“Seven miles toward the twin peaks,” said Sigarni.
“Good. Now my bones are freezing here, so let us begin. Are you ready?” Sigarni nodded and Taliesen turned to Ballistar. “And you, dwarf? There is still time to change your mind. What awaits you is not pleasant. Your worst nightmare is beyond this Gate.”
Ballistar thought he detected a note of concern in the wizard’s voice, and felt his fears rise. “I will travel with Sigarni,” he said stoutly. Reaching up, he took hold of her hand.
“Then let it begin,” said Taliesen. The old wizard closed his eyes and spoke softly in a language unknown to either of the Highlanders. It was soft and fluent, almost musical. Pale light flooded from the rectangular grooves in the rock face, which became translucent, and then transparent, and Sigarni found herself staring through it at a cold, grey landscape. “Step through quickly,” said Taliesen. “It will hold for a few seconds only.”
The silver-haired woman and the dwarf stepped through the portal. Sigarni shivered as she passed through, for it was like walking through a waterfall, cold and yet not as refreshing. On the other side they found themselves standing within a circle of six tall granite stones. Sigarni swung around in time to see Taliesen fade away to nothing.
“Well, we are here,” she said, turning back to Ballistar. The dwarf was lying on the ground, his body twitching. “Balli! Are you ill?”
His body began to writhe.
And stretch . . .
Dropping her bow and loosing her pack, Sigarni knelt beside him. His limbs were thrashing around, his legs jutting now from his tiny trousers. The small doeskin boots split as his feet grew. His black leather belt snapped. Sigarni moved back from him and waited. Finally the spasmodic twitching eased and she found herself gazing down at a healthy young man in torn clothes and shredded boots. Part of one boot was still around the ankle like an adornment. Ballistar groaned and sat up. “What happened to me?” he asked. Then he saw his arms, full length and strong, with long, slender fingers, and his legs. He scrambled to his feet and found himself staring into Sigarni’s eyes. “Oh, God, dear God,” he said. “I’m a man!”
Throwing his arms around the stunned Sigarni, he kissed her cheek. “I’m a man,” he said again. “Look at me, Sigarni!”
“You look very fine,” she said with a smile. “Truly this is a magical place.”
“He said my worst nightmare awaited me. How wrong can a man be? This is everything I dreamed of. Now I will be able to stand with the others and fight the Outlanders. No more jibes and cruel jokes. Oh, Sigarni . . .” Abruptly he sat down and began to weep.
“I brought a spare tunic and leggings,” said Sigarni. “I think they might fit you. Even if they don’t, they’ll look better than the rags you are wearing.”
He nodded and moved to her pack. “I could even get married,” he said, “and sire sons. Tall sons!”
“You always were handsome, Balli, and you’ll make a fine father. Now stop talking and get dressed, we must be moving on.”
Sigarni gazed at the bleak landscape; the sky was slate-grey and the air smelled acrid. Far to the east she could see fires on the horizon as two distant volcanoes spewed hot ash and lava out over the land. “Not a hospitable place,” she said.
“I think it’s wonderful,” said Ballistar.
She turned to see him struggling out of his ruined leggings. “By Heaven, Balli, has that grown also?”
He giggled. “No, it was always this big. Do you like it?”
She laughed. “Just cover it, you fool!”
Ballistar dressed and tied the thongs of his new green leggings. “They are a little tight,” he said. “Am I as tall as Fell?”
“No. But you are taller than Bakris and Gwyn. That will have to do.”
Sigarni reached for her bow—and froze. The weapon had rooted itself in the ground and small, slender branches were growing from it. “Would you look at that!” she said. Roots were spreading out from the bow, delving into the grey, ash-covered ground.
“What about your arrows?” asked Ballistar. Sigarni swung her quiver clear and pulled a shaft from it; it was unmarked. At that moment a single ray of sunshine seared through the ash-grey sky, a pillar of light bathing what had once been a bow and was now a swiftly growing tree. The sudden warmth was welcome and Sigarni glanced up at the sky, enjoying the feeling of sunlight on her skin. Then it was gone.
Something moved against her chest and, startled, Sigarni glanced down. The small leather pouch was bulging now, and writhing, as if a large rat were inside. Swiftly she ripped it from her neck and hurled it to the ground. The leather split and a white bone protruded, others joining to it. As with Ballistar the bones stretched and grew, cartilage and ligaments slithering over them, pulling joints into sockets. At last a huge skeleton lay on the volcanic ash.
For a moment nothing more happened. Then suddenly, in a vivid burst of color, red muscle and sinew, flesh and veins, danced along its frame, covering lungs and liver, heart and kidneys. Skin flowed over the whole, and silver hair sprouted from head and chin.
For a while Ironhand lay naked on the ground, then took a long shuddering breath. His eyes opened, and he saw Sigarni. “I can feel,” he said. “The ground beneath me, the air in my lungs. How is this possible?”
“I have no idea,” said Sigarni, removing her green cloak. She cut a hole in the center and passed it to the naked man.
Ironhand stood and looped it over his head. “Where are we?”
“In the land of Yur-vale,” Sigarni told him. “Taliesen sent us through a magical Gateway.”
“It is puzzling, but by Grievak, it is good to feel again— and to have two good hands of flesh and blood,” he added, clenching his fists. “Who is this?” he asked, turning to the young man at her side.
“It is me, Ballistar the Dwarf. The magick made me grow. Though not as tall as you,” he added with a frown.
Ironhand chuckled. “You are tall enough, boy. What now, daughter?”
She pointed to the twin peaks. “We make for the city and find the Crown.”
Yos-shiel had been a Black River trader for more than two hundred and seventy years, and remembered with great regret the ending of all that was beautiful in Yur-vale. He had been celebrating his twenty-fourth birthday when the first mountain had erupted, spewing molten lava down the hillside, destroying the vineyards and the cornfields.
It had been a bitter summer. First the war, and then the natural upheavals that hid the sun from the sky. Year by year it had grown steadily worse. Yos-shiel pushed his thin fingers through his thick white hair, and stared out of the window at the quay, where men were loading supplies onto one of the three barges he would send down to Zir-vak after dusk. Smoked fish and timber: the only two items of any worth in Yur-vale. Yos-shiel sold them for gold and water, in the vain hope that one day gold would be a viable currency once more.
The old man rose and stretched. From his window he saw a single ray of sunshine to the south and his heart swelled. How long since there had been a break in the clouds? A year? Two? Several of the loaders saw it also, and all ceased their work.
A young man, seeing Yos-shiel at the window, called out, “Is it a sign, master? Is the sun returning?”
The pillar of light vanished. “I do not look for signs anymore,” he said softly.
Stepping out into the dull light, he counted the barrels of fish. “There should be fifty,” he said.
A huge man wearing a red shirt embroidered with gold moved into sight. “Two were spoiled,” he said, his voice low, rumbling like distant thunder. Yos-shiel looked into the man’s small, round eyes. He knew Cris-yen was lying, but the man was a thug and, he suspected, a killer. The two guards Yos-shiel had appointed to supervise the loads had mysteriously disappeared. He feared them dead.
“Very well, Cris-yen, carry on.” With a contemptuous smile the big man swung away.
I never should have employed him, thought Yos-shiel. He and his brothers will strip me of all I ha
ve. I will be lucky to escape with my life. Glancing up at the iron sky, he suddenly smiled. What is life worth now? he wondered. Would I miss it?
Soldiers manned the ramparts of the stockade and Yos-shiel considered asking them for help in dealing with Cris-yen. The supplies he sent were vital to the city, and his plea deserved to be heard. But then deserve has nothing to do with it, he realized. Cris-yen had made friends with the officers, giving them presents. If I go to them and they turn against me my death will come all the sooner, he thought.
Strolling to the edge of the quay, he stared down into the inky depths of the river. No fish swam there now. The fleets were forced to put out far to sea in order to make their catches.
The barge from the city came into sight, its cargo of barrels lashed to the deck. Fresh drinking water, cleaned in the charcoal filters of Zir-vak, and fresh meat for the soldiers.
Yos-shiel wandered back to his small office and continued working on his ledgers.
Just before noon he heard a commotion from outside, and saw his workers moving toward the stockade gates. Yos-shiel closed the books, cleaned the quill pen, and followed them. The gates were open and three people had entered the stockade, two men and a woman. The woman was silver-haired and strikingly beautiful. Beside her was a giant in an ill-fitting green tunic, tied at the waist with what looked like an old bowstring; he too was silver-haired. The last of the trio was a young man, dressed in green trews and a shirt too small for him.
“Where are you from?” asked Cris-yen, pushing to the front of the crowd and standing before the woman, his hands on his hips.
“South,” she said. “We’re looking for passage into the city.”
“And how will you pay me?”
The woman produced a small gold coin and Cris-yen laughed. “That’s no good here, my pretty; it doesn’t put food in mouths any longer. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, you and me will go to the warehouse and we’ll arrange something.”
“We’ll find passage elsewhere,” she said, turning away. One of Cris-yen’s brothers stepped forward, grabbing her arm.
“There’s nowhere else, you’d better listen to him,” he said.
“Take your hand off my arm,” said the woman icily.
The man laughed. “Or what?”
The woman ducked her head, hammering her brow into his nose. The man released her and staggered back but she leaped, her foot cracking against his chin and catapulting him back into the crowd. Yos-shiel saw the soldiers watching from the ramparts but they made no move to interfere.
“That was an assault!” yelled Cris-yen. “Take her!” Several men rushed forward. The woman downed the first with a straight left. The smaller of her companions rushed in and threw himself at the others; he and several men tumbled to the ground.
“That’s enough!” bellowed the silver-bearded giant. The sound boomed around the stockade and all activity ceased as he stepped in close to Cris-yen. “Well,” he said, “you seem to be the lead bull of the pox-ridden herd. Perhaps you and I should decide the issue.”
Cris-yen said nothing, but his huge fist hammered into the man’s chin. The giant took the blow and did not move. He merely grinned. “By God, son, if that is the best you have to offer you are in serious trouble,” he said. Cris-yen tried to throw a left, whereupon the giant blocked it with his right and slapped Cris-yen openhanded across the cheek. The sound was like snapping timber. Cris-yen staggered to his right—then, head down, rushed the giant. The charge was met by a right cross that smashed Cris-yen’s jaw and spun him from his feet. He hit the ground facedown, twitched once, and was still.
“A chin like crystal,” muttered the giant. “Any more for the fray?” No one moved. The man walked to the unconscious Cris-yen and calmly removed the embroidered red shirt. Pulling off his own tunic, he donned the garment. “A little tight,” he said, “but it will do.” Without hurry he stripped Cris-yen naked and clothed himself in the man’s leather leggings and black boots. “That feels better,” he said. “Now, who is in charge here?”
Yos-shiel stepped from the crowd. “I am, sir.”
“Then it is with you we should discuss passage?”
“It is. And you are welcome to travel free of any charges.”
“Good. That is most hospitable. I am Ironhand, this is my daughter Sigarni and her friend Ballistar.”
“I can see why you earned your name,” said Yos-shiel.
Yos-shiel offered his guests wine and food, and if he was offended by their refusal to eat, he did not show it. Ballistar liked the little old man, and listened with relish as he told of his troubles with Cris-yen.
“I don’t believe he will cause you more trouble for a while yet,” said Ironhand, “but if you’ll take my advice you’ll promote a man to take his place immediately, and then dismiss all of his henchmen.”
“I shall,” said Yos-shiel, “although I would be grateful if you could stay beside me while I do the deed.”
“Gladly,” promised Ironhand.
“I was amazed that Cris-yen fell so swiftly to you. I have seen him break men’s arms, and cudgel them down with hammer blows from his fists.”
“They breed them tough where we come from,” said Ballistar.
“And where is that?” asked Yos-shiel.
“South,” answered Ballistar vaguely, wishing he had kept his mouth shut.
“We are from another world, Yos-shiel,” said Sigarni, moving to sit on the desk opposite the old man. “We passed through a magical Gateway.”
The trader smiled, waiting for the end of the joke. When it didn’t come his smile vanished. “You . . . are wizards?”
“No,” said Sigarni, “but a wizard sent us. We have come to reclaim something that was lost in this world, and return it to our own.”
“The sunlight,” said the old man. “That was you, in the south. What did you do?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Sigarni. “You mean the break in the clouds?”
“Yes. It’s been years since we’ve seen the sun. Can you make it come at will?”
“I did nothing, Yos-shiel. It was merely my bow. The wood began to sprout leaves and root itself in the soil. Then the sun shone.”
“We had wizards once—a whole temple of them. They supervised the building of the Great Library in Zir-vak. They were blamed when the sun went away and sacrificed on the high altar. The King promised that with their deaths the mountains would stop spewing fire, but it didn’t happen. In the last two hundred years there have been other prophets who claimed that blood sacrifice would appease the gods, and they would relent of their punishment. But they have not. We are a dying people, Sigarni; there is no hope for us.”
“And yet amid all this turmoil you fight a war,” she said. “Why?”
“It was originally over a woman. The King’s grandfather fell in love with a noblewoman from the east, but she was betrothed to the King of Kal-vak. Despite her pleas her father made her honor her promise, and she was sent to Kal-vak. Our King was furious—and swore he would free her. We went to war. Our troops attacked Kal-vak and were repulsed. Then the first of the mountains exploded. Each side blamed the other for the catastrophe, claiming that treachery had alienated the gods against us. At first it wasn’t too terrible; the summers got shorter, and less warm, but crops still grew. But gradually the sky turned darker, and fine ash was deposited over the farmlands. Food grew scarce, save for the fish. But even these are swimming far from shore now.”
“Yet the war goes on,” said Ironhand. “How is it that neither side has won? You said the battle was begun by the King’s grandfather. How long ago was that?”
“A little more than two hundred and forty years. Most of the principal players are now dead though the war goes on for other reasons. People need to eat.”
“They eat the corpses!” whispered Ballistar.
“It is a little like pork, I am told,” said Yos-shiel. “I have not eaten it myself, but when the time comes I don’t doubt that I shall. Life
is always sweet—even in the Hell of Yur-vale.” The old man sighed. “But tell me, my friend, what is the object you seek? I may be of some assistance.”
“The Crown of Alwen,” said Sigarni.
“I know of no such object.”
“It is a winged helm, bright silver, embossed with gold.”
“The Paradise Helm,” said Yos-shiel, his eyes widening. “You cannot take that! It is all that gives the people hope.
Every twenty-five years it shows us a vision of paradise, waterfalls and green trees, and a multitude standing around it, happy and smiling. That is our most prized artifact.”
Sigarni laid her hand on the old man’s shoulders. “What you see is my people standing by the Alwen Falls. Every quarter of a century the Crown reappears there, shimmering over the water. We all gather to see it, and you in turn, it seems, gather to see us. Tell me, Yos-shiel, of the last time the sun shone.”
“It was on the day of the old King’s burial. I was there as they laid him on the funeral ship and sent it blazing on the river. The clouds broke and the sun shone for a full day. It was magnificent, there was singing and dancing in the streets.”
“And before that?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Wait . . . yes, I do. Twelve years ago, at the Feast of Athling. We saw the dawn on the following day, the sun huge and red. That lasted only minutes.”
“What happened on the next feast day?”
“You don’t understand, the Feast of Athling corresponds with the public display of the Paradise Helm. It happens only four times a century.”
For some time Sigarni questioned the old man and soon Ballistar became bored with the dialogue. He wandered to the window, leaned on the sill, and watched the barges being loaded.
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