Followed by Fros(21)

I walked until the sun had sunk so far below the mountains I could barely see two paces in front of me. I could have lit a torch—if I wrapped my hand before touching the wood, the far end would not grow too cold to burn, and if I kept moving, the winds would not whip too strongly—but I feared being seen. Instead, I settled down at the base of a pine tree, winter-hardened needles poking through my tattered clothes. I stayed awake for a long time, listening and shivering, too aware of my own burning cold. Hours passed before I fell asleep, and I doubt I remained unconscious for even an hour. Snow fell around me. The moment the first blue lights of dawn illuminated the mountainside, I hurried down the slope and into the next, narrow valley. I pushed myself when the earth flattened, desperately trying to gain some distance on my pursuers. I walked through the entire day, carefully picking a path through the forest and hills.

But the third day I saw the riders again, still in formation, and close enough that I could make out each individual person. Clad in indigo, they looked exotic and far different from anyone I had ever encountered. Some had large feathers protruding from their shoulders, while others were wearing strange, lizard-like armor. Their horses were large, dark, and sleek—larger than any plow horse or pony back home.

Warhorses.

My heart hammered. I ran, urging my frozen limbs faster, willing my cold blood to warm up enough to fuel my escape. My feet throbbed first, then my thighs, my chest, my shins. My throat ached with a fierce chill, dry and raw. I wove through a forest of white-trunked aspens, the cliffs above the tree line too steep for me to scale. I heard the thunder of hooves in the distance and stifled a cry. A thick root tripped me and I fell hard, a web of frost shooting out from where my hands planted themselves in the moist earth. I forced myself to my feet and ran, gasping for air. Praying to anyone or anything that could help me.

The cacophony of hooves grew louder. I heard shouting. My muscles seized and my head lightened.

Run! I urged myself, my weary, frozen limbs slacking. I have to run!

A blur of black sped past my left—a dark rider on a dark horse. He passed me, expertly weaving through the trees. He turned suddenly, wheeling his warhorse into my path.

I tried to evade him, bolt to the right, but my heavy limbs slid in the dirt. I toppled hard on my side, the impact flinging my flint and one of my books from my schoolbag. My ankle blazed with a new pain, pounded with an old chill.

I looked up, hair in my face, my chest heaving with every sparse breath. The warhorse danced uneasily in my presence, as most animals did. Its rider was a tall man in loose clothing, deep indigo sleeves and a strange black vest that crossed over his chest, lined with some sort of ringed mail. He wore dark leather riding gloves and loose beige slacks that bowed where they tucked into tall black boots. A helmet, ridged on either side to look like horns, covered most of his head, but dark, almost black eyes peered out from beneath it. Dark eyes set in dark skin on an expressionless face.

I would have stopped breathing had my body not been so desperate for air.

Southlanders.

As a child, I had often heard stories of Zareedian mercenaries who stormed towns in the night searching for disobedient children. Only stories, but it was still common knowledge that the Southlanders—men who lived in the scorching deserts beyond the Unclaimed Lands—were merciless warriors.

The thunder of hooves behind me slowed. I turned and watched as the band of warriors approached me from behind, led by a man dressed similarly to the one who had felled me, albeit in shades of deep scarlet and copper, the body of a large spider carved into his helmet, which revealed the entirety of his face. He held out an arm, urging his men to slow.

I grabbed my bag—willing to leave the flint and books behind if only I could escape—and leapt to my feet. My ankle cried out in protest, but I ran best I could. I did not get five paces before the first man in indigo charged my path, once more cutting me off.

“Please, Svara Idyah, do not run!”

I whirled around and nearly tripped myself. The words, spoken in my own northern tongue, carried a heavy accent that elongated the vowels and softened the consonants. But Svara Idyah—those were Hraric words, and ones I recognized from my studies. They meant bearer of cold.

The man in the spider helmet had spoken them.

Panting, I said in my own tongue, “I have meant no harm! Please forgive any trespasses I have caused and let me go. Please!”

The man rode closer without the rest of his entourage. I pulled up the collar of my dress, feeling exposed beneath the eyes of so many.

The man dismounted and removed his helmet. I sensed the indigo-clad rider behind me tense.

He was young, perhaps only a few years older than myself, with deep brown skin and bright gray eyes, a startling contrast. His black hair was cut short, save for two thin braids woven close to the skin over and behind each ear. A golden rod was pierced through the center of the cartilage of his right ear, and two small gold loops curved through the lobe of his left. He was a handsome man, narrow at the waist and broad shouldered, his face smooth and clean shaven, his nose straight. About Mordan’s height, though perhaps a little shorter.

I stepped back as he neared, and he immediately halted his approach, leaving five paces between us. He raised empty hands.

“My name is Imad,” he said, his accent smooth as cream. Close enough that his breath clouded beneath his nose. “I have sought you for a long time. When my men were unsuccessful in locating you last year, I could not accept defeat. I came myself, and now I have found you. Please, I mean no harm. Be at peace.”