At the first pale glow of dawn, Alan threw off the rugs and made his way along the track they had cut in the night so he could take a better look at the giant head. The sculpture was even more impressive in the misty daylight, the face impassive yet charged with power. There was no doubt about it—the resemblance to the dwarf mage was unmistakable, down to the implacable stare he had seen in Qwenqwo’s own eyes when he was angry.
A flicker in the oraculum warned him of another presence, and he said softly, without turning, “I know you’re still around, Qwenqwo. Have you spent the whole night here?”
The dwarf mage stepped out of the shadows. He spoke reverentially in the presence of the head. “Yes. It comforted me. Mage Lord—what service can I offer you? You only need to ask and it is yours.”
“One thing you could do for me is to call me Alan.”
“Such honor I will reserve to times when it would appear appropriate.”
Alan sighed, then stared up at the impressive stone face. “I sense, as you do, that we’re surrounded by danger.” He hesitated, then looked Qwenqwo directly in the eyes. “But if you really meant what you said, there is something you could do for me. I’d appreciate honest answers to some questions.”
Those green eyes gazed back at him with equal frankness. “Your people—the Fir Bolg. Tell me about them.”
“They were the bravest and noblest of warriors.”
“But they died—I’m sorry, Qwenqwo, but even you have to admit that that was a long time ago.” He dropped his head, searching for the right words. He spoke softly, searchingly. “I guess maybe I’m not putting this very well. The truth is it hardly makes any sense. But nevertheless I need to understand. What I’m asking is, do you still have some connection with these ancient guardians?”
A fierce pride glowed in Qwenqwo’s eyes and he put his hand on the uppermost head of his battle-axe where it protruded above his left shoulder. “I am the last of the Fir Bolg.”
Alan’s pulse quickened. It had been a strange reply on Qwenqwo’s part and he needed a moment to consider its implications. “And your runestone—that has something to do with all this?”
The dwarf mage stood erect without a trace of tiredness, though his night must have been devoid of sleep. “The runestone I inherited from my father, who was the lore-master to Magcyn. Most particularly did my father show me, and not through words alone, how the worth of a man is measured not by his stature but by the courage and integrity of his spirit.”
Alan started, “I was recalling how you explained earlier how your runestone once held a much greater power.”
“You recall true.”
“How did it lose its force?”
“What does a mortal man know of such things as the plotting and scheming of immortals long ago?”
“Immortals?”
“Aye. It would be prudent for me to hold my tongue. Yet through such terrible loss, I retained the lore that was lodged within my mind and the result of my training. Yet the runestone—thus emasculated—promised more than could ever be fulfilled. Then you shocked me to my very soul when you appeared in the chamber of the impostor bearing the Oraculum of the First Power on your brow. Of course I had heard of such a thing, but only in legend. And I confess that the hope it kindled in my heart was so powerful that therein was born my selfish motive. I dared to pray that even the mere proximity of such power might reawaken the runestone to its former calling. But even then—and this I swear—if you had it in your gift to resurrect its power in full, I would have pledged that power to your service, as now, even in its weakened state, I pledge it.”
“I know you would.” He hesitated. “What about the eagle—it is still there, in the sky above us?”
“Yes.”
“It’s somehow linked to you?”
“The eagle and runestone are one in spirit—in a way it would be difficult for someone who is not a Fir Bolg to understand.”
Alan nodded. “I can sympathize even if I don’t understand. I need your friendship, Qwenqwo. Let’s work together from now on. Maybe we could start by looking more closely at this stone head.”
Together they inspected the face, with its large protruding eyes, its flattened nose and wide, full lips—under the heavy-domed helmet that capped the brow. The brow was buttressed by a thick broad strap. Although Qwenqwo wasn’t wearing it right now, Alan recalled a similar strap of heavy bronze girdling Qwenqwo’s helmet during the fight at the waterfront in Isscan. In the uncertain light, he saw a circular pit in the center of the brow-strap. Qwenqwo’s helmet had had some kind of crystal embedded in exactly the same place on the brow. “I think this might have contained some kind of crystal.”
“So?”
“If so, it puzzles me.” Alan spoke softly. “What possible purpose could it play in battle?”
After a thoughtful hesitation, Qwenqwo spoke. “Perhaps you should look upon it through the lens of your own experiences. Is there not a common source of all power, as you have already discovered?”
Alan was taken aback by these words. “Now you’re talking about something I just don’t get at all. We’re called to this world by a power we’ve never identified or understood. We’re led to the gateway on Slievenamon. From there we arrive on Tír close to a stone circle that in turn leads us to Granny Dew. She gives me this.” He indicated the triangle in his brow. “She gives two of my friends egg-shaped crystals. The Olhyiu, with the Temple Ship, are nearby.” Alan sighed. “Do you follow my reasoning?”
“You question fate?”
“There’s been one coincidence after another. It just couldn’t be accidental.”
“In the play of great powers, nothing is ever entirely accidental. Yet you might look upon fate as a marriage of soil and seed.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“You are the seed as fate is the soil. The seed is not chosen by accident, any more than the soil responds by accident.”
“Heck! Just who does the choosing?”
Qwenqwo placed a finger to his lips.
Alan sighed before returning his gaze to the brooding head—a Fir Bolg head, with the dwarf mage of the Fir Bolg now standing next to him, and its spiritual emblem, if that was how he should think of the eagle—in the sky above them. “Qwenqwo—what is it about the tower of the queen that has kept the Death Legion from passing through to Carfon?”
“You should not ask me this. It is not safe to talk of it.”
“That’s a risk I have to take. Many lives may depend on it.”
“The Fir Bolg harbored great knowledge of war. Knowledge and power enough to challenge Nantosueta’s own accursed Rath.” Qwenqwo’s voice was urgent now. “Yet it was she who triumphed.”
“What are you saying? It is she—the Dark Queen—whose power still preserves and protects the valley? It’s Nantosueta the Death Legion fears?”
“If the rumors are to be believed.”
Alan hesitated. “It just doesn’t make any sense. The way I figure it, there has to be something else. There is something else, isn’t there—something a good deal more terrifying about the Vale of Tazan?”
“Hush! I beg you. There are powers so dangerous it is dangerous to speak of them.”
Alan scanned the forest with the oraculum. “I sense it as you do, Qwenqwo,” he murmured softly. “There is something else here, a great power buried in the very earth and rocks.”
Back at the camp Alan found Siam berating Kate, who had returned from a dawn foray, her arms full of roots and herbs. Turkeya was missing. Earlier he had left the camp with Kate but had stayed in the forest when Kate had returned. Alan struggled to focus on the squabble, his mind still reeling from the conversation with Qwenqwo. “Kate, it’s understandable that Siam is angry. We can’t sit around and wait for Turkeya to come back.”
“Well, I’m not just going to sit around and do nothing while you play at Conan the Barbarian. I’m interested in herbs, and Turkeya has been teaching me things.”
“Hey—I’m n
ot saying—Oh, forget what I said. But we’re just about ready to leave.”
“Besides, you don’t need to wait for Turkeya. He knows how to track us down when he has what he’s looking for.”
“Which is what?”
“He’s spying on the enemy.”
“Kate, that’s crazy!”
“Nobody’s better than Turkeya at tracking and spying. He’s determined to be our eyes and ears.”
Siam threw his hat on the ground and stamped on it. “That stupid boy! I despair of the mischief he will think of next.”
Alan shook his head at Siam. “Maybe Kate is right. We shouldn’t underestimate Turkeya. He’s already given you cause to be proud of him.”
But the chief merely picked up his hat and stormed away, lashing out at imaginary stupidities.
All around Alan people were settling down for a hasty breakfast of what little could be spared from the dwindling food resources before they tied up their bundles for the long day’s march. Through breaks in the canopy those same dark clouds that had crept over the dawn horizon were now thickening, as if a storm of rain threatened. Alan was so lost in his thoughts he failed to notice Mo until she tugged at his sleeve. She led him a couple of hundred yards into the forest, where she pointed out the Kyra, her feet widely straddled on a buttress of rock that protruded from the slope. Ainé held herself erect, as if standing to attention, then suddenly her position altered and she moved through ninety degrees and took up a similar position.
Mo spoke in a whisper. “She’s calling for help, isn’t she?”
Alan shook his head. “Gee—I guess she must be.”
Suddenly his oraculum began to pulse strongly. Instinctively, he searched for the cause . . . and sensed something the Kyra must have sensed already. There was another presence—a malignant force nearby. As if detecting his probing, it turned its awareness from the Kyra toward him.
Then he heard the sound of screaming. Mo clutched his hand as they started running back to the camp.
Under Attack
The Olhyiu camp was in uproar, and Alan saw the cause of their alarm down in the river, where a pillar of crackling green fire was rising high into the sky. A dense mushroom of smoke billowed out of the flames, gusting and spiraling over the surrounding slopes, carrying an acrid odor on the wind, that same rank smell he remembered from the ambush north of Isscan.
“No!”
He heard Mark’s cry even as his own heart fell. The fire and smoke were rising from the Temple Ship.
Siam was attempting to restore order. Milish reached out to hug the tearful Mo. Ainé had also returned, and she spoke decisively. “We must leave this place immediately. We are too few to resist any coordinated attack and this position offers no protection. I have discovered a breach in the fosse that will allow us through.” She made no mention of her signaling for help. Alan assumed that she wanted to avoid increasing the panic that was already overwhelming the frightened people.
But the shock of the attack on the Temple Ship had resurrected all of the Olhyiu’s fears. A frail old man spoke, his voice trembling with conviction, worried aloud: “This forest strikes a chill in my heart. I will not take another step into this graveyard of history.” The old man turned his wrinkled neck around, eliciting the support of others, all equally fearful.
Siam took command of the situation, striding among the crowds of murmuring and gesticulating Olhyiu. “Old Canim here sees phantasms in his dotage.”
“So you say,” someone else spoke up, “but the hairs on our necks speak louder than words.”
Siam strode among them, knocking heads with his hat. “Don’t allow yourself to be panicked. The Olhyiu have prevailed in worse adversity than this. Go pick up your bundles or we leave you behind. And leave you we will, just like my witless son, who is still out there on some fool’s errand.”
So it was, with the Temple Ship ablaze in the river below and with Turkeya still missing, that the long column set off for the breach in the outer walls. Mo huddled up close to Mark as, once more, they made their way through the trees, where sparks of wintry sunlight pierced the canopy, mottling green needles or a half-seen edge of granite, while flitting shadows hovered around their path or seemed to watch them from only a few yards away in the stillness. A mile or so beyond the breach they came upon another of the giant heads, half buried under a rotten tree that was festooned with brilliant yellow crescents of fungi.
Resting the shaft of the Spear of Lug against the ground, Alan glanced skyward, where the eagle hovered, little more than a speck, high above them. Despite the chill, the effort of climbing brought out a sweat that trickled down over his back, where it felt like spiders’ legs crawling down his spine.
During a subsequent halt about midmorning, he watched one of the Aides pull down a creeper, hack it through with a knife and drink the juice that pattered from its cut surface. One family and then another copied the Aides in slaking their thirst. Ainé came to stand beside him in the gloom, her oraculum pulsating. “You feel it as I do. We are not alone here. Something other than the Death Legion stalks us here.” As his eyes fell, Alan saw a third giant head, no more than a few yards from where he had halted. Brooding in the shadows, with those dark pits of eyes, it appeared to observe him as closely as he studied it. This one still retained a crystal insert in the brow strap.
“Here! Will somebody give me a hand to get a closer look?”
Siam threw his stout legs apart and signaled with his hand. “Climb on my shoulders.”
Alan did so cautiously, bringing his face up to the level of the eyes. The steam of his breath bathed the stone as he reached up to touch the crystal in its brow. Its surface was hard, like polished glass, yet, as far as he could make out in the murky light, a dull, semi-opaque green.
“Jade, I think!”
They forced several more hours of marching before pausing again at noon. Alan didn’t need to search for long before he found another of the heads. He called out for Milish to come and give her opinion.
“Take a good look. See if you agree with me!”
Milish studied the head thoughtfully for several moments. “I see what you mean—the face is different from the previous ones.”
“Right! Every face is different.”
He figured that the heads were spaced at regular intervals, and very close intervals at that, considering the ease with which they were coming across them. There must be a vast number of stone heads forming some kind of a grid through the forest.
After a brief rest, they struggled on to make the most of the afternoon daylight, the weak having to be supported or carried.
Resting again hours later, with his tired back against the bole of a tree, Alan noticed that the Shee were increasingly restless, searching and peering into the formless shadows.
After a wearying climb lasting several more hours, they arrived at another wall of massive stones, which proved to be the second barrier of the island’s defenses. Darkness had fallen as, through a gate with inwardly sloping stone jambs, they entered a cluster of buildings ravaged by time and lichened with age. One of these was clearly a temple, its walls sculpted with scenes of what appeared to be warriors fighting monsters.
It was enough to provoke renewed exclamations of fear among the Olhyiu. No one would shelter inside the walls.
Siam, with a worried glance about him, took Alan aside. “It’s even worse than before. There’s a malevolence here that withers the spirit. Surely this place is one with those heads. Who among us does not feel their brooding evil, stalking us at every step we make? Mage Lord, I beg you—there can be no stopping here. We are but a day from sanctuary. Exhausted as we are, we must march through the night.”
Kemtuk cautioned against any night march, insisting that there were too many exhausted among them. But the chief was adamant. And Ainé did not disagree with him.
Struggling with fatigue and dread they pressed on deeper into the night, even as the slope became steeper and more difficult, so that at
times they were sliding backward down banks of mud coated in a slimy mulch of leaves and bracken. Alan found himself relying on the Spear of Lug, leaning heavily on its shaft for purchase. Yet even on these difficult inclines, mired in tangled roots, they still came across more stone heads. The Aides now took the lead, feeding back ropes to help the exhausted Olhyiu climb through rock-strewn slurry and thorny scrub. The small wiry women appeared to be tireless as well as excellent climbers. So dark were their surroundings and so treacherous this terrain that the Olhyiu were obliged to forgo the meager light of the glowstones and accept the risk of torches, even though it would inevitably give away their position. After three or four hours of halting progress they heard a distant thunder in the air. With every step the thundering became louder until they emerged into the open from a screen of giant ferns to be confronted by an astonishing spectacle.
The noise came from a cataract spilling over the table of rock at the top of the slope. Catching the pallid light of the moon, it dissolved in a curtain of mist and spray that cascaded like rain through the moonlight and shadows over the cliff face. The thunder arose from the impact of the main waterfall against the rocky floor, where it threw up a freezing mist. A deluge of streams and rivulets ran downslope, fast flowing and bitterly cold. While the Shee and the stronger men among the Olhyiu might risk the crossing, for the majority it presented an impassable barrier.
Dismayed, they gathered on the wet rocks, buffeted by the wind and icy spray, the women and elderly sitting on their bundles, some quietly weeping or cuddling the fretful children.
Approaching the waterfall, Alan’s hair was immediately soaked, his clothes molded to the outline of his flesh. Ainé stood beside him in a watchful silence, her sword unsheathed. He felt a dreadful premonition that caused him to look around them into the encroaching night.
“Mage Lord,” the Kyra warned him, “your brow is aflame.”
“I sense danger!”
“Do not speak of it aloud!” Ainé’s eyes glanced over at the frightened women and children.
The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) Page 39