Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [96]
They sat in silence for a long while, the belkagen's scowl deepening, Amira watching her sleeping son, and Lendri scratching Mingan behind the ears. "I will think on what you have said," said Lendri, and stood and walked away, Mingan at his heels.
"You think he's going to tell Gyaidun?" asked Amira.
"Most certainly," said the belkagen. "I love those two like sons, but they can be stubborn as dwarves. Gyaidun is more obvious about it because he blusters and roars, but Lendri… that one, he is quiet and so hides it, but he's even worse."
"What will Gyaidun do, do you think?"
"Knowing him as I do, I can only be sure that it will be something foolish."
"And you aren't going to stop him?"
"He's a grown man, Lady, and Lendri is five times your age, at least. If those two want to rush off and get themselves killed… well, it won't be the first time they've tried, and they're still here. Stubborn and hotheaded as they both are, they never cease to surprise me. I must trust them to follow their own path. But you…"
"What about me?"
The belkagen fixed her with that predator's gaze that made her feel so small and said, "Now that you have your son, what will you do, Lady?"
"Winterkeep," said Amira.
"What?"
"Winterkeep. Iket Sotha you called it. That's where the sorcerer was headed with Jalan."
"You are certain?"
"Yes," Amira answered. "Mystra help me, I am."
"This is what you want?" said the belkagen. "You wish to go to the enemy?"
"I want to take the fight to them," said Amira. "You said it yourself. Jalan won't be safe till we end this. One way or the other."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Endless Wastes
The sorcerer, still swathed in his scorched and torn ash-gray cloak, and his three remaining Frost Folk rode upon winter wolves to the shore of the Great Ice Sea. One riderless winter wolf trailed them. It was past midday, but the unrelenting storm was so thick, and the sky so dark, that it gave them enough cover to keep moving throughout the day. This close to the water the air was heavy with moisture, and the snow fell in great clumps, some almost as big as a man's hand.
One of the Frost Folk fell from the back of his wolf and lay in the snow. The man had half a Vil Adanrath arrow in his ribs. He had spent most of the day coughing, and the front of his body was smeared with his own blood. The wolf he'd been riding sidestepped and looked down on him. The man lay in the snow, unmoving except for the swift rising and falling of his chest.
Another of the Frost Folk lifted his leg and slid off his own mount. He knelt beside his fallen companion, examined the wound, then stood and spoke to his master.
The sorcerer still sat atop his wolf, both of them staring into the face of the storm. He turned at his servant's words and looked down on the fallen man.
"He is beyond help," said the sorcerer in the tongue of the far north. "And the wolves are hungry."
The sorcerer dismounted. His wolf turned and joined his fellows in their meager meal. The man never even screamed. One swift snap from a wolf's jaws, and it was over for him. The two remaining Frost Folk turned away from the carnage and watched their master.
Ignoring them, the sorcerer climbed to the very lip of the promontory. Standing in the full force of the wind, the remains of his cloak and robes fluttered and cracked. It didn't seem to bother him, not even when his cowl flew back, exposing his long hair and pallid skin to the biting frost. The Frost Folk watched as their master basked in the frigid wind off the Great Ice Sea. The intense cold and fury of the storm seemed to lend him strength, reinvigorating him, but still he leaned heavily upon his staff. A foe-a woman!-had managed to do something no other had in generations. She'd hurt him. Hurt him badly.
The sorcerer stood there a long while, his men watching. When he sat upon the very edge of the rock, the Frost Folk exchanged a furtive glance. Their forefathers had served the Fist of Winter for hundreds of years, their devotion born out of the rewards given to them by the dark sorcerers,