by C S Marks
“Well, now, isn’t this familiar?” said Galador, remembering his last journey down unknown black passages under mountains. He was not happy in the memory. They had brought torches in anticipation of taking the false Stone belowground, but not many of them. “The fewer who travel below, the fewer torches we will need,” said Rogond. “Are there any who would just as soon remain above ground for the moment?”
“I would,” said Arlan at once. “My folk do not care for underground realms, and I am no exception. I would just as soon not venture into the dark.”
Fynn shook his head. “If my brother would remain here, I must stay with him. None should be in these lands alone.” He pursed his lips at Arlan. “You’re such a forest-dweller!” He would not have admitted that he did not like the look of the passage either, now that he had seen it.
“Well, that’s fine. Give us your torches then” said Fima. “And take the extra cloaks, as you will suffer the cold more than we. It’s always warmer below ground when it is cold above.”
The Company left Fynn and Arlan well provisioned, but Gaelen admonished them ere she left. “Keep out of sight, light no fires, and do not interfere with Gorgon, no matter your desire. You must allow him to pass. He comes for me, and I will see to his ending. Believe me when I tell you that he is an enemy beyond any you have yet faced. Let him pass!”
She spoke quietly to Arlan, who bore Turantil at his side. “Honor your father’s memory, and do not let yourselves be taken,” she whispered. Then she turned and followed Rogond into the mountain entrance. She had given good counsel, but to the wrong brother.
The Company plunged into the darkness of Cold Mountain. Against Fima’s prediction, the air grew colder the deeper they traveled. Soon Gaelen drew Brinneal’s woolen cloak from her pack and put it on, marveling at how warm and light it was.
“Where did you get that? It’s beautiful,” said Nelwyn.
“Arialde’s people gave it,” Gaelen replied, offering no further history of the cloak as yet. “When we stop to rest, I will share it with you.”
“Fima…are you sure of this errand?” asked Rogond, who carried the Stone with Galador. He was shivering in the cold by now.
“Reasonably sure,” said Fima.
“Look!” said Gaelen, who had elected to scout the way ahead. “There is light!”
“Yes, there is,” said Fima. “It is as I thought.”
“You know, I have had just about enough of your mysterious pronouncements,” said Rogond through chattering teeth. “Will you not share with the rest of us? We are all facing the same dangers here.”
“If I’m right, there is no danger,” said Fima. “It might be the last thing any of you will expect, but it’s not dangerous.” He was so eager, and yet so stubborn, that Rogond wanted to throttle him.
They entered the heart of the Cold Mountain at last. The light had grown brighter even as the cold had grown deeper. Fima walked into an enormous chamber hung with columns and curtains of ice, approaching what appeared to be a gigantic mass of crystal in the center. All around were walls and hillocks of black lava, but they, too, were encrusted with ice. The crystal mountain was the source of the light; Fima’s eyes glittered with it as he drew closer. Then he stopped and knelt in reverence. “It is as I thought…alas!”
There, frozen at the moment of his greatest failure, was Duinar, the Asarla of Tuathas.
Chapter 24
THE STONE AND THE MOUNTAIN
“Is that…who I think it is?” whispered Galador. “And if it is, how did he come to be in such a state?”
Fima was still kneeling, his head bowed, eyes closed. When he looked back into the faces of his friends, his eyes filled with a mixture of wonder and deep sorrow. “I must take in the impact of this discovery for a few moments…please forgive me. I will enlighten you to the extent I am able, but I must collect my thoughts first.” He rose to his feet, approached the wall of ice in which Duinar was imprisoned, and placed a thoughtful hand upon it.
“You were thought lost, all the tales said so,” he whispered. “You were frozen here…in the midst of your attempt to quell the mountain, and you failed. Does your body still house your spirit, I wonder?”
After a few more silent moments, Fima took his hand from the ice and faced his friends again. “Here is the tale in brief, as I understand it. Duinar was one of the most unassuming of the Asari, and yet it was said that he wielded great power. He delved deep into the inner workings of nature, including the forces of wind, water, and earth. He was a great master of many things, and there was much of magic in him. He alone among his brethren chose to live among men, which is why he appears as a man. Tuathas flowered and grew wise because of his influence. It’s what set the Tuathar apart from other men.”
Gaelen looked closely at Duinar. He appeared as a man of great age, with a long, grey beard and thinning grey hair. On his brow was bound the silver star of a lore-master, and at his feet lay an ancient, battered text inscribed with seven stars arranged in a familiar, special pattern. His right hand was raised high, as though summoning aid, but his left had come up before his face, as though warding off. The expression in his clear, blue eyes was of desperate hope.
“I do not understand why he is encased in ice,” said Nelwyn. “We are in the middle of the fire-mountains, and they are not quiet now. Obviously, they were not quiet then. How does ice come to be in the midst of fire?”
“If I’m right, the ice came at Duinar’s bidding, though it did not have the effect he had hoped for,” said Fima. “The two enemies of fire are water and cold. I’m thinking Duinar summoned them, hoping to quiet the heart of this mountain, for it was in the center of the disturbance. Yet his powers were not sufficient, and they turned back upon him even as he expended his last effort to put them forth. That is why the Cold Mountain is so cold…Duinar’s power still affects this place.”
He shook his head. “He was stronger than ever I imagined, to have done such a thing. The sorrow is that he did prevent the eruption of this mountain, but not in time. Fire-mountains here are all connected, and the disturbance spread outward like ripples on a pond. Duinar felt it, and knew that he had failed. It was the other mountains that ruined the land…one in particular. You all saw it. It was once called Monad Fumar, the Mountain of Smoke. No power could have held back such a cataclysm.”
“Why did the people stay? Did they not know disaster would come?” asked Gaelen.
“They stayed because they trusted their Asarla. Their faith in him was unshakable. The few who doubted were ridiculed and even despised for it.”
“You mean men such as Salasin, and the founders of Dûn Bennas?” said Nelwyn. “It would seem that they were wise to doubt Duinar. It is only because of them that the Tuathan race has survived.”
“You’re right, yet faith is a powerful force,” said Fima. “Men and Elves alike have relied on faith when doubts assail them. Sometimes it’s all we have. One cannot blame the people for having faith in Duinar…the alternative was simply too horrific. They could not accept it.”
“Still, I might have taken precautions just in case,” said Gaelen. “Then, if my doubts were without foundation, I could be happy about it.”
“Ha! You would have been down here in case Duinar needed your help,” said Galador.
Gaelen’s ears turned red with shame, for the suggestion that she would so overestimate her importance, even in jest, humiliated her. She cast her eyes downward and did not speak again.
Rogond turned to Galador. “She doesn’t deserve that,” he said with an edge in his voice that could be heard despite the chattering of his teeth.
“I would rather not stand here in the presence of Duinar, while Gaelen discusses her own compelling hindsight,” said Galador. “It is insulting to the memory of the people of Tuathas. Rogond, do you believe that if the Greatwood were threatened, Gaelen would run away and leave it to perish, if there was one of great power whom she thought could prevent it?”
“I’m stand
ing right here, Galador, and I will answer that question for myself,” said Gaelen. “I would stay in the forest because I would rather die there than live somewhere else. It is my sworn duty to protect the Greatwood, and I would not leave it in peril if I had a choice. It would have little to do with faith in someone else.”
“That is because you have so little faith in anyone save yourself,” muttered Galador. They all wondered what had come over him.
“Enough of this, all of you!” said Fima. “We’re cold, and we are dispirited as we stand in the presence of such great power, so terribly ineffectual. One cannot look into Duinar’s eyes and not grieve. It’s no reason to turn on our friends.”
Galador took the point and bowed, but Gaelen would not look at him.
“We must warm ourselves,” said Nelwyn. “We are all shivering and unhappy. Might we go back to warmer environs now?”
“I need to stay a while,” said Fima. “There are things I must consider. You should all go on back, and have a warm fire waiting for me.”
“I will not leave you alone,” said Rogond. “I think you might just freeze to death in the midst of your contemplation.”
“Gaelen and I will go and find something that will burn,” said Nelwyn. Galador started to accompany her, but she gave him an insistent look. “Stay here,” she whispered, just before leaving the chamber with Gaelen in search of anything made of wood. They took one of the torches with them.
Once outside, Nelwyn turned to her cousin and bade her stand and listen. “Galador was cruel to you because this discovery has unsettled him,” she said. “He remembers the tale of Cuimir, the Asarla of Eádros, and the War of Betrayal. Galador knew Cuimir, and his faith in Cuimir’s wisdom was unassailable, yet Cuimir could not save Eádros from her own people. Now he sees that Duinar could not save Tuathas, either. Galador once believed the Asari to be infallible. Your suggestion that such faith was unwise has wounded him.”
“All right, I understand now,” said Gaelen. “But I will not ask his pardon for believing as I do.”
“That’s because you’re as stubborn as he is,” said Nelwyn. “It’s one of the endearing qualities you share.” Then she grew serious. “If it is of any help, I agree with you. I would have been tempted to doubt the wisdom of blind faith, especially where these accursed fire-mountains are concerned. Can you feel them? They have been sending forth tremors for days.”
“Of course I can feel them, and I don’t like it. It’s like a less intense but more widespread version of the tremor we felt near the Mountains of Dread.”
“The one that came right before the eruption,” said Nelwyn. “Let’s hope it means something different this time.”
It was colder in the chamber of Duinar than it was outside, but Fynn and Arlan were still facing a long, cold night with no fire. They had taken up positions on opposite sides of the doorway into the mountain, hiding among the rocks, wondering whether they should rejoin and share warmth.
Neither Arlan nor Fynn were hunter-scouts, but they were both quite capable of surviving winter in the Greatwood, and the weather on Cold Mountain at present was not as bad as mid-winter near the Elven-hold. Still, they shivered a little in the rising wind. They both tensed as they heard the faint cry of a raven, but they knew that such sounds were common, and they were not concerned.
Wrothgar’s forces had surrounded Mountain-home, though the battle had not yet begun. Ordath and Magra knew that their own forces were as ready as could be. Their people were poised to fight, weapons were in good order, and the Elves of the Greatwood and of Tal-sithian had added their numbers to the defense force. The dwarves of Grundin’s realm had also arrived as anticipated, and they had been made welcome. It would be difficult to breach the defenses of Mountain-home.
No dwarves had yet come from the north, but the journey from the northern mountains was long, probably too long for Beori’s folk to undertake in any numbers.
Magra stood upon the northern battlement, his keen eyes scanning the darkness. Beside him stood his battle-commanders—Wellyn of the Greatwood, Farin of Cós-domhain, and Artemys of Tal-sithian. The sight of a thousand torches burning in the dark forests near Mountain-home was disquieting, though it was expected. Magra and Farin discussed tactics in quiet voices, awaiting some sign from the enemy.
Then, a sign came.
Wellyn and Artemys perceived the enormous, dark shadow an instant before it arrived, gliding through the air on silent wings. They opened their mouths to shout a warning, but Artemys caught a glimpse of a dark crossbow and a swift, deadly bolt.
“My lord!” she cried, flinging herself upon Magra—even as the shaft that was meant for his great heart pierced her own. It drove her forward with such force that Magra was very nearly knocked from his feet. The dark shape soared over the heads of the defenders, and a sudden blast of flame came forth from it. Many of the dwellings of Mountain-home were made of carved stone, but some were made of wood, and one of them burst into flames like so much dry tinder.
In the light of the fires, the horrified onlookers beheld a large and fearsome black dragon, wings fringed like an owl’s for silent flight, scales dull and dark to remain unseen by night. This was no Lokai, no dim-witted desert worm. This beast was sly and cunning.
A dragon-rider commanded it, perched just behind the massive head on the end of a long, serpent-like neck. That rider had aimed a lethal dart at Magra, for he knew that the way to throw the Elves’ defenses into disarray was to kill their supreme commander. The sacrifice of Artemys was all that had prevented it. The dragon circled once over Mountain-home, as the Elves rushed to quench the flames it had created.
“Take cover!” yelled Magra, even as he leaped down from the battlement with Artemys in his arms. The Elves of Tal-sithian looked on in dismay, for Artemys was their most capable tactician, and they moved at her direction. Magra set her down, as Ordath ran forward to aid her.
One glance told them both that there was no need, and Magra removed his cloak, covering Artemys, for she was dead. “I will avenge thee, proud lady of the Lake-realm,” he said. Then he turned to Ordath. “That bolt was meant for me. The rider knows what he’s doing.” He cast his eyes upward in search of the beast, but it had flown off, disappearing as quietly as it had come before the archers of Mountain-home could threaten it.
“Where did they ever find such a beast as that?” exclaimed Farin. “I have not heard tell of a winged dragon in many a year.”
“Nor have I,” said Magra. “And why did we not know of this one? The presence of a worm like that would be difficult to keep from our scouts.”
“With all due respect, not difficult enough, apparently,” said Farin. The sight of the dragon had unnerved him, as dwarves and dragons have ever been at odds. A dragon threatening a dwarf-realm meant a pitched battle, and sometimes the dragon would prevail.
“We should not spend time in wondering where it came from,” said Wellyn. “We must deal with it. We were not expecting such a fearful menace, and we have no defense against it.”
“There’s no time to worry about that dragon,” yelled Hallagond, who had been looking out over the north wall. “The battle is on! Guard yourselves, for they have archers!” No sooner had he said the words than the first volley of arrows flew over the walls. The defenders crouched beneath their shields, as the archers of Mountain-home prepared to take some blood of their own.
Gaelen and Nelwyn had explored a new passage beneath the Cold Mountain and had found the remains of an old wooden hand-cart. Though it was hundreds of years old, the cold had preserved it. They upended it and wheeled it back to the chamber where their friends waited. Fima’s axe made short work of it, and soon, with the aid of another few drops of dragon-fire, there was warmth to be shared. After dealing with the hand-cart, Fima took his axe to the ice-wall near Duinar’s feet, chipping away carefully at the clear surface.
“What are you doing?” asked Rogond.
“I would very much like to get my hands on that manuscript,
” said Fima. “It might contain some recorded history that is as yet unknown concerning the fall of Tuathas.” He kept on chipping away at the ice with diligent concentration.
“Has anyone remembered why we are here, and what our primary objective is?” asked Gaelen.
“We have not forgotten,” said Rogond. “Yet you must allow Fima to practice his craft. After all, he is a lore-master.”
“Practice my obsession, you mean?” said Fima with a chuckle.
“Yes, that too.”
“At least I’m warm now,” said Nelwyn. “Gaelen did not need to share her cloak with me after all.”
“This cloak is very special, though I would have been happy to share it,” said Gaelen. “It belonged to Gorgon’s mother, Brinneal. I’m sure she would approve of my wearing it, if it will warm my limbs and steady my aim as I take Gorgon from this world. I’m certain that her spirit hopes for such an outcome.” Gaelen thought for a moment. “It is ironic…I saw neither Brinneal nor Amandir when I called upon the Spirits of the Vanquished. Perhaps they could not bear the sight of Brinneal’s misbegotten child. For my part, I do not blame them.” She shuddered at the memory of Gorgon’s chaotic, tormented soul.
At this, everyone stayed silent for a time, thinking of Gorgon and his upcoming reckoning with the Company.
In the briar-forest just to the north of Cold Mountain, Gorgon perceived. He was drawing ever nearer to that reckoning, and the thought recharged his spirit and gave lightness to his feet. He tracked the Company to the dark opening of the passageway.
Kotos spoke to him from within the amulet. “Be cautious, Elfhunter. From now on you should watch for your enemies, as they may try to take you unaware. The raven cannot help you here, as there is no way to send it forth belowground without suspicion. Be very cautious.”