Frost

by Mark A. Garland

  He tried to focus but found he couldn't concentrate on magic at all. Part of Gentaff's intent, he guessed, giving the dead sorcerer one last nod of tribute.

  His hand still held the Demon Blade. Using both hands now he managed to haul the weapon up onto his abdomen until it rested flat across his chest, where he could at least see it, and he realized it must look as if he was trying to use it to shield himself from his enemy. Which was a foolish thought . . .

  He looked up to find Andair's face staring down at him. The panic was mostly gone, replaced by what might have passed for strained amusement at Frost's predicament. Frost tried to speak, to serve Andair with a warning he hoped might at least give the other pause. But calling out was out of the question. Perhaps, he thought, something less ambitious.

  "I have you, Frost," Andair said, grinning, fully enjoying the moment as he drew nearer and bent over slightly. He held the talisman out before him like a shield, a weapon, and watched closely for any reaction. Frost writhed about, but the movements were feeble and slow, less than threatening; he opened his mouth again but managed nothing more than a sickly wheeze.

  Frost rolled his eyes at the sound, and even that hurt.

  Andair leaned over Frost and shook his head disparagingly. "The great sorcerer, laid out on your back and waiting to die. Powerless. Useless. I am upset about Gentaff, he was an asset. Now I will have to find another who can learn the Blade's ways, and that may take some time." He grinned, though the corners of his mouth twitched with the effort. "But I have time, and no matter what else, I can always sell it if need be, or trade it for . . . well, I think a kingdom or two, at the very least." The smile disappeared and he narrowed his gaze as he leaned still closer. "I would have needed to rid myself of Gentaff eventually, I think. Despite his knowledge, he was much too difficult at times, too smart for my own good. Not so witless as you, Frost. No, you are an incredible fool, just like Shassel. You both wasted your lives. Such that they were. Though it has worked out well for me."

  "No . . ." Frost finally managed to gasp. He could still hear the fight raging nearby, the clash of steel on steel, the shouts of men in battle. He guessed many more of the soldiers around the perimeter of the courtyard were trying to get to him by now, but if they were, his wardings must be keeping them away. At least for the moment. He couldn't feed the warding any more energy, his magic and the strength to power it were beyond him now, taken by the stone. Soon, he guessed, the talisman would take the energy he needed simply to survive. Soon afterward the twins, and Wilmar and Tramet, would die along with Sharryl and Rosivok.

  "I know what you are thinking, Frost, but there is nothing you can do, nothing."

  "I . . . will . . ."

  Andair shook his head. "No, you will not. Not even the magic Blade you hide behind will heed you anymore. It is as useless as you are." Andair straightened up and kicked, a good plant that dug the toe of his boot into Frost's ribs. Then he kicked the same spot again. Frost moaned and closed his heavy eyes, grimacing at the pain in his side and the more unbearable pain being brought by the talisman. Andair held the stone even closer, grinning sharply, mouth twitching again as he saw Frost begin to feel the pain more intensely. Then the king's look turned serious again, and he slowly, cautiously moved the stone even closer, until he touched it to the cloth covering Frost's thigh, just below his hip.

  The smell of burning fabric, then roasting flesh rose amidst a dull sizzling sound as Andair watched Frost suffer without protest. He was convinced now that Frost could do nothing, that he was dying. Frost all but believed it himself. Gentaff's magic burned through every fiber of his being, but it was magic after all—the pain, the fatigue—and that was something Frost knew much about. The stone would change him tangibly, it would likely kill him, but that would take time and perhaps more energy than the stone contained; for now it only made him suffer, made him want to die.

  He struggled to remind himself who he was and what he was, as his mind whirled in agony and sank, inexorably, toward a creeping darkness that was all too near. Toward relief. He tried to recall the great strength and stamina he had found within himself when he'd battled the demon prince Tyrr. Could that have been the same Frost?

  Part of him knew he was still that man, but an equally determined part sought to embrace the fatigue and let it have its way until it let him go completely.

  He drew a deep breath as Andair gently put his own sword down, freeing one hand, and reached to take the Demon Blade from Frost. As he did, their eyes met once more.

  Frost focussed his mind enough to remember what manner of man lived behind those eyes, to remember the treachery and deceit that had fooled a younger Frost so completely, then fooled him all over again, and again after that. To remember Wilmar's suffering, the twins, Shassel . . .

  Frost felt a different kind of pain inside him, the pain of frustration, of crushing sorrow and regret. But this was a pain he could use. He could not muster the strength to use his magic to defend himself, but he needed to make Andair pay for all he had done, and keep him from doing it all over again. He needed that more than life itself.

  His mind no longer functioned in any proper manner, it swirled in a darkness filled with agony and rage, searching for focus, then focussing on vengeance. Frost used all of it to fuel the will to make his body obey just one last command.

  As Andair's fingers touched the Blade and wrapped around it, Frost tightened what he thought must be both his fists, then cried out as he willed the muscles in his arms to pull, and heave. He saw the steel flash as the Demon Blade ascended toward the face of his enemy. Andair's eyes went wide as the edge caught his cheek. Blood ran from the wound as Andair jerked back and brushed the Blade aside. He spotted his own sword on the ground beside his enemy, but as he bent to snatch it up Frost leaned right and heaved again, and felt the satisfying push of resistance as the tip of the sword broke through Andair's flesh, then penetrated deep into his side.

  "If it is the Blade you want," Frost whispered, "then you shall have it."

  Andair let the bloodstone talisman fall from his fingers as he came almost fully erect again. The Blade's hilt pulled free of Frost's hand. Frost watched the look on the other's face for clues as to what would come next. Andair wrapped both hands around the steel of the Blade, half-buried in his abdomen. Then his mouth fell open and his eyes filled with fright, with disbelief, and then, understanding.

  Frost could not be certain Andair had heard his words. He knew he would never get the chance to tell him more. Already Andair's eyes were going dim. Frost heard him wheeze, moist and straining, then he collapsed, the life gone out of him, and Frost was suddenly free.

  His pain began to vanish, and his mental fog along with it. He sat up and blinked the dizziness from his head. The twins and Tramet had done well for themselves, all three were still standing, still fighting and serving to complicate the battle enough so that Sharryl and Rosivok could strike more decisive blows. Only four of their guards remained standing, and those had formed a defensive line against the onslaught from the others—a line that was backing slowly toward the wall and the stairs behind them.

  But all around, just beyond the edge of the warding Frost had placed about the center of the courtyard, a ring of soldiers five and six deep pressed toward them. And the warding was failing.

  Frost watched one man slip through, then another. A flood would follow, and there was no time to build another warding now. He looked down at Andair's corpse and felt a fleeting surge of pleasure at the sight, but he could not allow himself to savor the moment. He and Andair had not finished their business together.

  Frost stepped forward, bent over Andair, wrapped both hands around the hilt of the Demon Blade and pulled it loose. As he turned away into the clear he swung the weapon once, flinging most of the blood and gore from it. "Behind me!" Frost yelled to the others as soldiers began to swarm toward him from every side, their shouts joined by others on the parapets above as more soldiers emerged from the open doorways. The
twins and Tramet collected Wilmar off the ground while the Subartans protected their flank. Then all of them were running—running toward Frost.

  He braced himself, finished the last locution of the Demon Blade spells and raised the weapon up before him. Then he added his binding phrase, and the Blade ignited.

  Frost's mind stayed focussed, but his body flinched reflexively, anticipating the fiery pain that had so often accompanied past attempts, but now he realized that he had gotten the spells more nearly right this time than ever before, that for the moment at least, he was master.

  He drew the Blade slowly across and swept the field before him, and an army began to die as the life, substance and essence that comprised them was violently extracted. The Demon Blade's infinite appetite consumed all it touched in a spectrum of blazing, fiery streams that fed into one and rushed to it. But it was the color Frost noticed as he watched these "enemies" dying behind the torrent of crackling fire. The life energies of these men were a mix of blues, oranges, yellows, even bright white. The goodness in them, Frost decided, more goodness among some of them at least than had been inside most others he'd slain in the past.

  He kept slowly turning, keeping his Subartans and the others behind him, taking all of Andair's army into account until most of the survivors turned and began running for their lives. Frost wavered, thinking of these men, the pained deliberations that must have taken place in their mind between duty and desire—between staying, and going.

  Then he felt the pain and ethereal heat of the Blade begin to torture him, or it was something inside him, some part of his soul. He spoke the words and broke off the attack. Then he turned and dropped to his knees. He pointed the Blade and gave one last command. In the space of the beat of a human heart the Demon Blade released the energy it had just consumed. A blinding, raging torrent of blue-white fire crossed the yard and impacted the castle walls, and every stone it touched exploded from within. Frost lowered the Blade and waited, bracing himself as the shock wave reached him and squinting through the dust and debris that blew into him and the others.

  He nodded to himself, satisfied, as he saw that the main gates and surrounding structures had been nearly obliterated.

  Dozens of soldiers lay scattered on the ground all around. Some were still moving, more would eventually. For others it had been too late. Frost turned around and saw the troubled look on Tramet's face.

  He quickly realized the concern; Wilmar lay motionless, barely breathing. Tramet pointed to a spot where blood soaked his tunic on the right side. Frost went to him and knelt beside him. He pulled the tunic up and saw the damage, a sharp wound from the knife blade that cut across several ribs, but it did not appear to go deep. Wilmar must have moved at just the right time, Frost thought.

  He worried over the wound for a moment, chanting the words of the spell that would help the blood turn sticky and thick, so as to seal the wound. He breathed a great sigh as he felt his efforts finally begin to take hold.

  "Thank you," Wilmar said, reaching out to Frost, touching his arm.

  "And you, my friend," Frost said. Frost got to his feet, shaking and feeling suddenly very cold. He nearly blacked out, but stayed on his feet somehow until his vision and balance started to return. "And all of you," he added, looking from one to the other. He realized Rosivok's arms were supporting him, were the reason he had not managed to fall again, and gave the big Subartan a special nod.

  "How is he?" Tramet asked of Wilmar.

  "He will live," Frost said. "The worst is over."

  "We owe you our lives, as do so many," Dorin said. He stood side by side with Dara only two paces away, holding Frost in his gaze. The look on his face was like a smile, only deeper, more sincere. Frost felt something tug at his insides, something that made his eyes sting. Both twins moved to embrace him, and Frost did not protest.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Wilmar finally emerged, shrinking from the light of day like a miner ascending from a shaft. Then he began to smile. After all, this was a day of celebration. Four weeks spent in bed or hobbling around in chambers had been more than enough, with only squires and a nurse for company most of the time. Otherwise a slow parade of nobles, gentry, stewards, captains and men-at-arms and, in a recurring dream, the Greater Gods themselves had managed to find him with their most serious concerns.

  Tramet and Dara had been to see him every day, the two of them apparently inseparable. Wilmar had welcomed their company, and he had nothing to say against them. In truth, they'd only picked up where they left off. But regular visits from anyone else since the battle and injury that had left him cloistered and helpless were less enjoyable. He was not ready for all of that, but he had made the best show of it that he knew how. Until today. Today was to be different. He was eager enough for fresh air. And whatever came with it.

  "Not so piteous a sight as I expected," Frost said, the first one who greeted him. The inner courtyard in the center of the castle's keep was filled with people, nobles and their families, soldiers of rank, merchants and tradesmen, the priests from the Church of the Greater Gods. All here about their own futures no doubt, and that of Worlish, but today, most of all, they were here for the celebration. They gathered about tables set with a bounty of foods and casks of fresh ale. Wilmar couldn't count them all as he looked them over. But some of those present counted for more than the rest.

  "Frost," Wilmar said, facing the sorcerer. He was not alone; gathered with him were Sharryl and Rosivok, Dorin and Dara and Wilmar's own son, Tramet. Wilmar held out his hands.

  "I hardly notice the limp," Frost said, as he clasped hands.

  Wilmar was favoring the wound on his side perhaps more than he needed to, it was no longer so painful and clearly beginning to heal over. "I have not walked so far since—"

  "Since Andair died, leaving no heirs," Tramet said, moving to offer his father an arm for support. Wilmar waved him off. He wanted to stand on his own two feet.

  "Save the rightful one," Frost said. He bowed ceremoniously. "Once he gets around to it."

  Wilmar and the twins mimicked the bow.

  "I think Lord Andair secretly wanted this for you all along, don't you?" Dara said, smiling, looking more than pretty enough to make Wilmar jealous of his son's happiness.

  "Why is that?" he asked.

  Dara turned away slightly, demure. "Why else would he go to such trouble to ensure that no one in his court or even in his army retained any loyalty to him from the instant he fell? They have all flocked to you."

  "Frost's patronage has had as much to do with that as anything else," Wilmar pointed out.

  "Frost and the Blade," Tramet said. "No one would be foolish enough to come up foul of all that after what they saw in the outer courtyard."

  Everyone looked at Frost. He only shrugged.

  "Well, I am grateful, Frost," Wilmar said after a moment. "Word of that battle has spread all across Worlish and beyond. They are right. No one would think to oppose me so long as you are here. I even received a messenger from Kolhol of Grenarii. A greeting, along with a promise to observe the sovereignty Worlish and to support me, should I become king."

  "As you shall," Tramet was quick to add.

  Wilmar smiled at him. "I have your support at least."

  "And my support as well!" another voice called out from across the walkway. Wilmar looked up and saw a large man approaching dressed in a king's robes and sash, his neck adorned with gold chains. Not a king, though, Wilmar knew that much. A merchant lord, and surrounded by servants.

  "Cantor of Calienn," one of the servants said, introducing the man as he strode into the others' midst and bowed perfunctorily.

  Wilmar nearly staggered upon hearing the name. He knew all that it entailed. He had heard plenty of Cantor, everyone had, but had never met the richest freeman in this part of the known world. He very nearly bowed, but caught himself in time. The two men stood facing one another, eye to eye, while everyone else kept still.

  "It is an honor to meet yo
u, and to serve you," Cantor said, easing the moment immeasurably. "I agree with these others completely. Indeed, I am told by many that Worlish is yours for the asking. I can only assume you will ask."

  "I may at that," Wilmar said calmly, though he could not help the grin that followed.

  "In that case, count on Calienn to support you, and to continue to trade with you. Commerce between our lands need not be interrupted. In fact, I believe it will benefit from your much celebrated honesty. The people of Worlish have waited too long for this moment. I congratulate them all. And you as well," Cantor added, turning to Tramet, "the future prince, if I may say as much."

  "Oh, you may," Dara said with that smile again, all while standing as close to Tramet as was humanly possible.

  "We all welcome your friendship and endorsement," Tramet said. "It will mean a great deal."

  "These are the twins I have heard so much about," Cantor said without preamble, moving along, shaking Dorin's hand first, then leaning in to kiss Dara's. He grinned too fiendishly. "You know, I foresee a day when Dorin here might become a grand duke."

  Dara and Tramet both blushed a little. Wilmar found it endearing but he noticed one silent voice. "Nothing to say about it, Dorin?"

  "It is all well and good," Dorin replied, though he was curiously melancholy about it, so far as Wilmar could tell.

  "Your story is being told all across the land," Cantor said, speaking directly to Frost. "And far beyond, no doubt. Stories that will inspire many to take heed, and others to seek you out."

  "I know," Frost said. "Too well. We were just talking about that."

  "Then you still have my best wishes in mind, and those of these people you so cherish?"

  Frost nodded. Wilmar saw the look in the sorcerer's eye, disquieting, cheerless. He limped nearer. "What is it, Frost?"

  "I cannot stay, not now, though I may return."