Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [8]
Amira took a step forward, then another. Careful as she was, it felt as if each step hammered a spike into her skull.
She clenched her jaw, struggling to breathe through her nose, but still a hoarse cry escaped her throat.
Walloch turned to her. Backlit as he was by the fire, she could not read his features. Desperate, she lunged, but he caught her bound wrists almost lazily and turned the blade aside. He brought his sword around and planted the point in her stomach.
"Seems I won't have time for you after all, beluglit, but know this"-he leaned in close over his sword-"I'm still going to find your son."
He thrust. Amira cried out. Through her pain, through the roar of the flames, she heard the blade puncture the muscles over her stomach.
Then Walloch whispered, "Silo'at."
CHAPTER TWO
North of the Lake of Mists
in the lands of the Khassidi
"Worthless sons of whores, the lot of them! I see them again, I'll take their skins to wipe my arse!"
Walloch raged through the camp, slapping with the flat of his blade at anything that got in his way. Several kettles on tripods fell before his wrath. Dogs scurried to get out of his way. One goat tied to a tent post was not so lucky and received two slaps and a kick for daring to be tied in front of Walloch as he paced the camp.
Dremas the Thayan, Walloch's second-in-command, followed silently at a distance, ready to heed his master's command but otherwise content to let the wizard rage. He'd been with the wizard long enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.
"How many?" Walloch turned to look at Dremas, fury still in his eyes.
"How many, Master?"
"How many of those worthless Tuigan curs are left?"
Walloch looked around the camp, and Dremas followed his gaze. The slaves they'd captured on the raid were still tied in the center of camp, watched over by two Nars and one ugly brute that Dremas suspected had more than a little orc blood in him. Leather yurts and a few canvas tents lay scattered among the grass, scrub brush, and few trees, and the handful of horses the Tuigan had left behind were still picketed and under guard. Not a single Tuigan remained in camp, and three of the other men had left with them.
"Faithless, lying bastards." Walloch spat and sheathed his sword. Much of the heat had gone from his voice. "Did they take anything?"
"Only what they brought with them, Master."
Walloch shook his head, muttered a final, "Bastards!" then raised his voice to carry throughout the camp. "Good riddance! More gold for us, eh, men?"
Several cheers answered him.
"Dremas!"
"Yes, Master?"
"Gather the hounds, torches, and…" Walloch looked around again. "How many men do we have left?"
"In camp, fifteen, Master. The Khassidi were out scouting, but I fear that if the other Tuigan got word to them, we won't see them again."
"Bastards," Walloch said through clenched teeth, then shrugged. "Can't be helped, eh? I want three men left to guard the horses and two the prisoners. If they get out of line, kill a few till they're down to a more respectable number-the prisoners, not the horses. Get those damned hounds and torches ready. The rest of us are going hunting."
"Yes, Master."
Dremas turned to obey, his mouth open to begin issuing orders, when every animal in camp went skittish. The horses began to pull at their hobbles, snort, and strain at the ropes round their necks. The goats bleated and kicked. The hunting hounds in the pens tried to howl, but with their cut vocal cords it came out a long rasp. The curs roaming through the camp sniffed at the air, whined, and ran out of camp as fast as they could, heedless even of campfires in their path.
"What-?" said Dremas, then stopped.
The air had gone bitter cold. Not the crisp chill of autumn in the Wastes. A frigid, bone-breaking cold seized the air, as if the very dead of winter had come to the steppe, quick as the stopping of a heart.
"Oh, no," said Walloch, and his breath came out in a cloud that hung in the air a moment before it froze and