Frostfell

by Mark Sehestedt

  “It is time, Lady,” he said. “The council of the omah nin gathers.”

  Amira gave Jalan a gentle shake. “Jalan,” she said. “Jal, you must wake up.”

  He stirred, turning so that the blanket fell away from his face. His eyes went wide and he gasped.

  “It’s dark,” he said.

  “I know, dear. We’re in camp. We’re safe. But you must wake up, just for a little while. You and I have been invited to a council.”

  Jalan squeezed his eyes shut, and his whole body shuddered. But he forced himself up, and he and Amira followed the belkagen, his staff emitting its cold green fire and lighting their way. The camp was spread out in a shallow valley that probably turned into a river in spring and early summer. Autumn-bare trees, their branches drooping under a heavy load of snow, lined the ground between the valley and steep embankment, and the Vil Adanrath had made fires and erected small lean-tos beneath them. Wolves and elves slept in some of the campsites, others were empty, and a few sat beside fires and watched the trio pass.

  The omah nin had built his fire at the very edge of the camp where the eastern embankment fell to a flat area of scrub and boulders, all made into formless humps of snow.

  Behind a large fire stood Haerul himself, shirtless but with a long cape of black fur draping his shoulders. His hair was unbound and hung heavy with snow well below his waist. He was almost as tall as Gyaidun, but his frame had the lean strength of the elves. Scars crisscrossed his torso, and one particularly nasty gash, long healed, streaked down his neck and chest. Like the rest of the Vil Adanrath, only bits of pale skin peeked out from a twisting maze of black tattoos.

  As she approached the chieftain, Amira caught glints of red among the darker inks and thought at first that they were new scars, still raw from healing. But her breath caught in her throat when she took a closer look. They were runes, and although there were differences, she recognized them. She couldn’t read them, but there was no doubt that they were the same language as was carved into her new staff.

  “Belkagen,” she whispered. “Those marks upon the omah nin. What are they?”

  The belkagen slowed his pace and turned to her. “Those are the marks of a chieftain. In the west, your kings wear crowns and wield scepters. Among the Vil Adanrath, those red runes mark him omah nin.”

  “What do they say?”

  “Not now, Lady.”

  “But they are much like the runes on the staff given to me by the oracle.”

  The belkagen nodded. “Most likely they were carved by the same hand.”

  “You mean the omah nin has been to the oracle?”

  “All omah seek Hro’nyewachu, who chooses the omah nin. Now hush, Lady. Please. This is not the time.”

  They walked amid the gathered crowd. Amira counted ten other Vil Adanrath gathered—elves anyway. The wolves milled about so that she had trouble counting them, and they came in every color, from a black deep as coal to a white that became one with the snow. Among the elves, Amira was surprised to see three women. They looked no less fierce than the men. One had a disfigured face, half of which was a mottled burn-scar, and one eye stared out milky white.

  The belkagen stood across the fire from the omah nin and bowed. “Omah Nin, I have come to your council, and I bring Lady Amira Hiloar, War Wizard of Cormyr, Inisach tin Nekutha Hro’nyewachwe. I request that those who speak the common tongue of the west do so, that we might honor her presence.”

  The omah nin turned his heavy gaze on her, and she was bowing before she realized it. “Well come to my fire, Lady Amira,” said the omah nin. “You honor us with your presence.” He motioned to each of those seated around the fire, calling each of their names. Leren was the only one she had already met. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”

  The belkagen sat on the ground amid the ring of elves.

  Amira and Jalan settled in beside him, and she leaned toward him and whispered, “What was that you called me? Inisaktin Neku-something?”

  The belkagen turned to her and said, “Inisach tin Nekutha Hro’nyewachwe. It means you sought Hro’nyewachu and lived.”

  “Why did you tell them that?”

  “So that they will know you are their equal.”

  “I—”

  A great howl from beyond the camp cut her off, and everyone seated round the fire stiffened. The wolves stopped their pacing and stood still, only their ears moving.

  “The sentries—” said one of the elves beside the omah nin.

  The wind, which had blown out of the north all day, suddenly rose to a tumultuous gale and blew up a great cloud of snow. The fire went out, and as darkness gripped them, Jalan grabbed his mother. She could feel him trembling beside her.

  Amira felt the belkagen rise beside her and heard his incantation. A moment later the green fire from his staff lit the camp, reflecting off the snow in the air so that it seemed as if they were suspended in a spring-green cloud. The wind shrieked even harder, and the belkagen shouted, “No one move! Be still!”

  A cackle came from somewhere in the blizzard. It was one of the most inhuman sounds Amira had ever heard, like the sound of breaking icicles given life and a gleeful malice.

  “Behind me!” shouted the belkagen as he stepped away from the main body of the camp, his staff held high, the flames on its tip blazing like an emerald star. “Everyone back! Stay behind my light!”

  The wind blew even stronger, sending the belkagen’s great cloak billowing behind him. Amira could hear him shouting but could not understand the words. The gale pummeled them, blowing no longer from the north but switching direction again and again. Amira thought it was beginning to slacken a bit, but then she realized that it was only gathering in the darkness just beyond the reach of the belkagen’s light.

  Amira watched in horror as the wind gathered into a single cyclone, dozens of feet high. It stayed in one spot, gathering snow, ice, leaves, and other bits of debris as it swayed back and forth.

  Gripping her staff, Amira began to form the words of a spell.

  “Be still!” said the belkagen. “I beg you, Lady.”

  Out of the snow, a small form staggered, leaning heavily upon a gnarled staff dangling with thorns and bits of hair and bone. She stepped into the green light, and Amira saw that it was indeed a she—a hideous old crone, her skin blue as a drowned corpse, the flesh round her rheumy eyes black with decay. She seemed about Amira’s height, but bent over as she was, Jalan could have looked down on her. Gripped in one hand she was dragging a pale, silver-haired body—one of the Vil Adanrath, either dead or unconscious; Amira could not be sure.

  The old crone came forward until she was only a few paces from the belkagen, then she spat. “Ach! Cursed wolfelf. Blech! Who could eat such a thing?” She dropped the unconscious sentry into the snow, sniffed the air, and fixed her eyes on everyone gathered around the dead fire. “But I do smell a human. Tasty manflesh.”

  The belkagen lowered his staff, and it seemed to glow even brighter as he spoke. “There is no meal for you here, Tselelka. Leave our sentry there and be off.”

  The old woman cackled and thrust her staff toward them, and a great deluge of hail and ice fell with a loud roar. Only a few shards hit before the belkagen raised his own staff, spoke a harsh incantation, and a half-globe shield, faintly sparkling, covered them all.

  The old woman stamped her foot, and the ice storm died away. “Kwarun. It is you, eh? I feared as much. Damn and damn. I thought you were meddling in the south these days.”

  The belkagen lowered his staff, and the magic shield flickered away. “How was your hunting this season, Tselelka?”

  “Pfah. No more than a few gems and an amulet. Hardly worth my time, though the amulet will give me something to puzzle over this winter. What might you be up to, old meddler?”

  “Our business is none of your concern.”

  “If you’re here, your business is Winterkeep. Tselelka is old, but she’s no fool. And only fools find themselves at Winterkeep af
ter the first snow falls.”

  “You’re here.”

  “I am leaving.”

  The belkagen fixed her with a hard glare. “Then don’t let us keep you. But leave our hunter behind. If you’ve hurt him, I’ll make finding you my first order of business come spring.”

  The old crone cackled. She seemed genuinely pleased. “Kwarun, you always did know how to warm a girl’s heart. Don’t worry. I took no more than a nibble out of your watchdog. He can tell the rest of his litter it’s a love bite from old Tselelka.”

  Amira pushed her way forward. “You’ve come from Winterkeep, old woman. What is there?”

  Tselelka’s eyes lit with a sudden fire at the sight of Amira. Her nostrils flared and she licked her lips as she took an eager step forward.

  The belkagen stepped in front of Amira and pushed her back. “Back, hag! I said you’ll find no meal here.”

  The old woman scowled, and the hunger in her eyes only seemed to increase. “Cruel, Kwarun. Poor old Tselelka’s had nothing but rats and worse for months. Haven’t had a bit of manflesh since last summer, and this one smells sweet.”

  “I said no, Tselelka. Now be gone.”

  The old woman craned her neck to try to catch a glimpse of Amira. “Give old Tselelka a taste and I’ll answer your question, girlie.”

  The belkagen flicked his staff and said, “Crithta!” White fire shot from his staff and struck the ground in front of the old woman.

  Tselelka shielded her eyes and stepped back from the steaming hole in the snow before her. “Missed, old meddler!”

  “I hit where I aimed,” said the belkagen. He lowered his staff, pointing the end right at the old woman. “And the next one will hit as well. Now off with you! You and your orglash!”

  The hag looked at the belkagen through narrowed eyes. “I hope we meet again, meddler, when Tselelka is rested and fed. I hope you survive your latest folly so that I can teach you some manners. Flee Winterkeep. Listen to the wind, and perhaps we’ll meet again.”

  The old woman motioned to the cyclone behind her, which suddenly grew and spread, hitting everyone with galeforce winds and blinding them in the snow. Amira had a spell half cast when the wind died away and the snow settled. The old hag was gone, leaving the senseless sentry on the ground.

  “Listen to the wind?” Amira asked. “What’s that mean?”

  “Listen,” said Haerul.

  Amira did. With the orglash gone, the north wind had returned, but now it seemed colder, and besides the hissing of the snow, Amira could almost swear she heard voices, fell and dark, chanting at the back of the wind.

  Far away, on the tattered edges of the storm, a long tear opened in the clouds, and the waxing moon shone through like a baleful eye peeking through a torn curtain. Its pale light reflected off miles of steppe, now covered with a fresh blanket of white.

  On the very edge of the moon’s light, the blanket of snow rose, shedding snow in places as the ground rose to a great height—a high hill shaped like a broken and weathered fang that had long since given up biting at the sky. The Mother’s Bed.

  At its summit, amid a thick grove of trees that even now still bore green, a large rock leaned out of the soil, a great crack forming a cave at its base.

  Gyaidun, all alone, no sacrifice in hand, watched that yawning darkness a long time. He remembered the words spoken only three days ago.

  “Hro’nyewachu will be hungry,” the belkagen had said. “If you have no gift …”

  “What?” Amira had asked.

  “Feed Hro’nyewachu or she will feed on you,” Gyaidun had told her.

  “What kind of Oracle is this?”

  “I told you,” the belkagen said. “She is a being of need—both in fulfilling and needing to be fulfilled. Nothing comes free. Blood for blood.”

  “So be it,” said Gyaidun. “Blood for blood.” He raised his knife and walked into the hungry darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Endless Wastes

  Dawn was no more than a dim gloom bleeding through the deep darkness. Huddled near the fire, unable to sleep, Amira clutched her staff tight. In the back of her mind, she knew that far beyond the storm the sun was rising in the east. Part of her welcomed the knowledge that somewhere out there, light still shone through open skies and brought warmth to the land, even if she could not feel it here. But the foremost part of her mind dreaded the coming of dawn. At first light—or what would pass for it today—the last of the scouts would return, and they would set their plan into motion.

  Regret and worry tugged at her heart, and she cursed herself for agreeing to the belkagen’s plan. Not the taking of the fight to the enemy. In that, she was steadfast. But after the hag’s departure, their council had resumed, and after much debate, the old elf had put forth his plan.

  “The Vil Adanrath should attack Iket Sotha in force. Be seen. Draw our enemies to you.” He hesitated—in hindsight Amira knew why—then looked to her. “You should lead them, Lady Amira.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but Leren beat her to it.

  “Her? The people speak of the prowess she showed in battle, but outlanders do not lead the Vil Adanrath.”

  “Lady Amira led the forces of her people against the Horde,” said the belkagen. “None doubt her courage or prowess. But many days ago she was taken captive by an oathless slaver. A man little more than a common bandit bound her and made her his slave.”

  Amira considered pointing out that she’d been taken by surprise and that Walloch had been much more than a “common bandit.” A slaver he might have been, but he’d studied the lore of Raumathar for years and had turned out to be quite a formidable wizard in his own right. All this was true, and although it stung her pride, she kept her mouth shut. In this, she agreed with Leren. Let the Vil Adanrath fight their own way. Her place was with Jalan.

  “But,” the belkagen continued, “that was before she sought Hro’nyewachu. Lady Amira is chosen.”

  “She does not bear the … the uwethla,” said one of the Vil Adanrath women. “I am sorry, Lady Amira, I do not know your words for this.”

  The woman stood, pulled back her cloak, and much to Amira’s shock lifted her buckskin shirt to display her torso and breasts. Like Haerul, her skin was a mass of black, blue, and green inks, but over them were red runes that seemed to drink in the light of the fire.

  She sat back down. “Lady Amira is not omah. Are you saying she is belkagen?”

  Her cheeks burning, Amira glanced down at her son. If the sight of a comely woman lifting her shirt before him disturbed him at all, he didn’t show it. He simply stared into the fire, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings.

  The belkagen nodded as if considering the woman’s words, then said, “I hear you, Turha. No, Lady Amira is not omah, nor is she belkagen. In truth …” He paused letting his words hang. “In truth, I do not know what she is. Not in all my years, nor the times of my greatest grandfathers, has an outlander sought Hro’nyewachu and lived. Yet here she is. The omah nin himself bore witness to her journey. Would any here doubt the word of the omah nin?”

  There were several gathered who had arrived lately and had not been there at the Mother’s Bed. They looked to their high chief. He did not return their gaze but fixed his stare on the belkagen.

  “The belkagen speaks the truth,” said the omah nin. “Lady Amira entered the cave in darkness and emerged at dawn.”

  “But do we know she saw Hro’nyewachu?” asked another omah.

  The omah nin gave him a hard look but said nothing.

  “You doubt the word of the omah nin?” said Leren. “Of the belkagen?”

  The elf looked at Amira and shook his head. “I do not. But as you have said, this is most strange. Never in all our days have we heard such a thing. It is a hard bite to swallow.”

  Another opened his mouth to speak, but the belkagen cleared his throat. The younger elf shut his mouth, and all eyes turned to the belkagen.

  “I hear you,”
he said. “Turha spoke truly. Lady Amira does not bear the uwethla. Such was not the gift of Hro’nyewachu. But do not think that Amira left giftless.” He turned to Amira. “Lady, stand and present the staff.”

  All eyes turned to Amira. Her heart hammering in her chest, she reluctantly peeled Jalan off her side and stood. The staff was longer than she was tall, but she had kept most of it huddled inside the cloak with her. She thrust off the side of her cloak, a blast of cold hit her, and she raised the staff before her. The light from the fire caught in the gold-red wood and flickered along its length. The runes etched along the staff’s surface blazed, and Amira heard several of the gathered elves gasp.

  “What is this, Belkagen?” said the omah nin, and even his proud voice held a tone of awe.

  “When Hro’nyewachu gave this to Amira,” said the belkagen, “these were her words: ‘It will sharpen the bite she gives her enemies.’ Thus I name the staff Karakhnir. It was Hro’nyewachu herself who counseled us to take Amira’s son to the Witness Tree in Iket Sotha, and it was Hro’nyewachu who gave Amira this staff to hurt those who would hurt her son. Do we doubt the word of our people’s most sacred heart?”

  That silenced all argument. Feeling suddenly exposed and on display, Amira lowered the staff and sat back down beside her son.

  “We make war upon the Fist of Winter and their minions,” the belkagen continued. “Hro’nyewachu bids us to do so and gives to Amira the weapon to lead us.” He glanced around the gathering, then said, “I have spoken,” and sat down.

  All eyes turned to the omah nin. He sat in silence a long while, looking at no one. When he looked up, his gaze fixed on Amira. “We will attack Iket Sotha as Hro’nyewachu commands. We will bring fear to our enemies. And Lady Amira will lead us. The omah nin has spoken.”

  “Wait!” said Amira. “No one has asked me what I think of this.”

  Turha frowned at her. “The omah nin has spoken.”

  Amira thought of a half-dozen ways she could point out that omah nin or no, she was not Vil Adanrath and no matter how many oracles this man consulted, he was not her lord. Instead, she said the one thing she meant most.