Frost (12 page)

Three guards. In the light of lamps they sat around a table playing
bones
and gambling. One had his back to her; the other would spot her if she moved.

“ ... and this one guy wouldn't go in. Hell, the best brothel in town and we couldn't even
drag
‘im in. Must have been afraid it was habit-forming, haw!"

“Those Traffybanians are so dumb a half-blind camel could beat ‘em at
bones
."

“They fertilize their crops with horse dung, you know."

She listened to his idle banter, sizing them up, estimating her chances. Two were hefty, well built. The third was smaller, but all wore sword and mercy-dagger. Three pikes leaned against the wall near at hand. The passage was narrow, so movement as a unit would be restricted. The lamps were the problem; the light would give her away before she could reach them, and there were no niches or alcoves for her to hide in, making stealth impossible.

Zarabeth touched her arm as she ducked back into the darker passage. “Well?” she whispered.

Frost motioned her companion farther down the way before she spoke. “Three guards with pikes, swords and daggers.” She described the setup in detail. “The pikes are next to useless in the confining space. No chance to surprise them, though."

Zarabeth thought. “I could lure them away one at a time. Claim it was Tumac's orders."

“Too suspicious,” she answered. “But I can't risk an open fight, either. This has to be quick.” She considered for a moment. “How about this?"

The sentries looked up at the sound of footsteps, and three mouths fell open. Zarabeth, whore-keeper, strode boldly into the light. Behind came another woman, head bowed in subservience, completely naked but for a silver circlet that swept back her hair. As she walked her hips swayed enticingly, and her bare feet made soft padding sounds on the stone floor. All three rose and came around the table to see better. There was an unmistakable gleam in their eyes.

“Tumac sends you some entertainment to reward your faithful watch-keeping,” Zarabeth proclaimed. Frost floated up to them daintily, delicately, her glance demure and inviting. “And he sends you wine—not enough to make you drunk, but good wine nonetheless. I selected it myself, and I promise you'll never taste its like again."

They seized the bottle, grinning, and Frost began to dance, teasing with her shoulders and taunting with a shift of bare hips, a shivering of thighs and breasts. As they watched the first sentry drank deeply, pouring the liqueur down with greedy gulps; the second and third drank as deeply, wiping lips with dirty hands, jovial and full of mirth.

Until the poison began its work.

A potent medicine, the guards clutched their stomachs, throats, each other. Their eyes rolled up. First one, then the others cried out, doubled in pain, heaving, coughing, and gasping for breath that wouldn't come. The smaller guard glared accusingly at his killers and reached for his sword, but the poison brought him to his knees before he could unsheathe it. His comrades were already down, tongues lolling between blue lips, faces filled with the terror of death.

When it was over she turned to Zarabeth. “Bring my clothes and weapons, please.” The old woman hurried back down the corridor as Frost gave her attention to Kregan's cell door. It worried her that no sound issued from it. The noise of the guards' dying should have roused him. She called his name. No answer. Her frantic fingers searched the sentries' bodies until she found the key. Then, shoving it into the lock she twisted and pulled back the door.

At first, she thought him dead. He sprawled on the straw, his hands cruelly bound behind him and his eyes covered with a thick, black cloth. Another rag was stuffed in his mouth. All to prevent his uttering any spell or making gestures or doing any kind of sorcery, she reasoned angrily. Her sword's edge made easy work of the ropes, then she removed the gag and blindfold.

And still the Chondite did not stir. She put an ear apprehensively to his chest. The heartbeat was faint, but definite.

Drugged then.

Zarabeth came through the door carrying Frost's things. Seeing Kregan, she spat and dropped her burden, made warding signs in the air. Frost could barely control the contempt in her voice, for all that the old woman had helped her.

“Stifle your fear. Can't you see he's unconscious?"

The whore-keeper looked doubtful, distrusting. But at last she crept forward, looking with every step as if she would turn and run away if the sorcerer batted an eyelash. Yet, when it was clear that he would not move she knelt down beside the warrior woman, and the fear faded from her.

“I've never been this close to a Chondite,” she confided. “I don't like the smell of him.” Surprisingly then, she bent over the sorcerer, listened to his heart and grunted. Next, she sniffed his breath. “Chulim,” she announced. “A fairly common drug. I'd have used stronger if I were fool enough to capture such a man alive."

Zarabeth slapped his cheeks several times in quick succession and briskly rubbed his limbs. In the corridor Frost found the guards' water supply and dragged the heavy bucket into the cell. She sprinkled a handful of drops on Kregan's eyelids. Zarabeth made a rude noise, rose and motioned her aside. Half the contents splashed on the Chondite as she tilted the container, and when he still did not move she spilled the other half.

A moan bubbled on his lips. Eyes fluttered open.

“Help me get him on his feet,” Zarabeth ordered, pulling him to a sitting position alone. Frost took an arm and they heaved him up. On either side they paced him back and forth until his own limbs regained a little strength and he could stand shakily by himself.

Kregan rubbed his temples. “What happened?"

“Too much has happened,” Frost answered. For a minute it seemed her friend would collapse again, but she caught him, dealt him a vicious slap. “Come out of it, Kregan. I need you now."

Kregan opened his eyes with effort, but this time they were clearer than before. “All right,” he said, “all right."

“The Book is gone,” she whispered urgently, “and I've got to go after it."

“What?"

“No time for the full story—it took long enough to find you. It's gone, that's all."

“We've got to get it back,” he mumbled.

She shook her head. “Not
we
. Me. I'm going alone. You've got another task."

“I want to help..."

“Shut up and just listen, damn it! I've thought this through.” She heard Zarabeth's startled gasp as she grabbed the sorcerer and shook him, an act of unthinkable madness to Rholarothans who feared Chondites. “Kregan,” her face hovered close to his. “Zarad-Krul doesn't know we've lost it, and he mustn't suspect. He believes we're headed for Chondos, and all his power will bend that way to find us. I'm sure of it. And he's got to keep thinking that if I'm to have any chance of regaining the Book."

“What do you want me to do?"

“Go to Chondos. Tell your brotherhood and any other sorcerer who'll listen what's at stake. Prepare them for war if you can, but do whatever you must to keep Zarad-Krul's attention entirely on Chondos. Otherwise he'll find Telric before I do. Then we're lost."

Kregan hesitated.

“I can move a lot faster without you,” she went on, permitting no argument. “You haven't even got a horse now."

“Neri will be somewhere near."

She waved an angry hand. “She didn't get out through the gate, and even if you could find her she'll never keep up with Ashur the way I intend to travel. You know that."

Kregan nodded slowly, plainly unhappy, but when he spoke again there was a familiar edge to his voice; the last traces of
chulim
were gone. He drew himself up proudly.

“All right, I'll be your decoy,” he said, “and I'll raise such turmoil that Zarad-Krul won't dare look away from Chondos. But how will you know where to search for Rholf's son?"

Zarabeth interrupted. “Rholf determined your direction, but not your destination. Telric came here; another son rode to
Tsagah
, the capital. Rholf, himself, is in
Kamaera
."

“Telric will go to his father,” said Frost. “I'll have to catch him before he gets there."

“Kamaera lies west of the Creel Mountains.” He scratched his chin. “On reconsideration, it's a madman's plan."

“Have you a better one?"

He frowned at that.

Zarabeth led them out of the dungeon through dark corridors and secret ways until they reached the palace courtyard. So late was the hour they encountered no one, not even a guard, and by the low wall they said their goodbyes. Kregan was brusque, his words reflecting his mood, but he laid a hasty kiss on her cheek before melting into the shadows.

She traced the spot where his lips had touched her, surprised, not a little confused at the way her skin tingled. But there was Zarabeth to bid farewell yet, and she took the old woman's hands.

“I can't thank you adequately with words,” she said, “nor even tell you how important a part you've played in this terrible adventure.” She touched the circlet with its moonstone gem, started to remove it.

Zarabeth caught her arm. “No, keep it. I gave it freely to you.” Her old eyes were suddenly grave, mouth softened. “I don't know what lies before you, child, but I wish you all luck. Be careful—and think of an old woman now and then."

Frost smiled and glanced skyward. This night seemed to last forever. But in the north where Shardaha lay the blackness seemed more than night. Clouds gathered there—dark and evil clouds. She suppressed a shiver as she watched them advance.

Zarabeth looked strangely at her. “What is it, child?"

“Probably nothing,” she answered distantly. Then, a fear rose in her; she laid hands on Zarabeth's shoulders and spoke with passion. “If you would carry out your revenge on Tumac, do it now—tonight."

She felt as if her soul were open to this old woman's gaze. How like her mother Zarabeth seemed: strong and daring, gentle, warm, so many mixtures of kindness and cruelty. How like her mother who died cursing her.

“Good fortune, warrior.” Zarabeth reached up, kissed her cheek as Kregan had done. “The gods keep you."

She returned the kiss shyly and moved through the garden gate into the silent, empty streets. Only a dog's barking and the low grunt of a pig in a refuse-laden alley disturbed the quiet. Soldiers who patrolled the city had long since turned in for the night, but still she clung to the dark places and kept her sword loose in the sheath.

At last, the city gates loomed. To her dismay they were barred fast with a great wooden beam. Above in a high watchtower a solitary guard kept vigil over the mechanism that moved the beam and the huge doors. Stealthily, she made for the tower, clambered up the convenient ladder, grateful the city was not designed to resist attackers from the inside. Drawing out her sword she knocked boldly on the closed trap door.

“Who is it?” the sentry called.

She pitched her voice low. “Relief."

Footsteps on the boards, but the door did not open. “You're not due for another hour."

“Have it your way then, damn you. I'll go back to my warm bed and you can rot up here."

“Wait.” The door flung back; a hand reached down to help her up. She took it with her right; with her left she shoved her blade through the sentry's gut.

The gate mechanism was an arrangement of chains and balanced weight controlled by one wheel to move the bar and another to open the gate. She turned them, praying no one heard the awful creaking, sped down the ladder and through.

The Zondaur stretched before, lifeless and vast with no moonlight to illuminate the eerie expanse. She set fingers to her lips and gave a low whistle.

Far away a familiar sound, a welcome trumpeting cry that was Ashur. No sight of him in the darkness, but she heard the tempest those ebon hooves raised as they beat across the plain. Then two pools of flickering amber shone in the night racing toward her.

The unicorn reared, stamped the earth, stopping a few paces away. Where eyes should have been those peculiar flames burned with crackling intensity. Only once before had she seen them so bright.

She whirled in sudden alarm, remembering Zarad-Krul. The clouds she had spotted in the north were much closer, a creeping darkness that swallowed stars in its path, full of menace.

A dreadful urgency possessed her as she mounted. Ashur needed no encouragement to speed; she felt the sharp bite of wind on her face and leaned close to the animal's sleek neck. Her heart thundered in her breast.

A low crest rose on her right and she rode for it. At its summit she halted, dismounting. The air was heavy, stifling. Zondu's walls were still visible and she could just see the shadowy tops of the taller buildings.

The clouds came on, and now she noticed the strange shape of them and prayed to all her gods.

The hand of Zarad-Krul hung blackly over the sleeping city—wispy fingers of doom. Frost trembled in her hiding place, chilled to her soul, watching in horrified fascination, fearful that such a hand should ever hold the Book of the Last Battle.

A twinkling in the black palm—sparks of hellish brightness and evil colors sprang into the sky, splintering into more sparks. The hand blazed with scintillant fury as each of the tiny splinters pulsed, burst, filling the sky and staining the city with intense hues, sending shadows racing like bolts of dark lightning from rooftop to rooftop. Then, like a dewy, vibrant rain the deadly sparks plummeted earthward, trailing brilliant fire.

All this Frost saw from the hillside, wondering what she could not see beyond the city walls.

Roused from sleep by the strange light the citizens of Zondu gathered in the streets or leaned from balcony windows to see what was happening. Children clapped their hands and pointed, laughing. Lovers held each other close, thinking it some miracle. Drunks and beggars stumbled from the alleys to beg a few coins from the spectators. Only a few of the older, wiser citizens looked up and tasted acrid fear.