Frostfell w-4 Read online

  "Fourtee-ee-een!" Walloch roared.

  The sound of someone running through the thick brush grew louder.

  Walloch nudged Amira with the tip of his blade. "Seems he can count after all. Maybe we forget the cutting and get to the other, eh?

  Teach you a lesson. Maybe I let the others have turns and make your son watch."

  The sounds of running feet came very loud now, perhaps amplified by the thick mist. Sick to her stomach, Amira forced her blood-caked eye open and watched. The raven cawed and cawed and cawed.

  A figured emerged from the mist.

  It wasn't Jalan. It was one of the men Walloch sent out-the one who'd held the hounds. His companion was nowhere to be seen, nor were the hounds.

  "Iquai?" said Walloch, seemingly more confused than angry.

  "Where's my dogs, you worthless-?"

  The man fell to his knees, one hand gripping his side and one hand holding on to the Nar for support. Even from several paces away, Amira caught the stench. The man had soiled himself. He twisted to one side, turning toward the torchlight, and Amira saw blood leaking between his fingers at his side. The Nar pushed the man away and he fell. An arrow-wood so pale as to be almost white but with fletching black as a raven's wing-stood out from the man's back. The man tried to speak but could not gather his breath.

  "What-?" Walloch's jaw opened, shut, then opened again. He seemed more stunned than angry.

  The breeze that had been whispering out of the north suddenly picked up to a full wind, setting the branches to rustling and stretching the mists into thin tendrils that fled like ghosts between the trunks. A pale, horned moon peeked through autumn-bare branches and bathed the little hollow in silver light.

  A dozen paces or so behind the dying Iquai, standing just outside the shadow of a large tree, Amira saw two shapes. One was a man, tall and thick with muscle, his black hair corded in a long braid. He held a bow in one hand-not the short bows of the Tuigan, suited for loosing from a saddle, but a long horn bow at least a pace and a half in length. Standing to his left was another figure, his hair white as snow, bits of pale skin peeking out amid sinuous tattoos, but he was dressed like his companion in leathers and animal skins. The pale-haired one held a sword in one hand, single-edged and slightly curved near the end. Overhead, the cawing of the raven ceased.

  "Release the woman," said the man. His voice held no anger, no threat. It was simply cold and unyielding.

  "And who are you?" asked Walloch.

  The newcomers said nothing.

  "You feathered my man here, eh?" said Walloch, motioning with his sword at Iquai.

  Still the newcomers stood silent.

  "You an elf?" asked one of the Tuigan, motioning to the figure behind the large newcomer.

  The pale-haired newcomer didn't look at the man who'd spoken. He kept his gaze on Walloch. Amira studied him more closely. His hair flowing in the wind seemed gossamer fine. In the merging light from the moon and torches, Amira could see ears that curved upward into sharp points. An elf. He glanced at her, for an instant only, but in that moment the torchlight caught in his eyes and they shone like embers. After first entering the Wastes so many tendays ago, she and her companions had camped on the open steppe. Wolves had come in close to the camp one night. The Cormyreans and their guides had kept the fires going, and the light from the flames reflected back from the wolves' eyes-exactly as they did from the elf's now.

  "That's a vildonrat," said the other Tuigan. His eyes were wide, and even in the dim light, Amira could see his knees were trembling.

  "Vildonrat?" Walloch smirked. "What's that? That mean 'pale elf' or something?"

  "Your Tuigan sellswords have thick tongues," said the tall man.

  "He is Vil Adanrath."

  The Tuigan tensed and exchanged nervous glances. One lowered his blade and took a step back.

  "Vil Adanrath?" said Walloch. "What's that mean, eh?"

  "It means you'd be wise not to anger him."

  "Piss on you and the vildonrat," said Walloch. "Off with you both, or you'll join the wench. I could get a good price for you, big one.

  You'd make a fine pit fighter, I think."

  A crackle of leaves and branches, and Walloch turned to see all but one of his Tuigan men running away. He now stood with only one Tuigan, the Nar, and the two men holding Amira.

  "Jodai, what's the meaning of this? Your men just lost their promised gold!"

  The remaining Tuigan swallowed hard, his gaze still fixed on the elf. "Keep your gold, Walloch. We'll keep our blood. Only fools anger the vildonrat." The Tuigan sheathed his blade, bowed to the pale elf, then turned and fled after his fellows.

  "Damned cowards!" Walloch called after them. "Keep your blood! Ha!

  Forget your gold, you bastards! You'll lose your blood, too, next time I see you!"

  The two men holding Amira looked after the Tuigan, but the Nar kept his eyes on the newcomers.

  "Go after them," said the tall man. "Leave the woman and go. We'll take care of your friend holding my arrow."

  "Piss on him!" said Walloch. "And you! You know who I am?"

  "You're a slaver. The caravan trails are thick with them this time of year."

  "I am Walloch! Battlemage and master of the arcane arts of Raumathar!"

  The tall man raised his head and sniffed. "You smell like a slaver."

  Walloch stiffened, puffed out his chest, and took a step closer to Amira. He raised the point of his rapier toward her. "Maybe I kill her first, then you, eh? This is no ordinary blade, my friend. I pulled this from the corpse of a great wizard that died hundreds of years before your whore of a mother first sold herself to your father."

  The tall man glanced at Amira, then said, "Durja! Aniq, Durja!"

  "Mingan! Aniq, Mingan!"

  Amira jumped, for it was the pale elf who spoke, his voice both light and cold.

  "What's that, eh?" said Walloch, and Amira could hear fear and anger in the slaver's voice. "What's that you're saying?"

  Amira saw the tall man's grip tighten on his bow. Walloch must have seen it, too, for his sword arm stiffened, aiming the point of his blade at them.

  "Enough of this!" said Walloch. "Sil-!"

  A black shadow struck the slaver's arm. Amira heard the harsh shriek of a raven mingle with Walloch's own shout of surprise. An instant later the man at her right gasped, squeezed her arm so hard that he tore skin, then released her and fell. An arrow protruded from the juncture of his throat and shoulder. His heels hammered the earth as he jerked at the arrow, and he began to shriek.

  "Silo'at!" said Walloch.

  Amira heard a crackling hiss. She looked up in time to see a funnel of frost spew from Walloch's blade and envelop the trees and brush-but the tall man and the elf were nowhere to be seen.

  "Get him!" Walloch roared. "Kill that son of a whore! Now! Now!"

  "In the dark?" said the Nar. "You're mad!"

  Snarling, Walloch pointed his sword at a large tree. "Kelenta!" he shouted, and a sparkling orb, no larger than a pebble, shot out from the tip of his sword. It tumbled and grew in size as it flew, seeming to feed on the air itself until it grew to a huge ball of fire that struck the tree full force. The autumn-bare branches exploded, and the entire tree became a great torch, lighting up the night. Amira flinched and looked away. The blinding light lanced right through her skull.

  "There!" said Walloch. "Now get them!"

  Something whipped past Amira's face, so close that she felt the wind of its passage, then the man holding her left arm screamed and released her. Amira sat down hard and found herself looking at the man, who shrieked as he yanked at the pale shaft of an arrow protruding from between his ribs. Amira was looking right at him when the second arrow struck him just below the chin.

  Amira's numbness snapped, and she lunged for the dagger at the dead man's belt even as he hit the ground.

  "Kill her!" Walloch shouted.

  The bonds were so tight that she could barely feel her fingers
, but she forced them to grasp the hilt of the dagger and pull it free.

  She turned to see the dark silhouette of the Nar bearing down upon her. Pale moonlight flickered down the length of his blade. He pulled back to strike- A gray shadow, swift and silent, hit the man, and both went down.

  Amira stared dumbfounded. A wolf had taken the Nar's sword arm in its jaws. The wolf shook its head, rending and tearing flesh, its growling so low that Amira felt it in her gut more than she heard it.

  The Nar screamed and dropped his sword. His free hand fumbled for the long knife belted at his waist.

  Walloch charged, heading straight for the wolf with his sword held high.

  "Mingan!" called a voice. "Mingan, ikwe! Ikwe!"

  The wolf released the Nar, turned, and fled into the safety of the woods.

  The tall man stood at the top of the gully, drawn bow in hand, the burning tree a great bonfire at his back. Amira had to squint against the bright light, but she could just make out the pale elf coming from behind the cover of the brush a few paces behind the bowman.

  "Kill that bukhla!" Walloch pointed at Amira while facing the two assailants. "I'll finish these two!"

  The Nar's sword arm was a mangled wreck, and a steady stream of blood dripped from the tips of his fingers, but his other hand held his knife steady. Three steps forward and he swiped at Amira, aiming high for her throat. Still on her knees and bound as she was, Amira's balance was limited. She fell back, and the tip of the Nar's knife just kissed the tip of her nose. She followed through with her fall, rolling, and brought both feet around. Hard as she could, she brought both heels up into the fork of the Nar's legs. He cried out, his eyes squeezed shut- An arrow struck him in the side of the neck. It went all the way through, one side all pale wood and black feathers, the other a solid wetness that gleamed black. The man fell on his back, and he began to buck and kick and pound the earth with his fists. Amira could hear him trying to scream, but it came out a bubbling gurgle, then a cough that sprayed a fine mist of blood over his torso.

  Amira forced herself to look away. Her head swam, and for a moment all went dark, but she took a deep breath, and the bright glow of the dying tree returned. No more than five paces away, Walloch stood, his sword pointing at the newcomers-the bowman still standing against the light as he reached for another arrow; the elf passing him and descending the slope-while Walloch's other hand clutched at something hanging round his neck. Over the roar of the flames and the thrashings of the dying men. Amira could hear the slaver muttering an incantation.

  The bowman drew feather to cheek and loosed-Walloch screamed,

  "Thranek thritis!" — the arrow fell, straight and true, but the slaver didn't move, didn't even flinch. The point struck Walloch in the forehead, she heard a sharp clack! like the snapping of bone, and the arrow bounced away.

  Walloch laughed. "My turn-Silo'at!"

  Frost swirled out from the slaver's sword. The pale elf had to dive and roll to avoid being struck. Another arrow bounced harmlessly off Walloch.

  Amira gripped the dagger and pushed herself to her feet. Agony exploded in her head; she could feel tendrils of pain running down her spine and into her limbs. Darkness threatened to crush her again, but she breathed deep and pushed it back. She knew the spell the slaver was using. The bowman could loose his entire quiver to no effect, but the magic would do little against her steel if she could get close enough.

  "Silo'at!"

  Amira looked up to see the elf diving out of harm's way again.

  Walloch's spells were pushing him away. The tall man had dropped the bow and was holding something long in one hand-with the fire so bright behind him, Amira couldn't tell if it was sword or club. "Let's try something else, eh?" said Walloch. He wove his free hand in an intricate pattern, then swept his sword at his feet, almost as if he were slicing underbrush. "Sobirith remma!" Flame roared to life before the slaver and spread to each side of him as if fed by oil, forming a wall of fire between him and his foes. Amira took a step forward, then another. Careful as she was, it felt as if each step hammered a spike into her skull. She clenched her jaw, struggling to breathe through her nose, but still a hoarse cry escaped her throat. Walloch turned to her. Backlit as he was by the fire, she could not read his features.

  Desperate, she lunged, but he caught her bound wrists almost lazily and turned the blade aside. He brought his sword around and planted the point in her stomach. "Seems I won't have time for you after all, beluglit, but know this"-he leaned in close over his sword-"I'm still going to find your son." He thrust. Amira cried out. Through her pain, through the roar of the flames, she heard the blade puncture the muscles over her stomach. Then Walloch whispered, "Silo'at."

  CHAPTER TWO

  North of the Lake of Mists in the lands of the Khassidi

  "Worthless sons of whores, the lot of them! I see them again, I'll take their skins to wipe my arse!" Walloch raged through the camp, slapping with the flat of his blade at anything that got in his way.

  Several kettles on tripods fell before his wrath. Dogs scurried to get out of his way. One goat tied to a tent post was not so lucky and received two slaps and a kick for daring to be tied in front of Walloch as he paced the camp. Dremas the Thayan, Walloch's second-in-command, followed silently at a distance, ready to heed his master's command but otherwise content to let the wizard rage. He'd been with the wizard long enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.

  "How many?" Walloch turned to look at Dremas, fury still in his eyes.

  "How many, Master?" "How many of those worthless Tuigan curs are left?" Walloch looked around the camp, and Dremas followed his gaze.

  The slaves they'd captured on the raid were still tied in the center of camp, watched over by two Nars and one ugly brute that Dremas suspected had more than a little orc blood in him. Leather yurts and a few canvas tents lay scattered among the grass, scrub brush, and few trees, and the handful of horses the Tuigan had left behind were still picketed and under guard. Not a single Tuigan remained in camp, and three of the other men had left with them. "Faithless, lying bastards." Walloch spat and sheathed his sword. Much of the heat had gone from his voice. "Did they take anything?" "Only what they brought with them, Master." Walloch shook his head, muttered a final,

  "Bastards!" then raised his voice to carry throughout the camp. "Good riddance! More gold for us, eh, men?" Several cheers answered him.

  "Dremas!" "Yes, Master?" "Gather the hounds, torches, and…"

  Walloch looked around again. "How many men do we have left?" "In camp, fifteen, Master. The Khassidi were out scouting, but I fear that if the other Tuigan got word to them, we won't see them again."

  "Bastards," Walloch said through clenched teeth, then shrugged. "Can't be helped, eh? I want three men left to guard the horses and two the prisoners. If they get out of line, kill a few till they're down to a more respectable number-the prisoners, not the horses. Get those damned hounds and torches ready. The rest of us are going hunting."

  "Yes, Master." Dremas turned to obey, his mouth open to begin issuing orders, when every animal in camp went skittish. The horses began to pull at their hobbles, snort, and strain at the ropes round their necks. The goats bleated and kicked. The hunting hounds in the pens tried to howl, but with their cut vocal cords it came out a long rasp.

  The curs roaming through the camp sniffed at the air, whined, and ran out of camp as fast as they could, heedless even of campfires in their path. "What-?" said Dremas, then stopped. The air had gone bitter cold. Not the crisp chill of autumn in the Wastes. A frigid, bone-breaking cold seized the air, as if the very dead of winter had come to the steppe, quick as the stopping of a heart. "Oh, no," said Walloch, and his breath came out in a cloud that hung in the air a moment before it froze and fell to the ground. "M-master?" "Silence!" said Walloch. Darkness pressed down upon the camp, and even the fires seemed to shrink and cling to their coals. Nothing moved. Everyone sat or stood frozen, as if afraid to move. It was then that Dremas reali
zed he was afraid, though he could not say why. An unreasoning terror had seized him, and he found himself shivering. The riffling of the breeze through the grasses and the crackle of the campfires struck his ears as too loud, and in his mind Dremas urged them to hush. Then he heard it-something moving in the dark. Footfalls, unhurried and deliberate. He saw them-pale forms walking toward the camp, and something dark behind them, almost like a bit of night blown by the wind. The pale figures, five of them, walked into the camp with the easy gait of tigers, the subdued light from the fires washing over them. They were men, but their skin was pale as snow, and their hair-every man wore it long and unbound-ranged from frost white to the silver sheen of starlight on ice. Their clothes were an assortment of leather and skins, the edges lined with fur. Every man had a long knife belted at his waist and a quiver full of barbed throwing spears on his back. Four had short swords in leather scabbards, but one carried a double-headed battle axe. Dremas thought he saw runes carved into the haft. The belt the man wore across his chest was made from braided scalps. "Sossrim!" someone whispered behind Dremas. "Nai," said Gegin, who was from Damara, where people often traded with the Sossrim. "Those be Aikulen Jain. Frost Folk. Damn us all, we should have gone with the Tuigan." Behind his back, Dremas made the sign to ward off evil. He'd never been farther north than Nathoud, and even he had heard of the Frost Folk. People said they drank the blood of their captives and sacrificed to the ancient devils of Raumathar, who granted them sorcerous powers. Dremas looked to Walloch. What had the wizard gotten them into? "Greetings, my friends!" said Walloch, throwing his arms open wide. Walloch's voice was warm, cheerful, but Dremas could hear he was forcing it. "I did not expect you so soon. I would have prepared a feast to welcome you." The Frost Folk said nothing. The leader glanced at Walloch but did not otherwise acknowledge his words. He and his comrades spread out so that they faced Walloch in a wide semicircle. They did not look at Walloch, nor at any one thing in particular. Rather they glanced throughout the camp, taking in their surroundings very much as if they were guests invited to a strange home. Dremas shuddered as their gaze passed over him, and his bladder suddenly felt very full. At first Dremas thought a wisp of fog had risen and was billowing into camp, but then he saw another figure passing through the yurts. Dremas could make out no distinct features, for the walker was swathed head to toe in robes the color of cold ash. A cloak of the same hue covered his robes, topped by a hood too deep for the light to penetrate. The cloaked one glanced neither right nor left, but came straight for Walloch. The man stopped a few paces before Walloch, who bowed before the newcomer. "Greetings, my lord." "I come to fulfill the covenant," said the cloaked man.