Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  “Shammuron!"

  Desperately, she tried to wake the Elder of the Black Arrow, but nothing stirred him. Kregan called to her. Together, they gazed over the field as the Raldor extended a hand. Near their feet a portion of the edge crumbled as Demonium quaked once more beneath the Dark God's power.

  “His transition between the planes is complete,” the Chondite shouted. “See how the stones churn under his wheels? He comes for the Book of the Last Battle."

  And he did not come alone. Without Rhadamanthus’ conscious control the great worms abandoned the struggle with Nugaril and crawled back to the bowels of the earth, leaving that god and Mentes free to turn their attentions toward the sacred Gate.

  “Then, by their own names, let's give them a battle."

  She found the Book where she left it, snatched it up from the altar stone. But now it seemed nearly too heavy to lift, and it exuded a heat that threatened to burn her fingers. No matter. Straining with all her might, she heaved the volume up, clutched it to her breast and bore it back to the rim.

  Kregan was already busy. With his staff he scratched a hasty pattern in the dirt. Angles and lines of amazing complexity took shape as the Chondite began to chant, his voice spiraling to an ever-higher pitch. His muscles corded, went taut under the skin. The pattern on the ground began to glow.

  She could not wait for him to finish. Shammuron, Nugaril and Mentes were dangerously close, and Kregan's sorcery was taking too long. The Book was their only chance. She fingered the ornate lock and the strap that bound the covers tight. Within lay the power to repel the evil that was almost upon them.

  The lock had to be broken or the strap cut. One weapon alone might succeed where mundane steel and magic had not. Her hand closed on Demonfang.

  A piercing shriek drowned Kregan's chant, shattered his careful concentration.

  Then, another shriek. Frost screamed, realizing her mistake too late.

  The dagger quivered, twisted in her hand, demanding its due. But there were no enemies near to slake its lust. In her eagerness to slash the binding she had forgotten the blade's fatal curse: it must taste blood. With a look of anguish she turned to Kregan, Natira, sleeping Rhadamanthus. Another shriek split her ears, more urgent than the first, more commanding.

  Demonfang required a death, a sacrifice. But who? Which of her friends?

  It was impossible to choose.

  An odd tugging sucked at her mind. Though she fought the sensation, it grew, began to squeeze her will. Images of suicide assailed her, of hanging, drowning, falling. Monsters dredged up from her nightmares pressed her down, rolled her about, tossed her like a child's plaything until she thought the only escape lay in slitting her veins on their ivory claws. Death, a lusty young man, embraced her. The ghosts of her parents beckoned. Orgolio, the jailer, laughed hysterically, calling her names. She shut her eyes, but the visions continued, all with the same insistent message.

  The point turned slowly, screeching, toward her heart.

  Suddenly, other hands locked around hers. Fighting the dagger's spell, she snapped open her eyes. With surprising strength Natira forced the point around. An ecstatic smile lit the woman's face as she redirected the fiendish blade, set it to her own heart and lunged.

  An orgasmic sigh parted her lips. No other sound from her.

  Bright crimson spurted, but also soft sparks of light. Frost jerked her hands away in dazed anguish. The dagger went silent, and she waited for Natira's mouth to open and scream with its voice. But no sound came. In a swirl of soft gowns, she sank, eyes glazing swiftly with death.

  Frost backed away from the dying woman, suddenly afraid. The Book slipped from her grasp, fell forgotten in the dust. A thick bile rose in her mouth; she shivered uncontrollably, unable to speak as Kregan cradled Natira in his arms. Profuse tears streamed his cheeks as he rocked her back and forth.

  Feebly, Natira lifted an arm, beckoned her close.

  She responded with a hesitant step, then shame and guilt made her stop. Natira called again, begged with those fading blue eyes. Frost collapsed at her side.

  “I'm ... sorry!"

  But Natira laid a finger on her lips, silencing her. Then, those fingers stroked her cheek, a tender, forgiving touch. With her other hand, Natira eased the dagger from her heart.

  The point flashed. A wincing pain stung her palm.

  Frost stared disbelieving at the red streak Demonfang had made, too frightened to move.

  With the last of her failing strength the small figure in the dirt pressed the wounded palm to the gushing hole above her heart.

  A warm tingle crawled up Frost's arm as the two bloods conjoined. Uselessly, she tried to free her hand, but Natira's grip was inhuman. She gazed with confusion and fear into the smiling face, into azure eyes laced with pain.

  Then, a heart gave its last beat.

  A scream boiled in Frost's throat; the warm tingle turned to hot, coursing fire that spread all through her, seared right through her soul. Thousands of needles prickled her skin. Molten liquid raced in her veins, bubbled in the sockets of her eyes. Her guts churned, aflame.

  For an instant she felt expanded beyond the boundaries of flesh, of mortal memory or conception. The entire cosmos seemed to surge with her.

  Then, stillness, a momentary calm. The scratch on her palm stared back at her, a thin scarlet smile. She sucked her lip, knowing and fearing what was to come.

  It hit with a rush—a song that grew within her, melodies a human mind could barely contain. A symphony of sheer, raw power.

  She understood now what Natira was, perceived the incredible nature of her final legacy. She rose and looked out over the Field of Fire, seeing the battle with perfect clarity unhampered by distance or darkness. She saw from all angles and viewpoints—through the eyes of every participant.

  The Dark Ones were very close.

  At the core of her being a song began its first note. She gazed on Shammuron, the dreaded Raldor. The song reached for a new note.

  Beneath his rumbling chariot the stones exploded in showers of sparks, splintering the wheels, overturning the charging vehicle.

  Her cloak and raven tresses lashed the air on a wind of her own creation. With unmerciful savagery she unleashed the music that roared within her, striking with a fury no longer human. The song became a chorus, an orchestra, and the music crescendoed as she blasted her unholy foes. They staggered, but still came on.

  But in the middle of her attack, Kregan leaped up, grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently. It was so easy to discern his fear, his concern, to read the love in his heart. Love for her.

  He thinks I'm possessed. He doesn't understand the change within me or realize the cause of it. But I have no time for explanations. The Dark Ones still stand.

  With no more than a thought she brushed him aside.

  Natira's gift was like a drug. She reveled in the energies at her command. More than magic or sorcery: such power was an extension of her will as natural and easy to use as her arms and legs. She wanted more—and knew how to get it.

  In her own mind she found the psychic binding-spell placed there by her sorceress-mother. Simple to remove it and tap her own witchcraft. And also there was the energy of Demonium. Hers to command.

  She lashed out again, all the elements her weapons. Shammuron stumbled, fell in a driving rainstorm. Nugaril spread his claws to grip the earth as raging winds strove to push him back. Riding the night like a black, shipless sail, Mentes writhed in the turbulent lightning that wracked his shadow-form.

  Yet, they were gods. The Raldor found his footing and turned the rain aside. Hugging the ground, Nugaril pulled himself along with his pincers. Mentes smothered the lightning with a cloud of ebon radiance. Ever closer they came toward Demonium.

  And over the plain came a hateful laugh. Standing again on the rock where Nugaril had put him, Zarad-Krul cheered his evil allies.

  The true-sight of the great mages was hers now, and no illusion could hide the true app
earance of Shardaha's wicked lord. Gone was the golden, muscled youth. Gone were the perfect limbs and beautiful features. Zarad-Krul was gnarled and bent with age. Filth matted his thinning, dun-colored hair and beard. Bluish veins floated livid on his puffy, wrinkled flesh, and the teeth were rotten in his lipless mouth.

  But the blinded eye was no illusion. Her sword had done that. One socket gaped terribly empty.

  Insane glee shone on his moldering face; he smacked his hands together in joyful malevolence and danced.

  Frost's spirit sang a new song; an arpeggio of power rushed forth. If she could not halt the Dark Ones, she could still aid her battling Chondite friends against the wizard's human minions.

  Her music touched a sharp note and cracked open the earth on the armies’ right flank. An invisible hand herded the Shardahanis, tumbled them into the yawning abyss screaming in dismay. A few on the farthest edges of the fighting escaped the hand and fled, begging their master for protection.

  She looked on them with unforgiving eyes, and the flesh on their bodies burst into fountains of scarlet flame. The smoke and stink rose up around the wizard, filled his nostrils, doubled him with a fit of coughing.

  A terrible smile creased her lips, and her thoughts ranged over the field. Laugh now, little man, as you gag on your pitiful dreams, and know that I can slay you just as easily, just as agonizingly.

  She turned her power on his bird-things and butterflies, perceiving they were not birds or butterflies at all, but ugly fiends disguised in those shapes. They, too, exploded in flame, fell to earth like tiny shooting stars.

  Then, another mind touched hers. She reeled with the jolt, nearly bending under its alien strength.

  What purpose ... female ... to frighten ... mad mortal? His withered mind ... no longer important ... We come ... for the Book ... for you.

  She straightened, adjusting slowly to the chaotic patterns of Shammuron's thoughts. The Dark Gods were right below, wreaking havoc in the Chondite camp.

  Come then, you bastard-spawn of some insignificant bitch-goddess.

  The Book of the Last Battle lay by Natira's feet where she had dropped it. She gestured, and the ancient tome trembled, rose, levitated to her open hand. Demonfang, still clutched in the dead woman's hand, wailed a long, hungry note.

  Be silent, Frost commanded.

  The dagger obeyed her will, and at a crook of her finger, also levitated.

  Laying the gleaming blade next to the leather strap that sealed the Book's covers, she drew it carefully. The strap parted, offering no resistance. The runes began to shimmer, and the Book opened itself.

  The pages fluttered, turning rapidly of their own accord, displaying the knowledge written within. She absorbed it all at a glance. A blood-writ spell passed her eyes, the one she sought. An instant later, the Book closed, and the leather strap became one piece again, denying evidence of the dagger's edge.

  No matter. She remembered everything.

  She shouted words in a language she did not know, and an immense vortex began to whirl with her at its center, sucking dust and stones into itself. It spun with increasing fury, feeding on the power and energy she poured into it. Sweat beaded on her forehead, ran into her eyes as she concentrated.

  Far across the plain its force swept warriors off their feet. Zarad-Krul toppled from his rock perch. Even the Dark Gods as they at last achieved Demonium's crest were hurled back to the field by the maelstrom's raging.

  Frost felt her knees buckle. The vortex was consuming her power. She sagged to the ground. It swelled, grew stronger. But more was needed, and she had no more to give. Valiantly, she strained, offering her last song.

  Sensing her depletion, the vortex lifted, moved away from her. Within the monoliths the altar stone became its new locus.

  The Gate had power to feed on—infinite power.

  No longer did gale winds buffet the countryside. The monoliths contained that. The tempest reached upward instead, through the sky, swelling at a fantastic rate, drawing energy from the Gate, energy to open it and rip a hole in the space between the planes.

  Too weak to stand, Frost watched, praying her spell would work.

  Then, out of the vortex sailed a shining creature on pinions of white down feathers. Graceful as a wild swan, it climbed the sky, and she saw that though the wings were those of a bird the body was like a man's. She crawled to the edge of Demonium as it soared over the field.

  Silently, Mentes raised his hand; a wave of blackness flowed forth. The swan-being rolled away with confident ease, and a spark of golden fire flashed from a taloned finger. Mentes roared in pain.

  One by one, a host of strange creatures emerged from the vortex, flying or walking or slithering, drawn into earth's plane by her last conjuration. With forces no mortal would ever understand they assaulted the Dark Ones. The air tingled with eldritch energies. On the same ground where men fought and died, ancient gods renewed an eternal struggle.

  Its work done, the vortex dissipated. Voices on the pathway caught her attention. Hafid and a few of his comrades clambered over the rim and hurried to her side, their expressions full of awe at the combat they were witness to.

  “In Gath's name.” Hafid's voice was a taut whisper. “What are those creatures?"

  “The Lords of Light,” she answered.

  “God against God.” Hafid made a holy sign and hid his face. “Then, is this truly the Last Battle?"

  She had no answer for him.

  “Well, that is no god.” A warrior whose name she could not recall pointed.

  Zarad-Krul had seized a stray horse. Over the field he rode to aid his malevolent allies, hurling spells and long curses that were less than useless against the Gods of Light. Suddenly, his mount stumbled. The wizard slammed the earth hard, one leg bent oddly beneath him. The last vestiges of his sanity crumbled. He beat his fists impotently on the unfeeling rocks.

  Nugaril turned cold, gleaming eyes on the whimpering human. His huge claws flexed menacingly; the stings twitched over his back. Leaving Shammuron and Mentes to fight alone, he scuttled over the broken earth to the wizard and snatched him up in one terrible pincer.

  Zarad-Krul had a moment to stare into that waiting maw before he fell shrieking into its darkness.

  Frost grimaced as the jaws ground shut.

  Hafid nodded smugly. “As we were taught, evil feeds on evil."

  It was nearly over. No traces remained of Mentes; the shadow-god had faded before the Lords of Light. Though Nugaril fought on, claws and stings were futile weapons against his foes; the glow in his eyes began to dim; he moved sluggishly as if his life force were draining away. Shammuron was under siege; a hole of shining whiteness opened in the air, and the Light Gods forced him ever closer to it.

  She wanted to close her eyes and surrender to the exhaustion and fatigue that washed over her. Body and mind ached for the oblivion of sleep. Yet, Hafid shook her suddenly, exclaiming in her ear.

  The swan-winged god drifted gently from the sky to stand before them. In a taloned hand he held the Book of the Last Battle.

  “I am Shakari.” His voice was rich, melodic, full of sweet odors and promises of flowery, sun-drenched meadows, rippling streams of crystal water.

  He extended a hand, and she took it tremorously. There was a pleasant warmth to his touch as his fingers closed on hers. All weariness melted away, and pain dissolved as her wounds miraculously healed.

  When she attempted a sputtering thanks the being called Shakari only smiled and placed a finger on her lips, an oddly human gesture.

  He led her between the monoliths. The Gate appeared undisturbed by the vortex's fury. The looming stones remained erect, unmarked.

  On the altar stood the Stranger, grinning broadly. “So my young warrior, you've come far since we met in Etai Calan."

  “If I was young then,” she answered, “I think I've grown very old since."

  “In some ways,” Shakari conceded. “Much has happened since your encounter with Almurion. You ha
ve changed."

  “Almurion?"

  The Stranger made a deep bow. “We never had time for a proper introduction, did we?"

  “But you should be dead. I saw the butterflies pick your bones."

  Almurion lost his smile. “I suffered death as all men must. You see my spirit-form now. I've continued for a time to serve the Lords of Light, for it was granted to me when I stole the Book that I would see the end of this conflict, though I could no longer play an active part. Now, it is finished, and I will soon depart this world forever."

  “The Book of the Last Battle is safe.” The swan-god stroked the volume as if it were a pet animal. “But a great harm has been done."

  “What harm?” She could not help but frown at his chiding tone. “We won, didn't we?"

  “There was more at stake then mere victory, child,” Almurion said. “I told you once the Lords of Light were not intended to take part in this war. Yet, you summoned them against their wishes with the spell you found in the Book. That has upset delicate cosmic timetables. Now, there can be no foretelling when the true Last Battle will take place."

  “Worse,” Shakari continued. “That summoning spell was designed to call the Dark Ones at a time and place of our choosing. Now, they know it can also be used to call us. They heard when you spoke it. And they will remember."

  She looked away. The land was quiet now, the battle over. “You have your concerns,” she answered evenly, “and I have mine. My world is safe for the time being, and I still have my life and the lives of some of my friends.” Her eyes locked with Almurion's. “That was all the reward you offered if I carried out your task."

  He responded graciously with another bow and a grin.

  “But one thing troubles me. When Natira's power first flowed through me I thought I detected a purpose—some plan to all this."

  Shakari fluttered his wings. “Is it not purpose enough that the Book was rescued from the clutches of the Dark Gods?"

  Almurion stepped down from the altar-stone and stood close to the swan-god. “Who can say what a purpose is?” He made a sweeping, all-encompassing gesture. “There are gods beyond gods, my child. Even Shakari has someone to worship. And his gods have their gods, hierarchy on hierarchy never ending. Who can say what purpose is fulfilled or whose plan? How could any being know?"