Snowcastles & Icetowers

by Duncan McGeary

  “I will not serve under him, or with him either!” the wizard said stubbornly. “He is evil, I tell you!” He stomped over to reflect bitterly on the Glyden seal hanging just below the window. He refused to answer Greylock’s questions, no matter how much he pleaded with him. Finally, Greylock looked at Mara helplessly, and she explained her grandfather’s anger.

  “You do not know the customs of wizards, Prince Greylock. In the eastern lands, no ruler would dare force a wizard to serve against his will. There is said to be a mortal curse on such an action. But the Lord High Mayor does not know our customs or does not care, and he dared to betray my grandfather—forcing him to serve on pain of death. And he did not even pay in Glyden!

  Moag is bitter that the forces of magic have not destroyed the Lord High Mayor, and have even allowed him to flourish.”

  “Perhaps such curses take time.”

  “So I have told him. I have assured him that Mayor Tarelton will someday pay with a horrible fate, but he still doubts the justice of the gods.” “Am I in danger of this curse?”

  “He entered your service willingly, Prince Greylock, though he may not stay in your service by his own will.” She looked at him sharply. “Do not break your promise to me to free him on the High Plateau, or you will have my curse! “

  Suddenly, Moag’s enraged voice boomed across the room. “Quiet, you fools! That accursed Familiar listens to our every word.”

  Greylock and Mara looked up to where the mage pointed and saw the rat, half hidden in the folds of a tapestry, watching with coal black eyes. At that moment, the base of a brass candleholder crashed only inches above the fat creature, creating a new small hole in the wall. The startled rat disappeared into the convenient gap.

  “Next time I won’t miss,” Moag said grimly from behind them. Then the old man moaned and sank into one of the overstuffed chairs, burying his face in his hands.

  “We are doomed!” he wailed. “It will tell its master everything. Lord High Mayor Tarelton will never let us go now.” He looked up with reddened eyes and glared at them. “You utter fools! Your loose tongues have condemned us. How could you have been so stupid? Did you not realize that everything we say in the Lord High Mayor’s Palace will be overheard?”

  Greylock did not have any pity for the old man’s troubles this time. Moag’s single-minded goal of finding Glyden was beginning to annoy him. If he wanted Glyden so much, why would he not work for it? By honest labor, if he refused to use his magic! Why would he not cooperate and compromise, like anyone else? No wonder the wizard had searched so long without results!

  Moag continued his string of recriminations, and Greylock felt himself becoming angry at the name-calling. Finally he marched over to the wizard’s chair and loomed over the old man, meaning to teach him a lesson. His shadow fell over the suddenly frightened and wizened wizard, who ceased to speak and melted back into the cushions as far as his huge back would allow him to go. Greylock grabbed him by his shoulders and lifted him bodily from the chair.

  “You forget your place, Moag! I am the master and you are the servant. We are not partners any longer, and you had best learn that! I am a prince, and therefore meant by the gods to rule. You are a wizard, and therefore meant to serve. Do not ever call me ‘fool’ or any other name again!”

  Then Greylock’s anger had passed as quickly as it had come, and he let go of the old man and looked about him once more in a startled way. Mara was staring at him with shocked eyes. The old wizard was surprisingly frightened and subdued by the berating. Greylock realized that he had let his anger turn to rage, even as he was talking—just as he had so often seen his uncle do—and for which his uncle had always expressed sorrow later. Greylock had not known that he possessed such a temper, perhaps because he had never been frustrated and thwarted before, nor talked to in such a way.

  “Greylock!” Mara said finally. “It is only Moag’s way! He does not mean anything by it. I doubt he even knows he is rude!”

  “Forgive me, Moag,” Greylock said, almost sheepishly. “My uncle sent me away to die under the spell of just such an anger. And thus did I provoke him.”

  “Do not apologize to me!” the wizard said bitterly. “I am only a servant!”

  Despite all of Greylock’s apologies, the easy camaraderie that had marked their partnership before disappeared, to be replaced by a stiff and formal master-and-servant relationship. From that moment onward, Greylock could see the resentment in the wizard grow. Trying to make amends, he said, “If it will make you feel safe, I will not have anything to do with the Lord High Mayor.” But the old man was not mollified.

  That night Greylock had his most vivid dream of the Wyrrs, though he had hoped that once out of the Twilight Dells they would go away. It seemed to him that the Wyrrs were right there, in BorderKeep, scratching at the second-story windows of the Palace and looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. He woke from the eerie dream breathing heavily and sweating, and it took him several minutes to realize that there was indeed a sound at the window; a sort of ping, as if the window were assailed by a hailstorm. Getting from the soft bed, he drew on his clothes and picked up Thunderer before he made his way to the window.

  Not knowing what to expect, he stared down on the moonlit town square. Finally he saw the shadow of a huge man standing under a tree, waving for him to come down. From the size and shape of the man, Greylock recognized yeoman Harkkor.

  The Palace, for all its ostentatious show, afforded Greylock with few places for his feet, but it proved no real obstacle to his climbing skill, even without his Talons. He could see the admiring look in the yeoman’s eyes as he dropped silently the last few feet to the ground. But the farmer hushed him when he gave a whispered greeting, and led Greylock away from the building’s walls.

  “The Mayor is going to offer you the use of his army, in return for what he believes to be your vast riches,” the yeoman whispered. “After that, he no doubt will try to betray you, but I do not know this for a fact. My people—the common folk of BorderKeep—would like for you to accept his offer. We know that it is a great deal to ask, to bring such a viper into your land, but we ask it of you nonetheless.”

  “But why?”

  “Little can be done against the Lord High Mayor while he is still within the BorderKeep.” Greylock could hear contempt in the man’s tone. “His spies are everywhere. If they cannot gain entrance, his rat Familiar will find a way. No discussion can occur in the BorderKeep between more than a few honest men without his hearing’of it, and every word that was said being reported. It is our hope that away from BorderKeep—with, or without your help, for we have no right to ask you—Tarelton can at last be overthrown.”

  “Will you be joining our expedition, yeoman Harkkor?”

  The big man smiled. “Yes, though it may raise suspicions, for I have never joined the Lord High Mayor in his conquests, I have decided to come along this time.”

  “Then I will do as you ask. I would not trust the Lord High Mayor without someone like you in his army to turn to if need be. But I am not sure that it is necessary for you to go to such lengths. Mayor Tarelton is afraid of you already. He knows that the people of BorderKeep would follow you if you asked them.”

  “Perhaps, but I must be sure for their sake. Now, I must go. The longer we tarry here, the more chance of us being discovered. Tell no one of our conversation. Be assured that you will have allies within the Lord High Mayor’s army.” The farmer began to move away.

  “Wait!” Greylock knew his voice had almost become audible to those within the Palace, and he dropped his voice. “I must tell Moag!” he hissed. “I told the old man I would never join the Mayor. He already believes that I have betrayed him once, and I could not do this without saying why.” “No!” Yeoman Harkkor was adamant. “The wizard’s hate is too noticeable. It must remain in his eyes, or the Lord High Mayor will know something is wrong.”

  Reluctantly, Greylock let the man go, and climbed silently back up the Palace walls.
He had no more dreams of the Wyrrs, but his sleep was not peaceful.

  The next morning, as yeoman Harkkor had predicted, the guards came to fetch Greylock for an audience with the Lord High Mayor. The gloomy wizard and Mara were to be left behind, with the not-very-believable explanation that the Lord High Mayor wished to talk privately with his old friends later.

  “Don’t go, Greylock,” Moag pleaded, his hate of the Mayor coming through again.

  “He already knows everything, Moag. I may as well hear what he has to say.” Greylock fingered the hilt of Thunderer, reassured by its feel, and even more so by the ludicrous appearance of the soldiers of the Palace.

  “Don’t listen to him, Greylock!” Moag called out after him as he followed the guards from the room. “You will regret it!”

  Apparently, Moag had not had a chance to work his magic on the dining room. The two servants, dressed in a garish red, were the only glaring luxuries in a room made up entirely of wood. Greylock guessed that, despite the splendor of the Lord High Mayor’s Palace and the rich uniforms of his soldiers, the Mayor was in reality quite poor, and that the wizard Moag had been the only good thing to happen to him for some time. Only the seal of Glyden above the doors of the Palace showed that there might be a wealth of metal and gems in the BorderKeep, and Greylock suspected that the Mayor had stripped his people to come up with a melting of that much of the precious metal.

  Greylock had already dismissed most of the wizard’s objections to the Lord High Mayor, and he intended to enlist him as an ally as the yeoman had asked. Still, he waited for the other man to make the proposal, as he was sure he would. The greed that had shown in the Mayor’s face each time Greylock allowed him a view of the hilt of Thunderer was laughably obvious.

  “Come in, Prince Greylock,” the Lord High Mayor welcomed him—by a title he should not have even known. “We serve ourselves, mostly. Let us eat before we talk. I know the wizard Moag could not supply food for your long journey, so you are no doubt still hungry.”

  Greylock was ravenous, for he had chosen to rest rather than eat the night before. The servants stood back from a table laden with a bounteous measure of simple but filling food, and watched with amused eyes as Greylock eagerly began heaping the food onto a plate. The last bowl was full of leafy lettuce, and as he started to scoop it up, he saw something moving in the greenery. Jumping back with an astonished shout, he barely avoided upsetting his plate, and that of the Lord High Mayor’s. The head of the Familiar, seemingly puzzled by Greylock’s reaction, emerged to peer over the lip of the bowl.

  “I am disappointed in you, Prince Greylock.” Mayor Tarelton appeared more amused than disappointed, his guest saw. “My rat is really quite tame and harmless, and very useful.” The hint about the rat’s usefulness made Greylock conscious that the other man was leading up to his proposal.

  “In the land I come from, rats are neither tame nor harmless, and certainly not useful.”

  “Is it true you come from the west? From the mountains?”

  Greylock looked at the rat significantly. It was now eating contentedly from the plate of his master. Greylock had suddenly lost his appetite and picked at the food in a desultory fashion, wondering if the rat always had the run of the table.

  The Lord High Mayor answered the look with a smile. “Yes, if what you were telling the magician was the truth, then I also know the truth. I know that you had intended to ask me for help, if it hadn’t been for that interfering old wizard. By the way, I would advise you to get from Moag what you can, and then let him go as soon as possible. That is what I did. I happen to know that you and he are not friendly. Frankly, I am not surprised, he is a very ungrateful man.”

  “We had not yet decided to ask you.” “Nevertheless, I accept your proposal. No! I insist. You must allow me to provide you with the military assistance you need to conquer your High Plateau.”

  So there it was, Greylock thought. Just as the old man had said—they had no choice. Yet Greylock was not dissatisfied with the offer. He was not willing to make another long journey just to quell the old man’s fears, even if they could somehow manage to escape. He was tired of the heat and the humidity of the Underworld, and wanted to return to his homeland before every hair on his head had turned gray. He had learned little of Gateway in the Underworld—he would have to return to the High Plateau to find the answer. And finally, Greylock felt a sympathy for the cause of the conspiritors.

  Still, the venture was not even to be considered, unless he was allowed to lead it. For this he must remain alive and free. The treacherous Lord High Mayor must be made aware of this.

  “We can only succeed if the Steward is removed from our path—and I intend to kill him,” he said. “I do not want to harm my uncle. When I show him how wrong he was about the Underworld, he will have to take me back.”

  “Why must we convince the Tyrant, if we must conquer the High Plateau anyway? He will have to proclaim you his successor.”

  “There is nothing to be gained by merely conquering the High Plateau,” Greylock answered. “The people must be able to accept their sovereign, and they would never accept an Underworlder. So you need me, Lord High Mayor; not just to help you find and conquer my land, but afterwards as well. You will be well paid for your help—in Glyden.”

  “But of course! It is the Glyden I want, as you have already so astutely pointed out to Moag. There is one other matter, though, that I feel I must bring up with you. Must you have the wizard and his granddaughter along? The old man seems to have a grudge against me, and might do something hasty. That would ruin all of our plans. We do not need him, for my army is sufficient, I assure you.”

  “Moag is in my service. Why do you object to him?”

  “He believes that I forced him to serve me, but I never once threatened him. It is all in his mind. He has an irrational hate of me, as you have seen.”

  Perhaps the Mayor had not threatened Moag, Greylock thought—perhaps not in so many words. But he had already seen how the Lord High Mayor could hint with vague and sinister overtones.

  Apparently, Mayor Tarelton did not believe that he could restrain the magician from casting his spells. It might prove useful in keeping his new ally in line later, Greylock thought, if he continued to believe this. There was no sense in telling him that no prince of the High Plateau would abandon a friend.

  “Moag may be very useful in this adventure,” he said simply. “Be assured that I will try my best to keep him from using his powers in any way that could be harmful to you.”

  Lord High Mayor Tarelton did not seem comforted by this statement, but they shook hands over the arrangement. Both of them inwardly vowed not to trust the other. The Mayor may have his Familiar, Greylock thought, but I have the wizard.

  But the Lord High Mayor possessed more than just his own Familiar as a source of information. That night, the Steward Redfrock’s crow made three trips over the same terrain it had taken Greylock three full days, and many adventures, to cover. As soon as Tarelton had returned to his own room after dinner, the gist of the conversation was relayed from the Lord High Mayor to his own Familiar, and then from the rat to the Steward’s Familiar. In this way, the crow learned that the Mayor had followed Redfrock’s instructions exactly, and it set off toward Godshome.

  It flew high over the Twilight Dells, for the land of the Wyrrs disturbed it as much as it had disturbed Greylock, proving perhaps that the Wyrrs were neither good or evil, but had their own secrets. When it had reached the High Plateau, it circled the snowy plain twice in confusion, for it could not sense the presence of its master anywhere on the surface. At last it gave in to the inevitable, and landed near the entrance of one of the many caves that riddled the lava beneath the snows, and which served as convenient passageways for the people of the High Plateau to travel from snow- castle to snowcastle.

  To the men working on the new and unnatural passageway that the Steward had ordered built, it was disconcerting to see the big black bird hopping down a p
assage so far below the earth and away from its natural habitat. Yet, with its coal black eyes, and inky feathers, it appeared horribly at home in the dark.

  “Ah, there you are!” the Steward greeted his Familiar as it scratched around the last turn in the new cave, finding its master overseeing the finishing touches of his handiwork. It flew to the Steward’s shoulder, the tips of its wings actually brushing the narrow sides of the passage.

  “Greylock means to bring an army, does he?” the Steward said when it had reported. “Tell the Lord High Mayor that he has done well, and that he has only one thing he must remember. Tell him that when the time comes for a choice, Prince Greylock must chose the left-hand course. That is all he must do. Convince Greylock to take the left passage.”

  The Familiar jumped from his master’s shoulder almost delicately. Then with awesome dignity it left the subterranean caverns for the night skies, and arrived at the Lord High Mayor’s Palace just as dawn was breaking. The bemused Tarelton received his instructions while Greylock slept, little suspecting that the long arm of the Steward Redfrock had already touched him in BorderKeep.

  Chapter Four

  Greylock watched from the first of the foothills, its top sprinkled with the first snows of winter, as the army of the Underworld set off for Godshome a few weeks later. From the hilltop, the soldiers appeared as a line of white shapes, glinting off the rays of the morning sun. He had insisted that the bright colored uniforms be discarded.

  “My homeland is a land of snow,” he argued. “We do not wish to be targets any more than we have to. Our only chance of success is to surprise the Steward. If your guards approach in those uniforms, we will be seen from miles away!”