Chapter 15

The Wastes, Lower Panak

The storm broke the next day, leaving blue sky in its wake. Angusuk prepared a sled for the journey across the snows. It was a large vehicle, like a boat on long, whalebone runners, pulled by a pair of nasif—enormous, shaggy-coated deer with sharp antlers, which the folk of Panak tended like sheep or cattle. They gave great strips of smoked nasif meat to Forlo and the others for their voyage, as well as thick hides to keep them warm. To Shedara, the women of the tribe gave a necklace of the animals' bones, intricately carved with images of wolves and spiral patterns. Then the Ice People left them alone, returning to their solemn, silent toil of mourning their dead and digging out from the blizzard.

Tulukaruk remained unconscious until midday, and when he finally woke, he could remember nothing of what the spirit-wolf had said through him. When Eldako told him where they were bound, the makau's childlike face turned grave.

"The Hoarspines," he croaked. "Beware those peaks. The sakalaminuik dwell there also—snow-ogres, they are our people's ancient foes. The snow-ogres are fierce and strong, and friends to none but their own. You will need those blades you wear, if you should cross paths with them."

None of them said anything about the oath the spirit had made them take. There was no need to upset Tulukaruk, they decided, by mentioning they had promised to slay the Wyrm-namer. There was no telling what the Ice People might do if they learned the truth.

"The Namer is ancient, sacred!" Eldako had protested the night before, once the makau's magic had faded from the hut. "To slay him would be like killing the head of a great and powerful church."

"I've done that," Forlo had replied. "These hands took the head of Bishop Ondelos of Thenol. He was an evil man, but many still called him holy. If this Namer is responsible for the deaths of the wolves, perhaps the same could be said about him."

"If," Shedara replied. "It could be a trick by the spirits. How do you know what was said was true?"

Forlo shrugged. "How do we know the Namer's really at this mountain, this Greytooth? All we know is what we've been told. Either we believe the spirit-wolf, or what's the point?"

Shedara made a face but gave no answer. Eldako shook his head—no, there wasn't any other choice. But the elves still didn't like the decision.

Forlo turned to Hult. "What about you? You've been quiet this whole time."

The young barbarian met his gaze, his eyebrows rising. "Have you ever slain a dragon, Forlo? I have—a young wyrm, barely out of its egg. Doing so nearly killed me." He stroked his necklace of dragon teeth, his trophies of that long-ago fight and the one garment he'd kept through their ordeal among the minotaurs. "This Namer is ancient and will be a hundred times more dangerous, a thousand times more cunning. You have taken this oath, so we must try to keep to it, but it may be the death of us."

That was more than enough. The words hung over Forlo like a curse. They didn't speak of their decision again.

They set forth the following morning, climbing aboard the massive sled while the Ice People lashed the nasif to it. Angusuk took the reins: he would make the journey with them, and bring them back… if there was anyone to bring back. Most of the clan came out to the village's eastern edge to watch them leave. Even Tulukaruk emerged from his wolf-haunted hut, leaning on his staff and raising a withered hand in farewell. Forlo and the others repeated the gesture; then Angusuk lashed the reins and the sled lurched forward, gliding down a long, shallow slope and leaving Kitaglu behind.

The nasif were surprisingly fast for creatures of their bulk, their broad hooves chewing through the snow, throwing up great plumes that drifted away southward on the wind. The sled itself glided smoothly along, the runners hissing as they slid across the snow-pack. The Ice People's village vanished in minutes, leaving the travelers alone in an ocean of white. The wasteland rose and fell gently as they went, and now and then a few lichen-encrusted rocks poked through, but otherwise it was like being in an endless void, a frozen nothingness gleaming brightly in the sun.

So it went, for eight days and nights. They stopped when the sun went down, Angusuk guiding the nasif to a cluster of rocks so the hulking beasts could feed off the lichen, while he built a peat fire in a small stone urn and used it to melt snow for drinking water. They camped in the sled, never once stepping off its deck, wrapping themselves in furs and chewing on the gamey strips of meat. Sometimes, they told tales or sang. Angusuk tried to teach them cham ka, a complicated game that used dice made from nasif antlers. They all failed to learn the rules—even Forlo, who had mastered most dice games during his time in the legions. The game was just too complex. Finally, Angusuk gave up.

Time crawled. One day bled into the next. It seemed they might just go on forever, damned to spend eternity in this empty, frigid desert. Then, finally, on the ninth morning, they cleared a rise and saw a jagged blue line on the horizon: ice-bound mountains, rising out of the snow-sea. One jutted up among them, a slender needle of rock that was so steep, most of the snow had slid off its sides. The stone beneath was the color of storm clouds.

"Greytooth," Forlo breathed. The others nodded. Wordlessly, Angusuk pulled the reins, aiming the nasif directly at the menacing peak. They glided on.

Hours passed. The sun rose, but did not get very high before sliding down to the west. This far north, there were only a few hours of daylight in the winter, so when nightfall came, the Hoarspine was still several leagues away. Angusuk didn't order the nasif to quit this time, though; they went on through the dusk and dark, as the silver moon rose behind the mountains. Finally, as the bitter wind tried to claw through their furs, the sled came to a stop at the foot of an icy slope. Greytooth soared over them, a menacing finger accusing the heavens. Billows of glittering snow gusted off its highest reaches, trailing for miles into the night.

Angusuk and Eldako exchanged a few words, then the wild elf clapped the other man on the shoulder before coming back to join the rest. "He will remain here with the nasif," he said. "If there are snow-ogres about, they may try to steal them."

"What about us?" Forlo asked, gazing up at the forbidding spire. "We can't climb that. Well, maybe with that spell Shedara used at Kristophan… ."

"There is no need," Eldako replied, pointing. "Do you see the base of the spike? The cleft there?"

They all looked, but Forlo shook his head. After a moment, Hult spoke irritably. "I am no elf," said the Uigan. "I cannot see in the dark as well as you."

"I can," Shedara said. "A cave mouth. Looks big enough for a dragon, too. That must be the Namer's lair."

"We'll climb in the morning, then," Forlo said. "If we try going up that slope now, Hult and I will break our necks. One more camp, and tomorrow we find the Namer."

"One more camp," Shedara said. "But not much sleep for any of us, I think."

At that moment a loud howling rose, somewhere up among the rocks—a noise that was almost, but not quite, human. Another voice joined the first, then a third, and finally a whole chorus. The din went on for quite some time, while the nasif rolled their eyes and snorted, kept in place only by Angusuk's soothing voice and his tight hand on the reins. The sled shook as they sought to break free, to find somewhere to run. Finally, the eerie song died away, one voice after another dropping until only echoes remained, bouncing from crag to crag.

Forlo didn't need to ask. None of them did. Those were the voices of the sakalaminuik. The snow-ogres were up there, waiting.

"No," he said. "I don't think we'll be getting any sleep at all."

Dawn came, pale and gray, with the promise of snow in the air—though not another storm, according to Angusuk. "We will be well," he said, patting one of the nasif. "We will wait for you."

"Two days," Eldako said. "As we discussed. If we don't return by then, we won't be returning at all. Go back to Kitaglu, and send a messenger south to my father in the Dreaming Green. Tell him of our quest, and that we failed."

"You will not fail," Angusuk said, smiling. "The makau has seen it."

"Of course he has," Shedara muttered.

They climbed down from the sled, but even Eldako's weight broke through the covering crust, plunging him thigh-deep into the loose powder beneath. It took them the better part of an hour to slog the thirty paces to the mountain's foot. One by one they dragged themselves onto the rock and rested, panting and sweating as they fought to get their strength back. Angusuk watched, still smiling, the nasif's reins in his mittened hand.

Glancing up, Eldako sucked a breath through his teeth, but when Forlo looked, he saw nothing. "What was it?" he asked.

"Something there, on the stones," the wild elf replied. "It was watching us, I think. I saw its eyes." He worked quickly, stringing his bow and plucking an arrow from his quiver. "The sakalaminuik await."

"An ambush?" Hult asked, loosening his blade in its scabbard.

"Perhaps," Eldako said.

"I wonder," Shedara said. "If they wanted to attack, they could have done it in the night."

"We hadn't set foot on their territory then," Forlo murmured.

Eldako grunted, giving him a nod. Shedara, however, looked thoughtful. "Listen," she said. "Don't you think it's odd that these creatures live so close to the Namer's lair? I mean, why would he tolerate them?"

"What are you getting at?" Forlo asked.

She looked up again then froze. "Eye of Solis," she whispered. "Look."

Forlo did, and reached at once for his sword. The slope above them had come alive. More than a dozen enormous creatures were squatting on the rocks. Their skin was gray, covered with long, shaggy fur as white as the snow around them. They were long-armed and stooped, their heads squashed onto massive shoulders, flat faced with black, glittering eyes and long, yellow tusks. Some held stone-headed clubs; others hefted small boulders, poised to throw. Forlo had never seen a snow-ogre, hadn't even heard of them before coming to Panak, but he knew he was looking at them right now.

Hult began to draw his weapon. Shedara grabbed his elbow, squeezing tight until he let go. "No," she said. "If we attack, they'll smash us where we stand. Eldako, lower your bow."

The merkitsa had raised the weapon the moment the snow-ogres appeared. Now he frowned, hesitating.

"Do you think you can shoot them all before one of those rocks finds you?" Shedara asked. "Listen. I think the Namer tolerates them for a reason. I think they're his guards."

Forlo looked from her to the wild elf, then up at the sakalaminuik. Slowly, he took his hand off his own sword. "She's right," he said. "They're here to greet intruders. We must show them we mean no harm before we can approach the cave."

Eldako held his stance. His eyes flicked to Forlo, who nodded. At last, with a sigh, he relaxed his pull on the bowstring and pointed the weapon at the ground.

"All right," Forlo said, shrugging off his pack. He kept an eye on the snow-ogres, who watched as he loosened the drawstring and reached inside. "I hope you're right about this, Shedara."

"So do I," she said. "Show it to them, Forlo."

He didn't need to be told. Holding his breath, he hauled the black scale from his pack and held it up for the snow-ogres to see. Then something occurred to him. "Hult," he said, "you can talk to them, in their language. Tell them why we're here."

Hult blinked, then glanced at the jade amulet around his neck and understood. He looked up, hopefully, and found himself uttering a series of grunts and barks, unintelligible to the others, then cocking his head in an inquisitive gesture.

The sakalaminuik started, looking at one another. They had never heard a human speak their tongue before. One shambled forward to lean over the edge of an outcrop and peer at Hult, Forlo, and the elves. He grunted a question of his own.

Hult snarled an answer.

Whatever he said, it satisfied the snow-ogres. Bowing their heavy-browed heads, they put down their clubs and let the boulders fall, harmless, at their feet. Then they parted, flanking what Forlo could see was a path that wended up the mountainside.

"They say we may pass," Hult said. "The Namer awaits within."

Forlo managed a shaky smile, still holding the scale high. "Well, now," he said. "That was easy enough, wasn't it?"

Ice coated the tunnel, thick and rippling, sea-blue and foam-green, reflecting light from outside the mountain. Huge, dripping stalactites hung from the ceiling, poised above stalagmites like so many glistening fangs. In places, they joined into mighty, sparkling columns. Another time, it would have been a sight to marvel at, but Forlo's mind dwelled solely on what lay ahead, in the frozen depths of Greytooth.

The going was slow and treacherous. They had to steady themselves to keep from slipping as they walked, down and down, swords sheathed, arrows tucked safely in their quivers. The snow-ogres followed, making no noise as they shambled along. Every instinct bred into him by decades at war screamed to Forlo that they were dooming themselves by going this way—had already done so when they agreed to walk among the sakalaminuik. There were scores of the creatures following them.

To keep his focus, he held on to the scale. It glistened green and violet in the ice-diffused light, like lamp oil floating on a puddle. His fingers probed its jagged edge, where it had broken away from the dragon, felt the thickness of it, the unbreakable hardness. You could shoot a crossbow at the thing from five paces away and it wouldn't break. This was what they were up against—and what they would face, soon enough. For the dragon who bided in the cavern below was far older than the one who'd taken Essana. And he had sworn to kill it.

Now that he thought of it, that did seem foolish.

"I hear something," Shedara murmured, frost puffing from her mouth.

Eldako nodded. "Breathing"

Forlo concentrated, listening hard. At first he couldn't detect anything, but a dozen halting paces on, he caught the sound too: a low whooshing, like air passing through some massive bellows. There was something more to it, too—a strange, whistling note buried deep within. Forlo frowned, trying to think what it was and where he had heard something like it before.

"That isn't the breath of something healthy," said Hult. "Once, when I was a boy, Anku Tegin, who was lord of our clan before Chovuk, made me put down a horse with the drowning-sickness. Its lungs were filled with fluid. It could barely lift its head, let alone stand."

Forlo looked at the Uigan, understanding lighting his face. "Yes. That's it. I lost men to something like that, down in the marshes of Thenol. A bad way to die."

"As opposed to all the good ways," Shedara said.

Hult shook his head. "Most are better than drowning in your own mucus."

She looked as if she wanted to argue, but just then the breathing hitched, then stopped for a moment. Then there was another noise, a series of small explosions that made the smaller stalactites break free and rain down in tinkling shards. The dragon was coughing. It went on so long, it seemed it might not end—but it did, and when the fit subsided, the wheezing note in the beast's breathing was louder than ever.

"Who… enters… my den?" croaked a weak voice from ahead. The words dissolved into another spasm.

Forlo looked at the others. They were all watching him, expectant. He tightened his grip on the scale, then raised his voice to call back. "We come in search of counsel, Ancient One! We seek a name."

"A name…" the voice replied. "Long… has it been, since… anyone… came seeking names… from me. Come… forward. Enter and… speak."

Taking a deep breath, Forlo glanced over his shoulder. The sakalaminuik gathered behind them, filling the passage from one side to the other. They watched him with eyes that held no anger, no reproach. No, it was sorrow in the snow-ogres' gaze. They were grieving. He knew, then, what was happening here: the Namer was dying. He would not be required to fulfill his oath, would not need to become a dragon-slayer. He could tell from every sound the ancient wyrm made. It probably should have died some time ago… days, weeks… maybe years. But something had made it want to go on, just a little longer.

He was that something. Him, and the scale.

Exhaling, Forlo strode forward. The others went with him, lost in their own thoughts. The sakalaminuik lumbered behind, making no sound.

The tunnel finally ended, opening into a vast cavern rimed all over with frost. Shafts of light lanced down from above, making the gigantic icicles shimmer. The sound of dripping water was everywhere. The floor dropped away from the tunnel, down a steep, curving slope toward the cavern's bottom. And down below, lying in a trembling heap, was what remained of Ukamiak, the Wyrm-namer.

Looking on the creature, Forlo felt a catch in his own throat. Once, surely, the Namer had been a proud beast, a leviathan of a size unrivalled among its kind. Even now, it stretched fifty paces from snout to tail, and its wings—tattered and peeling with some painful disease—were each thrice the size of the largest sail in the minotaur fleet. One of its horns was broken away, and it was as toothless as the old makau, back in Kitaglu. Its eyes were milky with cataracts. Its muscles were wasted, leaving flesh hanging loosely from its bones. Once, its scales must have been silver, but now they were dark with tarnish, green with illness.

Forlo heard a sound beside him. Glancing over, he saw Shedara was weeping, a hand covering her face. Beside her Eldako stared, his eyes shining with tears. Even Hult had turned pale and was staring at the ceiling.

Shaking his head, Forlo forced himself to gaze upon the wretched creature that was Ukamiak. How long had this creature been here, waiting for one more supplicant to arrive? How much had it endured to last this long?

"Do not… sorrow," said the dying dragon. "My time is… at hand. At last… I will… rest."

"You knew of our coming," Forlo murmured. "Something told you to wait. A dream, a vision?"

The pale eyes shifted, gazing up at him. Past him. Through him. The Namer was blind. "Yes," the Namer replied. "A hundred… years. Perhaps… longer. It is hard… to know for… certain." He coughed again, and clouds of freezing mist billowed from his crusted nostrils. "But you are… here. Give… me… the scale."

Forlo held out the scale, looking dubiously down the slope toward the dragon. "I don't think I can walk down to you, Ancient One," he said.

"Throw it."

It was hard to let it go. The scale was the one link he had left, the only thing still tying him to his wife. Now he turned it over in his hands, watching the light play across its surface one last time.

"Go on," Shedara said. "Before it's too late."

Ukamiak was fading. Each breath was weaker than the last. Their arrival had brought imminent death to the Namer's cavern. Swallowing, Forlo raised the scale and flung it away. It fell into the gulf of the cave, struck the floor, and slid the rest of the way down, stopping within the dragon's reach. A long, broken talon stretched out and plucked it from the ice.

"My sins are many," breathed the Namer. "I have… done ill. But… I have paid… the price."

His words shifted then, to a different language, the ageless speech of the dragons. It was the language of magic, the first of that kind, from which all mortals had taken their own eldritch tongues. Power seethed in every word, drawn not just from the moons, but from everything—the ice of the cave, the stones beneath, the flesh of dragon and ogre alike. Forlo gritted his teeth as the air around the Namer shimmered with power.

Bit by bit, the magic coalesced. It took a form, long and slender and serpentine… and black as the heart of night. It gathered like a shadow above Ukamiak's withered body, coiling and writhing, claws grasping at the air. Venom dripped from its jaws. It was an evil thing, ugly and cruel. Its eyes burned like red coals.

"This is… the one you seek," wheezed the Namer. "It is called… Sashekul, which… is Gloomwing in our… speech. Its lair… lies on the edge… of… the Boiling Sea. The valleys of… Marak."

"Marak!" Shedara gasped. "Where the kender dwell?"

"Yes," the Namer said. "You will learn… more… there."

The image began to come apart, bleeding like ink in water. The black wyrm dissipated, its eyes winking out. Ukamiak the Namer coughed, weakly, one last time.

"It is… finished," he gasped.

And was still.