Frost (10 page)

She sipped reflectively at the wine he offered and nibbled a piece of fruit, then a slice of meat. Kregan had warned her Rholf and his family would pursue them. The Shazadi governor must have found their tracks and guessed their destination; as Kregan had feared, some hard riding and a string of fresh horses had put Telric in Zondu first and given him time to lay a trap for them.

But there was more than one trap to fear this evening it seemed, and more than one trapper.

Instinctively as she thought of Zarad-Krul her hand strayed toward where she kept the Book of the Last Battle. Her fingers brushed only the golden belt that marked her as one of Tumac's concubines; the Book was with her clothes and weapons in the dungeon far below.

Her brow wrinkled, her mouth creased in a tight-lipped frown and she wondered at the time. The feast hall lights gave no hint of the hour's lateness. Sundown when she rode into the city—how long since then? It was surely night, and the wizard must be seeking the Book with all his night-spawned forces. If he found it ... she pushed that thought from her mind.

Resolutely, she drained her winecup, tossing the fiery liquid down her throat. Time to find her Chondite friend and leave this wretched city.

And there was only one way to accomplish that.

Her fingers sought the back of Tumac's bony hand and played lightly there for one tantalizing moment. A small, shark-toothed smile flashed on his face, and he gave her hand a squeeze. “You have the most remarkably green eyes,” he said, breathily.

Frost swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight. “I have a number of remarkable attributes,” she brazened, “not all of them as accessible as my eyes."

It was not a role that suited her. She was no seductress, and she fought to hide her trembling. But Tumac, his hand on hers, felt her body's quivering, misinterpreted it, and uttered a wry comment over the rim of his cup.

She averted her eyes in calculated coyness. “Shouldn't a maiden tremble with such a man as you?"

The winecup hesitated at his lips; Tumac's eyes rolled over the edge. Slowly, never removing his gaze, he set the cup aside. “Maiden?"

Again, she looked away, wondering if she could force a blush. She settled for a shy nod.

The shark-toothed smile returned, and Zondu's governor licked his lips with sudden desire. He stroked her arm from shoulder to wrist, his palm damp with perspiration. “If you're lying, it will go hard with you,” he warned.

She let a little grin slip over her face and toyed with a bite of roasted fowl. “Will it not, in any case?"

Tumac threw back his head and roared. “Well said!” he bellowed, shaking the table with his belly, startling his guests into puzzled muteness. “Well said, indeed!” He beckoned for more wine, and a servant replenished his cup. He downed it with a single, long gulp. Another draught, then he rose pulling Frost with him, her hand locked firmly in his.

“Good friends,” he called, and all gave their full attention. “I thank you for your company and pray you continue the revels. I've given orders to the servants that you should want for nothing, be it food, drink or...” he grinned, fixing his view unsubtly on her breasts, “or anything else. But, being a weary governor I will seek my bed now. So, I wish you a good night."

Her hand imprisoned in Tumac's sweaty paw, Frost waded through sly remarks and coarse laughter dose to the governor's side, blushing hotly as he led her like a helpless child.

A guard fell in behind as they passed through the great wooden doors and down a dim corridor. Soon, she was again lost in a maze of passages, some lit and some not, and she was beginning to despair of ever finding her way out when Tumac stopped at another door. The room beyond was dark; the guard crowded past them to light tapers with a lamp taken from a niche in the hall. That done, he stepped out and closed the door after.

She let go a worried breath and looked around the chamber. Silken drapes and tapestries, all of transparent thinness, descended from the ceiling to the plushly carpeted floor. The corners were piled high with rich cushions, but the only piece of real furniture was an immense, carved bed deep with feather mattresses and more cushions.

Tumac led her to it.

There was nothing she could use as a weapon—not a comb or pin of any kind, nothing that would serve as a club or bludgeon. The candlesticks were mounted on the walls, not detachable. It seemed the room had been deliberately stripped of anything that could cause harm.

Tumac released her hand, a hungry leer spreading on his face. Slowly, he began to remove his garments, swaying in a grotesquely sensuous dance as a woman might to seduce a man. Piece by piece he cast aside his clothes until he was completely naked. His eyes raked her form; a low growl rumbled in his throat.

She turned away, disgusted, fighting a growing fear. Cold hands touched her, slithered over her shoulders, questing for her secret parts. An obese body pressed against her, and despite an iron resolve not to, she shivered uncontrollably. Wrapped in his arms, she let herself be turned. The smell of his breath—of his flesh—filled her senses. His own chest hung thick and bulbous as a woman's, and between his thighs a mammoth organ stirred. He buried his face in the softness of her neck; his lips began to nibble.

It was not going as she planned. There should have been something to convert to a weapon, a chance to win her escape. Tumac's hot breath scorched her skin; his fingers fumbled with the golden cincture at her waist. No man had ever touched her in such a manner, nor had such a fear ever gripped her. If she had considered bedding the fat governor to gain her freedom and Kregan's, the plan was too repulsive to carry out.

His touch burned her skin as his hands slid under her thin vestment. Abandoning the belt's complicated catch, he eased the material over her shoulder, exposing her breasts. He was almost drooling as he cupped one ivory mound in his palm. But he wanted her totally naked, and his other hand began to work once more at the stubborn ornament.

And a sudden thrill surged through her, chasing away her fears. It took an effort not to laugh, so great was her relief. She peered at the door, measuring the distance to it, remembering the maze of corridors beyond it, wondering at her chances of finding the dungeon and Kregan without being discovered.

For there was one weapon, after all.

Gently, she pushed Tumac away, smiling promises with her eyes. “Let me,” she whispered, taking his hands from the golden belt. The gems that dangled from it glittered on gilt threads in the faint amber light as she unfastened the catch and held it up like a veil between them, secretly testing its strength, assuring herself the links would not break.

She opened wide her arms, and Tumac took the invitation, closing his eyes as he rolled in her embrace. With a calm, irrepressible satisfaction she wrapped the chain around his fat throat and jerked.

His eyes popped open in pain and surprise. With all her strength she jerked again, and yet the governor managed to wriggle a hand beneath the links, preventing the ever-tightening band from crushing his windpipe.

Frost cursed, fighting anew the panic that tried to overwhelm her. The chain disappeared in the flesh of his neck and still the man would not die. His face purpled, a vein bulged in his temple until she could see it throb—yet he lived!

Time was short, and she feared someone might pass in the hall and hear the struggle. She had to end this.

A knee smashed Tumac's unprotected groin. A loud animal grunt, and the governor slumped forward. Savagely, she kicked his feet from under him. His head twisted dangerously, eyes swelling as his entire weight suspended from the jeweled garrote. A pink tongue forced itself between discoloring lips.

But still he clung to life. She put her foot on his neck.

A furious pounding at the door, then it burst open. Two guards rushed in, swords sprouting from their fists. At a glance she recognized the one who had escorted her with Tumac.

She released one end of the chain, and Tumac crumpled on the carpet. Only her uncanny speed saved her from a quick death as the first guard charged. A blade whistled past her ear. She swung the chain, and her attacker screamed as its pendulant gems stung his eyes. A foot sank into his belly; a fist crashed with startling power into the back of his head.

She made damn sure he fell before she stopped hitting. Then, the second guard lunged. A desperate dodge, whirl and tug, and one of the veils that hung from the ceiling swirled down, tangling the man in its folds.

But the first guard had found his feet again, groggy, yet still dangerous with his sword. He swung clumsily, and she danced back. Then her foot caught, slipped on something soft—Tumac's discarded pantaloons.

She fell hard, cracking her head on the floor. The blade rushed up, descended. She rolled, evading death by a hair's breath. But something pulsed in the top of her skull, and her ears were full with a loud ringing. That carelessly strewn bit of silk had been her undoing.

Through blurred vision she watched three more sentries rush into the bedchamber. The fight was over, a useless effort. She held up her hands in surrender, just staying a death-thrust from the first guard.

Tumac was not dead. He tottered on shaky legs toward her, supported on either side by two men. Deep, mottled welts of crimson showed lividly around his neck where the links of chain had bitten. Pain glazed his tiny eyes.

His hand came down against her cheek, but there was no strength in the blow, and she forced a perverse smile.

His voice was a harsh raspy whisper. “You wretched, foolish girl!” A quivering finger pointed high along the wall. Concealed in the upper shadows was a narrow slit. No light showed through, but she guessed its purpose. “I'm never without my personal guard! Even with a woman I am watched and protected!"

The fat little man who had come so close to death glowered, seeming to expect a reply. She considered a number of mocking insults, but decided to hold her tongue. She was in enough trouble already.

“I should have given you to young Telric,” he croaked when she plainly had nothing to say. He motioned to the guards. “Take the thankless, ungrateful little bitch back to her cell, and never let me set eyes on her again."

 

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

She fell in a heap on the straw-covered floor, and the cell door slammed shut. The laughter of the guards lingered long after their footsteps faded.

She was back where she started—naked, bound and weaponless. A large bump where her head had met the floor in Tumac's room ached mercilessly, but she ignored the pain as best she could and worked at the chain that held her wrists. Though the numbness in her fingers made the knotted links difficult to manipulate after long minutes she was free. Circulation returned with tingling slowness, and she licked the raw, red bands that chaffed her skin.

She felt only slightly less impotent. Rising, she paced the cell. No furniture—not even the little stool she had tripped over before. Nothing to break up and use as a weapon. She tried her weight against the door; it was thick, solid, betraying not the least sign of weakness. The bars in the small window were set deep in the wood, quite immovable.

She cursed, smashed a fist against the door.

A sound, a shuffle in the corridor, and Frost sidled back into the darkness out of the faint torchlight that filtered into her cell. The shuffling stopped; Orgolio, the jailer, peered through the bars. She crouched in a corner, holding her breath, making no sound.

“You all right, little woman?"

She kept still. Orgolio could not see where she hid; maybe he would come inside to find her.

“Oh, so you not talk to Orgolio, heh? Well, that all right. Lots of people don't talk to Orgolio, but he not mind much."

She was almost touched by the loneliness in his voice, but the bruises on her breast were reminders of his potential for cruelty. No pity, then, for this simple-minded brute. If he opened the door she had to hit him hard and run, and pray it worked better than the last time.

Orgolio sighed. “Well, you be a good little woman, and pretty soon Orgolio come play with you nice."

The face withdrew from the window. She cursed again to herself and shuddered.
Play nice
, indeed. She crept silently to the bars, watched the ponderous jailer drop into a chair a few paces down the corridor beside the table that bore her clothes and weapons. He appeared to fall asleep almost at once.

As she observed him a dangerous plan took shape in her mind. She had to get free and find Kregan if he still lived, then get the Book of the Last Battle away from Zondu. The hour must be very late, and she felt in her soul that Zarad-Krul would attack before dawn. Still, her plan bordered on madness; she shivered at the prospect of failure.

Well, there was no more time to think. She pressed her face to the bars and called.

The jailer's eyelids fluttered. “Eh? Who calls Orgolio?"

“Wake up.” Her voice was silken, tempting, she hoped.

He looked, but did not get up. “Is it you, little woman? Don't be impatient—Orgolio come play with you soon."

“Open the door, Orgolio. I'll come play with you out there."

The jailer's smile disappeared. “Dumb woman.” He spat on the opposite wall. “You think I open door and let you out. You think Orgolio stupid like everybody else. Well, dumb woman, Orgolio never let you out. But you not be unhappy cause Orgolio will play with you lots. Uh huh, you be plenty happy woman, soon.” He settled back in his chair and fell asleep again.

She licked her lips, wiped the sweat from her palms, then called his name yet another time.

“What now, dumb woman?"

This was it. No turning back now. “If you set me free I'll give you something very beautiful, very valuable."

He snorted, rubbed his enormous nose. “Little woman have nothing for Orgolio. Guards take everything away from you."

She gripped the cold bars tightly. “It lies among my clothes right there beside you. I can see it from here. It's yours if you let me go."