Frost

by Mark A. Garland

  Frost had nearly given up when the soldier drew a haggard breath and said, "Andair."

  "What of him?" Frost asked.

  "Andair and Gentaff want . . . them . . . for barter."

  "Barter for what?" Frost asked, though he already knew.

  With his dying breath the soldier said, "The Demon Blade."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "I'm going with you this time as well," Shassel said, fists balled and firmly planted on her hips. "I must."

  Frost had seldom seen her so determined, or so concerned. He understood. Dara and Dorin must be rescued, and quickly. Shassel felt she needed to be part of that. "You should not chide yourself for leaving them here alone," Frost said. "It was the sensible thing to do, all things considered. They are more than old enough, even for uncertain times. They have been for years."

  "Yes, of course, I know," Shassel muttered, shaking her head in frustration, then muttering something else that escaped Frost's ears. Apparently his assurances had fallen short.

  "Taking too many chances will help no one," Frost pressed on. "If you were to take ill or become injured or worse in the course of things, how would Dara and Dorin feel then? And just as we told the twins, who will come after me if you come along with me?"

  "I will not just sit here while you go off alone. I would worry about you as much as them."

  "No, you would not," replied Frost. "I have no wish to argue the point with you. The journey is long, the danger is great, the means to our end uncertain. I will have to make something up as I go, or change my plans at an instant's notice, perhaps invent a surprise for the Greater Gods themselves. It will be difficult enough without taking you into account. You would be a great help, but I care too much about you. I cannot let you jeopardize yourself—and through my heart, myself along with you. I will get the twins back, you will remain here. If I need you, you will know, and then it will be up to you."

  "I'm still going," Shassel said again as firmly as before, though perhaps not as enthusiastically. She was getting too old for this sort of thing; she knew that better than anyone, Frost believed. They had done a fair amount of traveling these past few days as it was, and that had taken a toll on her. If she went now, like this, she would be too weak to be of any real help against the likes of Gentaff or Andair's army.

  Shassel shook her head. "I still think our greatest strength lies in combining our talents."

  "Perhaps, but I cannot allow it, and neither can you," Frost said.

  "We will protect Frost," Sharryl said, stepping into the argument. "But without a third Subartan it is at best a difficult job. Do not hold us responsible for your safety as well."

  "She is right," Rosivok said. "You should not ask any of us to enter so difficult a battle with such a burden."

  Shassel looked visibly wounded, though she tried to hide it under a glare she levied on both Subartans. "Who are you to call me a burden?"

  "They are my Subartans," Frost said, "and they are right, as you well know."

  Frost could tell her mind was not in the fight any more, only her heart; she knew what Frost and his Subartans were saying, but Frost could not imagine a day when he would be willing to admit such a thing to himself, that he was not the menace he once had been—let alone admitting it to others, and especially when the fate of family was involved.

  "I know of other reasons," Frost said. "Dara and Dorin will need someone to come home to, if I fail to return. And even if I do."

  "You will not fail," Shassel said, looking down for an instant, then finding him with her eyes again. "But if you do, I will not fail . . . in your place."

  "Find Lurey, tell him to stay close; pay him if you must. I will give you the gold," Frost told her. "Before I go we will form a link, you and I. If I need you, Lurey can bring you to me."

  Shassel seemed reluctant to accept even this, but Frost saw the look of weary capitulation in her eyes. He would talk to her some more, but nothing would change. Then, the Greater Gods willing, they would eat, and finally they might sleep a bit. Sometime just before dawn, they did.

  In the morning, before he left, Frost went searching in the forest. He emerged carrying a very young oak sapling, pulled from the earth roots and all. He brought it into the cottage where he sat with a knife and peeled away one very long, thin strip of soft, green bark. He wrapped one end around his right thumb, then let Shassel wrap the other around hers, and together they spoke the chant. The young bark turned brown as the chant was repeated. When the two mages whispered their binding phrases, a curl of smoke rose from the middle of the strip between them, and it came apart. Each of them finished wrapping their piece around the thumb.

  "Just so," Frost said as he looked at Shassel with satisfaction. Almost no energy was required, nothing else was needed, and the spell would not have to be renewed unless the bark was somehow removed. Yet nothing else would have been more effective: If anything untoward were to happen to either of them, the bark on the other's thumb would smolder, perhaps even catch fire, something that seldom escaped one's notice. Shassel let a small sigh escape.

  She still hadn't given him her blessings. He looked to her now in hopes she would.

  "There is much you will need to know," she said, putting her hand on top of his. "I have spent a good deal of time in Weldhem. I will tell you what I can before you go."

  * * *

  The Castle of Weldhem at Briarlea was well designed to thwart any head-on assault. Built by one king and finished by another nearly a century ago, it seemed both sovereigns had gone to lengths to indulge a healthy dose of paranoia. Frost stood on the road less than half a day's walk from the city's main gates and gazed into the distance, watching storm clouds gather and feeling the first moist breezes of a change in the weather tug at his hair and cloak.

  From here he was just able to make out the city and the small mountain of stone that stood at its western edge: the castle, wedged into the top of the spacious valley's only true hill. Behind the castle the hillside fell away in a steep cliff to the river below. Elsewhere the city, now grown well beyond its original walls, spread out on all sides.

  Frost remembered much of the city and the castle, but not the sorts of details he'd needed to know. Shassel had helped with this; though her knowledge was several years old, little changed in such places. Nevertheless, nothing in their conversation had emerged as good news. The only way in was through the main gates of the city, then through the central streets and squares and straight to the castle gates themselves. Once inside the outer courtyard, the odds only got worse.

  What Frost needed was a good plan, yet as of this moment he had none. He would keep his favorite spells at hand of course, and the layered warding spells he and Shassel had constructed around him and his Subartans before he left. But taking on an army and a sorcerer in their own castle required . . .

  Well, much more.

  He felt the weight and breadth of the Demon Blade where it rested on his back, wrapped and held snugly in place by the harness, then the cloak that covered it. Such thoughts had walked with him at every step this morning, but each time he had tried refusing them, as he did now. The sensible thing would have been to leave the Blade somewhere safe, to hide it or give it to someone else to hold while he went to Weldhem, but the Blade's aura was too easily detected by creatures and folk with even the slightest magical nature, and there was no telling how many eyes watched him lately.

  It could not be hidden for very long, he thought, and he would not have wished even the most temporary possession of the Blade on anyone. Especially Shassel.

  No, it had to stay with him, though he had taken steps to disguise the weapon, a small bit of cleverness he hoped Gentaff was exactly smart enough to believe.

  "We may be able to find support in some of the villages," Rosivok said. "A small army could be gathered."

  "And if they die so that my kin might live, then what have I done? Farmers against soldiers is bad at best. I cannot ask them, not yet, the odds would be too grea
t against them. Though there may come a time."

  "We will wait for dark?" Sharryl asked, eyeing the morning skies as Frost had.

  "No," Frost said. "It will do us no good. My first hope is to negotiate. Failing that, we will use whatever comes next to our advantage, as we so often must."

  Both Subartans nodded. The three of them would be hidden from the eyes of most as they entered the city and crossed into the castle itself, but Gentaff would surely be aware of them, and able to use resources of his own to allow his men to see as well. After that he needed something grand and unexpected, at the very least.

  Crumbling walls and towers made a fine diversion, but the energy and concentration required for such a feat were too great, and Weldhem's stone and mortar walls too sound. Illusions of fire and smoke were best, but with the weather building dark and the winds gusting and damp from the west, he thought he might not be able to rely on any of that.

  Which left him to face Gentaff sorcerer against sorcerer, sword against sword in the castle's outer courtyard, if they got even that far. And on Andair and Gentaff's terms. All quite hopeless of course. Frost started out along the road again, muttering to himself.

  "Something else?" Sharryl asked, prodding him.

  "I'll let you know," Frost muttered.

  He didn't say any more until they were nearing the outskirts of the city, where he paused to activate the spell that would help keep them from being too closely watched. True invisibility was much too difficult and taxing a thing to attempt even for the best reasons, but a certain vagueness could be easily won, a muddling of perceptions that left most passers-by completely uninterested. An old and common trick, as many of the best ones were.

  When he had finished, he collected himself and they walked into Weldhem, through the outer streets, through the main gates and past narrow streets lined with foul gutters and an assortment of two- and three-story houses; past inns, bakeries, tanners, blacksmiths' shops; past guild halls and small, noisy squares filled with merchants' booths and the heavy aroma of fish and pigs and spices. The aromas were what seemed most familiar: tannic acid from the tanners, breads baking, and a blend of hot metal and horse manure as he passed a small stable. He had smelled these scents before but somehow this seemed different, this was home.

  The city filled his mind, more familiar than he might have thought, though less comforting, at least just now. As they passed an inn with tables under a roof out front he paused to sit, then ordered food and ale for all three of them. A good meal and something to wash it down certainly would not hurt, and might even make a difference.

  "The soldiers do not notice us," Rosivok said, apparently pleased. "Or they do not want to."

  "So few soldiers," Sharryl said.

  "Too few, I think," Frost agreed. "So as not to scare us off." He looked up at the castle, so close now, so massive and imposing on its hilly perch, its high walls, towers and parapets reaching skyward. . . .

  The sky itself had grown even more menacing, he noticed, as he felt the wind gust even here on this narrow, sheltered street; it stole the smell of the stew as an old woman put steaming bowls before them. He worried they might not have time to eat and still reach the castle before it stormed.

  "The rain will be our ally," Rosivok said, following Frost's gaze.

  "Perhaps," Frost replied. Rosivok was speaking only as a warrior, one that had trained and fought in every kind of weather. Andair's troops were not likely to have that advantage, small though it would be against such numbers. But from a sorcerer's point of view the storm would be an obstacle all the way around. Which favored Frost on the face of it, but Andair was sure to have surprises in store, and bad weather would likely only mask . . .

  "What is it?" Sharryl asked.

  Frost realized he'd been staring at the sky, entranced, watching the black, towering anvil clouds building toward the heavens. A violent storm, surely, he thought, and close.

  "Nothing," Frost finally answered. "Or . . . something. It is hard to say." He looked about but didn't see what he wanted, so he got up and went inside. Momentarily he emerged with a long, cylindrical clay bottle in hand. He paused, eyes closed, reciting a careful phrase, then he raised the bottle to his lips and gently breathed into it. A cork fitted into the opening. Frost secured the bottle to the front of his cloak with a leather thong and left it there, in very plain sight.

  "But it has the feel of something," Sharryl said, coy for a Subartan.

  Frost nodded. "Possibly," he said. Then, "Come."

  But just after he'd started toward the castle again, he ducked into a smithy's shop. The man at the forge was young and strong, and eager for the coins Frost had to offer. In only a few minutes Frost emerged again, this time carrying a straight iron bar about a man's foot in length, with a four-sided point on one end. This he put in one of the two long pockets sewn on the front of the cloak.

  Just ahead, the outer walls of the castle stood waiting for them. The entire length was protected on this side by a moat. Spring fed, Frost recalled, though the water looked dark and turgid now.

  The bridge across the moat was wide enough so two wagons could safely pass on their way in or out of the main courtyard. Today, none did. In fact there was no one at all, riding or afoot, coming or going. Frost kept walking past the massive metal-faced gates and through the archway, until he emerged to face a squarish, medium-height wall designed to force traffic to the right or left. Frost chose the former. Positioned along the top of the wall he counted a dozen archers, all standing at ease. They watched Frost and his Subartans as one watches passing livestock. Frost knew his spell was a good one, but not that good. Andair and Gentaff, whatever they were up to, had no intention of stopping him yet.

  Beyond the wall he found the main courtyard in much the same condition as he remembered it. A large livery area for stabling horses occupied the right side, along with the castle blacksmith's forge and a storage area for goods to be unloaded before they were inspected and moved elsewhere into the castle. On the far-facing end of the courtyard two ramps set wide apart led up to a broad marbled terrace and, at either end, two of the keep's main entrances.

  The larger set of doors on the right side was designed for goods and processions, while the smaller, left-hand door led to the living areas of the king, his servants and their families. Both were guarded by four soldiers each, and there was no easy way to get to them uninvited. Each of the ramps had been built to incorporate a pair of zigzags, where intermediate landings had been located. More stairs led to a parapet that rose above the terrace. One lone, large figure stood atop it. Frost knew it was Gentaff.

  "More that way," Frost whispered to his Subartans, and they all trailed further right, past the stables. Dust clouded around them, stirred up from the wide strips of dirt that lay between the flat stone that covered parts of the yard. Soldiers began appearing now along the terrace and parapet and the battlements that surrounded the courtyard.

  Frost made certain he did not slow or hesitate in any way, so as not to appear too cautious—a sign, however subtle, of weakness or worry. As they passed a pile of freshly raked dung and straw, he waved his hand in front of his wrinkled nose and spoke as if commenting to his Subartans on the odor.

  Once they'd cleared the buildings he wandered nearer the courtyard's center. He stopped when a horn sounded from somewhere high above in the castle's keep.

  Only Rosivok turned to look as a commotion arose behind them. When he kept watching Frost turned as well. Doors set into the walls on either side of the main gates stood open now. Men poured out of them, more than a hundred, filling the yard behind Frost.

  "I recall no storerooms beneath the walls in my time here," he said. "Andair must have added them."

  "A useful enhancement," Rosivok said, nodding approval.

  "Indeed," Frost said. Then he turned his attentions forward once more and found a growing troop of soldiers gathering in close order at the base of the wall, three dozen or more. Above, Gentaff stood precisely wh
ere he had been, unmoving, waiting on the parapet in a voluminous lavender robe, hood back, grayed hair and short graying beard showing. From here Frost could just make out some of the intricate carvings on the staff held in the sorcerer's right hand, could see the lines of age on his seasoned face, and almost, the look in his eyes—though this was felt more than seen.

  Behind the keep the skies had grown even darker. A visible line that hung like a black curtain across the heavens marked the leading edge, and was nearly over the river now. Lightning flickered and arched at a furious pace across the length of the storm front, followed by growing rumblings of thunder that echoed through the heavy air in the valley and shook the ground beneath Frost's feet. Thick gray mist hid the distant hills along the valley's western horizon, and had begun to creep downward.

  Frost closed his eyes briefly, gathering strength, then he opened them again, raised his own staff and spoke to the heart of the storm, completing the warding spell he had been charting. A spell similar to most wardings, but changed, adapted so that it could be projected away rather than near, as he had seen Imadis do to protect his men during their battle in the mountain pass.

  As he focussed on Gentaff again, it was clear the sorcerer's interest had peaked. Frost stared up at the other, waiting for his reaction. This would tell him something about the man he faced. To his credit, Gentaff seemed to treat the incident correctly, and did nothing.

  "Worried about getting wet?" Gentaff called out, his voice carrying clearly in the stillness that had suddenly grown to envelope them all, as if time had stopped. Even the soldiers kept still, or nearly so.

  "Yes, I am!" Frost shouted, his voice echoing back to him from the courtyard walls.

  "Perhaps I have underestimated you," Gentaff returned. "Here you are, come to me preceded by tales as tall as mountains, a legend of a man, too much to believe. Yet you do not hesitate to spend your time, your thoughts, your strengths, merely to hold off the rain. Were I you, I would not be so wasteful."