Frost (20 page)

But Kregan's rest was short. Rhadamanthus, Minos and Aecus strode through, gathering the
Krilar
of every brotherhood. Taking up his staff, he rose slowly, but before he went he kissed his own fingers and touched the moonstone in the circlet she wore. It shone with a translucent light in the campfire glow, like a third eye in the middle of her brow.

She brushed his hand briefly before he turned away. No words passed between them, but she rose, forgetting her fatigue, and watched as, one by one, elders and
Krilar
ascended a steep, treacherous path that led to the summit of Demonium. When a turn in the path carried them behind an outcropping of rock, and she could see them no more, she wrapped her cloak close about her and settled back again beside the fire's fading warmth.

Though her bones ached with weariness, sleep would not come. The camp was still. The crackling of her tiny fire and the crunch of sentries' boots on the hard earth were the only sounds.

Then, somewhere a drum began to beat softly, low and constant. Only the wind rustling a tent flap, she assured herself, until the sound began to swell in volume and tempo. She sat up. No one else seemed to take any notice. High above on the rim of the pinnacle, something caught her eye: a wild flickering firelight. She could barely see the tips of the flames, but on the smooth-sided monoliths that reared so impossibly high, twisted shadows danced in rhythm to the drum.

A new sound, a chant in an unfamiliar language, joined a second throbbing drum. She grew hot. The air seemed to thicken about her. Sweat beaded on her face as that deep, distant pulse filled her senses. Her heart pounded; blood throbbed in her temples. Shuddering drums reached a fevered peak. Shadows whirled on the ancient stones. The sky seemed alive with crackling fire.

And when she could stand no more, thought she would scream to drown the sound—the drums stopped. Unclenching her eyes, she looked up. The shadows were gone, and the fire was a subdued glow. After awhile, even that faded.

What had it all meant?

Exhausted, she sank back on her pallet. Kregan would return soon and explain it to her. Meanwhile, her little campfire had burned to coals. She stirred it with a stick, glancing up once or twice at the looming monoliths barely visible against the black sky since the strange firelight had gone out. Why didn't they shine like the other stones and boulders?

Without meaning to, she yawned and drifted into a sleep troubled with nightmares, peopled with ghosts.

She sat up gasping, shivering, a half-uttered scream on her lips. A balled fist struck at something that wasn't there; a hand went to her sword. It was a full moment before she realized the dream was over and remembered where she was.

Warm arms slipped around her. “Are you all right?"

Kregan's eyes were large, dark pools that gleamed in the light of a renewed campfire. His bedroll was undisturbed, though. It occurred to her to wonder just how long he had been sitting watch over her. “Sure,” she managed finally. “It was just ... nothing."

He reached out to hold her, but the sound of galloping horses startled them apart. Both leaped up, and other soldiers did the same as the noise shattered their sleep.

Frost slid her blade half out of its sheath before Kregan stayed her hand. “Only three riders,” he said.

She listened, counted and agreed. By now, all the camp was on its feet. Naked steel glimmered in a goodly number of fists, she noted with some satisfaction. Three riders or not, who knew what might be abroad in this cursed darkness.

The sound of hooves traveled far on the flat, still plain, and she strained to follow the riders' approach over the Field of Fire. She could not so much actually
see
them as she noted the winking of the stones as three vague forms eclipsed the glow.

Straight into camp they came, jerking their mounts to a reckless halt, scattering dust and pebbles.

Kregan went pale.

“The last piece of the puzzle,” he mumbled. “Of course, why didn't I see it before?"

Between two apprentices, young brothers of the Black Arrow, sat Natira.

Rhadamanthus pushed through the ring of soldiers, Minos and Aecus in close tow. When he saw the woman he stopped short, a curious expression in his old eyes. The apprentices were breathless from the long ride, but Natira seemed unaffected. Though dust covered every part of her and her hair was a mad tangle, her peculiar beauty radiated like a pale beacon in the night.

“So it
was
you I sensed,” Rhadamanthus said.

Natira made no answer.

“We found her on the ridge as the Esgarian female warned,” an apprentice spoke. “She was following us, and refused to go back even when we tried to take her."

“She talked?” Kregan was incredulous.

“Not a word, but she wouldn't move except to follow the army."

“Our orders were to investigate and report,” the second apprentice interrupted gruffly. “Not to drag some demented woman all the way back to Erebus and miss the real action."

“So we finally let her come,” continued the first. “You wouldn't know it to look at her, but she rode like one possessed, not bothering to look for tracks. She just seemed to know the way."

Rhadamanthus paced a wide circle around the three. “Why?” he said at last. “Why are you here?” Agitation showed on his aged face. He apparently expected an answer from the voiceless girl to judge by the way he glowered at her, but Natira tilted her delicate head at an odd angle and watched him with expressionless eyes.

“Well,” growled Aecus, “what do we do with her?"

“You'll do nothing.” Kregan pushed through the crowd. “I'll take care of her."

"Krilar."
Aecus used the formal address, his voice harsh, stern. “You have other responsibilities. We're at war, and you are a master sorcerer."

“I said I will care for her.” There was no room for argument. He helped his ward from the saddle with deft care. Wearing no cloak, she shivered a little in the night chill, and the Chondite's arm settled naturally about her small shoulders.

Aecus looked as if he would press the issue farther, but Minos caught his arm. “She has been his charge from the first. Leave be, my friend.” Aecus' eyes flared hotly as he shook off the gentler elder's restraining hand. With a curse he turned, strode away, shoving aside any who blocked his path.

Frost also turned away to seek her fire and pallet, deeply troubled. The Elder of the Argent Cup bore watching; his unpredictable moods bordered on madness. Yet, that was not what annoyed her most, though it shamed her to admit it. The look on Kregan's face, his gentleness as he unseated Natira, the easy and oh-so-casual way his arm went around her; these things tormented her. She mocked herself bitterly for fretting over trivialities when greater dangers were afoot.

Still, try as she might, she couldn't set them aside, and when Kregan deposited Natira in his own bedroll next to hers and left, she hissed across the hot coals of the fire.

“Why in the Nine Hells did you have to come?"

Natira sat up, gazed over the flames; a broad smile suddenly creased her lips. With one hand she began to massage her own small breast while with the other she pointed through the fire to Demonfang.

With a gasp, Frost snatched the hand from the flames. Unbelievably, the skin was not burned, not even reddened by the heat. The woman betrayed not the slightest hint of pain, but continued to smile and point at the arcane dagger.

It was unreal, maddening. The hackles rose on her neck, and she clamped her fingers protectively on the slender weapon on her hip, gripped by an unreasoning fear. Leaping up, she fled to the farthest side of camp and beyond, ignoring the guards who called after her. Breathing hard, full of suspicions she could not give voice to, she reached the line of tethered horses and stopped.

Ashur was close by, untethered, and he made a low greeting as she threw her arms around him and rubbed her face in his silken mane. His eyes were soft, muted flames; his breath warmed her skin. From poll to withers she stroked the grateful creature that was, she thought, her only true friend in all this crazy war.

But there was no peace for her among the animals.

Ashur's unnatural eyes flared suddenly, her only warning that something was amiss, and she spun around. A tenuous veil of shifting radiance hovered over the earth near at hand. The light began to flux and coruscate, changing colors rapidly. Then, from the shining nimbus the Stranger emerged, he who had precipitated this adventure, looking exactly as he had in Etai Calan so many days before, naked and beautiful.

“Beware, my child,” he warned. “And be strong."

Her sword rasped clear of sheath; one hand pressed to mouth, muffling her astonished outcry. She stared at the apparition in fear and amazement, remembering the butterflies and a horrible end.

“You're dead!” she managed hoarsely. “Nothing but bones! How can you ...?"

But the Stranger was swallowed once more in light and faded, leaving her alone with Ashur and an unanswered question.

Beware and be strong.
Those were his words. But what did they mean? She turned slowly, surveying all directions. Nothing to beware of. And no one in camp gave any indication of having shared her vision. In fact, as the minutes passed and the shock wore off, she wondered if she had seen him at all, if he wasn't just a product of her own fatigue and growing self-doubt.

She had almost convinced herself that was the case when the horses went wild.

Incandescent sparks shot from Ashur's eyes, and the air turned sullen, foul with the taint of evil. A second nebulous glow shimmered over the ground, spreading harsh colors on everything it touched. A dark light this, it pulsed blood red, emerald green and purple, orange and blood red again. The horses whinnied pitifully, stamped and tore at the picket, but the line held.

The glow vanished, leaving a young man, tall and darkly bronzed with hair black as the space between the stars. Heavy muscles rippled beneath his skin, and he moved with the subtle grace of a bird in flight. His fingers were laden with rings; about his ankles hung dainty chains of gold and silver. He wore nothing else but a broad belt of glittering pearls, larger than any ever of this world, and a patch over his right eye.

The youth held out a hand. The nails were long and curved, lacquered. “Give back my Book."

“Zarad-Krul!” She swung her blade in a high arc with all her might, but the keen edge passed harmlessly through arm, chest, arm, leaving the wizard unaffected but for the smile it brought to his cruel lips. She cursed, called on Tak and struck again with the same result.

Zarad-Krul laughed. “Your weapon is useless, woman. I am only my master's shadow sent to reclaim the Book of the Last Battle from a common thief."

She heaved her sword again, cleaving neck, chest and thigh in three mighty sweeps, but the thing had no substance. Could it truly be the wizard's shadow? She stood back, teeth clenched in an ugly grimace, unwilling to lower her sword, however ineffective it proved.

“Give me the Book and my master will spare your miserable life."

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak lest her voice crack and betray her fear.

“For the third and last time I ask,” said the shadow of Zarad-Krul. “Think before you answer. Believe me, woman. I know your most shameful secrets; defy me, and I can make you suffer in ways you'd never imagine.” He extended his beringed hand again. “Will you give me the Book of the Last Battle?"

She clutched the leather pouch hanging at her side, hugged it fiercely, feeling the treasured contents. It meant death if she surrendered it, hers and Kregan's and the world's.

“No!"

She struck one more time, passing her blade through the wizard's head to no effect; then she turned and fled toward camp, expecting some unholy doom with every pounding step.

Reaching the first line of tents, she spied Natira hiding, watching from the shadows, but she did not stop to question the mute woman. A new fear gripped her: no one had come running when the horses went crazy, not even a sentry. Surely, someone should have heard her own outcries. Natira was there, but what about the others?

Straight to the tent of the elders she ran, still gripping her sword. She burst in pale and breathless. Kregan, the elders and some men she didn't know gaped in surprise and consternation.

“Zarad-Krul!” she croaked. “Out by the horses!"

Aecus seized his staff and dashed out with Kregan and two others right behind. Dimly, the sound of shouted orders and flying feet came to her as Rhadamanthus helped her to a stool, offered a cup of hot spiced wine, which she gulped down.

Kregan and Aecus returned before she lowered the cup. “Nothing out there, now,” her friend said. “Are you sure it was the wizard?"

She slammed her sword-point into the ground, jumped up and cursed, stung that he could doubt her.

“Calmly,” Minos said, placing himself between them. “Tell your story."

She left nothing out. In fact, she took a perverse joy in watching Kregan's expression as she related how Natira had apparently observed it all and done nothing. She finished the tale with another cup of wine and wiped her lips.

“Well, the sentries didn't hear anything.” Aecus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And we certainly didn't."

“Zarad-Krul has many new powers at his disposal since the coming of the Dark Ones,” Minos said. “Perhaps whatever transpired was meant for you alone."

“The Book is safe?” Rhadamanthus asked. She started to remove it from the pouch to show them, but the elder waved his hand. “No, put it back. Too much danger in casually revealing it. Your word is enough."

“But what of the Stranger? I saw him die days ago."

“And he is dead,” Kregan answered. “I've sought him in ways that couldn't fail if he were still among the living."

Rhadamanthus nodded. “It was a ghost that brought you warning, my child."

Minos met her disbelieving gaze. “Stranger things have happened."