Frostfell

by Mark Sehestedt

  Akhrasut Neth

  Amira and Gyaidun made camp on the western base of the Mother’s Bed in a small copse of trees through which a tiny stream flowed. Just up the rise, around a bend of the hill formed by a large arm of bare rock, the stream widened into a small pool. Yesterday, after setting up camp, Amira and Gyaidun had taken turns bathing. The water was cold—after the first teeth-clenching step into the pool, Amira had been surprised it didn’t have a thin layer of ice on top—but more important, it was clean. She had scrubbed herself, washed her clothes, then spent most of the previous afternoon and evening wrapped in nothing but a thick elkhide while her clothes dried over the fire. Parts of them still felt damp, but she preferred that to the unwashed smell.

  Gyaidun and Durja had left at first light, scouting the area. Amira had spent most of the day near the fire, alternately poring over her spellbook and watching the sky while she listened to the breeze rattle the branches. The wind had been out of the north all day, pushing high, thin clouds ever southward, and even Amira could smell the snow coming. A line of clouds smudging the northern horizon confirmed her fears.

  Morning was turning to midday, the cool turning cold, when Gyaidun trudged back into camp. Durja was not with him, for once.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Very,” Amira said. “But supplies are low. We should eat no more than once a day until we can get more.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Gyaidun stood next to their packs, which lay a few paces from the fire. Methodically, piece by piece, he began to undress, first his belt and harnesses that held his weapon and pouches, then his shirt. Amira had to suppress a gasp at the sight of his naked skin. His torso was warm brown skin over taut, lean muscles, but his chest and stomach were crossed with long scars, one mottled patch that was obviously an old burn, and several spots of puckered skin that she recognized as old puncture wounds. Arrows most likely. Over all was a twisting, turning maze of black, blue, and yellow-gold inks. Her eyes widened when he began to undo the drawstrings of his breeches.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, averting her eyes.

  “You said you were hungry,” he said. “I’m getting dinner.”

  “You always cook naked?”

  “You’re cooking.” She did not look up, but she could hear the smile on his face. “I’m getting dinner.”

  “Naked?”

  She heard him chuckle and walk toward the horses. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and risked a quick glance up. Gyaidun wasn’t naked after all, but close enough. He’d stripped down to a loincloth—had even removed his boots—and carried his knife in one hand. He went to the tree where the horses were tethered and huddled together for warmth. He untied one and led it off through the trees.

  Amira scowled. If he was going off to hunt, why take one of the horses? He’d been out scouting all morning. Surely he could have taken down a deer or even a rabbit while walking the miles around the hill. And hadn’t he said he eschewed horses anyway? And who in their right mind went hunting naked in this cold armed with nothing but a knife?

  “I hate the Wastes,” she muttered, and went back to her book.

  A scream—a high-pitched shriek of agony that set Amira’s teeth on edge—broke through the trees from the direction where Gyaidun had gone. The two remaining horses pulled at their tethers, snorting and stamping, their eyes wide and white.

  Amira slammed her spellbook shut, grabbed her staff, and ran in the direction she’d watched Gyaidun lead the horse. The ground was rough, uneven, and littered with the detritus of a thousand autumns, and Amira stumbled several times.

  Not far away from the camp, in a small clearing ringed by bushes still clinging to the last of their leaves, she found Gyaidun standing over the dead horse. Blood covered everything—the horse, the grass, even Gyaidun. He was more wet red than skin from the waist up, and his right arm—the one holding the knife—was so soaked that blood dripped from his elbow. Amira’s shock and fear turned to dismay. She looked at the scene more closely and found the source of the blood—a deep gash across the horse’s throat.

  “What are you doing?” said Amira.

  Gyaidun turned and looked at her. “You said you were hungry.”

  “We need those horses!”

  Gyaidun smirked. “Why? We have our legs and your magic to get us where we need to go. Horses are food. Why d’you think I brought them?”

  “I thought we were going to ride them.”

  “When Lendri arrives, you won’t be able to keep them. Horses can’t stand the Vil Adanrath. They’ll break their hobbles and run.” He turned and knelt beside the dead horse between its front and back legs. “Why don’t you build up the fire? Nothing too big. A good, slow burn. You know how to make a spit?”

  Gyaidun thrust the knife into the gut of the horse and began to saw upward. Blood and entrails spilled out of the widening gap. Amira turned away. She could take the sight of the blood and gore. She’d seen far worse in her time. But the sound of the blade cutting through muscle and hide, the entrails falling to a growing pile in the grass … too much.

  She walked back to camp, taking more care on the path this time and watching the uneven ground. When she entered the camp and looked up, the belkagen was crouching next to the fire and putting the finishing touches on a rack made from branches. Amira could not have been more shocked if King Azoun himself had been sitting there, asking to have his goblet refilled. She stood dumbfounded, her mouth hanging open.

  “What … what are you doing here?” she asked.

  The belkagen looked up from his work and smiled. “I suspect that Gyaidun is going to ask the same thing. Let us wait till he returns so that I don’t have to tell the same tale twice.” The belkagen closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and inhaled deeply through his nose. “He’s bringing horseflesh, yes?”

  “Yes,” she said. “How … how did you get here?”

  The belkagen tested the stability of the spit. It wasn’t like the spits she’d been taught to make. It was more like a miniature rack positioned over the fire. Satisfied with his handiwork, the belkagen sat on the ground, settled into his fur-lined cloak, and said, “What one wizard can do, another can do.”

  “Magic?”

  The belkagen frowned and picked up a stick to stoke the fire. “Sit down, Amira. Please.”

  She did, across the fire from him, her back to the Mother’s Bed.

  “You are far from home, Amira. The ways of these lands are not your ways. The powers that walk the steppes and live in the earth … they are no less than the powers of your own western lands. But the people of … of ‘the Wastes,’ as you call them, we are … more reserved in some ways. There are those among us, like me, who know many of the arcane and divine arts, but it is considered somewhat … impolite to speak of them openly.”

  “I’m sorry, Belkagen. I meant no offense.”

  He gave her a reassuring smile. “Nor did I take any. One master to another, among ourselves, it is good to speak of such things, to share our wisdom. But very soon we are to be joined by a great many folk who have powers and abilities far older than anything known by the people of Cormyr, and they can be very … ‘prickly’ about their customs of politeness. I urge you, Lady, please, guard your tongue among the Vil Adanrath. You will find no truer or more honorable people in all this world. They are the fiercest friends one can have, but they make terrible enemies and are easily offended. They are a people of pride and honor, and their chief, Haerul, has pride and honor like none I’ve ever seen. Scratch it at your peril.”

  Amira thought on this a while. She’d grown up among the aristocracy, and no one played the game of politics and court like the war wizards, but the belkagen’s words gave her pause.

  “I will treat this Haerul as I would the nobles of my own land,” she said.

  “You were sent to the High Horn for the way you treated your nobles, were you not?”

  Amira blushed. “Not exactly, no.”
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br />   “I meant no offense, Lady Amira,” he said. “But please. Take my words to heart. You saw a bit of Lendri’s ire when his hackles were up—and Lendri has traveled among humans for many years. It has softened him toward your kind. Not so with the Vil Adanrath. With Haerul, tread as a fawn among wolves.”

  “I’m no fawn, Belkagen. I have bite, too.”

  “I do not attack your pride. You need not bow and scrape and beg. Just … use caution. Please.”

  Amira looked back over her shoulder, searching for a change in subject. “Are you sure that your being here is wise, Belkagen?”

  The belkagen smiled. “Gyaidun has a cave bear’s temper, but I can take care of myself.”

  They sat in silence a while, the belkagen tending the fire.

  “May I ask you something?” Amira said.

  The belkagen smiled. “Please.”

  “What … what are you, exactly?”

  “I do not understand your question.”

  “You speak of the Vil Adanrath as if you are one of them, but Gyaidun told me that he and Lendri are exiles. Outcasts. And I could tell that there was a great deal of tension in Lendri seeking their aid.”

  “ ‘A great deal of tension.’ ” The belkagen put his hands on his knees, leaned back and laughed—quietly but with much enthusiasm. Finally, he settled down and looked at Amira. “Lendri took his life in his hands. Exiles they are. Hrayeket, the Vil Adanrath say. Cut off from the pack. The Vil Adanrath would have been within their rights to cut Lendri’s throat and scatter his body to the eight winds. He risked a great deal in returning to them. Your presence has lit quite a fire in the grasslands.”

  Amira did her best to keep her voice mild. “I thank you for all your help, Belkagen. You and Lendri and Gyaidun. I am grateful. But … I cannot help but notice the true object of this hunt. Gyaidun and Lendri will help Jalan if they can, I don’t doubt. But they’re after blood.”

  “Yes. This bothers you?”

  “I want my son back,” she said, and the bitterness crept into her tone. “The rest … I’ll help if I can. But in the end, Jalan is all I care about.”

  “So you use us and we use you,” said the belkagen. She sensed no recrimination in his voice, nor did she see it in his face when she looked up. “Is this not so?”

  Amira shrugged.

  “You must not despise Gyaidun too much, Amira,” said the belkagen. “He has suffered much. Lost much. He too seeks his lost child. You and he are more alike than you dare admit. Do not resent him for doing the same thing you are doing.”

  Amira swallowed. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Question?”

  “You seem as if you are Vil Adanrath, who have exiled Gyaidun and Lendri. Yet you were camping with them at the Lake of Mists. Despite your quarrel, you seem a friend to them.”

  The belkagen smiled, and Amira saw more than a little sadness in his eyes. “I was born among the Hinakaweh clan of the Vil Adanrath and spent much of my youth as a warrior,” he said, “but when I became belkagen, I became part of all clans and none. Having no clan, I am not bound by the laws of exile.”

  “How does one become … belkagen?”

  The shadow of a high cloud passed over their camp, and a different darkness seemed to fill the belkagen’s face. “That,” he said, his voice soft, “we will speak of later, for it is part of the news I bear you.”

  “News?”

  “Not now, Lady. First I must deal with your big man.”

  “My bi—?”

  “You!” came a booming voice from behind her.

  Gyaidun. Amira turned. The big warrior stepped through the trees, long strips of bloody flesh hanging from his shoulders and arms. In the cold air, the blood and the strips of flesh on his arms and shoulders steamed. Covered in blood almost black, his eyes shone white and hot with anger, his nostrils flared, and the long knife in his hand trembled with the tension in his fist. He seemed the very visage of some savage god of vengeance descending upon them.

  “Why are you here?” said Gyaidun.

  The belkagen remained sitting by the fire. He seemed placid, but Amira could see the anger in his eyes and stiff posture. “I am here to help. Whether you like it or not, you will need my aid before this fight is done.”

  “Your aid is about twelve years too late, Kwarun.”

  They stared at each other across the fire, Amira feeling as though she ought to go for a walk but not daring to move.

  “Sit, Yastehanye,” said the belkagen. “Please. Set your burden down and let us talk. When we are done, if you wish me gone, I shall trouble you no more. But you will hear me out. You owe me that.”

  Gyaidun stood there, every muscle tense, unmoving. At last he gave one swift, hard nod, then stepped forward to place the long strips of horseflesh on the wooden rack the belkagen had built over the fire. A droplet or two of blood fell into the fire and sizzled. He sat.

  “You don’t wish to wash first?” asked the belkagen.

  “I’ll wash when this is done,” said Gyaidun. “You can be leaving while I’m washing.”

  “Very well.” The belkagen sighed. “First, my news. Lendri found the Vil Adanrath and roused them. Haerul has called the clans and speeds this way. They should be here no later than dusk unless they run into trouble. And I pity whatever trouble places itself in front of Haerul. His exiled son has roused in him a cold fire.”

  “Lendri,” said Gyaidun, “he is … well?”

  “His father did not greet him with open arms, and he and his brother still stare spears at one another, but he is alive. I would have brought him with me, but there are things that we three need to discuss before they arrive.”

  A rustle of black feathers descended into the camp, and Durja settled near Gyaidun. It was the first time Amira could remember the bird not raising a raucous noise upon arriving. Perhaps even the raven sensed the tension around the fire. He looked at the three people gathered round the fire, then hopped on Gyaidun’s knee and began to peck at the little bits of flesh and gore that still stuck to the big man’s skin.

  The belkagen had gone silent. Amira looked to him. The elf seemed troubled, his brow creased in concentration and his mouth fallen into a pensive frown.

  “Belkagen?” she asked. “What is it?”

  He looked up to Gyaidun, who still sat unmoving, and said, “I told the lady a bit of the Vil Adanrath while we waited for you. She asked how one becomes belkagen, and now my answer enters our present tale. These lands in which we sit are filled with an ancient power. It was at this very high place thousands of years ago that the Vil Adanrath first came into this world. Akhrasut Neth is very old, a place of great and fell power. She is very ancient. She was old before the Empire of Raumathar was born. Even the Raumathari, great loremasters that they were, avoided Akhrasut Neth if they could. The Tuigan shun it altogether. But”—he looked to Amira—“you remember my tale of Arantar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone among the loremasters of his day, Arantar would come to Akhrasut Neth and seek her wisdom. Some said he had been born here. Whether that is true or not, I do not know. But I do know he came here often, and I believe Akhrasut Neth was the source of much of his power and wisdom.”

  “Akhrasut Neth?” asked Amira. “The Mother’s Bed? This hill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gyaidun told me it is a sacred site to the Vil Adanrath. It is something … more, then?”

  Gyaidun snorted, but the belkagen ignored him and went on. “Much more. It is sacred to the Vil Adanrath for many reasons. Have you been to the top yet?”

  “No.”

  “At the highest point of Akhrasut Neth, the bones of the earth break through the soil, a great outcropping of rock jutting from the ground like a weathered fang. At the base, a crevice splits the rock, forming an entrance to a cave that descends into the heart of Akhrasut Neth. The heart is a place of great power. Hro’nyewachu. What the clerics of the west might call an oracle.”

  “This
… oracle,” said Amira, “it answers questions? Tells the future? I don’t understand.”

  “Hro’nyewachu grants … enlightenment. At a price. It is the place where initiates of my people go to gain their power. Those who survive are the omah, the chosen leaders of our people. But a precious few have a different calling.

  The belkagen.”

  “ ‘Those who survive.’ You mean some do not?”

  “Some emerge quite mad. Some few never emerge at all. Their fate is unknown, even to me.”

  “But you,” said Amira, “you have been inside the … the Oracle?”

  The belkagen sighed and closed his eyes. “I have. Once, upon my becoming belkagen. And one time more.” He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on Gyaidun. “Twelve years ago.”

  Gyaidun blinked once. Hard. Amira saw a tremor run through him.

  “When I learned what had befallen the son of Hlessa and Gyaidun …” The belkagen lowered his head and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath but did not continue.

  Amira waited, not daring to speak. Gyaidun had not spoken of his son much at all, and he had barely even mentioned the boy’s mother. That night, after the first mention of Erun, Amira had asked. The belkagen had answered her with stony silence, Gyaidun with a cold glare, and Lendri had simply looked away.

  “We were desperate,” the belkagen continued. Again his voice sounded old and tired, truly the voice of an old man despite his youthful visage. “I sought the wisdom of Hro’nyewachu.”

  “What did you find?” asked Amira.

  “Answers,” said the belkagen. He almost gasped the word, then gathered his composure and went on. “Though not the answers I sought. What I told you two nights ago I learned through years of study and searching.”

  “So all of this tale is for nothing,” said Gyaidun, his voice hard and unforgiving. “A history lesson. Your lore will not help us now.”

  The belkagen sat there, eyes closed and trembling. Amira stared at him, at first thinking he was trembling with fear, but then she saw the iron set of his jaw and his clenched fists. He was furious.

  If Gyaidun noticed this, he ignored it. “If your tale is done, it is time for you to le—”