Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  The glow vanished, leaving a young man, tall and darkly bronzed with hair black as the space between the stars. Heavy muscles rippled beneath his skin, and he moved with the subtle grace of a bird in flight. His fingers were laden with rings; about his ankles hung dainty chains of gold and silver. He wore nothing else but a broad belt of glittering pearls, larger than any ever of this world, and a patch over his right eye.

  The youth held out a hand. The nails were long and curved, lacquered. “Give back my Book."

  “Zarad-Krul!” She swung her blade in a high arc with all her might, but the keen edge passed harmlessly through arm, chest, arm, leaving the wizard unaffected but for the smile it brought to his cruel lips. She cursed, called on Tak and struck again with the same result.

  Zarad-Krul laughed. “Your weapon is useless, woman. I am only my master's shadow sent to reclaim the Book of the Last Battle from a common thief."

  She heaved her sword again, cleaving neck, chest and thigh in three mighty sweeps, but the thing had no substance. Could it truly be the wizard's shadow? She stood back, teeth clenched in an ugly grimace, unwilling to lower her sword, however ineffective it proved.

  “Give me the Book and my master will spare your miserable life."

  She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak lest her voice crack and betray her fear.

  “For the third and last time I ask,” said the shadow of Zarad-Krul. “Think before you answer. Believe me, woman. I know your most shameful secrets; defy me, and I can make you suffer in ways you'd never imagine.” He extended his beringed hand again. “Will you give me the Book of the Last Battle?"

  She clutched the leather pouch hanging at her side, hugged it fiercely, feeling the treasured contents. It meant death if she surrendered it, hers and Kregan's and the world's.

  “No!"

  She struck one more time, passing her blade through the wizard's head to no effect; then she turned and fled toward camp, expecting some unholy doom with every pounding step.

  Reaching the first line of tents, she spied Natira hiding, watching from the shadows, but she did not stop to question the mute woman. A new fear gripped her: no one had come running when the horses went crazy, not even a sentry. Surely, someone should have heard her own outcries. Natira was there, but what about the others?

  Straight to the tent of the elders she ran, still gripping her sword. She burst in pale and breathless. Kregan, the elders and some men she didn't know gaped in surprise and consternation.

  “Zarad-Krul!” she croaked. “Out by the horses!"

  Aecus seized his staff and dashed out with Kregan and two others right behind. Dimly, the sound of shouted orders and flying feet came to her as Rhadamanthus helped her to a stool, offered a cup of hot spiced wine, which she gulped down.

  Kregan and Aecus returned before she lowered the cup. “Nothing out there, now,” her friend said. “Are you sure it was the wizard?"

  She slammed her sword-point into the ground, jumped up and cursed, stung that he could doubt her.

  “Calmly,” Minos said, placing himself between them. “Tell your story."

  She left nothing out. In fact, she took a perverse joy in watching Kregan's expression as she related how Natira had apparently observed it all and done nothing. She finished the tale with another cup of wine and wiped her lips.

  “Well, the sentries didn't hear anything.” Aecus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And we certainly didn't."

  “Zarad-Krul has many new powers at his disposal since the coming of the Dark Ones,” Minos said. “Perhaps whatever transpired was meant for you alone."

  “The Book is safe?” Rhadamanthus asked. She started to remove it from the pouch to show them, but the elder waved his hand. “No, put it back. Too much danger in casually revealing it. Your word is enough."

  “But what of the Stranger? I saw him die days ago."

  “And he is dead,” Kregan answered. “I've sought him in ways that couldn't fail if he were still among the living."

  Rhadamanthus nodded. “It was a ghost that brought you warning, my child."

  Minos met her disbelieving gaze. “Stranger things have happened."

  “And will happen, yet,” Aecus added.

  “As for Natira,” Rhadamanthus continued, turning to Kregan, “she represents an unknown at a time when we cannot afford unknowns. Watch her closely, Brother. I want to know her every move. She's followed us for some purpose, and none of us dare rest until we know what that purpose is."

  General nods all around. Then, a shout and sudden commotion outside brought them all to their feet. An officer in the insignia of the Argent Cup charged into the tent, knelt at his elder's feet. Eyes were wide in the gray pallor of his face, and he trembled visibly.

  “Outside ...!” The words struggled from his throat. “Elder-brother, come look!"

  Floating serenely, motionlessly above the Field of Fire Zarad-Krul sat on a throne carved from a single giant amethyst. His strong, youthful face gazed dispassionately down on the Chondite camp. Though it was dark, Frost could see him clearly as if some unnatural light amplified his image.

  Then, suddenly a row of stones that gave the field its name began to glow brighter and brighter until a wall of flame sprang up from the earth. At the wizard's command it roared improbably toward the Chondites, and the soldiers fell back moaning in fearful lamentation. Frost, too, took a step back, but Minos caught her arm.

  “Would you run from an illusion?"

  She looked uncertainly from him to Rhadamanthus and found reassurance in that elder's calm gaze. But Aecus looked doubtful.

  “Are you sure?” he dared ask.

  Minos raked him with a stern glare. “Elder,” he said, using formal address, “are you so involved in the physical battle and your thirst for vengeance? Remember your Brotherhood and your vows. How shall the Brothers have faith if the Elder disbelieves? Unfetter your senses; free your true-sight from the narrow bonds you have placed on it."

  Aecus reddened and looked as if he would strike the old man. She braced herself to intercept such a blow if it came, admitting her quiet admiration for the Elder of the Golden Star and for the calm dignity he maintained through every crisis.

  But it proved unnecessary. Shame-faced, the hot-tempered Aecus looked upon the fiery wave that threatened to engulf them. He took a deep breath; his tension seemed to melt away. Then, he smiled.

  “Not enough to call it a mirage,” he declared at last. “We'll have to prove it beyond all doubt before the troops lose heart and flee."

  As one, the three started toward the fire, and Frost would have gone with them, trusting their word over the evidence of her eyes, but Kregan held her back.

  “You don't have the true-sight,” he warned. “In your heart you may believe the elders, but you don't know positively that the fire is not real. If there was the smallest doubt in the smallest corner of your mind it would kill you, illusion or not. You would believe yourself dead."

  She watched grimly, risking a quick glance at the Chondite soldiers. They no longer cowered away, but watched in fascinated dread as three old men strode unwaveringly across the field into the mouth of Hell.

  The flames reared up, crashed down.

  She cried out—and knew Kregan had been right. She had doubted, and that doubt would have killed her. But the elders stood unharmed in the heart of the flames. A heartbeat later, the wall vanished,

  A mighty cheer rose from the Chondite's camp. Kregan exuberantly pounded her shoulders, and in that unguarded moment when joy swelled up within her she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “A cup of triumph all around,” he grinned when she released him. Realizing her brazenness, she whirled away muttering a curse they both knew she didn't mean.

  A haughty laugh boomed across the plain.

  “Three old men!” roared Zarad-Krul on his amethyst throne. “Is this the best you can send against me?” The intensity of his mirth shook the very stones.

  But Rha
damanthus drew himself up. At his fingertips flared a menacing blue light. His shout came clearly. “We have no business with shadows. Begone, Shadow. Send us your master. Tell the unworthy cur we await him with whips and switches."

  Frost whispered to her friend. “Shadow?"

  “Had you the true-sight you would see nothing but a black shadow stretched upon the throne. Watch."

  The blue light danced on Rhadamanthus’ fingers, swelling and brightening until a small portion of the Field of Fire was illumined as if by the noonday sun. On the throne Zarad-Krul faded in the growing light, but when the elder ended his cantrip and the mystic radiance subsided, the shadow returned.

  “That's no real man!” she exclaimed. “But how's it possible?"

  “A complex spell,” Kregan answered. “A torch is set at the wizard's back, casting a shadow before him. Through certain incantations the shadow can be separated, animated and sent to do the bidding of its master."

  Sharp-edged laughter cut him off. The Shadow of Zarad-Krul leaned forward, wagged a chiding finger at the Chondites. “Ha, fools! Even the Shadow of the man you dare oppose has some power. Learn what a mere shadow can do."

  He gestured, and a column of wispy vapor descended from his hand, shimmered, coalesced, became a giant that loomed above them.

  Frost gasped.

  The giant bore a familiar sword and shield. The armor was Esgarian.

  The Shadow gestured again, conjuring another giant, taller than the first, armed with similar weapons and no armor. Two more gestures and two more giants. One, a man of noble dress and bearing; the last, a woman, also of fine dress. Cat-green eyes and straight black hair made her a creature of beauty.

  The Shadow on the throne barked a deep-throated laugh. His voice thundered. “A little drama for a thief—she who dares keep the Book from me."

  With a grand sweep of his arm one last figure was born. Another woman, green-eyed, raven-haired, beautiful as the first, but armed like the men.

  Frost felt her knees start to give; the earth spun too fast and someone flung stars in her eyes. She couldn't breathe. Pain throbbed in her temples; ringing in her ears. Then, Kregan's arm was around her, and somehow she found strength to steady herself.

  It was like looking into a mirror. The titans all stared back: her weapons-master, brother, father and mother. Monstrous images of her family. With numbing fear she recognized the weapons and clothes, the facial expressions, knowing in the coldest part of her soul what was to come. The giant version of herself regarded her coldly.

  The Shadow of Zarad-Krul called her name—the name she had forsaken on that dreadful day.

  “I promised you suffering and punishments beyond your meager imagination, did I not? Can you guess why I've conjured these particular figures? Come now, speak up."

  She could not bring herself to answer.

  “I can spare you this humiliation—if you give me the Book of the Last Battle."

  She clutched the pouch with both hands. An uncontrollable trembling seized her as she felt the Book inside. Zarad-Krul's price for keeping her secret. Her fingers closed on the rough binding; one nail traced the ancient runes. He would tell her shame to the world if she refused, reveal the truth that had destroyed her life, damned her.

  The Book slipped half out. The metal lock gleamed dully.

  Dimly, she heard voices arguing. The elders and Kregan. They were holding Aecus. He was kicking, cursing. What was Kregan shouting? Something familiar.

  A trial.

  “Come now, woman. Or would you have everyone know of your disgrace?” The honey-sweet voice of the Shadow droned insistently in her ears. “Give me the Book."

  She looked at the partially revealed Book, and at her friends. They stood apart, unable or unwilling to help. Even surly Aecus, so passionately angry a moment before, watched without moving. But on their faces—fear?

  Why wouldn't they help her?

  “Give me the Book,” the Shadow chanted. “Give me the Book. Give me the Book!"

  “No!"

  The scream ripped from her throat; tears of anger and dismay, doubt and humiliation streamed suddenly on her face as she pushed the Book of the Last Battle back into the pouch out of sight. “You—soulless Filth! No!"

  The Shadow and the amethyst throne vanished amid thunderous laughter. Then, the giant figures began to move.

  Her knees buckled, and she collapsed in a trembling heap. An arm settled consolately about her shoulders. Kregan's. Try as she might, she could not meet his eyes. Her shame was too great.

  She looked away as memories flooded her, guilt and fear. The elders stood by her now, but would the rest of the soldiers when they knew? Would they fight for a murderess and worse?

  Rhadamanthus laid a hand on her arm, strange sympathy shining in his eyes. Then, making sure she saw, he covered his face with a corner of his cloak. Minos and Aecus followed his example, and one by one all the Chondite army.

  She was too surprised to cry more; her heart swelled with amazement and gratitude. Though she suspected Kregan and the elders already knew of her crimes, they would not shame her by watching Zarad-Krul's vile reenactment. Somehow, she found the strength to rise. Every face was covered; some had even turned their backs.

  She, alone, was compelled to watch.

  The face of the giant Frost twisted with concentration as she swung her sword in flashing circles. Undaunted, the image of her brother crept closer, on guard, hatred burning in the huge pools of his eyes.

  She couldn't help but shiver. The memories were so vivid, the pain too deep to face alone. With a shaky resolve she swept the cloak from Kregan's face.

  “Watch with me."

  His arm went around her, and she leaned her head in the hollow of his shoulder, glad of his warmth.

  She remembered the night her brother had discovered her practicing. There had never been love between them. Each envied the other too much, wanting what the other had: she, the right to learn weapons, and he—she always suspected—the right to follow the mysteries of Tak. He found her that night with steel in her hands, deliberately flaunting the ancient taboo. So it was his right to take her life.

  It was his duty.

  Steel rang. Two giants clashed, kicking up earth. One pass. Two. The giant Frost sank her blade in her brother's breast.

  Exactly as it had happened.

  Later, lacking the courage or the will to punish the daughter he loved, her grief-stricken father threw himself on that same blade. A wailing went up through all the house, alerting Burdrak, the weapons-master. Burdrak had loved and trained her, took immense pride in her swift development. But his duty was also clear: avenge the lord of the house he was sworn to.

  She had thought to throw down her sword and accept the fate she deserved, but as that mortal stroke descended her instincts betrayed her. Pupil fought teacher, though neither had heart for the battle. Still, in the end Burdrak slipped, dropped his guard and died.

  The giant Frost cast aside her sword and threw arms around her teacher's lifeless body.

  Just as she had done so many days ago.

  Then, she recalled how her mother stepped forward, her face resembling nothing human. “You've learned well the ways of men, how to fight and kill.” A sorcerous, menacing anger raged in those eyes of dark green. “You've stolen everything I loved—my husband, my son, my dreams for you. No sorceress, my daughter, but a witch with power greater than I have ever seen. But you've thrown that away. Rejected it.” Mother laid warm, shaking hands on her daughter's eyes, thumbs drew gentle circles on her lids. “And I lay this curse on you: that you will follow a path of violence for the rest of your days, pitting your weapon-skill against foe after foe. Remember, a woman who wears a sword is an object of scorn and derision among men, and many will try to take it from you. But you will fight only with the skills that Burdrak—damn his eyes—has given you. No more. You've stolen my family from me. In recompense, I steal your witch-power."

  A pain lanced through her head,
and she reeled.

  The looming image of her mother gingerly lifted her daughter's fallen sword. “Now I've broken law, too.” Her gaze seemed far off, unseeing. “Gods of my coven, where is the daughter I raised? I know you not, woman,” she cried. “You are a thing of fire and frost."

  The exact words. And exactly as before, mother set the point between her breasts, braced the hilt against the wall and sagged forward. Trailing a thick river of blood, she crawled to her husband, squeezed his cold hand and sighed away her last breath.

  The sound of weeping floated over the plain as the giants faded. The drama was ended. One by one, the Chondites unmasked and returned to campfires and pallets. In Kregan's arms she watched them go.

  “You've been tried,” he whispered, “and found guiltless."

  She looked out where the giants had been, wistful. “I'm not without blame."

  “Blame and guilt are not the same things. You're as much a victim of that tragedy as a perpetrator."

  There was no time to ponder it further. The sounds of battle horns drifted through the still air, louder and closer with each blast. Together, they raced back to camp.

  Soldiers were scurrying for weapons. Many were already in the saddle. Aecus strode fully armored from his tent, a look of grim joy painted on his face.

  A flare of bright blue lit a corner of the plain. A banner was spotted and identified.

  Indrasad.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tattered and dirty, stained with blood they looked more like madmen than Chondite soldiers as they rode their lathered steeds into camp. Fifty men—all that remained of Indrasad's proud army. The captain tumbled from his saddle; an ugly gash poured crimson down one thigh. A number of lesser cuts scored his arms. Frost and two others caught him as he fell. On his chest was emblazoned a golden star. In one hand he clutched the broken halves of a Krilar staff.

  Rough hands seized her wrists, and the captain's eyes bored frantically into hers. “Minos!” he croaked. Someone laid a water-soaked cloth on his dried lips, but he pushed it away. “Where's Minos?"

  “Here, young Brother.” The elder slipped an arm around the captain's waist, taking much of the injured man's weight on himself. “I remember you—your name is Hafid."