Frostflower and Thorn

by Phyllis Ann Karr

  “You will do it in piety and in repayment for being permitted to remain and watch.”

  The wind had dropped. Soon the first, large drops of rain should fall.

  “We must not wait longer,” said Maldron. “Lift your head, sorceress.”

  She lifted it a little, and caught sight of the priest’s dagger. Maldron had slipped it from his belt and held it ready. The silver blade was almost as long as a quill pen, very thin, etched with symbols of wheat and rye, and honed at the tip to a needle point. She closed her eyes and tilted her face further back. Pushing away her hood, the farmer placed one of his hands on top of her head as if to hold it steady.

  “Remain perfectly still. A sudden movement may cost you an eye.”

  Moments ago, she had been waiting eagerly for the storm. Now that the farmer had fixed such a mild punishment for her, she wanted only for no chance bolt to startle him during his rite. Breathing slowly, she began to concentrate on keeping this area clear of thunderbolts and rain. She raised her eyelids very slightly and, through the haze of her long lashes, glimpsed Maldron’s knife coming toward her left eye.

  Somewhere at the western edge of the forest, beyond the reach of her power, lightning struck. A howling started behind her—mixed wails of infant and dog.

  Maldron’s hand slid from the top of her head to the back of her neck and clamped tight. She gasped, jolted into opening her eyes. His face was twisted with sudden anger.

  From within the glade, the priestess called out, “A child!”

  “Lie still, Inmara!” There was no anger in the farmer’s words to his wife.

  But immediately he held the thin knife to Frostflower’s cheek. “Lying sorceress!” Louder: “Wasp! Find the infant!”

  “I’ll find it,” said Thorn, bounding forward out of Frostflower’s range of vision.

  The sorceress heard thudding, cursing, grunting. Thorn must have run into Wasp to prevent her from reaching Starwind. Frostflower could not turn her head—she could only kneel frozen in Maldron’s grip. The farmer-priest struggled visibly with his wrath. Dowl barked wildly, begging for some human to come and help.

  The priestess appeared behind Maldron, panting a little, clutching her loosely-draped robe about her, staring eagerly ahead. She did not glance down at Frostflower—she did not seem to see even the struggling warriors somewhere beyond. Her large gray eyes gazed as if entranced toward the sound of the baby. “An infant! Maldron—an omen!”

  “Inmara! Rest—dearest, you must rest the full time—”

  “Husband, it is an omen! The goddess has answered our prayers—”

  “It is a child stolen by this cursed sorceress!”

  “What? Ah!” The priestess glanced down at Frostflower, seemed for the first time to notice the fighting. “Then we must save it at once.”

  Inmara began to run toward the wails. Frostflower had a glimpse of bare feet and fluttering white silk. Lightning struck, nearer yet. The thunder came in great cracks, and the sound of rain began on the leaves above.

  “No!” shouted Maldron. “Clopmule, help Wasp! Are all of you impious fools?”

  Clopmule must have been about to strike me from behind, Frostflower thought. She closed her eyes again, trying desperately to regain some quiet in the midst of fear and confusion. The farmers would cherish Starwind and care for Dowl…they treasured lost infants and liked dogs. That thought helped her to ignore her own danger—Maldron’s dagger pricking at her cheekbone, the trickle running down her face, the shouting and blows of metal on metal.

  One of the warriors screamed. Thorn shouted, “Now, Clopmule, damn you!”

  Maldron pulled away his dagger and thrust Frostflower to the ground, holding her with one foot in the small of her back. “Throw down your sword, impious warrior!”

  Struggling for breath, the sorceress twisted her neck. Thorn and Clopmule were circling, striking at each other with their swords. Maldron’s spearwoman—Wasp—lay twitching on the ground.

  Beyond them, Frostflower glimpsed Inmara’s white form, standing perfectly still, holding the infant in his blanket, while Dowl barked and jumped around her.

  “Throw down your sword, damned one!” cried Maldron. “It is a priest’s command!”

  Thorn paused. Clopmule started to jump closer, swinging her weapon. Thorn leaped back and struck it away, barely in time. “Call off your own cow and let us go!”

  “The gods will rot your fingers on your hand, Thorn!” In his anger, Maldron pressed his foot deep, causing such a sudden increase of pain that Frostflower screamed.

  Thorn cursed in rage and started towards the farmer. Clopmule, moving rapidly despite her limp, came between them. For a few heartbeats, the two swordswomen crouched, glaring at each other, their blades swaying.

  “You will stink in Hellbog!” cried Maldron.

  “I’m damned already!” Thorn leaped forward. Frostflower closed her eyes. She heard the clash of their swords and looked again to see that Clopmule had beaten Thorn off.

  “Throw down your sword, damned warrior.” Suddenly Maldron sounded almost calm, although he had to raise his voice above the storm and the barking dog. “I can break this child-stealing creature’s spine.”

  “She could wither you dead first!”

  “A priest does not fear a sorceress.” He ground his foot down deliberately, releasing the pressure only after he had forced another scream from Frostflower. God! Would he truly break her spine?

  Thorn turned and began to run. Clopmule limped after her, but halted midway. Thorn had stopped and seized the priestess by one arm.

  “Let her go, Reverence, or I’ll—”

  “You do not dare! You do not dare touch a priestess, warrior! Release my wife, or Azkor and Smardon will stuff your living bowels down your own throat in deepest Hell!”

  Thorn seemed to shudder—she was too far for the sorceress to read her expression—but she kept her grasp on Inmara. “That’s whenever I sink to Hellbog! Meanwhile, I’ll kill your lady, Maldron! I swear it!”

  “Thorn! No!” Frostflower cried, and then screamed again as Maldron’s foot clamped down.

  “Let her go, farmer! By all the gods and demons! I’ll do it!”

  This was like the fury that sometimes made common folk forget their fear of sorceri—Frostflower had never guessed it might also turn against their own farmer-priests. But Thorn must not harm Inmara! Not a completely innocent woman!

  The priestess stood quiet, unmoving. Another crash of lightning, very close. Thorn glanced up toward the sound. Clopmule sprang at her. Frostflower screamed and shut her eyes.

  When she looked again, Clopmule was staggering back, bent over and clutching at herself. She fell and lay writhing. The infant was wailing again. Inmara still stood motionless.

  “I mean it, priest!” shouted Thorn.

  “Then feel the anger of all the gods!”

  Maldron’s foot was agonizing; but now he seemed to push down forgetful of the sorceress, lost in his own struggle and anguish. Frostflower thought, I must not scream—I must not remind him of myself, I must not arouse Thorn to strike. There is one chance—

  “All you gods of the storm!” Maldron’s voice rose in the sound of a farmer’s chant. “By your solemn names I call you! Eajandur, lord of the thunder! Meactira, lady of lightning! Alrandru, ruler of the whirling storm-winds!”

  Digging her nails into her palms, blinking back her tears, Frostflower twisted her neck to look upwards. She saw the farmer-priest raising his thin silver dagger over his head, holding it in both hands, blade pointing straight upward. Oh, God! He would attract the lightning down on himself! But his effort to cow the maddened swordswoman might help Frostflower.

  Where could she direct the next bolt? God, strengthen my eyes—show me a point! They are standing so close, Thorn and Inmara—and Inmara holding Starwind! It must be close enough to terrify, but it must not hurt—oh, God, none of them must be hurt… There! The tree a few steps behind Thorn, that large branch half an arm’s le
ngth above her head—

  “All you mighty gods, nourishing the worthy and destroying the unworthy! All you brothers and sisters of Jehandru of the Seven Secret Names, great Giver of Justice!”

  The sorceress tried to shut her eyes to Maldron’s meaningless chant, breathed as deeply as she could with her back and stomach so pressed. She had been taught how to enter the trance quickly under conditions almost this unfavorable. Fixing her gaze on the chosen branch, she thought only of thunder and waited for the next bolt near enough to snatch with her mind.

  The charge was gathering. She felt it, in the sky above the glade. Good…it would come from behind the farmer-priest.

  She caught it! Rode it, an instant that seemed to her trained power several moments. The bolt tried to swerve down to Maldron’s silver blade—she forced its energy back, made it curve up again to compensate for its early descent—drove it at last against the branch, down through the living trunk, off through the moist, root-filled earth safely away from warrior, infant, and priestess.

  At the explosion, she felt Maldron’s leg waver. She rolled. He fell heavily. She rolled further, away from his legs, pushed herself up, ran towards Thorn and Inmara.

  Maldron screamed at her. A sorceress owed no obedience to a farmer, and the time for humble submission was past. Thorn was on her knees—she could not have been hit after all? But Inmara was still standing.

  No, Thorn was not hurt, but she was babbling in terror. Clutching at Inmara’s robe, she was pleading. “Lady! Forgive me! Oh Gods! Lady, pray to the gods—”

  The farmer-priestess stood dazed, looking from the warrior at her feet to the child wailing in her arms. Then she looked beyond them, toward her husband, and gasped.

  Frostflower glanced back and saw that Maldron had been able only to half-rise. He held one hand to his shoulder, and a dark stain spread down over his white robe. His own ceremonial dagger—he must have fallen on it somehow.

  “Lady,” said Frostflower softly and urgently, “the child is mine. I feared to bring him forward, because of the suspicions, but he is mine. Truly.”

  The priestess glanced at her, so quickly that Frostflower forgot to drop her gaze. Then… Inmara pressed Starwind almost absently into Frostflower’s arms, and began running toward Maldron.

  The gambit had worked! Frostflower hugged the infant close to her breast and fought down a feeling of triumph.

  But Thorn was still moaning on the ground in a state of terror and shock. And the rain was falling faster, starting to beat down steadily through the leaves.

  Frostflower stooped and shook the warrior’s shoulder. “Thorn! Thorn, it was only a warning.”

  The wind rose and the rain increased to a sudden torrent. The sorceress sheltered the child as best she could with her robe, turning her back against the wind. She would not hold the rain and wind away from herself, not now. Thorn must continue to believe, for a time at least, that her own gods had sent the warning bolt. Again she shook Thorn’s shoulder. “Thorn—it did not strike you, it missed you. We must hurry, Thorn.” Dowl left Frostflower and tried to lick Thorn’s face.

  The swordswoman rose, quiet now, but still dazed, and stared at the sorceress through the rain. Merciful God, thought Frostflower, have I broken her mind? If the farmers’ superstition has this strong a grip on her, how did she defy it long enough to threaten Inmara? “Your sword,” she urged aloud. “You must not forget your sword.” She wished she could remember its name.

  The warrior nodded, looked down, and retrieved her sword from the wet humus. Frostflower saw with relief that Thorn wiped the blade without urging, and that she felt of her own accord to be sure the dagger remained in its sheath at her belt.

  Then, uttering a single loud shout, Thorn seized Frostflower’s arm and began to run.

  Sorceri learned to run well, and Frostflower kept pace with the swordswoman; but it was a dash of slipping in sodden leaves and bumping against trees, with rain striking like sleet against her skin, Starwind a squirming weight in her arm, and Dowl forever jumping out of their way at the last moment. Not until they paused to rest, when the rain had slackened somewhat and they had found shelter beneath a huge old oak with dense foliage, could she sort her thoughts.

  She had felt a rush of triumph when she rolled from beneath Maldron’s foot and felt him fall. That was bad, very bad—must it not be the emotion a warrior felt on cutting down her enemy? It was a heady feeling, this battle-triumph—dangerous for sorceri. And then when she had looked back and seen he was wounded and could not follow…no, surely then it was relief she felt, and fear, also, for his sake, was mixed with it? Surely there had been fear for him, and even remorse. She was to blame for his injury—no, it was his own choice to hold his dagger as he had held it, and to stand with his foot on her back. And had she not guided the lightning, he would be dead; even though it had not been her first purpose in seizing the charge, she had saved him. Then, when she told Inmara that Starwind was hers—Frostflower’s—she had not lied. Had not Thorn given him to her?

  But Thorn…ah, if only I had not followed her, not yielded to my filthy curiosity! Now Thorn will be hunted by the farmers. If they take her alive, they will scaffold her and hang her like the poor wretch we passed—was it only today? Because I could not wait for her.

  The sorceress looked timidly at her companion, who stood shivering and poking up clumps of moss and humus with the point of her sword. “Thorn…forgive me?”

  “What? Oh. All right, you’re forgiven. My own damn temper. My own damn, fathermilking temper.” The swordswoman shook her head and turned to study the moss on the tree trunk. “Better find the road so we know where we are. At least they won’t get too damn close to us in this bloody rain. He’s got to get back to his hall first, to—oh, Hellbog!” She started to put her sword away in its leather sheath, then stopped and kept it in her hand. “Well, come on!” Straightening her back, she strode forward.

  Frostflower readjusted her robe and blankets around Starwind, pulled up her hood over her own head, and followed, with Dowl padding at her side. She should have felt sad and frightened, for, while earlier they had been merely objects of suspicion, now they would be hunted outlaws. Yet she was filled instead with a strange, victorious joy.

  CHAPTER 3

  “We should’ve gone south.” Thorn stared down Slicer’s blade to his point, which she was jerking back and forth in the floor boards. “Maldron knew we were heading for Gammer’s Oak.”

  “And so he will reason that we would not continue here.”

  “What do you know about how a farmer’s mind works, sorceress?”

  Frostflower glanced up, with her damned everlasting smile, as if she knew everything in the whole bloody world and was just a little too sly to say so aloud. “I know something, at least, of how their punishments work.” The fresh scab on the cheek below her brown eye looked almost like a mole in the candlelight.

  “Oh, Hellstink! What bloody difference does it make?” The swordswoman got up from the bed and started to pace the baker’s small upper room. “He’ll be sending his warriors out in all directions, anyway.” Unless he was dead. “Frost.”

  “Yes?”

  “You think maybe he’s dead?”

  “No. It was not a large knife.”

  “Long enough to hit some vital places.”

  “Surely, if it had, he would have died at once? But he rose on his knees and cried out to us.” The sorceress seemed to think she was comforting Thorn.

  “Maybe he jabbed a vein and bled to death.”

  “Inmara was there to tend him.”

  Damn! Even if the farmer did die out there in the rain, the priestess also had gotten a good look at Thorn. Probably that demon’s turd Clopmule was going to live, too. Maybe Thorn should have killed them all. She could hardly have it much worse in Hellbog for finishing the job than she would already have it for threatening a priestess. What a Hell of a thing for a warrior to carry around the rest of her life into every raid, every gaming-house
—it was one thing to expect you would probably end up in Hellbog sweltering forever just beneath the surface—it was something else to know you were going to end up at the slime bottom as living sausage-meat for Smardon’s torture toys.

  The best Thorn could hope for was to postpone it forty or fifty years. And to do that, she had to get to the other side of the Tanglelands and hire out to some small farmer or townmaster who did not much care what happened in the north.

  Sooner or later she would have to double back and slip past or circle around Maldron’s Farm; and it should have been sooner, before he had the chance to get back to his hall and alert his women. Damn! thought the warrior, why wasn’t I thinking clearly? What possessed me to come on north to Gammer’s Oak? All right, maybe we needed someplace warm and dry to get out of the storm—you can run better if you stay healthy. And who else would have risked taking us in like this? Those weavers in Frog-in-the-Millstone, maybe. Warriors’ God! What kind of damnfool idiots not only made friends with sorceri, but took them in and hid them when they came knocking and saying they were probably being hunted?

  The same kind of damnfool idiots who got themselves damned to the slimiest tortures of Hellbog for a bloody sorceress.

  It was almost dark outside. The storm was only a drizzle now. Any moment Maldron’s bitches might come hammering on every door in Gammer’s Oak. And there the sorceress sat, letting the bloody grub play with her tits again!

  “Hellbog!”

  “Shhh, Thorn. You’ve frightened him.” The grub was yowling, and the mangy dog was whining again, and even if the sorceress did not care a damn what happened to herself—gods! She ought to care what happened to a hard-working bitch of a swordswoman fool enough to befriend and get damned for her.

  Thorn sat down and began polishing Stabber to keep herself busy. “Why the Hell don’t you shunt the brat off on one of your friends? The mongrel, too. How can we hide with that pair of bloody noise-horns sounding off all the time?”

  “Burningloaf is unmarried and would be questioned if he were found with Starwind.”