Frost

by Mark A. Garland

  "Aye," Cantor said, pendulous, turning slowly in place, apparently gathering in the scene all around him as if he'd missed some part of it.

  Certainly that was the plan, to determine the identity of the Blade's true heir, its Keeper, then deliver the sword to them. The last Keeper, old Ramins, had known the succeeding Keeper's name, but he had died without telling anyone and Frost could not be sure there was anyone else alive who knew. The Council of Wizards that created the Blade in concert with priests and the Greater Gods were all long dead, as were many of the demons that had nearly come to rule the world of man in that time—until the Demon Blade. Yet even when the Blade was no longer needed, it had continued to exist, as the Greater Gods required for some reason, one assumed. The Blade remained a terrible weapon, a terrible secret, closely guarded for generations. But a secret no more.

  "I have reason to hope," Frost said. "There is someone who may know the true Keeper, a very old friend and more, one of those we go to Worlish to meet, but I cannot be sure what we will find."

  "That is why you travel to your homeland?" Cantor asked, as he tried to get comfortable on the rocks underneath him; he wasn't having much luck.

  "Yes, one of the reasons," Frost replied. He took a very deep breath, put his palms, fingers in, on his knees, and tried to rise. Sharryl and Rosivok moved to help him, then Cantor as well. Wobbling, they all succeeded. Once he was stabilized in the standing cluster Frost raised the Demon Blade, then reached back and slowly slid it into its scabbard. Rosivok helped him get his fingers loose. Sharryl found the wrappings and gathered them up. Cantor, wisely, kept his distance. In a moment the Blade was safely tucked away, strapped to Frost's once-broad, now shrunken back.

  "There," he said, when they had finished, "is where the Blade must stay. I will not use it again."

  "Truly?" Cantor asked, tipping his head. His look was part fascination, part consternation. Frost wondered if he should tell the man anything at all, then decided it was probably essential.

  "I have come to believe that it may not be possible for one man, one mind, to comprehend the Demon Blade's full nature, or to use its powers without great risk not only to one's self, but to . . ."

  Frost didn't know. Others? Realms? The world? Perhaps no one knew. But right now, this day, he felt that learning the answer might be much like learning what the afterlife was like—the knowledge could eventually be his, but the method and consequences left something to be desired.

  "To whom?" Cantor asked.

  He wanted Cantor to know the truth, the impossibility of it. "Never mind," Frost said. "But mind this: until I can say otherwise, we must be sure that this day is not repeated. We must be sure."

  He let his voice trail off. These were not words he wanted to speak, not the thoughts he wanted to have nor the fears and possibilities he wanted to face.

  And by the Greater Gods, not anything like the kind of day he'd intended to have, he told himself, mentally trying to shake off the daze he felt himself falling into. Not ever, he asserted. And certainly not twice.

  "The Blade may be hard to control, it may have a mind of its own, but it obeys your will when you wish to attack," Sharryl said.

  Again support, Frost knew, as he looked at her. She didn't smile, but something like that was implied in her pale expression. "I wonder at that," Frost replied, feeling weaker again, very tired.

  "It is true, isn't it?" Cantor said. "We have all seen as much. What is more, when you were satisfied, you were able to make the Blade stop."

  "This time," Frost replied.

  "You will be the Blade's master again," Cantor said, clearly trying to sound reassuring.

  "No," Frost said, pausing while a chill shook his body. They need to know, all of them, he thought. "No," he said. "I do not think so." He sank to the ground again and rested on the rocks.

  Both Sharryl and Rosivok were silent after that. Even Cantor seemed to hold his breath, as if he was afraid to let it go. Frost found the silence a comfort, and made an effort not to disturb it for the remainder of the day.

  * * *

  Near sunset they made their way back down to the trail below. They found the mule easily enough—it hadn't wandered very far and had escaped the destruction—then they spent the night huddled under blankets and the clear, cold stars. Their packs held enough food stores to last a few more days, enough perhaps to get through the remainder of the pass and into the province known as Calienn.

  In the morning all of them, shaky as new-born calves, tried to set out walking again, but it proved too much too soon for Frost. So the best part of the day was spent resting. The day after was better, and a little at a time, pausing as frequently as they dared, they slowly made their way down toward the lowlands beyond the mountains.

  The third day brought hunger, deep and abiding, as the bodies of Frost and the others began to long for a thorough replenishment, but they had to make their food rations—the remaining flat bread, dried beef, fish and cheeses—last as long as possible. The Subartans were in no condition to hunt, Cantor had never hunted a day in his life, and Frost dared not try any sorcery, not even a whim, so depleted were his bodily reserves. He might kill himself before he knew what he'd done, or in his withered delirium he might well get even the smallest spell cast wrong and do more harm than good; but besides all that, it hurt. It hurt to breathe, to walk, to talk, even to think, let alone do magic. Frost was not the least fond of pain or discomfort. He'd struck the notion of magic from his mind as completely as possible.

  And he walked on.

  Each time they began again after resting, the struggle was evident in the others' faces, and in his own, Frost knew, but none would allow themselves to give in or falter. Even Cantor was so far proving himself to be made of sterner stuff than Frost had given him credit for.

  Still, they were only human, as was he, and while sheer grit would see them through the Greater Gods' own fury, even this had limits. By the third night, Frost was all but certain they would not survive without some remarkable happenstance, some act of providence. None was forthcoming, yet somehow they managed another day, then one more, as the trail began to descend—a hopeful sign, if not too late.

  After six days, their rations and strength truly gone, they managed one final rise where the trail passed between two grass-covered hillsides, and found themselves looking down into hope.

  A valley filled with forests broken frequently by freshly cultivated fields met their gaze, and through it went the road ahead, straight and solid, not washed out as Frost had expected, things going as they had. Not very far, only halfway to the horizon, there were signs of a fair-sized village.

  "We will go?" Rosivok asked, as guardedly as a Subartan was capable.

  "Of course we will!" Cantor said, shaking his weary head; but then he turned to Frost and asked, quite pleadingly, "Won't we?"

  Rosivok's question took risk into account, of course, and there was reason for concern, especially in their current and vulnerable conditions, but the chances of being accosted by Blade-hunters were less here than in the lands they had come from, or so Frost presumed. More importantly, their physical needs outweighed other factors.

  Frost wasn't even certain they could trek the distance to the village. But by all the Gods that had ever been, they would try.

  "We will go," Frost said in answer. The others nodded weary agreement, then Sharryl took her turn tugging the mule into motion again. She let the beast all but drag her along after that.

  By day's end they were near the village, but each step had become so grievous a task that they all had taken to leaning on the mule, which slowed everything down even further. Then the mule stopped altogether, and would not budge. It has come to this, Frost lamented in silence, leaning on the backside of the mule while flies buzzed about his nose, no strength left even to cuss at the beast.

  "Ho!" a voice called from behind. A young man, Frost thought as he waited a moment, gathering the strength to turn about.

  "Ho there!" ano
ther voice repeated, a woman this time.

  With a breath, Frost pivoted. The others turned as well and both Subartans gripped their weapons, but they did not make any threats. They were in no condition to fight anyone, though that would never have stopped them trying.

  Fortunately conflict appeared unlikely. A mother and her son, Frost guessed, though the boy was nearly a man. They stood at the edge of the road where they had emerged from the woods just behind Frost and the others. Frost turned a bit further and rested what remained of his weight on his staff, then he tipped slightly to one side by way of counterbalance, and waved a limp arm over his head at them.

  "Good day!" he called out, his best effort, though the words didn't seem to carry very far. The two figures came up the road all the same, each one carrying a muslin bag in front of them, heavily stained, with straps that went over their necks and shoulders. Berry picking, Frost thought, and his stomach ached.

  "Wait, we would walk with you!" the woman said.

  "Friendly, aren't they," Cantor observed, as the two drew nearer.

  True enough, but normally strangers had a habit of approaching Subartans with particular caution. Not these two. Then the truth of it came to him. "They must have seen many travelers before. This is the only road into this part of Calienn."

  "I am Taya, and this is my son, Lan," the woman said as she drew within range, a weathered but apparently fit woman, and still young enough to be of child-bearing age, Frost estimated, though not by much. The lad looked like her, dark hair and olive skin much like Frost's, rounded features, but slim, and with a good frame. He might be fifteen, Frost thought. They were both lively of step, something two Subartans, a merchant, one sorcerer and even the mule could only imagine just now.

  Frost introduced himself, then Rosivok, Sharryl, and Cantor. Taya seemed to smile excessively at this last.

  "You have traveled far of course," she went on, even more cheerful now. She examined Frost and the others with far greater scrutiny than her pert smile and balmy tone implied. She seemed intent on every detail, in fact.

  "Yes, from the provinces beyond the mountains, perhaps as far as Kamrit or Neleva," Lan said, clearly hopeful, his own grin a fixture now. "You will have many fine stories to tell I'm sure."

  "Lan dreams of adventure as all boys do, and tales well told, but I can see you are all much in need of rest and good nourishment," Taya said, frowning a bit as she considered them further, then she began to nod in advance agreement. "You will want to stay on a few days in our village, of course. There is a very fine inn, with good beds, good food, good company. All the very best hospitality will be yours if you stay there, I assure you."

  "You are the innkeeper," Frost said.

  "I will not deny it," she replied.

  "Are you ill?" Lan asked, still looking the newcomers over as well.

  "Yes, in a way, but it is nothing to concern others," Frost said.

  "You were not robbed in the pass, were you?" Taya asked further.

  "We are well, and sound enough to pay," Frost answered.

  "Of course you are!" She chuckled, then showed her best grin to everyone. "There is nothing Lord Cantor cannot afford. Follow along, then, won't you?" Frost and his Subartans were staring at Cantor now, a bit leery. The merchant shrugged. "In Kamrit, you are well known, but in Calienn, I am well known," he said.

  "Clearly," Frost said. "We will follow you," he told Taya. "But slowly. We are . . . weary from our long journey."

  "As all can see," said Lan, shaking his head a bit, which earned him a scowl from Taya. Then she smiled at Frost and the others again. "Forgive him," she said.

  "I have," Frost answered. She'd meant Cantor. He nodded. She nodded back, then she and the boy held their bags open and everyone sat right there in the road, feasting on the berries before they set off again.

  Taya began chatting about the village as if duty bound her. Acklandar, it was named, for the lord that had owned it all before he had granted a charter, making it the only place of trade in the region and himself much richer. She told them all about the two ice storms they had suffered during the winter months, and the sickness that had taken eleven of the village's older folk, including Taya's father, which put the fear of plague in everyone before it left of its own accord. Babies had been born this spring. The weather had been cool and dry. None of this was terribly interesting or new to Frost's ears, but the listening made the walking possible, the pain and exhaustion more bearable.

  "Then you run the inn yourself?" Frost inquired.

  "I do, though my son is the reason I am able to."

  At a bend in the road Frost stumbled on the roots of a large old maple and each Subartan grabbed one of his arms to steady him. All three nearly fell, but managed to recover in time. Cantor made a gesture as though he was about to step in, but somehow he managed not to get that far.

  "Your friends say little, but they are heedful," Taya remarked.

  Frost nodded.

  "Aren't you supposed to say thank you?" Lan said, earning him yet another scowl from his mother.

  "We must all rely on others," Frost said. "In that, some of us are indeed fortunate." He seldom gave proper thanks to Rosivok and Sharryl; they were doing what they'd been born to do and being paid well enough for it, after all. But over time he had begun to feel that bits of occasional praise were in order. He knew better than anyone how hard it was to find good protection; that they were good companions as well was all to the better.

  The two Subartans said nothing for their part, Frost hadn't expected them to, but he noticed Taya glancing over her shoulder curiously at them. "They do speak," Frost assured her. "When they have something to say."

  Taya nodded. For several moments after that the silence was broken only by the sounds of birds busy in the trees. Then another bend in the road revealed the low stone walls of a village of moderate size, its gates open wide, and inside a glimpse of clustered houses and buildings. This part of the valley was broader and flatter. In every direction patches of cultivated fields were all up in green, leafy sprouts.

  "Home," Lan said, grinning, picking up his step and now leading the others.

  Taya let him go. "Such as it is," she said, though the smile on her face meant it was well to her liking. "Tell me, what lands do all of you come from?" she asked. "You to begin with," she said, looking at Frost. "Your look is like the men from my husband's province."

  Frost said nothing at first. Taya seemed to grow concerned. "He was a fine, good-looking man," she hastened to add. "Died three seasons ago from illness. Worlish was his home."

  "And mine," Frost said. "You are right."

  "Ahh, of course! Such a fine thing."

  "As you say," Frost answered.

  "How long have you been away?"

  "Many, many years," Frost replied.

  "We often have travelers from Worlish at the inn, especially now that the roads can be traveled."

  "Soldiers sure enough, if no one else," Lan said, grumbling.

  "There are always soldiers," Frost said in kind.

  Sharryl and Rosivok quietly nodded.

  They entered the village at last and found it only a fair walk from end to end. It consisted of a collection of the usual tradesmen's shops and clumped-together homes of mud bricks, mostly one-story buildings with wooden roofs. The small square featured a drinking well and little else, though there was room enough for market fair tables and booths, which Taya said would come in just a few weeks. The inn stood not far to the right of the main gate, the largest building in sight, larger even than the guild hall, though it was small by most standards.

  "Everyone will want to meet you," Lan said.

  "Not quite everyone, but many," Taya corrected.

  "After . . . we have rested," Cantor said with a weak but authoritative voice. Frost nodded agreement, then he stumbled over nothing at all, his Subartans caught him, and the three of them finished in a heap on the hard-packed earthen road. Cantor's hand was out, but once again he ha
d somehow missed making contact with anyone.

  Taya and Lan helped them up. "Right," she snapped, "let's get you all inside."

  * * *

  The dreams were interrupted by a man whose voice was familiar, as was his name—which was given, but Frost could not make sense of it. He felt warm, wet, awful. He tried to move but the world insisted on spinning in all directions, this way, then that, and he felt the urge to vomit. He reasoned that if he'd had anything of substance in his stomach he would have done just that, but as it was, his efforts produced nothing worth noting.

  Someone was there, however, he decided, as he tried to look up through the haze of his fever at the shape that hovered over him. The man was telling him to rest easy. Then the man was telling him good-bye. A man he knew, though he could not remember the name. At which Frost began to wonder which one of them was leaving. The next thing he saw was a woman's face, and things began to look much better again. Relatively.

  * * *

  "Your stew," Taya said, taking a rag in one hand and wiping at the deeply stained wooden surface of the table, then setting the bowl in the other hand down.

  "Thank you," Frost said, thinking himself much too kind lately; he seemed to be saying such things in one manner or another at a regular pace. Yet thanks were in order. He inhaled, drawing deeply at the rich aromas. Taya was a fine cook, and she ran a proper inn. She'd raised a fine son in Lan as well, a hard worker, honest, and smart enough to know when to leave one alone, most of the time. Frost had long found this last to be a rare trait, especially among the young.

  Though Lan's interest in who Frost and his companions were, in what they had done, the places they had been was surely acute. He asked constantly, and was greatly entertained by the smallest tale of battles or sorceries. Which, to one degree or another, was to be expected of such a boy in such a place. Frost had not been a boy in ages, but he remembered that much.

  He gazed about the room. Though this place was smaller, it reminded him of the inn where he and Hoke and Madia had first spoken all together. Dark tables and sturdy benches cluttered the worn wooden floors, twin hearths warmed the room from either side. Just enough daylight came through the windows to see what you were eating by day, replaced by sufficient lamps at night. Best of all was the frequent presence of those most delicious smells; meaty stews and soups, cooking porridges and baking breads, and some very fine ale of a familiar recipe, made by Taya herself, an art she had apparently learned from her husband who had brought the knowledge with him from Worlish, years ago.