Frost (16 page)

“The time for talk is past, Kregan. If your Council fails to move against Zarad-Krul, Chondos will be swept away like a leaf in floodwaters. And the world will come soon behind."

“There are many things to consider,” Kregan responded.

She shook her head. “No more time for consideration."

The Chondite sank heavily into a chair; deep lines etched his face. “There are things you don't understand,” he repeated. “Do you know why I was helpless against the Eye of Zarad-Krul?"

She had wondered. Yet, with all that had occurred since then she had not thought to ask.

His face was grim. “What I'm going to tell you is known only to the
Krilar
—the master sorcerers of the Brotherhoods—and to the Elders. If they ever learn that an outsider shares our secret, they'll kill you. And me, for telling you."

She nodded, moved by his solemnity.

“Beyond the borders of Chondos we have no power."

She blinked, not sure she had heard correctly, but his serious expression warned that she had. Her mouth fell open, then closed. A deeper gloom seemed to fill the room, and she sagged under the weight of a terrible understanding. Her lips formed a slow curse.

“The land itself is the source of our power,” he explained. “There is a place we call
Demonium
..."

At the heart of Chondos stretched the Field of Fire, a rocky plain where every stone and pebble glowed with an eerie luminescence that set the darkest night ablaze with bizarre colors. At the heart of that stood
Demonium.
A high, steep butte rising abruptly from the flat terrain, three towering monolithic stones loomed on its crest. Rune-carved, pale as milk they rose in triangle formation, and no man living knew their age.

“...a gate where all astral planes once met,” continued Kregan, “a doorway to worlds beyond imagining. Though it closed long ago, a trace of otherworldly energy continues to seep through, a mystic influence that spreads right through the soil. Chondos is a land alive, pulsing with that power.

“Then, generations ago our ancestors discovered that the energy followed certain flow-lines. They built a network of stone triangles at special points to relay and amplify the emanations from Demonium. Our country became an arcane well of magic, itself shaped like a natural triangle bordered on its three sides by three mighty rivers."

He poured two goblets of wine and passed one to her. He took a long pull before continuing.

Strange creatures wandered freely through Chondos in those early days, denizens of other worlds who passed to earth when the gate was open. “Their off-spring are the monsters that haunt our land today. Usually, they were contained by the natures of the rivers that surround us: the Cocytus and Phlegathone Rivers at east and west have special qualities that prevented their crossing, but the Acheron River in the north between Chondos and Shardaha had no such power, and a few demons migrated to other lands by that route."

Frost tilted her cup. Kregan refilled it. “I've heard it said that Chondites are not truly human.” She sipped her wine and regarded him over the cup's rim. “What of that?"

“It could be true,” he admitted. “We're not completely sure of our origins."

She took another drink and wiped her mouth, setting the half-full cup aside. “What all this means is that you can't launch an attack against Shardaha?"

The Chondite's jaw muscles twitched. “If we cross the Acheron we lose our magic. What good then will be all the sorcerers in Chondos? You see why the Council hesitates?"

She rose, then kicked a stool. It shattered gratifyingly against the wall.

“Blood and iron!” she swore. “I think I hear the gods laughing. To come so far and find no help at the journey's end. My sword is red with the blood of those who barred our way—and all for nothing!"

Kregan came and laid a hand on her shoulder. But though there was comfort in the touch she shook it off.

Beyond the window, the approaching darkness grinned.

“It's not hopeless."

She whirled, driving a fist into her palm. “Not hopeless? Must you strike bottom before you know you've fallen in a pit? There's a pit yawning now, my friend, and we're all about to tumble in."

The Chondite dashed his winecup after the broken stool. A deep crimson colored his cheeks. “We're not cowards, woman! The Council knows the dangers we face, and they're working on a plan."

“Then what's the delay?” she snapped. “Why don't we move?"

“You still don't see, you silly
child!"
The table shook under his pounding fist. “To have any hope of victory we must lure Zarad-Krul
into
Chondos. The battle must be fought in the very shadow of Demonium where our powers will be strongest. And even then, we harbor little hope of winning if Nugaril and Mentes take an active role in the fighting."

“You mean, you'll
let
the wizard invade?"

Kregan glowered as he leaned heavily on the table. Slowly, his head bobbed.

She arched an eyebrow and sucked her lower lip thoughtfully. “I'm sorry,” she confessed. “You're certainly not cowards if that's your plan."

The angry flush left his face, replaced by lines of weariness. “Don't mistake our motives, Frost. Chondites care little for the outside world; but as you observed, we're all standing on the brink of a pit."

A knock, and the door opened. A woman stepped reverently in, bearing a scroll of parchment. Her hair was the color of morning sunlight and her white dress swirled around her ankles when she moved. Her fair blue eyes raked over Frost and Kregan, then lowered shyly.

Natira
, Frost recalled her name. There was an oddness about her, especially her azure gaze that was so hard to meet. The woman's presence disturbed her, evoked certain emotions, feelings of grief and loneliness that stirred her own tormenting memories.

Three steps into the room, Natira made a slow half-turn and stopped. Her eyes fastened on Demonfang where it hung on the wall in its silver sheath. She glided toward it, reaching out to grasp the hilt.

Frost caught her hand.

“Wait,” whispered Kregan, suddenly excited. “She's taken an interest in nothing at all since I found her wandering on the field near Demonium. And yet, from the moment of your arrival in Erebus that dagger has held an unexplained attraction for her."

“She mustn't draw it! You know the danger."

“I don't think she will,” he answered. “Watch."

Natira ran her fingers along the hilt, the sheath and belt. Then, she licked her fingers carefully as if tasting. A faint trace of a smile creased her mouth.

“I've never seen her smile,” the Chondite remarked. “If only she could speak ... I'd like to know what significance that cursed blade has for her."

Finally, Natira turned away from Demonfang, gave the scroll to Kregan and floated from the room. The sorcerer opened the parchment and read,

“They want us at Council,” he announced.

In the crowded council chamber, Rhadamanthus, Minos and Aecus, the eldest members of the three Chondite Brotherhoods, looked down dispassionately from high seats. Behind each hung the banners of their respective orders: a black arrow, a golden star, an argent cup. One hundred pairs of eyes peered from dark, concealing hoods at Frost and Kregan as they walked to the center of the chamber.

Rhadamanthus of the Black Arrow spoke first. Though his hair was white with age, his voice was strong and carried to all corners of the hall. He held the Book of the Last Battle.

“Kregan, Brother, a Privileged Council is no place for your outsider friend."

Her companion met the old man's unwavering gaze. “Elder Brother,” he answered firmly. “No one has more right to be here; the Book was entrusted to her keeping, and she has brought it safely from the forests of Esgaria despite all Zarad-Krul's efforts to stop her. She has earned the right to know what decision you have reached."

The old man raised a hand for silence, and the Elders conferred briefly. “So be it, then,” Rhadamanthus proclaimed, “she may stay. But you must vouch for her behavior."

Kregan nodded.

Aecus leaned forward as he addressed the Council. “All efforts have failed. The Book of the Last Battle remains closed. Its secrets are still secret."

“Only one course remains for us,” Minos announced. “We must lure Zarad-Krul to the Field of Fire. At Demonium we may hope for victory over his minions. A little hope, but all we have. This is the decision of the
Krilar
and the Elders."

“Wait,” said Frost. All eyes turned to her. On the nearest faces she read surprise, consternation, disapproval. Only Rhadamanthus smiled indulgently. “It's a fundamental axiom that Light must oppose Darkness; any sorcerer or witch knows that.” Her gaze swept the chamber. No reaction from the Chondite masters. “Why not call upon the powers of Light to fight this battle?"

“We've tried what you suggest.” Minos shook his wizened head sadly. “Though it was against our very natures, we called on the Names of Light, but the conjurations went unheeded."

Rhadamanthus unsteepled his fingers and frowned. “You see, my child, a Chondite sorcerer taps the interplanar energies that seep through the Demonium Gate for most of his machinations. Beyond that, the Krilar learn to manipulate certain symbols and words of power.
But we serve no god.
Why, then, should the Light-Lords answer us?"

Aecus smashed a fist on the arm of his great chair; a fierce determination burned in the black pits of his eyes. “We'll meet the Shardahani alone—our skills pitted against the Dark Ones he serves. It will be hard, but we can win!"

Her own arcane experience made her doubtful. Whatever might the Chondites possessed, two forces were supreme: Light and Dark. Only a very few of the Neutral gods could equal such omnipotence. Her one hope was that Zarad-Krul still controlled the Dark Allies. As long as that remained true the enemy was only a man—and men made mistakes.

Battle plans were detailed, assignments made. Then, Rhadamanthus stepped down from his seat and bowed before Frost. The Book of the Last Battle rested in his outstretched hand. “Our brother has told how you blinded the Eye of Zarad-Krul while he stood helpless in its gaze.” He nodded respectfully to Kregan. “Though you are an outsider and only a woman, we ask you to carry this Book a while longer. Fate seems to have chosen you as its guardian—not a task I envy you, for when the fighting begins you will be the target of every attack."

Despite the solemnity of the occasion, she grinned. “I'm only a woman, of course, but I accept.” To her great surprise the old man leaped forward and kissed her cheek. Making another deep bow, he said, “May your gods be with you, then."

A tremendous cheer went up in the chamber. Hooded robes were thrown off; each man revealed himself girt in sword and curiously worked leather armor carved with runes and the devices of their brotherhoods. They streamed from the hall amid tumultuous shouting to rally the brethren and the armies.

When everyone was gone, Kregan took her hand and sighed. “You wanted action,” he reminded her. “Well, now it begins.” Suddenly, he wrapped her in his arms and held her close.

It felt good, being held. His arms were warm, offering security. No one had hugged her since her mother. And that memory made her stiffen.

That night, her nightmares returned: scenes of blood, fratricide and worse. Her mother reeled, died uttering the curse that stole away her witch-powers. Faces swam; accusing fingers jabbed her. A sword rose, fell with heartless regularity, gripped in her own hand. Screaming, she tried uselessly to pry her fingers from the hilt. Then, when everyone else was dead it turned on her, rising, falling....

She woke with a cry, trembling in a cold sweat and willed her racing heart to calm. Slowly, the terror faded, and she breathed easier. A candle burned low on the table. Yet, hadn't she extinguished it before lying down? Puzzled, she swung her feet over the bed's edge. She froze.

A shadow in the corner.

She rubbed her eyes and looked again.

“Natira ...?"

The mute girl sat unmoving on the room's far side, wide-eyed, unblinking, staring. A faint smile parted that pale mouth.

Frost sucked her lip apprehensively. Entrancement. She'd seen it before, knew the signs. She twisted to follow Natira's fixed gaze, half-expecting what she found.

Demonfang.

The candlelight gleamed on its silveriness. Secured in its sheath, the blade still hung on the wall, apparently untouched. Yet, there was no question that the woman had crept in uninvited for some purpose involving the dagger. Natira's queer interest made Frost uneasy, suspicious.

A chill passed through her. At least, Natira had not tried to draw it. Fear of that and of more nightmares robbed her of further sleep that night. Wrapping a blanket around herself, she sat back on the bed, propped against the wall with feet drawn up to watch the strange young woman and to wait for dawn.

But it was a dawn that never came. Kregan knocked lightly and entered, startling her from a reverie of unpleasant memories. His face was grim, and he was fully armored in elaborate leather.

“No sunlight.” He ground his teeth; deep lines carved furrows across his brow. “The darkness of Zarad-Krul is upon us."

She accepted the declaration morosely, and pointed to her silent guest. The Chondite's eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw Natira. He went quickly to her side, lifted her hand. It was limp, unresisting in his own. He rubbed her cheek, then, and shook her. But those staring blue eyes never wavered from the dagger.

“Completely entranced,” said Frost. “Self-induced as far as I can tell."

Kregan paced between the two women, obviously worried. “Look!” he cried suddenly.

Natira stirred; her eyes fluttered, fingers twitched. Slowly, she rose with a wide yawn and smiled an utterly innocent expression. With a light, graceful step she drifted through the room and out the door, closing it softly behind her.