FrostFire

by Zoe Marriott

  A cold shiver moved over my skin. My gaze skittered across the hillside, tracking the glint. Polished metal, moving stealthily through the undergrowth. The shape was unmistakeable.

  A knife.

  Now that I knew it was there, I could see bits and pieces of the man carrying it. He was thin and ragged-looking and wearing dented, mismatched armour. He had very pale skin and yellow hair – both were greasy and streaked with dirt. And he wasn’t alone. There was another man hiding behind a tree further down the path. That one held a sword.

  Before crossing into the mountains I had done a day’s labour at a border farm and stayed the night in their hayloft. The farmer’s wife had warned me that the Rua hills were infested with rebels who had been banished by the Rua queen after the civil war. The men had been soldiers once. Now they were thieves and bandits. But even without this warning, I’d met enough people in my life who wanted to do me harm to recognize the eager tension in these men’s bodies, the grimness on their faces.

  They were going to ambush the goatherd. Steal his animals. Kill him.

  Stay quiet. Don’t fight. Stay out of trouble.

  This was none of my business. The goatherd was a stranger. He was nothing to me. He wouldn’t care about my fate if our positions were reversed.

  Stay out of trouble. Don’t fight.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. It didn’t help. The images were inside my head, and I could not escape them. I saw my mother’s face: cold as clay, eyes milky and opaque, blood and foam dried around her mouth. The body of a teenage boy, sprawled on fallen leaves, his face destroyed. I saw my own hands, smeared with blood. Priests holding the unlit torches, their faces cold and righteous. Two boys, faces sneering, stones flying through the air. I saw my past.

  I saw death.

  Fine tremors shook my body as I stared down at the goatherd’s cheerful red hat.

  Stay out of trouble.

  I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

  I can’t watch him die.

  I’m the only hope he’s got.

  My fingers fumbled with the sackcloth-wrapping around the axe. The goatherd was almost beneath me now. The bandit ahead of him was rocking forward, making ready to move.

  The goatherd stopped. Turning back, he grabbed the horns of one of his animals that had strayed up the slope. As he dragged it back down onto the path, the bandit stepped out from behind the tree, sword raised.

  Father, protect them.

  Keep my blood from spilling

  A scream of terror and defiance ripped from my throat. I crashed out of the bush and charged down the hillside, hitting the path with a bone-shaking thud. The bandit staggered back in shock. I swung my father’s axe wildly. It hit the bandit’s blade with a grating clang that nearly deafened me. The sword was dashed from the man’s hands. As he stared at his empty fists, I kicked out as hard as I could. My heavy boot drove straight into the soft tissue between his legs.

  The bandit doubled over, retching. I whacked him on the back of the head with the iron langet of the axe, cringing at the meaty thud. He collapsed onto the path.

  I stood gasping for a split second, stunned by what I had done. Then I turned and seized the goatherd’s arm. “Run!”

  I tried to tow him forward, but it was like tugging the limb of a tree. He was no taller than me, but his muscles outweighed me. I couldn’t budge him, and he just gawked at me, open-mouthed.

  “Are you a halfwit?” I shrieked. “Come on!”

  I yanked at his arm with all my might – and felt the path dissolve under my heel again. I stumbled back, releasing the goatherd as I pinwheeled my arms, desperate to retain my balance. The goatherd, finally provoked into movement, reached out and caught my wrist, as if to pull me back.

  Instead, he was dragged over the edge with me as the earth I was standing on disintegrated. We hit the slope. The goatherd let go of my wrist as I rolled over and over; brush and vines whipped across my exposed skin and clouds of dry earth billowed up around me. I clung desperately to Da’s axe as the blades whirled dangerously close to my face.

  The pick of the axe snagged on a giant, pale root and my fall was halted with a jolt that nearly ripped my arm from its socket. I looked down to see my feet dangling out into space. The river glinted below.

  Coughing out a mouthful of dirt, I inched my other arm up to grab the root and, grunting with effort, heaved myself up onto my feet. I freed my axe, keeping a strong grip on the root. Then I looked around for the goatherd.

  He was just above me, straightening up on a small plateau scooped out of the hillside. He was covered in grazes and dirt, and he had lost his red cap, but the staff was still in his right hand. He stared down at me, and I noticed for the first time that his eyes were a pale greenish shade that looked odd against his dark skin.

  “Get up here.” His voice was low and rough.

  The hand he held out was trembling. Anger, or fear? I hesitated for a second, looking at those odd, cold eyes. But his hand looked strong enough, and he had no reason to hurt me right now. I reached out and let him haul me up over the lip of the plateau. As soon as I was on level ground he dropped my fingers.

  “Arian!” someone shouted. It was a male voice: deep and commanding. There was a skittering noise of small stones falling and a movement in the bushes, as if someone was climbing down. “Hello! Are you hurt? What’s happening down there?”

  “I’m not injured,” the goatherd called back. “Did you get the other one?”

  “No, he disappeared as soon as you went over the edge. Is she all right?”

  “Who cares? The whole thing’s ruined now, thanks to this – this idiot.”

  I felt my jaw drop. “I just saved your life.”

  “You? You couldn’t save your own backside with both hands.” He shot me a look of cold anger. I flinched, hands clenching on my axe haft.

  He ignored me and craned his neck, apparently looking for the man who had called out to him. Something was wrong here. Where had this other person come from? There hadn’t been anyone else on the path. Only me, the goatherd and the bandits. Was this some kind of trap? And if so, for whom?

  I started to edge sideways, eyes searching the hillside for handholds. Whatever was going on, I didn’t want to be caught in the middle of it. I turned just as a bandit swarmed up onto the plateau, knife in hand.

  His face was twisted with rage. His eyes were fixed on the goatherd’s back. “Rua scum!”

  Without thinking, I threw myself forward, thrusting my axe up like a shield. The bandit’s long blade hit one of the metal langets and sheered sideways with a screech. Sunlight sizzled from the edge of the knife, blinding me. Pain flared across the back of my hand.

  Black dots danced in my vision as it cleared. I stared at the red drops welling up on my skin.

  The bandit turned on me, his knife slicing down in a vicious arc.

  A wooden staff capped with silver knocked the knife from the bandit’s hand, and then whirled around and swept his legs out from under him. The man toppled off the edge of the plateau with a hoarse cry and disappeared down the slope below.

  “Clumsy,” the goatherd said gruffly. “You let him get you.”

  He reached out as if to touch my hands that were still curled, white-knuckled, around the haft of the axe.

  “No.” I choked the word out and stumbled backwards. I dropped the axe, still staring at the blood. The sweat was turning to ice on my skin. My next breath clouded in the air. “Don’t.”

  “Let me see,” he snapped.

  “Get away!” The words warped and changed in my mouth, emerging as a snarl. “Run!”

  The bushes stirred overhead, and a second man, taller than the first, dropped down lightly onto the plateau, unsheathed broadsword in hand. He wore brightly polished plate armour and a helm that obscured most of his features. A pair of dark, glittering eyes flicked to my face, and he swiftly sheathed the sword.

  “What’s wrong? I thought you said she wasn’t hurt.”

  Insi
de me – in the cold place – a piercing, lonely cry rang out. It filled my ears. The men’s lips were still moving, but I could no longer hear either of them.

  All I could hear was the Wolf.

  The colours were slowly leaching out of my vision. I blinked, and the world was blue and grey and silver. The only red left was the bright liquid spilling from my hand. The second man moved slowly towards me, his hands lifting in a calming gesture. I tried to back away again – but there was nowhere for me to go.

  No. I begged silently. Not now. I’m so close. Please…

  The connection between me and my body shattered.

  Sound rushed back. Vision sharpened. Muscles tensed.

  The Wolf’s lips peeled back over its teeth as it scented blood.

  Two

  I didn’t dare open my eyes.

  My skull throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I was stiff and bone-deep sore. There was a maddening itch from the wound on my right hand. But the worst thing was the shame churning in my belly. Tears squeezed out from under my eyelids and slid down my face.

  Oh, Father. It happened again.

  There was a tiny squeak, as of leather. My eyes snapped open. Teardrops blurred my sight. There was a man sitting on a low stool next to me.

  The goatherd.

  The shabby, voluminous robes were gone. Instead he wore a fine linen shirt, unlaced at the throat, soft leather breeches and polished boots. And there was a sword at his waist. As I watched, his fingers tightened on the weapon.

  I looked up into his face, and froze like a rabbit facing a leopard. Those green eyes were flat and cold and more menacing than a shouted death threat. When he looked away I breathed a sigh of relief – until I saw that his jaw was marked with four deep, distinct claw marks.

  “She’s awake,” he called out, standing.

  I tried to take in as much information about my surroundings as I could. It was dim, but I could see that the walls were planed wooden planks, the roof low and unplastered. It was a small space, and there were no windows. The only light came from a narrow opening high up in the roughly cut iron-bolted door. The room smelled of straw and livestock. Like a barn.

  My chest started to tighten. I forced myself to concentrate on what I could hear. Voices. Some distant, some closer. Birdsong. Jingling and heavy stamping that grew louder and than faded away – horses being led. The ringing noise of metal being beaten into shape.

  It was too familiar. All of it. It reminded me … reminded me…

  Stop it. Stop thinking about it!

  The door swung open. Late-afternoon sunlight flooded the room, and my eyes watered still more as I squinted at the man standing silhouetted against the light.

  “I hope you’re ready to answer some questions, my would-be assassin,” the silhouette said. I recognized his voice. It was the second man on the hillside, the one with dark eyes. “I have to confess, I’m not feeling very patient.”

  I tried to raise my hands to shield my face from the sun, so that I could see him properly – and felt the weight of metal encircling my wrists. Thick iron manacles bound my hands together.

  The fear I had been desperately suppressing broke free and ripped through me with claws of ice. The iron chains clanked as my body began to shake. In an instant, I was eight years old again and locked up in Elder Gallen’s barn. I could hear the priests chanting outside, and smell the smoke.

  Father, help me.

  I surged to my feet, abused muscles screaming, head filled with the roar of fire.

  The goatherd stepped hastily towards me. I threw my full weight at him, ramming him into the wall. The little wooden structure shuddered with the impact. The goatherd grunted, breath driven out of him. I pushed him away and dived towards the open door.

  The silhouette put one arm out in a horrible imitation of an embrace. I slammed the manacles down, not caring if I broke his wrist. But he was too quick. He whipped his arm back and wrapped it around my shoulders instead, his other arm going around my waist, so that I was crushed against him, just inches from freedom.

  I bucked and squirmed. His arms were like iron, stronger even than the cuffs on my wrists. Distantly, I was aware of his voice rumbling as he spoke to me, but I couldn’t make out the words. All I knew was that I had to get away before the priests came and lit the fire.

  My eyes took in everything outside the cell. It was surrounded by canvas tents of all shapes and sizes, their walls streaked with green and yellow and blue paint. Some kind of camp? Beyond the tents I could see the forest and the mountains. I had to get to them: get away, hide. I had to run until no one could find me.

  The silhouette took a step back. He was trying to drag me back inside.

  I screamed. It was a high-pitched shriek, like a rabbit in a snare.

  “Calm down,” he said. “For the Mother’s sake, stop fighting.”

  Stop fighting. Stay quiet. Stay out of trouble.

  I jerked forward with every bit of strength I had, and felt his grip around my shoulders slip. At the same moment, my legs were swept out from under me and I crashed backwards. My head hit something with enough force to make my vision flare with black and silver spots. Then the black and silver faded and everything went white again.

  I hear their voices in the wind. In the movement of water. In the rustle of the leaves. No matter what I dream, they are there. They hide beneath the surface. Watching. Waiting. The world of my dreams always grows colder. The dream sun always sets. And when the stars come out, I must run…

  Three

  Afterwards – after it happened – I always pretended that I couldn’t remember anything. I pretended that the Wolf had stolen my mind as well as my body. But it wasn’t true. I was still there. Held back by walls of ice, unable to speak or so much as twitch a finger, I watched it all happen.

  I remember the Wolf leaping up the slope towards Ulem and Marik and the shock and sudden fear on their faces. I remember it clawing and kicking and hitting until they were both down; until the noise of their screams brought the whole village running; until Elder Gallen and two other men dragged the Wolf – dragged me – off the boys, still howling and fighting.

  I remember every moment of the Wolf’s attack. And I remember how good it felt.

  I tried to tell myself that it was only the Wolf’s pleasure I experienced, the Wolf’s exultation in pain and violence. But that was a lie too. A part of me had enjoyed what the Wolf did with my body. A part of me had wanted to hurt those boys. Had wanted to hurt them as much as they had hurt me.

  Looking back, a part of me still does.

  The men took the chains from a plough shear and wrapped them around the Wolf’s arms and legs. They dragged it through the village and threw it into Elder Gallen’s little barn and left it there.

  For a long time, the Wolf fought the chains. It was not strong enough to break them, though, not then. Finally, I suppose its strength gave out. The Wolf stopped struggling and fell asleep.

  And I woke up.

  “Her skull is intact, but she’s going to be very sorry for herself when she wakes up. Did you really have to hit her this hard, especially so soon after the last time?” The voice was female. It sounded old, and a little grumpy – like someone who was used to being in charge.

  “I told you; I didn’t hit her. She hit her own head on the door.” That was the goatherd: words sharp edged, like flint.

  “After you kicked her legs from under her. Yes.”

  There was a short pause and then a different voice, the voice of the man who had caught me and told me to stop fighting. “She was trying to escape, Livia. Arian was just doing his job.”

  “I think she’s coming around,” said the woman. “Holy Mother, she’s only a child. Can’t be any more than sixteen.”

  “Sev … seventeen…” I mumbled. My lips felt thick and dry.

  “Oh? Well, that’s still a baby to me, my girl. Open your eyes now.”

  I struggled to obey her, reacting to the tone just as I always had to m
y mother’s no-nonsense commands. I winced from the light, then sighed as someone put something wet and cool on my forehead. It smelled of herbs – plants that I had known the names of once, before my mother had realized what I was and banned me from her stillroom. There had been no point in remembering their names after that.

  A woman was leaning over me. She was pale-skinned but deeply tanned; the fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth placed her age in the mid-sixties. Iron-grey hair straggled from an untidy knot at the nape of her neck. There was a funny mark on one side of her face, a blueish smudge that curved around her left eye onto one bony cheekbone. A tattoo. I squinted, trying to focus on it. Stars. Tiny flowers. A rabbit – no, a hare, staring up at the stars above one grey brow.

  “That’s my healer’s mark you’re gawping at,” the woman said briskly. “If you can see enough to gawp, your eyes are most likely all right.”

  “Where…?” My voice ran out and turned into a dry cough. My head throbbed and I groaned weakly.

  “Here.” The second man spoke again. “Let her drink this.”

  The woman brought a wooden cup to my lips. I sipped and then gasped as heat spread down my throat and into my belly. My head began to clear a little. I managed to whisper, “Thank you.”

  “Well, you were right, Lieutenant,” the woman said, arching an eyebrow. “She’s a fierce berserker assassin, all right. I should never have got you to unlock those manacles.”

  Unlock the manacles? I lifted my hands – arm muscles twitching feebly – and went weak with relief when I realized the chains were gone. I also saw that my wounded hand had been neatly bandaged with a clean cloth.

  “Where am I?” I croaked.

  “You’re at the royal hill-guard encampment and back in the cell you tried to escape from about ten minutes ago,” the healer said. “I’m Livia, and these other two are Captain Luca and his lieutenant, Arian.” She patted my arm, then began to stand, grunting with the effort.