For a moment, the clouds parted, and a beam of 
sunlight turned the evergreens near the forest's edge to 
green flame.  Crystals of snow, freed by the light breeze 
from their stations along each branch and needle, glittered 
in the sudden glow, dusting gently over the shallow mound 
Grael had managed to raise over the body--well, over the 
recoverable parts of the body--of his fallen comrade.  
Grael grimaced once again, as each clod and pebble acquired 
an outline of white.  The worst thing was, there had been 
so little left that he couldn't even recognize which of his 
men he had just buried.

	He leaned on his sword, gazing past the grave into 
the woods.  How easy it would be to just walk straight 
ahead, away from his new associates, away from his old 
life!  How little there was to go back for, when you came 
right down to it!  If he returned to Sala before Serpent 
did, without the Prince, he would pay with his life.  If 
Serpent reached Sala with the Prince before he, Grael, 
could do so, he'd be lucky to escape with a court-martial.  
And if Serpent were to make off with Prince Dmitri and the 
girl, hold them captive somehow--well, death would be 
preferable, whenever the King's torturers allowed it to 
reach him.  Meeting up again with Serpent was even less 
attractive.  And all for a runesmith, a mongrel boy, and a 
Jorouk wench.

	A small scuffling sound, just within the shadow of 
the wood drew his eye.  A small animal of some sort, 
probably disturbed in its tunnel beneath the snow by the 
recent fight, making it's way to the surface?  No!  As 
Grael watched, a martin, white as the snow around it save 
for its black nose and paws, rose on its hind legs and 
stared at him, its jaws clamped around the recently-dead 
body of a mouse.  Its cold and beady stare reminded him of 
Serpent.

	Grael shook his head slowly.  No.  His current 
companions had powers, true; but they needed someone with 
real muscle.  Leave them, and Serpent would have them in 
next to no time.  There was a small matter of revenge, as 
well.

	The clouds again closed over the face of the sun, 
leaving the world a monotone of gray.  The wind, picking 
up, began to pile a drift of snow around the grave.  And 
Grael turned to the ice house with a small snort.  All this 
thought, and they'd probably be dead of cold by morning, 
anyway.

	His back was to the gravesite, so he did not see the 
swirling wind form a small, twisting column of snow-dust 
above the fast-disappearing mound.  The spiraling snow--
surely, just a local phenomenon?--seemed to lean after 
Grael, and then straightened.  For a moment, it appeared to 
grow, and then another wind took it, whirling away to the 
south-east.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The North 
A Tale of High Adventure 
And Low Temperatures 

Part 3: Snow-devils

Created by Schneeble (Brian Stubbs) 
Written by Lirazel

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

	The same burst of sunlight made its way through a 
chink in the tent-flap, falling across the face of Prince 
Dmitri, forcing him awake.  Waking was not good.  The pain 
from the cords that bound him returned, and the thirst; and 
as he reluctantly opened his eyes, he could see that 
Shalnay...

	Shalnay lay as she had been left.  He could hear her 
breathing, which was something, but the bruises on her face 
were darkening, and her lips were caked with blood.  The 
rest of her body... no, he would not think of it, would not 
look.  

	He forced his mind back instead to the moment when 
she had entered his room in Kaddegh.  He was tired, and not 
really sure he wanted feminine companionship, but the 
brothel was cleaner than the inn, and if all the girl did 
was rub his back free of the kinks from hours in the 
saddle, it would be worth it.  

	The shock of recognition when she came through the 
door almost made him shout aloud.  Shalnay, his foster-
sister!  Living in such a place!  He had thought her safe 
on her parent's farm, where he'd last seen her, more than 
three years ago.  She'd been pretty then, in an awkward, 
innocent way, but now... And his anger when she told him 
how her father's brother had taken the farm immediately 
after her father's death, driving her mother and the 
children into the streets.  And the tears they had both 
wept when she told him of her mother's end, in the charnel-
house at Sala.

	 "She went there to l-look for you," Shalnay had 
whispered.  "But when she found you were in Iso...  I came 
here with the man who gave me the money to bury her, and he 
exchanged me for the price of three new packhorses."

	 "And your brothers?"

	 "I bound them out as apprentices in Sala.  One is 
with a weaponsmith, and one with a tanner.  I get word of 
them from time to time.  They're good boys."

	Even now, it infuriated him that no word had reached 
him of Shalnay's plight.  If Toriah...

	It had taken him three days to conclude negotiations 
with the wizard, and during that time he given the harridan 
who ran the place what must have seemed a foolish amount of 
money to secure Shalnay to himself.  So much, indeed, that 
he had scorned to leave any more when they departed.

	He had meant to restore Shalnay to her farm, as soon 
as he could, and her brothers as well.  Or, if she 
preferred, to keep her with him, in some capacity.  It was 
the very least he could do for the sister who had shared 
her mother's milk and her mother's heart with him.

	And now!

	Shalnay lay as she had been left, her arms and legs 
stretched wide by the ropes that bound her to the tent-
poles.  That-- devil was too good a word-- had not even had 
the decency to cover her when he departed, leaving the 
marks of his teeth and nails in plain view.

	The only mercy seemed to be that their captor had no 
interest in carving his runes on either of them, or at 
least not yet.  Perhaps Shalnay would die before he thought 
of it.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 


	"I say we ride to Sala.  They're sure to head there.  
This sorcerer is being paid by the Prince's father, right?"

	Karina shook her head.  "Brandt needs help.  Iso is 
closer by far.  And we don't have supplies to make it to 
Sala."

	Arlen ground his teeth.  "Then I'll just have to go 
ahead alone."

	"And face the sorcerer alone?"

	"I could do it better than you could.  I've been by 
myself so far, ever since Kaddegh, and I've done alright."

	Karina put her hands on her hips and prepared to do 
battle. "And what makes you so sure Sala is where they're 
headed, hmmm?"

	"Don't be silly," Arlen scoffed.  "The sorcerer wants 
his pay, right?  So, he goes back to Sala, turns over the 
Prince, and collects."

	A weak voice from the makeshift bed made them both 
turn.  "Typical.  Naïve, but typical."  Brandt pushed 
himself upright.  Karina sprang to help him, but he pushed 
her aside, his eyes locking on Arlen.  The three of them 
barely noticed Grael's return.

	"You're right, young businessman, they may have gone 
to Sala."  Arlen shot a triumphant glance at Karina.  "But 
I doubt it.  For one thing, this sorcerer fellow is far 
more powerful with the Prince in his custody than he'd ever 
be with mere money at his command."

	Arlen looked impressed, but unconvinced.

	"Further, I very much doubt if the King's money is 
all he's taking."

	"I can speak to that." Grael's deep voice made Karina 
start.  "When we were preparing to march, many people came 
to visit Ser-- that fellow.  Some came openly, others in 
secret.  I saw several different liveries, and one with a 
crowned swan on it."

	Brandt nodded slowly.  "Toriah."  Arlen and Karina 
both looked at him blankly.  "The livery of the Crown 
Prince features an argent swan, crowned, on a red field."    
Arlen was secretly shocked; his training was to faithfully 
fulfill a contract and then move on.  But Grael seemed to 
understand, so he tried to nod like a man of the world.

	Karina looked even more mystified.  "There's another 
prince?"

	"I'll explain later, if I can... For now, just leave 
it that for every gold piece the King will spend to 
retrieve his erring son, there's two or three others who 
will pay to have him kept away."

	Karina shook her head.  "So... you're saying they 
could be anywhere.  All the more reason for returning to 
Iso, then.  We can raise the castle troops, and..." She 
stopped.  Brandt was holding up his hand.

	"Girl, just who do you think is going to listen to us 
in Iso?"

	"Well..." Karina blushed.  "I was-- I mean I am-- a 
good friend of the Prince's, and--"

	"Do you think that friendship extends to ordering his 
soldiers to their deaths?"

	Karina blushed more deeply, and tears formed in her 
eyes.  Despite himself, Arlen spoke, mostly to cover her 
embarrassment.  "What do you think we should do, wizard?"

	"I'll tell you what *I'm* going to do," said Brandt, 
with a grim smile.  "I'm going to lie here, and this broken 
leg is going to give me a nice, high fever.  It will last 
two or three days before it breaks.  When it's at its 
height--not too early, mind you--I want you--" he looked at 
Karina "to take the contents of this--" he pushed a bag 
into her hand, "stir it into a cup of warm water, and give 
it to me to drink.  Then, the three of you, listen to what 
I tell you."  He smiled again.  "With luck, I will be able 
to find this sorcerer and this prince.  With more luck, it 
won't kill me.  I should be ready to ride on the fourth 
day." 

	"And we're supposed to sit around and watch you be 
sick?" Arlen's voice rose incredulously.

	"No, you're going to hunt, and bring firewood, and 
melt snow for water, and clear off enough snow for the 
horses to find fodder.  Don't worry, you'll be busy."

	"Oh."

	Grael spoke again.  "There is merit in this.  In 
addition, if the Prince gets to Sala before me, I have a 
better chance of surviving.  I will attend you."

	Arlen shuffled his feet.  "What if this sorcerer 
kills them both before we find him?"  

	"Both?" Karina was bewildered again.

	"The girl I'm--" He stopped, but not before he had 
seen Karina's scornful glare.  His face turned red, and he 
shrugged.  There was no use explaining.

	"That's a risk we're all taking," said Brandt.  But 
if we can't save either the Prince or your friend, at least 
we may be able to carry the news where it will do the most 
good."

	He lay back on the heap of cloaks.  "Being sick 
now..."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

	The man Grael had mentally tagged as "Serpent" sat in 
his own tent, surrounded by the tools of his trade.  Small 
and large bags and bundles leaned against the tent-wall or 
hung suspended from ropes.  A large chest stood at the foot 
of his sleeping-pallet; a single rune, made of ivory with a 
faint pink stain, adorned the lid.  Collections of wooden 
and metal rods lay, like with like, around the perimeter.  
A fire burned in the center, its smoke drifting up through 
the smoke-hole in the roof.
	
"Serpent" was not his name, of course.  It was surprising, 
however, that so many people thought there was something 
snakelike or reptilian about him.

	The man was busy refilling his belt.  A collection of 
pouches and containers lay before him, and he was 
methodically moving some of the contents of each to an 
equivalent, smaller container that hung from the black 
leather strap.  His hands moved automatically, and his lips 
moved nearly as automatically.

	His hands were brown and thin--the brown that comes 
from prolonged exposure to sun or wind--with long, 
tapering, delicate fingers.  The back of the left was 
scarred with a many-legged blob, like a spider gone mad.  
The right was missing a small portion of the tip of the 
middle finger.  His arms were thin as well, where they 
disappeared into his sleeves.  His black robe was richly 
embroidered with more black silk, in a pattern that was 
difficult to see if he moved.  He sat cross-legged on the 
fur before the fire; his feet were covered with black, 
sheepskin boots, the skin turned to place the wool inside.  
The robe lay over his knees, but he was naked beneath it.  
From time to time he inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of 
his recent pleasure.

	His head was shaved, and on it he wore a curious cap 
composed of overlapping feathers, no two alike, extending 
so as to fully enclose the nape of his neck.  He had full, 
dark eyes, slanting slightly, and dark, long eyebrows and 
lashes.  His nose was thin and straight, and his lips were 
well-shaped and red.  His eyes glittered and he was smiling 
as he worked, revealing even, white teeth.  One of his 
cheeks bore an angry red mark, as if he had recently been 
bitten; otherwise, the skin of his face, unlike his hands, 
was a dead, even white.

	He looked surprisingly young and vulnerable, sitting 
there.  No more than 22, 23 at the outside.  Younger, 
certainly, than the woman he had been tormenting.  Younger 
than the Prince.

	His task complete, he rose and put on the belt, 
doubling it about his waist and testing the position of 
each bag and box.  Then he returned the items on the tent-
floor to their various positions, and made his way over to 
the large chest.

	He sighed deeply and drew out a small knife, made of 
what looked like silver.  A prick of the thumb, and the 
droplet of blood was mashed against the rune.  A name was 
whispered; the wizard's true name.

	"Vadesh."

	Only a drop of the owner's freshly-drawn blood and 
the owner's true name would open that casket.  Vadesh 
opened it now, and drew from within it several dark metal 
rods, each with an oddly-shaped, shining ornament at one 
end.  These looked like silver blocks, each carved with... 
something.  

	The man who rarely spoke his true name returned to 
his seat before the fire, and picked up a small file from 
the fur beside him.  He filed industriously at one of the 
ornaments for several minutes.  Suddenly, he dropped the 
rod into the fire and leapt away, nearly to the door of the 
tent.  The rod twisted and spat fire, then a thin sound, 
something like an animal's scream, began and was cut short.  
The rod melted, bubbled, and evaporated.

	The man frowned slightly, and thrust the remaining 
rods into a heap against the wall.  Returning to the open 
chest, he pulled out a map and passed his hands over it.  
The map was made of a single, large piece of vellum, shaded 
light gray.  The faint remains of a tattoo were visible in 
one corner.

	The map glowed in one location.  He leaned closer to 
study the fine inscription on it.  "Kyril's Forge.  Well, 
well."

	Outside, the one remaining beastman breathed heavily. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Author's Note:

	Computer failure + part deadline = major suckage.  
Thanks to Calc for granting me a few more days.  I know, 
there's very little action here, just a lot of groundwork.  
Build on it.

	Also, we now have:

*	Karina, who's embarrassed at having admitted that she 
and Prince Dmitri are "good friends".

*	Arlen, who's upset that Karina thinks he's pursuing 
"the girl I'm--" for love, rather than money, but doesn't 
want to explain that his mother runs a brothel.

*	Grael, who's got nothing and no one.

	A few points:

	The snow-swirl over the Grave of the Unknown in the 
very first section is, in fact, a ghost.  I haven't done 
anything else with it, because I decided not to decide too 
much about such beings.  For example, I can't tell whether 
it is well-intentioned or poorly-intentioned towards Grael.  
But it does occur to me that the abuse of magic shown by 
Serpent is likely to have *consequences* that Serpent 
himself, in his arrogance, has not considered.

	Shal-NAY.  Va-DESH.  I'm trying to keep a vaguely 
Slavonic feel to the names.  Vadesh's name has become a 
Word of Power to him; he keeps it secret if he can.  Some 
of the others may have secret names as well, if it suits 
you.

	Thanks to Schneeble for pre-reading in the midst of 
an overwhelming amount of work, and to Minaku for acting as 
a conduit between the two of us.