But here, at the border of a huge green valley, stretching as far as the eye could see, even the lowest commoner lived well. Greylock expected to find a contented, even smug people living here, but the old man explained that, even in this seeming paradise, there were grumbles against the Lord High Mayor. Greylock was surprised that the lavish bounty he was seeing seemed to make no difference in their dissatisfaction with life, and mentioned this to Moag.
“Don’t be a fool,” the wizard said. “If ever you are Tyrant, you must remember to keep your people always scrambling for sustenance. Don’t make the mistake of many lesser men, and give them comfort and hope. For if they have food and a warm place to sleep, they will begin to demand something more—such as liberty and power. And these things are much harder for a ruler to give his subjects. Many rulers I have advised, but none could accept this.”
“Truly, you have grown cynical in your wanderings, old man,” Greylock said lightly. “Does a king rule for himself, or for the benefit of his people? Why else should he be king if he does not mean to help his own kind?”
“You have yet to learn from your travels, Prince Greylock,” Moag snapped. “You may believe that when you become Tyrant you will improve the lives of your people, and for a short time you may even try that impossible task. If you are lucky, you will fail miserably. Only then, if your people haven’t already thrown you out for upsetting things, will you begin the true role of Tyrant—to tell your people what they must do. It will not matter if you are right or wrong, or how much you enrich yourself; they will accept it as long as you rule with an iron fist.”
“That would be an irresponsible use of power! I will wield my power to help my people, not harm them! One man—even if he be Tyrant—can never be more important than all his subjects.”
“Every man is prey to the temptations of power. Once you have it, Prince Greylock, you will use it. Is not my own subjugation proof of my argument?”
Greylock was struck silent at this. The wizard had touched a sensitive nerve. Why had he held the wizard against his will—when it was also against all the principles he had just so glibly proposed? The wizard continued his argument, knowing he had scored a point.
“The ruler who is willing to sacrifice his own welfare for the people is rare; for being the lord of a country makes life all the sweeter, and harder to give up.”
“Do not listen to him,” Mara said in disdain. “If he were such a good advisor, then why are we destitute and pledged to a prince without a kingdom? Wizards are no wiser than anyone else, Prince Greylock, though they would like you to think so. Why else do you suppose my grandfather cultivates his every wrinkle? He hopes that an appearance of great age will bring respect. His greatest grudge is that his hair will not turn white. Instead, his back stoops until he is bent over—which of course brings laughter, not respect.”
“Quiet, Granddaughter! I will not take much more of this insolence!” Moag muttered this with sinister overtones, but the girl just hurrumphed and shook her head.
The wizard spoke on confidentially to Greylock, while Mara continued to make scornful noises behind them. “My granddaughter entered my life too late to see the influence I could wield if I wished to. But there are more important things than being rich. I’d rather be poor and free, than serve another. Only by trickery will I serve now!”
As they began descending the short slope to the lush floor of the valley, and over well-tended fields, the girl and the old man began to argue again. This time Greylock let them debate and did not try to soothe tempers. He had learned that the two wrangled endlessly, but without rancor or grudges. Despite her harsh words, Mara’s hands would often rest companionably on her grandfather’s hunchback.
Instead, Greylock’s eyes were drawn to the small town they were approaching. It was set in the middle of the checkerboard fields, and was without defenses. Except for the broad main avenue, it was without perceivable order or planning. Apparently these people had little to fear from their neighbors, Greylock thought, for the town gave more a sense of openness than the militarism that the old man had implied. It was further proof that the Wyrrs were somehow chained and isolated in their poor valleys, when such a rich land lay undisturbed so nearby.
They passed through an orchard of apple trees whose bare limbs were covered by a light green moss, which seemed to glow unnaturally in the afternoon’s light. There was green grass, and trees and hedges grew between the thatched roof houses; a natural and appealing landscape that had been so domesticated over the years that the trunks of the trees were worn with familiar touches, and the grass was well-trodden with paths meandering from doorstep to doorstep. All this he saw from a distance, for the wizard would go no closer.
Greylock compared this peaceful scene with his homeland, where even the poorest commoner had to struggle to maintain a secure snowcastle, and where slamming doors were likely to greet the sound of even a friend’s approach. There, grudges and vendettas were the overriding concerns of the royal family, and most of the citizens. What must it be like to live in such a peaceful land? Could the wizard be right, and the people have turned their attention to conquest and anarchy? He doubted it, for the town was too quiet and serene to contain such a threat. The military name of BorderKeep was misleading, he thought.
Yet Greylock was soon to learn the meaning of the old wizard’s warning. As they tried to detour around this seemingly serene village, a troop of soldiers rushed from the peaceful houses, bristling with armor and weapons.
Greylock stared at them in astonishment, and had to withhold his first impulse to laugh. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or to ridicule the costume nature of their uniforms. Bright blue, with silver and gold trimmings, the plump Keepsmen looked sweaty and uncomfortable under the thick layers of brocade. They frowned determinedly at his grin, so Greylock decided it best not to laugh. These men were dressed almost as magnificently as his uncle, adorned in his royal robes! The people of the High Plateau surely did not lack an appreciation of pomp.
Greylock guessed that he could fight his way free, but again he knew he would have to leave the other two behind. He was beginning to wonder if he would not be better off alone. So far, the old man’s magic had only saved them from his own miscalculations.
Greylock hesitated at the commands from the soldiers to surrender, but when they tried to take his replica of Thunderer, he rebelled.
He drew the sword with a flourish, and the Keepsmen jumped back in alarm, eyeing the long blade uneasily. Greylock was left standing alone within a circle of a dozen nervous men, turning immediately at the sound of any movement to face the threat. The stalemate looked as though it would not be broken soon, and Greylock hoped that his two companions were mumbling their spells for an escape from this trap.
But Moag and Mara were outside the circle, held immobile by five or six soldiers who were carefully guarding their prisoners, obviously relieved to be out of the fray. The wizard and his granddaughter showed no sign of concocting the magic in their grasp to help in an escape. Greylock realized that he would have to kill several of these ridiculous soldiers, and leave his two partners behind, if he wished to gain his own freedom.
He lowered his blade a little at this thought, and at the same moment most of the soldiers attacked, for they saw that Greylock had no intention of defending himself. Greylock let himself be stripped of Thunderer and dragged before the Lord High Mayor’s Palace.
Greylock guessed it was the Lord High Mayor’s Palace, because it was the only building in the BorderKeep with the same pretensions of luxury as the uniforms. The other huts were simple and rustic, as befitted a farming people. But this residence was complimented by gables and arches, obviously tacked on over the original structure. The same man who had commissioned the ridiculous uniforms of his guards must have also had this built, Greylock thought. Over the large doors hung a huge Glyden seal of the Lord High Mayor’s office, and Greylock noticed that the wizard Moag’s eyes immediately filled with yearning.
“Do not tell him anything,” the wizard hissed urgently as they were brought toward the grinning Mayor, seated on the top step of his splendid home.
The master of the Palace was surprisingly sedate, however. Taller and leaner than his fellow Keepsmen, the man obviously had an appreciation for style in his own clothing and manner that was not apparent in his subjects and his house. In contrast to the soldiers, he was dressed simply in a green robe and was unarmed.
Perched on the shoulders of the Lord High Mayor, Greylock was dismayed to observe a large white rat. The beady black eyes of the animal stared back at Greylock almost intelligently, until they closed briefly in a satisfied blink. The rat was burrowed comfortably under the long red hair of his master. Greylock shuddered, for on the High Plateau the rat was a competitor for the limited grain, and bounties were set for their bodies. He had never heard of one becoming a pet.
“It is his Familiar,” Moag whispered. “If there is one act of magic I would take back if I could, it would be the giving of intelligence to that noisome animal.” He sighed. “But there seemed to be no other way of being released, and it seemed a simple price at the time. The rat is much more evil than I had expected. Do not be confused as to who the real ruler of this town is, Prince Greylock.”
“You served him?”
“Yes, but only because he trapped me,” Moag looked at Greylock with accusing eyes. “Do not make the mistake of believing that these foolish pretensions of the Lord High Mayor are all there is to the man. I call him a fool, but he is much more. He is a very evil man.”
“Why do you need fear him, Moag? These guards of his do not appear very formidable.”
“These are just Mayor Tarelton’s personal bodyguards and servants, and as I said, only fools would serve him,” the wizard said, dismissing their escort. “The citizens of the BorderKeep are the real power here, if they would just wake up and throw off the yoke of the Lord High Mayor. But they do not realize that they are being used for evil.”
The Keepspeople were slowly coming out of their houses and trickling in from the fields to watch the unusual parade. One of the farmers especially caught Greylock’s attention. The man was sweaty and his clothes were stained from a long day’s work in the fields, but he shouldered his way to the front of the crowd without a protest from others, and watched the proceedings intently. What Greylock noticed first was the farmer’s size. He was as tall as Greylock, and as dark—darker when the tanned skin was considered—but he was twice as broad as Greylock. Yet the visitor to the BorderKeep could see the intelligence in the man’s eyes as he felt himself scrutinized calmly. The old wizard was right in his estimation of the Town’s potential, if this was a specimen typical of the men of the BorderKeep. With a sword in that bulky arm, and with training, the man would be an awesome opponent.
“Step forward, my friends,” the Lord High Mayor said amiably in a high voice, bringing Greylock’s attention back to what was facing him. “I apologize for my overly efficient guards. I understand there was almost a fight! For this you must forgive me. There was no need to greet you with weapons!” He turned his eyes to Greylock, obviously meaning to display most of his charm toward him. “I am Lord High Mayor Tarelton, and this is the BorderKeep.”
When the man turned his attention to Moag, he could not hide his dislike. “Welcome back, old man! Have you come back for more Glyden? You did not stay long enough last time to be paid properly. I would be very happy to employ you again, if you wish. Our last association was most profitable, though it ended badly. Still, I am willing to forgive you.”
“I would never serve you again, Tarelton!” the magician said bluntly.
The Lord High Mayor winced, and a brief cloud of disappointment crossed his face. At the end of his speech, he also nodded once to Mara—as if he knew that it was through the girl he had his best chance of reaching the wizard. When she turned away stonily, the Lord High Mayor flushed in anger.
Greylock, who was feeling relieved at their welcome shift from prisoners to guests, interjected hastily. “Moag means that he cannot serve you, Lord High Mayor. I have employed him for the time being, for a minor service—which unfortunately will take some time.”
“I see!” Mayor Tarelton could not contain his anger. “Who, if I may also be blunt, are you?” The rat seemed to be nuzzling his master’s ear, and even from several yards away, Greylock could hear the snuffling sound. Then he realized with some horror that the animal was communicating with the Mayor!
“My name is Greylock,” he said finally.
“Where do you come from, Greylock?” A moment of puzzlement showed in the man’s otherwise assured voice. “I have never seen you before and I do not think you could be one of the Wyrrs, despite your gray hair. None are so bold, or so healthy as you. If you have come from the east, it would have been reported to me that you had crossed the borders. Therefore, you must have come from the west, and the mountains—the land of the gods.” He smiled. “Tell me then, are you a god?”
“I come from the west.” Let him think what he will, Greylock thought.
The smile quickly fell from the Lord High Mayor’s face. “Perhaps if you do not wish to answer my questions, you would rather stay a night in our prison. At least, until we find that you are not a spy or saboteur! How are we to know if you do not answer our questions?”
“Lord High Mayor Tarelton!” It was the big man whom Greylock had noticed earlier who spoke up to save him. “Why don’t you let them be? Do we want the world to think that the BorderKeep is inhospitable to its visitors?”
To Greylock’s surprise, the Lord High Mayor addressed the farmer with respect. “Do you now wish to join in my administration of the BorderKeep—as I have offered to you so many times, yeoman Harkkor?”
The big man lowered his eyes and growled, “You know I want nothing to do with it, Tarelton.”
Greylock could see the Mayor’s relief that he had not been challenged, nor his proposal accepted. Couldn’t anyone else see that? The man’s anger seemed to have left him at the interruption. The Lord High Mayor looked down upon the bejeweled sword of Thunderer on his lap, fingering it appreciatively. Then, with obvious reluctance, he extended it hilt first to Greylock.
The man from the High Plateau, who had learned much about the value of Glyden since he had left, now reflected cynically that the Mayor must have decided that there was more Glyden and jewels where the sword had come from. Now all of Tarelton’s words and efforts would no doubt be directed toward finding out exactly where that was.
“Yes, well no matter where you are from or who you are, you are welcome to the BorderKeep, Greylock.” The Lord High Mayor seemed to have regained his charm—and all his cunning. “My guards will show you to your rooms, where you will find food. Sleep tonight in peace and we can talk on the morrow.”
Greylock noticed several things during that first audience with the Lord High Mayor. First of all, the people of the BorderKeep did not appear to like Tarelton. There was more fear than respect in their glances. Secondly, that they had looked at him hopefully when they heard that he had come from the mountains. And last, that the yeomen farmers and wives did not know their own strengths. They could have easily overthrown the Lord High Mayor, and defeated his little army. Greylock could only wonder why they had not already done so.
Throughout the audience, the man the Lord High Mayor had called Harkkor had watched him with intently questioning eyes. Obviously the big man was the leader of the opposition in the BorderKeep, for Greylock had seen that the looks of respect the Mayor had failed to get were directed instead at the big farmer. Harkkor may not know it, Greylock thought, but he already possessed the support he would need to take Tarleton’s place. Again, he wondered why this had not already happened.
The answer, he thought, somehow lay in the Familiar. It was the second time he had seen an evil and ambitious man with an unusual pet. Now that he had come to the Underworld, and had seen magic at work, Greylock was becoming certain that th
e black crow of the Steward was more than a pet.
The three prisoners—or guests, Greylock still wasn’t sure which—were taken inside to a large comfortable room, furnished, Greylock guessed from Moag’s mumbles, by the old magician’s over- luxurious imagination. As the guards in their blue uniforms left them, the wizard muttered at his handiwork.
“I overdid the uniforms, I guess.”
“Ghastly,” Greylock agreed. “No other army will ever take them seriously again. A suitable revenge, I’d say.”
“You think so?” The old man brightened at this idea; but then he continued cursing the Lord High Mayor bitterly.
“I do not understand your hate, Moag,” Greylock said at last, for he was enjoying the sudden comfort of the room. “This Mayor Tarelton does not appear to be a very evil man. In fact, I was thinking of asking him for the help we need.”
“No! I will not ask that man for help again. I do not trust him. Not for all the Glyden of your kingdom, Prince Greylock!”
“Why not, old man?” Greylock was puzzled by the wizard’s vehement rejection. “He has enough soldiers, he is close, and unless I am mistaken, he will be more than willing to help us—for a price. But will not the King of Trold also have a price? As for his faults, I can see that he is greedy. But will we find a better man among the fiefdoms of Trold? As for trusting him, remember he will have to trust me as well, and I know the High Plateau far better than he ever will. He will need me, whereas he will know that I can get the help I need from anywhere.”
Snowcastles & Icetowers Page 6