Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  But then, she remembered the Book. It was in her hands—she must have dropped it when she fell. Frantically, she searched around. They had not moved her from the place where she had fallen, but the Book wasn't in sight. She shot a desperate look at the Chondite faces. Could one of them have taken it? Or some agent of Zarad-Krul?

  “The Book...” she started. And stopped. A familiar weight banged her hip. Inside the pouch she traced the runes carved on the binding. A sigh slipped between her lips. Someone had replaced it while she was unconscious. Rhadamanthus, probably, or Minos. They had been closest.

  “You should not have revealed it so carelessly,” Aecus admonished her, his voice gruff, face flushed with excitement and anger.

  She met his gaze for just a moment and decided to ignore his bad manners. She gave him her back and faced the other two elders.

  “One of you saved my life, I think. But how? What happened?"

  “As it turns out,” answered Minos, “Zarad-Krul was watching the battle from afar through a scrying crystal. At first, he shielded himself so that we couldn't detect his presence, but as the fighting grew more intense and the Shardahanis began to lose, he let his guard slip."

  Rhadamanthus picked up the tale. “We sensed him simultaneously, but doubted he had power to take an actual hand in the conflict, not being physically present. Only a partially accurate conclusion, it seems, but we decided to come closer to the fighting just in case."

  “He probably would have stayed hidden,” Aecus interrupted, “but when you foolishly revealed the Book of the Last Battle the wizard became so enraged he tried to strike you down."

  Rhadamanthus smiled patiently. “Fortunately, his bolt was slow and weak, and I was able to disrupt it with my own. Had he been present, though, or his power just a little stronger, I couldn't have moved fast enough to save you."

  Aecus sneered. “You'd be dead meat."

  “Well, I'm not,” she answered somewhat defensively, “and I'll be more careful from now on."

  “We ask no more."

  “But Elder-brother,” Kregan said. “This, and the attack of Zarad-Krul's Eye in Rholaroth prove that the wizard knows her aura. He can strike at her anywhere at any time."

  “At Demonium we can take care of that."

  She looked at Kregan, curious, suspicious.

  “A ceremony,” he explained, “but it takes a lot of participants, and we've not time to go into the details. The Field of Fire is still a good ride away."

  Aecus scowled agreement, and she resisted an urge to put her sword between his legs. After all, whether she liked the elder or not, they were on the same side. And she'd watched him fight. He was good—damned good.

  The battle had been a short one. They mounted up. The dead were left for the land to claim. There were no prisoners—that was not the Chondite way. There was no time to rest, and nobody complained. Across the dark plains and low hills they rode, and with every bounce in the saddle. Frost discovered a new bruise or an ache not realized before.

  It was impossible to measure the time that passed. Thicker than viper's blood the darkness hung in the Chondite sky. No sun, no moon, no star shone through. They ate a little as they went, drank water or wine. Alternately, they rode hard and walked, but only once did they dismount. A stone triangle like the one outside the gates of Erebus reared like an awesome sentinel above the landscape, and the elders called for the troops to halt while they rode on to it.

  Frost took the opportunity to nap and dreamed of a crackling fire and a soft pallet. Her poor body felt no relief when she was wakened only a short time later.

  The elders returned with information. Indrasad had finally fallen to the Shardahani onslaught, but the remnants of its army were waging war-in-retreat to slow the enemy's advance on Demonium. There was no other sign of Zarad-Krul or the Dark Gods, Nugaril and Mentes.

  What was it like, she wondered, to stand within those monolithic triangles and touch another mind on the other side of the country? Maybe someday she would find out, but now it was back in the saddle and onward.

  The steady drumming of Ashur's hooves were a strong counter-rhythm to her own heartbeat. The blood pounded in her veins. The wind roared in her ears.

  And when the horses would run no more, they walked. Kregan's white charger startled her out of a half-doze, appearing suddenly at her side. Since departing the Tekaf Pass, Kregan had kept company with the Elders and not spoken to her. She gave a feeble smile of greeting and looked askance.

  The Chondite chewed a ration of dried meat. “Woman?” he said gently. “Tell me what puts the wrinkle in that lovely brow?"

  His soft words struck a chord somewhere deep inside, warmed her in a way she found almost annoying. She had intended to keep silent to pay him back for avoiding her, but when he questioned her again there was a sadness, a kind of weary yearning in his voice that wrung answers from her.

  Anything to keep his company for a while, she realized with a start.

  “Your apprentice-brothers,” she said, gazing back the way the army had come, “they haven't returned yet. I've been wondering what it was I spotted on that ridge."

  “Rhadamanthus said he didn't fear it,” Kregan reminded. “Is that all that's bothering you?"

  “There's that trial you mentioned.” Their eyes locked, held. “I'm afraid, Kregan. I don't even know what it is, but I'm afraid."

  He maneuvered his mount closer until his stirruped foot brushed Ashur's belly. He set a strong arm about her shoulders.

  It was what she wanted, had yearned for, to touch him. And though such weakness was an embarrassment and a shame she yielded to an impulse and leaned her head on his chest. She would not give in to tears, though. It was precarious riding, but they continued that way, embracing.

  “There's fear enough to share on this journey,” he whispered in her ear.

  After awhile she sat up, her composure intact once more, and smiled.

  As the distance to Demonium shortened the pace increased. Just before a low crest the army broke into full gallop. Frost crouched close to Ashur's neck and nudged the unicorn with her spurs. Kregan did the same, and they passed the elders, easily outdistancing their comrades. Over the flat plain and up, up the crest.

  First to reach the summit, she blinked in disbelief, jerking hard on the reins. The unicorn reared in protest and crashed his hooves on the ground, snorting. Kregan halted beside her while the elders, then the army, flowed around and past them like a human wave.

  Below, the land burned with a vibrant fire of many colors: deep reds, blues, oranges, hot golds and cold greens, splendid shades of purple and violet. Like tiny stars fallen to earth every stone and pebble glowed in the darkness. Even the bare spots where no stones lay seemed to possess a hazy luminescence.

  “The Field of Fire,” Kregan said. “At the very center you can just make out ....

  “Demonium.” She made no effort to hide her awe.

  A finger of earth and rock jutted from the landscape, a pinnacle balanced between the sky and the ground. She should not have been able to see it in the night, and yet some unnatural source of light showed it plainly. The summit of that bizarre finger was sheered flat, and atop it stood three immense monoliths.

  The Demonium Gate.

  “What causes the stones to glow?"

  “For thousands of centuries the rocks and stones have lain undisturbed, absorbing the interdimensional energy that seeps through the gate. But, being inanimate matter, they can only contain a small portion of that energy; the rest is released harmlessly as colored, heatless fire. This place is sacred to us."

  “It is beautiful and strange,” she admitted after a long silence.

  He touched her cheek, just a brush of the fingertips. “There's much here that's beautiful."

  She met his even gaze and matched the grin that blossomed on his face. “We'd best ride down,” she said at last. “At least we've beaten Zarad-Krul here."

  The army established camp at the very foot of Demoni
um, and under Aecus’ direction sentries were soon posted and horses tethered, but left saddled and ready.

  Frost and her Chondite companion spread blankets together and built a small fire.

  “Your eyes are greener than a cat's,” Kregan said as they worked, “and bright as this fire or the stones out there."

  “You talk too much,” she replied curtly, though his words secretly pleased her. They warmed strips of their dried meat rations over the flames, ate and settled back on pallets.

  But Kregan's rest was short. Rhadamanthus, Minos and Aecus strode through, gathering the Krilar of every brotherhood. Taking up his staff, he rose slowly, but before he went he kissed his own fingers and touched the moonstone in the circlet she wore. It shone with a translucent light in the campfire glow, like a third eye in the middle of her brow.

  She brushed his hand briefly before he turned away. No words passed between them, but she rose, forgetting her fatigue, and watched as, one by one, elders and Krilar ascended a steep, treacherous path that led to the summit of Demonium. When a turn in the path carried them behind an outcropping of rock, and she could see them no more, she wrapped her cloak close about her and settled back again beside the fire's fading warmth.

  Though her bones ached with weariness, sleep would not come. The camp was still. The crackling of her tiny fire and the crunch of sentries’ boots on the hard earth were the only sounds.

  Then, somewhere a drum began to beat softly, low and constant. Only the wind rustling a tent flap, she assured herself, until the sound began to swell in volume and tempo. She sat up. No one else seemed to take any notice. High above on the rim of the pinnacle, something caught her eye: a wild flickering firelight. She could barely see the tips of the flames, but on the smooth-sided monoliths that reared so impossibly high, twisted shadows danced in rhythm to the drum.

  A new sound, a chant in an unfamiliar language, joined a second throbbing drum. She grew hot. The air seemed to thicken about her. Sweat beaded on her face as that deep, distant pulse filled her senses. Her heart pounded; blood throbbed in her temples. Shuddering drums reached a fevered peak. Shadows whirled on the ancient stones. The sky seemed alive with crackling fire.

  And when she could stand no more, thought she would scream to drown the sound—the drums stopped. Unclenching her eyes, she looked up. The shadows were gone, and the fire was a subdued glow. After awhile, even that faded.

  What had it all meant?

  Exhausted, she sank back on her pallet. Kregan would return soon and explain it to her. Meanwhile, her little campfire had burned to coals. She stirred it with a stick, glancing up once or twice at the looming monoliths barely visible against the black sky since the strange firelight had gone out. Why didn't they shine like the other stones and boulders?

  Without meaning to, she yawned and drifted into a sleep troubled with nightmares, peopled with ghosts.

  She sat up gasping, shivering, a half-uttered scream on her lips. A balled fist struck at something that wasn't there; a hand went to her sword. It was a full moment before she realized the dream was over and remembered where she was.

  Warm arms slipped around her. “Are you all right?"

  Kregan's eyes were large, dark pools that gleamed in the light of a renewed campfire. His bedroll was undisturbed, though. It occurred to her to wonder just how long he had been sitting watch over her. “Sure,” she managed finally. “It was just ... nothing."

  He reached out to hold her, but the sound of galloping horses startled them apart. Both leaped up, and other soldiers did the same as the noise shattered their sleep.

  Frost slid her blade half out of its sheath before Kregan stayed her hand. “Only three riders,” he said.

  She listened, counted and agreed. By now, all the camp was on its feet. Naked steel glimmered in a goodly number of fists, she noted with some satisfaction. Three riders or not, who knew what might be abroad in this cursed darkness.

  The sound of hooves traveled far on the flat, still plain, and she strained to follow the riders’ approach over the Field of Fire. She could not so much actually see them as she noted the winking of the stones as three vague forms eclipsed the glow.

  Straight into camp they came, jerking their mounts to a reckless halt, scattering dust and pebbles.

  Kregan went pale.

  “The last piece of the puzzle,” he mumbled. “Of course, why didn't I see it before?"

  Between two apprentices, young brothers of the Black Arrow, sat Natira.

  Rhadamanthus pushed through the ring of soldiers, Minos and Aecus in close tow. When he saw the woman he stopped short, a curious expression in his old eyes. The apprentices were breathless from the long ride, but Natira seemed unaffected. Though dust covered every part of her and her hair was a mad tangle, her peculiar beauty radiated like a pale beacon in the night.

  “So it was you I sensed,” Rhadamanthus said.

  Natira made no answer.

  “We found her on the ridge as the Esgarian female warned,” an apprentice spoke. “She was following us, and refused to go back even when we tried to take her."

  “She talked?” Kregan was incredulous.

  “Not a word, but she wouldn't move except to follow the army."

  “Our orders were to investigate and report,” the second apprentice interrupted gruffly. “Not to drag some demented woman all the way back to Erebus and miss the real action."

  “So we finally let her come,” continued the first. “You wouldn't know it to look at her, but she rode like one possessed, not bothering to look for tracks. She just seemed to know the way."

  Rhadamanthus paced a wide circle around the three. “Why?” he said at last. “Why are you here?” Agitation showed on his aged face. He apparently expected an answer from the voiceless girl to judge by the way he glowered at her, but Natira tilted her delicate head at an odd angle and watched him with expressionless eyes.

  “Well,” growled Aecus, “what do we do with her?"

  “You'll do nothing.” Kregan pushed through the crowd. “I'll take care of her."

  "Krilar." Aecus used the formal address, his voice harsh, stern. “You have other responsibilities. We're at war, and you are a master sorcerer."

  “I said I will care for her.” There was no room for argument. He helped his ward from the saddle with deft care. Wearing no cloak, she shivered a little in the night chill, and the Chondite's arm settled naturally about her small shoulders.

  Aecus looked as if he would press the issue farther, but Minos caught his arm. “She has been his charge from the first. Leave be, my friend.” Aecus’ eyes flared hotly as he shook off the gentler elder's restraining hand. With a curse he turned, strode away, shoving aside any who blocked his path.

  Frost also turned away to seek her fire and pallet, deeply troubled. The Elder of the Argent Cup bore watching; his unpredictable moods bordered on madness. Yet, that was not what annoyed her most, though it shamed her to admit it. The look on Kregan's face, his gentleness as he unseated Natira, the easy and oh-so-casual way his arm went around her; these things tormented her. She mocked herself bitterly for fretting over trivialities when greater dangers were afoot.

  Still, try as she might, she couldn't set them aside, and when Kregan deposited Natira in his own bedroll next to hers and left, she hissed across the hot coals of the fire.

  “Why in the Nine Hells did you have to come?"

  Natira sat up, gazed over the flames; a broad smile suddenly creased her lips. With one hand she began to massage her own small breast while with the other she pointed through the fire to Demonfang.

  With a gasp, Frost snatched the hand from the flames. Unbelievably, the skin was not burned, not even reddened by the heat. The woman betrayed not the slightest hint of pain, but continued to smile and point at the arcane dagger.

  It was unreal, maddening. The hackles rose on her neck, and she clamped her fingers protectively on the slender weapon on her hip, gripped by an unreasoning fear. Leaping up, she fled to the
farthest side of camp and beyond, ignoring the guards who called after her. Breathing hard, full of suspicions she could not give voice to, she reached the line of tethered horses and stopped.

  Ashur was close by, untethered, and he made a low greeting as she threw her arms around him and rubbed her face in his silken mane. His eyes were soft, muted flames; his breath warmed her skin. From poll to withers she stroked the grateful creature that was, she thought, her only true friend in all this crazy war.

  But there was no peace for her among the animals.

  Ashur's unnatural eyes flared suddenly, her only warning that something was amiss, and she spun around. A tenuous veil of shifting radiance hovered over the earth near at hand. The light began to flux and coruscate, changing colors rapidly. Then, from the shining nimbus the Stranger emerged, he who had precipitated this adventure, looking exactly as he had in Etai Calan so many days before, naked and beautiful.

  “Beware, my child,” he warned. “And be strong."

  Her sword rasped clear of sheath; one hand pressed to mouth, muffling her astonished outcry. She stared at the apparition in fear and amazement, remembering the butterflies and a horrible end.

  “You're dead!” she managed hoarsely. “Nothing but bones! How can you ...?"

  But the Stranger was swallowed once more in light and faded, leaving her alone with Ashur and an unanswered question.

  Beware and be strong. Those were his words. But what did they mean? She turned slowly, surveying all directions. Nothing to beware of. And no one in camp gave any indication of having shared her vision. In fact, as the minutes passed and the shock wore off, she wondered if she had seen him at all, if he wasn't just a product of her own fatigue and growing self-doubt.

  She had almost convinced herself that was the case when the horses went wild.

  Incandescent sparks shot from Ashur's eyes, and the air turned sullen, foul with the taint of evil. A second nebulous glow shimmered over the ground, spreading harsh colors on everything it touched. A dark light this, it pulsed blood red, emerald green and purple, orange and blood red again. The horses whinnied pitifully, stamped and tore at the picket, but the line held.