Frost

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Frost Page 8

by Robin W Bailey


  “Good friends,” he called, and all gave their full attention. “I thank you for your company and pray you continue the revels. I've given orders to the servants that you should want for nothing, be it food, drink or...” he grinned, fixing his view unsubtly on her breasts, “or anything else. But, being a weary governor I will seek my bed now. So, I wish you a good night."

  Her hand imprisoned in Tumac's sweaty paw, Frost waded through sly remarks and coarse laughter dose to the governor's side, blushing hotly as he led her like a helpless child.

  A guard fell in behind as they passed through the great wooden doors and down a dim corridor. Soon, she was again lost in a maze of passages, some lit and some not, and she was beginning to despair of ever finding her way out when Tumac stopped at another door. The room beyond was dark; the guard crowded past them to light tapers with a lamp taken from a niche in the hall. That done, he stepped out and closed the door after.

  She let go a worried breath and looked around the chamber. Silken drapes and tapestries, all of transparent thinness, descended from the ceiling to the plushly carpeted floor. The corners were piled high with rich cushions, but the only piece of real furniture was an immense, carved bed deep with feather mattresses and more cushions.

  Tumac led her to it.

  There was nothing she could use as a weapon—not a comb or pin of any kind, nothing that would serve as a club or bludgeon. The candlesticks were mounted on the walls, not detachable. It seemed the room had been deliberately stripped of anything that could cause harm.

  Tumac released her hand, a hungry leer spreading on his face. Slowly, he began to remove his garments, swaying in a grotesquely sensuous dance as a woman might to seduce a man. Piece by piece he cast aside his clothes until he was completely naked. His eyes raked her form; a low growl rumbled in his throat.

  She turned away, disgusted, fighting a growing fear. Cold hands touched her, slithered over her shoulders, questing for her secret parts. An obese body pressed against her, and despite an iron resolve not to, she shivered uncontrollably. Wrapped in his arms, she let herself be turned. The smell of his breath—of his flesh—filled her senses. His own chest hung thick and bulbous as a woman's, and between his thighs a mammoth organ stirred. He buried his face in the softness of her neck; his lips began to nibble.

  It was not going as she planned. There should have been something to convert to a weapon, a chance to win her escape. Tumac's hot breath scorched her skin; his fingers fumbled with the golden cincture at her waist. No man had ever touched her in such a manner, nor had such a fear ever gripped her. If she had considered bedding the fat governor to gain her freedom and Kregan's, the plan was too repulsive to carry out.

  His touch burned her skin as his hands slid under her thin vestment. Abandoning the belt's complicated catch, he eased the material over her shoulder, exposing her breasts. He was almost drooling as he cupped one ivory mound in his palm. But he wanted her totally naked, and his other hand began to work once more at the stubborn ornament.

  And a sudden thrill surged through her, chasing away her fears. It took an effort not to laugh, so great was her relief. She peered at the door, measuring the distance to it, remembering the maze of corridors beyond it, wondering at her chances of finding the dungeon and Kregan without being discovered.

  For there was one weapon, after all.

  Gently, she pushed Tumac away, smiling promises with her eyes. “Let me,” she whispered, taking his hands from the golden belt. The gems that dangled from it glittered on gilt threads in the faint amber light as she unfastened the catch and held it up like a veil between them, secretly testing its strength, assuring herself the links would not break.

  She opened wide her arms, and Tumac took the invitation, closing his eyes as he rolled in her embrace. With a calm, irrepressible satisfaction she wrapped the chain around his fat throat and jerked.

  His eyes popped open in pain and surprise. With all her strength she jerked again, and yet the governor managed to wriggle a hand beneath the links, preventing the ever-tightening band from crushing his windpipe.

  Frost cursed, fighting anew the panic that tried to overwhelm her. The chain disappeared in the flesh of his neck and still the man would not die. His face purpled, a vein bulged in his temple until she could see it throb—yet he lived!

  Time was short, and she feared someone might pass in the hall and hear the struggle. She had to end this.

  A knee smashed Tumac's unprotected groin. A loud animal grunt, and the governor slumped forward. Savagely, she kicked his feet from under him. His head twisted dangerously, eyes swelling as his entire weight suspended from the jeweled garrote. A pink tongue forced itself between discoloring lips.

  But still he clung to life. She put her foot on his neck.

  A furious pounding at the door, then it burst open. Two guards rushed in, swords sprouting from their fists. At a glance she recognized the one who had escorted her with Tumac.

  She released one end of the chain, and Tumac crumpled on the carpet. Only her uncanny speed saved her from a quick death as the first guard charged. A blade whistled past her ear. She swung the chain, and her attacker screamed as its pendulant gems stung his eyes. A foot sank into his belly; a fist crashed with startling power into the back of his head.

  She made damn sure he fell before she stopped hitting. Then, the second guard lunged. A desperate dodge, whirl and tug, and one of the veils that hung from the ceiling swirled down, tangling the man in its folds.

  But the first guard had found his feet again, groggy, yet still dangerous with his sword. He swung clumsily, and she danced back. Then her foot caught, slipped on something soft—Tumac's discarded pantaloons.

  She fell hard, cracking her head on the floor. The blade rushed up, descended. She rolled, evading death by a hair's breath. But something pulsed in the top of her skull, and her ears were full with a loud ringing. That carelessly strewn bit of silk had been her undoing.

  Through blurred vision she watched three more sentries rush into the bedchamber. The fight was over, a useless effort. She held up her hands in surrender, just staying a death-thrust from the first guard.

  Tumac was not dead. He tottered on shaky legs toward her, supported on either side by two men. Deep, mottled welts of crimson showed lividly around his neck where the links of chain had bitten. Pain glazed his tiny eyes.

  His hand came down against her cheek, but there was no strength in the blow, and she forced a perverse smile.

  His voice was a harsh raspy whisper. “You wretched, foolish girl!” A quivering finger pointed high along the wall. Concealed in the upper shadows was a narrow slit. No light showed through, but she guessed its purpose. “I'm never without my personal guard! Even with a woman I am watched and protected!"

  The fat little man who had come so close to death glowered, seeming to expect a reply. She considered a number of mocking insults, but decided to hold her tongue. She was in enough trouble already.

  “I should have given you to young Telric,” he croaked when she plainly had nothing to say. He motioned to the guards. “Take the thankless, ungrateful little bitch back to her cell, and never let me set eyes on her again."

  Chapter Six

  She fell in a heap on the straw-covered floor, and the cell door slammed shut. The laughter of the guards lingered long after their footsteps faded.

  She was back where she started—naked, bound and weaponless. A large bump where her head had met the floor in Tumac's room ached mercilessly, but she ignored the pain as best she could and worked at the chain that held her wrists. Though the numbness in her fingers made the knotted links difficult to manipulate after long minutes she was free. Circulation returned with tingling slowness, and she licked the raw, red bands that chaffed her skin.

  She felt only slightly less impotent. Rising, she paced the cell. No furniture—not even the little stool she had tripped over before. Nothing to break up and use as a weapon. She tried her weight against the door; it was thick,
solid, betraying not the least sign of weakness. The bars in the small window were set deep in the wood, quite immovable.

  She cursed, smashed a fist against the door.

  A sound, a shuffle in the corridor, and Frost sidled back into the darkness out of the faint torchlight that filtered into her cell. The shuffling stopped; Orgolio, the jailer, peered through the bars. She crouched in a corner, holding her breath, making no sound.

  “You all right, little woman?"

  She kept still. Orgolio could not see where she hid; maybe he would come inside to find her.

  “Oh, so you not talk to Orgolio, heh? Well, that all right. Lots of people don't talk to Orgolio, but he not mind much."

  She was almost touched by the loneliness in his voice, but the bruises on her breast were reminders of his potential for cruelty. No pity, then, for this simple-minded brute. If he opened the door she had to hit him hard and run, and pray it worked better than the last time.

  Orgolio sighed. “Well, you be a good little woman, and pretty soon Orgolio come play with you nice."

  The face withdrew from the window. She cursed again to herself and shuddered. Play nice, indeed. She crept silently to the bars, watched the ponderous jailer drop into a chair a few paces down the corridor beside the table that bore her clothes and weapons. He appeared to fall asleep almost at once.

  As she observed him a dangerous plan took shape in her mind. She had to get free and find Kregan if he still lived, then get the Book of the Last Battle away from Zondu. The hour must be very late, and she felt in her soul that Zarad-Krul would attack before dawn. Still, her plan bordered on madness; she shivered at the prospect of failure.

  Well, there was no more time to think. She pressed her face to the bars and called.

  The jailer's eyelids fluttered. “Eh? Who calls Orgolio?"

  “Wake up.” Her voice was silken, tempting, she hoped.

  He looked, but did not get up. “Is it you, little woman? Don't be impatient—Orgolio come play with you soon."

  “Open the door, Orgolio. I'll come play with you out there."

  The jailer's smile disappeared. “Dumb woman.” He spat on the opposite wall. “You think I open door and let you out. You think Orgolio stupid like everybody else. Well, dumb woman, Orgolio never let you out. But you not be unhappy cause Orgolio will play with you lots. Uh huh, you be plenty happy woman, soon.” He settled back in his chair and fell asleep again.

  She licked her lips, wiped the sweat from her palms, then called his name yet another time.

  “What now, dumb woman?"

  This was it. No turning back now. “If you set me free I'll give you something very beautiful, very valuable."

  He snorted, rubbed his enormous nose. “Little woman have nothing for Orgolio. Guards take everything away from you."

  She gripped the cold bars tightly. “It lies among my clothes right there beside you. I can see it from here. It's yours if you let me go."

  He sat up, interested. His sleepy eyes fluttered like nervous birds. “Well, what is it, dumb woman?"

  “A dagger,” she whispered tensely, feeling weak in her stomach for what she dared. “Of purest silver."

  The fat jailer wiped the corners of his mouth, stared at the pile on the table, considering.

  “Go on,” she urged. “Look at it."

  Orgolio rummaged through her belongings and found Demonfang. The belt gleamed in the amber light. As he examined it, turning the sheath slowly, a broad smile split his thick-jowled face.

  Then, a new sound startled her—the rasp of her own quick breathing. She forced herself to be calm. “Look closely,” she said. “Look at the blade."

  Orgolio leered, showing broken, yellow teeth. “Dumb woman thinks Orgolio will let her free now. Uh huh, no. He will keep pretty dagger and not let you go."

  She banged her head on the bars, nearly screaming her frustration. “Look at the blade, you stupid cow's ass!” She hadn't meant to hiss. The jailer stared back with a stone expression that made her fear she had angered him. Quickly, smoothly she lied, “It is cunningly wrought by the most skilled craftsmen in Esgaria.” Her voice dropped a note, gently insistent. “Look at the blade."

  He grinned suddenly and seized the dagger's hilt. Perhaps it was some instinct that made him hesitate, and Frost squeezed the cell bars until her knuckles were white. Look at it, she willed, look at it.

  She clenched her eyes tight, hearing the faint scrape of the blade's edge as it moved on the inside of the sheath.

  And Demonfang came alive. The shrill screech of its hunger rattled the dungeon stones. The jailer's grin turned to terror as the unholy sound shook the roots of his dull soul.

  In fearful awe she watched the transformation that came on Orgolio. Fear flashed over his face; the need to kill burned in his small black eyes. The two emotions—terror and bloodlust—warred for possession of his body, a battle reflected in his contorting expressions.

  Then, he rose from the chair, gripped in the dagger's irresistible power. Unwilling, he took the keys from a peg on the wall and shambled toward her cell, fighting with every step the force that compelled him.

  A key grated in the lock.

  It must taste blood—either your enemy's or your own. She gambled her life on that curse, steeled for a fight, and begged aid from all her gods.

  The cell door swung back. Orgolio stood silhouetted blackly in the dim light, and Demonfang shone in his fist like ice from Hell's deepest level and screamed like the souls imprisoned there.

  Warily, she backed to the center of the cell, allowing room to fight. The jailer was a giant, more than twice her size with a frighteningly long reach. She'd already lost one fight to him this night. She dared not lose this one. She took a breath, unconsciously held it and watched the eerie emotional changes that rippled on her opponent's face: confusion, terror, madness.

  A deep-throated cry joined with the dagger's shrieking as the giant lunged. She moved, a swift blur, leaped aside and chopped at the hand clutching Demonfang. The arcane blade screamed angrily as it clattered on the floor.

  Better than she had hoped, to disarm him so easily. She dived for the weapon, but Orgolio's massive weight smashed into her, sending her sprawling, the breath rushing from her lungs. Clambering to her feet, she whirled, prepared for attack—and froze.

  Demonfang gleamed once more in that huge fist. That infernal screaming intensified, resonated in the dungeon's confining places, assaulted her senses like a tangible foe. No one would hear it so far beneath the palace, or if someone did—well, it was a dungeon, after all; who would care if Orgolio played noisily? The cold wall pressed her back. The possessed jailer leered, extended his apish arms in a wide, menacing semicircle as he advanced. Run, dodge or leap—she would never make it past those grasping limbs. The blade's insistent, thirsty cries rang in her ears until she feared for her sanity.

  His right arm dropped; the dagger swung upward. A desperate cry—reflexively, she caught the driving wrist in both hands, halting death's point mere inches from her vitals.

  A short moment they pitted strength against strength, but Frost had the advantage of leverage. The jailer roared; with his free hand he swung viciously at her face, and the force of the blow made her head ring. Still, she would not release the captured wrist. She anticipated his next swing, ducked it, and kicked him in the groin with all her might. In the fat sockets his eyes rolled wide with pain that doubled him over. She sidestepped, grabbing his neck, the belt of his trousers, and the stone wall fairly shivered as she smashed him headlong into it. Not stopping to judge the result, she sped into the corridor, slamming the door.

  The key was not in the lock. Possibly Orgolio had carried it into the cell. Frantically, she glanced through the barred window. Her opponent staggered to his feet, Demonfang still in his hand. It screamed and screamed; Frost choked back a bitter sob. The giant's eyes met hers, and he came.

  It must taste blood—either your enemy's or your own.

  That wa
s her hope and her despair. With no way to lock the door she braced her feet on the narrow corridor's opposite wall, shoulders to the hard wood, making her body a living wedge. Orgolio pushed. The door gave an inch. She strained, steeled herself furiously for what she knew would follow.

  The shock of his first kick nearly shattered her spine. He threw his weight against the door until one hinge bent, threatened to break. A cracking sound in the old timber. With fist and foot and shoulder Orgolio battered the door, and she squeezed her eyes shut and prayed her own strength would last long enough.

  Demonfang wailed.

  A scratching made her look up. Fat fingers wriggled through the bars, clawed the wood. A hand pushed impossibly through and a little of an arm; the fist flexed and opened, seeking. She remembered how that hand had grabbed her hair before, and feared.

  Then suddenly, a new vehement note slashed her ears as Demonfang's shrieking strained, altered, turned vengeful. Orgolio's frenzied smashing at the door weakened, ceased. Three heartbeats of silence—then a scuffling at the cell's farthest side.

  A morbid curiosity possessed her. Rising quickly, seizing a torch from a wall sconce, she peered through the bars and caught her breath.

  On his knees, the jailor moaned in despondent terror. His left hand struggled to peel the fingers of his right from the dagger's hilt. The muscles in his arm knotted as he fought to hold the point at bay. But the famished blade screeched, and Orgolio's resistance crumbled. Pale, sweating, he gaped at glittering death.

  The right arm jerked, twitched, raised high and plunged down. The point shattered breastbone with a crunching noise, straight to the blood-filled heart. The screams stopped, the blade's need sated. Then, Orgolio's mouth opened, and those same screams sounded in his human throat. Frost covered her ears, leaned her head on the door until they stopped.

  Quiet seeped back into the dungeon. No other sound but her own uneven breathing. Opening the door, she stared from the threshold, afraid to enter, pondering what she had witnessed. Demonfang sprouted like an evil flower from the dead jailer's chest. She was loath to touch it. And yet, the dagger had saved her life; without the blade's strange curse she might have rotted in that cell, a thing for Orgolio's gross pleasure. Reluctantly and with trembling fingers, she plucked it from his body, cleaned the edge on a handful of straw. The belt and sheath lay where he had cast them, and she expelled a heavy sigh when the weapon was finally cased.

 

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