Snowcastles & Icetowers Page 22

  The entire mountainside was honeycombed with these narrow caves and crevasses, he realized after a while, existing unsuspected in a network just a few yards beneath the snowpack of the glacier.

  But try as he might, he could penetrate no deeper into the mountain than this shallow depth. All he had really succeeded in doing, he realized with disgust, was to climb higher up the mountain, which he could have done much easier on the surface.

  He stopped his search, frustrated, as night fell. He was determined to search every one of the myriad of caves until one of them opened into the Gateway. For he was certain that this was the avenue into the huge, legendary passage.

  The dull, soft light of morning was just enough to wake him. He began his wandering search again, this time with enough foresight to mark the passages he had already explored. This day, as on the day before, he often came across likely exits from the glacier, but he was no longer interested in these. Time enough to find his way out of the maze, he thought, when his food and strength were exhausted.

  From the distance he covered that morning, in contrast to the number of caves he found already marked, Greylock knew that these little tunnels, with their rivulets of glacier water running through them, were infinite.

  It was growing steadily colder, and he knew that he was now much higher than the night before. As it began to darken through the ice, though still early afternoon, he decided to give up the futile search in favor of one night’s rest in the warm valley of the Homeland. It was apparent to him now that his search for the Gateway would not be immediately successful, and though only two days had passed he could see enough of the enormity of the task ahead to consider going back to the High Plateau by way of the old man’s detour after all. But he quickly discarded this idea; he had no intention of ever facing the Wyrrs without an answer again.

  He came upon a likely looking upward turn in the maze, and began to follow the slight incline up toward the roof of ice. Taking out his talons again, he began to dig at the snow, making little progress before nightfall. He realized with disappointment that he would have to spend another night on the mountain.

  Though his supplies were getting low, he decided to continue his search the next morning, and return in the afternoon to hack his way through the rest of the covering layer.

  He had already taken the turn he was looking for before he was truly aware that he was descending in a seemingly straight line into the bowels of the mountain. Retracing his steps, and marking each twist and turn carefully, he returned to the exit of the night before. With the energy of his excitement, he quickly chopped his way through the same barrier he had made so little progress against just a few hours before.

  He was blinded by the intense glare of the sun. Finally, after many long minutes of adjustment, he dared open his eyes to squint out.

  He was far up the mountain, perhaps near the top of the glacier, though he could not tell for sure from this point. There was absolutely nothing to mark the spot he had emerged from, and he knew that he would lose sight of the small hole in the glacier after only a few yards.

  Though he was anxious to start his exploration of the new cave, he patiently dragged every bit of loose rubble he could find on the floor of the crevasse, until he had built a large shelter on the snows above. Even then he realized that it would be hard to find, but he was confident that he knew its approximate location on the mountain.

  The dim light of the sun, trying to make its way through the thick ice of the glacier, was left quickly behind, and at the entrance to the inner cave Greylock chose to light one of the remaining torches. He needed the light, he thought, at least until he had fathomed the general direction and condition of this new tunnel.

  Though the corridor continued to lead into the mountain, it was a disappointing avenue. It twisted constantly, narrowing in places so much that Greylock was forced to inch his way through on his hands and knees; once, he was even compelled to squeeze his way under a swooping, craggy roof on his belly. Often he had to clear away dirt and rubble to enlarge the passage.

  It would be difficult, if not impossible, he realized, to lead the Wyrrs along this route. Certainly, there was no sign of man’s markings in this tunnel, either in its making or its design. He guessed that no man had ever traveled its length, and that it was not the Gateway.

  He quickly lost all sense of time, and when the last torch went out Greylock was totally disoriented. His only comfort was that he could no longer see the roof flickering, seeming to come down on top of him.

  He had overestimated his ability to proceed by touch alone, he quickly discovered, and the effect that darkness would have on him. Only the knowledge that he had already traveled a great distance into the mountain kept him moving forward. The sense of panic crept up on him so slowly that when he jumped at the sound of a falling rock and hit his head on the roof of the tunnel, he was surprised at his own tenseness. It was the fear of being buried alive, he realized. The custom of his people was to face death alone, outside, on the bright surface of the mountain, not within its dark, dank interior. Now that ingrained instinct was rebelling against his goal to reach the center of Godshome.

  After hours of this steadily mounting pressure, Greylock abandoned his careful touching of the path and began to move down the tunnel in panic, hoping desperately for an end to the darkness.

  He was able to avoid the worst of the sudden dives of the roof by reaching with his outstretched arms, but when the path abruptly ended under his feet, he was unable to stop his fall.

  He imagined that he could hear the sounds of a crackling fire and the words of the wizard Moag.

  “Why do you not listen to my advice?” the old man seemed to demand, querulously. “Why do you not trust your earth magic? Let it guide you and protect you, Greylock. No light will keep you as safe. Let the earth magic work through you.”

  Greylock did not answer, for the thought of a fire dominated his thoughts. Why did the fire not warm him? he wondered angrily. Why did the fire not light the cave?

  Suddenly, the sounds of sparks turned to their elemental opposite, into the cold spray of water. Then the flow of the water expanded around him, threatening to engulf him. It seemed to lift him and toss him headlong down into a rushing whirlpool.

  Finally, when the fright grew intolerable, Greylock’s eyes popped open.

  He was awake, he realized, but the sound of falling water, sounding deceptively like the roar of a fire, did not go away with his consciousness. His brow was wet from the steadily dripping spray. He blinked as his eyes were filled with water, and sat up coughing.

  He moved away from the small, but irritating flow of water hastily. It was only then that he realized the extent of his injuries.

  Once again his legs had been saved from injury only because he had instead landed awkwardly on his upper torso. This time his left arm was made useless, hanging limply down at his side, sending stabs of pain if he moved it. But motion was unavoidable, he quickly discovered, for when he walked it seemed to flap against his side. He clenched his teeth, and allowed himself to moan.

  Now was the time, he thought, to light the last small sliver of a torch he possessed. Working painfully with one arm, dreading to drop it onto the wet surface of the cave’s floor, he managed to finally light the taper. It sputtered in the mists, threatening to go out at any moment.

  Raising the pitiful light over his head, and moving away from the small falls of icy water, he desperately scanned his surroundings. The faint light slowly illuminated a giant cavern.

  The floor of the cavern was a jumble of boulders, which had fallen from a roof far above, lost from view. The slabs sent shadows stretching across the cave. The walls were honeycombed with many small tunnels, much like the one he had emerged from a few yards overhead.

  Though Greylock tried to memorize every feature of the huge cave, the taper quickly flickered out in his hand, burning his fingers. But just before the light faded from his eyes, Greylock saw a large tunnel about halfway u
p the surface of the walls, an unnaturally square portal. As the taper sputtered into darkness, Greylock realized that he had found the Gateway at last.

  Climbing over and around the huge blocks of stone with one hand and in the dark required all his skills and power. He could only guess at the location of the portal that he had glimpsed so tantalizingly in the last few moments of light. In that brief second Greylock had judged that one of the boulders, an almost square block, reached very near the mouth of the Gateway. But the stone, which he had readily recognized by its shape far across the cavern, became featureless and impossible to find by touch alone.

  He forced himself to climb each likely boulder of the same size and height, which quickly consumed most of his remaining energy. Accustomed to judging his own needs for food and rest on the cycles of the sun, he had no idea how long he had gone without sustenance.

  It could have been hours, or days, he thought. He could no longer tell.

  When he finally found the Gateway, he cursed himself for wasting time on lesser caves. He had wanted to be sure that he would not miss it, and by so doing he had lingered much too long over unlikely caves. When he touched the Gateway, he recognized it for what it was at once.

  The floor of the corridor was smooth and carved, the stone cut at right angles and crafted with precision. There was no mistaking its features for the haphazard lines of a natural cave.

  He crawled onto the wet surface of the floor gratefully, and curled up. He told himself that it was important that he eat something, but sleep was already overtaking him; to stir was too difficult, even if it meant never waking up.

  When he awoke, he knew that he would have to finish the journey this day—or he never would. His clothes were soiled, damp, and uncomfortable, and after one last meager meal, his pack was empty. He started to toss away the bag, but at the last moment he held onto it.

  He moved down the broad corridor, strangely confident that nothing more could happen to him now that he had found the Gateway. He walked with assurance, certain that he could tell by the echoes of his footsteps that the path was solid. The echoes promised an unbroken and unhindered path.

  Perhaps because the uncertainty and fear were gone, he realized that he trusted his own instincts, that which the wizard Moag had called earth magic.

  As he trailed his right hand along the wall, his fingers stuttered across a series of grooves. Stopping to investigate further, he found that the wall was carved with reliefs. He could not tell with his untutored sense of touch what the carvings revealed, but he was certain that they were manmade, kept unnaturally sharp by the protection of the earth.

  Suddenly he stopped, stamping his foot on the surface of the tunnel, and listened intently. The returning echoes did not sound right, he thought, as though somehow muted and muffled.

  As he proceeded cautiously, he began to feel a soft warm mist falling over his head and arms. As the mist became thicker, he realized that it was this fluid barrier that had strangled the sound of his echoes.

  The mist soon soaked him to the bone, and though it was warm, he dreaded its touch, for later, he knew, this warm, caressing liquid could as easily turn icy cold.

  After a while he realized that he could see through the clinging mists. A soft red glow was illuminating the droplets of water; the sound of the spray began to turn into the rushing of steam.

  The tunnel suddenly opened up over an enormous pit, apparently created long after the Gateway had been built. A waterfall tumbled from its walls far above, forming a veil of steam when it struck the hot lava that filled the pit.

  The upward-reaching flames proved more powerful than the water, clearing the air of mists, sending them reeling into the Gateway. Both of these elements had proven more powerful than the surface of the Gateway.

  The tunnel continued on the other side, but the melting force of the firestone sheared it cleanly. It was too far for him to reach by jumping, he realized with a sinking feeling.

  It was only then that the Tyrant knew that he had been deluding himself. He had hoped that the Gateway was still unchanged beneath the mountain, and he had ignored the signs. In the back of his mind he had hoped that they could rebuild where necessary. He realized now that this was beyond the skills of his people, perhaps even beyond the skills of the gods. The elements worked against them: the cold rushing water, the hot firestone, the dank, stuffy air. Too much time had passed since the tunnel had been abandoned, a long time even by the measure of the earth. The active volcano that was Godshome had swallowed up the Gateway, and had left only fragments for Greylock to find.

  The lava of the pit was flowing downward, he saw, sending only the heat of its flames upward. Somewhere under the surface of the lava must be an opening, he reflected. If that exit were to be blocked, the lava would quickly rise to fill the chamber.

  As he thought this, the level seemed to rise imperceptibly. When he looked more closely, the lava shot upward a few more inches, and then started to rise steadily. The steam began to sting his bare skin. Hiding his face, gasping in the mist, he reeled backward into the relative safety of the Gateway.

  The water touching the firestone turned instantly into a scalding steam. But at the same moment, Greylock noticed, the water briefly blackened the red flow. It seemed to him that the volume of water was growing as well—and then he was sure of it.

  The threatening lava ceased to rise at last, only inches from the lip of the Gateway. As the mountain water continued to cascade down it in increased flow, Greylock suddenly saw a way to reach the other side. The lava began to move sluggishly, even congealing.

  He ripped his empty pack into strips and tied them around his feet. He would have to choose his moment carefully, for at any time the lava could begin flowing again, or the waterfall could subside. Either occurrence would destroy his already slim chances.

  The searing heat threatened to destroy his lungs, but holding his breath, he started to move across the hardening lava. He tried not to put his weight too much on either foot, but this proved impossible. Skating across, rather than punching down with his weight, seemed to help. It was almost like walking across crusted snow barely thick enough to hold him, he thought. Only this time his leg would be burned if he fell through. Several times a sickening crunch revealed that he had put too much pressure on the crust, but he did not dare stop.

  Then he was on the other side. He fell to his knees. His stomach heaved in relief. The dull ache of his feet slowly came to him, the pungent odor of burned flesh. Would he be forced to end his journey on his hands and knees? he wondered in anguish. How could he help the Wyrrs if he was a cripple? How would he defend the High Plateau from the mercenaries of King Kasid?

  Somehow, he managed to rise to his feet, for the next thing he knew he was stumbling down the Gateway, his feet numbed and blistered. Later he would realize that he must have walked in a fog for many hours, for when he once more became aware of his surroundings he was very near the end of his journey.

  He recognized the huge cavern below the High Plateau by its size and shape. But from the intensity of the heat, he guessed that he was much lower in the cavern than he had ever been before.

  Tiredly, he peered upward and spotted a narrow ledge spiraling up around the sides of the pit. He ventured onto it, hugging the wall, and began to inch his way along it. Several times he was almost pitched into the cavern by the weakness in his knees. The last few yards were the hardest, as his legs felt ready to collapse at any moment, trembling under the effort to stay taut. Finally, there was only the crusted lava of the tunnel that led to Castle Tyrant to surmount. He pitched over it, falling safely to the floor of the cave.

  Get up! some part of him screamed. He could not allow himself to stop so near his goal! He knew that if he stopped here, only a few hundred yards from the snows of the High Plateau, he would perish.

  He staggered to his feet and let his earth magic guide him along the familiar twisting corridors. The air turned blessedly cool, and he gasped to breath in th
e soothing balm. Sunlight filtered down from the upper corridors, seeming unbearably bright.

  Blind, limping, and half awake he emerged onto the white glacier, too far from any snowcastle to be seen, and collapsed into the cool snow. He could go no further.

  Cool air continued to flow over his blistered skin, and ice froze the pain from his nerves. When he opened his eyes he found himself not on the glacier, but in the deathroom. The small, almost featureless room caught the cold winds, soothing his burns.

  Beside him sat Mara, and he knew that it was her witch’s power that was sending the soft breezes over him. About his body were loosely tied compresses of ice.

  “I mustn’t stay here!” he said, when he realized where he was. “I must go to the Wyrrs!”

  The effort to speak hurt his throat. All that came out was a croak. His mouth had been burned raw, and the wracking cough that followed his effort to speak was excruciatingly painful. The room smelled vaguely of smoke, and he slowly became aware that the odor emanated from him and his clothing.

  “You are not going anywhere, Greylock,” Mara said. “You are badly hurt. You must heal. And it is better that you do not remain awake while your skin repairs itself. It will be very painful.”

  “There is no time!” he objected weakly. “I must speak to the steward, the Gatekeepers. King Kasid is coming.”

  It was no use. The cool breezes, created and controlled by her wishes, seemed to have a narcotic effect, and his voice trailed off.

  Even the deep sleep into which he was cast could not quite protect him from all the pain as new tissue slowly formed and pulled tight. He struggled to awaken and confront the pain, but, unaware of his suffering, Mara kept him under her spell.