Frost (8 page)

“Though they did not retreat, they would not go on.

“Tordesh taunted them, threatened them. He promised huge sums of gold and silver.

“No one would follow.

“'It's an illusion!' he cried, exasperated. ‘Fools! Cowards all! An illusion!'

“A tall, thin figure appeared on the parapet of the black-walled city, a voluminous cloak about his slight frame. He raised an arm, pointed a long finger, and every soldier felt that cold limb touch their hearts. His liquid voice rolled in every ear.

“'Turn back, Tordesh! Take your soldiers back to their homes and families. Hell has not yet prepared a place hot enough for your greedy soul!'

“Tordesh reddened with rage. Seeds of madness blossomed suddenly in his bent mind. ‘You and all your city are a mirage!'

“The young king spurred his horse over the causeway, gripping the saddle with his knees, swinging his blade at nonexistent foes, raving, cursing the world.

“On the wall the figure drew from the folds of his cloak a single arrow and a bow of black wood. Every eye watched in horrified silence as the arrow was fitted to the string and drawn slowly back. The feather touched the ear. For a long moment there was no movement. Then, the archer released the string. The deadly missile plunged through the air and buried itself deep in the heart of Tordesh's splendid white horse.

“The unfortunate beast tumbled forward, spilling his unwary rider head over heels. Tordesh gave a cry as his father's sword clattered over the edge, lost in the Cocytus. He struggled to his knees, bruised in a thousand places, his right shoulder smashed. But the worst pain was the humiliation he saw reflected in the eyes of his men.

“Bitterly, he turned and cursed the guardian on the wall.

“'Turn back, Tordesh,' the archer said. ‘Turn away from Hell.'

“Dismayed, the Rholarothan king skulked back to Zondu. His soldiers parted to let him pass, then followed, bowed, broken with defeat.

“Legends claim he shut himself up in his palace and was never seen again. The governing of the nation he left to his commanders, and when he died, shamed and disgraced, not a soul mourned.” Kregan licked his lips as he finished his tale.

Frost took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “An interesting story,” she said at last.

“A true one,” the Chondite answered sullenly. “Whatever my friend told you, Chondos is no place for faint hearts. Many strange things walk that land, things to make your darkest nightmares pale in comparison."

Scarlet heat rose in her cheeks. “Not my nightmares.” Embarrassed then, she slapped the unicorn's rump and sped down the ridge over the
Zondaur
.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

Sunset stained the land with a dark crimson hue. Streamers of iodine and purple clouds laced the sky, wispy fingers that did nothing to hold back night's progress.

Frost waved a weary hand at the horde of insects that buzzed around her face, in her ears. The plain that fostered no other life was a home for countless varieties of insects: ants, beetles, roaches, but most especially, gnats. Great swarms, they hung like thick curtains over the rocky soil. Man and animal suffered alike. Attracted to the sweat of their bodies, the gnats had bedeviled them all afternoon.

Nothing to do but bear it and try not to breathe too often—or swallow.

“It gets colder with nightfall,” Kregan called. “They'll go away, then."

She took no comfort in that. With the coming of darkness she feared a new attack by Zarad-Krul. They had beaten him once, but she would not count on such luck a second time.

They had not made good speed. The animals were tired. So was she. Her thighs ached painfully from too much riding, her half-numb fingers tangled in Ashur's mane. No rest during the day, they walked and rode alternately, pushing for Chondos.

It was not much farther.

She clutched the Book of the Last Battle inside her tunic as she had several times that day and regarded the sky. The last rays of light retreated; the first star hovered low in the east.

He will come
. She gripped the Book with a ferocity that made her knuckles crack.
He will come, and we will not be ready
.

“Give no more thought to the wizard,” advised Kregan suddenly. “There stand the walls of Zondu."

Her heart lifted as she stared, straining to see where her companion pointed. Only a patch of deeper darkness on the plain, she marveled that he had seen it at all.

“Not sight,” he answered, tapping his nose. “Smell."

She sniffed. There was a subtle difference in the air. Population, industry, the smell of the forge, cook-fires and garbage. The odors lingered on the edge of her senses, becoming a distasteful reek as they drew nearer.

Then a new smell, water.

“The Cocytus,” Kregan said, pointing again. She could barely see the dark ribbon that cut through the land. “You can't see the causeway or Erebus beyond. Zondu sits directly in our way."

She sat up straight, straining for a better view of the river. But the night was too thick. Chondos was near; that knowledge sent a shiver up her spine.

She stopped, suddenly nervous, afraid. Zarad-Krul behind her, Chondos before. Her hands trembled and she hid them before Kregan could notice. Between two such forces her own sword seemed small indeed.

She bit her lip, swallowed, then urged Ashur forward.

The wall of Zondu rose over them, tall and broad, scarred with age and by the angry dust storms that seasonally swept the Zondaur. In places, the mortar was crumbled. The huge blocks of stone were chipped and cracked, worn smooth at the corners. The wall's shadow fell over them, deep and brooding and silent.

The great steel-banded gates were closed; no sentry stood guard to open them.

“You said the eastern gates were always open."

Kregan scratched his chin. “They usually are.” He looked behind, all around. “I don't like this."

“Neither do I.” She turned the unicorn aside, paced him back and forth before the gate. “Can we reach the causeway by skirting the walls?"

The Chondite shook his head. “The walls reach to the water's edge. The causeway proceeds from inside the city."

She took Ashur back a few paces, looked up at the high parapet.

“Ho, up there!” she called, spying no sentry. “Open the gates if you're awake."

The gleam of a helmet above the bastion, of a spear point. “Who are you? What do you want in Zondu this time of night?” The voice was gruff, uncivil.

“Honest travelers in need of food and rest,” she answered, wishing she could see better.

“By Gath, a woman by the sound of you!” Laughter and muttering—so there were others up there. “I have good eyes, though!” the voice continued with a more menacing tone, “and I see your companion wears Chondite garb."

Kregan bristled, snarled. “Then a Chondite I must be, fool.” Then smugly, tauntingly, “Now will you open the gate, or shall I pull the wall from under your shiftless feet?” He raised his hand, made a clawing gesture, and laughed softly.

Her mouth twisted in a frown. The Chondite's haughty words could as easily have brought a hail of arrows down on them. It was not wise to offend when offense served no purpose.

Scrambling sounds above. Antique chains and pulleys groaned; the gate creaked slowly open.

Kregan turned then, met her stare, coldly aloof. “He swears by Gath,” he said of the sentry, “the spider-god of chaos, but it is Chondite sorcery he truly fears."

She had not thought him so arrogant. A curious smile etched his lips; he sat straight, stiff in the saddle. Was it fatigue or the nearness of his homeland that wrought this change in him? She averted her eyes, no answer in his face.

“Don't stop,” he whispered when the gate was wide. “Make straight for the causeway on the far side of the city. We'll find rest and food in Erebus."

A slow fire smoldered in her breast; a darkening mood damped it. The same commanding, insolent tone he had used with the sentry. She resented it, felt the heat rise again in her cheeks, but said nothing. He knew she had never planned to stop in Zondu when Chondos lay just over the river.

She pushed through the gate first, obstinately denying Kregan the lead.

Too late, she heard the rasp of steel, the rustle of clothing. A shadow fell across her path—someone on a roof top.

She reached for her sword as Kregan shouted a warning, freed the blade as the shadow dropped on her. Booted feet knocked her to the ground. Stunned, she looked up to see more men rushing from an alley. Another attacker leaped from the roof, swinging his sword. The flat edge bounced on the Chondite's skull. He fell, hit the ground hard and did not move. Someone grabbed her arm, dragged her over the cobbles, and she screamed.

A trumpeting bray. Ebony hooves flashed, and her attacker crumpled with a moan. Blood oozed from his crushed helmet. Bile rose in her throat; her stomach convulsed.

Then, reflexes took over as more hands grabbed her. Her sword gleamed on the street not too far away. She kicked savagely, raked her nails over soft flesh. An arm curled around her neck and she bit down, tasting salty, bitter blood. With teeth and nails, fists and feet, knees and elbows she fought, gaining no respite.

Her foes seemed numberless. Without her sword they quickly bore her down, pinned her. Though she writhed and twisted she could not get free.

Yet, still there were screams, the sounds of fighting. Held fast, she managed a look through the ring of her captors.

Ashur's horn thrust once, twice. Two bodies arched through the air, crashed into a wall, broken and lifeless. The unicorn wailed in triumph.

But a group of soldiers circled him with ropes and spears and swords. Worse, down the road, Frost saw the gates start to swing shut. If Ashur were trapped in the city he would surely be killed. She squirmed uselessly in the hands that pinned her.

“Run!” she shouted. “Get away!"

A sword hilt crashed on her head. Light exploded behind her eyes, then faded. A yawning darkness sucked at her senses.

“Ashur,” she croaked.

For one moment the unicorn's fiery eyes seemed to meet hers. It called to her as it reared, and another man died beneath those baleful hooves. Then, a spear flashed, barely missing the creature.

“Run,” she managed weakly, too faint to be heard. “Please!"

A mournful, unearthly note echoed in her ears, Ashur's cry. The horn tossed, the arcane fire of his eyes washed the street with amber light, casting warped shadows. And suddenly, the great beast broke for the gate, pursued by a rain of poorly aimed spears and shouting warriors. The gate-chains groaned. Hooves rang on the cobbles, throwing sparks. With scant time to spare, Ashur sped through and away from the city.

Frost sobbed, hating the tears that scalded her cheeks, and slipped into oblivion.

She woke with a throbbing head, dimly aware of the heavy manacles that bound her wrists. Damp, musty straw, thick with the smell of stale urine, pressed on her face. She wrinkled her nose, tried to sit, but moving brought a wave of nausea. She gave up the effort and waited quietly for her head to clear.

Faint light filtered through a narrow, barred window in the cell door. Beyond, she heard voices, the rattle of dice, a game being played.

She managed to sit, then to stand, a first, hesitant step toward the door. In the dark, she kicked something, tripped and fell with a clatter and scraping of chains. Groping, she found the obstacle—a small stool.

A face appeared in the window. “Hey, she's awake,” someone called. More footsteps.

A key grated in the lock. She crouched, took a tighter grip on one of the stool's legs.

Three men filled the room. Two in soldiers' garb held swords ready; the jailer, an obese giant, held a torch and beckoned.

Smirks, grins, lust in the guards' eyes. Suddenly, she realized that a mild blush was all that covered her form. Her clothes and weapons lay on a table in the corridor.

With a frustrated shrug she tossed the stool aside and stepped out of the cell. The guards sheathed their blades and took her by the arms. Selecting a key from his large ring, the jailer removed the manacles.

“She's a nice one,” muttered a guard, grinning broadly. “Who would ever know?"

The jailer grunted, an unpleasant bullish noise. “Little woman not for likes of you. Just take her upstairs. Zarabeth's waiting."

The same guard put his face next to hers and whispered what he would do if he had a little time with her. She blushed hotly, clenched her fists, but fought to control her anger. She turned her face, looked him in the eye, smiling.

“You've undoubtedly had plenty of practice—with your fellow guards."

His hand drew back and she braced for a stinging slap, but a huge, meaty paw closed on his wrist and held it in a crushing grip.

“Not to hurt little woman,” the jailer warned.

The guard glared, promising retributions to come.

But the jailer's words offered new hope. Whoever wanted her preferred her in one piece. That was some advantage, at least, for she had no qualms about hurting these three if she got the opportunity. She spotted her sword and Demonfang with her clothes on the table, just out of reach.

“Go now,” grumbled the jailer, clanking his keys with irritation. “Make Zarabeth mad if you keep her waiting."

Frost saw her chance suddenly as the insulted guard reached out to shove her. His hand brushed an unresisting shoulder as she sank into a deep crouch. Unbalanced, he pitched forward, crying out as she straightened. He tumbled into the other guard; both fell in a heap.

Only the jailer stood between her and her weapons. She hit him hard and low with her shoulder, slamming him back against the wall.

Rejoicing, she reached for the sword.

But even as her fingers touched the hilt a fat hand twisted in her hair. The jailer was not stunned as she had hoped; his obese form had absorbed the impact without harm. With an angry grunt he jerked sharply, snapping her head back, and dragged her from her weapons. The corridor resounded with her outcry as she struggled to free herself from his painful grip, and the cold floor stones scraped her shoulders as he forced her down.