Snowcastles & Icetowers

by Duncan McGeary

  Sometime during the night before he had decided that he would not attempt to try to go back down the mountain. He knew that in his present state, he would not make it very far. If there was not an answer on the top of Godshome, he was doomed.

  He finally reached the summit and found himself stumbling almost imperceptibly downward. Unaccustomed muscles collapsed on him, and when he once again lifted his head, after lying there for many minutes, he saw that all four sides of the gentle knoll he was on went down. Unless he had surmounted only a finger of the top, this was the peak of his world! The clouds parted for just a few moments to reveal that he was indeed perched on top of Godshome.

  He collapsed gratefully and did not move again.

  Chapter Ten

  Nothing really woke him for he was never really asleep. He hovered in a state of comfortable weariness, his limbs lulled by the soft caress of the powdery snow, a warm lassitude that seemed to belie the sounds of the screaming wind. Below, far below, it seemed to him that he could feel the earth’s fires, the firestone that filled Godshome, the hearth of the gods. The glowing heat seemed to reach through the snows to fill his own body.

  At the back of his mind, Greylock knew that this warmth was an illusion, a charitable illusion brought on by his own suffering body, and that he was dying. Even this did not stir him, for it seemed to him a kind way to die, that the gods were there watching over him and giving him a comfortable release. He could not return to the High Plateau or the Twilight Dells without an answer, he thought. He could not face the nightmares and sleepless nights, the haunted days. Better that it end here.

  Alone among the men of the High Plateau he had investigated the Three Tiers of life and death. And he had found that there were neither demons nor gods on Godshome.

  The mountain’s bowels rumbled, stirring him briefly to open his eyes. All was white, and he realized dimly that the snow had blinded him. The hot lava was restive far below, and Greylock could feel it trying to find an exit, meeting blocked passages everywhere, going higher to find a release, an unplugged corridor. He felt it seeking, and he directed the heat to him.

  The earth shook briefly beneath him, throwing him onto his back. Then he heard a hissing, as steam and firestone found a weak layer of earth only a few yards below him and began melting the snow even before it had reached the surface. Unlike the heat he had felt before, this heat was real. Unlike the illusory warmth, the misting dew that landed on his face stung. The mountainside ceased moving as the firestone found an escape, and squeezed through the last crack to erupt in a fountain of showering ash.

  The fiery fountain was only a few yards away, and the once comfortable sensation of warmth was becoming unbearable, the gray ash threatening to bury him. The firestone began to pour out sluggishly and to flow down toward the cliffs he had just climbed.

  Coughing bitterly, he rose to his knees and moved away from the heat. He could see nothing but a white blur in his snow blindness, lit occasionally by a falling firestone. He felt his way at first, and then ran stumbling as his feet snagged the crusts of snow. Any moment now, he thought, trying to still his panic, he would tumble over a cliff. But panic had seized him fully, and he could do nothing to stop his rolling retreat. He had to get away from the terrible pressure that was building beneath him, he thought. The fountain of firestone was doing little to assuage that pressure, holding it off but not relieving it.

  When the snow suddenly reared up in front of him in a wedge, he was brought up short, and with that, he collapsed. He was amazed that he had had the energy to run so far. Despite his blindness, Greylock could guess where he had run. If he had run down the same slope he had climbed, he knew, he would have long since sprung into space. Therefore, he reasoned through his exhaustion, he had gone down the other side, the side of Godshome that no man had ever seen, and whose features could only be imagined.

  Exploring this thought further, he discovered that he could sense the lay of the next few yards. Somehow, he could tell that from this point on lay a long, gentle incline off Godshome. Confident in his guess, he found the strength to continue. Exile, after all, seemed better to him now than death. Even his excruciating weariness and miserable cold were preferable to nothingness.

  By nightfall he was already encountering dry patches of earth, warmed by the sun, and his eyesight was slowly returning. Unless this side of the mountain was much warmer than the High Plateau, he thought, he had already descended below the level of the glacier. He clutched the warm rocks of one of the western icemelts through the night, but they slowly grew cold with the temperature of the night skies, and by morning he was shivering violently.

  He had misjudged the warmth, he realized. It was not due to the volcanic firestone running beneath the mountains, but was from the heat of the sun. That night he came his closest to dying, as the last of his body heat deserted him. But it was a clear morning, and the rays of the sun beat down unhindered by the clouds that wreathed the mountain and revived him.

  His eyesight was almost normal by the time he left the snows, and as his blindness left him, his acute sense of the lay of the land also began to leave him, as he depended more heavily on visual clues.

  It did not matter, he thought, for in the distance he could see green trees and blue water. Like a beckoning maiden, it drew him, and he staggered toward the reassuring light. The bare, gray rock of the foothills gave way to patches of hardy grass, then to shrubs. Finally, he was able to throw himself onto the soft matting of a field of high grass, and he soaked up the warmth from the chalky soil and the sharp sunshine.

  Now that he had found the warmth to succor him, Greylock’s attention immediately turned to the problem of finding food and water. Both turned out to be relatively easy to find, for the land was rich and bountiful. Orchards of fruit trees were as common as wild stands, and small clear creeks from the glacier provided all the water he wanted.

  Only one thing bothered him as the lush morning drew on. He had yet to see any form of animal life. The land was clean and unspoiled, as if newly created and awaiting only his discovery. The rushing stream into which he dangled his feet was clean and cold, and the trees and bushes overflowed with ripening fruit and berries. But there was no sign of the wildlife, which could have been nourished by such abundance. He continued on into the forest in a dreamy state.

  He was astonished when he came across the footprints of another man. The tracks were only a few days old, and there was no doubt that a man had made them.

  Now the pleasant euphoria that the warmth and the landscape had induced dissipated, and he found that he resented the intrusion of another being into this paradise.

  He scanned the horizon warily and realized that this was his normal way of approaching the world. It kept him alive but perpetually suspicious. He had been enjoying the brief respite from caution.

  For a few moments, he hesitated, debating whether to continue on in search or to avoid the stranger. For he was oddly certain that there were only two of them in all the land.

  He smelled the fire first, and glanced up to see the white smoke swirling like a white cloud over the tree tops. Summoning all his wariness and suspicion, he approached the clearing with a stealthy caution.

  There was no one tending the campfire, but Greylock knew immediately who had set it. The flames had bluish tinge that told him that the fire was not entirely natural. Only a fire wizard could have set such a blaze, he thought.

  Moments later, Moag entered the clearing carrying a load of firewood. He did not seem to sense Greylock’s presence until he had reached the fire, then he dropped the wood with a shout and whirled as Greylock stepped from the shadows of the surrounding trees.

  “Are you trying to frighten an old man to death?” the wizard shouted, annoyed by the surprise.

  Greylock himself did not know whether to be annoyed or surprised that Moag had managed to cross the mountain before him and seemed no worse for wear.

  “I’m sorry, Moag!” Greylock said, suppressing a l
augh. “I was not trying to sneak up on you. I was surprised to find anyone here.”

  The wizard seemed mollified by this, more angry at himself for jumping than at Greylock for surprising him.

  “There are no other people,” he said. “I have been here for two weeks and I have seen no one.” Suddenly, the old man’s surprise seemed to wear off enough for him to wonder why Greylock was there.

  “Have you been following me, Greylock?” he asked, worriedly. “Is there something wrong with Mara?”

  “No, Moag,” Greylock quickly reassured him. “She was fine when I left her. I did not follow you. I was looking for the people of this land. I was looking for the gods …”

  As night fell and the wizard built up the fire, Greylock told him the story of his ascent over Godshome and his search for the Gateway.

  “But I failed,” he concluded. “There are no gods, as Keyholder feared.”

  “Perhaps there never were any gods,” Moag answered. “Or perhaps they have gone away to some other land, or some other existence.”

  “If there are no gods, how am I to lift the curse of the Wyrrs?” Greylock asked, miserably. “I have failed.”

  “Do not be so sure, Greylock,” the old man said, frowning. “Have you not found a new land for the Wyrrs?”

  Now it was Greylock’s turn to frown. Bending down, he took up a handful of the dark earth while the old man was still talking. The land felt good, fertile, and it contrasted with the poisoned aura he had felt from the Twilight Dells.

  It was the Wyrr’s land that kept them in the throes of sickness and poverty, he remembered. And this was the answer to their curse, a new land. It was what he had sensed from the beginning but until now he had not been able to pinpoint the cause of his unease, or to express it in words. The land of the Wyrrs had long since been exhausted of all its nutrients. This was why they were so savagely possessive of their territory. This was what he had to deliver them from, gods or no gods.

  But first he had to find some way to bring them to this fertile land, and he knew that he could not bring them over Godshome.

  “How did you find your way here, Moag?” he asked, eagerly. “We must return immediately!”

  “I came through a pass far to the north, Greylock.” The old man looked at him curiously. “A land where the people are even more suspicious than yours. But we cannot go back that way, Greylock! King Kasid annexed the land just before I passed through. That is why I was so surprised to see you, he was marching to the High Plateau.”

  “I have to get back to the Twilight Dells!” Greylock said, through clenched teeth. The haunted images of the Wyrrs came unbidden to his mind. It was frustrating to be only a few miles from the Dells, and yet the only way to reach them was a long, uncertain detour and the even more dangerous climb over Godshome. But he had already decided that he would make the attempt to scale the mountain again, though it would assuredly mean his death.

  The Tyrant stared up the slopes of Godshome in despair. Without help, such a climb was hopeless. He had barely survived the first ascent through luck and ignorance. He would not survive a second assault, he knew. But what choice did he have? By now, the king of Trold would be marching on the High Plateau. If they took the time to go back by way of Moag’s pass, even if they made it through, they would be too late.

  Perhaps the easy slope on this side, and the descent on the other, would be easier this time. But even as he thought this, he knew that it was unlikely.

  “I’m going back, Moag,” he said, grimly. “I will not ask you to come with me. I am going over the top, not around.”

  “I understand,” the wizard said. “I am too old to make such journeys, whatever I might tell my granddaughter. Especially such a journey as you now contemplate. Still, I do not think your quest is as hopeless as you seem to think, for it is obvious to me that you have the earth-power.”

  “Earth-power?” Greylock asked, confused.

  “From what you have told me of your climb,” the old man continued, nodding. “I would guess that you are an earth wizard. I should have known before. There have been little hints all along that you had the earth magic, but I disregarded it, for in my lands such power would not have been hidden and wasted. It was you who summoned the life-giving heat of the volcano, Greylock. There is no other explanation for the impossible feat of your climb.”

  Greylock did not answer, for now that the wizard had brought it to his attention, it was indeed obvious. Perhaps it came from his ancestors, who had had the power to close the Gateway. Or perhaps he had the power because he was the Deliverer.

  “Trust this power, Greylock,” the wizard continued. “Your earth magic is untrained, but it will lead you to where you want to go. Perhaps you will even find the entrance of the Gateway itself.”

  Despite his gloom, Greylock’s eyes scanned the mountain, looking for some sign of a break in its white surface, for some kind of portal. But as far as he could see there was only an unbroken expanse of snow. It would be a miracle if he were to stumble on the mythical entrance—if there was such an entrance. In the morning, as the heat of the sun filled the Homeland, he would once again ascend the frigid heights of Godshome.

  Chapter Eleven

  Reluctantly, Greylock left the warmth of the Homeland and climbed into the cooler air of Godshome. Over the night he had come to realize that he had no choice on what he must do: he had to find the Gateway. He could not lead the Wyrrs on the long and dangerous journey that Moag had described, nor could he lead them over Godshome. Going back the way he had come made little sense.

  He relaxed a little at this thought, for he had been dreading the challenge. Instead, his task would be to find a break in the seemingly featureless west side of the mountain.

  The sun beat down on the shining ice, making it difficult for him to scan the snow for long even when he shielded his eyes. Through his watering eyes the snows looked unblemished. He knew this was an illusion, for under that flat white layer was the same lava that had built the High Plateau. But he feared that he would become snowblind before he could find an opening.

  He climbed the huge glacier in a diagonal direction, hoping that he could return to the lower elevations if he did not spot anything by dark. He could do so every night, he thought, making his forays into the snows more thorough, if more lengthy.

  With this comfortable thought, he began to pay less attention to his path. When he felt the snow give way under him, he knew immediately what had happened. He had made the first mistake of every mountain climber by not checking his footing. But it was too late to recover, despite his swift reflexes. He had no time to even brace himself before he struck bottom.

  When he woke again, it was dark. So much for returning to the Homeland, he thought ruefully. He searched his body gingerly for injuries, but there were no broken bones, just a few painful bruises. The knock to his head was potentially the most dangerous, he knew, but it was too dark for him to tell if his vision had been affected. His head was ringing with pain.

  Feeling beneath him cautiously, he moved off the layer of snow that had preceded him into the crevasse, saving him by breaking his fall. The cold rock at the bottom of the crevasse was a little warmer, and he perched on his heels, wrapping his arms around him, leaving as little of his body touching the stone surface as possible. More than anything he was angry with himself for falling so easily. No man of the High Plateau should be caught by surprise by a crevasse!

  He decided not to waste a fire on this night, even if he could somehow light one of the small torches that he had, with the help of Moag, fashioned in the forests of the Homeland. The fire wizard had assured him that they were the best design possible with the materials at hand.

  He might as well make the best of it, he thought, and try to sleep. At least he was protected from the worst of the cold, and his clothes were still dry. Curling up in the small space, he finally managed to fall asleep through his shivering.

  When the day’s light finally reached him by cro
ssing the sky directly over the ceiling of the crevasse, Greylock woke to discover that an attempt to climb out would be futile.

  Scaling the walls of the crevasse would not be difficult, he thought, but there was no possible way for him to reach from the stone of the walls to the narrow hole he had created by falling through the middle of the crevasse. The snow was several feet thick, he saw, and frozen solid, so that trying to cut through would be difficult and tiring, especially from the angle of the steep walls. Worse, it was dangerous. Even if he succeeded in loosening the snow pack, it could very easily come down on top of him, causing him to fall again, perhaps burying him. He couldn’t take that chance.

  The crevasse narrowed into darkness on both sides of him. From experience, Greylock knew that the ice caves could extend for great distances, while not always remaining level. There was a chance that the floor of the crevasse would angle upward in places almost to the surface, he thought, or at least to a safer level to attempt a climb.

  But this tunnel only seemed to go deeper into the mountain, instead of up and away. He was about to turn back when he noticed that the ceiling turned from ice to-stone just ahead of him. Lighting the first of his tapers, he started forward. Was it possible he had stumbled upon one of the portals of the Gateway by chance?

  He knew that at some time he would be forced to feel his way in the dark if he was to conserve his tapers for the long journey under the mountain, but after a moment of thought he decided to light the second of his tapers in hope that he would discover where the tunnel was heading, and if it went far.

  Eventually, other passages opened off the main passage, but he ignored them, using his instincts to strike deeper into Godshome. Occasionally, dim light through the ice above him showed that he was within another crevasse, but he paid no attention to this either. Whenever he came to a dead end, he quickly backtracked to the nearest offshoot and tried again.