“Why not fight it out with steel?” she stormed. “There's my sword. Someone bring lend us two more. One of you will surely kill another, then the surviving two can repent, mourn, fall tearfully into each other's arms, and all our ears will be spared anymore of this vile mouth-fencing!"
Kregan, Hafid, and the elders all looked at each other, too stunned to move or speak.
“You seem confused,” she said to Rhadamanthus and Minos. “Your precious Gate isn't the object of Zarad-Krul's quest.” She patted the Book of the Last Battle in the pouch at her side. “This is. You chose Demonium as the battleground because you thought you had the best chance of defending it here. But if I rode away with the Book, Zarad-Krul wouldn't look twice at your pathetic pile of stones. He's already proven he needs no Gate to summon the Dark Gods.
“And as for your feeble-minded plan,” she drew her foot through Aecus’ map, erasing it, “let me assure you I've no intention of going to Shardaha—with or without the Book. I'd sooner walk naked through a snake pit than fight Zarad-Krul in his own courtyard. Hell man, let him come to us. We'll be waiting with hot food in our bellies and raw steel in our hands. Why should I exhaust myself chasing him when he has to come to me to get what he wants?"
Aecus trembled visibly with rage. His lips quivered, his hands clenched, unclenched. He tried to meet her unrelenting glare, and when he couldn't he kicked over her sword, muttering, and stalked from the tent.
“This was not foreseen,” Minos said.
“I'm deeply worried,” Rhadamanthus agreed.
Frost sighed, picked up her blade and wished for a jug of wine. She settled instead for the quiet semi-solitude of her own small camp and a few hours sleep. As always, she dreamed of home and her last days in Esgaria. But this time the memories were gentle and filled her with a dull, soulful ache. She awoke damp with her own soft tears.
Not a nightmare, she admitted, but in its own way just as bad.
She stretched, yawned, massaged the stiffness from her limbs and lay back again, staring at the sky. No stars, no moon, nothing but heavy black clouds and darkness.
Then, a bird. Two more birds. Suddenly, the sky was filled with fluttering; a familiar, evil cry shattered the stillness. Zarad-Krul's bird-things!
She leaped up, grabbing her sword-hilt. The black shapes circled and swooped, climbed high in the night, plummeted earthward and climbed again.
A war horn's reverberating blast drowned the birds’ shrill screeching. Warriors sprang up from their sleeping pallets, reaching for armor and weapons. The quiet camp became a flurry of activity. She wasted no time, but began buckling on her own armor.
Before she was finished Kregan appeared at her side, breathless. “Shardahanis,” he called. “Another army as large as the last."
“Zarad-Krul?"
“No sign of him."
She cursed, completed her armoring and started for the horses where Ashur would be. Kregan caught her arm before she got far. “Rhadamanthus wants to see you first."
She shrugged, annoyed. “At the tent?"
“There.” He pointed to Demonium and a path that led to the summit. “He's waiting at the foot of it."
She ran wondering what the old man could want. Sure enough, he was where Kregan said, but when she called he answered nothing, only beckoned.
Together, they ascended a steep trail that zigzagged up the almost sheer rock face. In places there was no trail at all, just hand and toe holds carved into the stone. Rhadamanthus, old as he was, mastered them with surprising ease and agility, but her sword and the free-swinging leather pouch that contained the Book hampered her movements. By the time she reached the end her garments were damp with perspiration.
Three ancient stones loomed, the monoliths she had seen only from a distance. She sucked in a breath as she regarded them. Whether natural stones or sculpted, she was unsure; but carved deeply into each were symbols and runes whose meanings she could not even guess at. They sent a shiver up her spine. Of course, they were arranged in a triangle. At the center, a flat, triangular-shaped stone lay upon the ground.
An altar.
“Why did you bring me here?” Impatience in her voice. “My place is below with the warriors."
“I don't deny it.” Rhadamanthus folded his arms and regarded her with weary eyes. “The brothers have come to rely on you as a rallying figure. I think some would follow you even against an elder's wishes. They respect you; some of the younger apprentices even worship you."
She arched her eyebrows at that. Chondites were an unusually reserved lot. If the common soldiers felt anything for her she hadn't known it. “So?"
“You belong down there, yes. But not the Book—not this time."
She clapped a hand on the pouch, frowning.
The old man made an apologetic motion. “Sometimes we can see the future. When you first brought the Book to us we looked into the scrying waters and foresaw the events of this war until the time when the Dark Gods took an active part. We saw the battle at Tekaf Pass; we saw the battle just fought against the Shardahanis. All in generalities, no details. But we knew you were not fated to fall in either, so we let you carry the Book into the conflicts. Indeed, you were meant to do so."
“So what's different now?” She considered a moment. “Are you telling me I'm going to die?"
Rhadamanthus shook his head, an expression of pain lingering on his face. “I don't know, child. The vision has gone wrong.” He folded his hands. When he opened them again a bowl of water rested on his palms. She had seen him use that bowl before, his scrying bowl, but now there was a crack in it, and the water seeped slowly out and ran through his fingers, “The future we foresaw days ago in Erebus is no longer valid. Aecus has lost his reason; we didn't foresee that. Nor did we foresee this second engagement with a Shardahani army. We killed too many of them—there should be no such force."
He folded his hands again, and the bowl disappeared. “Now we can see nothing. Too many incalculable factors have entered the fray, powers we didn't even suspect. All our fates are in question now."
“You think the Book is safer here?"
“Every Chondite has pledged to defend Demonium with his soul. Place the Book on the altar stone. That is the very center of our defense. One third of our warriors will remain below to protect this place, and I'll be right here.” He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “If Zarad-Krul wants the prize he'll have to fight every step of the way."
She hesitated, but the old man's reasoning was sound. She had carried it for so long, endured so much to safeguard it. It was not easy to entrust it to others. But at last she unslung the pouch and held it out to Rhadamanthus.
He stepped back, averting his eyes. “Take it to the stone. I held it once when it first came to Chondos. I will not touch it again."
A horn-blast made her look out over the field. The troops were moving without her. She bit her lip. Rhadamanthus said no more. The quiet, ominous monoliths waited. The altar stone waited. Steeling herself with a weak smile she stepped inside the great triangle.
The earth didn't open and the sky didn't fall. Slowly, she let go the breath she had held so long and extracted the Book. How heavy it seemed now. She was almost tempted to shove it back in the pouch and flee, but reluctantly she placed it on the altar.
A long sigh shook her, and she felt suddenly relaxed, a state she hadn't known in days. She tossed the leather pouch down beside the Book, gave it one last glance and turned away.
Rhadamanthus stood on the rim, watching below.
She wasted no more time in talking, but descended the path quickly, easily, now that she was familiar with it. Ashur waited impatiently at the bottom. Someone, probably Kregan, had hung a new round-shield on the saddle to replace her battered one. Fitting it to her arm, she climbed onto the unicorn's back and set off in pursuit of the army.
Chapter Twelve
She caught up to her comrades easily. Both armies had stopped their charges with some distance remaining betwee
n them. The leaders regarded each other across the eerie field. Frost reined up beside Aecus, Minos, Kregan and Hafid.
“How in Gath's Nine Hells could an army that size cross Chondos without your knowing it?” she spat. “They're at least as many as the first force."
Aecus shook his head. “They moved fast. Killed our scouts and collected the bodies of their dead before we knew it."
She had noticed that. The field should have been littered with bodies. The Chondites had gathered their own fallen after the battle, but uncounted Shardahani corpses had been left to rot. They were all gone.
“They're just sitting out there,” grumbled Hafid. “What are they waiting for?"
“What are we waiting for?” Aecus muttered. Drawing a deep breath he raised the war horn to his lips. The troops readied their weapons, leaned forward in the saddles, anticipating the attack.
A wall of flame shot up crackling between the two armies. A scorching wind blew stinking black smoke into the Chondite ranks.
Frost cried out, fought to control her panicked steed. The smoke stung her eyes, filled her nostrils with a fetid odor. A fit of coughing wracked her, and the hot air seared her lungs. She twisted, trying for a glimpse of Demonium, recalling how Rhadamanthus had conjured such a wall before.
But this was not his doing.
The flames died; only a pillar of thick smoke remained, reaching into the sky, and from that came laughter to freeze her soul—deep, maniacal laughter that drowned the astonished shoutings of her allies. She had heard that bitter voice before and knew its owner. A cold hand clutched her heart as the pillar began to dissipate, revealing the man-shape within.
Zarad-Krul!
The wizard threw back his head and laughed again. The jewels and chains that adorned his otherwise naked flesh shook with the intensity of his mirth. He raised his hands in mystic gesture.
A second, more potent wind whipped across the plain at Zarad-Krul's command, raising clouds of choking dust, blowing unwary Chondites from their mounts. Frost cowered behind her shield to avoid the chunks of earth, pebbles and loose material that flew in the gale's wake, clinging to Ashur's back with her knees, one hand tangled in his mane until the wind ceased.
Then, a blast of thunder. Scarlet lightning laced the darkness, lending the land a blood hue. Zarad-Krul pointed to a boulder a short distance away. Bolt after smoking bolt, like angry serpents’ tongues, suddenly lashed the stone, beating, hammering until it took on a new shape. In moments, where once was a common boulder stood a thing like a monstrous scorpion carved from solid rock.
Frost stared at the ugly pincers, the three great stinging tails, the dark and horrible maw that gaped with hunger. Her stomach churned, muscles knotted in fear. Yet, she could not tear her eyes from the evil genesis taking place.
The lightning's fury grew, streaking the night with veins of fire. The stone scorpion trembled as eldritch energy flowed into it. The pincers flexed menacingly; the stings curled over its back, black and venomous, long enough to pierce an armored man through. Two dark eyes that shone with ancient evil opened, glared at the Chondites.
Zarad-Krul's laughter filled the night, reminding Frost of stories that the cosmos was created with music. Now, she had a fearful vision that it was the Wizard-lord's mad laughter that gave birth to his Dark Allies.
Kregan sucked in a breath. “Nugaril,” he named the creature.
Next, the very fabric of the night began to shift, coalesce in subtle ways. The air turned icy; the clouds swirled. At the other side of the field another creature took shape, man-like, but far greater in stature, a giant. Born of the night itself, it was a shadow without flesh or feature.
“Mentes?” she shouted.
Kregan nodded.
The wizard's laughter reached an insane crescendo that ate away her courage. Alone, she would have fled. Only the presence of her friends and a fear of shaming herself before them made her stay. She gazed on the Dark Gods, Zarad-Krul and his vast army, wondering what Hell on earth was about to unfold.
With a mad cry, Aecus drove spurs into his mount and flew across the field toward Shardaha's master. The Chondite captains looked to Minos for orders to charge, but that elder gave a stem glare, bade them hold their men.
A red rage fell on Frost. She drew her blade. Damn my fear, then. Better to die with a lone fool than an army of cowards. But Minos backed his horse, blocking her way. Kregan caught her arm.
“Stay,” the elder commanded. “I gave no order to attack."
She stared dumbfounded at the old man's impassive face.
“It's his choice to go alone,” Kregan whispered, a glimmer of sorrow in the depths of his dark eyes. “We foresaw his single combat with the wizard before Rhadamanthus’ vision went wrong. Only the outcome is in doubt. If he wins then victory is ours without further battle. If not...” His voice trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken.
Her sword fell back into its sheath, but Kregan's hand did not leave hers. Together, they watched the lone rider that sped toward Zarad-Krul.
A few scant paces from the Wizard-lord, Aecus leaped from his horse. Free of its burden, the frightened animal raced away, its furious hooves cracking sparks from the glowing stones. Yanking the staff from his back, the Elder of the Argent Cup scratched a hasty circle in the dirt and thumped the ground three times.
A massive bubble of earth and rock swelled around his foe, climbing his form, swallowing, finally burying the wizard before he could utter a sound or make a move.
A mighty cheer tore from a thousand Chondite throats.
Yet, in the space of a heartbeat the mound cracked, turned to ash and dust that was borne swiftly away on an unnatural wind. Unharmed, Zarad-Krul roared with laughter and gestured. In his upraised hand an ebon splinter, a piece of the night itself, solidified. A spear whose barbed point dripped with a foul poison.
Zarad-Krul let fly. Straight for Aecus’ heart the evil shaft sped, and the elder made no effort to dodge. At the last fleeting second his staff moved, seemingly of its own will, and deflected the occult lance. At that same instant the Chondite shouted an ancient name.
Roots, brown and twisted, sprang up from the barren soil, entwining the Shardahani in a choking embrace. Twice more the staff struck the earth; the ground turned to mire that sucked the wizard down as the roots strangled the breath from his struggling body.
But somehow, Zarad-Krul freed his hands. A wave, a clap and the earth turned solid once more. One danger averted, he craned his neck and spat a slimy wad of saliva on the roots. They withered and died. He shrugged off the brittle remains.
One summoned wind, but a greater wind countered it. Water quenched fire. Shivering cold fought parching heat. Zarad-Krul sent two of his hellish bird-things screaming for his foe's eyes, and the stones of the field became deadly missiles streaking to the Chondite's defense.
Frost watched it all, fascinated, cheering with the other warriors when Aecus gained an advantage only to see him lose it before the cheer fully left her lips. Still, she found a grim hope, for Zarad-Krul wasted no more energy on laughter. All his power was focussed on the duel.
Incredible forces shook the land, ravaging the terrain as the battle raged. Deep wounds, jagged gashes scarred the countryside. The air stirred nervously, full of dust and strange odors. Sparkling bolts, incandescent fires illumined the darkness, burned briefly, winked out. Then, as if by some unspoken consent, both adversaries ceased their manipulations. Unmoving, their hate-filled eyes locked.
Frost squeezed Kregan's arm. “What's happening?"
“A direct contest of wills.” He could not look away from the scene. “One mind against another on the astral plane."
“A rare opportunity,” Minos commented with unusual coolness. “We may discover which is the stronger motivating force in the human spirit: the lust for power or the thirst for vengeance."
Frost glared. “Damn your hard heart! The man's your friend."
He returned her gaze with utter detachment. “Yes, he is
. And it's not for you to pass judgment on my feelings at this moment, is it."
She saw it then, the pain in his eyes. Fear for the safety of a friend. Or a brother. She nodded apology and understanding.
Interminable minutes dragged by. Neither Aecus nor Zarad-Krul showed a sign of weakening. The silence hung thicker than the obscuring clouds above. Not a sound came from either army: no cry, no clank of weapon or creak of armor. Even the animals kept still, sensing the tension.
Then, Zarad-Krul twitched; his eyebrow arched ever so slightly. A hand went to his temple, and pain flashed over his face. The Chondites went wild. A jubilant shout rose over the plain as the wizard's knees buckled and he collapsed screaming.
Aecus loomed over his foe. His long sword came out of its sheath for the death-stroke.
But suddenly, triumphant cheers turned to cries of anguish and outrage as Nugaril scuttled to the wizard's side on six stony legs.
Frost opened her mouth, but no sound came. Petrified, she watched the Dark God snatch Aecus up in one great claw and squeeze him until the blood gushed out. With casual indifference he dropped the sorcerer's broken body into his yawning maw and swallowed.
No command from Minos could hold the angry Chondites back. They surged forward, crying vengeance.
Astride her unicorn, Frost lunged ahead, that final image of Aecus’ death forever burned in her mind. A length of steel blossomed in her left fist as she steered her mount straight for Zarad-Krul. All that mattered was to spill his blood.
Yet, speed and fury won nothing. Nugaril lifted the black-hearted conjurer from harm's path and rapidly carried him to a rock escarpment a safe distance away.
The Chondites roared.
An opposing roar went up. The army of Shardaha charged.
The two sides met with a clamorous din, no order or strategy to the fighting, only a contest of unbridled savagery. The clang of steel on steel, the whine of arrows in the night, the grunting gasping of luckless warriors, the pitiful whinnies of terrified mounts. Harmony to chill the souls of sane men.
She plunged into it. Her sword sang through flesh and bone as she raced from one part of the battle to another, a remorseless killing machine, bent on single-handedly gutting every Shardahani in sight.
Frost Page 19
