more Vil Adanrath, both elves and wolves. Some of the elves carried weapons, but a few had stripped down to loincloths so that they could change to their wolf forms in battle.
Even with the small bit of kanishta root wedged in her jaw, flooding her body with warmth, just watching the nearly naked elves crouched in the snow made her shiver. 'Any sign of the enemy?' asked Leren. Amira found it an odd question, elf eyesight being far superior to her own.
But then she realized that she could sense something. Through the thick hide of her gloves, she could feel power pulsing through the staff, connecting her to their surroundings, almost as if the staff were a young sapling with thousands upon thousands of roots spreading throughout the ground. To the north, scattered throughout the ruins of Winterkeep, that life seemed to twist and warp, as if shunning something there. 'Something's down there,' she said. 'I can't see it, but I can sense it.' 'Iket Sotha is very old,' said Leren. 'Terrible things happened there long ago, and many foul creatures lurk in its depths. Perhaps that is what you are sensing?' 'Perhaps,' said Amira, but she didn't believe it. Off to their right in the distance came a long howl, plaintive and ending on a low note. It was the signal to begin their advance. One more off to the south would be the signal to the belkagen to get Jalan to the Witness Tree. They set off at an easy trot, Amira leading them. The wolves fanned out, flanking them but slowing their pace so as not to outdistance the others. Two-thirds of the way down the slope, they were approaching a series of humps that Amira had taken for snow-covered boulders. But as they drew close, the mounds erupted, and a half-dozen Frost Folk threw off their blanket of snow and the cloaks under them. Axes and swords raised, they charged Amira and the Vil Adanrath. Amira raised her staff, and a wave of elves and wolves swept past her. She cursed as an elf and his wolf-brother leaped between her and her intended target. But the Frost Folk turned and ran, heading for the ruins. A Vil Adanrath arrow sent one crashing into the snow, and three wolves fell upon him, rending and tearing. The tall men were surprisingly swift, not outpacing the elves but matching their speed. When they reached a large snowdrift they stopped and turned. A pair of winter wolves came round one side, three round the other, and two climbed the crest of the drift. Upon the topmost wolf-a great white beast larger than a stallion-a figure hunched inside an ash-gray cloak. Amira screamed and charged. The Frost Folk and winter wolves held their ground and waited for the Vil Adanrath to come to them. To Amira, the battle was a cacophony of growling and shrieking wolves, shouting men and elves, the clash of steel on steel, and the cries of the dying. Once the forces met, all was chaos, but Amira kept her focus on one thing only: the sorcerer.
He came down at them, his winter wolf charging the smaller wolves, teeth bared and a growl coming from its chest that caused the air itself to tremble. Amira saw one of the black-feathered arrows of the Vil Adanrath pierce its side, but so great was its battle-rage that it didn't seem to notice. Three wolves and an elf stood between it and Amira, but they scattered as the great wolf bore down upon them. Amira held her ground-she could feel it trembling beneath her feet-and raised her staff. The winter wolf was coming so fast. She knew she'd only have one chance at this. She thrust her open palm at the wolf's head and shouted, 'Dramasthe!' The bolt of yellow energy shot from her hand. It struck the beast full in the face, and in the moment of clarity that often came to her in battle, when moments seemed to stretch out to days, she saw bits of scorched flesh and skin shower outward, and the wolf's left eye exploded. Its growl rose to a shriek, and the animal tumbled into the snow face first, sending up a great cloud of frost mixed with bits of smoke and blood. The rider in the ash-gray cloak went down as well, and Amira lost sight of him in all the flying snow and debris. The winter wolf jumped to its feet and ran off northward, shaking its head in agony. Amira saw the ash-gray cloak rising, perhaps even shaking a bit, and she thrust her staff forward with a cry. 'Keljan saule!' The runes etched into the staff flared, bathing Amira and the surrounding snowfield in a warm glow, and a shard of light shot out. It struck the ash-gray robes, and the figure flew backward as if struck by a giant's club. He hit the ground several paces away and fell into a smoking heap. Amira watched, ignoring the carnage around her and preparing another strike, but the sorcerer did not move. She ran forward, her staff ready. Out of the corner of her eye. she saw one of the Frost Folk fall, a black wolf's jaws locked around his throat. The sorcerer still had not moved. The mass of gray fabric smoked from her strike, and the surrounding snow steamed as it melted. She slowed as she approached, and still the figure had not moved. Keeping the point of her staff aimed directly at the dark mass, the words of the spell ready on her lips, Amira stepped forward. The stench hit her-a foul odor of burned fabric and flesh.
One hand, pale as the snow in which it lay, was flung outward, almost like an orator's motion in mid-speech. Amira put the tip of her staff inside the cowl and pulled. The fabric came away, and a lifeless head fell backward against the outstretched arm. It was not the emaciated face she remembered, the corpselike visage covered in pallid skin.
This man's features were white, his hair whiter still, long and healthy. It was one of the Siksin Neneweth, one of the Frost Folk, and he was quite dead. The knowledge hit Amira, freezing her insides.
They'd been fooled. Only one thought came to her mind, and it passed her lips unbidden. 'Jalan!'
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Isle of Witness
Nothing moved on the Isle of Witness. The island itself was really just a huge pinnacle of rock breaking the surface of the Great Ice Sea. Nothing but moss and a few shoots grew there. The soil was too rocky and the wind was too harsh. Even the great dead tree at the island's summit stood implacable, as it had for hundreds of years.
Only the thickest boughs remained, and they were hard as iron from the countless ages of bitter cold and salt-tinged air. A stone stairway-once decorated with many signs both sacred and arcane, but now weathered and broken-descended from the base of the Witness Tree to the northern shore of the island. At the base of the stair the air rippled, almost like a heat mirage, then darkened and solidified into the folds of a greatcloak. It was made from the skin of some great animal, and bits of fur lined the hem. The arcane symbols upon it glowed briefly, a warm green light. The great hump of a cloak rose and billowed. Straightening, the belkagen drew back the folds of his greatcloak, and Lendri and Jalan emerged. The trio straightened.
Lendri's eyes were wide with uneasiness, and he flinched at being exposed to the wind off the sea, snow and sleet striking his face.
Their breath steamed for an instant before crystallizing and joining the snow, and even Lendri, who was seldom bothered even by intense cold, shivered. Only the boy seemed unaffected, and his eyes had a dullness to them, like resignation or even drunkenness. The belkagen's brow creased. Cold was to be expected, but this… already his hair had frozen to bits of ice, and even blinking hurt. Realization of what this meant hit him. 'No. Oh, no!' He turned. On the hill above them, emerging from behind the thick trunk of the Witness Tree, stood the Fist of Winter-all five of them, and they looked down at the belkagen and his two charges. 'Back!' shouted the belkagen, throwing the folds of his cloak around Lendri and Jalan. He held them tight and ducked under his hood. One of the sorcerers stepped forward, laughing. He lowered his tattered hood. Pallid skin and dead, black eyes seemed unconcerned as he smiled into the full force of the storm. It was Erun. He motioned with his hands and mouthed the words of a spell. The belkagen froze. His cloak wasn't working. Erun-or what had once been Erun-had used his own foul arts to nullify the power in the cloak.
'Give us the boy,' said Erun, shouting to be heard over the wind and waves. His voice was harsh and subhuman, as if his will forced his throat to utter sounds strange to it. The belkagen stood and pushed Lendri and Jalan behind him. He held his staff up, shielding them.
'You cannot have him,' said the belkagen. 'Not again.' But the belkagen stumbled forward as Jalan pushed past him and rushed up the stairs. Lendri lunged after him, but Erun drew a single-edged sword with one fluid motion and shouted, 'Silo'at!' Biting frost tunneled outward against the gale and struck Lendri full-force, sending him flying back into the rocks, frost and ice coating him from chin to waist. He hit hard then rolled over, groaning, trying to rise only to have his body betray him. Jalan ascended the last few steps on all fours, then fell and hugged Erun's legs. While the belkagen watched, dumbstruck, Erun placed one emaciated hand on the boy's neck and spoke an incantation. Jalan flinched as if he'd been slapped across the face, then collapsed. 'What-?' the belkagen spoke his thought aloud.
Erun smiled. There was no humor in it, merely the baring of teeth. 'My hold on him is no longer necessary.' 'All this time…' 'I let you take him, old fool. You think that wench could have beaten me so easily? I let him go, and through him I watched you. Heard you. And so when I knew you'd be bringing him back to me, I… let you.' He
