Frost

by Mark A. Garland

  "Why would I need to conserve such things? I have come only to talk."

  Gentaff let the notion stand between them for a moment. Then, "What have you to say?"

  "I have much to say, but would speak with your Lord Andair as well, and I would have back the two young ones you have taken, Dorin and Dara."

  "The king has decided to await word of our meeting in the privacy of his chambers. As for the others, they are right here."

  "Where?"

  Gentaff waved his staff about. Frost watched as two pallets were carried into view by four men each, then laid on the stone and propped at an angle, front down, back up. Dorin and Dara lay on their backs on the pallets, hands and feet tied with ropes. They did not appear to be conscious.

  "Are they harmed?"

  "No. They needed rest."

  "I would test this myself."

  "As you wish," Gentaff replied, bowing only slightly. "But do so from where you are. It should be a simple thing for one of your talents."

  Frost returned the bow, then cast a gesture at the twins. He paused, as if listening to some inner voice, then made an effort to grow visibly frustrated and nervous. He tried the gesture again, then once more.

  "Do you need any help?" Gentaff asked, clearly amused.

  Frost shook his head and fought back a grin. He glanced at his Subartans only briefly, then he turned back to Gentaff. "They—they do appear to be alive, save whatever spell you have chosen to make them sleep."

  "It will wear off."

  Frost came ahead a bit further, until he stood some forty paces from the wall and the soldiers in front of it. The larger contingent of men behind him advanced along with them, though they kept a fair distance. Instructed to do so, certainly. Their purpose was to cut off any attempt at escape, and to discourage such ideas to begin with.

  "You want these two back, and you may have them. They were detained for questioning after rumors of their intentions to harm the king were circulated. These rumors may have been false, as I believe. If so, they will be released . . . eventually. But the whole process, and Andair's good will, might benefit greatly from a gesture of good will on your part. I understand you have something I want, and which Andair is willing to compensate you for, quite apart from the release of your kin."

  "The Demon Blade."

  "Yes."

  "Compensate how?"

  "Something reasonable."

  "It is worth far more than two children."

  "Agreed, but while I do not see what that has to do with anything, Andair, for sentimental reasons so far as I can fathom, is offering you gold as well, and a generous portion of land in the far western provinces. All in return for the Blade and your promise to go, willingly, and not return."

  "A reasonable offer."

  "Andair is a reasonable king, and the Blade will be in good hands, Frost."

  "Andair is a thief and a coward, much like those he associates with, I'd wager, but there is nothing to be done about it. Therefore I will agree to your terms. I have the Blade here, strapped to my back. I will get it for you."

  Gentaff watched intently as Frost reached behind, under his cloak, and pulled the Blade's scabbard around in front of him.

  "All your knowledge of the Blade will be required as well," Gentaff added. "But that will not take long, as I am a fast learner, and likely you know little more about it than I do already."

  "I can tell you, with the Greater Gods as my witness, that the Blade is a fearful thing to me."

  "Your honesty impresses me, Frost," Gentaff said. "But is it honesty, or deceit? I do sense something, an aura that is surely that of the Demon Blade, but such a thing can be mimicked. A false aura would allow the truth to be corrupted enough to make possible a lie. No, the blade you have is not authentic, just as Andair expected. We are not foolish enough to think you would bring it here, knowing we would be waiting for you."

  "I am capable of no such thing," Frost said.

  "You have fixed the weapon on your back with an aura like that of the real Demon Blade, but I can sense that it is not quite true as surely as I stand here."

  Frost bit his tongue, then took a breath. "I assure you, Gentaff, it is the Blade."

  Gentaff laughed, an unhealthy sound, more like coughing. "Your assurances mean little," he said. "You think yourself clever, but you have more than met your match this day. What do you think of that?"

  What I think, you do not want to know, Frost thought. Thunder shook the earth as the breeze began to move again. Frost looked up at Gentaff and the frenzied lightning that framed the keep as it crossed the sky behind them, releasing pent-up energy as the binding began to fail.

  "I will show you the Blade," Frost said. "You will see for yourself."

  "No!" Gentaff shouted down. "Not yet. We will proceed as I say, one step at a time."

  "That is what I am doing," Frost explained, and he began by removing the leather thong and bottle from his neck. "It is time," he whispered. His Subartans began to retreat slowly from their positions to either side of Frost. "And you are correct," he added. "I am wasting too many of my strengths. A little weather might do some good after all."

  He gestured to the storm, releasing it fully, then he held the bottle up and pulled the cork. The skies surged forward almost as if they had sprung from a catapult. A thunderous clap sounded, and the world was suddenly ablaze with lightning and awash with wind-swept rains that burst from above. Gusts blew strong enough to stop a large man's charge or knock a smaller one down.

  Between the rain and wind it was all but impossible to see anything, but Frost did not need to see with his eyes. He raised his staff in one hand and the bottle in the other, then reached up with his mind into the high anvil cloud that was the heart of the storm and felt the swirling of the winds, the clash of warm and cold. He spoke to the storm once more, bringing all his strength to bear, and he began to pull the central winds down, toward a joining with the earth and the bottle below.

  When he opened his eyes he was greeted by the sight of a dark and spinning funnel dropping earthward, then touching down, where it instantly began to grow wider and stronger—and nearer. It threw a spray of stone and wood up in all directions as it hopped the castle walls and crossed over the keep, tearing up the roof, before descending to the parapets below.

  Frost tossed the bottle to the ground and used all his will and concentration in a single effort to keep the storm funnel aloft just long enough to let it skip just over Gentaff and the twins. It landed straight ahead of him on the courtyard floor, making instant victims of the soldiers still gathered there. The deafening roar of the funnel hid the first screams, but as the darkness consumed the rest of the men, they raised a chorus of panic and fear heard even above the storm.

  Nothing in the courtyard was staying put—with the notable exception of the stables. Frost's warding was holding there—the one he had placed while feigning annoyance with the fumes—as was the other, he noted, turning and looking up to the parapets. Gentaff himself was holding on for dear life, arms wrapped around stone, trying to survive long enough to get his bearings. But the twins rested nearly untouched. Frost had not let go of the warding he'd used to hold back the storm, but had repositioned it around the twins instead.

  Good, he thought, then he reached into his pocket and withdrew the iron rod. He turned and ran, back toward the rows of soldiers blocking the way out—soldiers who were having problems of their own with the intensity of the storm, but not so great as to disable any of them. When he had run just far enough he crouched and drove the pointed end of the rod into the ground, then he bent the other end toward the soldiers, and left it. He began to retreat and the soldiers came after him, slow and low to the ground, braving the winds but making progress.

  As the troops overran the metal rod, Frost released the charm he had placed within it, a simple enhancement of the metal's natural properties. The rod became an irresistible magnet for the storm's limitless fiery energy. Dozens of lightning bolts leaped down
out of the clouds, then dozens more, searing air and earth and shearing the furious winds within the courtyard. Torrents of soaking rain turned instantly to steam as deafening thunderclaps followed each flash in rapid succession, like the galloping of the Gods' own horses, shaking mortar from stone and teeth from bone.

  Despite the wardings, Frost raised his arm to shield his face against the blistering heat that struck in the instant that followed. He strained to shore up the wardings—on himself and his Subartans, on Dorin and Dara, on the stables nearby—but even this was not enough to keep the heel of his exposed hand from registering the pain of the burn. He felt his strength fading under the stain of so much effort. Too much for any man, but he could not let go just yet.

  He turned away while the lightning rod was consumed, then looked again to find no soldier still standing. Their charred and burning remains were strewn in gruesome heaps across the courtyard between Frost and the main gates. Rain pelted the bodies and formed pools around them, mixing with blood and sizzling on those that still smoldered. Already the frantic, swirling winds were filled with the wet stench of scorched air and burnt flesh.

  Frost turned once more to Gentaff and found the other thoroughly absorbed in the task of staying put long enough to use his talents to gain some level of control over the storm and its deadly funnel. What few soldiers remained had reached the farthest corners of the courtyard, where they huddled behind their shields and clung to each other as the wind flung debris and sheets of rain over them. Even the men on the walls were gone, pulled to their deaths by the winds or gone to cover.

  Gentaff and the twins were alone on the parapet.

  Then the storm funnel began to lift back up toward its source overhead. Gentaff had found purchase on it. Frost watched the other, gauging his grasp of things. Gentaff was visibly straining, using all his strength and abilities to contain the funnel and drive it away. But succeeding.

  The moment had come.

  "Now!" Frost shouted over the roar of the storm. His Subartans came to his side and clasped his arms, one each, then together they leaned forward, eyes nearly closed against the wind-driven rains, and made their way to the steps—then started upward.

  "I would have a word with you, Gentaff!" Frost howled as soon as he was certain he was close enough for Gentaff to here. He had let go of the storm completely now; he barely had the energy to stay on his feet, but Gentaff didn't know that.

  "I know you well, Frost!" Gentaff shouted back. "You have given me what I needed. This day will not come again!"

  "Once is enough!" Frost answered, but he knew Gentaff was right, or half right: they had learned a great deal about each other, enough to make another contest between them infinitely more difficult.

  "Wait where you are and we will end this here and now."

  "No—but soon, and differently," Gentaff said, finally taking his eyes off the storm as the funnel vanished into the sagging black clouds. The heart of the storm seemed to be passing, moving on.

  "You want no more?"

  "In good time."

  Frost blinked—and lost sight of Gentaff. No vanishing act, more likely a quick retreat through a door held open by guards at one end of the parapet. A door that would be barred and heavily guarded by the time Frost reached it. But Frost had no desire to go after Gentaff or to search for Andair. He had only Dorin and Dara on his mind.

  He reached the parapets and the twins a moment later. Sharryl and Rosivok cut away their bonds and threw them one each over their shoulders, then all started back down.

  The thunderstorm was clearly moving off now, taking the worst of the winds and rains with it. More soldiers would be arriving soon, reinforcements for those few that dared venture out from corners and from behind walls. "The stables!" Frost commanded, and headed toward them at his best speed. A handful of guards were holed up in the stalls along with the stable workers, but none of them tried to interfere as Frost and the others entered. Rosivok laid Dorin down on a bed of straw and went about collecting three horses while Sharryl, still holding Dara over her shoulder, raised her subarta and kept it well in view of the men crouched nearest to them.

  "If you keep still, you will live," Frost said.

  No one seemed to doubt this. Rosivok reappeared with the horses and he and Sharryl got the twins draped over two of them. They mounted one each with the twins, holding them in place, while Frost fought to hoist himself onto the third horse. His strength was nearly gone now, but he forced himself up, calling on the stout and powerful muscles he kept hidden beneath his robust form, using up his last reserves. A wave of fatigue hit him as he tried to sit upright on the gelding. His vision blackened and he felt the world spin just a bit, felt himself nearly slip off.

  "Frost?" Sharryl said, nudging her mount nearer his and lending an arm for a moment.

  He breathed deeply, eyes closed. "I will be all right. We must go."

  He clung to the horse as they rode out, picking their way through the destruction and carnage in the courtyard. Every building other than the stables had been dismantled, leaving goods and splintered wood strewn everywhere among the ghastly wreckage of armor and bodies. One of the main gates stood nearly closed, and the men who had closed it were busy working on the other. Frost hadn't the strength left in him to deal with them in any proper fashion. Instead he did what little he could, the least taxing thing he could, using the only resources at hand. He created the vaguest of illusions all drawn on the drifting clouds of steam and smoke swirling from the courtyard and the light rains that still fell from the gray clouds overhead.

  Only twenty ghosts, Frost could conjure no more than that, all supposed to be the spirits of the dead soldiers trying to leave the battlefield as far as the men at the gates could tell. Or so Frost hoped. As the men at the gates abruptly scattered he saw that his trick had provided the desired result. When they crossed the bridge over the moat, two archers appeared on the split wall behind them. Both loosed their arrows. One went wide. The other struck Sharryl's subarta as she reared her horse and swatted at it, nearly spilling Dara. She managed to snatch a handful of tunic in time, and dragged Dara back onto the horse.

  Before the archers could fire again, they had reached the city's streets.

  "They will come after us," Frost said. "But it will be a while I think. If we hurry, we will stay ahead of them."

  Both Subartans nodded. Rosivok took the lead, and set his horse to a trot. The jolting made holding onto the twins much harder, made holding onto the horse at all much harder on Frost, but the pace got them through the city and beyond without any sign of trouble. Though trouble, Frost knew, was not far behind.

  * * *

  Andair stood leaning against the solid oak of the massive table behind him and stared into the darkness at the tall, hooded figure that approached him. The great hall was lit only at this end and completely empty, save these two. As Gentaff emerged fully into the light and put back his hood, Andair folded his arms and tipped his head to one side. "You are well?" he asked, before tipping his head the other way to await the answer.

  "I am," Gentaff replied.

  He came to rest a full ten paces away, this man who usually crowded Andair to fill his ear with fertile whispers. Not now. Not this night.

  Andair thought to get right to it. "My men tell me our first encounter with Frost was a perfect catastrophe."

  "For a few of them, yes."

  "More than a few," Andair corrected. "Over two hundred dead, almost as many wounded, and workers will be weeks repairing the damage. Oh, yes, Frost has the twins back as well, and he still has the Demon Blade. Then there was that inspiring moment at the end when what was left of my First Guard looked up to you and saw you running away. Have I left anything out?"

  Gentaff's expression was stolid. "I learned what I needed to know of Frost. I turned the storm, I ended its rage, and—"

  "And piqued mine!" Andair boomed, standing erect, clenching his fists as he took a step forward. "If you were one of my commanders you wou
ld be dead already! I will remember everything about this day, sorcerer, when next we make plans together. I will remember that I listened to you instead of myself!"

  "Remember too, my lord, that kings also may die," Gentaff replied, closing his eyes, though this time his teeth came together, the jaw rigid.

  Andair had never seen him do that. He'd been shaken, there was no doubt, but he was not the only one.

  "Do you threaten me now?" Andair asked, getting that out in the open as well.

  "I have no wish to be a king," Gentaff replied, eyes open once more. "Only to own them."

  Andair boiled at that, but he fought not to let it show.

  "You have no idea what happened out there today," Gentaff went on, "aside from the limited view of a few dull-witted soldiers and stable hands."

  "Ahh," Andair said, nodding while he began slowly to pace back and forth in front of the table, which seemed to help calm him slightly. "Yes, I see. There is much you are aware of that the rest of us are not."

  "Exactly," Gentaff replied.

  "Enlighten me."

  "I would have preferred that Frost was destroyed today, but from the beginning I understood that possibility to be remote."

  "You never said that. You said given your magic and my men you could trap him and take the Blade from him."

  "Yes, but not this day." Gentaff closed his eyes. Andair stomped his foot on the floor in frustration. "Enough games! I am not in the mood."

  Gentaff looked up and nodded. "Think of this, my lord: Neither of us had any true knowledge of Frost's powers, his limits, his mind, his magic, until this day. It had to be learned. One hopes the learning is quick and reveals a solution right away, but more often the learning leads to solutions later on. The twins were the perfect bait to lure him here, a trap with the means to make him perform under pressure and with maximum effort."