At Redfrock’s side, like a cur at the side of its brutal master, stooped Tarelton looking exceedingly unhappy. His once long, red hair was falling out in patches now, giving his rat nowhere to hide. The familiar was crouched under the collar of the mayor’s filthy robe, once an emerald green, but now an indistinguishable brown.
“I told you I would return, Tyrant Greylock,” Carrell Redfrock said in a pleasant voice. Greylock thought the former steward used the title less as a greeting than to show to his new allies his familiarity with the High Plateau. “It would have been better for all if you had never opposed me, young man.”
“Better for me, perhaps,” Greylock answered. “But I doubt that it would have been better for my people. Yet, it did not need to come to this, Redfrock. I had not intended to punish you.”
“No?” Redfrock laughed bitterly. “Perhaps not. But we both know that I could never have sworn my loyalty to you. From a time long before you were even born, from the day I became aware of my hunger, I meant to be Tyrant!”
“What a pity you did not use your powers to eliminate that hunger instead,” Greylock said, realizing too late that the old steward was as much a victim of the snows of Godshome as any of them.
Redfrock laughed at this sentiment. “Your uncle was too clever for me, but I will not be beaten by a mere boy.”
Greylock ignored him, knowing this to be the best answer. If the old man wished to persist in believing him a boy, then it was his own mistake. But the Tyrant did not really think that Redfrock would continue to underestimate him. *
Instead of trading further insults with Redfrock, Greylock examined the soldiers of Trold.
The men from the fiefdoms were small men compared to the farmers of Far Valley; light men compared to the dark-skinned men of the High Plateau. But they bore the scars of many battles, an air of stolid professionalism. They seemed to want to get the bickering and the formalities over with so that they could proceed with the battle. Greylock guessed that they would fight with the same kind of dispatch.
“What has the traitor Redfrock told you?” he addressed them, ignoring the old man. “There is nothing you could want here. This is a poor land, a bitterly poor land.”
The commander of the party, a lean hard man with a few flakes of gray at his temples but otherwise tough and fit, merely shrugged.
“I am Marshal Derrion,” he said, in a calm voice. “I speak for King Kasid of Trold!” The old soldier frowned at Redfrock, and Greylock realized suddenly that Derrion did not like the traitor.
Four mercenaries were arrayed behind their leader, each dressed alike, and yet each unique. All wore unadorned burnished helmets close over their heads, and had light chain mail and long spears. But there the similarities ended. Each spear had a unique blade, some jagged, some smooth. The helmets were also different in subtle ways, some with nose guards, others with flaps hanging loosely over the neck. All the armor looked battered and often used, though well cared for.
Marshal Derrion wore a thick leather gauntlet on one hand, but Greylock did not know its meaning until he heard the sudden beating of giant wings. The huge bird hovered over their heads, whipping the cloaks of the delegation about in the powerful wind of its wings. Then the eagle landed delicately on the marshal’s gloved arm. The imperial beak of the eagle turned arrogantly toward its master.
Greylock knew with a sudden certainty that the eagle had scouted the mountain pass for Marshal Derrion, and was now reporting. A suspicion was confirmed in his mind, for if this soldier had received his pet from the same source that Tarelton and Redfrock had received their familiars it meant that they had been allies from the start; all serving under King Kasid of the fiefdoms of Trold.
“We know of your Room of Glyden,” Marshal Derrion said without emotion. From the tone in his voice, Greylock knew that the soldier was merely repeating instructions. “King Kasid has ordered me to say that he is not a greedy man. He asks only that you recognize his authority and bequeath a small tithe of four hundred weight a year to the treasury of Trold.”
Greylock was surprised at the offer of peace. He suddenly saw an opportunity to delay the inevitable. He did not really believe that the King of Trold would settle for four hundred weight of glyden, not when he learned how much glyden filled the vault and the weaknesses of the defenses. But Greylock decided to go through the motions of bargaining simply to take up more time. If he could hold off the battle through the morning, he thought with sudden hope, then the chances of lasting the full day were that much greater.
“We do not have such quantities of glyden!” he lied. “Your information is wrong, as it must be if it comes from him.” He pointed at the frowning Carrell Redfrock. “We are not a rich people, as I told you.”
“He lies!” Redfrock said, seeming upset that Greylock had contradicted him. “Tell him, Tarelton! Tell Marshal Derrion how you found the Room of Glyden.”
The tall man turned to his servant, and though he did not raise his hand, Greylock thought of a master whipping his dog.
“I have seen it!” Tarelton cried. His fright raised his high voice even higher. “There is a Room of Glyden in the mountain, filled with bars of great wealth.”
“There,” Redfrock said, with a satisfied tone. “What did I tell you7”
Marshal Derrion did not seem to care if the glyden actually existed or not. He had his orders.
“Enough of this bickering!” he commanded. “Do you refuse to grant us the glyden?”
“I would be very happy to recognize the sovereignty of King Kasid,” Greylock volunteered. “If he will leave us in peace. But we cannot give him such a tithe. There is not so much glyden in all the High Plateau! Surely you can see that the man is mad.”
Tarelton did indeed look demented at that moment. A tall man, he was so stooped that he seemed smaller than the others.
But Marshal Derrion was not convinced.
“If you will not pay,” he said impassively, “then I must warn you to prepare for battle. The king will accept no less. However, as a last gesture of his respect he has authorized me to offer you the freedom of some of our slaves.”
“Slaves?” Greylock repeated, confused.
“King Kasid thought their lives might be of some importance to you.” The marshal raised his hand a few inches, and the eagle stirred its wings uneasily.
The gates of the hastily erected walls around the enemy camp opened and about one hundred men emerged. Greylock could hear his men muttering nervously on the ramparts above him, and he motioned for silence.
Only a few men looked dangerous from a distance, those who prodded at the others with long spears. But not until the prisoners were a few hundred feet away did Greylock finally recognize them.
It was quickly apparent why he had not recognized them sooner. The farmers of Bordertown were shockingly changed. The once muscular men had been starved until their skin and clothes hung from them.
But the Tyrant could see that their will had not been broken. They glared back at their guards, and Harkkor even summoned a smile at the sight of Greylock.
“What is your answer?” Marshal Derrion demanded.
When Greylock did not answer immediately, the soldier began to turn away, motioning away the guards with their prisoners. Redfrock gave him a triumphant stare.
“Wait!” Greylock shouted. The sight of the huge vein of glyden filled his head like an unwanted nightmare, and despite his instinct that conflict was inevitable, he began to hope that the glyden would satisfy them. After all, he thought, it meant nothing to him, little to his people. Let the covetous Underworlders have it if it would buy the High Plateau peace. He could at least buy the freedom of the men of Bordertown.
“Will you leave my people in peace if I give you four hundred weight?”
Carrell Redfrock seemed surprised by the offer. Obviously he had not thought that Greylock would give in. For the first time Greylock began to think that the deal was genuine, and that the soldiers would go away with the glyden
and not return until it was time to collect the next tithe. Marshal Derrion seemed an honorable man.
The soldier was all business at these words and did not seem at all surprised by the sudden surrender. He smiled grimly as if he sympathized with the Tyrant.
And indeed, if Greylock but knew it, Derrion was thinking that subjects always protested that they would not pay the tithe. Sometimes they managed to pay. It did not matter to him. There was always work for him and his soldiers. No land was ever conquered peacefully, his experience told him. In the end, there was always a battle. Sometimes, however, it was more profitable if the other side gave in at first.
“Do you accept King Kasid as your overlord?” he asked.
“Yes,” Greylock nodded. “What of my authority as Tyrant?”
“You may keep your title, and where it does not affect the business of the fiefdoms, you may keep your authority.”
Again it was the experience of the Marshal that what affected the business of Trold sooner or later included all the business of the realm. But it was not for him to tell this young man the hard reality of Underworld politics. Sooner or later the Tyrant would rebel against this interference, and when this happened it would be his duty to crush the rebellion. It was not the way he would have done things. He would have fought the battles in the first place. But King Kasid thought it better to take them over piecemeal.
“It is a trick!” Redfrock protested. “He would never give you so much glyden, Marshal. Do not believe him!”
“Quiet!” Derrion turned cold eyes on the old man. “We are here to discover if it is true or not.
“Show me!” he directed Greylock, showing a willingness to leave at that moment.
“Now?” Greylock asked, surprised that the commander would endanger himself.
“If it is a trick, then little will be lost by my King,” Derrion replied. “There are many men to take my place. If it should be a trick, you will gain little.”
And if it was a trick, the soldier told himself, the Tyrant would pay with his life. Derrion was sure that he could slay Greylock at this distance guards or no guards.
“It is a long, dangerous trip,” Greylock warned. He wondered at the discipline that would make a soldier accept such an uncertain fate. “We will not be back before noon.”
“Lead on,” the Marshal said, turning to bark an order to one of his men. The man started back toward the camps of Trold. “You have until noon. If we are not back by then …” His voice trailed off warningly.
“You do not need me,” Redfrock said. “I will send Mayor Tarelton in my place.”
“No,” the soldier commanded, freezing the steward from leaving. “You are coming with us. It was the king’s wish that you share in any danger. How else can he be sure of your loyalty?”
Greylock wondered if he saw a smile in Derrion’s face. At the same time, he noticed the grimace in Tarelton’s. The mayor looked near the breaking point, he thought, and more dangerous than he had ever been.
He turned to give the same orders to his men. “No harm is to come to these men,” he said. “If I am not back by this afternoon they will attack! Be ready for them!”
Chapter Fourteen
The small party of enemy soldiers led by the Tyrant created a stir in the camps of the High Plateau. Soldiers gathered around the ramparts and lined the trail as the grim, silent delegation marched toward Godshome. All but Greylock were blindfolded, and it was left to the Tyrant to lead them carefully over the thin ramps set out from the barricades, allowing them to pass over the jagged lava stone. The three soldiers and their leader fingered their swords nervously, but had left the spears behind as too threatening.
At the narrow door of Castle Guardian, the only entrance to the High Plateau, they were met by Steward Kalwyn, who at first refused to admit them.
Greylock frowned at the nervous steward, who peered through the peephole, and ordered him sharply to open the door. Reluctantly, the young man unbarred the door.
Castle Guardian spanned the trail, its icetower perched on the very edge of the abyss, its massive white outer walls set against the cliffs of Godshome. The snowy bulwarks converged at the door, and on all sides of the narrow enclosure Greylock could see the weapons of the defenders. It was the last, perhaps most formidable defense of his land, ever surmounted.
He led the delegation carefully up the icy steps and into the broad courtyard beyond. Mara and Ardra were waiting within the inner stone buildings. The Tyrant had sent word ahead of him for them to wait, to serve as guides to the Room of Glyden.
As the party waited shivering still blindfolded, Greylock told the two women his plans.
The vault of glyden was no longer a secret, but few people knew the way to the secret room. Greylock had ordered the opening closed when it was first revealed, and Moag had built one of the massive frost fortresses up against it after Greylock had explored the lava caves and found a route underground. Now only he and a few others close to him, such as Ardra and Mara, knew the path to the Room of Glyden.
The Underworlders shivered uncontrollably as he gave his instructions to the two women. Finally, he relented and led them out of the freezing court. The main hall of the inner castle contained a stairway that led to the top of the icetower, where it overlooked the Gateway. It also went down into the network of caverns beneath the High Plateau.
They descended the twisting staircase into the darkness of the cellars, where Greylock lit the torches and unfastened the heavy locks to the tunnels. The Tyrant allowed his charges to remove their blindfolds while he prepared the way. It had been the defenses of the mountain trail that he had wanted to keep from Marshal Demon’s experienced eyes. Let him learn the hard way, Greylock thought grimly. If they thought there was just one frost fortress instead of a dozen it might delay them just a little longer and let them come upon the walls of Castle Guardian unprepared.
He was certain that they could gain no useful information from the cellars. Redfrock, of course, would recognize it as Castle Guardian, but once they were within the caverns he planned to blindfold the old man again, at least part of the way. The soldiers, he was confident, would never be able to retrace their steps through the maze of caverns. They would be depending on him entirely, which was exactly what he wanted; it was his safest insurance against treachery.
When Marshal Derrion removed his blindfold and saw where they were headed, he blanched. It was the first time Greylock had seen the commander show any trace of fear, and he realized from the nervous whispers of the other soldiers that they were thoroughly frightened.
The marshal took a single step toward the yawning black hole of the cavern, and the eagle let out a screech that echoed off the close walls of the cellar, deafening them. The huge wings spread, knocking several of the soldiers aside, and fluttered dangerously.
“Tordra will not enter,” the soldier said, after quieting the bird.
“Perhaps if you hooded it?” Greylock suggested.
“No,” Derrion answered fatalistically. “She would never allow that.
“I was told once by an old witch woman, soon after King Kasid granted me my familiar, that if I ever dared to enter the bowels of the earth without Tordra I would not come back. I dismissed the prophecy as nonsense, of course,” he finished wryly, “for I saw no possibility that I would ever do so.”
“It’s a trap!” Redfrock said, hoping to play on his allies’ fear. “He is going to lead us in and abandon us!”
“I told you to keep quiet,” the marshal growled, scowling. “There would be no purpose.”
“He wants to kill me!” Redfrock said, angrily, losing his polished, charming manner. “This is his revenge!”
Derrion and Greylock locked eyes, understanding each other.
“I doubt he would throw away his kingdom, the lives of his people, for you,” Derrion said.
“You are wrong!” Redfrock cried, panic edging into his voice. “Can’t you see that!”
In reaction to the old ma
n’s fear, Tarelton shied away, as a dog would from a master who showed fear. The mayor had been watching them with shining eyes, and Greylock wondered what the scheming man was thinking.
“If you will let me return to the courtyard,” the marshal said, turning his back on Redfrock, “I will free her to wait for my return.”
Greylock motioned for Ardra to lead the marshal to the courtyard, and as he watched the strong back of the soldier recede up into the shadows of the stairway, he could not help but think that he was more concerned about the prophecy of the old witch woman than the marshal. From a once rather skeptical youth, Greylock had come to respect the ancient legends and prophecies.
The tunnels felt cool and dusty at first. But slowly the ground seemed less traveled, the air warmer. Greylock led staight into the mountain, holding a torch and leading Derrion, Redfrock and Tarelton. Ardra and Mara followed, leading the other three soldiers.
Their progress was unimpeded until they reach what Greylock thought of as the core of the volcano. Long ago the forces within the mountain had built up an enormous cavern, at the bottom of which lay a pit brimming with molten firestone. All the lava tunnels eventually led to this central core. Other balconies, built up by the shooting shards of liquid rock, branched off the walls of the cavern above and below them.
Greylock could not help but flinch at the sight of the firestone, memories of his nightmare journey up the side of the pit coming back to him all at once. The men of Trold seemed stunned by the flames shooting high into the air, as if the firestone was straining to reach them. Before they could change their minds he gestured at the ledge of rock which spiraled around the core of the pit.
Snowcastles & Icetowers Page 24
