nar—descended the slope, laughing at the sight of Amira subdued. The Nar carried a coiled length of rope in one hand and a dagger in the other.
Her captor shook her hard and held her up, displaying his prize. Amira’s vision swam. She swallowed the pain, took a deep breath and uttered the last syllable of the spell, grabbing the man under the chin as she did so. She dug her nails into skin, and emerald flame burst from her hand. The man screamed and thrashed away, but too late—the green fire had taken root and blossomed in his greasy hair. He slapped at it, and the flames caught in his sleeves. In moments, brilliant green fire wreathed his upper body, lighting the surrounding mists in eerie ghostlight.
“Down!” said the Nar. “Get him down!” He made a feeble swipe at the burning man’s legs with his rope, but he seemed hesitant to get too close.
His efforts brought him a few paces closer to Amira. She lunged and planted her burning fist in his gut—not hard, just enough to get the flames into his shirt. He shoved Amira away. She hit the ground hard, biting her cheek. Emerald flames licked their way up his shirt, and the man screamed, but he had the good sense to drop and roll in the thick brush.
Amira spat blood and planted her hands to push herself up. Her left came down on the thick shaft of an autumn-dry branch. She squeezed, and the green flames bit into the wood, caught, and flared to life. She grabbed the other end with her free hand, pushed herself to her feet, and turned.
“Enough of this!”
Amira looked up. A man stood at the top of the slope. He was taller than the Tuigan and the Nar, but not nearly so thick. In the last of the day’s light, Amira recognized him. Though she couldn’t make out the details, his outline against the sky was all too familiar. He wore a knee-length Tuigan shirt called a kalat, but his ornate cloak and long hair held back by a scarf round his forehead betrayed an origin far to the west. He held a rapier in his hand. It was Walloch, the slave lord who’d held her captive for days.
He aimed the tip at the burning man and said, “Silo’at!”
A funnel of frost hissed out of the blade, enveloping the man caught in the green flames and extinguishing them. The man fell only a few paces from Amira. Down in the hollow it was too dark to make out details, but she could smell the sickly sweet scent of scalded flesh and the sulfuric stench of burned hair. He was breathing in quick, shallow gasps.
“Stay right where you are, bukhla,” said Walloch. Amira didn’t know what bukhla meant—it wasn’t a Tuigan word—but the slaver’s fondness for it said enough. He made his way down the slope, keeping the tip of his blade pointed at Amira.
The other two men kept their distance, their gaze alternating between Amira and their boss. The Nar’s shirt was still smoking, but he didn’t seem injured.
Walloch stomped to a halt at the bottom of the slope. “Where is the boy?”
Amira glared at him.
The Nar spoke up. “We saw only the woman. Chiet grabbed her, and she burned him. We never saw the boy.”
The green flames in Amira’s fist were growing smaller with each breath, though the fire on the end of the branch she held still crackled with life.
“Put the stick down,” said Walloch.
Amira raised it over her head, ready to strike.
“You really think a torch is going to help you against me?”
Amira glanced at the two mercenaries. They took a cautious step back and looked to their boss.
“Enough of this,” said Walloch.
Amira crouched and prepared to spring, her eye fixed on Walloch’s blade.
The slaver took one step forward and brought his other hand around in an almost lazy pitch.
Something sharp struck Amira on the forehead, pain flared in her skull, and every shadow in the wood seemed to flood her vision. A roaring filled her ears, then she felt herself being hauled to her feet. The shadows fled, and she found herself looking into Walloch’s furious gaze. Her limp hands were empty, and the last of the green flames were dying in the brush at her feet.
“Stupid bukhla. You go up against another wizard, all you think about is magic, and I take you down with a rock.” He spat in her face and threw her down.
She fell on her side. Her head bounced against the carpet of sodden autumn leaves and mud, and pain lanced through her skull. Light flared in her eyes. She had to fight the pain to stay conscious. Wet warmth pulsed from the point of the pain on her forehead, and when she tried to rise, a mat of leaves and dirt clung to her face.
Blood, she thought. It’s blood. That bastard hit me with a rock, and I’m bleeding like a hung pheasant. She cursed her own foolishness.
She made it halfway to her feet, and Walloch’s boot struck her in the side. Her breath left her body, and she heard ribs crack.
“Stay down! You get up when I tell you. Not before.”
Amira tried to draw a breath into her lungs, but she felt as if her entire upper body were stiff and brittle as cracked wood. Something struck her in the back, hard. Darkness filled her vision—
She was drowning. Water filled her nose, choking her, and she coughed and coughed until she found herself vomiting a pace away from two worn leather boots.
“Careful, boss. You don’t want to kill her.”
“Those pale-skinned bastards’ll kill us all if we don’t get that boy back.” It was Walloch, nearby and spitting mad.
“No need to hurt good merchandise. That’s all.”
“If I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you. Now get her up.”
Amira felt strong hands hauling her to her feet. She opened her eyes and had to squint against the burning light. More men had come, and several held torches. The thick, oily light struggled to burn a halo through the dense mists, but the blow to her forehead seemed to have cracked more than skin, and even the feeble light stabbed into her like hot needles. It was hard to tell for sure, struggling to see through the pain and uncertain light, but Amira thought she saw at least four more newcomers, and one of them held the leashes to two hounds.
“Hey!” More water splashed into her face.
> She turned to face Walloch. He still held his sword in one hand, but the other held a dripping waterskin.
“Look at me, bukhla. Look at me and listen, or I’ll be the last thing you see.”
Amira looked. Blood dripped into her right eye, but the men to each side held her arms fast, and she couldn’t wipe it away.
“Where’s your boy?” asked Walloch.
“He ran.”
“He ran?” Walloch looked to his men and laughed, but it held no mirth. “You hear that? He ran!” He turned back to Amira. “I know he ran, you stupid bukhla. Where’d he go?”
Amira kept looking at him, feeling the blood trickle off her forehead and down her cheek. She said nothing.
“That’s how it’s going to be, eh?” Walloch shrugged and turned to his men, pointing at the one holding the hounds and two others. “You three, after him. Don’t let the dogs get to him. I want the boy back unharmed.”
The men, taking two of the torches, bounded off with the dogs. Amira watched them go, following Jalan’s trail. Maybe if he’d listened, maybe if he’d run and kept running, he’d have made it to the lake and then … what? Amira’s heart sank.
“My hounds’ll find him,” said Walloch. He was looking at Amira, but his voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. “Damned whelp’s probably not far. All he’s done for days is whine for his mother.”
Amira tested the hold of the man on her right. Her feeble attempt only made him squeeze harder, and she let out a small hiss through clenched teeth.
“He hurting you?” asked Walloch.
“Yes.”
“Good. You hold still, or I’ll let him hurt you more.”
Amira stared daggers at the slaver, but he merely smiled and turned away. At the slaver’s orders, the two men sat Amira down and bound her wrists in front of her with a strap of raw leather. They pulled it tight until Amira couldn’t help but cry out at the pain. Seeing her discomfort, Walloch walked back over and drenched the leather with water from his waterskin.
“Feel better?”
“No.”
“It’ll feel a lot worse when that leather dries and tightens even more. If your boy comes back soon, I might cut the straps.”