Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [12]
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