Snowcastles & Icetowers

by Duncan McGeary

  Finally, Greylock turned and asked the question that had prompted him to ask the mayor to the throne room in the first place.

  “How is the construction of the mountain road going?”

  “Slowly,” the mayor said, frowning. “As I say, your people do not seem enthusiastic.”

  “Any difficulty with the Wyrrs?”

  “None. I had thought we would have to fight our way over each and every inch of the Twilight Dells, but there has not yet been a battle, not even a skirmish! They just stand there, back from the road, and watch the work. Sometimes I could swear there are smiles on their faces. On Wyrr faces!”

  Rather than this being good news, Greylock found himself falling into an even deeper gloom. Every night he would dream the same disturbing dream of the ghostly Wyrrs. The same beautiful demon who had confronted him on his journey to the Underworld would come to him again, and though Greylock could not hear or understand what the Wyrr was saying, he knew what the demon wanted.

  Behind the Wyrr sometimes stood the old woman who had called him her son, pleading with him to come back. Again and again they would chant the word Deliverer, and in the morning, when he woke, the word would still be ringing in his mind.

  Last night had been the first break in that pattern. Now Greylock feared that the dreams would afflict him during his waking hours as well. He could not forget the pitiful people known as Wyrrs. Dwelling in the hilly country between Bordertown and the High Plateau, the Wyrrs had once been a deadly barrier between the two lands. Yet when Greylock had descended into the Underworld, the first of his kind to face the legends of demons in many generations, they had proclaimed him as their Deliverer.

  Greylock had promised to one day return and free them from their curse, and now he felt the weight of that unfulfilled prophecy.

  There was nothing he could do for them, he thought angrily. The Twilight Dells were barren and infertile. This he had sensed with his affinity to the earth. But he did not know how to make the land good. He did not know how to cut the invisible bonds that kept them tied to a dead land. He was not their Deliverer!

  Tarelton abruptly brought his attention back to business, and Greylock was thankful for the interruption.

  “We need more guards for the Vault of Glyden, Tyrant Greylock.”

  “To protect it from your people or mine?”

  “It is from others that we have the most to fear,” Tarelton answered gloomily, seeing no humor in the question.

  It was an old complaint. Tarelton could not conceal his anxiety at the thought that any of that precious metal might escape the clutches of Bordertown. If things continued as they were, Greylock thought, the vault would be emptied into the coffers of the Underworld entirely.

  Greylock almost wished that the Room of Aurim, as the Gatekeepers called it, had never been found. The treasure made the High Plateau a tempting prize to any would-be conqueror, he knew, whereas before none of the Underworld monarchs had shown any interest in the newly revealed country of ice and snow.

  Only a few months before, workmen on the cold, windswept slopes of Godshome had punctured the side of the mountain, revealing a new unsuspected network of tunnels. At the bottom of the maze of handcarved corridors had been found the Room of Aurim, told of in the ancient books of the Gatekeepers.

  It was ironic to Greylock that the mythical vault had been found after all. He had used the greed of the Underworlders by promising them shares of the glyden, but he had never really believed that the treasure existed.

  Now, Tarelton could no-longer benefit from the find; Greylock himself had little use for glyden; and even the traveling fire wizard Moag seemed to no longer care for the metal.

  The vault was not actually constructed of glyden, but was lined with heavy bars of the metal, coming from a single vein along one wall. By a feat of engineering that still astounded Greylock, the light of the sun somehow found a way through the twisting caves to strike the glyden. The brilliant square of light emerging from the excavations had been seen as far away as Bordertown.

  But it was not the glyden itself that most interested Greylock. Inside the mountain the workmen had found elaborate carvings and stone placements that reminded the Tyrant of the lower reaches of the Gateway. But these mosaics were unharmed by the cold and the winds, and still showed the intricate patterned beauty of the day they were made.

  “I will put more guards at the entrance,” he said at last. “But the only true defense is to keep the discovery a secret.”

  The mayor snorted, but said nothing more.

  Tarelton obviously did not believe that secrecy was possible, Greylock reflected, and he could not help but agree.

  The rest of the meal was spent in discussing minor details in the construction of the new road, and in matters of trade. When the mayor left, Greylock continued to stare gloomily into the fire.

  A distant rumble brought him to his feet. The walls of the throne room seemed to sway for a few moments, then settle. The Tyrant realized in dismay that the glacier had jogged the snowcastle from its foundations.

  Without thinking, Greylock headed for the steps to the icetower. As he ascended to the guardroom again he wondered which force would destroy his realm first: the assault by the mountain, the treachery of Redfrock, or the greed of the Underworlders.

  Chapter Two

  Greylock shaded his eyes, trying desperately to find his marker of the glacier’s progress, but the light was too bright to endure for more than a few seconds. Lofty towers of ice and graceful snowcastles dotted the snows, but today even these structures were all but washed from view by the intense light springing off the snows. The light could seem to find no escape, and turned everything but the largest of the dwellings to white. Only the gray rock of Godshome, so high that no man had ever climbed it, interrupted the glare.

  Though the sun gave an illusion of warmth, Greylock knew this was misleading. The bitter chill of the High Plateau was locked forever within the crystals of ice. The cold would emerge with renewed sting the moment the sun left the sky.

  A year had passed since his ascension to the throne of the High Plateau, but it seemed to him that he had done little to alleviate the poverty and hunger of his people. Within the magnificent structures of the snowcastles the common people of the High Plateau were still starving.

  The Tyrant simply could not understand it. He had vigorously implemented the ideas and reforms he had garnered from his visit to the Underworld, ideas and reforms that should have made the High Plateau a paradise. Yet little had changed. There was always the snow to be reckoned with, the cold, unyielding snow. The snow never ceased to fall.

  Greylock could barely see the flames created by the fire-wizardry of Moag through the glare. He could not help but wince at the vast stores of precious wood which were being consumed by the costly battle with Godshome. Hours of labor were being squandered, he thought, chopping away at the invading glacier, inch by inch. It was time and energy and material he had hoped to spend growing more food for his people. But this goal, like so many others he had once envisioned, would have to wait yet another year.

  Only the reopening of the Gateway was proceeding as planned, he thought, and even the clearing of that mountain roadway was creating more problems than it was solving.

  He heard Slimspear enter the guardroom behind him, and turned to find the steward standing at attention. Once again, Greylock wished he had chosen someone else as steward. The appointment of Slimspear, while filling his need for an ally, had changed their old easy relationship. The new steward took his position and duties very seriously.

  “What is it, Slimspear?” he asked, tiredly.

  “The wizard Moag wishes to see you again, my lord.” The steward seemed reluctant to say even this much.

  Greylock smiled to himself. Slimspear obviously did not like the way the wizard was pestering them. The steward had no understanding of the bond that kept the wizard obedient to the Tyrant, but at the same time resentful of every order. He did not
know that this bond had been bought by the precious metal glyden, which released the fire-wizardry of Moag only in the service of the Tyrant.

  “Is Mara with him?” Greylock asked, and he could not keep the eagerness from his voice—or his disappointment at Slimspear’s answer.

  “No, my lord. He is alone again and angry.”

  “I see,” Greylock said, turning back unhappily toward the mountain. Things had not turned out the way he had hoped with the wizard and his granddaughter. When he had refused to free the wizard after gaining the throne, as he had promised, Mara had chosen to stand by her grandfather. She had been just a girl when he had first seen her in the Underworld, skinny and awkward. But she had become a graceful and thoughtful woman during their travels. And as she had become more and more beautiful, and Greylock more and more in love with her, she had become distant and aloof. Sometimes the Tyrant wished that the three of them could have remained partners in a fruitless quest for glyden, without cares or responsibilities.

  “I have no wish to see anyone today, Slimspear,” he said at last. “Tell Moag that I will grant him a private audience in the morning.”

  Slimspear nodded, and slipped from the room silently.

  The Tyrant already knew what the old man would ask of him, and he wanted more time to prepare for the storm that was sure to follow when that request was denied. But he could not let Moag go now! He needed the wizard’s powers more than ever.

  Someone entered the guardroom behind him unannounced, and Greylock turned quickly, instinctively grasping the hilt of Thunderer. The royal sword was already half drawn before he recognized the bent shape of the wizard.

  “Why did you refuse to see me, Greylock?” the wizard demanded, without preamble. “Are you avoiding me?”

  A storm was indeed brewing on the thick brows of the wizard. He marched noisily into the room, hunched over, ignoring the naked blade of Thunderer. Unlike the citizens of the High Plateau, the old man was not ashamed to bundle up in thick swathes of clothing, though all the robes could not hide the wizard’s severely deformed back. His face and arms were mottled with brown spots of age, though his thick hair was dark.

  Right now, his mood was like the first sharp gusts of a gale.

  “I did not know you have been asking for me,” Greylock said placatingly, quickly sheathing the sword. “Slimspear is sometimes too protective of my time.”

  As if to accent his words, the steward suddenly appeared at the door, his face flushed and angry, with three armed guards at his back.

  “I am sorry, Tyrant!” he cried. “The old man must have slipped by me!”

  “I’m all right, Slimspear,” Greylock said hastily. The guards looked ready to strike Moag at any moment. “Leave us. I will speak to him.”

  The steward glared at the wizard, then reluctantly motioned the guards away. But Greylock could see that Slimspear would not be far off.

  The Tyrant could not blame Slimspear for being so protective. Over the past year, the attempts on his life had been almost too numerous to count. It was one of the traditions that Greylock wished he could change, this never-ending challenge to his rule. It was wearing him down, and diverting him from the jobs that needed to be done.

  Perhaps if he was harsh enough, and if he managed to survive another year, the number of assassination attempts would fall off. But right now, he could not complain against the tradition without seeming weak. The temptations to be brutal and harsh in achieving his goals, as the Tyrant Ironclasp had been, were almost irresistible. It was only now that he was Tyrant himself that Greylock understood the frustrations that his uncle had faced, and the strains that had finally driven him mad.

  Greylock wondered briefly why he did not treat the wizard the way he would have treated any other trespasser. The Tyrant Ironclasp would never have stood for such questioning of his commands!

  The Tyrant had to admit that he felt guilty for still holding Moag against his will.

  “What is it you wish to ask me, Moag?” he said tiredly. He hoped he was wrong and that the wizard had come to him with a request he could fulfill.

  “You know what I want!” the wizard snapped. “I want my freedom!”

  “Not yet, Moag,” Greylock answered, simply.

  “When, Greylock?” the wizard demanded. “When you bought my services you promised it was just so we could escape the Wyrrs. Then it was to fight Red- frock and gain your rightful throne. That is long past, and yet you still hold me.”

  “I do not keep you here by force.”

  This statement only seemed to make Moag angrier. “You know as well as I do that by the laws of wizards I am as securely bound to you as I would be in chains!”

  “Wait a little longer, Moag!” Greylock pleaded.

  “How much longer?” The wizard had heard it before. He did not believe him. “When I accepted your knife of glyden I did not expect to have to serve you forever, otherwise I would have made conditions to our contract, despite the dangers of the moment.”

  “Have I not paid you well enough?” Greylock asked. “Have I not given you more glyden than you could have ever hoped for? Where else could you receive such treasures? I do not understand your complaints, old man.”

  “You can have your glyden back! I was wrong to desire it so much.”

  “Without glyden you will lose your powers, Moag,” Greylock said, knowing this to be his strongest argument.

  “I want my freedom!” The wizard was adamant.

  Greylock finally looked away, knowing that he would not convince the old man, but knowing also that he would not release him.

  “I am sorry, Moag. I realize that I am being unfair to you, but I need you and your magic. Try to understand. Enemies surround me, and not all of them are human or natural.

  Greylock wondered briefly if the old man would understand his fears of Godshome, or the visions of the Wyrrs crying for help, or his certainty that the High Plateau was about to be invaded by the armies of the Underworld, but he decided that these arguments would not sway the wizard either.

  “I need everyone who is loyal to me close by,” he finally chose to say, simply. “Even if they are only loyal to me because they must be. Just stay with me one more year, Moag! 1 will reward you with more glyden than you have dreamed of!”

  “Glyden is of no use to me now,” the wizard said defiantly, glaring at Greylock.

  The Tyrant turned unhappily toward Godshome, still shrouded by the brilliant sun. But he was not watching the spectacular brightness of the sun.

  “I am sorry, Moag. I do not wish your anger, but I need you.” His voice trailed off lamely. What more could he tell the old man? That he did not trust the mountain? That he was afraid of the Wyrrs?

  “You are not fooling anyone, Greylock,” the wizard said. “It is obvious to everyone that it is not me you want to keep here. It is Mara you want! But as long as you hold me, Tyrant, you will not have her!”

  Without another word, the wizard turned and left the icetower. Greylock turned to watch the light, knowing that the old man had been right.

  Without Mara, Greylock found that he did not really care if his land prospered or fell to the Underworlders. Without Mara, it did not seem to matter. And yet, she refused to even see him.

  Every night, as he passed the chambers he had given to Mara and her grandfather, he resisted the temptation to turn towards them. But on this night, he gave into the desire, telling himself that he was only checking to see that they were well guarded, that he would not actually try to see them.

  He felt foolish as he passed by their doors, and he examined the guards who came to a surprised attention. The Tyrant continued to pretend to himself that as master of the snowcastle it was up to him to check all the rooms and to make sure that they were safe and secure.

  Half hoping, half dreading that one of the doors would open, he explored the corridor to its end. The hall remained quiet and empty, and he continued on with a vague sense of relief and disappointment.

  He
stopped briefly at the portal of the garden, hoping to see the slender blond girl standing among the red snowflowers. The garden was immaculately kept, though Greylock had never seen the keeper; carefully groomed, though no one ever saw or appreciated the effort. The Tyrant never had the inclination to visit the garden. It was a pavilion created especially for him, but so immaculate that he had never dared disturb it.

  Slimspear was waiting for him at the doors of the throne room, and anxiously inquired if he was ready for his meal.

  “No,” Greylock decided suddenly. “I am not hungry. Let the servants go to bed. I will serve myself something later.”

  He looked at Slimspear sharply. “Why don’t you return to Castle Steward? You don’t see enough of my sister. Ardra deserves better.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The steward began to leave dutifully. Once Slimspear would have stopped to ask what was bothering him, Greylock reflected, sadly.

  Unknown to him, these emotions were indeed battling within Slimspear, fighting with his duty as steward.

  “Greylock?”

  The Tyrant turned to look at his friend in astonishment. Slimspear had not used the familiar name since the day he had become steward.

  “I observed the girl Mara going up to the deathroom,” the steward said, hesitatingly. “I wonder if it is safe for her to be alone up there? If anyone should see her…”

  “I see,” Greylock said, appreciating his friend’s tact and his hint. “I am sure that she will be fine. None of our people would dare go up there. Still, perhaps, I had better go check.”

  Greylock found her in the dusty abandoned room, crying. He could still smell death in the room. The stone frame was still covered by ancient and decaying blankets, and took up fully half the room. Though it was a mild night outside the snowcastle, inside the deathroom it was frigid. The bare stones of the room seemed designed to catch the coldest of the winds that blew over the snowy plateau.

  As a child, before he had known its meaning, Greylock had been delighted to find the apparently unused hideaway. His uncle had found him playing there and had whipped him harshly. Later, he had learned what the tomb was for, and he had not returned since. Only now did it occur to Greylock to wonder what his uncle had been doing up here himself that day. Apparently the room held a fascination for others as well.