Robin Wayne Bailey - Frost 1 - Frost

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Frost
Robin W. Bailey
Copyright © 1983 by Robert W. Bailey
One
Frost reached into her saddlebag for the last strip of dried meat that made up
her hastily drawn provisions. Relaxing in the saddle, she began to chew the
tough substance, caring little that it had no taste. A swig of cool liquid from
her nearly empty water skin washed it down, and she rode on toward Shazad.
With the storm over, the clouds gone, a bright moon shone down through the
trees. Once, Frost stopped her horse and gazed skyward for long, questioning
moments, for amid the stars there seemed to be a single red eye, staring toward
the ground. But a drifting breeze stirred the thick branches and dripping
leaves, shaking water into her upturned eyes. When she could see again, the
vision was gone. A trick of the moon, no doubt, or her imagination. Her mother
had warned her that madness was the fate of murderers.
She cast her gaze about, peering into the darkness. Etai Calan, this wood was
called. Forest of the Forgotten. Forest of the Damned, she thought.
Glimmering in the moonlight were the demon-things that gave Etai Calan its name;
monstrous webs stretched between the huge old trunks, burning with a dew-laden
fire that never faded. With elegant, lazy grace they draped among the limbs and
branches. Esgarian legends spoke of an ancient, half forgotten race of
spider-like creatures that once inhabited the land and used this forest as a
museum to display their most beautiful works of art — webs which to this day
endured. What had become of that race, no one remembered. No trace of them
remained, and no legend or song told of their passing. But the webs were treated
with reverence, and when the road was cut through Etai Calan not a strand was
disturbed.
Frost was more than glad the path avoided the strange webs. She had no love for
spiders, artistic or otherwise. From a safe distance, though, she wondered why
they never blew apart in storms like the one she had just come through, and what
gave them such an eerie light. The webs grew thicker as she rode deeper into the
wood, and a twist in the road brought them close enough to touch.
She stopped her horse and listened. Since darkness had fallen, Etai Calan had
been silent. Unnaturally so. Except for the steady fall of her mount’s hooves
and the dripping water off wet leaves, no other sound touched her ears. The
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quiet was unsettling, but after awhile she rode on, alert for any hint that she
was not the only living thing in the night.
The air came suddenly alive with sound, a soft rhythmic flutter at first as if
the dark was filled with thousands of wings. The beating grew and grew as a
vague shadow passed overhead, hiding the bloated moon from sight. Frost grimaced
as the noise assailed her and fought to stay astride her panicking steed. Then,
sound and shadow faded in the distance, and the wood was quiet as before.
A chill fell upon the forest. Frost drew her damp cloak closer around her.
Magic, she was sure … Had the storm, too, been created and not natural?
Again the shadow passed over the trees. Her mount trembled and tried to rear,
and Frost fought to hold him still, cursing the pig-farmer that had sold him to
her.
Thick clouds rolled in and blotted out the stars. The moon slowly vanished,
taking the last light. Only the glowing webs of Etai Calan showed her the road.
A pungent odor of dead leaves and decayed wood swam in her nostrils borne by a
cold wind that played suddenly in the leaves and ceased as suddenly.
From the sky a dense column of vapor fell, and as it touched the ground it
flowed outward like water in all directions. Another column, then several more,
descended on her right and left, as straight as bars in a cell door. She drew
her sword and swung it through the nearest one. A wisp clung to her blade, then
trailed away into the air.
She sheathed her weapon with difficulty, wrapping the reins tighter around her
free hand as she fought to control her mount.
The smoky columns fell everywhere, increasing in number with each breath. As
they met the ground a thick carpet of fog spread over the forest floor. Trees on
either side of the path began to fade, obscured by the mist.
A column of fog fell on her thigh and oozed over her knee. Its touch was
feathery soft, icy cold. She recoiled, wheeling her horse in a tight circle.
The road was gone, hidden in the heavy mist, yet she leaned close to her horse’s
neck and whipped him into motion.
Like giant spears the columns fell. Frost leaned away from their touch, weaving
her mount through them. It no longer mattered that the road was invisible. She
urged the beast faster along, seeking some escape. The air was filling with the
vapor, and it burned her lungs with cold fire when she breathed.
Too late she saw the web, had a dark vision of writhing in those glistening
strands while a fat spider sucked her blood. With a desperate cry she swerved
and was knocked from the saddle by a thick, low branch.
Hard and flat on her back she hit the ground, splashing mud. The rim of a
shield, the last piece of armor she had, bit painfully into her spine, causing
her to regret the way she wore it strapped over her shoulders. She coughed,
struggling for breath through a bruised throat.
Staggering to her feet, she spotted her horse waiting uncertainly in the fog.
There was panic in the animal’s crazed eyes. It stamped the earth and shook its
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tangled mane; then suddenly it whirled and galloped out of sight.
She cursed bitterly. Everything she owned was tied to that miserable creature.
Everything except her sword, shield and the clothes on her back.
Her father’s saddle was gone. Two days before she had carried that saddle for
miles, her last legacy, rather than abandon it when her first horse had broken a
leg.
She looked around to get bearings. Unslinging the shield, she set it on her
right arm. With her left hand she grasped her sword’s hilt for reassurance and
began to walk.
Afoot there was more time to think rationally. Magical forces were at play in
this forest, and she was caught up in them; whether by accident or deliberate
design remained to be seen. Weather control was fundamental to anyone with
mystic knowledge, yet the suddenness of the cold and the depth of the fog spoke
of a powerful, possibly malignant intelligence. And the thunderous beating of
wings, of thousands of wings —
She pushed on, stumbling on unseen rocks and roots. Then abruptly, the fog gave
way, rolling from her feet so she could see plainly the obstacles in her path.
Guidance, she realized, for the mist began to open at odd angles leading her in
directions she had not intended to go. She stopped to consider — and the mist
waited for her.
She was lost for sure, and tired of wandering blindly. Holding her shield high,
she went where the path led.
Suddenly, the trail ended. She waited expectantly for the fog to open in some
new direction, but it did not.
A robed and hooded figure stepped out of the mist not an arm’s length away.
Neither face nor hands showed beneath the folds of the shrouding garment. Frost
whipped out her sword. The point hovered at the Stranger’s throat.
“Another move, and I’ll run you through,” she threatened with a calm she did not
feel.
The Stranger spoke her name. Her real name.
Enraged, she raised her blade to slay, but a power took hold of her left arm,
and she found she could not strike, nor could she slam the edge of her shield at
the unseen face. A subtle dread crept up her spine, changing her desire to kill
to a more defensive attitude. She backed a couple of steps, regarding the figure
carefully, warily.
“If you speak that name again I swear I’ll find some way to gut you, demon or
no.”
“Very well. Frost. I shall use your chosen name, though it is neither pretty,
nor pleasing to the tongue.” The voice, a man’s, was richly melodic, filled with
sweet music, soft, yet strong. He made no move to attack. Still, she kept her
sword leveled between them.
“How do you know any name to call me by?”
“Your names are as clear in your mind as words on a page to me,” he answered.
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“Every thought you have ever had is writ thereon, and I have seen a little of
it.”
It was likely. Once, she had such power, however limited, to see another’s mind.
That this stranger had free access to her private thoughts did not please her.
“Why?” she asked.
“There is a task I must pass on to you. My task first, but you must do it for me
now.”
“Why should I do anything for you?”
The Stranger shrugged. “I could say that you will do it for money, but I have
none to give you. I could say that you will do it to save this miserable world
and your own life with it, but you will most likely fail and lose both. Or I
could say that you will do it because by undertaking the task and confronting
the dangers you may, for a little while, escape the nightmares and memories that
torture you, and for that reason I believe you will do as I ask.”
Her sword arm trembled, and she struggled to suppress the temper that swelled
within her. He knew about the nightmares. He knew it all.
“In plain words, what do you want of me?” she said through clenched teeth. “But
I warn you, I’ll probably refuse your task. I don’t think I like you much.”
A hand extended to her. In the palm was a leather-bound book with iron hinges
and a lock. The leather was cracked and worn with age. The lock was rusted and
of a kind she had never seen before. To judge by the edges, the pages were
yellowed and brittle. The thing exuded a musty, molding smell that crept
unpleasantly up her nose. Yet, she was attracted to the delicate characters and
runes that were carved into the binding. They caught and held her eye. She
reached out carefully to touch it.
“You must deliver this to a sorcerer in Chondos.”
Frost jerked her hand back. Her grip on the sword tightened. “Do I look like a
fool? Chondos is a land ruled by black magic. Sensible men avoid it as they
would a plague.”
“Because of rumors the Chondites themselves have fostered,” the Stranger said.
“True, the land is ruled by sorcery, but not all sorcerers are black sorcerers,
as you should know. You are a witch yourself.”
“No longer,” she muttered. “My witch-powers are gone.”
The Stranger shook his head. “Your mother’s curse only deprived you of certain
psychic mechanisms by which you express those powers. The power itself is still
within you, though you may never again be able to tap it.”
“No matter. I have a sword now.”
“In time, you may wish for the return of your skills. The foes you face may not
always be human.”
“I’m learning,” she answered slowly, “that I prefer to see up close who I’m
fighting. Or what. There’s little enough pleasure in this business and none at
all if you can’t see your enemy’s face when you kill him.”
“You put up a good front, but that’s only bluster,” the Stranger said. ”Still,
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you have a strong spirit. It will serve you in good stead through the days and
nights to come.”
Suddenly, the figure tilted his head as if listening for something. Frost
listened, also. The misty air was still and silent.
“They have found me,” he announced calmly. “They must not discover you here,
too.”
“Who has found you?” She listened again. “I hear nothing.”
“There is not much time, please. Take the Book and get far away.” He held the
ancient tome out to her. “Please!” he urged when she hesitated.
“Not so fast. I still want some answers. Just what is this book, and why must it
go to Chondos?”
The Stranger glanced skyward again, yet Frost still heard nothing but her own
short breathing.
“There is little time, so listen carefully.” He thrust the Book into her arms,
brushing aside the sword she held between them. “This is the Book of the Last
Battle.”
Her mouth gaped wide. The Book was legendary. No mortal had ever laid eyes on
it, but the dark secrets that lay between its covers made it the object of many
a mystic quest. Even her mother, Esgaria’s most potent sorceress, had attempted
to find it and failed. Frost sheathed her blade to examine the Book more
closely.
“For uncounted millennia it lay hidden at the heart of a distant mountain,” the
Stranger explained, “but a Shardahani wizard stumbled by sheer accident upon its
resting place.”
“A Shardahani?” she interrupted. “They make poor wizards. No imagination.”
“Zarad-Krul was a poor wizard dabbling in philosophies he couldn’t begin to
understand until he found the Book. But in the instant he first became aware of
the volume’s true nature the Dark Forces he worships also became aware of it.
And like humans, they desire it too, for the Book of the Last Battle is said to
contain the strategies, the plans and the Words of Power that will be used in
the final confrontation of Light against Darkness.
“This Zarad-Krul has become a tool of the Dark Gods. Though he is unable to open
the Book now, his masters feed him more knowledge each day in the hope he will
find a way to pry it open — or failing that, to summon a Dark One into this
plane to learn its secrets. The wizard is not yet strong enough for that, but
already his new magic has given him dominion over all of Shardaha. And his power
grows. Soon, it will reach the limits of his mortal mind. Already it has made
him mad, and he plans to call not one, but many Dark Lords into this world and
unleash them on his enemies.
“Nor will the Forces of Light do anything to prevent it. Not willingly. The time
is not yet right for the final confrontation. If the Dark Ones are called
through, the scales of destiny will be unbalanced, and the hour of the Last
Battle will be delayed beyond all foreseeing. If Zarad-Krul can be thwarted it
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must be by you and me — and, perhaps, one other.”
“What other?”
The Stranger lifted his gaze yet again, peering into the mist above his head. “A
Chondite sorcerer, a master in the Brotherhood of the Black Arrow. His name is
Kregan. Take the Book to him. He will know what to do with it.”
“But how did you come by the Book if Zarad-Krul found it first?”
“There’s no more time. You must flee now.”
Frost set her feet. “Give me the answer first. I don’t know if I trust you.” But
now she heard, faint and far away, the ominous beating of wings.
“I stole it from Zarad-Krul’s tower while he slept, but a guardian raised the
alarm before I could slip away. I fled with the Book, but his demons pursue me.
I’ve warred against them all night, nearly to exhaustion. Finally, I threw up
this fog to hide myself, knowing it would not be enough to save my life. It was
a desperate maneuver when I thought I’d lost the gamble, that Zarad-Krul’s
creatures would kill me and take the Book back to him. But then, I sensed you
riding in the wood.”
The sound of the wings drew nearer. Steadily they beat doom, doom, doom on the
night air, but Frost could see nothing to cause such dreadful cadence.
“Go now,” the Stranger begged. “If Zarad-Krul sends his eye, he will find you,
too; then all hope will be lost.”
“Come with me. We’ll flee together.”
He shook his head. “No, Zarad-Krul knows my aura now. He can find me wherever I
run.”
“Then I’ll stay and help you fight.”
“No!” he cried. “Your sword will be of no use against these creatures. Flee!
Now!”
The air boomed with the frantic pulse of invisible wings. Her instincts told her
to run. This was sorcery, and her own mystic powers were gone. She clasped the
Book tightly in her shield hand and unsheathed her sword. However useless it
might be it was a weapon at least. She turned to go.
“Wait!” shouted the Stranger suddenly before she was far away. “I can give you
two weapons to help fight Zarad-Krul.” He threw off his robe. His body was
perfect, and the naked flesh shone with a golden light. Frost had never called a
man beautiful before, but this man was that. He wore no other garment, but
around his waist on a belt of silver there hung a dagger. He tossed it to her.
The sheath containing the blade was also of silver, pure and gleaming.
“This is Demonfang, and it is well named, for a warning comes with it: do not
draw it idly from its silver sheath; once removed the dagger must taste blood —
either your enemy’s or your own.”
“And the second weapon?” shouted Frost. The beating became a thunderous roar in
her ears.
“It will come to you in time and of its own will. Now run as quick as you can.”
“Your name,” she cried. “I want to know your name!”
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“What does it matter? I am a Tool of Light.”
The noise reached a deafening crescendo, heralding the arrival of Zarad-Krul’s
minions. Through the fog, thousands upon thousands of tiny shapes fluttered to
and fro, searching for the man who gave no name. Frost drew back her sword and
swung furiously at the creatures, but they flitted easily away, too small to
make decent targets.
Suddenly, the shadow-shapes found the Stranger. He raised his arms to swat them
away, flailing frantically at the air. They swarmed over him, settled in his
hair, in his eyes. She raised her sword again. If she could not drive away his
tormentors, she could at least give him a quick death. But as she stepped
forward, he managed to lift an arm in warning and shouted one last, desperate
cry.
Twittering shapes engulfed his beautiful body and bore him down. He struggled
under the sheer weight of numbers, but it was no use. A few last contortions and
his fight was over.
Obeying his final command, Frost turned and ran into the fog, casting fearful
glances over her shoulder. When the fallen form of the Stranger was no more than
a vague, formless lump on the misty ground, she threw herself down behind a bush
to watch and wait. She felt the Book pressed between her body and the moist
earth. Demonfang in its silver sheath lay beside her, its glittering belt looped
over her arm.
She watched as the shadowy creatures settled upon the Stranger’s still body,
afraid that she would be discovered and dealt with in similar fashion. Shortly
the wings stopped beating. The fog began to dissipate.
Through long hours she remained unmoving. As the last of the mist lifted, she
sucked in her breath, unable quite to believe what she saw. In the pale light of
pre-dawn, thousands of butterflies blanketed the Stranger’s corpse until no part
of it could be seen. Over this, there hovered a rheumy eye, red and swollen and
evil. It floated for a time, fixed on the spot where murder had been done. Then
it looked up and surveyed the forest in a slow rotation. As it swept in her
direction Frost caught just a glimpse of the black pupil and shivered. The eye
paused. Though it seemed not to see her, she crawled closer to the bush and hid
her face. When she looked up again the eye was gone.
On the Stranger’s body the butterflies remained perched, lazily fanning their
wings until the first rays of a new sun appeared in the sky. In her hiding
place, she dared not move. Then, as if on command, they took to the air,
spreading wings in the fresh morning light.
Soundlessly they flew now, and the forest sparkled with colors, rich greens,
reds and golds as the delicate insects danced among the leaves.
Never had she seen such rare beauty. They meandered briefly through the trees,
then gathering into a great swarm, flew into the northwest, so alluring, so
precious their many-hued wings, so perfect in flight. She watched until she
could see them no more.
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Then, she turned her eyes back to the Stranger, and her stomach heaved. A pile
of bones, picked clean, gleamed whitely there. All through the night the
butterflies had feasted on his flesh. Not even a drop of blood was left to stain
the grass.
Two
At midday, frost wiped the sweat from her brow and cursed the flea-bitten horse
that had deserted her. It was a long walk through Etai Calan. Her throat was
dry, and she had not seen a stream for hours. Plucking a leaf, she crumpled it
and stuffed it in her mouth. The sappy liquid had a foul taste, but at least it
was wet.
The vision of the Stranger’s grisly skeleton haunted her. Now and then, she took
the Book from its resting-place inside her tunic, half-tempted to toss it into
the bushes and forget about it. Yet, the loathsome death she had witnessed
caused her eyes to narrow in a silent vow, and her heart hardened against the
wizard Zarad-Krul.
By late afternoon her very bones were tired. Her shield was a heavy stone tied
to her back, and her legs, stiff and sore from four days in the saddle, ached
painfully. Though she rested frequently, there seemed to be no end to the
forest.
Off the road to her left she heard a crackle in the brush. She paused only for a
minute, then dismissed it as some animal. After a few short steps, she heard
another sound, this time on her right.
Eight men appeared suddenly out of the brush and made a ring around her. Dirt
smeared their faces; their hair was shaggy and unkempt. Their clothes were
stained with mud and filth. The stink of them polluted the clean freshness of
the forest air.
Raiders, she realized. Such men often crawled across the border into Esgaria,
attacking farmhouses and small trade caravans. Before a patrol could be mounted
to catch them they would lose themselves in the wood and make their way back to
Rholaroth to fence their pilfered goods.
Shazad was full of men like these. That city’s coffers were gorged on the bounty
of her people.
Five of them held swords. One bore a falchion, and two more carried dirks with
blades long as her forearm. Her own sword was in her fist, and she crouched low,
ready to meet the first attacker.
Instead, one of the raiders grinned broadly, showing yellowed, broken teeth. The
grin widened and suddenly he roared with laughter. “God’s loins, it’s a woman,”
he bellowed. “We been stalkin’ a woman!”
“Well, ye couldn’t tell it by ‘er clothes,” said another.
“Or that sticker she’s holdin’,” added a third.
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They all laughed and began to circle her, throwing taunts and insults. Was she
cuttin’ flowers for her table? Searchin’ for an unfaithful lover? Naw, she’d
never had no lovers, so she’d given up bein’ a woman an’ planned to make it as a
man from now on.
The man who had spoken first ended the game with a wave of his hand.
“I’d sure like that shield,” said a voice behind her.
“I could use a new cloak,” said another. “Lost mine in that card game last week.
‘Course it was finer than this one, but I’ll make do.”
“I want the sword.”
“The boots look in fair shape.”
Frost made no move. She listened to the voices, the rustle of their clothes, the
shuffling of feet, knowing just where each of the raiders stood though she could
not see them all.
“Well, what about her?” said the first man, their leader, apparently. “She’s
pretty enough. What d’ye think we should do with her?”
There was only one thing to do with a woman, someone answered.
Frost went cold. No man had ever touched her as these men meant to. She smelled
their dirty bodies and swore that the first to attempt it would pay a high
price.
The leader’s eyes met hers, and his grin disappeared. His sword flicked, and he
made a quick side step, expecting to get inside her guard and knock her blade
away.
Frost sensed his overconfidence. She swung hard, catching his sword near the
hilt, sending it flying from his grip.
The man leaped back in surprise, checking his fingers to make sure he still had
them all. Then, he glared, and she saw the anger that flamed in his face. He
seized the sword of the man beside him, shoving him roughly and cursing.
Drawing a deep breath, she shut her eyes for just a moment, remembering the
words of her weapons-master. He had prepared her for this, drilled her in
absolute darkness, taught her to handle a multiple attack. She heard the sounds
of their breathing, felt the tension that filled the air, smelled their sweat.
Her sword grip tightened, and she thought of her shield. No use trying to get it
free now. Let it protect her back. She took her sword in both hands, bastard
style, and adjusted her stance.
“Think ye’re pretty good with that sticker, don’t ye, woman? Well, ye just made
it a lot tougher on ye than it had to be. Before, we were just gonna have a
little fun, but now ye made ol’ Vericus mad. Embarrassed ‘im a little ‘fore his
men, so now he’s gotta show ‘em what happens when people make Vericus mad.” His
smile came back, and he showed his rotten teeth. “Take that sticker away from
her, boys.”
A man to Vericus’ right moved first. Frost swung her sword in a whistling arc
and chopped halfway through him. Vericus bellowed angrily, swung and missed as
she struggled to free her blade. Tugging it away, she leaped at him and smashed
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her knee into his groin. As he doubled over, she pushed him headlong into a
tree.
The circle was broken. Frost ran a few steps and turned to face the rest. Two
more charged, stepping on their fallen comrades to get at her. She parried the
first man’s blow and, on the backswing, lopped off the other’s sword hand. From
the corner of her eye she saw the remaining raiders trying to surround her
again.
She was tired from her long walk. Each swing of her weapon seemed slower than
the last, and every block sent shivers up her arm. Worse, the hilt of her sword
was becoming slick with blood.
A descending blade whistled, and Frost whirled, dodged and parried, panting for
breath. The falchion rose again and crashed down. She flung up her sword to
intercept it, but so strong was the stroke that she lost her grip. Her sword
tumbled into the road.
Her left arm hung limp and aching at her side. Having disarmed her, the man with
the falchion hesitated. With a gasp and the last of her fading strength, she
slammed her fist against his jaw. It had small effect, and he caught her wrist
when she tried again.
Held fast, another raider seized her useless arm and twisted it cruelly behind
her. She winced and cried out, clenching her eyes against the pain. When she
opened them Vericus was grinning over her, his nose close to hers.
He slapped her viciously. She rolled her head aside to avoid the full stinging
force, but a trickle of blood ran from her lip.
He gripped her chin, forced her to look where he directed. Two men were dead;
one lay moaning on the ground clutching a handless stump.
“Bitch!” he shouted. “You miserable bitch! Ye’re gonna pay fer this. Good boys,
every one of ‘em, and that one with no hand my very own son! You’ll wish ye’d
laid down an’ had it nice an’ proper when ye had the chance ‘fore I’m through
with ye now.”
Vericus began to loosen his clothes, lust and hatred burning in his eyes. The
others licked their lips, grinning in anticipation.
“Now lay ‘er down on the ground an’ hold ‘er tight. Ye don’t have to be none too
gentle about it either.”
Frost smashed her foot against the shin of one of her captors and got a fist in
the stomach in return. She struggled, twisting, as her feet were jerked from
under her. With a man on each limb they pinned her in the dirt.
Vericus ran filthy hands over her breasts and across her belly. When his fingers
brushed something under her garment his face lit up.
“Hey, the bitch as been holdin’ out on us, boys!” He shoved his hand roughly
under her tunic and pulled out the Book of the Last Battle.
“No!”
The raider captain slapped her mouth before she could make another sound. His
fist pressed down on her lips. “Don’t ye worry now. Ye’re not gonna be doin’
file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Bailey,%20Robin%20Wayne%20-%20Frost%201%20-%201983%20-%20Frost.txt (10 of 147)19-1-2007 22:38:46
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file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Bailey,%20Robin%20Wayne%20-%20Frost%201%20-%201983%20-%20Frost.txtFrostRobinW.BaileyCopyright©1983byRobertW.BaileyOneFrostreachedintohersaddlebagforthelaststripofdriedmeatthatmadeupherhastilydrawnprovisions.Relaxinginthesaddle,shebegantochew hetoughsubstance,caringlittle...

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