Greyfax Grimwald (20 page)

“Ahem, excuse me, but could anyone explain to me why I’ve been carted off in the middle of the night from my warm bed, jawed viciously by some lump of an overgrown dog, and deposited so rudely in the middle of a freezing floor, without even so much as a ; how-do-you-do?”

His words flowed out into the great, frigid distance, and echoed back, tingling and tinkling as if they, too, had become part of that dark, frozen silence.

“Or,” began Dwarf, becoming more and more puffed, “could anyone have the decency to offer me a coat, and slippers? One of mine fell off on the way here, and this floor is like ice. I’ll catch my death of cold soon if I’m left standing one-slippered this way.”

Only silence, and the echo. Dwarf advanced a few i feet forward, groping and feeling slowly with his I bare foot, curling his toes and wincing with the cold. A bit farther on he could make out the dark outline of a shape, the barest shadow of a shadow. He went hesitantly foreward, his curiosity growing until he almost forgot his bare foot. With his hands outstretched to keep from bumping his nose into a door or table, he advanced farther toward the dark object. As he moved, he heard the slightest sound, the softest movement, like someone breathing under a cover on a dark night. Thinking of a cover, he began shivering again, remembering the warm quilt and dwarf comforter at home in his warm bed, and the hot-water bottle with its rosy touch next to his feet, and Froghorn curled in a ball at his head. A sadden thought struck him, and he immediately called out in an angrier tone.

“Greyfax, if this is one of your jokes . . .

And a great frozen wind howled and shrieked, sending pellets of ice and snow like powder into Dwarf’s face, entering his body like frozen darts until the only thing not numbed by the great icy finger was his thumping little heart He had to close jus eyes and put a hand to his mouth to keep from suffocating, and the silence grew again so still all he could hear was the terror of his own soul. Slowly, as though a curtain of ice was lifting, a green and pale yellow glimmer began to outline the shadow before him. It grew and grew as Dwarf watched, struck with a fear greater than he’d ever before known possible. He thought the great dragon Beoliel, whom he’d helped slay in the older days of his home, was nothing compared to this shadow form flowing dimly in its green-yellow fire before him. He could not see at first, for even the faint, sickly light hurt his eyes, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw what looked to be a throne, as tall as the chamber itself, which reached away upward until it faded from Dwarf’s vision. A phantom of a figure was seated on the throne, glowing green, then yellow, and he could make out yellow, hair, and greenish eyes that were so cold he froze at the sight of them.

They rested upon him like a tomb, and his heart gave a sigh and was resigned to its death in the presence of these eyes. All hope left Dwarf, and all he could think of, all that entered his numbed mind was death, an eternal sleep in frozen halls, where even in death the cold would freeze and torture those after death forever.

Great and booming, echoing against the chamber, came the dagger ice voice. “Greyfax Grimwald is dead, you miserable wretch of a dwarf. Soon you, too, will feel my hand extinguish that paltry heart of yours. Isn’t it good to be where you’re welcome?”

Laughter, cold, malignant, grew like a tumor in Dwarf’s ears.

“You are where no one can help you, not even those of the accursed Circle. They shall soon fall to me, and like Greyfax Grimwald, be forever banished into the cold grasp of my breath.”

The Dark Queen exhaled a great breath, and there floating before her were crystals of ice, each containing the frozen, slumbering bodies of many forms, of men, and elves, and dwarfs. He saw his old friend Co’in there, who had been slain in the Battle of the Dragon many, many years before Baliel, the father of Beoliel, and son of Braele Faf, who had dwelled long in the homeland of his dwarfish fathers. His eyes welled with tears, which were frozen before they could roll to his nose.

“That’s where you, too, shall soon rest, along with the rest of your world”

Another explosion of laughter, vile and bitter, entered Dwarf’s ears, turning his brain deaf to any thought except what the Dark Queen spoke.

“But first, I must have the secrets of the box, for without those, you frail beings upon Atlanton Earth will wither and perish like the scourge you are. And you shall never escape me.” Dwarf struggled to speak, but his voice froze in his chest, so he stood transfixed, looking at those pale, glimmering green eyes. “Where is the box, miserable gnome? Tell me.” Words formed on Dwarf’s lips, to speak the betrayal of the Arkenchest, but then something stirred in Dwarf’s heart, something he’d forgotten was there. He remembered his father, and dwarfs like Co’in, and his homeland; and pride, aided by his stubborn dwarfish nature, choked the words off.

“Speak.’’

By a great streak of dwarf huffiness, he was able to remove his eyes from the Dark Queen’s face. Looking down at the floor at Ins own bare foot, anger once more stole through him, and still looking downward, so that the Dark Queen’s great power was lessened, his mind began working slowly once more.

“I know of no box. What I do know is I was kidnapped from my house, dragged out here in the middle of the night, and now I’m cold and hungry, and I demand to be taken back immediately.” Dwarf’s voice cracked as he spoke, and he could barely hear the words himself, but he felt much better, and at once he began thinking that Greyfax was indeed not dead, and would help him get away from this terrible place.

“Indeed, Gnome. You shall not leave my palace, now or ever. The cold will grow in your bones like death. Whether or not you fight, you will tell me where the cursed box is. I have time. Forever.”

The green-yellow light flared up briefly, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. Darkness covered Dwarf, and he thought it grew much colder than before. And then the yellow eyes of something approached him, put a rough, scaly hand around his throat, and began dragging him away into the darkness.

He couldn’t breathe or struggle, and the thing’s breath reeked of decay, but he could not see its face, except for the yellow eyes, and soon after a door was pulled open and the thing flung Dwarf into it and followed him in, bearing dull yellow-glowing teeth when Dwarf picked himself up to a standing position.

Into the darkness, and against the growing panic he felt, he whispered two words, Greyfax Grimwald, over and over.

B
y the river, Otter’s lamps burned far past moonset, and strange noises broke the silver-mist silence that gathered above the shining, flowing water. A cheery travel tone played on a reed pipe, followed by the patter of dancing feet, then silence for a while, while Otter sat dejected and saddened by his own decision to leave Bear behind and to seek the man Froghorn had told them of by himself. “Bear has been so happy here,” he thought, “I’ll amply scamper out, get this ally fellow, and bring him home. Then Froghorn can get Dwarf back, and we’ll all be right back where we were, eating and drinking, or playing and swimming, or telling a good tale or two over a cozy winter fire, as simple as that.”

Otter twitched his left muzzle whisker, scratched his back against the chair, and darted off into a dark pantry. He took down the three berry leaves he had planned to have for breakfast, ate them quickly, then had a long drink from his pewter water jug.

“No time for eating tomorrow,” he said sternly. Then, brightening a bit, he added, “Unless, of course, I happen to chance onto another good berry patch.” He packed his ancient otter book into the open rucksack, then added as many tins of honey extract as he could carry, a candle, an heirloom chain his father had given him when he was a pup, two maps, his favorite water ball for playing, and a cherry pit for luck. He quickly dashed outside for a look at the moon, saw it was an hour down, hurried back, trimmed his lamps one by one, extinguishing them carefully, made sure his cooking fire was banked, secured all his doors but his secret exit, hoisted the well-laden pack onto his small back, and scurried down the long tunnel that opened out onto what appeared from the outside to be a reed bank. He stopped at this entrance, turning.

“Now what have I forgotten?” he sighed, knowing that no matter what or how carefully he planned, he always managed to forget something when he was traveling. He hastily undid the entire pack, rechecked its contents, and tied it all securely up again.

“I should leave him a note,” he mused, “or else the silly ass will waste away worrying.”

And saying this; he reached into the pack again, took out a small sheaf of parchment, searched angrily for the stub of a pencil Dwarf had given him for writing his poems on deep snowfrozen nights when it was too miserable for visiting, found it; and scribbled in his small, fine hand

which read, in High Bruinlin,

He silently followed the path that led past Broco’s dark, empty house, to where a large, well-paved trail led up through the thickets. That path disappeared into a wild tangle of choke thistle and dewberries, and only those that knew where to look would be able to find the well-concealed dwelling. Otter crept forward, disturbing no leaf or limb, and listening for a moment at the front door heard Bear’s low growling noise inside. He laid a rock over the paper at the door where Bear would be sure to find it, returned as quietly as he had come, and cut around the dark side of the hill in the direction of the distant mountains, invisible now in their nightshirts. The moon was gone, but the stars had grown brighter, and to Otter’s eyes, it was more than enough light, even for unfamiliar surroundings, and he climbed to the highest point of the hill to look one last time at his valley, where the friends had dwelled so long and happily. The dark water gleamed here and there where stars nested in her hair, and the vague outline of Dwarf’s house stood out in the shadows. Farther, down, he knew, was the low mound with the green door, full of his life for so long, now dark too, waiting. Otter chittered twice, whistled low, a goodbye tune, raised a paw, and was gone into the darkness.

B
ear sat long into the night, planning and thinking, his great form sank low over his table, one huge paw drumming upon the stout oak top, the other idly stirring about a freshly opened cask of new honey from a tree Dwarf had discovered on one of their many explorations. His mind was full of sorrow at the disappearance of Dwarf, and all Froghorn had told him, and having to leave his beloved cave after all the contented years they had spent in the valley. Wars and contagion, man and beast alike slaying each other in wanton fashion, magical boxes, wizards, and all sorts of disturbing memories spun through his troubled mind. Bear lowered his head into his paws, sighing wearily.