Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  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.

  “Bitch!” he shouted. “You miserable bitch! Ye're gonna pay fer this. Good boys, every one of ‘em, and that one with no hand my very own son! You'll wish ye'd laid down an’ had it nice an’ proper when ye had the chance ‘fore I'm through with ye now."

  Vericus began to loosen his clothes, lust and hatred burning in his eyes. The others licked their lips, grinning in anticipation.

  “Now lay ‘er down on the ground an’ hold ‘er tight. Ye don't have to be none too gentle about it either."

  Frost smashed her foot against the shin of one of her captors and got a fist in the stomach in return. She struggled, twisting
, as her feet were jerked from under her. With a man on each limb they pinned her in the dirt.

  Vericus ran filthy hands over her breasts and across her belly. When his fingers brushed something under her garment his face lit up.

  “Hey, the bitch as been holdin’ out on us, boys!” He shoved his hand roughly under her tunic and pulled out the Book of the Last Battle.

  “No!"

  The raider captain slapped her mouth before she could make another sound. His fist pressed down on her lips. “Don't ye worry now. Ye're not gonna be doin’ much readin’ anymore.” He threw the Book casually to one of his men. “Keep it. Might bring a copper or two later."

  Dirty fingers clawed at her belt, and Vericus leered as her tunic fell open. She felt a flash of pain as his big hand pinched one breast.

  “She ain't got much fer tits,” commented the raider who knelt on her sword-arm.

  “They'll do,” Vericus huffed.

  Frost stiffened, cursing her helplessness. She shut her eyes again to hold back tears, refused to feel the coarse hands that wandered so freely on her body.

  Then, a peculiar distant cry interrupted his pleasure. Vericus looked questioningly at the others. They returned his puzzled gaze and shrugged.

  The cry sounded again, unearthly.

  Then, Frost felt a vibration in the road against her spine. Pinned as she was, she could still press an ear to the ground.

  Hoof-beats, approaching fast. She arched, hoping for a view of the road behind.

  A third time she heard the cry. Suddenly, her captors leaped up, reaching for swords, cursing, and calling on their gods.

  Frost rolled over, stared.

  A beast, a stygian nightmare from the lowest levels of hell, charged. Tail and mane lashed the air. Where eyes should have been there burned two wild, blazing spots of angry flame, and from its forelock sprouted a giant, twisted spike of gleaming obsidian, long as a man's arm.

  Head lowered, the unicorn slammed its horn through the nearest raider. With a triumphant cry it tossed the screaming man over its back into the bushes.

  She watched with a stunned gaze, then pulled her clothes together, snatched up her own sword. However dangerous the impossible creature might be, there was a score to settle, and she chose the closest of her attackers.

  “Turn around, you pig!"

  The man bearing the falchion spun at the sound of her voice. Her sword bit through his neck and shoulder, and blood fountained. Something fell from his lifeless fingers. The Book of the Last Battle. Frost thanked her own gods and scooped it up, thrust it back under her tunic. In her thirst for vengeance she had nearly forgotten about it.

  She was spotted, though. One raider glanced at the unicorn, then at her, his face a pale mask of fear. Clearly, he thought her the easier foe, and with his long dirk he lunged. Her longer blade knocked his aside with an easy slash. Desperately, he struck again. She leaped aside and swung, but the man was nimble as she and dodged her blow. Another exchange, and he managed to circle past her to the open road, broke from the fight and ran, but she followed with quick strides. With a startled cry he toppled in the dirt, hamstrung by a clever stroke. She met his fearful gaze for just a moment, then thrust her point through his throat.

  A scream made her turn as the unicorn's deadly hooves crashed down on a raider's skull. The beast reared again and pulped the same man's chest.

  She looked around; only Vericus still stood.

  The bandit captain saw her, too, and snatched a second sword from the hand of a dead cohort. Doubly armed, his eyes flickered from her to the unicorn and back again.

  The unicorn pawed the earth and reared, snorting. The great horn, stained crimson, flashed as the creature shook its mane. Yet, it did not charge, and it seemed Vericus had won a short respite.

  “Witch!” he shouted hysterically. “My boys—all dead!"

  Frost kept her eyes on the unicorn, wary of the animal, but determined to see Vericus dead. She moved in slowly, sliding the shield from her back, holding it high on her right arm.

  Vericus ranted. “Curse ye! Damn ye to hell, ye an’ this demon!"

  She stopped then, wondering at the unicorn. Vericus stood between her and the creature. If she killed him would it attack her?

  “Ye an’ that monster did ‘em in, an’ now ye think ye got ol’ Vericus. Well, ye'll not take me, witch!” He raised one sword and hurled it with all his might straight for her.

  She didn't flinch, but casually lifted her own blade and knocked the glittering missile from the air.

  But the motion seemed to enrage the unicorn. Kicking up dust, it charged Vericus. Defiantly, the raider drew back to strike at the lowered head.

  His broad, undefended back to her, Frost acted instantly. Her own sword flashed across the short distance, sank to the hilt between his powerful shoulders.

  The unicorn stopped in mid-charge, shaking its huge head.

  Wide-eyed, a surprised Vericus touched the point that protruded from his body and sighed disbelievingly. Blood ran down the front of his hairy chest. He rubbed his hands in it and held them up to his eyes. His lips curled back in a curse. “Well, ye killed me too—damn ye, witch!” His knees buckled and he fell, sucking for a last breath that never came.

  The unicorn paced slowly over and sniffed his bright blood. Then, it looked at Frost and snorted.

  She could read nothing in the creature's face. Without her sword she was easy meat if it charged. She glanced around for a weapon with which to defend herself. Nothing. Her fist closed on the hilt of Demonfang; the dagger was better than no weapon at all.

  Yet something about the unicorn seemed different. The fire where its eyes should have been wavered and dimmed. It pranced nervously among the bandits’ bodies, stopping frequently to stare at her. Finally, the beast lowered its head and plodded shyly toward her.

  She tensed, not quite drawing Demonfang. As if sensing her distrust the unicorn halted. It looked up at her and the flames that were eyes glowed softly.

  Her fingers uncurled from the dagger's hilt.

  The blood-caked horn slid under her arm as the unicorn muzzled her hand. Its breath was sweet and warm on her palm.

  Cautiously, she stroked the animal between its strange eyes and down the broad face. It trembled beneath her hand as she rubbed the long neck, smoothed the tangled mane, her touch growing bolder with each passing moment.

  The long legs were perfect, swift and strong with hooves larger than a normal horse's and shining black like the deadly spike on its brow. The tail swept the ground, so thick and lustrous.

  She touched the horn, ran her hand over its length in awe and wonder. With a corner of her cloak she wiped the blood from it until it gleamed in the sunlight.

  It confounded her how quickly a bond formed between her and this beast. Such animals existed only in myths, she told herself, or in hell. How could it possibly be standing here licking her fingers?

  By chance, then, she brushed the silver hilt of Demonfang, and suddenly she recalled the words of the Stranger in the forest. The second weapon would come to her, he said. Did he mean the unicorn?

  Resolutely, she wrapped her hand in the matted mane and leaped onto its back. It took two steps sideways and stood still. She breathed a sigh of relief. She had expected to be thrown, quite probably trampled. Instead, the unicorn seemed so tame it was difficult to remember it had killed two men.

  She jumped down long enough to retrieve her sword from the raider captain's body. With a two-handed effort the blade came free, and she wiped it clean on the dead man's sleeve.

  Once again she mounted the unicorn. No longer afoot she could make Shazad by nightfall, and at last be out of this damned forest.

  “Wait,” a voice called weakly. “Please."

  She looked back. The man Vericus had called son raised up on one elbow. He waved a bloody stump where his hand had been.

  “Help me,” he pleaded.

  She peered down at him, suddenly seeing another youth—her own bro
ther. They looked alike, were about the same age, and she had stood over him, too, her sword dripping with his hated blood.

  “The only thing I owe you is a blade through your worthless gut."

  “You can't leave me here to die!” he sniveled, lifting the stump higher, pointing it accusingly at her. Red fluid squirted on the ground and soaked into the dirt, making dark puddles. It rolled down his arm into his sleeve.

  Frost gazed at the pallid face. If the wound were bound and cauterized he might yet live, but she doubted it. She had seen such injuries before among her father's warriors. Almost always the blood turned to poison and the skin went green around the wound. Death was slow and painful.

  Not that a raider's death mattered. She had worse sins to answer for. She nudged the unicorn with her heels and started down the road.

  “How?” she heard him shriek. “How could this happen? A woman and a horse. I'm killed!"

  That made her stop. She twisted in surprise. Was the boy blind or just crazed from despair? To call her steed a common horse. Vericus had seen the unicorn and called it a monster. The others had done the same.

  On an impulse, she rode back to him and leaned from the unicorn's back. The raider youth sat up, regarding her with hopeful eyes.

  “Maybe I will help you—if you answer a question."

  He nodded eagerly.

  “What kind of horse am I riding?"

  He stared back dumbly and she repeated the question. “Answer, if you want my help."

  His mouth warped in a cautious smile. “Well, it's a stallion, a big black."