As they finished battling the chairs and came toward her, she fed the spell all she could manage. She couldn't see the rain barrel, but she could sense its level dropping, just as she could sense with slightly less certainty the sudden sogginess of the intruders' clothing. The rest of the task came easily after that.
The men stumbled a little, shrugging and tugging, scratching and pulling at clinging clothes, then they began to rub their eyes, to wheeze, and sneeze, and cough. One doubled over and heaved whatever he had eaten last onto the cottage floor, then another did the same. Already they were starting to smell like muck dredged from the bottom of a marsh . . . or worse.
"Leave," she said to them, in her harshest tone. "Leave this house or suffer greatly."
One of the intruders barked a command, and they all tried to come at her again, but their ills were clearly getting the better of them, and the effect was increasing. They would be mildewed, moldered and going to rot both inside and out in another few moments if they did not turn about and leave. Away from here the spell would wear off eventually, and they would slowly become less enticing to the tiny creatures infesting them now. Shassel felt a moment of relief as she watched the men stumble, then take to their knees and begin to crawl away, their forms just visible in the open doorway. She breathed a sigh. The effort had tired her considerably, but the worst of it was behind her, and it was a good sort of tired, like climbing a hill for a magnificent view. She felt quite pleased with herself.
Then the doorway filled with darkness as a huge shape the breadth of the opening, though not quite its height, appeared. The man's head was round and topped by a wide-brimmed hat. At first she thought it might be Frost, but no, the hat was different and even Frost was not so large a man, not nearly so big around. In the same heartbeat she knew this was an adept, one capable of hiding his glamour from her until he had stepped into her presence. Shassel had nothing substantial prepared for this.
Instead she attempted to wrap the spell afflicting the soldiers around this new intruder too; she spoke the extra phrases as best she could imagine, then drew all she could from herself, more than she should. The effort seemed to succeed at first, but then she felt the energy of the spell—all of it—suddenly dissipate, like pushing on a door that's jammed and having it abruptly opened. The other had used a warding spell of a different kind, one capable of deflecting, of shedding magical energies like a well-oiled cloak shedding rain. It had been well constructed over time, and quickly adaptable to whatever the wizard encountered, though that required substantial personal resources. Clearly, this big fellow had the capacity. Shassel could not hope to match him toe to toe.
The men on the floor were getting up now, urged on by the mountainous mage.
"Who are you?" Shassel called out to him. "Why do you come here? I have nothing you want."
"I disagree," the man in the doorway replied, raising his hands and shouting an undecipherable phrase. Shassel felt the other's binding spell take hold. Her hands would not move, and neither would her feet. Another solid piece of magery, another this wizard had no doubt spent considerable time on. He was maintaining the spell directly, keeping it well supplied with energy from his considerable reserves.
Shassel tried, but she did not have the mass or the strength to free herself. Or the tools—not just now, at least. She tried to speak but her throat locked, bound as well, though not as tightly as her limbs. Only a muffled, wheezing whisper came out. Certainly not a voice to be used for casting spells.
"You have her?" said yet another voice. A much, much smaller, younger sounding man appeared in the doorway just as the colossal sorcerer moved inside and came a little closer.
"Yes."
"Good as your word."
"Who . . . you?" Shassel got out, though she barely recognized the words herself.
"I am Tasche," the wizard said. "You have heard of me."
Shassel tried. "Y—y—"
The wizard waved a hand, and Shassel felt her throat ease a very little bit.
"Yes."
"Of course."
"Though . . . nothing good . . . I assure . . . you," Shassel said, straining but happy to do so.
"Just quiet her again," the one in the doorway said.
"I can feel you trying to undo my bindings," Tasche said, ignoring the one behind him. "It will not work, but you are welcome to exert yourself all you want. It will only make things easier."
Tasche reached the table and waved, lighting the lamp that rested there. He looked quite wicked in the dim light flickering up from the table in front of him. All jowls and shadows. Deep-set eyes. A tent of a cloak.
Shassel struggled, but she was forced to let up. "The Greater . . . Gods . . . curse you," Shassel growled, angry enough to have screamed, if only she could.
The bastard was right, that was the worse of it. She was too frail to force him loose of her. Better to bide her time and use her wits, something Tasche likely did not have in proportion to bulk.
"Ah, much better," Tasche said, as he felt her ease her struggle against him.
"Who . . . is he?" Shassel asked, nodding in the direction of the door.
"Prince Haggel of Grenarii, of course," the man in the doorway answered for himself. "And one day, king. King of Grenarii, and more."
"So . . . sure," Shassel said, closing her eyes. She had heard enough of the prince as well. She had expected nothing more than this. But one could hope.
"I am sure, yes," the prince replied. "And you are going to help."
"Yes," Tasche said. "You are indeed."
"How?" Shassel asked.
"It is the most wonderful idea," Haggel began, sounding very keen as he took one small step forward. "Tasche has been working on a spell that will allow him to draw forth—"
"My prince!" Tasche shouted, cutting off the younger man. "She does not need to know."
"Ah, of course." Haggel turned to his men, who were all gathered near him, coughing as quietly and politely as possible and apparently trying to stop their shivering. "Get her," he said. "So we can leave. We have been in this land long enough . . . for now."
Shassel had never met either of these men, though she had heard enough about them to know that even King Kolhol himself was not terribly fond of them. "For now?"
"I will be King of all Worlish soon enough, old hag. Pray you live to see that day."
"Perhaps . . . one of you . . . will be king," Shassel answered, getting her voice in slightly better order.
"I will be!" Haggel snapped, then he seemed to calm himself. "Me," he added, all the same. "Me."
"I live only to serve," Tasche said with a minor bow.
Shassel shook her head. Now she knew what she was up against. In her youth these two would have been the most glorious of playthings. She cursed the march of time. Then she left that thought, and began important new ones.
* * *
Two days didn't seem like very long, but it had been long enough to allow Frost to get his wind back, if not all the bulk and stamina he had spent like a drunkard's coins during his battle with Gentaff. He was still recovering from his battle with another wizard in a mountain pass, and had not been fully back to normal in the first place, but he had done well for himself, he was sure of that. And he liked the idea.
Almost as much as he liked the idea of breakfast, which Dara had insisted on cooking for everyone, though especially for Tramet. Frost feasted on eggs cooked with cheese and thick hot porridge complemented by fresh bread rich with lard and spread with honey. Tastiest of all were the pieces of well-smoked and salted pork that lay in a shrinking pile in the center of the table.
"She has not stopped looking at Tramet since we arrived," Frost said, pausing from the meal, raising a thinned yet still corpulent hand and speaking behind it to Wilmar. He was back to consuming the rest of his generous portions by the time Wilmar had swallowed and said, "And he her. But it was so even years ago, when they were only children. It seems time and ripening has only deepened their fondness
for one another."
"And absence, perhaps," Frost added.
"She's making a fool of herself," Dorin said, careful to keep his voice down as well. He sat close to Frost's right and opposite Wilmar, but right next to Tramet—who had taken his elders' remarks in good stride, but now seemed to take exception to Dorin's.
"I suppose that means I've made a fool of myself as well," he said, eyeing Dorin pensively.
"Actually," Dorin said, "yes."
"Is that so?" Tramet said, rising from his chair as if to challenge.
"Sit down!" Wilmar commanded, and the boy did as he was told, reluctantly.
"He is the one who started it," Tramet protested. "He is saying that—"
"Are you defending your honor, or Dara's?" Wilmar asked.
"Both," Tramet said.
"Then you have a job ahead of you," Dorin said with a wicked grin.
Tramet seethed, but as he looked to his father, he found the other shaking his head slowly, side to side, warning him. Tramet calmed himself slightly, took a breath, and turned to Dorin once more. "Life would be simpler if I were more like you, and simply had little honor to worry about."
Now it was Dorin whose features grew gnarled.
"A fine parry," Frost said, placing his hand solidly on Dorin's shoulder. "But that will be enough, I think. Anymore and this wonderful meal would be spoiled."
As Dara returned to the table and sat, everyone was absolutely silent.
"What's wrong?" Dara asked, as she looked up.
"Not a thing," Frost said.
All heads nodded in accordance.
"You weren't talking about me, were you?" she pressed, apparently not convinced.
"About how good the food is," Tramet said, glancing hopefully at Dorin.
"And I was agreeing," Dorin said.
Wilmar grinned privately at Frost, then at the boys, who had gone studiously back to eating. Not so serious, Frost thought, looking at these two young men who had known each other for most of their lives. They were too alike, if anything, and good friends. A bit of testing was to be expected, especially where Dara was concerned.
"If you are up to it, we have much to talk about, you and I," Wilmar told Frost, as even Frost finally admitted his unwillingness to attempt another helping.
"I intend to right some very old wrongs," Frost told him, even though he had said as much the day before.
"I know," Wilmar said. "And I am counting on you to do just that. I have waited too many years for this time. But there are many new wrongs as well. We also will work on them."
"Yes, we shall," Frost agreed.
"If we can truly count on Frost to help," Tramet said, making sure not to look anyone in the eye.
An awkward silence filled the room for a moment. Frost had expected this from Wilmar and his son. "You can," Frost assured him.
"It is not your place to say such a thing," Wilmar said. "With all I have told you, all you have been told, there is much you still do not know."
"Dorin and Dara have told me more than enough already," Tramet said, though as he sat there under the disapproving glare of his father, he seemed to grow less confident.
"There are always two sides to a story," Wilmar said.
"When did they tell you these things?" Frost asked, turning to the twins—who for their part looked suddenly as if the Greater Gods had only just created them, wide-eyed and innocent of the world.
"It was long ago," Tramet answered for his friends. "When you left, you cleared the way for Andair and all the misery that has followed. I don't know if you were scared, or shamed, or both, but Dorin and Dara—"
"I know," Frost said, loud enough to stop the boy. "They have told me, and I am sorry. This comes to mind too often, but I cannot change the past. I am working on the here and now, however. Andair and his sorcerer did not have their way this time around. Dorin and Dara are here as proof of that."
"But for you, we would not have been taken," Dorin said, not angry, but not entirely forgiving either.
"Of course, you are right," Frost said, and nothing else as the two stared at one another.
"We should clean up," Wilmar said.
Frost set his spoon back in his empty bowl. Three pieces of pork remained. He reached for one, but dropped it again as he heard someone at the door, knocking. Tramet went to the door and opened it.
"Good to see you again," Tramet said.
Lurey stood grinning at him, looking at bit flustered. Tramet let in the peddler.
"Back so soon?" Wilmar asked, rising to greet his visitor.
"I came at once," the peddler replied, all out of breath. "There is a herald from the king," he said. "He walks about asking questions and speaking of our friends here." He looked straight at Frost. "He asks that any who know of you or might come across you convey the king's message."
Frost nodded. "Which is?"
"He claims Andair has taken Shassel in place of Dara and Dorin, though she is not at Weldhem."
Everyone stood up at once in a clatter of wooden chairs on wooden floorboard. "Shassel?" Frost said, repeating the name out loud as Dorin and Dara gasped in unison. They all looked at one another, stunned.
"While you were busy rescuing Dorin and Dara, it seems Andair and Gentaff were busy working the second half of their plan," Tramet said, clenching his fists as he spoke.
"Still clever enough," Wilmar said, his voice shaking with rage.
"Surely, he will want the Demon Blade in exchange," Lurey said.
"As surely they have planned things differently this time," Wilmar added.
It is a lie, Frost thought, looking down at his hand.
But then he froze. "Shassel," he said again, only a whisper this time, though it drew the others' attention. Sometime during the night the thin strip of bark twined around his finger had smoldered and blackened. Weakened, exhausted, famished then fed, he had apparently slept thought it all.
Frost looked up. He took two steps forward, grabbed the peddler by the arms and held him dead in his gaze. "He said she was not at the castle?"
Lurey nodded.
"We will begin at the cottage," Frost said. He turned to Dorin. "Find Sharryl and Rosivok at once. We have to leave."
"Perhaps it would be best if Dorin and Dara stayed with us," Tramet offered, taking Dara's hand, holding it tightly.
"They are safe here, and if there is any sign of trouble we can move them—move all of us—to some place safer."
"He is right, I think," Wilmar said. "You don't know where you might have to go, or what you might face. And Andair has already taken them, already tricked . . ."
He stopped short. Frost looked at Wilmar, feeling the truth of the other's words rest hard and heavy in his gut. It was true. He nodded. He didn't like the idea—every time he left someone somewhere lately, they disappeared—but it did seem like the best course for now.
The twins began to argue at once. In the end, they lost. Before the sun had risen to the middle of the sky, Frost and his two Subartans were on their horses, and on their way.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Frost approached the cottage unseen as he made his way nearer, staying to the trees. He noted he was not the only one to do so. Even in the late daylight, it was clear the woods had been trampled by a good many footfalls and horses hooves; twigs had been snapped, holes had been dug as makeshift privies, meaning some visitors had stayed for a time.
Sharryl and Rosivok went ahead. When they were sure there was no one inside, Frost went around and entered through the open doorway. He was greeted by two stools and a chair that had been hacked and broken to pieces, and the damp, musty smell of the forest during the rains filled his nose as he breathed.
Shassel, Frost knew, drawing another breath as he looked about, noticing the faint smell of rot mixed in. She had been taken, but not without a struggle of some sort, which meant she was aware and able when they made the attempt, which meant it should have failed. Even old and frail she was resourceful, and a match for any
troop of brigands.
Frost found little in the way of clues as he searched the room, aided by his Subartans. Especially, he found no fresh blood, which was some small comfort. Of great discomfort was the thought of Andair and Gentaff holding Shassel somewhere, making her suffer. She would not be asleep as the twins had been, she was much too valuable awake. The king and his sorcerer would be interested in anything she might be coerced into saying.
"Frost?"
He spun with his Subartans; it was the boy, Muren, the one he had used twice now as messenger. He entered gingerly, glancing about as if something—a Subartan or worse—might jump at him from the corners.
"Stop there," Rosivok said.
The boy did. "She is gone," he said.
Frost nodded. "So I see."
"What will they do to her?"
He'd asked the question evenly. The boy apparently liked Shassel well enough to be concerned, but he was reluctant to show it fully. Habit, Frost thought, to show only the most tentative attachment to those who worked magic, or who might, as they were usually more curse than blessing to have around. It was not a baseless fear, after all.
Frost turned and went to examine Shassel's bedding for anything unusual, but found nothing. "She will be ransomed, no doubt."
Now the boy nodded. "Oh."
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