Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [83]
Amira looked down at the staff across her lap. She'd spent what time she could studying it, and although the runes were like none she'd ever seen, she understood them. Whether the oracle had opened her understanding or the staff itself gave some power to its bearer, Amira did not know, but already she had learned several of its uses. She didn't know if it would be enough to kill the thing that had her son, but based on her past encounter with him, she thought it would definitely give them an advantage.
"The oracle said… said to get Jalan to the Witness Tree. 'Beyond that, I give you no assurances,' she said. 'Death and life will meet. Only those who surrender will triumph.'"
"And what does that mean?"
"I have no idea, Gyaidun."
She felt his entire body stiffen beside her, but he said nothing. Between them, Durja ruffled his feathers, squawked, and pushed himself from between them to perch on Gyaidun's knee.
"May I tell you something?" she asked. She turned to Gyaidun, though in the dark his face was no more than a dim shadow.
"Will anything I say prevent it?" he replied, but she heard the humor in his voice.
"My old master, my mentor, the man who was more of a father to me than my real father, told me something the night before I set out to war. He said, 'The true warrior does not fight because he hates what is in front of him. The true warrior fights because he loves what is behind him.'"
"Lady," said Gyaidun, "the bastards we are hunting took away the only ones I ever loved-butchered my wife and left her body in the open for the vultures and took my son. All I have left now is hate. Hate and a thirst for vengeance."
"And what then? What happens on the day you take your vengeance? What will you have left then?"
He looked away.
"Gyaidun?"
"Yes?"
"Hold me."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Endless Wastes
The vanguard of winter wolves kept to their course, their pace unflagging, but every one was skittish. Winter wolves were one of the fiercest predators in the Endless Wastes, and a pack this size should have gone unchallenged. But the land ahead of them was alive with wolfsong, and in the howling the winter wolves heard a challenge. Even a huge pack of wolves should have fled before them. But these did not. They were standing their ground and urging the winter wolves on. That made the winter wolves and their riders nervous, but still their leader urged them on. And so the vanguard, ten winter wolves in all, ran.
On the crest of the rise before them they saw the smaller wolves-four furtive shadows against the white of the snow. The newcomers growled and barked, giving a show of threat, but as soon as the winter wolves headed for them, they turned tail and ran, disappearing over the hill.
The winter wolves pursued, picking up their quarry's scent as they made their way over the rise. Below them the land fell into a stand of trees where a stream most likely flowed in spring and summer. The smaller wolves were just disappearing into the cover of the trees, and the winter wolves doubled their speed, bounding down the slope in great clouds of snow.
The first entered the deep blue shadows beneath the trees, his fellows hard on his tail. A cold fire lit their eyes. As the last entered the wood, the first arrows hissed out from the high boughs, each one flying true into the sides of the winter wolves.
Yelping, the great white wolves stopped, more shocked than hurt, and looked up into the trees. Many shapes were there, silver in the meager light reflecting off the snow, each of them holding a bow. The trees were not that high, and winter wolves were good jumpers. These silver shadows would make easy prey. Their leader growled, baring his fangs, the largest of them as long as a man's hand.
The second volley tore into them, and a third just after. The winter wolves roared in pain, but only two were truly hurt-one with a shaft deep in her throat, another who had taken an arrow in the eye and was taking his last