Snowcastles & Icetowers

by Duncan McGeary

  When she at last allowed him to regain consciousness, he saw to his relief that she had moved him from the deathroom. He must have been very ill indeed, he thought, for even Mara to accept it, and prepare for his death.

  The pain that had filled his life for the last few weeks had subsided to a dull throb.

  Mara came quickly to the side of his bed at his call.

  “I must see Kalwyn!” he demanded, sitting up and getting ready to move off his bed. “Bring me the commander of the guard!”

  She pushed him gently back into bed. “Rest for a few moments more, Greylock,” she said, softly. “I have already called for your advisors. We know that King Kasid is coming. He is already here.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Greylock paced the earthen walls of the redoubt, waiting for the scouts to return. The long ramp spanning the trail was a hastily assembled bulwark, a small defense against the enormous force that was fast approaching the Gateway. The Tyrant was thankful now that he had had the foresight to order a succession of ramparts built across the mountain pass, one every few hundred yards, effectively sealing the Gateway again. He doubted that the walls could withstand a frontal assault by the large army the scouts were reporting separately, but he hoped that together they would prove a hindrance, and provide the defenders with a chance to recoup.

  Greylock loosened his robe, wishing that he dared to remove his outer garments as completely as his soldiers had. From where he stood he could see the dead, tangled growth of the Twilight Dells. The dry wood and briars that choked that land were piled up in front of the walls as a further hindrance to the advance of the enemy, ready to be lit at the command of the Tyrant. The heat of the lower elevation was suffocating to the men of the mountains, but Greylock would not remove the robe with its royal markings.

  He wanted to remain identifiable to his men.

  It was not the approaching battle that he was thinking of at that moment. The Wyrrs had not given him a moment of peace since he had awakened from his convalescence. He was very close to the Twilight Dells now, and the power emanating from that sick land was reaching out to him. The earth seemed to send out tentacles of mists, which wrapped themselves around him and his thoughts.

  The cry of the lookout startled him from his gloomy thoughts. Looking up he saw an orderly column of soldiers crossing the swift mountain stream that lay below the lowest bulwark, a dark line that stretched through the next valley, over a bridge, and into the next dell. But even the scattering of the enemy that he could see were far too many for the army of the High Plateau to repel for long, and according to the reports of the scouts, these were only a fraction of those who would come.

  The advanced units of the enemy stopped a short distance away from the first rampart, just beyond the flight of an arrow. They began to set up camp in full view of the defenders. Tent after tent of canvas were erected in orderly rows. Fires were lit at equal distances between, all in anticipation of the vast host that followed. Other soldiers came very near the walls, and, with a contempt that was visible, began to build another rampart opposite them, which soon grew to be nearly as thick and broad.

  The day was passed in waiting, both armies allowing the other side to prepare fully, each thinking this an advantage for themselves. Steward Kalwyn boasted that it showed that the enemy was afraid of them, but Greylock thought it more likely a simple professionalism. They would want to be in full force, he reflected, before they attacked. For their part, the enemy undoubtedly believed that the sight of such a vast army would frighten the men of the High Plateau, and were giving them a day to think what it would be like to confront such a host.

  Greylock smiled to himself, for unwittingly the enemy was giving him the chance he needed to seek out the Wyrrs.

  He turned away finally as darkness began to fall, and the shadows of the fortifications stretched across the land. As he began to move down the mountain path, soldiers at each of the barriers saw the face of their Tyrant and trembled.

  At last, Steward Kalwyn caught up with him.

  “Where are you going?” the steward panted. Greylock was walking with a firm gait and the tall gangling youth had to hurry to keep up.

  “I will be back in the morning,” Greylock said simply.

  “But what of the enemy?” the young steward cried. “What if they should attack?”

  “They will not advance further this day,” Greylock said impatiently. “Darkness will fall soon. They will not take the chance of spending their first night without fortifications.”

  “But what if they do attack?” Kalwyn insisted.

  “Then do what you can to delay them,” Greylock snapped. “Surely you do not need me for that.”

  Kalwyn objected strenuously to this statement. “Tyrant Greylock! The men need to see that you are here! They need to see Thunderer!”

  “Nevertheless, I must leave until morning,” Greylock said. The fervor in his tone told the steward that he would not be able to talk his master out of it.

  As the Tyrant strode away into the shadows, the young nobleman stared after him with his mouth open. Then, swallowing noticeably, he rushed to the first defense. As steward, it was his duty to command when the Tyrant was not available, but he wished he knew what was going to tell the soldiers!

  Under the full moon, the Twilight Dells were a dark purple dotted with yellow points of light where the enemy had set his campfires. The valleys looked deceptively peaceful. The shadows of night had long ago crept over the land, but there was little sleep on either side of the ramparts. Greylock slipped past the High Plateau’s defenses with little trouble, despite the watchfulness of the guards.

  The Tyrant briefly admired the work his citizens had done under the direction of Moag. The frost fortresses had been built along the narrowest, steepest portions of the mountain pass. Only Greylock, with his formidable climbing skills and his knowledge of the mountain could have avoided being sighted by his nervous soldiers. He knew that he could have easily walked through the barriers, for he knew the passwords and once recognized was not likely to be challenged. But he did not want to have to answer the questions the guards would inevitably ask. He suspected that Kalwyn and some of his commanders would even try to stop him once they discovered just where it was he was going.

  Leaving the earthworks behind, the raucous laughter of the guards fading slowly, the light of the moon glancing off the points of their spears, Greylock once again experienced a revulsion toward the land at his feet. It was a poisoned land, infertile, and lacking in the minerals needed to sustain healthy life. Curious now that he knew the cause of the Wyrrs’ ill, Greylock bent to one knee and examined the dry, chalky earth between his fingers. The soil did not give back the vibrant tone he associated with healthy earth. Instead, he felt the curse of a depleted land.

  Nodding slightly to himself, Greylock quickly rose and brushed the dust off his hands. He dismissed the taint from his mind, sure now what caused it, and certain that there was only one cure.

  He kept to the cover of the sickly, but abundant growth, and, where he could, to the stands of pines. The moon was full and he did not want to be seen outlined against the light.

  But the growth proved almost impossible to negotiate even in this light, and he more than once slammed into a fallen trunk hidden by a matt of shrubbery. He muffled his curses, for he was in danger from both sides now. Unless he was instantly recognized, any sighting would be fatal. His mission required all his stealth.

  There seemed to be a great deal of activity in the enemy army, and Greylock was forced to take a twisting, turning course through the woods to avoid them. Unaccustomed to the greenery of the Underworld, he made little progress, and stopped constantly to listen above his panting breath for any sound of discovery. It seemed to him that he was making an unusual amount of noise. He hoped that it was just his heightened sensitivity and not his clumsiness.

  There was a desperate need for speed as well as stealth, though he continued to make little headway agains
t the tangled brush. He needed to complete his mission and return to the High Plateau by first light if he did not wish to be caught behind enemy lines.

  Yet the Tyrant did not even know where to look for the Wyrrs. All he could do was probe further into the dreaded land, he thought, and hope that the Wyrrs would detect his presence.

  In the end he did not have to go far. He was barely within the Twilight Dells before he was met. Just beyond the campfires of Trold, the form of a Wyrr suddenly filled the path.

  The Wyrr seemed to hover, his feet somehow gliding over the land. It was the first time Greylock had seen one of the beings in the darkness. He remembered Moag’s warning of their awesome powers in the night hours. The characteristic hollowed face and emaciated appearance was not as noticeable in the gloom. He could almost visualize what visage the Wyrr might have had but for the curse, the kind of handsome demeanor that Wyrrs could now only portray with the help of magic.

  Without speaking, the Wyrr quickly made it clear that Greylock was not to move, that he was to be silent. At the same moment, he heard a patrol approaching, and he dropped to the ground. As he listened to the hushed voices of the enemy, grasping the hilt of Thunderer but not daring to draw it out in the undergrowth, he realized that he had just been saved from walking into their midst.

  The Wyrr seemed to have disappeared, and there was no outcry as the patrol passed. Perhaps the soldiers of Trold had learned to disregard the scrawny inhabitants of this nightmare land, Greylock thought. From a once murderous rabble, the Wyrrs had become a strangely acquiescent race.

  When Greylock finally dared to rise and look about, the ghostly Wyrr appeared immediately to beckon for him to follow. Greylock suppressed a shudder. Knowing the natural causes of the Wyrrs’ emaciated appearance did not dispel the horror Greylock always felt when he saw them.

  The Wyrr seemed to float above the arid soil, as if his feet scorned to touch the lifeless earth he was forced to till during the daylight, for so small a harvest. They passed an orchard of dead trees, a soft moss covering the branches, glowing in the moonlight, a singular and surprising sight in this land of evergreens. Apparently, Greylock thought, the land had once been able to nourish more cultivation than it now did.

  Again, Greylock was soon lost among the identical valleys, and had to trust his guide to lead them. Yet, at last, they came to a dell he was surprised to recognize. It was the same dell that the Wyrrs had gathered within to meet him on his first journey to the Underworld, where they had proclaimed the startled young man with a lock of silver hair as the Deliverer. It was here that his hair had turned its silver hue, as if they marked him.

  It was a larger valley than the others, treeless, and cleared of the persistent undergrowth that choked the other dells. It was filled with silent, waiting Wyrrs. Waiting for him, he realized. He sensed their welcome, their gratitude, and hated himself for what he was about to ask.

  He hesitated as an overwhelming silence of anticipation radiated toward him. They would listen to every word he said, he knew, and would follow where he led. Did he have the right to ask them what he was about to ask? Did they have free will in the matter, or were they no more than slaves to his commands?’

  Standing before this multitude of pale, hopeful faces he could still think of no alternative.

  “I bring you the judgment of Deliverance!” he said, softly, knowing that all would hear and understand. The wave of gratitude that met his words was overpowering.

  “But first, you must fulfill your vows to the gods of Godshome,” he continued, and for the first time Greylock felt dismay coming from the Wyrrs. The single Wyrr who had guided him—Greylock was beginning to recognize him as the same Wyrr who had made the visitations—spoke for them all.

  “From the day we were cast down to this land we have protected the Gateway!” the Wyrr cried.

  “You must do so again,” Greylock answered, firmly. The dismay replaced by a surging resolve, as thousands reacted as one.

  “We will do what you ask,” the Wyrr said.

  “You know what the curse of your betrayal is,” Greylock said, kneeling and taking up a handful of the porous, exhausted soil. “This land will destroy you if you do not leave soon. I have discovered a new land, a bountiful land that will feed you and your children and make you strong. But I must warn you now that there is great danger on the path to the Homeland.”

  “We will follow.”

  “I have found a passage to this land. But my own people are in danger, and I must help them first.” He took a deep breath. “I do not know if I will survive this struggle.”

  At this a great swell of concern washed over him. Its force took him aback.

  “If I do not return you must find the Homeland,” he continued when he could speak again. “If I do not survive”—again the wave of concern met his words— “then you must make your own way.”

  He waved his hand toward the massive barrier of Godshome, its white snows glowing faintly within its looming shadow, all that was visible from where they stood. “Beyond Godshome is a land, a good land, waiting for you!” The distress of the Wyrrs grew as he spoke, until he realized that they were no longer listening to him.

  “We will not go without you,” their spokesman said firmly.

  “But you must!” Greylock said. “If you do not go soon your people will die.”

  “We have always known where the Homeland lies. But we cannot go there without the Deliverer. This is the judgment of the gods.”

  Greylock knew then that no matter how much he pleaded with them they would not go without him. They would not so easily free him of this responsibility, it seemed. He felt a sudden impatience.

  “We will not go,” the Wyrr repeated, implacably, as if they could understand what Greylock was thinking.

  All knew that the matter was settled. If anything happened to him, they would stay. They would die away slowly and inexorably to extinction.

  The responsibility of this was frightening to Greylock. But he reminded himself that he was also Tyrant of the High Plateau. Though he may not survive the battle with the forces of King Kasid, he must absolve himself of that duty.

  Greylock thought gloomily that it was very likely that he would die. And if he fell, the lands of the High Plateau, the Twilight Dells, and Bordertown would fall with him. The victory of the barbarians of Trold would be complete.

  “We will help you,” the Wyrr announced.

  Greylock knew that their offer was boundless, that they would sacrifice everything for him. He felt ashamed for having expected it, for demanding it, for maneuvering a helpless people to do his bidding.

  “It will not be an easy price,” he warned one last time, not entirely succeeding in banishing the guilt from his mind.

  A mental shrug, an awesome fatalism—Greylock could not describe it any other way—greeted his words.

  “No matter what happens to me,” he announced, not sure if it would do any good, “I proclaim you free of this land!

  “Now,” he began. “This is what I ask …”

  The Wyrr, Greylock could not tell if it was the same one, led him surely but quickly toward his own lines. Boisterous and frightened laughter rose up all around them, from both sides of the battle lines, but the two were not seen. The Wyrr instinctively seemed to know where to go.

  Not until Greylock had reached the barren space between the two armies, where it seemed safest, was he discovered and hailed. It was one of his own men, but for a few moments—until the guards had discerned his identity—the danger was as great as if it had been the enemy. His men were amazed to find their Tyrant emerging alone frm the moonlit wastes. The Wyrr had disappeared moments before he was accosted.

  Shaking their heads and exchanging glances, the men of the High Plateau watched the Tyrant as he was escorted through each of the barricades. Whereas the day before his demeanor had caused the men to tremble, so now did his assurance on the eve of battle raise their spirits. The Tyrant had spied out the camps of the e
nemy, they whispered. He had listened to their councils of war. Victory was assured!

  Greylock managed to have one last look at the defenses.

  The frost fortresses certainly seemed adequate, he thought, but he had seen that the scout estimates of the enemy strength were, if anything, low. The enemy was composed of mercenaries who fought war after war for King Kasid, mercenaries for whom fighting was a way of life.

  In contrast, the training and defenses of the men of the High Plateau, their small number, seemed wholly inadequate. Yet, Greylock thought grimly as morning broke, these men would have to hold off the finest army of the Underworld for one full day.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Greylock spent the final hours of morning unable to sleep, conferring with his commanders, and going over his strategy, finding many flaws, but no overwhelming ones.

  The frost fortresses were constructed of the same materials that formed the mountain. Lava stone had been piled high across the pass, reaching from the steep cliffs which towered over one side of the Gateway to the abyss on the other side. The black lava boulders, of all shapes and sizes though always rough, slid apart easily at the first pressure, and any attacker would quickly find himself back at the bottom, with his feet and backside torn by sharp rock.

  To remedy the treacherous footing on the side of the mounds they patrolled, and to provide walkways along their tops, Moag had ordered snow packed into the crevices. He had then melted the snows with his fire-wizardry and waited for the cold of night to freeze the stones solidly into place. On top of this, especially in the lower, warmer portions of the mountain, had been spread a layer of soil to insulate the ice. The Tyrant thought the frost fortresses permanent, unless the weather changed drastically.

  Morning found him trying to rest at last, but when the horns sounded from the first barricade, he quickly rose and hurried to the rampart. He arrived just in time to meet the delegation of Trold.

  At its head was a triumphantly grinning Carrell Redfrock. The man looked truly majestic, Greylock admitted to himself, in his scarlet cloak and ebony staff. On the broad tip of the staff, above his thin, manicured hand, was the sleek black crow. The man had become even more elegant in his sojourn to the fiefdoms of Trold, Greylock thought, than he had been before his exile. Tall and dark, with his white hair intricately curled, the traitor looked satisfied with himself.