Realms of War

been strewn about through the ages, and pines blanketed the slopes. The past night's snowfall lay heavy everywhere except under the boughs, making the world a blinding white—except for the bodies.

A horse lay sprawled not fifty feet from the cave, its head hanging on by only a few strips of flesh. Blood had fountained out ten feet in every direction. Three Tuigan warriors lay nearby. Two were missing limbs, and one seemed to have run a good forty feet before death took him. His entrails were spread the final twenty feet behind him. More Tuigan—half a dozen at least, all mounted—milled around, two of them holding spare horses. Of the massive man who had held Gethred captive, there was no sign.

The two Tuigan dragged Gethred over the ground, heedless of the stones cutting him and the snow seeming to find every crevice and gap through his clothes. They threw him over a spare horse, not even bothering to cut his bonds, and in moments the entire troop was galloping east for the open steppe.

* * * * *

By the time they stopped, Gethred could no longer feel his face. They'd fled at full gallop for what seemed like a dozen miles at least, with Gethred tied lengthwise and facedown over the back of a horse. Had he eaten anything over the past three days, he surely would have lost every bit of it. The Tuigan horses had a smooth gait, but the land so near the mountains was rough and broken by many gulches that would fill with water come spring. Gethred was jostled, shaken, and seemingly beaten over every mile, and the ropes holding him into the saddle bit into his skin. But the Tuigan did not slow, and the wind flowing over his exposed face froze his skin to numbness. He felt sure that the only thing holding the frostbite out of his nose and ears was the thick heat given off by the horse.

Their leader called a halt as the sun slipped behind the mountains and the snow-covered steppe took on the flower-petal blue of evening. They made camp in a wide gully that ran north to south and would protect them from the wind off the mountains.

As the rest of the Tuigan made camp, one of them—Gethred recognized him as the one who had come in the cave bearing the unbloodied sword—came to the horse, loosened the ropes binding Gethred to the saddle, and threw him to the ground. He led the horse away, leaving Gethred bound in the snow. Something hard—a rock or an old root—jabbed between his shoulders, but he was too exhausted and sore to move.

The Tuigan warrior returned with another. They grabbed the ropes binding Gethred's ankles and dragged him to the nearest fire. The warriors had lit only three, and they took Gethred to the smallest.

The two warriors stood over Gethred, glowering down. Both had knives in their hands. Gethred heard footsteps crunching through the snow, then a third warrior came into view. He was taller than the other two, and two braids descended from his fur cap. His features were younger and leaner than his companions', and Gethred thought he saw the last curls of a tattoo protruding from the collar of his wool kalat, the large knee-length tunic worn by many of the Tuigan.

This third warrior knelt and spoke in Common. 'I am Holwan, of the Khassidi. My brothers here are of the Oigur. They do not know these lands, nor your tongue. I speak for us.'

Not knowing what else to say, Gethred said, 'Brothers?'

One of the two Oigur said something to Holwan. It sounded harsh, and Holwan flinched. He returned his attention to Gethred and said, 'Since the coming of Yamun Khahan, it is said that all Tuigan are brothers.'

'Do you say this?'

Holwan's scowl deepened and he said, 'How did you come to be in the house of the shu t'met?'

Gethred swallowed. His mouth felt dry as windswept rock. He said, 'Shootemet?'

'The large man in whose house we found you.'

A shudder began in Gethred's chest and spread outward till his teeth were chattering. 'H-he . . . captured me. Y-yesterd­day, I think.'

'Captured?'

'Please,' said Gethred. 'Water.'

* * * * *

Gethred had fled the sack of Citadel Rashemar with four others, all Cormyreans sent by King Azoun himself, for word of the gathering Horde had reached even Cormyr. Melloren had died before they were out of sight of the citadel, a Tuigan arrow lodged in his eye. The survivors fled. But all of that Gethred left out of his tale. Likely Holwan and his companions knew or suspected much of it already. True or not, Gethred wasn't going to confess. He had little doubt he was a dead man. If not today, then certainly when this lot returned him to the Horde. But he would not betray the memory of his companions, nor their mission. He would not stand before Mielikki in the afterlife a traitor and coward.

Two days ago, this very band had caught up with Gethred and his companions. Gethred had been the only one to escape alive. He'd fled north, hugging the foothills of the Sunrise Mountains. East was only the open steppe and certain death. He'd hoped that he might be able to find some outlying Rashemi settlement and beg for shelter and supplies, perhaps even find another pass westward through the mountains. This, too, he did not tell.

Cormyr had winters, and Gethred had often traveled into the north for king and country. He knew the ways of the wild, even in the darkest days of winter. But he'd never experienced anything like the Hordelands, even though he was only skirt­ing the edges of it. The only water to be found was snow and ice, and he knew that eating the snow would only cause him to freeze faster. He'd eaten well the night before the attack but had nothing since then. He'd been lucky to escape the sacking of the citadel with warm clothes, a good coat and cloak, his knife, and his life, but there'd been no time for supplies.

Still, the cold and thirst were worse than the hunger. Since the night their fire had led the Tuigan to them, he'd dared not light one, and so yesterday as the day drew on, despair had set in. When all your life is cold, thirst, and mile after endless mile of hard country buried in snow, when all your friends are dead, when an army lies between you and home, and you know you are being hunted, it's damned hard to hold on to hope. Although an experienced woodsman like Gethred knew he could survive many more days without food, he also knew that cold or thirst would soon claim him—that or the Tuigan still hunting him.

Holwan did not smile at that part in Gethred's tale. Gethred thought one of his countrymen would have, had he crouched where the Khassidi crouched just then, but Holwan's face was a mask, bereft of emotion.

And so Gethred decided to let the cold kill him. His grand­father had always said that the build-up to freezing to death was the worst. Death itself came painlessly, even warmly, as the body fell at first to sleep, then the endless sleep. Gethred had often wondered how even wilderness-wise men like his grandfather could have known such things. Did they call a priest to speak to their frozen friends? If so, Gethred could have thought of something better to ask the dead than, 'How was it?' But Gethred's grandfather had not been the type of man to ask such questions.

Faced with the choice of allowing the cold or the Tuigan to kill him, Gethred had chosen the cold. Not so much out of fear—though that was certainly a consideration—but out of plain spite. He did not want to give his enemies the satisfaction of taking him down. Better to find a nice place to lie down and fall into Mielikki's embrace.

These had been his thoughts as he'd made his way down a valley between two long arms of the Sunrise Mountains. Trees filled the valley, and he'd figured that at the very least he could have a little shelter before he lay down to die.

He'd just made it to the bottom of the valley when he heard something—the sound of struggling beyond a stand of nearby bracken. Drawing his knife, he'd crept forward.

Pushing his way through the thick green of a holly bush, the first thing he'd seen was the body of a wolf, fur a pale gray, but the corpse had been gutted, the entrails strewn about. Crudest of all, the jaw had been pulled open till it broke and the skin tore. Simple wanton cruelty that tightened Gethred's stomach. But the strangest thing was a large rune—all wicked angles and sharp spurs—that had been branded onto the wolf's side. In the crisp air, Gethred thought he could still smell the singed fur.

The sudden shaking of brush had turned Gethred's head, and nearby he saw another wolf, still very much alive, its throat wrapped in a snare. The line drew up to a thick branch that pulled the wolf to the height of its front legs, and with each movement the knotted loop round its neck tightened. One look, and Gethred knew it was only a