Colwyn ignored the old man as he played with the medallion. How often as a child he'd watched it shine on his father's chest, had played with it while sitting on Turold's lap. Now its beauty seemed false, its design devoid of meaning.
"Your importunings tire me, old man. They have nothing to do with me. As for my 'kingdom,' such as it may be, I give it to you, and welcome to it."
Ynyr shook his head sadly and looked disappointed. "I came to find a king and I find a boy instead."
"Taunt me all you wish. I don't care. I would rather play the child now. Only a man can feel the hurt that deadens me inside. I long for the innocence of childhood." He turned away, angry at everything including himself, wiping the tears from his eyes. They were not replaced. He could not lose himself in sorrow because there was something remaining to him, for all that it seemed at that moment no more than a faint hope.
"Lyssa . . ."
III
Ynyr let him think a few moments longer before speaking again. "These are not the thoughts of a boy you are thinking, Colwyn. You could not play the child even if you wished. Another calls out to you, another is depending on you."
"What will they do with her?" he whispered.
"Take her to the Black Fortress."
"How can you be certain? Can you read the mind of a Slayer?"
"It is their only home, if such it can be called. The Slayers are servants. Booty belongs to masters, not servants. Aye, they will go to the Fortress."
"Can you lead me to it?" He moved to stand close to the old man. "Lead me to its door and I will make the Slayers regret the day they came to the White Castle!"
"Bold words, brave intentions, no forethought. It will do you no good to find the Fortress and the princess, only to die there instead of here. Do not be so reckless, Prince of Turold-Eirig. Planning can be as useful in battle as the sharpest sword. You must have help."
Colwyn turned away from him, his gaze peering beyond the shattered gate to the open plain beyond. The distances beckoned him.
"There is no help to be found here and I cannot spare the time to return to Turold."
"Granted this is so."
"Then I must find some men on the way."
"They had best be exceptional men, to follow even a king to the Black Fortress. You ask much of those you have not even met."
"I have no choice. I cannot imagine what lies in store for my Lyssa save that it is certain to be unpleasant in the extreme. I will not linger here while she remains in the hands of those who would do her ill. She would do the same for me were our situations reversed."
"Indeed? Are you then so sure of your bride-to-be, whom you have met only for the briefest of moments?"
"I am sure, old man. Never have I ever been so sure of anyone, not even my father."
There is still a chance, then, Ynyr thought gratefully. The bond has not been sealed, but at least the parts have been positioned. It is worth risking lives for.
"In the Fortress you will have to face more than the Slayers. You will face the Beast, who is their master. I have yet to meet the soldier ready to accept such a challenge. I expect it from a king-to-be, but not from any common man-at-arms."
"Then we will have to find uncommon men, won't we? As to the question of how we will deal with the Beast, leave me to worry on that. He lives, and anything that lives can die. I have studied much of statecraft and much of war, and have learned that there are no absolutes to either. He is not immortal. Strength does not mean invulnerability."
"Spoken like a king!" said Ynyr delightedly. Yes, the young prince was ready. Ynyr now gave himself wholeheartedly over to the dangerous enterprise.
"Perhaps he can be slain, but no man has ever seen him and lived. You will need more power than lies in uncommon men or swords, more than even the combined armies of Eirig and Turold could provide . . . though it would be comforting to have an army with us. Still,"—he shrugged knowingly—"one fights with what weapons one can muster."
"I am willing to make use of any suggestions you might have, old man. What weapons do you speak of?"
Ynyr spoke complacently, as though by the mere act of doing so he could make the extraordinary sound commonplace.
"There is the original from which the symbol on your father's medallion derives."
Colwyn glanced reflexively down at the metal circlet. "The arms of the first kingdom of Turold?"
"No, Colwyn. Think on what I have just said."
He frowned, then a look of amazement came over his face. "What, the glaive? You are crazy, old man! Or a fool. Go back to your hut and do not toy with my anger. I will find the Black Fortress by myself and assail it as best I am able. I have some poor skills, but I strive not to include absurdity among them."
"But uncertainty remains. I see it in your face. Come with me, Prince of Krull, and we shall see who is the fool." He turned and picked his way across the graveyard, there to mount a riderless horse and send it trotting toward the gate.
Colwyn hesitated, then slipped the chain and medallion over his neck and hurried to find a mount with which to follow. Surely the old man was mad, but he had been well-thought of by the scholors responsible for Colwyn's education. Mystery surrounded his name, but always accompanied by veneration.
Was it possible for wise men to venerate a fool? There was little time to wonder. With a curse he secured a horse and followed in Ynyr's wake. Even an old, foolish ally was better than none. Until better choices presented themselves, he could do worse than listen to the advice of the one man willing to aid him in his search. Whatever his other abilities, Colwyn had to admit that this Ynyr did not quake in terror at the mere mention of the Beast's name. That counted for something.
The mountains Ynyr led Colwyn into were strange to him, their composition different from those of Turold. From these granite blocks had been cut the foundation of the White Castle. He hoped they would be of more help than those easily breeched walls had been.
Here resided strange creatures that were only rumor in far-off Turold: trees that put their heads into the earth and thrust flailing roots at a yawning sky; little furry things with too many eyes; and hard-shelled monsters that disguised themselves with flowers and herbs.
Here also resided Ynyr, be he wise man or fool. At least he seemed to know where he was going. The winding course he chose was as good a road as any to Colwyn, so long as it led eventually to the Black Fortress and his beloved. The medallion bounced coldly against his chest.
He fingered it absently as he spoke. "The glaive is nothing but an ancient symbol. I was taught in school that symbols are distorted representations of half-remembered realities. It doesn't actually exist."
"Oh, it exists." Ynyr pointed toward a confluence of tall peaks. "Up there. You are partially right, though. It is ancient."
"I need weapons. not symbols." Colwyn directed his horse around a huge boulder, keeping his attention on the ground ahead. The rock here was broken and slippery. He would be glad when they came to firmer ground.
"Do not be so quick to disdain the use of symbols, my boy. They have their uses. Once, the glaive was more than a symbol. It was a powerful device, a great weapon. In the right hands it can be so again."
"In my hands?"
"I wish I knew for certain. I have studied long hours alone and have learned much from our history."
"Tell me."
"Not now. This is not the time or place. When it is time I will tell you. Before you can learn the secrets of the past, you must secure the future. For now it is enough for you to know that only a true prince of the mind can successfully make use of the glaive."
Colwyn frowned. "Prince of the mind? I'm not sure that I understand."
"Recall your marriage ceremony. Yes, I know it is painful, but recall. The passing of fire to water is proof that certain abilities have been inculcated in you, among them the ability to utilize your mind in ways alien to the average man."
"That's a prince's right."
"No, boy, it is not a
prince's right! There's much more to it than that. Some day I hope to make you realize how much more." His attention turned from Colwyn to a saddle between two crags. "We are near."
"If you are so sensitive to such things, and to this glaive you insist is no fairy tale, and to the knowledge that surrounds it, why do you not wield it yourself against the Slayers?"
Ynyr smiled ruefully. "It is true I am master of much that would startle you. But it is equally true there are things I cannot do. Employing the glaive properly is among them. And there is still an additional restraint."
"What might that be?"
"I am old, Colwyn. Sad as it is, there are times when knowledge and talent must be supplemented with muscle. I might possibly have made use of the glaive many years ago, but no longer. And at that time Krull was at peace and there was no reason to wield it."
"Are you so sure that I am the right one?" Sudden responsibility weighed heavily on Colwyn. He was beginning to believe in this old man. "Maybe you are mistaken in choosing me for this task."
"Perhaps. Nothing is certain," Ynyr told him with unsettling candor. "We'll know soon enough." He reined in his horse and let Colwyn take the lead. The prince looked back.
"No, boy, I can't go with you. This far and no farther. I would endanger us both by accompanying you farther."
"Then rest here, old man, and ease your mind. I'll come back with it. If there's anything up there"—he nodded toward the higher slopes, where a wind of hollow voice beckoned mournfully—"to come back with."
"Oh, it's up there all right," Ynyr assured him somberly as he dismounted. There was a far-off look in his eyes as he squinted up at the silent rocks. "It's up there, and if you do not come back with it, you will not come back at all." His gaze shifted back to Colwyn. "I am not trying to frighten you. Other men have sought the power of the glaive and have left only bold promises as epitaphs. Be sure of yourself."
The prince's tone was bitter. "Do I have a choice?"
"You do. No one else does. You are Krull's last option."
"And Lyssa's. Wait here for me, Ynyr." He chucked the reins, urging his horse upward.
Eventually the slope sharpened to such a degree that he had to leave his mount behind. Soon he found himself above the treeline, where only the wind grows. It blew sharply into his face, informing him that he was a trespasser in this rarefied region and that his continued existence came at the whim of the elements. He was hiking the land of quick storms and brutal cold, a place where a man's life was as fragile as the lichen and grass that clung to the rocks. In a few months this whole country would sleep beneath many feet of snow.
Better not to linger here, then, he told himself, forcing his legs to work harder. Anger pushed him from behind, determination drew him from ahead. His thoughts were full of Lyssa and of Ynyr's strange talk.
He was not so preoccupied that he failed to hear the ominous rumbling from above.
The first rocks were mere pebbles, advance scouts for the avalanche to come. The falling stones rapidly became bigger. One just missed crushing his right leg. Frantically he dodged as he sought with his eyes for a place of safety, but the bare, rocky slope was devoid of shelter.
When in doubt, attack, his father had always told him. Instead of trying to flee he held his ground and met each threat while facing it, dodging skillfully. Soon the landslide had to end. He wouldn't let it halt his ascent.
When the last boulder had slid harmlessly past, to crash somewhere on the slopes far below, he rested only a moment to catch his breath before pulling his way upward once again. The terrain grew steeper and ever more precipitous but, mindful of Ynyr's words, he pressed on, keeping his eyes always on the crags above.
When it seemed he must step out onto the sky itself he reached a dark stain in the sheer cliffs. The stain marked a cleft in the rocks. Steam rose from within, emerging from the belly of the mountain in fitful, uncertain puffs.
What did you expect? he asked himself. To find the glaive resting on a golden cushion out in the open just waiting for you to pick up and slip into your belt? Cautiously, he started into the hissing crevice.
The narrow break in the rock led into the mountain, working its way gently downward. There were false side passages and one place where he had to brace his back against one wall and his feet against the other to shinny down. The chimney opened into a small cave. Steam beaded his face and tickled his throat.
There was water here, and stone that ran like red milk, glowing and bubbling merrily near the back of the cavern. Every time a pool of water overflowed onto the molten rock a burst of superheated steam shot ceilingward. Shielding his face, he worked his way toward the back, nearly tripping over a rock.
Except that it wasn't a rock. It was rounder and whiter than the exfoliated fragments he'd stumbled over on the slope outside, and it displayed gaps that had once housed human senses. The skull was also badly charred. He stared at it somberly. Evidently there were occasions when this cavern was less than hospitable. Though it was incapable of threatening him, he edged around it. There were times when the dead could surprise you by fighting back.
Several pieces of ceiling collapsed into the lava basin. He turned away fast, but not quickly enough to avoid the splash of molten material. The several droplets that struck him burned holes in his tunic and he spent a frantic moment beating out the tiny fires.
Keeping himself poised for another rapid retreat, he bent over the bubbling pool. It was thick and shone a bright orange red; yet he thought he could make out something darker lying in the depths. The object was long and narrow, thicker at one end than the other.
He searched the floor of the cavern. There was nothing as useful as a tree limb, and he could imagine how long the bones of his unlucky predecessor would last if thrust into that hellish vat. He found a broken stalagtite, returned to the pool and reached with it toward the dark shape. The shape moved, confirming his judgment. There was no chance to raise it clear of the lava with the stalagtite. The limestone was already melting away in his hand.
He dropped it and considered how to proceed as he watched it dissolve. The pit continued to boil and froth. There was a distant rumble, as though the mountain were growing impatient with him.
Remember your marriage ceremony, Ynyr had instructed him. Colwyn trembled a little at the prospect thus raised, but it was clear there was only one way he could proceed.
He thought back to the ceremony, worked to assume again the requisite mental posture. Only this time, he had to prove himself to a far less forgiving bride than Lyssa. It should not take long. He would not have long. There could be no uncertainty, no hesitation. Half closing his eyes, he thoughtfully rolled his right sleeve up to the shoulder.
Then he gritted his teeth and plunged his bare right hand into the seething cauldron.
There was no pain. Only a faint tingling, an odd sensation as full of excitement as threat. His arm felt through the molten rock for only a few seconds. Then he yanked it out, blinking in wonder at the object he'd retrieved.
The flattened, starlike glaive sported five curved arms in which blades lay concealed. It was a dull black from years of sleeping untouched in the lava basin. So intent was he on the glaive itself, on this fragment of mythology suddenly become real in his hand, that he ignored the flames that enveloped his arm.
Abruptly the dancing fire vanished into the glaive, sucked up by some unheard call. As it disappeared, the black crust of chilled lava cracked from the surface. Now Colwyn was compelled to turn his eyes aside as the black became gold and the glaive began to burn with a light as strong as the sun's.
Flat and made to fit the hand, it seemed as natural to fling it as it was unnatural to see it return to his hand. His exuberance sent him scrambling and sliding back down the mountainside, and it was as much luck as good sense that enabled him to reach the waiting Ynyr unhurt.
"I have it, Ynyr, I have it! The glaive is real, and I am its master!" He raised the weapon and made as if to throw it over the steep
slopes, but Ynyr hurried to forestall him.
"What's wrong? This is the glaive you spoke of, isn't it? I saw no other weapon."
Ynyr eyed him thoughtfully. "And what else could it be? Yes, that's the glaive of legend, as surely as we both stand here examining it."
Colwyn frowned. "Then, what troubles you? Haven't I come safely back with it?"
"You have acquired power, yes. Wisdom is far more elusive and harder to come by. Power used frivolously is power wasted." He nodded toward the gleaming weapon. "I am pleased, but not awed."
This time Colwyn disdained a quick reply in favor of a moment's hard thought, which pleased Ynyr considerably. The prince slipped the glaive into a loop on his belt.
"That's better," said Ynyr. "You're learning. Don't use the glaive until you need it. Then the power will be there when you require it most. It is not a toy. Do not play with it, Colwyn."
"How will I know when to use it?"
"That is easier known than when not to." He peered closely at the glaive with old eyes, ran the fingers of one hand over its five golden arms. It was cold to his touch, inanimate now, responsive only to Colwyn's commands. The old books described it accurately he thought. It shone as though it had been forged yesterday. Now if only the descriptions of its powers were equally accurate.
If this young prince will grow up, there may yet be a chance to drive the Slayers and their master from the world. It is much to place on the shoulders of one so headstrong and inexperienced. At least he is willing to take advice, Ynyr mused. That was a hopeful sign.
"You will know," he told him confidently.
Colwyn was looking past him, across the mountain's flanks down to the forested hills beyond. Power was in his hand and revenge in his heart. He felt there was nothing that could stand against him. It remained for Ynyr to worry about what lay in the impetuous prince's head.
"Lead me to the Black Fortress and I'll use it soon enough," Colwyn muttered angrily. He hefted the glaive, luxuriating in its solidity and coldness. "It strains to be used and I terribly want to use it."
"Patience, patience. Finding the Fortress is not easy. It knows no single kingdom but claims all Krull as its domain. With each sunrise the Fortress moves. Sometimes it comes to rest in the mountains, othertimes the desert, sometimes it hovers over the sea. Never twice in the same place. Even the Beast does not control everything, so he moves about to confuse and frustrate as well as to terrify. Furthermore, he is dependent for such movement on the activity of Krull's magnetosphere, which is in a constant state of flux."
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