Frost

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Frost Page 29

by Mark A. Garland


  "You lied to me," Frost said. "A lie that took time to realize and might have taken much longer, time I could have used to save her. That is enough. You have always lied to me, Andair. Now, I have stopped listening."

  "Then listen to me," Gentaff said, taking another step forward. He withdrew a short staff no longer than a man's arm from beneath his dark cloak and waved it at Frost like a club. "The talisman is real. The spell is real. The orders given these soldiers to kill their prisoners and then you is real. I have taken no chances this time, Frost. I heard all about the massacre in Ariman, I know you have command of the Demon Blade, and I know what it is capable of. You have no secrets here, and no leverage. Do as I say, nothing less, nothing more. It is your only hope, and theirs."

  "It was my hope that you would tell me who the next Keeper of the Blade might be—other than you or Andair, of course," Frost said. "Shassel thought you knew. Perhaps in honor of her memory, and the memory of those who have gone before us, you might now do what you know is right, and tell me after all."

  "My memory of her is vague," Gentaff replied.

  "And mine bitter," Andair sniffed. "That woman has needed to die for years!"

  "You have needed to die for years," Frost said as evenly as he could manage, though that proved most difficult.

  Gentaff showed a feeble grin at this. "It is good to see old friends getting along so well. But I think all this chatter can wait until some other time. For now we should move things along." He looked over his shoulder at the prisoners, then turned to Frost again. "I will agree to name the Keeper of the Blade, and agree to turn both the twins and Wilmar and Tramet over to you, as soon as you have handed the Demon Blade to me."

  Frost stood silent for a long moment, watching the two men, measuring them. The Demon Blade remained where it was, pressed against Frost's back, wrapped in its scabbard.

  "Let me tell you what you do not know," Frost said, turning slightly so as to ignore Andair, addressing Gentaff. "Foremost, you do not know how to use the Demon Blade. Even I have not been fully able to understand it; even I cannot precisely control it. What I have managed has taken a great deal of time to learn, and has come at a great cost to many, and myself."

  "You will tell us whatever you know," Andair said. "You have no choice. Then I will worry about the rest."

  "I have choices," Frost said. "You will ask what you like, and I will answer, but no matter what I tell you it will not be the truth. I feel I owe you that much."

  Now it was Andair who boiled, but Gentaff held up his hand to bring pause to the exchange. "All as it should be, I suspect," he said. "I understand completely, but it does not matter. I already knew more about the Demon Blade than most any man alive, perhaps nearly as much as you, Frost. More importantly, I know the results of your work with it, I know the Blade drew the life energy out of every soldier on the battlefield in Ariman. I know that in turn you managed to use that energy to destroy a demon prince. There lies the secret that has been lost for so long. Once the end is known, the means are easily devised for one such as myself. You of all men should agree; you devised a means without even that knowledge to begin with. You say your means are slipshod, that may be true. Mine will not be."

  "You don't know what you are doing," Frost chided, "and you will not. You cannot imagine. There is more to the Blade than even you or I can understand, more than even many of those on the last Council knew, I fear. All the legends ever told about the Blade are true, but there are others untold. A darkness unimagined, perhaps unintended. To use the Blade as I have, as you would, is madness."

  "As you yourself have said, anything you tell us today will be a lie," Andair said.

  "Anything I tell you," Frost said. "I speak now to Gentaff, and what I say is truth. Do not brush aside my warnings, else you will find yourself a bigger fool than even Tasche was."

  "Was?" Andair asked, though Gentaff was also clearly intrigued.

  "A victim of his own ambitions and limitations, as were many others. The Grenarii prince among them. Are you so eager to follow on such a path? To destroy yourself and others? You will never be able to use the Blade without bringing disaster. You all know of Cantor of Calienn, the merchant lord. He knows the truth of what I speak, the darkness that waits. You need not take my word for it."

  "No!" Gentaff said, showing signs of frustration, evidence that Frost's arguments were having an effect. The sorcerer paused as if considering his next words carefully. "I have given the Blade and its possibilities great thought. The spells needed to activate the Blade are complex, certainly, but above all they must be designed to draw energy from all but he who holds the weapon. That, I think, I have divined; just as you have. I have more knowledge than you, Frost, even you would not deny that. I have the means and desire to make the Blade work, no matter what you think, and it will be secure in my hands. But there is only one way we will ever know. The transaction must proceed."

  The entire group left of Gentaff watched and listened with absolute attention, including the twins, Tramet, and Wilmar, so far as Frost could tell, though Wilmar's eyes were closed more than open. Frost focussed on Dorin and Dara and tried to analyze their expressions. Not bitterness, not now, but he saw other things there—frustration, fear, anger. They had been quick to judge him all along, most often as harshly as possible, and eager to condemn him for the decisions he had made. All rightly so, at least in part. Frost knew that, but if Dorin and Dara had been too hard on him, so perhaps, had he; if Shassel's forgiveness was to mean anything, and if he was ever to have theirs, they must look forward now, not back. All of them.

  Frost turned and surveyed the courtyard. At least two hundred men had gathered around the perimeter, their backs to the stone walls, obediently waiting and watching events in the center. Whatever happened, it would take them several moments to reach him, or the others. Not long, but perhaps long enough.

  He shouted to the twins, "Tell me, what would you do in my place? You know all that is at stake."

  "Frost," Dorin answered, while his sister remained silent. "I have been wondering that very thing. I see no possible solution other than to give them what they want. At least . . . for now."

  "Hear the boy, Frost?" Andair said. "Listen to him. If you die defying me, we will have the Blade in any case. The poorer alternative, I think. If you live, there is always hope."

  "Yes, try to see the sense in that," Gentaff said jovially.

  "But that won't work, because you can never give them the Blade," Dorin added, scowling at Andair. "Never."

  "Never!" Dara echoed.

  Tramet nodded, apparently unwilling or unable to speak. His father only managed to look up, but his eyes were keen enough, still defiant, even after all he'd been through.

  "You are all quite dense," Andair said, shaking his head. "It is no surprise you have fared so badly."

  The scowls on the twins' faces said enough.

  "A difficult situation," Frost said. "Which will no doubt require a difficult solution."

  "The correct decision is not always easy to come by," Dorin said, looking at Frost, eyes hard on him and saying more than words could have.

  "So I have learned," Frost said.

  "So have we all," Dara added, and Frost found the same depth in her gaze.

  He turned again to Gentaff. "Our hosts may be correct, after all. It is hard to argue with their logic, or the reality of this day. Therefore, I yield. I will hand you the Demon Blade, and you will set them free, then set me free with the knowledge of the Keeper. All agreed?"

  Andair and Gentaff looked at each other, then both of them said at the same time, "Agreed."

  Frost removed his cloak and worked at the harness until he had pulled the Blade's scabbard around, where he began to unwrap it. The twins and Tramet all gasped, and even Wilmar managed to groan in protest. "Don't," Tramet said, speaking at last.

  "Don't," Dara echoed.

  "Listen to them, Frost," Dorin pleaded. "Don't!"

  "I must," Frost said, w
earing his most pained expression. "It is the only way. Now, be silent." He pulled the Blade free, then held it up and walked slowly forward, watching as both Gentaff and Andair each held a cautious hand out toward the bloodstone talisman on the post between them. Taking no chances, Frost thought. He stopped less than a dozen paces from Gentaff and laid the Blade carefully on the ground. Gentaff waved him off, and he stepped back. Frost waited patiently for what he knew would come next, the pain and anguish, the soul-wrenching brutality that was the sure and certain result of an adept touching the Demon Blade unawares. Gentaff leaned down and spoke quietly over the weapon at his feet, hands held level above it; then he slowly lowered them, but used only his left hand finally to touch it. He grasped the hilt and lifted the Blade up high. Frost noted a brief wince as it crossed the other's features, then nothing but calm as he lowered the Blade and held it vertically in front of him, eyes closed, and began reciting more spells just beneath the reach of surrounding ears.

  He knows, Frost thought. But how much more did he know? How much had he guessed correctly or closely enough to serve his purposes this day—or the next.

  As if he had read Frost's mind, Gentaff opened his eyes again, and Frost saw a new and darkening fire burning there.

  "This moment has waited decades, but it comes as rightly now as it ever could," the old sorcerer said. "I am not the true Keeper, Frost, I will tell you that, but it will reside in my capable hands and under Lord Andair's protection well enough, and for some time to come. In the meantime you will understand, you of all men, that I cannot allow anything to threaten that. Especially so great a threat as you."

  Frost was hearing nothing he hadn't expected. "You have hostages, Andair's army, the Demon Blade, and yet you are afraid of me?" he asked.

  "You are a most powerful, potential adversary."

  "That has always been true," Frost replied.

  "But only so long as you live."

  "A problem you would ease, I suppose?"

  "I have no choice."

  "Nor regrets, I think. How fortunate for you."

  "How unfortunate for you, and me," Andair said.

  Then Frost saw it, a flicker in Gentaff's eyes, a nervousness in his free hand. Andair continued to steep himself in his gloating, but Gentaff had begun to doubt, as he noticed the depth of Frost's glib mood. Still not enough to stop what was about to happen, Frost guessed, but he needed to be sure. . . .

  "I worry little over your threats," Frost said. "I worry most that I will survive to reclaim the Blade, that any in Weldhem might survive, after you have bungled the attempt to use it."

  Gentaff glared at Frost, but then he changed that expression willfully and laughed instead—a small, barely audible chuckle like someone who couldn't quite remember the joke. Frost knew the truth, knew that Gentaff was already saying the spells he had so carefully assembled for so long, saying them over and over and adding one to the string each time until he reached the final phrase, when he would add his own binding phrase. The laughter was a show.

  Frost could not hear the spells clearly, but with only a bit of unnoticeable enhancement his ears picked up enough to be impressed with how accurate they were, how erudite—not quite like his own but nearly adequate nonetheless.

  "You are indeed talented, old mage," Frost said, watching Gentaff's eyes blaze with a mix of exhilaration and triumph as the Blade began to glow, as he felt the surge, and the pull. Gentaff added spells, keeping control, until the Blade grew suddenly brighter than the late day sun.

  "You have done everything right, guessed what you needed to guess," Frost added. "Had you only known of the reversal spell I was able to impress upon the Blade last night . . . But how could you?"

  Frost glanced at the twins and saw the look of recognition in their eyes and the words hanging just the other side of the moment in their open mouths. To their credit they only watched as Gentaff's jaw went rigid, followed by every muscle in his body.

  Then the ancient sorcerer began to scream. The sound rolled from his open mouth and rose higher than Frost might have thought possible, then it fell as Gentaff's body shook in violent spasms. The Blade continued to glow while the sorcerer that held it darkened. Frost knew something of how it felt, though even he had not experienced the depths which the Blade was taking from Gentaff now. The screams went on but grew shrill as the Blade brightened still further, went on even when Gentaff's lungs had long since run out of air. Not an earthly scream any longer. Abruptly the screaming stopped.

  Gentaff crumpled to the ground, gasping, his body still trying to let go of the Demon Blade but unable to make the fingers obey. Unable to break the chain of events his spells had set in motion. The Blade had done exactly as he had so expertly commanded—but reflected back in the opposite direction he had intended—back at him.

  Gentaff's eyes met Frost's as what remained of him lay on the ground, slowly curling like fresh-cut plants left drying in the sun. The look Frost saw frozen on the dying sorcerer's face was not wisdom or confidence, not gall or anger; it was not even surprise—it was fear. Gentaff knew.

  He knew everything. He knew the whole truth of what Frost had said and still more that he had not, and he knew it had been his end.

  His sword hand let go. Gentaff lay motionless on the ground, robes draped too loosely about the dried, pallid husk that was all that remained of him. The courtyard was utterly silent.

  "What did you do?" Andair blurted out, sounding suddenly hysterical, each word rising one note. His head twitched about, but his eyes did not seem to focus on anything much. "What did you do?" he repeated. "What have you done?"

  "I have destroyed the only path I knew to the truth, the only hope I had of ridding myself of the Demon Blade," Frost said, feeling the fatigue of his body and his mind meld together and weigh him down.

  "You have also chosen to face the talisman!" Andair howled, his voice cracking with the strain. The soldiers holding the prisoners tightened their ranks as Andair's panic sent him scrambling, but their king seemed to have forgotten them. He reached the post in two awkward bounds and grasped the bloodstone in both hands, then he fell to the ground as he clutched it, obsessed with it, already repeating the chant Gentaff had taught him.

  "Sharryl, Rosivok, free the others!" Frost shouted as he lunged after Gentaff's body and seized the Demon Blade.

  The Subartans charged the men holding the hostages, moving with a swiftness that caught their two well-chosen first targets fatally unprepared, and surprised most of the rest. Two more soldiers fell an instant later in a clatter of iron and shouting, which caused the others to pull at their prisoners in order to re-form in their own defense.

  "Dorin, Dara!" Frost called out next, as he stood with the Blade in hand and turned to them. They already knew, they were already waving hands about and reciting the same phrase in precise unison. Frost felt a twinge of admiration as he watched. Any number of simple spells would have worked, but the one they chose was impressive. An augmentation of the dust kicked up by the ensuing scuffle, it instantly engulfed everyone. Most of the guards began to choke and squint as they waved at dust clouds, and Dorin, Dara and Tramet turned on the guards holding them. The two holding Wilmar let go, joining the battle, but not before one of them put a dagger in him, and left him to collapse on the ground.

  Tramet dropped and scurried toward one of the fallen soldier's swords. He came up armed and helped the twins and their two Subartan rescuers. Frost saw Dorin and Dara each collect a sword, but then he knew he could watch their battle no longer. He was about to engage in another of his own.

  He looked about, verifying the positions of the guards all around them. Most were staying where they were along the perimeter of the courtyard, no doubt ordered to do so to prevent an escape. Andair could change those orders, but he was still too busy babbling in frustration at the bloodstone in his hand, apparently not getting something about the spell just right. Though he might still get lucky, and he might call in reinforcements at any instant.


  Frost had not planned for the talisman, but he had expected plenty of soldiers. He had prepared a warding spell that would keep Andair's men back for a few moments at least. He erected the warding now, using as little of his strength as possible, saving the rest for what he must do next.

  He pressed the Blade's hilt firmly into his left hand, careful not to fall prey to it, and began reciting the required spells, weaving them together, adjusting them yet again in his ongoing attempt to find the means to use the Blade safely and effectively. He had heard a part of Gentaff's spells as well, especially the controlling spells, a slight variation he would not have come by on his own. It felt right as he added this extra piece into the others, and began the final phrase.

  Then the talisman took hold.

  The sensation pulled him instantly from his task. It was much different than that brought on by the Demon Blade—not a draining of all that was flesh and bone and spirit—this was pure exhaustion. The sort that too much physical effort could bring, or too much magic, though this was as thorough as anything Frost had experienced. His body felt suddenly, terribly heavy. His arms and legs began to burn as if he had run for miles full out and lifted barrels for hours. The big frame and powerful muscles he carried under his extra weight became crippling burdens to him now, and his lungs ached with the effort of drawing each breath.

  Even in death, Frost saw that Gentaff was a formidable opponent, and he had taught Andair well.

  Frost set about trying to interrupt the spell using an incantation he had tucked away in his memory, one designed to give enhanced physical endurance to athletes or soldiers, when necessary. It did little good. Gentaff's spell was too well constructed, too complete, and had already taken too firm a hold. Another wave of fatigue swept him, and Frost fell.

  As he tumbled to the earth and stone of the courtyard floor he tried to get an elbow under him, but managed only a half roll instead that ended with him lying down, mostly faceup and gasping, nearly paralyzed with the relentlessly increasing pain of inspired exertion.

 

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