Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [13]
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."
CHAPTER FOUR
Arzhan Island, the Lake of Mists
in the lands of the Khassidi
Smoke. Scent intruded her darkness, then a thought: Fire. Someone was burning pinewood. Amira recognized the fragrance. It reminded her of winter hearthfires in the Hiloar estates. Home, childhood, winter feasts, laughter cackling like…
Flames-a small fire but very close. She could hear it, but more importantly, she could feel it.