Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  When everyone was gone, Kregan took her hand and sighed. “You wanted action,” he reminded her. “Well, now it begins.” Suddenly, he wrapped her in his arms and held her close.

  It felt good, being held. His arms were warm, offering security. No one had hugged her since her mother. And that memory made her stiffen.

  That night, her nightmares returned: scenes of blood, fratricide and worse. Her mother reeled, died uttering the curse that stole away her witch-powers. Faces swam; accusing fingers jabbed her. A sword rose, fell with heartless regularity, gripped in her own hand. Screaming, she tried uselessly to pry her fingers from the hilt. Then, when everyone else was dead it turned on her, rising, falling....

  She woke with a cry, trembling in a cold sweat and willed her racing heart to calm. Slowly, the terror faded, and she breathed easier. A candle burned low on the table. Yet, hadn't she extinguished it before lying down? Puzzled, she swung her feet over the bed's edge. She froze.

  A shadow in the corner.

  She rubbed her eyes and looked again.

  “Natira ...?"

  The mute girl sat unmoving on the room's far side, wide-eyed, unblinking, staring. A faint smile parted that pale mouth.

  Frost sucked her lip apprehensively. Entrancement. She'd seen it before, knew the signs. She twisted to follow Natira's fixed gaze, half-expecting what she found.

  Demonfang.

  The candlelight gleamed on its silveriness. Secured in its sheath, the blade still hung on the wall, apparently untouched. Yet, there was no question that the woman had crept in uninvited for some purpose involving the dagger. Natira's queer interest made Frost uneasy, suspicious.

  A chill passed through her. At least, Natira had not tried to draw it. Fear of that and of more nightmares robbed her of further sleep that night. Wrapping a blanket around herself, she sat back on the bed, propped against the wall with feet drawn up to watch the strange young woman and to wait for dawn.

  But it was a dawn that never came. Kregan knocked lightly and entered, startling her from a reverie of unpleasant memories. His face was grim, and he was fully armored in elaborate leather.

  “No sunlight.” He ground his teeth; deep lines carved furrows across his brow. “The darkness of Zarad-Krul is upon us."

  She accepted the declaration morosely, and pointed to her silent guest. The Chondite's eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw Natira. He went quickly to her side, lifted her hand. It was limp, unresisting in his own. He rubbed her cheek, then, and shook her. But those staring blue eyes never wavered from the dagger.

  “Completely entranced,” said Frost. “Self-induced as far as I can tell."

  Kregan paced between the two women, obviously worried. “Look!” he cried suddenly.

  Natira stirred; her eyes fluttered, fingers twitched. Slowly, she rose with a wide yawn and smiled an utterly innocent expression. With a light, graceful step she drifted through the room and out the door, closing it softly behind her.

  The look on Kregan's face was pure confusion. Frost threw aside her blanket, got up and went to the window. No trace of the morning sun. Then, she took Demonfang down and buckled it around her waist, resting her hand on it, feeling its weight on her hip.

  “What do you know about her?” she asked finally. “In some odd way she scares the hell out of me—more than any man I've ever met."

  The Chondite nodded. “Very little, really. She's a mystery I've not had time to solve. You sense her power. Yes, power. I sense much more—a deep sorrow, a soul-wrenching sadness that reaches out from her and grips my heart."

  “Are you in love with her?” She tilted her head, wondered why the question brought a lump to her throat.

  “No,” he answered curtly, “but there's an empathy between us that I can't control. Rhadamanthus has felt it, too, and a few others. You feel it—that's what frightens you."

  He was right. There was a sadness about Natira, an almost tangible anguish. It had touched her, sparked sensitive memories that she wanted desperately to forget.

  “Most men avoid her for that."

  “But not you."

  Kregan sank heavily into the chair where Natira had been, and steepled his fingers. She went back to the window, grateful for a breeze that played on her face, and waited for the tale she knew was coming.

  “I found her wandering alone on the Field of Fire,” he began.

  The Brothers of the Black Arrow had gathered at Demonium to celebrate the Feast of Agathone. Everyone except Kregan had retired after the rituals, but restless, he began to walk, lost in private meditations, and after a time drifted away from the camp.

  Suddenly, a great screaming fireball lit the night, trailing smoke and flame. It flared once, then a second time so bright it hurt his eyes. A crash of thunder followed each flare; the final blast tumbled him to the ground.

  “It must have struck the earth,” he continued, “but I heard no explosion, felt no impact, or found any piece of ground disturbed in the slightest."

  Such an omen had to be discussed with Rhadamanthus, and Kregan ran back to camp. “But before I had run far I found her. She was naked, unconscious on the stony ground. Tears stained her face. And when I finally managed to wake her, I discovered she couldn't speak a word. I picked her up, then, and carried her back into camp, knowing the elder would have the means to question her—speechless or no."

  But the camp was in chaos. Most of the tents had been flattened by the thunderclap; some had caught flame from the campfires. The horses had panicked, bolted and trampled a few men.

  “And yet, every eye turned when they saw my peculiar burden. I took her to one of the surviving tents, laid her gently on a cot and called for Rhadamanthus. He went inside alone to examine her."

  A long sigh, a wistful look: Kregan folded his hands. “When he emerged a terrible change was on him. All his years seemed to settle on his shoulders, bowing him like a heavy weight. For two days he spoke to nobody, but his expression was filled with the same dreadful grief that the other Krilar and I felt whenever we came near her. Only, he seemed to feel it more intensely, and to this day he refuses to remain in her presence."

  Frost nodded. “So you took her under your protection?"

  “And named her Natira,” he answered, “meaning star-born, for I believe in my heart of hearts that is what she is. Something to do with that fireball and thunderclap. Some spirit of the stars, perhaps, trapped in fleshly form, longing to return home."

  “But why is she so fascinated by Demonfang?"

  “Who knows?” he replied. “There are mysteries within mysteries, and your dagger has not caught her fancy without reason.” His dark eyes narrowed grimly. “Forces are gathering on both sides of this last battle with Zarad-Krul, and pieces of the puzzle have yet to find their places—not even a Chondite sorcerer can see the outcome clearly."

  All her memories and melancholies rushed back upon her then, and for just a moment the room was full once more with ghosts from her past.

  A rough slap on the shoulder by her Chondite friend drove them away.

  “No more time for stories, though,” he said, brightening. “We ride for Demonium this morning. Look, I've brought you something.” He opened the door. Just outside was a large bag he had set there earlier. He displayed the contents on her bed.

  Armor fine as his own, rune-carved and worked ever so intricately lay there. “Yours,” he indicated the pieces. “A craftsman labored yesterday and all through the night to finish it."

  “Without measurements?” she frowned.

  “Trust a little Chondite magic,” he chided. “It'll fit."

  “How soon do we ride?"

  “Within the hour, fast and hard. Last night a horde of Shardahanis streamed over the Acheron and burned Dulaam, our northernmost city. Now they're on their way to Indrasad."

  A knock at the door. Kregan bid three servants enter, bearing a tray of cold meat and fruits with wine and water to drink. More candles were brought to light the gloom while they
made a hasty breakfast.

  “Does Zarad-Krul accompany them?” she asked, picking up the conversation between bites.

  Kregan shook his head. “Nor Mentes or Nugaril. But other things ride with them—shadows without form or substance, wielding solid blades; flying creatures that strike with talons and edged wings sharp as steel. And there are other magicks at work, too. Otherwise, Dulaam would not have fallen while Chondites stood on Chondite soil."

  She considered that, chewing a last bit of meat. “Wait.” She swallowed suddenly. “I've studied your maps, and Indrasad lies in the wrong direction."

  Kregan pushed back from table, rose. “No, it doesn't."

  She rose, too. “Indrasad is in the north-central. It's the Book Zarad-Krul wants, and that's here in Erebus."

  The Chondite paced before the narrow window, staring out. “And how do you think the wizard knows that? To lure him into Chondos we let him glimpse the Book in his scrying crystals. Only, his power has grown faster than we realized, thanks to the presence of Mentes and Nugaril, and he glimpsed a part of our plan as well."

  A piece of fruit fell, forgotten, from her fingers. She remembered the maps and traced a mental line. “Indrasad lies in a direct line from Dulaam to Demonium."

  The Chondite allowed an ironic smile. “That's where he's going. He knows that Demonium holds our only chance of resisting his power, and if he holds Demonium he can come take the Book of the Last Battle at his leisure."

  “So that's how the game's to be played, then. Our armies race Zarad-Krul's minions to the Gate—a race we dare not lose."

  “The Nine Cities have rallied. Dulaam is down and Indrasad preparing for battle. The rest are marching or about to march."

  “Then, it's time to go."

  Quickly, she pulled on the new armor. As Kregan swore, each piece seemed molded for her body. It was lightweight and did not restrict her movements as she had feared. She took down her sword and buckled it on. Over all, she threw her own gray riding cloak.

  Lastly, she reached beneath her pillow for the Book. It seemed twice as heavy as before when she slipped it into a pouch and slung it over her shoulder.

  Their mounts were waiting in the stables. A white charger was ready for Kregan; Neri had never returned. Ashur, too, had been saddled. Nervously, the unicorn trembled, disliking the feel of it on his back. She stroked the animal's sleek throat, whispering calmly to him; then, carefully, she mounted, whispering and stroking until his trembling ceased.

  Outside the stables, Natira was waiting. Her azure eyes flickered from Kregan to Frost to Demonfang, and settled finally on the Chondite with a pleading look.

  “No, my Star-born," he said softly. “There's no place for you on this adventure. You're no warrior, and I'll have no time to watch out for you."

  Tears swelled in those blue eyes, flowed over pale cheeks, but no sound of weeping did she make. Kregan leaned from his saddle and brushed the tears away with a tenderness that was touching. Then, he kissed her brow and spurred his mount, leaving Natira behind.

  As they approached the northern gate they slowed once more to a walk. She could not resist teasing her sorcerous friend. “Surely, these are not the cruel, black-hearted Chondites I was taught to fear as a child, and that the world calls inhuman."

  Kregan was not amused. “Don't misinterpret my feelings for Natira, woman,” he snapped, then added cryptically, “or for you. There are many Chondites beyond that gate, and some may yet teach you the truth behind those tales."

  Outside the walls, the warriors of Erebus waited in long mounted lines. In the darkness, she could not guess their number, but those she could see were well armed and armored. Yet, here and there were men bearing no weapons other than great staves of black wood, silver-bound at each end with fine wire.

  Krilar, Kregan called them. The master-sorcerers of the Brotherhoods. And they used no other weapon.

  Kregan led her to a place of honor at the army's head. Nine guardians, Brothers of the Black Arrow, rode at her back. One gave to Kregan a scarlet cloak and his own Krilar staff.

  “I would rather trust a sword,” she said with a worried smile.

  He answered, “Wait and see."

  The city gates opened once more, and the three Elders, all on white steeds, rode out. They passed through the ranks, past Frost and Kregan to a high knoll not far away. A triangle of glowing stones stood at its summit, and dismounting, Rhadamanthus went among them.

  “One of the relay gates I spoke of yesterday,” Kregan answered her unspoken question. “If two men stand among those stones—though the triangles be at opposite ends of the country—they can know each other's thoughts. That's how we knew when Dulaam fell."

  The three rode back after awhile and took up their place at the head of the armies. Then, Rhadamanthus faced the assembled troops. “Indrasad holds against the Shardahanis,” he called. “There is no sign of the wizard or his Dark Servants. Though all the Nine Cities ride to Demonium, we shall arrive first. Knowing this, a force of Shardahanis have left the siege at Indrasad to intercept us.” A murmur ran through the ranks. “This day we will meet them."

  Aecus raised his staff, let it fall. A fierce cry went up from the Chondites as they leaped forward. No orderly march, but a precipitous, headlong race to Demonium and the hope of victory against Zarad-Krul's forces. She gritted her teeth and leaned low to the wind as Ashur's muscled form rippled beneath her.

  Well, she had begged for action and gotten it, but as she glanced at Kregan's stoic countenance as he rode beside her one question began to gnaw at her thoughts: who would survive?

  Chapter Nine

  The pace was swift, relentless. The horses soon were flecked with foam, their manes heavily lathered. Still, the riders bore down, urged their steeds to greater effort. The very earth shook beneath so many pounding hooves.

  Only Ashur showed no strain. The magical beast ran and ran, never seeming to tire. His mane lashed his rider and the saddle chafed her thighs; the wind whistled stinging past her ears. Yet, in the numbing rhythms of the ride a strange excitation tingled through her, mixed with bitter dread.

  Here was war where thousands died.

  War was not for women, her weapons-master claimed even as he drilled her in a new sword technique.

  But as a child she was a warrior, fighting her brother, wrestling with sons of servants and slaves, swinging sticks in imitation of the soldiers that trained within her father's castle walls. Weapons had always held a queer fascination for her. Her earliest memories were of her father's shield and wanting to touch it.

  How enviously she had watched while her brother grew and drilled with Burdrak, the weapons-master, learning sword, shield and bow while she was taught the ways of witchcraft by her mother. Though she excelled at the art, it was with a secret anger that her hated brother studied that which she most desired.

  It was not a conscious determination, at first, to break the law forbidding women to touch men's weapons or learn their use, but each day she watched the soldiers train and she memorized their lessons. Each morning at her father's feet she listened as Burdrak revealed strategies and philosophies of combat to her brother and a few younger boys.

  Then, one night with everyone asleep, she shed her dainty gown and felt slippers and crept down into the castle's lowest levels where she had hidden a training sword and a makeshift shield. In secret, she practiced until the light of morning threatened, and every night thereafter, and then she would hasten to her room for a few hours sleep before the next day began—and the next lesson.

  So it went for nearly a year until Burdrak discovered her. At first, the old teacher was outraged; yet, as he watched out of sight and saw the skill with which she wielded her wooden sword, his heart softened. Unmarried, childless, Burdrak loved her like his own daughter. Still, it was not Esgaria's way, and he tried through ridicule and pleading to make her give up.

  But she would not. Night after night she went to her secret chamber to practice, and each night B
urdrak came to watch, keeping silent for the first few nights, then scorning, then offering small corrections, bits of advice until no longer just an observer, he became her teacher in earnest.

  And she became his prize pupil.

  She gripped the reins tightly, listened to the rush of wind past her face and the cries of men who hurried so desperately to war, forcing away the memories. Burdrak was dead, killed by the sword he had forged for her, and she grieved sorely. It lingered in her mind that if she helped defeat Zarad-Krul the tragic events of her past might be atoned for.

  Yet, how could she expect forgiveness when she could not forgive herself?

  Up ahead, Aecus signaled to slow the pace. Kregan drew close beside her, his staff slung over his broad shoulders by a thong. He gripped her arm with a gloved hand, shaking his head. Lines of worry creased his face.

  “He's mad,” Kregan said of Aecus. “Too much of that pace will kill the horses long before we meet the Shardahanis."

  “We're all eager for battle,” she said.

  He glared keenly at her so that she turned away. “Frost, the past is past. What's done can't be undone. I'm on Chondite soil now, and I can see your thoughts."

  She jerked her arm from his grip. “Keep out of my mind, Kregan.” Her voice was icy cold, full of warning. “If you would be my friend—keep out of my mind."

  “This is not a game, now,” he rebuked. “You're not fighting shadows in a sub-chamber of your father's castle. Think of the enemy, woman! Of Zarad-Krul's flesh, blood and bone. Turn your attention there.” He touched her arm again, gingerly but firmly. “When the fighting begins, there'll be no time for placating ghosts."

  She recoiled, stared in mute shame at the Chondite's solemn features. He knows! She screamed inside. He knows everything! Tears sprang to her eyes; with an effort she fought them back.

  His expression softened, but the worry lines remained. He reached for her hand and gripped it so she could not pull away.