The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) (39 page)

Alan explained what he had seen. “It spoke my name.” He shook his head, uncomprehendingly. “I tried to use the oraculum. I tried to probe it, but only managed a feeble attempt.”

Wrinkling her brow, Ainé gazed around at the impenetrable shadows. “There are forces at work in these forests more mysterious than even the legends have foretold.” She took firm hold of Alan’s arm. “Where is the dwarf mage?”

“His left arm was broken during the attack.”

Her oraculum pulsed rapidly—some words of command, ordering the survivors of the Shee to regroup and maintain their guard. Then she asked Alan to lead her to Qwenqwo. But before he could do so, she murmured, as much to herself as to Alan, “A Legun never attacks randomly. There is always a pattern. First it baits a deathmaw—but over the river some miles southward and not within the forest. It destroys the Temple Ship. Only then does it cast its spirit in search of us. Meanwhile its attack was directed not at you, its obvious rival in power, but at the Mage of Dreams.”

“What does it mean?”

“Who can say? Yet I wonder if this diminutive mage’s understanding runs deeper than he tells.”

“I’ll find Qwenqwo, Ainé. You have important tasks to organize. We’ve got to get away from here.”

Nodding, she declared, “We have more than a dozen dead with no time for ceremony. All we can do is to cover them in haste with rocks. We must press on to the fortress, for it was constructed with defense in mind.” Pressing the blazing torch into Alan’s hand, Ainé was away, issuing orders.

Alan ran to where he had left the dwarf mage. “Qwenqwo—where the hell are you?” He turned in a circle, searching for him in the dark of the trees.

There was no immediate answer. Only the silence and the dark.

Alan wandered the gloom, peering into shadows. He almost fell again over the body of the dead Shee. Now, inspecting the gruesome remains with the torch, he
saw the unfortunate woman had been bitten in two. Shivering with dread, he held out the brand against the encircling darkness, calling more loudly, “Qwenqwo! If you’re alive, answer me.”

“Can’t a man take a quiet drink without the hounds baying?”

Alan heard the grumble from no more than a couple of yards away and saw that it came from a cavity in the tangled roots of a tree. Then, as if in a blink, Qwenqwo clambered out of it, a flask uplifted against his lips. “Had the monster come back, broken arm or no, I would have left my mark upon its ugly neck.” Qwenqwo chuckled, while his eyes protruded with excitement. “If a neck it truly possessed!”

“You’re drunk!”

“As well a man might be who discovers he owes his life to the witch-warrior lying yonder.” He waved the bottle in the direction of the dead Shee, and hiccupped.

Alan helped Qwenqwo to his feet, calling out for the Aides to come and splint the broken bone.

A Lament for the Fir Bolg

As one by one the Shee prepared for further combat by going on one knee before Ainé and handing over their swords for recharging through contact with her oraculum, the four friends formed a ring about a single great fire, where they were joined by a dozen or so of the apprehensive Olhyiu elders, including Kemtuk, Siam and Topgal. The dwarf mage also joined them, as did the attentive Milish.

In the flickering light of the flames, Alan addressed them. “The Kyra is certain that the Legun will return.” He paused to allow the horror of that realization to sink in. “Its target last time seems to have been the Mage of Dreams. And maybe that tells us something—a clue that might help us fight it. Does anybody have any thoughts or ideas they’d like to share?”

Kemtuk said thoughtfully, “It seems to me that it was testing us, perhaps assessing our strengths and weaknesses?”

Alan nodded. “The Kyra is determined that we press on.”

“The Kyra is right.” Kemtuk glanced toward Siam, who clearly had his reservations. “We are already two thousand feet above the river. We must be very close to the plateau and the third wall of defense of Ossierel. Certainly we must hurry to complete that final march. However, I believe the heads may give us direction. If I gauge correctly, each faces directly outward on a line from the heart of Ossierel.”

“So if we stand exactly in the opposite direction from a head, we face directly toward that heart?”

Kemtuk nodded.

Siam said, “Further progress will be hard. We have children and wounded to carry. The Kyra will grant us a two-hour rest—no more. The strong among us will have to bear the children and the wounded. We will crawl if necessary the final league until we reach the sanctuary.”

“Spoken like a true Olhyiu!” shouted Qwenqwo Cuatzel, his face breaking into a crooked grin, taking a sip from his flask before passing it to Siam.

“Perhaps,” spoke Kemtuk, with a sidelong glance at Alan, “the Mage of Dreams might offer enlightenment to this company in the dark hours before we head into yet more peril?”

Alan took the hint from Kemtuk. He looked from the shaman to Qwenqwo, observing a glint in the dwarf mage’s eyes.

“Truly,” Qwenqwo declared, filling his pipe with one hand, “the shaman is the wisest of men, for he recognizes the importance of the history we confront on this island. It is a story both great and terrible, yet perhaps one that has been overdue in the telling. I will therefore explain a little of past events that might give you heart in this time of peril.”

A reflective silence prevailed over the company while the dwarf mage lit his pipe. Then, his voice a little more sobered, he began his story.

“These stone men—these brooding idols, as some have mistaken them—are all that mark the mortal remains of the bravest warriors ever to take up arms in a righteous cause. It is true that you see their likeness in my face, for they were my people, the Fir Bolg. And now, in this meeting of like minds around the campfire, I will share with you a sacred knowledge I have shared with no one for two thousand years.

“Here, in this enchanted forest, you have sensed the hand of fate from a time so long ago that all but I have forgotten it. I carry the burden of that history. For I am the sole repository of the purpose that brought my people, an army of fifty thousand warriors, here into this accursed forest, where it was their destiny never to return home.”

“What dreadful power could condemn so great an army?” demanded Siam, who was staring at Qwenqwo, his eyes wide.

“What power, you ask?” Qwenqwo took the pipe from his lips to spit into the fire. “You will see that I have more reason to hate the Dark Queen than you. There is much that I could tell, if I had as many years as we have minutes, of the ways in which a heartless woman, though young as Alan here and beautiful beyond men’s dreams, plotted the destruction of a warrior nation! Ah, my friends . . .” He paused, his face wreathed with sorrow. “Yet such is the peril we face that I see with new eyes the purpose of that wrathful queen.” The dwarf mage smoked his pipe, as if to give him a moment or two to indulge his grief, before continuing.

“At that time, when the army of the Fir Bolg came here, marching for months from a land far to the south, the Queen of the Valley—Nantosueta, she called herself—bade us welcome, for her realm was threatened. Even in those distant times the forces of darkness had long been stirring in the Wastelands across the Eastern Ocean. And had it not been for the courage of the Fir Bolg, that darkness would have been victorious long ago.

“But even after great slaughter of the forces of the enemy and terrible losses among our own, our leaders knew that we were not fighting powers merely of flesh and blood. Indeed you saw such monsters carved on the walls below.”

“Leguns?” Milish whispered.

“Leguns indeed. And with them came a hatred of life that would have laid waste even these ancient forests. Some say the queen herself perished in the final battle, and that it is her spirit that has reigned ever more from the Rath that stands upon the fastness of rock that bisects the great river.

“I don’t know all, for I was but a youth at that time, and it may be in consequence that my memory is prejudiced. Yet I know that it was Magcyn’s command that our warriors were given the choice, each man and woman for himself or herself, whether to make a final stand against the forces of evil or return home to the peace of hearth and family. The Arch Mage of the Fir Bolg then cast the runes that foretold that the evil could not be crushed by mortal courage. Only then was Nantosueta’s final recourse made plain. From her vaunted pinnacle she laid the hand of death over the entire valley. So she commanded, and so she watches over it still, making certain that all, who should have been allowed to choose their own fate, were compelled instead to remain in death, their souls enslaved to her terrible purpose.”

The dwarf mage wept openly, waving away the flask of healwell offered by Milish, for no healing balm could assuage the sorrow that had long brooded in his heart.

“Through such treachery,” he continued, “was a warrior race condemned not merely unto death but for eternity. And now you know the true and terrible meaning of the heads. For the Dark Queen in her wrath invoked Mórígán, the raven of death, to accept the
sacrifice so that such fealty would endure. Thus was the darkest enchantment cast—an enchantment that emasculated the runestone of the Arch Mage, guaranteeing the enslavement of my people—with every grave marked by the head of its warrior, drawn of his individual living features.”

Qwenqwo wept for a short time, so that those who sat on either side of him placed their arms about his shoulders and held him steady. Then, once recovered, in a voice of outrage, he continued:

“At the throat of the pass Nantosueta, in her arrogance, molded the very mountains to the figures of herself and Magcyn, the last king of the Fir Bolg. As such they would forever guard the entrance to her valley like some benighted king and queen.”

The dwarf mage drew a great sigh and knocked out the ashes of his pipe on the makeshift hearth. “My father was none other than the Arch Mage, Urox Zel. After him do I bear the name Cuatzel, for I am the son and heir of Zel. The Mage of Dreams I became in time, for my race was gone and with it my birthright. Thus now, as you see me, with my heart and spirit broken, did I accept this burden and bear it alone for two thousand years.

“So, I now answer you, Mage Lord, Alan Duval—I answer your question as to how the runestone of the Fir Bolg lost its power. And in telling my story I weep no more. For I thank the brave Olhyiu, and you, my friends, who have allowed me to unburden my grief at last. I ask
only this of you, that when I fall my grave should be added to theirs, and so the sacrifice will be made complete.”

There was a hushed silence that lasted several minutes, for not a man or a woman among their circle was other than stirred to a new courage by the story of the sacrifice of an entire nation.

Alan put his arm around the gnarled shoulders of the dwarf. “Thanks, Qwenqwo. I don’t know what to say after hearing your story. Is there anything we can do for you?”

The dwarf mage lifted his head and, with tears in his eyes, he looked directly at Mo. “There is one of you I came to know and love in our shared imprisonment. If there is a lament to be sung, she is surely the singer, for her voice is such as to charm a heart of stone. I would beg of my friend, Mo, to do me the honor of that song.”

All three friends looked at Mo, who had been silent throughout the entire gathering. Mo gazed across into the distressed face of Qwenqwo and smiled. “Oh, Qwenqwo, of course I’ll sing you a song—a sad song that came into my mind when the ship was burning. I’ll sing it for you, and I’ll think also of my brother, Mark, who has been mourning the ship as you have been mourning your people.”

Mo was helped to her feet by Mark, who put his arm around her shoulders to support her as her sweet voice sounded again in an alien world, singing her lament for the blood sacrifice of the Fir Bolg. And meanwhile the forest seemed to fall into a hush, and as though in a bog of darkness, the glimmering reflections of fifty thousand
stars flickered into life and then faintly glowed for the duration of her song before darkness claimed them again.

All too soon, at Siam’s command, the Olhyiu climbed wearily to their feet. The chief stood erect at the heart of them, his face ablaze with passion. “Now we know at what price security was purchased in days beyond memory. It is time we showed our friends the answering courage of the Olhyiu people.” Though Siam did not speak of it, Alan knew he was thinking of Turkeya. Siam lifted his right fist and clenched it against the dark. “We know that danger lurks in every shadow on the journey that lies ahead of us. Yet let us forget our wounds and let every man, woman and child march in pride with the memory of how precious is this liberty that we have come so far to win.”

So with their dependants and wounded on their backs, they forced their tired limbs into a renewed climb through roots and thorns. A wave of Shee melted into the trees to become the outer ring of defense. Alan climbed in company with Kate and Qwenqwo. Progress was labored. The children did not understand what was happening, and in their exhaustion they cried out repeatedly to their struggling parents.

Waiting for the last of the stragglers to clear the top of the slope, the party paused only to account for all before driving on again.

They gasped for breath at every stride, shaking with weariness. But as they arrived at first one proud
head and then another, they took direction and were encouraged where earlier they had been frightened. Increasingly, it was Alan now who forced the pace, his fingernails clawing at the slope, his feet kicking into the mud when he found himself sliding back down embankments. The dark was oppressive. Still, an iron will in Alan’s heart pushed him on. He needed no reminding of why he had come here. He remembered his mother and father and what had happened to them. He was going to find the guy, or guys, who had murdered them. And when he did find them . . .

That was what drove him on. Drawing on his need for vengeance, he ignored the moans of pain and frustration, the gasping breaths that rose from hanging jaws to form clouds in the torchlight.

On and on they persevered, each pace a further achievement through a gloom so oppressive they might have been threading their way through the depths of a cave. Torches were lit to illuminate their way between twisted trunks that seemed more like the merging of stalagmites and stalactites, so ancient they had fused into dense pillars that supported the roof of foliage.

At last, with dawn’s first glimmerings invading the sky, and when few seemed able to take another step, they reached a third barrier, its footings cut into the very bedrock, and its lichen-encrusted boulders rising sheer to a battlemented summit fifty feet above their heads. With eyes hollowed with weariness, Alan lifted his gaze to the summit and beyond, where, even higher than the inner
barrier, he could make out the ruined walls and towers of a great city. They had reached Ossierel.

Ramming the butt of the Spear of Lug into the ground, he probed the city with his oraculum. There was no doubt about it: he knew, absolutely and overwhelmingly, that the calling had come from here. A sudden wave of anger rose in him. He felt it close dangerously around the oraculum. But then Kate was beside him, grasping his arm, calming him.

“Look into the sky!”

When he looked overhead, the sky had filled with thunderheads, and lightning crackled between them.

“It’s you—it was you, back there, at the ice-bound lake!”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Alan, it’s your oraculum. Be careful: you don’t understand how powerful you’ve become.”

He shook his head, shut his eyes tightly. “It’s here—the calling came from this place.”

She kissed the back of his hand. “Yes. I feel it too.”

He hugged her to him. “Oh, Kate, I don’t know who the hell has called us here, or why, but maybe—just maybe in this crazy world—we might find out what really happened to our parents!”