The Frostfire Sage

by Steven Kelliher

  “Shifa …”

  Kole turned as much as he could without exposing himself to the twins, who watched him closely. He saw his furred companion limping along the back edges of the bowl, her side slick. She growled, signaling her desire to return to the fight, but Kole held a hand up toward her.

  “Lost the will, then, Ember?” the female taunted.

  “Quite the opposite, actually.”

  The male straightened and crossed his blades in front of him. He actually dipped into an approximation of a bow, and Kole could see the martial intent. Where had this one trained? Who was his master?

  It was difficult to reconcile the images of the warriors before him with the chaotic storm of darkness he always imagined the World Apart to be, with its Dark Kind, Sentinels and Night Lords. A new thought occurred to him on the back of that one.

  “You had help coming through,” he said.

  The twins glanced sidelong at one another. When they faced forward, the male gave a slight nod.

  “What’s happened to your world?” Kole asked. He felt his blood pumping, veins expanding and contracting. It was painful and exhilarating, and he took care to keep the colors of his blades from changing, lest he betray the reason for his delay.

  “Darkness,” the female said.

  “Darkness and death,” her brother followed.

  Kole felt his heat reaching a crescendo. He would have to unleash it soon, but something gave him pause. These warriors from another realm, however strange and however lethal, did not feel like enemies. Not truly.

  “Do you truly mean to stop it?”

  The male let his blades drop ever so slightly, and the female stepped in front of him, her grip tightening around the sharpened edges of her latest spur.

  “Aye,” the male said. Kole watched him closely. Watched his eyes. They were bloody pink, but there was enough in them Kole could find common.

  Kole gritted his teeth. He let out a growl that had the twins eyeing him as if he were a mad dog.

  And then he let it go. The heat. The fire. He straightened and pulled it all back, allowing his blades to go black. The air shimmered around him, making the strangers look as if they watched him through a veil of water, or a portal to another world.

  At first, they seemed to think it was some trick, and Kole thought the female might send that spur right for him, too quick for him to dodge or burn away. He thought the male might leap skyward and bring his blades down in a final judgment on a fool who chose to hope at the edge of the world, in lands far from his own.

  But then they, too, relaxed. The sky grew darker as more clouds rushed in from the east and north, but the darkest came from the south, blanketing their bowl in long, blue shadows.

  “You have seen reason, then,” the male said.

  “Reason enough to listen, at least.” Kole pointed one of his black blades at him. “Whether or not I like what I hear is up to you.”

  Another flash from the west, and Kole peered back down the tunnel. The uneven floor and warped ceiling made it impossible to see back into the hall of mirrors in which Jenk fought, but he could see bright reflections, like a hundred dancing candles.

  “Let us go to your friend,” the female said. “And we will stop ours from ending him, before it is too late.”

  “I could say the same,” Kole said. “I’m through with doubting that one.”

  He turned and began to move in that direction, but a new voice froze him on the spot. This one was sonorous. Royal, even. It sounded like the voice of a prince, or a courtier.

  “Stand, Ember. Stand, so that you may fall.”

  Kole had only been familiar with the champions of the World Apart for a short time, and even then, only a few of their company. Already, he was beginning to see the differences between them.

  Where the red beast Jenk fought in the icy depths was broad and sharp, the white twins were slender and agile. Where their bones glittered, reflecting the white of the land on which they fought, the newcomer’s were dull, taking on the pallor of death.

  He was tall and well-muscled. His hair, though white, was not silky and flowing like the pair before him, but rather dry and tangled, like horsehair. His eyes were dark, almost black, though Kole could spot their centers, and his form—nude like the rest—was plated in thicker, coarser bone that reminded Kole of a mix of coral and ore from the underside of a mountain.

  When he smiled, his teeth were razors, sharp as the sharks Bali Swell spoke of out in the gap that separated Last Lake from the open sea.

  “Kill him.”

  The words did not match his bearing nor his disposition. And his tone did not match the tenor of his voice.

  Kole edged backward as Shifa moved up. He felt the hound’s muzzle against the back of his leg, felt her shaking through the contact.

  The twins did not immediately respond. They looked at the newcomer with familiar gazes, though cautious, and Kole couldn’t begin to guess the long dynamics at play.

  The male pointed at Kole with one of his blades. “He wishes to parlay.”

  “It is a trick, I am sure,” the newcomer said. It seemed to Kole that he wasn’t trying so very hard to make them believe it. He said a thing and expected them to do it, and when the twins eyed one another a second time, his expression changed. It was subtle—a slight downturn to his boney brow and a smoothing of the smiling creases that marred his ash-gray face—but Kole felt a coldness come over him on seeing it.

  “We are to kill the Witch’s champions only if they wish to fight,” the female said.

  “And what have the lot of you been doing all this time, if not precisely that?”

  The newcomer made a show of looking around. He stepped freely through the bowl, kicking over the loose, jagged spikes and glancing past Kole and toward the glittering tunnel beyond him. He made his way on a crooked path toward the twins, and Kole noticed the way the male shifted and squared to meet him, his hands tightening along the grips of his blades.

  The female, apparently, was more trusting, or maybe she was just protective of her brother. Either way, she did not move, only watched the newcomer approach.

  “Alistair,” she said. “Valour told us to take them, if we could. To take them alive.” She pointed at Kole without looking at him. “This one has questions. Questions we can answer. When he knows the truth, he will turn against the Frostfire Sage, and we will have our victory.”

  “Will he?” Alistair asked, pausing for a brief moment to look askance at Kole. “Will you?”

  Kole didn’t think he expected an answer, so he didn’t give one.

  The ashen jester continued to look around, marking the edges of the bowl, the clouds roiling overhead, the position of all those feet in the vicinity that were not his own. Though he walked with a casual air, he did so with a grace that belied his poise. This man was trained in the ways of combat, and Kole had a feeling that he was formidable, if for no other reason than the healthy respect—if not outright fear—his younger brethren showed him.

  When he was very close to the twins, both of whom froze in his presence like cats expecting at any moment to be struck, he heaved a heavy sigh that did not sink his chest or lower his shoulders.

  “The Embers have been in the queen’s thrall for some time, now,” he said.

  “Not so long,” Kole interjected. A shadow passed across Alistair’s face, but he didn’t respond directly.

  “What do you think will happen as soon as you let your guard down with one such as he?” Alistair continued addressing the twins.

  The female twitched an eye in Kole’s direction, and Alistair moved so fast Kole could barely register the motion. The female’s white head and flowing hair were parted neatly from her shoulders. The head struck the ice between Kole and the trio with a wet sound and did not roll.

  Kole swallowed his shock and looked beyond the grisly
sight, where Alistair now stood with a bone blade he had not held before. The white swordsman stood on shaking legs, staring in a mix of horror and disbelief at the crumpled form of his sister. When he followed the stray splatter to her discarded head, his face took on all the rage Kole would have wanted to see on one in such circumstances.

  He leapt backward, and Alistair watched him go, giving the impression that he could have stopped him if he had wanted it. The male flipped in the air, struck the side of the bowl at a horizontal angle, and launched himself toward his gray ally-turned-adversary.

  Kole watched Alistair take in the younger warrior’s approach. He stood with that bone blade held loosely, unmoving and unafraid. His mouth was not pulled into the savage grin it had been before, but was pursed tightly, his eyes dispassionate.

  Alistair shifted his lead foot so slightly it took Kole a moment to register, and then he swung his blade up. Kole was ready for the speed this time, and so he saw the strike, albeit barely. It was too early. The gray blur for a blade passed in front of the newcomer’s chest before the hurtling warrior reached him, but Kole did not think Alistair looked like the picture of defeat.

  Alistair allowed the momentum of his strike to pull him into a turn. He spun on his heel, exposing his back to his attacker. The twin could not alter his course, and Kole saw his hungry eyes go blank and his jaw slacken. The air distorted just in front of him, and Kole heard a sound like the sharp whistle of wind whipping mixed with parchment ripping.

  The warrior’s path took him past Alistair, where he hit the ice and slid unceremoniously toward the eastern edge of the bowl. Kole did not see his back rise once with a last breath. That had been spent on the charge. He was still, and dead, and as Kole watched, a bright red line split him from the back of his neck to the boney plate that ran the length of his spine.

  Alistair stood over his victim, blade held loosely in his right hand. Kole saw his left tensing, opening and closing. He thought he saw that same strange distortion over the long gray nails that could have been called claws, but it was difficult to know for certain.

  “Not a swordsman, then,” Kole said, trying to inject his voice with a measure of calm. In truth, he felt anger. Jenk was fighting a red demon just a short distance away, and Linn, Misha and Baas were battling the Eastern Dark himself just beyond that. The thought made him eager, but not angry.

  What made him angry was seeing the way this man, this creature from another realm, this Alistair, discarded his own so quickly, so dispassionately, as if they were little more than clinging flies in the muck.

  “Oh,” the man said, lifting his head with reluctance, black eyes meeting Kole’s amber ones. “I am that.” He squared his body to Kole, held the blade-bearing hand out while keeping the empty one down at his side, clawed fingers pointing downward. “And so much more. My fellows,” he smiled, “former fellows, I guess you could say, while young, are no doubt … enthusiastic.” He tossed his head nonchalantly at the split corpse of the male. Kole could see the line had grown thicker, blood leaking out to dry in the hollows of his natural armor. “Hathien was born with potential. I fought alongside his father in the Jhor Cataclysm—”

  He paused as if he heard something on the wind, head tilting in an animal way. “Ah, but I’m forgetting myself. You wouldn’t know of that. You wouldn’t know anything of my world.” He looked around, outside of the frosted bowl, his eyes seeming to pierce the very fabric of the land. Kole did not think he did it for show. “Just as I know little of yours. Only what it is to become. Only what it must become.”

  Kole’s head was spinning. His blood began to boil once more, and already the air was beginning to shimmer above his Everwood blades. If Alistair noticed, he did not seem concerned.

  “And what must become of my world, demon?”

  “Demon.” Alistair tasted the word. “Monster? You call me monster.” He nodded, as if it made sense. “I see why you would think it. But, bright Ember, you must understand this, if nothing else: for one world to live, often another must die. I railed against that truth. Fought against inevitability incarnate. Fought hard, and lost much. Now, I know the truth of it. If we had been different, perhaps we could have avoided what became of our world. If your Sages,” he spat into the salt, “and even your mighty Landkist—as you call them—had been less proud and less prone to war, to killing to serve their ends, perhaps you would have avoided it as well.”

  “You speak in riddles,” Kole said. He began to walk toward the ashen man, whose eyes widened. He was surprised.

  “I don’t care what happened to your world,” Kole said. “I only care what you plan to unleash on mine.”

  “You mistake the source,” Alistair said. He didn’t move from the spot, only watched Kole as he drew closer. “It was not I, nor any of my kind, who set the darkness on you.”

  “It was our own Sages,” Kole said. “Yes. I know. We’ve been fighting those beasts my entire life. The Dark Kind. The Sentinels.”

  “Sentinels.” Alistair’s face shifted. “Dark Kind. Night Lords. Such trivial names you have given to beings of such former majesty, it puts this frozen waste of a land and all its glittering, once-proud keeps to shame. Only the barest shadows have slipped through the rifts these last centuries. Only hints and shades of the true thing.”

  Kole stopped just a few strides from the other man.

  “Is that what you are?” Kole asked, nodding at the broken bodies in the bowl. “Is that what they were? The truth of the Sentinels? Proud warriors of your world, changed to slaves of darkness on the passage through?”

  “You would dismiss the thought—”

  “I don’t care,” Kole said. “I thought I made that clear. I’m not here to help the Frostfire Sage. I’m not here to kill the Eastern Dark—though I will.” Kole ignited his blades, burned them the deepest amber he could muster, head swimming, eyes misting over. “I’m only here to do one simple thing.”

  “What’s that?” Alistair sounded interested, but his voice went low with threat.

  “To save them.”

  “Whom?”

  “Whoever’s worth it,” Kole said. “I’ll let others decide on the last. I won’t pretend to know your end, Alistair, except to say that it doesn’t match mine. If your end goal results in bringing whatever Beast features most heavily in your riddles and poems into this world, into mine, then this is where your road ends.”

  “Ah.” Alistair grinned wickedly, all white and yellow teeth. “But he is a Beast. All glory. And born of all the sins your kind would commit in turn, given enough time. Just as we had.”

  “Raise your sword,” Kole said. “I’d like to tell you it’ll be quick … but that all depends on you.”

  Alistair’s smile dropped. “Fair play, Ember, and well met. But I will say, I can make the promise you cannot.”

  “Try me.”

  “Gladly.”

  Alistair was as good as his word. He came on like a wolf, gray bone blade flashing in front of his ashen skin. If Kole hadn’t flooded his own veins with liquid fire, he’d have been killed on the spot. If he hadn’t twisted at just the right angle on the second strike, he’d have been killed on that one.

  Kole tried to respond. His warrior’s instincts took over, his martial mind turning from thoughts of who Alistair was and why he had come to survival. Kole had always counted on his offense to get him out of difficult spots. He only had to hope it would again.

  Shifa watched from the shadows along the southern end of the bowl while Kole and Alistair fought in the center. They exchanged three times, and all three times, neither of them struck. Even the short crescents of fire Kole trailed from his blades were more an attempt to keep his opponent blinded than to cause injury. On the fourth exchange, Kole met resistance, his left blade cracking off Alistair’s sword. The man was strong—far stronger than Kole had at first thought—and he held his strike there with ease.
>
  Kole’s eyes widened as he remembered Alistair’s opposite hand nearly too late. He broke off from the exchange and darted back as that clawed hand lanced up, fingers pointed. The strike would not have landed even had Kole remained in place, but as he leaned his head to the right, he heard a sharp whistle past his left ear. It was followed by a stinging sensation in his shoulder.

  Kole hit the frost hard on his right and completed a clumsy roll. He came up onto his knees and brought his twin blades together on the flats, points aimed at Alistair. Or he tried to. His right rose first and the jet of red flame Kole had intended flared out, forcing Alistair to dodge. The left was slower, and as Kole got it into the same place, the jet it sent was more a drunken tongue of yellow and orange. He felt a burning in his shoulder, and as he let the flames die down—they left a melted, scorched trail in the frost all the way to the southeastern edge of the bowl—he spared a glance and saw blood leaking from a thin cut in the black armor.

  As he turned, he noticed something resting on the ice where he had grappled with Alistair. He squinted, recognizing a missing silver-black length of armor, along with a shock of his own hair.

  “What is it, then?” Kole asked, getting to his feet. He shrugged his shoulders up, wincing as his left protested. The gash was deep, but it would soon scab over. He only hoped the sinew beneath would hold together long enough to get him through this fight.

  Alistair was circling, curling his way around the bowl toward the north. Kole saw Shifa edging toward him, following in his wake. He held his right hand up to stay her once more, earning a weak growl. She had lost blood. More than him, and she had no fire with which to close wounds that could prove to be fatal if they weren’t addressed soon.