Snowcastles & Icetowers Read online

  Greylock felt his anger rising, but did not answer. Once before his people had slammed the gates shut, he thought, but never again. He would not be the one to close the Gateway.

  Thankfully, Keyholder answered the steward for him.

  “King Kasid will not give up his efforts to conquer the High Plateau if we close the Gateway,” the old Gatekeeper said. “He would find another way to reach our land. Not long ago fiefdoms were separate countries, Trold one land among many. Kasid has molded them into an empire. He is a proud man. Even if we did not possess the Room of Aurim, he would seek to vanquish us, for we have shamed him. No one can ignore his lust for power. We shall learn today if he can be stopped.”

  A roar that seemed to shake the earth was hurled at them from the ranks of the demon army, and the thunder of their war cries grew as they emerged from the earthworks of their camp. It ended only with their charge. Then there was deadly silence as the wave of men rushed toward the defenders.

  Greylock raised his arms and the brush piles that had been placed between the armies were ignited. For a few moments the conflagration promised to sweep toward the enemy unopposed and engulf the army, but suddenly the flames subsided back to the original fires. There they sputtered fitfully, and Greylock knew that the fire wizards of Trold had negated the fires.

  The invaders had hesitated only momentarily at the sight of the fire, and now surged forward again. The men of the plateau waited helplessly for their assault.

  Now Mara raised her arms, and black clouds that until then had been lingering far to the north began to blow across the skies, obscuring the sun. The skies above the battlefield grew dark, as though the day had chosen to retreat from the sight of so much blood. The clouds remained, despite the opposing wizards, which aided the men of the plateau, who knew the mountain much better than their enemy.

  In the eerie light of flaming trees, and a darkened, eclipsed sun, the dark mass that rushed toward them up the long, gentle slope were at first only dark shadows, and then became individuals with pale, determined faces.

  Greylock motioned with a short chopping signal, and thousands of small, cruel missiles, whistling with a trembling deadliness, swept into the air. The first rows of the charging enemy fell beneath the deadly hailstorm, and a second wave dropped beneath another flight of arrows.

  The armies met, not in the great clash Greylock had been expecting, but with the rolling percussion of thousands of swords striking metal. The rumbling did not die away, though at times it would seem to subside for a few moments only to become louder with the next surge of battle. The cries of dying men rose above the clatter of swords, and like some horrible song began to develop an eerie rhythm, a melody that rose and fell like a wailing cry.

  If Greylock had dared close his eyes, he would have imagined himself surrounded by demons. He had placed himself at the head of his army, to show his presence and that of Thunderer, the sword that had never been defeated in battle.

  He swung the sword over his head and down over the wall like a pendulum, its glyden hilt catching the light of the fires and glowing brightly. The enemy was scaling the loose lava of the frost fortresses more easily than he had expected.

  One man scrambled up the slopes toward him, and as Greylock swung the sword at the invader, the man lost his footing. As the enemy soldier fell under the sweep of his sword, Greylock saw the sharp tip of the other blade darting toward his legs. He tried desperately to dodge the thrust, but he knew he was going to be too late.

  Then Kalwyn’s sword was there, catching the enemy blade awkwardly but enough to deflect it.

  This first charge was driven back by such efforts, but every surge after that proved disastrous for the army of the High Plateau. They quickly gave way to the overwhelming numbers of the Underworlders, abandoning the low, broad frost fortresses one by one.

  Before the first hour had passed the defenders had retreated to the last frost fortress, far up on the narrow reaches of the Gateway. There the snows and height finally began to slow the enemy.

  Greylock sent down the first of the rockslides before the pursuing army, using this last weapon much sooner than he had wished. But the rockslides had been carefully scouted and prepared, and with the help of Mara’s wind magic they proved devastating.

  The men of the High Plateau gathered wearily behind the last of the frost fortresses, as the army of Trold began to tenaciously remove the rockslides. Above them, Greylock could see the turret of Castle Guardian’s icetower. The wounded stretched in a ragged line towards its white walls. He hoped that Ardra had succeeded in mustering the women of the High Plateau for a last desperate defense. The men around him lay in clusters, trying to catch a few moments of rest before the implacable mercenaries attacked them again. Greylock knew that their army had suffered far more casualties than his own, yet it hardly seemed to make a difference in the numbers of Underworlders.

  Mara stood mute beside him, no longer really aware of her surroundings, so concentrated was she in wielding her magic against the enemy wizards. Keyholder and his attendant priest had thankfully taken on the duty of guiding and protecting her. Kalwyn stood bruised and bleeding. The young steward had proven to be a valiant ally, standing beside the Tyrant and conveying his orders. Now Greylock gave a last urgent command.

  “We must hold until darkness!” he gasped, surprised that the thought came out aloud. “If we hold until darkness, we have won.”

  Kalwyn stared at him uncomprehendingly for a few moments, and then rushed away.

  Normally, darkness would still have been hours away. But unwittingly Mara was bringing on the night much sooner with her magic wind. The skies were dark and threatening, the light barely perceptible.

  When the two armies came face to face again at last, both sides were exhausted. The army of the Underworld seemed to stand off for a few moments in respect. Every soldier was aware that this was the final confrontation of the day, and probably of the battle.

  The Underworlders attacked with silent and deadly purpose. The men of the High Plateau, their country almost overrun, put up a last desperate fight. Behind the high lava walls of the frost fortress, only a few hundred feet wide, the small number of defenders made less difference, and the strength of each man was more crucial. The plateau men staggered and wielded their swords clumsily, but their determination held off attack after attack.

  When Greylock heard the men around him mutter, “Hold until night. Hold until night and we have won!” he knew that Kalwyn had spread his words. He hoped it was enough to strengthen them for one last stand.

  The last frost fortress was overrun, and the defenders were barely able to escape to the white walls of Castle Guardian.

  But before this last awesome fortress the Underworlders were at last forced to pull up short. As night fell, the men of the mountain still held the high ground.

  The moans of the wounded, the low murmur of the commanders, the reassuring voices of the women, filled Castle Guardian. His army was collapsing around him, but Greylock would not retreat from the cold guardroom of the icetower to rest.

  Mara entered the turret behind him, and he turned with an expressionless welcome. Mara seemed almost asleep on her feet, her white face even more pale than usual from holding the cloud cover over them all day. Now she was letting the winds blow the dark clouds where they willed, and was on the verge of collapse.

  “Come, Greylock,” she said, softly. “There is nothing more you can do. Tomorrow will decide.” But she obviously thought that the morrow would bring defeat. The white walls would have to eventually succumb to superior numbers. And when Castle Guardian fell, the battle for the High Plateau would be ended.

  Greylock still refused to leave the icetower, refused to even acknowledge her leaving when exhaustion at last claimed her. He stared into the dark with reddened eyes, as if he could see something in the murk that would save them.

  The night grew quiet but for the moans of the wounded. The sounds of battle still seemed to ring in his ea
rs, and when he closed his eyes, the sickening motion of his bloody sword came back to him, the slight, almost imperceptible impacts when the blade met bone and sliced through. The cries and moans of the wounded accompanied these nightmares, as he lay with his head against the cold ice of the parapet.

  New cries suddenly filled the air, of men freshly wounded, frightened of something more than death. Greylock jerked awake, and realized that he had not dreamed those new screams.

  Another battle was occurring in the darkness beyond the frost fortresses, but a silent battle, a battle that was one-sided.

  Now his own men were awakening, below in Castle Guardian, and one by one the soldiers were drawn morbidly to the ice walls, to look out into the night and wonder on the deadly battle that was being waged in the gloom, seemingly without weapons.

  “Demons!” Greylock heard them mutter. Behind him, Mara came up beside him, and then Kalwyn. They listened in silence to the slaughter.

  “You were waiting for this!” Kalwyn said. “You expected it!”

  “Yes,” Greylock said. “I expected it.” But he had not expected it to be so horrible!

  “What is killing them, Greylock?” Kalwyn said. “What would cause such horror in men?”

  “It is the Wyrrs,” Mara answered suddenly for Greylock. She turned to him sadly. “Yes, I have known of your powers over them and your obligation. I too have dreamed of the Wyrrs. Long before I knew I was to become your wife, they knew I would be so.”

  “Then you know what I must do,” he answered simply.

  When the Wyrr came to him, Greylock was not sure if the specter was corporeal or a dream. If the Wyrr was real, Greylock thought, he had passed through an army of sleepless men undetected. If he was a dream, he had a firmness that most dreams did not possess.

  The Wyrr stood silently in the middle of the icetower, waiting for Greylock to awake and become aware of him. Then it stepped into the moonlight flowing through the casements, and his visage was one of triumph and anticipation.

  “We have done what you asked of us,” the Wyrr intoned. “We have fulfilled our vows to the gods.”

  “Yes,” Greylock answered. “And now you must wait a little longer. I must rebuild the Gateway.”

  “No!” the Wyrr cried. “Godshome awakens a final time, Deliverer! Your land will soon be no more. You must lead us to the Homeland now!”

  “You don’t understand,” Greylock said. “The path is too difficult.”

  “I will tell you this though my people owe you nothing more, Deliverer,” the Wyrr said. “An army comes through our land out of the east.”

  “An army?” Greylock asked, confused. “But we have defeated them!”

  “You have but defeated their vanguard, Deliverer,” the Wyrr said calmly. “But they will find nothing here. Godshome will bury them.”

  Greylock shook his head, and when he looked up again the Wyrr was gone, as silently and mysteriously as he had come. The Tyrant could not tell if he had slipped through the narrow door of the icetower or had simply vanished.

  Chapter Sixteen

  True to his word, the Wyrr appeared the next morning at the gates of Castle Guardian. Behind him stretched the ragged remnants of his people, many more than Greylock would have believed possible. Kalwyn brought him the news, bursting into his room and exclaiming that the High Plateau was being attacked by demons.

  The Tyrant quickly dressed. He had to reach the Wyrrs before they were massacred! Greylock thought in alarm. The frightened soldiers of the High Plateau had had all night to imagine what was destroying the enemy.

  The enemy camp had disappeared; even the earthworks had been leveled, their tracks obliterated. In place of the mercenaries of Trold appeared the ghostly pale and emaciated shapes of the Wyrrs. It was difficult to believe that these people had defeated the greatest army of the Underworld, Greylock thought. But there was no other explanation.

  The soldiers of the High Plateau lined the walls of the snowcastle when he arrived, clutching their weapons nervously. But the Wyrrs stood quietly and patiently, unarmed and seemingly peaceful. Greylock was thankful that none of his men had lost their composure, or there would have been an end to the Wyrrs that morning, he thought.

  Now that they were here Greylock wondered what to do with them. He was certain that they would not turn around at his request and return to the Twilight Dells. The Wyrr the night before had made it clear that they would wait no longer. Nor could he invite them into the High Plateau, he realized, for the stores of food for his own people had fallen below safe levels. Nor, he thought in dismay, could he lead them into the Gateway. If that road had proven too dangerous for a single, skilled climber he knew that the Wyrrs would have no chance at all.

  Two occurrences happening at almost the same moment quickly changed his mind.

  The first was the most threatening. Though quakes had continued to rumble through the High Plateau, most of its citizens had learned to ignore them. Structural damage to the snowcastles was uncommon and easily repaired.

  But the earthquake that struck at that moment was different, and they knew it immediately. Even Castle Guardian, the oldest and strongest of the snowcastles, cracked under the trembling. The white walls opened and spilled soldiers out onto the path of the Gateway, at the Wyrrs’ feet. Greylock looked up in time to see the icetower crumble and fall over the edge of the cliff, rolling down the side of the mountain to land beneath the clouds in a pile of snow. It would quickly melt in the Underworld heat.

  “Godshome awakes!” The words came unbidden to his mind, and Greylock was unsure if he was remembering them or if the Wyrrs had silently spoken into his mind again. He looked up, startled to find the Wyrrs gazing at him impassively.

  The second occurrence would have decided for him if the first already had not. Out of the east appeared the sight of a vast new army, which seemed to fill the Twilight Dells, winding through the entire length of the road to Bordertown. Greylock knew then that King Kasid had come to finish his war against the High Plateau.

  “Open the gates!” he cried, and when his men hesitated, the Tyrant turned to Steward Kalwyn impatiently.

  “You heard the Tyrant!” the young man cried, swallowing. “Let the demons in!”

  The quake had died away, the rumbling sound fading into the distance. But it was only a brief respite. Another, even stronger, quake struck before all the Wyrrs could make it through the gates. Greylock saw several of the beings buried beneath the rocklike ice. The other Wyrrs seemed to pay no attention to their loss. They seemed to be waiting for the Tyrant to lead them, and made no effort to find shelter or to save themselves.

  A third quake, slightly less violent, traveled the length of the glacier, opening new fissures in the ice, crumbling the last of the icetowers. Then the mountain seemed to grow quiet.

  But the Tyrant had at last had enough warning. He realized that the mountain had only begun its destructive process and that he had been a fool to ignore the Wyrrs and his own instincts. He hoped it wasn’t already too late.

  There was no choice but the lead the Wyrrs into the caverns, he thought. To leave them on the snows would be to leave them at the mercy of the mountain and King Kasid’s army.

  And not only the people of the Twilight Dells must go with him, he realized at last, but his own people as well. Yet, he saw little hope of leading his people through the firestone of Godshome unharmed.

  Thankfully, most of his people, the women and children, as well as the soldiers, were gathered at Castle Guardian. He wondered if his authority as Tyrant would be enough to convince them to leave their homes for the seeming dead end of the mountain caverns.

  Mara must have thought of this problem long before him, for she now showed up on the ramparts leading a sleepy Keyholder. Greylock smiled at her gratefully. If his subjects refused to listen to him, they would surely listen to the old Gatekeeper.

  “We must leave the High Plateau,” he told the priest as soon as the old man had reached them. “All of us
, not just the Wyrrs. Godshome will destroy us if we do not leave now.”

  Keyholder searched his face intently, and then turned and extended his hands over the crowd. The fearful murmurings of the citizens of the High Plateau stopped abruptly at his gesture.

  “The day of Deliverance is at hand!” he cried. “The Gateway has been opened and the home of the gods awaits us beyond the mountain. It is time to leave the cold and the ice for the Homeland!”

  “Do you wish us to become demons?” one of the soldiers cried, the face hidden by the crowd. “Why should we leave our snowcastles? We have been through earthquakes and famines before. We have twice defeated the Underworlders. Why should we leave now?”

  Greylock was surprised to hear anyone question the Gatekeeper’s words, but he realized that what Keyholder was asking seemed too much for even the people of the High Plateau.

  The priest’s face flushed at the questioning of his command.

  “Go to your homes and gather your families,” he cried, ignoring the objection. “Bring out your most valuable possessions! For the mountain will surely destroy this land and all who remain!”

  “But where will we go?” There was no longer mutiny in the unknown questioner’s voice, just dismay and alarm. “Are we to look like demons?”

  Though Greylock could not see where the questioner was indicating, he knew that he meant the Wyrrs. Keyholder turned to him helplessly, and the Tyrant realized it was up to him to convince his people to go with him.

  “I have been to the land beyond Godshome,” he said softly, and all eyes turned to him. “It is a land that is free of demons and yet still green with life. It is our land, if we want it. The Wyrrs will share this land with us for it is what the gods wish. But there is enough room for all.” His voice trailed off as he realized from his men’s skeptical faces that he was not convincing them. Once again, the mountain spoke more eloquently than he could.

  Godshome gave a last awesome shake, throwing most of those standing from their feet. When order was at last restored there were no more objections to Greylock’s orders.