As they were about halfway down the slope, Fruth’s head jerked up sharply toward the mountains. Attrebus followed his gaze and saw what appeared to be a white cloud rolling down it toward them at impossible speed.
Fruth’s gaze darted around, but then he gestured back upslope.
“Hurry!” he shouted.
But they had only gone a few steps before it hit them.
Attrebus had heard of avalanches, huge slides of snow coming down mountains, destroying everything in their paths. He assumed that’s what this was, and braced for it, yet what hit him wasn’t a wall of snow, but an unbelievably cold mist. Snow came with it, but whirling in the air, biting at his face. He couldn’t see anything. He stumbled, then struck his foot against something and went tumbling down the slope, flailing wildly, thankful at least for the layers of fur and leather the servants of Sathil House had given him to wear. Even so, he felt the temperature dropping impossibly fast.
Someone caught hold of him and drew him along with terrific strength, and after what seemed a long time, pulled him down into what felt like a stony grotto.
“Keep close,” a voice said-he recognized it as Fruth’s by the accent. A moment later something warm and faintly luminous appeared between them. It looked something like flame caught in a ball of glass, and after a few moments it seemed to push the worst of the cold away.
“What was that?” he asked.
“It comes down like that sometimes,” Fruth said. “Never seen it come so fast, though. Unnatural, probably Frost Giant.”
“Frost Giant?”
“Yah. Unpredictable, this new one, and very strong.”
“What about Ozul?” he asked, using Sul’s false name. “And the others?”
“We’ll find out when this is over,” Fruth said. “We go out now, we freeze. Freeze anyway, if this stays too long.”
Sul managed to scramble far enough up the hill that the wave of freezing air went below him, but it enveloped Attrebus and Fruth, blotting them from view. He started down but was arrested by an eldritch tingle that told him-as his common sense should have-that the event wasn’t natural. He spun, fingers clenching on the hilt of his sword, an invocation already begun in the back of his throat.
He faced six well-armed and armored footmen, all of Nordic cast, all wearing the Sathil draugr on their surcoats. A seventh man sat a thick, shaggy horse. He was wrapped in a dark green cloak and cowled in black, but even shadowed it was easy to make out the crimson eyes of one of his countrymen.
“Lord Sathil,” he guessed.
“Yes, that’s right,” the man said. His voice was soft, almost apologetic in tone.
“My companion-”
“Yes, I’m sorry we didn’t arrive in time,” Sathil said absently. “The new Frost Giant is somewhat feckless. He usually doesn’t haunt this side of the Moesrings until midwinter.”
“Frost Giant,” Sul replied dubiously.
Sathil didn’t seem to notice his tone. “You’re friend is with Fruth. He should be fine-and if he isn’t, there isn’t much you can do at the moment.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Sul said, “and do for him what I can.”
“Talk to me,” Sathil replied. “We’ll wait here for the cloud to settle.”
Sul got the emphasis and relented.
“What shall we talk about, Lord Sathil?” he asked.
“Oh, so many things,” Sathil replied. “Do you have sons, Ozul? Daughters?”
“I do not,” he replied.
“Did they perish when Morrowind was destroyed?”
“I never had any children,” Sul said.
“I don’t know whether to pity you or envy you,” Sathil answered.
Sul didn’t think that needed any sort of reply. Sathil might have disagreed, for he paused for a long time. Finally he rode his horse nearer.
“Who sent you?” he whispered. “Was it him?”
“No one sent me,” Sul replied.
“Ah, if only that made sense,” Sathil said. “But many have come here, to this place where no one should come, to where I try to keep my peace. All sent, in the end, by him. They all admitted it, before it was over.”
He leaned forward. “Shall I tell you the story? Do you already know it?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Sul said. “Who is the person you keep referring to?”
“Person?” Sathil’s teeth showed in either a grimace or a grin. “Person.” He jerked his head toward the valley. “Do you think your friend will live?”
“He had better,” Sul answered.
Sathil’s eyes narrowed and he mumbled something. The air took on a sharp, chlorine smell, and every nerve in Sul’s body seemed to hum.
“I will defend myself,” Sul warned.
“Stand still,” Sathil hissed.
The air snapped like tiny twigs burning in a fire, and Sul felt his lips tighten. He thought to call something, but its name stayed just beyond him.
Then it was over.
Sathil sat back in his saddle. “You are strong,” he said. “Stronger than I thought. But you don’t have his stench on you. Another prince, I sense, but not the one-not the one. I can’t be fooled out here, in the clean air, beneath the righteous sky. You are none of his.”
He twitched his reins and the horse began to turn. “Stay as long as you like,” he said. “I will not likely see you again. I do not often leave my rooms.”
“Lord Sathil, if you have some problem-”
Sathil stopped his horse and looked over his shoulder.
“There was a time I sought help,” he said. “I offered rewards. But that time is long past. Things now are as they are, and I live only to curse him.”
“Who?”
But Sathil turned again, and without another word he and his entourage rode back toward the castle.
Even in the near-boiling water, Attrebus still somehow felt cold. Sul and the Sathil’s leech had both assured him he would keep his fingers and toes, but by the gods it didn’t feel like it.
The tub was portable, made of some sort of thick, oily hide on a wooden frame, and had been brought into his room. He hadn’t seen who poured the water, but a kettle depended from a wooden arm steamed away near the fireplace. Sul sat on the corner of his bed.
“Frost Giant,” Attrebus muttered.
“No,” Sul said. “Sathil did it himself, I’m sure of it. He wanted to separate us.” He handed Attrebus a bottle.
“Drink this. You’ll feel better.”
“Some sort of remedy?”
“Whiskey,” he said.
Attrebus took a swallow. It hurt going down, but left a pleasant glow behind.
“So he wanted us apart. Then why didn’t he slough you down into the freezing cold?”
“He wanted to talk to me,” Sul replied. “He thought we were working for someone. A daedra prince, from what I could gather. Others have been here before us, it seems.”
“Others? Come for the sword?”
“He didn’t say anything about the sword. It might be something else entirely.”
“That would be a big coincidence.”
“Yes.”
Attrebus started to say something, but then lowered his voice. “Could they hear us? If Sathil is a wizard-”
“Our privacy is secure, unless Sathil is himself a daedra prince or something equally powerful.”
“Okay. I was going to say, if these others he mentioned came for the sword-and if they were sent by a prince of Oblivion-wouldn’t Clavicus Vile be the obvious one behind it?”
“Yes.”
“Daedra have no true forms, right? They can appear as almost anything.”
“Correct.”
“What if that wasn’t Malacath we met? What if it was Vile?”
“Could have been,” Sul said. “Although Sathil seemed convinced we hadn’t had any dealings with Vile. It doesn’t matter either way. Whether Malacath or Clavicus Vile sent us here, we have to get the sword-and not for either of them. We have to keep it.”
“Right,” Attrebus said. “But if we’re caught up in some plot of Clavicus Vile’s-”
“Then we have to keep our brains in our heads,” Sul finished. “Same as if he’s got nothing to do with us.”
“Okay. But if Sathil has the sword, and Vile knows where it is-I mean, how strong could Sathil be?”