She pointed to the twin peaks. “We make for the city and find the Crown.”
Yos-shiel had been a Black River trader for more than two hundred and seventy years, and remembered with great regret the ending of all that was beautiful in Yur-vale. He had been celebrating his twenty-fourth birthday when the first mountain had erupted, spewing molten lava down the hillside, destroying the vineyards and the cornfields.
It had been a bitter summer. First the war, and then the natural upheavals that hid the sun from the sky. Year by year it had grown steadily worse. Yos-shiel pushed his thin fingers through his thick white hair, and stared out of the window at the quay, where men were loading supplies onto one of the three barges he would send down to Zir-vak after dusk. Smoked fish and timber: the only two items of any worth in Yur-vale. Yos-shiel sold them for gold and water, in the vain hope that one day gold would be a viable currency once more.
The old man rose and stretched. From his window he saw a single ray of sunshine to the south and his heart swelled. How long since there had been a break in the clouds? A year? Two? Several of the loaders saw it also, and all ceased their work.
A young man, seeing Yos-shiel at the window, called out, “Is it a sign, master? Is the sun returning?”
The pillar of light vanished. “I do not look for signs anymore,” he said softly.
Stepping out into the dull light, he counted the barrels of fish. “There should be fifty,” he said.
A huge man wearing a red shirt embroidered with gold moved into sight. “Two were spoiled,” he said, his voice low, rumbling like distant thunder. Yos-shiel looked into the man's small, round eyes. He knew Cris-yen was lying, but the man was a thug and, he suspected, a killer. The two guards Yos-shiel had appointed to supervise the loads had mysteriously disappeared. He feared them dead.
“Very well, Cris-yen, carry on.” With a contemptuous smile the big man swung away.
I never should have employed him, thought Yos-shiel. He and his brothers will strip me of all I have. I will be lucky to escape with my life. Glancing up at the iron sky, he suddenly smiled. What is life worth now? he wondered. Would I miss it?
Soldiers manned the ramparts of the stockade and Yos-shiel considered asking them for help in dealing with Cris-yen. The supplies he sent were vital to the city, and his plea deserved to be heard. But then
deserve
has nothing to do with it, he realized. Cris-yen had made friends with the officers, giving them presents. If I go to them and they turn against me my death will come all the sooner, he thought.
Strolling to the edge of the quay, he stared down into the inky depths of the river. No fish swam there now. The fleets were forced to put out far to sea in order to make their catches.
The barge from the city came into sight, its cargo of barrels lashed to the deck. Fresh drinking water, cleaned in the charcoal filters of Zir-vak, and fresh meat for the soldiers.
Yos-shiel wandered back to his small office and continued working on his ledgers.
Just before noon he heard a commotion from outside, and saw his workers moving toward the stockade gates. Yos-shiel closed the books, cleaned the quill pen, and followed them. The gates were open and three people had entered the stockade, two men and a woman. The woman was silver-haired and strikingly beautiful. Beside her was a giant in an ill-fitting green tunic, tied at the waist with what looked like an old bowstring; he too was silver-haired. The last of the trio was a young man, dressed in green trews and a shirt too small for him.
“Where are you from?” asked Cris-yen, pushing to the front of the crowd and standing before the woman, his hands on his hips.
“South,” she said. “We're looking for passage into the city.”
“And how will you pay me?”
The woman produced a small gold coin and Cris-yen laughed. “That's no good here, my pretty; it doesn't put food in mouths any longer. I'll tell you what I'll do, you and me will go to the warehouse and we'll arrange something.”
“We'll find passage elsewhere,” she said, turning away. One of Cris-yen's brothers stepped forward, grabbing her arm.
“There's nowhere else, you'd better listen to him,” he said.
“Take your hand off my arm,” said the woman icily.
The man laughed. “Or what?”
The woman ducked her head, hammering her brow into his nose. The man released her and staggered back but she leaped, her foot cracking against his chin and catapulting him back into the crowd. Yos-shiel saw the soldiers watching from the ramparts but they made no move to interfere.
“That was an assault!” yelled Cris-yen. “Take her!” Several men rushed forward. The woman downed the first with a straight left. The smaller of her companions rushed in and threw himself at the others; he and several men tumbled to the ground.
“That's enough!” bellowed the silver-bearded giant. The sound boomed around the stockade and all activity ceased as he stepped in close to Cris-yen. “Well,” he said, “you seem to be the lead bull of the pox-ridden herd. Perhaps you and I should decide the issue.”
Cris-yen said nothing, but his huge fist hammered into the man's chin. The giant took the blow and did not move. He merely grinned. “By God, son, if that is the best you have to offer you are in serious trouble,” he said. Cris-yen tried to throw a left, whereupon the giant blocked it with his right and slapped Cris-yen openhanded across the cheek. The sound was like snapping timber. Cris-yen staggered to his rightâthen, head down, rushed the giant. The charge was met by a right cross that smashed Cris-yen's jaw and spun him from his feet. He hit the ground facedown, twitched once, and was still.
“A chin like crystal,” muttered the giant. “Any more for the fray?” No one moved. The man walked to the unconscious Cris-yen and calmly removed the embroidered red shirt. Pulling off his own tunic, he donned the garment. “A little tight,” he said, “but it will do.” Without hurry he stripped Cris-yen naked and clothed himself in the man's leather leggings and black boots. “That feels better,” he said. “Now, who is in charge here?”
Yos-shiel stepped from the crowd. “I am, sir.”
“Then it is with you we should discuss passage?”
“It is. And you are welcome to travel free of any charges.”
“Good. That is most hospitable. I am Ironhand, this is my daughter Sigarni and her friend Ballistar.”
“I can see why you earned your name,” said Yos-shiel.
Yos-shiel offered his guests wine and food, and if he was offended by their refusal to eat, he did not show it. Ballistar liked the little old man, and listened with relish as he told of his troubles with Cris-yen.
“I don't believe he will cause you more trouble for a while yet,” said Ironhand, “but if you'll take my advice you'll promote a man to take his place immediately, and then dismiss all of his henchmen.”
“I shall,” said Yos-shiel, “although I would be grateful if you could stay beside me while I do the deed.”
“Gladly,” promised Ironhand.
“I was amazed that Cris-yen fell so swiftly to you. I have seen him break men's arms, and cudgel them down with hammer blows from his fists.”
“They breed them tough where we come from,” said Ballistar.
“And where is that?” asked Yos-shiel.
“South,” answered Ballistar vaguely, wishing he had kept his mouth shut.
“We are from another world, Yos-shiel,” said Sigarni, moving to sit on the desk opposite the old man. “We passed through a magical Gateway.”
The trader smiled, waiting for the end of the joke. When it didn't come his smile vanished. “You . . . are wizards?”
“No,” said Sigarni, “but a wizard sent us. We have come to reclaim something that was lost in this world, and return it to our own.”
“The sunlight,” said the old man. “That was you, in the south. What did you do?”
“I don't know what you mean,” said Sigarni. “You mean the break in the clouds?”
“Yes. It's been years since we've seen the sun. Can you make it come at will?”
“I did nothing, Yos-shiel. It was merely my bow. The wood began to sprout leaves and root itself in the soil. Then the sun shone.”
“We had wizards onceâa whole temple of them. They supervised the building of the Great Library in Zir-vak. They were blamed when the sun went away and sacrificed on the high altar. The King promised that with their deaths the mountains would stop spewing fire, but it didn't happen. In the last two hundred years there have been other prophets who claimed that blood sacrifice would appease the gods, and they would relent of their punishment. But they have not. We are a dying people, Sigarni; there is no hope for us.”
“And yet amid all this turmoil you fight a war,” she said. “Why?”
“It was originally over a woman. The King's grandfather fell in love with a noblewoman from the east, but she was betrothed to the King of Kal-vak. Despite her pleas her father made her honor her promise, and she was sent to Kal-vak. Our King was furiousâand swore he would free her. We went to war. Our troops attacked Kal-vak and were repulsed. Then the first of the mountains exploded. Each side blamed the other for the catastrophe, claiming that treachery had alienated the gods against us. At first it wasn't too terrible; the summers got shorter, and less warm, but crops still grew. But gradually the sky turned darker, and fine ash was deposited over the farmlands. Food grew scarce, save for the fish. But even these are swimming far from shore now.”
“Yet the war goes on,” said Ironhand. “How is it that neither side has won? You said the battle was begun by the King's grandfather. How long ago was that?”
“A little more than two hundred and forty years. Most of the principal players are now dead though the war goes on for other reasons. People need to eat.”
“They eat the corpses!” whispered Ballistar.
“It is a little like pork, I am told,” said Yos-shiel. “I have not eaten it myself, but when the time comes I don't doubt that I shall. Life is always sweetâeven in the Hell of Yur-vale.” The old man sighed. “But tell me, my friend, what is the object you seek? I may be of some assistance.”
“The Crown of Alwen,” said Sigarni.
“I know of no such object.”
“It is a winged helm, bright silver, embossed with gold.”
“The Paradise Helm,” said Yos-shiel, his eyes widening. “You cannot take that! It is all that gives the people hope.
Every twenty-five years it shows us a vision of paradise, waterfalls and green trees, and a multitude standing around it, happy and smiling. That is our most prized artifact.”
Sigarni laid her hand on the old man's shoulders. “What you see is my people standing by the Alwen Falls. Every quarter of a century the Crown reappears there, shimmering over the water. We all gather to see it, and you in turn, it seems, gather to see us. Tell me, Yos-shiel, of the last time the sun shone.”
“It was on the day of the old King's burial. I was there as they laid him on the funeral ship and sent it blazing on the river. The clouds broke and the sun shone for a full day. It was magnificent, there was singing and dancing in the streets.”
“And before that?”
“I don't remember exactly. Wait . . . yes, I do. Twelve years ago, at the Feast of Athling. We saw the dawn on the following day, the sun huge and red. That lasted only minutes.”
“What happened on the next feast day?”
“You don't understand, the Feast of Athling corresponds with the public display of the Paradise Helm. It happens only four times a century.”
For some time Sigarni questioned the old man and soon Ballistar became bored with the dialogue. He wandered to the window, leaned on the sill, and watched the barges being loaded.
At last the conversation died away and Ironhand broke in. “Best bring your men in for dismissal, old fellow,” he said, “for we have a hankering to be on one of those barges when it pulls away.”
“Yes, I will,” said Yos-shiel. “Thank you.”
An hour later the three sat at the stern of a forty-foot barge as the crew poled it steadily upriver. The vessel was fortified by hinged wooden flaps along both rails, which could be raised to offer protection from an assault. Huge rocks had been left at intervals along both sides of the deck, ready to be hurled down on any boat that sought to impede the barge's progress. Armed men sat at the prow, and all of the barge workers carried long knives.
“So we find the temple and steal the Crown?” said Ballistar. “It would be best to enter it at night.”
Sigarni rose, stretched, and walked away down the port side of the vessel. A soldier smiled at her. “Stay with your friends,” he said. “Soon it will be so dark you will not be able to see your hand before your face.”
She thanked him and returned to the others, seating herself on a coil of rope. The light faded fast, and soon the barge was engulfed in a darkness so complete that Sigarni felt an edge of panic.
“It's like being dead,” whispered Ballistar. Sigarni felt his hand brush against her arm; she took hold of it and squeezed his fingers.
“No, it isn't,” said Ironhand. “Death is not dark; it is bright and vile.”
“How can they see to steer?” Ballistar asked.
“Quiet back there,” came a voice. “We'll see the city within an hour.”
There was little sensation of movement within the all-encompassing blackness and Sigarni found herself thinking back to her days with Fell, when they had hunted together and made love before the fire. He had been able to read her moods so well. There were times when she had wanted nothing more than to curl up beside him, stroking his skin. On such occasions he would hug her and kiss her fondly. On other nights, when the fey mood was upon her she would desire to make love with passion and fire. Always he responded. I was good for you too, Fell, she thought. I knew you, your thoughts and your dreams.