Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [48]
Gyaidun stopped to rest the horses, and Amira turned and looked off southward. By Gyaidun's estimate they had traveled more than a hundred miles with Amira's spell. If Jalan and his captors were indeed on winter wolves-and Amira had little doubt, given the tracking skills she'd seen Gyaidun display the past two days-their quarry could easily cross that distance in two nights.
Amira turned to Gyaidun and said, "If we linger here waiting for Lendri and the belkagen, Jalan's captors will be miles ahead of us."
Gyaidun nodded. "I've considered that. If they're headed for Winterkeep as you say, their path is some miles north of us. We came almost due east. If they continue in the direction their tracks were headed, they're headed northeast-straight to Iket Sotha if"-slight hesitation-"the belkagen was right. If you can work your magic again… you can, can't you?"
"With rest and study, yes."
"We can get ahead of them. If Lendri can gather the Vil Adanrath, we'll spread out. The pack will find them."
"If Lendri or the belkagen can find them," said Amira. "You said yourself that you two are exiles."
"Haerul will come."
"Haerul?"
"My wife's father."
"The one who cast you and Lendri out?" Amira smirked, but Gyaidun was looking off southward and didn't see it.
"Yes," he said.
Amira snorted. "What makes you so sure?"
"If there is even a whisper of hope of finding his grandson, he'll tear a hole to the Nine Hells-and gods have mercy on any who stand in his way."
"We're after Jalan, Gyaidun. Jalan. If we learn something of your son, I swear on my family I'll help you if you help me save Jalan. But right now we know Jalan is alive. That is certain. Your son is just a… a hope."
Gyaidun gave her a dark look, then turned his back and began leading the horses up the hill.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Endless Wastes
Dark and cold. Cold and dark. They had filled Jalan since waking. Through the dried flesh and stale drink that served as his evening breakfast, through the binding of his wrists, the forced march, the wind in his face, the stench of wolf… through it all had been dark and cold. Even the distant stars seemed only points of ice in darkness.
But that cold darkness cracked. A fire in the valley below, a distant promise of warmth, broke through the night. From it Jalan could hear the last of the screams. After running half the night, Jalan's captors had come across a band of nomads. They'd fallen on them like an autumn gale, tooth and claw ripping into their sentries, sword and spear stabbing and cutting even as the nomads had struggled out of their blankets and yurts.
Jalan sat on the rise above the carnage. His guard had dismounted from the huge white wolf and pulled him down after. Better that the wolf not be encumbered as it slaughtered. Tired and terrified as he was, Jalan had not been able to look away. He guessed it was well past midnight but a while still till dawn, the moon long since set, and he could see little but the occasional shadow passing in front of the distant fire. But he could hear them. Hear the nomads screaming-first in warning, then in defiance, then in despair. They did not cry for mercy. Just as well, Jalan thought. The wolves and their riders had none.
Jalan shivered. Even with their cloaked leader down there amid the carnage, still his unearthly cold lingered. Heat, warmth, light… Jalan remembered them only as abstracts. Concepts. He knew they existed but could not remember their feeling. Despite the screams and the blood he knew soaked the grass, the deepest part of him longed for the fire glowing in the valley below.
A scream-a woman's, Jalan thought-rose high, then was cut off, almost instantly, and just behind the sighing of the wind over the grass Jalan thought he half-heard and half-felt the sound of jaws shredding and bone crunching. Then the wolves below set to howling, filling the night with their song.
Jalan's guard grabbed his bound wrists, lifted him to his feet, and dragged him down the slope. Jalan's feet moved of their own