Frost

by Mark A. Garland

  "How will I sleep with the likes of you in my camp?" Frost asked.

  "Half as soundly as I with you," Cantor replied.

  "Agreed," Frost said. "I will take my payment in gold when we reach your manor in Calienn and I will take your life without notice if you attempt to cross me."

  "That is not my way."

  "An honest merchant?" Frost prodded.

  "Not always," Cantor replied. "But it is a luxury I can afford these days."

  The right answer, Frost thought, satisfied. "It will not be an easy journey," he said. "We climb the plateau tomorrow and the mountains lie only two days beyond. We have escaped the notice of most in these lowlands, but that will be more difficult from this point on. For tonight, I suggest you get some rest."

  "Have you ever been to Calienn?" Cantor asked.

  "I have," Frost said, though he had the impression that Cantor already knew.

  "Good, it will give us something to talk about."

  The look on Cantor's face was too smug. There were indeed more secrets that might be uncovered through lengthy verbal sparring, if Frost's assessment of the merchant was at all correct. For tonight, it would keep. The journey ahead would provide occasions enough.

  "Much to talk about," Frost agreed. Before they parted ways, he would know what Cantor knew. The camp's small fire was dying again, letting the darkness back into the clearing, letting it surround them. "Good night," Frost added, though that was something he expected none of them could truly count on for a long time to come.

  * * *

  Frost stood still and silent, eyes closed, hands wrapped around the walking stick planted firmly in front of him, his forehead pressed gently against its smooth wood. The warmth of the rising sun, the fresh breezes, the chatter of birds and the steady rhythms of blood and breath within him he had eased out of his consciousness, until only the whispers of the spell spoke to him, gathering to him the faint breath of others.

  It was a simple bit of sorcery he'd learned as a boy and mastered ages ago, so far as one could master such things. The key had been to learn to recognize the auras of human beings as separate from those of other life, and then to adapt a spell to find them. Like picking one voice out at a crowded inn. Difficult, but not impossible, and the spell worked much better in a place like this, where few human beings were likely to be.

  He opened his eyes and looked up at the rough rock walls that sloped away on either side toward the sky, then he breathed a heavy sigh. The trip was not getting any shorter. They'd been nearly a month on the road all told—two weeks to the Ikaydin Plateau, nearly two weeks more walking since then—but the journey had been made harder by the necessity of staying away from villagers and towns, and sleeping in spurts so that crossing the dry, open Ikaydin Plateau could be done mostly by night.

  A stop in Lencia had been the only night indoors, a short respite before spending the last two days climbing to reach Highthorn Pass, which itself only marked the beginning of further hardship from difficult terrain, colder nights, and the greatest prospects yet of being ambushed—none of it the least bit appealing to Frost. Sharryl and Rosivok said almost nothing by way of complaints, they seldom did, but he knew they felt the same. Cantor kept to himself as well, curiously so in fact, though Frost was less certain of his reasons.

  Frost had no special desire to talk to Cantor, but it would have made the days pass easier. For now, though, there was a new, more immediate concern. Only three days into their trek over the Spartooth Mountains, and trouble had already found them. Worse, Frost sensed a subtle, disturbing difference in one of the unknowns that trailed them so slowly and diligently, keeping themselves hidden among the more challenging rocks and banks above the pass—magic.

  "A difficult place to defend," Rosivok said, taking his turn at leading the mule as the three set out walking again.

  "Agreed," Sharryl said. She flanked Frost on the left, Rosivok to the right, their shining, two-edged subartas slung at the ready on their right arms. Frost carried only his walking stick. Beneath his cloak, sheathed, wrapped and strapped securely to his very broad back, he carried the Demon Blade as well. But there it would stay, at least until they reached their destination. Though perhaps, he thought wearily, long after that as well.

  "I am considering our options," Frost replied. He had some ideas, and had already begun rehearsing the appropriate spells in his mind. For now he could do nothing more, yet more, certainly, would be required, and probably before the day was done.

  "That fellow in Camrak, the one with the scarred ear, I still think he would have made a fair replacement," Sharryl said.

  "He was too young," Rosivok said, after they'd walked in silence for several paces.

  "For you, perhaps," Sharryl said.

  Frost glanced at her, saw her nearly about to smile. She had taken an instant liking to the lad, and he to her.

  "He may have been old enough to fight by day," Frost said, "but I am not so sure he could have survived many nights with Sharryl."

  "Though he did show promise," Sharryl said. "One night together is hardly enough."

  "Enough for him," Rosivok said, and added a grunt. "He never did turn up at all next day."

  "True," Sharryl said, "but I would have found him."

  Now a smile, Frost saw, and allowed one of his own. He too had spent such a night with her, as had Rosivok, though all three of them had had very different reasons. The Subartans of the Kaya Desert were supreme warriors, born and bred, each one a match for any three men, and they were remarkably capable in other physical activities as well, though only when the mood came upon them, which was as curious and unpredictable an event as the weather.

  "Strength and stamina are often required for more practical activities as well," Cantor said, apparently in support of Rosivok's views on the matter.

  "True," Frost said. "If he failed to manage with Sharryl he may well have failed us all."

  "Hmph," Sharryl grunted this time, but then she looked at the others. "It is still unfortunate," she added, trudging a bit heavily.

  "We will find another third," Frost said, taking her meaning. "Let me show you." With that he stopped and untied the little pouch he carried since the desert, since before he'd known of Subartans, containing a handful of stones reputed to be most useful in learning what lay ahead, or which way to go on more difficult matters. Frost reached in the pouch and gathered the stones, just half a handful these days, then he bent and scattered them on the hard packed trail. "There, you see?" he said, examining the pattern. "This grouping here, and that small group there, then this clear line connecting the two."

  "I never knew a crack in the ground could be counted in the reading," Sharryl said.

  "Nor I," said Rosivok.

  Cantor covered a smirk. Frost shook his head, then sighed. "By my eyes, I wish I knew." He scooped up the stones once more and blew the dirt off them, then returned them to the pouch. "Still, the signs are all around, I think. We must be patient, and wait for the right one. A third who can be trusted as one of you. A weak link serves no one."

  "Unless the odds become too unfavorable," Sharryl said.

  "You need another warrior?" Cantor asked.

  Rosivok managed a nod.

  "Subartans prefer it," Frost explained, "but in a fight there is never time to baby-sit. The third member of a defensive triangle must be as strong as the other two, or missing altogether, at least in theory. Though it was possible to imagine that while being overrun, such standards might seem a bit harsh."

  Cantor shrugged. "For the right price, a suitable candidate should be easy enough to hire."

  "With Sharryl and Rosivok, equality is beyond the reach of most," Frost said.

  There had been talk among them of returning to the desert lands for a time, to renew old acquaintances, but more importantly to find a true Subartan to take the place of the one that had been lost, so many years ago—and those that had taken his place since then. The idea was more than tempting, but in the end, for s
everal reasons more important, Frost had decided on another direction. He had made himself a promise, and he was not about to change his mind.

  Frost slowed his pace. Here the pass wound around a particularly tall spire of barren rocks that rose like a great hand poised to slap down on passers-by. The left side was lower, with only small bits of shrubbery and a few dwarfed trees. Not wide enough for Frost's liking, but there was nothing to be done about it. At least the terrain offered little in the way of accommodation to highwaymen or opportunists. Which was why the group still following them was not close at hand. For now.

  Frost tried once again to concentrate on their subtle glimmers of consciousness out among the rocks. It would be easier now that he knew what he was looking for. He sensed nothing different; they must still be some distance away.

  "Do you know where they are?" Rosivok asked.

  "Behind, I think, but they will catch up," Frost answered.

  "They have taken another way, above the trail," Rosivok said, following Frost's gaze to the cliffs overhead. "They are resourceful."

  "No doubt," Frost said, speculating on the confrontation that lay ahead and feeling quite weary of it all, of the many and sundry who had come and would come seeking the Demon Blade, so long as he held it. Which was the other half of the reason he was headed this way, headed . . . home. "All of this," he grumbled, "I never intended."

  The Subartans quietly nodded.

  "You still have my offer," Cantor said calmly.

  "And you still have my answer," Frost replied without pause, but he let the mood drag him down as they continued walking. He watched the pack mule plodding evenly, dully, and almost envied the beast its oblivion. He hadn't asked to be the one, hadn't wanted the responsibility, the attention, the troubles or the pain. The Demon Blade held in his hands alone had saved the world, just as it had so many centuries ago in the hands of many others. But his wondrous feat remained a puzzle he had yet to fully resolve, while the Blade had become a personal hardship, Frost's curse.

  "Tomorrow, I say, we will have company," Sharryl said, as if making a wager.

  "Why do the Greater Gods insist that every time I traverse a mountain pass I must be set upon by hostiles?" Frost muttered. The last time they had passed this way it had been wolves and banshees that descended on them, and the Demon Blade had been a hundred leagues away at the time.

  Rosivok grumbled quietly while Sharryl rolled her eyes. Frost caught it. "Your thoughts?" he asked.

  "That is what mountain passes are good for, after all," Sharryl replied, making an even less exuberant face.

  "After all," Frost repeated.

  "It is not your fault, of course," she added.

  "Perhaps, in a way, it is. Have I read the omens wrong? Do I test my luck too often and thereby wear it out? Do I lack the necessary charms required?"

  "What charms?"

  "I have no idea, but there are many, I'm sure."

  "Perhaps I have done myself a disservice, throwing in with you," Cantor said.

  "Of course you have," Frost said.

  "No doubt you've done it all wrong, as have we," Rosivok told Frost, "but that does not change anything, not usually,"

  Frost had no reply to that. He let out a sour sigh, then went back to walking, back to his spells, to planning, to alternatives, and to seeking auras—to his surprise he found one, and instantly stopped.

  Someone else, casting about as he was. The spell was similar to his and therefore likely as effective. At least I must assume it is, Frost thought. He was still unable to determine for certain whether this other came behind them on the trail, or waited somewhere up ahead.

  "What?" Sharryl asked, turning from him and eyeing the shadows along with Rosivok.

  "The same ones I sensed before," Frost said.

  "Can you tell yet how many?" Rosivok asked.

  "Perhaps a dozen, perhaps more," Frost replied, "but one is unique, an adept of some resource, and cautious, a capable adversary I would wager."

  "You said they would come from all directions, and use every means," Rosivok reminded. "An adept is not so unexpected."

  "No," Frost said.

  "None of it is," Cantor said. "Since the battle in Ariman, rumors of the Blade have spread like autumn fires."

  Frost felt the other's words rest heavily upon him. There had always been rumors, of course, and men had sought the Demon Blade for centuries, though until now the rumors and seekers had managed without him being at the center. Frost let a frown find his face.

  "All true," he said, "but I had hoped those inclined to look for the Blade would continue to look in Kamrit for a time. So formidable a challenge so soon is troubling."

  "A challenge short-lived," Rosivok stated, caressing the twin blades of his subarta. Sharryl nodded in solidarity.

  "Well, that's reassuring," Cantor said, apparently sincere.

  "We will need to deal with them properly," Frost said. "There are many questions I would ask of them, if I can. Which way they have come, for one, and which way they are going."

  "If they come from behind, then traveling on means leaving many such dangers behind," Cantor wondered aloud, "but if they come from those lands that lie ahead . . ."

  "Yes," Frost said.

  "We will invite them to join our camp tonight," Sharryl said, waving as if to someone in the rocks above. "And ask them!"

  "They will come to us without invitation, I am sure," Frost replied.

  "Not that I'm worried, mind you," Cantor said, examining the high rocks himself now. "But what do you plan to do?"

  "We must become the hunters, not the hunted," Rosivok said.

  "What—" Cantor started, but Frost held his hand up, cutting the merchant off, and stood considering Rosivok's last words for a time.

  Something more than a simple hide-and-pounce strategy would be required and nothing could be taken for granted. Old, reliable spells would be best. Frost looked at the sun and the day was growing old. The others would not come near this night, which gave them time to make camp for the night, and make their plans. He looked to his Subartans and smiled. "Indeed," he said at last, "we shall."

  * * ** * *

  "If I seek him out he will sense it. Even now he is seeking me," Frost said, "but in so doing he gives his own position away, more or less."

  "How much less?" Sharryl asked, crouched with Frost and Rosivok behind a scattered pile of fallen rocks and boulders along the trail.

  "It is almost certain they did not sleep last night," Frost replied, "and they are ahead of us now. Precisely where will not matter for long."

  "A good night's sleep will be our advantage," Rosivok offered, confident.

  "I hardly slept a bit," Cantor said. He was crouched just behind the others, and was apparently not terribly interested in sharing the view. "So many days and nights on the road are bad enough, but all this stalking . . ."

  "Yet that is something anyone who wishes to hold the Demon Blade should expect," Frost said.

  "I would hold it only after I am home, where my own guards can protect me, and only until I can sell it to a suitable buyer," Cantor said. "If I had purchased the Blade from you in Kamrit, how would I get it safely home? No, you are welcome to it until then. A bit of sleep is better than none at all."

  Frost glanced back at the merchant with fresh regard. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but there was something about Cantor he was actually starting to like. He simply nodded, then turned away and tugged at the reins of the mule, testing to be sure they were snug beneath the rock that held them. Now Sharryl and Rosivok stood guard, their backs to Frost as he closed his eyes, focussed his mind and set about casting his spells.

  A winter at Kamrit had restored him to his full and celebrated weight, enough stored mass to fuel even the most vigorous sessions of spell-casting, yet he had managed to keep enough muscle underneath it all to remain an asset to himself, not a burden; a necessity in those instances when strength or a bit of unexpected agility might be required.r />
  Keeping the extra padding was a more difficult task when walking across an entire realm, but good hospitality had been found all along the way; a cottage here, a tiny village there, where people were eager to trade a meal and provisions for a bit of helpful sorcery to ease some affliction or pestilence, or a few copper coins. Game had been plentiful as well, and Rosivok and Sharryl were capable hunters of most any sort of creature, not just men.

  "Now, join hands," Frost said, standing exactly between the others. He reached out and took Sharryl's hand in his left, Rosivok's in his right, then he instructed the Subartans to touch the mule with their free hands. Next he recited the long sequence of phrases he had assembled, enabling the spell. As he spoke the spell's final phrase, he felt strength and energy begin to seep out of his body, calories being burned, magic being done. He had overcome the dizziness decades ago, along with the unsettling waves of fatigue that came after it, usually in direct proportion to the size of the task. This time, the sensation lasted only an instant.

  "Step back," he said, keeping the hands held tight. The three of them retreated one step, yet remained with the mule as well. Three perfectly created simulacrums, three illusions hand-in-hand standing exactly where the real trio had been, still touching the mule. Frost had guessed that those who were following them would not know about Cantor, and each image added to the spell made the task many times more difficult, so he had left the merchant out.

  Frost let go, then went around and took the reigns of the mule again, and pulled them free. "Come, mule," he said, leading the creature out from behind the rocks. The three newly created images followed, all walking realistically enough, though they stayed quite close to the mule.

  "Go down the trail, mule," Frost told the animal. It seemed to understand completely. After picking its way to the level ground it set off trotting up the path as if being led. The three false glamours walked along. "I have tethered the spell to the beast," Frost said, as he came back. "It will draw energy from the animal."