Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  A weak nod. “My men ... some are badly wounded."

  “They'll all be cared for,” Minos assured him. “Your wounds need tending as well."

  With Frost under one arm and Minos the other, they got him into the elders’ tent where Rhadamanthus was already spreading bandages and healing herbs. Hafid was eased into a chair and a cup of wine set at his right hand. He downed it gratefully while Minos unbuckled the man's leg armor and cut away his trousers leg.

  “We're all that's left,” Hafid said bitterly. “Our women, children—all butchered when they sacked the city. What was left of the army retreated here, but they hit us twice again along the way. They could have overtaken us a third time and slaughtered all of us."

  Aecus regarded him sternly from the entrance. “Why didn't they?"

  Minos pressed a hot cloth to the wound, and Hafid winced. “I don't know,” he admitted finally. “With only fifty of us, we couldn't have offered much of a fight, but they gave up the chase just before we reached the Field of Fire."

  Minos wiped away a fresh stream of blood and began steeping some leaves in a samovar. “You did well, Brother. We need your strength here, now, to guard the Gate."

  “They feared we'd hear the battle and ride out to engage.” A smug grin spread over Aecus’ face, and his black eyes narrowed.

  But Rhadamanthus frowned and shook his head. “They're waiting for Zarad-Krul and reinforcements. They know we won't abandon this ground or risk battle beyond the Field of Fire. They can afford to bide their time."

  Kregan poked his head inside the tent. "Tumiel's army approaches from the west, and the banners of Graskod have been spotted in the south."

  “Good,” Aecus mumbled. “Our own reinforcements."

  Frost experienced a surge of joy. Two more cities to swell the ranks, and others yet to arrive. She offered a silent prayer of thanks to any gods who might be listening.

  Hafid patted the new bandage on his thigh and raised a second cup of wine. “The Nine Armies haven't been united for at least five hundred years,” he said, smiling.

  “Then, maybe we'll learn something from this,” Rhadamanthus suggested.

  Aecus spat. “If we survive the lesson, you should add. Besides, the Nine Armies are no more! Dulaam and Indrasad are dead, now. There are only seven cities."

  Hafid rose shakily to his feet, his face reddening. “In the hearts of fifty good men—Indrasad yet lives!"

  The two locked eyes for unrelenting moments, then the Elder of the Argent Cup threw down his half-full winecup and stormed out.

  Frost considered throwing her own goblet after him, but restrained herself. His moods and unreasoning outbursts were starting to worry her, and the expressions of the others suggested her she wasn't alone in her concerns. She stayed a little longer, but at first opportunity excused herself.

  There was no way to measure the passing time, but she slept on four occasions. One at a time the armies of the major Chondite cities rode into camp. Graskod from the south, and Sagaeshe. Akibus followed Tumiel from the west. From the northwest came Aluram, and Tarmir from the east. At the foot of Demonium their banners were planted beside those of Erebus and Indrasad.

  With the armies came new supplies. Stores of weapons: arrows, spears and axes, sharp swords and round-shields patterned with the leering faces of unnamed demons. From Sagaeshe came a dozen chariots and charioteers, and from Akibus another twelve, for those cities were renowned in that art. Besides weapons, each army brought wagons of food and water to withstand a siege of months.

  On the plain just beyond the Field of Fire the Shardahanis set up camp.

  Teams of Chondite scouts ventured through the darkness to observe them. Frost and Kregan were one team. Armed only with Demonfang, she crawled belly down over the rough ground, cursing the small, sharp stones that bit her knees and elbows. When they were as close as they dared, they lay side by side taking short breaths, watching, listening, waiting.

  It was an effort not to fall asleep. There was so little to observe, nothing to report. The enemy made no preparations at all. They didn't even bother to pitch tents. They ate hand-to-mouth from their saddlebags and slept wrapped in cloaks on the cold earth, disdaining campfires.

  She nudged her comrade and braved a whisper. “Nothing to see here. Let's go back."

  “On the contrary,” he answered. “We've learned a lot.” He motioned for her to follow, and they crawled back toward the Field of Fire. When there was no danger of being overheard he spoke again. “We know they don't plan to stay long. They haven't bothered to hunt fresh game, and they're still drinking from canteens and water skins. Without better supplies they'll have to do whatever they're planning soon. And they seem pretty confident. Not a single sentry, did you notice?"

  She frowned. Burdrak hadn't taught her everything, it seemed.

  They heard a scrambling to the right, their relief team. Exchanging quiet acknowledgments, the new pair advanced to a better vantage. Frost and Kregan hurried back to camp.

  But one member of their relief team back-tracked and overtook them again before they had gone far. Frost heard him first; her hand fell to Demonfang, and she waited for a crawling form to resolve into something familiar. Kregan had his dagger drawn and ready. Both breathed easier when they finally recognized the man.

  He had moved as swiftly as possible. His breathing came in ragged gasps. “A large contingent ... Shardahanis! They're countless! Just arrived with weapons and supplies."

  Kregan calmed him, asked a few more questions, and then sent him back to his position. When the man was safely away, Kregan gave her a meaningful glance. She shrugged and whispered, “I was tired of all this skulking anyway.” They leaped to their feet and ran the rest of the way.

  Rhadamanthus seemed unsurprised by the news. “It's time, then,” was all he said.

  Minos did not even bother to rise from his chair, but to Kregan he said, “Convene the Krilar."

  Kregan nodded. “Within the Gate, Elder?"

  “No, all must take part this time. It will inspire the smaller brothers."

  Frost felt a squeeze of her hand before her friend departed. Then, Rhadamanthus came forward and locked his bony fingers in hers. “Give an old man the pleasure of your company for awhile."

  She found an odd contentment in wandering through the rows of tents, stockpiles of weapons with the gentle Chondite elder. In so many ways, Rhadamanthus was like her father: tough and fearsome, yet strangely tender, kind, possessed of that ever-present courtesy that a man of real power could always afford.

  It startled her to realize that she could think of her father without pain. He was dead, and she was the cause. Nothing had changed. Or had it? She looked at Rhadamanthus, thought of Kregan, and surveyed her new world with a slowly shifting understanding.

  Gradually, they wandered back to the center of camp. The Krilar stood waiting in a circle surrounding Minos and Aecus. They watched her as she approached, and their gazes sent tingles up her spine. From among the tents a crowd of warriors materialized and formed a series of rings around the Krilar's ring. She shivered apprehensively at the weight of eyes upon her.

  She faltered. Her companion paused with her, and their eyes met.

  “I needed the walk to clear my mind,” he volunteered. “So did you. You were very tense."

  She looked at the faces in the gathering. Yes, they were waiting for her. “I'm still tense."

  He patted her hand paternally. “No need to be, my child. This is for you."

  Rhadamanthus led her inside the circles. The warriors parted to allow her passage. When she reached the innermost ring the elders and masters made short bows. She turned slowly, counting. Thirty masters in all of Chondos. She suppressed another shiver, wondering what part she played in all this.

  At a signal, the ring of Krilar shifted, became a triangle with ten men on each side. Rhadamanthus took a position before her, the other elders at either side and slightly behind. A triangle within a triangle, and she stood
at the center. Every face wore a solemn expression, and she could feel the tension like a sharp-edged sword. Sweat dampened her palms.

  “Take out the Book,” whispered the Elder of the Black Arrow. “Raise it high for all to see."

  She extracted the Book and did as instructed. It felt heavier than she remembered, and the runes shone queerly in the light of campfires. She fingered the metal lock, tested its strength once more to no avail. It would not yield. Such power in her hands, but locked away, useless.

  “Behold the Book of the Last Battle!” Rhadamanthus cried suddenly. “The object of Zarad-Krul's desire!"

  Somewhere in the mass of warriors a drum began a slow, sensuous beat. The Krilar paced around the inner group, never losing the shape of the triangle, never taking their eyes from the warrior-woman. Beyond the lines of masters the crowd began to sway and hum. The sound filled her head; it frightened her to realize she was the focus of this bizarre rite.

  “Behold this woman called Frost—the guardian of the Book!” That from Minos.

  “Behold she who blinded Zarad-Krul!” Aecus’ voice rolled across the camp.

  Another, deeper drum sounded. The masters began to dance, whirling, dipping, sweeping low to gather handfuls of earth which they rubbed into arms and faces, careful never to lose the sacred pattern of their dance. And as they moved, each one gave her a new name.

  “Sword-woman."

  “Witch-warrior."

  “Death's maiden."

  An unexpected dizziness made her clench her eyes shut. Voices droned in her ears; she tried to sort the words and failed. Suddenly, a wrenching in her gut, a horrible, disconcerting sensation of being in two places at once, then emptiness.

  Her mouth opened, but no scream came.

  Then, all discomfort faded, replaced by a feeling of lightness and tranquillity. Tremulously, she opened her eyes.

  A potent spell, she mused, secure in the peace that pervaded her. This should scare the Hell out of me, yet I'm not scared at all.

  Below, she could see the camp and the ritual still in progress. She could even see herself, her own body. Her cat-green eyes were wide, but vacant. Raven hair blew in a mild breeze she could no longer feel, held from her face by the shimmering moonstone circlet.

  How strange she felt watching herself, studying almost dispassionately the rigid girl-woman who clutched the dreaded Book above her head. For the first time, she reflected, she was seeing herself as others saw her, and it was not entirely a displeasing sight. And yet it was only the outward shell of her, empty of the spirit that really mattered, the essence that gave flesh purpose. Again she considered that this arcane separation should have frightened her. Instead, she felt calm and supremely clear-sighted.

  She looked away from her body and surveyed the elders. Their gazes, too, were vacant stares.

  We are here with you, said a voice in her head.

  Three silvery forms, idealized images of the elders below, appeared beside her. These were their astral bodies, and for the first time, she perceived that she also wore a new, glistening body, identical to her true form, but without blemish or imperfection or fleshly color.

  On the field below, the dancing ceased. The masters took up their staves and began to twirl them until they blurred from the motion. The metal tips of each staff began to glow, softly at first, then with a fire that rivaled the stones that littered the sacred field, and still they continued to twirl. From each spinning wand a pure blue energy shot into the sky. Thirty beacons of brightness that rose and disappeared in the heavens.

  Minos touched her with his thoughts. A cone of power, he explained. No evil can touch us while its influence lasts.

  On the ground the twirling staves slowed, stilled, but the cone remained.

  Hello, my love.

  She turned to see Kregan and all the Krilar. Each wore a perfect, new body, smooth and gleaming with a sweet light. They came to her, touching, kissing, embracing. She touched back, marveling at the sensations, the intensity of contact. They seemed to feed on her, and she on them. Forms merged with hers, flowed through her, separated. Each gave and took something away. It was a sharing that reminded her of Dasur's grove, yet it was subtly different.

  Finally, the cone began to dissolve. One by one, the silver bodies melted. Rhadamanthus was the last; he brushed her lips and was gone. Alone once more, she gazed down on the Chondite camp. Her mortal body had not stirred.

  But the Book of the Last Battle, with her pale, human fingers curled around it, burned with an arcane glow. Those undecipherable runes flickered, danced with a magical light on the ancient binding. And the lock—did she imagine it, or did the voices of incredibly old gods call out through the keyhole?

  She closed her eyes to listen more closely, but too soon the voices faded. When she opened her eyes again, it was an ordinary book, and she was seeing it through her own eyes from her true body. Her arms ached; she lowered them and turned to the elders.

  They nodded, smiling. The drums stopped.

  “Put it away now,” Rhadamanthus said. “It's done."

  Already the warriors were disbanding, returning to their individual tasks. A few Krilar leaned on their staves; beads of sweat ran down their weary faces. Eventually, they departed, too. Then, Minos made a deep bow to her and headed for the elders’ tent with Aecus in close tow.

  Kregan moved to her side. His tunic was drenched with perspiration and his hair disheveled, but he held himself erect.

  “What in Tak's name happened?” she asked as she returned the Book to the pouch at her side.

  “We freed your astral form from your mortal shell. Any sorcerer can release his own spirit, but to free someone else's required the combined talents of our most powerful brothers."

  “But to what purpose?"

  He looked to Rhadamanthus, silently asking the old man's permission to continue, receiving it with a nod. “Every living thing from the smallest leaf to the mightiest god possesses an aura that is distinctly its own. Of course, you know that—you were a witch."

  That earned him a hard look.

  He continued, undaunted. “I don't know if Zarad-Krul knew your aura before you left Etai Calan with the Book, but somehow he was able to follow us across Rholaroth. Maybe he found your shield in Shazad and just divined your location; that would be within his power. But, in any case, once his Eye entrapped us on the plain it was certain he knew both our auras. That's how he found you by the horses. In fact, he could find either of us anywhere, anytime."

  “Okay, so where's this long-winded explanation heading?"

  Rhadamanthus answered. “We can't allow Zarad-Krul to keep such a power once the battle begins. It would be too easy for him to strike at you from a distance or direct his servants to do it for him. By always knowing your location he would know where to concentrate his attacks. So we've made subtle changes in your personal aura by mingling it with elements of our own. That was the ritual's purpose. Now you wear part of each of our auras, and we wear part of yours. Zarad-Krul will be thoroughly confused."

  “And there's an added benefit,” Kregan said. “Every elder and master is now intimately acquainted with your true aura. If you're captured we can follow you anywhere, even beyond Chondite borders where most of our powers fail. We could attempt a rescue."

  His grip tightened on her arm; his eyes bored into her.

  She spared him saying it. “Or if I die in the fighting you'll know that, too, and come after the Book."

  “If we can,” affirmed Rhadamanthus with uncharacteristic bluntness.

  She shrugged. “Well, I don't know about you, but I could use some wine."

  The old man smiled and took her hand, stepping between her and Kregan. “A supper is being prepared in our tent. You'll have wine and good fare once more before any trouble starts.” He looked away toward where the Shardahanis camped out of view. “That won't be long, now."

  A table was set with hot meats, grains and dried fruit. A loaf of bread was split and soaked in hone
y. The smell of it made her mouth water, but she waited until Minos, who played host, invited her to sit.

  Halfway through the meal, Hafid dashed into the tent. “Birds!” he exclaimed. “At least, we think they're birds. They're frightening the horses, and the men are getting jumpy. You'd better come have a look."

  Frost grabbed a last bite of meat, gulped a mouthful of wine and followed the Chondites out. The sound of mighty pinions beat the air; the darkness was full of swooping, half-glimpsed shapes. Hollow, bird-like cries echoed in the night.

  “The bird-things we saw at Cundalacontir,” Kregan shouted excitedly. “I'm sure of it."

  She agreed. “But a lot more of them. You were right, then. They're spies for Zarad-Krul. See how they circle like vultures over carrion?"

  Then, without warning, Rhadamanthus called out. “To arms! Prepare! The enemy comes!"

  The camp came alive with furious activity as soldiers scurried for armor and weapons. Dust and sparks flew as fires were extinguished. Horses whinnied as they were harnessed to the great chariots, or as apprentices led them to waiting masters. Aecus barked orders, and two young men buckled on his greaves. Only then did the scouting team come rushing breathless and gasping into camp to shout the news.

  Frost turned to Kregan in all the confusion. “How did Rhadamanthus know,” she cried, “even before the scouts arrived?"

  “He's a Chondite elder,” he answered as if that explained everything. “Now hurry! Arm yourself or be left behind."

  She made her way through the darkness with familiar ease, recalling the days when she had crept through the bowels of her father's castle for a chance to practice with her weapons-master. Well, it wasn't practice now. And nothing Burdrak had taught her could ease the growing tightness in her gut.

  To her surprise, she found all her armor laid out neatly on her pallet. Natira sat in the dirt close by. Seeing Frost, she rose with leather vambraces and laces in hand.

  She didn't really need any help, for she wore so little armor: vambraces for her arms, thigh protection and greaves, some leather gauntlets and the strangely carved cuirass Kregan had given her in Erebus. But Natira was eager to help. Smiling queerly, she fastened the buckles and straps, and when she looked up from her work her eyes sparkled.