Chapter 2

Coldhope, the Imperial League

Hult saw Forlo fall and didn't know what to do. One moment, the man's shoulder was pressed to his; the next he was gone, sprawled in the mud, torn by the shadows' knives. His armor did nothing to stop the black blades—it split like cloth. He did not bleed, but the wound ran deep. Hult risked a glance toward Forlo, saw him still fighting on his back, holding off the creature that stooped over him for the killing blow.

Had it been Chovuk, he wouldn't have hesitated. Years and training had honed his instincts when it came to his old master. He would have leaped to the man's defense, even if it meant his own death. He would have thrown himself on his enemies' weapons, if it meant winning his master a chance to survive. He had been a tenach, a protector: that was his role. His life for Chovuk Boyla's.

But Chovuk was gone now, slain at the disastrous battle of the Tiderun. Forlo had killed him in fair combat. Hult had been duty-bound to avenge his master, had had the opportunity to kill the man easily… but he hadn't. He was still working out why. Perhaps it was because Chovuk was no longer Chovuk when he died. He had given himself over to evil and sorcery, in exchange for power. The Boyla would have spent anything—even his own people—to earn glory. That was not the way a prince should behave, and now that Chovuk was dead, Hult could admit to himself that he had no longer loved his master, at the end.

Forlo was a different matter: Hult had sworn no oaths to him. He still, in his darkest thoughts, entertained the notion of killing him, eventually. But he felt ill to see him go down, and licked his lips as the shadows closed in.

Shedara snapped something at him, over her shoulder. He didn't know her language, but he understood her tone. Don't you dare go after him. If the two of us part now, we're dead.

Even so, he nearly left her anyway. Just as he was tensing to leap, though, the shadows took the choice away from him. One appeared between him and Forlo, and he killed it with a furious blow of his saber. Then a second took its place, and it was all he could do to block the flicking blows of its sickle. His side was numb where another creature's blade had gotten through. He forgot about Forlo, his back pressed hard against the elf's. They both fought for their lives. His shuk moved sluggishly, clumsily: weariness and pain were slowing him down. The shadows, meanwhile, were speeding up. It was only a matter of time.

He prayed to his people's god. Jijin, Horse-father, give me some luck. Get me out of this, and I will slaughter goats in your honor. I will spill their blood and burn their fat on an altar for you… .

He heard the sound of the arrows a heartbeat before he saw them. He'd heard those same shafts fly before; he'd watched them kill men. He'd even been shot by them once, himself, in what seemed like another man's life now. They dropped out of the mist like Jijin's own lightning bolts… one, two, three. Each had its own target, and each found it, slicing through shadow-stuff and tearing fiends to ribbons that vanished into the gloom. They slammed into the ground and stuck: three arrows, black-fletched and dragon-carved, each a killing shot.

He fought on, killing two more shadows, then exhaustion caught up with him. The pain in his side was growing too great. All the strength went out of his legs, and he sat down hard. The taste of bile bit at the back of his throat. I may die here, he thought helplessly. And there is nothing I can do to stop my death.

Forlo wasn't moving anymore. He had either passed out or died. Hult couldn't tell which. Shedara stayed on her feet, swaying a little, her wounded wrist pressed beneath her other arm. Her face was dead white as she cut down another fiend; then another volley descended and destroyed the last remaining pair. She looked at the arrows quivering in the muck, then sheathed her sword and drew a throwing dagger. Hult wanted to tell her that he recognized the archer, their unseen savior, but even if they'd known each other's tongues, he no longer had the breath to do more than grunt. He slowed his breathing, focused, tried to get his wind back. He would need it soon, if things went wrong. He had no idea what the next few moments would bring.

The rain suddenly slacked off. The sky brightened, from charcoal black to a dull, unhappy gray. As the darkness lifted, Hult beheld a figure at the edge of the woods, nearly two hundred paces from Coldhope. The figure was tall and slender, all bones and corded muscle. It had long, braided hair that Hult knew was dyed fire-red, and though it was too far to see, Hult knew his face was also painted with crimson stripes. The newcomer wore buckskin leggings and boots, leather armbands, and a breastplate made of a giant insect's shell. In his hand was a bow of layered horn and wood, which was even taller than he was. It had been said that no one north of the Tiderun was better with such a weapon, and Hult believed it. He'd seen this one shoot.

"Eldako," he wheezed.

Shedara shot him an incredulous look—you know him?—then turned back to face the distant figure. The archer started walking forward, his long strides devouring the rain-sodden turf. He moved easily, but Shedara was tense, shifting the knife to hold it by the blade. Her brow furrowed as she studied the archer—then, when he had come halfway to her, her eyebrows shot up. She knew what he was now, despite his appearance. Eldako's tribe called themselves hosk'i imou merkitsa, the people of the ancient land, but most knew them as wild elves.

Hult got some strength back and heaved himself back to his feet. He raised his shuk to Eldako, who lifted his bow in reply. Neither smiled. Eldako never smiled, not that Hult had seen, and Hult… well, in truth he feared Eldako. The merkitsa elves had tried to kill him and Chovuk once, before the Boyla convinced them to aid him in his war against the southlands instead. The aid they provided had consisted of Eldako, and nothing else. That was measure enough of how deadly this elf was.

Somehow, Hult managed to find his voice. Someone had to say something before the merkitsa got in range of Shedara's knives, and Eldako spoke only a little more often than he smiled.

"Hail, son of Tho-ket," he called. "We thank you for your aid."

"It is freely given, son of Holar," answered Eldako. "Tell your friend to drop her blade, or I will feather the hand that holds it."

Hult shook his head. "We do not understand each other's words."

"Ah."

Eldako stopped, then nodded to Shedara and spoke something in his own language. It was a strange tongue, the sounds like birdsong and flowing water. Hult shuddered: the last time he'd heard it had been in the Dreaming Green, when he'd been a prisoner of the merkitsa.

Shedara blinked, her mouth opening. Eldako regarded her coolly. After a moment, she regained enough of her wits to reply. What she spoke was not the same dialect—the sounds were softer, almost slurred—but even Hult could tell it was close enough for them to understand each other. Eldako cocked his head, concentrating on pulling meaning from the words, then replied. He pointed to Hult, then to himself, then to the north. When he was done, Shedara looked at Hult for a moment, then shrugged and put her dagger away.

Eldako started walking again.

"What did you tell her?" Hult called.

"The truth," the wild elf replied. "That I was part of your master's horde. That I went to war with him. That I escaped the flood that killed the Uigan and have been tracking survivors since."

Hult stiffened. "Survivors? Of my people? How many have you found?"

"One, now."

Hope, quickly kindled, snuffed out just as fast. Hult slumped, then looked to his left and gasped. In the strangeness of the past few moments, he'd forgotten about Forlo. Now he turned and hurried to where the man lay. Shedara followed. The wound across Forlo's belly was terrible, the flesh split open without so much as a drop of red showing, but when Hult touched his throat, the life-beat felt strong. Forlo was breathing. Hult nodded to Shedara, trying to look encouraging.

Eldako joined them. He touched Hult's shoulder. "Let me see his wounds."

"We are all hurt," Hult replied. "Look at mine instead."

He took off his vest and lifted his arm, cringing. The gash in his side blazed white-hot. Eldako knelt, rubbed his chin as he studied the cut, then quickly reached out and pressed its edge. What felt like cold flames erupted in Hult's body. He jerked back, hissing, and shot a glare at the wild elf.

"I apologize," said Eldako. "I had to do that."

"You could have warned me," Hult grumbled.

"Then you wouldn't have let me."

Hult shrugged. That much was true.

"The wound will kill you," said Eldako evenly. "It may take days, but the venom already burns in your blood. The other will last hours, at best."

Hult followed his gaze, feeling queasy as his eyes settled on Forlo. "How do you know this?"

"I have seen this sort of wound before. My people fought monsters like the ones you faced, during the Second Destruction. They were larger, and some took the form of dragons, but they were much the same. They came out of great rents in the earth. I was young then, but I watched many of my kin die by their poison." A ripple of emotion passed over Eldako's face, before he regained his former sternness.

"Then is there nothing to be done?" Hult asked. He could feel his heart beating, and knew that with every pulse, the venom worked its way deeper and deeper into his body. When it reached his heart, it would kill him.

Eldako shook his head. "There is always something to be done. The wounds can be treated, but we must be quick. Help me bring this one back into the castle. If we don't act immediately, he will fade beyond all hope."

Hult considered this advice—but only for a moment. He nodded. Eldako turned to Shedara and explained in her language, too. He studied her injured arm, and her eyes widened when he told her that it, too, would prove fatal sooner or later. He pointed to the castle. She nodded.

Together, they lifted Forlo's body and carried him back into Coldhope.

Hult got a fire going on the hearth, and Shedara fetched water while Eldako stripped off Forlo's armor. The wounds seemed to fester, but gave off no stink of rot. Forlo's face, normally a deep tan, had grown so pale that it had become translucent, with small, blue veins showing through. His black beard, frosted with gray, seemed to turn whiter with every shuddering breath he drew.

"He is nearly gone," the wild elf declared, feeling again for the life-beat. "It will be a near thing, even with my help."

Hult hovered near. "Help him. You must do what you can."

"He slaughtered your people," Eldako noted, one eyebrow rising.

"Even so. He is a good man."

Eldako nodded, though he clearly didn't understand Hult's motives. Hult didn't blame him—he didn't, either. Vengeance was the way of the Uigan, as it was of the merkitsa. But if Forlo died, Hult knew, he would be alone in a dangerous place, with only elves for company. And he owed the man, as well. Forlo could have had him killed after the battle, but hadn't. That counted for something.

The wild elf shrugged off a leather bag he wore at his hip. He pulled out bundles of dried herbs, several clay phials, and a small holy sign: the twin teardrops of Mislaxa, carved of dragon-horn. Shedara brought the water, several bowls, and a mortar and pestle, then stood nearby to watch.

"You are a Mislaxan?" Hult asked, staring at the teardrops. "You never mentioned it."

"I am trained in the healing arts," Eldako replied, not looking up as he sorted his medicines, picking some dried leaves here, a pinch of mold there. One by one, he dropped them into one of the bowls. "All royalty are, among the merkitsa. But Chovuk Boyla needed me for my archery, not my healing. Now, let us share our tales, son of Holar. How did you survive the flood at the Lost Road?"

He set to work then, grinding and mixing a poultice. With a few words in Elvish—which he had to repeat so she could understand his accent—he gave a bowl of leaves and powdered roots to Shedara, who soaked them in water and took them to the fire to make a tea. She moved with the same confidence as Eldako, knowing exactly what she was doing. Hult watched the elves, feeling helpless—his own training at this sort of thing consisted of birthing foals and knowing where to cut to give a wounded man a quick death—then sat down and began to speak.

He told of Chovuk's madness, in the moments after the great wave devoured his people, robbing him of victory in one terrible moment. He told how his master, having changed his skin into that of a steppe-tiger, abandoned the fight to seek the commander of the enemy. They had found him—Forlo—in a broken stub of a tower overlooking the battlefield. The enemies had faced off, and in that moment Chovuk's magic failed him, leaving him naked and weak before his foe. He fought anyway, and Forlo killed him in the end. Hult told how he and Forlo had formed their strange partnership, rather than crossing swords themselves.

"Why did you join with him?" Eldako asked, not looking up. "Is it the way of your people that the servants of a slain lord belong to his slayer?"

Hult shook his head. "No. I should have killed him. It would have been the honorable thing."

"Then why didn't you?"

Hult gave no answer. Eldako's eyes flicked up, took in the troubled look on the young barbarian's face, then returned to his work.

"And so you came here and found her," he finished. "You were leaving when the shadows attacked."

"Yes. And we would have died, without your aid."

Eldako kept grinding and mashing and mixing. "You still may."

Shedara brought the tea, poured it in cups, took one for herself. Hult took another, drank… and nearly spat it out again. It was the sourest thing he'd ever tasted. It made his cheeks hurt when he swallowed.

"What's in this?" he sputtered.

"Dragonwort," Eldako said. "Crone's Cowl. Dew of Morgash. It will fight the poison, keep it from moving deeper into your blood… if it hasn't already gone too far. Drink."

Shedara sipped hers and, after steeling himself, Hult took another drink. After a few swallows, his tongue started to go numb—certainly Jijin's mercy at work—and his fingertips began to tingle. Eldako continued to make the poultice, pausing now and then to inspect Forlo's wounds. The injuries were worsening, black threads spreading outward, under his skin. A high, reedy note cut through the sound of the man's breathing. Hult knew that sound: it was the noise the elders made just before they departed for the halls of the ancestors.

"And you?" Hult asked. "I thought you'd drowned in the Run. How did you survive?"

"I felt the wave coming," Eldako replied. "I sensed magic and the rumbling beneath my feet. So I climbed as fast as I could. Even then, I almost didn't make it. The wave came, and when I looked down… all I saw was foam and flotsam, and men and horses drowning, just below my feet. It was one of the most terrible sights I have ever beheld… that much life destroyed in an instant… ."

He stopped, his eyes far away, lost in grim memory. Then he shook his head and got back to work. "I climbed and climbed, fleeing into the woods. I watched the end of the battle, saw the soldiers burn the Uigan bodies. I searched for survivors, as I have told you… but there was no one. His men"—he nodded at Forlo—"combed the woods and killed them, one by one. They tried to take me, too, but my woodcraft and my bow saved me.

"After a few nights, I spied on the soldiers' camp and heard them say their commander had ridden east, to this place… and that one of your people had gone with them. I chose to follow and see who it was. I thought it might be one of the Tegins. I did not expect it to be you."

"You know their tongue as well?" Hult asked.

Eldako's eyes glinted. "I know many tongues, son of Holar. I know the speech of the Snow-folk of Panak, the Abaqua ogres, and the Glass Sailors of the Shining Lands. We elves live long, and have much time to study such things. Lady Shedara, I am sure, can speak many languages of the south." He reached to his medicine pouch, pulled out a cracked leather strap, and handed it to Hult. "Put this between his teeth, then hold him down. What I am about to do will hurt him very much."

Hult took the strap, eyeing Eldako. The wild elf had barely spoken three words to him in their long ride to battle at the Run. Now he never seemed to stop talking. There were many questions he still wanted to ask, but now was not the time. Turning back to Forlo, he eased the man's jaw open and slid the strap into his mouth. Forlo coughed twice, trying to spit the leather back out, then his breathing settled. Hult looked up at Eldako, who was scooping two fingers' worth of reddish-brown paste out of the mortar. Their eyes met, and the wild elf nodded. Hult grabbed Forlo's shoulders. Eldako spoke a few words to Shedara, and she held Forlo's ankles.

Licking his lips, Eldako reached down and spread the paste onto Forlo's wounded thigh. At once, Forlo made a bestial, howling sound, muted by the strap as his teeth ground into it. His back arched. He fought and bucked like a stallion near a mare in heat. One of his feet got loose and kicked at the air several times before Shedara caught hold of it.

"Hold him!" Eldako snapped. "I have to do that again!"

Hult and Shedara held on. It was all they could do to keep Forlo in place: he fought them like a madman. He scratched and clawed at Hult's arms, even drew blood, but Hult held on while Eldako took a second handful of salve and spread it on the gash in his belly. Forlo roared, flecks of spit flying. Then, with a final whimper, he fell still again. Hult and Shedara let go, panting. Forlo's chest rose and fell, very slightly: it was the only sign that he was still alive.

Eldako put a pad of moss over the wound then bound it with linen. He leaned close, listening to Forlo's breathing. He laid a hand on Forlo's throat, checking his life-beat.

"He will live, I think," he said with a sigh. "He will sleep for a while. The bandages should be changed, at dawn and at dusk. If his fever worsens, we must make him drink the dragonwort tea."

He repeated the instructions to Shedara in Elvish. She nodded.

Eldako eased the strap from between Forlo's teeth. "Now," he said, scooping more salve from the mortar, "come here, both of you. It is your turn."

The pain was incredible, like a thousand wasps had burrowed into his side and all started stinging at once. Hult bit down so hard on the strap, he thought his teeth would crack. He screamed and raged; he shoved Eldako away; he grabbed a chair and smashed it against the wall. But as long as the poultice clung to his wound, the burning continued. Finally he sat down on a bench, put his head between his knees, and let the pain wash over him. In what seemed like a hundred years, the agony began to fade.

Shedara bore her suffering a little better because her wound wasn't as great. When the salve was in, she drew a dagger and focused on stabbing the table, again and again. Splinters flew. Tears leaked down her cheeks. Finally she, too, grew still again.

"I will… never… let them hurt me… again," Hult gasped, tasting bile.

Eldako bandaged them both. "Wise," was all he said.

They told him the rest of the tale, and with the wild elf to translate, learned a bit about each other. Shedara spoke of the statue, the Hooded One, and the sorcerer's spirit trapped within. She told of Forlo's wife, Essana, and the child she carried. She explained about the shadows, the black dragon, and the scale it had left behind—their one clue to where the dragon had gone.

"I've tried all my spells," she said. "I can learn nothing more."

Eldako rubbed his chin. "Hmmm," he said. "Might I see this scale?"

Shedara looked at Hult, who shrugged. Eldako was trustworthy, as far as he knew. She reached into her pouch and produced the scale. It glistened in the pale daylight that streamed through the greatroom's high windows. Eldako took it, turning it over in his hands, slowly.

"Do you know it?" Hult asked.

Eldako shook his head. "I have only seen a few dragons in my life, and this does not come from any of them. I cannot tell you anything about it."

Shedara's shoulders slumped. She took the scale back.

"But there is one who might. The Wyrm-namer."

Shedara started, looking at Eldako in amazement. Hult glanced from one to the other, confused. After a moment, Shedara began to laugh.

"The Namer is a myth," she scoffed. "My people have searched for him since the Great Destruction, but never found him."

"Then they did not look in the right places," Eldako replied.

"Are you saying you've seen him?"

"No. But I know those who have."

"Please!" Hult cried, holding up a hand. The conversation was confusing, with Eldako saying everything twice—once for Shedara, and once for him. Hult looked at both of them, imploring. "Just who is this Wyrm-namer?"

"A bedtime story," Shedara muttered.

"An ancient dragon," Eldako corrected. "A silver. He dwells far to the north, hidden in the wastes of Panak. It is said he knows the name of every dragon alive. If anyone can tell us where the scale came from, it will be him."

Shedara snorted, rolling her eyes.

Eldako turned a cold eye on her. "I would be pleased to hear your alternative, my lady."

There was a silence. Hult coughed. "Who knows where this Wyrm-namer dwells, then?" he asked.

"The Snow-folk," Eldako declared. "I lived among them for a time, during the Godless Night, and they often spoke of him. They call him Ukamiak, the silver sage. They could show—"

He stopped then, eyes widening and nostrils flaring. His whole body grew taut and tense. He reached across his body and drew his long, slender sword. Shedara was on her feet a heartbeat later, a dagger dropping from her sleeve into her uninjured hand. Hult rose and drew his shuk as well. His side blazed as he pulled the blade from its scabbard.

"What is it?" he hissed.

"Trouble," Eldako replied. "Many men, in the courtyard. No—not men. Minotaurs."

Shedara swore under her breath. Hult did the same. There could be only one answer to who these newcomers were: soldiers of the Imperial League. They would not take kindly to finding a Uigan and two elves here in Coldhope. Hult could hear, now, what the elves' keen ears had detected before him: the tromp of feet outside, the rattle of mail, voices calling to one another in the bull-men's guttural tongue. He cast about, trying to think what to do.

Then the door slammed open, and the minotaurs came charging in.