Snowcastles & Icetowers

by Duncan McGeary

  “I shall never listen to you again, Grandfather,” she was saying. “You promised me that there is Glyden on this mountain. You said it was just lying around waiting to be picked up. You swore that if we did not find any we would return home. Well, where is it?”

  “There is Glyden, my dear,” a mild voice answered. “We just have to go a little higher.”

  “If we keep going any higher, we shall be joining these gods of Godshome the Townsmen were speaking of. I’m not ready to join the gods, Grandfather! I will not go any higher until we have found some of this Glyden that is supposed to be so abundant.”

  “The Townsmen also spoke of Glyden, Mara. They promised me that there is a Room of Glyden near the top of this trail!”

  “And you believed them?” she snorted. “Why don’t they come up and get it themselves? I will never forgive myself for following you on another one of your wild chases for Glyden. It is the last time; you can be sure of that!”

  “Just a little higher, Mara.”

  “No!”

  “Well, at least you could block the wind a little, couldn’t you? Are you a Wind-Witch or not? After all, I have contributed the fire.”

  “You would be lost without your fire-magic, Grandfather.” The girl was not hiding her disgust. “I don’t ever intend to so depend on my magic. The powers of the wind and fire were never meant for the trivial purposes to which you put them!” The voices continued to argue, but Greylock was satisfied at last that the owners of these two quarrelling voices could not be demons, and he was strangely certain that they would pose no threat to him. Nevertheless, to be safe he drew his knife before advancing cautiously down the trail. The crow hopped curiously after him, but he ignored it.

  The clouds seemed to part reluctantly from the trail, inch by inch, until they were hovering finally about his head. The two strangers he had overheard were crouched over a small fire, set next to a crude wagon, which spanned the trail. Greylock saw a blue flame nakedly burning in the cupped palms of the man’s hands, yet he could feel the fire’s heat even from the distance he kept between himself and the two strangers.

  Beyond this peculiar couple, Greylock was met by the sight of mile upon mile of green valleys and winding blue rivers stretching in every direction, a wondrous contrast to his white land of snowcastles. He was astounded by the colors, the growth, the free-flowing waters. So this was the Underworld that the Gatekeepers spoke of in such contempt! He would never have imagined such a beautiful vista as this!

  If the effect of his sudden emergence from the clouds was astonishing to him, it was even more so to the two strangers crouched on the trail. To them it appeared as if Greylock had stepped out of the sky, a vision slowly materializing until only his head was still wreathed in the white gossamer of the clouds. On his arms, appearing as a natural extension of his hands, were the sharp claws of his Talons. As he was slowly unshrouded, the young girl, with her mind still on the gods waiting for them in the mountains above, imagined the worst and screamed.

  The old man’s eyes widened and he stepped back in astonishment. He stumbled against the little cart he had been pushing, and it went over the side of the narrow trail. For a few seconds the old man tried to keep his balance, but then the huge crow—which Greylock had forgotten in his wonder at the Underworld’s unveiling— inexplicably flew at the stranger, its claws digging at his face. The blue flame in his hands winked out as the old man protected himself, and he toppled over the cliff after the crashing cart.

  Without thinking, Greylock jumped over the side of the cliff after him. He reached instinctively with his talons for cracks he could only hope were there. But his skill in climbing was such that he easily found the few holds that existed in the rock face, and solidly planted his Talons to stop his slide. Then he hurried down to where the old man clung desperately to the mountainside.

  The stranger had slid twenty feet down the side of the pass before he had caught precariously at the hardy scrub brush that lined even the steepest of the slopes, wedged into every open crack in the mountainside. But the roots were dangerously shallow and the brush was slowly giving way to the old man’s weight. He was in danger at any moment of sliding further down the steep slope, which ended in a sheer drop.

  Greylock reached down with one arm while digging in with his Talons, and grasped the desperate man’s wrist, knowing that he was probably causing the stranger pain, but hoping that the strength of his grip would also reassure him. He grabbed the man further by the back of his neck and dragged him, not gently, up to safety. Within a few minutes, the two men had crawled exhausted and covered with scratches over the lip of the trail. The old man fell into the waiting arms of the girl, glancing around him fearfully.

  “Have you been hurt, Grandfather? That awful raven is gone now.”

  “Hush, girl!” the old man replied, as if the fall had never taken place. “Why did you scream? He is only a man, as anyone can see!”

  “Grandfather!” she repeated, but this time in anger, not concern. “At least you could show gratitude to this stranger for saving your life.”

  “Yes, I have never seen such climbing!” Greylock shrugged away the girl’s thanks, and the amazement the man expressed at his feat of climbing. How could he tell them that he had always had an affinity for the rocks and stones of the mountains. He did not deserve praise for this commonplace skill.

  The two strangers and Greylock stood back now and examined each other openly. That the girl had mistaken him for a god was understandable, for Greylock was as tall and as handsome as any picture of a god she had ever seen. His black curly hair fell about his shoulders, and despite the cold, his chest, was bare. He was not heavy, but finely muscled, and he moved with quickness and grace, as they had just witnessed. The only feature that marred his aspect was a thick lock of gray hair that fell over his forehead, though he could not yet have reached his twentieth year. Right now, he was staring back with startled black eyes.

  Most of this gaze was reserved for the other man. Greylock could not understand how a man this old could still be living! On the High Plateau such a man would long ago have sought the comfort of the gods before it was too late, or he was too enfeebled to reach the heights. Surely this man was on his way to Godshome now, and therefore could demand of Greylock whatever help and assistance he needed! The old man must be near death, Greylock thought, for the skin was drawn tight about his face and speckled with brown spots. Only the mass of brown hair belied for a moment Greylock’s impression of great age, but then the man’s severely deformed back obviously showed that he was very old.

  He paid little attention to the girl during the first, brief scrutiny. That she was blond and green- eyed, and had reached an awkward age between child and woman was all he noticed. Obviously she had shot up in height recently, and she needed much more weight on her bones to be pretty.

  “Who are you?” he finally demanded of them. “What are you doing down here?”

  “Why are we down here?” the old man seemed startled by this unexpected question. “My name is Moag, a wandering conjuror of fire-magic. And this is my granddaughter, Mara, who also serves as my assistant. But I think before we answer any more questions, we should ask who you are, and why you are up here!”

  Greylock was satisfied by their words and manner that this strange duo of conjurors were not Carrell Redfrock’s spies. But then why were they here? Could they truly have journeyed from the Underworld? He was astonished to find any people on the trail at all, despite his claims of open-mindedness. Only now was his mind beginning to play with the startling idea that they had not come from the High Plateau.

  “I am Prince Greylock,” he said grandly. “I come from above the clouds, from a land of snow- castles and icetowers. I have been banished by my uncle, who is Tyrant of the High Plateau, and I seek the source of the Gateway.” He could see from their amazed reactions that they were as surprised by his origin as he was of their existence. “Now, why have you come to the Gateway?”


  The old man hesitated, but then greed got the better of his caution. “We have come in search of Glyden.”

  “What is Glyden?” It was one of the few words he had not understood.

  “What is Glyden?” Moag exclaimed, not bothering to hide his disappointment; but the girl did not seem at all surprised.

  “I told you there was no Glyden, Grandfather.” “Hush, Granddaughter. Perhaps he has a different name for it.” A crafty, hopeful look had entered the wizard’s eyes. “It is a heavy, yellow metal, easily melted and malleable. Do you know of any in these mountains?”

  By now Greylock was convinced that these two strangers had indeed emerged from the Underworld, where there should have been only demons. Perhaps no other citizen of the High Plateau, he thought, even Carrell Redfrock, would have been open to such an idea; but Greylock had entertained such ideas since childhood. For the first time he began to hope that there might be a future for him beyond the High Plateau after all. But he would need these two strangers to help him. survive the Underworld, at least at first. How could he convince them to accompany him?

  From the old man’s description of “Glyden,” Greylock was fairly certain that he knew of what metal they were speaking. He had to suppress a smile at the wizard’s naked greed, as Moag waited for an answer from the man from the land of snow- castles. Obviously, this “Glyden” they spoke of had great value in the Underworld. Perhaps he could use this greed to his own advantage, Greylock thought.

  “A yellow metal?” he asked, letting a naive bafflement cross his features. Then he allowed the hilt of his royal knife to be shown. “A metal such as this?”

  The old magician almost leaped forward in his eagerness, but Greylock immediately shifted the knife back so that its long blade was facing forward again. Moag stopped at the sight of the gleaming steel.

  “Yes, that is Glyden,” he exclaimed uneasily. “I have promised my granddaughter that I would find her some nuggets for a ring. A worthless metal, of course, but it makes very nice trinkets. Where did you find it?”

  Again Greylock had to suppress a smile at the wizard’s transparent questions. “Why, Glyden is quite common on the High Plateau! As you say, it is handy for jewelry. We also use it to decorate our buildings—for roofs, and streets, and such.”

  Which was not quite true of course. Only the Tyrant and his family possessed Glyden, and even then it was used only for jewelry and weapons. Castle-Tyrant, the largest and most ornate of the snowcastles, had some etchings of Glyden on the inner walls, but that was all. No one knew where the metal had come from. Legends placed it in a “Room of Aurim” somewhere along the Gateway—of which the pitiful mountain trail they were now on was the lower reaches. The story Greylock had overheard the wizard tell earlier would not help the old man in his search—it was a tale which every child of the High Plateau knew and nurtured, in hopes of finding the “Room of Aurim.” No trace of the metal had been found in its natural state.

  Yet there was no denying the existence of the precious metal. It was far more valuable on the High Plateau than Greylock hinted; but judging from the wizard’s reactions, not quite as valuable as it was in the Underworld.

  The wizard Moag cleared his throat and glanced quickly at his granddaughter, who was still staring at the handsome stranger in amazement.

  After leaving the last of the minor fiefdom of Trold, the wizard and his granddaughter had imagined that they were nearing the very ends of the world in their search for Glyden. The names of the lands they had passed through reflected this common belief of the Underworlders. First there had been Far Valley, with its BorderKeep nestled within. Then the endless-seeming, never-changing Twilight Dells. And finally the mountains themselves, dominated by the three spires of Godshome, their white tops barely visible from a great distance. Beyond that, no one they had questioned could say—or seemed to care. But the lure of Glyden and the many legends of its abundance had drawn the wizard halfway across the known world, and into the unknown. He would not stop now, just because of a lack of maps! So it was easy for Moag to believe a stranger’s incredible story of riches, of a land where the houses were built of Glyden. After all, it was what he had come to hear.

  “I thank you for your information, Greylock. We will not forget your kindness.” Moag motioned for Mara to move along with an urgent wave of his hand from behind his back. “But we must be on our way. I have kept my granddaughter waiting for her ring of Glyden much too long. We’ll just visit your land of snowcastles and icetowers for a little while, and perhaps pick up a few nuggets. Not enough for anyone to notice, of course.” He said this in a rush, all the while trying to angle unobtrusively past Greylock.

  But Greylock could not let them pass so easily, and quickly gave out the last piece of his hasty scheme. “Surely you do not mean to enter the High Plateau! They would consider you demons, of course.” Recalling all the horrid legends of the Underworld, he chose the worst of them. “Did you know that they kill demons—then eat them?”

  This last was a wild exaggeration, borrowed from the most horrible of stories about demons; but Greylock thought it likely that any strangers to the High Plateau would be instantly killed, on the assumption that they were demons.

  “Eaten?” Moag finally managed to sputter, and for a few moments Greylock did not think his story would be believed. Then Moag fell silent, and he seemed to be weighing the risks. Glyden must be a great temptation indeed, Greylock thought, for the old man to even consider the risk of being devoured!

  Suddenly, however, it was the girl who seemed to have grown suspicious. She had stood back and watched the conversation with narrowed eyes.

  Now she asked, “You say Glyden is a common material where you come from, Greylock. Yet you, by your own account a prince, have a royal knife encrusted with this valueless metal.”

  “Yes, it is true,” Greylock said with a tone of regret. “I am in disgrace in my uncle’s eyes. I was fortunate to have been allowed a weapon at all.” “Why are you bruised and bleeding? Have you been in a fight?” She barraged him with questions, while he tried desperately to think of an answer that would be believable.

  “I must have cut myself sliding after your grandfather.”

  “Where did that raven come from? Was it a pet of yours?” she demanded.

  “Hush, Mara! Quit pestering him!” The old man had ended his gloomy reverie, to Greylock’s relief, just in time to forestall more embarrassing questions from the girl. Now he was looking at Greylock speculatively. “You say that you are the Tyrant’s nephew. Would you also be the heir?” This was the kind of question Greylock had wanted. “So I would have been. But my uncle grows unfortunately senile, and banished his own heir.”

  “Your uncle is very old then?”

  Greylock nodded.

  “Well, Granddaughter,” the wizard said heartily. “You must restrain your impatience for a ring of Glyden a little while longer. We must help this young man gain his rightful throne, which he has been so unfairly denied by the capricious whims of an old Tyrant. We must help each other, Prince Greylock! I have some influence in the world below.” Mara snorted at this, and the wizard glared at her sternly. “I shall get the help we need!”

  “Do not tell me of the capricious whims of an old Tyrant!” Mara said scornfully. “And quit pretending that it is I who wants Glyden, Grandfather! You are not fooling anyone. If you are going to be taken in by another wild story of Glyden, then I cannot stop you!”

  The girl’s admonition prompted Greylock to look at her closely for the first time. Her blond hair had once again fallen into her eyes. She was constantly brushing her locks aside, he had already noticed, with a quick, impatient flick of her hand. Her eyes narrowed at every movement, and she seemed to scrutinize every word that was said. Though she was many years the younger, she seemed by her manner to be the older of the pair—that is, if age could be measured by suspicion.

  Greylock sensed that the time would soon come when he would no longer be able to read the old
man so well, or see through his blandishments. He guessed that if he had not overheard them on the trail, he would doubt the wizard’s motivations even now. Greylock decided then that he would have to keep a close watch on the girl’s suspicious but open expression instead—to keep a semblance of honesty in the new relationship.

  “Well, Prince Greylock?” the wizard repeated. “Shall we be partners? All that I will ask of you is that you reward me for my help with a small measure of Glyden.”

  “It will not be easy, Moag,” Greylock felt he should warn them of the danger they faced. He had lied enough. “It will take an army to enter the High Plateau from the Underworld. A very large army indeed if we wish to wrest Glyden from my uncle’s kingdom. My people would fight what they consider ‘demons’ to the death.”

  Moag seemed eager to agree, despite the warning. “If we need an army, then we must journey to the fiefdoms of Trold! I know King Kasid personally.” Again, the wizard glared warningly at Mara.

  “Above all, I must command this army,” Greylock continued to lay down his conditions. “The people of the High Plateau would never accept the rule of an Underworlder. No other exile has ever returned before—the snows have claimed them all—so I do not know what my reception will be. But perhaps by the time such an army has been mustered, I will have found the evidence I need to convince the Tyrant, and such a force will not be needed against the Steward. Perhaps “

  “I am certain that King Kasid will help—for a price.”

  “Very well,” Greylock said, at the same time surprised to find within himself the same cunning he had so often seen in his uncle. “Let us be partners then!” Whether or not the old wizard could actually fetch an army was doubtful, Greylock thought. But at least he would have Moag to guide him for the first part of his journey through the Underworld.

  Suddenly, Greylock felt the urgency to hurry off the mountain, but without letting them know that they might be pursued. The soldiers would have returned by now, and Steward Redfrock would have been told that his enemy was still alive. At any moment now, another, more determined sortie of soldiers would be coming after him. And if the crow had gotten back sooner, and had somehow communicated what had happened, then this dawdling on the trail could be disastrous.