The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) (37 page)

Ainé stood erect with a silent Qwenqwo Cuatzel, watching.

“Never has danger so threatened us in this journey as it does now.” The Kyra’s deep voice rose above the clamor of debate. “Can you not sense eyes upon our every movement?”

Topgal roared, “Aye—and there is even greater danger in the forest and above these slopes. We are safer leaving this place. We shall pole our way back up these quieter waters and find the greater tributary.”

“Where you will discover a much greater peril!” Ainé raised her voice to a roar. “Do you not yet understand the nature of what faces us? A Legun has surely passed through the pass of Kloshe Lamah. What other force could sunder the image of the queen, where she has guarded the gates for two thousand years? That Legun has cast a deathmaw over the wider course of the river. That is the peril that the Mage Lord sensed ahead. None would survive, for there would be no escape, trapped within the confines of the ship.”

A groan of fright went through those who heard her.

“What is a Legun—or a deathmaw?” Alan asked Ainé.

“A Legun is one of the seven orders of malice that forms the Tyrant’s inner circle. It draws power directly from its master. The deathmaw is its malengin—a force invisible until you come up against it. Then it is deadly.”

“We are already doomed!” muttered Siam.

Ainé said firmly, “We are not doomed. But we invite doom if our courage now fails us. The Mage Lord and his companions have heard their calling. Above us, in the ruins of Ossierel, he and his three friends will come face to face with their destiny. Is this not the purpose of his journey? Do not waste time on argument. Take heed instead of the gravity of our position. Dark forces
close upon us from all sides. But on the plateau of Ossierel we can put up a better defense.” Ainé lifted an arm to calm their terrified babbling. “We must enter these forests without delay—or abandon all hope of redemption for our peoples.”

Topgal’s voice was raised among the Olhyiu. “These are fine words. But we have children and elderly to care for. Darkness falls—it can be no more than a few hours at most. I say return to the main stream and sail on. Take our chances in spite of these faint-hearts with their womanish forebodings.”

“No!” Siam stood full-square against his brother-in-law. “Not one among you dreads these accursed forests any more than I do, yet I trust the Mage Lord more than I fear death. How can you even consider denying his counsel?”

Ainé took her sword out of its scabbard and lifted it high above the fearful company. The blade glowed with the pulse of her slow steady heartbeat, like a beacon of resolution against the shadows of approaching evening. “If you attempt to sail on, darkness will bring the attack you fear. The Legun will cast a new deathmaw farther along this very channel. We Shee leave immediately, in protection of the Mage Lord and his companions. If you will take my counsel and accompany us, we will find concealment in the forest this night. That will give us respite to continue the climb with rested limbs tomorrow.”

“So be it!” Siam spoke quietly, without the heart to roar.

As they cast anchor against the shingle beach and made ready to unload supplies of weapons and food, Alan turned to examine the island, his face lifting to the temple plateau. He had a lot of sympathy with the Olhyiu’s fears. The ruins of Ossierel, if ever they got to them, might prove to be another trap.

Brooding Heads

In the crepuscular shadows of the forest’s edge the Shee spread themselves out, with Ainé leading and the others distributing themselves to guard the long column of Olhyiu. Mark stopped for a moment and looked back at the abandoned ship a final time with tears in his eyes. Within minutes, they were within the gloom of the canopy.

They made their way up the winding slopes, hacking through the undergrowth and climbing—ever climbing. Just as darkness fell they found their progress blocked by a wall of Cyclopean stones. In the twilight Alan saw how each stone was an individually shaped boulder of granite, so skillfully sculpted that the convexity of one stone exactly met the concavity of its neighbor. It was a fortification built to withstand
a siege, and it stretched into the distance to either side of them.

Ainé explained, “We have reached the first of three defensive barriers, intended to delay any attackers and give time for the inner defenses to organize.”

“Yet,” Qwenqwo countered, “in spite of such defensive calculation, Ossierel was defeated?”

The Kyra glared down at the little man. “Here,” she growled, “the people can rest for the night. Warn them there can be no fires. In the meantime we must search along the wall to either side until we find a gate.”

“More likely a breach!” Qwenqwo muttered softly.

In the gloom, Kate was shivering from a mixture of cold and trepidation. Keeping close to Alan, she whispered, “The Shee can see in the dark. But how can we help them search without some form of light, which would only give our positions away?”

The dwarf mage came to their rescue. From one of his pockets he brought out a cluster of tiny stones, lumpy like knuckles, which, when he touched them against his runestone, glowed in the dark. He handed one each to Alan, Kate and Mark—Mark, who had not spoken a word since they left the ship.

“Hold the glowstones in your fists and let the light appear only through the gaps in your fingers. Thus to our enemies will it resemble the fire insects that abound in these forests.”

The Olhyiu put down their bundles and set about making a temporary camp, sharing out their rations
and huddling together under their rugs. The Shee melted into the shadows, concealed under their camouflage capes. Meanwhile, Alan and Kate were forced to split up into two groups. Kate, visibly unhappy that she had been separated from Alan, headed left, led by Ainé, and Alan headed right, accompanied by Qwenqwo and Kemtuk. They used their machetes to clear a path through the undergrowth.

After Alan’s group had covered a few hundred yards they came to a hexagonal buttress that marked an ancient guard tower. Through brief flashes of their glowstones they made out gargoyles on the tower wall, jutting monstrously over the surrounding forest.

Qwenqwo murmured softly, “Though the Kyra did not mention it, this fortification was guarded by Fir Bolg warriors long ago.”

“How do you know?”

“Because of this!” The dwarf mage hacked aside some scrub immediately downslope of the wall tower until, in the glow of the pebbles, they peered at a monument of rounded stone, overgrown with creepers and ferns. Between them they cleared away more of the scrub to discover a giant head carved in granite which, though tilted askew and a quarter buried, still rose a good nine feet above the forest floor. The face had the same broad flat nose and wide-lipped features as Qwenqwo. While Alan was still staring up in amazement, a hand suddenly took hold of his shoulder, causing his heart to miss a beat.

A Shee voice whispered, “We must go back. The Kyra has found a way.”

Qwenqwo, with a thoughtful expression, asked Alan to leave him behind. “You should return to the camp while I spend a little time in this sacred place.”

Back in the dark and fireless camp, they satisfied their growing hunger with dried berries and salted fish. Alan asked Kemtuk if he knew the explanation of the stone head in front of the wall tower.

Kemtuk sucked on an unlit pipe, talking reflectively. “I wonder about the masons who shaped these walls and towers. Here and there, in the marks I found on the stones, I recognized an ancient calendar—a year divided into the eighteen months of the moon cycles and the sacred nature of the five days.”

“Are you suggesting it wasn’t just guarded but also built by Qwenqwo’s people—the Fir Bolg?”

The shaman nodded. “Legends do tell of a fierce warrior race of that name, stories of fearless valor from the days before even the Olhyiu were known in this land. And warriors such as these would have had engineers skilled at defending sieges. It may indeed be that the dwarf mage is a descendant of those who constructed these walls.”

The friends huddled together for warmth but none of them slept soundly in the oppressive darkness. Alan woke to the whispering of Mark and Mo, who appeared to be sleepless. He could make out nothing of their words, and could see only the vaguest shapes of their hunched-up figures in the dark.

“What is it with you guys?”

It was Mo who whispered a reply, “Mark is pining for the ship.”

At the first pale glow of dawn, Alan threw off the rugs and made his way along the track they had cut in the night so he could take a better look at the giant head. The sculpture was even more impressive in the misty daylight, the face impassive yet charged with power. There was no doubt about it—the resemblance to the dwarf mage was unmistakable, down to the implacable stare he had seen in Qwenqwo’s own eyes when he was angry.

A flicker in the oraculum warned him of another presence, and he said softly, without turning, “I know you’re still around, Qwenqwo. Have you spent the whole night here?”

The dwarf mage stepped out of the shadows. He spoke reverentially in the presence of the head. “Yes. It comforted me. Mage Lord—what service can I offer you? You only need to ask and it is yours.”

“One thing you could do for me is to call me Alan.”

“Such honor I will reserve to times when it would appear appropriate.”

Alan sighed, then stared up at the impressive stone face. “I sense, as you do, that we’re surrounded by danger.” He hesitated, then looked Qwenqwo directly in the eyes. “But if you really meant what you said, there
is something you could do for me. I’d appreciate honest answers to some questions.”

Those green eyes gazed back at him with equal frankness. “Your people—the Fir Bolg. Tell me about them.”

“They were the bravest and noblest of warriors.”

“But they died—I’m sorry, Qwenqwo, but even you have to admit that that was a long time ago.” He dropped his head, searching for the right words. He spoke softly, searchingly. “I guess maybe I’m not putting this very well. The truth is it hardly makes any sense. But nevertheless I need to understand. What I’m asking is, do you still have some connection with these ancient guardians?”

A fierce pride glowed in Qwenqwo’s eyes and he put his hand on the uppermost head of his battle-axe where it protruded above his left shoulder. “I am the last of the Fir Bolg.”

Alan’s pulse quickened. It had been a strange reply on Qwenqwo’s part and he needed a moment to consider its implications. “And your runestone—that has something to do with all this?”

The dwarf mage stood erect without a trace of tiredness, though his night must have been devoid of sleep. “The runestone I inherited from my father, who was the lore-master to Magcyn. Most particularly did my father show me, and not through words alone, how the worth of a man is measured not by his stature but by the courage and integrity of his spirit.”

Alan started, “I was recalling how you explained earlier how your runestone once held a much greater power.”

“You recall true.”

“How did it lose its force?”

“What does a mortal man know of such things as the plotting and scheming of immortals long ago?”

“Immortals?”

“Aye. It would be prudent for me to hold my tongue. Yet through such terrible loss, I retained the lore that was lodged within my mind and the result of my training. Yet the runestone—thus emasculated—promised more than could ever be fulfilled. Then you shocked me to my very soul when you appeared in the chamber of the impostor bearing the Oraculum of the First Power on your brow. Of course I had heard of such a thing, but only in legend. And I confess that the hope it kindled in my heart was so powerful that therein was born my selfish motive. I dared to pray that even the mere proximity of such power might reawaken the runestone to its former calling. But even then—and this I swear—if you had it in your gift to resurrect its power in full, I would have pledged that power to your service, as now, even in its weakened state, I pledge it.”

“I know you would.” He hesitated. “What about the eagle—it is still there, in the sky above us?”

“Yes.”

“It’s somehow linked to you?”

“The eagle and runestone are one in spirit—in a way it would be difficult for someone who is not a Fir Bolg to understand.”

Alan nodded. “I can sympathize even if I don’t understand. I need your friendship, Qwenqwo. Let’s work together from now on. Maybe we could start by looking more closely at this stone head.”

Together they inspected the face, with its large protruding eyes, its flattened nose and wide, full lips—under the heavy-domed helmet that capped the brow. The brow was buttressed by a thick broad strap. Although Qwenqwo wasn’t wearing it right now, Alan recalled a similar strap of heavy bronze girdling Qwenqwo’s helmet during the fight at the waterfront in Isscan. In the uncertain light, he saw a circular pit in the center of the brow-strap. Qwenqwo’s helmet had had some kind of crystal embedded in exactly the same place on the brow. “I think this might have contained some kind of crystal.”

“So?”

“If so, it puzzles me.” Alan spoke softly. “What possible purpose could it play in battle?”

After a thoughtful hesitation, Qwenqwo spoke. “Perhaps you should look upon it through the lens of your own experiences. Is there not a common source of all power, as you have already discovered?”

Alan was taken aback by these words. “Now you’re talking about something I just don’t get at all. We’re called to this world by a power we’ve never identified or understood. We’re led to the gateway on Slievenamon. From there we arrive on Tír close to a stone circle that in turn leads us to Granny Dew. She gives me this.” He indicated the triangle in his brow. “She gives two of
my friends egg-shaped crystals. The Olhyiu, with the Temple Ship, are nearby.” Alan sighed. “Do you follow my reasoning?”

“You question fate?”

“There’s been one coincidence after another. It just couldn’t be accidental.”

“In the play of great powers, nothing is ever entirely accidental. Yet you might look upon fate as a marriage of soil and seed.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“You are the seed as fate is the soil. The seed is not chosen by accident, any more than the soil responds by accident.”

“Heck! Just who does the choosing?”

Qwenqwo placed a finger to his lips.

Alan sighed before returning his gaze to the brooding head—a Fir Bolg head, with the dwarf mage of the Fir Bolg now standing next to him, and its spiritual emblem, if that was how he should think of the eagle—in the sky above them. “Qwenqwo—what is it about the tower of the queen that has kept the Death Legion from passing through to Carfon?”

“You should not ask me this. It is not safe to talk of it.”

“That’s a risk I have to take. Many lives may depend on it.”

“The Fir Bolg harbored great knowledge of war. Knowledge and power enough to challenge Nantosueta’s own accursed Rath.” Qwenqwo’s voice was urgent now. “Yet it was she who triumphed.”

“What are you saying? It is she—the Dark Queen—whose power still preserves and protects the valley? It’s Nantosueta the Death Legion fears?”

“If the rumors are to be believed.”

Alan hesitated. “It just doesn’t make any sense. The way I figure it, there has to be something else. There is something else, isn’t there—something a good deal more terrifying about the Vale of Tazan?”

“Hush! I beg you. There are powers so dangerous it is dangerous to speak of them.”

Alan scanned the forest with the oraculum. “I sense it as you do, Qwenqwo,” he murmured softly. “There is something else here, a great power buried in the very earth and rocks.”

Back at the camp Alan found Siam berating Kate, who had returned from a dawn foray, her arms full of roots and herbs. Turkeya was missing. Earlier he had left the camp with Kate but had stayed in the forest when Kate had returned. Alan struggled to focus on the squabble, his mind still reeling from the conversation with Qwenqwo. “Kate, it’s understandable that Siam is angry. We can’t sit around and wait for Turkeya to come back.”

“Well, I’m not just going to sit around and do nothing while you play at Conan the Barbarian. I’m interested in herbs, and Turkeya has been teaching me things.”

“Hey—I’m not saying—Oh, forget what I said. But we’re just about ready to leave.”

“Besides, you don’t need to wait for Turkeya. He knows how to track us down when he has what he’s looking for.”

“Which is what?”

“He’s spying on the enemy.”

“Kate, that’s crazy!”

“Nobody’s better than Turkeya at tracking and spying. He’s determined to be our eyes and ears.”

Siam threw his hat on the ground and stamped on it. “That stupid boy! I despair of the mischief he will think of next.”

Alan shook his head at Siam. “Maybe Kate is right. We shouldn’t underestimate Turkeya. He’s already given you cause to be proud of him.”

But the chief merely picked up his hat and stormed away, lashing out at imaginary stupidities.

All around Alan people were settling down for a hasty breakfast of what little could be spared from the dwindling food resources before they tied up their bundles for the long day’s march. Through breaks in the canopy those same dark clouds that had crept over the dawn horizon were now thickening, as if a storm of rain threatened. Alan was so lost in his thoughts he failed to notice Mo until she tugged at his sleeve. She led him a couple of hundred yards into the forest, where she pointed out the Kyra, her feet widely straddled on a buttress of rock that protruded from the slope. Ainé held herself erect, as if standing to attention, then suddenly her position altered and she moved through ninety degrees and took up a similar position.