Snowcastles & Icetowers

by Duncan McGeary

  He turned to move up the trail when he heard Mara’s soft voice object. “I am coming, too.”

  “You stay,” Greylock answered, more annoyed that she would refute his orders than for any real objections to her coming along.

  “You are not my master, Greylock,” she said angrily. “I go where Grandfather goes. It has always been so.”

  “Hold her here for at least an hour,” he told yeoman Harkkor, who complied by lifting her with one arm, still struggling, and waving them on their way with the other.

  Looking back, Greylock was satisfied to see that his army blended in with the mountain snows, except for the green robe and red hair of the Lord High Mayor, which stood out clearly. He would have to convince the Mayor to give up at least the green robe, he thought, if not his red hair. The two of them quickly left the others behind.

  Even so, as they rounded the first turn in the trail, hundreds of yards away, they found Mara standing before them frowning determinedly with her arms crossed.

  “How … ?” Greylock managed to sputter. “Where did you come from?”

  “Well, well!” Moag chuckled, and Greylock turned in astonishment at the happy sound. “Prince Greylock, you have succeeded in making her do what I have been pleading with her, and cajoling her, to do for years. She has used her magic! And without the orders from a master! Her motivation must have been very strong indeed for her to do that. And I do not think it is because she wants to be with her grandfather,” he finished, looking at Greylock in appreciation.

  Greylock was bewildered further to see a red flush rise in Mara’s cheeks. He remembered his earlier promise to himself to look for the truth in her face. But he did not like the truth he was seeing in her face right now. She couldn’t be in love with him! She was still a child! And he was promised to the Lady Silverfrost.

  But even as he raised his objection to himself, he saw that in their few weeks together she had swiftly grown out of that awkward phase he had first noticed. She was almost a woman! Her bright green eyes suddenly showed a maturity that had not been there before. Her long blond hair no longer had the downy softness of childhood, but the healthy glow of a woman. And her habit of flicking the hair from her eyes was no longer annoying, but alluring. Her slim figure had filled out in a few short weeks. Not knowing what to say in the embarrassed silence, he turned abruptly and brushed by her without further word.

  As they ascended into the cloud layer, the two Underworlders grew short of breath and slowed down. Greylock was forced to adjust his long, eager steps to their timid ones. Finally, even he was forced to don his last, heavy robe as the snowflakes began to obscure everything but the next few steps. Greylock found the staff he had cached on the way down, leaving it in the remote hope that he would be able to return. He wished he could have saved his Talons as well. Now the staff proved useful in probing the snow-covered trail. Several times the snowpack fell away into space at the staff’s touch, and the three stared down into a sky of whirling snowflakes. Greylock helped the two frightened Underworlders around these spaces as best he could.

  Finally, Greylock motioned for them to remain silent and motionless, and inched forward to study something only he could see. He brushed away some of the light powder snow, and then smiled to himself and motioned the others forward.

  “We must hurry from here if we are to see anything of the High Plateau before dark.”

  “How are we to see anything in this blizzard?” Moag said miserably. “I can’t even see the trail anymore!”

  Both Underworlders were dismayed by Greylock’s sudden spurt of speed from this point onward, fearing to see him fall away into the air, but they grew silent when they saw a broad, even road stretching upward before them.

  Greylock smiled proudly. “This is the Gateway. From here on, every road in my uncle’s kingdom is paved in stone. And some, as I have told you, in Glyden.” I may as well keep up the deception of a Glyden-rich kingdom a while longer, he thought. Even Moag would have to be satisfied when he saw the treasury of the Tyrant.

  But for once the wizard was not thinking of Glyden. Instead, he was stooped over even more than usual, examining their broad and magnificent roadway.

  “Did your people build this?” he asked wonderingly. “This is a feat of engineering beyond any but the richest of the Kings of Trold!”

  “These roads have been here for as long as anyone can remember,” Greylock explained. “We have a story that we are simply the Gatekeepers of this road, which we call Gateway in our legends. We are the protectors of Godshome. This has never made much sense to me, for what is there to protect? Could an entire country, an entire people, be only Gatekeepers for others, whom we have never seen? Where are the gods we are meant to protect? Or the demons we are supposed to protect them from? Before I went down into your Underworld, I did not believe any of these stories. Now … I am not so sure. It seems to me that there must be a reason for these legends, a reason not even the Gatekeepers, our priests, know.”

  When they crossed the first bare patches of the road, where the mountain winds had never allowed the snows to build, the deception of a road paved in Glyden was shown up. Instead, the road was made of huge stones, placed in a mosaic that left no gap larger than the sharp edge of a sword.

  The stones had not been carved, but by an almost unimaginable patience had been laid naturally side-by-side until they had fitted snugly. Moag was fascinated by the ancient road, and did not complain about the lack of Glyden, if indeed he noticed it.

  At one point both Underworlders stopped and let out startled shouts. They had suddenly walked over a patch of the Gateway, which radiated a surprising but welcome heat.

  “What is the source of this warmth?” Moag asked in amazement.

  “It comes out of the mountain,” Greylock explained quickly. The two Underworlders were lingering in the comforting heat, despite his urgings to hurry. “Sometimes it comes out of cracks in the earth, sometimes out of the earth itself. Many parts of the High Plateau are fertile enough to grow food because of this warmth, and it is around these warm spots, which we call Icemelts, that we build our snowcastles.”

  “But what causes the heat?” Moag insisted. As a magician he was not satisfied with this answer, and as a Fire-Wizard the fire in the earth fascinated him.

  “We do not know where it comes from. Only that it comes from deep within Godshome. Sometimes the very earth is melted and boils out of the cracks in the mountain.” A cloud passed over Greylock’s face. “When that happens there is much destruction. Many times we have had to rebuild. The Gatekeepers tell us that the whole of the High Plateau was created from this firestone. But they also say that the evil spirits—demons —brew the firestone, so I never believed them. Now … I am not so sure.”

  It was the second time, he realized, that he had admitted to himself that he might be reverting to the religion of his youth—to the time when he had been fascinated by the Gatekeepers’ arcane answers to the mysterious origins of firestone.

  Moag and Mara were finally willing to move on, though they continued to linger at each warm spot they came upon. Greylock warned them that staying in the heat only made the inevitable cold worse, but they were unable to resist the seductive pull of the warmth. Greylock began to wonder if he would not have the same trouble with the whole army of Underworlders when he led them this way.

  The road began to widen and the slope to level, and Greylock once again moved forward cautiously. At last they sighted the first of the dwellings Greylock had called snowcastles, perched on the very edge of the High Plateau. The plateau dropped off steeply on the side that was exposed to the sky. The Three Peaks of Godshome bound upon the other sides.

  But the two Underworlders could not see the peaks in the mild blizzard, and their eyes were drawn to the dwelling, which indeed resembled a huge castle made out of snow. The walls were thick and imposing, towering over the path and out into the empty spaces of the mountain cliffs. Narrow windows had been carved into the sides of t
he walls, and a tower had been built at one corner. The ice of the tower gleamed blue even in the dim light of the storm. Barely visible within were stone buildings, the true living quarters of the inhabitants. The snowcastle seemed designed to afford a view on all, and access to none.

  Greylock pointed proudly. “There lies Castle- Guardian, home of my friend, Mordref, whom I call Slimspear. Only he and my sister, Ardra, know how I left the High Plateau—that I went down instead of up, as was expected of me. He warned me not to go down, told me that I would run into demons. Unlike me, Slimspear is very religious. I cannot wait to tell him how wrong he was!”

  There was one narrow door to the snowcastle, at the top of a long flight of icy steps. The white walls converged on both sides of the door, making whoever was on the steps an easy target.

  “You had better stay below,” Greylock warned. “It may take a few minutes for me to convince Slimspear that it is really me, and not a demon.”

  He bounded up the stairs, handling the slippery steps with an accustomed ease. At the top, he paused and knocked softly at the heavy wooden door set in the ice. At the last moment, he pulled the hood of his mountain cloak over his gray mane of hair. A small slit opened in one of the panels almost immediately and a frightened voice emerged. “Go away, demon!”

  “Slimspear! Open up! It is I, Greylock. Hurry, let me in before someone else sees that I have come back.”

  “You do not fool me, demon. You could not be Greylock. The Gatekeepers say that only demons, and he who shall be their Deliverer, may return from below. Therefore, though you have taken the face and voice of my friend Greylock, you are a demon.”

  “Would a demon know the name Slimspear, or that you have always been in love with my sister, Ardra, but were afraid to tell her? Or have you told others since I left?”

  The panel snapped shut abruptly, and Greylock wondered if he had frightened his oldest friend away. Then the massive door opened timidly, grinding slowly, and the pale plump face of Mordref could be seen.

  “Is it really you, Greylock?”

  “Of course it’s me!” Greylock grabbed his friend by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes intently for several seconds. “Do you really have any doubt?” he said quietly.

  Relief flooded Slimspear’s face and he threw open the door. As he hugged the returned prince, Greylock motioned to the hidden Underworlders abruptly from behind his back. They hurried up the stairs, trying desperately to maintain their footing and their speed, the sight of the warm interior summoning them. Then they were through the open door.

  Slimspear followed them through the windswept inner courtyard and into the small, cozy rooms within the stone walls at the end of the long outer corridors, staring at the two visitors in shock. All the color had drained from his face. The owner of the snowcastle belied by his appearance his name. He was anything but slim, and had received his nickname from Greylock by once vowing that he would someday be as slim as a spear. Now he looked as if he would never eat again.

  “What is it, Slimspear?” Greylock exclaimed, concerned by the intensity of his friend’s reaction.

  “I have failed!”

  “What do you mean, Slimspear?”

  “For generations beyond counting, my family has held Castle-Guardian, pledged to protect the High Plateau from demons. Now I have let two—no, three, for you must be one, too—into my country!” Greylock had removed his hood, revealing his silver hair. “Demons! I have failed the Tyrant, and my people.”

  “Nonsense, Slimspear,” Greylock coaxed, as only friends can. “I have been to the Underworld. It is not full of demons. It is not anything like what the Gatekeepers say. …” Greylock realized suddenly that nothing he was saying was penetrating his friend’s daze. Desperately he said, “Cheer up, Slimspear. How do you know I am not this Deliverer the Gatekeepers are always talking about?” Though Greylock had tried to conceal his real wonderings behind this joke, Mordref saw through it, and glimpsed his concern.

  “Of course! You are the Deliverer. You must be! I should have known.”

  The three spies relaxed at last, and fell into the soft chairs. They were safe until morning.

  Later, Slimspear took his friend aside and broke the news of the Lady Silverfrost’s coming marriage to the Steward Redfrock.

  “I must speak to her!” he exclaimed. “Does she believe me dead?”

  “No, Greylock,” Slimspear said sadly. “You must not talk to her. You do not realize all that has happened since you left. The Steward’s power has increased, and Silverfrost has given in to him. She is his completely now.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Greylock denied what he was hearing. “She hates Carrell Redfrock!” “Silverfrost was never what you thought she was, Greylock. She has a weak will and is not worthy of you. It is time you realized that.”

  “Let us see what she says when I am Tyrant!” Greylock said, knowing she would come to him then—and not sure if he would take her.

  Chapter Five

  By early the following morning, the blizzard had passed and the skies were clear and blue. The two visitors from the Underworld, and the returning prince, stared at Godshome in awe from the Castle-Guardian’s icetower. The three even peaks zigzagged across the horizon in white, crisp lines. The High Plateau stretched flat and even toward the mountain, in an almost perfect triangle. Other, smaller snowcastles dotted the plain, and two large snowcastles, with what looked to be a small village between them, sat on a huge Icemelt. Greylock identified the larger of the snowcastles as Castle- Tyrant, his uncle’s home; and the slightly smaller snowcastle as Castle-Steward. Around each of the snowcastles that were visible, was the disconcerting sight of green trees and brush, where the pockets of warmth called Icemelts sprouted from the snows.

  Late into the night Greylock had discussed the matters of the realm with Slimspear. Little had changed, except that the Tyrant had grown more ill and even more oppressive, and that some of the rivals to his throne were coming out into the open in the jockeying for power. Chief among them was Greylock’s enemy, Carrell Redfrock. It was a dangerous gambit, Greylock thought, while the Tyrant was still alive. Apparently, no one expected any of the sons or nephews to return, which was no surprise to Greylock.

  Greylock reluctantly ended their awestruck reverie of Godshome. “We must hurry down and meet the others before anyone else is up and around.”

  The three spies slipped down the upper portions of the Gateway, almost running until they reached the rough, lower trails. Even then they made better time than they had on the way up, for Greylock had borrowed a pair of Talons from Slimspear. They met the men of the BorderKeep far down the mountain, stymied at the base of the first of the broken stretches. This was not as much progress as Greylock had hoped, but he restrained his impatience. It did not matter as long as they arrived while there was still daylight. He did not want to be caught with these men on Godshome at night; especially since their coming was to be a surprise.

  As soon as they had gained entrance to his uncle’s snowcastle, he thought, victory was assured. The night before, Greylock had gone to the cellars of Castle-Guardian and made sure that the secret lava tube passage to Castle-Tyrant remained clear and unguarded. Greylock’s unknown entrance would make even the Tyrant’s own personal chambers vulnerable to the Underworld army, he believed.

  Greylock hurried the men along the last stretch of road to Slimspear’s snowcastle, past the Icemelts on the trail, glad that there was not any kind of storm. Even with the clear trails and good weather, they had been lucky not to lose any men to the mountain. Luckily they were not visible from the High Plateau at any point along the Gateway. The walls of the mountain’s cliffs stretched up out of sight on one side, and an observer would have had to be well out over the edge of the plateau to see them. Only the protected portals of Castle-Guardian faced away from the plateau and toward the road, as was its function, and since its master believed Greylock to be the Deliverer himself, they were unobserved by enemy eyes.
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  Once the army was safely crowded within Castle-Guardian, Greylock left them in the courtyard and rushed up the icetower to survey the white plain of the plateau. Only at the sight of the calm, untroubled snows was he satisfied that they had not been seen. He wound down the stairs to where his followers waited, but instead of stopping, he continued on down the flight of stairs past them. He motioned for them to follow him, down into the darkened depths of the snowcastle. Giving each other anxious looks, the men of BorderKeep followed hesitantly.

  The cellar must have been dug into the rock of the High Plateau itself, the wizard Moag thought. It was an impressive feat, and he thought it even more impressive when he realized that the base of the plateau was almost all lava stone, aside from the few inches of topsoil carefully accumulated in the few Icemelts. But the tunnels that lay concealed behind the huge kegs of ice water were natural; long spiraling lava tubes that worked their way down into the bowels of the mountain. Moag suspected that if they continued to take only the downward turns, they would reach the point where the earth melted, and firestone was created.

  Greylock apparently did not intend to take this downward course, but instead led across the plateau diagonally to the Tyrant’s snowcastle, through the well-traveled caves of his youth; and down a few he believed only he knew the way through.

  Greylock gave every tenth man a torch and ushered the stilled and frightened company of soldiers into the yawning black cavern. When they hesitated again, he rushed forward to take the lead and was gratified to find yeoman Harkkor following. Greylock had never become lost in the caverns, though some of his childhood friends had not had such an easy time of it. He had always seemed to know where he was beneath the mountain, and where to turn next. Slimspear had never become so comfortable, and this time remained behind to keep a watch on their rear.

  The air was cool and stuffy, yet the close atmosphere actually seemed to give the Underworlders a strange sense of warm safety after the blizzards they had endured. But as they descended deeper into the bewilderingly complex route of tunnels, the air became noticeably warmer, and the soldiers noticeably less comfortable with the warmth. They breathed easier when the path seemed to ascend once more, but then it dipped downward again at an alarming angle. Greylock did not answer their increasingly worried questions, and ignored their fear. They were safe, but he doubted he would ever be able to convince them of that.