Frost (25 page)

“So what's different now?” She considered a moment. “Are you telling me I'm going to die?"

Rhadamanthus shook his head, an expression of pain lingering on his face. “I don't know, child. The vision has gone wrong.” He folded his hands. When he opened them again a bowl of water rested on his palms. She had seen him use that bowl before, his scrying bowl, but now there was a crack in it, and the water seeped slowly out and ran through his fingers, “The future we foresaw days ago in Erebus is no longer valid. Aecus has lost his reason; we didn't foresee that. Nor did we foresee this second engagement with a Shardahani army. We killed too many of them—there should be no such force."

He folded his hands again, and the bowl disappeared. “Now we can see nothing. Too many incalculable factors have entered the fray, powers we didn't even suspect. All our fates are in question now."

“You think the Book is safer here?"

“Every Chondite has pledged to defend Demonium with his soul. Place the Book on the altar stone. That is the very center of our defense. One third of our warriors will remain below to protect this place, and I'll be right here.” He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “If Zarad-Krul wants the prize he'll have to fight every step of the way."

She hesitated, but the old man's reasoning was sound. She had carried it for so long, endured so much to safeguard it. It was not easy to entrust it to others. But at last she unslung the pouch and held it out to Rhadamanthus.

He stepped back, averting his eyes. “Take it to the stone. I held it once when it first came to Chondos. I will not touch it again."

A horn-blast made her look out over the field. The troops were moving without her. She bit her lip. Rhadamanthus said no more. The quiet, ominous monoliths waited. The altar stone waited. Steeling herself with a weak smile she stepped inside the great triangle.

The earth didn't open and the sky didn't fall. Slowly, she let go the breath she had held so long and extracted the Book. How heavy it seemed now. She was almost tempted to shove it back in the pouch and flee, but reluctantly she placed it on the altar.

A long sigh shook her, and she felt suddenly relaxed, a state she hadn't known in days. She tossed the leather pouch down beside the Book, gave it one last glance and turned away.

Rhadamanthus stood on the rim, watching below.

She wasted no more time in talking, but descended the path quickly, easily, now that she was familiar with it. Ashur waited impatiently at the bottom. Someone, probably Kregan, had hung a new round-shield on the saddle to replace her battered one. Fitting it to her arm, she climbed onto the unicorn's back and set off in pursuit of the army.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

She caught up to her comrades easily. Both armies had stopped their charges with some distance remaining between them. The leaders regarded each other across the eerie field. Frost reined up beside Aecus, Minos, Kregan and Hafid.

“How in Gath's Nine Hells could an army that size cross Chondos without your knowing it?” she spat. “They're at least as many as the first force."

Aecus shook his head. “They moved fast. Killed our scouts and collected the bodies of their dead before we knew it."

She had noticed that. The field should have been littered with bodies. The Chondites had gathered their own fallen after the battle, but uncounted Shardahani corpses had been left to rot. They were all gone.

“They're just sitting out there,” grumbled Hafid. “What are they waiting for?"

“What are we waiting for?” Aecus muttered. Drawing a deep breath he raised the war horn to his lips. The troops readied their weapons, leaned forward in the saddles, anticipating the attack.

A wall of flame shot up crackling between the two armies. A scorching wind blew stinking black smoke into the Chondite ranks.

Frost cried out, fought to control her panicked steed. The smoke stung her eyes, filled her nostrils with a fetid odor. A fit of coughing wracked her, and the hot air seared her lungs. She twisted, trying for a glimpse of Demonium, recalling how Rhadamanthus had conjured such a wall before.

But this was not his doing.

The flames died; only a pillar of thick smoke remained, reaching into the sky, and from that came laughter to freeze her soul—deep, maniacal laughter that drowned the astonished shoutings of her allies. She had heard that bitter voice before and knew its owner. A cold hand clutched her heart as the pillar began to dissipate, revealing the man-shape within.

Zarad-Krul!

The wizard threw back his head and laughed again. The jewels and chains that adorned his otherwise naked flesh shook with the intensity of his mirth. He raised his hands in mystic gesture.

A second, more potent wind whipped across the plain at Zarad-Krul's command, raising clouds of choking dust, blowing unwary Chondites from their mounts. Frost cowered behind her shield to avoid the chunks of earth, pebbles and loose material that flew in the gale's wake, clinging to Ashur's back with her knees, one hand tangled in his mane until the wind ceased.

Then, a blast of thunder. Scarlet lightning laced the darkness, lending the land a blood hue. Zarad-Krul pointed to a boulder a short distance away. Bolt after smoking bolt, like angry serpents' tongues, suddenly lashed the stone, beating, hammering until it took on a new shape. In moments, where once was a common boulder stood a thing like a monstrous scorpion carved from solid rock.

Frost stared at the ugly pincers, the three great stinging tails, the dark and horrible maw that gaped with hunger. Her stomach churned, muscles knotted in fear. Yet, she could not tear her eyes from the evil genesis taking place.

The lightning's fury grew, streaking the night with veins of fire. The stone scorpion trembled as eldritch energy flowed into it. The pincers flexed menacingly; the stings curled over its back, black and venomous, long enough to pierce an armored man through. Two dark eyes that shone with ancient evil opened, glared at the Chondites.

Zarad-Krul's laughter filled the night, reminding Frost of stories that the cosmos was created with music. Now, she had a fearful vision that it was the Wizard-lord's mad laughter that gave birth to his Dark Allies.

Kregan sucked in a breath. “Nugaril,” he named the creature.

Next, the very fabric of the night began to shift, coalesce in subtle ways. The air turned icy; the clouds swirled. At the other side of the field another creature took shape, man-like, but far greater in stature, a giant. Born of the night itself, it was a shadow without flesh or feature.

“Mentes?” she shouted.

Kregan nodded.

The wizard's laughter reached an insane crescendo that ate away her courage. Alone, she would have fled. Only the presence of her friends and a fear of shaming herself before them made her stay. She gazed on the Dark Gods, Zarad-Krul and his vast army, wondering what Hell on earth was about to unfold.

With a mad cry, Aecus drove spurs into his mount and flew across the field toward Shardaha's master. The Chondite captains looked to Minos for orders to charge, but that elder gave a stem glare, bade them hold their men.

A red rage fell on Frost. She drew her blade.
Damn my fear, then. Better to die with a lone fool than an army of cowards.
But Minos backed his horse, blocking her way. Kregan caught her arm.

“Stay,” the elder commanded. “I gave no order to attack."

She stared dumbfounded at the old man's impassive face.

“It's his choice to go alone,” Kregan whispered, a glimmer of sorrow in the depths of his dark eyes. “We foresaw his single combat with the wizard before Rhadamanthus' vision went wrong. Only the outcome is in doubt. If he wins then victory is ours without further battle. If not...” His voice trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken.

Her sword fell back into its sheath, but Kregan's hand did not leave hers. Together, they watched the lone rider that sped toward Zarad-Krul.

A few scant paces from the Wizard-lord, Aecus leaped from his horse. Free of its burden, the frightened animal raced away, its furious hooves cracking sparks from the glowing stones. Yanking the staff from his back, the Elder of the Argent Cup scratched a hasty circle in the dirt and thumped the ground three times.

A massive bubble of earth and rock swelled around his foe, climbing his form, swallowing, finally burying the wizard before he could utter a sound or make a move.

A mighty cheer tore from a thousand Chondite throats.

Yet, in the space of a heartbeat the mound cracked, turned to ash and dust that was borne swiftly away on an unnatural wind. Unharmed, Zarad-Krul roared with laughter and gestured. In his upraised hand an ebon splinter, a piece of the night itself, solidified. A spear whose barbed point dripped with a foul poison.

Zarad-Krul let fly. Straight for Aecus' heart the evil shaft sped, and the elder made no effort to dodge. At the last fleeting second his staff moved, seemingly of its own will, and deflected the occult lance. At that same instant the Chondite shouted an ancient name.

Roots, brown and twisted, sprang up from the barren soil, entwining the Shardahani in a choking embrace. Twice more the staff struck the earth; the ground turned to mire that sucked the wizard down as the roots strangled the breath from his struggling body.

But somehow, Zarad-Krul freed his hands. A wave, a clap and the earth turned solid once more. One danger averted, he craned his neck and spat a slimy wad of saliva on the roots. They withered and died. He shrugged off the brittle remains.

One summoned wind, but a greater wind countered it. Water quenched fire. Shivering cold fought parching heat. Zarad-Krul sent two of his hellish bird-things screaming for his foe's eyes, and the stones of the field became deadly missiles streaking to the Chondite's defense.

Frost watched it all, fascinated, cheering with the other warriors when Aecus gained an advantage only to see him lose it before the cheer fully left her lips. Still, she found a grim hope, for Zarad-Krul wasted no more energy on laughter. All his power was focussed on the duel.

Incredible forces shook the land, ravaging the terrain as the battle raged. Deep wounds, jagged gashes scarred the countryside. The air stirred nervously, full of dust and strange odors. Sparkling bolts, incandescent fires illumined the darkness, burned briefly, winked out. Then, as if by some unspoken consent, both adversaries ceased their manipulations. Unmoving, their hate-filled eyes locked.

Frost squeezed Kregan's arm. “What's happening?"

“A direct contest of wills.” He could not look away from the scene. “One mind against another on the astral plane."

“A rare opportunity,” Minos commented with unusual coolness. “We may discover which is the stronger motivating force in the human spirit: the lust for power or the thirst for vengeance."

Frost glared. “Damn your hard heart! The man's your friend."

He returned her gaze with utter detachment. “Yes, he is. And it's not for you to pass judgment on my feelings at this moment, is it."

She saw it then, the pain in his eyes. Fear for the safety of a friend. Or a brother. She nodded apology and understanding.

Interminable minutes dragged by. Neither Aecus nor Zarad-Krul showed a sign of weakening. The silence hung thicker than the obscuring clouds above. Not a sound came from either army: no cry, no clank of weapon or creak of armor. Even the animals kept still, sensing the tension.

Then, Zarad-Krul twitched; his eyebrow arched ever so slightly. A hand went to his temple, and pain flashed over his face. The Chondites went wild. A jubilant shout rose over the plain as the wizard's knees buckled and he collapsed screaming.

Aecus loomed over his foe. His long sword came out of its sheath for the death-stroke.

But suddenly, triumphant cheers turned to cries of anguish and outrage as Nugaril scuttled to the wizard's side on six stony legs.

Frost opened her mouth, but no sound came. Petrified, she watched the Dark God snatch Aecus up in one great claw and squeeze him until the blood gushed out. With casual indifference he dropped the sorcerer's broken body into his yawning maw and swallowed.

No command from Minos could hold the angry Chondites back. They surged forward, crying vengeance.

Astride her unicorn, Frost lunged ahead, that final image of Aecus' death forever burned in her mind. A length of steel blossomed in her left fist as she steered her mount straight for Zarad-Krul. All that mattered was to spill his blood.

Yet, speed and fury won nothing. Nugaril lifted the black-hearted conjurer from harm's path and rapidly carried him to a rock escarpment a safe distance away.

The Chondites roared.

An opposing roar went up. The army of Shardaha charged.

The two sides met with a clamorous din, no order or strategy to the fighting, only a contest of unbridled savagery. The clang of steel on steel, the whine of arrows in the night, the grunting gasping of luckless warriors, the pitiful whinnies of terrified mounts. Harmony to chill the souls of sane men.

She plunged into it. Her sword sang through flesh and bone as she raced from one part of the battle to another, a remorseless killing machine, bent on single-handedly gutting every Shardahani in sight.

An azure flash caught her eye; she glanced around for the briefest moment and smiled grimly as weapons more potent than steel entered the fray. The staves of the Krilar streaked the night with soul-stealing energy. Men howled, touched by the blue radiance, and died without a mark on their bodies.

Then, a shadow that was more than shadow, Mentes came to the Shardahanis' aid. The dread god swung his foot, scattering men and horses indiscriminately, crunching bones beneath his stride as he waded into the battle.

Frost looked up and screamed a warning that went unheard in the tumult.

In the god's right hand a spear took shape from the fabric of night itself, like the one Zarad-Krul had hurled at Aecus, but longer and more viciously barbed. Mentes wielded it with deadly accuracy. One thrust pinned a Chondite wriggling to the earth, and another spear formed in the unholy fist. His aim never failed; no shield could guard against him.