Frost (26 page)

Nor was Nugaril to be forgotten. With Zarad-Krul safe, he darted among the Chondites with an insect's speed, crushing warriors in his horrible claws, swallowing the bodies to appease his ravenous appetite. Worse yet were the monster's thrice-damned stings. With appalling swiftness those venomous tails lashed out, piercing men through, dripping poison that bloated the flesh, turned it sickly green until it ruptured and red blood poured into the dirt.

She groaned in disbelieving anguish as Nugaril and Mentes strode through her allies. Minor gods, Kregan called them. Neither steel nor mystic staff had any effect on them. A numbing cold gripped her as her comrades fell like sheep slaughtered by such unopposable power.

Something smashed her shield. She drove the point of her sword through the eye-slits of a challenger's helm.

Rallied by the presence of the Dark Gods, the Shardahani warriors fought with renewed fury. She might slay ten and win a moment's respite, but before she caught a ragged breath ten more were on her again.

The Nine Cities faltered. Though they fought bravely, fighting skill was not enough, and the Krilar, sorely pressed by enemies who saw them as the most serious Chondite threat, had no time to prepare spells more elaborate than the life-devouring light they conjured from their staves.

Where was Rhadamanthus?

Where was the vaunted power of Demonium?

She set her jaw resolutely. The Chondites needed something to rally them—something to pull them back together as a fighting unit. If they could get no help from their own sorcerers there was still one element of magic on their side.

With a savage cry she cast aside her shield, crushing a foeman's face with the metal edge. Demonfang came shrieking free. Leaning from the saddle she plunged it to the hilt in a Shardahani throat.

“Fight!” she urged her comrades, and she held up the dripping blade, braving its banshee note until it shivered in her grip, severing a warrior's spine to slake its thirst. And its thirst was endless. A knot of Shardahanis fell back in fear.

“Show them the color of your steel!"

But suddenly, a cold shadow fell upon her. Ashur bellowed, his eyes flaring with sizzling flame. The unicorn reared, whirled, made an ineffective attempt to block something with his horn. Something huge.

Frost barely stayed in the saddle, aware only of a half-glimpsed shape that looked like a giant claw. She struck reflexively without thought.

Demonfang shrilled, bit deep.

Nugaril roared in pain. A black, foul-smelling ichor poured from the wounded pincer, scorching the earth.

She stared in horror and surprise, too numb at first to realize her deed:
she had wounded a god!
The dagger twisted wildly in her hand, eager for another taste of gods' blood.

A shout went up from the Chondites as they witnessed Nugaril's distress. Singing her name they swarmed to her side. A dozen men leaped from horses onto the scorpion-god's back, and another dozen joined them. Sword and axe slammed against the monster's body; blades broke on that unyielding skin. Stings and pincers lunged at the fearless warriors, but for each man that died another took his place.

Yet, only she could hurt Zarad-Krul's dark ally. Again and again she darted in, stabbing with all her strength. Demonfang screamed its intense pleasure. Nugaril howled, struck at her with his stings, but the agile unicorn sprang away with his rider before they found a target.

Brackish liquid oozed from a score of wounds.

She studied the waving claws, waiting for another chance to rush in.

“Get back!"

Even over the sounds of fighting she recognized that voice. Kregan drove his steed straight for her, ran down a warrior in his path.

“Sheathe that damned blade!” He called to the other Chondites. “Get away!"

She didn't wait for an explanation. A tremor ran through the ground. So
Rhadamanthus had decided to act.
She stabbed the scorpion-god once more to quiet her shrieking weapon and returned it to the scabbard.

The tremor grew stronger. She pushed Ashur hard, putting distance between herself and Nugaril, riding away from the heart of the battle.

And Kregan stayed beside her.

A ponderous rumbling shook the plain. Warriors on both sides tumbled head over heels, unable to keep their footing. Frightened horses threw their riders and fled aimlessly.

Then, the earth fell away from Nugaril and huge worms, creatures she had seen before, wriggled onto the surface, up and over the Dark One's form.

He struck at them, but his stings had no effect, and when his pincers severed one the halves continued to act independently. Nugaril found himself engaged in a deadly and unexpected duel.

“He took his own sweet time about helping out.” Frost held Ashur on a tight rein, grateful for a chance to rest. There was a dull ache in her left shoulder from swinging her sword.

Kregan held his mount similarly. “Rhadamanthus works on his own schedule. We don't question an elder's reasoning.” His grim expression melted. Leaning close, he planted a small, pecking kiss on her cheek. “Besides, if he'd acted sooner you wouldn't have introduced Nugaril to that crazy dagger.” He rolled his eyes in mock alarm and laughed. “Attacking a god with that tiny thing!"

“It's not the size of the wand that makes the magic work...."

The jape was cut short by a new sound that rose over the din of battle. The thunderous fluttering of thousands of wings—a sound she knew all too well. And the bizarre cries of the bird-things.

If Rhadamanthus was at work, so was Zarad-Krul. In an instant the air was full of butterflies that bit and stung the flesh and screeching vulture-like birds that rent armor, skin and bone with razor talons and gross, misshapen beaks.

So the war raged, steel against steel, sorcery against sorcery: men, birds, butterflies, worms, dark gods. All at odds in a furious dance of death. She watched from a safe distance, catching her breath and resting her arm before charging back into it.

When a hard blow penetrated her leg armor she gave no thought to the pain or the warm fluid that ran into her boot. She struck twice at her attacker. The first blow dented his helm, dazing him; the second split metal and skull. It took all her strength to tug her weapon free.

She looked around for another opponent, and a string of Esgarian curses spilled from her lips.

Forgotten in the excitement, Natira raced among the fighters riding the horse that once had carried Aecus. Her white gowns fluttered like the wings of an insubstantial angel. Her hair streamed behind her. Amazingly, no sword threatened her, no warrior sprang into her path. Straight to Frost she came smiling.

Always smiling. Her eyes settled on Demonfang.

Threats and oaths failed to drive the mute woman away, and Frost could waste no more time on her. A pair of foes rushed side by side. Spurring her mount, she ran between them, kicking one man's shield as she sliced his comrade from gullet to groin. A blade slid ineffectually off her greave. She turned back to the remaining attacker; her unexpected kick momentarily unbalanced him, but now he held his shield close and firm, prepared for her mounted assault.

He never saw the horse that rode him down. His shattered body smacked the earth and stirred no more while his killer regarded him with that sweet, innocent expression.

Frost considered Natira with a frown, trapped between admiration and annoyance. The clean, quick way she had downed the man from behind with no warning.

“When I find your keeper, I going to kick his..."

She never finished. An involuntary cry ripped from her as an arrow abruptly sprouted from Natira's left breast.

But the woman made no sound, not even a sigh of pain. Tentatively, slender fingers touched the shaft, explored its length, rumpled the fletchings, traced the painted crest of its maker. Then, with a jerk, she plucked it from her body.

Her smile never faded.

Frost gaped, nearly dropping her sword. No wound, no blood. Yet, the shot had been a fatal one. She had seen the arrow, heard its cruel thud as it struck. The woman should be dead.

Yet, she was unharmed.

Before she could seek an answer a whistling axe brought her mind back to the fighting. She blocked it with a double-handed swing, cutting through the attacker's middle on the return. The mystery of Natira faded further from her thoughts as still another threat bore down on her.

With a shock, she recognized her new challenger.

She shook her head, unwilling to believe. But the evidence was there. The wound in his ribs still gushed crimson, proof of her handiwork, for she had slain him but a little while earlier. A second time she dispatched him, driving her blade straight through his heart. With a sigh, he tumbled to the ground.

But a cold dread fell upon her, a fearful suspicion. With desperate speed she rode away from the battle to gain a better vantage, noting as she went faces and uniforms, weapon-styles, oblivious to Natira who followed at her heels.

She knew now what had become of the Shardahani bodies left to rot after the first battle. And she knew why no elder had detected a second army moving into Chondos.

There was no second army.

Her gaze swept over the battleground, searching for Mentes. No longer did the Dark God expend his energy hurling arcane spears. A more fearful employ occupied his time. Dark waves flowed from his outspread fingers, bathing Shardahani corpses in a necromantic radiance. They rose, still bleeding from wounds, and marched back into the fray.

So the first army had risen from the dead to fight again, to die again and rise again.

She drew a deep breath flavored with despair.

Natira touched her shoulder, pointed. A figure hurried toward them, waving his arms. Wiping away blood that ran from a cut below his helm into his eyes, Kregan brought his mount to a hard stop. A score of cuts laced his thigh where a piece of armor had fallen off. His face twisted with pain and fatigue.

“There!” In the west a bright, burning glow approached the Field of Fire. “I rode back to get a better look. If it's what I think, we've lost the war."

It seemed to grow clearer without getting nearer. Straining against the gloom, she began to make out a shape.

“I can't see for all this damned blood,” Kregan shouted, slapping at the crimson stream above his eyes. A barely controlled note of panic quavered in his voice.

Squeezing his hand for reassurance, she described what she saw.

A quadrigae of golden horses with eyes of wildfire pounded the earth. No, not horses at all, but monstrous mockeries of horses. Gleaming, ivory fangs curled between lips and under chins; the manes were stiff, razor edged. Clusters of scaly serpents writhed where tails should have grown. The hooves were cloven, and when the creatures breathed spurts of white-hot fury scorched the rocky ground.

Behind, a chariot carved from a single immense fire opal shimmered with impossible luster. Fashioned into its working were skulls of bleached bone whose eye-sockets were stuffed with gems and precious stones. The great, grinding wheels were ironbound, studded and spiked for war.

On the chariot stood a creature, man-like she guessed, but shrouded all in black with a cowl pulled close so the face was swallowed in shadow. Not even the hands showed; the reins disappeared into empty sleeves.

“What in the Nine Hells is it?” She had never seen her friend so pale. In a war of strange and bizarre happenings she had struggled to keep her courage, but Kregan's reaction to this demonic charioteer shook her to the roots of her soul.

“And why can I see him with such detail when he's still so far away?"

“Far and near,” the Chondite answered cryptically. “He's not yet fully materialized on this earthly plane. We see him as if through a closed window as he races across the vast distances between dimensions. You see his form, but not his substance. It's only a matter of time, though, before those wheels scatter the dust of this world."

She blinked, not understanding.

“That is Shammuron,” he explained. “No minor god like Nugaril or Mentes, but one of the
Raldori
, the triad of Dark Gods who tip the scales of life and death unfairly when Fate is not watching. In our wildest dreams we never suspected Zarad-Krul had power to summon him. Against the lesser two we might have held out. Against Shammuron there is no chance."

Someone tugged her sleeve. Turning, she met Natira's eyes. Something in those blue pools gave her strength, convinced her there could yet be hope against even a Raldor. Impulsively, she gripped Natira's hand, wondering how she could ever have feared such a gentle lady.

Shammuron's image grew distinct, yet she perceived it was no closer to Demonium.

“Well, he hasn't completed the crossing yet. If we can defeat Zarad-Krul before he does, that window will stay closed."

“There isn't time, I tell you!” Kregan beat a fist on his bleeding thigh. “We can't get to Zarad-Krul. We're barely holding his army back from the Gate."

“There may be a way, damn it, if we can get help!"

His voice lost its edge; he stared. “What help?"

She thumped the sheathed dagger on her hip. “If Demonfang can wound a god, maybe its unnatural sharpness can sever the locking strap that seals the Book of the Last Battle."

“We've tried cutting it,” he argued.

“Not with Demonfang."

Hope grew slowly in his eyes. “The spells on those pages could turn the tide even against Shammuron."

Before she could say more a coruscating amber light blossomed suddenly in their midst, bringing with it the Stranger from Etai Calan.

“Look to Rhadamanthus!” he warned. “Look to Demonium!"

Then he vanished as disconcertingly as he came.

She whirled to see the distant peak. Sporadic bursts of brilliant fire crowned the summit, illuminating the ancient monoliths, tinting the clouds with flickering hues.

The Book!

She launched across the field, cursing the moment she agreed to leave it behind. Other hoof-beats told her Kregan and Natira followed, but she pushed ahead, driving Ashur furiously.