Vestakia, Idalia, and six Elven knights, all that could be gathered at such short notice. A second party was being assembled, which would follow with additional supplies and as many knights as Andoreniel could call up quickly; Calmeren would be able to lead them as far as the place from which the children had been taken. But it would be at least a sennight before the larger rescue party was ready, and it would only be able to travel at wagon-speed. Kellen had no intention of waiting for anything or anyone.
Elven palfreys had been found for Idalia and Vestakia. Though the two women could certainly have ridden pillion with Jermayan and Kellen, Shalkan and Valdien might need to be able to carry other passengers later, and every rider was burdened with their own supplies: journey-food, of course, but they must also carry supplies and medicines for those they hoped to rescue.
The caravan had taken nearly two sennights to reach the ice-meadows below the Crowned Horns, and die. Calmeren, wounded, running flat-out at a unicorn’s top speed, had covered the same distance—in the opposite direction—in a little over two days, though it had cost her dearly.
It was five days before Kellen’s party reached the spot, rising before dawn and riding long after sunset, and pausing only when neither man nor beast could place one foot in front of the other.
The first thing they encountered was the place where the guard of Elven knights had faced the coldwarg pack. The remains of the dismembered bodies of Elves and horses still remained after a sennight, half-buried in new snow, and strangely undisturbed by the natural predators known to inhabit these mountains.
“No natural beast will feed from a coldwarg kill,” Jermayan said, rising to his feet and brushing his gauntlets free of snow. They had stopped long enough to uncover one or two of the bodies, for as important as it was to rescue the captive children, they dared not rush to that rescue blindly. “We cannot tarry now to send you to your final rest, my friends,” he said, looking around at the snow. “But do not fear. We shall return for you. You will not lie in the dark earth, but return to the wind, and the stars.”
“The caravan road lies in that direction,” Idalia said, pointing. “I flew over it often enough when I was a Silver Eagle. They must have heard the ’wargs coming and split the party, half of them riding toward the pack, the rest fleeing toward the Crowned Horns, and safety… or so they hoped.”
“They wanted to slow the pack, to give the unicorns as much of a head start as they could,” Shalkan said. He put his head down, sniffing at a drift of snow and then beginning to paw at it. “But the coldwarg weren’t hunting alone.” He nudged his prize free.
“What’s that?” Kellen asked, walking over and picking it up. He stood it on end and regarded it curiously. It was a club—he could see that much—black and polished with use, and very nearly as tall as he was. But that really didn’t answer the question of
“Frost-giants—just as Calmeren said.” A knight named Artaliar spoke up. “The pack was traveling with frost- giants.” His voice was a mixture of disgust and despair.
Jermayan sighed, shaking his head. “It should not have been possible.”
“Vestakia?” Kellen asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing here.”
“Then let’s go on.”
—«♦»—
THEY stopped at the wagons only long enough to make certain that no survivors had taken refuge there—a slim hope, but one they had to make sure of. Something had been at them after the party had abandoned them; they had been looted—or vandalized, or searched; by now it wasn’t quite clear; and whatever had done it had left traces that made Shalkan and the other two unicorns wrinkle their muzzles in disgust, and made Vestakia look distinctly uncomfortable.
But there was no one alive, and no clues that would help them in their search, so the party rode on.
—«♦»—
FINALLY they reached the killing ground where all but Calmeren had died. Some freak of weather had swept the area free of new snow, and the bodies of the Elven knights and the unicorns in their armor glittered starkly against the field of ice like savagely disjointed dolls.
They smelled the battlefield before they saw it. Even in the cold, something here was decaying, and the smell was worse than anything Kellen had ever encountered—worse than cleaning out Perulan’s cesspit back in Armethalieh, worse than the sensory derangement at the Black Cairn. The Elven destriers, well-trained and battle- tried as they were, balked at approaching it, and rather than force them, the party left them with the unicorns to guard them, and approached the site on foot.
Today the air was still, the weather was clear and bright. The harsh mountain light showed every detail clearly. The dryness of the air had leached all moisture from the bodies, and not even birds had come to despoil what little the coldwarg and their allies had left behind. Every detail was starkly, terribly, clear.
The source of the stench was quickly apparent. Kellen gazed down at the gruesome remains of something
