CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Endless Wastes Screaming. Jalan could hear it, made faint by distance or… something else. Some barrier or thickness. The voice was familiar. He knew it. He was sure. Then it hit him. It was his own voice, the screams and yells and shrieks finally fading to pleading-all that and more in the den of the dead wolves. Another sound intruded. Howling.

But not the malicious howling of the cloaked leader's pack that reminded Jalan of cold winter and empty places. This howling came from far away, and in it he heard the call of brothers. Jalan opened his eyes. Again he was tied to the back of one of the great wolves. The sky was dark, but the fresh snowfall seemed to gather in the tiniest bit of light and reflect it back, giving the world a muted ghostly cast. He could make out the large forms of the other wolves and their riders milling about. They'd stopped. Why? The howling. It came from the distant horizon in front of them. Jalan had once spoken to one of the rangers who patrolled around High Horn. The man told him that wolves have a language all their own, far more intricate than most people knew. They spoke not with words, but with movement, posture, the cant of ears and tail, a look of the eye, yips, barks, growls, and over great distance they howled. What they were saying now, Jalan did not know, but the wolves of the cloaked leader's band obviously did.

They seemed agitated, and Jalan could feel the growling deep within his mount's chest. The barbarians were shouting back and forth in their own tongue. Their leader allowed it for a few moments, then cut them off with a harsh command. The barbarians stiffened, and Jalan could see that they did not approve of their lord's command but were too frightened to disagree. The leader shouted something, and the company set off again, heading northward, straight into the chorus of howls.