Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  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.

  Concentrating, she filled her mind with visions of bones and grinning butterflies. She imagined her bones mingled with Kregan's in the dirt, two wild daisies blossoming serenely in the eye-sockets of her skull.

  She nurtured that thought and, slowly, feeling came into her left hand. Her fingers clenched tighter on the hilt of her sword. Her arm raised an inch—but no more. Zarad-Krul's Eye burned into her, perceiving her plan and thwarting it with a power that nearly numbed her mind. Tears scalded her cheeks; she felt herself slipping into a deep void, knowing she would never return.

  Then, Ashur cried out, a sound of helpless agony. The echo of it beat at her brain. The unicorn bellowed again, each tune bringing her farther from the abyss the bloated Eye sucked her toward. She focussed her will on the sound, conjured images of the unicorn's suffering, used them to feed the rage and hatred that would weaken Zarad-Krul's spell. We won't quit, Ashur, she swore inwardly. We won't die!

  She strained against the wizard's power. Sweat rolled thickly down her face, neck, and arms. The sword quivered in her hand; the point lifted another inch. Her head began to throb; muscles ached as she battled for possession of her own body.

  Her eyelids fluttered. With a furious effort she snapped them shut ...

  And the spell shattered. In the instant Zarad-Krul's gaze lost hers her body and will became her own again. A savage snarl curled her lips. The sword flew up in a glittering arc.

  Fierce, desperate, she hacked and pulled at the grass and flowers that encased the lower half of her form. Red, mottled circles marked her skin where the vampire plants had touched her. Kregan was nearly lost in the blossoms; only a little of his face was yet exposed. The legs of their mounts were similarly encased, but most of the plants had gone for the animal's throats. Neither Kregan nor Neri moved, transfixed by the Eye's power, but Ashur tossed his head wildly, though he could not flee.

  Perhaps it was the peculiar nature of the unicorn's eyes, or the fact that he was, himself, a creature of magic that made him immune to the Eye's mesmeric spell. Frost had little time to wonder, recalling only the Stranger's words—that the unicorn was a weapon to aid her against Zarad-Krul.

  She tore away the last of the vampire plants with a triumphant shout. Shielding her eyes with an uplifted arm, she swung her blade swung up, then down, meeting slight resistance as the steel edge sliced through membranous layers, cleaving the black pupil in half.

  Steaming blood and humor splashed on the ground. The vampire blossoms threw themselves into the bilious liquid, thirsting, sucking it up.

  Grim with satisfaction, she regarded her handiwork. The Eye reflected shock and pain as the loathsome thing emptied its fluid like a broken egg. The jaundiced ichor spilled from the wound, soaked into the earth, and the transparent husk that remained wobbled obscenely, then collapsed. She watched, revulsion knotting her stomach, as the husk dissolved in foul-smeiling vapor, leaving the earth stained with a black dew.

  Then, unexpectedly, the raw edge of a psychic scream lanced her brain. When the shock of it passed she smiled cruelly, knowing that in distant Shardaha Zarad-Krul had gone permanently blind in one eye.

  Freed from the trance, Kregan ripped at the flowers that clung to his body. His face a mask of fury, he shredded the vines that tangled his ankles, curled around his thighs. Ashur and Neri had already struggled free, and the unicorn diligently trampled the few remaining blossoms.

  She smiled, but her joy was short-lived. Another sound chilled her heart. She glanced skyward, then at Kregan. He heard it, too—the steady flutter of soft wings.

  “Your butterflies?” A quiet dread laced his words.

  “Ride, man!” she called, leaping astride Ashur. “Like the breath of Hell was on your neck!"

  They flew over the plain; their shadows quested far ahead, misshapen by the rugged terrain. To the right another shadow blotted the stars, a rhythmic thrumming that pursued them, beat their ears.

  Kregan cast fearful glances over his shoulder and shouted against the rushing wind.

  “If we can last until sunrise they'll leave us alone,” she yelled back.

  Ashur would not falter; the unicorn's stamina was arcane. It was Neri she worried about. The little mare had a valiant heart but was too tired to keep the pace for long.

  Yet, long before the first rays of morning lit the sky the sound began to fade. Frost looked up. Unexplainably, the shadow had turned north. She slowed Ashur's pace, suspecting a trick, but the swarm held to its new course. She motioned Kregan to stop.

  “It's a long time till dawn, yet they're turning away."

  The Chondite scratched his chin. “Zarad-Krul has exhausted himself tonight,” he offered at last. “Without the Eye, his will alone had to guide the insects. Over such a distance that kind of control would be a tremendous strain."

  The insect horde disappeared, swallowed up in the dark. Frost and Kregan walked alongside their animals; Neri could be ridden no more that night.

  “His madness has taken deep roots,” observed the Chondite. “There are many ways to see over the vast reaches, but with an inflated sense of the dramatic, the wizard chose to send an actual part of himself, leaving him vulnerable to physical attack."

  “It allowed him to exercise his power, though,” she pointed out. “No illusion could have conjured those plants."

  “True,” he admitted. “That kind of magic required more than just gazing into a scrying crystal from the safety of his tower. Still, he badly underestimated the resourcefulness of his foes. I'm a Chondite sorcerer, and you—something special."

  She ignored his wink. “What will he do next?"

  Kregan shrugged. “Who can anticipate a madman? But you've won the first round, at least. The wizard is undoubtedly suffering considerable pain from the wound you've dealt him."

  “A small skirmish in a larger war,” she answered darkly. “And wounded animals are always the most deadly."

  A flock of nocturnal birds flew overhead, winging south for the Calendi Sea. She recalled the bird-things at Cundalacontir. Emissaries, Kregan called them. Spies, she realized.

  Their trail had been too easy to follow. So eager to reach Chondos, they had given no thought to evading an enemy. Too late to worry, now. Zarad-Krul had already discovered the direction they were travelling and just as surely had recognized Kregan's Chondite garb. It took no great magic to guess their destination.

  “How far to Chondos?” she asked.

/>   “Hard to say in this darkness. Another day's ride at a swift pace. Longer if we continue walking."

  “I want to make the border by sunset,” she told her companion. “Will Neri last?"

  “She'll last,” he answered confidently, “given a little rest now. But we can't cross the border at just any point we choose. The Cocytus River that separates Rholaroth and Chondos can only be forded at three places."

  Frost tilted her head, frowning. “The closest place?"

  “A causeway guarded at either side by Zondu in Rholaroth and Erebus in Chondos. The nearest point, but not necessarily the safest, considering how the Zonduns hate all Chondites. The other two points are natural crossings where the raging waters grow calm and shallow enough for a careful man to wade; they lie farther to the north."

  “Then we ride to Zondu."

  “It will be dangerous for you, too,” he warned. “By now Lord Rholf will have our descriptions from that innkeeper, and honor demands he avenge his sons, no matter that they provoked the fight. It's the Rholarothan way; they believe damnation awaits any man who does not avenge his kin."

  “What are you saying?” Frost demanded impatiently.

  “If word of your fight has reached Zondu we could be riding into a trap. The law would hold you until Rholf came."

  “We've ridden very fast with only short rests."

  “A determined rider with a string of fresh horses could have been faster."

  But there was no choice. When night descended, Zarad-Krul would strike again. Chondos offered possible safety. There, Kregan would find the right sorcerous tools to fight back; he'd have his brotherhood to help. Together, they'd find a hiding place for the Book. Whatever the risk in Zondu, they had to make Chondos by nightfall.

  As the first rays of an early sun painted the sky they halted on the edge of a rocky crest. A vast, barren expanse stretched for miles, not quite a desert. No trees or farmhouses dotted the land, no clump of grass grew in the sun-baked earth.

  “The Zondaur,” Kregan said, indicating the plain with a sweeping gesture.