by Tad Williams
A new voice spoke, harsh, chilling.
“Who is he? He is a meddler, Amerasu.”
The first face was now entirely gone. A gleam of silver swam upward through the mirror’s gray depths. A face appeared, all gleaming metal, expressionless and immobile. He had seen that face on the Dream Road and had felt the same sick dread. He knew the name: Utuk‘ku, Queen of the Norns. Try as he might to look away, he could not. He was held in an unshakable grip. Utuk’ku’s eyes were invisible in the mask’s black depths, but he felt their stare on his face like freezing breath.
“The manchild is a meddler.” Each word came sharp and cold as an icicle. “As are you, granddaughter. And meddlers will not prosper when the Storm King comes ...”
The thing in the silver mask laughed. Simon felt hammerblows of frost against his heart. A poisonous cold began climbing inexorably upward, from fingers to hand to arm. Soon it would reach his face, like a deadly kiss from silvery, frost-glittering lips ...
Simon dropped the mirror, tumbling after it. The ground seemed a league away, the fall endless. Somebody was screaming. He was screaming.
Sludig helped Simon to his feet, where he swayed, panting. After a moment he shook off the Rimmersman’s hands. He felt wobbly, but wanted to stand on his own. The trolls had gathered around and were muttering among themselves, clearly confused.
“What has happened, Simon?” Binabik asked, pushing his way through to his side. “Are you hurt by something?” Sisqi, still holding Binabik’s hand, stared up at the strange lowlander as though trying to read his malady in his eyes.
“I saw faces in Jiriki’s mirror,” Simon said, shivering uncontrollably. Sisqi held up his cloak, which he took gratefully. “One of them was the Norn Queen. She could see me, too, I think.”
Binabik spoke to the other ram-riders, gesturing with his hands. They turned and wandered back to the fire. Stocky Snenneq waved his spear at the sky as though taunting an enemy.
Binabik fixed Simon with his brows. “Tell it to me.”
Simon related all that had happened from the moment he first lifted the mirror. As he described the first face Binabik frowned in concentration, but when the recitation was finished the troll only shook his head.
“The Norn Queen we are knowing all too well,” Binabik growled. “It was her hunters who arrowed me at Da‘ai Chikiza and I have not been forgetting that gift. But thinking of who the other might be, I have unsureness. You say that Utuk’ku called her ‘granddaughter’?”
“I think so. And the Norn Queen called her something else, too. A name—but I can’t remember it.” Some of the details, once spoken aloud, were not so sure in his mind as they had been moments before.
“Then it is someone of one of the ruling houses, Sithi or Norn. If Jiriki were now with us, he would be knowing in an instant who it was and what her words meant. You say she seemed to be at pleading with someone?”
“I think so. But Binabik, Jiriki told me that the mirror was nothing but a mirror now! He said the magic was gone, unless I wanted to call him-and I didn’t try to call him! I truly didn’t!”
“Calm, Simon, is how you must be. I am having no doubts of what you say. Jiriki himself may have misunderstood the nature of the mirror’s powers—or, it is being possible, many things may be changing just since Jiriki has gone from us. In either way, I think it best you are leaving the mirror, or at the least not using it more. That is a suggestion, only—it is your gift to do as you like. Remember, please, it may bring danger for all.”
Simon looked at the mirror, which lay facedown on the rock. He picked it up and brushed dust from its surface without looking at it, then slid it into his cloak pocket. “I won’t leave it,” he said, “because it was a gift. Also, we may need Jiriki someday.” He patted it. The frame was still warm. “But I won’t use it until then.”
Binabik shrugged. “The deciding is yours. Come back to the fire and make yourself warm. Tomorrow we are riding with dawn’s appearance.”
After an early start, the ragged troop reached Blue Mud Lake in the late afternoon of the following day. Nestled among the foothills of Sikkihoq, the lake was a dark blue mirror, flat as the glass in Simon’s pocket, fed by two cataracts that spilled from the icy heights. The noise of their falling was deep and sonorous as the breathing of gods.
As the party crossed through the last pass above the lake and the quiet rumble of the water rose, the trolls reined up their mounts. The wind had abated. The steaming breath of rams and riders hung in the air. Simon could see fear written in every trollish face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked nervously, expecting at any moment to hear the bellowing voices of giants.
“I think they had hoped Binabik was wrong,” Sludig said. “Perhaps they were hoping to find springtime hidden here.”
Simon saw little that was unusual. The sheltering hills were thatched with snow and many of the trees that surrounded the lake were bare of leaf The evergreens were mantled in white, like cottonwool spears.
Many of the trolls brought the heels of their hands to their chests, as if what they saw spoke more eloquently of trouble than any words of Binabik or his master Ookequk. As they spurred their mounts along the narrow trail, Simon and Sludig trudged forward once more, following the tracks of the rams into the lake valley. Another flurry of snow came sifting down from Sikkihoq.
They made camp at a great cavern on the lake’s northwestern banks. The cave was surrounded by well-worn pathways. The massive stone fire pit, nearly brimful with frozen ash, testified to the generations of trolls who had camped there. Soon a huge fire, the biggest they had made since leaving Mintahoq, was burning by the lakeside. As darkness fell and the stars began to kindle, the flames threw wild shadows on the rocky faces of the hills.
Simon was sitting near the fire oiling his boots when Binabik found him. At the troll’s bidding, he put the boots back on and took a burning brand from the blaze, then followed Binabik away into the darkness. They walked along the edge of the hillside for a furlong, circling around the lakeshore until they reached another cave, its high entranceway almost hidden behind a stand of spruces. A strange whistling noise came from within. Simon knitted his brows in apprehension, but Binabik only smiled and waved at him to follow, pushing back a low-hanging branch with his walking stick so taller Simon could enter without catching his torch in the trees.
The cavern was thick with the smell of animals, but it was a familiar smell. Simon lifted the brand so the light splashed the farthest depths of the cavern. Six horses looked back, whinnying nervously. The cavern floor was piled high with dried grass.
“Good that is,” Binabik said, coming up beside him. “I had been fearing they might have run away, or the food might not have been of sufficiency. ”
“Are they ours?” Simon asked, approaching slowly. The nearest horse fluttered its lips and danced back a step; Simon held out his hand for it to smell. “I think they are. ”
“Of course,” Binabik chuckled. “We Qanuc are not horse-murderers. My folk put them here for safety when we were all taken up-mountain. We also keep this place for our rams when they are birthing and the weather is cold. From now on, Simon-friend, you need be walking no more.”
After stroking the nearest horse, which submitted grudgingly but did not pull away, Simon saw the gray and black spotted mare he had ridden from Naglimund. He moved toward her, wishing he had something to give her.
“Simon,” Binabik called, “catch!”
He turned in time to receive something small and hard, which crumbled slightly as he clutched it in his palm.
“Salt,” Binabik said. “I brought it from Mintahoq. I have brought one lump for each. The rams have a great fondness for salt and I am guessing your horses will, too.”
Simon offered it to the gray-and-black. She took it, her mouth tickling his hand. He stroked her powerful neck, feeling it tremble beneath his fingers. “I don’t remember her name,” he whispered sadly. “Haestan told me, but I forgot. ”
“It’s good to see you again,” Simon told the mare. “I’ll give you a new name. How about ‘Homefinder’?”
Names did not seem to be very important to her. She flicked her tail and nosed Simon’s pockets for more salt.
When Simon and Binabik got back to the fire the kangkang was flowing vigorously and the trolls were singing, rocking back and forth before the flames. As they approached, Sisqi detached herself from the group and came to take Binabik’s hand, silently laying her hooded head upon his shoulder. From a distance the trolls sounded as though they were having a hilarious time of it, but as Simon drew nearer the expressions on their faces told differently.
“Why do they look so sad, Binabik?”
“We are having a saying on Mintahoq,” the little man explained, “—‘Mourning is for home.’ When we are losing one of our folk on the trail we bury them in that place, but we save our tears until we are safe in our caves once more. Nine of our folk died on Sikkihoq.”
“But you said ‘mourn at home.’ These people are not home yet.”
Binabik shook his head, then answered a quiet question from Sisqi before returning his attention to Simon. “These hunters and herders are making ready for the coming of the rest of Yiqanuc’s folk. The word is even now flying from one mountain to another: the highlands are not a place of safety and spring is not coming.” The little man smiled wearily. “They are home, Simon-friend.”
Binabik patted Simon’s hand, then he and Sisqi veered off toward the fire to join the chorus. The blaze was fed and the flames leaped higher, so that all the lake valley seemed to glow with orange light. The mourning songs of the Qanuc echoed out across the still waters, carrying even above the bitter voice of the wind and the rush of the falls.
Simon went off in search of Sludig. He found the Rimmersman bundled in his cloak a short distance from the fire, sitting on a rock with a skin full of kangkang between his knees. Simon sat down beside him and took a long swallow from the offered wineskin, sucking cold air afterward. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and handed it back.
“Have I told you of the Skipphavven, Simon?” Sludig asked, staring at the fire and the swaying trolls. “You have not seen beauty until you have seen the maidens who gather mistletoe from the mast of Sotfengsel, Elvrit’s buried ship.” He took a drink and passed it to Simon. “Ah, sweet God, I hope Skali of Kaldskryke at least has enough Rimmersman pride to tend to the graves of the longships at the Skipphavven. May he rot in hell. ”
Simon took two more long pulls on the wineskin, hiding the faces he made from Sludig. The kangkang tasted awful, but it warmed him. “Skali is the one who took Duke Isgrimnur’s land?” he asked.
Sludig looked over, a little blearily. He had been working at the skin for some time. “He is. Black-hearted, treacherous son of a wolf-bitch and a carrion crow. May he rot in Hell. It is blood feud now.” The Rimmersman pulled meditatively at his beard and turned his gaze upward to the stars. “It is blood feud all over the world, these days.”
Simon looked up with him and saw an advancing line of dark clouds out of the northwest obscuring the stars along the horizon. For a moment he thought he could see the Storm King’s dark hand reaching out, blotting light and warmth. He trembled, pulling his cloak tighter, but the cold did not go away. He reached for the skin again. Sludig was still staring upward.
“We are very small,” Simon said between swallows. The kangkang seemed to be flowing in his veins like blood.
“So are the stars, kundë’-mannë,” Sludig murmured. “But they each one burn as bright as they can. Have another drink.”
Later—in truth, Simon was not sure exactly how much time had passed, or what had become of Sludig—he found himself seated on a log beside the fire, Sisqi on one side of him, the bearded herder Snenneq on the other. They were all holding hands. Simon reminded himself to be gentle with the small, rough palms folded in his own. All around him the trolls swayed and he swayed with them. They sang, and although he did not understand the words of their song, he added his voice to theirs, listening to the brave roar they all made beneath the night sky, feeling his heart beating in his chest like a drum.
“Do we really have to go today?” Simon asked, struggling to hold the saddle in place while Sludig tightened the belly-strap. The single torch did not throw much light in the darkened cave that served as a stable. Beyond the wall of spruces dawn was unfolding.
“It is seeming a good thought to me,” Binabik said, voice muffled, his head hidden by a leather flap as he inspected the saddlebags. “Chukku’s Stones! Why am I not waiting until we are outside in the light? Like hunting white weasels in deep snow, this is.”
“I would have liked a day to rest,” Simon said. In fact, he was not feeling too badly, considering all the Qanuc liquor he had drunk the night before; but for a faint hammering in his temples and a certain weakness in his joints, he was doing fairly well.
“As would I. As also, no doubt, would Sludig ... the troll replied. ”Ah! Kikkaksut! There is something sharp in here!”
“Hold that damned thing!” Sludig growled as the saddle jerked free of Simon’s grasp. The horse nickered in irritation and jogged a step to the side before Simon grasped the saddle again.
“But, you are seeing,” Binabik continued, “we have no knowledge how long it will take to cross the Waste. If winter is spreading, the sooner this is done will make the better for us. There are others, too, who may be carrying word of us to ears that are not friendly. We are not knowing who survived Urmsheim from the huntsman’s troop. They saw Thorn, I am thinking.” He patted the sword, which was now wrapped in hides and strapped to the back of Simon’s saddle.
The mention of Ingen Jegger made Simon’s stomach—already uneasy after a morning meal of dried fish—twist. He did not like to think of the terrible Queen’s Huntsman in his snarling-muzzled helm, who had pursued them like an avenging ghost.
Please, God, Simon thought, let him be dead on the dragon-mountain. We don’t need any more enemies, especially one like him.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said heavily. “But I don’t like it.”
“What was it that Haestan used to say?” Sludig asked, straightening up. “‘Now you know what it is like to be a soldier’?”
“That’s what he used to say.” Simon smiled sadly.
Sisqinanamook and her folk gathered around as Simon and his companions brought out their saddled mounts. The Qanuc men and women seemed torn between the ceremonies of leavetaking and the fascination inspired by the horses, whose legs were longer than the herders and huntresses were tall. The horses shuffled nervously at first as the little people stroked and patted them, but the trolls seemed to have learned more than a little in their generations of sheepherding; the horses soon gentled, pluming the frosty air with their breath as the Qanuc admired them.
At last Sisqi waved for order, then spoke rapidly to Simon and Sludig in the language of the Trollfells. Binabik smiled and said: “Sisqinanamook bids you farewell on behalf of the Mintahoq Qanuc and our Herder and Huntress. She says that the Qanuc people have seen many new things in late days, and though the world is changing for worse, not all the changes are being for bad.” He nodded to Sisqi and she spoke again, now fixing her eyes on Sludig.
“Good-bye, Rimmersman,” Binabik translated. “You are the kindest Croohok she has ever heard about, and none of the folk who stand here are now afraid of you any more. Tell your Herder and Huntress—” he grinned, perhaps imagining Duke Isgrimnur answering to either title, “—that the Qanuc are being a brave folk, too, but also a just folk who do not like pointless fighting.”
Sludig nodded. “I will.”
Sisqi turned her attention to Simon. “And you, Snowlock, do not be afraid. She will tell any of the Qanuc back on Mintahoq who wonder at the story of your dragon-lashing about the bravery she has been able to witness. Any others here will be doing the same.” He
listened carefully for a moment, then grinned. “She also urges you for being careful of her intended—who is me—and for using your bravery to keep him safe. This she is asking in the name of new friendship.”
Simon was touched. “Tell her,” he said slowly, “that I will protect her intended—who is also my friend—to death and beyond.”
As Binabik relayed his words, Sisqi stared at Simon, her eyes intent and serious. When the troll had finished, Sisqi bowed her head toward them, stiff and prideful. Simon and Sludig did the same. The other Qanuc pressed forward, touching those who were about to leave as though to send something with them. Simon found himself surrounded by small, black-haired heads, and again had to remind himself that the trolls were not children, but mortal men and women who loved and fought and died just as bravely and seriously as any knight of Erkynland. Callused fingers squeezed his hand and many things that sounded kind were said to him in words he could not understand.
Sisqi and Binabik had wandered off from the others, back toward the sleeping cave. When they got there, Sisqi ducked in, emerging a moment later with a long spear in her hands, its shaft busy with carvings.
“Here,” she said. “You will need this where you are going, beloved, and it will be longer than nine times nine days before you return. Take it. I know we will be together once more—if the gods are kind.”
“Even if they are not.” Binabik tried to smile, but could not. He took the spear from her and rested it against the facing of the cave. “When we meet again, may it be granted that it is beneath no shadow. I will hold you in my heart, Sisqi. ”
“Hold me against you now,” she said quietly, and they stepped forward into each other’s arms. “Blue Mud Lake is cold this year.”
