Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [52]
Amira scowled. If he was going off to hunt, why take one of the horses? He'd been out scouting all morning. Surely he could have taken down a deer or even a rabbit while walking the miles around the hill. And hadn't he said he eschewed horses anyway? And who in their right mind went hunting naked in this cold armed with nothing but a knife?
"I hate the Wastes," she muttered, and went back to her book.
A scream-a high-pitched shriek of agony that set Amira's teeth on edge-broke through the trees from the direction where Gyaidun had gone. The two remaining horses pulled at their tethers, snorting and stamping, their eyes wide and white.
Amira slammed her spellbook shut, grabbed her staff, and ran in the direction she'd watched Gyaidun lead the horse. The ground was rough, uneven, and littered with the detritus of a thousand autumns, and Amira stumbled several times.
Not far away from the camp, in a small clearing ringed by bushes still clinging to the last of their leaves, she found Gyaidun standing over the dead horse. Blood covered everything-the horse, the grass, even Gyaidun. He was more wet red than skin from the waist up, and his right arm-the one holding the knife-was so soaked that blood dripped from his elbow. Amira's shock and fear turned to dismay. She looked at the scene more closely and found the source of the blood-a deep gash across the horse's throat.
"What are you doing?" said Amira.
Gyaidun turned and looked at her. "You said you were hungry."
"We need those horses!"
Gyaidun smirked. "Why? We have our legs and your magic to get us where we need to go. Horses are food. Why d'you think I brought them?"
"I thought we were going to ride them."
"When Lendri arrives, you won't be able to keep them. Horses can't stand the Vil Adanrath. They'll break their hobbles and run." He turned and knelt beside the dead horse between its front and back legs. "Why don't you build up the fire? Nothing too big. A good, slow burn. You know how to make a spit?"
Gyaidun thrust the knife into the gut of the horse and began to saw upward. Blood and entrails spilled out of the widening gap. Amira turned away. She could take the sight of the blood and gore. She'd seen far worse in her time. But the sound of the blade cutting through muscle and hide, the entrails falling to a growing pile in the grass… too much.
She walked back to camp, taking more care on the path this time and watching the uneven ground. When she entered the camp and looked up, the belkagen was crouching next to the fire and putting the finishing touches on a rack made from branches. Amira could not have been more shocked if King Azoun himself had been sitting there, asking to have his goblet refilled. She stood dumbfounded, her mouth hanging open.
"What… what are you doing here?" she asked.
The belkagen looked up from his work and smiled. "I suspect that Gyaidun is going to ask the same thing. Let us wait till he returns so that I don't have to tell the same tale twice." The belkagen closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and inhaled deeply through his nose. "He's bringing horseflesh, yes?"
"Yes," she said. "How… how did you get here?"
The belkagen tested the stability of the spit. It wasn't like the spits she'd been taught to make. It was more like a miniature rack positioned over the fire. Satisfied with his handiwork, the belkagen sat on the ground, settled into his fur-lined cloak, and said, "What one wizard can do, another can do."
"Magic?"
The belkagen frowned and picked up a stick to stoke the fire. "Sit down, Amira. Please."
She did, across the fire from him, her back to the Mother's Bed.
"You are far from home, Amira. The ways of these lands are not your ways. The powers that walk the steppes and live in the earth… they are no less than the powers of your own western lands. But