Frostfell

Parts of them still felt damp, but she preferred that to the unwashed smell.

Gyaidun and Durja had left at first light, scouting the area.

Amira had spent most of the day near the fire, alternately poring over her spellbook and watching the sky while she listened to the breeze rattle the branches. The wind had been out of the north all day, pushing high, thin clouds ever southward, and even Amira could smell the snow coming. A line of clouds smudging the northern horizon confirmed her fears.

Morning was turning to midday, the cool turning cold, when Gyaidun trudged back into camp. Durja was not with him, for once.

'Are you hungry?' he asked.

'Very,' Amira said. 'But supplies are low. We should eat no more than once a day until we can get more.'

'Not a problem.'

Gyaidun stood next to their packs, which lay a few paces from the fire. Methodically, piece by piece, he began to undress, first his belt and harnesses that held his weapon and pouches, then his shirt.

Amira had to suppress a gasp at the sight of his naked skin. His torso was warm brown skin over taut, lean muscles, but his chest and stomach were crossed with long scars, one mottled patch that was obviously an old burn, and several spots of puckered skin that she recognized as old puncture wounds. Arrows most likely. Over all was a twisting, turning maze of black, blue, and yellow-gold inks. Her eyes widened when he began to undo the drawstrings of his breeches.

'What are you doing?' she asked, averting her eyes.

'You said you were hungry,' he said. 'I'm getting dinner.'

'You always cook naked?'

'You're cooking.' She did not look up, but she could hear the smile on his face. 'I'm getting dinner.'

'Naked?'

She heard him chuckle and walk toward the horses. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and risked a quick glance up. Gyaidun wasn't naked after all, but close enough. He'd stripped down to a loincloth-had even removed his boots-and carried his knife in one hand. He went to the tree where the horses were tethered and huddled together for warmth. He untied one and led it off through the trees.

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 the people of… of 'the Wastes,' as you call them, we are… more reserved in some ways. There are those among us, like me, who know many of the arcane and divine arts, but it is considered somewhat… impolite to speak of them openly.'

'I'm sorry, Belkagen. I meant no offense.'

He gave her a reassuring smile. 'Nor did I take any. One master to another, among ourselves, it is good to speak of such things, to share our wisdom. But very soon we are to be joined by a great many folk who have powers and abilities far older than anything known by the people of Cormyr, and they can be very… 'prickly' about their customs of politeness. I urge you, Lady, please, guard your tongue among the Vil Adanrath. You will find no truer or more honorable people in all this world. They are the fiercest friends one can have, but they make terrible enemies and are easily offended. They are a people of pride and honor, and their chief, Haerul, has pride and honor like none I've ever seen. Scratch it at your peril.'

Amira thought on this a while. She'd grown up among the aristocracy, and no one played the game of politics and court like the war wizards, but the belkagen's words gave her pause.

'I will treat this Haerul as I would the nobles of my own land,' she said.

'You were sent to the High Horn for the way you treated your nobles, were you not?'

Amira blushed. 'Not exactly, no.'

'I meant no offense, Lady Amira,' he said. 'But please. Take my words to heart. You saw a bit of Lendri's ire when his hackles were up-and Lendri has traveled among humans for many years. It has softened him toward your kind. Not so with the Vil Adanrath. With Haerul, tread as a fawn among wolves.'

'I'm no fawn, Belkagen. I have bite, too.'

'I do not attack your pride. You need not bow and scrape and beg.

Just… use caution. Please.'

Amira looked back over her shoulder, searching for a change in subject. 'Are you sure that your being here is wise, Belkagen?'