Under the crescent moon and starlight Jalan could see quite well, though the trees and underbrush were thick. He could hear little but the sighing of the wind, but as he watched he caught sight of pale forms coming at them from the north. Behind them, weaving through the trees like a living shadow, something darker walked. The hair on the back of Jalan’s neck stood stiff. He could taste something foul on the wind.
The elf turned and looked at Jalan. His face was in shadow, but Jalan heard the fear in his voice. “Skirt the lake till you come to the stream, then make for the island. Run, boy! Run!”
Arzhan Island, the Lake of Mists
in the lands of the Khassidi
When Gyaidun entered the camp, the belkagen was sitting close to the fire and sipping from a wooden bowl, his gaze fixed on the woman who still slept beside him. The belkagen had removed her mud- and blood-soaked clothes and wrapped her in elkhides. He had cleaned and dressed her wounds—the blow to her head had bled profusely, and her right eye was swollen shut.
Durja, Gyaidun’s raven, was nowhere to be seen. Most likely he’d found a nice spot in one of the trees to sleep. It had been a busy evening.
The belkagen didn’t look up as Gyaidun crouched beside him and placed the rolled hide on the ground. Gyaidun was scratched and covered in dirt up to his elbows, with grime under his fingernails from digging for roots. He untied the leather cord binding the hare hide and spread it before the belkagen, revealing an assortment of herbs, roots, chechek stems, and a thick bundle of moss.
“How is she?”
The belkagen swallowed and placed his cup before the fire. “The wizard’s spell froze her wounds. In trying to kill her, he kept her alive long enough for you to get her here. If she survives the night, she will live, I think. The plants you found will help her.”
“I found everything you asked for,” said Gyaidun.
“Well done. If you would be so good as to boil some water, I will do the rest.”
Gyaidun took the iron cauldron from the belkagen’s small bundle of supplies and went down to the lake. The north wind that had started during the confrontation with the slaver still had not abated, and it whispered cold at Gyaidun’s back as he filled the cauldron. He returned to camp, set the tripod over the fire, hung the cauldron, and stirred the fire.
“Is there anything else I—?”
A howl cut him off. It was part call and part cry of defiance, primal and savage. Twice it wafted from the darkness northward, then once again, mixed with anger and pain.
“Lendri!” said Gyaidun.
“Go to him!” said the belkagen. “I cannot leave the girl.”
Gyaidun grabbed his club—a black iron rod with woven leather for a handle, thicker on the far end, and nearly the length of his arm—and bounded off. He splashed through the lake—the island was only a few dozen paces offshore and the water never reached higher than mid-thigh—and was running full-speed by the time he entered the woods. The howling had stopped, but the direction from which it had come was fixed in his mind.
The chill wind had blown the mists southward, and the moon, thin as it was, rode high in the sky. Gyaidun’s blood-bond with Lendri had bestowed upon him many talents and skills that other humans did not possess, and his keen eyes caught even the meager moon and starlight. His long strides ate up the distance, and he made no attempt at stealth, breaking through bushes and shattering low tree branches as he ran.
A mile or so from the lake he heard another howl. Different from the first call, this was obviously the call of a wolf. Gyaidun knew it well—Mingan’s call for help. He followed the signal, weaving through the trees and leaping small streams, the lake always off to his left. He’d followed the howling for almost a mile before finding the wolf.
The wolf stood on a boulder in a small clearing, the Lake of Mists sparkling in the moonlight only a few hundred paces away.
“Mingan,” whispered Gyaidun. “Alet, Mingan!”
The wolf ran to Gyaidun, a pale shadow in the moonlight. Gyaidun crouched and let the wolf lick his hands and face in greeting. A dark wetness covered Mingan from his snout almost to his ears, and Gyaidun smelled blood.
“Lendri,” said Gyaidun. “Where is Lendri, Mingan?”
At the mention of their friend’s name, the wolf’s ears twitched and he whined.
“Lendri,” said Gyaidun. “Wutheh Lendri.”
The wolf bounded off and Gyaidun followed, away from the lake and slightly westward. They crested the small rise, descended the next hollow, and Gyaidun smelled it—a crisp scent that nipped at his nostrils. It took him a moment to realize what it was: frost. The leaves on which he and Mingan trod crackled and broke, brittle where they had been sodden and soft only a few paces behind. Gyaidun followed the wolf to a spot where the trees grew close together. Thick brush covered the roots of the trees, and every branch was rimmed in a pale skin of ice. Mingan plunged into the brush, leaving a small cloudburst of snow in his wake. Gyaidun followed, pushing his way through the clinging branches.
The roots of the trees spread out in a large bowl. Lendri lay on a bed of leaves, huddled in a fetal position, his wolf standing over him. Little of his pale skin showed, for he was painted in blood. The stench of it filled Gyaidun’s head as he knelt beside his friend.
“Lendri!” Gyaidun felt him. The elf’s flesh was cold, but only from exposure to the surrounding frost. He was still alive.
Gyaidun tried to pull his friend’s arms back, but Lendri’s muscles were locked tight. The elf groaned and stirred. “No,” he whispered. “Bleed … again.”
“I need to get a look at your wounds.”
Lendri swallowed and pulled his hands back. He’d been holding a fistful of leaves and mud to his side. It was now a sodden mess of blood.
“They … had swords,” said Lendri. “One stabbed me. Deep.”
“I need to get you back to the belkagen,” said Gyaidun. He began scooping up fistfuls of the largest leaves he could find. He’d fill the wound with mud, then overlay it with leaves to help keep the elf from bleeding to death on the way back to the island. It might cause the wound to fester, but if he didn’t get Lendri to the belkagen soon, the elf would be dead from blood loss anyway. The belkagen could deal with infection if he could first heal whatever was cut inside him, if Gyaidun could get him there in time, if moving him didn’t kill him, if, if, if. …
The mud and leaves were cold, numbing Gyaidun’s hands. He remembered the slaver’s sword and how frost had burst from it at his command.
“They … took the boy,” said Lendri. “I tried. Too many … of them.”
“You have to try to stay awake, Lendri,” said Gyaidun. “I can carry you, but you’ll need to hold this to your wound. I’ll deal with the slaver later. Get the boy back and bash that slaver bastard’s head in. Damn me for not following him when I had the chance!”
“Not the slaver,” said Lendri. He winced and sucked in a sharp breath as Gyaidun scraped the old mud off and applied a fresh coat. “Siksin Neneweth. Five of them. And … something else. Something foul and … cold. Ah, I’m … so cold.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Arzhan Island, the Lake of Mists in the lands of the Khassidi
Smoke. Scent intruded her darkness, then a thought: Fire. Someone was burning pinewood. Amira recognized the fragrance. It reminded her of winter hearthfires in the Hiloar estates. Home, childhood, winter feasts, laughter cackling like …
Flames—a small fire but very close. She could hear it, but more importantly, she could feel it. She was warm, which surprised her.
It was some time before she thought to open her eyes. Both of them. The skin on the right side still felt too large, but she could open her eye all the way. She lay beside a small campfire. She was naked but wrapped feet to chin in some sort of animal hides. On the other side of the fire, wrapped much as she was, lay an elf. Tattoos twisted like vines over his ivory-pale skin.
Recognition hit her. Then remembrance. Running through the woods. Purs
uit.
“Keep going! Make for the water.”
“Mother, no! I—”
“Go! Lose them in the water. I’ll find you.”
“You promise?”
Pain … fire … cold.
“Silo’at!”
Amira let out a small cry and reached for her stomach. She’d felt Walloch’s blade pierce her, felt her muscles resist a moment before the sharp steel broke through, kept moving, slicing, then—“Silo’at!”—and cold such as she’d never known, a cold that burned.
“Jalan!”
She tried to sit up, and the world swam around her.
Amira heard light footsteps and when her vision cleared, an old man was crouching next to her. Only he wasn’t old at all—or even a man. His face was pale like the elf beside her, and his skin was also broken by tattoos twining over his cheeks and round his eyes, but among the black inks were vines of green and even thin streaks of blue. But unlike the other elf, this one had strange, red symbols on each cheek and over each eye. To Amira, they almost looked like runes, but they were like none she had ever seen. His hair was white as snow; he wore it unbound and wild save for two long braids that dangled before his sharp ears. Not a single wrinkle or crease marred his features. His nose and chin were sharp, and his eyes … they seemed lit by both joy and sadness, and also something else. Something … wild.
“Who?” said the elf, speaking Common.
“Jalan.” Amira tried to swallow. Her throat felt raw. “My son.”
The elf looked away, but not before Amira saw the look on his face. Regret? No. Resignation.
“What? Where is my son?” Amira tried to sit up, but shadows flooded her vision and she almost passed out again. She lay back down. “I remember. I woke. The big one said that—Lendri, was it?—had gone for my son. Where is he?”
“Try not to move,” said the elf. “My craft has done much to heal your wounds, but you are still very weak.”
Amira thrust a hand out from the blankets and grabbed the elf’s cloak. It was thick, heavy, made from some animal hide. Her arm felt hollow, her grip feeble, but the elf did not pull away. “Where—?” her throat caught. So dry. She tried again. “My … son?”
“A moment.”
The elf stood and walked away. He returned a moment later with a wooden bowl cradled in both hands. “Drink this. I will tell you what I know.”
He lifted her head with one hand and brought the bowl to her lips with the other. The water was oddly warm and brackish. She winced but swallowed.
“The waters of the Lake of Mists are warm,” said the elf. “Many of the streams that feed it come down from the Firepeaks, and there are hot springs everywhere. I have never known the lake to freeze, even in the harshest winter.”
“Where is my son?”
The elf placed the bowl beside her and settled himself down. “I am the belkagen. What your folk might call a priest, a shaman.”
Amira lay back down and fixed him with the glare that had sent many pages and servants running from her as a child. “I don’t care. Where is my son?”
“Gyaidun and Lendri were the ones who came to your aid last night. After the slaver fled, they brought you here, to my island. You would have surely died had they not. Lendri went back out to find your son.”
Amira studied the belkagen. Shaman or no, these three could easily be slavers themselves. What had the big one told Walloch last night? “Slavers … the caravan trails are thick with them this time of year.” Amira had been embroiled in the courtly intrigue of Cormyr before she could count. She hated it, but she could play with the best of them, and she read no deception or malice in the shaman’s face.
“Lendri—” the belkagen motioned to the elf who still lay sleeping behind him. “He found your son, but on the way back something attacked them. Gyaidun went to their aid, but by the time he arrived, your son was gone and Lendri nearly dead.”
“Attacked? By who?”
“Gyaidun first thought it was Walloch, come back. The woods where Gyaidun found Lendri were coated in frost. But Lendri said it was … he said he thought some of them were Frost Folk, but there was … something else. Something foul and cold.”
Dread, kept at bay these many days, filled Amira’s stomach. Oh, no, she prayed. Not again. We were so close!
The belkagen was watching her, his eyes piercing. Under his gaze, Amira felt like a rabbit under the scrutiny of a hungry wolf.
“Where is this … Gyaidun?” she asked. “The big one?”
The corner of the belkagen’s mouth lifted in a smile, but his eyes remained sharp. “Yes, Gyaidun the big one. I’m afraid my friend has gone and done something foolish.”
“He’s gone for Jalan?” Hope flickered in Amira—she’d seen the man fight last night; he could’ve given a Purple Dragon Knight a challenge and then some—but her sense knew it was a feeble hope. No matter how formidable the big man was, the fool had no idea what he was up against.
“No,” said the belkagen. “He and Lendri are rathla, what the Tuigan call anda. Blood brothers. When he found Lendri near dead, a steel rage filled him. I’ve only seen him like that a few times. After bringing Lendri to me, he went after Walloch.”
“But you said it was Frost Folk and … something else.”
“So Lendri said. But Gyaidun suspected that the slaver was after you two for a reason, and that reason came looking for you and almost killed Lendri.” The belkagen shook his head. “I could almost pity Walloch when Gyaidun finds him.”
After leaving Lendri with the belkagen, Gyaidun gave serious consideration to picking up the trail of whoever had attacked Lendri and taken the boy. But he knew he’d be outnumbered at least five to one, and they had nearly killed Lendri. Furious as he was, Gyaidun was no fool. But his blood was up, and he could not just sit by the campfire and wait.
He’d picked up the slaver’s trail easily enough. That many men and dogs had torn up the woods chasing the woman and her boy. Gyaidun kept a steady pace but didn’t hurry. Lendri’s people had a saying: Besthunit nenle. “Hurry slowly”—go fast, but not so fast that you miss your prey. The slaver had a loud bark, but he had the bite to back it up, and Gyaidun didn’t want to rush into an ambush.
Dawn’s first light was burning in the east. Gyaidun had left the forest proper behind and was now walking through the beginnings of open steppe, though there were still frequent copses and islands of brush. He knew he was getting close. He could smell horses, dogs, goats, and all the things that came out of them. The smell of cooked food hit his nostrils, though it was old. Apparently none of the slavers were early risers. The stench of the midden pit struck him so hard that he knew they hadn’t taken the time to dig it deep enough or bury what was in it. But something else tickled his senses, more taste than smell. Moisture. That was nothing unusual around the Lake of Mists, where half the lake seemed to escape as a cloud every day. But this had a flavor, sharp and hard. He knew it, but it took him a moment to place it, for it was far too early in the year: snow.
Gyaidun stopped long enough to string his bow and nock an arrow. He crept in nice and slow, going low to the ground from cover to cover.
There was no need.
He crested the small rise above a jagged hollow that a stream had cut through the hills. Gyaidun looked down into the remains of the slaver’s camp, every bit covered in a thick blanket of snow. Not even the soft, wet snow that could sometimes fall in the autumn. This was a fine, hard snow. It sent up little clouds as he walked and muffled all sound. Nothing in the camp moved, and he knew that the dozens of snowy mounds scattered throughout the camp were bodies.
“Where are my clothes?”
After eating some dried venison and drinking a great deal of water, Amira finally managed to sit up without fainting. She hunched near the fire, the blankets wrapped round her shoulders.
The belkagen was tending to Lendri, who was still sleeping. He didn’t look up as he answered, “You were covered with blood when you came in. Most of it you
rs. I had to cut the shirt off, frozen as it was. Everything else I washed.” He motioned to the far side of the fire. There, spread out over a branch, were Amira’s pants, smallclothes, and what was left of her cloak. “I will find you something to replace your shirt later.”
“Find it now.” Amira stood. The world wobbled for a moment, but it did not spin, and a deep breath set all to rights. “I’m going after my son.”
Amira knew the day was wearing on, though she had yet to see the sun. After the night wind had stopped, the fog off the lake rose thick, and she could not see more than a few dozen paces in any direction.
The belkagen finished replacing the poultice on Lendri’s wound, then looked up. “And how do you plan to do that?”
“Leaving here is a good start.”
“You won’t walk a mile before you fall over.”
“Watch me.”
“My craft mended the worst of your hurts, but you are not yet healed. Your body must do the rest. You need food and sleep.”
Amira started toward her clothes—small, shuffling steps. A slight tremble began in her knees on the second step, and by the fourth she had to stop before her legs gave out beneath her. She stopped to gather her strength before she dared reach down for the clothes. The belkagen’s eyebrows raised, and she glared at him.
“You find this amusing?”
“No, Lady.”
“What then?”
“It is a cruel thing you are doing,” said the belkagen. He walked over and held her breeches out for her.
She gripped the blankets round her with one hand and reached for her clothes with the other. She snatched the breeches and clenched them in a tight fist, hoping it would hide her hand’s trembling. “They’re still wet.”
“The mists.” The belkagen shrugged. “Put them back on the branch, and I will stoke the fire.”
Amira stood her ground. “What did you mean, a cruel thing?”
“You are so eager to rush off so that your son can watch you die.”
Frostfell Page 4
