Snowcastles & Icetowers

by Duncan McGeary

  Only the lava dust that covered the floor felt moist and cool. Sometimes the tunnel constricted suddenly and the way was blocked. Then they had to dig their way through, crawling through the narrow openings. Leading the troop with his hand extended over his head, Greylock called out the sudden dives and obstructions of the rough craggy roof. Since he was by far the tallest of the company, and yeoman Harkkor the broadest, no one should have cracked their heads. But occasionally one of the soldiers of the BorderKeep would cease to pay attention for a moment and would walk into the rock, creating a scalp wound that bled profusely, and which had to be bandaged. Before long, he noticed that the nervous troop was walking bent over in a stoop that rivaled Moag’s.

  Sometimes a crack in the roof would reveal daylight from above. The snow curved inward over these holes, dark blue and dripping steadily at their bases; pure white, with the sun shining through, on the top few inches. They could see from these glimpses how deep the snow was, but more importantly to Greylock, he guided them by these occasional markers of light. Sunlight streamed down into the dark caves, lighting the tunnels for hundreds of feet both ways. Sometimes, after traveling for long minutes in the dark, it was a shock to come across these spots of light and realize that it was still day outside.

  As children, Greylock and Slimspear had defied their parents, as generations of children of the High Plateau had, and explored the endless caverns, until they knew every path to each other’s castles, as well underground as they did above.

  Still, the familiar paths sometimes seemed to shift on them if they were away from them for long—and Greylock had not been below for years.

  The first change he noticed was a turn to the left that should have been to the right, and then a turn that should not have been there at all, and finally a long descent that did not appear as if it would ever end. At the bottom of this pit he was confronted by an unfamiliar fork in the path.

  As Greylock hesitated, Moag noticed his puzzlement and distress and hurried over to him. “What is wrong, Greylock?” he asked in a low voice, not wanting the others to know they were lost, for he knew they would panic.

  “This shouldn’t be here! I have never seen this fork before, though it is on a level I am sure I have fully explored.”

  “Well, the choice is simple enough. One goes left and up; and one goes right, and down!”

  “So it seems. But for how far?”

  “Well, hurry up and choose, Greylock. Your army is getting nervous.”

  By now, the Lord High Mayor had realized something was wrong, and demanded to be told.

  “My Familiar can find out which is the right one,” he volunteered when it had been explained that they needed to go upward for some distance to reach Castle-Tyrant. Greylock could hear the claws of the rat as it scrambled down the Mayor’s tall frame and disappeared into the dark. It was back within a few minutes.

  “The right hand tunnel goes only downward,” he announced when the rat was once more on his shoulder. “The left tunnel is the one we want,” he said with certainty in his voice.

  “Sometimes a tunnel will go downward for quite a distance before it angles up again,” Greylock said doubtfully. “I think I will explore it a little further, just for the feel of it.” He did not see the Mayor’s face go pale as he darted into the same passage the rat had investigated.

  This choice quickly began to angle further downward, as the rat had reported, and Greylock just as quickly changed his mind. He backtracked and found the others, who met him with nervous muttering, as well as a relieved look from the Mayor. But Greylock refused to show them any worry, and they continued to follow him, though very near to panic. The cave on the left seemed to be going in the proper direction, and he was still not suspicious; confident he could find his way out no matter what. Eventually, he reasoned, he would have to come across something he recognized.

  The second tunnel also began to drop slightly, but took longer to reveal its course. The overweight and out-of-shape soldiers were exhausted by now from this continual up and down movement, and when Greylock saw the yeomen also were sweating, but uncomplaining, he decided to give them rest before they were actually into the coming fight.

  As the soldiers collapsed gratefully onto the dusty floor, breathing heavily and staring at each other in commiseration, Greylock took this time to slip away into the dark. Running back down the pitch black tunnel, with only a small torch for light, he backtracked for some distance to see if he could discover where he might have gone wrong. The troop’s path was easily discernable by the turmoil they had created in the lava dust. The churned up tracks would be seen for many years to come, he thought, if no one happened along to disturb them. Yet, suddenly, these tracks came up against a solid rock wall! Greylock dropped to his knees and searched desperately for a seam at the base of the wall. They were in a trap!

  It seemed impossible to Greylock that the old caves could have been tampered with. Secret passages and mysterious doors that closed after you had passed were the stuff of legends. But now he recognized where he had passed the old, well- traveled corridor—that was now blocked off and disguised by a false wall. There was no budging the stone slab.

  There was only one person who could have engineered this—the Steward. Very well, Greylock thought, even Carrell Redfrock could not seal off all the caves. They would explore every tunnel; explore as long as they still lived. Above all, he must not let the others know of their danger!

  “I remember now!” he announced loudly when he rejoined the others, though he doubted that he had fooled the magician and his granddaughter. “This was the right way all along. Now, it may get a little rough from here on out, but we are almost there. Stay together and keep an eye on me.”

  The passage actually started upward for a short way and Greylock had a sudden, wild hope that he might have somehow outmaneuvered the Steward. Then an almost impossibly steep slope dashed his hopes. Joining hands, they started to inch their way down. Greylock was encouraged to see side passages begin to appear. He declined to turn into any of them—guessing that the Steward would expect him to take these invitingly convenient exits.

  Down they went into the mountain until the walls began to glow with an eerily red glow, and became too hot to touch. The men began to remove their outer garments, careful not to accidentally brush their hands against the steaming rock. Their surface discipline was finally beginning to crack, and Greylock began to hear muttered curses and threats behind his back. As these became louder, Greylock was made aware of yeoman Harkkor’s stolid presence as he jostled him, smiling encouragingly. But the soldiers depended on him, now more than ever, to lead them out again, so he was safe. As long as they still think I can lead them out, he thought.

  By now Greylock was sure that he had gone further into the mountain than even Steward Redfrock could have predicted and allowed for. He at last began considering a turn away from the approaching heat, though all the side tunnels also appeared to descend. But suddenly they emerged on a natural balcony, high in the side of a vast deep cavern.

  The pit was brimming with molten lava. They watched in awe as a huge globule of firestone sprang violently from the shimmering pool and seemed to hang before their eyes, larger than the perch on which they stood and radiating an intense heat, before it dropped slowly, majestically back into the pool. At several points along the sides of the cliff below them, rivers of bright firestone flowed from lava falls into the bright lake. This was the source of the High Plateau’s heat, Greylock thought, the source of its Icemelts, and its life.

  At first they were too stunned to move, but within a few seconds the intense heat had driven them back, covering their faces with their hands and the folds of their cloaks. They did not cease their retreat until they had gone around the first of the abrupt turns. The steaming walls now seemed relatively cool, and they leaned against them, catching their breath and feeling as if their lungs had been seared.

  Without a word, the subdued soldiers followed Greylock into
one of the side passages. All of them seemed to have become unnaturally sensitive to the hellish pit and knew instantly when they were nearing it again. For a while, it seemed as if every choice led back to it again, but because of their new awareness of temperature they began making slow progress toward the cooler portions of the underground network.

  Eventually the maze started to lead upward at last, and Greylock excitedly recognized a few marks on the walls. He suddenly knew where the path was leading—and it was where he wanted to go. He led quickly from that point.

  The huge cavern beneath Castle-Tyrant was the most public and familiar of all the lava tubes. Lying near the village, many celebrations had taken place within it over the years, safe from the cruel mountain blizzards. Natural skylights spotted the enormous roof and the cavern was well lit—almost blinding to the men entering suddenly from the dark caverns below. Blackened stumps and half-burned logs marked where bonfires had been lit to give some warmth, and potholes lined the walls where children had dug into the soft dirt.

  No celebrations or festivals had been allowed for some time, apparently not since the Tyrant had first fallen ill. Litter spotted the eroding footprints in the dust, and crude ladders and ropes hung forlornly from the roof. This traditional gathering spot had always been untended and natural, but now Greylock had to wrinkle his nose distastefully at the smell of garbage. The ancient pit had become a refuse heap, a dumping place for all the trash and slop of the High Plateau. Even the wind whistling through the gaping holes in the roof could not take away the awful odor.

  Straight ahead of them were the beckoning broad stairs carved into the walls, leading to the entrance of Castle-Tyrant. The army rushed toward them, anxious to confront a human enemy at last—and Greylock was at their head, eager to fling his escape at the Steward Redfrock. His feet had barely touched the first step when a roaring wind flowed down the stairs, throwing Greylock violently backward onto the earth. The torch was plucked from his hand and snuffed out.

  The torches in the hands of the others sputtered only briefly in defiance of the gale before they, too, winked out. For a few more stunned seconds, the daylight continued to stream down the holes in the roof, the muffled glow catching the disturbed particles of dust briefly in its light. Then platforms of rock slammed down over the holes with a frightening thud, knocking huge fragments from the roof down upon the terrified Keepsmen.

  A ghostly voice filled the chamber, and Greylock could recognize the strained rasp of his uncle’s throat. The voice must have been magnified by echo chambers somewhere in the staircase, he thought. All of the men of the BorderKeep could hear the frightening words of that whispery voice.

  “Now, I have you, demons! Did you think you could surprise me; that I would not have every entrance to my kingdom thoroughly guarded? Or did you believe I would be fooled by the guise of my nephew? Stay where you are, demons, and rot! There is no escape from this prison!”

  Greylock realized that his uncle’s trap had succeeded where the Steward Redfrock’s had not.

  Chapter Six

  Greylock learned quickly the fickleness of his allies, to his dismay. It did not take more than a few seconds of total darkness for the men of the BorderKeep to panic. Most of them had never before been plunged into a world where they could make no light to fill the darkness without the flames being blown out by another of the magical gusts of wind.

  When he had finally had enough of the Keepsmen’s wails and of the Lord High Mayor’s recriminations, Greylock called out in his quick temper for Moag. His voice was drowned out twice before he angrily bellowed above the furor. The startled soldiers ceased pleading to their gods for a few shocked moments, as if they expected him to reassure them that there was a way out. Then it was past, and the first of the Underworlders began to shout again, with the others quickly following his example. But not before Moag was able to feel his way over to Greylock, his bony strong fingers searching for a calm and unmoving figure among the frightened soldiers, and knowing instantly when he had found Greylock.

  “You must get us out of here, wizard!” Greylock demanded desperately, knowing that he was being unreasonable.

  “There is little I can do, Prince Greylock,” the old man answered. “Did you know that your uncle has the power? A strong earth-magic, I believe. We are sealed in by the physical, and we are sealed in by the magical, as well.”

  “I was a fool to challenge my uncle.” Greylock finally allowed his doubts to emerge. “He has beaten me every step of the way; just as he has always outwitted the Steward Redfrock and every other opponent. If only I could speak with him, and tell him what the Underworld is really like! “ “No, you were not a fool. You just picked the wrong army, Greylock. We should have gone to Trold. Then we wouldn’t have had to skulk underground.”

  “At least you could give us some light, old man!” Greylock said angrily to the old man’s carping.

  “You realize that a fire will use up air?”

  “If we do not have light, we shall never escape anyway! We may live longer in the dark, but the end will be just as certain.”

  Moag did not answer* and Greylock could hear the sounds of the wizard bending over and his hands scurrying along the ground. Then he saw the light of the unnatural blue flame of magic nestled in a small pile of rubbish that the old man had apparently collected. Then the flame caught, and Greylock blinked at a clean white light that was not blown out but grew—until at last the shapes of the Keepsmen were illuminated and their shadows were sent swiftly climbing the walls.

  Before Greylock had a chance to stop them, the soldiers had spread this one fire with joyful cries to a dozen other fires lit about the chamber. Those men who weren’t clustered around these reassuring flames, glorying in the light, were off gathering bits o-f burnable trash.

  Luckily, Greylock thought, the fires did not seem to be giving off much smoke and he reasoned that putting out some of the fires would cause more smoke, and more complaining, than could be endured. Besides, he hoped, there had to be some air entering the chamber through the porous lava stone.

  The Lord High Mayor had come to join Greylock and the wizard by the original fire. The rat sat unconcernedly on the Mayor’s shoulder, and Greylock thought with a shudder that the Familiar could live indefinitely in the cave, feeding off the trash. Soon there would be even fresher food for it. Greylock doubted the animal would decline the temptation of dining on his former master. Greylock could not see that the thoughts of the Lord High Mayor were running in much the same vein, as Tarelton wondered if he had been betrayed and abandoned.

  It was Lord High Mayor Tarelton who first noticed that Mara was missing.

  At first, Greylock was not really worried by the absence. After all, where could she go? he thought. He remembered seeing her just before the torches had gone out, therefore she had to be in the chamber somewhere. But soon his search became frantic when she did not turn up, no matter how hard they looked, and his shouts echoed off the roof and walls. She had vanished into thin air.

  When the Underworlders had first entered the cavern below the Castle-Tyrant, Mara’s eyes had been caught by the unmistakable gleam of Glyden flashing near one of the walls. Thinking vaguely of how nice it would be to present her grandfather with a gift of Glyden, and remembering Greylock’s tales of its plentitude on the High Plateau, she was drawn toward one of the children’s excavations along the wall. This hole was quite deep, and just wide enough for a young boy—or a small woman. At the bottom flashed the gilded object, but she could still not see what it was.

  While the others were absorbed in the sights of the cave, and just beginning their dash toward the stairs, she jumped in idly, knowing that she was being foolish and hoping that the loose earth would not cave in on her. When the child’s tunnel ended after only a few yards, and she found nothing, she shrugged at her foolishness and began to back out, hoping that the others had not left her behind in her brief sojourn.

  But backing out did not prove as easy as enteri
ng had been, and she felt herself squeezed by the roof, whereas on her way in she had not felt it at all. Soon she was sure that her inward passage had dropped enough earth from the roof to obstruct her exit. Half cursing her stupidity in searching for Glyden, when if she had waited as she-had always told her grandfather to do she would have gotten all the Glyden she wanted, and half in panic, she struggled to turn around. This proved too much for the roof, which had never been meant to contain an adult, and it collapsed behind her, filling the hole with dust and drawing from her a coughing fit, which threatened to bring down the rest of the tunnel at any moment.

  Trying desperately to maintain her presence of mind, Mara began calling out; at first for her grandfather, and then in more panic, for Greylock, and finally with frightened shrieks, for help from anyone who could hear her. But no sounds penetrated her tomb, except for one loud thud that again threatened to bring down the wall of the tunnel. After a moment she thought she could hear a ghostly laughter, but then decided she must have imagined it. She did not realize that the others had also just been sealed within a deadly trap.

  The tears began to streak down through her dust-covered cheeks and the dirt collected at the corners of her lips. Her blond hair fell over her face, but she did not flick it aside for it did not matter—she could see nothing. Not for several minutes did she think of using her magic. She had so stubbornly refused to summon any help from magic in the past that the habit had never become part of her thinking. Even now she was reluctant to use it. She tried to remember the spell she had used once before, with astonishing results, up on the mountain pass. Her eyes closed and she summoned the hated and unwanted power, but though she could feel it just beyond her grasp, she discovered as her grandfather already had above her, that she was constrained by a power greater than hers.