Frost (7 page)

Concentrating, she filled her mind with visions of bones and grinning butterflies. She imagined her bones mingled with Kregan's in the dirt, two wild daisies blossoming serenely in the eye-sockets of her skull.

She nurtured that thought and, slowly, feeling came into her left hand. Her fingers clenched tighter on the hilt of her sword. Her arm raised an inch—but no more. Zarad-Krul's Eye burned into her, perceiving her plan and thwarting it with a power that nearly numbed her mind. Tears scalded her cheeks; she felt herself slipping into a deep void, knowing she would never return.

Then, Ashur cried out, a sound of helpless agony. The echo of it beat at her brain. The unicorn bellowed again, each tune bringing her farther from the abyss the bloated Eye sucked her toward. She focussed her will on the sound, conjured images of the unicorn's suffering, used them to feed the rage and hatred that would weaken Zarad-Krul's spell.
We won't quit, Ashur
, she swore inwardly.
We won't die!

She strained against the wizard's power. Sweat rolled thickly down her face, neck, and arms. The sword quivered in her hand; the point lifted another inch. Her head began to throb; muscles ached as she battled for possession of her own body.

Her eyelids fluttered. With a furious effort she snapped them shut ...
 

And the spell shattered. In the instant Zarad-Krul's gaze lost hers her body and will became her own again. A savage snarl curled her lips. The sword flew up in a glittering arc.

Fierce, desperate, she hacked and pulled at the grass and flowers that encased the lower half of her form. Red, mottled circles marked her skin where the vampire plants had touched her. Kregan was nearly lost in the blossoms; only a little of his face was yet exposed. The legs of their mounts were similarly encased, but most of the plants had gone for the animal's throats. Neither Kregan nor Neri moved, transfixed by the Eye's power, but Ashur tossed his head wildly, though he could not flee.

Perhaps it was the peculiar nature of the unicorn's eyes, or the fact that he was, himself, a creature of magic that made him immune to the Eye's mesmeric spell. Frost had little time to wonder, recalling only the Stranger's words—that the unicorn was a weapon to aid her against Zarad-Krul.

She tore away the last of the vampire plants with a triumphant shout. Shielding her eyes with an uplifted arm, she swung her blade swung up, then down, meeting slight resistance as the steel edge sliced through membranous layers, cleaving the black pupil in half.

Steaming blood and humor splashed on the ground. The vampire blossoms threw themselves into the bilious liquid, thirsting, sucking it up.

Grim with satisfaction, she regarded her handiwork. The Eye reflected shock and pain as the loathsome thing emptied its fluid like a broken egg. The jaundiced ichor spilled from the wound, soaked into the earth, and the transparent husk that remained wobbled obscenely, then collapsed. She watched, revulsion knotting her stomach, as the husk dissolved in foul-smeiling vapor, leaving the earth stained with a black dew.

Then, unexpectedly, the raw edge of a psychic scream lanced her brain. When the shock of it passed she smiled cruelly, knowing that in distant Shardaha Zarad-Krul had gone permanently blind in one eye.

Freed from the trance, Kregan ripped at the flowers that clung to his body. His face a mask of fury, he shredded the vines that tangled his ankles, curled around his thighs. Ashur and Neri had already struggled free, and the unicorn diligently trampled the few remaining blossoms.

She smiled, but her joy was short-lived. Another sound chilled her heart. She glanced skyward, then at Kregan. He heard it, too—the steady flutter of soft wings.

“Your butterflies?” A quiet dread laced his words.

“Ride, man!” she called, leaping astride Ashur. “Like the breath of Hell was on your neck!"

They flew over the plain; their shadows quested far ahead, misshapen by the rugged terrain. To the right another shadow blotted the stars, a rhythmic thrumming that pursued them, beat their ears.

Kregan cast fearful glances over his shoulder and shouted against the rushing wind.

“If we can last until sunrise they'll leave us alone,” she yelled back.

Ashur would not falter; the unicorn's stamina was arcane. It was Neri she worried about. The little mare had a valiant heart but was too tired to keep the pace for long.

Yet, long before the first rays of morning lit the sky the sound began to fade. Frost looked up. Unexplainably, the shadow had turned north. She slowed Ashur's pace, suspecting a trick, but the swarm held to its new course. She motioned Kregan to stop.

“It's a long time till dawn, yet they're turning away."

The Chondite scratched his chin. “Zarad-Krul has exhausted himself tonight,” he offered at last. “Without the Eye, his will alone had to guide the insects. Over such a distance that kind of control would be a tremendous strain."

The insect horde disappeared, swallowed up in the dark. Frost and Kregan walked alongside their animals; Neri could be ridden no more that night.

“His madness has taken deep roots,” observed the Chondite. “There are many ways to see over the vast reaches, but with an inflated sense of the dramatic, the wizard chose to send an actual part of himself, leaving him vulnerable to physical attack."

“It allowed him to exercise his power, though,” she pointed out. “No illusion could have conjured those plants."

“True,” he admitted. “That kind of magic required more than just gazing into a scrying crystal from the safety of his tower. Still, he badly underestimated the resourcefulness of his foes. I'm a Chondite sorcerer, and you—something special."

She ignored his wink. “What will he do next?"

Kregan shrugged. “Who can anticipate a madman? But you've won the first round, at least. The wizard is undoubtedly suffering considerable pain from the wound you've dealt him."

“A small skirmish in a larger war,” she answered darkly. “And wounded animals are always the most deadly."

A flock of nocturnal birds flew overhead, winging south for the Calendi Sea. She recalled the bird-things at Cundalacontir. Emissaries, Kregan called them. Spies, she realized.

Their trail had been too easy to follow. So eager to reach Chondos, they had given no thought to evading an enemy. Too late to worry, now. Zarad-Krul had already discovered the direction they were travelling and just as surely had recognized Kregan's Chondite garb. It took no great magic to guess their destination.

“How far to Chondos?” she asked.

“Hard to say in this darkness. Another day's ride at a swift pace. Longer if we continue walking."

“I want to make the border by sunset,” she told her companion. “Will Neri last?"

“She'll last,” he answered confidently, “given a little rest now. But we can't cross the border at just any point we choose. The Cocytus River that separates Rholaroth and Chondos can only be forded at three places."

Frost tilted her head, frowning. “The closest place?"

“A causeway guarded at either side by Zondu in Rholaroth and Erebus in Chondos. The nearest point, but not necessarily the safest, considering how the Zonduns hate all Chondites. The other two points are natural crossings where the raging waters grow calm and shallow enough for a careful man to wade; they lie farther to the north."

“Then we ride to Zondu."

“It will be dangerous for you, too,” he warned. “By now Lord Rholf will have our descriptions from that innkeeper, and honor demands he avenge his sons, no matter that they provoked the fight. It's the Rholarothan way; they believe damnation awaits any man who does not avenge his kin."

“What are you saying?” Frost demanded impatiently.

“If word of your fight has reached Zondu we could be riding into a trap. The law would hold you until Rholf came."

“We've ridden very fast with only short rests."

“A determined rider with a string of fresh horses could have been faster."

But there was no choice. When night descended, Zarad-Krul would strike again. Chondos offered possible safety. There, Kregan would find the right sorcerous tools to fight back; he'd have his brotherhood to help. Together, they'd find a hiding place for the Book. Whatever the risk in Zondu, they had to make Chondos by nightfall.

As the first rays of an early sun painted the sky they halted on the edge of a rocky crest. A vast, barren expanse stretched for miles, not quite a desert. No trees or farmhouses dotted the land, no clump of grass grew in the sun-baked earth.

“The Zondaur,” Kregan said, indicating the plain with a sweeping gesture.

“The Last Warning,” she translated.

Beyond the Zondaur ran the Cocytus, called the River of Lamentations. Its poisonous waters succored no forests, no groves, no tree, flower or blade of grass. No fish swam there, and no creature drank from its muddy banks.

And beyond the river—Chondos. Where men who were not completely human worked vile sorceries. Demons and monsters roamed freely there, feasting on infants' blood, begetting more monsters on the willing bodies of Chondite women.

At least, so the legends told. This much she knew: to sane men Chondos was another name for the Nine Hells.

She swallowed. “Before your friend died in Etai Calan he dismissed the tales of your homeland as rumors spread to scare off unwanted intruders."

Kregan raised an eyebrow. “A long time ago a foolish young Rholarothan king named Tordesh refused to believe those tales. He saw Chondos as a land to be conquered, made his own. Talk of sorcerers and demons and ghouls he dismissed as peasant superstition. No living soul had ever been seen on the west bank of the Cocytus. Surely a kingdom of any size at all would have posted border guards. No, he told his people, if anyone lived in Chondos they must be uncivilized barbarians or tribal primitives. They would stand no chance at all against an invading army.

“So deaf to the pleas of his advisors, hungry for conquest, Tordesh began to build a causeway over the raging Cocytus. The two natural fording points were prone to unpredictable flooding; the causeway would insure an open line for his armies and supply caravans."

She listened, fascinated.

“The construction site, a small camp at first, grew quickly into a city as wine merchants, gamblers and honey-scented women crossed the Zondaur to vie for the workers' coins. Soon, the streets were full of prostitutes, murder in every alley, brawls and drunkenness. Almost as a joke they named the city
Zondu
, meaning ‘warning.'

“Construction went slow. Each night the swift Cocytus seemed to wash away the day's progress. But Tordesh pushed his men hard, never sparing the lash when they dared to grumble. Soldiers worked beside common laborers, and if some were swept away, drowned, it was no matter. Lives meant nothing to a king, but the causeway and the conquest of Chondos meant everything.

“At last the broad, gleaming structure was completed. The waters of the Cocytus churned angrily, but Tordesh and his armies could pass over in safety.

“He planned a three-pronged invasion. Tordesh would lead one division over the causeway. Two commanders would each lead other divisions across the two natural points. One would push north, one south, and the other straight to the heart of the country. Then, the three would unite to finish off any remaining pockets of resistance.

“The night before the invasion the young king plied his men with wine. Every keg in the city was opened; the streets were purple with grapes' blood. Women were caught, used, sometimes even paid. From the balcony of his private chamber, Tordesh tossed coins to the throng, laughed drunkenly as they scrambled in the mud for his bits of gold. They cried his name, and he proclaimed himself King of Rholaroth and of Chondos, and of all he surveyed.

“Next morning Tordesh sat astride a snow-white horse, his army assembled behind him. On his brow glittered the crown of Rholaroth. The finest robes and richest jewels adorned his body. His father's two-handed great sword hung in a scabbard by his side.

“A wild light shone in his eyes and he assured his men of a quick victory. Scouts had returned over the causeway. No Chondite force opposed them; no slightest sign of resistance could be found. Loudly, he boasted that Chondos would fall without losing a single Rholarothan life.

“He wheeled his horse about. The causeway gate stood open, waiting. Drawing his sword, he lifted it high. The sun glinted on the polished blade, dazzling any who looked upon it, and they took this for an omen of triumph. With a flourish, Tordesh led his singing soldiers through the gate.

“As they rode forward a sound filled the air, the ringing of countless crystal bells. The causeway trembled suddenly. Horses shied, reared in terror, throwing hapless riders. A powerful gale rose up. The waters of the Cocytus heaved; great tossing waves snatched the falling bodies of luckless, unbalanced warriors.

“At the very center of the causeway Tordesh clung stubbornly to his reins and urged his army on.

“The tremors ceased. The river calmed.

“As they watched with fear-filled and uncomprehending eyes, the air began to shift and shimmer. A city like none they had ever dreamed appeared on the opposite bank, shrouded in mist that quickly melted in the morning sunlight. The end of the causeway was swallowed up by the black mouth of a skull-crested gate.

“Twisted, smooth-sided towers reared in warped magnificence, challenging the sky, each crowned with an evil gargoyle. Along spires and rooftops foul, bat-winged demons licked claws and fangs imbrued crimson. An immense wall of black rock encircled the arcane fortress, and atop the palisade the souls of damned men screamed and writhed in sculpted torment.

“Soldiers threw up their hands in despair, covered their eyes from the sight. Moaning and lamentation swelled from the throats of seasoned warriors. Some ran back to the gates of Zondu; some threw themselves desperately into the river, choosing drowning over a worse imagined fate.

“The king's commanders, faces pale with fear, pleaded for the safety of Zondu's walls, but Tordesh was adamant. He strove to rally his troops. Brandishing his great sword, he urged them to advance.