"That was Andair's plan all along," Frost said, forcing the words out through tightly clenched teeth while he turned away from Cantor, away from everyone, and stared at the decimated demon creature, both fists knotted. He had wanted to avenge the wrongs of the past, but now he must add all the wrongs of the present to the list. Far too many.
I should have hidden them elsewhere myself, he thought, furious at the thickness of his skull. I should have placed layers of warding spells on them, or stayed with them. I should have found a way to protect Shassel, but . . .
"This was part of Andair's plan, at least, I am sure of that," Cantor agreed. "Lurey must have told him about Shassel, and he used the information to his own ends. He was always a clever sort, but some of what happened was happenstance, which Andair simply adapted to."
"He knew I would leave the twins to search for Shassel. He only had to find them."
Cantor shrugged. "Agreed. Though he might not have guessed you would learn the truth so quickly, and come to Grenarii. By now he must know that. He wants the Demon Blade, as does Gentaff, but they are as worried that you will help Kolhol as Kolhol is that you will not. Still, they can use their hostages for leverage in either case."
"Of course," Frost said, turning, setting off through the dried and crackling underbrush, stomping his way between dead trees until he reached the ash-gray claws of the beast. Several of its talons were shattered like so much dark crystal, and part of the hand and arm had turned to dust. Frost leaned over the mess, holding his nose, and reached out to grasp the hilt of the Demon Blade. It stayed in place on the first pull. He got closer, half-sitting on the burnt and crumbling carcass, and tried again, until it pulled finally from the earth.
The Blade felt good in his hand as he wielded it, careful not to let it draw from him now—not now, not yet, not here. There would come a time, and soon. He still lacked the knowledge he needed to control the Blade completely, to ensure that it would not kill him or do more damage than he intended, perhaps to those he would protect. He knew it was far too dangerous to use the Blade again, especially in anger. But he knew in his heart and in his soul, as he stood in this forest, his hand tight on the hilt and his ears full of the sound of its smooth metal edge whistling through the air as he swung it once over his head—he knew he must.
Gentaff knew who was to have the Blade, but it was a secret he seemed to want to keep. He also knew full well what he was doing by taking the twins hostage again. If he will not tell me what he knows, then he will take that knowledge to the grave, Frost swore in silence. One he will share with Andair.
"I hear they have quite a reception planned for you in Weldhem," Cantor said, after Frost had turned once more and made his way back. "Though I know no details."
"No doubt," Frost said. "In any case, I must go. He tricked me years ago and he got away with it. He has tricked me again, but I vow this day that it will not stand." Frost realized he was still swiping at the air in front of him with the Demon Blade, punctuating his words. He made an effort to lower the weapon.
"He has cost me a part of myself and far too much of my life, cost the twins their father and Wilmar and his son nearly everything they had. Now, by whatever measure, he has cost the world a most precious life, and even more lives hang in the balance. For all my travels and years I had thought myself a wiser man, but mistakes have been made on both sides. Andair will not run away this time, and I will not leave."
"The Demon Blade will be the price for the twins' lives, and the others," Cantor said. "But you cannot give it to them."
"I know," Frost replied.
"Then I would tell you one more thing. You can only blame yourself for just so much in life, Frost. No one man is responsible for everything. It is more complicated than that. As you must know."
"I know," Frost said. "But that is not enough." He wrapped the Blade, then put it on his back again and covered it with his cloak.
"We will go as soon as you are ready," Sharryl said, and Frost looked up to find his two Subartans staring at him. Rosivok added a silent nod.
"We'll need to better use our heads this time, I think," Frost told them, trying to add a little bit of smile. It wasn't necessary. They understood.
"When I am through with my tasks in Worlish, I will return to pay Lord Kolhol a visit," Frost said then, speaking so only Cantor could hear. "But what of you?" he asked. "You who has served us all so well?"
"I will wait, and watch, and trust my best interests will be served."
"I could make good use of an army," Frost said.
"I can field a small one," Cantor answered, "but not one large enough to march on Andair at Weldhem. You will need other means, if you have them."
Frost nodded.
"What of fresh horses?" Cantor asked.
"We have these," Rosivok said, nodding toward the mounts Kolhol had left them.
Cantor tipped his head to examine them, then he shook his head, grinned, and slapped Frost twice on the shoulder. "I say no." He gestured to Rosivok to follow him. "My friends," Cantor said, "you will have the swiftest horses in the land. It is the very least I can do."
* * *
Frost slowed to let the horses feed and rest only as often as he thought he must. He passed nowhere near the village Shassel had called home for so long, but rode due south into Worlish, then west again, toward Weldhem. He finally admitted to himself that he felt ill, a convergence of factors, fatigue and trepidation among them, frustration and frenzy, and a bit of fever brought on by his poor condition. His mind boiled in the soup created by all of this, and he had no choice but to let it. Fighting how his body felt or the thoughts that swirled in his head would only tire him more, would only stall the inevitable.
Sharryl and Rosivok allowed him his isolation as they all rode out of Grenarii and traveled along the roads of Worlish. On the third day, not far from Weldhem, they came within sight of a small, familiar village at a crossroad, where they turned north and headed toward Wilmar's lands. He had to be sure all of it was true, and he had to know if Wilmar, Tramet and the twins had been taken alive. He was sure someone would know.
Before they had gotten started a pair of young boys approached them and fell in step, running along beside their horses. "We are sent to tell you that someone is waiting for you at the inn," the nearest one said, as he had no doubt been paid to do. "He has important words for you. He said to tell you his name is Jons."
The village had only one inn. Frost found Jons seated at a table in front of it along with his usual four soldiers. One of six tables, though all the others were empty. Frost dismounted. Sharryl and Rosivok did the same, then walked with him, letting the horses wander as they willed. Jons had a cocky smirk on his face. Frost had an overwhelming urge to remove it at the neck.
"You have a message for me?" Frost asked.
"I do, from my king, Lord Andair, as you have guessed. You are to deliver the Demon Blade to him, or your young cousins will die, along with those who have helped you."
Frost held steady. "Who would they be?"
"Surely you know Wilmar and his son, Tramet. At least Andair is sure you do. He has them as well, and he would have me warn you that this time he and Gentaff have gone to great lengths to prepare for your visit. It will not be like before, storm or no storm. Any attempt to turn the situation to your advantage will be met swiftly and will bring a grim result."
Frost had expected every word. He turned to his Subartans and shrugged, matter of fact. "How grim?"
"And in whose mind?" Rosivok asked.
"He cannot answer questions," Sharryl said. "He has no mind."
Frost saw the fire in his Subartans' eyes. They had suffered enough at the hands of their enemies—Frost's enemies—and were more than eager to purchase a share of vengeance. Jons seemed determined to hold himself up as a ready target.
But Frost was not through with him yet.
"Anyone's opinion would do," Jons answered coldly, then, "Have no doubt, it is true. You were lucky the la
st time, I know that, but luck will not go with you again. As Lord Andair has proven many times already, none of you is bright enough even to learn from your mistakes."
Frost bit his lip, then raised his arm and waved to either side, halting Rosivok and Sharryl as each took a step forward. He tasted blood, then closed his eyes and took a breath before going on. "That, good Jons, is a mistake in itself. But I won't belabor the issue. I would know more important things. Are the captives unharmed?"
"The twins are well," Jons answered freely. "I was there when they and the others were captured and taken away. Wilmar and his son put up a fight. I am afraid they each suffered a beating before they relented. Wilmar was nearly beaten to death, but that is why you all get along so well, isn't it? Fools keeping company with fools."
"Perhaps," Frost said, fists going white as he tightened them.
"What else would you know?" Jons asked, waving at the world around him. "The day? The season?" He grinned again, snide. "The length of the tear in Dara's dress? Or the shape of the mole on her left breast?"
Frost nodded once, and his Subartans leaped forward.
The soldiers at the table were on their feet, swords drawn as Sharryl and Rosivok reached them, but two of them fell in a spray of gore before they could wield their blades. Jons jumped back from the table and pressed his back against the inn's thin daub and wattle wall as he drew his own sword. He began inching his way toward the inn's open door while Rosivok engaged another soldier, deflecting three, then four sharp parries. Sharryl met the fourth soldier from a height advantage as she sprang onto the tabletop. The table wobbled, worrying her balance, but she managed to avoid the thrust when the soldier tried to take advantage, then she swung her subarta across, left to right, and forced the soldier's blade aside just far enough to leave him open. But now a polished, black-handled dagger appeared in his left hand. He tried to slash with it, but in the midst of the effort Sharryl's left leg shot out. Her boot caught the soldier square in the face as the dagger's blade was deflected. The crack of fracturing bone was followed by a groan as the man dropped the dagger and reached to cover his eyes and nose. Sharryl squatted and drove her subarta forward, ending the duel.
Frost moved past Rosivok as his subarta came across to catch the fingers and knuckles of his opponent's sword hand where they wrapped around his weapon's hilt. His sword fell away and the man started to scream as chunks of his digits fell after the weapon. He kept screaming as Rosivok stepped in and drove his subarta through him, then pulled it back.
Frost dodged right, out of the way, as the soldier's body spun and collapsed, then he stepped past.
Jons reached the door just as Frost got to Jons. He swung his blade but Frost stopped short, just out of reach. Frost raised his staff, more than twice the length of Jons' weapon, reached out and touched Jons with the tip. Jons yelped like an animal as he jumped to one side. Frost caught him again, and Jons yelped even louder.
"Leave me unharmed or you will pay a dear price!" Jons shouted, gulping a breath and leaping again to avoid a third jolt from Frost's staff. "I—I am Andair's personal—"
He leaped again. "His personal . . ."
He gasped suddenly, eyes going wide, and looked down. A black-handled dagger protruded from his abdomen, its blade fully embedded.
"No longer," Sharryl said.
Jons let a thin, strained breath slip out. Blood followed it to his lips. He fell to his knees, then he drooped down and lay on his side as the life flowed out of him.
Frost looked at Sharryl.
"It belonged to a friend of his," she said.
"Only fitting," Frost replied, then he raised his eyes to Rosivok as he appeared just behind Sharrly. "Have the innkeeper bring us food and ale, and tell him I will pay him for this mess."
Rosivok went inside, and soon a small feast sat before them. When they had had their fill, Frost walked to the edge of the village and found a spot where rocks had been taken from the fields nearby and piled for use in building. He sat on the pile and stared up at the stars, thinking of the day to come. He could only imagine what precautions Gentaff had taken, what Andair might be planning to do. He imagined nothing good, but he was not without his own resources. He would not trust, he would not be fooled, and he would not hold anything back. He needed to know all that, needed to believe it. Most of all, he needed to use his wits more than ever before. It was possible that a lifetime spent wandering, learning, atoning, becoming all that he was, had not been in vain. He could not change the past, only the present, and the future.
He spent most of the night bent over the Demon Blade, adapting a spell, a very old and simple one, hoping it would work. . . .
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The old gates of the city stood open. As Frost and his Subartans entered they were greeted by rows of soldiers on either side, an impressive show of force obvious to anyone in the city. One man, a very young soldier for the rank he wore on his vestments, came forward to do the talking. He insisted on escorting the visitors up to the castle for an audience with Andair. Immediately.
"And Gentaff?" Frost asked. "Has he fled?"
"I am not told," the soldier replied. "But that is unlikely."
"Very well," Frost said, and they proceeded through the streets where most of the population of Weldhem waited, lining the way to get a glimpse of them. The crowds vanished as the road reached the castle and crossed over the moat. More soldiers waited in the castle's expansive main courtyard. As was to be expected.
Very little of the damage from Frost's earlier visit remained, the charred and bloodied earth had been cleaned, much of the stone and wood repaired. The memories were fresh in Frost's mind, along with the memory of Gentaff himself, of his powerful aura, sharp and sour. He felt that aura again just now. Gentaff was here—in the keep just ahead—but no magical traps were present, at least none that were active or obvious. Frost suspected that might change.
The heavy doors on the raised parapet swung open as the soldiers escorting Frost drew to a sudden halt. A procession emerged onto the high walkway, headed toward the stairs, and began to descend to the courtyard's floor. Gentaff led the way, followed by Andair. After them came a small contingent of soldiers—and among them, bound at the hands and closely held but all quite alive, were Wilmar, Tramet, Dorin and Dara. None of them looked well, especially Wilmar who seemed barely able to walk. Even from a distance his bruises were visible. Frost watched as the soldiers helped him down the stairs.
Andair looked splendid in a scarlet-colored cloak trimmed in sliver cloth, and quite in contrast to the dark blue cloak worn by Gentaff. Frost had not laid eyes on Andair for half a lifetime and he almost didn't recognize his old foe. But the resemblance was there beneath the robes of royalty, the same look in the eyes visible even at a distance, a wicked look Frost had not understood once, long ago, but one he was more familiar with these days.
"Lord Andair!" Frost shouted out as the group reached the bottom. "You have seen fit to attend the meeting this time."
Andair acted as if he hadn't heard until he and the others had assembled some fifty paces away, spread out in a line. "And you have come back, just as you were told," the king said, "as your king commands."
Frost made an effort not to bristle at this, to tell himself he had expected nothing less. He needed a clear head, a sharp focus. The clouds of rage would not serve him now. At least not yet.
"Listen to me, Frost, and listen well," Gentaff said, as he stepped out from the others. Without words between them Andair moved forward as well, then he walked to the right, in the direction of the stables on the courtyard's northern wall. A wooden post, waist-high and fat as a man's leg, had been planted in the earth only a few paces from the group. Andair walked past, until the post stood precisely between himself and Gentaff. Then he turned and Frost saw that he held a velvet sack in his hands, one he seemed quite intent about, as he held it up for all to see.
"Andair holds the key to your cooperation," Gentaff went on. "A talisman I ma
de from a bloodstone, a very smooth and perfect one, which I have been saving for years. I have labored over it for days in anticipation of your arrival."
As Gentaff spoke, Andair withdrew the stone from the sack, walked over and placed it on top of the post. Then he stepped away from it, measuring his paces, until he and Gentaff were again precisely ten paces each away from the stone.
"The talisman requires only a single, short phrase to empower it. With that phrase the spell will be released, one prepared especially for you, Frost. It is a physical spell, you know the type. This one cripples a man by making every muscle in his body burn with fatigue, even a sorcerer's muscles. Part illusion, part reality, but altogether effective, and far too complex to defend against quickly enough, even for one such as you."
"We each know the phrase," Lord Andair said with particular glee. "Gentaff has taught me how to use it. If you do not agree to our terms, if you have any tricks in mind, if you try to flee—"
"Or if you try to use the Demon Blade," Gentaff interrupted, glancing back at the twins and the others, who remained surrounded by soldiers.
"—I can activate the spell, just as Gentaff can," Andair went on. "It can remain activated long enough to stop you forever, I think. Or Gentaff can. He thinks the spell might kill you. It would be interesting to find out."
"In any event, you cannot hope to stop both of us at the same time, thin as you are," Gentaff added, "and you cannot prevail against the talisman, I promise you."
"However, I am assured that you will live long enough to see my guards take care of everyone else you hold dear in this world," Andair said. "That is the only alternative. You will submit. You have no other choice."
"You have already had a hand in the death of Shassel," Frost said, letting some of the bitterness he felt flow into his voice.
Andair shook his head. "I have heard something of this already. But how can you blame me for another sovereign's actions? Kolhol is my enemy. Grenarii is as hostile a land to me as to you. If misfortune found Shassel there, it says nothing of me."
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