The sorcerer's grip on his shoulder was so cold that it stung, even through the layers of clothes. Screaming, Jalan kicked and hit at the ash-gray robes, but he might as well have been striking the petrified tree. Desperate, he bent his neck and bit as hard as he could, but the taste was so foul that his throat closed and he gagged.

"Yes!" said the sorcerer as he pulled Jalan close. "Struggle. Scream!

Your pain will make this all the sweeter." Still trying to breathe and spit the foul taste out of his mouth, Jalan looked up. Two other sorcerers, much like the one he'd known for days save that their robes were drenched, stood over him, seemingly tall as towers. Another hunched between them, and even Jalan could see he was trembling and shaking. "Hurry," said the cowering sorcerer. "I can… feel this husk dying." The sorcerer holding Jalan thrust him toward the trunk of the long-dead tree, and the one who'd spoken half-stepped and half-fell forward. He was between Jalan and the wind, and the smell of tombs hit Jalan full in the face. Jalan screamed. "Yesss," said the weakened one. He pawed at Jalan, almost like an old crone stroking her favorite pet. "Oh, I like this one. I can… c-can taste him."

Lendri leaped, one hand extended in sharp claws and the other bringing his knife forward in an arc that hissed as it cut the air.

The sorcerer caught his forearm in one hand, his long arm gripping the bestial elf in an iron hold. Choking and spitting, Lendri stabbed and cut at the arm again and again, but the grip did not weaken. The sorcerer's arm did not even tremble. The dark cowl turned to the belkagen. "I grow tired of your mongrel pets." He pulled Lendri in close as his grip tightened. The belkagen heard bone snap, and he raised his staff, a spell forming on his lips. Lendri dropped his knife and screamed, but it was not wholly in pain. "Lamathris!" he shouted. Flames swirled out of the ring on his finger-the ring Amira had given to him-and with his fist wreathed in flame, he punched the sorcerer in the stomach. Wet and stiff with ice though the robes were, the magic fire caught in them and blazed upward. The sorcerer screamed-

Vyaidelon! Jalan prayed. Help me! Help me, please! But no answer came, and the power that had awakened in him that night on the steppes was beyond him. He could sense it, feel it growing in him, but it was as if an unbreakable barrier-one made of ice-separated him from the the light. "Help!" Jalan screamed, his voice breaking. "Somebody help me!" "There is no help for you now," said the sorcerer-the shambling one who reeked of death and decay. He pulled Jalan close to him.

"Tonight you will dream in endless darkness, the utter cold of-" A scream, so loud and piercing that it was almost beyond sound, broke the air, and the four sorcerers over him staggered. The one holding Jalan lost his grip altogether and fell on his hands. The shriek died away and one of the sorcerers-the one who had kidnapped Jalan and dragged him across the Wastes-looked down the hill. "Go… to h-him," said the one near Jalan, and he crawled forward and grabbed him once more. "I will deal with this one." The three other sorcerers swept away, like clouds blown by the wind, and Jalan looked up into the cowl of the one remaining. He could feel the cold emanating off the sorcerer in waves, and behind it all was an insatiable hunger. Jalan kicked at him. Bits of skin and flesh flew off the bones of the sorcerer's arm. Some of it, greasy and sticky with decay, stuck to Jalan, but the grip did not lessen. The sorcerer struggled to his feet, but only made it halfway, standing hunched over and weaving in the wind like an old man. With his free hand, he reached into the folds of his robes and drew forth an ornate blade. It seemed part steel and part ice. Sharp, jagged runes covered the blade, and they glowed with a cold, blue light. Jalan could feel it pulling all warmth and life from his body. Jalan cringed, a whimper escaping his throat.

The sorcerer laughed, a rasp like dust sliding down gravestones, and said, "This blade cuts more than flesh, boy. You're right… to fear it. To fear me." He raised the blade. Jalan continued to kick and punch, but to no avail. He thrashed and turned, hoping against hope to be able to avoid the dagger. "Don't struggle, boy," said the sorcerer.

"Soon all will be… over. For you. Darkness. Cold. But for me… tonight I'll wear your… s-skin when I find your mother. When I..

. eat her heart." Unable to look away, Jalan watched as the decaying muscles tightened in preparation for the downstrokeA dark shape fell out of the sky and struck the sorcerer in the back, smashing him into the rocks. Jalan screamed. A demon! The sorcerer had summoned a demon to take his soul! But the figure that struggled to his feet was no demon. He was a man-tall and thick with hard muscle, dressed in torn bits of leather that might once have been clothes, and every inch of him coated in dried blood. From the near-black blood, the man's eyes seemed to shine forth with both fury and pain. In one hand the man held a single-edge knife, the blade of which was almost as long as his forearm, and in the other he held a black iron club. The sorcerer stood. His robes and much of his cloak had been torn away, and in the rents Jalan saw bits of ribs broken through the emaciated, gray skin.

But even as he watched, the bones sank back into the flesh, mending with a sickening popping and crunching. The man brought his club down in a fierce strike aimed for the ash-gray cowl, but the sorcerer caught the club in his hand. Bone cracked and tiny bits of flesh flew away, but the sorcerer did not weaken his grip. He twisted the club out of the man's hand and brought the club back around, striking the man with his own weapon. The club caught the man in the gut and he folded in half as he tumbled off the hill. The sorcerer turned back to Jalan, but the boy was too frozen with shock and fear to move. Where had the man come from? Who was he? Dropping the club, the sorcerer snarled and shambled forward, but he made only two steps when another figure dropped out of the sky, more gently than the man had, and landed between them. The clothes and cloak were strange, but Jalan recognized her at once. "Mother!" She kept her back to him and turned to the sorcerer. "Get away from my son, you bastard!" she roared. She thrust forward a strange golden-red staff and shouted, "Keljan saule!"

The Isle of Witness The sorcerer screamed and flung Lendri away. He thrashed, his shriek rising in pitch until it passed beyond hearing. Still, the belkagen could sense it rattling inside his skull. The flames caught in the sorcerer's sleeves and lower robes, then ran down as if he were dipped in pitch. Three shadows fell out of the storm sky and landed around the burning sorcerer. The tallest of the newcomers flung his palms out in an arcane gesture and screamed the words of a spell. A channel of wind filled with snow and sleet hit the gathered sorcerers, and so great was its force that the flames sputtered and died. Most of the sorcerer's robes had gaping holes. His face was that of a cadaver kept alive by dark magics, his skin withered, gray, and stretched over a hairless skull. His nose was long gone, leaving only a desiccated hole. His eyes were deep pits rimmed in cold frostfire, and they bore down on the belkagen, who still lay prostrate on the rocks. The sorcerer raised his hand and pointed even as he spoke the words of his incantation. The belkagen was halfway to his feet when the air around the sorcerer's hand coalesced and froze into a blue-white light and shot forth. The belkagen spoke his own spell and raised his staff just in time. The light struck the staff-a sharp crack, followed by a flash of darkness that the belkagen saw behind his eyesAnd the staff shattered, splinters and tiny shards of ice flying into the old elf's hand and face. The belkagen screamed but kept moving. He turned his cry of pain into words of power and spread his arms wide as he leaped.