Snowcastles & Icetowers Page 12

  Before they had explored half of the cave, the muffled cries of amazement and joy they had heard after the bursting of the door grew stronger.

  Then Greylock stumbled into Mara’s blue light.

  He appeared dazed and at first did not even seem to recognize her. She left her blue flame hanging in mid-air and reached for his shoulders, shaking him violently.

  “Greylock, you must prepare! The Tyrant’s guards are coming, this minute! What is wrong with you?”

  “Mara? Ardra?” Slowly, the truth of his unexpected freedom—and his new danger—filled his awareness. By now other men were gathering around the dangling blue flame, like moths in the light of a torch.

  “Quickly!” he shouted at last. “We must escape before they seal us in again! “

  More than anything else could have, this threat seemed to alert the dazed soldiers of their danger, Revived suddenly, they bounded toward the beckoning square of light that was their only escape route—just as the light was blocked by the figure of a warrior. The guards had reached the landing just as the Underworld army surged toward it.

  The battle that followed was a bloody struggle that horrified Greylock. All his plans of conquest had depended on surprise—but they had been the ones who were surprised. Only the lucky escape of Mara had saved them from being sealed forever in a tomb beneath the Castle-Tyrant. Now evenly matched and determined armies confronted each other on the small stone landing under the snowcastle. In this strange battle, only a few men could fight at the same time, while the others watched the life and death struggle in dread, and waited to take the place of the fallen. Only the presence of the yeomen of the BorderKeep such as Harkkor saved the Underworld army from being annihilated, for only they could withstand the assault for long. There were no survivors on that awful battleground. All who entered were slain. Only the length of time they managed to stay alive changed.

  There was no danger now of the door being replaced, for it was shattered completely by the magic wind, and the Underworld army would never allow the other army to seal them in again, unless each and every soldier of the Underworld army was dead or dying. But Greylock could almost imagine that the narrow corridor would be impassable from the fallen men, for the bodies piled up between the legs of the fighters. The walls, and steps for many yards around, were red with their blood.

  At last Greylock ordered a tentative retreat, ready to rush forward again if the snowcastle’s army tried to seal them in again. As he hoped, the Tyrant’s men followed them into the chamber. This was the kind of battle he liked, where skill could save a soldier, and only his own mistakes would cost him his life. He guessed that the Tyrant’s guards also preferred this kind of death to the nightmarish slaughter on the landing.

  Moag had cast his blue light high into the cave and let it grow, with the help of his granddaughter, until it illuminated every corner of the vast cave. It seemed that neither army would surrender or retreat in this twilight battle, and that one or the other would be destroyed to the last man. A few of the men Greylock faced appeared surprised at the sight of him, and their eyes would open slightly, and their guard would drop. Greylock did not wish to take advantage of these sudden doubts, but nevertheless dispatched them without mercy. Others seemed to fight with renewed vigor at the moment of recognition, believing that it was a demon with whom they dueled.

  But the battle’s inevitable end could be seen early. Unless something could save the army of Underworlders, they were doomed. Though the forces had seemed evenly matched at the first, Greylock quickly realized that his uncle could call on all the royal snowcastles, and all the common snowcastles that owed him allegiance, for reinforcements. Despite the Lord High Mayor’s claims of the prowess of his soldiers and the indulgences he had lavished on them, they were not equal, man for man, to the soldiers of the High Plateau, trained by years of blood-feuding. The yeoman farmers, though sturdy and determined, lacked the training of constant battle that seasons an army. If only he could get close to his uncle, Greylock thought. He would not try to convince the old man this time. No feeling—not pity, or loyalty— nothing would stay his hand!

  Always before the old Tyrant had appeared at every battlefield, summoning his strength to enjoy one more glimpse of carnage. No doubt if the man could still wield a sword, he would have done that, too. His uncle must be very ill indeed, Greylock thought, not to be here now exhorting his men to further bloodshed in his royal name.

  The Steward’s staff descended three times, its iron base striking the hard rock of the steps with a screeching, piercing sound that rose above the sounds of battle. The men of both armies looked up, astonished that this strange old man, with a black crow on his shoulder, staring out into space and waiting silently for the fighting to subside, would dare to stop their war. Wondering how long the Steward had been standing there, hoping for the death of his rival, before he had become impatient enough to signal for silence, Greylock —without taking his eyes off the royal Steward —waved for his men to cease fighting. When the men of the Underworld lowered their arms, the soldiers of the High Plateau ceased their strife as well.

  Like an ancient teacher who no longer cared if any of his pupils was still there to hear him, the Steward Redfrock waited until there was absolute silence and attention before he spoke. Then he boomed with an astonishing force for a man so slender and frail, until Greylock remembered that such official announcements had been his duty, as the Tyrant’s messenger and advisor, for many years.

  “The Tyrant is dead!”

  This brought a murmur from the assembly, and a few cheers from the men of the BorderKeep, and Greylock frowned at them as the Steward intoned.

  “The throne of the Tyrant is now open! The Gatekeepers wish to speak with the one who claims to be the nephew of the Tyrant Ironclasp, the demon known as Greylock. The Gatekeepers call upon him to end this bloodshed until the manner of succession is decided—peacefully.”

  Greylock hesitated at this seemingly generous offer. He knew that as long as he was considered a demon he would have less chance with the Gatekeepers than he would by fighting. But the men of the High Plateau would fight just as fervently for the Gatekeepers as they had for the old Tyrant, until the new Tyrant was named, and the ending would be the same—the elimination of the Underworld army. They were within the Gatekeepers’ grasp, and under their brief mercy. Greylock knew the Gatekeepers to be no kinder to their enemies than the old Tyrant had been. If there was one Council Greylock would prefer to avoid in deciding the question, it was his old teachers, and old foes, the priests of the Gateway.

  Both armies parted for him expectantly and * curiously, which decided him. He could not allow the killing to go on in his name, as he had once accused his uncle of doing. He must face the Gatekeepers and somehow convince them of his identity. It would not be easy, for no one knew better than he how dogmatic they could be.

  He sheathed his replica of Thunderer and let himself be escorted by Carrell Redfrock, who turned with a sweep of his scarlet robes and led the way up the stairs with an imperial hauteur worthy of the Tyrant Ironclasp himself. The men behind them in the cavern followed them, reluctantly mingling with each other at the narrow portals of the staircase into the snowcastle.

  Greylock was not fooled by Redfrock’s seeming lack of concern over who was to be Tyrant. The old soldier would like everyone to believe that he cared only that the precious protocol be fulfilled; but Greylock knew that Carrell Redfrock was still his greatest rival and barrier to his uncle’s throne, even after the succession was decided one way or the other.

  Once the Gatekeepers named a Tyrant, he would then become a fair target for the intrigues and feuds of the Court and the Castle-Tyrant that characterized the royal family. Greylock’s uncle had been unusual in the longevity of his reign, and unusual in his repressiveness and brutality, eliminating those most likely to threaten his rule—his own family.

  At the top of the staircase, the Steward turned left toward the room where Mara had hear
d the sounds of dining earlier. Beyond was a room large enough to accommodate many of the soldiers of both armies, and the double stone thrones at one end of the room showed that it was the castle’s Court. Waiting grimly before an enormous fireplace opposite the cold thrones were a dozen of the brown-robed and white-haired priests of the Gateway. They were old only because they allowed themselves the kind of age that they denied to everyone else but the Tyrant and the Steward. Greylock suspected that there were practical as well as religious reasons for the harsh and unforgiving penalties of the Gatekeepers. The population never seemed to rise above—never was allowed to rise above—the numbers that had existed when the society had first become stable hundreds of years ago. Greylock also suspected that this was the reason so many sought to become Gatekeepers or Tyrant or Steward; the peaceful seeking priesthood, the more warlike seeking the throne, and the cunning seeking the Stewardship. Yet all went without complaint when their time came to seek the cold comfort of the gods.

  Most of the Gatekeepers were staring unhappily into the flames of the huge fire, stoked to an almost unbearable temperature, when the Steward announced Greylock, and a few of them did not look up even then. Greylock followed their gaze and saw the lump of molten Glyden deep within, with jewels lying like blackened cinders around it. Only the blade of Thunderer had endured the intense heat of the flames. It was hard for Greylock to believe that anyone would have subjected the ancient weapon and badge of office to the hot coals. Only the Steward could have done that with such impunity, and then only at the Tyrant’s command! Ironclasp could not have been in his right mind, Greylock thought, to have allowed such a thing—or perhaps he had allowed Carrell Redfrock to convince him, for it was the Steward who had the most to gain from the destruction of the family heirloom.

  It was Keyholder, the most venerable of the Gatekeepers, and Greylock’s teacher, who addressed him first.

  “Welcome, Greylock. Come forward so that we may see you.”

  Encouraged that his old teacher had not used the word demon, Greylock came forward awkwardly until he was close enough for the old priest to reach out a scrawny arm and grab him. The bright birdlike eyes searched Greylock’s face intently before letting go the painful grip.

  “You appear to be Prince Greylock …1 do not believe that a demon would look such as you. But you must understand, my boy, that we must be sure. There is no test we can go by. This has never happened before! Only Thunderer could have decided, for no demon could have possessed or even held onto the sacred blade. But your uncle has burned it! How do we decide?”

  Though he had wielded the copy of Thunderer during the battle, Greylock had since sheathed the blade, and until now had forgotten it. Apparently, the sight of Thunderer in his hands had not yet been reported to the Gatekeepers. Hesitating for only a moment, and wondering if he was not perhaps making his situation worse, he drew the replica from its crude sheathe.

  The Gatekeepers gasped when Greylock had removed entirely the makeshift gray covering from Thunderer.

  “Demon!” he heard one of them hiss, just as he had feared. “You do not fool us!”

  “It is impossible!” Redfrock objected. “A fake! I saw the Tyrant throw the blade into the fire myself!”

  “Did you, Carrell Redfrock?” Greylock said, knowing it would make no difference in the outcome. “Mara saw my uncle on his deathbed. Did he leave the Deathroom to destroy Thunderer?” Without knowing it, he had scored a point, for all the Gatekeepers knew how unlikely it was that the old Tyrant would leave the Deathroom once entering it, for they knew him to be a devout man in his last days.

  “Let me see it,” Keyholder demanded. “Let me have it!”

  Almost reluctantly, Greylock handed it over. The old priest would surely see that it was an elaborate, if magical, fake, and then he would denounce Greylock as a demon.

  “I do not understand it!” Keyholder exclaimed. Greylock had never seen his old teacher’s composure break before, even in the face of his most obnoxious student’s most serious provocations. Now he was obviously bewildered and mystified. “This is Thunderer! The real Thunderer! I recognize the markings.”

  This announcement instantly changed the atmosphere in the room, and Greylock could almost feel the threat of violence that had surrounded him lift. He realized with a surging relief that the people of the High Plateau were not aware of the kind of magic the wizard Moag had employed to create this blade.

  Yet that did not explain to him the startling similarities between the real and the fake. Or was it fake? How could the markings have been reproduced? Respectful glances were being cast in his direction as one by one the other Gatekeepers examined the blade and verified Keyholder’s identification. Then came the words Greylock had never thought he would hear spoken, but had fought so hard to hear.

  “We have decided that you are truly the person we knew as Greylock,” Keyholder announced. “You possess the proper identification of your office. The sword you bear is Thunderer—a sign of your acceptance by the gods. You are the true successor to the throne! You are the Tyrant of the High Plateau.”

  Keyholder came forward—smiling, Greylock was astounded to see—and led him to one of the stone thrones. Greylock seated himself uneasily and wondered what he should say to the audience, as they eyed him curiously.

  “My first command as Tyrant is…” The Steward Redfrock must have guessed what that command would be, for he moved with a suddenness that surprised even his Familiar, perched on his shoulder. As Redfrock moved toward the wall, only a few feet away, the black crow was unwittingly launched into the air to circle above the surprised audience in the Court chamber, cawing loudly in distress. The Steward must have positioned himself carefully when he had first entered the Court, for after a few quick hand movements behind a tapestry, the wall slid aside and he slipped through. Before anyone could react, the wall had already slid shut again, leaving the tapestry billowing in the brief gust of its passage. The soldiers following were met by a solid stone wall, which would not move aside no matter how often or in what sequence the Steward’s hand movements were duplicated.

  “It does not matter,” a troubled Greylock said at last. “Redfrock has had the time and power to make all the changes he may have wished in this snowcastle. You will not catch him now. Therefore I declare him to be banished from this kingdom, on threat of death if he should be found or if he returns.”

  “What of his Familiar?” one of the soldiers, who a few minutes ago had been fighting him, asked. The crow was still flying about the room in a panic.

  “Let it go. The Familiar will know what kind of master it has now.”

  As the doors were opened, and the bird chased from the room, Greylock turned to his allies from the BorderKeep. The Lord High Mayor looked stunned by the events, he noticed, but Harkkor was smiling broadly.

  “I congratulate you, Tyrant Greylock!” the yeoman said. “You have accomplished what you set out to do.”

  “But not all of what I wanted to prove, Harkkor. Nor has your own problem of leadership been resolved. You realize, of course, that we were betrayed?”

  The smile on Harkkor’s face had disappeared, and the big man turned on the Lord High Mayor, who cringed at the sudden threat and retreated to the same wall through which the Steward had escaped, as if it would miraculously slide apart for him as well. But the unyielding stone stopped his retreat abruptly.

  “So the left hand tunnel was the right course, Tarelton?” Harkkor said as he advanced. “You were very sure of it, and now we know why. I thought that when this time came, I would kill you gladly and without another thought. But now I foresee a better fate for you.”

  The yeoman reached out with a gauntleted hand and snatched the Familiar from the Lord High Mayor’s shoulder. No matter how it struggled and bit, the rat could not get free, and Harkkor stuffed it into a heavy leather water bag, and sealed it tightly.

  “You are no longer the Lord High Mayor, Tarelton. Your title will be simply Mayor of BorderKee
p from now on, as it was before you. And you will no longer rule us—you will serve us, night and day. You will be watched, always, as we were watched, and never will you know freedom from prying eyes or our commands.”

  Tarelton looked relieved at this judgment, but an admiring Greylock thought that the Mayor would soon rue his reprieve, if he knew anything about the people of the BorderKeep.

  There was one final matter for him to face, he thought. While the matter of his succession had been decided, he had heard the entrance of the Lady Silverfrost behind him. Now he turned to see both Silverfrost and Mara smiling at him. His heard ached at the Lady Silverfrost’s beauty, and at the thought of how much he had once loved her—and desired her still. As he had feared, Mara appeared plain and skinny beside her great beauty, but he smiled as he saw the suspicious lines curl between her eyebrows as she glanced from Silverfrost to him, and back.

  “Come, Mara! Sit beside me, as I promised.”

  An imperial and haughty Lady Silverfrost, who had always expected to be the consort of the next Tyrant—no matter who the Tyrant was—swept from the room.

  As the reign of the Tyrant Greylock began, he was already suspecting that he would have more trouble from her; more than from Steward Redfrock, Mayor Tarelton, and all his other enemies put together.