Frost (3 page)

“Bitch!” he shouted. “You miserable bitch! Ye're gonna pay fer this. Good boys, every one of ‘em, and that one with no hand my very own son! You'll wish ye'd laid down an' had it nice an' proper when ye had the chance ‘fore I'm through with ye now."

Vericus began to loosen his clothes, lust and hatred burning in his eyes. The others licked their lips, grinning in anticipation.

“Now lay ‘er down on the ground an' hold ‘er tight. Ye don't have to be none too gentle about it either."

Frost smashed her foot against the shin of one of her captors and got a fist in the stomach in return. She struggled, twisting, as her feet were jerked from under her. With a man on each limb they pinned her in the dirt.

Vericus ran filthy hands over her breasts and across her belly. When his fingers brushed something under her garment his face lit up.

“Hey, the bitch as been holdin' out on us, boys!” He shoved his hand roughly under her tunic and pulled out the Book of the Last Battle.

“No!"

The raider captain slapped her mouth before she could make another sound. His fist pressed down on her lips. “Don't ye worry now. Ye're not gonna be doin' much readin' anymore.” He threw the Book casually to one of his men. “Keep it. Might bring a copper or two later."

Dirty fingers clawed at her belt, and Vericus leered as her tunic fell open. She felt a flash of pain as his big hand pinched one breast.

“She ain't got much fer tits,” commented the raider who knelt on her sword-arm.

“They'll do,” Vericus huffed.

Frost stiffened, cursing her helplessness. She shut her eyes again to hold back tears, refused to feel the coarse hands that wandered so freely on her body.

Then, a peculiar distant cry interrupted his pleasure. Vericus looked questioningly at the others. They returned his puzzled gaze and shrugged.

The cry sounded again, unearthly.

Then, Frost felt a vibration in the road against her spine. Pinned as she was, she could still press an ear to the ground.

Hoof-beats, approaching fast. She arched, hoping for a view of the road behind.

A third time she heard the cry. Suddenly, her captors leaped up, reaching for swords, cursing, and calling on their gods.

Frost rolled over, stared.

A beast, a stygian nightmare from the lowest levels of hell, charged. Tail and mane lashed the air. Where eyes should have been there burned two wild, blazing spots of angry flame, and from its forelock sprouted a giant, twisted spike of gleaming obsidian, long as a man's arm.

Head lowered, the unicorn slammed its horn through the nearest raider. With a triumphant cry it tossed the screaming man over its back into the bushes.

She watched with a stunned gaze, then pulled her clothes together, snatched up her own sword. However dangerous the impossible creature might be, there was a score to settle, and she chose the closest of her attackers.

“Turn around, you pig!"

The man bearing the falchion spun at the sound of her voice. Her sword bit through his neck and shoulder, and blood fountained. Something fell from his lifeless fingers. The Book of the Last Battle. Frost thanked her own gods and scooped it up, thrust it back under her tunic. In her thirst for vengeance she had nearly forgotten about it.

She was spotted, though. One raider glanced at the unicorn, then at her, his face a pale mask of fear. Clearly, he thought her the easier foe, and with his long dirk he lunged. Her longer blade knocked his aside with an easy slash. Desperately, he struck again. She leaped aside and swung, but the man was nimble as she and dodged her blow. Another exchange, and he managed to circle past her to the open road, broke from the fight and ran, but she followed with quick strides. With a startled cry he toppled in the dirt, hamstrung by a clever stroke. She met his fearful gaze for just a moment, then thrust her point through his throat.

A scream made her turn as the unicorn's deadly hooves crashed down on a raider's skull. The beast reared again and pulped the same man's chest.

She looked around; only Vericus still stood.

The bandit captain saw her, too, and snatched a second sword from the hand of a dead cohort. Doubly armed, his eyes flickered from her to the unicorn and back again.

The unicorn pawed the earth and reared, snorting. The great horn, stained crimson, flashed as the creature shook its mane. Yet, it did not charge, and it seemed Vericus had won a short respite.

“Witch!” he shouted hysterically. “My boys—all dead!"

Frost kept her eyes on the unicorn, wary of the animal, but determined to see Vericus dead. She moved in slowly, sliding the shield from her back, holding it high on her right arm.

Vericus ranted. “Curse ye! Damn ye to hell, ye an' this demon!"

She stopped then, wondering at the unicorn. Vericus stood between her and the creature. If she killed him would it attack her?

“Ye an' that monster did ‘em in, an' now ye think ye got ol' Vericus. Well, ye'll not take me, witch!” He raised one sword and hurled it with all his might straight for her.

She didn't flinch, but casually lifted her own blade and knocked the glittering missile from the air.

But the motion seemed to enrage the unicorn. Kicking up dust, it charged Vericus. Defiantly, the raider drew back to strike at the lowered head.

His broad, undefended back to her, Frost acted instantly. Her own sword flashed across the short distance, sank to the hilt between his powerful shoulders.

The unicorn stopped in mid-charge, shaking its huge head.

Wide-eyed, a surprised Vericus touched the point that protruded from his body and sighed disbelievingly. Blood ran down the front of his hairy chest. He rubbed his hands in it and held them up to his eyes. His lips curled back in a curse. “Well, ye killed me too—damn ye, witch!” His knees buckled and he fell, sucking for a last breath that never came.

The unicorn paced slowly over and sniffed his bright blood. Then, it looked at Frost and snorted.

She could read nothing in the creature's face. Without her sword she was easy meat if it charged. She glanced around for a weapon with which to defend herself. Nothing. Her fist closed on the hilt of Demonfang; the dagger was better than no weapon at all.

Yet something about the unicorn seemed different. The fire where its eyes should have been wavered and dimmed. It pranced nervously among the bandits' bodies, stopping frequently to stare at her. Finally, the beast lowered its head and plodded shyly toward her.

She tensed, not quite drawing Demonfang. As if sensing her distrust the unicorn halted. It looked up at her and the flames that were eyes glowed softly.

Her fingers uncurled from the dagger's hilt.

The blood-caked horn slid under her arm as the unicorn muzzled her hand. Its breath was sweet and warm on her palm.

Cautiously, she stroked the animal between its strange eyes and down the broad face. It trembled beneath her hand as she rubbed the long neck, smoothed the tangled mane, her touch growing bolder with each passing moment.

The long legs were perfect, swift and strong with hooves larger than a normal horse's and shining black like the deadly spike on its brow. The tail swept the ground, so thick and lustrous.

She touched the horn, ran her hand over its length in awe and wonder. With a corner of her cloak she wiped the blood from it until it gleamed in the sunlight.

It confounded her how quickly a bond formed between her and this beast. Such animals existed only in myths, she told herself, or in hell. How could it possibly be standing here licking her fingers?

By chance, then, she brushed the silver hilt of Demonfang, and suddenly she recalled the words of the Stranger in the forest. The second weapon would come to her, he said. Did he mean the unicorn?

Resolutely, she wrapped her hand in the matted mane and leaped onto its back. It took two steps sideways and stood still. She breathed a sigh of relief. She had expected to be thrown, quite probably trampled. Instead, the unicorn seemed so tame it was difficult to remember it had killed two men.

She jumped down long enough to retrieve her sword from the raider captain's body. With a two-handed effort the blade came free, and she wiped it clean on the dead man's sleeve.

Once again she mounted the unicorn. No longer afoot she could make Shazad by nightfall, and at last be out of this damned forest.

“Wait,” a voice called weakly. “Please."

She looked back. The man Vericus had called son raised up on one elbow. He waved a bloody stump where his hand had been.

“Help me,” he pleaded.

She peered down at him, suddenly seeing another youth—her own brother. They looked alike, were about the same age, and she had stood over him, too, her sword dripping with his hated blood.

“The only thing I owe you is a blade through your worthless gut."

“You can't leave me here to die!” he sniveled, lifting the stump higher, pointing it accusingly at her. Red fluid squirted on the ground and soaked into the dirt, making dark puddles. It rolled down his arm into his sleeve.

Frost gazed at the pallid face. If the wound were bound and cauterized he might yet live, but she doubted it. She had seen such injuries before among her father's warriors. Almost always the blood turned to poison and the skin went green around the wound. Death was slow and painful.

Not that a raider's death mattered. She had worse sins to answer for. She nudged the unicorn with her heels and started down the road.

“How?” she heard him shriek. “How could this happen? A woman and a horse. I'm killed!"

That made her stop. She twisted in surprise. Was the boy blind or just crazed from despair? To call her steed a common horse. Vericus had seen the unicorn and called it a monster. The others had done the same.

On an impulse, she rode back to him and leaned from the unicorn's back. The raider youth sat up, regarding her with hopeful eyes.

“Maybe I will help you—if you answer a question."

He nodded eagerly.

“What kind of horse am I riding?"

He stared back dumbly and she repeated the question. “Answer, if you want my help."

His mouth warped in a cautious smile. “Well, it's a stallion, a big black."

Several minutes passed while she weighed his words. Then, unsheathing her sword, she plunged it through his heart. A quick death was more than a raider deserved.

The road through Etai Calan wandered northward for many miles. The webs that glittered in the tops of the old trees grew scarce, and soon she saw no more of them. The ancient, moss-covered giants gave way to younger trees as she neared the edge of the wood, and the wind bore a new smell—the smell of civilization.

As the sun sank in the sky, she emerged from the forest and looked across the Gargassi Plain at the gates of Shazad.

She stroked the unicorn's crest, murmuring the name she had chosen for him—Ashur, after the Esgarian God of War. Right now, he was a problem. In the city his peculiar eyes and shining horn would attract far too much attention, and she had no love of crowds. She threw a leg over Ashur's neck and slid to the ground.

Pulling a clump of grass, she held it for her newfound friend to chew. “Will you wait for me?” she whispered. Ashur nibbled the offering.

Watching to see if the creature would follow, she backed a few steps. Ashur raised his head and fixed her with those disconcerting eyes.

“I'll be back,” she promised.

That seemed to satisfy him. With a swish of his tail he began to munch more of the sweet grass.

Frost walked toward the gates. The failing light gave the Gargassi Plain a crimson cast. Through squinting eyes she peered at the dying sun and wished it did not remind her of the Eye of Zarad-Krul.

Her footsteps made little clouds of powdery dust. This plain was a legend among her people, for here, three hundred years ago the women of Esgaria, with magic and sorcery, had destroyed a Rholarothan army and saved their menfolk from a crushing defeat at the hands of King Gargassi.

The gates of Shazad were never closed. The walls were made only to keep money in, not keep out any that might spend it. There were no guards at the gate, either. Pulling the hood of her cloak over her face, she strode through the low archway into a broad lane. Garbage and refuse littered the streets. She wrinkled her nose at the stench.

But she had arrived at an ideal time; too late for honest folks, and too early for the sleazier crowd. She passed through the streets meeting only a few people. None attempted to speak to her. In Shazad strangers came and went as they pleased, and no one inquired about their business.

At last, she found an inn. A rough-hewn shingle hanging in front proclaimed it the Woeful Widow. An unlikely name, she thought, but she went in, noting three horses tethered near the door. She'd have company whether she wanted it or not, it seemed. She drew the cloak around her.

The waning sunlight traced her shadow on the tavern floor. Four pairs of eyes flickered briefly in her direction, and she smiled secretly. It amused her that they did not recognize her sex.

She took a stool at a long wooden table, unslung her shield and leaned it against the wall near at hand. Though it was clumsy to sit wearing a sword, she managed, pushing it down by her legs under the table.

The innkeeper, a nervous little man, hurried to serve her. Frost noticed how his eyes kept flitting to the three men on the far side of the room by the cold fireplace.

“Your pleasure, sir?"

She kept her voice low. “A room that's safe to sleep in, but first bring me something wet, preferably something with some sting to it; then bring a bite to eat.” Two gold
korgots
clinked on the table. The innkeeper swept them up with a quick, furtive motion.

“And tell me,” said Frost, “why you call this place the Woeful Widow?"

The innkeeper shot a glance at the three men. “Cause that's what my missus'll be if customers get too drunk and do me harm.” He scuttled away.

Frost rested her chin on her fists and regarded the three men from the concealing shadow of her hood. One seemed quite old. His brown garments were tattered and dusty, and a little hood covered his head. Bent over a bowl of posset he tried his best to eat in peace, but the two younger men who flanked him seemed determined to prevent that.