Spell of the Crystal Chair

by Gilbert L. Morris

  “A walrus is not much like a lizard, but they are fat and give much strength.”

  The hunters started out, waving at the women as they left.

  Josh was pleased to find he could do much better on his snowshoes now. He was also surprised to see that the land was not as barren as they’d first thought. Although it was winter, small clumps of trees were still green. They passed herds of reindeer that were scraping the snow away, looking for food.

  “Why, there’s still green grass down there!” Reb exclaimed. “You wouldn’t think it would be green this time of the year under that snow.”

  “It is especially beautiful here in the summer. Then everything is green—the trees, the grass. I hope you will be here to see it,” Fairmina said.

  Secretly Josh was hoping that their quest would be over by then, but he had learned not to try to guess what would happen on any mission.

  The hunters did not find any walrus after all, but under the skillful direction of Fairmina they located another herd of reindeer. They were a strain not familiar to Josh, very large, and it took considerable skill to sneak up on them.

  But after a long stalk, the hunters rose up and let fly their arrows. Sarah’s arrow took down one large specimen.

  “Well shot, my daughter,” Denhelm said. “You use a bow well.”

  When they’d brought down the meat supply they needed, Denhelm said, “Now, the fun is over, and the work begins.”

  “What is that, Chief?” Josh asked.

  “We must get these animals back to camp. They will feed us for many days.”

  “Aren’t you going to dress them out and leave the hides here?”

  “Leave the hides here!” the chief cried. “That would be waste indeed. We use all of the animals, even the antlers and bones. You will see.”

  Getting the large beasts back was hard work. The hunters first made three sleds of saplings and loaded the animals on them with great effort. Then, using leather thongs, they made themselves the beasts of burden to drag the heavy reindeer over the snow.

  “Now I know how those sled dogs feel,” Reb complained. He leaned forward against his harness and looked back to see the sled moving slowly after them. “This better be good to eat. They are sure hard to come by.”

  By the time they had traveled for two hours, Josh—and probably the rest of the Sleepers—was close to being exhausted. And then Volka, who was pulling one sled easily by himself, suddenly let out a yelp. Looking up, Josh saw an arrow in the giant’s shoulder.

  At that exact moment Fairmina cried, “The Yanti! The Yanti!”

  Instantly the hunters threw down their harness and scrambled for weapons. Suddenly the air was filled with arrows.

  The Yanti had taken refuge behind a slight hill, but Fairmina and her father proved to be excellent tacticians.

  “You take the right, daughter. I will take the left. The rest of you hold the center.”

  Fairmina called out several names, Josh’s among them, and these ran to the right.

  “We will come up beside them on the right, and my father will lead his band to the other side,” Fairmina said. “Those in front will keep them distracted. Have your arrows ready.”

  Josh was stumbling to keep up when they came upon the enemy. Taken totally by surprise, the Yanti let out yells of fear. They turned and fled, leaving one fallen Yanti behind.

  “Shall we chase them, Father?” Fairmina cried, as Denhelm appeared with his party.

  “No. They are fresh, and we are weary. Let us see to our wounded and get the food back to camp.”

  Fairmina stood a moment over the fallen Yanti and looked sad. “There will be an empty place at their table tonight.”

  “But they started it,” Reb said.

  “I know, but this one is dead. Now his mate and his children will have no provider.”

  It was a side of Princess Fairmina that Josh had not seen before.

  “She’s really got a tender heart under that tough way of hers,” Dave said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I did,” Sarah said unexpectedly. “She talked about it one day. She really hates killing. But she has to do it because she’ll be the new chief.”

  “Well, I guess a war leader has to be tough, all right,” Jake said, “but I hate for it to be a nice young lady. Too bad the chief didn’t have a son to take over when he gets too old.”

  None of their number had been killed, but several were wounded. One man was placed on Volka’s sled. And Volka, whose injury was just a scratch to him, pulled the extra load easily.

  “I guess that’s enough adventure for us for one day,” Josh said. His nerves were still jangled from the battle. He turned to Sarah who was pulling at the harness beside him. “Were you frightened?”

  “Yes, I was. And, besides, I hate to shoot at another human being.”

  Josh wanted to ask if she had shot the arrow that had killed the Yanti, but he saw that she felt very bad. He had the suspicion that she had, so he said, “It was something we had to do.”

  “I guess so, but I hate it.”

  Not more than five minutes later, a scream went up from one of the Lowami warriors who was in the front.

  “What is it? What’s he seen? More Yanti?” Wash yelled.

  They did not have to wonder long, for those in the front began falling back, all shouting something.

  Fairmina suddenly was beside Josh. Her eyes glittered with hatred.

  “It is an ice wraith. And we cannot flee and leave our wounded. We must fight it.”

  The very name ice wraith seemed to go through to Josh’s bones, freezing them more than the cold weather. He had heard rumors about ice wraiths, but the Lowami feared them so much that they could not even clearly describe them.

  Chief Denhelm was getting his warriors in order. “Archers in the second line! Spearmen in the first line! You archers, try to wound him!”

  “A spearman has little chance against an ice wraith,” Fairmina said, her face tense. She notched an arrow to her bow and said, “You shoot a good bow, my Sarah. Get as many as you can into the wraith.”

  Josh swallowed hard and stared ahead. He still could see nothing, but then suddenly a movement caught his eye.

  “There he is! Archers ready!” Fairmina called out.

  The line of archers drew their bows. The others held harpoons and spears at the ready. All crouched, waiting. And then Josh saw the ice wraith.

  It was a terrifying beast. It loomed enormous, as it burst out of a grove of trees. It stood upright, and Josh’s first thought was, It looks like a T-rex.

  Indeed the wraith did walk on huge hind legs, but, unlike the T-rex, it had huge forearms. And it was entirely covered with a growth of smoky white fur. The creature even looked like smoke as it swept across the snow. He understood why it was called a “wraith.”

  The most frightening thing was not the size or the saberlike claws, but the mouth full of teeth. Josh stood frozen with fear. One bite of those teeth, and a human being would have no chance. He had heard stories whispered that an ice wraith could bite a saber-toothed tiger in two with one snap of his jaws.

  “Stand fast, archers! Wait until I give the word!” Fairmina’s voice came clear. She seemed to have no fear. Her eyes were fixed on the ferocious beast that approached them. It moved not like a T-rex but swiftly, like an enormous weasel. The eyes were red and small and filled with evil.

  “Fire!” Fairmina cried and loosed her arrow. Beside Josh, Sarah let her arrow fly. It went true, but the wraith had a tough hide. It screamed with rage in a horrible voice and kept coming.

  “Again! Keep firing!” Fairmina ordered.

  The wraith would make a rush. Then an arrow would manage to catch it, and it would scream like nothing that Josh had ever heard before. Its eyes flashed like fire, and only the constant rain of arrows kept its attention from the spearmen.

  The Sleepers were all using their bows. Chief Denhelm was leading the spearmen. More than once Josh thought the chief would be ca
ught by the monster’s slashing tail or by the swordlike claws on its strong forearms. The great teeth once just missed Denhelm, and Josh’s heart came up into his throat.

  “I’ve got only three more arrows, Princess,” someone called.

  “Make them count,” she said. “When they are gone, we will have to join the men with spears.”

  But the ice wraith had apparently absorbed enough punishment. Giving a final scream, the monster backed away. Conmor rushed in to plant a spear in its breast, but he moved too slowly. The wounded wraith turned on him, and the hunter was suddenly inside its jaws.

  “Conmor!” Reb screamed. “It’s killed Conmor!”

  Reb grabbed up a spear and would have run after the wraith, now retreating with its victim.

  But the chief caught him and held him with his strong arms. “No, my Reb. It is too late to help him. You would be slain, too.”

  “We’ve got to kill it! Let me go, chief!” Reb raged.

  “No,” Fairmina said. She took hold of Reb’s free arm. “To kill an ice wraith is something that is not easily done. Only two have ever been slain by our tribe—and then at a tremendous cost.”

  Reb hung his head and dropped his lance. “He was such a fine guy.”

  “Yes,” Fairmina said sadly. “He was a fine warrior.”

  Now the chief rested a hand on Reb’s shoulder. “We will all miss him,” he said, “but you fought valiantly. All of you did.” He sighed. “Ice wraiths are more cruel and more deadly than the Yanti. Come. Now we must get our wounded home.”

  7

  The Servant of Darkness

  Balog, chief of the Yantis, did not have the noble look of Denhelm, the Lowami chieftain. Balog was short, squat, and powerful. He had long, stringy black hair that sometimes hung down over his dark eyes. There was something proud and angry in his expression. He was obviously a man of a quick temper.

  Seated on the fur-covered floor with his war council, Balog suddenly struck the ground beside him with a hard fist. “So the Yanti ran away!” he yelled. “That’s the kind of cowards I have to put up with!”

  “But, Chief,” one of the council members said, “we were outnumbered.” The particular speaker was pale and had a bandage around his head. He had been one of those caught in the skirmish against Denhelm’s hunting party. His voice trembled a little. He probably knew the wrath of Balog could be deadly.

  “Silence!” Balog shouted. “You ran away, and only cowards run away!”

  Olah, the wife of Balog, had long light hair, neatly tied behind her. She had dark blue eyes, and there was a gentle spirit about her. She ordinarily took no part in the council. But now, as she brought in food, she said quietly, “Balog, sometimes even the most valiant warrior has to retreat.”

  He had captured Olah in a war raid against the Lowamis and, to the surprise of everyone in the tribe, had taken her as his mate instead of one of the Yanti women. If Balog had any gentleness in him at all, it was directed toward his wife. Now, however, he said impatiently, “You do not understand these things, Olah. These are matters that warriors must decide.”

  Seated at Balog’s right was his father, Magon. He was old now, but in his day he had been a fabled warrior. No one could stand before him, and the songs of the tribe included many sagas of Magon’s battles against the enemies of the Yanti. He had passed along his chief’s office to his son some years ago when he was grievously wounded in battle and was unable to go out anymore. He rarely spoke in council. But when he did, everyone listened, for it was well known that Magon never gave bad advice.

  “My son, there is truth in what your mate says.”

  Balog respected his father, although the two did not always agree.

  “But, Father,” he complained, “they ran away!”

  “I ran away more than once in my day as war chieftain.”

  “Impossible!” Balog said. “I cannot believe it!”

  “If I had not run away when the odds were overwhelming, there would not have been another day to fight. From what I understand of Dakar’s news, they were badly outnumbered. As a matter of fact, they were foolish to attack such a large group.”

  Dakar nodded eagerly. “I see that now, sire. That was my mistake.”

  “Denhelm is a valiant warrior, and his daughter, Fairmina, is the equal of most men,” his father said. “I think no shame has attached itself to our warriors.”

  Balog wanted to argue, but truly he had great respect for his father.

  “May I say a word?”

  Balog turned to the one stranger in their midst. He knew him. He had spotted him as soon as he had seated himself. The visitor was shrouded from head to foot in a black cloak. The hood shadowed his face, but his voice came clear.

  The chief shifted uneasily. “We have a guest,” he said rather grudgingly. “You have heard of him. This is Zarkof, sometimes known as the pale wizard.”

  A murmur went around the council, for all had heard of Zarkof. It was known that he had strange powers and was closely allied with the Dark Lord himself. His stronghold had never been taken, and, although there were some rather terrible tales told about the pale wizard, none dared speak of them to his face.

  “I am a self-invited guest, Chief Balog. But if I might say one word, I may be of some help to you and to the Yanti people.”

  Balog’s eyes ran around the council. He saw apprehension in some eyes, curiosity in others. Taking a deep breath, he nodded. “We will always hear our guests, Zarkof.”

  “Thank you, Chief Balog.” Throwing the hood back, Zarkof revealed his face. It was a sharp-featured face with deep-set, murky eyes. The color was impossible to tell. Unlike the others, who were tanned and weatherbeaten by the elements, Zarkof’s face was as smooth as old marble. He had an aristocratic look and something of cruelty as well, although now he spoke gently and politely.

  “Those of us in Whiteland live on the edge of the great world,” he said. His voice took on a magnetic quality, almost hypnotic. Though it was not a loud voice, power was in it as he continued. “There are great things afoot in the world today. The struggle that began some years ago is reaching its climax. All of the opponents of the Dark Lord have been vanquished except for a few ragtag followers of that fellow they call Goél.”

  At this word, Balog saw his father narrow his eyes.

  Magon said nothing, but his gaze locked with that of Zarkof, and for a moment the two seemed to be engaged in some sort of struggle. It was an emotional and a spiritual clash of wills. More than Balog must have noticed that it was Magon that Zarkof seemed to challenge rather than the chief himself.

  “What is your interest in our people?” Magon asked steadily.

  “To provide help. It is time for the Yanti to take their place in the sun. Why should you sit here half frozen, fighting with the other tribes for a bit of territory, when, with the help of my friend the Dark Lord, you could rule all of Whiteland.”

  An excited murmur ran around the council.

  This, Balog well knew, was exactly what most of them desired. He slammed the floor with his fist again. “If we could defeat those blasted Lowami, then no one would stand in our way!”

  “That should not be too much trouble, Chief. If you will agree to my proposals and join your forces to those of the Dark Lord, you will see that the Lowami will offer little resistance.”

  Zarkof talked on for some time, but then he shrugged. “But you will need to discuss this. I will leave your council. You may call me back to give me your decision.”

  Every eye watched as Zarkof left. At once an argument broke out. Everyone tried to talk at once. Finally Balog shouted, “Quiet! You sound like a flock of gabbling geese!”

  One of the younger members of the council said, “Sire, it is good that we join ourselves with this man. He promises us power to defeat our enemies.”

  But Magon spoke up. “My son, Zarkof’s words are fair, but fair words are one thing, and fair deeds are another.”

  “Do you find fault with him, th
en? Speak it out, Father,” Balog said.

  “In truth, there is much secrecy concerning this man. He surrounds himself with those I would not trust. It is whispered that he has many people enslaved in his fortress carved into the mountain of ice.”

  “Rumors,” Balog said. “Just rumors. There is no proof of that.”

  For some time the argument raged.

  “The Dark Lord, my son, is not for our people,” Magon said. “He promises freedom, but I have not heard that those he rules over have it.”

  Balog hesitated. Rarely did he overrule his father, but finally he shook his head. “In this case, I believe we will at least listen to the man’s proposal.” He nodded to a servant standing beside the door. “Ask the wizard to come in.”

  As soon as Zarkof stepped inside, he looked around the room, his gaze searching. He must have seen the resistance on the face of Magon and the other older men of the council, but he smiled when Balog said, “We will hear more of what you would do for us, wizard.”

  “Gladly. You have struggled with your war against the Lowami for years now. It sways back and forth. Sometimes you win; sometimes they are the victors. What you need is something to tip the scale so that, once and for all, you can overcome them.”

  “Exactly! And what do you offer?”

  “A weapon that will never fail.” The cold eyes of Zarkof glittered. “You will rule the Lowami soon, for the weapon that I offer you neither they nor anyone else can stand against.”

  Again, excited murmurs went around the table.

  Olah, who had been serving, came to kneel beside her husband. She put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Husband, this man is evil. He will bring grief to all our house.”

  But Balog shook her off. “Woman, this is men’s work! Tend to the food!”

  Then the chief rose to his feet. “Very well. As a token of good faith, you will give us a weapon. If it is successful, we will heed your words concerning the Dark Lord.”

  Zarkof laughed, and something—perhaps triumph?—flickered in his cold eyes. “You and your son will come with me. I will show you the power that I have.”

  Beorn, the son of Balog, was tall like his mother. He was so young that he was not actually on the council. So far he had said nothing. He had watched and listened carefully as the council rolled on. Now he whispered to Magon, “I wish you would go along, Grandfather. I am not sure about all this.”