He was so cold... the still boy with the red hair...that was him,
wasn't it? But those runes on him, they weren't his. They
were someone else's. That body must belong to someone
else.

The man - his father? - kept looking at the boy lying there.
Tracing the marks of another man's work. The boy looked
warm. So much warmer than he was, since...since...the knife
cut him.

The boy looked so warm, and it was getting colder out here.
So cold.... Something was coming in the cold - something
scary. It would be so nice to be warm again. Maybe that
other who owned the body wouldn't notice...he was so cold,
he just wanted to feel warm again...

He descended to the red-headed body, slipped in...so
warm....no, something's wrong, the other is here, he knows!

He screamed, and the body that was no longer his screamed
with him. So warm, but so scary! He fled the rising power
around him.

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

The cart lurched along, jostling its four inhabitants
mercilessly. Of course, only three of its occupants noticed. A
guard was riding with them because Captain Toravel was
not about to let this Runesmith, or his rather attractive
apprentice (Katria, the guard thought he remembered her
being called), getting to any funny business. The fourth body
in the cart didn't look to be even alive. The boy had scars that
the Runesmith hadn't yet stopped examining and cursing
over.

Despite the cold and uneven traveling conditions, the girl
looked just about ready to nod off from the monotony of the
trip. If ever there was an unthreatening seeming group, it
was these three. But the young armsman wasn't about to let
his guard down. He had heard enough of the Captain's
displeasure over Lieutenant Mishakov's too easy attitude
with the other Runesmith they had captured, and wasn't
going to get himself in trouble by treating this duty too
lightly. To that end, he stared at the girl to give himself
something to focus on as the cart lurched along the slow,
unending trip, rocking back and forth, creak, creak...

He started, waking from a light doze, when the girl shook
herself awake. Blast, how long - but it didn't look like
enough had changed for him to have actually have been
asleep long, if he had even actually slept. He didn't think his
eyes had closed, at least.

Shaking his head, he looked around the interior of the cart to
clear it and try to gain more wakefulness. The girl seemed to
be doing the same. They both turned to look at the only other
occupants - the Runesmith and his patient - supposedly his
son.

Just as the guard and the apprentice were starting to lose
awareness to their boredom again, the boy opened ice-blue
eyes and sat shock upright, a breathy scream on his lips.

The cart lurched, tipping over. The occupants were
suspended in eerie silence for the eternal moments it tilted.
Then it crashed over onto its side.

Once the guard cut through the collapsed canvas of the
now-broken cart, he and the girl gasped at what they saw.

The Idle Forest had come to life.

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

The North
Started by: Schneeble
This chapter by: Segev
Chapter 7: Winter Wraith

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

The horses reared almost as one creature, the well-trained
war instincts forgotten as the unnatural happened around
them. Arlen, though a decent rider, was thrown. In the
seconds it took him to regain his footing and his bearings,
chaos had taken firm hold of the scene, and didn't seem
willing to let it go any time soon. The inhabitants of the
forge who had been brought with the prisoners had also been
thrown. But they didn't seem particularly phased by it, being
as tough as most of them looked. Prince Dimitri was fighting
his mount to keep his seat, while Layshan - Shalnay - his
sister - whoever she was - death-gripped his back.

All around them, the guards - those who hadn't already
joined Arlen and the majority of the prisoners on the ground
- were struggling to keep their mounts from bolting, all the
while fending off an unthinkable enemy with their weapons,
shields, arms, and anything else that presented itself.

The screams of horses and men impaled, beaten, and
fighting for their lives were all but drowned out by the
tortured groans of wood moving with unnatural life. The
attack had begun with the sudden shower of thousands of
arrow-swift pine needles, scoring the entire party with
hundreds of tiny, shallow cuts. Then the branches began
falling, deadwood dropping like rain. Younger, still-living
branches reached out greedily, grasping at fallen riders and
madly lashing the faces of horse and mounted man alike.
Within half a minute, three men were impaled on the vicious
branches, and a half dozen more lay motionless on the
ground, until the roots began to pull their still forms beneath
it.

And all the while the sound of the warping wood attacked
the hearing of its victims. As the forest itself cried in pain -
punishing those in its reach.

Arlen grabbed a sword off of one of the fallen armsmen and
hurried to join the Captain of these guards. This was no time
to worry about whose side who was on - this was life or
death. The Captain seemed to have a similar train of thought,
as he took one look at the young bravo and nodded before
issuing Arlen orders as if he were one of his men.

Thinking quickly once she had herself unburied from the
tangled mess that had been the cart, Katria hit their guard on
the shoulder to get his attention. "Give me a knife. A dagger,
anything."

The guard looked her up and down in quick appraisal, and
then handed her his belt knife. If the girl wanted to have
something to defend herself with, he wasn't going to stop her.
And, if she stabbed him with it, he was likely dead anyway,
he thought as he hacked at yet another root attempting to
twine about his foot.

Kneeling back down inside the meager shelter provided by
the cart and the remnants of its cloth covering, the
Runesmith's apprentice began carving in the wood. As she
examined her work, hoping she had done it right, one of the
persistent roots looped around the wrist of her knife bearing
hand, taking it to the ground. In a panic, she reached for her
hastily-carved rune to activate it.

Brandt pulled his son's body into a less dangerous position,
so that he would not be crushed as easily by falling
deadwood. That done, he looked up just in time to see what
his apprentice had been doing for the last minute. And what
she had carved in the side-turned wagon bed. "No, you
fool!" he yelled, just as her hand contacted it, the palm flat
against the rune. He just had time to fling himself down on
top of his son before the world was torn apart by light and
noise and pressure.

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

The bald figure practically slithered through the now
ambulant forest, sliding through the trees as if he and they
were one entity. The woods parted slightly to assist his
progress, while the agonized groans of their angry assault on
his enemies reached his ears. It was like music, a primal beat
of a shaman's drums, impelling him onwards. A triumphant
dance dedicated to his inevitable victory.

As the Idle Forest writhed under his rune, he could almost
leap from tree to tree, nearly flying, like some winged reptile.
It was liberating. His only regret was that Brandt would
almost certainly manage to end the effect before those
arrogant guards and the son-of-a-fool prince were killed. But,
small victories are acceptable - he would take this one.

The forest was thinning ahead of him - he had circled about
rather than cutting straight through the way the mounted
party was - when an explosion shook the ground, and a wave
of sound and light threw him forward into the suddenly still
trees.

Vadesh looked back, pleasantly surprised, if a bit
disbelieving. _Brandt_ had miscast a rune? The old man
must be losing it. The bald runesmith shook his head in
scorn. Brandt was always too finicky when it came to what
he would do with his runes - and now he had let senility get
the best of him. But, the forest had stopped moving. The
explosion must have destroyed his rune, then. No matter.
Even if any of them had survived, they would not be in any
condition to pursue him now.

He slinked off, idly chanting a nursery rhyme he
remembered from his childhood.

"Can't even shout, can't even cry,
The Gentlemen are coming by.
Can't call for Mom, can't say a word.
They need seven and they might take yours."

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

Cold... so cold....

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

The only remaining supply cart had been partially emptied
to make room for the wounded. Those guards who had lived
could still ride - or at least walk, if their horses had gotten
away. Brandt sat vigil over two still forms, now. His
apprentice had joined his son as an invalid. The guard
assigned to them was miraculously unharmed. It was only
because of three (now destroyed) protective runes on his
person that Brandt and his son hadn't been consumed in the
explosion caused by Katria's rune. The rest of the party had
been on the other side of the wagon, and spaced out, so they
suffered only minor wounds, though the nearby trees
couldn't say the same. The armsman assigned to them,
though - Phain was his name - had been right next to her. Yet,
though he was thrown several dozen feet through the air, he
had nary a bruise to show for it.

The girl would live, unless the rune had affected her mind as
well as her body. This cart was not covered, though, so it
was fortunate that Captain Toravel had decided to trust his
remaining 'prisoners' enough to permit them to be armed.
Prince Dimitri had vouchsafed his own good behavior for
the rest of the trip back to his father, and his word that those
taken with him were not any part of the plot to kidnap him
seemed to be enough for a modicum of trust after the disaster
in the Idle Forest. Because of that uneasy trust, Arlen had
been allowed to keep the sword he'd picked up, and Brandt
had been allowed to place runes about the coverless cart to
protect its inhabitants from the worst of the weather.

"Katria, I wish I knew what you had done..." The girl hadn't
actually been moved by the explosion. When Brandt got to
her, she was slumped over next to where the cart used to be.
She had looked a bloody mess, but, while she had a slight
burn over all of her exposed skin and much of her clothing
had been shredded, her worst injuries turned out to be from
the shrapnel of the exploding cart. Brandt had thought it a
pity that the rune she used was destroyed - it would have
been useful to know what she had been trying to do to know
the possible side effects.

When Captain Toravel managed to get everyone
reorganized for the remainder of the trip back, Lieutenant
Mishakov - he slipped his own name and title into his
sentences whenever possible, the puffed up fool - had loudly
berated the lone guard he had assigned to keeping Svarog in
line, and immediately suggested sending a contingent to
retrieve the escaped runesmith. The Captain had been
unamused. "It was your job to keep him in the first place,
Lieutenant. I told you to guard him more closely. Because of
your refusal to listen to my advice, he has escaped and we
have lost a number of soldiers. The King is not going to be
pleased. We do not have the men to spare to go hunting him
now, nor the means of ascertaining where he has gone."

"Bah," retorted the Lieutenant, "I, Lieutenant Mishakov,
caught him once, and can do it again! More stringent
precautions are obviously necessary, but -"

"Pipe down, Lieutenant!" ordered the Captain, barely raising
his voice. "I said we were returning to Sala, and I meant it."

The Lieutenant nodded, and began ordering his men to
disarm Grael and Arlen, restrain Brandt, and tie up the two
unconscious prisoners. Prince Dimitri spoke up then, as
armsmen approached Shalnay with rope. "Captain, is this
really necessary? I give you my word, I will not attempt to
run away before I see my father again. And none of these
taken with me have done anything wrong, except be with me
when you caught up with me. They, in fact, rescued me from
that other runesmith."

The Captain had nodded. "Let the boy keep the sword. And
Grael is a Sergeant; there's no need to treat him like a
criminal."

"But sir! It's clear that more stringent security is required!"
argued Mishakov. "One runesmith already tried to destroy
us with his magic, are we going to give this one a chance, as
well?"

"These people helped us!" exclaimed the exasperated
Captain. "If they had been working with Svarog they'd have
fled with him. And we're going to need every able body to
make it back now, with the types of animals about - human
and otherwise." Mishakov opened his mouth again, but
Toravel interrupted him before he could speak. "I don't want
to hear another word out of you until we get back to the
castle, Lieutenant. If I do, I will have _you_ bound and
gagged. Is that clear?"

Sullenly, Mishakov began to say "y-" before seeing the hard
glint in his commander's eye. He nodded his understanding,
instead.

Once they had gotten the cart ready to receive its passengers,
Brandt had a chance to clean and bandage his apprentice's
wounds. She would probably heal well enough, though there
were some scars she'd bear for the remainder of her life. Of
particular interest to Brandt was her left hand - the one she
used to activate the rune. The rune had branded itself in it.
The fingers curled into a claw around the angry wound; it
was doubtful that she'd ever regain full use of that hand.
However, from a purely academic standpoint, the
Runesmith was able to examine her work.

She awoke a little over a day later. Brandt leaned over her.
"So, you return to the world of the living."

"Wh-what happened?"

The master spoke in teaching tones. "It looks like you tried
to make either a warding or a dispelling, but got confused
during the construction and mixed in elements of banishing
and destruction. Very sloppy work, my dear. We're all lucky
you didn't kill us."

The memory seemed to sink in, and Katria spoke up in her
defense, "But I was -"

"Tut tut tut!" interrupted Brandt, looking stern. "You made a
classic mistake, and tried to cast hurriedly. Not only that, but
you have shown that you can't remember the basic lessons.
So, we'll just have to go back and review them, now wont we.
Let's start with pronunciation. How to you say the rune for
'tree'?"

"I want to see Dimitri first!" declared Katria, trying to sit up
against her bandages. She didn't even make it to her elbows
before wincing in pain and being forced to lay back down.

"You're not going anywhere for a while," said her master.
"So you may as well make use of the time."

"I could go get the prince for you, miss," offered Phain.

"Would you?"

The young guard stood to jump down out of the wagon, but
Brandt glared at him. "AFTER your lesson." The guard
hastily sat back down under that gaze. The Runesmith's
expression softened. "Now, how do you pronounce the rune
for 'tree'?"

"Farln," replied the apprentice with a frustrated sigh.

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

The castle was in sight, just one more day's travel away,
when Christov began to stir. Brandt, who had barely slept at
all in keeping vigil over his son and his apprentice, had
fallen asleep, but Katria called to Phain, who shook the
Runesmith awake.

"Christov, my boy!" cried the father, gently grasping his
son's rune-scarred shoulders.

The redhead turned his head in an oddly fluid fashion, his
eyes not quite tracking with its motion. When Brandt pulled
back a bit to give him room, he sat up as if pulled by external
strings. "H-hello, f-father," he croaked, his voice scratchy
and weak. He looked around again, his head moving as if
detached from his body. "W-where am I? Where are we?"

Katria thought Brandt would have a positive fit of joy. He
was as happy as she'd seen him since Kyril's Forge. "We're
going to the capital of Sala, son. I'm going to try to figure out
what that bastard did to you when we get there."

"What... bastard... father? I- I don't remember what
happened..." The boy's head swiveled to face Katria. As she
looked at his eyes, they seemed terribly empty. What had
that man done to this poor boy? Those eyes slid down to her
bandaged left hand, pulling the head to follow after a
moment. Then the head turned to his father, pulling the eyes
with it. "Who is she, father?" His voice was still monotone,
though it seemed to be gaining some strength.

"Who, Katria? She's my new apprentice. My boy, you may
be working with her once you two finish your
apprenticeships. But, for now, I'm just glad to see you are
alright."

Katria smiled, watching father and son talk. If the boy's
conversation was a bit stilted, it was no surprise. They still
had no idea what had been done to him.

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

It's so cold... But it was colder away from his body. He knew
it was his, now. He remembered that. And that man was his
father. But he didn't know these other people. He just knew
that his body wasn't his anymore, his father was there, and
that he was cold. So cold.

He couldn't do anything, he wasn't even sure he was real
anymore. Was he dead? Had whatever separated him from
his body killed him? Was he a ghost now? But his body was
still alive. Those marks on his body - they were... they
were...

So cold. It's so cold here.

Something approached - a snow demon, or something - but it
veered away from the living. A small, weak one, then.
Probably didn't even exist in the world of the flesh, the world
of warmth. But this world was so cold.

His father looks so sad. If only he could talk to him... he
reached out, but his hand passed through his father's face
unfeeling. His father was so warm, but something rejected
him. His father didn't even notice. And he was so cold.

Again, something approached. This time, though it moved
faster, straight for him! It was ... it commanded his body,
pushed him aside while tying him to it. Claws of ice shot
through his frozen spirit, paralyzing him for the moment
before the thing descended into his body. He watched,
horrified, as his eyes opened and stared right through him.

His father spoke to him, but he couldn't hear it. It's too cold,
he wanted to tell him. But, no, his father wasn't talking to
him, but to his body, to that _thing_ -  that man? - that now
inhabited it.

Father! Can't you hear me? he cried silently, his voice lost in
the incessant wind of this cold place. That thing was
pretending to be him! It was stealing his father, his body!
NO! I don't want to be cold anymore!

The wind began to swirl around him, chilling him a bit more,
but making him stronger. His anger built, but the heat was
frozen out of it as the snow of the warm world gathered to
his call. He would make his father hear him, he would!

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

The wind shifted. Brandt was talking to his son, and the girl,
Katria, was watching. It was good to see the boy was still
alive, thought the guard. But he's moving so strangely. Phain
wondered what was wrong with him. The Runesmith said
that that other Runesmith had done something. But they
didn't know what. This was probably a side effect of that.

He shivered. The wind was making it colder, suddenly.
Katria seemed to notice it, too. Then her eyes went wide as
she stared out past the boy and his father. When Phain
followed her gaze, he started too. "Snow-devil!"

Brandt looked up, startled. "What the? Get away from my
son!" The boy's head turned in that odd detached way, and
just looked at the apparition of whirling snow. It seemed to
be trying to touch the boy and the Runesmith, but the
Runesmith was having none of it. He reached into his robes
and pulled out a pair of runes. "Gotharn-esth!" he cried,
holding them out at the apparition.

A scream made up of two voices echoed in the darkening
night, and the ghost faded. When the Runesmith turned back
to his son, however, the boy had collapsed like a puppet with
its strings cut. He was gone again.

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

The bald Runesmith of many names rubbed his head. That
banishing Brandt had used on the snow-devil was rather
powerful, and multi-purpose, it seemed. It had forcefully
ended his connection with the boy. It would be the better
part of a day before he would be willing to try to establish
contact again. His head was still pounding.

But it was still gratifying. It worked, and with every bit of
practice, his control of the boy's body grew more precise.
The fools didn't seem to suspect a thing. And, if he really
needed to, he could summon the boy's spirit to guide him in
his imitation.

But his plans could wait for tomorrow. For now, he was
going to sleep before his head fell off.

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

Pain. PAIN! He fled, the pain, and an unseen force, driving
him away. Father... why? Farther from his body, from
warmth.

It's so cold... He wanted to go back home. But his father
drove him away...why? So cold here, so alone.

So far from his body, growing so weak... He was losing
himself to the wind, dissolving into the numbing cold of this
place. I DON'T WANT TO DIE! His thought screamed into
the wind and went nowhere. As it drained away, so too did
some more of himself.

My father... my self... I'm fading... No, I can't let go to the
cold, I don't want to die. I will not fade away! But it's so
cold....

To keep himself together, at least for now, he tried to focus.
Focus. He did something last time... focus... if he can ignore
the cold...he won't fade if he can focus. What to think
about....so cold....his father...his training...wounds...the
marks on his body...

Farln. Zilace. Nori. Dzre.

He began naming the simple runes his father and the smiths
had taught him. Concentrating on their forms. The cold
burned him, but he fought it. Slowly, the runes began to
form, vaguely at first, and not all the time, the wind and the
snow and ice took fleeting shape, then flying away just as
quickly. Snow flurries swirled around him, before being
taken by less spectral winds.

Then he felt it again. The cold grew stronger. So cold...the
runes faded as he got distracted. The presence swept over
him, freezing him, taking form, it hungers, it hurts! Cold, so
cold... he was losing himself... He could feel it consuming
him. No! I won't let you!

Feed me....I hunger....

No! You can't... He was losing. He concentrated, trying to
get himself back. Runes. Focus on the runes. Slowly, just
when he thought that he was going to lose, the runes formed.
The entity, the snow-demon, he knew what it was now,
screamed in pain. Then it struck back, waves of weakness
draining his essence, stopping the formation of the runes.

The boy focused his will, _requiring_ the runes to form. The
runes of destruction, of binding - any rune that would make
the pain stop, make the enemy scream.

And the battle was joined. In the world of life and warmth, a
miniature storm raged, of formless wind and snow coiling
around and trying to crush and consume tiny forms of ice
and wind. And the tiny forms trying to take the essence of
the storm.

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

Princess Ann froze as a chill went up her spine. When she
exhaled, the breath was mist, as on a cold day, though the
room was fire lit. Her husband turned at the slight sound.
"Are you alright?" More than concern for her was in his eyes
- prospective fatherhood had made him act strangely, lately.

"Nothing, I think, husband," she replied, her breath normal.
But the sense of foreboding remained. Somewhere, a strange
storm was brewing. And nothing natural was being born of
it.

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

Author's Note:

Well, this was my greatest experiment in last second writing.
Almost literally no time for prereaders, and it will probably
go out unpreread. So, any mistakes, plot holes, or other
problems are mine and mine alone, and I apologize for them.

What's really disappointing is that I didn't get to one of the
things I wanted to do. I wanted a nice confrontational scene
between Dimitri and his father. And to deal with Ann's
feelings towards Dimitri's cause, and how his cause affects
his companions. Oh, well, stuff for the next author to do - or
ignore completely, if the whim takes them. I truly am
disappointed that there wasn't more of Dimitri, Shalnay,
Trioth, and Ann, though.

Last minute thanks to NickM for a quick preread right before
I fired this off to Calc. And thanks to Calc for the extention.


	--Segev

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

The battle was ending. The swirling storm began to coalesce,
take form from the ephemeral elements of the snow. A
Christov stepped out of the swirling mass as it dissolved into
him. All features washed out to pale blue - not even the fire
red of his hair shown anymore.

Not even solid enough to huddle against himself, the specter
still felt only one thing.

"I'm... cold..."