Chapter 16

The Wastes, Lower Panak

The sled glided across the snows in silence, overhung with dark clouds. Snow danced in the air, borne by winds that cut straight through the thickest furs. The nasif trotted tirelessly, snorting frost as they ran. The mountains faded away behind them, forgotten.

It hadn't been what Hult expected. He'd thought there would be fighting, against the ogres and perhaps even the dragon. He hadn't thought it would end so quietly, with the Namer simply lying still, his skull-like head flat upon the ice of the cave. The sakalaminuik had gone down to tend the creature they had worshiped as a god. Their chief had spoken a few grunting words, which he hadn't needed to translate to the others:

"Go now. You have what you need. We mourn."

And they had gone, back up the mountain's throat and to the sled, where Angusuk listened while they told their tale. Then, without a word, he had taken the reins and urged the nasif on, away from the Hoarspine, back along the long white road to Kitaglu. Neither he nor any of the others had spoken a word since.

Hult had thought he knew dragons, from his manhood hunt upon the ice. But the feral cold-drakes he and his friends had stalked and slain were no more like the Namer than dogs were like men. The beast whose death he'd beheld was, he was sure, the only one of its kind, and another would not soon come to Taladas. Perhaps one never would. His death was something momentous, like the fall of an empire… or the destruction of a people.

Shedara wept for a while. They left her alone. Eldako stood at the sled's prow, letting the wind buffet his face, bringing tears of a different kind. Forlo sat at the rear, his gaze thoughtful as he stared back toward Greytooth's vanishing shadow. Hult, for his part, prowled from one end of the sled to the other, his hand on his sword, restless. Nine days out, nine days back, and scarcely an hour in between. He longed for a horse under him, the wide expanse of the grasslands sweeping ahead. He wanted war-songs on the air, men laughing and joking, boasting of how many enemies would die on their spears tomorrow—his master, shouting loudest of all.

That life is gone, he reminded himself. His gaze strayed south and stayed there. There, far beyond the horizon, lay Marak. Their next destination: green, steep-walled, misty valleys where the kender dwelled. He knew the little folk from legend, nothing more. None of them had ever been to the place—not Eldako, not Forlo, not even Shedara. None knew what waited for them there—only that the black dragon, Gloomwing, called the valleys home. It would take weeks to reach Marak. Winter would be hard upon Taladas by then.

They spoke that night, at last. Forlo broke the silence, his face looking old in the faint light of the peat fire. The wind moaned across the snows.

"Eldako," he said, "you've done more than enough, bringing us here. When we go back south, if you want to return to your people, I'll understand. No one will hold it against you."

Hult jolted, surprised. He could tell by the weariness in Forlo's voice that the words hurt him badly to speak. He looked at the two of them now, Uigan and merkitsa, his face pinched with anticipation. Shedara's eyes flicked between them all, narrow, watching. They were still red from her tears for the Namer.

Eldako shifted where he sat, his face an unreadable mask. Snow sparkled in his hair. "I will not lie and say I haven't thought long about what you offer," he said. "My heart aches for the Green, for sunlight through leaves and the music of waterfalls. And for the sight of my father as well. He will think me dead by now—word will have reached him of what happened at the Tiderun. He will grieve for me, and it twists my heart to cause him such sorrow. But what you offer, I cannot accept."

"You should," Shedara said, and looked at Hult. "Both of you. Forlo and I each have a stake in this. I'm sworn to destroy the statue, if I have to cross the Abyss to do it. And he must find his wife. But you're both with us for no more reason than chance. I wouldn't ask you to come any farther, any more than I would Angusuk."

"No stake?" Hult asked heatedly. "How can you say that, after all we've gone through? I'm as much a part of this tale as either of you—the people who stole the statue are the same ones who drove my master mad, who drove my people into the jaws of the sea. The memory of the Uigan is my stake in this, and it is no less than yours or Forlo's. If I left you now, it would be abandoning our honor forever. I will not do that. I will see it restored, or die trying."

Quiet settled, the wind and the crackle of the flames the only sounds. Forlo and Shedara studied Hult, long and hard. He stared back. He didn't quite know where the words had come from, but now that he'd said them, it felt like a great burden had lifted from his shoulders. For the first time since before the battle of the Run, he felt proud of himself, that he had a mission in life.

"As for me," Eldako put in, "it is true I have no stake—unless it is the stake all share, and stand to lose, if the Faceless Emperor is freed. But my path is with you, not back to the Green, and you will not be rid of me. Even should you cast me out and shun me, I will follow."

"Why?" Forlo asked.

Eldako shrugged. "That is a human question—why. We merkitsa do not ask why. We follow our instincts, like those that led me to Coldhope when the shadows were about to kill you. Now all my instincts tell me I have a part to play in this, still."

"Then we are one, we four," Hult said. "We go to Marak together."

"And beyond," Shedara replied. "The road won't end there, and we all know it. There's much farther to go before this is done."

The wind groaned. Angusuk, who'd listened to most of the conversation without understanding, bowed his head. Even he could sense the solemnity of the moment. They could all feel what Hult had said—they were bound together. The Wyrm-namer's death had sealed their pact, in a way.

Forlo sighed, a deep and heavy sound, like a stone dropping into a fathomless pool. "All right, then," he said. "We do this together. Marak it is."

He held out his hand, above the fire's guttering flames. There were many small, white scars on the fingers, and a longer one across the heel of his palm: soldier's wounds, little cuts from countless battles. Hult had more than a few of those, himself—and a larger one, too. He extended his own maimed hand. The stumps where his missing fingers had been were healed over, but still the sight made his stomach clench.

"Marak," he said.

Eldako laid his own hand atop Hult's. "Marak, and to the road's ending."

They looked at Shedara. She made a face. "Men and their rituals," she said. "But… all right."

She rested her hand on Eldako's. All four sat still, quiet, marking the moment. Something in the fire settled, and cinders rose up around their hands. They stung when they touched Hult's skin, but he didn't pull away. None of them did, until finally Shedara lifted her hand from the others', pushed back from the fire, and lay down.

"Now let's get some sleep," she said. "Like I said, there's still a long way to go."

The days passed in a white haze. The sled swept on. The snow kept falling, day and night. Somehow, the nasif found their way through the white nothing.

Finally, Angusuk called out. "We are close now!" he said. "Kitaglu lies beyond the ridge."

Hult, who had been dozing at the sled's rear, roused and got to his feet. He nudged awake Forlo, and they went to join Eldako and Shedara, who were watching ahead. Beyond the nasif's bobbing antlers, the ground rose to a crest. Hult wouldn't have recognized the area for the world, but then, none of the others would have known the hillocks that dotted the Tamire as well as he did. Angusuk, on the other hand, was leaning forward, his face lit by eagerness. It made Hult ache a little—he would never again know this feeling, of coming home.

"Something's wrong," Eldako said suddenly. "Where are the Patient Folk?"

Hult blinked, then stared, looking up and down the length of the ridge. There was no sign of the piled-stone statues that protected the Ice People's lands. Now he remembered—five of them had stood atop this ridge, starkly positioned against the gray sky. He shuddered at the memory. Part of him was glad the Ningasuk were gone—but deep down he knew it was an ill omen, even before Angusuk cried out and started shouting at the nasif, lashing the reins to drive them faster.

Upward the sled climbed, the great deer straining and snorting to get to the top. As they got closer, Hult saw that the Patient Folk weren't actually gone; they had been toppled, reduced to heaps of jumbled rock, scattered down the slope. The sled ran over a couple of these, bucking wildly as it did. It was a miracle the nasif didn't stumble over them and break their legs. Had he been rational, Angusuk would have slowed their pace, but the man was panicking, his eyes wild with fear.

At last, they came to the crest. Angusuk seemed ready to drive the sled right over and down the other side, but before he could lash the nasif again, Shedara reached over and laid a hand on his arm. He looked at her, his eyes wide and white, and for a moment he didn't seem to recognize her. She gazed back, her green eyes shining. It was subtle, but Hult felt the magic around her, a spell being worked.

"Be easy," she told him. "What's happened is done. You won't achieve anything by this."

Angusuk blinked. Then, with an inarticulate sound, he stumbled back. Forlo grabbed the reins and brought the nasif to a halt. The beasts snorted and frothed, pawing at the snow, eager to run again.

Then the wind shifted, and the animals bellowed in fright, their eyes rolling. One reared, and the sled slewed sideways, one of its runners lifting off the ground and nearly pitching them all overboard. Hult staggered, grabbing the vehicle's side to keep from falling over, then recovered himself and jumped out, landing in knee-deep snow. He slogged to the bawling nasif and held up his hand, speaking in the same soothing voice all Uigan learned to use to calm their horses.

"Quiet, old man," he said in his native tongue. "Why do you cry so? All will be well, be still…

The words didn't matter, only the tone of his voice. But the nasif listened and slowly began to settle down again. Eldako joined him, speaking to the beasts in low grunts and soft bleats—the sounds of forest deer, softer and gentler than the speech of these great snow-beasts. Angusuk made a third, and together they made the animals calm again.

Hult sniffed the wind, trying to pick out the scent that had made the nasif panic, but it was too cold, his nose too runny. He hadn't smelled anything in days. He laid a hand on his sword.

"We should go on foot," he said. "If whatever spooked them gets any stronger, we might not be able to control them again."

"Afoot it is, then," Forlo agreed, climbing down from the sled.

He extended a hand to help Shedara out, and to Hult's surprise she didn't wave him off. They trudged through the snow to join the others. "Angusuk," Shedara said. "Is there an overlook nearby? Somewhere we can watch from out of sight?"

He looked at her a moment, his eyes still glassy from the spell, then nodded, pointing south. "By the Ningasuk," he said. "We can hide among the stones."

So they went, leaving the sled where it was. Eldako untied the nasifs reins, in case they got scared again, but the animals stayed where they were. Giving each of them one last pat, he turned and ran to join the others.

The Patient Folk were utterly destroyed, not a single stone left standing. It looked as if some incredible force had blasted them off their feet, knocking them away from Kitaglu. The nearest one's head lay almost fifty paces away, half buried in the snow, its sightless eyes glaring straight up at the sky. Hult shuddered at the sight, then made his way with the others to where the statue had stood. There, the boulders were jumbled, offering plenty of places for them to hide—or for others to do the same. Hult drew his sword as he approached them; the others followed suit; even Angusuk gripped his club in trembling hands.

Nothing awaited them among the rocks, though. All was still, and now Hult began to understand what had frightened the nasif—and Angusuk. He'd seen Kitaglu; it was a quiet place, but not silent. There had always been the sounds of a living village: children laughing, women singing, the barking of dogs. Now there wasn't a single sound from the hollow below. He'd lived long enough, seen enough Uigan villages wiped out by riders of other tribes—and other tribes' villages destroyed by the Uigan—to understand what it meant. All that was missing were the circling masses of crows and skyfishers above. It was too cold here for that.

A lump formed in his throat as he clambered over the toppled stones. He knew what he was going to see—but still, when he reached the overlook at last and looked down at what lay below, he couldn't help but bare his teeth and pound the heel of his fist against the stones.

Little remained of Kitaglu. The skin-and-snow huts had collapsed, leaving small depressions in the snow where they had stood. The pole with the carved wolves' heads lay on its side, nearly swallowed by the weather. And all throughout the village, scattered like a child's broken toys, lay the half-buried bodies of the Ice People. Men, women, children—all had been killed, many slain from behind as they tried to flee, and left to freeze stiff in the cold.

"There's no blood," murmured Shedara.

"The snow may have covered it," Forlo whispered.

They could all sense it—there was a something about the way everything looked that told them no natural foe had destroyed Kitaglu. Besides the lack of blood, none of the bodies looked to have been killed by anything but keen, slicing blades—no arrows, no crushed skulls, no one torn apart. There were no broken weapons, no bodies of any enemies, no tracks but the Ice People's own.

"We brought death to this place," Shedara said, her voice breaking. "Wherever we go, slaughter follows."

Eldako shook his head. "It is not your fault. You did not choose for the shadows to hunt you. They—"

A horrible sound interrupted him, so close it made Hult jump and whirl, his blade coming up before him. It was a strangled cry, a sound so heartbroken that it made his skin rise in bumps. Only after a moment did he realize the sound came from Angusuk. Shedara's calming spell was wearing off, and watching it happen was like watching the man fall apart. The hunter's face seemed to collapse, his eyes squeezing into blind, tear-filled slits. His mouth opened like a wound. The muscles in his throat jumped as his moan rose into a howl of anguish and rage. Twitching, he rose from where he crouched and started down toward his village.

Shedara tensed to spring after him, but Eldako shook his head. "Let him go," he said. "If you use your magic to deaden him again, it will drive him mad."

"But the shadows—" she began.

"Are long gone. This massacre happened days ago. The depth of the snow should tell you that."

She looked as if she might argue more, but it was too late. The last of the spell had lifted, and Angusuk had broken into a run, stumbling down the slope at breakneck speed. He shouted the names of his family, friends, tribe-mates.

No answer came.

They walked among the wreckage. Nothing remained. The clan of the Spirit Wolf was destroyed, though when Angusuk finally stopped digging among the fallen huts, screaming the names of the dead, he admitted some of the hunters appeared to be missing altogether. A handful only, but it was a hopeful sign. All the women and children were dead, but there might be others still alive to carry the memory of his people.

Not the makau, though. Tulukaruk had been murdered as he slept, it seemed, for his body still lay in his anho-ti: He had been killed by a single slash across the throat, from which not a drop of blood had spilled. The look on the mage's frozen face was one of peace, a faint smile curling his lips. Of the Amaguik, his ghost-wolf guardians, there was no sign—although Hult was certain, for a moment, that he heard distant, mournful howling on the wind. Four voices now, not three. He shivered.

Angusuk broke down completely when he beheld the old sorcerer, huddling over Tulukaruk and sobbing for nearly an hour. The others didn't disturb him. Finally, as the sky was beginning to darken, he emerged from the anho-ti, his eyes red. He stripped to the waist, baring his stout, scarred body to the wind, and looked at the others with an expression so pained that Hult had to look away.

"We must burn them," he said. "Tonight. We must do this before my people become Uitayuik."

There was no more discussion than that. The image of the people of Kitaglu, doomed to wander the Panak forever as white-eyed ghosts, was too horrible. Grimly, quietly, they built pyres of peat and what little wood there was in the village. They gathered the bodies, laying them out to burn. The sky was fully dark by the time they were done, the moons and stars still lost behind cloud and snow; they worked by the light of stones that Shedara enchanted to glow, a cold, blue gleam that made even the living look dead. Finally, near midnight, the work was done and Tulukaruk was laid at the top of the highest pyre. Exhausted, they gathered beside the remains, each holding a lit torch. Angusuk, still bare-chested, drew a stone knife and cut a long gash across his body. Then, as the blood trickled down his skin, he uttered a wheezing chant for the dead.

With that, he plunged his torch into the central pyre. It took time for the flames to build, but eventually firelight flooded the ruined village, its warmth swallowing Shedara's mage-light. As one, the others lit the remaining pyres. Warmth poured through Kitaglu one last time, melting the snow, thawing the bodies, then setting them aflame. Smoke rose high into the air—and the sky cleared at last.

"Look!" shouted Forlo, pointing north.

Hult whirled, expecting to see more of the shadow-fiends, returning. Instead, he beheld something beautiful, the likes of which he'd never seen before. In the sky, where the clouds had been, strange lights now glowed: red and green and gold, twisting ropes and shimmering curtains, like a rainbow gone mad. There was a sound too, faint but unmistakable: a chiming, as of thousands of tiny bells.

Through his tears, Angusuk smiled. "My people," he whispered. "Rest now. Go. You are free."

They watched the strange lights in the north for hours, until they faded at last, and only stars remained.

Three days later, they returned to the seashore. The elven boat was moored there, waiting for them. Storm and waves had battered it, but it still floated, and its masts remained intact: Nalaran's magic still clung to its hull, protecting it. The dinghy was all right too, standing where they'd left it, above the high-tide mark on the rocky shore.

"Will you join us?" Hult asked Angusuk, as they gazed down from the clifftops. "You are welcome."

The Ice Person stared at the ship, his face thoughtful. He licked his lips, thinking long and hard—then, shook his head.

"I must find the others who still live, the hunters who were away when… when it happened." he said. "We clan-brothers must join together. But I will remember you, my friends. I will chant your tale, and it will live on around the song-fires of Panak."

He clasped each of them in turn, pressing his forehead against theirs in farewell. Then he turned and strode to the waiting sled and its nasif. They watched him climb aboard, raise his hand in farewell, and glide away over the snows.

"Well," Shedara said. "Let's be off too, then. Marak awaits."

She started down the slope, toward the sea. Hult glanced back at the frozen wastes, his mouth tightening into a firm line, then followed. He would not return to this place. Twice was enough for one lifetime.