Free Frost by Robin W Bailey Page B

the shadow dropped on her. Booted feet knocked her to the ground. Stunned, she looked up to see more men rushing from an alley. Another attacker leaped from the roof, swinging his sword. The flat edge bounced on the Chondite's skull. He fell, hit the ground hard and did not move. Someone grabbed her arm, dragged her over the cobbles, and she screamed.
    A trumpeting bray. Ebony hooves flashed, and her attacker crumpled with a moan. Blood oozed from his crushed helmet. Bile rose in her throat; her stomach convulsed.
    Then, reflexes took over as more hands grabbed her. Her sword gleamed on the street not too far away. She kicked savagely, raked her nails over soft flesh. An arm curled around her neck and she bit down, tasting salty, bitter blood. With teeth and nails, fists and feet, knees and elbows she fought, gaining no respite.
    Her foes seemed numberless. Without her sword they quickly bore her down, pinned her. Though she writhed and twisted she could not get free.
    Yet, still there were screams, the sounds of fighting. Held fast, she managed a look through the ring of her captors.
    Ashur's horn thrust once, twice. Two bodies arched through the air, crashed into a wall, broken and lifeless. The unicorn wailed in triumph.
    But a group of soldiers circled him with ropes and spears and swords. Worse, down the road, Frost saw the gates start to swing shut. If Ashur were trapped in the city he would surely be killed. She squirmed uselessly in the hands that pinned her.
    â€œRun!” she shouted. “Get away!"
    A sword hilt crashed on her head. Light exploded behind her eyes, then faded. A yawning darkness sucked at her senses.
    â€œAshur,” she croaked.
    For one moment the unicorn's fiery eyes seemed to meet hers. It called to her as it reared, and another man died beneath those baleful hooves. Then, a spear flashed, barely missing the creature.
    â€œRun,” she managed weakly, too faint to be heard. “Please!"
    A mournful, unearthly note echoed in her ears, Ashur's cry. The horn tossed, the arcane fire of his eyes washed the street with amber light, casting warped shadows. And suddenly, the great beast broke for the gate, pursued by a rain of poorly aimed spears and shouting warriors. The gate-chains groaned. Hooves rang on the cobbles, throwing sparks. With scant time to spare, Ashur sped through and away from the city.
    Frost sobbed, hating the tears that scalded her cheeks, and slipped into oblivion.
    She woke with a throbbing head, dimly aware of the heavy manacles that bound her wrists. Damp, musty straw, thick with the smell of stale urine, pressed on her face. She wrinkled her nose, tried to sit, but moving brought a wave of nausea. She gave up the effort and waited quietly for her head to clear.
    Faint light filtered through a narrow, barred window in the cell door. Beyond, she heard voices, the rattle of dice, a game being played.
    She managed to sit, then to stand, a first, hesitant step toward the door. In the dark, she kicked something, tripped and fell with a clatter and scraping of chains. Groping, she found the obstacle—a small stool.
    A face appeared in the window. “Hey, she's awake,” someone called. More footsteps.
    A key grated in the lock. She crouched, took a tighter grip on one of the stool's legs.
    Three men filled the room. Two in soldiers’ garb held swords ready; the jailer, an obese giant, held a torch and beckoned.
    Smirks, grins, lust in the guards’ eyes. Suddenly, she realized that a mild blush was all that covered her form. Her clothes and weapons lay on a table in the corridor.
    With a frustrated shrug she tossed the stool aside and stepped out of the cell. The guards sheathed their blades and took her by the arms. Selecting a key from his large ring, the jailer removed the manacles.
    â€œShe's a nice one,” muttered a guard, grinning broadly. “Who would ever know?"
    The jailer grunted, an unpleasant bullish noise. “Little woman not for