Frost
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Frost
by Mark A. Garland & Charles G. McGraw
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 2000 by Mark A. Garland & Charles G. McGraw
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 0-671-31943-4
Cover art by David Mattingly
First printing, October 2000
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Typeset by Brilliant Press
Printed in the United States of America
for John, Chris, Janine and Laurie
M. G.
For Ed — may your journey through life be full of grand adventures.
Love, Dad
PROLOGUE
Madia awoke with a start. She sat up, a fateful dream fading slowly, and held her breath as she stared into the blackness of her chambers, listening. She saw nothing, heard nothing, yet one image from the dream remained in her thoughts, and she knew she had to find Frost.
Her dress these days was usually that befitting royalty, whether she liked it or not, but for now that didn't matter—only time mattered now. She pulled a robe over her nightdress and rushed out of the room, still barefoot, into the darkened hallway. Which was odd since lamps were kept lit at all hours. Whatever hour it was, she thought, perhaps close to sunrise.
She hurried on, feeling her way through the darkness until she found the stairs and started down. It wasn't until she reached the bottom that she realized something untoward was indeed going on: That was when she fell over the body.
The cold stone floor met the top of her head as she tumbled forward, though she managed to turn the fall into a roll that spared her skull the full force of the impact. She expected the worst after that—an attack by someone, or several someones. She tensed, ready. Nothing happened. Nothing stirred.
She gathered herself up and went on her hands and knees back to the still figure at the foot of the stairwell. A man, she determined, not very large and certainly not very strong, and absolutely dead, though she couldn't feel any wounds, or any blood. His hands held no weapons, but she found a rather substantial sword soon enough, lying near the body.
Light glowed behind her in the hallway, drawing near; not a lamp or candles, this light had a cold paleness and a rose hue, and did not flicker at all.
"Frost?" she whispered.
"Good morning," Frost answered, his voice low and steady, unaffected.
Madia could see his very large form now, a robust silhouette dressed in robes and floppy hat. The light followed as if tethered to him. She had never seen this particular shade of sorcery before, but Frost seemed to have a nearly endless supply, and to delight in them all.
Madia let down her guard. No one else would still be about now that Frost had shown himself, of that she could be sure.
"What in the name of the Greater Gods are you up to?" Madia asked, rising from the floor.
She saw the others then, Sharryl and Rosivok, Frost's two remaining Subartan warriors. They emerged from the darkness just behind the great wizard, following him precisely in step. Madia had been the other, the third corner of Frost's defensive triangle, but an entire kingdom needed her now. She had resigned herself to that, and to the idea that she might never again fight at their sides. Soon enough Frost would choose another, though she knew of no one in all Ariman who could fill a Subartan's boots. At least these three had decided to stay in Kamrit for a time, Madia thought, so they could talk about all they had been through together, all the changes to be made, and the possibilities to come. And give her time to talk them all into staying even longer.
"He's one of yours," Frost said. He raised his left hand and waved it slowly. One by one the lamps on the walls came to life, illuminating the great hall as it should have been and the body at Madia's cold feet. She looked down, examining the man. She didn't know his name, but he was a personal servant in the castle. A cook, she thought, or a meal server. She'd seen him about his duties. Frost's handiwork was evident now. The man's hair was utterly white, his face and hands shriveled as if by very great age, his clothes far too bulky. A lifetime burned up in a matter of minutes. A victim of the spell that had given the large sorcerer his name, unknown decades ago.
"He hoped to find the Blade unattended while I slept," Frost went on. "He ran."
"He took the false sword," Madia added, glancing at the weapon that lay nearby. The last man to do so had ended the same way. She looked up then. Frost is capable of kindness, she thought, and Madia was anything but quick to judge these days, but they'd agreed that anyone caught trying to steal the Demon Blade should be dealt with swiftly, and permanently. Such action would set an example, but it also eliminated the chance of a repeat offense.
"I'll have him removed," Madia said quietly.
"That makes three in all," Sharryl said. She was looking about the room as if some unnoticed hazard might still be about.
"Three too many," Rosivok said.
"At this rate, you will be running low on staff by midsummer," Frost sighed, a bit dramatically, while the magic glow faded behind him.
Madia chuckled at this. "Agreed," she said, "but we of course have many more servants, most of them more sensible. At least I hope so, and summer is still three months off."
"Some things," Frost said, "cannot be put off."
"What things?" Madia asked, noting only now that Frost was fully dressed in his traveling tunics, that both the Subartans were wearing their cloth and leather armor under heavy tunics, and had satchels on their backs. Madia felt a lump form in her throat.
"Simple servants are already throwing away their lives, men who do not have even the smallest knowledge of what the Demon Blade is. They imagine its value, and feel its pull, perhaps. But they are only the beginning, the first chill breezes of a coming storm."
"You and the Blade are safest here within these walls, protected by my army—and my sword as well, if it comes to that," Madia said. "We have had this conversation."
Frost shrugged. "There were fewer dead men at the time." He turned to his two Subartans, a silent exchange, then they all stepped nearer. Frost held out one thick, steady hand. Madia put her hand in his. Even in the dim glimmer of lamplight she could see the truth in his eyes.
The good-bye.
"Where will you go?"
"Where I must go, especially now. And all as well; this journey is something I have put off for far too long." Frost took a breath, and let his eyes close for just an instant.
"I will require a mule with pack," he said.
"When?" Madia asked.
"I leave with the dawn."
CHAPTER ONE
Frost snatched up his walking stick and kicked dirt over the little fire, snuffing it out. He moved back until he felt a tree at the clearing's edge press against his spine. Ahead, just beyond the clearing's other edge, he could hear faint sounds of movement, a rustle of branches, the crack of a twig underfoot—though whose feet he could not be sure. Not his Subartans, they would make no sound, until . . .
A curious stillness spread through the forest. Frost held his breath, closed his eyes, and reached out to the darkness beyond. He could sense the others, and he decided they were the same ones that had been following him since he and his Subartans had left Kamrit on their journey northward. Until now this group had been well back, nothing more than a hinted p
resence, persistent but small and unremarkable.
He heard a man call out over a sudden jumble of clanking, scuffling and more snarled voices. Then a shriek that briefly combined fear and astonishment before it was snuffed out. Shouts came after that. "No!" Frost heard; then another man uttered a brief, defiant cry. A moment later, on the clearing's far side, three figures emerged: His Subartans, Sharryl and Rosivok, and another man the likes of which Frost had not expected. He stood straight and unmoving, waiting with Sharryl and Rosivok to either side. A man in his thirties, well fed but not quite fat, and gloriously dressed. Even in the pale light of moon and stars, Frost could see that his pants and tunic were finely tailored and sewn with a layered pattern. The jerkin he wore was made of fur, probably ermine. His head was topped by a wide, flat cap of a stiffer material than Frost's, probably leather.
Frost moved slowly to the center of the little clearing.
"Your friends here have killed both of my men," the man said, tipping his cap toward the trees behind him.
Frost looked to Sharryl, then Rosivok, who nodded somewhat heavily and said, "They drew their swords."
"Your men asked to die," Frost said. "Why are you here, and why do you bring fools?"
"Business," the man said. "I am known as Cantor, a merchant, the richest in all Calienn. As for my men I cannot be responsible for every action of a few hired troops, but I will tell you we had no intention of attacking your camp. I am here to make a purchase."
"You have been a merchant for a while?"
"It has been my life."
Frost leaned on his walking stick, studying the other man. "Odd," he said, "that with so much experience, you could make so many errors all at once."
"I myself have made no errors, sir, as you will see."
"You hire fools, you invite your own death by your lack of manners, you seek to buy from those with nothing for sale. I can only assume that your past successes have been due to accident and luck."
"Luck?" the merchant said. "Hardly. Though I am not surprised that one known to rely often on magic, tricks and gimmickry might put stock in such things. You do have something to sell, and I am willing to pay any price you might ask."
Frost could not see Cantor's eyes clearly, but almost as much could be known about a man by observing his manner, listening to his tone and words. Frost thought this fellow rather confident considering the circumstances, even arrogant—almost to the point of being patronizing—and a bit flamboyant as well. No sorcerer, though, that was certain, but otherwise he reminded Frost of no one so much as himself.
"You have been misinformed," Frost said. "You have no useful knowledge of me, and I have no patience to enlighten you. I will let you leave, alive, but you will gain nothing else here tonight."
Cantor came forward two steps, and Rosivok met him. Frost waved the Subartan off, then let the other approach. When they were no more than four paces apart Frost raised his hand again, and Cantor stopped.
"The Demon Blade," Cantor said, firmly, but still civil. "All of Ariman knows you have it. I will not pretend to bargain with you, we both know how much the piece is worth. I will pay whatever you want, but you must sell it to me.
Who else is competent or rich enough? In any case, it may be your only chance to survive."
Now Frost stepped closer, and leaned toward the merchant. "Is there a reason I should fear you?"
"No, no, of course not. I bring no threats, only a warning. There are many who would as soon take the Blade from your dead body. It is wise to expect that most of them know you intend to cross the Spartooth Mountains, or they will, soon enough. The story of the battle you fought in Ariman has become a legend that grows daily—a battle won by a single sorcerer who used the Demon Blade to slay thousands, to kill a demon, to restore the throne in Kamrit—most remarkable."
"I had help," Frost noted, "but go on."
"I must confess, I was terribly undecided whether to buy the Blade itself, or also to buy the man who has apparently unlocked its ancient secrets. As I see it, both are of equal value, but neither is of very great value alone."
Frost tipped his head, considering Cantor from a fresh angle. "I may have to amend my judgment of you," he said. "Such truths are usually too obvious for most men to see."
"Agreed," Cantor said with a slight bow of his head, "but I am not most men. In the end I decided the Blade alone was the wisest choice. While it is of limited value without you, I believe that—most men being what they are—very few of those interested in buying the Blade will allow that to matter. There are other considerations as well. People are often unreliable, difficult, sometimes impossible to deal with, and a sorcerer known to be eccentric in the past, and wielding an all but unimaginable power in the present, could easily prove the most troublesome sort of all.
"No, I do not welcome that misery. Just the Blade will do. Once we get to Calienn we can part company, and it will be my concern alone, not yours."
Frost pondered his response for a moment, then decided he'd had enough of the shadows that veiled the other's features. He bent and collected two thick pieces of a broken branch from the small pile his Subartans had gathered, then tossed them into the fire. He spoke to the embers under the dirt, then used his walking stick to stir the darkened coals. The fire flared up and caught on the fresh branches, illuminating faces.
Cantor's eyes were very much what Frost had expected, cool and steady, focused, but moving with perhaps a bit too much nervous energy.
"What you suggest holds a certain appeal," he told the merchant. "To be rid of the responsibility, the worry, the temptation, and perhaps most of all the need constantly to look over my shoulder. You are proof that when I look, I find someone there all too often. But the responsibility is the catch." He moved back to his spot and sat down again on the trunk of a fallen tree, then indicated that Cantor should do the same. He did and sat cross-legged, something Frost had not imagined him limber enough to accomplish.
"I have given endless thought to what might happen if the Blade fell into the wrong hands," Frost continued, "and then there is the reality that, no matter what else, it ought to be in the hands of the Keeper appointed to hold it by the ancients. If it were up to you, would you do less?"
Frost watched the other's eyes meet his. Cantor was ignoring everything and everyone else and concentrating instead on Frost, trying to read him just as Frost was trying to read Cantor.
"It is hard to say," Cantor answered after a moment.
"I am sure it is," Frost said. "I already have my own answers to those questions, which is why I cannot sell you the Blade. While your price might be most generous, the final cost of selling it to you would surely be greater, and I would have to live with that. The Blade has already burdened me more than any man can know, but there is only one way I can ever be rid of it."
"I sympathize, truly," Cantor said, beginning to sound like a man trying to sell a used wagon and team, "but I can all but promise you the Blade will bring your deaths if you do not give it up. Powerful lords and those that serve them will spend lives and kingdoms to hold the Blade, as well as countless lesser men."
"Lesser men and merchants," Frost replied.
Cantor took the barb in stride. He folded his arms and tipped his head back slightly, reflective. "How can you be sure that the one who buys the Blade from me will not be the very one who was meant to have it, the very one you seek? This is sometimes the way the world works."
"Seldom," Frost said.
Cantor nodded. "That's true."
"Who do you know that wants the Blade?" Frost asked. "I would know my enemies."
Cantor smiled too broadly at this. He took a deep breath, let it out and took another. "No one. Anyone. All who think they have the slightest chance of taking it, or corrupting you, which I admit to my dismay seems somewhat unlikely."
"Is there anyone in particular?"
Cantor shrugged. "Perhaps. Keep the Blade, and I am sure you will find out more than you care to know."
"But—" Cantor held his words as Rosivok grabbed him under his right arm and began to lift him by it.
"But you have killed my guards!" he managed.
"They insisted," Sharryl reminded him as she moved to flank Cantor on the left.
"You will think of me as your life ends, Frost, of the chance I offered you. An offer that remains open."
"You have made no offer," Frost called after him.
"Name your price."
"The truth," Frost said.
"Once you have the truth, I may have to start over again, bargaining with someone new."
"It is a perilous life," Frost replied.
"As well you know, but it is a risk I may take," Cantor said. Rosivok began to escort the merchant away. "Wait!" Cantor shouted, struggling. "You would set me out on the road alone at night?"
Frost shrugged. "I would."
"Then I make you another offer. I will pay for your protection, that of you and your able warriors. Let me pay you your best fee. I have three horses as well, somewhere in these woods."
"They have run off," Rosivok said without cheer.
"You may have helped?" Frost asked his retainer.
The warrior nodded.
"No matter." Cantor said. "With or without the horses, I am traveling home to Calienn, therefore we must share the same road, and I can think of no one I would trust more. You have the means and reputation of a survivor. Besides, it will give me so many more chances to attempt to sway you to reconsider."
"You possess a sober honesty that continues to surprise me," Frost admitted.
"Something we share, I trust?"
Frost glanced at his Subartans. Neither of them seemed amused at the prospect. On the other hand, Frost had long enjoyed a free-lance lifestyle, one that allowed him to go where he pleased, be as he pleased, and earn the wages of royalty when the need, or the notion, arose. All that had changed for now, and for the foreseeable future, with the notable exception of Cantor's offer . . .