Despite the presence of his king’s face only inches from his own, Gregor remained as the king’s men had found him weeks past. His arms hugged his knees to his chest. His eyes, as white as hailstones, had rolled back into his head, as if they could no longer bear to look outward. The wielder’s lips moved, but no sound issued forth. Gilbert leaned in close, his ear almost touching the old man’s open lips.
In the king’s bedroom, on a gold-inlaid nightstand, Gilbert had the large spiral shell of a creature that had once lived in a faraway sea. It gleamed with a mother-of-pearl sheen unlike any the king had seen before, a gift from one of the nobles who had sought to win his favor with such baubles. By holding it to his ear, just so, he could almost make out the sound of those faraway waters crashing against an unknown shore. So lonely. A haunting symphony.
Gilbert thought as he held his ear up against the open mouth of the wielder that he could just make out such a haunting symphony. But this was instead the echo of undying discord, the howl of a spirit whose torture knew no end.
27
Southern Glacier Mountains
YOR 413, Mid-Autumn
Colder weather encroached as the caravan moved through the high pass, the snow-covered peaks blocking views to the north and south. Deer, antelope, and buffalo grazed in abundance.
Carol had been unable to cast even the simplest of spells since the incident in which she had received the fire brand. What had Hawthorne called it? The Mark of Jaa’dra. She pulled open the collar of her blouse so that she could look at it. Not a scar, but an incredibly detailed elemental self-portrait, almost lifelike. When she allowed herself to study it closely, flames seemingly leapt along the body of the fire elemental, its eyes following hers.
She had been incredibly lucky. Elementals only marked their slaves at the moment of possession. After that, the branded individual was forever lost, in thrall to the being that ruled her mind, a mind forever trapped on the plane of its master. She thought it an adequate description of the deep.
As far as Hawthorne knew, no one had ever been marked with such a brand and retained their own free will. For that reason, the wielder had been very harsh to the cook, the only other person to see the mark before Hawthorne had covered it and carried Carol off to his wagon. The spell the wielder cast wiped all memory of that day from Jock’s mind.
“No one else can be allowed to learn of this,” Hawthorne told her. “If they discover the mark, your own people will believe you are possessed by the elemental, and even I could not blame them. I believed it myself until I found no trace of its influence upon you. What you accomplished in that encounter is impossible.”
She had promised Hawthorne that she would be careful not to allow anyone to see her bare left shoulder. Unfortunately, the mark wasn’t her only symptom from the encounter with Blalock and Jaa’dra. She had developed a mental block that she could not overcome. Every time she tried to cast a spell, the pain she had felt as the flames knifed into her body came crashing back in, destroying her concentration. Hawthorne had tried to help her through the problem but had been frustrated in his attempts.
She glanced up at the wispy white clouds that glazed the sky high above, looking as if strong winds had ripped off small tufts and stretched them like taffy. The day had been mild with only a hint of a breeze, but now gusts whipped the grass and billowed out the canvas. Beneath her blouse, her shoulder throbbed. As she faced out into the chill wind, she had the strangest impression that it bore her malice.
The hexagonal room at the top of Hannington Castle’s tallest tower had six windows through which the afternoon breeze swept in from the west, cooling the perpetual burning in what remained of the left side of Kragan’s face and scalp. In the weeks that had passed since, he had discovered that the daughter of the Endarian Prophecy had been under his nose for more than twenty years.
He had actually seen her fifteen years ago when Rafel had brought his daughter and son to Hannington Castle for a gathering of noble families. But then she’d been only seven and bore little resemblance to the woman she had now become, the same one who haunted his dreams. Through pure dumb luck, he had encountered her when they had both reached out to control Jaa’dra. Kragan had stood on the very brink of killing the woman as Jaa’dra tattooed its flaming elemental mark on her left shoulder. But then she had broken the rules and projected her mind from her body while contesting with an elemental.
Somehow, she had propelled her mind to his body, and Jaa’dra had arrived almost simultaneously, melting away the skin from the left side of Kragan’s face. He recalled the pain, and the memory stoked his hatred.
But before the inferno, before she had projected, Kragan had seen the distant mountains through her eyes. Although the intervening distance and the wards placed around Rafel’s camp prevented him from determining her precise location, he had recognized those peaks. And during the long weeks of Kragan’s recovery, he had calculated how long it would take Rafel’s caravan to climb toward that mountain pass.
Rafel may have stopped along the way to rest and restock his supplies, but Kragan had no doubt that the lord and his followers were now well up into those heights, aiming to get through the high pass before winter set in.
As Kragan looked out to the west, he raised his arms out before him, half of his face twisting. He could not cast a major spell over such vast distances, but he could change the weather pressure here, shifting the flow of air from the frozen seas that lay far to the northwest. And as that wind rushed in across the Glacier Mountains, it would bring an abundance of moisture.
Yes. Winter in the high mountains was about to make an early appearance.
Rafel called an early halt and had the caravan circled in a gentle swale, but it offered little protection from the biting breeze that grew colder by the moment. The rangers returned with packhorses loaded with firewood scavenged from the ridge to their east. The cooks set about lighting fires within the circle. A boy ran up to tell Carol that her father had called a council meeting. The meeting began soon after she arrived at Rafel’s wagon.
“Yes, sir, it looks like we’re in for a real bad one,” Derek said. “The signs are the worst I’ve ever seen. My best guess is that the snow will hit us by midnight. How long it’ll last I don’t know, but if the way the wild animals are acting is any indication, it’s going to be with us for quite a spell. I’m sorry I couldn’t have figured it sooner when we could have had a chance to find some shelter.”
“You did the best you could do,” Rafel said. “Gaar, get your men moving and group the animals in tight. I want every bit of shelter we can get put together before the brunt of the storm hits.”
With those final instructions, everyone moved out to aid in getting the caravan prepared for the coming storm. As nightfall descended, Carol walked around the inner perimeter of the encampment. The wind howled through the caravan, ripping loose canvas that had already been fastened and breaking tie-downs. The workers no longer made significant progress, struggling to just stay even.
She shivered beneath her thick coat. Ice pellets stung her face and rattled against metal pans. She was now forced to lean into the wind to avoid being blown over. A sudden gust knocked Carol sideways just as a scream rose above the wind. She turned toward the sound to see a young boy pinned beneath an overturned wagon. The boy’s mother stood beside him, yelling for help. Rushing to where he lay, she knelt beside the child.
Only the boy’s head and chest stuck out from beneath the wheel, his breath coming in rattling gasps that left a bloody froth dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Several men grabbed the frame and lifted, setting it back up on its wheels. Before they could reach the boy to lift him, Carol restrained them. She couldn’t tell the extent of his internal injuries, but she feared that they were so serious that moving the child might kill him.
“Go get the surgeon,” Carol yelled. One of the men turned and ran off in the direction of the surgeon’s tent. “And get me blankets. Quickly!”
She gra
bbed the covers as they were brought and carefully wrapped them around the small boy.
“It’s okay,” she said soothingly as a moan escaped from his lips. “We’re here with you. You’re going to be just fine.”
The boy’s eyes remained wide but relaxed just a little at the sound of her voice.
Another gust of wind rocked the wagon.
“Come on!” one of the men yelled. “Get the damned thing staked down.”
Carol felt a large hand on her shoulder and turned to see Kelvin, the surgeon, motion for her to let him kneel in her place. Moving aside, she shifted up to stroke the boy’s head.
“What’s his name?” the surgeon asked as he removed the blankets and began to methodically examine the boy’s injuries.
“Will,” the weeping mother managed. “His name is Will.”
Another gasp escaped the boy’s lips, where fresh blood had begun to freeze at the corners of his mouth.
“Take it easy now, Will,” Kelvin said. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll have you fixed up good as new before you know it.”
Hawthorne arrived and provided a magical light for the surgeon to work by. After several minutes, Kelvin informed them that it was okay to move the boy, but that he would need to be placed carefully on a stretcher. This was quickly constructed by folding blankets over two long poles. Finally, the men moved the child onto the stretcher and carried him off to the field surgery wagon, accompanied by Kelvin and his mother.
Carol didn’t have long to worry about the child. As she watched him being carried into one wagon, the top was blown off another. Men scrambled to hold down ropes while others worked with hammers and stakes. The ice pellets gave way to sheets of blowing snow so dense that Carol lost sight of the cook fires. Struggling against the wind, she made her way across the compound until she bumped up against the roped-off corral. She gasped. It was so cold that her lungs felt as if steel straps constricted her chest.
She worked her way counterclockwise around the caravan’s innermost circle. The lurching of the wagons in the wind scared her, but not as much as the numbing cold. If it was this bad inside the inner circle, what must it be like on one of the outer vehicles?
Lifting the flap of Hawthorne’s wagon, she ducked inside. The old wielder had arranged himself on a pallet and appeared to be deep in meditation. She was about to leave the wagon to avoid disturbing him when he spoke.
“Come in, Carol,” Hawthorne said. “I have been preparing myself for the task that lies ahead.”
“You look exhausted,” she said. “You need rest.”
“It’ll have to wait for another day,” Hawthorne said, shaking his head so that his long beard wagged. A fresh gust of wind shook the bed, sending snow swirling in through the flap. The candle wavered, but remained lit. “Do you hear what is going on out there?”
“Hear it? I was just out in it. I didn’t think I was going to find my way to you.”
“It’s going to get worse,” the wielder said. “Much worse. This storm is not natural. I feel Blalock’s hand in this.”
“What? That’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid it is. Listen to me. I want you to go to your father. Tell him to erect shelters inside the perimeter, where people can huddle together. In an hour, I am going to begin casting the spells that I hope will enable us to survive this storm.
“I am going to partially block the wind from entering the perimeter while I work to keep the fires going. During the remainder of the storm, no one can be allowed to disturb me unless I am taking a rest. I’m going to need every bit of concentration I can muster to maintain the spells.”
“But you can’t do it by yourself. Let me help you. Draw upon my strength as you did before.”
“I’ve tried. I can’t penetrate the blockage you have erected inside your mind. Right now, I need you to do as I ask. Go on.”
Carol nodded and crawled back out into the storm. It was now so dark that she could only see the faint glow of the fires visible as halos through the swirling snow. Stumbling blindly forward, she reached her father’s tent, finding him and Gaar inside.
She informed her father of Hawthorne’s intentions. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Rafel signaled to Gaar and the warrior plunged from the tent to disappear in the direction of the rangers and the makeshift corral. Carol started to follow him, but her father restrained her.
“Let Gaar do his job while I meet with my commanders. I need you to visit each family and spread the knowledge of what is about to happen. Nobody is to be allowed outside the perimeter unless I or Gaar order it.”
Carol took a deep breath and once again stepped out into the storm. By the time she finished telling all the families what would be done, Gaar and the rangers had moved the remainder of the horses and other animals inside the circle of wagons and had roped off corrals away from the scores of cook fires.
The cooks were having a terrible time trying to keep the fires going, and she believed that they would have gone out had not Hawthorne’s spells kicked in. Suddenly, the wind died down to a gentle breeze within the compound and the fires flared high, accompanied by a great cheer from the entire caravan. But the exuberance did not last long. Despite the easing of the wind, the cold was dreadful, and the snow continued to fall heavily. Half a foot of the powdery stuff already covered the ground, with occasional three-foot drifts.
Long after midnight, with feet that felt like blocks of ice, Carol stumbled back to her wagon. She found Jake and Lucy sound asleep, wrapped in a pile of blankets and coats in the bed. She pulled off her wet parka and boots, then crawled into the pile with them.
Despite the number of blankets and the body heat of the two others, the cold seeped in wherever her weight mashed the sleeping pallet flat against the wood floor. No amount of rearranging seemed to make the slightest improvement in this situation. She eventually managed to get some sleep by rolling over whenever the side that was down became too chilled.
When Carol awoke, she was unsure of the time. From the cracks between the canvas flaps she saw a dim, cold daylight. She poked her head farther out of the covers and then, like a frightened turtle, pulled it back in. If such a thing was possible, the morning was even colder than last night. Not hearing anyone calling for her to get up, Carol closed her eyes and dozed off once again. She did not awaken until Jake crawled out of the blanket mountain.
“G-g-g-good m-morning, Lorness,” Jake said. “I thought I would get a cup of hot coffee. Can I bring back an extra for you?”
“I need to get up and out myself. The coffee would be cold before you could get it back here, anyway. Is it still snowing outside?”
Jake lifted the flap a little. “Just barely, but jeesh, it’s waist-deep where it hasn’t drifted. Outside the circle, I see some drifts even taller than the top of our wagons.”
Carol shivered, then summoned her courage and struggled out from under the covers. “Aaah. This coat is frozen. I hope I can get close enough to the fire to thaw it out.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jake. “I’ll muscle open a path for you if I have to.”
Her laugh produced little puffs of condensed breath that changed to tiny snow particles. Her laughter ceased when she learned the state of her boots. The wet leather was stiff as a board, causing great difficulty when she attempted to slide her feet into the boots. She cursed her thoughtlessness in not sleeping with her boots under the blankets to let them remain warm and dry from her body heat.
She lifted Hawthorne’s canvas flap and peered inside. She gasped. Her mentor sat cross-legged on a small pallet in the center of the bed. His gray hair and beard were frosted white, and the skin of his face had gray patches where frostbite had begun to set in. Carol crawled inside the wagon, moving up beside the wielder, trying to avoid producing any additional distraction that might break his concentration. Beads of sweat stood out on Hawthorne’s brow, and some of these had run down his face, forming little icicles in his eyebrows. His eyes stared off into the distance
, focused on the unseen elemental with which he contended.
Assailed by panic, Carol sucked in a deep breath. How long had her old friend been like this? The thought that the wielder would have his concentration so occupied that he would be unable to keep himself warm had never crossed her mind. She cursed herself as she set to work, gently wrapping blankets around him.
As she worked, the desire to attempt to fight through her mental blocks to magically warm Hawthorne grew unbearable. She seated herself and began the centering meditation. Her mind focused on her body, relaxing its parts one by one before turning inward. Suddenly fire exploded in her left shoulder, searing her brain with agony.
She clenched her teeth to prevent the scream that built inside her from bursting through. Then the agony was gone. Tears welled in Carol’s eyes as she stared down at her left shoulder. The fire and pain were only a memory.
Returning to Hawthorne’s side, she stared into his haggard face. She wept silently in worry and frustration, then wiped away her tears and crawled back out of the wagon. Past the guard and toward the cook fires, Carol pushed her way through the deep snow. She signaled to the two cooks who were busy preparing hot soup.
“Gerald, Sam. I want you to get several large kettles and fill them with hot stones. These are to be brought to Hawthorne as soon as they’re ready. Set them inside his wagon as quietly as you can. I want them replaced hourly. Pass the word to the other cooks. Do you understand?”
The two cooks nodded their heads, but she made them repeat the instructions she had given them. She also made sure that they understood that she wanted the other cooks to repeat the instructions aloud when they changed shifts. Then she made her way to her father’s command tent, disappointed to find it empty. She stopped and looked around.
Mark of Fire (The Endarian Prophecy Book 1) Page 23
