The Last Winter Page 2

  The Storm Speaker bowed till his long black beard dusted the ground. Raising his head, he continued. “Your heart is in the right place; it is the coming battle that is not. We are not retreating, young chieftain. We are simply taking the battle from the giants’ hands and choosing the location from which we wish to fight them. For us to achieve victory, the Hammerheart and all the clans of Mistgard must unite and seek the safety of the Aesirmyr. Above the clouds, above the storms, we may have a chance of survival. But standing toe to toe with the armies of Firehome and Icegard, under ash and frost . . .” The Storm Speaker sadly shook his head.

  Thoryn went to his clansmen slowly, considering the words as one would taste bitter medicine. From his wide waistband hung a massive stone hammer. He rested his hairy fist upon the short handle and looked toward his clan. “When my great-grandfather Thorg was alive, he would tell me many stories of the Storm Speaker, saying that he was a crazy old hermit, as likely to summon lightning during a clear day as he was to calm a storm that was ravaging the clans the next.”

  It seemed as if the gathered clansmen had heard similar stories, for they all nodded and jested together.

  “My great-grandfather also said that, hermit or not, the Storm Speaker was as reliable as the stars in the sky, and was the wisest of all the Pandyr.” Thoryn cleared his throat and continued. “I have always listened to my great-grandfather’s words, and now, though it rubs my fur the wrong way, I will listen to them again.” Thoryn drew the old stone warhammer from his belt and raised it high into the air. “We will follow the Storm Speaker to the Aesirmyr, and our hammers will stand as one with all the clans. By the hammer of my great-grandfather, let the Hammerheart offer ourselves to this cause!” he roared through his red beard.

  The Hammerheart clansmen raised their hammers and cheered in return.

  “Now, who will stand with us?” said Thoryn as he looked to his fellow chieftains.

  Thoryn’s gaze fell over them one by one until his eyes locked on a tall, lean-limbed chieftain dressed neatly in green and gray. The tall one sat comfortably on a beautiful golden elkhorn. The two chieftains stared at each other for some time, and the silence was heavy. The tall Pandyr rode forward and dismounted, eyes never leaving Thoryn until the two stood chest to chest. The Hammerheart was shorter, but his frame was nearly double that of the other. The tall one nodded, and Thoryn laughed as the rider raised his weapon, a polished longbow of golden yew.

  “Though we stand a bit taller, the riders of the Jadebow will join this circle,” said Ullyr, chief of the Jadebow clan.

  A few moments went by, and soon another chieftain stepped forward, followed by another. A black broadsword was raised by Tyr’og, and a clawed gauntlet by Ur’sog, chieftains of the seafaring Ironbeard and Iceclaw clans. The Mistcloak and Thundermaw chieftains, Ulf and Mog’aw, raised long knife and giant axe to the circle of weapons. The dour chieftain Modyr of the Darkcloud clan raised his two-handed war club, and then they waited. All eyes fell to the missing Byorgn of the Sunspear.

  After much time, Byorgn moved amongst the other chieftains and made sure he had everyone’s attention. He cleared his throat and raised his golden spear high.

  “Pandyr, by the golden lance of the Sunspear clan—”

  “Let all the clans of Mistgard be united!” roared Thoryn, eyeing the Sunspear chieftain.

  The clansmen cheered furiously and, for a moment, drowned out the winds. The Storm Speaker’s voice rose above the din. “Nay, chieftains, we are still incomplete. There is still one more clan that needs to join our circle.”

  “What is this you speak of?” said Thoryn. “The eight clans are one on this day. By oath and honor, we join together as we have not for a thousand years.”

  The Storm Speaker looked at the united clansmen and offered them a smile. Far in the distance stood the silhouette of the Aesirmyr Peaks. It was toward the peaks that he pointed his spear. “When we reach the base of the Aesirmyr, we will find them, somewhere between the earth and clouds. We will find the ninth clan.”

  The gathered clansmen fell silent in an instant, all but one. The Hammerheart chieftain sputtered out words as if he were choking on them.

  “The ninth clan?” said Thoryn in astonishment.

  “Aye, Hammerheart,” said the Storm Speaker through a frost-flecked beard. “A clan much like yours. I have seen them with my own eyes. They are a clan of warriors who rival the Hammerheart in battle prowess, and their archers are able to hit a target at a thousand yards.”

  The Jadebow clansmen laughed, and their chieftain gave an arrogant retort. “A thousand, you say? I’ll believe that when I see it, Storm Speaker,” said Ullyr mockingly.

  The Storm Speaker smiled, looking at the chieftain. “Well, you will get the opportunity soon. You all will, for on the morrow we will journey to meet them. Even united, our numbers are still too few, and we will need the strength of the ninth clan to join us in our fight. Only together may we stand a chance. We will talk more of this later.”

  Baffled by the Storm Speaker’s words, the chieftains and their clansmen were left muttering into their beards.

  “Return to your camps and gather what you need. We will meet back here at dawn.” With that, the Storm Speaker looked to the burial mound of Sprign. “Your children have united, Den Mother.”

  The Storm Speaker turned and moved slowly toward a pair of young Pandyr waiting for him. The old Pandyr stumbled, holding on to his spear for balance.

  “Storm Speaker!” exclaimed a large, white-maned youth, but he was stopped with a gesture of the old one’s hand.

  “Nay, Frostpaw, I am fine. The day has taken its toll upon these old bones, but I can walk on my own.”

  The Storm Speaker stood at his full height and walked freely once again, but this act did not fade the worry upon the young Pandyr’s brow. His female companion, Ursara, returned shortly after, holding the reins of an immense gray war elk, Traveler, the Storm Speaker’s mount.

  “Father, at least ride for a short while. Traveler is concerned,” she said. Clearly, her eyes spoke a different name.

  The Storm Speaker smiled at Ursara. Her feelings for her young companion showed all too well. “Traveler . . . is concerned, you say?” he said warmly. “Well, then, let me ride with my worried friend and ease her concerns.”

  Together, the Storm Speaker and Traveler, Frostpaw, and Ursara returned to their hall, known as Thunder’s Home by the clans. When the group was but a tiny silhouette in the distance, the features of the Under-King, Fell, appeared once again on the giant obelisk to watch the Pandyr disappear. The face, composed of stone, seemed softer. Seconds later, it was covered with snow.

  CHAPTER 5

  PREPARING FOR WAR

  HE REST OF THE DAY was spent gathering the herds of the Storm Speaker and preparing them for the pilgrimage. The war elk of Mistgard arrived in pairs or in large families, and they ran the spectrum in size, ranging from hulking stags to lithe fawns and does. The Storm Speaker sat on his wooden throne, where he communed with all the beasts of Mistgard. A small black bird named Gloam monitored the southern clans, while an enormous white albatross named Fog soared above the northern clans. Another name for the Storm Speaker was the One-Eyed Watcher, for when he sat on his throne, closed his eyes, and then opened one, he could see through the eyes of his animal companions: his left eye for Gloam, his right eye for Fog.

  The Storm Speaker surveyed the clans from his hall, and the hours of daylight burned away into the dark of night. All through the cold evening’s preparations, the snow continued to fall relentlessly. In the light of dawn, everything was coated in a bleak mantle of hoary frost. Soaring in the stormy skies were black Gloam and white Fog. Both bird and Storm Speaker watched the clans from amongst the clouds.

  “The clans are ready, and they journey back to the Circle in the Sky,” said the Storm Speaker as he stood and stretched his back. He grabbed his black spear and shrugged off the stiffness incurred from his night-long vigil. He looked around o
ne last time and walked out of the tall double doors of Thunder’s Home.

  Ursara rode up on a black elkhorn named Cinder. Traveler was at her side. “The herds are ready, Father,” she said. “They have been saddled and are eager to help bear the old and young up the Aesirmyr.”

  He nodded in approval. “Frostpaw, are we ready?”

  “Yes, Storm Speaker. I have bolted shut Thunder’s Home as best as I could. Though I fear it will do little to keep out an army of giants.”

  There was a look of profound grief in Frostpaw’s eyes, and the Storm Speaker gave him a fatherly pat on his head. Thunder’s Home was the only home the boy had ever known since the Storm Speaker had adopted him some twenty years ago, and though Frostpaw was not his child by blood, the Storm Speaker was immensely fond of the lad. Unfortunately, most of the clansmen felt differently, and this saddened the Storm Speaker greatly.

  All his life, Frostpaw had been different. He stood hands taller than most full-grown Pandyr, and he was but a youth. His frame, still that of a young man, was already corded with muscle. But that was not the most remarkable thing about Frostpaw; rather, it was his coloring. The majority of the Pandyr bore thick coats of black and white fur and black manes. The southern clans, especially the Hammerheart, tended toward reddish brown in place of the black markings. Of the northern clans, the Jadebow had a sandy blond hint to their darker patches. Frostpaw’s coat, on the other hand, was void of color. Frostpaw had a white mane upon his head that he wore long and free-flowing. And the fur that covered his muscular frame and arms was completely white. In some places, the white took on a bluish hue that made him look ghostlike. Instead of green, gray, or brown, his eyes were an icy blue.

  The majority of the clansmen had never seen this type of coloring before. But many of the older Pandyr remembered it well. The coloring and those possessing it were called Wintyr-Born, and the birth of a Wintyr-Born signified the start of a time of great strife for the clans. It always seemed to happen during the coldest months of Lord Wintyr’s reign.

  No one, not even the Storm Speaker, could predict when a cub like this would be born. It was said that cubs bearing these markings were uncontrollable and wild, filled with anger and rage; hence they were given the name Wintyr-Born, for the cubs were believed to embody the spirit of the lord of Icegard himself. The Storm Speaker took great care in teaching the youth how to control his wild rages through meditation and calming the mind.

  He has grown much since he joined our family so many years ago, thought the Storm Speaker. His gaze drifted from his adopted son to his blood daughter, Ursara. Though they are not of the same blood, they used to fight as bitterly as any real siblings would . . . How much they have grown.

  One would never know that Ursara once had feelings of rivalry and jealousy toward Frostpaw over her father’s attention, for over the years those feelings had changed into something of a different sort. Though she was several years older than Frostpaw, she was still very young by Pandyr standards, and she was already developing into a strong woman.

  Ursara’s demeanor had changed, and so had Frostpaw’s. At one time, the youth would spend his free hours running with the bounding elkhorn herds, keeping as far away from the stern Ursara as he could. Now, the Storm Speaker saw the lad constantly at her side, and he even saw the looks they gave each other when they thought the One-Eyed Watcher wasn’t watching.

  “Come on, you two. We must be off now.” He coaxed Traveler to leave. The gray elkhorn went reluctantly.

  The three Pandyr left Thunder’s Home, followed by the herds of elkhorn. Frostpaw cast one more look back at the lodge he called home, and without another word, he turned and walked with the herds to the Circle in the Sky.

  He would never see Thunder’s Home again.

  CHAPTER 6

  A FINAL GIFT

  HE CLANS GATHERED AT the Circle in the Sky, and though it was now past dawn, the storm-clouded sky was still black as night, lit only by the terrible red glow from far-off Firehome. The Pandyr’s coats and cloaks did little to warm them. Ember and ice fell as one, while the eight clans of Mistgard bowed and said goodbye to their fallen chieftains and elders who, like the Den Mother, were buried at the Circle in the Sky. Though the Pandyr were not a religious race, they did possess a deep sense of ancestral reverence.

  Having no clan of their own, Frostpaw, Ursara, and the Storm Speaker walked to Sprign’s mound, where they were greeted by the strangest of sights. The dome that once covered it was gone. The Storm Speaker smiled as Frostpaw and Ursara looked on in wonder. Soon, clan by clan, the Pandyr all gathered at the cairn, and they, too, marveled in awe.

  Though the wind ripped at the Pandyr and the air was heavy with ice and sparks, it was eerily calm. The ground was free of snow and ash, and surrounding the burial mound was a large beehive. Around the hive droned green, silver, and amber honeybees. The apiary was crammed with honeycombs.

  The Storm Speaker moved forward to the buzzing hive. The normally aggressive bees seemed strangely unperturbed at his approach. From the honey-fattened hive, amber-, green-, and silver-hued combs could be seen jutting out. The Storm Speaker reached slowly into the hive, pulled out a finger full of honey, and held it to his nose. “An odd smell for honey,” he said quizzically.

  Thoryn boldly strode forward and took a handful to his nose. With a snort, he bellowed, “It smells of fire blossom to my nose! The Hammerheart brought wreaths of it up yesterday to rest here on Sprign’s cairn.” Thoryn’s chest swelled with pride.

  Ullyr of the Jadebow came forward. He, too, took some of the strange honeycomb and waved it under his nose. “Bah, your senses are as dull as your hammer, red beard. Clearly it smells of the frostbloom brought by my clan just yesterday as tribute to the Den Mother.”

  A look of understanding crossed over the Storm Speaker’s bearded face. He, too, knew the odd aroma the honeycomb conjured to his senses. “I think you are both correct.”

  The chieftains looked at the Storm Speaker.

  “I do not mean disrespect, Storm Speaker, but I clearly smell frostbloom,” said Ullyr.

  The gathered Pandyr nodded, including Thoryn. The Jadebow were great trackers and had the keenest senses of any amongst the clans, and Ullyr was the best tracker of the Jadebow. It was said that the chieftain could track the shadow of an owl on a moonless night. Still, the Storm Speaker shook his head.

  “This is not something that has a right or wrong answer, Ullyr. This is not something that the waking senses can trace. To my nose, it smells only of honeypine blossoms, the same tribute I left for Sprign upon her cairn.”

  The Pandyr gathered around, smelling the honey, searching for any hint of the phenomenon.

  “By Sprign, what magic is this, Storm Speaker?” said Thoryn.

  “By Sprign indeed,” said the Storm Speaker, gazing at the cairn in thanks. He placed a bit of comb into his mouth and began to chew, slowly at first and then with more relish. A wave of warmth washed over him like a blanket that sat near the hearth. “It warms my bones like the strongest of mead, and it fills my belly with but a bite,” he said. He let out a small belch and laughed. “It seems the tributes have been taken to heart.”

  The Storm Speaker started breaking off large bricks of honeycomb, motioning the chieftains to come forward. “Quickly, grab what you can and disperse it amongst the clans,” the Storm Speaker said hurriedly, and he watched the commotion till the mound was bare of honeycombs. The bees and hive faded and were replaced by the lacquered wooden sculptures that they had been the day before.

  The Storm Speaker looked at the gathered clans and motioned the elkhorn to move forward. “The herds of Mistgard have offered their help. They are half our number, so let only those in need ride upon our friends.”

  The clansmen scurried, taking large helpings of the tribute honey from their chieftains and then assisting the older Pandyr and mothers with young onto the powerful elk. Ullyr and the Jadebow, who had arrived on their own mounts, watched as the other Pandyr clu
msily mounted the elkhorn. The Jadebow were born upon the saddle, while most of the Pandyr weren’t accomplished riders.

  The clansmen were quite thankful for the help provided by the Storm Speaker and Ursara. The same could not be said for those being helped by the young Frostpaw.

  Frostpaw hoisted a worried-looking young Sunspear mother and cub and placed them both upon a heavy brown elk. There was a hard cracking sound, and Frostpaw was sent sprawling into the snow by the end of a thick oak spear haft. Atop a bleating elkhorn sat Byorgn, chieftain of the Sunspear clan. He was armored in the finest gilded chain mail and held a shield of polished steel that was shaped like a blazing sun.

  “Be gone from my grandcub, Wintyr-Born, lest you bring your mark down upon him as well!” Byorgn bellowed.

  A rumbling sound like an avalanche grew in Frostpaw’s chest. He rose to his full height, and he glowered down upon the Sunspear chieftain. A volcanic blue fire blurred his vision. In his mind’s eye, Frostpaw could see the Sunspear chieftain twisted and lifeless in his grip, eyes bulged and crossed in death.

  Kill . . . kill in the name of your master! Kill for me, whispered a malevolent voice in his mind. Frostpaw ignored the words, closed his eyes, and breathed slowly. The violent blue murder that clouded his mind finally dulled, and the thunder eased in his chest. He felt a calm wash over him as the hand of the Storm Speaker fell upon his shoulder, patting him gently.

  “Frostpaw, let us go see if there are others who need our help,” said the Storm Speaker calmly, though the rage in his eyes never left the Sunspear chieftain.

  Byorgn felt the Storm Speaker’s fiery stare bore into him. After a moment, he grabbed the reins of the elk and left with his kin, returning to his clan.

  Frostpaw and the Storm Speaker moved slowly back toward the staring clansmen. No words passed between the two, as both had dealt with this before. As they walked, the Storm Speaker mused over the exchange with grim satisfaction. Frostpaw had managed to control his anger perfectly.