Snowcastles & Icetowers Read online

  SNOWCASTLES & ICETOWERS

  By Duncan McGeary

  A Mystique Press Production

  Mystique Press is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition Copyright © 2018 Duncan McGeary

  Original publication by Tower Publications, Inc.—1981/1982

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Duncan grew up and spent most of his life in Central Oregon, the dry side of the Cascades, and whose terrain is featured in many of his books. He wrote several books out of college, including the heroic fantasy novels Star Axe, Snowcastles, and Icetowers. In 1984, he and his wife Linda bought Pegasus Books in downtown Bend, Oregon, which they still own and operate. They also ran a used bookstore, the Bookmark, for 15 years.

  In the last five years, he’s been able to get back to writing again, and found that he has a lot of pent-up creative energy. He’s written numerous books for several different publishers, mostly in the horror or dark fantasy genres, though recently has been branching out into fantasy again, as well as thrillers.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  The Tuskers Series

  Tuskers I: Wild Pig Apocalypse

  Tuskers II: Day of the Long Pig

  Tuskers III: Omnivore Wars

  Tuskers IV: Rise of the Cloven

  The Vampire Evolution Trilogy

  Book I: Death of an Immortal

  Book II: Rule of Vampire

  Book III: Blood of Gold

  The Virginia Reed Adventures

  Led to the Slaughter

  The Dead Spend No Gold

  The Darkness You Fear

  Other books

  Star Axe

  Snowcastles & Icetowers

  Snaked

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  Table of Contents

  PART ONE: SNOWCASTLES

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  PART TWO: ICETOWERS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Other books

  PART ONE: SNOWCASTLES

  Chapter One

  When Greylock descended the peaks of Godshome he was excited, yet strangely unafraid. The winds were cold and gusty, but he no longer cared—the harsh, pitiless message in his uncle’s parting words colored his cheeks far more than the mountain winds ever could. At any other time he would have turned back, but now the words of the Tyrant still burned in his memory, and an angry, almost overwhelming resolve to prove his uncle wrong had cast out his last remaining fears of leaving the High Plateau. Exiled by his uncle, Greylock prepared to die. At times he looked over his shoulder, expecting with every glance to see the Tyrant’s soldiers rushing down the steep slopes of Godshome after him. Already his knife had tasted blood for the first time, and he wiped his hands desperately to remove the sticky, drying fluid; but it clung to the cracks of his hand.

  Above Greylock loomed the mighty crags of the mountain, wherein dwelt the gods themselves. Below him were the hot humid valleys, unnaturally green and warm; where, it was said, demons lived. A familiar litany came to mind almost unbidden. “Only on the High Plateau is it good and right and proper for man to live”—so taught the Gatekeepers, priests of the High Plateau.

  Thus it was perverse impulse—anger at his uncle, and an even greater anger at the Gatekeepers—that sent Greylock downward; to seek not the cold bosom of the gods as was expected of him, but instead, to dare the warm clammy fingers of demons. Never before had any of his kind chosen to go down from Godshome. If ever his brethren left the safety of the High Plateau, it was always upward to the sacred snows of Godshome they made their pilgrimage; never into the dreaded and unknown depths of the Underworld.

  Like every child Greylock had learned the Holy Hierarchy of Tiers early in his life; drilled into him day after day by the gatekeepers. The Third Holy Tier, the lofty heights of Godshome, was the domain of the gods. The High Plateau was the Second Holy Tier of Existence, and the home of man. The First Tier of the Underworld, the Gatekeepers had taught, was the realm of demons. Greylock smiled grimly to himself. He was going where Keyholder had always said he would go, if a bit sooner than his old teacher had imagined!

  Demons there may be, he thought, but it was his uncle’s Steward he feared the most at this moment. When Carrell Redfrock discovered the direction his prey had escaped, there would undoubtedly be pursuit. Next in the line of succession by virtue of his office, the Steward would not rest until he was certain that the only surviving blood heir was truly dead. Greylock knew that the Steward no more believed in demons or gods than he did, but Carrell Redfrock would be relying on the cold ice of Godshome to rid him of his rival. He would not be certain of the deadliness of the Underworld’s mythical denizen’s.

  His uncle, the Tyrant, had long ago fallen under the sway of the Steward Redfrock’s intrigues. One by one, Greylock’s brothers and cousins had been banished from the High Plateau, until only he survived. But his uncle had grown old, and had ignored his youngest nephew for so long that, for a short time, Greylock had hoped he could frustrate the Steward’s schemes, and escape the fate the other members of the royal family had suffered. Then, one day, he too had dared to raise his voice in protest against the foolish teachings of the Gatekeepers, as had his three brothers before him. Too late, he had noticed the presence of his uncle’s Steward hovering in the doorway.

  Greylock could still summon the awesome scene that had passed before him that morning. He could still see the Steward Redfrock standing behind the throne, bending low, whispering the malicious rumor of his heresy into the Tyrant’s ears; could still remember his uncle looking up, searching for him, at la
st seeing his only nephew across the crowded Court; could still feel within him the fear the Tyrant’s icy gaze had created; could still hear his uncle’s words ringing in his mind

  “You are not of my family!” the Tyrant had roared. “You are Demon-spawn! I should have destroyed you the same day I discovered the perversion of your mother—and cast you down to the First Tier with her. Begone, Demon! I do not wish to see your kind in my Court again.”

  Already suffering from his final illness, the Tyrant still had enough spite and strength to rid his kingdom of the last threat from his own blood. Though the old man must have known he was dying, he had exiled the only legitimate claimant to the throne.

  His uncle was hopelessly senile, Greylock realized sadly—or why would he have said such things? His mother had died at his birth—so Key- holder had told him, and the old priest had been there! Greylock could only shake his head in dismay at his uncle’s foolishness. There would be months of bloodshed when the now hidden rivals emerged to fight for the title of Tyrant; and the ancient tradition of the men of the High Plateau to challenge their Tyrants would make the throne unstable for years to come. The Steward would find that not even his brutal tactics could secure his ambition without a long and bloody struggle.

  Greylock knew that Carrell Redfrock would not cease in his efforts to destroy him until the throne, the wealth of the royal family, and—most especially—the Lady Silverfrost, were firmly and finally his. Once the Steward had taken Silverfrost as his wife, his power would be as secure as Greylock’s had promised to be. If only Silverfrost had wed me long ago! Greylock thought. He would not have been exiled if he had married the Tyrant’s only daughter, no matter what the blasphemy. But she had remained infuriatingly undecided up to the very moment of his exile.

  His face flushed in anger as he recalled his leave-taking of her from the icetower of Castle-Guardian, overlooking the green garden of its Icemelt.

  “Why do you not do as you are told, Greylock?” she’d asked petulantly. “Why must you always do what is forbidden? If you had not been so rebellious—if only I could have been sure of you—we would have married, and this would never have happened.” She was idly pulling the red petals of a snowflower and letting them drop onto the fragrant shrubs far below. The petals made their way down through the leaves and fell lightly onto the dark earth, warmed by the volcanic activity beneath the High Plateau.

  Greylock reined his impatience and tried once more to explain why he had chosen to journey to the Underworld.

  “If I go upward to the Three Peaks, I shall die. I must prove that your father is wrong about the Gateway. If I can find the true course of the path, he will have to take me back. Don’t you see that, Silverfrost?”

  “Hurry, Greylock!” his sister, Ardra, had hissed from the door of the icetower’s uppermost room, where she and Slimspear had stationed themselves nervously to watch for any sign of discovery by the Steward’s soldiers.

  Silverfrost turned from the open window, her light blond hair appearing truly silver as it caught the last rays of moonlight. Her face was uncharacteristically serious.

  “You should trust in the gods, Greylock. Just this once, you should place your faith in them. If you did not doubt them so, Father would not have exiled you.”

  “You know I do not believe there is anything on the peaks of Godshome but the frozen bodies of other exiles; all of them blameless—sent there by the schemes of Carrell Redfrock. I intend to return and fight him, Silverfrost! But you must promise me that you will have nothing to do with him until I return. He is evil!”

  “You know that I loathe him!” There was no mistaking the hate in her voice. By now, the first rays of sunlight were glinting off the white snows of the plateau and into the window of the icetower, already raising cold sweat from its walls.

  “They are coming!” Slimspear shouted, and at the same moment Greylock heard the sounds of soldiers rushing up the icy steps notched into the tower. Four of the Steward’s men burst into the tower room, bowling over the rotund shape of Slimspear, and rushed toward Greylock. The first soldier was impaled on his long royal knife, and in the stunned confusion that followed, Greylock shouted a hasty farewell to his sister and friend, thrust on his Talons, and leaped through the window, catching at the ice with the sharp claws to break his fall.

  Luckily, Castle-Guardian, the snowcastle of his friend Slimspear’s family, was perched on one corner of the huge glacial plateau that nestled between the Three Peaks of Godshome, looming over the tattered remnant of the trail called the Gateway. Since his route of escape was so near and unexpected, Greylock was able to leave the High Plateau without further challenge.

  Suddenly, Greylock tripped over some loose rubble on the path, and almost pitched out over the steep cliff that bordered his road. Brought back to the present by this dangerous stumble, he watched his step carefully. The treacherous mountain trail was seldom used, and in places had crumbled away altogether. At its widest, the trail was no more than a few yards across, and at its most narrow there was no trail at all. Finally Greylock was forced to use his Talons—the slivers of animal horn with which the men of the High Plateau could grip the sheer and frozen sides of cliffs.

  At first the sweet full air of the lower elevations had been like nectar to his spirits, adding spring to his step and a broad, brave smile to his face. Now the heat began to raise the sweat on his body, and the thicker air threatened to burst his lungs. His tread became heavy, firm, as if he could only by this solid step convince himself that he could go on. As it grew warmer—unnaturally hot, his senses told him—he kept his eyes open warily for any sign of demons.

  He was by now within the layer of clouds that always carpeted the High Plateau, hiding the Underworld, and all he could see was a few feet of gray rock, glistening with moisture. He was relieved that he had not discarded his outer garments, in spite of what he considered an unbearable temperature. At any moment now the snows would begin to fall.

  But the moisture he had detected never turned white, but instead began to fall as a thick, cloying rain. The wet droplets confused Greylock. Never before had he been below the snowline, and this soaking rain was more disconcerting to him than anything he had yet faced! Even in midsummer, the clouds dropped only snow or ice on the High Plateau; never in memory had the temperature risen above freezing.

  Suddenly—unexpectedly—he heard voices ahead. He stopped and peered fearfully into the murk. Demons! he thought, and just as quickly he was disgusted with his superstitious reaction. He didn’t even believe in demons! He must control this foolishness! At these stern thoughts, the voices disappeared, confirming to Greylock that his fears were creating imaginary enemies. When he continued, he was purposefully striving to subdue his fears, and he stupidly, almost disastrously, failed to guard the trail behind him. Four soldiers, wearing the black crow insignia of the Steward, and moving with nervous and stealthy speed down the mountain path, were able to surprise him completely.

  One of the soldiers could not keep from bellowing a shout of triumph at the sight of their prey, and only this warned Greylock in time. He whirled around, knife in hand just in time to deflect the first blow. He followed this parry with a stab under the extended arm of the soldier, who was pinned with a shocked look against the rock of the cliff. Then the other three soldiers were on him, and he went down heavily in a swirl of arms and legs. Greylock kicked out strongly, and connected. One of the attackers rolled over the cliff, and Greylock could hear his Talons scratch twice—and then heard the man scream as the claws failed to catch. To his dismay he saw the Steward’s pet, a huge black mountain crow, fluttering onto the trail above them. The bird watched the fight from a safe distance, smoothing its feathers fastidiously. Greylock briefly wondered how much the bird understood, and for the first time he even wondered if the shiny black bird could somehow communicate with its master.

  Suddenly, Greylock realized that they did not mean to kill him at all, but were seeking to capture him. Perhaps the Ty
rant has changed his mind, he thought wildly. Far more likely, the Steward Redfrock wished to witness his rival’s death personally, and had sent his noisome pet to oversee the capture.

  Again Greylock thought he could hear voices drifting up the trail, even from beneath the heaving bodies and muffled grunts of his captors, and he cursed his mind for playing tricks on him at such a time. He was already attributing intelligence to that bird; now he was hearing demons!

  This time the soldiers also seemed to hear the sounds, and Greylock found himself struggling with men who were frozen with fear. Suddenly they released him, getting to their feet hastriyp- ready at that moment to face even the wrath of the Steward Redfrock rather than confront demons. Greylock also rose, at first wary and confused by his sudden freedom, but he quickly saw that the soldiers were not even paying attention to him. Instead they were peering fearfully into the thick fog. Even the crow had cocked its head at the unexpected sounds.

  “Demons!” Greylock hissed, and the soldiers were gone, vanishing into the concealing safety of the clouds. The crow cawed once as it hopped nimbly out of the way of the retreating men, but it remained. Greylock thought with a smile that they would probably not stop running until they were safely behind the massive white walls of the snow- castles of the High Plateau. He threw a rock after them, attempting in the’ same throw to hit the crow. But the crow dodged the stone, and remained poised to take off at the slightest threat from anything other than Greylock.

  Greylock turned with grim determination toward the sounds. If he could not go up, then he would have to face the owners of those ghostly voices! Listening carefully, he found that the accents were strange, but except for a few words, he could understand them. There were at least two people from the sounds of the voices, an old man and a young girl. The girl was chastising her companion unmercifully.