Frostfell

by Mark Sehestedt

  If Amira had possessed the strength to slap him, she would have.

  “I suppose it is a mercy of sorts that you’ll never make it to him. If you did, in your condition, with no supplies, not even your spellbook, you’d accomplish little more than giving your son the chance to watch his captors kill you.”

  Amira’s knees trembled again, and this time she had to sit. “How … did you know I’m a …?”

  “Wizard?” The belkagen crouched and threw more wood on the fire.

  “Yes.”

  “I am surprised you don’t recognize one of your own.” The belkagen smiled, but there was no humor in it.

  A shudder passed down Amira’s spine.

  “I recognized you,” he said.

  “But you said you were a shaman, a priest.”

  “I am the belkagen. There is no word in your tongue. I am a shaman, a priest, and perhaps what some of the western peoples might call a druid. But I have also studied the arcane arts.”

  “So you are a wizard?”

  “I am the belkagen.”

  Amira looked off into the mists. “I hate the Wastes.”

  “Wastes?” The belkagen chuckled. “There is more life in one league of ‘the Wastes’ than in one of your stone castles.”

  Amira smirked, then said, “Could you hand me my smallclothes, please?”

  “I thought western women did not like men touching their smallclothes.”

  “Just hand them to me.”

  He did. “You’re still going, then?”

  “Jalan is my son. I’ll find him or die trying.”

  “It will be the dying, I think, unless you heed me.”

  “You mentioned something about a shirt.”

  The belkagen frowned. “Are all western women so discourteous?”

  Amira took a deep breath. She’d dealt with worse growing up amid the courtly intrigue of Cormyr, but she had no time for this. “I thank you for your help, Belkagen. If I can ever repay your hospitality, I will. On my honor and the honor of House Hiloar. Now, if you could find me a shirt and give me some food to set me on my way, I will be doubly in your debt. But I am going after my son.”

  “Of course you are. But if you will finish healing, you might have some small chance—”

  Through the mist came the sound of splashing. Someone was coming through the lake and moving fast. The belkagen went stone-still, listened, then relaxed.

  “I thought you said we were on an island,” said Amira.

  “Arzhan Island,” said the belkagen. “I often winter here, but we’re only a few dozen paces from the north shore, and the water is no more than waist deep.”

  The splashing stopped, Amira heard footsteps approaching, and moments later a large figure materialized out of the mist. It was the man who had come to her rescue last night. Gyaidun, was it? She got her first good look at him. He stood tall, and his leather-and-hide clothes obviously covered thick muscle. Tattoos twined down his bare arms, much like those on the one called Lendri, but strangest of all were the scars on his face. He had three long slashes down each cheek, and one slash bisecting them. No battle wounds, certainly. They were too precise. His unstrung bow rode on his back, but Amira’s heart leaped when she saw what he carried in one hand: her staff and spellbook.

  The man spared Amira a glance, gave the sleeping elf a longer look, concern creasing his brow, then looked to the belkagen. “Dead,” he said. “They were all dead. Every last one of them. Captives, horses, dogs. Even that slaving whoreson Walloch. Frozen solid.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Endless Wastes

  Out on the open steppe, the wind never stopped. Tucked as he was in the bottom of a dry gully, Jalan could not feel it, but he could hear it whispering over the grasses, and every now and then dirt and late autumn seeds rained down on him. He sat hugging his knees with his back to the dry earth wall. After the five pale northerners and their leader had taken him from Lendri, they ran north all night, leaving the Lake of Mists and surrounding woods far behind. When Jalan’s legs finally gave out, one of the northerners grabbed his bound wrists and dragged him, but that slowed their pace, so the northerners took turns carrying him. So exhausted was he that he actually slept while they ran.

  When dawn began to paint the eastern horizon, the northerners split up. The sky was just changing from a weak gray to the first yellow of true dawn when they sought shelter in the gully. Their cloaked leader had found the deepest, most shadowed part of the gully and huddled inside his cloak. The northerners ripped dry bushes, their leaves long since gone, out of the ground and covered their leader with them, placed their own cloaks over the makeshift canopy, then covered it all with a thick layer of dirt.

  One of them untied Jalan’s wrists, gave him a few meager bites of food and two long swallows of water, then shoved him to the ground and said, “Sleep. Now.”

  Jalan lay on the ground but kept his eyes open. He’d never been so cold. An aura seemed to emanate from the cloaked figure, an almost elemental presence that drained all warmth from the area. It reached beyond the air to seep into Jalan’s mind.

  The northerners built no fire, so Jalan huddled in his cloak, shivering. He’d been concentrating all his energy into clamping his jaw shut to stop his teeth from chattering when sleep finally claimed him.

  When he awoke, the first thing he saw was the crack of sky overhead. Clouds, high and thin, had blown in while he slept, and they were painted the fiery orange and royal purple of evening. Four of the northerners were sleeping in the gully. The pile of brush and dirt that was the makeshift bed of their leader was the same as it had been since morning. Jalan could not see the fifth northerner but assumed he was standing watch somewhere.

  Jalan sat up and listened. Nothing but the sound of the wind. The nights had gone cold enough that all but the hardiest of the flies had laid their eggs and died. There wasn’t even any birdsong, just the whispering of the wind over miles and miles of grass.

  Jalan stretched his legs out and winced. They were stiff. He listened again. Still nothing, and the four sleepers had not stirred. Jalan looked up. Still no sign of the guard. Jalan scooted over to the waterskin. If the guard appeared and questioned him, he could claim he was only going for a drink.

  Still nothing. Jalan took a small sip, tied the skin shut tight, then stood up.

  The northerners did not stir, but Jalan felt a sudden awareness from the mound where the leader was sleeping. Although it was only an irregular mound with bits of branch protruding from the dirt, Jalan was sure that something inside it was watching him. He still had not seen the leader’s face. The man shunned the light and kept his hood up even in darkest night. Jalan pictured him pale as bone with bloodshot eyes, and he felt like those eyes were watching him now.

  Jalan looked. The orange in the clouds was deepening to the color of dying embers. The sun would be setting soon.

  He looked around for some food. The northerner who had fed him earlier had taken the strip of dried flesh from a leather satchel, which the man was now using for a pillow. Nothing to be done for it. Jalan’s eyes were drawn back to the mound of brush and dirt. No change, but he could still feel something inside watching him, could almost picture a pale face and the bloodsh—

  No. The eyes wouldn’t be bloodshot, Jalan knew, for blood meant life and warmth. Whatever was inside that mound, wrapped in its ash-colored robes, there was no warmth in it. The eyes watching him were ice.

  Before his mind could seize up, before sense outdid his courage, Jalan ran. He headed down the gully until he saw a suitable place to climb out, then bounded up the incline, sending dirt and rocks and grass sliding down behind him. His hands found dry grass, his fingers dug in, he pulled himself up, his feet found the ground, and he was off.

  Jalan raced over the steppe, at first not caring which direction, caring only to put distance between himself and his captors. But when his fear cleared enough to allow his mind to notice he was heading north—the direction his captors had been
taking him—a small cry of frustration shook him and he turned left. His back itched. He feared that at any moment one of the northmen’s barbed spears would impale him, that he’d be harpooned like a fish.

  He tripped over another tussock of grass, scrambled to his feet, and was off again. Besides the pounding of his feet and his own breathing he heard nothing. No sounds of pursuit. The last sliver of the sun’s crown sank into the earth in front of him, and he dared a look back, not stopping but looking over his shoulder as he ran.

  One of the northerners—the guard most likely—was standing at the rim of the gully, not moving, not coming after him, just watching. A shadow scuttled insectlike out of the gully then stopped and stood tall beside the guard. Jalan ran into the dying light, the eastern sky darkening behind him. He knew that the dark thing was no shadow at all, but covered in robes and cloak the color of ash.

  An unreasoning fear seized Jalan and he ran all the harder, terror giving his legs strength.

  The breeze that had whispered through the grasses all day suddenly grew to a full wind, pushing at Jalan from the right and sending stinging dirt and grit into his eyes. He wiped at the muddy tears but did not slow down. Better to run blind than stop. Jalan closed his mouth and breathed through his nose to keep the dirt from his mouth.

  The land began to rise a bit, and his legs started to burn. He’d eaten nothing since morning—and barely anything then. His heart seemed to be beating all the way into the top of his skull, and he could not bring enough air into his body. His face twisted into a rictus of pain, but he forced himself onward.

  He topped the rise and began his descent. The pain in his legs eased as he went down the slope, but soon he was going too fast. A bloody dusk still lingered in front of him, but the light only glowed in the sky. It blinded him from seeing the ground at his feet as anything but a featureless shadow. His foot hit a thick tussock. He almost fell but righted himself and kept going. He made it another seven steps before his foot hit the lip of a hole—the front door of some animal’s home probably—and he went down. The dry grass cushioned the worst of his fall, but the impact drove what little air he had from his lungs.

  A sudden gust hit him, almost as if the wind itself were laughing at him. Jalan pushed himself to his feet, and the beginnings of panic set in as he noticed the trembling in his legs. He knew he couldn’t keep this pace up much longer.

  Jalan looked up. All he saw was featureless steppe in every direction. There might well be other dry gullies, running like cracks throughout the plain, but he’d never see them until he was on top of them.

  He forced himself onward but slackened his pace a bit. He’d been lucky. Another foot into a hole and he might well break an ankle. As a boy, he’d seen it happen to horses, and if a healer wasn’t around, there was nothing to be done but a quick jab to the thick vein along the beast’s throat. A fountain of blood, an ear-splitting cry that would sometimes go on far too long … then it was over.

  Jalan risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Nothing crested the rise behind him, but when he turned back around he saw pale things flitting over the plain to the north. Gray, in the dusklight they almost blended in to the steppe. Only their movement gave them away—and they were headed right for him.

  A sob shook Jalan. He turned and headed south, following the shallow valley between two hills away from whatever the things were. But he’d seen how fast they were moving. Unless he found somewhere to hide, they’d be on him in no time.

  He figured he’d gone almost a quarter mile when he saw a ghostly shape pass him several dozen paces off to his right—and two more off to his left. They were surrounding him. He glanced behind him and saw five others a hundred paces behind him. None were close enough for Jalan to make out distinct features, but he could tell that they were large—pony-sized at least.

  The ones to the sides began to close in, and soon Jalan could hear them panting. Like dogs. One of the two to his left put on a sudden burst of speed, ran ahead, and stopped a stone’s throw from Jalan. It was the biggest wolf Jalan had ever seen. His first impression had misjudged it. This thing was far larger than the Tuigan ponies. Its shoulders were easily the height of the famed Hiloar stallions that were the source of wealth for his mother’s family. The wolf, its head low to the ground, stood still, watching Jalan, a deep growl rumbling from its throat.

  Jalan stopped and fell to his knees. Part of him was glad. He’d seen wolves take down prey before. It wasn’t pretty, and unless they managed to snap the creature’s neck, it looked extremely painful. But it was still better than suffering whatever fate the northerners and their cold leader had meant for him.

  The huge wolves circled him, pacing and watching and drawing their circle closer until the nearest was no more than five or six paces away. Their breath formed a nimbus of cloud around them. The stink of them hit Jalan and he coughed. Sweat poured freely from his skin, but now that he’d stopped running, he realized how cold it was. He’d slept many times out on the steppe, and the autumn nights often left a covering of ice on water by morning, but this cold was far worse. An uncontrollable shivering seized Jalan’s body, and he realized what it meant.

  “Oh, no.”

  The wolves to his left parted for the figure in the ash-colored cloak as he approached Jalan. The grass crunched and crackled beneath his feet, like the breaking of minuscule icicles. Jalan’s tears froze on his cheeks.

  The figure stopped in front of Jalan and looked down on him. “Our mounts have arrived,” he said.

  The man’s voice made Jalan cover his ears. It was not unlovely, but there was something altogether wrong with it. Not just unusual, but twisted, like a choir of voices where half the voices sang off key.

  “Good of you to come and welcome them.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Arzhan Island, the Lake of Mists in the lands of the Khassidi

  He’s awake.”

  Amira started. She was sitting by the lakeshore, her open spellbook in her lap, so absorbed in her studies that she hadn’t heard the man come up behind her. Gyaidun, his name was. She should’ve heard him coming, but the big brute moved with a panther’s grace. That and this damnable fog. It seemed to cloud her other senses as much as it hid everything from sight. It unnerved her. The lake, the woods around it, and the entire damnable Wastes … she hated them. Her home seemed very far away.

  “It’s about time.” Amira snapped her book shut and pushed herself to her feet. Evening was coming on anyway, and she’d soon need the fire to read. “I felt fine a long ago.”

  Gyaidun scowled. “You were brought in before he was.”

  Amira said nothing. She knew the elf called Lendri had been clinging to life when Gyaidun carried him in. It had taken all of the belkagen’s skills to heal him, and for a while even he had feared the younger elf might not pull through. He’d been unconscious all day, which meant he was sorely hurt indeed, for unlike other races, elves did not sleep.

  The big man was still scowling. “Lendri nearly died saving your son,” he said.

  “Saving my son? Really? And where is my son?” Amira clenched her jaw and glared. She had to take deep breaths to keep the tears back.

  Gyaidun looked away, but he seemed more angry than apologetic. “You wish to speak to him? This way.”

  “I know the way.” She pushed past him and headed back to camp.

  Despite her words, she almost did get lost on the way back. It was not a large island, but the mists off the lake were thick as wet wool, and this late in the day she couldn’t see more than twenty paces in any direction. The trees and the iron-gray boulders strewn about the island were little more than indistinct shadows. She caught the pale nimbus of the campfire off to her right and realized she was passing the camp. She spared a sidelong glance at Gyaidun. He said nothing, but she saw the amusement in his eyes.

  Lendri was sitting next to the fire, swathed in a thick hide blanket. One naked arm stuck out, holding a wooden bowl filled with a steaming liquid. He sipped
at it and winced. For the first time, Amira noticed that Lendri had the same odd scars on his face that Gyaidun did—three long slashes down each cheek and a fourth cutting through them. He had even more tattoos than the big man. They twined about his arm, neck, and even around his eyes, and they seemed very dark against his pale skin. A huge gray wolf lay on the ground not far away, its head resting on its paws and its eyes closed. Mingan, the belkagen had called it.

  The belkagen sat not far away. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his shoulders sagged. He’d been busy since Gyaidun brought Amira in the night before, using all his arts and herblore to heal her and Lendri. He looked up as Amira approached the fire.

  “You are still feeling well, Lady?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” Amira sat down across from him. “You should rest. You look as if you’re about to fall over.”

  A faint smile. “I will seek my dreams soon. But first we must make amrulugek. ‘Hold council,’ as you westerners would say.”

  Amira cast a quick glance at Gyaidun, then fixed her gaze on Lendri. “You … tried to save my son. Thank you. I am in your debt.”

  Lendri bowed his head but said nothing.

  “Gyaidun,” said the belkagen. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

  The big man gave the belkagen a hard look, and it was the elf who looked away first, his eyes downcast. Amira didn’t know if it was the weariness or merely the odd behavior of these easterners, but she could’ve sworn the belkagen looked … guilty. Gyaidun definitely looked angry as he sat, his movements stiff, his jaw clenched, and his nostrils flaring like a stallion about to kick his way out of the stall.

  Amira held her tongue, deciding that in the tense atmosphere it was better to let one of the others speak first. She busied herself wrapping the leather cord around her spellbook and stuffing it into one of her shirt’s many deep pockets. The belkagen had given Amira one of his old shirts. It was shaped much like the Tuigan kalats, but rather than being made of cotton or wool, it had been stitched from elkhide with fur trim. It was far too large for her, but it had deep pockets.