…And up ahead they saw lanternlight, or so Arin believed.
But Ruar’s horse had stopped, unable to go farther, its energy gone. “Down!” he called to Arin, and together they dismounted.
Floundering through a deep drift, Arin worked her way to the fore, and together, she and Ruar pulling and calling to the steed, they managed to get the horse moving again, the other Elves doing likewise in the track behind.
And with wind and snow battering at them, into the tiny mountain village of Doku they finally came, eight hundred miles and fifty-three days from the cote of Dalavar the Mage, fifty-one days of which had been through driven drifts of snow.
It was a village of huts and hovels, though it had a town square in the center of which stood the community well. All this they discovered as up the snow-covered frozenmud streets came Arin and her band, while the unrelenting wind raged and clawed and battered at them with stinging ice crystals and tried to steal their heat away.
Since there didn’t seem to be an inn or tavern, Arin chose one of the larger huts and bearing her quarterstaff knocked on the door, loudly, to be heard above the wind.
Nothing.
No response.
Again Arin knocked, this time with the butt of her staff.
Moments later the door slid aside, revealing a small yellow man. Surprised that he had a visitor, his gaze took her in—chestnut hair, alabaster skin, tilted hazel eyes, pointed ears, holding a big stick—
“Waugh!” he cried and leapt backwards, for surely this was a snow demon come to claim him, for who else would ride a howling blizzard down from the mountain and come to his very own door?
* * *
The demons spent two days sheltered in Doku, until the storm died, and when they left, the one who had ridden the blizzard was now mounted on a rugged mountain pony, with four more of the sturdy animals laden with supplies and trailing on tethers after.
The villagers behind were glad to see these demons go, even though they had not slain a single person, nor had changed a single time into the hideous monsters they truly were. Instead the demons had been polite and had enriched the village exceedingly with two gemstones in trade for the supply of food and five ponies and grain. Nevertheless, it was a great relief to see the seven demons gone.
Down the frozen path they went, the great demon horses broaching the drifts of snow; then leftward they turned, heading perhaps for the col to gain entrance into the realm of the towering Grey Mountains to the east, where other demons dwell.
And when they had passed from sight, the entire village celebrated.
* * *
On the fourth day after leaving Doku, Arin and her companions found themselves moving upslope between grey stone ramparts looming left and right, perpendicular slabs soaring up, immense somber massifs, towering dark giants overlooking their progress, and clad with ice and snow.
And although the sun shone down upon the Elves, little warmth did they gather from its light, for it was the dead of winter—just seven nights past they had celebrated Year’s Long Night, stepping through the Elven rite of the winter solstice ere the blizzard had struck. And now although the day was clear and the sun rode low in the southern sky, it was small and diamond bright and cast no heat unto them or to the grey mountains at hand.
Up through this windswept frozen hard land of dark unyielding rock plodded horse and pony, led by the Elves afoot, the air thin about them. And as they came through the col, in the distance before them they could see peak upon peak without number marching beyond an unseen horizon.
Yet, to the north and east stood one snow-covered crest above the others, and where the stone shone through it was ebon as the night.
“There,” said Rissa, pointing, “there lies our goal.”
“Black Mountain,” murmured Perin.
“The Wizardholt,” added Biren.
Arin shook her head. “We know not whether this is our goal. If the green stone lies within, then perhaps it is. Perhaps all I need do is deliver my vision to the Wizards and then we are done. Yet perhaps this is but a way station along a predestined route.”
The other Elves looked at her and somberly agreed, and Silverleaf said, “If that is what Fortune has in store, then so be it,” and he turned his eyes once again toward the mountain of black.
They stood and gazed out across the bleak range for long moments more, then, still leading the horses and ponies, down through the col they continued, the way turning northeasterly, heading for a winding vale below that led toward the ebony stone. Night fell ere they came down from the heights, and weary, they made camp in the curve of a mountain wall.
As they sat huddled with their backs against the chill stone rampart, no fire warmed them, for there was no wood to burn among this sterile rock.
* * *
The wan light of the dawn of Year’s End Day found the Elves ready to move onward, for they had not rested well in the frigid night, for even Elves get cold, though not as easily as Men. Down from the col they fared, and as they rode toward the twisting barren valley below, the sun rose up into the sky, remote and chill, its hard, bright rays lacking comfort. And still the silent grey stone of the high bleak mountains of Xian frowned down upon them, as if this band now intruded where none were meant to go. Yet the dark mountain ahead drew them onward until night fell and they halted travel.
* * *
Four more days they fared down within the folds of the harsh grey land, struggling through the deep snow, the horses taking turns breasting the drifts and breaking trail for all others. And for those same four days they gradually drew closer to the dark spire, though to Arin it seemed as if they made little or no progress at all.
The following day, onward they struggled, and nigh the noontide, as Arin eyed the great black mountain towering upward in the near distance, “Huah!” exclaimed Melor, his voice echoing and slapping along the high, bleak stone. Moving afoot to a patch where snow lay in but a thin scattering, he squatted and brushed the white aside, revealing a pavestone. “This is a tradeway.”
“Tradeway?” asked Rissa. She stepped to Melor and knelt beside him and helped brush even more snow away, exposing additional pavestones covering the canyon floor. She turned to Silverleaf. “Vanidar, he’s right—it is a roadway.”
Perin turned to his twin. “Perhaps this leads unto the very Wizardholt itself.”
“Most likely,” replied Biren. “They would need to bring in supplies: food and clothing and other such, including Wizardly things.”
Perin’s eyes widened. “Wizardly things?”
Biren shrugged, and as he did so he heard the chrk! of a ptarmigan, then the hammer of wings, and looked up to see the bird in white winter plumage flying away to the north.
All the rest of that day, the band pressed northeasterly, drawing nearer and nearer to the great black slopes. And the deeper they fared into the mountains, the more certain they became that they were upon the correct path, for frequently could they see signs that this indeed was a road. Pavestones running in unbroken stretches for up to a furlong ere they disappeared again under the drifts of snow; a hundred yards of stone curbing revealed along one stretch upon the right; a bridge over a frozen stream; stone slopes carved away to provide passage alongside sheer rises: by these indications and more did they see that this was a well-traveled route, a path of commerce.
Now the land began to rise, and they rode and walked up and over ascensions and down again into the folds of the earth, slowly gaining elevation. And as they topped each crest they could see far and wide, peaks rising up beyond peaks, to the limit of the eye’s seeing. But always the dominant view was of the great black mountain in the foreground reaching upward toward the sky.
And now the stone about them began to darken, and the deeper they rode, the deeper the shading became. “It is the dark of the Wizards’ mountain,” noted Vanidar Silverleaf, “reaching outward to touch even this.”
The meager sun passed low across the sky and fell beyond the distan
t mountains and night came upon the land. And once again the band made a fireless camp, settling against the cold, dark stone while remote stars wheeled overhead throughout the icy nighttide, and just ere dawn the thin pale crescent of the waning moon preceded the sun into the sky.
* * *
They rode all that day and the one following, drawing unto the very flanks of Black Mountain. And each day near the noontide they saw a ptarmigan winging north.
“Wizards’ eyes?” asked Perin.
“Mayhap,” replied Biren. “Just as I suspect the white falcon was the eyes of Dalavar Wolfmage.”
Perin nodded, and together they watched as the snow-white bird flew toward the black stone ahead.
* * *
Just after setting out the next morn they arrived at road’s end. And before them recessed and embedded in the jet black stone stood two massive, shadow-wrapped, frost-rimed iron gates.
They had come to the Wizardholt at last.
CHAPTER 20
Alos shivered and gulped down his glass of wine. He turned his face toward Arin. “This talk of Wizards and of Foul Folk, I don’t like it.”
“Hast thou aught against Magekind? Against the Rûpt?”
Again Alos trembled. He opened his mouth as if to say something, his one good eye, watery and pale, staring at the Dylvana.
Arin leaned forward. “Alos?”
He looked at her, pain on his face, as if struggling to release even a single word…and in that moment there came a tap at the door.
The old man glanced at the entry way and slumped back in his chair and let out a long breath, then smiled his gap-toothed brown-stained grin and said, “Let’s have some more wine, eh?”
As Aiko stood and stepped to the door, the Dylvana sighed and replenished Alos’s glass, then looked to Egil, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts—or in his memories—a bleak look on his face. “Egil?”
He glanced up at her.
“More wine?”
Frowning, he shook his head, No, and then his gaze dropped as his thoughts turned once again inward.
Again came the tapping on the door just as Aiko opened it. “Oh my!” exclaimed the serving girl, catching her breath at the sight of the yellow warrior, crockery rattling on the tray. “I’ve come wi’ th’ noon meal, m’Lady.” The girl edged past Aiko and then moved hastily to the sideboard and began laying out the food.
As Aiko resumed her seat on the floor, Egil shook his head as if to cast away ill memories, and he took a deep breath and seemed to come to himself. Then he turned to Arin and smiled. “I would hear more of this tale of yours for I am curious as to what brought you to Mørkfjord. But first I would see”—he canted his head toward the bathing room and privy—“if I can make it in there and back on my own. And then let’s eat; I’m famished.”
* * *
The noon meal done, Egil leaned back against propped pillows and said, “Now tell us more of your story, Lady Engel, for—”
Aiko growled and started to stand, but Arin held out a staying hand toward the warrior woman, and the Ryodoan settled back, a dour look on her face.
Egil laughed, then sobered. “I’m sorry. I gave my word. And I have broken it twice in this day alone. It’s just that…just that”—he took a deep breath and then plunged on—“you are my engel, Lady Arin.”
Of a sudden Arin felt her heart racing, and she turned her face from him and stared into the hearth as if seeking a portent, though no fire burned this warm day.
Egil, seeing that he had disturbed her, started to hold out a hand in supplication, but instead dropped it to the coverlet. He cleared his throat and said, “Well now, the meal is finished. Pour me an ale, Alos, and pour one for yourself. And then, Lady Arin, if it pleases you, I would hear more of your tale. Why did you come to Mørkfjord? Too, where are your Elven companions? —Nothing ill has befallen them, has it?”
Arin turned away from the hearth and glanced at Aiko.
Egil’s gaze followed her glance, but Aiko’s face revealed nought. He looked back to Arin and added, “Tell us, too, of your visit with Wizards and of their sorcerous ways.”
With a clang! Alos dropped the pewter pitcher a few inches to the table, but it landed upright on its bottom, and although ale sloshed, none spilled out. Shakily the old man handed Egil a full mug and took up his own and gulped full half of it down.
CHAPTER 21
As Arin looked into the deep shadow veiling the massive gates, a thought came upon her unbidden: Tonight is the full dark of the moon. Is it an ill omen touching our arrival this day?
“The ironwork—it looks to be Drimmen made,” declared Perin, staring at the massive portals recessed deeply in solid black rock.
“Aye,” agreed Biren, “as does the stonework. Is this a Mageholt or no?”
For some reason all eyes turned to Arin. She shrugged. “There’s nothing for it but to knock on the door and ask.”
Arin dismounted and led her pony among the horses and across the wide foregate court embraced by the broad recess, the sheltered smooth stretch of stone covered with but a dusting of snow. The other Elves dismounted as well and, flanking left and right, also moved forward, spreading out as they went. Stepping through shadow, they came to the great gates, the iron rimed with hoarfrost.
“Hoy, over here,” called Ruar. “Runes. They seem to be written in the Drimmen manner, with another style below. I can read neither.”
Vanidar Silverleaf moved to Ruar’s side, then laughed. “Leave it to a Drimm to brag so.”
“What does it say?” asked Perin.
Silverleaf turned, smiling. “Although I cannot read the runes of the Drimma, the ones below them are written in a Vadarian script, one of the Mage tongues, and say, ‘I, Velkki Gatemaster, made this.’”
“Then it is the work of the Drimm,” declared Biren.
Silverleaf nodded, smiling. “Given this translation I would deem it so.”
Rissa cleared her throat. “Drimmenholt or no, I say we knock for entrance and leave the cold behind.”
Just as Arin raised the butt of her quarterstaff to rap on the great iron gate, a side postern in what had seemed to be solid stone opened and an armored figure stepped out and beckoned to them.
It was a Dwarf.
* * *
Irunan laughed and glanced at the armored Dwarf standing next to his chair, then gestured about the lantern-lit chamber, the stone black but hung with bright tapestries. “Yes, my friends, I suppose you could call this place entire a Dwarvenholt, though it was made for us.”
Through the archway and into the chamber came a Mage wheeling a tea-service cart. As he rolled the refreshments to the table where the Wizard and the Elves sat, the bearded, broad-shouldered Dwarf turned to Irunan. “Wizard, if you have no further need for me, I shall return to my post.”
“Well and good, Boluk,” replied the Mage. “And on your way, if you would, send someone to the stables to see that the horses and ponies of this Elven band have been watered and fed and groomed. The journey has been long and hard on the animals, and they deserve a lengthy, well-cared-for rest.”
Boluk bowed and then spun on his heel and left.
“Huah,” grunted Ruar, his gaze following Boluk as the Drimm passed through the archway. “The journey has been long and hard on us as well.”
Irunan smiled, his grey eyes atwinkle. “Yes. We know. Struggling through all that snow. We’ve been expecting you for some days now.”
“The ptarmigans?” asked Biren.
“So you saw,” replied Irunan, somewhat surprised.
“Yes,” replied Perin. “For the past three days.”
“Hmm,” mused Irunan, then smiled. “Very observant.” He turned to the Mage at the cart. “We shall have to take steps, Gelon, to exercise more stealth in the future.”
The other Mage nodded and began setting out porcelainware along with two pitchers of clotted cream and plates piled high with scones. As Gelon did so, Irunan canted his head, his pale yellow hair fal
ling across his shoulder. “Very rarely do we have visitors come through the hard mountain winter to our holt.”
Rissa reached for a scone. “Given thy winters, I can see why. —Have any others come this winter?”
“Oh no,” said Gelon, setting out cups. “People must be driven by great need to brave such brutal cold. Our last winter visitor came two years back. A woman from the east. A warrior woman who now serves in our guard. From Ryodo, I believe. Said her tiger brought her here.”
Perin’s eyes widened. “Tiger? She rode a tiger?”
“Brother of mine, perhaps she merely followed it,” said Biren.
“Oh…mayhap thou art right,” said Perin, “though even to follow a tiger is no mere thing.”
Both Perin and Biren turned to Irunan. Ride or follow? they both asked simultaneously.
Irunan laughed. “Neither. She came ahorse. And no tiger at all was in evidence.”
“Hmm, a mystery,” said Perin.
“Indeed,” agreed Biren.
Now Gelon began serving tea, and Irunan asked in a polite tone, “And what, pray tell, brings you through such harsh weather unto the Mageholt of Blackstone? Not the whisperings of another tiger, is it?” He smiled.
Arin accepted a full cup from Gelon, then said, “I have had a vision.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. A vision of war and famine and pestilence and disease, and slaughter, bloody slaughter, and Dragons roaring down and spewing flame—”
“Dragons?” Gelon blurted, slopping tea.
Arin nodded. “Aye, Dragons. Whelming down among masses of people and rending and tearing and burning—just one of the many images revolving about a pale green stone.”
“What!” exclaimed Irunan in disbelief, and Gelon dropped the porcelain teapot to smash on the stone floor.
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