Frost (2 page)

“For uncounted millennia it lay hidden at the heart of a distant mountain,” the Stranger explained, “but a Shardahani wizard stumbled by sheer accident upon its resting place."

“A Shardahani?” she interrupted. “They make poor wizards. No imagination."

“Zarad-Krul
was
a poor wizard dabbling in philosophies he couldn't begin to understand until he found the Book. But in the instant he first became aware of the volume's true nature the Dark Forces he worships also became aware of it. And like humans, they desire it too, for the Book of the Last Battle is said to contain the strategies, the plans and the Words of Power that will be used in the final confrontation of Light against Darkness.

“This Zarad-Krul has become a tool of the Dark Gods. Though he is unable to open the Book now, his masters feed him more knowledge each day in the hope he will find a way to pry it open—or failing that, to summon a Dark One into this plane to learn its secrets. The wizard is not yet strong enough for that, but already his new magic has given him dominion over all of Shardaha. And his power grows. Soon, it will reach the limits of his mortal mind. Already it has made him mad, and he plans to call not one, but many Dark Lords into this world and unleash them on his enemies.

“Nor will the Forces of Light do anything to prevent it. Not willingly. The time is not yet right for the final confrontation. If the Dark Ones are called through, the scales of destiny will be unbalanced, and the hour of the Last Battle will be delayed beyond all foreseeing. If Zarad-Krul can be thwarted it must be by you and me—and, perhaps, one other."

“What other?"

The Stranger lifted his gaze yet again, peering into the mist above his head. “A Chondite sorcerer, a master in the Brotherhood of the Black Arrow. His name is Kregan. Take the Book to him. He will know what to do with it."

“But how did you come by the Book if Zarad-Krul found it first?"

“There's no more time. You must flee now."

Frost set her feet. “Give me the answer first. I don't know if I trust you.” But now she heard, faint and far away, the ominous beating of wings.

“I stole it from Zarad-Krul's tower while he slept, but a guardian raised the alarm before I could slip away. I fled with the Book, but his demons pursue me. I've warred against them all night, nearly to exhaustion. Finally, I threw up this fog to hide myself, knowing it would not be enough to save my life. It was a desperate maneuver when I thought I'd lost the gamble, that Zarad-Krul's creatures would kill me and take the Book back to him. But then, I sensed you riding in the wood."

The sound of the wings drew nearer. Steadily they beat
doom, doom, doom
on the night air, but Frost could see nothing to cause such dreadful cadence.

“Go now,” the Stranger begged. “If Zarad-Krul sends his eye, he will find you, too; then all hope will be lost."

“Come with me. We'll flee together."

He shook his head. “No, Zarad-Krul knows my aura now. He can find me wherever I run."

“Then I'll stay and help you fight."

“No!” he cried. “Your sword will be of no use against these creatures. Flee! Now!"

The air boomed with the frantic pulse of invisible wings. Her instincts told her to run. This was sorcery, and her own mystic powers were gone. She clasped the Book tightly in her shield hand and unsheathed her sword. However useless it might be it was a weapon at least. She turned to go.

“Wait!” shouted the Stranger suddenly before she was far away. “I can give you two weapons to help fight Zarad-Krul.” He threw off his robe. His body was perfect, and the naked flesh shone with a golden light. Frost had never called a man beautiful before, but this man was that. He wore no other garment, but around his waist on a belt of silver there hung a dagger. He tossed it to her. The sheath containing the blade was also of silver, pure and gleaming.

“This is Demonfang, and it is well named, for a warning comes with it: do not draw it idly from its silver sheath; once removed the dagger must taste blood—either your enemy's or your own."

“And the second weapon?” shouted Frost. The beating became a thunderous roar in her ears.

“It will come to you in time and of its own will. Now run as quick as you can."

“Your name,” she cried. “I want to know your name!"

“What does it matter? I am a Tool of Light."

The noise reached a deafening crescendo, heralding the arrival of Zarad-Krul's minions. Through the fog, thousands upon thousands of tiny shapes fluttered to and fro, searching for the man who gave no name. Frost drew back her sword and swung furiously at the creatures, but they flitted easily away, too small to make decent targets.

Suddenly, the shadow-shapes found the Stranger. He raised his arms to swat them away, flailing frantically at the air. They swarmed over him, settled in his hair, in his eyes. She raised her sword again. If she could not drive away his tormentors, she could at least give him a quick death. But as she stepped forward, he managed to lift an arm in warning and shouted one last, desperate cry.

Twittering shapes engulfed his beautiful body and bore him down. He struggled under the sheer weight of numbers, but it was no use. A few last contortions and his fight was over.

Obeying his final command, Frost turned and ran into the fog, casting fearful glances over her shoulder. When the fallen form of the Stranger was no more than a vague, formless lump on the misty ground, she threw herself down behind a bush to watch and wait. She felt the Book pressed between her body and the moist earth. Demonfang in its silver sheath lay beside her, its glittering belt looped over her arm.

She watched as the shadowy creatures settled upon the Stranger's still body, afraid that she would be discovered and dealt with in similar fashion. Shortly the wings stopped beating. The fog began to dissipate.

Through long hours she remained unmoving. As the last of the mist lifted, she sucked in her breath, unable quite to believe what she saw. In the pale light of pre-dawn, thousands of butterflies blanketed the Stranger's corpse until no part of it could be seen. Over this, there hovered a rheumy eye, red and swollen and evil. It floated for a time, fixed on the spot where murder had been done. Then it looked up and surveyed the forest in a slow rotation. As it swept in her direction Frost caught just a glimpse of the black pupil and shivered. The eye paused. Though it seemed not to see her, she crawled closer to the bush and hid her face. When she looked up again the eye was gone.

On the Stranger's body the butterflies remained perched, lazily fanning their wings until the first rays of a new sun appeared in the sky. In her hiding place, she dared not move. Then, as if on command, they took to the air, spreading wings in the fresh morning light.

Soundlessly they flew now, and the forest sparkled with colors, rich greens, reds and golds as the delicate insects danced among the leaves.

Never had she seen such rare beauty. They meandered briefly through the trees, then gathering into a great swarm, flew into the northwest, so alluring, so precious their many-hued wings, so perfect in flight. She watched until she could see them no more.

Then, she turned her eyes back to the Stranger, and her stomach heaved. A pile of bones, picked clean, gleamed whitely there. All through the night the butterflies had feasted on his flesh. Not even a drop of blood was left to stain the grass.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

At midday, frost wiped the sweat from her brow and cursed the flea-bitten horse that had deserted her. It was a long walk through Etai Calan. Her throat was dry, and she had not seen a stream for hours. Plucking a leaf, she crumpled it and stuffed it in her mouth. The sappy liquid had a foul taste, but at least it was wet.

The vision of the Stranger's grisly skeleton haunted her. Now and then, she took the Book from its resting-place inside her tunic, half-tempted to toss it into the bushes and forget about it. Yet, the loathsome death she had witnessed caused her eyes to narrow in a silent vow, and her heart hardened against the wizard Zarad-Krul.

By late afternoon her very bones were tired. Her shield was a heavy stone tied to her back, and her legs, stiff and sore from four days in the saddle, ached painfully. Though she rested frequently, there seemed to be no end to the forest.

Off the road to her left she heard a crackle in the brush. She paused only for a minute, then dismissed it as some animal. After a few short steps, she heard another sound, this time on her right.

Eight men appeared suddenly out of the brush and made a ring around her. Dirt smeared their faces; their hair was shaggy and unkempt. Their clothes were stained with mud and filth. The stink of them polluted the clean freshness of the forest air.

Raiders, she realized. Such men often crawled across the border into Esgaria, attacking farmhouses and small trade caravans. Before a patrol could be mounted to catch them they would lose themselves in the wood and make their way back to Rholaroth to fence their pilfered goods.

Shazad was full of men like these. That city's coffers were gorged on the bounty of her people.

Five of them held swords. One bore a falchion, and two more carried dirks with blades long as her forearm. Her own sword was in her fist, and she crouched low, ready to meet the first attacker.

Instead, one of the raiders grinned broadly, showing yellowed, broken teeth. The grin widened and suddenly he roared with laughter. “God's loins, it's a woman,” he bellowed. “We been stalkin' a woman!"

“Well, ye couldn't tell it by ‘er clothes,” said another.

“Or that sticker she's holdin',” added a third.

They all laughed and began to circle her, throwing taunts and insults. Was she cuttin' flowers for her table? Searchin' for an unfaithful lover? Naw, she'd never had no lovers, so she'd given up bein' a woman an' planned to make it as a man from now on.

The man who had spoken first ended the game with a wave of his hand.

“I'd sure like that shield,” said a voice behind her.

“I could use a new cloak,” said another. “Lost mine in that card game last week. ‘Course it was finer than this one, but I'll make do."

“I want the sword."

“The boots look in fair shape."

Frost made no move. She listened to the voices, the rustle of their clothes, the shuffling of feet, knowing just where each of the raiders stood though she could not see them all.

“Well, what about her?” said the first man, their leader, apparently. “She's pretty enough. What d'ye think we should do with her?"

There was only one thing to do with a woman, someone answered.

Frost went cold. No man had ever touched her as these men meant to. She smelled their dirty bodies and swore that the first to attempt it would pay a high price.

The leader's eyes met hers, and his grin disappeared. His sword flicked, and he made a quick side step, expecting to get inside her guard and knock her blade away.

Frost sensed his overconfidence. She swung hard, catching his sword near the hilt, sending it flying from his grip.

The man leaped back in surprise, checking his fingers to make sure he still had them all. Then, he glared, and she saw the anger that flamed in his face. He seized the sword of the man beside him, shoving him roughly and cursing.

Drawing a deep breath, she shut her eyes for just a moment, remembering the words of her weapons-master. He had prepared her for this, drilled her in absolute darkness, taught her to handle a multiple attack. She heard the sounds of their breathing, felt the tension that filled the air, smelled their sweat. Her sword grip tightened, and she thought of her shield. No use trying to get it free now. Let it protect her back. She took her sword in both hands, bastard style, and adjusted her stance.

“Think ye're pretty good with that sticker, don't ye, woman? Well, ye just made it a lot tougher on ye than it had to be. Before, we were just gonna have a little fun, but now ye made ol' Vericus mad. Embarrassed ‘im a little ‘fore his men, so now he's gotta show ‘em what happens when people make Vericus mad.” His smile came back, and he showed his rotten teeth. “Take that sticker away from her, boys."

A man to Vericus' right moved first. Frost swung her sword in a whistling arc and chopped halfway through him. Vericus bellowed angrily, swung and missed as she struggled to free her blade. Tugging it away, she leaped at him and smashed her knee into his groin. As he doubled over, she pushed him headlong into a tree.

The circle was broken. Frost ran a few steps and turned to face the rest. Two more charged, stepping on their fallen comrades to get at her. She parried the first man's blow and, on the backswing, lopped off the other's sword hand. From the corner of her eye she saw the remaining raiders trying to surround her again.

She was tired from her long walk. Each swing of her weapon seemed slower than the last, and every block sent shivers up her arm. Worse, the hilt of her sword was becoming slick with blood.

A descending blade whistled, and Frost whirled, dodged and parried, panting for breath. The falchion rose again and crashed down. She flung up her sword to intercept it, but so strong was the stroke that she lost her grip. Her sword tumbled into the road.

Her left arm hung limp and aching at her side. Having disarmed her, the man with the falchion hesitated. With a gasp and the last of her fading strength, she slammed her fist against his jaw. It had small effect, and he caught her wrist when she tried again.

Held fast, another raider seized her useless arm and twisted it cruelly behind her. She winced and cried out, clenching her eyes against the pain. When she opened them Vericus was grinning over her, his nose close to hers.

He slapped her viciously. She rolled her head aside to avoid the full stinging force, but a trickle of blood ran from her lip.

He gripped her chin, forced her to look where he directed. Two men were dead; one lay moaning on the ground clutching a handless stump.