In his musings, he failed to hear the faint crackling of undergrowth behind him—at least, not until it was too late. When the guard finally sensed a presence, he whirled, raising his axe. But here again his reactions were a fraction of a second too slow.
The great, jagged-edged blade of bronze dropped into the dwarf’s shoulder, nearly severing his head. Instantly slain, the poor fellow tumbled to the ground while his attacker crept past his crumpled body.
The killer was a huge troll, and he had to bend nearly double to force his way into the thicket. He was further handicapped by the fact that he lacked one hand, the left, which had been chopped off above the wrist. A file of ragged trolls followed him through the tangled path.
Nevertheless, the hulking creatures soon reached the central clearing. They tore at the earth and shrubs, seeking something, and it was only a matter of moments before the great, one-handed troll pried open the tree trunk to reveal the passage leading into the ground.
* * * * *
A flaming chariot came to rest beside Deirdre Kendrick, and she welcomed the arrival of her ally. The Exalted Inquisitor joined the princess at the base of the Icepeak, knowing that the schemes of the gods approached fruition.
In preparation for their ultimate triumph, it was necessary for the princess to master a new aspect of clerical might, the enchantment that would enable them to clear the path for the entry of the New Gods. The magical mastery was beyond even the patriarch’s skill, yet with his knowledge and experience, coupled with the clear favor of the gods, the man taught the woman what she needed to know.
Deirdre learned a spell reserved for gods and those of near godly power, for it affected the very fundament of the worlds. Through the immortal core of her body—the core formed by the shards of the shattered mirror—the ability came to her from the vastness of the cosmos. The princess was more than an agent to the gods; she was a part of them, an extension of their might in the world.
Thus they gave her the key to control—the thing that would allow her to master those who would, who must inevitably serve her. The spell they gave her offered control of the cadence of life, of the grand progression of events and existence that wove itself into the tapestry of life and history.
For Deirdre had been given the power to bring time itself to a stop.
* * * * *
Stirrings on Oman’s Isle brought a chill to the body of the Earthmother. For ages of mortal time, the Peaksmasher had lain dormant, safely cocooned beneath the greatest mountain in the domain of the goddess. His threat had been countered once, when she was young and strong, and since that time her body had served as his bier.
Now she felt the assault of Talos and Helm, the powerful pressure of the New Gods. Her great druid would labor in her name, she knew, but she would not be enough. In order to prevail, the Earthmother would need more.
She would need nothing less than the aid of an immortal ally.
15
Grond Peaksmasher
It took three days for the firbolgs to descend from the steep summit of Icepeak and skirt the base of the mountain. After the first steep descent, the trail mellowed into rolling woodland country. The giants traversed a series of gentle ridges that fanned out from the Icepeak like spokes from a hub. Finally they approached the massif from the north. Here only one narrow valley trailed downward, and so the reputed prison of the Peaksmasher was easy to find.
During the course of their long backtrack, Thurgol came to see the wisdom of Garisa’s observation. Indeed, what difference could three days more or less make to an imprisonment that had already spanned a dozen centuries or more? Also—and somewhat soothing to Thurgol’s ego—the shaman hadn’t once tried to point out the fact that she had been correct in her initial suggestion of their path. The mountain heights had proven too much of a challenge even for the determined firbolgs. Her restraint was very unfirbolg-like behavior, and even as he appreciated the respite from her sharp tongue, Thurgol found himself wondering about her reasons.
The giantess, marching stolidly with the great axe across her shoulder, gave him some clue when she spoke to him on the trail.
“Grond Peaksmasher …” she mused wonderingly. “What will he do? We bring him the axe, chop him free of the ice—and then what will he do?”
“He will be grateful,” Thurgol asserted. “We are his children, are we not?”
Garisa didn’t answer the question directly. “It was a long time ago when he came to the Moonshaes. Since his imprisonment, we firbolgs have lived a good life. Gwynneth has been a good home.”
“Not all so good—remember the dwarves,” the chieftain countered.
“Are they evil? Dwarves let us live by ourselves. Maybe we should have left them alone.”
“Why say this now? It’s too late!”
“You are right, young chieftain. Here we are—our home is very distant.”
“True … we have gone far,” Thurgol agreed. “We’re almost to the end now.”
“But what end is it? Do we take a new master who will drive the humans from the isles? What purpose does he have—and, through him, do we have?”
“We have to wait for that,” the chieftain declared pragmatically.
“Wait … yet not wait,” Garisa muttered, half to herself. “It all comes too soon.”
By the middle of the third day, they had ascended far up the narrow northern valley, picking their way in single file along many sheer precipices. Below them splashed a river of ice-cold water, flanked by groves of lush, dark pines. The trail followed the sloping mountainside some distance above the streambed, and the giant-kin beheld a similar, rock-faced ridge across the valley. The chieftain led the way, eagerly looking forward every time they came around a bend or past a thick clump of trees.
And then finally there it was.
Or was it?
They came around a rocky shoulder to see a sweeping wall of ice. The glacier filled the circular terminus of the deep, narrow valley. Thurgol was astounded by the clear reality before him. How could such an expanse of frost survive the hot months of summer? Indeed, though it was still massive, the surface before him was pocked with melting, pitted by dirt and stone and debris. In fact, the ice was more gray on the surface than white or clear.
“It’s true,” the chieftain breathed, awestruck, as Garisa hobbled up behind him. She gasped as she saw what he meant.
Barely visible, solidly encased within the vast sheet of frozen water, the image of a colossal figure was barely discernible, towering as high as a small mountain in its own right. The cloudy ice obscured much detail, but they could see icy ledges that might have been eyebrows, a trailing slope of slate gray rock that flowed like a beard from other granite crags that looked remarkably like cheeks and jowls.
Neither of them saw the human woman concealed in the rocks at the base of the great glacier. Now, her dark eyes flashing, that observer watched the firbolgs from a shadowy, cavelike niche. She had waited days, with growing impatience, but now at last the giants were here!
Gradually the whole file of firbolgs came up the steep-walled valley. Very slowly Thurgol led them in the final stages of the ascent. He thought that the base of the ice sheet was the logical place to go, and Garisa did not demur. Climbing a steep slope of shattered rock, the giantess ignored her chieftain’s offers of help. She had carried the axe this far, she declared, and she would see it to its final destination herself!
A few minutes later, the band had gathered at the foot of the massive figure, staring in awe and deference at the form they distinguished amid the ice. The semitranslucent coating obscured all but the crudest details, yet they saw clearly that the colossal object was unspeakably huge, undeniably lifelike in form.
Slowly, reverently, Thurgol took the Silverhaft Axe from the stooped shaman. The shaft felt right and proper in his hands, the blade perfectly balanced in its crystalline beauty. The chieftain felt as if he had been born to the weapon’s use, though in fact he had never wielded an axe for other t
han woodcutting.
He approached the base of the steep glacier, passing between huge, squarish blocks of blue ice, scrambling up several large rocks until he stood before the uninterrupted surface. Gleaming and pure, uncracked, the glacier swept upward, curling through the end of the narrow valley.
In her niche, the black-haired woman remained silent and intent, staring with raw tension at the giant-kin and his mighty axe. She held her breath as he climbed toward the glacier’s base, watched him heft the weapon, check its balance in his hands.
Thurgol raised the axe over his head, gathering all the strength of his giant muscles for the most important blow of his life. The ice seemed so smooth, so perfect, that it seemed a shame to scar it, but he felt no regrets. For the first time since embarking from Blackleaf, he had the feeling that he did something purely, unalterably right and proper.
He swung the axe, and the crystal blade bit through the surface of the glacier. A great, twisting crack snarled its way up the smooth face, and chunks of ice, some the size of a human’s house, tumbled free, rolling and smashing down the steep slope. But Thurgol stood firm, ignoring the shattering ice on either side, awaiting the results of his action, the will of the gods.
Then the woman in the rock niche raised her hands and whispered the words to a spell, too softly for any of the giant-kin to hear over the din of the crumbling glacier. And as she spoke, the power of her own magic took hold of the valley before her.
And time stood still.
* * * * *
Tavish had traveled a great deal in her life, had endured many months of exposure to weather, many meals of substandard food, long days of wearying travel and exhausting nights of frequently interrupted sleep. Yet never in her six decades of life, she knew, had she been so tired, so hungry, and so cold.
She had followed the firbolg party onto the slopes of the Icepeak, in fact almost blundering into the giant-kin as they backtracked down their trail. Scrambling into a dense stand of pines, Tavish had held her breath as the column marched past within an easy stone’s throw of her hiding place.
Then, of course, she, too, had reversed her course, following the plain trail of the giants as they returned to the lowlands and made the long, circuitous passage around the base of the mountain. Her steady pursuit had left the bard little time for food gathering, and she hadn’t dared light a fire that might reveal her position, so she had grown progressively weaker, colder, and more miserable during the course of the trek.
Then had come the final, terrifying climb up the steep approaches of this cliff-walled vale, until she once again reached a vantage over the giant-kin. Now she crouched among the rocks on the mountainside, half a mile from the glacier but high enough for a clear view of the ice sheet and the firbolg party gathered at its base. And yet, as fatigued and uncomfortable as she was here, she wouldn’t have been anywhere else in the world, given the fascinating nature of the events going on before her.
First came the astounding effect of the axe’s blow against the glacier as the gaping crack shivered its way upward across the face of the ice. In the immediate following moment, some kind of magic seemed to halt the firbolgs in their tracks.
Tavish stared in astonishment as the giant-kin froze like statues, immobile and apparently unaware. They remained fixed in the actions they had been engaged in, some who had been walking growing rigid to the point of having one leg raised, ready to take the next step, though not yet coming into contact with the ground. Even more strange, several blocks of tumbling ice hung suspended in the air, their plummeting descent halted by the unseen force.
But Tavish’s surprise grew to astonishment as she saw the black-haired young woman emerge from concealment and walk boldly among the unaware humanoids. Squinting—her eyes were not the keen tools of observation they had been twenty years earlier—she studied the flowing hair with its suggestion of familiarity, and she thought that she recognized the woman’s confident gait.
Tavish saw the great chieftain, the one who had bested the troll on the dock and who had guided his ship across the Strait of Oman, now bearing the great, diamond-bladed axe in his hands. He stood as though in thoughtful repose, observing the jagged, narrow crack that shot up the face of ice following the impact of his blow, the axe held loosely at his waist.
As the tiny female figure clambered up the boulders, Tavish saw that her target was the giant wielding the great axe. With some difficulty, the woman scrambled up the last high boulder and tugged the Silverhaft Axe from the frozen hands of the rigid firbolg. The weapon was huge, and appeared to be quite heavy, yet the princess drew it free without apparent effort.
She turned, her black hair swirling around her head as her face exploded into an expression of fierce triumph, and the bard recognized her for certain: This was Princess Deirdre Kendrick! Why the woman, youngest daughter of her friends, should be here remained a mystery to the harpist, yet Tavish sensed something very wrong, dangerously evil, in the scene she currently witnessed.
Carefully Tavish crept through the broken talus, working her way from rock to rock while she kept her eyes on the tableau below. She saw Deirdre climb down, clutching the axe. Then the princess passed through the band of firbolgs and stood still, her back to Tavish, as if she waited for something.
In another moment, the bard saw what that was: the end of the spell that had frozen the giant-kin in time. Tavish heard a popping sound in the air, and abruptly the firbolgs resumed the activities that had been interrupted. Those in the midst of taking a step concluded the gesture smoothly, as if there had been no spell, no delay of any kind.
The suspended blocks of ice tumbled around them, shattering and cracking down the slope. The sound echoed through the valley, but the dodging firbolgs avoided most of the shards. Indeed, they had already dodged the iceblocks several minutes before, moving out of the way and now watching the debris as if it had continued its plunge quite uninterrupted.
Only the chieftain, standing upon the rock and staring up at the glacier, noticed a change. He bellowed in alarm, spinning on the rock and shouting to his tribesmen, shaking his empty fists. Tavish sensed what had happened: No instant of time had passed for the giant-kin within the sphere of Deirdre’s powerful spell. To the great firbolg warrior, it must have seemed as if the axe had vanished instantaneously from his hands.
Then the great giant-kin’s eyes fell upon the human figure standing beyond his comrades below … the young woman who bore the Silverhaft Axe in her hands. His jaw fell in astonishment, but a moment later, fury contorted his face, and he sprang down from the mountainside in great, leaping bounds. The other firbolgs, sensing the focus of their chieftain’s rage, turned in astonishment to regard the impudent human.
“Stop!” ordered the Princess of Callidyrr, her voice ringing in countless echoes from the surrounding cliffs. The tone of command was unmistakable, but Tavish was nevertheless astounded when the hulking giant, twice as tall and five times as massive as the woman, slowed his charge to a walk and finally came to a standstill, staring angrily at Deirdre.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice rumbling deep in the familiar words of the common tongue.
“I am your mistress—the one who holds the Silverhaft Axe and whose commands you will obey.”
“I owe no fealty to the bearer of the axe,” shot back the firbolg chief. He took another step toward the princess.
“Would you see it destroyed?” she demanded, raising the shaft and holding the crystalline edge over a chunk of solid granite.
“It would take one mightier than you to break that blade,” the firbolg replied, confident again. He took another step toward Deirdre.
A sound rumbled through the valley like a thunderclap, and they all looked to the sky, expecting to see black clouds rolling in, perhaps bolts of lightning exploding toward the ground. Yet the heavens remained blue and pastoral, with a few puffy clouds the only harbingers of moisture. Surely none of these vaporous wisps had issued that mighty clap of thunder!
The sound was repeated, and like Deirdre’s voice, the noise echoed over and over, rolling down the narrow valley like a volley of distant explosions. This time, Tavish could see the source, and it was a revelation that drained the blood from her face and set her stomach roiling.
The crack on the giant glacier grew! Now spider web fissures ran through the ice to the right and left, extending outward from the gash created by the chieftain’s original blow. Once again the crashing sound rumbled through the vale, and this time pieces of ice broke from the surface to plummet dizzyingly toward the base of the glacier and the watching firbolgs and human gathered there.
The giant-kin hastily scrambled away from the tumbling debris as more and more sheets of compressed ice broke away and plunged downward. The first of these shattered against the rocks at the glacier’s base, exploding upward in shimmering curtains of white frost. Others cracked into larger pieces, sending blocks the size of boulders tumbling through the air, falling and smashing among the fleeing firbolgs.
Only the princess stood firm, facing the breaking glacier and bearing the axe easily in her hands, as if it were a talisman that could protect her from all harm. In fact, Tavish wondered if that might be the truth. Certainly the plunging debris and deadly flying rocks gave the young princess a wide berth, while the panic-stricken firbolgs had been driven well back from the glacier.
Again the crack sounded through the valley, and this time the gap in the glacier widened visibly, revealing in clarity the granite-featured form imprisoned there. More rubble spewed outward, crashing around the figures below. Now the Peaksmasher appeared, and for the first time, Tavish could see that only the giant’s torso was visible. The body from the waist downward was sunk into the ground, as if part of the bedrock itself. Though the giant flexed its chest and shoulders, sending more debris tumbling and crashing, it seemed to be firmly rooted in place. Even only half-visible, however, Grond Peaksmasher loomed like a small mountain overhead!
The Druid Queen Page 28
