The Last Winter Page 9

  “Come here, lad, and put your shoulder to this thing,” he said to Frostpaw, beckoning to him.

  Frostpaw came up, shaking his head. “Ullstag says only the elders are allowed into the den,” he said worriedly.

  The old bear nodded his head. “They are, lad . . . and so are those who are invited.”

  Frostpaw bent his shoulder and put his weight into the effort. Between the two pale giants, frost cracked and shattered as the stone door moved to one side. A gust of air that smelled ancient yet somehow familiar escaped the old den and washed over the young Bearzyrk.

  Frostpaw, the spectral voice said.

  “I heard the voice again! Frostvang, did you hear it?”

  Frostvang smiled and shook his head.

  “Who speaks to me, Frostvang?” There was a slight tremor in the boy’s voice.

  “The greatest of the Pandyr and the greatest of the Bearzyrk.” Frostvang turned and strode back to his mount.

  Frostpaw shouted to the big Bearzyrk, “You’re leaving?” The wind whipped up into a fury.

  “I will leave you to speak. I will return at dawn with your father and the clans. From here we will all journey to the Aesirmyr!” shouted Frostvang without turning to look back. “Go, Frostpaw. Speak to the fallen. Hear our story.”

  Frostpaw watched Frostvang climb upon the spearhorn and head back toward the caves. When the old Bearzyrk disappeared into the storm, Frostpaw turned around and went into the Den of the Slayers.

  CHAPTER 22

  THORGRID AND THE UNDER-KING

  ILES BELOW THE RAGING wars in the upper world, the realm of the Under-King was a cold and silent place, a shadowy reflection of the world. There was death in this realm just as there was in the one above. But there was also life, ancient and primitive life. The Under Realm was filled with as much life as the upper realms boasted, if not more. While fields of sun-kissed grass and wind-cooled trees dotted the surface of Mistgard, deep below, one could find miles of sparkling quartz deposits and phosphorescent niter growing in abundance. Twisting corridors and canyons of stone teemed with a million types of life. Insects, reptiles, invertebrates, and other denizens crawled and crept in these earthen halls. Whereas gray-green oceans raged under sky, cold, deep lakes filled the bowels of the Under Realm; Life thrived down in these silent seas as well.

  Life was old in the Under Realm, old and silent like its king. The Under-King, Fell, was master of this dark kingdom, and just as Sprign had her children far above, so, too, did the Under-King far below. His underkin worked tirelessly and without complaint in the world beneath the world. Miles of passages were shaped by the underkin beneath the watchful eye of their Under-King. It was said that there were paths that led to every island and mountain in Mistgard.

  The Under-King had labored for thousands of years to sculpt the ribs and spine of the Under Realm. With but a word and a breath, stone was shaped and crystalline arches spiraled from cavern floors. Around every turn, gardens of quartz, amethyst, and jade sprouted from lichen-coated bedrock, and Fell and his minions dwelled peacefully in this quiet world of antediluvian splendor. But even amidst this primordial beauty, the Under-King grieved.

  Brooding and silent, Fell roamed his kingdom. The young Pandyr had been down in the realm for many days and had made do with whatever primal essentials Fell was able to provide. He held no feelings for the whelps, but he provided for them nonetheless; it was what Sprign would have wanted from him.

  As he walked the crystal-illuminated paths, he noticed that bits of pine needles and dried petals of some upper-world flora were scattered across the stone floor. A deep rumble echoed from his chest and, in turn, throughout his realm. In an instant, the stone giant’s frame melded into the wall and was gone, only to re-form in the room of Sprign’s burial mound. His minions would have no desire or need to come to Sprign’s resting place. In front of Fell, bits of hay and fallen twigs lay strewn across the floor; the remnants led toward the chambers of the Pandyr cubs.

  His anger shook the earth. Fell’s form was once again absorbed into the rock, and he disappeared.

  ***

  The earth shook, and Thorgrid hushed a crying cub and tried unsuccessfully to feed another from a cup of milky, mineral-rich water and honey. Thorgrid had the cubs gathered in a large cave, and she ran the children, both older and younger, as her father commanded his warriors. Some made beds while others prepared mushrooms and pounded roots into a mash for supper. Thorgrid’s father, Thoryn, would hardly have believed that the headstrong child he had left days ago would be so capable of handling a room full of squalling cubs.

  “Calm now; be brave. We are safe here. Once my father and the clans defeat the giants, they will return for us, and we can all be back home, where we will feast and sing and tell stories all night long. You want me to let them know how strong you were, right?” After fumbling around in her sleeping area, Thorgrid handed a mewling tot a small handmade doll. “Here you go,” said Thorgrid in a gentle voice. “I know it’s not as fine as the ones you have back at Sunspear Hall, but it’s all we have here unless you want to snuggle up to some old rock.”

  “Dolly!” said the young Anji, granddaughter of Byorgn, the Sunspear chieftain. She pulled on the toy roughly, and Thorgrid sternly corrected her.

  “You be gentle now! This isn’t just a dolly, Anji.” Thorgrid carefully straightened the doll’s braids. “See here? This is Sprign.”

  The homemade doll was fashioned from woven grass and dried pine needles bound tightly to form a primitive figurine. Bits of shell and stone were tied to a small dress made out of a torn silk banner. Her hair was shiny green hay, and it was braided and tied with some silver twine plucked from the hem of a cloak. It was crudely crafted but had taken Thorgrid hours to create. The first one she made had been given to a young Darkcloud cub who was lonely for her mother. After that, other cubs had asked for their own Sprign dolls.

  “Sprign was the mother of the entire upper world. She is the one who made the animals in the forests and the birds in the sky.” The children were quiet while Thorgrid told them the tale. Some mouthed the words silently with her, while others lay down amongst the blankets and watched intently. “She was the one who made the Pandyr, too! She gave us life and made us strong. She gave us the courage to live, and to fight even against—”

  “The giants!” Anji blurted out.

  “Yes, the giants or anyone else who would try to hurt us,” replied Thorgrid in her best grown-up voice. “She—” Thorgrid stopped when she noticed they were not alone.

  From out of a stony wall, the Under-King emerged, startling the cubs. “Be at ease, little ones. I was merely listening to your . . . story.”

  He towered over the cubs; only Thorgrid seemed unafraid of the Under-King. Fell noticed this. There were clearly hints of her father in the way she carried herself. He walked slowly over to them and spoke as softly as a voice born of gravel could speak. “May I see the doll?”

  “It’s not a dolly. It’s Sprign,” said young Anji defiantly.

  “I see, little Sunspear. May I see Sprign, then?” said the Under-King. Only with great coaxing from Thorgrid did Anji hold out the doll to the giant, who looked at it fondly while he gently turned it around in his large hands.

  “Give me back Sprign. She’s mine!” little Anji said angrily.

  “She is very lovely. Sprign would have been happy with your work, Thorgrid. Please pardon my intrusion.” The Under-King returned the doll to its pebble-sized owner and moved to leave.

  Thorgrid looked up at the giant and spoke. “Under-King?”

  Fell turned and looked down at the Hammerheart cub. Thorgrid seemed a bit hesitant at first, standing toe to toe with the Under-King just as her father had days ago. The fiery will of the Hammerheart urged her on, and she asked her question. “Under-King, did—did you want me to make you one, too?”

  The Under-King’s face was as impassive as stone. “You want to make me a doll?” he said.

  “Only if you want
me to,” Thorgrid said.

  “It’s not a dolly. It is Sprign!” shouted Anji from her bedroll.

  Fell looked at Thorgrid and then nodded. “Yes, yes, I would like that very much,” he said.

  Thorgrid took up some handfuls of grass and slowly began forming the body. She looked up at the giant, who stood and watched her work. “It, uh, it might take a little time,” said Thorgrid.

  The Under-King sat his massive body on the stone floor next to the cubs. “Then I will wait,” he said softly.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE HALL OF THE DEAD

  HE DEN OF THE SLAYERS was cold and still. The walls had been hewn from what looked like ancient glacier ice, and a pale blue glow glimmered across the floor. An old brazier of horn and bone stood on each side of the hallway. Frostpaw struck steel to stone, and the dry wood within lit immediately. He grabbed a length of timber and looked around the den. The walls were covered with weapons and armor of ancient make and design. Tapestries and furs of strange beasts dotted the hallway sporadically, and every so often another brazier would appear, which Frostpaw would bring to life as well. The very air seemed old, and Frostpaw knew that he was the only living thing in this tomb. Still, he felt far from alone.

  Along the hallway were thrones and altars upon which rested the bodies of the dead. Some of the deceased were still relatively preserved. Some were clad in great suits of boiled leather and bone armor, with hardly a patch of fur or mane showing. Here and there, thrones were adorned with old drinking horns, pelts, and various other trophies. All of the fallen bore some sort of elaborate scrollwork that hung in curls about their bodies.

  Maybe they are the chronicles of the warriors’ deeds and history, thought Frostpaw as he worked his way farther down the hallway. He could not read the writings, for they were not in the common language of the Pandyr. The inscriptions looked like a series of scratches and claw marks rather than the runes of the Pandyr tongue.

  One odd feeling that Frostpaw had, standing amongst the bodies of the long dead, was that he was not afraid, not in the slightest. He felt a gentle peace and, oddly enough, a sense of belonging. It was the feeling one felt when one returned home after a very long journey. Frostpaw didn’t know if that was a good reaction; after all, he was standing in the halls of the time-lost dead.

  Frostpaw continued down, deeper and deeper into the Den of the Slayers, until he noted a strange purple light emanating from the end of the hall. It appeared to be coming from behind a great door, silhouetting it with a similar purple glow. He felt such calm that he did not even start when the giant door opened on its own.

  The room he entered was round and similar in size to the great hall in Thunder’s Home. A large hearth stood in the hall, but the strange light came not from there but from the other end, high atop a set of steps. The room was tiered, consisting of three levels. On the first two tiers sat more thrones, two on the right and two on the left on each level. In the middle of the tiers was a stairway carved into the turquoise ice. It stopped at the third tier, where one solitary throne sat high above all the others. Unlike the other thrones, this one was not made of horn, wood, and stone but was rather carved out of the same blue ice that made up the stairs and the walls. All of the thrones had the remnants of Bearzyrk upon them, but unlike the fallen warriors in the corridor above, these bodies were no more than skin and bone. And one stood out above all.

  In the center throne, on the highest seat in the room, sat a humongous Bearzyrk skin curled over a pair of horns. It hung heavily and was so large that it fell to the floor like a massive cloak. The fur was glowing white. Behind the skin, held firmly by a set of twisting elkhorn antlers, rested a large hunting horn and a pair of gigantic spears. It was from the weapons that the violet light emanated. One spearhead was burning blue ice; the other was of crimson flame. Together, the blades created a vibrant purple light that lit the hall with its radiance. Both spearheads seemed to bore into Frostpaw as if they were eyes staring into his mind.

  Frostpaw walked up the frozen steps till he was a mere foot from the high seat. There on the throne hung the skin of the mightiest of Bearzyrk. In a trembling voice, Frostpaw spoke. “I have come as you asked.”

  Though no wind blew in the hall, the skin upon the throne moved. Frostpaw gasped as the skin twisted and formed into the shape of a massive figure. A spectral glow burned in his eyes, and the apparition spoke.

  “Frostpaw, I am Ghostmane.”

  CHAPTER 24

  THE GRANDFATHER SPEAKS

  ROSTPAW STOOD STARING at the specter amazed but still unafraid. The figure was a sight to behold. Nine feet tall at the shoulders and powerful in build. He spoke with a thick accent, but his words were clear and strong: “I would tell you our story.”

  Frostpaw listened to what the grandfather of the Bearzyrk had to say. “It was many years ago when Ghostmane was born. I was once ruler of the greatest of all the Pandyr clans . . . the noble Sunspear. My father passed early in his life, and I was made chieftain at a very young age.

  “I was called Ironmane for my blackish-blue hair. I was tall and strong, massive in body and handsome in features. Proud and boastful I was, but I led the clans against the giants and defended our shores from the beasts of the great green seas.

  “After many years of battle, our lands were free of strife and danger. I had earned the love of my people and of the other clans as well. The Sunspear clan shone bright upon the isle of Mistgard, and for generations we led the Pandyr through a time of great splendor. There was even talk of uniting the clans. The Den Mother, Sprign, still walked among us back in my time, and she was to hold a feast honoring a rare birth among the elkhorn king’s herd. It was said that a golden fawn had been born to the king’s mate, and we Sunspear were overjoyed, as the color of the fawn was the same as our clan’s banners! The birth of a golden fawn was an omen of good fortune, and we were honored that the king and his herds had chosen our lands as the place for this momentous event. We went in celebration to the open fields where they lived. Normally we would have been greeted by the swiftest of the king’s runners.”

  Ghostmane paused a moment before continuing. “We were not greeted by anything other than a frigid, bone-biting chill. We searched and searched but found nothing . . . The hours passed, and eventually we found them.”

  Ghostmane’s demeanor changed, and the room darkened. “We found them all . . . slaughtered. The entire herd had been killed with a viciousness created by no regular predator. Bodies were bent, and their horns had been broken off from their skulls with such force that it twisted their necks completely around. We knew no mere pack of jaegyr hounds did this. The stink of frost and the mark of Icegard clung to the carcasses.”

  The air hung heavy in the den as the spirit of Ghostmane pondered the foul deed. “The bodies were frozen. Ice coated their broken forms. Upon further searching, we found the golden fawn. And with the fawn lay his mother and the king, the great elkhorn king. Their deaths were the worst . . .” Frostpaw watched Ghostmane burn with rage. Clearly the memory still haunted his long-dead spirit.

  “The murderers of Wintyr had stolen into my land and disgraced our people with this act. Whether it was done out of revenge for our years of thwarting Wintyr, or whether it was a simple act of carnage, I do not know. The birth of the golden fawn was turned from a good omen to a curse. Our land fell barren, and the other clans turned their backs on the Sunspear, unwilling to associate with what they deemed a ‘cursed’ clan.”

  Ghostmane’s ire rose, and the hate seemed to warm the air in the den. “My anger and arrogance consumed me. I demanded blood for this outrage. I said that I would redeem my clan by avenging the deaths of the elkhorn king and his herd, or I would not return at all. I gathered a group of my finest trackers, and we went to hunt down the murderous invaders. Sprign herself told me not to go. She, the mother of all Pandyr, pleaded with me not to pursue this labor, but I was inconsolable. All I cared about was the insult to my clan’s honor and, more important,
to my own.”

  Ghostmane laughed low and sadly. “How much would have changed if I had only listened to our Den Mother.” The apparition flickered in the cold air and did not speak, as if reflecting on the past.

  After many moments, he continued. “I took my hunters and followed the bloody trail of the murderers to the beaches of Mistgard. On the shores, we saw our ships lay in ruins, hulls were breached and sails were shredded to scraps—only one remained untouched. A mocking laughter drifted off the northern waves, and we turned towards the sound. There, on the horizon, glimmered a lurid blue light, a ghostly beacon that would guide us to our fate. We boarded the last ship and ventured across the great gray sea.

  “Our journey was long and plagued with storms and, just when we thought we had lost our trail, the laughter would cut through the air and the phantom light would appear on the horizon, guiding us back on course. After weeks of pursuit, the jagged mountains broke through the storm clouds ahead, and even with land in sight, our prey left grim markings for us to follow. Icebergs boasted frozen elkhorn, and bloated bodies were chum in the icy waters. We eventually landed upon the frigid shores of Icegard. There, it was always cold, even during Sprign’s time, and food was scarce. I cared not. My anger kept me warm, and my hate kept my belly full.”

  Ghostmane’s words echoed in the den, and the light of his spears bounced brightly off the icy walls. “It seemed as if we tracked ghosts. Everything was a blur of blue and white. Frozen trees, frozen lakes. Everything was dead. Well, not everything. Eventually we found our prey. Or, should I say, they found us.