Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [49]
They entered the camp, passing groups of wolves crouched over the remains of their prey. The guard pulled Jalan to the fire, took the bonds from his wrists, and dropped him to the ground.
The fire burned low, but the light and warmth pulsing from it like lifeblood pulled Jalan in. One of the huge wolves stood just inside the circle of light cast by the fire. It crouched over what had once been a Tuigan nomad but was now no more than an unmoving mass of cooling blood and gore that steamed in the chill night air. The wolf lifted its snout from its feast and looked at Jalan, its muzzle a contrast of white fur and wet darkness that Jalan knew was blood. Light, hungry and hot, reflected in its eyes, then it lowered its muzzle to its meal.
Jalan looked down, forcing his eyes away from the gruesome sight, and fell to his knees beside the fire. He could still hear the chomping and tearing of the wolf's feast, and he covered his ears to try to block the sound.
Beneath his knees, Jalan could feel the ground trembling with the approach of heavy footsteps. His eyes were clenched shut, but he knew whose footsteps they were.
A hand winter-cold grabbed his wrist and pulled it away from his ear. "This disturbs you?" said a voice. The dark one in the ash-gray cloak, Jalan knew. "Our mounts must eat. The miles fill them with great hunger. Be grateful we found these poor wretches. Our wolves were beginning to look to you with ravenous eyes. Now, they will not. At least for a few days. And you, you have fire. Warmth. For now."
The hand released him, and Jalan felt the thing walk away a few steps. He dared to open his eyes. The leader stood at the edge of the firelight next to one of his pale-skinned minions, speaking to him in a language Jalan could not understand.
The guard disappeared behind one of the nomad tents then returned a moment later, carrying a leather satchel. He reached into it, then handed Jalan a few strips of dried meat.
Jalan's stomach gave a wet tumble. With the carnage and horror surrounding him, he knew his stomach would not hold any food.
"Not hungry?" said the leader. "Good. Good. Power there is in fasting, in denying the flesh its cravings, the blood its warmth. To your purest essence it brings you. Good."
The thing in the cloak came back and crouched beside Jalan. He leaned in close. Jalan flinched but could back away no farther without going into the fire. He looked into the deep folds of the hood but could see only a sharp chin, likely very pale but now a bright orange as it caught the light from the flames. The leader leaned in close, so close that Jalan could feel the cold bleeding off his skin like the bite off ice. The leader opened his mouth wide and breathed in deeply.
"Yesss," he said. "Oh, yes. Fear. I can taste it. Smell it. It comes off you like mist off the water. Terror burns your blood and smokes out of your very pores. Soon, very soon, you will know no fear, no terror, no nothing. No fire in your blood."
Quick as an adder, the leader's pale hand shot out and grasped Jalan's wrist.
Jalan screamed and struck at the hand, but it was like striking stone, cold and immovable. The leader pulled Jalan's arm to him, in no hurry, moving with slow and unstoppable strength, and in the midst of his struggles, Jalan saw firelight reflect off a blade. Before he could cry out, the dagger whisked across the back of Jalan's hand, then disappeared into the folds of the ash-gray cloak.
Blood, almost black in the meager glow cast by the fire, welled from a perfectly straight gash across the back of Jalan's hand. The ice-grip pulled Jalan's hand toward the blackness waiting inside the dark one's hood. Jalan screamed and tried to drag himself away, no longer caring if he fled into fire, but it was futile. He closed his eyes and felt the thing's tongue, cold and slick as a fish, slide across the wound, then he was free.
He fell to the ground