The Last Winter Read online

  The Mistcloak clansmen laughed at the light show. “It seems as though something has found our gifts,” said Ulf with grim satisfaction. “Unfortunately, we have little fire powder left, and the giants approach more quickly than I expected.”

  Ullyr rode up on his golden elkhorn, Dawnstrider, followed closely by his hunting pack of jaegyr hounds. A bark from the tall chieftain silenced the canines, and in the commanding voice of one who was used to shouting orders, he spoke. “On these open plains, the giants will be able to make better time. No trees or traps to hinder their speed. The Aesirmyr is only a few leagues ahead. Come, swiftly now!”

  His words were drowned out by the peal of battle horns. Just south of their position, the chorus was accompanied by the cracking of oak and pine. Massive shapes crashed through the forest, and more than fourscore brutish figures of ice and fire charged across the frozen plain. The lapdogs of Icegard and Firehome were upon them, some hulking and misshapen, some supple and lithe. All roared and frothed with rage upon seeing the Pandyr. Their blue and red skin stood in bold contrast to the snow. Icy shards and obsidian rock protruded from areas where frosted and soot-covered armor was absent. All had a chaotic mix of tusks and horns jutting from their bestial maws. Amidst the blackened armor and furs of unknown origin, one thing was all too familiar to the horrified clansmen. Many of the giants wore old hides of torn black-and-white fur.

  Though they were still a few hundred yards away, the eight clans could see that their enemies would be upon them soon. Like most of the younger Pandyr, Frostpaw had never seen a giant before, and he was taken aback at the size of the brutes. Each one stood heads taller than even Frostpaw’s great height. “Storm Speaker, the giants attack,” said the youth.

  The Storm Speaker marveled at how much he sounded like a little boy again. The elder Pandyr was about to give the call to arms when he was interrupted by a gusty laugh. The laugh came from the chieftain of the Hammerheart clan. Thoryn bellowed heartily, in good humor rather than in sarcasm. “No, lad, these little things are not giants. These gangly mongrels are giantkin. They are faster than normal giants and are as dumb as a bag of hammers.”

  The sudden appearance of their age-old enemies was exactly what the old warriors had been waiting for. A whirring sound cut through the air, and it was soon followed by another and another. The Storm Speaker did not need to look to know the sounds came from Thoryn and his Hammerheart clansmen. Each warrior whirled a giant stone warhammer, and as it arced through the air, each one created a distinct humming sound. It had been many years since he had heard the symphony of stone.

  The Hammerheart chieftain yelled at the brutes with great zeal. “Welcome to Mistgard, you fatherless dogs!” He charged toward the giantkin and hurled his great weapon, causing the very air around it to crack like thunder. The hammer of Thoryn was soon followed by dozens and dozens more, and the chorus of thunderclaps followed. The weapons screamed across the plains and smashed into the rampaging giantkin. Stone hammers met frigid ice, basalt, and bone. The hammers of Thoryn and his clansmen returned to their hands frosted in ice or coated in slag. “Ha! We throw like little cubs. Look, we missed one!” Thoryn laughed.

  Of the giantkin, only one remained. His fallen brethren lay decimated at his feet. Seeing the bent and broken bodies of his kin strewn about him, he turned toward the safety of the forest, blowing his battle horn. His escape and the wailing horn were stopped dead by a shaft of green oak that seemed to magically sprout from his back.

  “That was a mere scouting party,” said Ullyr, lowering his great bow. “With all the damned horn blowing and hammer whirling, the entire army will know our location. We should head full speed toward the Aesirmyr with no more delays.”

  The giantkin crawled to a kneeling position and strained to raise his horn, intent on letting out one last blast. Ullyr swiftly loosed another arrow. It smashed into the giantkin a moment before the trumpeter was impaled by another arrow—or, more precisely, by what looked like a feathered spear shaft. The arrow pinned the giantkin to the ground with tremendous force and left him a crumbled mess. The clansmen turned, weapons at the ready, fearing that they might be flanked.

  Ullyr gazed in the direction the arrow had come from. Others followed his stare. The eagle-eyes of Ullyr as well as the wave-roaming eyes of Tyr’og and Ur’sog saw a group riding swiftly upon them. The trio rubbed their eyes, squinted, and shook their heads as if they were having trouble seeing something or, more likely, believing what they saw. Soon, others saw the strange shapes coming toward them as well.

  Frostpaw looked on in disbelief. The Storm Speaker rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke softly. “Come, Frostpaw, it is time that you should meet with them.”

  Frostpaw stared at the Storm Speaker for a moment and then looked back at the approaching group. The Storm Speaker, Frostpaw, and Ursara rode off toward the figures. The rest of the Pandyr seemed unsure how to proceed. The chieftains were wary, but they mounted their elkhorn and followed the Storm Speaker and his cubs.

  Ullyr and the Jadebow were the last to leave. They stood marveling at the giant arrow that protruded from the fallen giantkin’s back. Ullyr pulled the arrow out of the body and looked at it, impressed. “I must meet the bowman who fired this arrow,” he said in awe.

  With that, the Jadebow galloped off toward the approaching riders.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE NINTH CLAN

  S THE PANDYR NEARED the figures, their fear of giants was replaced with a different fear. The tension was immense, and they felt they would rather face a hundred screaming fiends of Icegard than what approached them at this moment.

  The Storm Speaker stopped and raised his spear high. The largest of the newcomers also raised his spear. The two eyed each other. The Storm Speaker remained seated while the other dismounted a giant horned beast and stood next to it. Even upon Traveler, the Storm Speaker was dwarfed by the hulking figure. They spoke for some time, and though the clansmen could not hear what was being said, the demeanors of the Storm Speaker and the tall figure were not those of strangers talking but of old friends catching up on life. The stranger even gave a pat to Traveler, who also seemed unafraid.

  Frostpaw stared in amazement, for what he saw in front of him he had only seen reflected back at him when gazing into a pool of water. Frostpaw slowly walked over to the Storm Speaker. Ursara was still at his side, but he did not seem to notice.

  The strangers stood taller than the youth and were more heavily muscled. Their fur was long and braided, and they wore little more than cloaks and breeches. Thick beards fell from their jaws, and shaggy manes hung loose in the frosty air. Though greater in bulk and stature, they looked like any other Pandyr from far off. As the figures came closer, one clear difference could be seen. They did not bear the black coloration of most Pandyr or the dark umber shades of the southern clans. Even the tawny Jadebow clan markings seemed dark compared to the strangers’ coloring. The entire group, twenty strong, boasted coats of mottled gray and white, and all twenty bore the “mark.”

  All twenty were Wintyr-Born.

  Their leader slowly approached the youth. He was huge, a good foot taller and wider than Frostpaw. He looked the boy up and down with the same icy blue eyes as Frostpaw’s, though his were somewhat clouded with age. “Come, walk with me,” he said with a snort. He turned and motioned for the boy to follow him. Frostpaw looked to the Storm Speaker hesitantly.

  “I will be right behind you, son. You have nothing to fear,” the Storm Speaker said warmly. “We are welcome here.”

  Frostpaw looked to Ursara, smiled softly, and followed after the leader. The other Pandyr looked on in stunned silence, and the Storm Speaker watched them calmly. “Chieftains, brothers, and sisters, I have met with a very old friend, and we have been offered food and shelter. We’ve only a few miles to go, and then we may rest,” he said.

  There was confusion amongst the clansmen, and words flew. The chieftains all spoke and then gathered around the Storm Speaker
. “What in the—where are you taking us?” said Byorgn, chieftain of the Sunspear, through a flecked and frost-grimed beard. “We’re to ride with these beasts? You brought us here, to them?”

  The Storm Speaker sat high on Traveler and stared down at the Sunspear chieftain. He spoke loud enough for all the clans to hear. “I have done exactly as I said I would do, Sunspear. Today is a great day for all of Mistgard. For today we have claimed our first victory over the giant kings’ armies, and we have been reunited with our long-lost family.”

  “Family . . . ?” Byorgn boiled with rage. “What madness do you speak of? They are Wintyr-Born, a whole cursed clan of them!” roared the chieftain.

  The Storm Speaker started following Frostpaw and shouted back. “Indeed, they are a clan, Sunspear. Tonight we will rest by the fires of my old friend Frostvang, elder clansman of the Bearzyrk.”

  “The Bearzyrk?” said Byorgn apprehensively.

  “Yes, the Bearzyrk,” said the Storm Speaker. “The ninth clan of Mistgard.”

  CHAPTER 10

  FATHER TO SON

  HE STORM SPEAKER RODE a few yards behind Frostpaw and the Bearzyrk, while the other eight clans of Mistgard plodded slowly behind him. The storm picked up in intensity and ripped their cloaks about them. The cold was taking its toll on the weary clansmen.

  We must reach the Aesirmyr Peaks soon, thought the Storm Speaker. We are down to the last bits of honeycomb, and we don’t have enough for everyone as it is. We must join with the Bearzyrk. It is the only way for the clans, the Bearzyrk included, to survive the coming war.

  Through the hail and snow, the Storm Speaker could see Frostpaw walking next to the hulking Frostvang. Frostpaw towered over his fellow Pandyr, but not so with the Bearzyrk. It appeared that neither talked. They simply walked side by side, seemingly oblivious to the storm.

  He almost looks small again . . . so much like when I first found him, thought the Storm Speaker.

  ***

  It was nearly twenty years ago when the Storm Speaker first discovered the young Frostpaw. He was sitting on his throne, monitoring the daily routines on the island, when Gloam, the black bird, picked up a strange sight. The Storm Speaker closed his eyes for a moment and slowly opened his left eye. It was as black as coal and sparkled in the hearth’s glow. It was through Gloam’s vision then that the Storm Speaker watched.

  Monitoring from above the trees, the Storm Speaker saw a young Pandyr, a cub no more than five years old, running swiftly through the forest. He darted in and out of the trees and appeared to follow a herd of elkhorn. He was not chasing them as a predator; he was running as one of them. He moved with the fleet herd, leaping and dodging boulder and oak alike. His young frame was naked with the exception of a ragged cloth he wore around his waist.

  The sight of a lone cub lost in the wild was more than enough to awaken the Storm Speaker from his mystical visions, but there was also a darker message. The feral youth bore a ghostly white coat, and on his head was a matted shock of white hair flowing freely. He bore the mark of the Wintyr-Born. The Storm Speaker sat for a moment. There has not been a Wintyr-Born in many hundreds of years. If what the legends say is true, then grim times are approaching.

  He leapt from his throne and ran outside the doors of Thunder’s Home. The Storm Speaker made a series of high-pitched screeches, and soon a large shadow fell over him. Moments later the great wings of the albatross, Fog, bore him swiftly toward Gloam. Through the treetops they soared until they found the strange youth, and an already surprising sight became even more extraordinary.

  The youth stood surrounded by a pack of ravenous jaegyr hounds. He was on his own with the exception of an old brown elk and a small gray doe. The latter was clutched in the boy’s left arm, her leg bloodied from the fangs of one of the hounds. In his other hand was a large icicle. The hounds circled the youth, trying desperately to get at the old elk he defended. The youth roared at the hounds, foam flying from his maw, eyes blazing blue.

  Suddenly the youth, doe and ice blade in hand, charged into the jaegyr hounds, more beast than boy. Though just a small lad, he was surprisingly strong, and he managed to wound many of the hounds. The boy slashed and stabbed at them, leaving many to a final sleep. Had the times been less drastic, the pack would have scattered, preferring to find prey with less fight to it. But times were desperate, and food was scarce during Wintyr’s reign. The hounds tore back at the boy, and soon both hound and hunted were bloodied. Though the boy wounded and killed several hounds, many still were left, and the pack stood staring at him. The hounds’ blood-red eyes bore into eyes of blue fire, neither side willing to quit.

  The smell of blood was heavy in the morning air, and the hounds, ribs visible against their sides, came up with an alternative idea. They turned their attention away from the boy and tore hungrily into their fallen pack members. Fights ensued among the ravenous canines as they snapped and bit at one another. The carcasses were dragged across the ground, leaving dark, steaming rivers in the muddied snow. The leader of the pack, an old brindled brute with a shaggy-maned nape, looked back at his enemy through a scarred face that, thanks to the boy, was now missing an eye.

  The Storm Speaker silently laughed. This will be a bitter feast for ol’ Fenryr and his dogs, he thought with grim satisfaction. Fenryr and his pack of hounds had been the scourge of the elkhorn herds for years. It seemed the old dog picked the wrong fight today.

  Sensing something in the trees, Fenryr let loose a howl. The beasts, beaten and battered, turned and disappeared into the forest.

  The boy fell to the ground. Hound blood mixed with his own to stain his white coat an odd pink hue. Though some of his wounds seemed deep and painful, they appeared not to bother him in the slightest. Unconcerned for himself, he looked to the gray doe and tore off a shred of his loincloth. He grabbed a handful of snow and cleaned the doe’s wound as best he could.

  If he’d let the pack have the elk, he could’ve escaped unharmed, thought the Storm Speaker. He fought for them as he would for his own brother and sister.

  The old elk stood slowly, favoring a twisted hoof. He sniffed the air and looked in the direction where the Storm Speaker remained hidden from sight. The elkhorn bolted through the trees, eager to find the herd.

  The Storm Speaker watched as the lad tended to the wounds of the small doe. As soon as the boy was done, the Storm Speaker walked out and spoke gently. “The laws of the forest do not apply to you, do they, young one?” he said. “Where the old should fall, you would help them up. Where the lame would be prey, you would be their protector. Such a heart does not belong in the forests of Mistgard. While noble in gesture, it can hurt the balance of the wilds. A caring heart like yours is not meant for the world of beasts.”

  The Storm Speaker approached the boy slowly. The boy stared at him in wonder and, without a hint of fear, walked up to him. The gray doe limped slightly. The youth picked her up and held her close. Then he looked at the giant Storm Speaker and touched the old one’s arm. Taking the Storm Speaker’s hand, the youth placed his tiny paw in the center of it. He gazed at the face of the wise old Pandyr, gripped his long beard, and then rubbed his own chin.

  The Storm Speaker laughed. “All in good time, little one. Are you hungry? Do you want food?” He gestured as if he were eating with a fork. The Storm Speaker erupted again with laughter at the boy’s strange expression. “Come. Better to let you smell what I am talking about than watch me act like a fool.” He held out his hand to the young one. “Come.” He beckoned. “Let’s go tend to those wounds of yours, shall we?”

  The Storm Speaker turned to leave but noticed that he walked alone. Looking back, he saw the lad standing there, holding the gray doe in his arms. The Storm Speaker nodded. “Ah, I see. Yes, yes, by all means, bring your friend. We will tend to her wounds as well.”

  He removed his cloak and swung it around both cub and doe. The boy rubbed the thick material while the doe tried vainly to free her head. The boy looked up at the Storm Speake
r with exhaustion and snuggled into the coarse linen cloak as if it were of the finest Darkcloud silk.

  “Warm, isn’t it?” The Storm Speaker smiled. “My daughter made it. Not only is she a fine tailor, but she can cook the most wonderful potato stew, spicy enough to boil your blood. She’s a few years older than you, but I think you’ll like her enough. But I warn you: She is a stern little one.”

  The Storm Speaker laughed as he helped the cub—still holding fast to his companion—upon the giant bird. There was little time for the boy to realize what was happening before the fleet Fog lifted up into the air with a screech and the beating of great white wings.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE HALLS OF THE BEARZYRK

  FRIGID BLAST OF WIND AWOKE the Storm Speaker from his memories. The warm embrace of sleep had finally taken him away, but only for a moment. The gentle, measured rocking of Traveler did not help him stay alert. The Storm Speaker adjusted himself to a better position and patted the gray elkhorn beneath him, noting that Traveler’s stride was as sure as ever. The scar she bore from the jaegyr hound bite was barely noticeable now beneath her coat. He touched her fondly, and she bleated out a few words that only the Storm Speaker and her herds would understand. He rode toward Frostpaw and the Bearzyrk Frostvang, who gave him a slight nod.

  “It is good to see you awake, Dark Beard,” rumbled the Bearzyrk. He seemed to be choosing his next words carefully. “Though, to tell my friend the truth, your beard is not as dark as I remember. Perhaps it is time for a new name for you.” This was followed by a faint laugh. Though silver flecked with age, the Storm Speaker’s beard and fur were still as black as pitch compared to the clansman of the Bearzyrk.

  “I have more than enough trouble remembering all the names I already have. I believe I’ll keep it as is,” the Storm Speaker jested.