Frost (27 page)

Straight into camp she rode, scattering campfires and utensils. Silent horror greeted her. Every man—nearly a third of the Chondite host—sprawled dead, gazing into Hell with unseeing eyes.

She leaped from the unicorn's back, scrambled up the path to the Demonium Gate, uttering a desperate prayer to her homeland gods. It seemed an eternity passed as she climbed that steep course, but at last she sprang over the edge. Her sword hissed from the sheath.

Rhadamanthus and Zarad-Krul faced each other with only a short space between them. How the wizard had reached Demonium unnoticed she couldn't guess, but it was clear by the gleam in his one good eye that he recognized her.

“You!” he spat. “The witch who blinded me! I searched for you on the field with my magic, but couldn't find you. I see your aura has somehow changed.” He made a sweeping gesture, and a black lance hurtled through the air seeking her heart. A second took form in his fist as he let the first one go. “No matter,” he cried. “Die now!"

Quick as thought, Rhadamanthus' staff licked out, knocking aside the first missile. But, even his swift reflexes were helpless to intercept the second.

Pointed death flew at her.

She tensed, ready to spring aside. Then, before she could move Natira leaped in front of her, a living shield. Frost hadn't even seen her come over the path. A despairing crunch as the spear slammed into her chest sent her tumbling.

The warrior-woman held her breath, waiting, hoping. Sure enough, Natira got to her feet, removed the lance as if it were less than a splinter. It might have been for the harm it did. She cast it down; it melted into its element.

Zarad-Krul stared. Rhadamanthus was no less stunned. Kregan, who had scrambled over the edge right behind Natira, ran to her side.

But Frost saw a chance. Springing at the Wizard-lord, her blade cleaved a glittering arc.
End it now
, she thought,
his death will stop this insane war
.

Impossibly, the wizard threw himself aside to avoid her stroke. Jagged rocks scraped his golden skin as he rolled to escape her angry slashes. A red flame burned in her brain, making her forget all technique; nothing mattered but to kill savagely, brutally, finally.

Then, a handful of flung dirt doused that flame. She stumbled back, muttering oaths, clutching her eyes.

“I can't fight all of you!” Zarad-Krul rose slowly, painfully, bleeding where the stones had torn his flesh. “Sorcerers and witches! But there's one coming who can! Yes,
one
who can!"

A mocking smile stretched the corners of his mouth. He clapped his hands once; two of his bird-things swooped out of the clouds, seized him by the shoulders and lifted him into the night.

Rhadamanthus collapsed against a monolith, forgetting Zarad-Krul, unable to stand. She ran to his side. He was feverish. A clammy sweat beaded on his ashen face.

What had he endured alone in combat, this eldest of the elders?

His old hand gripped hers, weak with exhaustion, imploring her help. Then, his tired gray eyes closed in sleep.

Without warning an unseen force rocked Demonium. The ground quivered. The monoliths trembled in their foundations.

“Shammuron!"

Desperately, she tried to wake the Elder of the Black Arrow, but nothing stirred him. Kregan called to her. Together, they gazed over the field as the Raldor extended a hand. Near their feet a portion of the edge crumbled as Demonium quaked once more beneath the Dark God's power.

“His transition between the planes is complete,” the Chondite shouted. “See how the stones churn under his wheels? He comes for the Book of the Last Battle."

And he did not come alone. Without Rhadamanthus' conscious control the great worms abandoned the struggle with Nugaril and crawled back to the bowels of the earth, leaving that god and Mentes free to turn their attentions toward the sacred Gate.

“Then, by their own names, let's give them a battle."

She found the Book where she left it, snatched it up from the altar stone. But now it seemed nearly too heavy to lift, and it exuded a heat that threatened to burn her fingers. No matter. Straining with all her might, she heaved the volume up, clutched it to her breast and bore it back to the rim.

Kregan was already busy. With his staff he scratched a hasty pattern in the dirt. Angles and lines of amazing complexity took shape as the Chondite began to chant, his voice spiraling to an ever-higher pitch. His muscles corded, went taut under the skin. The pattern on the ground began to glow.

She could not wait for him to finish. Shammuron, Nugaril and Mentes were dangerously close, and Kregan's sorcery was taking too long. The Book was their only chance. She fingered the ornate lock and the strap that bound the covers tight. Within lay the power to repel the evil that was almost upon them.

The lock had to be broken or the strap cut. One weapon alone might succeed where mundane steel and magic had not. Her hand closed on Demonfang.

A piercing shriek drowned Kregan's chant, shattered his careful concentration.

Then, another shriek. Frost screamed, realizing her mistake too late.

The dagger quivered, twisted in her hand, demanding its due. But there were no enemies near to slake its lust. In her eagerness to slash the binding she had forgotten the blade's fatal curse:
it must taste blood.
With a look of anguish she turned to Kregan, Natira, sleeping Rhadamanthus. Another shriek split her ears, more urgent than the first, more commanding.

Demonfang required a death, a sacrifice. But who? Which of her friends?

It was impossible to choose.

An odd tugging sucked at her mind. Though she fought the sensation, it grew, began to squeeze her will. Images of suicide assailed her, of hanging, drowning, falling. Monsters dredged up from her nightmares pressed her down, rolled her about, tossed her like a child's plaything until she thought the only escape lay in slitting her veins on their ivory claws. Death, a lusty young man, embraced her. The ghosts of her parents beckoned. Orgolio, the jailer, laughed hysterically, calling her names. She shut her eyes, but the visions continued, all with the same insistent message.

The point turned slowly, screeching, toward her heart.

Suddenly, other hands locked around hers. Fighting the dagger's spell, she snapped open her eyes. With surprising strength Natira forced the point around. An ecstatic smile lit the woman's face as she redirected the fiendish blade, set it to her own heart and lunged.

An orgasmic sigh parted her lips. No other sound from her.

Bright crimson spurted, but also soft sparks of light. Frost jerked her hands away in dazed anguish. The dagger went silent, and she waited for Natira's mouth to open and scream with its voice. But no sound came. In a swirl of soft gowns, she sank, eyes glazing swiftly with death.

Frost backed away from the dying woman, suddenly afraid. The Book slipped from her grasp, fell forgotten in the dust. A thick bile rose in her mouth; she shivered uncontrollably, unable to speak as Kregan cradled Natira in his arms. Profuse tears streamed his cheeks as he rocked her back and forth.

Feebly, Natira lifted an arm, beckoned her close.

She responded with a hesitant step, then shame and guilt made her stop. Natira called again, begged with those fading blue eyes. Frost collapsed at her side.

“I'm ... sorry!"

But Natira laid a finger on her lips, silencing her. Then, those fingers stroked her cheek, a tender, forgiving touch. With her other hand, Natira eased the dagger from her heart.

The point flashed. A wincing pain stung her palm.

Frost stared disbelieving at the red streak Demonfang had made, too frightened to move.

With the last of her failing strength the small figure in the dirt pressed the wounded palm to the gushing hole above her heart.

A warm tingle crawled up Frost's arm as the two bloods conjoined. Uselessly, she tried to free her hand, but Natira's grip was inhuman. She gazed with confusion and fear into the smiling face, into azure eyes laced with pain.

Then, a heart gave its last beat.

A scream boiled in Frost's throat; the warm tingle turned to hot, coursing fire that spread all through her, seared right through her soul. Thousands of needles prickled her skin. Molten liquid raced in her veins, bubbled in the sockets of her eyes. Her guts churned, aflame.

For an instant she felt expanded beyond the boundaries of flesh, of mortal memory or conception. The entire cosmos seemed to surge with her.

Then, stillness, a momentary calm. The scratch on her palm stared back at her, a thin scarlet smile. She sucked her lip, knowing and fearing what was to come.

It hit with a rush—a song that grew within her, melodies a human mind could barely contain. A symphony of sheer, raw power.

She understood now what Natira was, perceived the incredible nature of her final legacy. She rose and looked out over the Field of Fire, seeing the battle with perfect clarity unhampered by distance or darkness. She saw from all angles and viewpoints—through the eyes of every participant.

The Dark Ones were very close.

At the core of her being a song began its first note. She gazed on Shammuron, the dreaded Raldor. The song reached for a new note.

Beneath his rumbling chariot the stones exploded in showers of sparks, splintering the wheels, overturning the charging vehicle.

Her cloak and raven tresses lashed the air on a wind of her own creation. With unmerciful savagery she unleashed the music that roared within her, striking with a fury no longer human. The song became a chorus, an orchestra, and the music crescendoed as she blasted her unholy foes. They staggered, but still came on.

But in the middle of her attack, Kregan leaped up, grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently. It was so easy to discern his fear, his concern, to read the love in his heart. Love for her.

He thinks I'm possessed. He doesn't understand the change within me or realize the cause of it. But I have no time for explanations. The Dark Ones still stand.

With no more than a thought she brushed him aside.

Natira's gift was like a drug. She reveled in the energies at her command. More than magic or sorcery: such power was an extension of her will as natural and easy to use as her arms and legs. She wanted more—and knew how to get it.

In her own mind she found the psychic binding-spell placed there by her sorceress-mother. Simple to remove it and tap her own witchcraft. And also there was the energy of Demonium. Hers to command.

She lashed out again, all the elements her weapons. Shammuron stumbled, fell in a driving rainstorm. Nugaril spread his claws to grip the earth as raging winds strove to push him back. Riding the night like a black, shipless sail, Mentes writhed in the turbulent lightning that wracked his shadow-form.

Yet, they were gods. The Raldor found his footing and turned the rain aside. Hugging the ground, Nugaril pulled himself along with his pincers. Mentes smothered the lightning with a cloud of ebon radiance. Ever closer they came toward Demonium.

And over the plain came a hateful laugh. Standing again on the rock where Nugaril had put him, Zarad-Krul cheered his evil allies.

The true-sight of the great mages was hers now, and no illusion could hide the true appearance of Shardaha's wicked lord. Gone was the golden, muscled youth. Gone were the perfect limbs and beautiful features. Zarad-Krul was gnarled and bent with age. Filth matted his thinning, dun-colored hair and beard. Bluish veins floated livid on his puffy, wrinkled flesh, and the teeth were rotten in his lipless mouth.

But the blinded eye was no illusion. Her sword had done that. One socket gaped terribly empty.

Insane glee shone on his moldering face; he smacked his hands together in joyful malevolence and danced.

Frost's spirit sang a new song; an arpeggio of power rushed forth. If she could not halt the Dark Ones, she could still aid her battling Chondite friends against the wizard's human minions.

Her music touched a sharp note and cracked open the earth on the armies' right flank. An invisible hand herded the Shardahanis, tumbled them into the yawning abyss screaming in dismay. A few on the farthest edges of the fighting escaped the hand and fled, begging their master for protection.

She looked on them with unforgiving eyes, and the flesh on their bodies burst into fountains of scarlet flame. The smoke and stink rose up around the wizard, filled his nostrils, doubled him with a fit of coughing.

A terrible smile creased her lips, and her thoughts ranged over the field.
Laugh now, little man, as you gag on your pitiful dreams, and know that I can slay you just as easily, just as agonizingly.

She turned her power on his bird-things and butterflies, perceiving they were not birds or butterflies at all, but ugly fiends disguised in those shapes. They, too, exploded in flame, fell to earth like tiny shooting stars.

Then, another mind touched hers. She reeled with the jolt, nearly bending under its alien strength.

What purpose ... female ... to frighten ... mad mortal? His withered mind ... no longer important ... We come ... for the Book ... for you.

She straightened, adjusting slowly to the chaotic patterns of Shammuron's thoughts. The Dark Gods were right below, wreaking havoc in the Chondite camp.

Come then, you bastard-spawn of some insignificant bitch-goddess.

The Book of the Last Battle lay by Natira's feet where she had dropped it. She gestured, and the ancient tome trembled, rose, levitated to her open hand. Demonfang, still clutched in the dead woman's hand, wailed a long, hungry note.

Be silent,
Frost commanded.

The dagger obeyed her will, and at a crook of her finger, also levitated.

Laying the gleaming blade next to the leather strap that sealed the Book's covers, she drew it carefully. The strap parted, offering no resistance. The runes began to shimmer, and the Book opened itself.

The pages fluttered, turning rapidly of their own accord, displaying the knowledge written within. She absorbed it all at a glance. A blood-writ spell passed her eyes, the one she sought. An instant later, the Book closed, and the leather strap became one piece again, denying evidence of the dagger's edge.