Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  Several minutes passed while she weighed his words. Then, unsheathing her sword, she plunged it through his heart. A quick death was more than a raider deserved.

  The road through Etai Calan wandered northward for many miles. The webs that glittered in the tops of the old trees grew scarce, and soon she saw no more of them. The ancient, moss-covered giants gave way to younger trees as she neared the edge of the wood, and the wind bore a new smell—the smell of civilization.

  As the sun sank in the sky, she emerged from the forest and looked across the Gargassi Plain at the gates of Shazad.

  She stroked the unicorn's crest, murmuring the name she had chosen for him—Ashur, after the Esgarian God of War. Right now, he was a problem. In the city his peculiar eyes and shining horn would attract far too much attention, and she had no love of crowds. She threw a leg over Ashur's neck and slid to the ground.

  Pulling a clump of grass, she held it for her newfound friend to chew. “Will you wait for me?” she whispered. Ashur nibbled the offering.

  Watching to see if the creature would follow, she backed a few steps. Ashur raised his head and fixed her with those disconcerting eyes.

  “I'll be back,” she promised.

  That seemed to satisfy him. With a swish of his tail he began to munch more of the sweet grass.

  Frost walked toward the gates. The failing light gave the Gargassi Plain a crimson cast. Through squinting eyes she peered at the dying sun and wished it did not remind her of the Eye of Zarad-Krul.

  Her footsteps made little clouds of powdery dust. This plain was a legend among her people, for here, three hundred years ago the women of Esgaria, with magic and sorcery, had destroyed a Rholarothan army and saved their menfolk from a crushing defeat at the hands of King Gargassi.

  The gates of Shazad were never closed. The walls were made only to keep money in, not keep out any that might spend it. There were no guards at the gate, either. Pulling the hood of her cloak over her face, she strode through the low archway into a broad lane. Garbage and refuse littered the streets. She wrinkled her nose at the stench.

  But she had arrived at an ideal time; too late for honest folks, and too early for the sleazier crowd. She passed through the streets meeting only a few people. None attempted to speak to her. In Shazad strangers came and went as they pleased, and no one inquired about their business.

  At last, she found an inn. A rough-hewn shingle hanging in front proclaimed it the Woeful Widow. An unlikely name, she thought, but she went in, noting three horses tethered near the door. She'd have company whether she wanted it or not, it seemed. She drew the cloak around her.

  The waning sunlight traced her shadow on the tavern floor. Four pairs of eyes flickered briefly in her direction, and she smiled secretly. It amused her that they did not recognize her sex.

  She took a stool at a long wooden table, unslung her shield and leaned it against the wall near at hand. Though it was clumsy to sit wearing a sword, she managed, pushing it down by her legs under the table.

  The innkeeper, a nervous little man, hurried to serve her. Frost noticed how his eyes kept flitting to the three men on the far side of the room by the cold fireplace.

  “Your pleasure, sir?"

  She kept her voice low. “A room that's safe to sleep in, but first bring me something wet, preferably something with some sting to it; then bring a bite to eat.” Two gold korgots clinked on the table. The innkeeper swept them up with a quick, furtive motion.

  “And tell me,” said Frost, “why you call this place the Woeful Widow?"

  The innkeeper shot a glance at the three men. “Cause that's what my missus'll be if customers get too drunk and do me harm.” He scuttled away.

  Frost rested her chin on her fists and regarded the three men from the concealing shadow of her hood. One seemed quite old. His brown garments were tattered and dusty, and a little hood covered his head. Bent over a bowl of posset he tried his best to eat in peace, but the two younger men who flanked him seemed determined to prevent that.

  She studied them closely. Both men were strong and well built with hair of similar color. Brothers, she decided. The tight pants and dark leather jerkins they wore were finely made, suggesting wealth. Each wore a sword, though she couldn't judge the quality in the dim light. The hilts, however, glimmered with jewels. They'd have to know how to use such trinkets to keep them in this city of thieves, so they were swordsmen, too.

  The brothers suddenly broke into rude laughter. One gave the old man a hard slap on the shoulder knocking him from his stool. The second brother turned the bowl of posset upside down, spilling the contents on the table.

  Frost watched silently, a coldness growing inside her, as the old man crawled back to his seat. He dragged a finger over the table's surface, scraping what he could of his meal back into the bowl. Patiently, he resumed eating.

  The brothers howled, clapped each other on the back, slapped their knees and took the bowl again.

  The innkeeper returned with a platter of meat, some raw vegetables and a bottle of strong-tasting liquor. Better fare than she expected. She took a long drink to wash the dust from her throat, and then fell to the meat.

  The little owner looked on as she ate, eager to please. Yet, his eyes were ever on the ruffian brothers, and she could smell his fear.

  She touched his sleeve and gestured at the three. With a weary sigh, the innkeeper sank down on a stool opposite her. “The oldest sons of the governor, Lord Rholf,” he whispered. “That one is Than, the other Chavi. They've tormented the old man mercilessly for the past hour. A shame, too, for he paid good coin."

  “Throw them out,” Frost suggested.

  “The governor's favorite sons?” He shook his head.

  She shrugged and returned to her supper, determined to shut out the crude mouthings of Lord Rholf's spoiled offspring. It was none of her affair. The old man meant nothing to her.

  But her host bent close to her ear. “Between you and me, I think those two should be whipped. Teach them some proper manners. That old man's done them no wrong."

  The insults grew louder, more vulgar. Chavi overturned the bowl again. Than poured a cup of wine on the old man's head. When the innkeeper got up to clean away the spilled posset, Than shoved him back roughly with a curse.

  “Keep your nose in your own business if you want to keep it at all.” Chavi waved a fist in the smaller man's face, and he slunk back to his stool near Frost.

  At last, the old man spoke. “There is no need to harm the proprietor. He has done nothing to you."

  The brothers looked at each other in surprise. Chavi seized the old man by the throat and lifted him to his feet. “Trying to tell us what to do, beggar?"

  “I didn't think he could talk at all,” said Than.

  The old man made no response.

  “You think you're too good to talk to us?” shouted Chavi, shaking his victim.

  “It's not polite to treat the governor's sons that way,” Than admonished. “Right, brother?"

  Chavi smiled cruelly, and the old man flew over the table, sprawling in a heap near Frost. Than and Chavi came after him. “That's right,” Chavi agreed. “We'll have to teach him some manners."

  This time it was Than who reached for the old man. In his haste and clumsiness, he stumbled against Frost's table, spilling her wine.

  She turned a little sideways, placed her foot squarely on Than's butt and shoved him headlong into the wall. “It's not the old one who needs a lesson in manners,” she said.

  Chavi exploded with mirth at this new entertainment as he watched his brother stagger to his feet.

  “Horse dung!” Than shouted at Frost as he wiped at a trickle of blood that rolled into his eye. “You'll pay for that!” His fingers flexed menacingly as he reached for her.

  She should have stayed out of it, she reminded herself too late. Rising, she drew her sword.

  The old man stepped quietly behind her. Chavi's laughter died abruptly, but he did not interfere. In h
is safe corner, the innkeeper nearly fainted.

  “So that's how you want it!” Than drew his own sword. “I'll shove this through your gizzard, then!"

  Boxed between two tables, she was in no place to fight. With agile grace, she leaped over her own table into open floor space.

  Than gestured to his brother. “Let's carve the meddler."

  But Chavi shook his head. “He's two full heads shorter than you. You don't need me.” His tone was light, mocking. Frost saw the grin on his face.

  She glanced at her shield. It rested against the wall, no good to her. In cramped quarters she preferred two-handed techniques anyway.

  Her weapons-master would disapprove. A shield is always an advantage, he said. But she had proved him fatally wrong the same day her brother had died.

  Her cloak was an encumbrance. Her right hand touched the knotted clasp. Cloak and hood fell to the floor, and she kicked them under a table out of the way.

  “It's a woman!” cried Than.

  Frost was quick to take advantage of his surprise. Her sword darted like a serpent's tongue, striking Than's blade, knocking it from his startled grip. She leaned the point of her sword on his chest, smiling. Twice she'd pulled that trick today.

  “That wasn't fair,” he protested.

  “Fair is for fools.” Frost pressed slightly. The point tore his jerkin and pricked the skin. A drop of blood trickled, and he gave a little cry of pain. “Do you think you can find the words to apologize to this old man?"

  Than turned scarlet, but said nothing. Frost leaned a little harder. Chavi stood by, hysterical with laughter, taunting his brother.

  “Well,” she insisted.

  Than stuttered. “I ... I apologize."

  She backed slowly, then, seeing the hate that flared in Than's eyes. She had humiliated him, a foolish thing to do unless she also intended to kill him. But she had had enough of death this day.

  Than wiped his hand over the tiny wound, smearing a crimson stain on his chest. He stared at his own blood.

  For just a moment, Frost diverted her attention and stooped to regain her cloak. It was a move she instantly regretted.

  Recovering his sword, Than lunged with a wild bellow. Frost barely dodged. The blow struck the table, shearing off a chunk of wood. Than turned on her again.

  “Stupid woman! You should have killed me when you had the chance!"

  There was no reason to answer. She knew he was right. Hadn't she been taught never to draw steel unless she meant to use it? Well, it was an error she could correct.

  Poised on the balls of her feet, she waited completely still, offering an easy target for a lunge.

  Than made the predicted move. His weapon rushed in. Her own flicked out with practiced ease, met it, and brushed it aside. She saw his face turn red with anger and excitement. Here was a man who liked to kill.

  As the fight went on he raved, shouting curses and spewing brave boasts. Like a berserker he charged her, his blade hissing venomously through the air.

  Steel rang on steel. Furniture shattered under the impact of sword blows. Tables overturned, stools were kicked aside. Than's rantings could be heard in the next street, but Frost saved her breath for fighting.

  She moved lithe as a cat, maneuvering her foe, never remaining in one spot. She tapped the other sword with just enough force to deflect it and never pitted her own strength directly against her opponent's. Still, Than managed by sheer strength alone to smash down her defense. Though her sword took the brunt of the blow a streak of fiery red gashed her shoulder.

  “Hah!” he shouted in triumph. “The cow has blood in her after all!"

  Flushed with sudden rage, she attacked, swinging and hacking with a ferocity she had not shown. Her blade sang as it lashed through his guard, scoring a deep cut across his stomach. She felt the berserker's fury leave her foe. Fear came into his eyes. But there was no mercy in her now, and her weapon scored once more on his sword arm.

  Forgotten in the battle, the old man suddenly called out in warning.

  Frost leaped aside without a backward glance. A shadow and the sound of drawing steel said enough. Chavi's sword sliced the empty space where she had been.

  Two foes now, and one was fresh. Sweat poured down her body. The inn was too close for this kind of fight. She danced around Than, keeping the injured fighter between her and the new foe. But both brothers were skilled swordsmen. Though she could handle either alone with a fair chance, together they were overpowering. Frost found her back to the wall.

  Death hurtled toward her skull. Desperately, she threw herself forward, making a tight ball of her body. She rolled to the left past Than, careful to keep her sword. Regaining her feet, she swung in a wide arc, putting all her weight and strength into it.

  Before Than could react flesh and muscle tore, bone splintered. He crashed to the floor, screaming in shock and agony, his left leg sheared nearly through at the hip.

  Chavi stared in anguished disbelief. His brother's blood made a dark pool around his feet, staining his boots.

  Frost stood back, welcoming the respite, a chance to breathe. If Chavi abandoned the fight to care for his brother, so would she.

  Such was not her luck.

  Ceremoniously, Chavi dipped his hand in his brother's bright blood and smeared his face with it. Then, he rubbed it on his own blade and spoke with a cold, grim voice.

  “Now, one of us must mingle blood with my fallen brother—you or me."

  Frost held her ground and let Chavi make the first move. The deadly dance began again, but this time there were no curses or meaningless boasts. Only the sounds of swords and the quick, heavy breathing of both fighters filled the room.

  Skilled and fast as she was, Frost lacked Chavi's brute power. Her journey and earlier fight with Vericus and his crew worked against her. Much too soon, her arm grew weary. More and more, she felt the shock of each barely thwarted blow. Openings that should have meant death for Chavi closed again before she could take advantage of them. One way or another, it would end soon, and she made a final desperate effort.

  Chavi responded with a savage attack. Frost stumbled and caught herself too late. Unable to avoid it, her blade met Chavi's in a direct test of strength, a contest she had no hope of winning. So powerful was his blow and the shock of it that Frost's arm went numb, and the sword fell from her hand.

  Chavi grinned in satisfaction and triumph through the hideous mask of his brother's blood. He raised his sword for the fatal stroke.

  She watched that ascending blade, seeing her end on its keen edge. Yet, she was not ready to quit. Though her left hand was useless her right found Demonfang and jerked it from its silver sheath.

  A horrible shrieking rent the air, echoed through the inn, intense and demanding.

  Horrified, Frost realized the dagger was the source and nearly dropped it. Yet, Demonfang tingled in her hand, and her fingers curled more tightly around the hilt.

  So close to revenge, Chavi stared, frozen in fear of the sorcerous dagger. She saw his sword waver, his hand tremble.

  The Stranger's words rang in her head. It must taste blood. Either your enemy's or your own.

  Chavi's smooth chest offered itself to her. Her hand drew back, and she realized that, for fear of the blade, Chavi would make no move to save himself. Wide-eyed, he watched entranced as she plunged Demonfang through his heart.

  The dagger went abruptly silent. A moment of quiet, then Chavi's mouth opened. The same demonic shrieking issued from his lips as he crumpled to the floor.

  Frost gaped at the little weapon, trying not to panic. It had made her kill. And now the blade gleamed with a peculiar sheen even through the blood that stained it.

  Her first thought was to fling it away and run. But as the excitement of battle passed so did her fear. A witch's instinct and a warrior's reason took hold. The Stranger had given her the dagger for a purpose. Demonfang could not be abandoned. She returned it to its sheath.

  Demonfang. A fitting name,
she thought.

  There was a groan. It seemed Than still lived. The innkeeper knelt by him, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his apron, no doubt from fear of what the governor would do if both sons died in his tavern.

  The old man, the original cause of all the trouble, was quickly at her side, handing back her sword, throwing her cloak over her shoulders.

  “We'd better leave,” he whispered. “They have two more brothers and a father just as bad-tempered. We'll not get away without a chase."

  She made for the door, saying a farewell to thoughts of a soft bed. It would be the hard ground for her if she got any sleep at all this night.

  “Wait!” shouted the innkeeper. “The damages..."

  Darkness had swallowed Shazad. A crowd had gathered in the street to investigate the disturbance. She pulled up her hood, searching for an opening through the mob. People pressed from all sides, assailing her with questions. Yet, no hands were laid on her for she was only a woman and her sword was hidden beneath her cloak. Frost knew she must get away, and quickly.

  Then, from up the street came the cries of frightened men and women. The sounds of panic and flight reached the crowd gathered at the Woeful Widow causing them to forget her. A fleeing throng poured around a corner, casting terrified backward glances.

  Eyes blazing, Ashur charged around the same corner, ebony horn alive with moonlight and stars, driving the frightened mob before.

  The old man whispered, “Don't worry, they see only a wild horse and fear being trampled—nothing more."

  The street emptied rapidly as the crowd sought safety from the rampaging animal. Ashur stopped long enough for her to swing up. Leaning close to his neck, she tangled her hands in the mane. The unicorn flew over the cobbled streets, sparks leaping from his hooves. Then, they were through the gates and Shazad faded behind.

  Breathless, she looked over her shoulder. The old man followed on one of the horses she'd seen tethered at the inn.

  Down the westward length of the Gargassi Plain they sped in full moonlight. Only slightly faster than a normal horse, Ashur's endurance was supernatural, and the little brown nag that carried the old man strove valiantly to keep the pace. Long into the night they rode without rest.