Snowcastles & Icetowers Page 4

  The next morning the old man led them with uncharacteristic straightforwardness and assurance, but Greylock felt a strange foreboding. He was becoming accustomed to this strange land, and somehow uncomfortably attuned to it. The old man was right, the earth was creating a change within him. Often it seemed as if he could sense the presence of Wyrrs before Moag did, and sometimes he could not restrain his impatience when the wizard dawdled, trying to decide by memory and sight whether a valley was safe to enter.

  Finally, after another of his long ruminations, the old man made the wrong choice. Greylock could feel that they were approaching a dwelling that was not empty or deserted, but was filled with the odd aura of the Wyrrs. But since Moag was whistling happily, and seemed sure of his route, Greylock did not object.

  Suddenly, he saw the wizard looking about him nervously, as if he had just noticed his mistake. At the same moment they were surrounded by scrawny creatures so dirty, pale, and emaciated that they appeared inhuman. What hair they still had, even the youngest of them, was silver gray.

  “Demons!” Greylock yelled, even as he realized that they were human, though barely alive. Some of them indeed seemed more dead than alive. Despite the sweltering heat, they were bundled heavily in swaths of cloth that were little more than rags. Yet even through these coverings Greylock could tell that they were bone thin. These people were almost what he had envisioned demons to be like. They made no threatening movements. “I think I may have found demons after all!” he said.

  “You may be right, my boy,” Moag muttered under his breath balefully. “You may be right. But do not fight them. There are more in this group than I have ever seen together. I will see if I can talk to them.”

  The wizard stepped forward with his hands showing empty. As if this were a threatening gesture, instead of a sign of peace, the mass of Wyrrs surged toward them with a shrill roar.

  Since the Wyrrs were unarmed, Greylock did not draw his weapon, but batted the first attackers away easily with his bare hands. The Wyrrs appeared so weak and ill nourished that Greylock thought he could fight his way out of the trap, if he used his knife. But the magician once again shouted for him not to resist, and he realized that in order to escape he would have to leave his new partners behind. Not admitting to himself that he had grown to like them and would never leave Mara, or even the old man, with the Wyrrs, Greylock told himself that he needed them still to regain Silverfrost and find the course of Gateway. He would trust the wizard this time, he decided. If he was wrong in his trust, it would be the last time—one way or another.

  The Wyrrs saw his resolve weakening and attacked him in a mass. His sense of dignity was sorely tried at being overwhelmed by such scrawny specimens of humanity. Their blows hurt his pride even more than his body. Yet, along with his scorn, Greylock felt an inexpressible pity for these people—doomed to live forever in this sad land of twilight.

  The three prisoners were led roughly toward one of the huge, primitive structures they had glimpsed earlier through the trees. Greylock realized at a closer look that the building was rather pathetically designed to withstand siege, but only to hold off foes just as weak.

  The trespassers were dumped on an uneven dirt floor. The building was just one room, divided, it seemed, by the natural refuse of clan living. In the center was a fire, and smoke found exits through the many cracks in the roof and walls. The structure did not seem to give much shelter, for the hard packed earthen floor was still damp from the rains. Rubbish and badly cured hides lay in piles about the floor. Children were perched silently on the rafters, staring down on them with unnaturally bright and enlarged eyes.

  The leader of the Wyrrs, grotesquely tall and thin, had still not said a word, and now the troop retreated back against the walls at his gesture. Of the three captives, they had seemed to be most interested in Greylock, several of them pinching him as if to see if his muscles and fat were real, running their dirty fingers through his gray locks wonderingly, and pulling at his longer dark hair. Greylock suffered this examination without a word, wincing as they probed the muscles of his arms and legs.

  “What are they going to do to us, Moag?”

  “I believe that they are going to eat us,” Moag said gloomily.

  “What!” Greylock didn’t believe him. “No human would do that to another!”

  “Why, Prince Greylock!” Mara said mockingly. “I thought that is what your own people did to strangers! You should not be surprised. At least these people could use the food.”

  “Of course we don’t eat anyone!” Greylock did not think it was a time for humor. “I thought you were barbarians to believe that. But don’t feel smug. My uncle would have killed you without another thought.”

  “We believed you, Prince Greylock, because we had just passed through the real danger of the Twilight Dells!”

  The three prisoners glumly watched the huge central fire being stoked, its black smoke curling up through a hundred small holes in the roof. Every once in a while, in spite of himself, Greylock would mutter, “Demons!” Was he about to die discovering that his father and the Gatekeepers were right? It was too much for him to continue his stoic restraint. He would not end being someone’s meal! He shuddered and vowed that he would fight his way free if he had to, even if it meant leaving the other two behind. Even with his hands tied, he was a match for these Wyrrs!

  The fire’s heat was now becoming uncomfortable, and Greylock imagined his gray hair singeing. Mara squirmed beside him, turning first one part of her body and then another to the exposed fire. But the wizard lay quietly on his back, the hunch at his shoulders elevating his head just enough so that he could stare gloomily into the flames near his feet.

  “Why did you let them capture us?” Greylock asked him. “Why did you not let me fight them?” “Do not worry, Prince Greylock. I know a means of escape if nothing else works. But I do not wish to use that way unless I must.”

  “You had better hurry, Moag,” Greylock urged. “Whatever route of escape you choose had best be quick!”

  Finally, the magician saw that Greylock was right. The Wyrrs were obviously not going to let them go. “I was hoping I would not have to do this, but there does not seem to be any other way.” He looked at Greylock as if it would hurt him woefully to say what he was about to propose. “You must be my patron, Prince Greylock—master of my services. Only then will I be able to use my magic.”

  “Of course, Moag,” Why hadn’t the wizard said something before now? “Get on with it! What must I do?”

  “You must promise that you will pay me, and take care of my worldly needs as long as I am in your service, which will not be for long.”

  Greylock was disappointed. “But I have nothing to give you, Moag! I will share whatever I have.”

  “You need not give it all to me now,” the wizard said impatiently. “Just promise me the payment, and it will be done.”

  “I so deed it,” he said hastily.

  “The payment must be in Glyden, Greylock!” the old man warned. “You must promise that you will give me your knife—that will be adequate.” Greylock hesitated at this condition. “I will get it back?”

  “As soon as you release me from your service,” Moag assured him. “I have no wish to be your servant, Greylock. You will get it back.”

  “Then you may have the blade. Now get on with it, Moag! They’re just about ready.”

  “Good,” the wizard nodded, satisfied. While these hurried and whispered negotiations had been going on, the Wyrrs had continued to gather along the walls. Finally, all the stealthy movement had stopped, and the prisoners realized with a shock that all the bright eyes of the Wyrrs were on them, and the fire was prepared.

  “Now which spell would be best?” Moag mused. “Ah, yes. A simple smoke spell should be sufficient. Keep an eye on the tall Wyrr leader who has your knife, Greylock. You must retrieve it, at all costs!”

  “Hurry, old man!” Greylock hissed.

  “I have already begun,�
� the wizard said complacently.

  At first Greylock could see no results from Moag’s vague mumblings. As he waited and watched for something spectacular to happen, the hot fire’s smoke seemed to be getting into his eyes. He saw the dim forms of the Wyrrs moving forward to lift him to the fire, and he prepared to fight them with the bulk of his body, if nothing else. When Mara coughed beside him, Greylock finally had his first inkling of what the old man meant to do. The smoke grew thicker—and the black figures of the Wyrrs never reached him. He hurriedly marked the last position of the leader of the Wyrrs, the one who held the Glyden-hilted knife.

  The smoke had completely filled the interior, and he felt hands pulling at his bonds. “Quickly, get the knife and let us begone!” he heard the old man’s voice say from behind him, though when he turned he could see nothing. He wondered how the wizard had managed to free himself. “You must get the knife!” the voice repeated, and then was gone.

  Greylock moved quickly toward the last spot he had seen the tall Wyrr, already masked by the smoke. But it did not prove necessary to search blindly. The Wyrr stumbled into him, his reddened eyes watering and closed, coughing violently. Greylock wondered at this reaction, for the smoke seemed mild to him. Much as he wanted to punish the man, pity suddenly moved him and he merely stripped the man of the weapon and pushed him away.

  Yet even this gentle rebuff was too much for the Wyrr. Greylock could hear the air forced from the man’s chest when he was pushed, and felt his own hand penetrate deep into the Wyrr’s stomach. As the tall man folded up and fell to the ground, Greylock was left with a squeamish feeling in his hand where it had touched the Wyrr’s backbone.

  “I have it, Moag!” he shouted, when he had recovered from this shock. “I have the knife!”

  Then he was outside somehow, though he could not remember passing through a portal. The smoke seemed just as thick, but he could see the moon shining dully through the fog.

  “Greylock!” He heard his name called, and the voice seemed to him to be coming from all sides at once.

  Turning and spinning at the echoes, he dared to shout out, “Where are you?” once, hoping that he was not revealing himself to the Wyrrs in the process. His shout seemed to be quickly absorbed by the damp suffocating fog.

  “Stay where you are, Greylock!” This time the wizard’s voice seemed to be much closer—almost beside him, though he knew that was impossible.

  Then he did feel the presence of his two partners, though he could still not see them. The girl’s small hand pulled at his and he followed obediently, blindly. Suddenly, they were clear of the fog—or the old man had removed the last of its concealing mantle from them. Greylock looked back to see the fortress, and a hundred yards on all sides of it, bounded in by the clouds of smoke—yet the rest of the clear night sky was lit by the light of a full moon. Occasionally, the muffled form of a Wyrr would emerge, surrounded by his own little cloud, until the thin form would stumble inevitably back into the fog to join the others. Their cries—dismayed, frightened—drifted over to the watchers.

  Yet Greylock was disappointed with the results. “So that is fire-magic? It is not so much.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” the mage said crossly. “Never be spectacular if something humble will work just as well, I always say. Now if you will just hand me my payment.”

  “You’ll give it back?”

  “Yes, hurry!”

  Reluctantly, Greylock pulled the blade from his belt and began to hand it over to the old man.

  Moag snatched it from his grasp while it was still several inches away—and Greylock was showing signs of changing his mind. “You must pay me, Prince Greylock. One does not deny the forces of magic.”

  The wizard stared down at the royal knife and turned it over in his hands, fondling the soft hilt of of Glyden. Then, with an ostentatious show of sacrifice, he proffered it to Greylock. “I have been paid, and now I return the payment for my freedom.” He said this almost formally. “Take it, Prince Greylock! Once you take it back it will release me from the agreement, and we can be on our way. I cannot hold the smoke forever, you know.”

  “Release you from our bargain already?” Greylock asked, confused by the wizard’s eagerness to give back the knife. “I thought you wanted Glyden. Perhaps you should hold onto it a while longer. We may have desperate need of your magic.”

  “I have told you—it is not my Glyden, it is yours. I do not wish to be a servant again, not when I will have to give the Glyden back when I no longer serve you.”

  “But what if we should need you again?” Greylock was troubled by their vulnerability in the Twilight Dells, and indeed, in the Underworld. The wizard had just shown that his magic could be most useful.

  “Then I will enter your service again!” Moag was beginning to look noticeably worried.

  “What if it is too late? Or what if I should lose the knife, and don’t have the Glyden you require next time?”

  “If you don’t release me,” the wizard said angrily, “then you must pay me. In Glyden! The only Glyden you have is also your only weapon. Will you give me your weapon or my freedom?” Greylock paused at this, while the old man looked on smugly at his dilemma. He had not thought of that! Reluctantly, he came to the conclusion that, useful as the wizard’s magic could have been, he could not trust the old man with the only weapon among them; not when it was also his heirloom, the only proof he still owned of his royal heritage. If he ever hoped to return to the High Plateau, he would need to hold onto his knife.

  Mara saved him from making a painful decision. “Don’t release him, Prince Greylock!” she said, and Greylock caught a rare unguarded look from the mage—a cross look that told her to be silent. Greylock snatched his hand back. “Why?”

  “Let him keep the knife. Once in your service, Grandfather can do nothing to harm you. Remember you are now his master. It is as safe with him as it would be with you.”

  “A nice paradox!” Greylock said.

  “You would not hold me against my wishes?” the old man asked in a horrified tone.

  “Perhaps I will. For a little while.”

  “I will not serve you willingly, Prince Greylock,” the wizard said furiously. “I will not forget that you have done this to me!”

  “But, Moag! You tried to trick me and your trick did not work. Do I not have a right to your services for a little while? I will release you soon, I promise you. As soon as you have learned your lesson. Besides, this is best for us all, don’t you see? Now we shall have the use of your magic; and since you lost your packs on the mountain, and I lost mine in the Wyrr’s fortress, we shall need magic.”

  “I curse the day I met your grandmother,” the wizard said angrily to Mara. “The women of this family have been nothing but trouble! “

  “Careful, Grandfather! Remember, your magic is working now.”

  The wizard hastily made a sign and muttered, “Forgive me, Mara.” Moag was obviously speaking to the grandmother—or perhaps the mother—but not the girl.

  Greylock interrupted what he saw might turn into a long argument. “Now, Moag, as you pointed out, we had better be on our way. The smoke seems to be dissipating somewhat.”

  As they moved hastily from the valley, Greylock was already feeling troubled by his betrayal. But when, at the last moment, the wizard turned and crooked a finger, summoning the cloud of smoke, Greylock once again convinced himself that it was for the best. They had need of the old man’s powers. He would let the wizard go as soon as they were out of danger, he told himself.

  Soon they were enveloped by the harmless fog, and thus shrouded and concealed, they walked directly east, no longer caring if they encountered Wyrrs or not. None of them said a word. The old man walked stooped over as if he were examining the trail, and Greylock thought he could occasionally hear an angry grumble from the wizard, his mottled face seemingly fixed in a permanent scowl. The girl followed close behind him, seeming tiny and frail between the two men. She too had not said
anything since they had left the valley of the Wyrrs, and was apparently also suffering from the guilt of her betrayal. Her frown made it clear to Greylock that she had not done it for him, but had her own reasons. Her smoke-smudged fair face and darkening blond hair seemed to fit her mood. It was obvious that she would not welcome any questions from Greylock. He was last in line, still not certain that they were safe, and feeling naked without a sword.

  Once he thought he heard the sounds of fighting behind him, and several times he saw the black shape of a mountain crow flying far overhead. Such birds were common, but Greylock was becoming more and more uncomfortable with his defenselessness. Finally this vulnerability became too much to bear, and he called out for Moag to stop.

  “What is it now?” the wizard said crossly.

  Despite the old man’s glowering countenance Greylock asked his question. “I must have a weapon, Moag. Can your fire-magic make me or summon me, a weapon?”

  “I cannot make something out of nothing,” the mage growled.

  “What would you need?”

  The wizard’s impatience was becoming increasingly noticeable. Greylock doubted he would have even been answered if it were not for the fact that he was also Moag’s master.

  “I would need the same ingredients as would be in the weapon itself; metal for metal, stone for stone, wood for wood, and so on; though it need not be in the same proportions.”

  Greylock looked around at the landscape of small trees, and sharp stones, doubtfully. Then he remembered the last gift of his eldest brother, before he too had been sent away by their uncle’s envy and wrath. It was a small jewel-encrusted Glyden replica of their uncle’s royal sword, Thunderer—exact in every detail, but only two inches long. Greylock always carried it with him in a small homemade sheath, for the blade actually cut and was useful for little things.

  “How about this?” he asked, drawing it forth from his pocket with some difficulty. “Can you do anything with this?”

  Despite the wizard’s obvious anxiety at having stopped in the middle of the Twilight Dells, he grabbed the little blade and examined it with gleaming eyes. “Why did you not tell me you had this?”