Frostfell

by Mark Sehestedt

  Walloch turned away and began to pace the area, restless as a hound that scents the fox but is kept at his master’s leash. When he walked past the steaming body of the Tuigan that Amira had burned, the man let out a faint whimper.

  “You still alive, eh? Eh?” Walloch nudged the man with his boot, and the Tuigan cried out. The slaver shook his head, said, “Nothing for you, then,” and shoved the tip of his rapier through the man’s temple. The charred form jerked once and lay still.

  Two of the other men standing nearby were also Tuigan, and they scowled. Walloch cleaned the tip of his blade in the dry leaves, saw them watching, and said, “Nothing for him. I’m a wizard, not a cleric. You? No? Then turn your eye somewhere else. His gold can go to the rest of you now.”

  The Nar and the other men smiled at this, but the Tuigan’s scowls only deepened.

  Amira wiped at the blood that still trickled down her scalp. Leaves and dirt were matted in her hair in a grisly mud. “You know what I am.” She looked at Walloch but raised her voice for everyone to hear. “Others will come for me. Better if you let us go now. I might try to forget where I left you when the war wizards come for justice.”

  Walloch laughed. “Come for justice, eh? That’s nice. Is that what those three fops I killed had come for? Didn’t look like it to me, and you didn’t seem happy to see them.” He looked to his men and spread his arms, his silver rapier still in his hand. “Let them come!” He spat on the ground. “That for your war wizards! Me and my men’ll make belts from their hides.”

  “You caught them by surprise,” said Amira. “That won’t happen again.”

  Walloch shrugged. “And they won’t catch me by surprise. Let them come. When our new friends come for your boy, our reward’ll be far more than your pretty-robed war wizards can handle.”

  The evening wore on, and full dark fell. It was still early autumn, but winter often came early to the Wastes, and when a slight breeze set to rattling the boughs, Amira began shivering. Her hands pulsed from the tightness of her bonds, and she feared that before long she would no longer be able to feel her fingers. Not that it mattered. Her spells were spent.

  Walloch kept up his pacing, restless as a caged lion. The Tuigan kept their blades handy and their backs to the torches so as not to ruin their night vision. The Lake of Mists had a reputation among the locals, and even the hardiest Tuigan was never quite comfortable around such a large body of water. They were people of the open steppe, and any water that could not be crossed on horseback was water to be wary of. The Nar and the other few thugs huddled near the torches and whispered among themselves while one kept a tight grip on Amira.

  “Where are those damned skulkers?” said Walloch.

  “If the boy made it to the water, the hounds might’ve lost his scent,” said the Nar.

  The flickering hope in Amira brightened at this. The men and hounds had been gone a long time. Amira whispered another prayer, “Azuth, keep him safe. Please. Mystra, watch over him. And Kelemvor, if you’re listening, give me a chance. At the least, let me die well. And if you want me to take any of these bastards with me, I am your humble servant.”

  “What are you muttering about?” Walloch had come back over, and the tip of his sword hovered not far from her face. “I see even a flicker of green fire and I’ll do more than hit you with a rock this time.”

  The man guarding her took a step back.

  “How much longer do we wait?” asked the Nar. “Those three know the way back to camp. Why must we sit out here freezing when we could be back at the fires?”

  “We aren’t leaving until I have that boy,” said Walloch. He looked down at Amira, and the torchlight put an evil gleam in his eye. “But my friend here has a point. I’m tired of waiting. You”—he motioned to another of his men—“help him hold her up again. You others stand close with those torches.”

  The man seemed hesitant to get too close. “What about the green fire?” he asked.

  “You think she’d be sitting quiet if she had any spells left?”

  “Maybe she’s trying to trick us,” said the other.

  Walloch turned the point of his sword in the man’s direction. “You worry about me. Pick her up, damn you.”

  The men did so, but the man on Amira’s right was trembling.

  A sudden rustling shook the branches overhead, and a cry broke through the fog.

  “What’s that?” said the man on Amira’s left, and his grip loosened.

  “Just a raven,” said Walloch. “The lake is thick with ’em this time of year. Now be quiet and hold her good.”

  The man’s grip tightened. The raven cawed again.

  Walloch stepped to within a pace of her and put the tip of his rapier beneath her left breast. “You’re lucky he wants the boy unharmed, or I’d lop off a few of his fingers to show you what happens to those who cross me. But you? My buyer says whoever else I snag is mine to keep. I might sell you. Pretty western wench like you ought to sell well. Or I might keep you and teach you some manners. Eh, bukhla?”

  Walloch chuckled and shook his head. “I’m through being nice,” he said, then raised his voice to a booming shout. “Boy! Hey, boy! I got your mother! Come back now, boy! Come back and I promise you no harm will come to your mother! You have the word of Walloch! You keep hiding and … well, I may have to start cutting!” The slaver brought his waterskin to his lips, took a long drink, then leered at Amira. “Or maybe something else, eh?”

  Amira wanted to spit in his face, but her mouth was dry as dust, and cold and weak as she was, she was half afraid it might come out a whimper. She clenched her jaw and looked away.

  “Come back, boy!” Walloch shouted. “Come back and we go to the fires for some food, eh? I give you to twenty, then I start on your mother!” He took a deep breath. “One!”

  The raven cawed again, and Amira heard branches rustling overhead.

  “Two!”

  The raven cried out twice. Walloch looked up. “Damned bird,” he muttered, then—“Three!”

  The count continued, Walloch pausing for a few breaths between each shout and drinking from the skin a few times. The raven continued its cawing, but Walloch ignored it.

  “Eleven! Come on, boy! Hurry! Your time’s half gone!”

  Still the raven cawed.

  “Twelve!” Walloch swallowed the last of his water, then looked to Amira. “Little bastard does know how to count, doesn’t he?”

  The men holding her laughed, and the raven called again. The bird seemed to be making the Nar and Tuigan nervous.

  “Thirteen! Thirteen, damn it all!”

  Amira heard a faint rustling. At first she thought it was only the raven moving around again, but the sound grew stronger—and it was coming from the direction in which Jalan and his pursuers had disappeared. The flickering hope in Amira sputtered and died.

  “Fourtee-ee-een!” Walloch roared.

  The sound of someone running through the thick brush grew louder.

  Walloch nudged Amira with the tip of his blade. “Seems he can count after all. Maybe we forget the cutting and get to the other, eh? Teach you a lesson. Maybe I let the others have turns and make your son watch.”

  The sounds of running feet came very loud now, perhaps amplified by the thick mist. Sick to her stomach, Amira forced her blood-caked eye open and watched. The raven cawed and cawed and cawed.

  A figured emerged from the mist.

  It wasn’t Jalan. It was one of the men Walloch sent out—the one who’d held the hounds. His companion was nowhere to be seen, nor were the hounds.

  “Iquai?” said Walloch, seemingly more confused than angry. “Where’s my dogs, you worthless—?”

  The man fell to his knees, one hand gripping his side and one hand holding on to the Nar for support. Even from several paces away, Amira caught the stench. The man had soiled himself. He twisted to one side, turning toward the torchlight, and Amira saw blood leaking between his fingers at his side. The Nar pushed the man away and h
e fell. An arrow—wood so pale as to be almost white but with fletching black as a raven’s wing—stood out from the man’s back. The man tried to speak but could not gather his breath.

  “What—?” Walloch’s jaw opened, shut, then opened again. He seemed more stunned than angry.

  The breeze that had been whispering out of the north suddenly picked up to a full wind, setting the branches to rustling and stretching the mists into thin tendrils that fled like ghosts between the trunks. A pale, horned moon peeked through autumn-bare branches and bathed the little hollow in silver light.

  A dozen paces or so behind the dying Iquai, standing just outside the shadow of a large tree, Amira saw two shapes. One was a man, tall and thick with muscle, his black hair corded in a long braid. He held a bow in one hand—not the short bows of the Tuigan, suited for loosing from a saddle, but a long horn bow at least a pace and a half in length. Standing to his left was another figure, his hair white as snow, bits of pale skin peeking out amid sinuous tattoos, but he was dressed like his companion in leathers and animal skins. The pale-haired one held a sword in one hand, single-edged and slightly curved near the end. Overhead, the cawing of the raven ceased.

  “Release the woman,” said the man. His voice held no anger, no threat. It was simply cold and unyielding.

  “And who are you?” asked Walloch.

  The newcomers said nothing.

  “You feathered my man here, eh?” said Walloch, motioning with his sword at Iquai.

  Still the newcomers stood silent.

  “You an elf?” asked one of the Tuigan, motioning to the figure behind the large newcomer.

  The pale-haired newcomer didn’t look at the man who’d spoken. He kept his gaze on Walloch. Amira studied him more closely. His hair flowing in the wind seemed gossamer fine. In the merging light from the moon and torches, Amira could see ears that curved upward into sharp points. An elf. He glanced at her, for an instant only, but in that moment the torchlight caught in his eyes and they shone like embers. After first entering the Wastes so many tendays ago, she and her companions had camped on the open steppe. Wolves had come in close to the camp one night. The Cormyreans and their guides had kept the fires going, and the light from the flames reflected back from the wolves’ eyes—exactly as they did from the elf’s now.

  “That’s a vildonrat,” said the other Tuigan. His eyes were wide, and even in the dim light, Amira could see his knees were trembling.

  “Vildonrat?” Walloch smirked. “What’s that? That mean ‘pale elf’ or something?”

  “Your Tuigan sellswords have thick tongues,” said the tall man. “He is Vil Adanrath.”

  The Tuigan tensed and exchanged nervous glances. One lowered his blade and took a step back.

  “Vil Adanrath?” said Walloch. “What’s that mean, eh?”

  “It means you’d be wise not to anger him.”

  “Piss on you and the vildonrat,” said Walloch. “Off with you both, or you’ll join the wench. I could get a good price for you, big one. You’d make a fine pit fighter, I think.”

  A crackle of leaves and branches, and Walloch turned to see all but one of his Tuigan men running away. He now stood with only one Tuigan, the Nar, and the two men holding Amira.

  “Jodai, what’s the meaning of this? Your men just lost their promised gold!”

  The remaining Tuigan swallowed hard, his gaze still fixed on the elf. “Keep your gold, Walloch. We’ll keep our blood. Only fools anger the vildonrat.” The Tuigan sheathed his blade, bowed to the pale elf, then turned and fled after his fellows.

  “Damned cowards!” Walloch called after them. “Keep your blood! Ha! Forget your gold, you bastards! You’ll lose your blood, too, next time I see you!”

  The two men holding Amira looked after the Tuigan, but the Nar kept his eyes on the newcomers.

  “Go after them,” said the tall man. “Leave the woman and go. We’ll take care of your friend holding my arrow.”

  “Piss on him!” said Walloch. “And you! You know who I am?”

  “You’re a slaver. The caravan trails are thick with them this time of year.”

  “I am Walloch! Battlemage and master of the arcane arts of Raumathar!”

  The tall man raised his head and sniffed. “You smell like a slaver.”

  Walloch stiffened, puffed out his chest, and took a step closer to Amira. He raised the point of his rapier toward her. “Maybe I kill her first, then you, eh? This is no ordinary blade, my friend. I pulled this from the corpse of a great wizard that died hundreds of years before your whore of a mother first sold herself to your father.”

  The tall man glanced at Amira, then said, “Durja! Aniq, Durja!”

  “Mingan! Aniq, Mingan!”

  Amira jumped, for it was the pale elf who spoke, his voice both light and cold.

  “What’s that, eh?” said Walloch, and Amira could hear fear and anger in the slaver’s voice. “What’s that you’re saying?”

  Amira saw the tall man’s grip tighten on his bow. Walloch must have seen it, too, for his sword arm stiffened, aiming the point of his blade at them.

  “Enough of this!” said Walloch. “Sil—!”

  A black shadow struck the slaver’s arm. Amira heard the harsh shriek of a raven mingle with Walloch’s own shout of surprise. An instant later the man at her right gasped, squeezed her arm so hard that he tore skin, then released her and fell. An arrow protruded from the juncture of his throat and shoulder. His heels hammered the earth as he jerked at the arrow, and he began to shriek.

  “Silo’at!” said Walloch.

  Amira heard a crackling hiss. She looked up in time to see a funnel of frost spew from Walloch’s blade and envelop the trees and brush—but the tall man and the elf were nowhere to be seen.

  “Get him!” Walloch roared. “Kill that son of a whore! Now! Now!”

  “In the dark?” said the Nar. “You’re mad!”

  Snarling, Walloch pointed his sword at a large tree. “Kelenta!” he shouted, and a sparkling orb, no larger than a pebble, shot out from the tip of his sword. It tumbled and grew in size as it flew, seeming to feed on the air itself until it grew to a huge ball of fire that struck the tree full force. The autumn-bare branches exploded, and the entire tree became a great torch, lighting up the night. Amira flinched and looked away. The blinding light lanced right through her skull.

  “There!” said Walloch. “Now get them!”

  Something whipped past Amira’s face, so close that she felt the wind of its passage, then the man holding her left arm screamed and released her. Amira sat down hard and found herself looking at the man, who shrieked as he yanked at the pale shaft of an arrow protruding from between his ribs. Amira was looking right at him when the second arrow struck him just below the chin.

  Amira’s numbness snapped, and she lunged for the dagger at the dead man’s belt even as he hit the ground.

  “Kill her!” Walloch shouted.

  The bonds were so tight that she could barely feel her fingers, but she forced them to grasp the hilt of the dagger and pull it free. She turned to see the dark silhouette of the Nar bearing down upon her. Pale moonlight flickered down the length of his blade. He pulled back to strike—

  A gray shadow, swift and silent, hit the man, and both went down. Amira stared dumbfounded. A wolf had taken the Nar’s sword arm in its jaws. The wolf shook its head, rending and tearing flesh, its growling so low that Amira felt it in her gut more than she heard it.

  The Nar screamed and dropped his sword. His free hand fumbled for the long knife belted at his waist.

  Walloch charged, heading straight for the wolf with his sword held high.

  “Mingan!” called a voice. “Mingan, ikwe! Ikwe!”

  The wolf released the Nar, turned, and fled into the safety of the woods.

  The tall man stood at the top of the gully, drawn bow in hand, the burning tree a great bonfire at his back. Amira had to squint against the bright light, but she could just make out the pale elf c
oming from behind the cover of the brush a few paces behind the bowman.

  “Kill that bukhla!” Walloch pointed at Amira while facing the two assailants. “I’ll finish these two!”

  The Nar’s sword arm was a mangled wreck, and a steady stream of blood dripped from the tips of his fingers, but his other hand held his knife steady. Three steps forward and he swiped at Amira, aiming high for her throat. Still on her knees and bound as she was, Amira’s balance was limited. She fell back, and the tip of the Nar’s knife just kissed the tip of her nose. She followed through with her fall, rolling, and brought both feet around. Hard as she could, she brought both heels up into the fork of the Nar’s legs. He cried out, his eyes squeezed shut—

  An arrow struck him in the side of the neck. It went all the way through, one side all pale wood and black feathers, the other a solid wetness that gleamed black. The man fell on his back, and he began to buck and kick and pound the earth with his fists. Amira could hear him trying to scream, but it came out a bubbling gurgle, then a cough that sprayed a fine mist of blood over his torso.

  Amira forced herself to look away. Her head swam, and for a moment all went dark, but she took a deep breath, and the bright glow of the dying tree returned. No more than five paces away, Walloch stood, his sword pointing at the newcomers—the bowman still standing against the light as he reached for another arrow; the elf passing him and descending the slope—while Walloch’s other hand clutched at something hanging round his neck. Over the roar of the flames and the thrashings of the dying men, Amira could hear the slaver muttering an incantation.

  The bowman drew feather to cheek and loosed—Walloch screamed, “Thranek thritis!”—the arrow fell, straight and true, but the slaver didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. The point struck Walloch in the forehead, she heard a sharp clack! like the snapping of bone, and the arrow bounced away.

  Walloch laughed. “My turn—Silo’at!”

  Frost swirled out from the slaver’s sword. The pale elf had to dive and roll to avoid being struck. Another arrow bounced harmlessly off Walloch.