Frost snatched up his walking stick and kicked dirt over the little fire, snuffing it out. He moved back until he felt a tree at the clearing's edge press against his spine. Ahead, just beyond the clearing's other edge, he could hear faint sounds of movement, a rustle of branches, the crack of a twig under foot—though whose feet he could not be sure. Not his Subartans, they would make no sound, until . . .
A curious stillness spread through the forest. Frost held his breath, closed his eyes, and reached out to the darkness beyond. He could sense the others, and he decided they were the same ones that had been following him since he and his Subartans had left Kamrit on their journey northward. Until now this group had been well back, nothing more than a hinted presence, persistent but small and unremarkable.
He heard a man call out over a sudden jumble of clanking, scuffling and more snarled voices. Then a shriek that briefly combined fear and astonishment before it was snuffed out. Shouts came after that. "No!" Frost heard; then another man uttered a brief, defiant cry. A moment later, on the clearing's far side, three figures emerged: His Subartans, Sharryl and Rosivok, and another man the likes of which Frost had not expected. He stood straight and unmoving, waiting with Sharryl and Rosivok to either side. A man in his thirties, well fed but not quite fat, and gloriously dressed. Even in the pale light of moon and stars, Frost could see that his pants and tunic were finely tailored and sewn with a layered pattern. The jerkin he wore was made of fur, probably ermine. His head was topped by a wide, flat cap of a stiffer material than Frost's, probably leather.
Frost moved slowly to the center of the little clearing.
"Your friends here have killed both of my men," the man said, tipping his cap toward the trees behind him.
Frost looked to Sharryl, then Rosivok, who nodded somewhat heavily and said, "They drew their swords."
"Your men asked to die," Frost said. "Why are you here, and why do you bring fools?"
"Business," the man said. "I am known as Cantor, a merchant, the richest in all Calienn. As for my men I cannot be responsible for every action of a few hired troops, but I will tell you we had no intention of attacking your camp. I am here to make a purchase."
"You have been a merchant for a while?"
"It has been my life."
Frost leaned on his walking stick, studying the other man. "Odd," he said, "that with so much experience, you could make so many errors all at once."
"I myself have made no errors, sir, as you will see."
"You hire fools, you invite your own death by your lack of manners, you seek to buy from those with nothing for sale. I can only assume that your past successes have been due to accident and luck."
"Luck?" the merchant said. "Hardly. Though I am not surprised that one known to rely often on magic, tricks and gimmickry might put stock in such things. You do have something to sell, and I am willing to pay any price you might ask."
Frost could not see Cantor's eyes clearly, but almost as much could be known about a man by observing his manner, listening to his tone and words. Frost thought this fellow rather confident considering the circumstances, even arrogant—almost to the point of being patronizing—and a bit flamboyant as well. No sorcerer, though, that was certain, but otherwise he reminded Frost of no one so much as himself.
"You have been misinformed," Frost said. "You have no useful knowledge of me, and I have no patience to enlighten you. I will let you leave, alive, but you will gain nothing else here tonight."
Cantor came forward two steps, and Rosivok met him. Frost waved the Subartan off, then let the other approach. When they were no more than four paces apart Frost raised his hand again, and Cantor stopped.
"The Demon Blade," Cantor said, firmly, but still civil. "All of Ariman knows you have it. I will not pretend to bargain with you, we both know how much the piece is worth. I will pay whatever you want, but you must sell it to me.
Who else is competent or rich enough? In any case, it may be your only chance to survive."
Now Frost stepped closer, and leaned toward the merchant. "Is there a reason I should fear you?"
"No, no, of course not. I bring no threats, only a warning. There are many who would as soon take the Blade from your dead body. It is wise to expect that most of them know you intend to cross the Spartooth Mountains, or they will, soon enough. The story of the battle you fought in Ariman has become a legend that grows daily—a battle won by a single sorcerer who used the Demon Blade to slay thousands, to kill a demon, to restore the throne in Kamrit—most remarkable."
"I had help," Frost noted, "but go on."
"I must confess, I was terribly undecided whether to buy the Blade itself, or also to buy the man who has apparently unlocked its ancient secrets. As I see it, both are of equal value, but neither is of very great value alone."
Frost tipped his head, considering Cantor from a fresh angle. "I may have to amend my judgment of you," he said. "Such truths are usually too obvious for most men to see."
"Agreed," Cantor said with a slight bow of his head, "but I am not most men. In the end I decided the Blade alone was the wisest choice. While it is of limited value without you, I believe that—most men being what they are—very few of those interested in buying the Blade will allow that to matter. There are other considerations as well. People are often unreliable, difficult, sometimes impossible to deal with, and a sorcerer known to be eccentric in the past, and wielding an all but unimaginable power in the present, could easily prove the most troublesome sort of all.
"No, I do not welcome that misery. Just the Blade will do. Once we get to Calienn we can part company, and it will be my concern alone, not yours."
Frost pondered his response for a moment, then decided he'd had enough of the shadows that veiled the other's features. He bent and collected two thick pieces of a broken branch from the small pile his Subartans had gathered, then tossed them into the fire. He spoke to the embers under the dirt, then used his walking stick to stir the darkened coals. The fire flared up and caught on the fresh branches, illuminating faces.
Cantor's eyes were very much what Frost had expected, cool and steady, focussed, but moving with perhaps a bit too much nervous energy.
"What you suggest holds a certain appeal," he told the merchant. "To be rid of the responsibility, the worry, the temptation, and perhaps most of all the need constantly to look over my shoulder. You are proof that when I look, I find someone there all too often. But the responsibility is the catch." He moved back to his spot and sat down again on the trunk of a fallen tree, then indicated that Cantor should do the same. He did and sat cross-legged, something Frost had not imagined him limber enough to accomplish.
"I have given endless thought to what might happen if the Blade fell into the wrong hands," Frost continued, "and then there is the reality that, no matter what else, it ought to be in the hands of the Keeper appointed to hold it by the ancients. If it were up to you, would you do less?"
Frost watched the other's eyes meet his. Cantor was ignoring everything and everyone else and concentrating instead on Frost, trying to read him just as Frost was trying to do.
"It is hard to say," Cantor answered after a moment.
"I am sure it is," Frost said. "I already have my own answers to those questions, which is why I cannot sell you the Blade. While your price might be most generous, the final cost of selling it to you would surely be greater, and I would have to live with that. The Blade has already burdened me more than any man can know, but there is only one way I can ever be rid of it."
"I sympathize, truly," Cantor said, beginning to sound like a man trying to sell a used wagon and team, "but I can all but promise you the Blade will bring your deaths if you do not give it up. Powerful lords and those that serve them will spend lives and kingdoms to hold the Blade, as well as countless lesser men."
"Lesser men and merchants," Frost replied.
Cantor took the barb in stride. He folded his arms and tipped his head back slightly, reflective. "How can you be sure that the one who buys the Blade from me will not be the very one who was meant to have it, the very one you seek? This is sometimes the way the world works."
"Seldom," Frost said.
Cantor nodded. "That's true."
"Who do you know that wants the Blade?" Frost asked. "I would know my enemies."
Cantor smiled too broadly at this. He took a deep breath, let it out and took another. "No one. Anyone. All who think they have the slightest chance of taking it, or corrupting you, which I admit to my dismay seems somewhat unlikely."
"Is there anyone in particular?"
Cantor shrugged. "Perhaps. Keep the Blade, and I am sure you will find out more than you care to know."
Frost stabbed the end of his walking stick into the earth and stood up. "As I said, Cantor, you may go with your life and whatever else you brought along. But go, now, and do not cross my notice again."
"But—" Cantor held his words as Rosivok grabbed him under his right arm and began to lift him by it.
"But you have killed my guards!" he managed.
"They insisted," Sharryl reminded him as she moved to flank Cantor on the left.
"You will think of me as your life ends, Frost, of the chance I offered you. An offer that remains open."
"You have made no offer," Frost called after him.
"Name your price."
"The truth," Frost said.
"Once you have the truth, I may have to start over again, bargaining with someone new."
"It is a perilous life," Frost replied.
"As well you know, but it is a risk I may take," Cantor said. Rosivok began to escort the merchant away. "Wait!" Cantor shouted, struggling. "You would set me out on the road alone at night?"
Frost shrugged. "I would."
"Then I make you another offer. I will pay for your protection, that of you and your able warriors. Let me pay you your best fee. I have three horses as well, somewhere in these woods."
"They have run off," Rosivok said without cheer.
"You may have helped?" Frost asked his retainer.
The warrior nodded.
"No matter." Cantor said. "With or without the horses, I am traveling home to Calienn, therefore we must share the same road, and I can think of no one I would trust more. You have the means and reputation of a survivor. Besides, it will give me so many more chances to attempt to sway you to reconsider."
"You possess a sober honesty that continues to surprise me," Frost admitted.
"Something we share, I trust?"
Frost glanced at his Subartans. Neither of them seemed amused at the prospect. On the other hand, Frost had long enjoyed a free-lance lifestyle, one that allowed him to go where he pleased, be as he pleased, and earn the wages of royalty when the need, or the notion, arose. All that had changed for now, and for the foreseeable future, with the notable exception of Cantor's offer . . .
"How will I sleep with the likes of you in my camp?" Frost asked.
"Half as soundly as I with you," Cantor replied.
"Agreed," Frost said. "I will take my payment in gold when we reach your manor in Calienn and I will take your life without notice if you attempt to cross me."
"That is not my way."
"An honest merchant?" Frost prodded.
"Not always," Cantor replied. "But it is a luxury I can afford these days."
The right answer, Frost thought, satisfied. "It will not be an easy journey," he said. "We climb the plateau tomorrow and the mountains lie only two days beyond. We have escaped the notice of most in these lowlands, but that will be more difficult from this point on. For tonight, I suggest you get some rest."
"Have you ever been to Calienn?" Cantor asked.
"I have," Frost said, though he had the impression that Cantor already knew.
"Good, it will give us something to talk about."
The look on Cantor's face was too smug. There were indeed more secrets that might be uncovered through lengthy verbal sparring, if Frost's assessment of the merchant was at all correct. For tonight, it would keep. The journey ahead would provide occasions enough.
"Much to talk about," Frost agreed. Before they parted ways, he would know what Cantor knew. The camp's small fire was dying again, letting the darkness back into the clearing, letting it surround them. "Good night," Frost added, though that was something he expected none of them could truly count on for a long time to come.
* * *
Frost stood still and silent, eyes closed, hands wrapped around the walking stick planted firmly in front of him, his forehead pressed gently against its smooth wood. The warmth of the rising sun, the fresh breezes, the chatter of birds and the steady rhythms of blood and breath within him he had eased out of his consciousness, until only the whispers of the spell spoke to him, gathering to him the faint breath of others.
It was a simple bit of sorcery he'd learned as a boy and mastered ages ago, so far as one could master such things. The key had been to learn to recognize the auras of human beings as separate from those of other life, and then to adapt a spell to find them. Like picking one voice out at a crowded inn. Difficult, but not impossible, and the spell worked much better in a place like this, where few human beings were likely to be.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the rough rock walls that sloped away on either side toward the sky, then he breathed a heavy sigh. The trip was not getting any shorter. They'd been nearly a month on the road all told—two weeks to the Ikaydin Plateau, nearly two weeks more walking since then—but the journey had been made harder by the necessity of staying away from villagers and towns, and sleeping in spurts so that crossing the dry, open Ikaydin Plateau could be done mostly by night.
A stop in Lencia had been the only night indoors, a short respite before spending the last two days climbing to reach Highthorn Pass, which itself only marked the beginning of further hardship from difficult terrain, colder nights, and the greatest prospects yet of being ambushed—none of it the least bit appealing to Frost. Sharryl and Rosivok said almost nothing by way of complaints, they seldom did, but he knew they felt the same. Cantor kept to himself as well, curiously so in fact, though Frost was less certain of his reasons.
Frost had no special desire to talk to Cantor, but it would have made the days pass easier. For now, though, there was a new, more immediate concern. Only three days into their trek over the Spartooth Mountains, and trouble had already found them. Worse, Frost sensed a subtle, disturbing difference in one of the unknowns that trailed them so slowly and diligently, keeping themselves hidden among the more challenging rocks and banks above the pass—magic.
"A difficult place to defend," Rosivok said, taking his turn at leading the mule as the three set out walking again.
"Agreed," Sharryl said. She flanked Frost on the left, Rosivok to the right, their shining, two-edged subartas slung at the ready on their right arms. Frost carried only his walking stick. Beneath his cloak, sheathed, wrapped and strapped securely to his very broad back, he carried the Demon Blade as well. But there it would stay, at least until they reached their destination. Though perhaps, he thought wearily, long after that as well.
"I am considering our options," Frost replied. He had some ideas, and had already begun rehearsing the appropriate spells in his mind. For now he could do nothing more, yet more, certainly, would be required, and probably before the day was done.
"That fellow in Camrak, the one with the scarred ear, I still think he would have made a fair replacement," Sharryl said.
"He was too young," Rosivok said, after they'd walked in silence for several paces.
"For you, perhaps," Sharryl said.
Frost glanced at her, saw her nearly about to smile. She had taken an instant liking to the lad, and he to her.
"He may have been old enough to fight by day," Frost said, "but I am not so sure he could have survived many nights with Sharryl."
"Though he did show promise," Sharryl said. "One night together is hardly enough."
"Enough for him," Rosivok said, and added a grunt. "He never did turn up at all next day."
"True," Sharryl said, "but I would have found him."
Now a smile, Frost saw, and allowed one of his own. He too had spent such a night with her, as had Rosivok, though all three of them had had very different reasons. The Subartans of the Kaya Desert were supreme warriors, born and bred, each one a match for any three men, and they were remarkably capable in other physical activities as well, though only when the mood came upon them, which was as curious and unpredictable an event as the weather.
"Strength and stamina are often required for more practical activities as well," Cantor said, apparently in support of Rosivok's views on the matter.
"True," Frost said. "If he failed to manage with Sharryl he may well have failed us all."
"Hmph," Sharryl grunted this time, but then she looked at the others. "It is still unfortunate," she added, trudging a bit heavily.
"We will find another third," Frost said, taking her meaning. "Let me show you." With that he stopped and untied the little pouch he carried since the desert, since before he'd known of Subartans, containing a handful of stones reputed to be most useful in learning what lay ahead, or which way to go on more difficult matters. Frost reached in the pouch and gathered the stones, just half a handful these days, then he bent and scattered them on the hard packed trail. "There, you see?" he said, examining the pattern. "This grouping here, and that small group there, then this clear line connecting the two."
"I never knew a crack in the ground could be counted in the reading," Sharryl said.
"Nor I," said Rosivok.
Cantor covered a smirk. Frost shook his head, then sighed. "By my eyes, I wish I knew." He scooped up the stones once more and blew the dirt off them, then returned them to the pouch. "Still, the signs are all around, I think. We must be patient, and wait for the right one. A third who can be trusted as one of you. A weak link serves no one."
"Unless the odds become too unfavorable," Sharryl said.
"You need another warrior?" Cantor asked.
Rosivok managed a nod.
"Subartans prefer it," Frost explained, "but in a fight there is never time to baby-sit. The third member of a defensive triangle must be as strong as the other two, or missing altogether, at least in theory. Though it was possible to imagine that while being overrun, such standards might seem a bit harsh."
Cantor shrugged. "For the right price, a suitable candidate should be easy enough to hire."
"With Sharryl and Rosivok, equality is beyond the reach of most," Frost said.
There had been talk among them of returning to the desert lands for a time, to renew old acquaintances, but more importantly to find a true Subartan to take the place of the one that had been lost, so many years ago—and those that had taken his place since then. The idea was more than tempting, but in the end, for several reasons more important, Frost had decided on another direction. He had made himself a promise, and he was not about to change his mind.
Frost slowed his pace. Here the pass wound around a particularly tall spire of barren rocks that rose like a great hand poised to slap down on passers-by. The left side was lower, with only small bits of shrubbery and a few dwarfed trees. Not wide enough for Frost's liking, but there was nothing to be done about it. At least the terrain offered little in the way of accommodation to highwaymen or opportunists. Which was why the group still following them was not close at hand. For now.
Frost tried once again to concentrate on their subtle glimmers of consciousness out among the rocks. It would be easier now that he knew what he was looking for. He sensed nothing different; they must still be some distance away.
"Do you know where they are?" Rosivok asked.
"Behind, I think, but they will catch up," Frost answered.
"They have taken another way, above the trail," Rosivok said, following Frost's gaze to the cliffs overhead. "They are resourceful."
"No doubt," Frost said, speculating on the confrontation that lay ahead and feeling quite weary of it all, of the many and sundry who had come and would come seeking the Demon Blade, so long as he held it. Which was the other half of the reason he was headed this way, headed . . . home. "All of this," he grumbled, "I never intended."
The Subartans quietly nodded.
"You still have my offer," Cantor said calmly.
"And you still have my answer," Frost replied without pause, but he let the mood drag him down as they continued walking. He watched the pack mule plodding evenly, dully, and almost envied the beast its oblivion. He hadn't asked to be the one, hadn't wanted the responsibility, the attention, the troubles or the pain. The Demon Blade held in his hands alone had saved the world, just as it had so many centuries ago in the hands of many others. But his wondrous feat remained a puzzle he had yet to fully resolve, while the Blade had become a personal hardship, Frost's curse.
"Tomorrow, I say, we will have company," Sharryl said, as if making a wager.
"Why do the Greater Gods insist that every time I traverse a mountain pass I must be set upon by hostiles?" Frost muttered. The last time they had passed this way it had been wolves and banshees that descended on them, and the Demon Blade had been a hundred leagues away at the time.
Rosivok grumbled quietly while Sharryl rolled her eyes. Frost caught it. "Your thoughts?" he asked.
"That is what mountain passes are good for, after all," Sharryl replied, making an even less exuberant face.
"After all," Frost repeated.
"It is not your fault, of course," she added.
"Perhaps, in a way, it is. Have I read the omens wrong? Do I test my luck too often and thereby wear it out? Do I lack the necessary charms required?"
"What charms?"
"I have no idea, but there are many I'm sure."
"Perhaps I have done myself a disservice, throwing in with you," Cantor said.
"Of course you have," Frost said.
"No doubt you've done it all wrong, as have we," Rosivok told Frost, "but that does not change anything, not usually,"
Frost had no reply to that. He let out a sour sigh, then went back to walking, back to his spells, to planning, to alternatives, and to seeking auras—to his surprise he found one, and instantly stopped.
Someone else, casting about as he was. The spell was similar to his and therefore likely as effective. At least Imust assume it is, Frost thought. He was still unable to determine for certain whether this other came behind them on the trail, or waited somewhere up ahead.
"What?" Sharryl asked, turning from him and eyeing the shadows along with Rosivok.
"The same ones I sensed before," Frost said.
"Can you tell yet how many?" Rosivok asked.
"Perhaps a dozen, perhaps more," Frost replied, "but one is unique, an adept of some resource, and cautious, a capable adversary I would wager."
"You said they would come from all directions, and use every means," Rosivok reminded. "An adept is not so unexpected."
"No," Frost said.
"None of it is," Cantor said. "Since the battle in Ariman, rumors of the Blade have spread like autumn fires."
Frost felt the other's words rest heavily upon him. There had always been rumors, of course, and men had sought the Demon Blade for centuries, though until now the rumors and seekers had managed without him being at the center. Frost let a frown find his face.
"All true," he said, "but I had hoped those inclined to look for the Blade would continue to look in Kamrit for a time. So formidable a challenge so soon is troubling."
"A challenge short-lived," Rosivok stated, caressing the twin blades of his subarta. Sharryl nodded in solidarity.
"Well, that's reassuring," Cantor said, apparently sincere.
"We will need to deal with them properly," Frost said. "There are many questions I would ask of them, if I can. Which way they have come, for one, and which way they are going."
"If they come from behind, then traveling on means leaving many such dangers behind," Cantor wondered aloud, "but if they come from those lands that lie ahead . . ."
"Yes," Frost said.
"We will invite them to join our camp tonight," Sharryl said, waving as if to someone in the rocks above. "And ask them!"
"They will come to us without invitation, I am sure," Frost replied.
"Not that I'm worried, mind you," Cantor said, examining the high rocks himself now. "But what do you plan to do?"
"We must become the hunters, not the hunted," Rosivok said.
"What—" Cantor started, but Frost held his hand up, cutting the merchant off, and stood considering Rosivok's last words for a time.
Something more than a simple hide-and-pounce strategy would be required and nothing could be taken for granted. Old, reliable spells would be best. Frost looked at the sun and the day was growing old. The others would not come near this night, which gave them time to make camp for the night, and make their plans. He looked to his Subartans and smiled. "Indeed," he said at last, "we shall."
* * *
"If I seek him out he will sense it. Even now he is seeking me," Frost said, "but in so doing he gives his own position away, more or less."
"How much less?" Sharryl asked, crouched with Frost and Rosivok behind a scattered pile of fallen rocks and boulders along the trail.
"It is almost certain they did not sleep last night," Frost replied, "and they are ahead of us now. Precisely where will not matter for long."
"A good night's sleep will be our advantage," Rosivok offered, confident.
"I hardly slept a bit," Cantor said. He was crouched just behind the others, and was apparently not terribly interested in sharing the view. "So many days and nights on the road are bad enough, but all this stalking . . ."
"Yet that is something anyone who wishes to hold the Demon Blade should expect," Frost said.
"I would hold it only after I am home, where my own guards can protect me, and only until I can sell it to a suitable buyer," Cantor said. "If I had purchased the Blade from you in Kamrit, how would I get it safely home? No, you are welcome to it until then. A bit of sleep is better than none at all."
Frost glanced back at the merchant with fresh regard. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but there was something about Cantor he was actually starting to like. He simply nodded, then turned away and tugged at the reins of the mule, testing to be sure they were snug beneath the rock that held them. Now Sharryl and Rosivok stood guard, their backs to Frost as he closed his eyes, focussed his mind and set about casting his spells.
A winter at Kamrit had restored him to his full and celebrated weight, enough stored mass to fuel even the most vigorous sessions of spell-casting, yet he had managed to keep enough muscle underneath it all to remain an asset to himself, not a burden; a necessity in those instances when strength or a bit of unexpected agility might be required.
Keeping the extra padding was a more difficult task when walking across an entire realm, but good hospitality had been found all along the way; a cottage here, a tiny village there, where people were eager to trade a meal and provisions for a bit of helpful sorcery to ease some affliction or pestilence, or a few copper coins. Game had been plentiful as well, and Rosivok and Sharryl were capable hunters of most any sort of creature, not just men.
"Now, join hands," Frost said, standing exactly between the others. He reached out and took Sharryl's hand in his left, Rosivok's in his right, then he instructed the Subartans to touch the mule with their free hands. Next he recited the long sequence of phrases he had assembled, enabling the spell. As he spoke the spell's final phrase, he felt strength and energy begin to seep out of his body, calories being burned, magic being done. He had overcome the dizziness decades ago, along with the unsettling waves of fatigue that came after it, usually in direct proportion to the size of the task. This time, the sensation lasted only an instant.
"Step back," he said, keeping the hands held tight. The three of them retreated one step, yet remained with the mule as well. Three perfectly created simulacrums, three illusions hand-in-hand standing exactly where the real trio had been, still touching the mule. Frost had guessed that those who were following them would not know about Cantor, and each image added to the spell made the task many times more difficult, so he had left the merchant out.
Frost let go, then went around and took the reigns of the mule again, and pulled them free. "Come, mule," he said, leading the creature out from behind the rocks. The three newly created images followed, all walking realistically enough, though they stayed quite close to the mule.
"Go down the trail, mule," Frost told the animal. It seemed to understand completely. After picking its way to the level ground it set off trodding up the path as if being led. The three false glamours walked along. "I have tethered the spell to the beast," Frost said, as he came back. "It will draw energy from the animal."
"Will it survive?" Cantor asked, stretching his neck to watch the mule go.
"The spell will only last a short time, and the drain is not enough to do real harm; a good mule is not easily replaced."
Cantor nodded. "What happens next?" he asked.
"The others will reveal themselves when they attempt to strike," Rosivok said, clearly savoring the idea.
"We must be in position to take advantage of that," Frost said. "Else all my hard work will go wasted, and perhaps the mule."
"Will you require survivors?" Sharryl asked, wearing the same satisfied smirk as Rosivok.
Frost shrugged. "One or two."
"This way, up and over those boulders," Rosivok said. He wasted no time in setting off up the smooth rock slope beside them, then scrambling over a series of massive rocks and debris left over from a slide, long ago. Not steep, but treacherous. Sharryl went next. She tossed a rope back down to Frost, and he and Cantor used it to pull themselves up and after the others.
The midday sun was hidden behind a soupy layer of light gray clouds, and the breezes of the day before had stilled, leaving the air damp and warm and smelling of distant rains.
All of which Frost considered nearly ideal. Wind direction and the scents it might carry were of little concern, and without the harsh rays of the sun intruding on them and degrading them, his simulacrums looked all the more real and would remain that way longer. With luck—which he wasn't at all sure the omens foretold—the waiting troops and their ignoble sorcerer friend would never know what hit them.
"Not much further," Frost said, as the group forded a crevasse and began working their way along a narrow bit of ledge. Rock faces far below obscured the trail from here, and so them as well. Frost considered his second option, if the first did not prove satisfactory. Whoever his opponent was, Frost had no choice but to assume he would know enough to plan a proper assault, one that would be swift and leave little room for a capable response. A direct attack by sorcery was problematic, since there were very few spells that could quickly disable even a mediocre practitioner of the arts. In order to be effective, any such spell would require skill and control, and a generous, sustained expenditure of energy, leaving one in a state of temporary but intense fatigue, and quite vulnerable, if the attempt was to fail.
No, it was more likely that the other would take a defensive tack and build his most effective warding spells around each of his soldiers and himself. After all, they outnumbered Frost and his Subartans at least three to one. Sufficiently protected, a troop of able soldiers might have enough time to defeat the two Subartans, and keep Frost himself busy while secondary measures were taken.
Even trained and enhanced, a human body was capable of only so much effort, could turn stored fat into usable energy only so quickly. A sustained, combined physical and magical assault could ultimately succeed even against Frost.
So the first option, simply to stand and fight on equal terms, held little appeal. Frost's second option involved far less effort.
The ledge emptied onto a small, rounded plateau that offered poor footing, but a clear view of the trail below. A long, straight stretch was visible, with slopes and rock falls on either side. A perfect place for a surprise.
The mule walked dutifully along accompanied by its three conjured companions. Frost looked to the rocks and cliffs ahead, checking both sides of the pass, top to bottom, checking even the skies lest some airborne threat take them unawares. His best efforts turned up nothing out of the ordinary.
"We will hold here for now," Frost said, "and observe." But the instant he looked down again he saw something he did not expect. The carefully constructed images that strode beside the mule were fading, then were suddenly gone.
"Not you?" Sharryl asked, eyeing the event suspiciously along with Rosivok.
"No," Frost confirmed.
"What then?" Rosivok asked, a question simply put, in the event that plans had changed.
Frost allowed himself a hard frown while he considered his reply. To be able so easily to counter such an illusion meant his opponent had somehow anticipated both the spell's specific nature and Frost's means of accomplishing it. "I must assume he knows something of me and my ways."
"Many do," Rosivok said.
"I am known and acclaimed by bards and emulated by all manner of adepts in many lands," Frost said honestly. "Perhaps my fame has finally caught up with me."
"You are quite famous," Cantor said. "I had no trouble learning all I wanted to know. Though just now I would like to know how worried I should be?"
"Stay back and behind cover, and your worries will be small," Sharryl said.
Frost rubbed his chin bemusedly with the top of his walking stick and watched the mule walk further on, all alone. He could sense the other sorcerer's presence with the proper effort now, and more faintly, the fading aura of the finely crafted spell he had used to so effortlessly dismantle Frost's careful work.
"There, on the crest," Rosivok said. Frost looked up. Ahead of them on the far escarpment, a little more than a good arrow's throw away, the others had shown themselves.
Frost recognized his opponent, even though the distance was too great to see the details of his features. Imadis had always worn black, one of the few sorcerers to do so because of the color's associative nature, the stigma of darkness. But Imadis had reveled in the fear and disdain his fashions inspired in common folk and lords alike. He was not a disciple of the darkness, and mortal through and through, but he was nonetheless quite capable. Some years older than Frost, he hailed from a land due north of the Kaya deserts where much of the year the snow and ice made the living unbearable for most—Frost included. Cold lands did not necessarily breed cold people, but Imadis, for all that Frost had seen, could never be held as evidence of that.
"You know him?" Cantor asked.
Frost glanced at him over his right shoulder, and found the merchant's eyes fixed on the figures ahead. It was not panic that he saw there, Cantor wasn't one for that, not yet at least, but Frost decided without another thought that this was a man who had known combat only in the telling.
"I sense something familiar about him," Sharryl said, her voice charged, her body bobbing a bit in place.
"As well you may," Frost said. "We met once before in Tavershall, years ago."
"An opportunist, if I recall," Sharryl said.
"A scoundrel," Rosivok corrected.
Frost nodded.
"Not exactly old friends, then?" Cantor asked, his voice shaky but holding up, as he was.
"Imadis likes to play many ends against the middle, and likes to use anyone available to realize his goals, no matter the cost," Frost answered him. "We have met twice before."
He and Imadis had spent several days together in another town the year before simply sharing bread, ale and conversation. Frost had found Imadis agreeable enough, though he seemed more mercenary that most.
More recently they'd crossed paths in Tavershall where Frost had been commissioned to lend his resources to a local lord with a poisoned well, a problem that many in the city thought had something to do with a curse of some kind. An old woman known to be something of a hedge witch and, to her misfortune, a truly clumsy thief, had drowned in the well one night. Her body floated there for days before being hauled up and buried. Frost had arrived only to find Imadis already working on the problem, and claiming the fee.
"The well will be pure again in a few days," Imadis promised. Frost had no doubt this would come to pass as promised, but he suspected it would have no matter what Imadis did. Then he discovered the truth.
Frost had followed the poison to its source and found it to be a small spring at the edge of the city. Empty urns lay in the woods nearby, though the smell inside them told the tale. The well had indeed been poisoned—by Imadis himself. "Do you deny it?" Frost had demanded, after confronting the sorcerer privately and laying out his accusations.
"It is true," Imadis had replied. "And what of it? I have been here, bored and wasting in this town for weeks. I could not help but notice the opportunity recent events seemed to present. You don't strike me as the kind of fellow who would have done differently, had you but thought of it first."
"Think what you will," Frost had said, then he'd walked straight into the town square and exposed the scheme. Imadis publicly denied everything, then left town under cover of darkness. Frost had seen or heard nothing of him since.
"I recall there being no more than three or four men with him in Tavershall," Rosivok said.
"That number has more than tripled," Sharryl said.
"Yet nothing else has changed," Frost muttered.
"There is no hope of negotiation?" Cantor asked, stolid, turning to Frost.
"No," Frost said.
Cantor wallowed hard. "What then?"
"I am well prepared, but surprise will not be the advantage I had hoped for, and there is no time to reconsider. I will do what I can. My Subartans must meet those that survive."
Frost turned to Sharryl and Rosivok. "I will stay here, you two go there," he pointed toward the low land between the two rises, "but be assured Imadis knows what he is about, and will have predicaments planned for us."
Again, silent nods.
"What of me?" Cantor asked.
"Get back, and stay out of sight."
Cantor nodded, and seemed to have no trouble at all finding a suitable spot to vanish into.
Frost closed his eyes and tried to concentrate while his warriors left his side—itself a rare event—and set off down the rocks to meet their enemies.
His first task was to diminish the soldiers' warding spells. Though this would require a bit of guesswork, since countermeasures relied most heavily on knowing precisely the type of spell one was to counter, and a great deal of effort, in this situation, would certainly be difficult to sustain. But three-to-one odds meant these soldiers had more to fear from magic than battle, and were likely protected in matched proportion, so Frost had prepared a spell designed to remove nothing at all.
Instead, the spell he worked to finish now would use the energy of the soldiers' own warding spells to make them heavy—a burden of great, relentless weight, and one the attacking soldiers would be forced to drag with them into battle. Sluggish and struggling, they would be vulnerable. Rosivok and Sharryl would have to do the rest.
As for the sorcerer himself, Frost had decided to rely on a variation of his oldest and most effective—if somewhat opprobrious—spells, one of the few he knew that might work against another adept. Though how well, or how quickly, he could not be sure. . . .
Much depended on Imadis himself. Already Frost could feel the presence of the other's spell workings, a rarefied glimmer of sorcery in the air. Though strangely, nothing yet seemed directed at anyone or anything in particular. Frost waited, working his first spell near to completion while the soldiers all stood there on the next ridge, perhaps waiting for Frost to make a move. Perhaps, one Imadis could then counter.
You will fail, he told Imadis, attempting to send his thoughts directly to the other, guessing Imadis would be listening.
No . . .
The answer came weak, but Frost took this as a sign of nothing. Imadis might not be as practiced as Frost at speaking in thoughts, or he might be trying to influence Frost's preparedness, encouraging overconfidence; which was something Frost had to admit he was occasionally prone to. Today, however, he would not succumb.
Sharryl and Rosivok had crossed the low point between the two hills and were headed up the adjacent rocky slope now, approaching Imadis. The waiting troops enjoyed the double advantage of numbers and possession of the high ground even without Imadis' help. Frost could wait no longer. He finished the spell, and discovered at once that he had guessed entirely wrong.
He found nothing to latch onto, to work with, to reshape or pervert. No warding spells were present at all. He had wasted precious time and energies and accomplished nothing.
There . . . It was Imadis again, his thoughts somewhat clearer now, and most disquieting. Frost quelled his impulse for anger—no time for that, either.
If they had no wardings they would pay the price, including Imadis. Bringing all his will and concentration to the effort, Frost abandoned his earlier work and quickly recited the phrases that would empower his single most effective spell. Next he added those few last words that would extend the spell's focus to all those who stood on the other ridge, then he added his binding phrase. A nearly impossible task, but Frost could attempt nothing less if—
He felt the drain on his body immediately, the rapidly growing fatigue that made him feel as if he'd suddenly gone two days without sleep. But it felt good at first, the way all gainful exercise could make one feel, especially when the results could be easily measured. That would change.
Frost kept focussing, continuing the effort, and waited for the inevitable graying of his targets, the withering, the dying that came from extreme and sudden age. A complex spell, so widely implemented, but he had used this one many times before and perfected its every nuance, making it versatile, yet entirely under his control.
No, he heard Imadis say again in thought.
He looked more closely from within and concentrated on the feel of the spell, the push of absorption combined with the gentle rebound that let him know his targets were being affected. He felt nothing, as though the spell was being deflected or altered somehow. Or redirected, he suddenly realized.
Frost felt a cold foreboding grip his gut. If Imadis knew anything about Frost, he would know of the aging spell. Of course! He had devised some means of sidestepping it, was even now acting like a lightning rod, drawing Frost's efforts away from his men and around himself, then sending the energy off into earth or air. Frost wasn't sure how, but it was working. His best efforts were failing. Sharryl and Rosivok were rushing to their deaths.
That, Frost vowed in silence, would not come to pass.
He began to withdraw from the spell and gathered his wits about him. For all that was happening, Imadis seemed quite preoccupied. Frost held him hard in his gaze and waited for the visceral rejoinder that would mark the moment of contact, but the wait went on, his stare went unanswered. Which meant Imadis was lending his full concentration to that irksome tangle of sorcery he was using to protect his soldiers from Frost's assault. Or he was working on other magics as well, and combined, they had taxed him to his limits.
Warding spells were the simplest of all and Frost had perfected a number of them over the years; the one he wore at this very moment, for instance. Properly enhanced, a warding spell could reflect an assault from any direction. Which offered a possibility.
Frost let the aging spell go completely. He took a breath, then spat out the single phrase that would transfer his own warding spell to Imadis. A gift of sorts. He owed Imadis that much at least.
The effect was immediate. Imadis howled loudly enough to carry across the ravine between them, then he spun halfway around, shaking his head, flailing his arms about as if insects were swarming after him. Whatever he'd been using to reroute Frost's spells, it had flashed back and bitten him like a rabid dog.
"Now!" Frost said, clearly and loudly, "I continue." He returned to the aging spell, though this time he aimed it only at Imadis' soldiers, concentrating on the nearest of them first. Cut off from their master's protections, the desired effects began to appear.
The soldiers had stood fast, waiting for their two hapless adversaries to reach them at the top of the ridge so they could cut them down at their leisure. Frost concentrated on his spell, feeding it with measured precision from his considerable body stores. The soldiers' postures began to arch forward. The hair that poked out from underneath their short, wide-rimmed helmets was clearly turning white, especially on the nearest of them. Frost did not allow himself even a smile as he glanced up, but he felt a certain satisfaction well up inside him.
The feeling vanished as his displaced warding spell dissolved. Frost fought to hold the spell's energy intact, working two spells at once, but it was already too late for that. No form or function remained, only his own great exertion, and all of that being wasted.
With a shudder, Frost let the effort die. The soldiers had already grown older and diminished, some more than others, but none had been vanquished.
Rosivok and Sharryl, each with their subartas lashed to their right arms and a short sword in the other hand, reached the ridge an instant later and struck the first blows. Frost watched Rosivok slice a man nearly in half, then Sharryl felled a second and a third, then Rosivok another. But as Frost watched he found reason for fresh concern. The soldiers that fell kept moving, rolling about in pain, long after they should have lain still. Then one of them gathered himself and rose again, first to one knee, then one foot, until he stood up once more, ready to take up the fight again. Frost could see blood on the soldier's armor, evidence of his wound, but not nearly enough.
Another spell! Frost felt exasperation clawing at his throat, his wits. Imadis wasn't so talented when they'd last met. He had been practicing and apparently studying Frost with devotion. Flattering on the one hand, though quite inconvenient at the moment. Imadis had anticipated Frost's every move, or nearly so.
The two Subartans were heavily engaged, fighting with all their skills and strengths, yet each blow proved only temporary. Imadis' men could be wounded, but they would not die. The ones least affected by Frost's aging spell were at the fore now, forcing Sharryl and Rosivok back down the steep rock face while the others began to form a semicircle around the warriors. Frost saw Sharryl flinch as she took a sharp blow to the leather-shielded calf of her left leg. She rallied with a fierce, rapid combination—first the subarta, then the sword—and Frost saw her nearest opponent's left leg come off cleanly just above the knee. The man fell in a heap, screaming at the sky and rolling, hands gripping at the stump. The bleeding seemed to stop quickly enough, but the soldier stayed down, the fight gone out of him.
One down, Frost thought. But even his Subartans were only human, and could only keep this effort up another few moments before they began to falter or were overwhelmed. Imadis and his men would then come for him once Sharryl and Rosivok had fallen, intent on taking the prize that had driven them to risk their lives in the first place.
No! Frost vowed. He was not about to lose those two, they had been through too many years and battles together, and had become too well suited for each other—to Frost. Think of something . . . He still heard Imadis' thoughts faintly, more emotion than words, but the sorcerer was clearly growing excited in response to Frost's own desperate thoughts. Frost needed a completely new plan, one Imadis hadn't already thought of.
Both Subartans turned abruptly and lunged down the rock toward the hollow between the two rises. Four soldiers remained with Imadis, leaving eight of them still able to make pursuit. Frost watched the larger group. They were being so careful as they edged down the steep rocks, minding each step so as not to fall, looking almost comical, but when they reached the bottom any trace of humor was lost. The battle raged again, this time head to head, shoulder to shoulder. Despite their feebleness, though, the attackers' numbers and their damnable habit of healing after every good blow kept the outcome grim.
Frost . . .
Imadis was calling to him, but why?
The reason came fiercely clear as the sickness struck at Frost from within and began to overwhelm him. His body broke into a cold, soaking sweat as his insides churned, as his body began to ache. He felt the urge to heave up what little bread and cheese he had eaten for breakfast; then he swayed, dizzy as the fever continued to rise rapidly, high enough to cook what few wits he had left. Imadis had prepared this spell carefully and at length, had fashioned it to follow the name directly into Frost's mind and body once Imadis had spoken it properly, and Frost had taken it to heart.
Frost's own warding spells were useless against it, since he had given his best preparation to Imadis only moments ago. That was certainly the most admirable part of Imadis' considerable plan, or the luckiest. He had used his familiarity with Frost's ways and methods to good result.
Frost felt himself swaying as if blown by a wind, though the air was quite still. A fresh surge of nausea churned his belly. He had nearly been destroyed in the encounter with the demon prince, Tyrr, a disaster that had left him beaten and empty, unwilling and unable to attempt even the smallest sorceries, and lacking the smallest hope of ever finding confidence again. But this was only a man, a sorcerer such as himself. Until the battle with Tyrr at Kamrit, Frost had never lost before, and he intended never to lose again.
With that thought his right knee buckled, and he found himself kneeling on the rocks trying to catch his breath, so dizzy and weak that he could barely move.
The Blade, Imadis was saying, thinking, dreaming—as a starving man dreams of feasts—The Demon Blade.
Frost heard Sharryl and Rosivok shout out from below, the howls of warriors about to be overwhelmed yet roaring back at the imminence of that fate, raging at their own ends with a courage they would never abandon.
There were no spells, nothing Frost could think of now, nothing he could do that would turn the battle. There were other warding spells, some different enough, perhaps, to break Imadis' hold on him for a time. Long enough to savemyself, Frost guessed, though even those seemed too difficult just now—and then what? Sharryl and Rosivok would not be helped and his demise would still be inevitable.
Frost's mind reeled from fever and frustration, from the certain knowledge that whatever he did, he had only the time and stamina and presence of mind to make perhaps one effort. Only one. Then, either way . . .
Frost let his cloak drop from his shoulders. The world spun around as he moved his head. Sweat from his forehead ran and burned his eyes. He gasped at the heaviness of the breath in his lungs and the sweat-soaked clothing that clung to him. He wanted to slump back onto his haunches but he fought that urge. He needed to kneel at least, to do what he knew he should not do, what he had promised himself on the battlefield in Ariman he would never do again.
If it is the Demon Blade you want, then you shall have it! Frost thought. He reached up to his shoulder and pulled the strap down, around, then groped at the linens that kept the Blade itself hidden from the world. Next he took the hilt, first in one hand, then the other, and pulled the sword from its sheath.
Now what? he thought, reeling still. His successes with the Blade involved the most complicated, unlikely and unpalatable confluence of sorceries ever imagined. Spells that drew energy, but turned inside out, spells like those he was using to sense Imadis' thoughts, but turned on their side, deflection and warding spells turned completely around, a chant that aided in focussing, another that helped repel. The knowledge of a lifetime scavenged, bastardized, adapted to a purpose even Frost could barely understand. It had worked once—worked too well—and he had nearly died in the attempt. It would take half a lifetime of working with the Blade to learn how to control it without destroying himself, or others. But for now, he had only a moment, and hardly any wits at all.
Frost focussed on the far hill where Imadis stood feeding the spells that kept his soldiers alive, and kept him in such agony. As he had done before he raised the Blade and braced himself, remembering as best he could, whispering the words, the sounds barely leaving his lips. The first time he had tried this feat the Blade had used nearly all the energy he could give; it had drained much of the life out of those who stood near at the time. Sharryl, Rosivok and Madia had nearly died. Then he had tried again—reduced to a bag of bones, he'd tried again—gambling with the only thing he had left, his life, he'd tried. As I must do now.
"Sharryl, Rosivok, to me!"
They heard and without hesitation they turned and headed up the hill, Imadis' aged but determined troops trailing after them. The moment the two Subartans reached the top Frost had them get well behind him, then he concentrated on both Imadis and the soldiers just below, now no more than fifty paces away. Darkness took him briefly as he finished the last phrases of the spell, and added his binding phrase. He blinked, and saw a brilliant flash of blue-white fire explode from the Blade and cross across the distance between the two sorcerers. It turned slightly green, then red, strengthening, blindingly radiant now—so great a concentration of unearthly power that Frost could not truly comprehend it, even though he knew something of what to expect. A second blaze ignited, arching off, down and left, to the climbing soldiers just below.
Frost paid desperate attention, first to the accuracy of his aim, something he could only get a sense of, and then to his mind's ear as Imadis screamed out in horror as Frost's aim proved true. He watched even more closely for the moment when the blaze would turn suddenly white once more—the instant when it ceased to draw energy from Imadis and the soldiers below, and went after a new source of energy. The nearest source.
Beneath him the earth began to shake. He hadn't noticed that before, in the valley that had been the battlefield in Ariman. Hadn't noticed it here until just now. He wasn't even sure whether it was the earth or his own body that shook, or whether the brutal coldness he felt seeping into his knees and back was real or an imagined part of the panick and confusion his body was being subjected to.
The heat was real. The flesh of his hands and face burned from the fierce radiance of the Blade's energy streams; and the inevitable pain within was real as well, like countless thousands of tiny hot embers touching every fiber of nerve, muscle, bone. Unbearable, but if he was not careful, it would get worse as quickly as . . .
Imadis screamed out as if his very soul was being torn from him. Then Frost felt the sword grow heavier, felt that the strain of his efforts to force the fusion of so many makeshift spells had suddenly become unbearable.
He felt the hunger next, terrifying, bottomless, a cold beyond thought or touch. The torrent of flame was turning white once more and he understood in that instant what would happen, what he must do, and that it might already be too late.
His gut turned hard as the pain exploded inside him—even as he tried to let go of everything, the spells, the world, the Demon Blade itself—but as he did the pain found its center in his chest and the weight of twenty horses came to rest on his ribs. Reality seemed to slow nearly to a stop, as if the pain had weighted it down. He couldn't get away, couldn't put two thoughts in a row, couldn't stop.
His ears were ringing, but the sound seemed to come from beyond himself, from beyond the air around him and the earth on which he stood, a sound like the tearing of a fabric never seen or touched by mortal minds. The notion was abstract, yet intensely terrifying, and sent him groping back through twisting layers of pain, magic and substance in search of the release that should have come—should have come ages ago.
Let go. . . .
The darkness gripped him, then blinding light that touched off a final explosion of pain inside him, and severed his last ties with self, with flesh . . . with the world. He collapsed on the rocks, but the rocks ran away from underneath him, and he felt himself begin to tumble over the edge. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't move any part of his body as it fell.
His mind seemed suddenly taken with observing everything from a detached point of view. Nothing seemed real but the pain. Then reality found him, and touched him with a hammer as big as the mountain itself.
He felt hands clutching at his clothing, pulling him backward. Or perhaps he only imagined he did. He tried to open his eyes, he thought he had, but only darkness filled his mind. Then even his most errant thoughts began to fade again, until he lost them in the growing void—a place where, he was certain, he would never find them again.
| Title: | Frost |
| Author: | Mark A. Garfield & Charles G. McGraw |
| ISBN: | 0-671-31943-4 |
| Copyright: | © 2000 by Mark A. Garfield & Charles G. McGraw |
| Publisher: | Baen Books |