Frost

by Mark A. Garland

  Tasche felt his own excitement and the excited rage of the beast unite completely as he surged forward, close enough that Frost could not escape. He howled like mad, even though no one could hear, and reached for his prey.

  * * *

  Frost heard the sound, the mad howling more like that of a man than the demon beast it had come from. He tried to ignore it as he rushed along, finishing the series of spells that would empower the Demon Blade to do his will—or most of it. Once again he changed the spell just slightly, experimenting, making yet another attempt to finally, truly gain control over the Blade and its effects—to finally learn how to use the Blade without damaging himself and those others he did not intend—not to mention mountains.

  When he had finished the primary spells, he raised the Blade toward the beast—and saw that it was nearly upon him. All around him and within him, everything began to die. Frost sounded out his binding phrase, and let go his controls, and the Blade exploded to life.

  Immediately he knew his efforts were once again flawed—that something in the series of complex and altered, bent and borrowed series of spells had not been quite right, and had not worked as it should have. The consequences of his error were swift and devastating. The familiar pain he had nearly managed to put from his mind surged through him, first his hand, then his torso, twisting him from the inside out, debilitating his mind, his senses, his body. He felt his knees buckle, then felt himself sinking. He began to imagine what destruction the Blade might bring to the earth and all who stood anywhere near. The idea was at least as terrifying as the beast itself.

  But he was getting better at letting go, he reminded himself, trying to find a positive thought as he struggled to ease the agonizing drain of life energies from every part of his body and mind without losing all the work he had done. When he could again draw a breath and focus his eyes, he saw the beast before him, hovering, gloating at his obvious agony. So unlike a beast of this sort, Frost thought. So strange . . .

  The beast straightened, fixed to lunge. Frost saw he had time for only one more attempt, one that might well kill him, but he was beyond holding back because of that anymore. The lives of far too many depended on what he did next, and the time for hesitating, for holding one's bets, had long ago passed. All or nothing, that was the only choice, the one truth he had learned in his battle with the demon Tyrr. He owed that much to Shassel, to Dorin and Dara, to his Subartans, to himself.

  He recited the activating spells once more, then raised the Blade just as the beast came for him. It reached toward him with its great black and glowing molten arms before Frost could utter the spell's final phrase—before he could bind it. Long black claws lashed out suddenly and snatched the Demon Blade from him with a precision that took Frost completely by surprise.

  He opened his mouth to yell at the creature, but he learned just then that he no longer had the strength. From his own attempts to use the Blade or from the creature's ability to draw all life from anything near to it, he could not tell, but he had tried, and failed, and lost the Blade in the process.

  The beast stood so near right now that the heat radiating from it caused Frost's skin to feel as if it was burning off. But he could not move other than to breathe scorching breaths of air and try to stay on his feet. No, on my knees, he realized, as he tried to take stock of himself.

  Running would do no good even if he could. The beast would have him with ease.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes, burning them, blurring his vision. He just managed to see the beast looming up straight, raising its great arms, and waving the Demon Blade about. It looking tiny as a sewing needle in the beast's clumsy claws, but the thing's enormous triumph was clear and complete. It will tire of this momentarily, and finish the job of killing me, Frost thought.

  Then a terrible sound from within—like fear and rage all blended together rang out in Frost's mind and even in his ears. As he heard it again he realized there was something else as well, confusion, perhaps. It was difficult to tell, as Frost could not concentrate very well.

  He heard a voice then, separate from the demon beast, like a thread unraveling, becoming visible apart from the whole. The voice of a sorcerer he did not recognize at first, though he guessed it must be Tasche. Or some part of Tasche. They were one, somehow, or they had been.

  Then another voice! Impossible, but Frost was certain this was a third mind, different and distinct from the others. A voice that drowned out the one that must be Tasche. A voice that spoke to him in words that could not be understood, but that were somehow familiar—somehow so personal that there could be no doubt of it. The words repeated, and became even more familiar. Enough that it came to him in a rush exactly what they were. A spell of some kind, he thought, still not certain how he knew, but . . .

  My spells! The spells he had used on the Demon Blade to bring it to life. But how could Tasche, if this was him, or the dull-minded beast have the knowledge and skill to wield the Demon Blade? How could they know exactly the phrasing he—?

  No, Frost realized, beginning to shake with weakness but clearheaded about at least this much. Not Tasche.

  Before he could wonder any further he heard the final phrase, and knew that it would almost surely work. That the spell would activate the Blade, and bring it to life. The beast, or Tasche, or whatever this great fiery anomaly truly was altogether, would wield . . .

  But his thoughts seized as he heard the words of the binding phrase that came last: Tesha teshrea! Then he watched the beast raise its massive claw in the air, shaking as if wracked with a sudden pain, and plunge the Blade straight into the earth.

  A deafening roar that came from earth and air and the beast itself drove into Frost's ears, hot spikes that brought his hands up, but instead he used them to shield his eyes from the glow, bright as a hundred lightning strikes, that radiated from the beast for an instant, before it suddenly began to fade, drawing with it a wind that rushed past Frost from all directions, bending tress and flinging a cloud of brush and dead and living limbs and leaves through the air. Frost threw himself on the ground to keep from being swept away, toward the beast as all the wind and fire within the beast flowed hot and brilliant down through its arms, through the Demon Blade and into the ground.

  And kept flowing until the creature toppled, jerking and shrinking, and crashed to the earth like a small rockslide. It collapsed in on itself like the remnants of a house fire, then it lay still and dark. Lifeless.

  Shassel . . .

  Frost realized fully what had happened, and in that instant, as her name filled his mind, something he knew was the shadow of her spirit whispered past him, warm and strong, and freed, and at that same moment he became aware that it was already too late for anything but grief. Grief, and perhaps, a very small joy . . .

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Winning, yet losing at the same time, left Frost feeling utterly dissatisfied, and nearly drained. The burnt-black carcass of the beast lay crumbling and silent. A hazy smoke that smelled of sulphur, wood and flesh drifted from its gigantic remains. All that it was, all that had been a part of it—Tasche, Shassel, perhaps others as well—was gone.

  Sharryl and Rosivok stood beside Frost, waiting patiently and keeping the surviving soldiers away while Frost got to his feet and stood there, teetering, collecting his thoughts. Shassel's death was too big a thing to think about right now, out here in a Grenarii forest. He had always known this day would come, but he had only just found her again, had only begun to make up for the mistakes he had made and the years they had cost him, the life.

  "We are riding on to the old castle," Kolhol said, from as near as the Subartans would allow him to get. Frost looked up and saw that the king was already on horseback, as were most of his surviving soldiers. Even now they were assembling behind him.

  "You will find no one there, I think," Frost said. "No one alive."

  "Then we have burials to tend to."

  Frost took a breath, and nodded. "Your son . . ." he began. />
  "Was still my son, no matter the rest, and I made him a promise, once. I will not leave his remains to be picked at. You owe your aunt that much as well."

  "There are no remains, not of Shassel, I am certain of it. Nothing of her is left in this world, save that which exists in memory."

  Kolhol seemed to contemplate this for a moment, wheels turning behind eyes just keen enough. "Suit yourself," he said at last, turning in his saddle and looking over what remained of his troops. "I will leave a few men with you as escort. You will go to my castle and be well taken care of, each of you, until I return. Then we can talk. We have much to talk about."

  "Take your men," Frost said. "Leave good horses."

  "As you wish," Kolhol huffed, clearly frustrated, though he did not delay in saying it. "Promise me you will return and not leave again for Worlish until I have had my say," he asked, before turning his mount to go.

  "We will talk again, Lord Kolhol," Frost said. "Be sure of that."

  Kolhol kept turning, though he paused once to glance over his shoulder at Frost as if some thought had caught him by the ear and was tugging at him. Then he turned away again, and his men started up the road with him, heading east. In a moment they were gone from sight, leaving Frost, Rosivok and Sharryl alone beside the colossal smoking, reeking corpse of the vanquished demon beast. Frost closed his eyes and breathed a great sigh, but before he could open them a new voice called from behind him, "Ho, Frost!"

  A voice Frost thought he recognized, but he had trouble focussing on such things—on anything, in fact, just now. He shook himself from his daze as best he could and turned as he heard the man call his name again. He saw Rosivok moving to the right and eyeing a group coming toward them through the trees, and not the road.

  As though they had been there, waiting for Kolhol and his soldiers to leave, Frost thought. Waiting to scavenge the beast or those who may have fallen while fighting it, perhaps. Waiting for their chance.

  They kept coming, though now it was clear they held their hands in the open to show they had no weapons drawn. Then Frost recognized the man in the lead, a big man dressed in fine blue and white robes and sporting jewelry that hung around his neck in ridiculous amounts. The men and horses that walked behind him numbered a dozen and looked as if they were on their way to an audience with royalty, rather than trudging about in the wilderness. Each was dressed in brightly colored matching tunics, skirts, and the most ornate armor, with tall helmets topped by red plumes, and heavily engraved breast plates and embroidered surcoats.

  The leader waved.

  Weakly, Frost waved back. "Cantor."

  "Yes, Frost!" the merchant said as he drew up in front of Frost and extended both hands to greet him. Frost accepted the gesture. Cantor's men all drew up short behind him save one, a soldier carrying a fair-sized leather satchel who hurried up to Cantor's side.

  "Most impressive," Cantor said. "You know, I have never seen the like. No sorcerer I have ever known could have destroyed such a beast, and so swiftly."

  "There was but one," Frost said heavily.

  "Who?"

  "It no longer matters."

  "As you say, no matter. You are remarkable enough."

  Frost said nothing else, but Cantor let the silence endure for only a moment. He nodded at some thought of his own and showed Frost a fiendish grin. "I have a gift for you, one I went to great trouble to obtain," he said. "But I will know no sorrow if you choose to throw it away."

  Cantor hadn't changed, though Frost had expected that. A riddle was as good a beginning as any, and kinder than some. Frost nodded. "Very well," he said.

  With that Cantor gestured. The soldier beside him set the satchel on the ground, undid the leather tie and opened it. Then he grabbed the bag on two sides and shook out its contents. The smell preceded the sight. The bag contained a severed head. Frost blinked as he realized whose it was.

  "You know this peddler," Cantor stated.

  "Yes, Lurey," Frost answered, tipping his head to one side. He looked up again and signaled the soldier that he'd seen enough. The man used the toe of his boot to kick the head back into the bag before he tied it shut once more. Frost narrowed his gaze. "He was a friend of the family."

  Cantor chuckled at this, then shook his head. "Not the friend you thought, I assure you. After all you have been through you are still too trusting a soul, Frost."

  But he had learned that, hadn't he? Trust no one. Perhaps he could not even trust himself. "I don't trust you," he said.

  Cantor grinned. "A good start. Do you remember Taya, the woman who owned the inn where we stayed when we first arrived in Calienn?"

  "The one who betrayed me to Andair's soldiers," Frost said. In fact she had come to mind with Cantor's last words.

  "Did she?" Cantor said, eyes going wider.

  Frost nodded.

  "That, I did not know. I know only that she sent her son as a messenger to me with word of rumors she had overheard at her inn. Talk among soldiers and travelers from Ariman, and one young nobleman too fond of ale, all since you were there. I tell you, that woman is very good at gathering such news, and she is not afraid to use it as she sees fit. I have never known her to betray a friend. Her son said you left without so much as a good-bye. Perhaps there is more to this than I guessed?"

  "I knew she was talking to soldiers," Frost said. "I thought she was talking to them about me, telling them about the Demon Blade."

  "Ah, yes, I see," Cantor said, rubbing his chin a moment. "You didn't trust her."

  "No."

  "Good work!" Cantor said with a flair, but then he frowned dramatically. "You were wise to do so, but my guess is you were . . . wrong. I correct myself, Frost, you are not too trusting, you are trusting of the wrong people."

  Cantor was grinning again. Frost felt the truth of it lay in his gut hard and heavy.

  "Perhaps," Frost said, wondering if he would ever pass that way again, if he would have the chance to speak to Taya again, one day, and ask her face to face. To tell her . . .

  He shook the thought out of his head; there wasn't time to dwell on it now, and no gain. "The boy," Frost said. "What did he say?"

  "That Andair and Gentaff were getting information from someone close to you. This troubled me. As I have told you, I want this matter of you and the Demon Blade cleared up swiftly and at any cost; it can be a terrible, evil thing, as you and I both know, and I will not stand by and see my world and all that I have built be devastated by it."

  Frost sighed heavily. "Go on."

  Cantor nodded. "I had the rumor looked into. It led me to Lurey, your peddler friend. I had him followed after that. His many journeys would amaze anyone, but they would be of special interest to you. Lurey was loyal to his payments and nothing more. I would wager he was Shassel's friend for all these years because she was the only power in the land, other than Andair, and even the king himself could not do many of the things Shassel was capable of. I am told the twins possess a little talent for magery as well. I am sure Lurey had this, too, in mind.

  "After you arrived a good many things changed. Indeed, for a man like Lurey, new opportunities arose almost faster than he could profit by them—though he did an admirable job of trying."

  "So he betrayed me, Shassel and the twins?" Frost asked.

  "To start with. Lurey has been selling information to everyone. To Tasche and Haggel, to Kolhol, to Andair, and even to you. Quite an ambitious fellow really, and successful, unless lives hang in the balance, and many have. Including, with all due credit to me, his own."

  Cantor took a bow.

  Frost had no words for this, for the pain and consternation that was nearly strangling him. Then one thought rose to his lips: "Shassel is dead because of him."

  "If she is dead, that would be my guess. I believe Lurey sold information about her to Tasche and Haggel. They sought her out and captured her only days after meeting with Lurey in secret. Then they brought her to these woods. Something to do with that hideous thin
g you killed so grandly." He waved one hand at the still smoldering carcass less than fifty paces away. "But by then Lurey was off to points north and west, and back again."

  Frost nodded slowly, feeling even more haggard than he had a moment ago, feeling vanquished, just as he had when the demon prince Tyrr had nearly destroyed him. But even then, though the damage had been far worse, he had not felt the pain of it so deeply, a pain beyond the physical, and much more debilitating. He had failed Shassel in every possible way, and for nothing more than . . .

  "She was trapped inside that thing, and helped destroy it," he said. "She is dead." He shook his head, eyes closed, then he focussed on Cantor once again. "The Grenarii king, Kolhol, lied to me as well. He must have known more than he said. He is not the trickster Andair is, but he seems intent on his own destruction nonetheless." Frost turned to Cantor again. "Kolhol wanted my help to rid him of this beast, and with luck Tasche as well—perhaps even his own son in the bargain. He knew enough. He rode on to bury his son's body, though he might have had other reasons for feeling uncomfortable around me."

  "That he might," Cantor said. "Especially after seeing what you did here. He will have dreams about this day for many nights to come, I think. But with Tasche gone he will want to retain your services as court wizard, once he gets his confidence back. Knowing his reputation, I do not think that will take him very long."

  "He should not get his hopes up," Frost replied bitterly. "I promised to see him again, but only to pay what I owe him for all of this."

  "Agreed, he should pay, and probably with his life, but probably not soon."

  Frost eyed Cantor again. He looked suddenly grim. "Why not?"

  "Because another duty awaits you, one far more pressing and dear. My informants are many, and they go many places. Almost as many as Lurey did! I learned as I was coming here that Dorin and Dara are once again the guests of Lord Andair and the sorcerer Gentaff. Andair's soldiers rode in to Wilmar's village after you left and collected the twins again. Tramet and Wilmar with them. They may be dead, all of them, by now, but if Andair had ordered them killed I think he would have left the bodies behind."