Frost (5 page)

Down the westward length of the Gargassi Plain they sped in full moonlight. Only slightly faster than a normal horse, Ashur's endurance was supernatural, and the little brown nag that carried the old man strove valiantly to keep the pace. Long into the night they rode without rest.

Over Shazad, a great red eye shimmered briefly, searching the city for the Book of the Last Battle or for an aura only dimly perceived in the Great Forest.

In a small inn it found a lingering trace of that aura clinging to a shield of Esgarian manufacture
.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

Snug in her cloak, she stared at the wildly flickering campfire. A harsh, biting wind snatched away sparks and hot ash, sending them swirling into the night. Her own raven hair lashed her eyes.

She had never felt so weary, yet she could not sleep. Faces haunted her dreams, nightmares tormented her. She looked at the dark stains that spotted her sleeves. Asleep or awake, what did it matter. Visions of death pursued her.

In the distance, her companion stood at the edge of the high plateau where they were camped, keeping watch on the plain below. His tattered garments flapped noisily in the wind, and he hugged himself for warmth.

Perhaps it was some remaining vestige of her witch's instinct that told her they were being pursued. It was too dark to see though, and too cold for the old man to keep watch alone. She called him back to the fire.

“How's the shoulder?” he asked, settling down by the fire's warmth.

She touched the place where Than's sword had cut her and winced. It ached like hell, and she could feel the crusted blood crack when she moved it. “I'll live,” she announced, “no doubt to experience worse."

She studied the old man in the uncertain light. He wasn't really so old. Though gray at the temples, his face was just beginning to show the tracks of time. There was still vitality in those dark, deep-set eyes. She looked at his hands. Dirty and rough, but unwrinkled.

“Have you a name?"

He shrugged, peering into the flames. “I've been called many names since I left my homeland, not all of them complimentary.
Old man
will do awhile longer."

A silence broken only by the wailing wind hung between them. The fire began to dim and she added the last log to it.

“I thought Esgarians forbade their women to handle weapons,” her companion remarked casually.

She smothered her surprise with an effort. “How do you know I'm Esgarian?"

“You speak the Rholarothan tongue well, and almost without accent.” The old man smiled. “But only
almost
."

“For an old man you have keen ears."

A sudden wind fanned the campfire, sweeping smoke and glowing sparks beyond the plateau's edge. The old man shifted away from the flames, moving closer to Frost. She hugged her knees to her chest.

“To repeat, if I may—what makes an Esgarian woman take up the sword, contrary to the laws and customs of her people?"

She turned her eyes away. “It's not something I care to talk about."

“I sense pain in your heart,” he said softly. “Talking might ease it a little."

She slammed her fist on the ground, wincing at the jolt to her injured shoulder. “There is no pain,” she hissed, “and nothing to speak of, least of all to a stranger who won't give me his name!"

A shadow passed over the moon, causing her to glance upward. The sky was cloudless.

“The third one I've seen tonight,” the old man commented darkly. “By my soul, something searches for us, and I don't think it's Shazad's
governor
."

She nodded. “I've seen it, too. It's only a bird."

He shook his head. “More than a bird—an emissary. It will scour the land until it finds what it seeks, then report to its master."

“What do you know of such things? Are you a wizard or sorcerer?” She regretted the note of scorn in her voice, but a man who had permitted himself to be abused by the likes of Lord Rholf's sons was surely innocent to the ways of magic.

“I've traveled a few roads in my lifetime,” he answered evenly. “An old man with sharp ears can pick up bits and pieces of knowledge along the way."

His eyes reflected the firelight, and she saw a brief hint of something else there that vanished when he spoke again. “But what of you, Frost? With the limited knowledge that I have I can sense a subtle force locked inside you."

“Once, I was a witch.” She bit her tongue as she said it. Why should she open up to this old vagabond? Yet, what harm was done? He knew she was Esgarian, so he probably knew that, like all Esgarian females, she had received some tutoring in the mysteries of Tak, the witch-god. Still, she swore to guard herself more closely. He was too easy to talk to. She had already given him her name. “But I have no powers now."

The wind that swept the plateau grew colder. The chill caused her shoulder to ache bitterly, and she moved as close to the fire as she dared.

“I name this place
Cundalacontir —
Cursed by Wind.” The old man muttered as he gathered his robe close around his ankles.

“Too many people use that word without understanding its full horror."

He regarded her closely. “Is that your secret, Frost? Are you cursed?"

“By my mother's dying breath.” She sucked her lip and said no more.

Another shadow dimmed the moon, and Frost looked up to see the bird-thing abruptly swoop. Straight for them it came, pinions beating the air. For long minutes it circled above their camp. Then, with an unearthly cry it flew northward and disappeared in the night.

Furiously, the old man scooped dirt on the fire, extinguishing its light. Frost raced to the plateau's edge and searched the dark plain for any sign of pursuit. Nothing. She hurried back to her newfound comrade.

The wind died and the world became still.

“I'm leaving this place,” she declared suddenly. “We're too exposed in all this openness."

“I agree,” answered the old man. He gazed sullenly at the northern sky. “Something's afoot this night, and it seeks for one of us.” He turned meaningfully to face her. “I don't know which."

A little way off, Ashur and the old man's brown mare huddled together munching the scant grass. Frost gave a low whistle. The unicorn ran to her; the mare followed.

“You have a beautiful animal,” her companion praised. “In all my days I've never seen such a horse."

Frost smiled secretly. It seemed that to everyone else Ashur was just a horse. But Vericus and the dead raiders had seen Ashur, called him a monster and worse. Only the raider's son had called him a horse.

Once, her weapons-master had claimed a man's senses were sharpest when he was about to die. Were those words truer than her teacher had realized? Maybe, in the face of certain, terrible death even a mortal man could see enchanted forms as they really were.

Why, then, did she see a unicorn? Was it because the Stranger in the forest had given him to her? Or was it because her own end was drawing swiftly near? She had no answer.

When they were mounted they searched for the trail that led down to the plain. As they were about to descend, Frost jerked Ashur to a halt.

“My shield!” she cried. “I left it in Shazad."

“It can't be helped now,” the old man answered sternly. “Shazad is too far back and too dangerous for you."

She looked back in the direction they had come. “One by one, I've lost the things that belonged to my father: his horse, his saddle and now the shield that bore his sign. My past is being stripped away."

The old man urged his mare down the steep path. “If you want a future, then we'd better ride. There's only danger behind us."

Only danger lies ahead
, she thought.
What has man done to be so hated by the gods?

At the foot of the rocky trail they turned northward and sped across a dead landscape with only the pale moon's waning light to show the way. The constant jostling made her wound ache frightfully and the wind chaffed her face raw, but the pace remained swift and steady.

When at last she signaled to stop, the moon had fallen below the horizon and an eerie twilight lit the sky. Ashur's mane was flecked with lather, and the little mare, near exhaustion, wheezed for breath. Dismounting, they began a slow walk over the bleak countryside.

In the distant north stood the lonely, haunted peak of Drood Mountain.

“A place to be avoided,” Frost said ominously. She regarded the mountain pensively. Then, with a deep sigh she turned west toward Chondos.

“Chondos!” the old man whispered when he perceived their course. “What business have you in that dark land?"

“I seek a man,” she answered. “If you're afraid, ride away."

He pulled up his hood, concealing his face. “You didn't desert me at the Widow—can I desert you now?"

“A wise man would do so."

He gave no answer, and his steps never faltered.

Just before sunrise a huge, fat crow fluttered through a window into the private chambers of the wizard Zarad-Krul and perched upon the skull of some nameless god's idol. On his throne of black obsidian Zarad-Krul looked up from a ruby-colored ball that rested in his left palm. Rolling its eyes, preening its feathers, the crow shit a pile on the idol's head. Then, the bird hopped to the floor and paced before the dark throne, chittering in a vile tongue.

Zarad-Krul listened. Then his face twisted in a vague semblance of a smile.

When the sun was high, Frost and the old man at last made camp in a small grove. Water from a cool stream quenched their thirst, but only a handful of sour berries could they find to eat.

She sat wearily in the grass, propped against the trunk of a young tree and watched her companion. Some leaves near the water had caught his interest. Plucking them, he kneeled to wash the dust from his cache.

Gingerly, she touched her shoulder. Her left arm had been useless for hours, and the pain worried her. Some years back she'd seen a man lose an arm. Not a pretty prospect. She forced herself to think of other things.

Pressed against her belly, the Book was heavy inside her tunic, and she took it out. The ancient leather binding was warm with the heat of her body as she studied the carven runes upon it, wondering what story they told. She fingered the lock. It looked so old. She tried to insert a finger between the pages, an impossible task. Unsheathing her sword she drew the sharp blade along the cover near the lock. It would take no cut—not even a scratch.

After awhile, she laid the Book on the grass and closed her eyes.

A splash. She looked up to see the old man hurrying toward her, bearing something in his hands. Casually, she shifted her thigh to conceal the Book.

On a frond was smeared a handful of brownish slime from the stream's bank. Bits of grass and crumpled leaves were mixed with it. Placing the concoction carefully on the ground, the old man reached for her sleeve.

She pulled away. “What are you doing?"

Undaunted, he caught the material between his hands. “You're in pain,” he said curtly. “I've seen it in your eyes half the night."

No use denying it. She couldn't flex her arm. When she tried to make a fist the fingers only twitched.

With a tug the sleeve came away, exposing the gash. Gentle though he tried to be, tears misted her eyes as he scrubbed away the dried blood. Around the wound the flesh had turned an angry red. Dipping his fingers in the slime, the old man made a plaster. The mud was cool on her skin.

“This poultice will relieve the pain and draw out any poisons. We were lucky to find the right herbs in this part of the country."

She gave a deep sigh while her entire arm and shoulder was smeared with the strange medicine. In the hot sun it dried quickly, forming a stiff, soothing cast.

“It smells like wildflowers—very pleasant,” she said, sniffing.

“The herbs,” he answered and rose to his feet. “Now relax and let the plaster do its work. You need sleep, and I'm taking the watch."

Frost leaned back against the tree, the peculiar odor of the mud filling her senses. Her eyes closed, head dropped to her chest and she slept a dreamless, untroubled sleep.

The sun was below the trees when she awakened. The first pale star winked in the sky. Frost jumped to her feet. The old man had let her sleep too long. In fact, there must have been a drug in that poultice to put her out so quickly. She slammed a fist into her palm.

She expected pain. None came. Amazed, she flexed her arm. Nothing. Her fingers worked normally, too. She rubbed the limb briskly, flaking away the caked mud, exposing her shoulder. A livid scar, but the wound had sealed.

She looked around for her companion, spotted him by the stream, his back to her as he stared at the water. She started across the glade.

The Book. She had nearly forgotten. Turning to retrieve it, she stiffened. It was gone. She looked back at the stream, a cold anger creeping into her heart. A soft hiss of steel on leather, and her sword was in her hand.

As she came on, the old man rose, turned, faced her. In his hand was the Book of the Last Battle. Saying nothing, his dark eyes locked with hers.

The point of her weapon settled on his chest. “Give it back,” she said tersely.

He made no move. “Do you know what this is?"

“Give it back,” she repeated, a tremor in her voice. “I don't want to hurt you, but..."

“Do you know what you have?” The change in his voice was startling. No longer an old man's voice, but full of strength and urgency, it shook her to her soul.

“I know."

“What?” he shouted. “Say the words, woman—I must know that you know!"

She hesitated, reluctant to speak the name aloud. “The Book of the Last Battle."

His form seemed to swell, then sag. “Gods,” he muttered. “Oh gods! What have I stumbled into so blindly?"

No longer was he bent with age. His back straightened; he paced with a sure step. Regarding the small volume with horrible fascination, one fist clenched and unclenched. At last, his eyes shut tight as if in prayer, and when they opened, he held out the Book.