"Keljan saule!" The runes along the staff flared, and a shard of light shot out. It hit the sorcerer in the chest, throwing him away from Jalan and down the slope. Though no sound came to her ears, in her mind Amira heard a shriek that seemed to seek out all the dark places of her mind and rattle there like shards of glass. Seeing the smoldering cloak hit the ground, she cried out in triumph and ran for Jalan. But the darkness within the cloak congealed, and in the part of her mind where instinct ruled, Amira sensed fell power gather and spring. The sorcerer leaped and took to the air like a great bird of prey, his cloak rippling like a tattered banner, and then he was falling toward her. Amira opened her mouth to form a spell, then an image hit her-Mursen charging into the fray, ducking as the broken body of a knight flew past him. A spell passed his lips, the rod in his hand flared-then darkness in an ash-gray cloak lunged. Snap! Like the sound of a green branch breaking, the thing's hand reach out, grabbed Mursen by the head and twisted, breaking his neck-and the spell faltered on Amira's lips. The light round her dimmed as darkness incarnate descended. A silver shadow struck the sorcerer the instant before he would have hit her. Silver shadow and ash-colored cloak went down in a snarling explosion of snow. Amira watched, dumbfounded. The sorcerer threw the wolf off, but it turned in midair and hit the ground running. Four long strides and it jumped again. The sorcerer crouched and brought his sword around in an arc before him. The wolf's snarl turned into a yelp. The animal hit the ground and slid to a stop at Amira's feet. The blade had opened a gash along the side of the wolf's head and haunches, and the sheer force of the blow had shattered bone. It broke Amira from her stunned silence. "Dramasthe!"
She sent a bolt outward. The sorcerer swiped it to sparks with his blade and advanced on her. Again-"Dramasthe!" — and again he knocked it away, almost nonchalantly. But that shot had been meant as a distraction. Amira took a step back and pointed her staff at her foe.
"Keljan saule!" The runes along the staff flared like hot coals kissed by a soft breeze. She aimed for the bastard's head-and that was her mistake. He didn't bother to try to deflect the shard of light, but crouched. The light flew over his head to disappear in the storm.
Amira gathered her breath, hoping there was time for another spell. A shadow emerged from the swirling snow. The light emanating from Amira did not reflect off the club the man was whirling on the end of a leather leash, for it was of the blackest iron. "Gyaidun, no!" she shouted. But where her attack had failed, Gyaidun's struck. Perhaps the dark sorcerer had simply been expecting only magical attacks, for the warrior's club swung down and connected with solid flesh somewhere in the folds of the cloak. The sorcerer did not collapse, but he did stumble down the slope. Gyaidun turned to her and shouted, "Get Jalan and go! Go!" Then he turned back to his foe, and it was all he could do to stay alive. Tears welling in her eyes, Amira turned and ran down the hill.
Every childhood nightmare, every horror feared at the back of the north wind, had taken form before Gyaidun, swathed in an ash-gray cloak, and it was coming for him. No battle cry or taunts of defiance did the sorcerer make. He was cold death, and he was coming for Gyaidun. The muscles in Gyaidun's shoulder were a mass of pain from swinging the heavy iron club, his legs felt both heavy and empty, and every breath of frigid air was like needles in his lungs. Still, Gyaidun fought, swinging his club and long knife. For the first few strikes, it was attack, if only in hopes of buying Amira enough time to get away. But then every swipe became an effort to keep the sorcerer at bay or to parry a thrust of his sword. Gyaidun retreated, half-stumbling back up the hill and away from Amira and Jalan.
In the confusion of the fight, Amira had lost her bearings, and it took her a moment to relocate Jalan. When she saw him, her first thought was that he had not moved since she'd seen him, her second that the blanket of snow was so thick on him now that he would soon be covered completely, and the third was to wonder at the dark shape that emerged from nothingness over Jalan. Amira screamed. But then the shape unfolded and she saw it for what it was-a huge cloak made up of many animal hides and painted in arcane symbols. The belkagen emerged from the folds of his cloak and stood over Jalan. "Go help Gyaidun! I will take the boy!" "No!" Amira said as she slid to a stop over her son. "I'm not leaving him again." "You must!" "I won't!" "Lady," said the belkagen, and though he had to shout to be heard over the wind, there was tenderness in his voice. "Hro'nyewachu does not give such weapons of power lightly. The staff was given to you for a reason. Do not let it be in vain." Amira knelt over her son. She brushed the snow away and pulled at the fabric until she could see his face. His eyes were closed-he looked so thin and worn! — but she could see his chest rising and falling. He was alive. If he had been hurt in the fall, it did not seem serious. "I will see to him, Lady!" said the belkagen.
She rose and looked the old elf in the eye. "Your blood if you don't."
The belkagen flinched, but something told Amira it was not at her threat but at something else her words had hit. "On my blood!" said the belkagen. Amira took two steps up the hill, then turned again.
"Tell him…" she said. "Tell Jalan I love him." She looked down at her son, then spun and sped up the hill.
Flickers of light, like minuscule bolts of cold lightning, flashed along the sorcerer's blade. Gyaidun stepped out of range and swung his own weapon, putting every bit of strength into it. The sorcerer's blade flicked down and then up, and Gyaidun felt the leather connecting his wrist to his club part. The heavy weight of black iron flew into the snow-stitched darkness. Gyaidun scrambled backward, the sorcerer advancing on him, and on the fourth step his heel struck a rock or tussock buried under the snow and he stumbled. He hit the ground but kept going, struggling like a crab on all fours. The thing in the ash-gray cloak lunged, his cloak flaring in the gale, and grabbed Gyaidun under the chin. The grip was beyond cold. It seemed to leech every bit of warmth from Gyaidun's skull, and he could feel his bones and the fluids in his ears freezing. The sorcerer stood, and although the arm that gripped him was thinner than a starved cadaver, he lifted Gyaidun's thick frame off the ground and brought him close.
Even with his elf-blessed sight, Gyaidun's vision could not penetrate the depths of the sorcerer's cowl, not even when the sorcerer pulled him close. The wind was at the sorcerer's back, and Gyaidun could smell the stench of tombs and worse from the thing's robes. The sorcerer inhaled deeply-Gyaidun could just hear it over the wind.