Lord of Snow and Ice

by Heather Massey

  “We’re too different. Our families are in complete opposition to one another.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “Why are we even sneaking around like this?” He spread his arms wide, gesturing to their surroundings. “Is this love? We’re adults, Clarysa.”

  She buried her face in her hands. Her temples ached as though she’d been kicked by a mule. “If you think it’s so bad, then why did you even come? Everyone talks about how horrible the warlocks of the Wastes are. I thought you were different!”

  “Well, perhaps you thought wrong.”

  She heard Stellan’s cape snap as he whirled and strode toward away. Away? She spun around. His black form skulked among the trees, now a good stone’s throw beyond her. “Stellan…Stellan, wait!” Clarysa ran forward, breathless from the daggers of fear slashing at her heart. “Why are you leaving? Stellan, please don’t go!”

  But he had mounted his horse. Clarysa threw herself forward and grabbed his leg. “Don’t leave like this! Stellan, we’re meant for each other–I feel it in my heart of hearts. We will find a solution. Let’s talk and cast aside our doubts this time. Darling, please!”

  An iron hand reached down and pushed her roughly away. Not so hard that she fell, but enough to make his emotion clear. Emerald eyes burned with an infernal glow, prompting her to take a step back. “The only thing I’m going to cast aside is my stupidity for having thought we could make this work. Hear this, and understand–I’ll do my utmost to destroy Pestilence, but that’s all I’m going to do.”

  A hard knot lodged in her throat. Her next words came out a hoarse whisper. “What about us?”

  “I’m going to forget ‘we’ ever happened.” His scowl deepened. “I’d advise you to do the same.”

  Stellan muttered a curt order, prompting Midnight to canter away. In a matter of seconds, rider and horse disappeared among the trees.

  Clarysa dropped to her knees, the pain in her chest so great she feared heart failure was imminent. Only gasps escaped her. What am I going to do? Oh, Stellan…I love you. Don’t leave me!

  But, he had left her. What recourse remained for her now, she didn’t know. The silken noose had accomplished its task–there would be no more stolen moments or exciting ventures into his mysterious kingdom of eternal winter. There would be no more Stellan.

  Collapsing upon the ground, she wept.

  Some moments later, a strong hand descended upon her shoulder. She scrambled to her feet from fright…and hope. But it was only Lionel. Had he witnessed the terrible fight? Clarysa wondered how long he had been there.

  “Come,” said the Duke, drawing her close against his warm, familiar body, “it’s time to go. You can tell me all about it on the way home.”

  Chapter 21

  Marcus wiped the sweat from his moist, blond locks. Exactly five hundred and twenty-two paces he marched before turning. Five hundred and twenty-two was the breadth of his surveillance area before he spun on one heel and commenced marching five hundred and twenty-two paces back. He knew the exact number. It was burned into his memory forever, for he had counted each pace time and time again to pass the long, lonely hours.

  The day was shaping up to be hot enough to squeeze water from his sweat-soaked clothes. He stopped marching at three hundred thirty-four steps and sighed. This was his lot day after day, parading up and down around the kingdom’s western perimeter as…well, as a lookout for cows, apparently. He glanced over to the contented beasts lying in the shade, slowly chewing their morning cud. That’s the life, he thought. Not out here traipsing up and down for twelve hours a day in this stifling garb.

  But his commander had doubled the border patrols a week ago. Apparently, the order had come directly from the King himself. What they were supposed to be on the lookout for, he wasn’t sure. Foot soldiers were never consulted about these matters.

  Marcus fingered the rough material of his uniform, standard issue for all Aldebaran military. With little education under his belt, and no money to his family name, it had been either join the army or something along the line of stable hand. Marcus grimaced. Better to be a cow’s guard rather than a horse’s butler. Step number three hundred and thirty-five it was then…

  An expansive shadow loomed across the sky. Marcus glanced up. A large flock of ravens flew by, large enough to momentarily blot out the sun. Never seen anything like it before. Wonder what’s got them all spooked?

  Marcus heard footfalls. Turning around, he discovered the cause. Hundreds of people were pouring out of the forest. He frowned. They had the appearance of men, but…weren’t. For one thing, their flesh was covered in boils, and–in some cases–hung down, swaying in the wind like rags. For another, they all shared a unique trait–a pair of blood red orbs for eyes.

  These were not men and women, but the walking dead–and they were rapidly advancing across the clearing straight toward him! Marcus turned and blew his horn in warning. Onward he ran, channeling every spare breath into the horn. But the creatures were moving distressingly fast. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see how close they were.

  Marcus never made it beyond step number three hundred and seventy-six.

  Chapter 22

  Stellan’s broadsword shimmered in the air as it came down with the force of thunder. The ancient blade had long since seen better days and cracked upon finding its target. However, the blade’s last act was still true as a mottled, hairless head was separated from its skeletal frame.

  “Strike for the heads, and do not let them touch you!” he boomed to the men around him. He drew two swords from their scabbards, then jumped from Midnight straight into a massive throng of Pestilence victims. Whirling about like a one-man army, he hewed hands from arms, and arms from bodies. He breathed hard through the bandana affixed tightly across his face; only his eyes were visible. When fighting Pestilence, the less exposed he was to contamination, the better.

  “Clear!” Patrulha’s voice sliced through the air, prompting Stellan to leap out of the fray. A downpour of arrows rushed toward the Pestilence horde.

  “Reload!” Patrulha called.

  Stellan remounted Midnight and stormed across the field to her.

  “Loose arrows!” she ordered.

  Again, a fresh volley sang and found their targets. The division of Aldebaran soldiers–what was left of them–stood back from the battle, confused. As Stellan reached Patrulha’s position, a bloody, heavily bandaged officer joined them.

  “You have no right to interfere, sorcerer,” barked the officer. “This is our territory and ours to defend.”

  Stellan reigned in his stallion alongside Patrulha, ignoring the soldier. “Any of ours injured?” he asked.

  “Two, but minor. As for Leopold’s men, the numbers are much worse. I estimate twenty fatalities, at least.”

  Stellan loosened his bandana. “I see. Burn the bodies.”

  Patrulha nodded and gave the order. Stellan looked across the battlefield. Word of the attack had come while he had been investigating a reported sighting near a bustling Aldebaran village. An old codger and his wife had tipped him off. They cared not in which guise the help was cloaked, only that it was forthcoming.

  If only he had arrived here earlier, he could have saved more lives. The people of Aldebaran had no idea what they were up against. That proud fool of a king’s son should have listened to me. Another thought came, unbidden. At least I know she is safe, for the present. If enough time went by when Stellan refused to acknowledge even her name, then there might be a chance he could forget.

  He made a fist. It would take an eternity, at least.

  The officer cleared his throat. “Listen to me! This land is under the protection of His Majesty Leopold. Seeing as how the first attack wave caught us unawares, I am now the highest-ranking officer on the field. Because of this, I must…”

  Patrulha cut him a dour look. “Be silent, little man. You’re dealing with forces beyond your understanding.”

  The officer sputtered a protest.

>   Stellan shielded his eyes from the sun. Something moved at the forest’s edge. “Looks like they’re amassing another wave. How are we doing on the formula?”

  “The last assault depleted it, and we’re low on arrows.”

  “Damn it.” He slammed a tightened fist into his opposing hand. “Prepare to light the fields. We’ll torch it with our remaining arsenal.”

  Patrulha turned to give the orders, but the Aldebaran officer accosted her. “Now see here, woman.” This last word he spat into the heavy dust surrounding them. “I must first clear this through the proper channels, as I…”

  Stellan rolled his eyes. “Shut him up, will you?”

  “Consider it done!” Patrulha slipped a hand into her side pouch and withdrew an item. The man’s mouth opened wide to protest, but a blow dart entering his neck spoke for him. He fell to the ground, unconscious. Without a second glance, Patrulha turned and rallied the men. “Prepare for Scorched Earth!”

  Stellan rode across the field, checking for survivors among the tall grass. He turned to see his rag-tag troops lining up under Patrulha’s command whence he came, then he turned again to see a mob of Pestilence victims streaming out of the forest. They were only several hundred yards away. An upraised hand to his troops gave the signal to prepare for firing.

  “No!” squeaked a girl’s mouse-like voice from the grass. “You can’t kill them! You can’t.”

  Stellan gestured wildly, effectively belaying his order. “Who said that?”

  “I did,” said a girl of about ten. She ran up to him. “My mama and papa are with them. Don’t hurt them. Please don’t hurt them!”

  Stellan glanced toward the advancing man-beasts. Their eyes gleamed and bounced like crimson fireflies. With one powerful movement, he scooped up the girl and spurred Midnight into action. The horse streaked across the field. Once Stellan had placed her on the ground at a safe distance, he looked on her grimly. “Your parents, are they infected?”

  Tears streaked the girl’s dirty face. “They…they didn’t mean to hurt me! They…”

  Stellan roughly grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Do they have the eyes, child? Poisoned red with blood? Answer me!”

  “Yes! But they aren’t like the others, I promise! They can be cured. I know it. Don’t kill them!”

  Stellan turned away. He raised his right hand and then dropped it. A storm of flaming arrows soared over the field and hit the open area in time to meet the advancing horde. The girl beat her tiny fists at Stellan’s torso as her plaintive cries rang on. “No! You can’t do this! We’ve got to save them! We’ve got to save them!”

  Easily fending off her blows, he picked up the child once again and mounted his steed. He frowned deeply as they rode on. “They’re too far gone, little one. They’re already dead.”

  Chapter 23

  Since dawn, Clarysa had kept a vigilant watch from the west tower. The majestic structure overlooked the main road leading to her father’s castle. Realistically, she shouldn’t have been nursing any kind of hope. But for the past day the news had been on everyone’s lips from palace advisors to farmers–the sorcerer who had saved the King’s regiment from sure annihilation was heading straight to the heart of Aldebaran. Clarysa shivered for the hundredth time that morning, for soon she would once again lay her eyes upon the Dark Prince of the legendary Snowflake Kingdom himself.

  She wondered at the change she had undergone even at the mere mention of his name. Her mood had lifted; her energy level soared. Up until then, she had spent the past month in a haze of despair and inactivity. As the days of her separation from Stellan wore on, she had chosen a self-imposed exile, emerging only when family business absolutely demanded her presence. What was there for her to do, anyway? Not only was there an edict forbidding her to go to him, but Stellan had established his own–against her. She cringed every time she recollected their argument. Yet memories of the enigmatic sorcerer consumed her. She could still feel his strong arms about her and his hot breath on her neck.

  Was there anything she should have done differently? Clarysa had ruminated countless times over her behavior during their last encounter. No matter how she analyzed it, all the threads trailed back to her thoughtless comment. It was horrid enough Stellan’s people suffered extreme prejudice from the other kingdoms; it was quite another matter for him to experience faithlessness from the woman claiming to adore him with all of her heart. For shame! Why hadn’t she chosen her words more carefully?

  Now, though, he had come to Aldebaran in complete disregard of the edict against him. Clarysa knew there were three reasons the King hadn’t ordered him killed on sight. One, he had saved countless lives; two, because of her; and three, because he had sent word via messenger insisting on an audience with her parents. Despite a strong suspicion that once at the castle he wouldn’t even acknowledge her, speculations ran wild in her mind. What could his presence mean?

  A trumpet sounded, heralding the arrival of a visitor. Clarysa gazed into the distance. At first, only billowing dust was visible. The dust became a dark speck. Then the speck transformed into a fully formed rider and horse racing toward the castle.

  Clarysa wasted no time. She flew down the tower stairs and ran to the court as fast as she dared.

  Once there, she chose a spot on the balcony with a wide view of the thrones. It was strategic for another reason–to hide from Stellan. She had to avoid the agony of a second rejection. At least this way she could admire him from afar.

  Various attendants and advisors filed inside. The King and Queen entered, followed by their usual entourage. Each took his or her respective place. The court was so quiet she could have heard a feather drop.

  The large gilded doors to the throne room slowly swung open. A man in full Aldebaran regalia stepped through. “His Royal Highness, Prince Stellan of Vandeborg,” announced the herald with all due pomp.

  Clarysa’s breath hitched. The Dark Prince strode forward wearing a stern expression. With his pale face and black cape, he looked like a specter risen from the underworld. He dragged a large sack beset with stains. Thud. Thud. Thud. His boots echoed about the room as if thunder. A row of anxious guards fingered their weapons.

  Upon reaching the foot of the throne dais, Stellan stopped. Gloved hands loosened the ropes of the sack. In one fell motion, he dumped the stinking, infested carcass of some anonymous villager onto the floor of the royal court.

  The smell was abominable. Clarysa lost count of how many people averted their faces. Many gagged, others coughed. The Queen placed a delicate hand against her mouth.

  “What in the name of the Five Lands is this?” said the King, pointing at the body. Veins bulged in his neck, feeding the fire of his flushed, angry face. “Don’t you have any idea where you are? Is this…crudeness of yours so necessary?” The remark gave Stellan pause, but only for a moment. He held out his right hand and dropped something onto the corpse. It burst into bright flames. Clarysa wondered if it were magick or a simple incendiary device.

  Stellan watched the corpse burn for several minutes, his emerald eyes amplified by the greenish glare. Eventually the flesh blackened and began to disintegrate. Then, and only then, did he turn his attention to the King and Queen.

  “Fifteen years ago, King Renaudas of the Western Wastes sanctioned the creation of a magickal plague, a disease of the mind that spreads like a fungus and infects the blood. It proliferates quickly and without warning. All it requires is access to an open wound. That’s it. No more, no less.”

  Stellan’s hawkish gaze bored into each person before him. “Over time, this contagion will drive a person mad, stoking his or her capacity for violence and aggression. The victim is driven to fight even past the point of death. There is no cure, and it must be stamped out. Period.” Stellan leaned forward, effectively staring down the King. “Either Pestilence will overcome your people, or they will die from the rampaging onslaught of its victims.” He pointed at the pile of ashes on the floor. “On your present cour
se, this is your future–and believe me when I say it does not make exceptions for those of royal blood.”

  “But why?” demanded her father. “Why has that demon beast of a king done this?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Pestilence is intended as an agent of control. Infect enough people or animals, and you have an invincible army–soldiers who fear nothing and want nothing but death in their wake. A legion without need for food or shelter. They require neither sleep nor rest, nor reward, nor payment.” Stellan scowled. “Tell me, Your Highness, who would win against such an unstoppable force? You? Your army? No.”

  The King stared at him, aghast. Her mother looked pale, switching her gaze back and forth like a frightened bird. Clarysa nearly forgot to breathe as she listened. She clutched the balcony rail tightly. She had heard Stellan speak of the dangers, but this news was too much to fully absorb at once.

  “Why come to me now, at this late hour? Why come at all, you damned warlock?” her father made no attempt to hide his ire. “If you knew about this evil fifteen years ago, why didn’t you warn us? What are you trying to hide?”

  A wry smile passed across Stellan’s lips. “So you would have trusted me more at age fifteen than you do now, hmm? What about ten years ago? Or five? Would the answer have been any different then?”

  The King frowned in concession to Stellan’s point.

  “No,” Stellan continued, “I and I alone had to find a way to combat this. My efforts involved many failed experiments. The Arts are not for the faint of heart, or the impatient. Besides, for a while it seemed Pestilence might prove too unpredictable to use as a weapon. Its results were random at best. Time appeared to be on my side.”

  “Then what happened?” demanded Leopold. “These recent attacks hardly feel random. And why haven’t we seen this before if it has truly been in our midst as long as you say?”