The Time of the Warlock Page 13

  The pair of Frost Giants seemed to have lost interest. But slaves had always been good at that.

  The Cavern of the Last God

  The ridged back of the mountain chain was an easier path than Orolandes had expected. These mountains were old, worn to smooth rock and rotted to soil that could hold the occasional grimly determined tuft of grass; and the towering peaks were all to the south, behind them. Mirandee’s hair remained white, but she was strong.

  Yet the journey had its difficulties. Their boots wore out, and they lost half a day summoning rabbits and skinning them for new boots. Always as they walked, they had Wavyhill for their entertainment. Unhampered by the need to draw breath, Wavyhill talked constantly of the ease with which magicians used to travel, and the precautions they could and should have taken to save this grueling walk. His life story was a chain of enemies made and defeated, and they had it all in detail, until Mirandee threatened to move his felt tongue to the backpack. “What makes you so garrulous?” she demanded. “You never needed company when you were living all alone in those fortified castles.”

  “Oh, blame it on the Warlock, dear. I was deaf and dumb and blind for thirty years. You’d want to talk too.”

  “He could have revived you earlier, if you’d told him your true name before the battle,” she said, and Wavyhill chortled hollowly.

  But he woke her that night by saying, “Kranthkorpool. It’s Kranthkorpool. Just in case.”

  It took them six days.

  The last few miles were the easiest, a wide, rounded ridge of smooth rock sloping gently downhill. Mirandee’s hair went dark and light as if cloud-shadows were passing. It was late afternoon.

  The slope dipped more drastically there at the end, until it was a vertical drop. “Wavyhill? This way?”

  “Yes! Get us down there, Greek!” Wavyhill was almost indecently eager.

  Orolandes motioned Mirandee back. He stood at the edge of the drop, looking around, taking his time.

  From the lip it was thirty feet to flat dirt. The rock face must slant inward; he couldn’t see it.

  The drop could be made in two stages, by way of what looked to be a congealed river of lava. It was twenty feet high and thirty-odd feet wide, a rounded ridge of smooth gray rock with big potholes all over it, and it ran beneath Orolandes’ feet. Ten feet down, then another twenty feet to dirt. But the lava river itself was rounded to vertical all along its length, and it ran further than he could see, twisting into the broken foothills.

  “It’ll be easier just to moor the line and climb down here. Here—” He showed Mirandee how to slide with the line around one ankle and clutched between the feet. He slid down first, then stood underneath, ready to break a witch’s fall. She did fine. He caught her anyway, for pleasure.

  They stood before the mouth of an enormous cavern, under the edge of the roof.

  “In there,” Wavyhill whispered. “I was right. I wasn’t sure until now.”

  Orolandes dropped the pack and drew his sword. “Stay behind me, love.”

  Wavyhill laughed. “Do you have any idea what to expect?”

  Orolandes boosted himself to the top of a chest-high buttress of stone. “Tell me.”

  Wavyhill didn’t answer.

  Orolandes pulled Mirandee up. They looked into the cavern.

  “Don’t go any further,” said the skull.

  The entrance was big, but it widened even further beyond the opening. In the darkness they could see vertical bars, stalactites and stalagmites of prize-winning size. The twenty-foot high river of grey stone ran deep into the darkness…or it had run out of there, glowing, long ago.

  “It’s big,” Orolandes said. “Do you know what this dormant god looks like? How big it is?”

  “Don’t go any further. I mean it.”

  True, he’d been edging in. Mirandee asked, “Why not?”

  “We have a decision to make,” Wavyhill said. “Do we risk this without Clubfoot and the Warlock? Or shall we try a Great Summoning, now?”

  “That’s no decision at all. We don’t have the power.”

  “I think there might be enough to—”

  “Wavyhill, I’m surprised at you! The mana is here, but it’s too diffuse. We need the last god first. You know what would happen if we tried a Great Summoning and failed.”

  Orolandes waited. He didn’t have to trust Wavyhill. In one second his sword could split that skull, and without scratching Mirandee’s shoulder.

  “Mirandee, it only strikes me that we might not know enough between us to—”

  “I will not try any Great Summoning until we have the power to do it. And you can’t make the gestures.”

  Wavyhill gave a barking laugh. “You win. All right, Greek, put the sword down and go in and find the dormant god.”

  Mirandee said, “Alone?”

  Orolandes said, “Put down the sword?”

  “I said that, yes. Of course, neither of you has to take my orders.”

  It was dark in there. Menacing. The sword’s weight felt comfortably normal in his hand.

  “Leave it here. Otherwise it’ll kill you. Snap out of it, Greek, this is your big moment!”

  He didn’t like Wavyhill’s obscene grin; but Orolandes had made his decision long since. He set the sword on a boulder. He turned and walked into the darkness.

  Stalagmites stood thicker and taller than he was. He had to duck the points of the longer stalactites at first, but then the cavern’s roof became too high for that.

  Wavyhill’s echoless voice followed him. “I don’t know the size or shape of what you’re looking for. You’ll find it on the other side of that stream of smooth rock, probably far back.”

  He turned and called, “All right.”

  It happened while his head was turned. Motion exploded around him. Things swatted his head from two directions. Orolandes threw himself flat and rolled over clutching for his sword. Things screamed all around him, their voices excruciatingly high-pitched.

  Still fluttering, still screaming, they wheeled away from him. Dark shapes swarming around the roof. Bats. Orolandes got up and moved on, breathing heavily.

  The lava flow ran along the side of the cavern. It ran the full length, back to a deeper blackness at the end. Orolandes’ exploring hands found smooth rock marred with potholes. Strange to find potholes here where there was no rain. And in the sides, too.

  Strange but convenient. He climbed the potholes, up the rounded side of the rock. Stalactites hung low over the top.

  Between the back side and the cavern’s wall was a three-foot gap. Orolandes walked toward the back, ducking stalactites, looking into the gap.

  The deeper blackness at the back: could it be another cavern? He might have to search that too. Should have brought a torch. But there was a shadow far back along the gap, a big shadow. If that was the god, it was too big to be moved. Even if it wanted to be moved.

  From the beginning he had wondered if it would fight him.

  Wavyhill’s shout came jarringly. “Orolandes! Come back! Come back now!”

  “What for?” Orolandes’ own shout echoed around him.

  “Now! Obey me!”

  He didn’t trust Wavyhill worth a troll’s curse. But he trusted the panic and anger in that command. He dropped lightly from the lava flow, caught himself in a controlled roll, stood up and jogged toward the entrance.

  The entrance flamed with daylight. Orolandes jogged around stalagmites with his eyes on the chancy footing and his head lowered to avoid the down-pointing spires.

  Mirandee leaned casually against a smooth rock wall, seemingly watching him. It was hardly a scene of panic. Orolandes called, “What’s the trouble?”

  He knew that when his muscles locked. He teetered on a rigid forward leg, then toppled on his right side in running position. He tried to cry out, but his voice was locked too.

  Mirandee didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t blink.

  The sword was on the boulder where he had left it, a tantaliz
ing arm’s reach away.

  The skull on Mirandee’s shoulder said, “I’m sorry. My mistake, and it was made right at the beginning.” He raised his voice. “Piranther! Where are you?”

  “I’m just over your heads.”

  Piranther floated like an autumn leaf into the bright entrance.

  The Frost Giants

  They should have thought of it. Granted that the Warlock was sick with age and Clubfoot was trying to keep them both alive with old stories; there was more to it. Sorcerers have a blind spot, and that blind spot is—

  “—swords. They keep appearing in your old tales,” said Harric. The burly redhead was dressed casually now, in leather and flaxen cloth. “Are these magic swords all a thing of the past?”

  Harric’s invitation to dine at his table had surprised the Warlock. Less surprising was the presence of another guest, their young guard, Poul. Two other men struck the Warlock as fighting men; their arms were thick with muscle, they bore healed scars, and they walked as if they didn’t expect anyone to be standing in their way. Now he began to understand.

  “Wavyhill had a magic sword,” Clubfoot was saying. “It didn’t help against the Warlock. And there was a demon forced to the form of a sword: Glirendree. The Warlock killed it. In fact…Warlock, I guess you’re our expert on magic swords.”

  The Warlock smiled. Oh, yes, he should have made this happen earlier. “What would you like to know?”

  “Where do they come from? What do they do?”

  “Hmm…Glirendree doesn’t count. He was an actual demon. Wavyhill’s sword was enchanted to strike always at the vitals of an enemy. You can do that, or set it to block another’s weapon, or make it sharp enough to cut boulders, or all three.”

  “Can you do that to any sword?” Harric leaned across the table.

  “Mmm…I can, or could, if I were in a place where magic works.”

  “All right, you’ve said that murder carries this magical power. There were battles fought all through here—”

  “No, no. Murder and war are not the same. The intent is different, and the intent counts for a good deal.”

  Harric settled back. The Warlock sipped mead and waited. Presently Poul said, “Kinawulf’s barrow?”

  “Yes, by the gods! Warlock, Kinawulf was a ringbearer of our people who tried to practice sorcery himself. He had some success until Roze-Kattee turned his followers against him. They slew him after torture. His barrow is a place of ill fame, but with swords and magic to guard us we should be safe enough.”

  “It sounds perfect. How far is it?”

  “Most of a day’s walk…uphill. Mpf, we had best make you a litter. Are there materials you need?”

  The Warlock asked for parchment and colored inks. “I’ll send Clubfoot scouting for herbs. And bring the swords, of course.”

  They set out on the morning of the sixth day. The swordsmen were heavily laden: two to carry the Warlock, the others carrying half a dozen extra weapons in addition to the magicians’ materials. In his present condition the Warlock wondered if he could pick up any one of those great metal killing-things, built heavy enough to slice through armor.

  He was mildly disappointed, and mildly relieved, that Clubfoot had come back with the herbs. Hell, Clubfoot hadn’t promised to run. Maybe there had been a guard. He didn’t ask.

  The trees thickened as they went, until Poul and the Nordik named Hathsson had to slide sideways to move the Warlock’s chair between the trunks. The Warlock sighed and said, “I’ll walk from here.”

  “It’s not much farther. Bring the chair anyway,” Harric ordered.

  The forest smells were pleasant. Harric passed a fat skin of mead around. Clubfoot said, “I’ve been wondering what happened to this Kinawulf. We seem to have worked out that Roze-Kattee drove people sane.”

  “Selectively,” said the Warlock. “Who attacked Kinawulf? Someone who had reason for hatred or jealousy?”

  “His younger brother and a few followers, helped by Kinawulf’s wife.”

  “I expect Kinawulf’s problem was that none of his own followers were mad enough to stand in the way of a sword. That was Roze-Kattee’s doing. The god wouldn’t have touched Kinawulf himself; he might have surrendered. We may well find magic operating around the barrow.”

  “There—” Harric pointed.

  The barrow was the peak of a small hill covered in green grass. It was clear of trees. “We want the top,” said the Warlock.

  He was behind the others as he climbed, puffing, leaning on Poul’s arm. Why didn’t he feel stronger, if this place was so rich in mana? There was mana, but not enough to power a youth spell, or to work a loyalty spell or a death spell on swordsmen. Or to do much to a metal sword. Now, how does one explain to a known berserker that one can’t give him a dozen magic swords after all?

  They heard Hathsson shout. Poul sprinted for the top of the hill, sword in hand. The Warlock struggled after him.

  Even in this northern cold, Piranther went naked. His bright eyes searched for motion, for any sign that his spell of paralysis had failed. Nobody moved.

  Piranther relaxed his grip on the leather bag at his throat. He walked nonchalantly past Mirandee, inspecting her; then turned his attention to the skull.

  “Kranthkorpool, speak to me. Did you find the dormant god?”

  “Maybe.” It was no more than the truth, but Wavyhill’s voice was strained.

  Piranther slit the straps that held the skull to Mirandee’s shoulder. He lifted it down and looked at it, his fingers avoiding the gnashing jaws. “I could; smash you,” he said. “Or I could take away your senses and bury you here. Who would ever find you? Don’t make me dig for information, Kranthkorpool.”

  Wavyhill said, “I think the Frost Giant priests must have put it behind that long, rounded wall of rock, far back. The Greek knows.”

  “Thank you. Why did you want him? You could have fetched it for yourselves.”

  “He’s the only strong one among us. The god is bound to be heavy. Too heavy for you, too, Piranther. Can we deal on that basis?”

  Piranther looked thoughtfully into the cavern. “But with the mana inherent in it, you could float it out. Why—?”

  “Curse it, we can’t afford the loss! We need all the mana the god has left to it. Don’t you understand, this is the biggest thing anyone ever dreamed of!”

  Piranther laughed. “Your big and foolish project. Your one solution to all the world’s problems. Never trust such solutions, Kranthkorpool. I will take the dormant god back to the South Land Mass for our own use. It will serve our needs for some time to come.” He set the skull down facing him. “I can leave it dormant for now. I do not need its mana. I have these.”

  Orolandes tried to make out what Piranther was holding. He saw intricate flashes of colored fire against the dark pink of Piranther’s palm.

  “Black opals. See how beautiful they are. Sense their power. There are more black opals in the South Land Mass than in all the rest of the world. Even so…our numbers increase. These will not last forever. We must have the dormant god.”

  “You think small.”

  “Perhaps. Where are the others?”

  “I don’t know.” Again Wavyhill’s voice was strained.

  “Must I dig for information?”

  “Dig…then. You say my…name badly.” Was Wavyhill gloating?

  Piranther shrugged. He turned to Orolandes’ backpack. “Certainly Mirandee carried a crystal ball. True, my dear? Let us look in on them.” He upended the pack, and things spilled out: blankets, a smoked joint of elk, rope, pouches of dusts, the copper Warlock’s Wheel, a few sharp slivers of crystal. “Could I be wrong? Kranthkorpool!”

  “She smashed it falling out of a cloud.” No mistake now, Wavyhill was gloating.

  “Then we’ll do it the hard way. After all, I have the power. If Clubfoot and the Warlock are trying to harm me…” Piranther selected a fine, polished bit of many-colored fire as big as his toenail. “…we’ll just inter
rupt them.”

  The Nordiks had armed themselves. They were looking downslope to where three Frost Giants waited on the hidden side of the barrow hill.

  A patch of snow behind them made them hard to see. Gannik and Wilf stood tall with a dignity they hadn’t worn in the sauna. The third Giant was getting to his feet, taking his time.

  It was worth the wait. The third Frost Giant stood seventeen or eighteen feet tall. He wore a fur about his hips, the skin of a white bear, and nothing else. His wild white hair and beard flared about his head; he was all white, even to the small tree that hung casually from one hand, with a knob of roots at the end to make an impressive cudgel.

  Sword conspicuously in hand, Harric strode forward to call down the hill. “What do you want here?”

  “Give us the magicians,” the big one boomed.

  “They are our guests. We hold the high ground.”

  The Warlock whispered to Hathsson, “What does he mean?”

  “They have to come at us uphill,” the blond Nordik whispered back. “Can you enchant our swords before they decide to charge?”

  “No.”

  Meanwhile the big Frost Giant laughed boomingly and cried, “We are the high ground! And we must have the magicians. May Wilf come to speak to you without being hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  If the Frost Giant woman was afraid, she showed none of it. She walked up without haste to join them. Harric opened conversation by saying, “Nordiks have fought Frost Giants before.”

  “We must have the magicians. Why must any of us die? You argued whether to kill them yourselves.”

  Interestingly, Harric did not deny it. “They are to do us a service. But even that is less important than this: Nordiks do not take orders from Frost Giants.”

  The Frost Giant woman looked down at Harric. “Have we not worked willingly for all of our lives? Have we refused you anything but one thing? These men threaten our god.”

  Clubfoot tried to interrupt, but Harric gestured him to silence, and answered her himself. “Your god had lost nearly all its power when you buried it.”