The Last Winter Read online

  The Bearzyrk nodded briskly and ran into the storm. Just as his shape vanished in the frigid mist, the arms pushed the rock wall together again, and the mouth of the cave sealed up, blocking the tide of blue and red giantkin as they slammed against the rocky surface, futilely pummeling the thick stone. Above the fray, the mountain shook, and a wave of rolling death pounded down upon the giantkin then, crushing them beneath a landslide of punishing rock.

  Through the dust clouds and the groans of the fallen emerged a gigantic figure of living fire. A giant sword of burning iron hammered the mountain but did no more than scratch it. Fiery words came forth and were soon lost in the howl of the wind.

  “Brother . . . you will pay.”

  CHAPTER 26

  A GHOST IN THE RUINS

  ROSTVANG THUNDERED ACROSS the Tundyr on his spearhorn. He blazed through frost bursts and clouds of fire and pushed his harried beast for all that it had. As he neared the Den of the Slayers, his words caught in his throat. “No, no, no . . .”

  He leapt from his mount and crashed into the ground. Then he rolled and ran to the ruins. The Den of the Slayers lay smashed upon the earth, a broken mound of splintered ice. He heaved with all his might, but even the Bearzyrk’s great strength could not manage to move the doorway of stone and ice. His fists pounded against the slab.

  “Frostpaw! Answer me, boy!”

  Steam came out of Frostvang’s maw in gusts. In the wake of the giants, the air was ablaze with whorls of ash and frost. The great Bearzyrk heaved again, but his efforts proved useless. The sound of ice crunching under heavy feet brought him out of his frenzy, and he whirled, spear in hand.

  From out of the gust came the large, bulky shapes of the Bearzyrk clan. Frostvang lowered his spear, pleading. “Brothers, help me. The lad is trapped below. The giants—”

  “The giants were not our concern,” said Grymir caustically. “Had you let it be, the giants would not have even been within our lands. They would have crushed the Pandyr and been done with it. It is you who has brought the giants’ wrath upon our clan.”

  “You are a fool to believe that, Grymir! The giants will not stop until all of their enemies are crushed, including the Bearzyrk. Are we not the kinsmen of Ghostmane? Sumyr and Wintyr both lust for revenge for the pain Ghostmane brought to them so many years before. You think cowering in a cave will save your worthless hide?”

  The elder Bearzyrk struck Frostvang with a speed that belied his age. Frostvang barely managed to throw up his arm in defense before he was smashed by Grymir’s spear haft. He tried to rise but was knocked down again, this time held fast under the crushing weight of Grymir’s clawed foot. “You will suffer for your deeds. You’ve desecrated the most sacred place in our realm, and for what? To aid the likes of the Pandyr?”

  “We—we are Pandyr!” Frostvang pleaded. “If we stand together again, we may have a chance of—”

  “Wrong, traitor! You sided with our enemy, and look what’s happened . . . You’ve brought the wrath of the giants upon us!” The old bear raised his spear, and its horned tip hung menacingly over Frostvang’s neck. With a shriek, Grymir brought the weapon down.

  A shock shifted the earth beneath the Bearzyrk, and Frostvang grabbed Grymir’s foot, wrenching it away. Grymir howled, and his horned spear crashed down on empty snow as Frostvang rolled to the side. The ground shook again, and the mound of ice and stone moved. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the air, but the tread came not from outside but from deep within the ruins. A faint light emanated from inside the collapsed den.

  The Bearzyrk looked at each other grimly as Grymir screamed at Frostvang. “It’s a trap! The giants hide below in our most sacred place. You have doomed us, Frostvang!”

  Grymir shouted commands as the footsteps grew louder and closer. “Bearzyrk, the giants march from below! Be ready to attack!”

  Massive ice sheets rose and crashed to the ground. A haunting purple light emanated from the opening, and a powerful form emerged whose silhouette dwarfed the gathered Bearzyrk. They stumbled back, shocked at what they saw. Even Grymir froze at the shape that moved toward him. The figure strode ahead and looked at the clansmen. The eyes that blazed in front of them were the color of icy blue fire. The figure raised his arms into the burning sky, and in each of his clawed white fists was a spear: one of fire and one of ice.

  Grymir backed away slowly, shaking his matted mane. “No, it cannot be.”

  The figure spoke. “Your poisoned words are done . . . They corrupt the minds and hearts of those you were trusted to lead. You will lead no more.”

  “You cannot be! You—you are dead . . . You can’t be—”

  Frostvang stood up and motioned for the crowd to gather near.

  “For many hundreds of years, you have been forbidden to go to the Den of the Slayers, forbidden to know our story. Now you will know; you will know everything.” The figure looked at the clansmen as a father would his children. “My brothers, it was many years ago when Ghostmane was born . . .”

  ***

  The Bearzyrk listened quietly. Though they were pelted by ice and fire, their attention was given to naught but Ghostmane, for they knew that the words he spoke were true. When Ghostmane finished, he silently looked over the crowd.

  Grymir sputtered furiously. “No, do not listen to these words. The Pandyr cast us out and left us to die. We owe them nothing!”

  Ghostmane looked at the twisted old bear in sadness. “I fear some will never learn. I was not banished by the Pandyr. I left the Pandyr out of love for my clan. Out of my love for all the clans! Now the clans have need of me again. Will I forsake them in the direst of times?” Ghostmane gazed sternly at the Bearzyrk. “Will you forsake them all over ancient feuds and time-lost grudges?”

  Frostvang spoke first. “I will stand with the Pandyr. I will fight for Mistgard. Brothers, will you join me?” He looked over at Grymir in disgust. “Or will you cower in hate?”

  Several of the Bearzyrk walked over to Frostvang and offered their arms in union. Over the next few moments, more of the Bearzyrk moved to Frostvang’s group, until only Grymir and his wolves stood outside the circle.

  Frostvang turned from his brothers and looked at the ancient one with pity.

  “Will you not join with us, Grymir? We are your family still. Hearts can change; they must simply be allowed to.”

  Grymir stared at Frostvang with a deadly eye.

  Frostvang shook his head and turned toward the other Bearzyrk. “Brothers, we will start for the Aesirmyr—”

  A guttural scream split the dawn air, and Grymir hurtled forward, wolves at his side and his spear held high. “Fools, you doom us all! This is naught but children’s stories and lies!”

  Frostvang leapt to the side but slipped on the iced earth. The spear of Grymir arced down toward the prostrate Frostvang in a killing stroke, but it never landed. Instead of flesh and fur, it met with fire and ice.

  Startled out of his charge, Grymir looked up to see the massive shape of Ghostmane looming before him, spears crossed, blocking his strike. The wolves cowered away from the First of the Bearzyrk’s stare.

  “As you banished the Pandyr, so do I banish you from the Bearzyrk. Go now, and live. If you stay . . .” Ghostmane twisted his spears together, snapping Grymir’s spear in two. Its haft fell to the snow; the top half went whirling into the fog.

  Grymir looked at the crowd and slowly backed up, then turned to disappear into the mist, wolves howling at his heels. “Fools . . . you will all pay for this.”

  The Bearzyrk stood silent in the freezing morning mist. Frostvang gathered his mount and offered it to Ghostmane. Ghostmane shook his head. From his back he drew forth a large hunting horn, and he raised it to his bearded lips. The strength of the horn’s blast cleared the clouds above, momentarily letting the sun shine warmly upon the Bearzyrk before it was once again swallowed by the storm.

  A thundering sound rolled across the Tundyr, and from out of the fog ran a herd of spearhorn unlike a
ny the Bearzyrk had ever seen. They charged upon the surface of the frozen lake at a full gallop and stopped at the raised hand of Ghostmane. From out of the herd emerged a gigantic spearhorn that dwarfed its fellows by many hands. Ghostmane walked up to the great beast and leapt upon its back. Its matted coat, like those of the entire herd, was as white as the frost they trod upon.

  “To the Aesirmyr we ride.”

  In a second, Ghostmane disappeared into the mist.

  The remaining spearhorn walked over to the Bearzyrk and stood, waiting. Frostvang looked at his clan and, with a shrug, mounted a white spearhorn. With a great burst of speed, he and the spearhorn vanished into the fog, soon to be followed by the entire clan of Bearzyrk. In a few heartbeats, all were gone from sight, swallowed by the morning mists.

  The last to leave the Tundyr was a small black bird that flew frantically toward the Aesirmyr Peaks.

  CHAPTER 27

  IN THE HALLS OF THE UNDER-KING

  HE STORM SPEAKER AND THE clans traveled wearily into the depths of the Under Realm. The path before them was a twisting series of narrow ledges that climbed ever upward to the earthen rafters of the mountain. Though steep in design, the road was free of the debris and rubble usually associated with underground paths. The normally dark world was lit by an ever-changing array of phosphorescent moss and glowing shards of crystal. Though their pace was furious, there were times of rest while the Pandyr traveled upon gigantic earthen slabs. Huge blocks of moving rock carried the weary clansmen hundreds of feet into the air or across great estuaries, dropping them off at yet another pathway that climbed ever upward.

  Mog’aw, the Thundermaw chieftain, marveled at the craftsmanship and design of the shifting bridges and massive stone lifts. He rubbed his hand over the stone appreciatively. “Impressive. I cannot see a single chisel mark,” he said with admiration. The Thundermaw were renowned builders of Mistgard’s greatest hearths and lodges.

  “These halls were formed not by tools but by the will of the Under-King,” said the Storm Speaker. “He needs only to wish them to be as his mind sees them, and it is done. The greatest masons of our clans could only dream of possessing such skills.”

  The Thundermaw chieftain gave a dismissive grunt at the Storm Speaker’s words, but he could hardly argue with their truth.

  Ursara had been in tear-filled silence since first departing into the Under Realm. The Storm Speaker gave her what solace he could, but nothing he could say would bring her out of her spell. He even tried looking through the eyes of Fog, but to no avail. Try as he might to catch a glimpse of where Frostpaw was, he found that his powers were useless within the Under-King’s realm.

  “Frostvang will return with Frostpaw, Daughter. He knows our destination and will find us.”

  Ursara held the small heart-shaped charm that Frostpaw had made for her.

  The journey through the labyrinthine caves was difficult on all the senses. The utter silence and the absence of sky, wind, and rain made the Pandyr feel as if they were in a tomb, especially the Iceclaw and Ironbeard clansmen, as sea-roving mariners were unused to such claustrophobic surroundings.

  “I’d gladly face the giants above just to get out of this cavernous coffin,” said Ur’sog of the Iceclaw.

  Tyr’og of the Ironbeard clearly felt the same, though he kept his tongue silent.

  “Be patient, little ice chieftain,” rumbled the deep voice of Fell. “You are near the end of your journey. Soon you will have more open sky than you can possibly imagine. And giants as well.”

  The only clan seemingly unaffected by the subterranean world was the Darkcloud. The Darkcloud clansmen were Mistgard’s greatest artisans, and they dwelled within a series of connecting caves and passages that were decorated with pictograms of their clan’s history. Even in these dire times, the gloomy leader of the Darkcloud, Modyr, rejected the brief respites and, with gouache and brush, painted images on the Under-King’s walls. Whether he did it to mark their passage for a possible return or to tell of the clans’ final hours, none knew.

  After many hours, the twisting path ended straight into a cavern wall, and the Pandyr came to a halt, thankful for the moment’s rest. All too suddenly, the wall opened with a splitting sound, followed by a dazzling beam of golden light. The cave lit up with a million sparkling points as the crystal-flecked walls blossomed into a shimmering array of dazzling colors. The Pandyr were momentarily blinded by the illumination. After their eyes adjusted, the Pandyr walked out of the cave and stood at their destination—atop the Aesirmyr Peaks.

  Far above them, to the east, was the golden skull, while to the west floated the ghostly silver skull. The Skulls in the Sky hung calmly, while many miles below them roared the black and burning storm clouds. From their perch, the Pandyr looked down upon the storms of Wintyr. Truly it felt as if they were atop the world, safe from the storms, and that added some steel to the Pandyr’s disposition.

  “Come, my friends. We haven’t much time,” said the Storm Speaker.

  The clan leaders walked the perimeter and began laying out battle plans while their clansmen erected tents and shelters for the wounded and started prepping their defenses. Ullstag stood watch outside the tent in which Ullyr rested. The other Jadebow clansmen readied arrows and tended to their mounts, grooming and watering them. All of the clans, from the Mistcloak to the few remaining Sunspear, were bursting with newfound hope and purpose.

  The only one who was not busy with duties was the Storm Speaker. He stood silent and still as he gazed out at the everlasting ocean of clouds below him and the brilliant, cloudless sky above.

  The skulls move together, thought the Storm Speaker sadly. At the creation of the world, the skulls came together and made the giants. Now it appears that they will come together for the end as well.

  Atop the Aesirmyr, the Pandyr clans of Mistgard readied themselves for their final battle. There was an air of determination and fierceness in their demeanor. The Thundermaw chieftain and his clansmen were lacking any sadness. They relished the hard labor, constructing fortifications and breathing in the clean air. Mog’aw and his Thundermaw moved giant boulders with burly arms, stacking them into crude but sturdy walls and battlements.

  The Under-King silently watched the clansmen until Mog’aw spoke up in irritation. “You think you can lend us a hand with all this rock work? You are a master at this, or so I’ve been told,” he jeered at the Under-King.

  The Under-King beckoned for the Thundermaw to move aside, and then he spread his arms wide. “Awaken,” he said in a booming voice, and the rock barriers that the Thundermaw had created crumbled and were re-formed into a jagged bulwark, complete with arrow slits and sharp crystal shards jutting from the top.

  The Thundermaw clansmen bristled, but old Mog’aw burst out laughing and clapped the Under-King on his rocky side. “Excellent work. Now, if only you could make about a dozen more here, here, and here,” he said, pointing at various strategic positions all around the base camp.

  The Under-King looked down at the Thundermaw chieftain, clearly disliking that he’d been tricked into his service. But soon, his frown broke and turned into what might be considered a smirk. With a rumble, Fell proceeded to summon protective walls where Mog’aw had so kindly asked him to. When finished, Fell nodded in satisfaction, dusting the rock powder from his hands.

  Near the center of the camp, Ullstag entered the tent set up for the wounded. He bore a bundle wrapped in his worn cloak. He passed Ullyr’s pack of hounds, and they looked up at the Bearzyrk with bloodshot eyes; they, too, mourned for their master. Ullstag saw Ullyr, and his great heart grew heavy.

  Ullyr was lying at the back of the tent, resting as best as one could in such a condition. The Jadebow chieftain had lost much from bringing back the Sunspear. His left eye was gone, the socket covered by a crude cloth wrap. His right arm was missing at the shoulder, and his right leg was braced in a heavy splint.

  “Your wounds are serious but appear to be on the mend,” said Ullstag. />
  “I’ll live another day, it seems. Would that Dawnstrider could be here, too, so we could make our final charge together.”

  Ullstag nodded grimly. He knew the feeling well. At his heart, Ullstag was still a Jadebow clansman, and the Jadebow had a special affinity with their mounts. From what he could gather, Ullyr had helped bring his golden elkhorn, Dawnstrider, into the world and had trained her from her first steps.

  “Your final charge need not be alone,” said Ullstag. He placed the bundle he carried onto the bed, careful not to bump into Ullyr’s broken limb.

  Ullyr looked at the package with his remaining eye, then looked at the old bear. Ullstag nodded, motioning for the chieftain to open it. Ullyr pulled back the cloak, and underneath glistened golden fur. He gazed at the Bearzyrk in shock. “Is this Da—?” he said, shaking his head.

  “Aye, Chieftain. You would not leave her even as her body pulled you down into the depths. I had no choice but to bring you both back.” The golden pelt gleamed in the twilight, casting glints of amber onto the tent’s canvas walls. “She died on our trek back from the lake. I could not let her die alone, nor could I leave her to the giants. She deserved a better end. But she can still finish writing her saga in the final battle.”

  The Bearzyrk moved aside the pelt, and Ullyr’s shocked expression turned to one of horror. Under the fur wrap lay a set of golden antlers. They were expertly bound together at the base, and at their farthest tips, they were connected by a taut piece of sinew.

  “Dawnstrider.” Ullyr breathed deeply as a tear rolled down his right cheek.

  “Dawnstrider has passed, but still she will live on.” The Bearzyrk placed a large quiver of arrows next to the bundle. Their make was crude and unremarkable with the exception of the tips. The arrowheads were made of smooth golden horn. “What you hold is Dawnstrider’s revenge, and it is this that will be with you in the final fight against the giants. She will avenge the wrong done to her, and to her master. Her funeral hymn will be sung at dawn tomorrow, and her voice will sing a deadly chorus to the enemy.”