Again the fires lashed out from the Blade, white-hot at first, then turning a blinding blue-white almost instantly, until they began to take on strange florid hues as the force intensified even further—a blaze Frost's own mind could barely imagine, even at this moment. His eyes saw only the stream of fire that blinded him before he could look away, but he could sense the trueness of his aim, the contact with the demon creature. He sensed the beast fighting back as well, drawing on all the vastness of the forces at its command. But already, as he gained control and willed the new concoction of spells into a finer arrangement, Frost knew that the beast's attempts would not be enough.
The savage heat of the energy leaping from the Blade threatened to burn the exposed flesh of Frost's hands and face as the pain from everywhere within began again, crackling along each fiber of muscle and biting at his flesh as it rose to the surface—though it was different this time, somehow less severe, almost bearable. Within him nothing burned, no damage occurred, no flesh dissolved, so far as he could tell. Otherwise, I would already be dead, he thought. He closed his eyes and kept his concentration on the spell as its intensity remained at levels he could barely comprehend. He felt the pain increasing gradually, a thing he could hold for now, but growing bigger, heavier, large enough to crush him under its weight if he waited too long—much longer at all. The heat was truly beginning to burn his skin.
Then he heard the beast scream somewhere beyond the range of mortal ears, a sound that echoed through Frost like thunder through a mountain pass, and with that a distant feeling of terrible hunger and limitless pain—pain beyond anything Frost had so far endured, a final diatribe that flared for just an instant, and then was gone.
Frost thought to end the attack, but he was reluctant to believe in his own success. He could not let go of his fear, his passion, his intoxication with the power he controlled—until suddenly the pain within him exploded.
As he felt his body wither again, he lowered the Blade and broke off the spell, then he fell to his knees, leaning on the Blade, and waited for the agony to subside, for the glowing images in his eyes to darken. Slowly he began to recover. He waited for a long time, then he cautiously opened his eyes. . . .
Such a sight, Frost was certain, had not greeted anyone for more than a thousand years—not since the time of the Demon Wars. Nearly three thousand men lay still on the ground before him in horribly gaunt and twisted heaps, staring at death with hollow eyes, their armor and bloodless dried flesh hanging on their protruding bones, white-bone knuckles clutching at spears and swords, axes and bows. Utterly vanquished, Frost saw; no slight trace of life remained among them.
The Blade had become the true focus of the spell, had consumed all the energy Frost had found to give it, energy directed by Frost's concocted vampire spells, but gathered by the Blade itself from every living thing it found. And when that source was gone, it had come after him again. On the hillside beyond the dead army, a burnt and gaping hole in the earth marked the site where the beast had stood. Of the beast itself, there was no trace.
Frost slowly stood. He held the Blade away from him as it continued to cool, so the heat would not burn him even more. His hands and face stung—bright red, he saw, looking down. He turned and found the others coming toward him again, Madia and Rosivok and Sharryl, followed by Grish and Marrn, and behind them the great lords and their armies—several hundred running, cheering men.
Chapter XXVI
"This way," Anna said, hurrying ahead of the others down the dim stone corridor. She reached the corner and paused. "Down there," she said, her finger pointing around the corner. Madia nodded, then stepped past her, followed by Prince Jaran, Purcell, and a dozen other men. On the left, they found two guards seated at the little table at the head of the wide, dark stairwell opening. Both jumped up at the commotion and drew their swords.
Purcell took his men forward as Jaran and Madia jogged right, snatching a torch from the wall before heading down the stairs. Madia heard one guard scream as he died, then heard the other shouting surrender as she reached the bottom. Here she went right, letting Jaran take the left, and they began banging on the steel faces of the aged dungeon doors, shouting her father's name as they went. The smell of mold and rotting straw and worse filled her nose with every breath. The torchlight seemed to die in the blackness beyond the bars of the cell doors as she held it up to look inside each one.
After more than a dozen doors, Madia heard a faint voice calling back to her. She found the door, then held the torch up and peered in. A dark figure sat on the floor resting tight against the far corner. Jaran brought the keys in a moment and quickly opened the door. As Madia entered she held the torch up, then moved slowly closer as Anna came in just behind her.
"It is him," Anna said, kneeling down beside the silent, staring figure. Madia went to her knees as well, still inspecting the filthy, ailing old man who sat slumped before her. His eyes were nearly empty, unfocussed, unseeing. His limbs hung limply at his sides and his cheeks lay hollow against the bones and teeth behind them. The hair was thin and matted and filthy, but white, she decided, pure white. A man who looked at least a hundred years old. And yet, it was him!
"Father," Madia said, finding that her own eyes were suddenly burning, an enormous weight suddenly pressing on her chest. "Father," she repeated, "I am home."
* * *
Frost leaned back in his chair and patted the roundness of his belly. Sated smiles graced many faces all around the great table, with the exception of Rosivok and Sharryl, who seemed to insist on their usual strict expressions. Sharryl sat at Frost's side, unusually attentive these past few days, for a Subartan. Frost smiled at them all. A new third Subartan would be needed eventually, he mused, though perhaps this time he could find someone with at least some slight sense of humor, just to round things out. Perhaps someone more like . . . Madia.
"To your liking?" Madia asked as he glanced toward her.
"Few tables are set any finer," Frost replied. "It is good to know the hospitality of Kamrit Castle is again worthwhile. Always, I will return."
She raised her brow. "To return, one must leave."
"Come spring," Frost said. "You will have the honor of my presence for another few months."
Madia nodded and seemed to let it go at that. He had never stayed any one place for long in his life, not since leaving Lagareth so many years ago; he had never been content with what he already knew, what he had already done. Madia knew this, he thought, and she knew something of the Demon Blade. She had seen the power of its touch: three thousand dried-twig corpses strewn about the battle field at Kopeth. She had asked him how it had happened, of course. Partly, he had told her.
By now all the people of the realm had heard of the rediscovery of the Demon Blade, of its fearsome powers, and its new keeper. They would come, of course, those who wanted Frost to use the Blade in their employ, or those who wished to own such a weapon for themselves; the Blade was not something one could easily give away, yet it was no doubt harder to keep. Frost understood old Ramins perfectly now.
His eyes came to rest on Madia's father: a dry, placid old face, a quiet, frail form. Kelren was aware now, and much of his memory had returned—he was able to recognize everyone, including Frost, and owing to some spells from Grish and Marrn, and a great deal of love and kindness from Madia and Anna, he had regained some of his color and grown rather talkative in recent weeks. But the damage lingered, a grave legacy of all the beast had done to the aging sovereign. He considered himself fortunate, as fortunate as Ariman was to have a strong queen.
"Of course you will stay until after the ceremony," Jaran said, putting his arm around Madia, grinning like a young boy. "I would not allow you to miss it."
"I don't recall being notified of such an event," Lord Dorree protested, which brought a quick chorus of "here!" from Lords Burke and Bennor. Jaran's father leaned toward the three of them, winking one eye, and raised his flagon as if to toast. "I have heard it is more than ju
st rumor," he said.
"Jaran and I have not agreed on any such thing yet, I assure you," Madia scolded them all, but the smile in her voice as she spoke of Jaran gave much away.
Jaran called to Frost. "If it were so," he said, coddling, "would you stay?"
"A fool's wager," Madia cautioned, pointing at Frost almost accusingly.
"And one I accept," Frost answered.
"Really," Madia scolded, "you ought to be more careful."
Frost nodded graciously, then he began to laugh.
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