Snowcastles & Icetowers

by Duncan McGeary

  “I will never again use my magic to harm another!” he heard her whisper. “It has been twisted, made evil!”

  He could find no answer to the accusation he saw reflected in her green eyes, and he turned, embarrassed.

  There was no sign of the enemy, no trace of an invading army, just a jumbled layer of iceblocks. The mountain was deceptively peaceful. The nearest snowcastle was wedged in by huge drifts of snow, piled against its ancient walls. Where he knew other snowcastles to lie, there was nothing, no sign that their gardens, their spires, their icetowers, had ever existed.

  He had won a victory, he thought, but he had destroyed much of his own land in winning.

  Mayor Tarelton would pay for this destruction, he vowed. Instead of a victorious army returning from the mountain, the mayor would find a delegation from the High Plateau. And if Redfrock and the Lady Silverfrost should be caught waiting in anticipation, he thought, so much the better.

  Chapter Five

  The preparations for the expedition to Bordertown were at last completed, but Greylock found himself reluctant at the last moment to give the orders to march. Until now he had been anxious to hurry his confident army down into the Underworld, and he was not even sure himself what was causing his hesitation.

  It was not that he was afraid of resistance, he thought, for the army of Far Valley had been utterly destroyed. Not one soldier of their once powerful invading army would have returned to tell of their doom. Greylock remembered Gartlett’s warnings about King Kasid, the wizard’s stories of the unending might of the fiefdoms of Trold, but he was not concerned. He expected the Underworlders to be completely demoralized by the sight of the men from the High Plateau. The people of Bordertown would be expecting a conquering army, instead they would find an angry and vengeful enemy host.

  No, what was bothering him, he had to admit at last, was that by going into the Underworld he would once again have to cross the Twilight Dells, to face the Wyrrs.

  If his sister Ardra had not interrupted at that moment, the Tyrant would have convinced himself that the trip was unnecessary. But Ardra reminded him of his most compelling motive for going to Bordertown: revenge.

  He turned from the sight of the jumbled glacier at the sound of her soft voice, and his bitter expression softened at the sad look in his sister’s round face.

  Ardra and Slimspear had been a perfect match, he thought. She was plump, as Slimspear had been, and, once, she had been as cheerful. They had seemed to have the same thoughts, the same feelings, he thought, especially in their devotion to him. Now, Ardra seemed only half as strong, if even more brave.

  They had found Slimspear alone in Castle Steward, and Greylock had known from his visage that they had tortured the steward to discover his whereabouts. Though the steward had been captured soon after Moag and Mara’s escape, he had kept his silence until their mission to warn the Tyrant was complete.

  Slimspear’s mutilated body was the real reason Greylock had rushed to form a punitive expedition. The Tyrant had immediately recognized the handiwork of the torturer, for he had seen it used many times in the service of his uncle.

  Only Carrell Redfrock would be so ruthless in acquiring his information, Greylock thought, so deadly in his results. Mayor Tarelton was a mere pawn in the schemes of Redfrock and Silverfrost. It was that heartless pair that the Tyrant hoped to catch in his trap. He could not be certain that both of them had escaped the destruction of Mara’s wind-witchery, but he doubted that they would have exposed themselves to danger.

  “You must not go to Bordertown for my sake,” Ardra said softly, somehow sensing his hesitation.

  “They will pay for his death,” he vowed. Her words only seemed to make him more determined to make the journey. “They will learn that it is for Steward Slimspear, husband of my sister Ardra, that they are being punished.”

  “You must not let hate guide you, Greylock. You are leaving those who love you behind.”

  “Am I?” he asked bitterly.

  “You must not doubt that she still loves you, Greylock.”

  “No?” he laughed shortly. “Why does she run from me? Why does she hide her face when I pass?”

  Mara had fallen into a deep gloom at the destruction of her wind magic. Greylock feared that on top of his refusal to release her grandfather, that she would never forgive him for the annihilation of the demon army. She never blamed him out loud, but only because she never seemed to stay in his presence for more than a few moments before fleeing.

  “It is because she loves you, Greylock. She runs because she is afraid that her emotions will come to the surface.” When Greylock looked as though he were about to laugh, she insisted, “I know because she has told me.”

  Before Greylock could fully appreciate what she had said, she dampened his hopes with an admonition.

  “Why don’t you let the old wizard go? She would come to you if you did.”

  He turned from her, disbelieving. It seemed to him that the campaign to free the old man had become a conspiracy. He knew that it was his own stubborn refusal to let Moag go that was in the way of their happiness; but the mountain continued to shake, the Wyrrs continued to haunt him, King Kasid of Trold had only begun his assault on the High Plateau. Such problems never seemed to go away. Indeed, they seemed to be multiplying.

  “I will free him when I have no more need of him,” he said, stubbornly.

  “How can you be so blind?” she said in disgust. “Don’t you see that it is your own obstinance that is making you unhappy? Well, I will try no more to convince you. You will not see me again until you have come to your senses, Greylock!”

  With that, she turned her back on him and marched from the icetower.

  Greylock descended deep into the lower passages of Castle Tyrant until he had reached the network of caves that riddled the lava and formed a highway beneath the snows.

  Unconsciously Greylock chose the same route he had used to lead his Underworld army in their conquest of the High Plateau. There were such a variety of tunnels that no one ever bothered to remove the fallen stones or drifts of dust. Every citizen had his own favorite paths, and these paths might not be used by anyone else. Even the Tyrant occasionally came across a fork in the caverns he did not recognize, and it was not unusual for men to become lost in tunnels they had traveled through since childhood.

  Greylock kept his head slightly bent, both in thought and in anticipation of the sudden dives of the craggy roof. At the turn to Castle Guardian, Greylock was surprised to be met by Moag.

  “Did you want to see me, Moag?” he asked uncomfortably.

  “I have not come out of courtesy, you can be sure,” Moag said sourly. “I have a few questions about the construction of your snowcastles. They are the only interesting feature in your land, Tyrant, your one truly unique art form. And since there is no telling when you will return—or if you will return—I had thought I better ask now.”

  “What is to keep me from coming back?” Greylock said, impatiently.

  “You are not dealing with Mayor Tarelton now, Greylock,” the old man replied sternly. “King Kasid is more evil and powerful than you can imagine. If he has learned of your Room of Glyden, then he will not give up with one battle. Your victory was no more than a skirmish. Next time he won’t trust the men of Bordertown. He will send his own mercenaries.”

  “But you wanted me to go to King Kasid in the first place, Moag!” Greylock objected. “Why do you warn me of him now?”

  “Then the Vault of Glyden was only a legend,” the old man said uneasily. “And King Kasid was not our enemy. If you had chosen him instead of Mayor Tarelton, he would not be our enemy now.”

  “No,” Greylock said sardonically. “He would have had our glyden without a fight!”

  The Tyrant realized that he was getting into another argument with the querulous wizard, and changed the subject to business.

  “What did you want to know about the architecture of the snowcastles?”

 
In the two weeks since the battle for the High Plateau, Moag had proven to be of invaluable help in the resettlement of the displaced, the clearing of the avalanche from the icemelts, and the rebuilding of the snowcastles and icetowers. Despite his grumbling, the fire wizard had used his magic in surprising ways to reform or melt away the massive piles of ice and to form new walls. Greylock suspected that the old man even enjoyed his new tasks.

  Most of the dwellings had survived. The old, abandoned barrier walls had held better than anyone had expected. But all the snowcastles had sustained some damage, and a few had been completely destroyed.

  The Tyrant knew it was necessary to answer Moag’s last minute questions. In these latter days there were few craftsmen left who knew the ancient art of ice architecture. The Tyrant’s training under the Gatekeepers had included what little knowledge was left, though he felt himself a poor source at best.

  The wizard had already improved on some of the designs, and had substituted and implemented new techniques. Greylock wished he could convince Keyholder or one of the other priests to help the wizard, but, predictably, they had objected to Moag’s innovations.

  The Tyrant did not want to leave while the rebuilding efforts were still underway, but it was time to leave the High Plateau and teach the townsmen a final lesson in loyalty. Moag had proven to be an unexpectedly able engineer to leave behind in charge of the rebuilding.

  “I wish to leave you in command while I am gone, Moag,” he said, after obliging the wizard with as much information as he possessed. For some time he had been wondering who he could trust. He had his eye on a young nobleman named Kalwyn, but he had not yet named his new steward. Moag was the best he had. “Don’t worry,” he continued. “My people will follow you. You happen to be a hero at the moment. You may not even have to worry about assassination.”

  “Very well, if I must,” the wizard grimaced.

  “I wish you would let me reward you for your - help,” he said. “Let me give you some of the glyden.”

  At first Greylock did not think the wizard would even acknowledge this attempt at friendship. Then finally, the old man grumbled, “My help these last few weeks has not been for you, Greylock, but for myself. But since you mention a reward, I had hoped that in the end you would feel that you must grant me what I desire.”

  Both knew what the reward he was asking for was, his freedom.

  Greylock was once again torn by his nameless fears. They centered on the mountain. Someday soon he would need the wizard’s fire magic, and he would need it desperately. He felt the danger stronger than ever.

  Yet, there was no longer any real threat he could point to. Just his formless fears of the rumblings of Godshome, the spilling of steam that seemed to harmlessly shroud the mountain peaks.

  Standing in the choking dust and darkness of the cavern, he admitted to himself at last that what he wanted most from the old man was friendship, and it was obvious that friendship would not be forthcoming as long as the wizard was held against his will.

  “I will free you when I return, Moag,” he said, softly, giving in at last.

  “What!”

  Greylock had to repeat himself several times before the excited wizard would believe him. But to the Tyrant, at that moment, the words seemed to echo off the close dark walls of the tunnel in warning.

  The army of the High Plateau cautiously marched down the mountain trail of Gateway, with scouts fanned out far ahead, and others climbing far above the main force with their talons. The men of the plateau were actually more comfortable on the narrow animal trails and sheer precipices, Greylock thought, than they were on the newly carved highway.

  Greylock was made forcefully aware that the mayor had not been exaggerating his complaints of obstructionism. Ironically, Greylock realized that the Underworlders knew the trail much better than did the natives of the mountain. He even had trouble finding guides to lead them over the new trail. Apparently, his people had refused almost to a man to work on the project, and it had been left almost entirely in the hands of the townsmen.

  Greylock kept his eyes open warily for an ambush, for it was common practice when building any new construction to include a few secret pitfalls and hideaways. It was the first time he had seen the handiwork of the townsmen, for he had been as hesitant as any of his people to descend from Godshome, though he had admonished them. But where others feared the Underworld as a haven for demons, Greylock feared it because of the Wyrr’s mysterious power over him. Perhaps it amounted to the same thing, he thought. The Wyrrs were his demons.

  Greylock did not like the look of the new Gateway, built over the massive and intricate stones of the old.

  The trail was smooth and broad, but it had lost the aura of ancient culture that the old pathway had possessed. This especially saddened Greylock because he had once hoped to find in Gateway the evidence of where it might have originally led. He was sure that the pathway led to more than the snows of the High Plateau and the sweltering heat of the Underworld. Greylock suspected, as well that the new path would lack the permanence of the old.

  He could not really complain, though seeing the new road was a shock. The new Gateway had been one of his modernizations. It had always been his ambition to unite the lands between Far Valley and the High Plateau by a network of roads, so that the traveler could pass through without an armed escort.

  He had to smile at this thought when he looked about him. A larger escort could not be found! Many of his men were grasping their talons suspiciously, sure that at any, moment the unusually warm soil beneath their feet would drop away into a pool of firestone. Only molten rock could account for such widespread warmth; in their experience.

  Greylock had to remind himself that he was one of the few men of the High Plateau who had actually descended down into the Underworld. The old fears of demons would not vanish overnight, he told himself. The people of Bordertown had had the advantage of knowing both winter and summer, and many would have visited the foothills. All would have felt the cold touch of snow falling on their bare skin. Snow and cold were a part of their reasons, something that occurred regularly every year.

  But the warmth of the High Plateau was confined mostly to the few spots of volcanic warmth called the icemelts.

  No, Greylock told himself ruefully, he could not show impatience with his people for displaying the fear of demons that he himself had displayed on his first journey to the Underworld. Indeed, traces of that fear were coming back now to plague him, but he attributed this reaction to his reluctance to meet the Wyrrs.

  At last they completed the descent of Godshome, and the road leveled into the easy slopes of the foothills. There had been no sign of opposition, but as they neared the Twilight Dells, Greylock almost wished that something, even an enemy attack, would stop them before they could proceed into that mysterious land.

  He stood at the borders of the Dells, and the maze of green valleys beneath a haze of fog greeted his sight like an imploring pauper. The land seemed to be pleading to him for his help. They called him Deliverer here, he thought miserably.

  He wished now that he had completed his interrupted journey to the library of Castle Priest. More than ever, he wished that he could have had a chance to examine the ancient books. He had nothing he could tell the Wyrrs if they should confront him. Yet, strangely, once his decision to go down into the Underworld had been made, the nightmares had stopped.

  Greylock felt a strong urge to turn back, to return to the High Plateau. As he stood and debated with himself, his men whispered uncertainly behind him, mistaking his hesitation as a fear of demons instead of what it really was, a repugnance of the land itself.

  The soil radiated a malignant sickness, an air of stillbirth, an aura of dusty death. It was even worse than Greylock remembered, this land of the Wyrrs. Yet nothing happened, no Wyrr appeared to point an accursing hand. At last he moved forward, without looking back, as though nothing unusual had happened, and he had not been standing in the drizzling mist
s for many minutes. His men, who had been asking worried questions with no reply from him, gradually overcame their fear and followed.

  Once he was committed, Greylock wanted nothing more than to cross the cursed land as soon as possible. The light snow that had been falling in the foothills turned to rain, and the valleys had never seemed so miserable and forsaken. As they trudged down the muddy road, which true to the mayor’s word squarely intersected the Dells, he began to hope that the Wyrrs were unaware of his trespass.

  But he had known from the start that they would sense his presence, and he was not surprised when he began to experience the familiar dreamy sensation that signaled another visitation of the Wyrrs.

  Midway through the dells, deep within one of its steep valleys, with dead pines threatening on both sides, a single Wyrr approached them.

  Though Greylock knew what to expect, the vision seemed to shimmer disconcertingly, like a waking dream. The illusion of a beautiful figure greeted him with a raised hand, crying out with the valiant tones of a message of celebration. Moments later the Wyrr flickered into his real form, and the visage of a hollow- eyed Wyrr, muttering pathetically, stared at them instead.

  Greylock had no need of translation, as he had on his first journey to the Underworld. His transformation to Deliverer was as complete as the graying of his hair.

  “I cannot help you!” he cried. He had almost convinced himself that he had imagined their pleas, that they had been only nightmares. After all, he had reasoned, none but the wizard and his granddaughter had ever seen what he had seen.

  But he had known it would come to this.

  “I cannot help you!” he repeated. How could he have dared come down from Godshome? he asked himself savagely. How could he have believed that he would not be confronted?

  The denial seemed to have no effect on the Wyrr. The vision would not go away, but waited patiently. At one moment he would appear in his beautiful form and seem to be one of Greylock’s own kindred from the High Plateau, as it had been under the gods, Greylock thought. The Wyrr had a proud, demanding face, strong and dark.