The Last Winter Read online

  Frostpaw walked between the two in silence. Frostvang pointed at the mountains directly in front of them and spoke to the clans. “Here we are. We will enter between the two cliffs and journey inside the mountain.”

  Frostvang, the Storm Speaker, and Frostpaw silently proceeded forward. The Storm Speaker noticed that Frostvang was looking at the lad from time to time. The Bearzyrk glanced at the Storm Speaker and nodded. The Storm Speaker nodded as well. “Frostpaw, be a good lad and tell Ursara and the others we shall be stopping soon. Tell them for me, will you?”

  “Yes, Storm Speaker,” he said, and he strode back toward the others. When he was far enough away, the Storm Speaker looked at the old Bearzyrk.

  “What do you think, Frostvang? Are my eyes finally failing me?”

  “Nay, I see it too. There is blood shared between us, no doubt. The same shaped eyes, and that pure white coat!”

  The Storm Speaker put a hand on the big bear’s shoulder. “I’ll leave it to you to tell him in your own time.”

  They went on in silent thought till they approached a large crag in the mountainside. The Storm Speaker was somewhat confused. “I never knew the Bearzyrk took permanent homes. I was always under the impression that the Bearzyrk was a nomadic clan.”

  “Most of the year we travel about as we please, roaming the Tundyr and the peaks, hunting, and taking trophies during the times of Sprign and Sumyr. During the time of Fell, we save up our meat and drink, and during Wintyr’s time, we seek the shelter of our mountain dens. We Bearzyrk have only ourselves to rely on. Only the most stout and hearty of my Long Coats can weather this storm.” Frostvang gestured proudly toward his fellow Bearzyrk following close behind him. “The rest are deep within the cliffside, lounging in the hot pools inside the belly of the mountain. This chill is the worst we have ever experienced . . .” The Bearzyrk looked inquisitively at his old friend.

  “What is it?” said the Storm Speaker casually, but his eyes were alight.

  “Meaning no offense, Dark Beard, but how is it that you and your gentler clansmen endure such an environment? It is cold upon the Tundyr and even colder during these end times. How is it that you and your clans ride about as if this were just a normal day?”

  The Storm Speaker tossed a piece of the magic honeycomb to the Bearzyrk, who sniffed it and popped it into his mouth. His eyes showed his wonder, and he chewed it up swiftly and belched.

  The Storm Speaker smiled wryly at the Bearzyrk. “And I would say the same to you, old friend. What did the Den Mother give to the mighty Frostvang and his Long Coats after their offerings were received?”

  Shaking his head, Frostvang laughed, removed a large skin from his side, and tossed it to the Storm Speaker. “Mead,” he said.

  The Storm Speaker took a pull of the skin and nodded in approval.

  Frostpaw ran up, his heavy feet crunching through the snow with ease. “They are ready, though Byorgn and his Sunspear are putting up quite a fuss. Nobody seems to care, though. They would rather sit with the Wintyr—the Bearzyrk—than freeze to death,” said Frostpaw with a hint of bitterness in his voice.

  The Storm Speaker handed the skin to the boy. “Then there will be no mead for those crying spears, so you can drink their share.”

  Frostpaw sniffed the skin and blinked as if trying to clear his head. Slowly, he tilted back and took a swig. He had a healthy pull, and the clear fur on his face seemed to redden from the flushed skin beneath it. He coughed, but the boy’s eyes burned with approval.

  As they continued on, the Storm Speaker told Frostvang about the past week’s events, from the uniting of the clans and Sprign’s magical honeycomb to the agreement made with the Under-King about the cubs. Frostvang, in turn, told of how the Bearzyrk had honored the passing of the Great Huntress (as they called Sprign) with a feast and tributes of mead, meat, and trophies of war, followed by the burning of a giant wattle-and-thatch effigy of the Huntress.

  Though the Storm Speaker listened, his eyes did not fail to notice two lupine shapes that followed them. They were crafty enough not to let their presence be known even to the keen-eyed Jadebow, but there was nothing that could hide from the One-Eyed Watcher. Gloam and Fog soared over the slinking figures, darting and weaving, sending them scurrying, letting them know they had been seen. With a few futile growls, they fled. Ullyr’s powerful jaegyr hounds gave chase only to be called back by a fierce bark from their golden-maned master. It was hardly needed, for the two lithe forms scampered quickly out of range of the stout jaegyr hounds, taunting them with yaps and yelps. The Storm Speaker watched them melt amongst the crags and disappear amidst the cliff rocks.

  “Old Grymir still watches, eh?” mused the Storm Speaker.

  “Always. As do you,” retorted the Bearzyrk with a snort.

  The Storm Speaker reached into his side bag and pulled out the last of his honeycomb. He handed it to the Bearzyrk. “Here, Frostvang, take this,” said the Storm Speaker as he casually brushed away his friend’s protestations. “It is only a few days’ worth, but add it to your mead barrels. It should help take Wintyr’s edge off of those who are—how did you suggest it? Less stout and hearty?”

  They both laughed. The entrance was ahead, and the Pandyr followed the Storm Speaker and Frostvang into the heart of the mountain.

  CHAPTER 12

  WHEN BOW MEETS ARROW

  HE PANDYR TRAVELED DEEP within the mountainside. The chasm walls jutted up out of the earth, protecting them from the full brunt of Wintyr’s wrath. Still, the cold was relentless. Giant beasts were housed in crude stables, and the Pandyr were soon told that the Bearzyrk called these gargantuan animals spearhorn. They were a domesticated breed of the wild ones found wandering the great frozen lakes of the Tundyr. The Bearzyrk used many of them for personal mounts and labor. Their thick pelts also adorned the backs of the Bearzyrk, much to the disgust of Byorgn.

  “Barbaric devils, the lot of them,” he muttered. Many of the Pandyr felt the same as the Sunspear chieftain. The Pandyr’s relationship with their herds was one of mutual giving, as opposed to that of master and servant. The herds provided milk and transportation to the Pandyr, and the Pandyr provided care, shelter, and protection.

  Onward they traveled until they were standing in front of a large set of weathered, frost-covered doors. Frostvang motioned to his men, and they lumbered forward and opened the heavy doors. A great gust of hot air blasted onto the gathered Pandyr and turned to icy mist almost immediately. The inside of the mountain was ablaze with a welcome heat and humidity that they had not experienced in many days.

  “Come in and warm your bones,” Frostvang said to the Pandyr. “The elk and hounds can huddle amongst the spearhorn for warmth. It is actually quite warm there if they can tolerate the smell.” He laughed and entered the cave.

  The Pandyr moved into the hall, some in wonder and others in horror. The inside of the mountain was massive and easily housed the entire Bearzyrk clan. Furs littered the floor, and great fires raged. Vast pools of sulfurous water bubbled from the ground, and Bearzyrk sat and soaked in the wet steam. Huge tables were covered with roasted meats and horns of mead. The high walls were adorned with the heads of beasts, some the likes of which the Pandyr had never seen. The hall was filled with smoke and steam and smelled of sweat, cooking meat, and fermented drink. The Bearzyrk glared at the Pandyr clans with mistrust, but they fell back to their laden plates and frothing mugs when Frostvang’s cloudy eyes bore into them.

  The smell of charred flesh was difficult for some of the Pandyr to stomach. Their diet consisted of mountain vegetables and roots, berries, milk, bread, and honey. Some of the coastal and seafaring clans ate the eggs of gulls and albatrosses. The Pandyr were friend to all the animals of the forest and considered them to be almost kin. Never did they feast on the red flesh of animals, which the Bearzyrk did with relish. Fanged jaws tore into hunks of roasted beast, and bones were gnawed, snapped, and sucked for the marrow. Many Pandyr felt pangs of sickness roiling in their bellies
and had to move to corners less occupied by the carnage. Even the Storm Speaker looked uneasy as Frostvang tore a leg off of what appeared to be a spearhorn calf that was spitted and cooking over a fire.

  The Bearzyrk spoke to the old Pandyr between mouthfuls of meat and bone. “Please, eat and rest. If we are running short, we can spit another spearhorn, or one of your goats if you prefer that.”

  The Storm Speaker eyed the Pandyr, trying to quell some hostile looks. He turned to Frostpaw. “Frostvang and I are to meet with the Bearzyrk elders shortly and talk of the events that are upon us. Please rest and tend to the old and sick.”

  “Shall I go with you, Storm Speaker?” said Frostpaw, and the old one smiled. Despite all the day’s events, the boy still concerned himself with filial obligations, though his eyes burned with questions.

  “Nay, Frostpaw. You and Ursara go to the fires and warm your coats. And more important,” he said, gesturing to the Bearzyrk, “talk with them.”

  The Storm Speaker and Frostvang disappeared down a long hallway and were soon out of sight.

  The boy and Ursara went to the firepit in the center of the room. It was crowded with Bearzyrk, all drinking and eating, and they looked at the two with little interest. All of the Pandyr had made their way into the cave, but they still stuck close to their clans. Most tried to keep themselves away from the barbaric Bearzyrk. Ullyr had no such concerns. The meat and blood did not bother the Jadebow in the slightest. He and his clansmen were nomadic riders of the forest, and such sights were just part of the balance of the wild.

  The Jadebow chieftain walked forward and stood upon the giant hearth, a massive arrow in his hand. He nearly had to shout to be heard over the din of the Bearzyrk. “Who here can shoot such an arrow as this and hit his mark? Who here makes such a shot that causes the Jadebow chieftain to gush like a newborn cub?”

  The chieftain of the Jadebow was answered with silence. Clearly irked at being ignored, he leapt atop a table and raised the arrow high. Most of the Bearzyrk looked at him with indifference or disdain as he toppled over carafes of mead and plates of meat. A bull-like voice echoed in the chamber.

  “Jadebow . . . Jadebow, you say?” Near one of the firepits stood a Bearzyrk of staggering proportions, easily as tall as he was wide. He lumbered over to the chieftain and looked him over. He wore a faded gray cloak that once might have been green before years in the sun had robbed it of its color. “Who are you, little one?” he said, tilting his head.

  Ullyr looked perturbed by the condescending title given him by the Bearzyrk. He fired back at the big bear with all the bearing of a chieftain. “I am Ullyr, archer, rider, and chieftain of the Jadebow clan. How is it that you know of our name, ponderous one?” he said.

  The Bearzyrk thought for a moment, and as if coming out of a haze, he answered. “I am Ullstag, archer and rider. And though I am no chieftain, I know of the name Jadebow, for I, too, am Jadebow.”

  CHAPTER 13

  AMONG THE ELDERS

  HE STORM SPEAKER AND Frostvang walked through a passage in the rear of the big hall and wandered down the corridor. The heat was overwhelming, and for a moment, the Storm Speaker almost longed for the frosty winds outside. The two entered a dimly lit chamber that Frostvang called the Den of the Elders. It was here that the Bearzyrk clan was governed and ruled.

  It was a large room, not as large as the hall they had left earlier, but what it lacked in size it made up for in splendor. It was lined with exotic furs and coats of arms of ancient make. The elders, who were gathered around a reflecting pool on cushions of fur and cloth, motioned the Storm Speaker and Frostvang forward. By the look of it, Frostvang was but a cub compared to some who were near the bubbling pools. The steam was stifling, but the elders sat comfortably. After bowing to them, the giant Frostvang took his place amongst them and sat down without a sound.

  Sitting on a large boulder at the center was the wisest of the Bearzyrk, Grymir, and behind him were his wolves. They approached the old bear and sat at his side. They eyed the Storm Speaker, who was directly opposite Grymir on the other side of the pool. There were no cushions or pillows for the Storm Speaker to sit on, so he remained standing.

  “I’m listening, Storm Speaker,” said the old Grymir. Though younger than the Storm Speaker by many hundred years, he looked far more ancient. His white coat was tied in various braids, and his fur was matted and painted with clan markings of the Bearzyrk. Life was bitter on the Tundyr, and it showed on Grymir’s face. It was weathered and deeply lined, though his blue eyes were still keen and bright.

  The Storm Speaker bowed. “And greetings to you too, Grymir, and to all the council. It is a pity we must meet in such dire circumstances. Your clan looks as strong as ever, a testament to the council’s leadership.” The Storm Speaker bowed again and continued. “The clans of Mistgard have united. In these times, we have all chosen to put aside our old feuds and hatreds. But we are still not complete. We have one more clan to meet with, to join together with. We—I have come to ask the Bearzyrk to join together with their lost brothers and sisters and stand with us against our common foe. Without the might of all the clans of Mistgard, we all shall fall to the wrath of the giants.”

  The old Bearzyrk laughed heavily. It was not a pleasant laugh of mirth but a dry and harsh one, lacking any humor and filled with contempt. “You wish the Bearzyrk to join the eight clans of the Pandyr? Now? After all these years? Don’t be a fool, old one. You know better than any that our kinds do not belong together. You must remember that it was your people who cast the Bearzyrk out. It was your kind who banished us to the wilds, to live amongst the beasts when we were but cubs not even weaned from our mothers’ milk. And now, with the twilight of Mistgard at hand, you come to us for unity, for brotherhood? If these be our last days, so be it. We will face them as we always have: on our own.”

  Grymir coughed a dry, jagged cough that shook his body. He leaned forward and breathed deeply of the steam, which seemed to soothe his spasms. “Now the Pandyr, the ones who banished us years and years ago, will know what it is like to be alone against the world,” the old Bearzyrk mocked.

  The Storm Speaker broke the Bearzyrk’s scornful laugh. “Not all loathe your kind; not all fear. Who was it who brought the lost ones to your clan over these many hundred years? Who now raises one of the Bearzyrk as his own? Many of the Pandyr have grown up around one of your kind and—”

  “And how has that been for the boy, Storm Speaker? Have the clans embraced the young one with a mother’s arms? Have they welcomed him into their hearts and halls?”

  The Bearzyrk’s wrinkled face was twisted up into a smile, and after a pause, the Storm Speaker answered quietly. “He has had his share of problems, and he has weathered them as best as a boy can.” The Storm Speaker looked intently at the council. Frostvang sat with his great head lowered. The old Pandyr continued. “He still seeks the clans’ approval. Even after all these years, the boy still has hope that old fools will one day learn not to judge the present by the deeds of the past. He hopes that minds and hearts will learn to forgive.”

  The Storm Speaker bowed low and turned to go. “I thank the council for its time. I will inform the others that we will proceed on our own.”

  For the first time during the meeting, Frostvang spoke. “I have promised the Storm Speaker and his kin shelter for the night. Also, I would speak with the young one the Storm Speaker brought with him; he should know our history.”

  Grymir looked to his fellow councilmen and muttered something. After a few quick nods from the others, he addressed the Storm Speaker. “The council will allow the boy to stay if it pleases you, Storm Speaker.”

  The Storm Speaker merely nodded and turned to leave. Frostvang rose from his spot and followed the Storm Speaker down the hall. It was many moments before he spoke. “I am sorry, Dark Beard. We of the Bearzyrk know what these times bring. We know what we are facing. Yet the council is too old to change its ways. Come, let us join the others.”

 
; The Storm Speaker and Frostvang left the Den of the Elders in silence.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE LEGEND OF GHOSTMANE

  LLSTAG LOOKED AROUND at the throng of Pandyr and Bearzyrk. He took a long drink before speaking. “Many years ago—five hundred and ten, to be precise—I was brought here by the Dark Beard, or the Storm Speaker, as he is known to you Pandyr. Here I was greeted by others of my kind. At the time, I was the youngest of the Bearzyrk. But over the next few hundred years, more came. Some were cubs; some were like the boy here.” Ullstag pointed at Frostpaw. “We, in turn, would raise them. To my memory, there has never been a female Bearzyrk, so we cannot breed amongst our kind. There were never any young about until the Dark Beard came with them. Ha! But when he delivered a new cub, you would see this group of giant-slayers and beast hunters turn into a bunch of fools, falling over themselves, wanting to help cub-sit the little ones.”

  The big bear smiled broadly, lost in the past. “We would raise them together. We would teach them how to hunt, how to ride, and how to build fires strong enough to burn in the bowels of Icegard itself!” A pall crossed over his face, and he suddenly looked very old. “But for some reason, the arrivals stopped, Byorgar being the last. I believe he died fighting giants in Icegard about fifty years ago. He was the youngest of our kind, at two hundred and some odd years.”

  “Died? In Icegard? Fighting giants?” said Thoryn, blurting out from a horn of mead he had snatched up. The brew was clearly having its way with the Hammerheart chieftain.

  The old one furrowed his brow and tilted his head. Coming to a conclusion, he nodded apologetically. “Ah, I am sorry. You are correct, red one. It was little Hjolnr who died in Icegard. Byorgar died in Firehome.”

  Mead flew out from Thoryn in a huge spray. “Now you are battling in Firehome? I think the mead has gotten to your head, old one.”