Frostfell

CHAPTER THREE

The woods north of the Lake of Mists in the lands of the Khassidi

Jalan huddled in the hollow of a rotted-out log and tried to still his breathing. The pounding of his heart was so loud in his ears that he could hear nothing else. Full night had fallen. Jalan had always possessed extraordinary eyesight even in the dark. He'd heard it whispered among Amira's family that he had elf blood… or worse. But down this close to the lake, the mists were thick off the water, and he was as blind as a newborn pup. Inside the log, he could smell nothing but the sweet resin scent of wet bark and rot. His ears were his best hope at hearing Amira coming for him orHe swallowed a sob. He dare not think about that. He'd heard the slaver shouting for him, but he ran and ran and ran till he couldn't hear him anymore. He'd crossed another rise, then fell into a creek and down it, hoping the water would hide his scent from Walloch's hounds. He'd thought he heard a distant shout, a scream of surprise-terror almost-chopped off, then silence. And so Jalan ran again until he came to the lake. Shrouded by the mists that gave the lake its name, he ran headlong into it, only stopping when he was splashing up to his knees. As his heart slowed and his breath steadied, his teeth began to chatter. Autumn had not yet left the land, but out here in the Wastes, nights came cold early in the season and winter often fell fast. He doubted that it would get cold enough to kill him, but without a fire… Jalan held his breath and listened. The breeze set the branches rattling like thousands of cold bones, and the faint rippling of the lake kept time, but there was something else. A quick snuffling that came and went. Jalan clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from rattling. There it was again.

At first he thought it was hushed laughter, and his panicked mind conjured images of something cold and hungry creeping down from the trees, madness in its eyes, but then he recognized it for what it was.

Sniffing. Something was sniffing through the trees and headed right for him. Jalan scrunched down into the log, wincing at the noise he made. The sniffing stopped. The near darkness just outside his hollowed hiding place moved. Jalan fought the urge to cover his face.

He stared, willing his eyes to drink in the meager light. Something was there. Although Jalan could make out no features, he could feel it-something large that kept low to the ground-watching him. It moved again, startling Jalan, but then it was gone. Jalan heard it padding back into the darkness. He took a cautious breath, confident that he had escaped certain doom, when a voice said, "Boy?" Quiet as he could, Jalan fumbled about, searching for some sort of weapon-a rock, a stick, anything-but his fingers found only moss and the wet ashy feel of old rot. "Boy, I know you are in the log," said the voice. It was not Walloch, nor any of the other slavers. Jalan had never heard this voice before. A man's voice, though light of timbre. Jalan could easily imagine the speaker singing. The accent was careful, precise, and Jalan suspected that Common was not his native tongue. "You need not fear me," the voice said. "My brother and I saved your mother, but she is hurt. My brother has taken her to a friend. Come. I will take you to her." Jalan saw movement again, only this time the lighter shade of darkness was not low to the ground like the first shape, but standing like a man. "Will you not come out? Are you hurt?" "I'm cold," said Jalan. "Then come out, and we shall find a fire." "How do I know you aren't lying?" "If I wanted to harm you, I could have done so by now." Jalan did not move. "I… saw something. Before you came." "Where?" "Right where you're standing," said Jalan. "Only lower to the ground." "You have an elf's sight to see so well in the dark," said the man. Jalan could hear the smile in his voice. "What did I see?" "You saw it. Not I. Will you come out, or shall you ask me questions till morning? Either you stand, or I shall sit." Jalan stood.

Holding Jalan by the hand, the newcomer led them up the slope away from the water. They topped a low bluff. The wind was stronger up here, a biting breeze out of the north that pushed back the mists, and in the moonlight that fell between the trees Jalan got his first look at his rescuer. He was not a man at all but an elf, only slightly taller than Jalan but built of a leaner strength. Sinuous tattoos covered his body, but the skin between them shone almost white in the moonlight, and his hair was the silver of starlight on clear water.

Despite the cold, he wore only a wraparound loincloth and shoes made of some animal hide. "How did you know I was out here?" asked Jalan.

"We ran across some slavers with hounds. And we heard their master shouting for a boy." "My name is Jalan." "I am called Lendri." "I didn't know there were elves in the Wastes." Lendri said nothing. He led Jalan east, skirting the lake. Their trail occasionally dipped back into banks of fog in the shallow valleys and back out again on higher ridges. In the woods, Jalan heard small animals in the brush, and twice he heard the screech of an owl. "How much farther?" Jalan asked after they'd walked for a league or more by Jalan's guess. "We must pass four more coves, though I doubt we'll see them in the fog.

Past the fourth, a stream enters the lake. At the mouth of the stream is a great rock jutting out of the lake. An island. Your mother is there." "She isn't my mother." Lendri frowned at that but said no more. They descended an easy slope and re-entered the mists. Halfway through, Lendri stopped. "What-?" asked Jalan. "Shh!" Lendri released Jalan's hand and crouched, listening, his ear canted into the breeze.

Jalan was about to ask what the elf had heard when he noticed the change in temperature. It was a cold night, and he had been quite chilled sitting wet inside the log. The brisk walk had warmed him, but the air had suddenly gone frigid. The mists in which they stood hardened and fell to the ground in a shower of crystals, leaving Lendri and Jalan standing in the wooded valley, Jalan's dark form against the pale shape of the elf, surrounded by shafts of moonlight and the stark shadows of the trees. Jalan's breath emerged in small clouds that hung before him an instant before they, too, solidified and fell to his feet. Under the crescent moon and starlight Jalan could see quite well, though the trees and underbrush were thick. He could hear little but the sighing of the wind, but as he watched he caught sight of pale forms coming at them from the north. Behind them, weaving through the trees like a living shadow, something darker walked. The hair on the back of Jalan's neck stood stiff. He could taste something foul on the wind. The elf turned and looked at Jalan.

His face was in shadow, but Jalan heard the fear in his voice. "Skirt the lake till you come to the stream, then make for the island. Run, boy! Run!"

Arzhan Island, the Lake of Mists in the lands of the Khassidi When Gyaidun entered the camp, the belkagen was sitting close to the fire and sipping from a wooden bowl, his gaze fixed on the woman who still slept beside him. The belkagen had removed her mud- and blood-soaked clothes and wrapped her in elkhides. He had cleaned and dressed her wounds-the blow to her head had bled profusely, and her right eye was swollen shut. Durja, Gyaidun's raven, was nowhere to be seen. Most likely he'd found a nice spot in one of the trees to sleep.

It had been a busy evening. The belkagen didn't look up as Gyaidun crouched beside him and placed the rolled hide on the ground. Gyaidun was scratched and covered in dirt up to his elbows, with grime under his fingernails from digging for roots. He untied the leather cord binding the hare hide and spread it before the belkagen, revealing an assortment of herbs, roots, chechek stems, and a thick bundle of moss.

"How is she?" The belkagen swallowed and placed his cup before the fire. "The wizard's spell froze her wounds. In trying to kill her, he kept her alive long enough for you to get her here. If she survives the night, she will live, I think. The plants you found will help her." "I found everything you asked for," said Gyaidun. "Well done. If you would be so good as to boil some water, I will do the rest."

Gyaidun took the iron cauldron from the belkagen's small bundle of supplies and went down to the lake. The north wind that had started during the confrontation with the slaver still had not abated, and it whispered cold at Gyaidun's back as he filled the cauldron. He returned to camp, set the tripod over the fire, hung the cauldron, and stirred the fire. "Is there anything else I-?" A howl cut him off. It was part call and part cry of defiance, primal and savage. Twice it wafted from the darkness northward, then once again, mixed with anger and pain. "Lendri!" said Gyaidun. "Go to him!" said the belkagen. "I cannot leave the girl." Gyaidun grabbed his club-a black iron rod with woven leather for a handle, thicker on the far end, and nearly the length of his arm-and bounded off. He splashed through the lake-the island was only a few dozen paces offshore and the water never reached higher than mid-thigh-and was running full-speed by the time he entered the woods. The howling had stopped, but the direction from which it had come was fixed in his mind. The chill wind had blown the mists southward, and the moon, thin as it was, rode high in the sky.

Gyaidun's blood-bond with Lendri had bestowed upon him many talents and skills that other humans did not possess, and his keen eyes caught even the meager moon and starlight. His long strides ate up the distance, and he made no attempt at stealth, breaking through bushes and shattering low tree branches as he ran. A mile or so from the lake he heard another howl. Different from the first call, this was obviously the call of a wolf. Gyaidun knew it well-Mingan's call for help. He followed the signal, weaving through the trees and leaping small streams, the lake always off to his left. He'd followed the howling for almost a mile before finding the wolf. The wolf stood on a boulder in a small clearing, the Lake of Mists sparkling in the moonlight only a few hundred paces away. "Mingan," whispered Gyaidun.

"Alet, Mingan!" The wolf ran to Gyaidun, a pale shadow in the moonlight. Gyaidun crouched and let the wolf lick his hands and face in greeting. A dark wetness covered Mingan from his snout almost to his ears, and Gyaidun smelled blood. "Lendri," said Gyaidun. "Where is Lendri, Mingan?" At the mention of their friend's name, the wolf's ears twitched and he whined. "Lendri," said Gyaidun. "Wutheh Lendri."

The wolf bounded off and Gyaidun followed, away from the lake and slightly westward. They crested the small rise, descended the next hollow, and Gyaidun smelled it-a crisp scent that nipped at his nostrils. It took him a moment to realize what it was: frost. The leaves on which he and Mingan trod crackled and broke, brittle where they had been sodden and soft only a few paces behind. Gyaidun followed the wolf to a spot where the trees grew close together. Thick brush covered the roots of the trees, and every branch was rimmed in a pale skin of ice. Mingan plunged into the brush, leaving a small cloudburst of snow in his wake. Gyaidun followed, pushing his way through the clinging branches. The roots of the trees spread out in a large bowl. Lendri lay on a bed of leaves, huddled in a fetal position, his wolf standing over him. Little of his pale skin showed, for he was painted in blood. The stench of it filled Gyaidun's head as he knelt beside his friend. "Lendri!" Gyaidun felt him. The elf's flesh was cold, but only from exposure to the surrounding frost. He was still alive. Gyaidun tried to pull his friend's arms back, but Lendri's muscles were locked tight. The elf groaned and stirred. "No," he whispered. "Bleed… again." "I need to get a look at your wounds." Lendri swallowed and pulled his hands back. He'd been holding a fistful of leaves and mud to his side. It was now a sodden mess of blood. "They… had swords," said Lendri. "One stabbed me. Deep." "I need to get you back to the belkagen," said Gyaidun. He began scooping up fistfuls of the largest leaves he could find. He'd fill the wound with mud, then overlay it with leaves to help keep the elf from bleeding to death on the way back to the island. It might cause the wound to fester, but if he didn't get Lendri to the belkagen soon, the elf would be dead from blood loss anyway. The belkagen could deal with infection if he could first heal whatever was cut inside him, if Gyaidun could get him there in time, if moving him didn't kill him, if, if, if… The mud and leaves were cold, numbing Gyaidun's hands.

He remembered the slaver's sword and how frost had burst from it at his command. "They… took the boy," said Lendri. "I tried. Too many … of them." "You have to try to stay awake, Lendri," said Gyaidun.

"I can carry you, but you'll need to hold this to your wound. I'll deal with the slaver later. Get the boy back and bash that slaver bastard's head in. Damn me for not following him when I had the chance!" "Not the slaver," said Lendri. He winced and sucked in a sharp breath as Gyaidun scraped the old mud off and applied a fresh coat. "Siksin Neneweth. Five of them. And… something else.

Something foul and… cold. Ah, I'm… so cold."