“Woman,” he started, “there's a trial awaiting you; I've seen it in the scrying bowl. I know the pain that lies behind you,” he paused, swallowed, “and some of what's before you.” Suddenly, words failed; he looked away.
“What trial?” she urged. “What have you seen?"
He shook his head. “I can't say.” Then, he faced her and their eyes locked. “I would help you if I could; any Chondite would help. But it's no monster that swords can cut or magic bind. You have the strength to face it, though—if you will."
A trembling seized her though she steeled against it. A long, slow breath whistled from her parted lips. “This trial,” she said, finally, “will I survive it?"
He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “There are many possibilities. Pieces of the puzzle are still missing that may affect the outcome of this war. But, this I know—when your darkest moment comes, you will conquer only if you yield. It isn't logical, but it is the truth I see."
She surveyed the plain that stretched ahead of them, seeing little in the dark. All around, men leaned wearily on their plodding mounts.
“You know what the trial is, don't you?"
He said nothing.
“Very well, then. When the time comes I'll trust Tak and Skraal to see me through."
“Trust no gods, woman,” he advised, squeezing her hand. “But trust yourself.” The sorcerer tugged sharply on his reins and rode toward Rhadamanthus. The two fell deep into conversation.
She steered Ashur away from the main body of soldiers, feeling closely the need to be alone. So much had happened in the past days. She had changed. Courage and determination, self-reliance were slipping away. Guilt and doubt replaced them. Yes, she admitted, even fear.
Her fingers brushed the moonstone circlet that adorned her brow. She had lost a family ... then found a friend and lost her. Now, gazing at Kregan's back, she wondered if she had found something more and would soon lose that. She spurred the unicorn to the farthest edge of the advancing force and beyond.
She sought solace in self-pity. She grieved for her family, the Stranger in the forest, for Zarabeth and for herself. Then, pity yielded to hate. She hated her brother, and she hated Zarad-Krul, a mad instrument of suffering. Her fingers sought the Book in its pouch at her side. Its weight seemed to increase as she carried it northward, and she could sense the wizard calling it, conjuring it with an evil will; she clamped her hand tightly on the dusty covers. He'll never have it, she swore, by my mother's blood.
As she rode farther from the main army her dark mood gradually faded, and she rested, grateful for a moment's solitude, watching the Chondites. The men of Erebus moved in near silence; their black uniforms made good advantage of the wizard-spawned night. Like phantoms, they rode over the plain.
Then, something caught her eye. On a high ridge overlooking their course a small point of whiteness moved against the deeper black, then quickly vanished. She stared, waiting for it to return. It did not.
The gleam of a torch or a metal-tipped weapon, she thought. Was it possible that a small force of Shardahanis had traveled faster than expected and planned an attack from the rear? It seemed unlikely. Still, Shardahani peasants were notoriously stupid, and something was following the Chondites. She urged Ashur to swift motion and rode to find Kregan.
He was still with Rhadamanthus.
“It can't be the Shardahanis,” the Elder said. “We would have been warned."
“How?” she asked.
“We have our ways."
Aecus joined them. “A scout just reported the enemy's position. They're approaching the Tekaf Pass."
“Then, it's not the Shardahanis,” muttered Frost.
Aecus shot her a stem look. “What's she talking about?"
“She spotted something on that ridge we passed a way back,” Kregan answered. “It seems we're followed."
“By what?"
Kregan flushed, taking offense at the Elder's scoffing tone. “We don't know, yet. But if she saw something, then something's there."
Rhadamanthus sat with eyes closed during the argument. Now, he opened them and spoke. “There is something on the ridge, but I can't perceive its nature clearly. It resists my probing without apparent effort."
“If it's strong enough to resist an elder it could be a threat to us,” Kregan advised.
Aecus roared. “Our enemy is to the north, not behind us! Zarad-Krul is the only threat! We have to reach Demonium before him, and there's no time to waste chasing visions."
“I agree that we can't stop to examine this,” Rhadamanthus replied calmly. “But I would send two men back to observe it. Whatever waits on that ridge has a certain familiarity to it..."
Aecus reddened. “We'll need every man!"
Frost lost patience. “I like to know what stands at my back when I fight. By the Nine Hells, man, if you're too much of a coward, then say so and I'll go myself. Ashur can outdistance any of your broken down fleabags!"
Rhadamanthus raised a hand. “There is no need for dispute. Two men of my brotherhood will investigate; that is my decision.” He turned to Kregan. “Brother, choose two from the lower ranks—apprentices will do—and dispatch them with the proper instructions. They should be safe enough. I have no fear of this thing, whatever it is."
Cursing, Aecus resumed his former position at the lead. Kregan rode in the opposite direction. Rhadamanthus leaned from his saddle, his old bones creaking with fatigue, and whispered. “Have patience with my brother of the Argent Cup, child. His home was in Dulaam, and there is no word from any of his household there."
She nodded sudden understanding. “I'm sorry, then. I'll ask his forgiveness."
The old man shrugged. “No need for that. Grief is not a sufficient excuse for foolish behavior."
She reflected on that, finding a message for herself. If Kregan knew her past, did the elders know, too? She searched that wrinkled face for a sign or clue; but the expression was impassive, revealing nothing. Of all the Chondites except Kregan, Rhadamanthus had been kindest to her. Yet, the idea that her past was general knowledge unsettled her.
“A warrior should not spend too much time in thought.” Kregan rode up unnoticed on her right, his errand completed. He flashed a wide smile and rolled his eyes, lifted her hand and planted a gallant kiss on the knuckles.
All her misgivings disappeared and she laughed out loud. Kregan had a way of making her smile that puzzled and pleased her. A bit of Chondite magic, she concluded. He knows my darker moods and how to lighten them.
“Be gay, my Lady.” He made a sweeping gesture that took in all the world. “While you still have the chance."
“I thought wizards and sorcerers were glum, brooding creatures,” she teased, trying to match his mood. “You are too cheerful."
“And I thought witches had ugly warts on their noses,” he countered. “You are too pretty."
She screwed up her face and rolled her eyes as she had often seen him do. “How's this, then?"
His low-noted laugh rang out, making heads turn. Smiles spread on several faces, and the laughter became contagious as sorcerer and sword-woman continued their banter, teasing each other, making light of every dreadful thing that crawled in Hell. Those riding near joined in with stories and jokes until all the host of Erebus was mirthful. Even sour old Aecus.
But up ahead, the Shardahanis waited. Far-sighted Minos spotted them first. Raising his staff, he called out, and all laughter ceased.
A pair of immense cliffs reared above the flat land like the jaws of a gaping mouth, stretching in opposing directions as far as anyone could see. Only the narrow Tekaf Pass cut a way through, and the Shardahanis held that, blocking the way to Demonium.
“Twice our number,” Aecus said, surveying the foe.
“We have eyes, my friend,” answered Minos.
But Frost wondered. In the dark at such distance she could barely make out the pass itself. How could the elders see the enemy—unless by magical means?
&nbs
p; They pushed on at a walk until even she could feel the eyes staring at them out of the dark. At the entrance the Shardahanis had erected a barricade of rocks and boulders, and a line of rag-tag soldiers waited nervously behind.
“Is there any way around?” she inquired hesitantly.
“Avoid the battle?” Aecus spat. “The enemy lies right in front of us."
Rhadamanthus shook his head. “Tekaf means the Unavoidable Pass. There is no other course for us. Where those cliffs leave off deep fissures part the earth extending much farther. Traveling around would mean a delay of days, and the battle might still not be avoided. The enemy has horses, too, and would simply come to meet us."
“Then we fight,” Kregan said.
The elders nodded one by one.
Word passed quickly through the ranks. Warriors unsheathed their weapons and masters readied staves. They made no sound: not jape, nor complaint, but sat their mounts bravely awaiting the order to charge.
In the front line hasty, last-minute plans were made. Rhadamanthus and Minos would remain behind and observe, being too old for actual combat. Aecus, therefore, would lead the attack. He turned to Frost and gave his first command.
“Woman, you'll remain with the elders."
She barked a short laugh, made an obscene gesture that even a Chondite would understand.
“She goes,” Kregan interceded for her, daring what few of his brothers would before one of Aecus’ rank.
Rage smoldered in his eyes. “We'll have no time to watch over a woman,” he bristled, “and besides, she bears the Book."
“She must go,” Rhadamanthus said with finality. “It's her fate. If you'll not have her, then I'll have to take command as the eldest present."
Their gazes locked in a silent contest of wills. Yet, Frost was indifferent to the outcome; whether the elders willed it or not she intended to fight. Not all their power would stop her, and she, was on the verge of telling them so when Aecus crumbled.
“Come then and be damned."
The Elder of the Argent Cup raised his staff. In the darkness the silver wire on each end flared suddenly with an eerie brightness.
“Guard the Book,” Rhadamanthus whispered.
“And your back,” added Minos somberly.
She touched the pouch and nodded. Her sword hissed from the sheath and she stroked Ashur's long neck before wrapping the reins around her right hand. There was a tightness in her stomach. She wet her lips.
The staff fell.
With a mighty cry the men of Erebus thundered toward the barricade, brandishing swords, spears, gleaming pikes, double-edged axes.
Her own battle-shout was lost in the tumult. The unicorn leaped forward, horn flashing and eyes flaring. Swifter, more enduring than mortal steeds his ebon hooves smashed the ground, carrying her ahead of Kregan and past Aecus.
An arrow zipped by her ear, then another. A pair of archers on the boulder fitted new shafts to their bows, but the unicorn charged on. For a sickening moment she thought Ashur meant to ram the barricade, but suddenly she was airborne and hugging the saddle with her knees for fear of falling. Then, she was on the ground again among a howling foe.
She lashed out; her weapon hummed as she swung from side to side. Shardahani warriors came screaming at her. She hacked at grasping arms that tried to drag her down. A spearman thrust for her middle, missed and died as Ashur trampled him in the dirt. Blood quickly drenched her arms and thighs.
An ululating war cry told that she was no longer alone. Kregan's white steed sailed gloriously over the barrier. In a blur of motion his staff crushed three skulls. Fighting his way to her side, they sang a harmony of death to the servants of Zarad-Krul.
Then, suddenly the barricade itself was consumed in a bluish glow of swelling intensity. A blast of thunder, and the stones exploded in a cloud of powdery dust. The mouth of Tekaf Pass was open.
In rushed Aecus, grim-faced, shouting vengeance for his family and Dulaam. From the silver tips of his staff twin beams of eldritch force cut a bloody swath through the closest Shardahanis. Twice more those smoking beams scored. Then, striking with a strength that denied his age, he swung that baleful weapon, bashing helms and breaking bones.
Behind him came the rest of the Chondites, hot for battle. Swords crashed in ringing fury. Sparks flew from the metal rims of beaten shields. Arrows arched unseen through the wizard-spawned night, hissing like angry winged snakes in their flight. War cries, shouts of triumph mingled with despondent moans.
The harsh sounds of fighting beat her ears as the barren Chondite soil grew fertile with blood. An uncontrollable shivering seized her as she looked over the pass.
So much blood ... so many dead men.
She had killed, yes. Seen death, yes. But not like this, not on this scale. Her lips curled back to scream as she raised an incarnadined hand.
A pikeman charged, and she could see his eyes through the narrow slits of his helm. That broke the spell. Silently, she thanked him even as she twisted, leaned, struck. Her weapons-master had trained her too well and too long to let panic rule her in a crisis. The man sank slowly, staring, a curse on his lips as she withdrew her blade.
Snapped from her paralysis she rejoined the fray. Like a fiend from the Nine Hells she struck and vanished, appearing at another part of the battle, striking, dealing death until her arm was weary and her mind numb with fatigue.
And fatigue was nearly her undoing.
Too late, she saw the assassin dive from his crannied perch in the cliff wall. Dodging his sword was easy enough, but not him. His weight tumbled her from the saddle. She struck the earth hard, stunned, expecting quick cold steel in the back. The assassin loomed over her. If only she had the strength to strike his feet—she knew how—knock his legs out. But there was no strength left in her. Leering obscenely, he raised his blade.
But the blow never fell.
Riderless, Ashur reared, tossed his great head and lunged. The assassin's eyes bulged; a scream tore his lips as the horn emerged through his middle. Ashur heaved, and the thrashing body sailed through the air, smashed into the towering rock face.
It gave her the time she needed to get her breath. Recovering her sword, she rose to greet more foes. Seven ragged soldiers circled her, and more were coming, seeing her afoot. She took a two-handed grip on her blade and waited.
“Bitch!” cried one. “If you can be unhorsed, then you can be skewered. We'll see how your Chondites fare without you to rally them."
Her guts twisted with a grim dread of what she intended, but there was no mercy in her. One hand left her sword and grasped the hilt of Demonfang. She knew the fearful effect of its screaming. That might save her now.
A raw chill touched her soul as the fiendish blade came free. Its wailing note sang over the pass, drowning other battle sounds. She had never heard it so loud as now in the presence of so much blood.
Furiously she shouted at her attackers: “Come on, then, and savor this bitch's charms!"
Terror flamed in her opponents’ eyes. She lunged once, twice with the dagger, swung her sword. At first taste of blood the shrieking ceased, but unsheathed, the blade soon found its voice again. It trembled in her grip, insatiable and demanding. Almost of one will, her foes broke and ran. She leaped on the slowest of them; Demonfang fairly writhed in her hand as she opened his throat. The baleful, dripping dagger was still at last. Grimly, she cleaned the edge and sheathed it.
Foeless for the moment, she took a much-needed rest. The battle had broken into small skirmishes through the pass; space was clear around her. In the distance, Kregan, Aecus and a handful of Chondites assailed the hardiest resisters. Everywhere death littered the earth, and the dust drank up the life-fluid. She leaned wearily on her sword and sighed.
It was nearly over when Rhadamanthus and Minos rode cautiously into the pass, picking their way around the bodies. A nervous Ashur waited nearby. Gathering the reins, she waved as she mounted and went to meet them.
The Book bounced in
the pouch against her side, and she clamped a hand on it, reflecting on what she had witnessed—what she had been part of. There was no glory here. No honor. On an impulse, she drew out the Book, considering its value in blood.
“No!"
She looked up to see who called. Minos waved his arms frantically. Rhadamanthus spurred his horse in a mad rush toward her.
Sudden thunder shook the sky. The air crackled; a scorching bolt of alizarine lightning flashed through the night, stitching a serpentine pattern on the darkness. A hoarse cry ripped from her throat as death reached for her with rippling, fiery fingers.
Dimly, she heard an old man's shout. Another blast of lightning, blue and jagged, twisted out of the earth itself, smelling of sulfur as it streaked upward. It met the first bolt in a glaring burst of whiteness. Heat seared her face. A shattering explosion rocked the countryside, and she was lifted head over heels out of the saddle.
Zarad-Krul, she realized bitterly before the ground smashed all awareness from her.
Chapter Ten
She woke slowly to the drone of urgent voices. Someone called her name. Kregan, she thought. Fear in that voice. She tried to answer, but a warm languidness filled her limbs, her head. I should get up, she told herself. Yet, it was so peaceful to lie still and stare into the black abyss of unconsciousness that hovered so near. They would not let her alone, though. Someone kept calling her name until, with an effort, she opened her eyes.
Kregan's face was a mask of pain. “You look terrible,” she managed.
A faint smile. “Are you all right?” He cradled her head in one hand, offered her water from a canteen with the other. She took a small sip and pushed the rest away.
“Just get me off these damned rocks; they're biting holes in my spine."
He helped her to sit, then to stand. It seemed the entire Chondite army had gathered to worry over her. Sheepishly, she put off Kregan's assisting hands and balanced precariously on her own feet. Licking her lips, she flashed a triumphant, half-amused grin.
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