Over the roar of flame, Gyaidun heard the incantation of the sorcerer rise in pitch, and a frigid blast of air shrieked out of the north, stirring up a great cloud of frost from the snow on the ground. The emerald flames bent under the pressure of the wind, flickered and fought a moment, then went out. Still hovering above the battlefield, the belkagen’s flare dimmed, and the shadows on the field thickened.
Gyaidun leaped over the trench that the belkagen’s wall of fire had cut through the snow. The Siksin Neneweth nearest him lunged with his spear, and Gyaidun leaned into it, bringing his club around in an arc before him. The thick iron struck the shaft of the spear with enough force that it should have shattered the staff. Gyaidun had heard that the Siksin Neneweth ensorcelled their weapons so that the intense cold would not cause them to become brittle and break. This must be one of them, Gyaidun thought, for his strike only shattered the frozen blood upon its barbed point and turned the spear aside.
The spear point stabbed the snow as Gyaidun followed through with his swing, bringing the club on its leather leash around full circle. It struck the spearman’s forearm with such force that bone tore out from muscle and skin, splattering blood onto the snow. The scream died on the barbarian’s lips as Gyaidun stepped in, bringing his club round again to smash the man’s skull. He stepped over the corpse, and a tide of wolves overtook him, passing in a thunder as their wide paws tore through the snow.
Lightning cracked the sky and struck the ground amidst the wolves. Thunder hit Gyaidun like a club, knocking the wind from his chest, and he saw steam and great gouts of snow explode into the air, the charred bodies of wolves flying in every direction. Some of the wolves had been far enough away to escape the first strike. They scattered, and when the second bolt hit, only three died. The few survivors leaped away from the carnage, then resumed their charge. Gyaidun followed, and from the corners of his eyes he saw Vil Adanrath joining them. The elves were lighter and more fleet of foot than Gyaidun, and they shot past him.
Over the barking of wolves and the battle cries of men and elves, Gyaidun heard Amira shouting, “Jalan! Jalan!”
Gyaidun was still several paces away, wading through the knee-deep snow, when four Vil Adanrath attacked the Siksin Neneweth swordsmen. Beyond them, the dark sorcerer raised his arm, shouted an incantation, and thrust his fist at the elves. As he pointed at each of them, they cried out and stopped in their tracks. Two dropped their swords and collapsed to their knees, and another stumbled in the snow and fell forward. The Frost Folk were on them in an instant, their blades rising and falling, throwing streams of blood into the air.
The air in front of Gyaidun seemed to ripple and thicken. His eyes were drawn up to the dark sorcerer, still seated on the back of his massive wolf. The air between them seemed to vibrate, like the plucked string of a harp, and from the inside out, Gyaidun’s head went suddenly cold, as if he’d swallowed mouthfuls of snow. Only this was worse. Everything behind his eyes seemed to freeze and crack, and pain such as Gyaidun had never known hit him. He could not move, could not breathe, could not even close his eyes.
Then he saw the fire, tumbling and flickering like a burning sparrow, strike the dark sorcerer in the chest. Tongues of flame burst to life in the ash-gray robes, and the pain evaporated from Gyaidun like water thrown on a hot rock.
Gyaidun took a deep breath as the normal aches and weariness of his body settled back into place.
The Siksin Neneweth, blade held high, was almost on him by the time Gyaidun saw him. Gyaidun had just enough time to stumble out of the way. The cold metal passed his throat so close that he felt the wind of its passage. His backside hit the snow, and he scrambled backward, yanking on the leather leash round his wrist to bring his club within reach. The snow hindered his progress, and the Siksin Neneweth was quick. The pale barbarian lunged forward, his sword held back, his arm ready to thrust. Gyaidun knew he couldn’t get away. Perhaps he could dodge aside and escape with no more than a deep gash, but the white bastard was too close, too damned clo—
An arrow-long beam the color of warm lantern light struck the Siksin Neneweth in the shoulder, turning him and knocking him back. It was all Gyaidun needed. He lunged and brought his club around in a wide arc, sacrificing accuracy for power so that it only struck his foe’s arm—the one not holding the sword. The heavy iron shattered bone and brought a cry of pain from the Siksin Neneweth. The man stumbled away so that Gyaidun’s return strike missed entirely.
A snarling wolf hit the man, and both went down. The Siksin Neneweth, unable to bring his blade to bear, screamed and pummeled at the wolf, but it was no use. The wolf took the man’s throat in his jaws, and with one snap it was over.
More flames shot through the air, but by now the Siksin Neneweth were aware of them and dodged out of the way. Gyaidun could see several holes in the snow, emitting steam like inverted chimneys, where other shots had missed. He glanced off the field of battle and saw the belkagen standing there, conjuring fire in his outstretched hands and hurling it at their enemies.
Through her gloves Amira could feel warmth and power coursing through the new staff like blood through a vein, and the closer she ran toward the dark sorcerer, the more intense the power pulsed. Fire rimmed the runes along the staff, as if the hot metal that had burned them there had only just been taken away. Still, she saved its power, not wanting to waste it until she was certain she could hurt that pale whoreson bastard holding her son.
Before her, Gyaidun and a wolf leaped over the body of one of the Frost Folk. Several paces beyond them was Jalan, the Frost Folk axeman holding him, and that cloaked monster sitting on the back of his winter wolf. Amira had seen the belkagen’s fire catch in his robes, but the fire had lasted only long enough to distract him. The gale the sorcerer summoned had blown the flames out.
Amira ran, cursing the snow pulling at her shins, slowing her advance and keeping her from Jalan. She ran past the corpses of elves and wolves, ignoring the death stench, all her awareness focused on Jalan. He was so close now … so close.
But as she watched, the sorcerer reached down, grabbed Jalan, and pulled him onto the back of the wolf. Jalan did not struggle, his only expression a wince of pain as the sorcerer hauled him up by the ropes behind his back.
“No!” Amira shouted. “No! Stop him!”
The sorcerer looked at her, and even though his features were hidden within the cowl, she felt his regard slide over her like the cold belly of a snake. He raised his free hand and swept it before him. At his command the air between him and the advancing Vil Adanrath condensed and froze into a wall of ice.
“No!” Amira shrieked. Still running, she thrust the point of her staff before her and spoke a word of power. Light shot forth and struck the ice, blasting a wagon-sized hole in the wall.
Gyaidun and the Vil Adanrath leaped through a cloud of steam, and Amira followed. She heard the clash of weapons and the battle cry of the Vil Adanrath, and when she emerged into clear air, she saw the Frost Folk axeman swinging his weapon back and forth in front of him, keeping an elf and two wolves at bay. Gyaidun and another wolf were already well past them, and beyond Amira could see the hindquarters of the sorcerer’s winter wolf disappearing into the cover of the trees.
“No!” Amira shrieked. She’d come so close!
She pushed the panic down. Time to think more like a warrior, like a hunter, and less like a terrified mother. She stopped in her tracks and ignored the men and wolves trying to kill each other only a few paces away, ignored the stench of blood and the biting cold, and studied the ground where the winter wolf had disappeared.
Beyond the reach of the belkagen’s magic light, the woods were all darkness and shadow, but the woods were only a small strip of foliage in the base of the valley. The sorcerer had grabbed her son and ran. He meant to flee, not fight. That meant he’d most likely head to open ground. He’d break over the rise and be gone like the wind in moments. If he did that, they’d never catch him. Even the Vil Adanrath could not match
the stride of a winter wolf.
Amira closed her eyes, concentrated, held the image in her mind—she’d have to place herself just right—and spoke the words of her spell.
The crack whipped through the air and brought the belkagen to a stop before the wall of ice. He recognized the sound and knew what had happened. Amira had used her magic to transport herself after the dark sorcerer. The belkagen hesitated. The sounds of battle still echoed in the valley as the Vil Adanrath fought the remaining winter wolves. Those were his people out there killing and dying. They needed him, needed the protection of his Art and prayers.
Do they? said a voice in his mind. That old, nagging voice that had plagued him all these years. He knew it well: his own deepest heart and conscience that always gave the hardest counsel, the one thing he didn’t want to hear, but which had always proved right. Every time he’d ignored that still, small voice, he had brought pain to himself and others. Part of him, that part that had felt fear since his first journey to Hro’nyewachu, prayed that the voice would be silent. But it wasn’t. Do they? it said. Do your people need your protection? Or do you need theirs? You know your duty.
The belkagen cradled his staff close, huddled inside his cloak, covering even his head, and spoke the words of power.
Eyes clenched tight, Amira knew her spell had worked. One moment she was in the midst of the cries of men, elves, and wolves, and the wind howling through the valley, rattling the bare branches. The next, she stood on the bare hillcrest, knee deep in snow, back in the storm with the wind shrieking and the snow hitting her with a million tiny hammerstrikes.
She opened her eyes, but away from the belkagen’s spell all was darkness. She could not even see her hair blowing into her face or the snow striking her skin. Straining her ears, she could just make out the distant cries of battle below her and to the right. Then … something else. Something large headed right for her. With the realization of what it was, her heart skipped a beat. She’d placed herself too well.
Amira raised her staff and shouted, “Amalad saisen!”
Heat flared in the staff and flowed up her arm and through her body. She felt it build in her, permeating blood and bone, then golden light shone around her as if she had become a fragment of the sun, and the entire hillside was bathed in its heat.
The winter wolf bearing down upon her—now only a half-dozen paces away—yelped as if it had been scalded. It tried to stop, but so great was its momentum that its own weight caused it to slide and tumble in the snow. In her mind Amira cried—Jalan!—and then the wolf slid past her so close that the cloud of snow its fall produced fell over her like a wave. Still the power of the staff flowed through her, causing the snow to evaporate even as it touched her skin. She felt the unearthly cold radiated by the dark sorcerer strike the aura of light around her and rebound.
The huge wolf regained its feet and turned to face her. She was awed by the sheer size of the beast. Its hackles, raised and trembling, stood as high as the mane of the finest stallions in her father’s herds, and its fangs were longer than her hands. Its growl was like tumbling boulders, and its eyes narrowed to slits so that she could see only an ember of fire reflected in its gaze.
The instinct of years of battle-training took over. Holding her staff high in hopes of distracting the beast’s attention, Amira thrust her other palm outward and said, “Dramasthe!”
A bolt of energy shot from her hand and struck the wolf’s face. There was the briefest sound of sizzling flesh, then even the howl of the wind was drowned out by the wolf’s shriek. It half-turned and half-fell, then stumbled up the hillside, dragging its scalded face in the snow.
Amira focused her attention farther down the hill. Something lay there, unmoving, and through the gaps in white where the fall and storm had not yet covered it in snow, Amira saw a tattered cloak, set in a pattern of waves. She could not see them at this distance, but she knew those waves were etched in a gold-colored thread. She’d stitched them herself.
“Jalan!” she shouted, and ran down the hill.
But just beyond Jalan another form rose, and the snow seemed to gather and cling to its ash-colored cloak. It took two steps toward Jalan, then bent down to grab him.
“Dramasthe!” Amira shouted, and again the energy shot from her hand.
The sorcerer spoke an incantation and swiped at the bolt with his hand. It evaporated in a sizzling shower of sparks, then the sorcerer stood to his full height and reached within the folds of his cloak. Amira heard the cold whisk of steel being drawn, and when the blade emerged from the depths of the cloak, she recognized it at once. It was Walloch’s rapier—the one that had almost killed her only a few days ago.
“Silo’at!”
Cold and frost funneled outward from the blade, but as it struck the core of the golden aura surrounding Amira, it hissed like cold water thrown on hot coals. The shower of frost and ice that raked her face hurt, but it was a bearable pain.
Amira thrust her staff forward and said, “Keljan saulé!”
The runes along the staff flared, and a shard of light shot out. It hit the sorcerer in the chest, throwing him away from Jalan and down the slope. Though no sound came to her ears, in her mind Amira heard a shriek that seemed to seek out all the dark places of her mind and rattle there like shards of glass.
Seeing the smoldering cloak hit the ground, she cried out in triumph and ran for Jalan. But the darkness within the cloak congealed, and in the part of her mind where instinct ruled, Amira sensed fell power gather and spring. The sorcerer leaped and took to the air like a great bird of prey, his cloak rippling like a tattered banner, and then he was falling toward her.
Amira opened her mouth to form a spell, then an image hit her—
—Mursen charging into the fray, ducking as the broken body of a knight flew past him. A spell passed his lips, the rod in his hand flared—then darkness in an ash-gray cloak lunged.
Snap! Like the sound of a green branch breaking, the thing’s hand reach out, grabbed Mursen by the head and twisted, breaking his neck—
—and the spell faltered on Amira’s lips. The light round her dimmed as darkness incarnate descended.
A silver shadow struck the sorcerer the instant before he would have hit her. Silver shadow and ash-colored cloak went down in a snarling explosion of snow. Amira watched, dumbfounded.
The sorcerer threw the wolf off, but it turned in midair and hit the ground running. Four long strides and it jumped again. The sorcerer crouched and brought his sword around in an arc before him. The wolf’s snarl turned into a yelp. The animal hit the ground and slid to a stop at Amira’s feet. The blade had opened a gash along the side of the wolf’s head and haunches, and the sheer force of the blow had shattered bone.
It broke Amira from her stunned silence.
“Dramasthe!” She sent a bolt outward.
The sorcerer swiped it to sparks with his blade and advanced on her.
Again—“Dramasthe!”—and again he knocked it away, almost nonchalantly. But that shot had been meant as a distraction.
Amira took a step back and pointed her staff at her foe. “Keljan saulé!”
The runes along the staff flared like hot coals kissed by a soft breeze. She aimed for the bastard’s head—
—and that was her mistake.
He didn’t bother to try to deflect the shard of light, but crouched. The light flew over his head to disappear in the storm. Amira gathered her breath, hoping there was time for another spell.
A shadow emerged from the swirling snow. The light emanating from Amira did not reflect off the club the man was whirling on the end of a leather leash, for it was of the blackest iron.
“Gyaidun, no!” she shouted.
But where her attack had failed, Gyaidun’s struck. Perhaps the dark sorcerer had simply been expecting only magical attacks, for the warrior’s club swung down and connected with solid flesh somewhere in the folds of the cloak. The sorcerer did not collapse, but he did stumble down the slope.
Gyaidun turned to her and shouted, “Get Jalan and go!
Go!”
Then he turned back to his foe, and it was all he could do to stay alive.
Tears welling in her eyes, Amira turned and ran down the hill.
Every childhood nightmare, every horror feared at the back of the north wind, had taken form before Gyaidun, swathed in an ash-gray cloak, and it was coming for him. No battle cry or taunts of defiance did the sorcerer make. He was cold death, and he was coming for Gyaidun.
The muscles in Gyaidun’s shoulder were a mass of pain from swinging the heavy iron club, his legs felt both heavy and empty, and every breath of frigid air was like needles in his lungs.
Still, Gyaidun fought, swinging his club and long knife. For the first few strikes, it was attack, if only in hopes of buying Amira enough time to get away. But then every swipe became an effort to keep the sorcerer at bay or to parry a thrust of his sword. Gyaidun retreated, half-stumbling back up the hill and away from Amira and Jalan.
In the confusion of the fight, Amira had lost her bearings, and it took her a moment to relocate Jalan. When she saw him, her first thought was that he had not moved since she’d seen him, her second that the blanket of snow was so thick on him now that he would soon be covered completely, and the third was to wonder at the dark shape that emerged from nothingness over Jalan.
Amira screamed.
But then the shape unfolded and she saw it for what it was—a huge cloak made up of many animal hides and painted in arcane symbols.
The belkagen emerged from the folds of his cloak and stood over Jalan. “Go help Gyaidun! I will take the boy!”
“No!” Amira said as she slid to a stop over her son. “I’m not leaving him again.”
“You must!”
“I won’t!”
“Lady,” said the belkagen, and though he had to shout to be heard over the wind, there was tenderness in his voice. “Hro’nyewachu does not give such weapons of power lightly. The staff was given to you for a reason. Do not let it be in vain.”
Frostfell Page 21
