Frost (6 page)

“Take this cursed thing from my hands,” he ordered. “And put away that stupid sword."

She grabbed the Book, and the sword went back into its scabbard. “What do you know about this?” she asked. The Book disappeared once more inside her tunic.

He paced beside the stream, face lined with agitation and worry. “More than any mortal should. I knew it had come into this world. An acquaintance asked my help in finding it, but we serve different gods, and he wouldn't completely confide in me. I had no choice but to refuse, knowing he would continue to search alone.

“For several days I wondered how he fared, for though it was a fool's quest the very daring of it preyed upon my mind. In a bowl of magic waters I followed his progress, but when he crossed into Shardaha the waters turned black and I could see no more. I knew, then, he was in danger, and I couldn't help him.

“Two more nights the waters remained dark, but on the third I saw a strange vision. Not my friend, but a woman whose face was hidden. From Esgaria she came astride a violent beast from a time long forgotten. In her hands she carried the world; balanced on her shoulders was a great golden scale that tilted first one way, then the other. A witch and a warrior, her hands were stained with murdered blood, yet I could not call her evil.

“Whoever she was, I knew our destinies were linked, else she could not have appeared in my bowl. On the last full moon I left my homeland and journeyed to Shazad where my gods warned me she would appear."

He stopped his pacing, faced her. His eyes, two coals, burned into her. “You are that woman, Frost. I didn't know when you would come—I was prepared to wait months, years, if necessary. I hoped when I first heard your accent at the inn and witnessed your swordplay. I knew for certain when the unicorn charged up the street to carry you away."

Frost blinked. “What did you say?"

“Oh yes,” he grinned. “I'm well aware that Ashur is no horse. Like most of my people, I have the gift of
true-sight
. I see things as they really are, not as they appear."

She had other questions about that, but passed over them. “Why did you take the Book?"

“When you fell asleep I saw it hidden beneath your leg. I knew at once what it was."

“Then you can read the runes written on it?"

“I can only recognize them,” he answered. “No earthly tongue can speak that language. But tell me how you came by it?"

Sitting upon the grass she related her meeting with the Stranger and told how he had taken the Book from Zarad-Krul. Lastly, she revealed the manner of his death.

“Butterflies,” she whispered. The image still burned in her mind, brought a chill to her flesh.

He bowed his head sadly. “Men believe that evil things have evil shapes, that they are ugly and hideous to behold. So they are to those with
true-sight
, but to an ordinary mortal evil takes a beautiful form to confuse and lure the unsuspecting. My friend died a noble death."

“A noble death.” echoed Frost, “is no less dead."

“Dwell on it no more,” he responded thoughtfully. “But tell me, what man do you seek in Chondos? Few dare to visit that dreaded land."

“A Brother of the Black Arrow,” she answered. “A man named Kregan."

Suddenly he shook with harsh laughter. “Oh gods!” he cried. “Rich beyond imagining! I should have realized.” He laughed harder and tore at his robes. “Oh, I've kept this hated guise too long!"

It hardly seemed a time for laughter. She stared, unspeaking, disapproving, wondering what madness had befallen him.

“Oh, laugh with me, Frost, at this one jest. There will be little mirth soon enough, I fear."

She was unmoved. “Why should I laugh?"

His eyes held a rare twinkle. He bent close to mock her stern tone. “I'm Kregan,” he said.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

Casting his tattered garments into the bushes, Kregan raised his arms over his head and stretched. His naked, bronzed skin glimmered in the sun's last rays. His body showed great strength; though past his youth, he was not truly old.

Frost had seldom been so close to a naked man. She stared shamelessly. “Why a disguise?"

Kregan waded into the stream and began to bathe. “Chondites are not well-liked in these parts. It's safer and easier to go about disguised. To most eyes a ragged old man is too harmless and too poor to warrant much attention."

Finishing his bath, he took from the mare's saddlebags fresh, clean clothes; black leggings and boots of soft black leather that reached his knees; a sleeveless tunic of fine ebon silk that laced to the throat; a belt of golden links whose buckle was a cleverly fashioned arrow—the sign of his Brotherhood; lastly, a voluminous cloak, hemmed and bordered with runes in gold thread. Powerful and fearsome he looked in his new clothes

“I thought you'd stolen the horse,” she remarked caustically. “Guess I was wrong."

Kregan laughed. “Did you respect me more as a horse-thief?” He winked and patted the brown mare affectionately. “I raised Neri from a foal; she'd carry me through the Nine Hells if I asked her, or run herself to death to keep pace with your witch-steed."

“A fault in your disguise, though,” she observed. “How could a ragged old man own such a horse?"

He nodded. “Exactly what Lord Rholf's sons wanted to know when I rode up to the inn. Still, it was a long journey from Chondos; I didn't want to leave her behind."

From the north rose a wind, cold and chill as the winds of Cundalacontir. The sun had deserted the sky; in the northeast dark clouds gathered.

The Book of the Last Battle lay heavy and warm next to her stomach. She clutched it unconsciously as the wind rustled her clothes, feeling the rough binding and carven characters through the material of her tunic.

“Well, you've saved me a long ride to Chondos,” she said with a sigh. “Now tell me what to do with this.” She took out the Book.

Kregan's face darkened. “I don't know yet what to do with it.” His brow wrinkled; a grim mood settled on his features. “Riding to Chondos is still the best plan. There are tools there I will need, and people to help us. If I can do anything with the Book we must take it to Chondos."

Entering that land was still not a pleasing prospect. Though she trusted this one Chondite, his people had an evil reputation that she could not easily forget. The Stranger in the woodland trusted them, though, and all he had said had come true.

“If there's no other way, then we've wasted enough time,” she said.

Her friend looked thoughtful, held up an objecting hand. “I would waste just a little more,” he said soberly. “Our road has been long—your own somewhat longer and bloodier than mine. Should you wish to avail yourself of the stream and its cleansing waters I would not complain of the delay."

Frost smiled at his tactfulness. Indeed, she could smell her own stink; the road dust was thick on her face and her hands. Her garments were splotched with dark stains, dead men's blood. Her hair, tangled and wild from hard riding, was even crusted with blood.

“Not long ago my father would have cut off the lips of any man who dared say such a thing.” She shrugged her shoulders. A sad note crept into her voice. “Well, times change."

“If you're modest, I'll busy myself elsewhere,” Kregan offered.

She pulled off a boot. “Modesty is something I left behind,” she hesitated, looked over her shoulder to the south, Esgaria, “in a past life."

How could she tell him? How could she tell anyone of her crime?

Her clothes in a pile by the water's edge, Book and sword near at hand, she strode into the stream. The water rippled, caressed her with gentle coolness. With unconscious grace she leaned forward. A cascade of thick, black hair swirled as she immersed herself, rose and began to scrub.

The bath lightened her mood. She stretched face down, letting the water flow over her, feeling the sand and pebbles strewn on the bottom with her fingers and toes.

She scrubbed her clothes, too, washing out the dust, but not the brown stains that spotted the gray fabric. As she worked, she glanced up at Kregan, aware that he had not taken his eyes away since she had stripped. He sat near the bank, and it amused her to watch him shift position every few moments. Now he sat with his knees drawn tightly together.

“Maybe this will help,” she said, and splashed him.

She pulled on her dripping garments, buckled her sword.

“You shouldn't wear those wet,” Kregan said, rising.

She blinked. The late evening twilight could not completely hide the prominent sign of his arousal. “You just want to admire the view a little longer,” she chided. “I'll dry out quick enough when we start to ride.” As an afterthought, she added, “You can ride in that condition, can't you?"

Kregan smoothed the front of his tunic and smiled broadly.

She picked up the Book and put it away, called to Ashur. Munching a bit of grass, the unicorn tossed its head and trotted to her side.

“I've a little dried meat in my saddlebag,” Kregan said.

“We'll eat as we ride."

When they were mounted she took the offered morsel. The meat was heavily salted, but hungry as she was, nothing ever tasted sweeter. They rode slowly, chewing, but when the meal was done, she nudged Ashur with her heels. The unicorn broke into a run; Neri followed, and Frost watched their shadows race before as the bright moon peered over the horizon behind them.

An ominous wall rose on their right—the Creel Mountains. Like giant mercenary soldiers, stiff, rugged, they loomed casting a shadow of fear black as Drood Mountain itself.

Frost felt a creeping between her shoulders, forced it away. She had heard tales of a race that dwelled among those rocky peaks and steep valleys, a tribe so vicious and primitive that even battle-hardened Rholarothan regulars refused to come here. She was grateful they passed only at the foot of the mountains and did not have to travel though them.

There were few mountains in Esgaria, but once she had stood on the high cliffs above the Calendi Sea, a girl of fifteen summers. The salt spray stung her face, the wind whipped her hair as she unleashed the full, terrible strength of her witchcraft. Giant waves crashed on the jagged rocks below; the sea churned, raged.

Not the handiwork of a god commanded by a wizard, nor the result of a sorcerer's symbol, gesture or word of power. A witch—the force was natural, a part of her. She compelled the storm. She alone calmed it.

Never again, though. Her power was gone, her skill stolen away. Now, she had only her sword.

Her brother had learned of her secret obsession, tried to kill her as was his right under an ancient Esgarian law forbidding females to handle men's weapons. His was the blood spilled that night, though, and her mother had cursed her for it.

A brooding melancholy dampened her spirit. To drive away the memories she counted the hoof-beats that echoed in her ears.

Kregan was no longer beside her. She slowed her pace to allow him to catch up. Neri was heavily lathered; her brown hide glistened with sweat. Kregan reined in and slid from the saddle. Fatigue shone on his features.

“I won't kill her, woman,” he said calmly enough, stroking the mare lovingly. “Not even to save that damned Book."

She took a deep breath and dropped from Ashur's back. The unicorn was worn, too, dark mane flecked with foam.

“I wouldn't ask that,” she answered. “We'll walk awhile."

Her own voice startled her, morose and gloomy, heavy with exhaustion. She wished her companion would talk, lift this dark mood from her, but he said nothing; only the sounds of their breathing and their footsteps disturbed the silent night.

Then, the unicorn stopped and sniffed the air. Frost urged him along, but he stopped again and sniffed. Neri stopped, too. The little mare began to stamp and tremble. The fiery eyespots on Ashur's face flamed suddenly, burned wildly, and the unicorn reared.

Frost strove to calm him, catching a handful of his mane, stroking his sleek neck. Kregan cooed soothing sounds in Neri's ear.

The animals seemed to settle down, but now
Frost
could not relax. The fire in Ashur's hellish eyes shone brighter than ever, casting dancing pools of light upon the ground. She turned to Kregan, but he motioned her to silence, listened, searched in all directions.

She became acutely aware of their exposed position. On the broad plain there was no place to seek cover. Her sword made a soft hiss as it slid free of the sheath.

With no warning, the unicorn reared again, a trumpeting, unearthly cry in its throat. Neri whinnied piteously and jerked her head from side to side until the metal bit bloodied her mouth.

Frost felt a prickling on her neck, turned and screamed.

The Eye of Zarad-Krul loomed over her. Swollen veins full of dark blood laced the rheumy jelly; the foul black pupil, a window into some part of Hell, gleamed with a malignancy.

As she met its gaze she knew her soul was lost. A numbness spread through her limbs, an icy chill that froze her blood, held her motionless, rooted. She screamed again, but no sound passed her lips. A half-uttered curse, a cry and she knew Kregan would be no help. Nor the animals; they, too, were trapped by the same spell that gripped her.

An evil quiet settled on the world.

Then, from the rocky, barren earth blades of grass, emerald serpents, sprouted, grew, coiled around her ankles. Tiny flowers sprang up beneath her feet at a fantastic rate, bloomed with radiant hues, filled the air with a senses-stealing sweetness. Up her thighs the blossoms climbed, into her boots, into her sleeves. A sharp bite, a sting, and petalous mouths sucked her blood.

She shuddered, writhing inside as the flowers kissed her flesh, wormed under her belt, slithered over her breasts. She remembered the sword in her hand, tried to lift it, but her muscles would not respond.

Her throat tightened. A bead of sweat ran into her eye; she could do nothing to relieve the salty pain. A cloying panic swelled within her, though she worked to fight it down.