Demon Blade

by Mark A. Garland

  "That only she would dare to attempt a confrontation with you," Kaafk finished for him. He rubbed the knuckles of one hand across the bottom of his rounded chin. "My lord, what if it was her?"

  "When the girl is found, and before she is killed, I will ask her many things," Tyrr said, slipping, letting the mouth tighten, the teeth meet. "She will tell me whatever I would know."

  "Oh, well, of course," Kaafk said evenly.

  "Perhaps I should join in the search," Ingram said.

  "You will be going with more troops to the north, as I said. Do what you must, but deliver the Blade to me. With or without the heads of the northern lords. You will search every leaf and bog and cup of water in Golemesk until it is found!"

  Tyrr realized he had raised his voice, that he was slipping much further. He felt the body reel inwardly, weakening as his anger surfaced, stressing the spell that held the body in corporeal form. Once again he fought the urges and turned the tide, imposed a calm within himself.

  "I go at once, my liege," Ingram was saying, bowing low, heading for the door. Tyrr waved, and the imp scurried after the captain—who glanced nervously over his shoulder at it. He may get over that, Tyrr thought, or he may not.

  "The great lords themselves will find fault with such plans," Kaafk commented, standing close to Tyrr now, closer than the demon prince preferred. "They will strongly object."

  Tyrr made the lips smile. "Only while they live."

  Chapter XVI

  "We must get out of Ariman as soon as possible," Rosivok insisted. "There are too many of Ferris' soldiers looking for us."

  Madia nodded agreement. They had been forced to hide off the road twice since climbing out of the dung wagon the day before. "So what about him?" she asked, indicating Frost. The wizard lay dozing beneath the trees at the edge of the road—as he had been for hours.

  "He cannot make such a journey in his weakened condition," Sharryl insisted. "We will need to find some place nearby, with food and shelter, where he can recover. Then we can go on."

  "Sounds simple enough," Madia grumbled.

  "The master has always seen to such things," Rosivok said. He sighed, a disheartening sound to Madia's ears. Again she felt helplessness, hopelessness, like a sickness that spread though her, a relapse. Not even the peasant villages to the north would provide safe haven now.

  Though, perhaps, those further to the south . . .

  Why would the peasants here be any different? Why wouldn't such people help her again? She needed no story to tell now other than the truth. Help your princess, she would ask, in a way that would make them understand, and they would, she was almost certain of it. She told the others.

  "Some may wish to turn us in, in hopes of getting favors or rewards," Sharryl cautioned, when Madia had finished.

  "Then we will pay them first," Madia replied. "Frost has more than deeds with which to pay for aid. There are plenty enough gold coins in his bag to ensure the peasants' loyalties. For a few days, at least, which may be enough to get him back on his feet."

  "If he is fed well and left to rest, yes," Rosivok agreed. "A few days, perhaps a week, will do."

  "Good." Madia sighed. "I will choose the village, then go in alone and talk to them. I know what to say."

  The Subartan nodded, then went to collect Frost. By dusk, Madia had found just the place. A village much like the one she had first stayed in after being sent from Kamrit, with people much like Faith and Rous and Aust. There had been no soldiers by in several days, they said, and they seemed truly glad to find their princess both alive and here among them, bringing gold.

  Madia fetched the others and gave each man and woman in the village a few gold coins, then bid them bring the best foods they could find. Within hours, Frost had been sheltered in a hut, where he was given milk and porridge and berries and ale. With prodding, the wizard woke, ate all he could hold, then slept again till dark.

  When he finally woke again, both Subartans and Madia were there, ready to feed him once more by candlelight—an idea which seemed to suit him well. By the end of the third day, Frost had gained back a few pounds and a good deal of cognizance. And a physique. In laundered slacks and a short-sleeved tunic, he looked rather comfortable, in fact, and rather . . . impressive.

  Madia had never thought of him as a "man" before, though now, seeing him thinned down like this, the way he moved, the way he looked as he pulled in a stretch, she could not help but feel a twinge of attraction. She realized that she was the second woman to do so, though. Sharryl had been remarkably attentive to Frost's needs these past two days, and Madia was not about to fight her for him.

  "We are grateful for our stay," he said, finishing his evening meal, seated at a small table just outside the hut were he'd been sleeping. He sat back and belched—a huge sound that carried for yards—to the amusement of a number of villagers just returned from the fields. Frost and the others were a great entertainment for them, and Madia had encouraged this.

  Though Frost, so far, had been very little help. He was still drained from his ordeal, more so than anyone, but the damage was more than simply physical, Madia was certain of it. Frost had changed, like a turtle pulling into its shell, a bear changed somehow into a rabbit.

  "We are grateful," Rosivok agreed, "though we have already stayed too long."

  "I am better now," Frost insisted. "And glad to be away from Kamrit."

  "Soldiers are looking for us," Madia said. "But they have yet to come here."

  "Then we will leave before they do."

  "To Neleva?" Rosivok asked, though he, like Madia, seemed already to have the answer. They needed a good safe haven now, and Frost, after all, had been summoned to Glister by the council itself. That was the obvious choice.

  "Neleva, tomorrow," Frost replied to unanimous nods, though he sounded as if the acknowledgment was somehow painful.

  More coins were given around at Frost's encouragement, and again the villagers were only too glad to accept them.

  "Now, leave me," Frost asked, rising from dinner, turning toward the hut behind him. Everyone began to wander off, except Sharryl. She and Frost stood quietly a moment, just looking at each other, then a strange smile found her lips, finally mirrored on his, and she followed him inside.

  Early the following dawn, the four of them gathered their supplies and slipped away.

  * * *

  I was a fool, Frost thought, again reliving the encounter in his mind, then he tried not to think about it at all, and found it impossible.

  The pace was slow in deference to him; he was still a bit weak, still too thin, but he admitted to no other choice and kept going. There was not much talk among the others, not even the usual lessons of battle that Rosivok and Sharryl had taught Madia in the idle time before reaching Kamrit. Frost said almost nothing, preferring the silence. There was much to think about, much to decide.

  Nothing, he thought, is the same.

  On the eleventh day of travel, they arrived in the mainland half of the twin city of Glister, capital of Neleva, and Frost, getting his bearings, pointed the way toward one of the better inns the city had to offer. Once settled, he thought, once I am ready, perhaps I will send Rosivok to contact the ruling council. For now he was in no condition to fight any sort of mystical beast or indeed to do any magic at all. And in no mood to face anyone, even Madia, much more than necessary.

  His powers were there, returning slowly along with his physical strength; they would continue to grow, like his fortitude, along with his waist, but he had not tried even the slightest spell since the battle against the demon prince. Sometimes, thinking about it, he began to feel cold inside, as if he might freeze to death if he touched the magic again. Sometimes, he was not sure he ever would. Ever could.

  He had never lost before.

  Never. . . .

  Nothing is the same.

  The city's streets called his attention, bustling with people from many corners of the world, people of color and unusual dress, and as
often speaking in different tongues. They came from beyond the Spartooth Mountains and beyond the Kaya Desert, from the Teshcta tribes Rosivok and Sharryl called their own, and from distant shores across the southern seas—the merchants of Kresa and Iquar and Boulisti. Frost had not been in this city for many years, and he was impressed by the way it had grown bigger and richer, and even more diverse. He had long preferred such cities, where the possibilities for interesting employment were multiplied. Where exotic folk and ideas were as common as peasants. A place where a wizard and three companions could pass largely unnoticed. Soon enough, they found the inn.

  "Go and buy the best foods and drink you can find," he told Rosivok and Sharryl, once he had taken a room and settled into it. "You will stay here," he told Madia, "for my protection, and yours."

  "When will you go to visit the council?" Madia asked, a question Frost knew he must answer soon.

  "In a few days, a week, perhaps. You may come if you wish, to introduce yourself as the rightful heir to the throne of Ariman."

  "Are you so sure that is a good idea?" Madia asked then. "The councils of Neleva had agreements with my father, but I have no idea what state those affairs are in right now."

  "We have heard that there is ongoing trade," Frost said. "But there is as much unrest, perhaps more than in Ariman. You may need this county's goodwill and its arms, Madia. We will see what sort of diplomat you are."

  "What would you have me tell them?"

  "The truth, I think, and see what that brings us. I need to learn what small task they would ask of me, of course, and you need to make friends. Perhaps, if events favor us, we will soon both know better how to proceed."

  He watched the look on her face sour somewhat. Hospitality or protection, there was little difference, and Madia was as aware of this as he. But without open hostility between the two lands, the council would be foolish to do more. Yet she will have to try, he thought. There was no hope of facing the demon again by themselves, especially when he still was not certain why things had gone so wrong the first time. Perhaps this was what he saw in Madia's eyes now.

  "What is it?" he asked after a moment. "What is wrong?"

  "I—I am no idiot, Frost. I was there. I saw what happened. I too am opposed to getting beaten again, or killed, all without any gain. I don't know what can be done, what anyone can do, even an army. But I do not want to hide, either. I have done too much of that already. I want my father's legacy. I still must bring honor to his name, and to mine."

  "Ferris is no mortal man, Madia. You are right to think that none can stand against him. You cannot understand the dimensions of his powers. Armies will be needed, yes, but also the help of wizards from the Kaya to the Spartooths and beyond, to battle him again. Anything less would be the greatest fool's wager, a leap into almost certain oblivion. We have already made . . . fools of ourselves. Learn from this, as I have, so that some small purpose is served."

  "Is there no hope that once you restore yourself, you will find the right spell to use against him?"

  "You are not listening! Your heart leads your mind, Madia. Not a quality one desires in a prospective monarch."

  "Neither is cowardice!"

  Frost felt the word buffet him, felt its force combine with something sharp already twisting deep inside him. He was not a coward, he thought, not anything of the sort. He simply wasn't going to be made a fool again! That was the way of looking at it. He had not weighed all the odds, had not properly considered the omens, had not remained sensible! Never give everything, he reminded himself. Never risk all that you have on a single chance! He had ignored his own best advice.

  He had never lost before.

  Never. . . .

  "Prudence, not cowardice, Madia. The lack of failure is itself a success."

  "It is death," Madia snapped, teeth held together.

  "I must rest," Frost said. "You must stand guard."

  "It is true, is it not?" Madia said evenly. "You are terrified of Ferris, scared out of your wits."

  Frost weighed his reply. "You do not fear him?"

  "I do, but not as you. You could go back and face him, but you are afraid to try, afraid even to think about it. He did not beat you, Frost, he destroyed you!"

  Not true! Frost thought again. She doesn't understand. She has no idea. . . .

  "Say something!" Madia demanded. "Tell me the truth!"

  "You have a great deal to learn," Frost said, lying back on the bed, closing his eyes.

  "I have learned I was a fool to rely on you."

  "That you are a fool, I will not argue with." Frost took a deep breath, then held still, allowing no movement, calming his mind. This was a conversation he no longer wished to continue. He listened to Madia move about the room, heard her find a chair and sit on it. His thoughts soon found their way back to the battle at Kamrit—thoughts that had not left him in days, and followed him into his dreams.

  * * *

  They fought furiously in the little street, blades clanging and pinging, two well-healed bodies leaping, spinning and dodging, displaying reflexes to be admired even by the uninitiated. Frost watched the street, guarding against interruption. Then Sharryl showed her prowess in a sudden combination of movements, flashing steel high and close to Madia's face, then a leg thrusting out at Madia's feet, and the princess found herself sprawled on her buttocks with Sharryl standing over her, grinning. It was not an expression a Subartan wore lightly.

  "I know," Madia said wearily. "I am too easy."

  "Untrue," Sharryl told her. "You become more adept each time we practice. You had a great natural talent, and good training, but now you have more—a level of skill that can truly serve you."

  "You and Rosivok always win," Madia said.

  "We are born to it," she said. "We are one with the subarta."

  Madia got up and looked at Sharryl. "You will always be better," she said.

  "Yes." Sharryl grinned again.

  "But she will never be more than she is," Frost said, speaking to her now, though he did not look at her. Madia put her sword away, then all of them grew distracted as two women came up the street, glancing over their shoulders at the tall dark-skinned warrior figure looming just behind them. They looked ahead again and busied themselves with minding the rough stone and errant sewage, obviously nervous. Frost greeted the ladies as they passed. They hurried on. Rosivok came to rest at Frost's side.

  "The council awaits you," Rosivok said. "They are eager to talk."

  "Was there any word of their . . . problem?" Frost asked.

  "They made no mention of it."

  Frost examined the other man's look: subtle but troubled. "You believe that something may be wrong?"

  "No, only that they seem to have much on their minds."

  Frost had a number of things on his mind as well, which he wished to talk over with Neleva's powerful ruling council: what was the precise nature of their needs; how much were they were willing to pay; and how indefinite, should he choose, were they willing to make his stay? But he was also aware that the council members would know much about goings-on in Ariman, perhaps more than anyone—and he needed to learn what they knew, especially about Ferris.

  The more he learned, he thought, the better he might be able to deal with what had happened, with fear—his, and others'.

  Fear was something Frost had almost no experience with; a gruesome garment that fit poorly and pulled at the seams with every movement, dragging him down like rain-soaked wool; he wanted to shrug it off, but all his knowledge and prowess seemed useless against it now—strength without leverage.

  He was getting better in other ways, nearly forty pounds heavier than when he had entered Glister four weeks earlier, and many dreams removed from the fitful nights that had followed his visit to Kamrit. But he was not "well." The world did not seem the same place anymore, and he still had no stomach for magic. There seemed to be no need, really, as he saw it now. What good did it do? Or you are afraid of that, too?

 
He had lately begun to look for signs, for omens; at the moment he was quite content to stay out of harm's way.

  He looked closely at the others: the street clothes and leather protection they wore, the weathering their apparel had taken. "We will stop at the market square on the way back to the inn and buy new clothes, so that we do not go before the council clothed like beggars!" Everyone else glanced self-consciously at themselves, except Madia, whom Frost found staring at him. They had barely spoken since arguing on the day they arrived in the city. More often than not, he was grateful for it. He owed her nothing by any rational assessment, and it was obvious that she blamed him, at least in part, for their failures at Kamrit. She wanted more from him, much more than he could possibly think about giving to her. To anyone, now.

  "What is it?" he asked her.

  "I wasn't sure you would even go," she said.

  His fears were something Madia had tried to use against him like a weapon, but he had also seen the trepidation in her, different than his own but very real, no matter how she sought to suppress it. This last was not meant as a barb, he decided; she was simply asking.

  Neither was I, he wanted to say. "I know," he said.

  He set off toward the palace.

  * * *

  The Kresaians, olive-skinned people who had arrived in ships and settled, establishing trade long ago, made up the bulk of the ruling council of Glister. They had brought with them many rare and wonderful items and skills which the lands to the north had seldom or never seen. They excelled at ornamentation, weavings, and pottery, their artists created the most exquisitely detailed paintings, their metal-smiths crafted the finest swords and tools that were known, and they built structures the like of which no nobleman of Ariman had ever imagined—similar to the cities of the desert tribes but on a far grander scale.

  Here stood high walls and towers detailed with engravings and set with sculptures, and domes covered with shining metals that topped every dwelling of importance, including the homes of the rich—and in Glister, there were many rich. The palace itself was tall and grand, glittering and ornate, as were the members of the ruling council.