Frostfell

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Endless Wastes The land lay on the verge of true darkness when the lone guard saw them. They came from the west-a dozen ghostlike shapes only slightly darker than the surrounding snow. Still crouching in the shadow of the great rock, the guard took a wooden pipe out of his belt pouch and put it to his lips. He blew a long note that rose and fell with the wind.

The nearest of the approaching shapes stopped. The guard stood and stepped out of the shadows. He waved his spear in three wide arcs. The figures resumed their run, and by the time full dark had fallen they had gathered around the rock-twelve winter wolves and eight Frost Folk riding. Their leader brought his mount forward until he towered over the guard. Steam from the great beast's breath enveloped the guard in an icy cloud. "We have come," said the new arrival. "To where does the master call us?" The deepest shadow under the great rock moved. It stood, a tall man wearing the tattered remains of an ash-gray cloak and cowl. Snow and frost clung to him, and there was no warmth in his breath to cloud before him. He stepped forward until he stood beside the guard. The winter wolf before them let out a small whine and took several steps backward, its ears low and its tail between its legs.

"To Winterkeep," said the sorcerer. "We go to Winterkeep."

Sitting before the meager fire, Jalan curled up next to her, Amira gripped her new staff as she studied its runes. She'd never seen their like, and she had studied most of the languages of Faer?n, both ancient and modern, living and dead. Still, there was something familiar about them, something she felt she ought to recognize. It nagged at her, just as the staff itself seemed to… to sing to her.

It was not unlike the times she'd lulled Jalan to sleep as a baby with a lullaby-oftentimes nonsense words where the sound and melody were more important than the meaning. Something within the staff spoke to her like that-not in words or even meaning, but in a deeper co

She heard movement and looked up to see a pale elf sitting down across the fire from her. At first she thought it was Lendri, but it was not.

In his exile, Lendri had collected various bits of other cultures upon his person. His clothes and supplies showed he had traveled among half the peoples of the Wastes, but the one before her now was all Vil Adanrath, dressed only in leathers and the fur of various animals. His hair was wild and free, and though it was now sprinkled with snow, still it drank in the firelight and seemed to glow with its own warmth. "I am Leren," said the elf, speaking each word with careful precision. He held his palms open before him and offered a small bow.

"Son of Haerul, Omah Nin of the Vil Adanrath." "I am Amira," she said, her voice low so as not to wake Jalan. "Amira Hiloar, War Wizard of Cormyr. Yes, I know." Amira did not know what to say, so she said nothing. "I have seen you with the belkagen. He speaks well of you."

"He saved me and my son," she said, and placed a gentle hand on Jalan's shoulder. "He and Gyaidun and Lendri. They saved our lives."

Leren flinched at the mention of his brother and Gyaidun's names. "I did not come to speak to you of the hrayeket." "Then why did you come?" "My father sent out summons to all the packs. Many have come, and others may come still, but he and the belkagen agree on this: We ca

Amira did not have long to wait. Leren had been gone just long enough for full dark to fall when the belkagen trudged up to her fire, his long cloak trailing in the snow. "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.