Frost (11 page)

He sat up, interested. His sleepy eyes fluttered like nervous birds. “Well, what is it, dumb woman?"

“A dagger,” she whispered tensely, feeling weak in her stomach for what she dared. “Of purest silver."

The fat jailer wiped the corners of his mouth, stared at the pile on the table, considering.

“Go on,” she urged. “Look at it."

Orgolio rummaged through her belongings and found Demonfang. The belt gleamed in the amber light. As he examined it, turning the sheath slowly, a broad smile split his thick-jowled face.

Then, a new sound startled her—the rasp of her own quick breathing. She forced herself to be calm. “Look closely,” she said. “Look at the blade."

Orgolio leered, showing broken, yellow teeth. “Dumb woman thinks Orgolio will let her free now. Uh huh, no. He will keep pretty dagger and not let you go."

She banged her head on the bars, nearly screaming her frustration. “Look at the blade, you stupid cow's ass!” She hadn't meant to hiss. The jailer stared back with a stone expression that made her fear she had angered him. Quickly, smoothly she lied, “It is cunningly wrought by the most skilled craftsmen in Esgaria.” Her voice dropped a note, gently insistent. “Look at the blade."

He grinned suddenly and seized the dagger's hilt. Perhaps it was some instinct that made him hesitate, and Frost squeezed the cell bars until her knuckles were white.
Look at it
, she willed,
look at it
.

She clenched her eyes tight, hearing the faint scrape of the blade's edge as it moved on the inside of the sheath.

And Demonfang came alive. The shrill screech of its hunger rattled the dungeon stones. The jailer's grin turned to terror as the unholy sound shook the roots of his dull soul.

In fearful awe she watched the transformation that came on Orgolio. Fear flashed over his face; the need to kill burned in his small black eyes. The two emotions—terror and bloodlust—warred for possession of his body, a battle reflected in his contorting expressions.

Then, he rose from the chair, gripped in the dagger's irresistible power. Unwilling, he took the keys from a peg on the wall and shambled toward her cell, fighting with every step the force that compelled him.

A key grated in the lock.

It must taste blood—either your enemy's or your own
. She gambled her life on that curse, steeled for a fight, and begged aid from all her gods.

The cell door swung back. Orgolio stood silhouetted blackly in the dim light, and Demonfang shone in his fist like ice from Hell's deepest level and screamed like the souls imprisoned there.

Warily, she backed to the center of the cell, allowing room to fight. The jailer was a giant, more than twice her size with a frighteningly long reach. She'd already lost one fight to him this night. She dared not lose this one. She took a breath, unconsciously held it and watched the eerie emotional changes that rippled on her opponent's face: confusion, terror, madness.

A deep-throated cry joined with the dagger's shrieking as the giant lunged. She moved, a swift blur, leaped aside and chopped at the hand clutching Demonfang. The arcane blade screamed angrily as it clattered on the floor.

Better than she had hoped, to disarm him so easily. She dived for the weapon, but Orgolio's massive weight smashed into her, sending her sprawling, the breath rushing from her lungs. Clambering to her feet, she whirled, prepared for attack—and froze.

Demonfang gleamed once more in that huge fist. That infernal screaming intensified, resonated in the dungeon's confining places, assaulted her senses like a tangible foe. No one would hear it so far beneath the palace, or if someone did—well, it was a dungeon, after all; who would care if Orgolio played noisily? The cold wall pressed her back. The possessed jailer leered, extended his apish arms in a wide, menacing semicircle as he advanced. Run, dodge or leap—she would never make it past those grasping limbs. The blade's insistent, thirsty cries rang in her ears until she feared for her sanity.

His right arm dropped; the dagger swung upward. A desperate cry—reflexively, she caught the driving wrist in both hands, halting death's point mere inches from her vitals.

A short moment they pitted strength against strength, but Frost had the advantage of leverage. The jailer roared; with his free hand he swung viciously at her face, and the force of the blow made her head ring. Still, she would not release the captured wrist. She anticipated his next swing, ducked it, and kicked him in the groin with all her might. In the fat sockets his eyes rolled wide with pain that doubled him over. She sidestepped, grabbing his neck, the belt of his trousers, and the stone wall fairly shivered as she smashed him headlong into it. Not stopping to judge the result, she sped into the corridor, slamming the door.

The key was not in the lock. Possibly Orgolio had carried it into the cell. Frantically, she glanced through the barred window. Her opponent staggered to his feet, Demonfang still in his hand. It screamed and screamed; Frost choked back a bitter sob. The giant's eyes met hers, and he came.

It must taste blood—either your enemy's or your own
.

That was her hope and her despair. With no way to lock the door she braced her feet on the narrow corridor's opposite wall, shoulders to the hard wood, making her body a living wedge. Orgolio pushed. The door gave an inch. She strained, steeled herself furiously for what she knew would follow.

The shock of his first kick nearly shattered her spine. He threw his weight against the door until one hinge bent, threatened to break. A cracking sound in the old timber. With fist and foot and shoulder Orgolio battered the door, and she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed her own strength would last long enough.

Demonfang wailed.

A scratching made her look up. Fat fingers wriggled through the bars, clawed the wood. A hand pushed impossibly through and a little of an arm; the fist flexed and opened, seeking. She remembered how that hand had grabbed her hair before, and feared.

Then suddenly, a new vehement note slashed her ears as Demonfang's shrieking strained, altered, turned vengeful. Orgolio's frenzied smashing at the door weakened, ceased. Three heartbeats of silence—then a scuffling at the cell's farthest side.

A morbid curiosity possessed her. Rising quickly, seizing a torch from a wall sconce, she peered through the bars and caught her breath.

On his knees, the jailor moaned in despondent terror. His left hand struggled to peel the fingers of his right from the dagger's hilt. The muscles in his arm knotted as he fought to hold the point at bay. But the famished blade screeched, and Orgolio's resistance crumbled. Pale, sweating, he gaped at glittering death.

The right arm jerked, twitched, raised high and plunged down. The point shattered breastbone with a crunching noise, straight to the blood-filled heart. The screams stopped, the blade's need sated. Then, Orgolio's mouth opened, and those same screams sounded in his human throat. Frost covered her ears, leaned her head on the door until they stopped.

Quiet seeped back into the dungeon. No other sound but her own uneven breathing. Opening the door, she stared from the threshold, afraid to enter, pondering what she had witnessed. Demonfang sprouted like an evil flower from the dead jailer's chest. She was loath to touch it. And yet, the dagger had saved her life; without the blade's strange curse she might have rotted in that cell, a thing for Orgolio's gross pleasure. Reluctantly and with trembling fingers, she plucked it from his body, cleaned the edge on a handful of straw. The belt and sheath lay where he had cast them, and she expelled a heavy sigh when the weapon was finally cased.

Only then did she remember Kregan—and Zarad-Krul.

Her garments were close at hand. She pulled on trousers and boots, then reached for her tunic.

Her flesh prickled. She shook the tunic, swept up her cloak and shook that. A cold dread coursed through her veins. She searched the floor on her knees. Nothing under the table or chair.

Her sword was there. But the Book of the Last Battle was gone.

She threw on the rest of her clothes cursing, and buckled on her weapons. She
had
to find Kregan now. Maybe he knew something about the Book's fate. If not, she needed his advice. But which way to go? The right-hand way led to the upper levels of the palace; the few cells in that direction were dark and soundless when she passed them with her guards. Still, the Chondite might have been bound as she was, maybe gagged, too, or worse. The left-hand way was a mystery. More cells as far as she could see in the light of the torches and lamps. Any of them might hold her friend. An ugly frown flashed over her face. Indecision was not her nature, yet she hesitated, uncertain. A wrong choice meant valuable time wasted—and there was still the threat of Zarad-Krul.

A footstep in the darkness. She slid into the welcome shadow of a niche, sword drawn, not daring to breathe. A light tread. One person, she decided, listening. Closer came the footsteps. A pool of weak light, a whiff of burning oil, a hand bearing a lamp. Someone passed her hiding place, unaware.

Swift and silent she reached out, clamping her hand hard over a mouth to prevent a scream. The edge of her sword went to a throat and paused at the jugular. Her prisoner stiffened, but offered no resistance.

Zarabeth.

Frost recognized first the perfume, then the garment and gold-linked, jewel-spangled cincture, recalling that of all Tumac's seraglio only the old whore-keeper was free to roam the palace. “If you make a sound it will be your last,” she whispered coldly, and the woman nodded as best she could in the tight grip. Frost released her then, and Zarabeth turned with her lamp held high. Aged, painted eyes twinkled with surprise.

“You're more resourceful than I thought."

Frost shrugged. “What are you doing down here?"

The mistress of concubines held a bottle of wine in her other hand. “I was bringing this to you. Tumac made a public pronouncement of your attempt to murder him and swore you would never again see the light of day, that you'd rot in your cell, a plaything for his guards. I couldn't let any woman suffer that.” Her tone softened somewhat, but she met the younger woman's gaze evenly. “This is poisoned drink."

“Thanks for the thought,” she acknowledged sarcastically, “but why should you care?"

Zarabeth's turn to shrug. “There's little time, and since you're free we must contrive to get you away from Zondu. Suffice it to say that in my own youth I was a lot like you: spirited, rebellious, even skilled with a weapon or two.” Then, in the lamplight her features hardened, a fire rose in her eyes. “And I would do anything to rob Tumac of his little pleasures—even poison a young woman he would like very much to remember rotting for having spurned him."

She stared long and hard at the old concubine, taking her measure. “You hate him very much, don't you?"

Zarabeth's face was hard steel, her voice cold. “I was only one of his women, never his wife, but Tumac's father loved me, and I loved him.” Bitterness in her words, and grief. “But Tumac was eager to become Zondu's governor, a post as hereditary as kingship in Rholaroth, and one night while his father and I slept in each other's arms, he crept in. With a single sword-stroke he made a headless corpse of his father.” She held her hands wide, filled with lamp and bottle, and stared with a strange madness. “His blood spewed over me, and I woke screaming."

Frost offered no response, lost in a memory that was nightmare. She saw her own father at her feet—anger, then death on his face. A sword pierced his body, his life-fluid flowing, staining her boots. And she was the cause.

She held her hand to the light, wondering at its false, unblemished fairness.

“Some night,” continued Zarabeth, two tears trailing on her cheeks, “some night I'll repay Tumac in like manner.” A moment of unplanned silence hung between them as each grieved for the dead, for the past.

“But that has to wait,” the old woman said suddenly. “Now we've got to get you away. Orgolio must be somewhere close. He scuttles through these passages like a fat rat."

“Orgolio is dead,” Frost answered. “And I can't leave yet.” She silenced Zarabeth's protests with a stern look. “I've got to find two things first: a book with a very unusual binding, and the Chondite sorcerer who was captured with me."

“Forget the book,” Zarabeth advised. “That's gone. I can show you where the Chondite is, though why you travel with such
slime
I can't imagine."

She whirled threateningly on the old woman who took a startled, unconscious step back. “What do you mean gone!” she hissed. “Gone where?"

Zarabeth trembled at the fury in those words. “Young Telric took it,” she managed. “I saw him with it in his quarters just before he left. I even spoke to him. He wanted proof for his father that you were here, and he thought it might be a diary or journal."

“Where is he now?"

“Gone,” Zarabeth answered. “You saw how angry he was with Tumac."

“How long ago did he leave?"

“Nearly two hours."

Frost cursed, then cursed again. So close to Chondos, so damned close. Telric would carry the Book back into Rholaroth, the stupid fool. Unless she could find him and reclaim the fateful tome the world she knew was finished. But was there time? Would Zarad-Krul give her time, or would the mad wizard find Telric first?

“All right, take me to Kregan."

“Who?"

“The Chondite, damn it, and hurry.” She gave Zarabeth a little shove to impress her with the urgency of her demand. But Zarabeth slapped the hand away, drew herself up.

“No one pushes me,” she said icily. There was a tense moment, a hint of the other Zarabeth who kicked guards and bullied thick-witted jailers. That passed, and the older woman abruptly melted. “Now, just show a little courtesy and I'll lead you."

Kregan was two levels below. Frost heard the guards outside his cell before Zarabeth's small light was detected and quickly extinguished it. Wrapped in the dark where no torches burned, she signaled Zarabeth to wait while she eased slowly forward. Edging around the last corner, she flattened against the wall.