colored robes, there was no warmth in it. The eyes watching him were ice. Before his mind could seize up, before sense outdid his courage, Jalan ran. He headed down the gully until he saw a suitable place to climb out, then bounded up the incline, sending dirt and rocks and grass sliding down behind him. His hands found dry grass, his fingers dug in, he pulled himself up, his feet found the ground, and he was off. Jalan raced over the steppe, at first not caring which direction, caring only to put distance between himself and his captors. But when his fear cleared enough to allow his mind to notice he was heading north-the direction his captors had been taking him-a small cry of frustration shook him and he turned left. His back itched. He feared that at any moment one of the northmen's barbed spears would impale him, that he'd be harpooned like a fish. He tripped over another tussock of grass, scrambled to his feet, and was off again. Besides the pounding of his feet and his own breathing he heard nothing. No sounds of pursuit. The last sliver of the sun's crown sank into the earth in front of him, and he dared a look back, not stopping but looking over his shoulder as he ran. One of the northerners-the guard most likely-was standing at the rim of the gully, not moving, not coming after him, just watching. A shadow scuttled insectlike out of the gully then stopped and stood tall beside the guard. Jalan ran into the dying light, the eastern sky darkening behind him. He knew that the dark thing was no shadow at all, but covered in robes and cloak the color of ash. An unreasoning fear seized Jalan and he ran all the harder, terror giving his legs strength. The breeze that had whispered through the grasses all day suddenly grew to a full wind, pushing at Jalan from the right and sending stinging dirt and grit into his eyes. He wiped at the muddy tears but did not slow down. Better to run blind than stop. Jalan closed his mouth and breathed through his nose to keep the dirt from his mouth. The land began to rise a bit, and his legs started to burn.
He'd eaten nothing since morning-and barely anything then. His heart seemed to be beating all the way into the top of his skull, and he could not bring enough air into his body. His face twisted into a rictus of pain, but he forced himself onward. He topped the rise and began his descent. The pain in his legs eased as he went down the slope, but soon he was going too fast. A bloody dusk still lingered in front of him, but the light only glowed in the sky. It blinded him from seeing the ground at his feet as anything but a featureless shadow. His foot hit a thick tussock. He almost fell but righted himself and kept going. He made it another seven steps before his foot hit the lip of a hole-the front door of some animal's home probably-and he went down. The dry grass cushioned the worst of his fall, but the impact drove what little air he had from his lungs. A sudden gust hit him, almost as if the wind itself were laughing at him. Jalan pushed himself to his feet, and the beginnings of panic set in as he noticed the trembling in his legs. He knew he couldn't keep this pace up much longer. Jalan looked up. All he saw was featureless steppe in every direction. There might well be other dry gullies, running like cracks throughout the plain, but he'd never see them until he was on top of them. He forced himself onward but slackened his pace a bit. He'd been lucky. Another foot into a hole and he might well break an ankle. As a boy, he'd seen it happen to horses, and if a healer wasn't around, there was nothing to be done but a quick jab to the thick vein along the beast's throat. A fountain of blood, an ear-splitting cry that would sometimes go on far too long… then it was over. Jalan risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Nothing crested the rise behind him, but when he turned back around he saw pale things flitting over the plain to the north. Gray, in the dusklight they almost blended in to the steppe. Only their movement gave them away-and they were headed right for him. A sob shook Jalan.
He turned and headed south, following the shallow valley between two hills away from whatever the things were. But he'd seen how fast they were moving. Unless he found somewhere to hide, they'd be on him in no time. He figured he'd gone almost a quarter mile when he saw a ghostly shape pass him several dozen paces off to his right-and two more off to his left. They were surrounding him. He glanced behind him and saw five others a hundred paces behind him. None were close enough for Jalan to make out distinct features, but he could tell that they were large-pony-sized at least. The ones to the sides began to close in, and soon Jalan could hear them panting. Like dogs. One of the two to his left put on a sudden burst of speed, ran ahead, and stopped a stone's throw from Jalan. It was the biggest wolf Jalan had ever seen.
His first impression had misjudged it. This thing was far larger than the Tuigan ponies. Its shoulders were easily the height of the famed Hiloar stallions that were the source of wealth for his mother's family. The wolf, its head low to the ground, stood still, watching Jalan, a deep growl rumbling from its throat. Jalan stopped and fell to his knees. Part of him was glad. He'd seen wolves take down prey before. It wasn't pretty, and unless they managed to snap the creature's neck, it looked extremely painful. But it was still better than suffering whatever fate the northerners and their cold leader had meant for him. The huge wolves circled him, pacing and watching and drawing their circle closer until the nearest was no more than five or six paces away. Their breath formed a nimbus of cloud around them. The stink of them hit Jalan and he coughed. Sweat poured freely from his skin, but now that he'd stopped running, he realized how cold it was.
He'd slept many times out on the steppe, and the autumn nights often left a covering of ice on water by morning, but this cold was far worse. An uncontrollable shivering seized Jalan's body, and he realized what it meant. 'Oh, no.' The wolves to his left parted for the figure in the ash-colored cloak as he approached Jalan. The grass crunched and crackled beneath his feet, like the breaking of minuscule icicles. Jalan's tears froze on his cheeks. The figure stopped in front of Jalan and looked down on him. 'Our mounts have arrived,' he said. The man's voice made Jalan cover his ears. It was not unlovely, but there was something altogether wrong with it. Not just unusual, but twisted, like a choir of voices where half the voices sang off key. 'Good of you to come and welcome them.'
CHAPTER SIX
Arzhan Island, the Lake of Mists in the lands of the Khassidi
'He's awake.'
Amira started. She was sitting by the lakeshore, her open spellbook in her lap, so absorbed in her studies that she hadn't heard the man come up behind her. Gyaidun, his name was. She should've heard him coming, but the big brute moved with a panther's grace. That and this damnable fog. It seemed to cloud her other senses as much as it hid everything from sight. It unnerved her. The lake, the woods around it, and the entire damnable Wastes… she hated them. Her home seemed very far away.
'It's about time.' Amira snapped her book shut and pushed herself to her feet. Evening was coming on anyway, and she'd soon need the fire to read. 'I felt fine a long ago.'
Gyaidun scowled. 'You were brought in before he was.'
Amira said nothing. She knew the elf called Lendri had been clinging to life when Gyaidun carried him in. It had taken all of the belkagen's skills to heal him, and for a while even he had feared the younger elf might not pull through. He'd been unconscious all day, which meant he was sorely hurt indeed, for unlike other races, elves did not sleep.
The big man was still scowling. 'Lendri nearly died saving your son,' he said.
'Saving my son? Really? And where is my son?' Amira clenched her jaw and glared. She had to take deep breaths to keep the tears back.
Gyaidun looked away, but he seemed more angry than apologetic.
'You wish to speak to him? This way.'
'I know the way.' She pushed past him and headed back to camp.
Despite her words, she almost did get lost on the way back. It was not a large island, but the mists off the lake were thick as wet wool, and this late in the day she couldn't see more than twenty paces in any direction. The trees and the iron-gray boulders strewn about the island were little more than indistinct shadows. She caught the pale nimbus of the campfire off to her right and realized she was passing the camp. She spared a sidelong glance at Gyaidun. He said nothing, but she saw the amusement in his eyes.
Lendri was sitting next to the fire, swathed in a thick hide blanket. One naked arm stuck out, holding a wooden bowl filled with a steaming liquid. He sipped at it and winced. For the first time, Amira noticed that Lendri had the same odd scars on his face that Gyaidun did-three long slashes down each cheek and a fourth cutting through them. He had even more tattoos than the big man. They twined about his arm, neck, and even around his eyes, and they seemed very dark against his pale skin. A huge gray wolf lay on the ground not far away, its head resting on its paws and its eyes closed. Mingan, the belkagen had called it.
The belkagen sat not far away. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his shoulders sagged. He'd been busy since
