Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  The Zondaur stretched before, lifeless and vast with no moonlight to illuminate the eerie expanse. She set fingers to her lips and gave a low whistle.

  Far away a familiar sound, a welcome trumpeting cry that was Ashur. No sight of him in the darkness, but she heard the tempest those ebon hooves raised as they beat across the plain. Then two pools of flickering amber shone in the night racing toward her.

  The unicorn reared, stamped the earth, stopping a few paces away. Where eyes should have been those peculiar flames burned with crackling intensity. Only once before had she seen them so bright.

  She whirled in sudden alarm, remembering Zarad-Krul. The clouds she had spotted in the north were much closer, a creeping darkness that swallowed stars in its path, full of menace.

  A dreadful urgency possessed her as she mounted. Ashur needed no encouragement to speed; she felt the sharp bite of wind on her face and leaned close to the animal's sleek neck. Her heart thundered in her breast.

  A low crest rose on her right and she rode for it. At its summit she halted, dismounting. The air was heavy, stifling. Zondu's walls were still visible and she could just see the shadowy tops of the taller buildings.

  The clouds came on, and now she noticed the strange shape of them and prayed to all her gods.

  The hand of Zarad-Krul hung blackly over the sleeping city—wispy fingers of doom. Frost trembled in her hiding place, chilled to her soul, watching in horrified fascination, fearful that such a hand should ever hold the Book of the Last Battle.

  A twinkling in the black palm—sparks of hellish brightness and evil colors sprang into the sky, splintering into more sparks. The hand blazed with scintillant fury as each of the tiny splinters pulsed, burst, filling the sky and staining the city with intense hues, sending shadows racing like bolts of dark lightning from rooftop to rooftop. Then, like a dewy, vibrant rain the deadly sparks plummeted earthward, trailing brilliant fire.

  All this Frost saw from the hillside, wondering what she could not see beyond the city walls.

  Roused from sleep by the strange light the citizens of Zondu gathered in the streets or leaned from balcony windows to see what was happening. Children clapped their hands and pointed, laughing. Lovers held each other close, thinking it some miracle. Drunks and beggars stumbled from the alleys to beg a few coins from the spectators. Only a few of the older, wiser citizens looked up and tasted acrid fear.

  Then, the rain began, and the screaming.

  Wherever a spark touched flames sprang up. Fire lines formed, young and old pitching in, but water would not douse the blazes. Faster, thicker fell the sparkling rain amid cries and painful shrieking. Panic spread rapidly through the city, and very few took note that nothing burned save living flesh. Men and women died in beds that were not even scorched. Children perished clinging hopelessly to toys that were left unmarked. Slaves and servants ran into the streets seeking safe shelter—there was none.

  The magical flames of Zarad-Krul spread everywhere, enveloped everyone.

  Frost knew by the flickering light and screaming voices that Zondu was afire. Her mouth went dry as dust, her knuckles white as fingers dug in the barren earth. Because of me, she cursed bitterly, and that thrice-damned Book.

  She watched until the flickering died and the screaming ceased, wishing that the gates would swing open and some of the townspeople yet escape to the Zondaur, but she knew with dreadful certainty that Zarad-Krul's power held the gates fast.

  The pungent odor of smoking flesh filled the air.

  Then, the fingers of the malevolent cloud streamed downward, black vaporous tendrils. They groped obscenely over the higher rooftops, into granaries and over the battlements of the walls, into windows and doorways.

  Though she could not see more, she imagined them crawling along the streets, through houses and taverns, the palace itself, searching for the Book of the Last Battle.

  That brought a spiteful smile.

  A blast of demonic thunder rocked the countryside, and three bolts of lightning stabbed, leaving gaping craters where the palace once had stood. The fingers of the cloud curled back, made a grotesque fist, and the Black Hand of Zarad-Krul shook in anger and frustration. It turned ponderously, uncloud-like, toward Chondos: another thunderblast, and the fist shook again, full of challenge and menace. Then, the cloud began to dissipate, deserted by the arcane force that created it.

  She touched the moonstone that hung like a third eye in the center of her brow, remembering the giver, and swore a vengeance against the Wizard of Shardaha.

  Chapter Seven

  The Creel Mountains loomed red and menacing in the tainted light of sunset. Age sat upon the smoothly worn peaks whispering of mysteries older than the earth they were part of. A wind rolled down, touched her face. The mountains seemed to murmur among themselves. The wind came again, a mellow moan. Far along the horizon the southernmost mountain, Mount Drood, cast a dark and evil shadow.

  Frost dismounted, better to examine Telric's trail, cursing the young lord's foolish judgment. It led through the Creel, not around by the usual caravan routes. So eager to reach his father in Kamaera, he apparently chose to ignore the tales told of those wild peaks. A wiser man would not have. Too often superstitions were based on dangerous fact.

  She rubbed her aching thighs and shook the stiffness from her joints. Without a saddle the long hard ride was taking a toll, and not on her alone. Ashur's endurance was supernatural. Even so, the unicorn was lathered and shaking with fatigue. All through the night and most of the day he had run with very little rest. She gave the creature an affectionate stroke and a hug, then mounted again.

  Ghouls in the Creel, ghosts and demons—she had heard stories even in far-off Esgaria around the fires of her mother's coven. She dreaded going there, but where the Book went she had to follow.

  The trail led upward along a narrow, rocky path. Evidence of Telric's passage quickly disappeared in the steep, harsh ground, but the terrain dictated the only course. A sheer wall rose on the path's right side; a deep, mist-filled gorge yawned on the left. She dropped from the unicorn's back and proceeded on foot wishing the night to delay its coming a little longer. Ticklish business, wandering a ledge in the dark.

  As the last light faded the path began to descend. The wall and gorge were left behind and the trail opened into a wide pass through a forest into a low valley. Too dark to find tracks in the softer earth, she followed the easiest way through the woods, knowing Telric would do the same. He did not know he was pursued, had no reason to be devious. With luck she might find a campfire up ahead and a young nobleman waiting. She hoped.

  As she rode she searched with eyes and ears. The mountains, so red in the sunset, were black and gloomy. The trees grew thicker as she descended the valley; they swayed like grotesque spirits in a wind that swept eternally from the peaks. The Breath of Creel, men called that wind. It stirred her hair.

  She stopped suddenly. Was that a sound? The leaves rustled; the wind wailed long and lonely. She forced a smile and chided herself. Such mountain woods were full of nighttime noises.

  But it came again, a scrambling in the limbs overhead. She froze, listening, while the hair prickled on her neck—a faint shivering of leaves that came when the wind was not blowing.

  Her left hand closed over the sword's hilt. Her instincts screamed to draw the weapon, yet she hesitated. If it was an animal that stalked her it might turn aside for smaller, easier prey. But if it was a man—no need yet to risk an arrow or spear in the back. If it were something else...

  A noose dropped silently from the branches and slipped around her shoulders. Her own startled cry blended with another as she gripped the rope and yanked with all her strength. Someone fell, grasping the limp end. A crunch of bone, a whimper. A man wiggled in the dirt and died, neck broken.

  She tugged her sword free as another rope sailed through the air. Reflexively she swung, knocking that noose aside. A third looped over her head, pinning the upper part of her arm. She hacke
d at the taut line, failing to cut it. A fourth snapped around her throat. A fifth caught her sword hand, and a sixth ensnared her shoulders. Struggling caused the ropes to tighten, and she gave that up, gambling that someone meant to capture, not kill her. The sword fell to the ground, a sign of surrender. Time enough later to fight when the damned ropes were looser.

  Her captors came out of the brush between the trees, careful to prevent any slack in the lines. Five pale men with tangled hair and wild, rugged features grinned triumphantly. None were as tall as Frost. They gibbered a strange tongue full of guttural clicks, sibilants and animal-like screeches. She had never heard its like.

  Five pairs of smallish hands reached up to touch her, and she cringed.

  Until now, Ashur had made no move. As hands groped for his mistress he gave an unearthly cry. That black spike dipped, scored. With an angry shake of his great head he tossed a corpse into the bushes. A second died bleeding from the eyes, his skull crushed by the unicorn's hooves. The others dropped their ropes and fled shouting for the safety of the forest.

  Shrugging off the entwining coils, she slid down and embraced the unicorn gratefully. Ashur nuzzled her hand, and droplets of dark crimson fell from the horn to sprinkle her sleeve. She gathered a handful of grass to clean that deadly spike, but before she could begin there came new shouting and a mad trampling in the woods.

  A horde of the same pale men surrounded her, more than she could count in the darkness. She snatched her sword from the dirt and gripped the hilt with both hands. They came no closer, and the ropes they each carried remained looped on their belts. They bore no other weapons she could see. Still, she kept her blade ready and Ashur at her back.

  Then, to her great surprise a little girl stepped through the circle and abased herself at Frost's feet.

  Why have you come among us, most revered and feared Goddess of Death?

  The woman-warrior recoiled in alarm. That voice, soft and so youthfully sweet, was an acid pain inside her head.

  You have chosen three of us already. Will you chose more?

  After the initial shock the discomfort of psychic contact subsided. Frost glared with mistrust, not knowing the limits of the child's faculty. Yet, the little girl called her goddess. That might be an indication.

  “How deeply can you see into my mind?"

  It is a vast pool, and I can see only the surface. I see what you let me see, Goddess. The child abased herself again, stretching full length in the dirt. I have the strongest power, and I speak for my people with the voice of Dasur.

  “I'm searching for a man not of your people,” she explained darkly. Her voice seemed a rude intrusion on the quiet that fell over the forest as she described Telric in detail. Even the wind stopped blowing. “He has stolen something from me, and I'll have it back."

  But Goddess, came the voice in her head, if it is an outsider you seek, why have you and your death-creature taken three of my people? The child pointed to Ashur.

  With a puzzled frown she realized all these primitive folk perceived the unicorn's true form. She understood then why they addressed her as Goddess. A woman who bore steel with such a creature at her side—how could she seem less to such a simple and superstitious lot? It was plainly to her advantage to play the part.

  “They sought to detain me and have paid a harsh price for that foolishness.” She indicated disdainfully the ropes on the ground. “I must find the man I seek."

  If it is only the outsider you want. Goddess, then let us bring him to you as an offering.

  She hid her surprise. “Do you have him?"

  This forest and these mountains are ours, given to us by Dasur who strides through the trees. We are the Children of Dasur. We serve him according to the Covenant and all that is here he has given us in return. The words were a litany in Frost's brain. Outsiders who do not keep Dasur's Covenant and who dare to trespass in our land must be punished. It is Dasur's law. So it is our law.

  A subtle change crept into the little girl's tone. She drew courage from her belief in Dasur. Her words were bold, almost challenging. Were they a veiled threat? A restlessness spread through the ring of watchers, and Frost knew she had to regain the upper hand.

  She leaned on her sword, towering over the child in a calculated pose. To survive among these people she must be the Death-Goddess. She took that tender face in an iron grip; her eyes bored into the child's.

  “I am no mere outsider, youngling.” She forced an icy chill into her voice for effect. “I have been with you always, though you may not know this body I have chosen to wear for the moment. Three of your people dared attack me, and have paid with their lives. Do not repeat that folly.” She took her hand away. Finger marks showed livid on the youthful chin.

  The little girl crumpled to her knees, hung her head and did not look up. Death comes where your shadow falls. Do not be angry with us, Goddess. I beg you for the sake of my people.

  “Then, stand up little priestess of Dasur. I have no wish to harm any of you. But be truthful and tell me if you have the man I seek."

  Not yet, Goddess, but our watchers follow him even now as he passes through our forest. We were curious why he would brave our mountains at night and decided to observe him awhile. Now we know he flees your wrath, and desperation makes him travel forbidden lands. By morning we will deliver him to you.

  “Do it,” Frost agreed. These people were familiar with the woods at night. They would find Telric a lot faster than she could.

  The child-priestess shouted words in that strange guttural tongue. The ring of watchers dissolved into the darkness, moving in utter silence. The little girl faced her again.

  The outsider will be our gift to you, Goddess. Will you wait with me until he is brought?

  She nodded, sheathed her blade and followed. At her side Ashur nuzzled her shoulder and followed, too. The child shrank away from the unicorn, fear in her small eyes.

  Must you bring the demon-beast?

  “We will not be parted.” She laid a hand on Ashur's shoulder.

  The child shivered and led the way into the forest depths, casting frequent, fearful glances at the unicorn. Down the path they went into the heart of the valley. The night-sounds of the wood rose all around: the chirping of insects, the low growl of a stalking beast, the wind in the leaves.

  “Have you a name?” she asked her small guide.

  I am called Ali.

  “How is it, Ali, that one so young speaks for all her people?"

  Only the children of Dasur's Children can speak the silent language that needs no tongue. As we grow older we lose the skill.

  “The adults have another language?"

  The language of the leaves. A secret tongue that Dasur teaches. Only his children can speak it. Not even the other gods and goddesses know its meaning. Ali stopped and looked up at her, peering suspiciously. You do not understand it, do you, Goddess?

  “No,” she admitted.

  Even in the gloom she could see Ali's smile.

  So it is the children of the people who intercede with the other gods and goddesses of this world—and with men who trespass in our land.

  Frost recalled her own childhood and long hours in dank caverns around sputtering coven fires. She remembered the chanting, the difficult names of power, her first conjurations. How, even then, she longed to be out in the sunlight and clean air.

  “You're too young to be a priestess,” she said to Ali. “Children should be free to play and find happiness."

  Ali shrugged. I find happiness in Dasur's arms.

  Some day she would feel differently, thought Frost. There was little joy in religious fervor—only duty and hard, unrewarded work. A sadness born of her own memories settled on her, and the rest of the journey passed in silence.

  At the bottom of the valley a dozen watchfires shone through the trees. The village of Dasur's Children. Women and children, a few old men stared aghast as she and Ashur strode into the camp beside Ali. The tremulous thoughts of the smaller
children faintly touched her mind, but they shrank away from the outsider-goddess and the creature that followed her. The adults bowed their heads reverently, chittering in the language of the leaves.

  They had been warned of her coming, she was sure, but their faces reflected fear. She studied them by the dim firelight, again wondering why these primitive people could perceive Ashur's true form when more civilized men saw only a horse, though a large and wild one. What power had they retained that other men had lost?

  The chittering grew until Ali held up a hand for silence. Then, in the language of the leaves, she spoke. To Frost's surprise, the words were clear in her mind as well. The little priestess calmed their fears, admonished her people to treat the Death-Goddess with respect and reverence, commanded them to make her welcome.

  But their suspicions were not allayed. Eyes flickered distrustfully from the unicorn to her. Somewhere, a child began to cry; a trembling mother tried desperately to hush it.

  Forgive them, I beg you, Goddess. But they are afraid of you and your monster. How can I calm them when even the gods fear your touch?

  “I understand,” she answered. “Perhaps there is another place we can wait without distressing your people?"

  Ali thought. I will take you to the High Place where Dasur swims and dances in the moonlight, where he makes music in the leaves. There, we may rest and talk, and in the morning you will have your man.

  Frost nodded. With Ashur in close tow she followed Ali away from the village, stopping once before a mud-thatched hut. Ali disappeared inside, then emerged with a rope at her waist.

  It is both tool and weapon, Ali explained. We seldom go deep into the forest without one.

  A well-trod path pointed toward a shadowed mountain peak just visible against the star-sprinkled sky. Surely, that was the High Place Ali referred to. She watched it until the trees blocked her view.

  Not far from the camp they passed what appeared to be a well: a low wall of piled rocks ringing a dark pit. Without slowing, she glanced over the rim. The scant moonlight reflected with a dull gleam on the water. Strange, she thought, to dig wells where clear streams were so plentiful and sweet.