Snowcastles & Icetowers Page 8

  When yeoman Harkkor had agreed with Greylock, the Lord High Mayor had no choice but to

  95 reluctantly comply, though in protest he had refused to give up his own bright green robe. By now the magnificent uniforms had been replaced by a hastily assembled hodgepodge of white clothing. The Lord High Mayor with his red hair and brilliant robe stood out in this company—as perhaps he wished.

  Greylock was beginning to have other doubts as well. It was obvious that the men of Far Valley ate well, but except for the yeomen, without working very hard to take off their fatty weight. Many in the army were huffing and panting long before the first slopes of the mountains had been reached. Their weapons now seemed in many cases more ornamental than deadly, their determined faces only ludicrous. Greylock was irritable this morning, for he had had another frightening—and inexplicable—dream of Wyrrs calling to him, the night before.

  Luckily, yeoman Harkkor had persuaded many of his fellow farmers to come along, and this sturdy component of the army, with their wickedly sharp scythes, reassured Greylock that his expedition was not a foolish venture. When the Lord High Mayor had found it impossible to talk the yeomen out of joining his army, as was their right, he had begun to defer to Yeoman Harkkor, apparently hoping in this way to placate the farmers.

  Moag had come along as well, grumbling— though never to Greylock’s face. He had begged Greylock to reconsider the alliance with the Lord High Mayor, insisting that he could whisk them away with the help of his magic.

  “You will regret this, Prince Greylock!” he warned again. “You have made a compact with a demon!”

  “Oh, come now, Moag.” The temptation to tell the old man about his talk with Harkkor was strong, but he remembered the farmer’s warning about spies. “You can always whisk us away later. Mayor Tarelton is just a very greedy man.”

  “He is more than just greedy! There are ‘demons,’ you know,” the wizard said cryptically. “Just because you have not found them yet does not mean they do not exist. Evil spirits are all about, and I summoned one by mistake when I created that Familiar.”

  Mara had fallen silent since Greylock’s outburst of three weeks before, and he wondered if he had frightened her with his temper. So it was that he found himself marching alone, at the head of the long column.

  They soon entered the Twilight Dells, and Greylock reflected on the accuracy of the name. Though it was only a little past noon as they entered the first narrow glen, and though the sky was cloudless, a pall seemed to have descended over the light and the company. Greylock felt the same revulsion to the land that he had experienced before.

  Though none of the people known as Wyrrs revealed themselves to the armed body of soldiers, the Keepsmen looked about them nervously. Apparently, Moag had not bothered to ask the men of the BorderKeep the reason why the Twilight Dells were out of bounds. It seemed evident they knew the secret. Greylock approached the Lord High Mayor, concealing a shudder at the sight of the ever-present rat Familiar.

  “Why are your people afraid, Mayor Tarelton?”

  “It is superstition,” the Lord High Mayor said with a great display of scorn; but it was apparent from his darting eyes that he too was frightened. “No matter how educated my people become, they still cling to their fears. Legends of this poor land tell of a deed so dreadful that the Wyrrs are forever haunted by it, and the land cursed.”

  “What was this great evil?” Greylock asked. He was a little encouraged by the Lord High Mayor’s bold posturing. Sometimes such a show could even take the place of courage, which he doubted the Mayor had much of, but would need.

  “No one knows. It is long forgotten, or perhaps it was so terrible that the Wyrrs will keep it to themselves until the time of their extinction as a race. The story I heard as a baby on my nurse’s lap was that the Wyrrs had betrayed the gods of Godshome, and are condemned to stay in the Twilight Dells until the gods call on them once more for help. But you should know more of this than I, shouldn’t you?”

  Greylock had no answer. The story sounded very much like the catastrophic closure of Gateway, and the casting-down of the demons. Again there was the uncanny resemblance to the teachings of the Gatekeepers—but distorted, and made more human. He had not thought of the Wyrrs since he had first passed through their valleys, except in his dreams. Now, however, their plight came back to him with such a force that he knew he would never forget them again. He did not know why he should be concerned with the Wyrrs, but their situation was something that he knew would never leave him in peace. Somehow he would have to discover the answer to the Wyrr’s curse.

  Greylock was not too concerned about an attack, for from what he had seen of the inhabitants of the dells he doubted that they would confront such a large body of armed men. He was surprised therefore to glimpse a host of men filling all of the next valley. Yet these were not the pale, weak humans whom he had seen before, but tall and strong men and women, with dark hair and strong faces. In fact, he thought suddenly, they looked like citizens of the High Plateau!

  As the company halted hesitantly at the narrow opening of the valley, many of the Keepsmen looked at him, comparing his tall, dark frame with what they were seeing. Greylock, with his gray hair, was the flawed one compared to these handsome people. But he did not notice these glances, for he was intent on the manner and dress of the strangers. For a few seconds he was certain that he was seeing his own brethren, men of the High Plateau. He began to walk forward eagerly to greet them. Smiles grew on the faces of the strangers at the sight of him.

  “Stop!” Moag’s voice tugged at Greylock, but the spell was too strong for him and he quickened his step. Suddenly, the old man’s hunched, stooped body moved into view with unusual speed, blocking his progress toward the strange assemblage. “Do not go further, Prince Greylock!”

  The wizard led Greylock back, dazed and resisting, to the clustered group of Keepsmen, and drew a line in the dust before him. Greylock began to step over it, paying little notice to the action, and drawn once more by the spell of the strangers. His foot would not descend on the far side of the line in the dirt, no matter how much force he used to press it down.

  Suddenly, the vision of the others seemed to waver, and the strong, beautiful faces turned into the gaunt white skulls of the Wyrrs. Greylock turned his face from the sight in dismay.

  Moag had continued drawing his line and muttering, until he had gone twice around the company of men, gathered at his urging into a tight mass. One by one, the others gasped in dismay as the sight before their eyes changed drastically. When the Wyrrs saw the looks turn to disgust, their own smiles—now grotesque parodies— dropped completely, and the eerie gathering rushed toward the smaller body of men murderously.

  At the line in the dust they too were repelled, while the old man muttered furiously under his breath to maintain the spell. The Wyrrs stood only a few terrifying steps away, unable to reach their victims and roaring with a deafening frustration. The afternoon wore on, and the wizard collapsed to the ground muttering his spell with determination that blocked out everything else.

  Finally, as night began to fall slowly, the thousands of Wyrrs seemed to lose interest in their siege around the awkwardly gathered company, and began drifting away in small groups. The roar of their cries slowly died down. At last, they were gone and the only sign of their presence was the trampled earth of the empty valley.

  Mara and Greylock helped the old wizard up, and for a few moments he was dazed. “I could not have held them back much longer,” he sighed finally in relief. “My earth-magic is not strong, and the Wyrrs are at their most powerful by night.” “There were thousands of them!” Greylock said in shock. “I thought you said they hated each other, Moag, and would murder each other outside their own little clans, their own valleys.”

  “We must have stumbled on one of their ceremonies,” the wizard answered solemnly. “It is only when they are gathered together in such numbers that they can summon the power to call back their old appeara
nces. I suspect they cannot often stand this reminder of their past, and it is for this reason they avoid each other.”

  “What has happened to them?” Greylock was beginning to understand more than he wanted. “Can we not help them?” Despite his own vows of disbelief, the Wyrrs were coming uncomfortably close to the ancient legends of an Underworld of pain and punishment. They were his people, he knew now. The ancestors of the Wyrrs were his ancestors as well.

  “You do not wish to know what they did. Help? There is no help for them, though they have their own foolish belief that one day a god will descend from Godshome and lift their curse.”

  Greylock looked at the wizard curiously. He had been wrong apparently to believe that the old man was unaware of the secrets of the valley. How much else did Moag know and not reveal? There would come a time when he would pry that knowledge from the wizard, he vowed.

  The invading army continued toward the Three Peaks of Godshome in the morning, this time not bothering to journey by the circular route of the peaceful valleys, but in a straight line, daring the Wyrrs to try to stop them. Now the Keepsmen were confident and boisterous, but Greylock was still bothered by the confrontation. The army’s revelries seemed somehow profane to him, though he should have been encouraged by them. He wondered if they would be so brave if Moag had not already shown that he could repell the Wyrrs with his magic. He noticed the yeoman Harkkor and his followers also seemed to be saddened by the encounter.

  Something continued to nag at his memory, something that the Gatekeepers had taught him in his youth—of demons’ curses and a prophecy of their Deliverance. Greylock had made his choice not to believe early, though he had once dreamed he could catch that lost word which, could a man but find it, would make him the master of his fate. But he had abandoned the teachings of the Gatekeepers, and thus had never read the sacred books very carefully.

  He did not expect to see the ghosts of the Twilight Dells again, but tried to forget them and concentrate on his coming triumph over his uncle. As camp was set for the night, he wandered away from the others and began climbing one of the knolls, to try to restore his confidence.

  The spell of the Wyrrs once again fell over him, and he recognized the landscape of his dreams, though he knew he was awake. The ground before him grew even darker, and his view of the white peaks of Godshome from the knoll was hindered by a blurry vision. He marched toward them, somehow sensing that, though the path was becoming unnatural, it was not he who was in danger. Behind, he could feel the presence of others following him, but it was as if they weren’t there, and he paid no attention to their worried shouts. The dark trail seemed to slant upward under his feet, though only seconds before it had stretched before him, flat and well lit by the light of a full moon.

  He was not surprised this time when out of this dark, the figure of a man emerged, followed by an old woman. The man, who could have been Grey- lock’s twin or perhaps a younger brother, had well- structured dark features. But even under the spell of the Wyrrs, the old woman appeared ancient and ravaged. Greylock was mildly surprised to find a woman that old among the people of the Twilight Dells.

  The man raised his hand in greeting, and Greylock stopped and also signed a greeting. The man—or apparition—seemed to be trying to say something to him, but Greylock, as in his dreams, could understand nothing but the urgent need of the stranger. Everything sounded much harsher, yet somehow removed—like someone scratching the glass on the far side of a windowpane.

  “He says that the people of the valleys welcome the Deliverer,” Mara suddenly said from beside him, and he noticed her presence for the first time, as if she had just stepped into the light. Whatever the meaning of this meeting, it was apparent to Greylock that in some way Mara was to play a role.

  “He begs forgiveness for their attacks, but they did not recognize you when you passed before,” she translated. “He begs to know when you will return to lead them to their freedom.”

  Greylock shook his head in puzzlement. “I am not returning! I have nothing to do with his people. I am not this Deliverer he speaks of with such reverence.”

  Now the old woman stepped forward and started to speak. Her voice was no more than a croak, but Greylock could understand the horrible words without translation.

  “You must help the Wyrrs, my son, for your father was one of them. The greatest of their kind since they were so long ago imprisoned. For him I was banished from the High Plateau. Now you must help them.”

  Greylock was shocked, disbelieving—but he found himself answering. “I will return to help you, when I can. Soon!”

  The ghostly figures seemed satisfied with this answer, and disappeared back into the murk. Then suddenly the bright moonlight was back again, and the Lord High Mayor was there, pestering him with questions. Mara and the old wizard were there as well, staring at him with concerned faces. Two of Tarelton’s guards had followed, and had drawn their weapons.

  “We followed you out here, and found you with the two Wyrrs. What were they saying to you?” “Wyrrs?” The vision still seemed unreal to Greylock, and he still was haunted by the image of the woman calling him son.

  “You stood there staring at them, Greylock, for several minutes,” the Lord High Mayor said in confusion. “Then the old woman spoke to you in a language I did not understand. I could barely keep my men from murdering the Wyrrs in their fear.”

  Greylock looked about him in a daze. It was apparent from their looks that only the old wizard, and his granddaughter, had seen what he had seen. Only the two with magic running through their veins, he thought, had seen the noble figure of the valley man and a dignified old woman, and not the pathetic visages of Wyrrs. What did it mean?

  Only a short while before, he had been interested only in conquering his own homeland, and regaining his right to the throne. He had been in the easy company of the greedy Mayor and the covetous wizard. Now, whether he liked it or not, he was bound to seek the counsel of the Gatekeepers, the teachers against whom he had rebelled and who long ago had given up on their royal student. Perhaps the price would be too high, but Greylock knew he would have to pay it.

  There was one other consequence of his meeting with the Wyrrs. As they strolled back into the light of the campfires, he heard Mara gasp.

  “Greylock! Your hair has turned completely gray!”

  He stared at her in shock, until the wizard summoned a burnished steel shield. “It is true, Prince Greylock. Look for yourself.”

  The stranger in the mirror of the shield looked like an old man, with young and stunned black eyes. The change was complete.

  The next morning found Greylock still feeling the effects of his mysterious meeting of the day before, but he decided he must conceal this from Mayor Tarelton and appear to be concerned only with gaining his rightful throne again. Once more visions of the Lady Silverfrost, and of himself sitting upon the throne of the Tyrant, filled his head. The Lord High Mayor divined the direction of Greylock’s thoughts and was reassured.

  For a little while, Mayor Tarelton thought, the prince had talked of sacrifices and doing his duty. Now he was back to talking about Glyden, a much safer and more alluring subject. The Mayor was relieved, for the Steward Redfrock’s instructions had been clear—to lead Prince Greylock into the trap that was being prepared for him.

  It was the cold air of the foothills and sight of snow on the higher elevations that helped restore Greylock’s confidence—and the increasing distance from the Twilight Dells. While the others bundled up in extra clothing, Greylock shed some of his, admonishing himself for having fallen into the soft ways of the Underworlders. In spite of this confidence, he concealed the jeweled replica of Thunderer in an ordinary sheath. There would be a proper time to reveal it, he thought.

  With his long, eager strides up the twisting mountain trail, he soon grew impatient with the out-of-shape soldiers of the BorderKeep. He wished he could just continue with yeoman Harkkor and his followers, but the farmers had scrupulously a
voided calling attention to themselves, and would only acknowledge their agreement with subtle signs. He was also becoming concerned that he had seen no indication of the Steward’s sentries. Greylock had expected the Gateway to be rigidly guarded and was beginning to wonder if they were not marching into a trap.

  “We must hurry!” he said at last. “If my people choose a successor to my uncle before I return, then we will have to fight a long and bloody war.” “I’m sorry, Prince Greylock,” the Lord High Mayor said. “My men are not used to these heights. You must give them a chance to rest.” Moag snorted. “I told you we should have gone on to Trold. King Kasid would have given us a real army, not this fat and lazy bunch of villagers.” “You are a nuisance with all your grumbling, old man,” Tarelton retorted angrily.

  “Perhaps it will not matter,” Greylock quickly intervened. “I must reconnoiter the High Plateau anyway. If we are very lucky, my uncle will still be alive and the succession will not yet have been decided. Rest your men here, Lord High Mayor and proceed—cautiously—in the morning. I will meet you on the trail.”

  “What if you don’t come back?”

  “Then I would suggest you turn back, Mayor Tarelton.” Greylock smiled grimly. “Our only chance of success is to surprise them. They will never expect anyone to come from the Underworld. They will be fighting among themselves as usual. But if I am captured, there will be no victory for you: if I am dead, they will never accept you as a ruler.” Greylock hoped that what he had just said was true, and that the Steward Redfrock had given up watching for him.

  “Maybe you had better not go, Prince Greylock,” Mayor Tarelton looked worried, and Greylock thought that at least he was taking his ally seriously. He did not realize that the Mayor’s instructions were to guide the prince, and that could not be done if he were out of sight.

  “Someone must scout ahead, and only I know the way,” Greylock said impatiently. “Don’t worry! I’ll be back in the morning. Come along, Moag. Let us see if anything has changed in my absence. You can finally get a look at our Glyden.”