Date: Sat, 17 Feb 1996 21:50:30 -0500
From: Vctr113062@aol.com
Message-Id: <960217215028_146993805@emout04.mail.aol.com>
To: jevans@MIT.EDU
Subject: The Coming of Winter 1/16

No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife between the shoulder blades will
seriously cramp his style.
	-S. K. Z. Brust, _Jhereg_

THE COMING OF WINTER 


	It was too damn hot.
	A layer of sweat coated my skin beneath the blue and black cloth of my
ceremonial uniform. The mask covering my nose, mouth, and lower face was
smothering me. Something heavy pressed upon me, holding my arms spread-eagled
on dry earth.
	I opened my eyes and saw a demon.
	Its front claws weighed upon my arms and its rear claws dug into my chest.
Its great mass, three times that of a man, threatened to fracture my ribs.
Long, sickle-shaped talons curled all the way around the circumference of my
limbs. A thin crease of bright blood traced where those sharp hooks pressed
upon my bare arms. The demon could have eviscerated me with less than a
thought, but it was holding back for some reason. 
	The demon's snakelike head loomed mere centimeters away, framed by the
blazing overhead sun. Bumps and ridges covered its dry, reddish-orange skin.
Its watery ochre eyes had slitted pupils, like a cat's. They faced just shy
of full forward, giving it depth perception and an extended visual range to
either side of its head. A forked tongue flicked out of its mouth, lightly
touching my forehead. Venom in its saliva seared my nerves and ate away at my
skin. The creature's jaws parted, and I could not help but see that their
similarity to a snake's was more than incidental. This beast could unhinge
and distend its maw wide enough to swallow a man whole.
	Two long, shiny metal cuffs encircled its forearms. Etched on the right
cuff's inner circumference were the tiny letters "UT." 
	Ultratech was paying me a wake-up call.

*****************************************************************

	I used to eagerly anticipate the coming of winter, back when I had the
capability to enjoy it. In summer I was quiet, withdrawn, secretly chafing
from the daily heat that so many others found cheerful and comforting. I
relished the sight of colorful autumn leaves falling from their branches, for
it was a sign that my favorite time of year fast approached. During the
coldest winter nights, when other children huddled near the fire or curled up
in a nest of blankets, I would creep past the village's limits and enjoy
winter's breathtaking beauty. I liked to sled down white-covered hills or
skate upon frozen rivers, building up speed until I out-paced the wind, but
most of all I loved to mold snow and ice into wonders. My creations ranged
from a water lily I could hold in my hand (another child's hand would have
melted it, but not mine) to a majestic dragon so real that I left her eyes
unfinished. I feared that if I sculpted her pupils, she would come to life
and fly away. She was so beautiful that I did not want her to leave me. She
was lost to me regardless, when the seasons changed and the pitiless sun
reduced her to nothing but slush and muddy water. I hated spring for many
years thereafter.
	One of my most pleasant early memories is of watching snow fall in the
moonlight. Thousands of uniquely frozen snowflakes gently drifted down from
the heavens, mesmerizing me with their natural elegance. Standing in the
middle of a wide outdoor clearing, I wore neither coat, gloves, nor hat, and
needed none. Afternoon waned into evening; then the wind picked up, I think,
and the swirling snowfall intensified into a blizzard. I'd stayed outside for
so long that the snowdrifts reached up to my knees, and my tracks were
completely obliterated. I tried to travel in the direction of my home, but
the gale winds whipped the snowy maelstrom so fiercely it blotted out my
vision. I could barely see a meter ahead.
	After trekking in circles for what must have been hours, I finally gave up
and crouched in a small hollow of snow, prepared to simply wait out the bad
weather. It didn't seem the least bit unusual to me that I could linger in
the heart of a snowstorm without suffering frostbite. At the height of the
blizzard, when the wind howled the loudest and sheets of white swirled
thicker than raindrops in a summer torrent, the jer-falcon appeared.
	I'm unsure of its size. It loomed many times bigger than ordinary birds of
prey, perhaps even larger than me, yet this was long ago, when I was both
very young and very small. Snow parted around it like stage curtains, and its
plumage radiated a faint white light of their own, rendering it clearly
visible amidst the darkness. It flew where it pleased despite the heaving
winds, circling several times over my head before it glided to a perfect
landing. Its feathers were white with black trim along its outer wings and
tail. Their coloring was subtly different from the white of the surrounding
snow, more like the softer white of sea foam, or the milky sheen of purest
marble. The falcon's scaly legs were similarly colored, though its beak and
talons matched the inky strip across the tips of its primary, secondary and
rudder feathers. Only its eyes had any color; they were bright gold, clear,
and with an even gaze that peered beyond my awestruck face, into my soul. 
	The magnificent falcon studied me for an unguessable period of time as I
stared at it, slack-jawed in amazement. Its eyes sparked more than icicles in
the sunlight, and its feathers were smoother than a field covered with a
blanket of new-fallen snow. I thought this creature epitomized all that was
beautiful about winter. I couldn't guess what it was thinking about me. Then
I felt words shape in my mind, and I was not the one who shaped them. They
all ran together at first, but soon molded themselves into a message.
	(May you thrive, and hunt well.)
	"I- I am not a hunter," I stuttered. My teeth chattered solely from
surprise.
	(You will be.)
	The falcon sprang aloft, soaring, then disappearing from view. The storm
ended soon afterwards. My family found me and reprimanded me severely for
wandering so far from home. When I tried to tell them about the falcon, they
chastised me again for making up stories. I'm still not certain that the
entire experience wasn't a dream, but if so then it was a singularly vivid
one, leaving an indelible imprint upon my senses. And although I'm quite at
home in temperatures well below freezing, I'm uncertain whether I could
survive falling asleep in the open during a raging snowstorm, especially at
that tender age. I would be much less likely to perish than most other
mortals, but even I have my limits.
	Regardless of whether the jer-falcon was real or imaginary, its prediction
was accurate.
	Seven years later, I became a hunter.
	
*****************************************************************

	I was trapped, but not helpless. Channeling strength through my neck and
shoulders, I smashed my forehead against the snake-demon's nose. The creature
convulsed and voiced an inhuman screech of pain. Its tail uncoiled from
around my legs and snapped straight up. I jackknifed my lower body, crossing
my ankles underneath its trunk, and pushed with my hips and thighs. I forced
it back far enough to pull its short arms off my body and wrest my hands out
of its grasp, at which moment I jabbed at the demon's eyes. It closed its
armored eyelids just in time; otherwise, I might have blinded it permanently.
The jabs did enough damage that the snake-demon cried another piercing,
animal wail and reared back. Taking advantage of its sudden action, I pushed
forward with my entire body, overbalancing the beast and shoving it off me. I
rolled away and sprang to my feet at the same time as the snake-demon
clumsily flopped into a four-legged stance. 
	I summoned the Power.
	There are as many ways of calling forth the Power as there are facets of the
Power itself. The Power is neither heat nor cold, light nor darkness, earthly
nor spiritual. It embodies all these traits, and every other trait in
existence; which trait it manifests depends upon the skill and natural
inclinations of the caller. The Power encompasses all there is, and is
therefore everything. It is a rare mortal indeed who has the potential to
channel a single grain of the Power. Those who can usually do so by finding
and reinforcing an affinity for one particular element. I do not speak of the
meaningless "elements" that scientists like my younger brother blather about,
but the _true_ elements: Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and the many derivatives
thereof, such as Stone, Wind, Light... or Ice.
	That is my particular proclivity, if you have not already guessed.
	Facing the demon, I stretched my arms forward and flexed my palms
perpendicular to my wrists, stepping back with one leg in preparation for the
Power's recoil. This is not the only stance one may use to focus the Power,
but it is the classical posture. One does not summon the Power by means of
force, but rather by calling it, inviting it. A welcome coolness surged
through me, causing my forearms to tingle. The Power poured forth from my
palms, coalescing into a large, teardrop-shaped missile that sped toward my
reptilian foe.
	The snake-demon stood fully upright upon its hind legs and opened its jaws.
With a hoarse coughing sound, it vomited a ball of flaming bile that
violently clashed with my Ice. The two elements, mortal enemies of one
another, annihilated themselves in a bright shower of golden sparks. Lowering
its head, the beast distended its mouth further still and belched a long
tongue of flame. I dashed at a right angle the demon's line of sight; the
flaming breath brushed my leg close enough to burn my garb and singe my skin.
	I have never liked Fire.

*****************************************************************

	When I reached a certain stage in life, pleasant remembrances gave way to
harsh reality. After that point I stopped keeping track, letting my
recollections blur and fade, as if that would make the next day any better.
One memory, the worst of them all, never goes away. It is of when I was
Tested.
	Previous to then, I had many dreams about my future, just like any other
adolescent. At first I wanted to be a mountaineer, or an arctic explorer. I
finally set my heart on being an artist, painting the glory of frozen
waterfalls and sculpting endless miracles from ice and snow. One day, during
a mild spring frost, I confessed my dearest hopes to my father and asked him
whether he thought I could make them come true.
	"No," he replied, a little too firmly.
	"B-but why-?"
	"Your career has already been decided. Do not speak of such things again,"
he commanded. Because I was a dutiful son, I didn't. Not to his face, that
is. Behind his back I continued to nurture my dreams.
	Until they came for me. 
	It was a small village, and we all knew who most everyone was. They were the
exception. They wore masks to cover their faces and black suits to conceal
their bodies. Sometimes they would dress in more colorful, ceremonial attire,
but never without a mask. We didn't see them often; only when they wanted to
be seen, just to remind us that they were there. They were our "protectors."
I have been a member of their ranks for nearly twenty years, and yet there
are things I'll never know about them. What I have learned is how they
operate. In return for "defending" the village, every family sacrificed a
third of their wealth, and their eldest son. 
	My parents had two sons. I was the eldest.
	I didn't know any of this when they came for me, of course. One of their
strictest rules was never to speak of their presence. We did not talk about
the rations of food, goods, and money that we left upon our doorsteps once a
week. We did not ask why so many of the men in our village had scars, a limp,
or some other physical deformity. No one knew when our "protectors" might be
listening from the shadows, or through the ears of anyone around us. To
openly talk about them was one of the few things that could make them angry
enough to slay both the offender and his entire family. Normally, they
punished disobedience first with a warning, say a cleanly broken bone and
numerous bruises. A second offence brought permanent injury - the loss of a
hand, say, or the agonizing extraction of one eye and one ear. To defy them a
third time meant death. Anyone offering sanctuary to their target received
the same sentence. No one could resist them. They were an invisible army that
ambushed swiftly, silently, when their victims least expected an attack.
There was no escape. Pieces of those who attempted to leave the village
without their permission were scattered in the market square.
	They called themselves "Lin Kuei." Some speak of them as "ninja," comparing
them to long-extinct Japanese societies of highly trained spies and killers.
We addressed them as "Lord," or "Master." 
	"Master?" I timidly questioned the brooding apparition in front of me. All I
could see of him were the grey and black of his leggings, for I was folded
before him in the posture of abasement.
	I didn't know why he had come, only that my parents had rousted me in the
dead of night and told me to go with him. So I submitted to the blindfold he
wrapped around my eyes and the thick cotton wads he stuffed into my ears. He
took me outdoors and spun me around like a top, completely disabling my sense
of direction, then effortlessly carried me to I knew not where. His handling
was not gentle. I was forced to my knees, my forehead banging against a hard
floor coated with a slick, greasy substance. Heavy chains snapped around my
ankles, though my hands were left free. The blindfold and cotton were
removed. At first I was in complete darkness; then one by one, six white
candles set in a hexagram about me caught fire and burned with a faint light.
Behind the candles kneeled six black-clad men. Shadows danced on the walls of
an enclosed room with no visible entrance or exit. My head stayed
respectfully bowed, of course, but that didn't keep me from noticing
something about my host's lower limbs that I'd missed before, in the midnight
darkness. He constantly emitted tiny puffs of swirling smoke. His clothing
was not afire; instead, the vapors seeped through the pores of his garments
and escape into the surrounding air, which was thick with soot and nearly
made me cough.
	"It is said that you have a fondness for winter. It's possible that you
possess Talent," he growled, pronouncing the capital letter. His voice was
clogged, raspy, like that of a veteran coal miner. "Your maternal grandfather
had some small proficiency. I'm betting that you take after him. I don't like
to lose my bets."
	My ears perked when I heard my grandfather mentioned. He had supposedly died
a couple years after I was born, but that was all I knew. My family never
spoke of him, and kept no pictures or mementos. 
	"The Test begins now. Summon your chosen element!"
	I had no idea what he was talking about. True, I was quite at home in the
coldest months of winter, and I loved to craft snow and ice into beautiful
shapes, but how did he expect me to summon a season? If I'd had the audacity
or the ability to do such a thing, I would have done it long since. My mouth
worked as I tried to explain the thousands of times I'd stared out the window
and prayed for snow to come, but my vocal chords would not respond.
	"I said _now_!" he snapped, kicking the side of my face. He was so swift
that I never saw him move; one moment I kneeled, the next I flopped on my
side and blood dripped out of my mouth. In hindsight, I know that he must
have held back on the strike, or else my jaw would not have remained intact.
	"L-lord?" I gasped. Speaking was difficult, and not just because of my
injury. The intimidating figure before me represented power and authority in
the extreme. Picture a storm dragon commanding a caterpillar to fly.
	"Summon it forth, quickly! I will not ask again!" he snapped, with another
kick. A sigh of relief escaped my cut lips. All I wanted was for him not to
ask again. The purpose of this entire ordeal was completely beyond me. I
longed to have it be over, to go home, sleep soundly in my own bed, and erase
this night from my mind. Erase it forever.
	"Very well. Proceed," growled my interrogator. From the echo of his voice, I
could tell he was addressing someone other than me. 
	(Proceed with what?) I wondered.
	And the jaws of Hell devoured me.
	Fire erupted upon the ground. There was no time to see where it came from.
The leaping flames immediately engulfed me, feeding hungrily upon the oily
film that covered the stone floor. Sparks set my clothing and hair alight.
The intense heat vaporized my tears, seared my skin, and dissolved my flesh,
inflicting the excruciating pain of being burned alive. When I opened my
mouth to scream, thick puffs of black smoke rushed in, choking me. I thrashed
violently, unable to escape because of the short length of chain clasped to
my legs. I don't know for how long it went on. Eternity, it seemed. Perhaps
five seconds.
	Deep within me, something gave.
	Past the suffering and the horrible fear of imminent death, walls that I'd
never known about cracked and crumbled. A cool, salving river surged from
beyond them, and with it flowed surcease from the pain. I felt it course
through me and willed it to spread further, through my arms and outstretched
hands. Numbness engulfed my being and froze it fast, stopping my tears and
obstructing the ducts from which they came.
	The surge within me slowed to a rush, then a trickle, then ran dry. I was as
exhausted as if I'd been running from sunup to sundown, stretched prone,
unable to move or even keep my eyes open. But before they closed, I got one
last look at my surroundings. The flames on the ground were gone, and the
candles were long since melted into blobs of wax, but one of the black-clad
men lifted a small lantern. Its light sparkled upon a layer of ice covering
the entire floor.
	"Not bad," murmured the man dressed in grey and black. In the years to come,
I would learn to call him by the use-name Smoke.
	I was thirteen.

*****************************************************************

	The burn upon my leg was not severe. In a way, the memories it brought forth
were more painful than the injury itself. I released sufficient Power to
extinguish my smoldering trousers, while scanning the immediate area for
shelter from the snake-demon's venom. A quick look to the left and behind
revealed the edge of a precipice overlooking an enormous natural canyon. Some
four paces away, its reddish stone buckled in a concave drop that ranged from
steep to perfectly sheer. Roiling clouds obscured everything that lay past a
certain point, but it was clearly a long way down. The effulgent orange sun
hovered above the canyon's other side, which was so distant that the land
beyond merged with the horizon. 
	To my right I saw a level expanse of rocky plain. Dry, fleshless bones cast
long shadows upon landscape. Both animal and human skeletons were haplessly
strewn about. Some were splintered, as if a large beast had crushed them to
suck their marrow. Scraps of fabric and tarnished weapons ornamented some of
the remains. A rusty saber had been snapped in two, its halves lying next to
a piecemeal array of bones.
	I still didn't know where I was, but I had a good guess. More than one
victim has used his dying breath to suggest that I come here. 
	There was no time to study the landscape further, because two more enemies
flanked me. One was a devil completely encased in metal armor, which had
specialized joints of some black, flexible material. A radiant pair of
tapering aqua prongs extruded from its either forearm. The demon's plumed
helmet had two translucent lenses, through which shone a ruby glow. I've seen
a gangster with one eye like that, but at least the rest of him was human.
This devil looked more like a thing than a living creature. 
	Completing the trap was a golden rakshasa. It strongly resembled an ordinary
tiger, only thinner and about half the size, but its brilliantly glowing coat
and intelligent eyes belied its supernatural nature. The sinuous cat leaned
forward on its front paws and forearms, adjusting its tightly wound
hindquarters. According to legend, rakshasa have a fondness for human flesh.
	The demons surrounded me on three sides, and behind me was the edge of the
cliff. I couldn't outrun their trap. Even if I got past them, I wouldn't last
twenty paces on that barren plain before the rakshasa dragged me down. That
meant I'd have to fight the three of them, on their turf, and on their terms.
Not good.
	"Hold!" snapped a voice, stopping the creatures. The command echoed across
the gorge, repeating itself several times before it faded past my ability to
hear. It hadn't come from any of the demons. 
	"Who speaks?" I demanded. Another scan of the area revealed nothing new.
	"Allow me to apologize for the rude behavior of my companions, Sub-Zero. Be
at ease." The demons all relaxed a bit. I remained on edge. "Now, instead of
wasting time on my trivial identity, let's talk about you. Your head must be
spinning with confusion. I'm feeling generous just now, so I'll answer any
three of your questions."
	I remained silent.
	"Come on, ask me. You know you want to. Go ahead, say it: 'Am I dead?' 'What
is this place?' 'How do I get out?'"
	"Show yourself," I growled, "or leave me alone."
	The voice made condescending <tsk> sounds. "Well, if it gives you any
pleasure..." The shadows cast from the demons, myself, and the bones all
detached and pooled together, like rainwater flowing into a ditch. Swirling
currents rippled across the inky black patch, which huddled in on itself,
then stretched upward. The dark matter molded itself into a manlike visage.
"Ta daa. Happy now?"
	"Shade!" I gasped. I have lost the capacity to feel many things, but I
remain quite susceptible to being startled.

*****************************************************************

	The Hierarchy does not tolerate existence of the Power outside of the Lin
Kuei's close-knit ranks. Should they suspect a mortal of having Talent, they
get ahold of him, kidnaping him if necessary. Then they subject him to the
Test. Through torture, they force him to reveal his abilities, or prod his
dormant talents to surface. 
	The Test is effective, but also brutal and with a high mortality rate.
Better for the outcome to be a dead subject than a survivor possessing an
undetected Power, or so the Hierarchy of the Lin Kuei believes. Not everyone
who fails the Test dies, although the instance permanent injury is common.
All others who join the Lin Kuei must also endure the Test, to insure that no
applicant is keeping his Power concealed. Untested mortals might be slaves,
puppets, or temporary allies of the Lin Kuei, but never actual members. 
	The Test's exact nature differs depending upon the subject, yet it always
drawn upon their worst fears and elemental attacks. On the day of Smoke's
Test, he nearly drowned in the flows of a winter river. In my case, I
suffered burns on large patches of my skin, and might have been crippled if
not for the expert ministrations of the Lin Kuei healers. Yes, healers. Even
a clan of thieves and murderers needs someone to lick their wounds. Despite
their care, I retain patches of scar tissue. To this day, I have more than
one incentive to hide my face behind a mask.
	Those who fail the Test are sometimes, thanks to the "supreme generosity" of
the Hierarchy, permitted to return to their miserable lives. But once a man
has passed the Test, there are only two possible courses for his future. One
is to become a Lin Kuei assassin. The other is much more brutal and efficient
than any Test could ever be. Escape is impossible.
	Or so we are expected to believe.
	There have been stories about the terrible consequences of a Test that went
so far, it changed a man into something no longer human. He used to be a Lin
Kuei member, a nocturnal recluse who seldom ventured outside the grounds. For
his Test, he'd endured repeated electric shocks. His heart stopped at one
point, but the healers resuscitated him and the Hierarchy was satisfied that
he had no Powers. He took the use-name Shade, and for years he was an expert
teacher specializing in the art of nocturnal concealment. No one thought it
odd that he never ventured out of doors during the daytime. 
	Then one of the Hierarchy became suspicious. His identity is unimportant;
all that matters is that he noticed how the night's darkness seemed to
palpably thicken whenever Shade was nearby, and how Shade always avoided
sunlight. Accusations were made and denied. Shade demanded the right to
avenge his honor through ritual combat. The Hierarchy member could not
refuse, yet he had the privilege of choosing a time and a place, and the
place he chose was the top of the tallest hill at high noon.
	Shade panicked and tried to retract the challenge, but it was too late. He
attempted to flee, and was imprisoned. So frantic was he, it took six Lin
Kuei to drag him outdoors at the appointed time. By the time he they carried
him to the hilltop, he was clearly in no shape to challenge anyone. Though
the sunlight didn't exactly burn him, judging from his gasps, winces, and
tremors, it clearly inflicted terrible anguish. 
	"So," sneered the Hierarchy member, "you did lie to us. You do have
supernatural Power! We merely Tested you with the wrong element - a mistake
that we will now remedy. Consider this to be your true Test!"
	Shade writhed like an insect speared by a pin. He begged for mercy, then for
a quick death, but was granted neither. His seven tormentors observed the
spectacle in silence, except for the Hierarchy member, who threw his head
back and laughed. At last Shade's Power manifested, after a fashion. His own
shadow thickened and grew into a solid web of blackness, enveloping his
entire body. At first he screamed louder. Just before the murky shroud
covered his face, he ceased his outcries and smiled. It was not a friendly
smile. The oily, formless mound that had once been a man sank into the
ground, vanishing completely after a few seconds. The seven Lin Kuei assumed
that Shade had perished.
	Until the next morning, when one of them was missing.
	No trace of him could be found, no signs of a struggle, nothing. Sentries
confirmed that he had entered his private quarters and never exited. No one
had heard or seen anything unusual. The subsequent dawn, another of the seven
had disappeared. The following four days were the same - each of Shade's
tormentors vanished during the dead of midnight, despite their attempts to
hide, or be on their guard. Some of them asked for help in fighting whatever
was stealing their lives, but were completely shunned. No one knows what
happens to a doomed man's friends better than the Lin Kuei. The Hierarchy
member who had accused Shade was the last to be taken. It is said that
spirit-winds carried his dying wail into the dreams of every Lin Kuei in the
world.
	Another day and night passed, this time without incident, to the extreme
relief of the surviving Hierarchy. They declared a new rule: from then on, no
Hierarchy member would ever administrate or be present for a Test. In the
future, such tasks would fall to lesser Lin Kuei members and teachers, such
as Smoke. More nights passed without trouble. Eventually, most everyone
assumed that Shade's angry spirit had limited his vengeance to the seven Lin
Kuei who killed him.
	Too bad.