Frost (28 page)

No matter. She remembered everything.

She shouted words in a language she did not know, and an immense vortex began to whirl with her at its center, sucking dust and stones into itself. It spun with increasing fury, feeding on the power and energy she poured into it. Sweat beaded on her forehead, ran into her eyes as she concentrated.

Far across the plain its force swept warriors off their feet. Zarad-Krul toppled from his rock perch. Even the Dark Gods as they at last achieved Demonium's crest were hurled back to the field by the maelstrom's raging.

Frost felt her knees buckle. The vortex was consuming her power. She sagged to the ground. It swelled, grew stronger. But more was needed, and she had no more to give. Valiantly, she strained, offering her last song.

Sensing her depletion, the vortex lifted, moved away from her. Within the monoliths the altar stone became its new locus.

The Gate had power to feed on—infinite power.

No longer did gale winds buffet the countryside. The monoliths contained that. The tempest reached upward instead, through the sky, swelling at a fantastic rate, drawing energy from the Gate, energy to open it and rip a hole in the space between the planes.

Too weak to stand, Frost watched, praying her spell would work.

Then, out of the vortex sailed a shining creature on pinions of white down feathers. Graceful as a wild swan, it climbed the sky, and she saw that though the wings were those of a bird the body was like a man's. She crawled to the edge of Demonium as it soared over the field.

Silently, Mentes raised his hand; a wave of blackness flowed forth. The swan-being rolled away with confident ease, and a spark of golden fire flashed from a taloned finger. Mentes roared in pain.

One by one, a host of strange creatures emerged from the vortex, flying or walking or slithering, drawn into earth's plane by her last conjuration. With forces no mortal would ever understand they assaulted the Dark Ones. The air tingled with eldritch energies. On the same ground where men fought and died, ancient gods renewed an eternal struggle.

Its work done, the vortex dissipated. Voices on the pathway caught her attention. Hafid and a few of his comrades clambered over the rim and hurried to her side, their expressions full of awe at the combat they were witness to.

“In Gath's name.” Hafid's voice was a taut whisper. “What are those creatures?"

“The Lords of Light,” she answered.

“God against God.” Hafid made a holy sign and hid his face. “Then, is this truly the Last Battle?"

She had no answer for him.

“Well, that is no god.” A warrior whose name she could not recall pointed.

Zarad-Krul had seized a stray horse. Over the field he rode to aid his malevolent allies, hurling spells and long curses that were less than useless against the Gods of Light. Suddenly, his mount stumbled. The wizard slammed the earth hard, one leg bent oddly beneath him. The last vestiges of his sanity crumbled. He beat his fists impotently on the unfeeling rocks.

Nugaril turned cold, gleaming eyes on the whimpering human. His huge claws flexed menacingly; the stings twitched over his back. Leaving Shammuron and Mentes to fight alone, he scuttled over the broken earth to the wizard and snatched him up in one terrible pincer.

Zarad-Krul had a moment to stare into that waiting maw before he fell shrieking into its darkness.

Frost grimaced as the jaws ground shut.

Hafid nodded smugly. “As we were taught, evil feeds on evil."

It was nearly over. No traces remained of Mentes; the shadow-god had faded before the Lords of Light. Though Nugaril fought on, claws and stings were futile weapons against his foes; the glow in his eyes began to dim; he moved sluggishly as if his life force were draining away. Shammuron was under siege; a hole of shining whiteness opened in the air, and the Light Gods forced him ever closer to it.

She wanted to close her eyes and surrender to the exhaustion and fatigue that washed over her. Body and mind ached for the oblivion of sleep. Yet, Hafid shook her suddenly, exclaiming in her ear.

The swan-winged god drifted gently from the sky to stand before them. In a taloned hand he held the Book of the Last Battle.

“I am Shakari.” His voice was rich, melodic, full of sweet odors and promises of flowery, sun-drenched meadows, rippling streams of crystal water.

He extended a hand, and she took it tremorously. There was a pleasant warmth to his touch as his fingers closed on hers. All weariness melted away, and pain dissolved as her wounds miraculously healed.

When she attempted a sputtering thanks the being called Shakari only smiled and placed a finger on her lips, an oddly human gesture.

He led her between the monoliths. The Gate appeared undisturbed by the vortex's fury. The looming stones remained erect, unmarked.

On the altar stood the Stranger, grinning broadly. “So my young warrior, you've come far since we met in Etai Calan."

“If I was young then,” she answered, “I think I've grown very old since."

“In some ways,” Shakari conceded. “Much has happened since your encounter with Almurion. You have changed."

“Almurion?"

The Stranger made a deep bow. “We never had time for a proper introduction, did we?"

“But you should be dead. I saw the butterflies pick your bones."

Almurion lost his smile. “I suffered death as all men must. You see my spirit-form now. I've continued for a time to serve the Lords of Light, for it was granted to me when I stole the Book that I would see the end of this conflict, though I could no longer play an active part. Now, it is finished, and I will soon depart this world forever."

“The Book of the Last Battle is safe.” The swan-god stroked the volume as if it were a pet animal. “But a great harm has been done."

“What harm?” She could not help but frown at his chiding tone. “We won, didn't we?"

“There was more at stake then mere victory, child,” Almurion said. “I told you once the Lords of Light were not intended to take part in this war. Yet, you summoned them against their wishes with the spell you found in the Book. That has upset delicate cosmic timetables. Now, there can be no foretelling when the
true
Last Battle will take place."

“Worse,” Shakari continued. “That summoning spell was designed to call the Dark Ones at a time and place of
our
choosing. Now, they know it can also be used to call us. They heard when you spoke it. And they will remember."

She looked away. The land was quiet now, the battle over. “You have your concerns,” she answered evenly, “and I have mine. My world is safe for the time being, and I still have my life and the lives of some of my friends.” Her eyes locked with Almurion's. “That was all the reward you offered if I carried out your task."

He responded graciously with another bow and a grin.

“But one thing troubles me. When Natira's power first flowed through me I thought I detected a purpose—some plan to all this."

Shakari fluttered his wings. “Is it not purpose enough that the Book was rescued from the clutches of the Dark Gods?"

Almurion stepped down from the altar-stone and stood close to the swan-god. “Who can say what a purpose is?” He made a sweeping, all-encompassing gesture. “There are gods beyond gods, my child. Even Shakari has someone to worship. And his gods have their gods, hierarchy on hierarchy never ending. Who can say what purpose is fulfilled or whose plan? How could any being know?"

“Do not waste time searching for purposes,” Shakari advised. “That is a maze of circles and angles, full of dead ends and locked doors. Full of answers to questions that were never asked."

Wind and dust stirred around her, grew stronger with every heartbeat. A low moaning filled the night, rose to a fever pitch.

Suddenly, she stood at the center of a new vortex. The Lords of Light began to gather.

“We must leave you now, human.” The wail of the vortex drowned speech. Shakari's voice was an echo in her mind. “The Dark Ones no longer walk your earth, and we must prepare ourselves for the greater war to come when Light and Darkness meet for the final time—when the universe will die and be reborn in the image of the victor."

The swan-god passed the Book of the Last Battle into Almurion's hands. “Yet, there is one thing left to do.” He laid feathered hands on either side of her head and pressed gently, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You have seen the writing in the Book, and though we are grateful for what you have done, you cannot be permitted to keep that knowledge. Soon, you will sleep, and when you wake you will have no memory of what you saw on those tuneless pages."

Shakari stepped back.

Almurion raised a hand in farewell. “Live long, Frost of Esgaria, and remember me."

Then the world blurred and she sank to the ground, the vortex raging loud in her ears. The Lords of Light rose up through its center, spiraling dizzily and disappeared. Shakari and Almurion with the Book were last. In her mind the swan-god sang a soft song, and she didn't resist as it lulled her to sleep.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

She awakened to sweet air and a pleasing warmth on her face, recognizing the walls of her room in Erebus. Had it all been a bad dream, then? Another of her nightmares? Beyond the only window the sun shone brightly in an unblemished sky.

No, not a dream. The livid scar on her palm was real.

She threw back the coverlet and found herself dressed in a soft linen gown. Someone had bathed her, too, and lightly scented her hair with herbs. She swung her feet out of bed, sat up.

Movement in the corridor.

“Kregan?"

A serving girl turned, startled, when she jerked open the door. Then the young, dust-smeared face lit up. The girl made a quick curtsy, muttered “good morning,” and sped excitedly off, rattling bottles on her tray.

Frost bit her lip, frowning. The wench could have stayed long enough to answer some questions. Where was everyone? The place was so quiet. Easing the door shut, she went back to her bed, hugged her knees and leaned against the tapestried wall.

Where was everyone?

A knock. Somebody called her name.

Well, whoever it was, she'd welcome the company. If only she'd thought to look for some clothes. But no matter. She called out for them to enter.

Rhadamanthus led a string of servants inside. At his direction they heaped a small wooden table with platters of meats, fruits, raw vegetables and breads. A cheese was set at her right hand, jugs of wine and fresh water at her left.

It hadn't occurred to her that she was hungry, yet when the food was set before her she ate ravenously with a relish she had not known for weeks. Dismissing the servants, the Elder of the Black Arrow took a chair opposite her and began carving a plump fruit with a slender dagger. They talked between mouthfuls.

“Natira was a goddess."

Rhadamanthus nodded, sipped his wine. “Yes, a Neutral. I'm not sure when I knew for certain, but I suspected.” He set down his dagger, leaned on one elbow. “There was always an aura about her. I feared it at first, but later...” His voice trailed off.

“I remember.” She chewed a bite of meat and swallowed. “I felt the same."

Natira's power was gone, expended in the summoning of the Lords of Light, and without it her own witchcraft was dormant again.

“For a moment, when her magic flowed into me, we shared a common mind, one set of memories. But it ended too quickly. When she died I was left with her power and knowledge to use it, but no more."

“And you're still not sure what role she really played in it all?"

Frost nodded. “You called her a Neutral?"

“Some powers are unaligned with either Light or Dark. They'll have no place in a cosmos ruled by one or the other exclusively. For them, the Last Battle means utter oblivion. Yet, their own natures bind them from taking sides or interfering in that final struggle,"

“But she did interfere!"

“Not really.” The elder picked up his dagger, smeared butter on a piece of bread and washed it down with water, then wine. “She struck no blow against the Dark Gods."

“But she gave me her power!"

The old man's eyes twinkled. “And
you
used it against them. It's a fragile difference, I know. But then, gods can be like that sometimes. That's why we Chondites seldom bother with them. It's easier to draw magic from a pile of stones if you know how. And the stones don't require obeisance or make unreasonable demands on your morals."

She gazed beyond the window. A flock of birds flew through the sapphire sky. “Does a goddess truly die?"

Rhadamanthus rocked forward and snatched a strip of meat. “She did what she came to do, probably knowing from the first it meant her end. What other reason for her fascination for Demon-fang? She recognized it as the instrument of her death. And to give you her power she had to die."

Frost considered that for a few moments while they ate in silence. Then a deeper understanding filled her. Rhadamanthus had part of the truth, but not all. “You say that the Last Battle means doom for the Neutral Gods?” Yes, those were his words. She smiled a thin, ironic smile. “Shakari told me that by opening the Book and summoning the Light Lords I caused the time of that Battle to be delayed
beyond all foretelling.
"

Rhadamanthus thought, then nodded appreciatively. “She knew the dagger was her death,” he said, “but also that it could open the Book."

“And that delayed the doom of the Neutral Gods beyond all foretelling as well.” She set her own eating dagger aside, regarding the wine in the bottom of her cup pensively. “I thought I sensed a purpose to it all."

“Purpose?” Rhadamanthus steepled his fingers. “Who can fathom the purposes of gods?"

“I've heard that before.” She tossed down the last of her wine and wiped her mouth. “In any case, it's over and we won."

He shook his head. “A costly victory for Chondos, I'm afraid. Our best young men are dead, our brotherhoods depleted. We'll try to recruit new apprentices from the common populace, but it'll be many years before we can raise another army of quality warriors."