White Rage trudged through the heavy snow of its own making.

It tried to sniff the scent of fresh meat upon the chilled wind, but found only vague traces which disappeared as quickly as a snowflake on a warm tongue. The beast had been traveling for days; how many, White Rage could not count.

The melodious crooning of the Voice had all but disappeared from the corner it occupied within the beast's mind. In place of the Voice was a vague, knawing feeling of impatient urgency prodding it toward its destination: the Grip. The sides of White Rage's muzzle drew back in a snarl as the beast remembered the moment of its rebirth in that place. The Grip had made White Rage forget the original place of its birth: the plane which it had called "home."

But White Rage needed the constant company of the Voice to make it forget the pain and hunger battling within it as both sensations competed for the beast's attention. Perhaps if the Voice's instructions were disobeyed, White Rage reasoned, the Voice would be forced to return with its soothing mantra. The Voice would have to allow White Rage to feed in order to gather strength for the remainder of the journey.

As White Rage continued to plod across the slippery, snow laden ground, it felt the blistered places on its hide pull with each footfall. Until its battle with the spellcasters, White Rage had felt omnipotent, invincible. But now, as the pain of its wounds chipped away at its stamina and settled in the front of its consciousness, White Rage threw its massive head back and howled mournfully.

Then the Voice unfurled, wrapping its verbal limbs round White Rage's mind. You must continue. I promise that you will feed generously once you have reached the Grip.

White Rage decided it would not obey the Voice this time, for it needed the comfort of a warm, full belly now--not dull, empty words.

Suddenly a sharp scent flew into the beast's nostrils. Warm and full of pulsing blood, food seemed to be moving just before the thin line of horizon. The Voice, a sprig of panic growing in its tone, cautioned: No, you must delay your feeding until you have reached your destination.

But White Rage rebelled once again, for the sceptre of the beast's hunger controlled its movements now. Only the taste of blood and the sensation of flesh sliding down its thick throat would be all the comfort White Rage would need.

As the beast drew nearer its prey, it saw them now: small dots scattered across dark green pasture land in the distance, seeming to move toward White Rage. Humans and animals, the beast sensed as its flared nostrils continued to sniff excitedly at the wind. Better yet, the snow beneath its padded feet was turning to slush and the beast felt stiff blades of grass poking through.

Grazing lands.

White Rage would feed now, for the Voice was silent and the beast no longer cared for the sound of it--so long as its belly remained empty.

###

Thrasher of the Falcons, lead herdsman of the Outsiders' livestock, lifted his tanned face to the ice-cold sky and searched for his birds. He saw them keening through the air, their dark tapered wings like scythes slicing the wind.

The flock of falcons shivered as they circled above the mingled herd of cattle, horses and sheep. Then Thrasher heard their shrill, mournful-sounding whistles as they called an alert. They've seen something, the herdsman thought warily. Could it be the bearlike creature Shel'han Nyjef's messenger had spoken of? It had been weeks since the message had been brought to him, yet they'd seen nothing so far.

The message. Thrasher grunted to himself. In it, the Shel'han instructed him to give his falcons over to a spellweaver named Terjal Rakmir so that the beast he sought might be more easily hunted. But I won't let him have my birds unless I be allowed to tend to them, Thrasher thought bitterly. Nyjef may have won the falcons on gambling bet, but they belong to me now. No one knows the language of the birds as well as I. Thrasher gazed up again at his circling falcons.

Thrasher swung himself atop his horse and rode up to his men as they sat upon their mounts in a tight group. "It is time to call in the herd," Thrasher shouted before he reached the men.

"Why?" said Donit, Thrasher's Second. "There is still plenty of light left in the day. And besides, who knows how much longer the pasture lands will remain dry?"

It was true, Thrasher had to admit: the air was getting colder as each hour crept closer to a new day. Already they saw the white crust of snow growing nearer the pasture lands. Still, as he glanced up at his birds again, Thrasher knew something was about to happen and the animals would have to be secured.

"Donit," Thrasher said as he drew his horse alongside the young herdsman. "I think the animals' bellies are full enough for the day. Besides," inclining his head upward, "my birds just called out a warning. I think something's coming."

Ruker, a heavyset herdsman, let out a throaty chortle. "Ah, Thrasher--are you worried about that beastie the Shel'han's messenger told us about? Why, given the boy's age, he probably well-embroidered the whole of the tale."

"Still," Thrasher answered, squinting into the bright sunshine, "no need to take chances."

"The hounds haven't been acting up," gaunt Dehno added. "But I'll have 'em bring the herd in right now, Thrasher." Then he tugged his reins sharply and veered his horse toward the herd as the others, their heads shaking wearily, followed him.

Thrasher knew the others resented his trust in his falcons; perhaps they feared he might replace their own beloved hounds with his birds. He'd always had a fondness for birds of prey--peregrine falcons in particular. He'd gotten his first pair of peregrines as a boy of thirteen; so devoted to them he had become, that he came to be known thence on as Thrasher of the Falcons.

When he was eventually made lead herdsman, he decided to make good use of his falcons as sentries. As they wheeled over the livestock, their sharp eyes scanned for signs of wolves, jackals and big cats which might prey on the more vulnerable of the animals. When Shel'han Nyjef had won six falcons at a game of cards, the Shel'han had given them to his grateful lead herdsman. Now Thrasher had fifteen of the slender, dark-winged birds to watch over the animals of the herd.

Thrasher watched nervously as his falcons flew swiftly past a small flock of pigeons, instead of snatching the fat grey birds out of the air. They're so worried about what they've seen that they won't even feed, Thrasher thought, his thick, black brows frowning.

Suddenly a deep, trembling howl shook the earth beneath Thrasher's horse's hooves. He watched as his men's' horses whirled around excitedly at the roaring bellow, the herdsmen pulling frantically at their reins to steady their mounts.

Then Thrasher saw it.

A massive white bear appeared within a froth of snow on the nearest horizon, smearing the air before it with gouts of fire. The wind began to carry slivers of fine sleet which pelted Thrasher and his men mercilessly. Thrasher tried to call out, but his mouth was soon filled with melting slush. His eyes felt as if daggers were pressing into his eyelids as he strived to keep them open.

Once he'd managed to swipe at the watery glaze streaking his face, Thrasher finally saw that the beast had reached the herd. Five of his men lay upon the suddenly snow-laden ground, nothing more than lumps of charred meat. In horror Thrasher watched as the creature tugged the men's' stiff limbs from their bodies, the pink of their unburned flesh splintering bloodily as the beast tore with its great curved tusks.

Nearly half of the cattle and sheep lay blackened in the snow, the horses having run from the clutches of the beast in time. Thrasher couldn't see any of the dogs; he hoped they had run as well. Then he drew his gaze to the sky, his eyes feverishly searching for his birds, counting. Twelve still circled above. Now Thrasher brought his gaze back to the snow, his heart lurching at the sight of three tiny piles of grey ashes, feathers sticking up like gravestones.

Thrasher released a tortured scream of outrage and reached for his bow. Something grabbed his wrist roughly from behind, holding it still.

"Don't!" called Donit from behind. "There's nothing you can do to help them now. We can get away while it feeds!"

Thrasher numbly turned his mount to follow the others.

They found the gash of a small chasm a few yards from the carnage. Using their horses as a warm barrier from the cutting cold, the four men slipped inside.

Outside the chasm the men now heard a mingle of calls: the falcons whistling and the barking of the hounds. The barking grew nearer and soon the barks turned to yelps as the dogs begged entry. Dehno stood up and reached beneath a horse's belly and hauled three of his hounds into the shelter by their trembling paws.

"Look at 'em," Dehno said mournfully as he drew the dogs' wet flanks into an embrace. "They're scared beyond anything I've ever seen. Poor mutts." Then he massaged each hound behind its ear reassuringly.

Fat Ruker rocked upon his heels, his chubby arms tightly encircling his bent knees. "I--I've never seen anything like t--that," he squeezed through chattering teeth. "The way it...it...ripped...and the fiery tongue..."

Donit turned to Thrasher, the young man's eyes so round his eyelids seemed to disappear. "Your falcons survived, I can hear them calling."

Thrasher shook his head sadly. "Not all of them. Three are nothing but ash."

The four men huddled silently, waiting for the beast to stop roaring its triumph. Thrasher decided to end the silence. "We must get word to the Shel'han. This beast might head north, after."

"How do we know," Donit offered, "that it hasn't...visited...the encampment already? Mayhaps it knew to find us here."

"No--o," Ruker stammered, still rocking, his eyes staring straight ahead. "Can't be. It must be going farther south--it can't have attacked the encampment. It can't have!"

"Well," Thrasher said, his voice becoming surprisingly calm, "I don't believe this thing found the encampment at all--but it will if we don't get word to the Shel'han in time." Then, taking a deep breath, added simply, "I'll go."

"No," Donit shook his head. "Remember, you have to wait for this Terjal Rakmir. He won't know how to handle your falcons."

Thrasher's lantern jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, then he turned to look directly at Donit. "And you'd better remember that you are my Second! This spellweaver is late by nearly two weeks; it's possible this beast dispatched him along the way as well."

"Mayhaps it slowed him down--but I've heard said Rakmir is a master of conjuring. He'd be able to fend off an attack with his spells, I reckon."

Thrasher licked his dry lips and considered. "Well, are you volunteering to be our messenger with that beast roaming about?"

Donit grinned a little shakily as he replied, "But at least I've seen with my own eyes what the beast is capable of. I reckon must outrun it lest I fall between its foul jaws."

"Then go." Thrasher waved his hand as if pushing at the air. "Before darkness falls."

Once Donit was astride his mount and before he'd made to strike his heels into the horse's flank, the young man turned his thin face toward the others. "I'll see all of you again, this I promise." Then, with a snap of his reins, Donit fled into the slanting blizzard.

As Dehno clutched his shivering hounds and Ruker hugged his trembling knees, Thrasher listened for the call of his falcons. As he once again heard their sharp trilling, he looked up at this sky of dirt arched above him and muttered to himself, "At least I have my birds."

###

Two solid days of riding brought Terjal's party to the Outsiders' grazing lands. Once again carnage greeted them as the stench of death soaked the snow and seeded the air. Both men and animals lay slaughtered and charred, half buried in the powdery drifts. Terjal glanced at Shankal as the healer brought up the rear. It was clear by the look on his face that even he had not seen evidence of massacre such as this on past campaigns.

Aiya drew her mount alongside Terjal's. "From the looks of things, they must have been attacked nearly a week ago."

Terjal guided his horse around a few carcasses, ribs sticking up from the snow like curved, imploring fingers. It was difficult to tell whether they'd belonged to man or beast, broken as they were. "From the layers of frost clinging to all, I'd have to agree."

"Over here!" Darman called out. "I think I've found something."

Terjal and Aiya wheeled their mounts around. Darman had dismounted and was seeming to peer down at the frozen earth. Terjal tossed a quick gaze at Aiya and slid from his mount; on cue, Aiya did the same. Shankal remained upon his horse, reining the beast to a safe distance away the mouth of the crevasse.

As Terjal and Aiya hurried toward Darman, the First Blade turned to them. "I think we may have survivors."

Stuffed into a narrow crevasse cut into the cold earth were three horses: one dead, two still alive.

But there was something beyond that. As Terjal moved closer to the mouth of the crevasse, he heard a dog's high pitched whine. A herder's dog.

Strandholt had finished inspecting the last of the corpses. When he'd heard Darman call out, he had rushed to join them. "The falcons have survived; look," pointing up at the sky. "Now let's hope Thrasher survived as well--else the birds will be useless to us."

Aiya took the reins of the two horses still on their feet and tugged them away from the crevasse as Terjal and his Blades pulled the dead horse clear of the entryway.

When they looked inside the crack in the earth they found three men huddled together, one of which clutched three dogs. The men appeared to be alive.

A pair of eyes snapped open, dark and glowering. "Which one of you," came a hoarse growl, "is the spellweaver Terjal Rakmir?"

Terjal stepped a little ahead of the others. "I am Terjal Rakmir."

Without the slightest preamble the man launched himself at Terjal, his grimed fist connecting solidly with the conjurer's jaw. Darman slipped on the snow as he reached for the collar of the man's tunic, allowing the herdsman to deftly feint the move and fall heavily upon Terjal.

Terjal, completely unprepared for the attack, brought his forearm up to shield his face as the herdsman pummeled him with fists made sharp by starvation. Suddenly Terjal felt the man's weight being lifted off his body as Aiya, Darman and Strandholt hauled the herdsman up.

Even weak with hunger, the herdsman struggled fiercely as Darman and Strandholt held the man's arms rigid, their shoulders wedged against him as buttress. "If it weren't for you," the herdsman spat, "my men and beasts would still be alive. We were set to move farther south but had to stay put so that you'd find us. But you were late! I hold you responsible!" Then he began to cough wretchedly, his knees sagging a little with the force of it.

Terjal felt a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth and he brought up a knuckle to wipe it off. "I assure you, the delay was not deliberate."

"I care not if it was deliberate," the voice had grown weak, more hoarse than before. "You were late and we paid a dear price. I reckon you wish to seize my falcons now."

"We have need of them, yes."

The man began to grin slowly, as if he'd cornered Terjal. "Well, you'll not take them without me, then."

Strandholt frowned down at the man he held. "You're...Thrasher of the Falcons."

Now Thrasher turned his grin toward Strandholt. "And you must be Kriston's long lost brother. If it took you this long to recognize me, then you've been away from us longer than you think--either that, or I look worse than I think."

Strandholt shifted his gaze to Terjal. "We must bring him along--as I've said before, no one knows the birds as well as Thrasher."

Terjal eyed the herdsman warily. "Well, then, Thrasher: do you promise not to pound me into earth again if I let you join us?"

"If you disappoint me such as this last, I cannot promise that I won't. Besides, it's my falcons I care about. They'd sooner fall out of the skies and die by my side before they'd perch upon another one's arm."

Terjal smiled. "I suppose I'll have no other choice but to trust you. None of us have any experience with falcons after all."

Now Shankal rode up to the group. "And none of you possess the healer's art as I do, yet you were not so quick to allow me to come along."

Aiya fixed a level gaze up at the aquamancer as she clutched his horse's bridle. "It is true, yes, that none of us possesses the healer's art in your manner. But Terjal and I both have healing powders that can patch a wound or two well enough. That was reason enough to delay our decision to allow you to join us. I think you surmised as much."

Shankal sat silently upon his horse and regarded the others as if seeing them for the first time. Then the corners of his mouth began to inch up in a smirk, his pale ice-blue eyes now crescents above cheeks swelling beneath a full smile. "Well and since your claim so rings true," his voice filling with exaggerated false sincerity, "I sit corrected."

Terjal looked up at Shankal as the healer remained upon his horse. The ice-blue stare of the aquamancer met his own squarely and Terjal felt the jolt of a chill wriggle within his chest. In the aquamancer's pale sapphire gaze Terjal saw someone's destiny marching through those eyes like an animated frieze: he saw death, triumph, death and triumph again. But with thoughts delved from so many aswarm in his own mind, whose destiny he saw Terjal couldn't be sure.

###

They were all huddled around a large crackling fire, those still awake. Their hands brought up, palms flat, to face the warmth before they rubbed them vigorously together. Since the party's next destination would be the Grip, Terjal felt it best to make camp in this spot as the direspawn was very unlikely to pay the site a return visit.

Terjal sat cross-legged next to Aiya, his fingers dipping into a bowl filled with boiled kidney beans and corn mush. He was very aware of her nearness and her warmth as she ate her meal silently beside him. Terjal felt his face growing soft as he longed to lay his head upon her shoulder.

When Terjal discovered Darman looking at him with a mien of concerned curiosity, he smiled weakly at his First Blade. I'm caught, he sighed to himself. That was yet another irritating quality Darman possessed: the Blade was uncannily empathic. The fortuitous part of such empathy, though, was that Darman was not given to gossip. Although if a question were framed precisely, Darman was disposed to render honest opinion. Such honesty could result in more embarrassment, Terjal knew--especially now.

Terjal set his half empty bowl upon the ground and rose to his feet. Aiya looked up at him, her eyes rolling briefly in Darman's direction before returning to Terjal's, her eyebrows arching a question. She's noticed Darman's knowing looks as well, Terjal thought gratefully. Then he picked his way through the sleeping bodies of Strandholt, Arjas and Thrasher's two men, Thrasher himself absorbed in attending to his falcons.

Shankal sat a bit farther away from the others, a bowl of water balanced upon his tented knees. Terjal stopped briefly to watch as a tiny crest of water rose from the bowl and skimmed the aquamancer's palm before it curved back into the bowl. Terjal's eyes met the healer's squarely. Shankal merely favored the conjurer with an enigmatic smile before returning his gaze to his handiwork.

Once Terjal reached Darman he tapped his First Blade upon the shoulder as the warrior knelt before the fire. "Since I've never been to the Grip," Terjal began, "and you have, perhaps you might give me an idea of what's in store for us."

Darman continued to stare into the quivering flames for several heartbeats. When he began to speak, his usual growl was noticeably absent. "I'll tell you of my experiences--not everyone knows why I went into the Grip." Darman quickly glanced at Thrasher and Shankal, as if to ensure they wouldn't eavesdrop, before resettling his gaze upon the fire.

"I was in the service of Vaukmond at the time." At Terjal's questioning frown, Darman explained, "Oh, Vaukmond's not above conscripting mercenaries when there's a mission he won't set his guardsmen after. A foe of his had escaped capture and sought sanctuary in the Grip. Ha! The rogue should've known better, but he was desperate and had no other place to turn to--Vaukmond had seen to that. I led a detachment into the Grip after the man. We soon found out what a wild and dangerous swamp the Grip is--the most innocent--looking of plants could be a meat eater waiting for a man to become its next meal. Remember this: we must treat everything as an enemy, especially if it appears soft and defenseless. The Grip won't allow such to survive. I lost four men, dependable warriors each of 'em, before we learned that lesson. One last thing: the Grip is a very, very wet swamp; once we enter its maw, don't expect anything to remain dry for long."

Terjal knelt beside his First Blade and peered at the fire, picking up a stick and nudging more kindling into the flames. "That's another reason why you insisted we bring the aquamancer."

Darman grimaced a smile at the conjurer. "If I'd had an aquamancer among my men that last time, we might have made it through, yes."

Terjal heard the crunch of footfalls behind him and he turned around to see Shankal striding toward the fire. "What kind of water makes up the swamp?" the aquamancer asked Darman. Apparently sensitive hearing is another aquamancer quality, Terjal thought wryly.

At Darman's raised eyebrows, Shankal explained, "If it's a saltwater swamp my spells will be more effective and I might be able to find food for all of us."

"We didn't have time to determine that," Darman replied stiffly. "We were too busy trying to stay in one piece. Beware the tall grass, as sharp as to rip through good chain mail. Then there's the chinurra--small scaly creatures, humpbacked and full nasty. They tried to overwhelm us by sheer numbers and when that didn't work the chinurra turned to ambush, hit and run. After that first attack we didn't see very many of them. But we felt them all right." Darman's short laugh held little mirth.

"You mentioned the grass as being too sharp to pass through," Terjal said. "What's the safest way, then, to travel through the Grip--if that's even possible?"

"We found the safest route was through the trees. The roots were large and twisted as the hangman's rope, but at least we didn't have to worry about quicksand." Darman looked deeply into each man's eyes for a moment before he continued. "Never let your guard down--you do and you're dead. There's more than just our lives at stake here and if you start losing your alertness and edge, remember what the direspawn did against the defenseless and the innocent and think who would be cowardly enough to do that, the bastard."

Terjal studied his First Blade: Darman's ruddy face was crimson with barely contained anger. He'd never before seen such rage boiling upon the First Blade's usually impassive visage. This quest was bringing more surprises with it than Terjal could ever hope to guess.

###

Strandholt and Arjas were readying their mounts for the next morning's sojourn toward the Grip. Strandholt was eager to finish so that he could squeeze some sleep out of the few remaining night hours. Arjas, though in intense pain, had insisted on preparing his own horse for the journey--which meant that Strandholt would have his slumber delayed by nearly an hour.

"A swamp, great," Strandholt remarked sarcastically as he scrutinized one of his metal claws. "That's going to eat our weapons and armor with rust if we give it half a chance."

Arjas grunted, non-committal, as he limped alongside his blond companion. Suddenly the dark Blade stopped in mid-hobble and clutched at his swollen knee. Strandholt moved as if to help Arjas but hesitated when he saw the commingled expressions of pain, anger and...something else...on the swarthy Blade's face.

"Wonder what old Darman meant by 'cowardly enough,' eh?" Arjas said, the leering challenge in his voice all but overpowering the question itself.

For the merest heartbeat Strandholt thought he saw something dark and strange flicker in Arjas's eyes like a figure appearing, then disappearing, from a window.

"You know Darman," Strandholt tried to put a chuckle in his voice, "he can't stand laxity in anyone joining him on a mission. I think he senses that we are getting close to the crux of it all." Strandholt felt a flush of relief as he watched the feral look abruptly leave Arjas's face. Now the darker Blade seemed only very strained and very tired.

"Well, I certainly don't need more motivation," Arjas suddenly laughed. "The pain from this damned knee is a constant reminder--like a hangover from a beerfest." Arjas's boyish grin, despite his fatigue and physical torment, did more to allay Strandholt's qualms than Arjas's words themselves. "I don't know about you," Arjas continued, yawning hugely, "but I'm completely worn out with this knee nagging at me. So, I'm hitting the sack right now--sack or no sack, even."

"Good idea," Strandholt said gratefully as he glanced in Darman's direction. Terjal and Shankal had left the First Blade alone to busy himself with disassembling his crossbow. "I swear--doesn't that man ever have need of sleep?"

Arjas aimed his gaze at Darman. "No--not when he feels he's getting closer to danger."

"Well, if I'm getting closer to a dangerous situation, I want to have a good night's sleep well behind me."

And in two day's time, the danger might just come looking for them, Strandholt thought.

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