Spell of the Crystal Chair (8 page)

“Stand fast, archers! Wait until I give the word!” Fairmina’s voice came clear. She seemed to have no fear. Her eyes were fixed on the ferocious beast that approached them. It moved not like a T-rex but swiftly, like an enormous weasel. The eyes were red and small and filled with evil.

“Fire!” Fairmina cried and loosed her arrow. Beside Josh, Sarah let her arrow fly. It went true, but the wraith had a tough hide. It screamed with rage in a horrible voice and kept coming.

“Again! Keep firing!” Fairmina ordered.

The wraith would make a rush. Then an arrow would manage to catch it, and it would scream like nothing that Josh had ever heard before. Its eyes flashed like fire, and only the constant rain of arrows kept its attention from the spearmen.

The Sleepers were all using their bows. Chief Denhelm was leading the spearmen. More than once
Josh thought the chief would be caught by the monster’s slashing tail or by the swordlike claws on its strong forearms. The great teeth once just missed Denhelm, and Josh’s heart came up into his throat.

“I’ve got only three more arrows, Princess,” someone called.

“Make them count,” she said. “When they are gone, we will have to join the men with spears.”

But the ice wraith had apparently absorbed enough punishment. Giving a final scream, the monster backed away. Conmor rushed in to plant a spear in its breast, but he moved too slowly. The wounded wraith turned on him, and the hunter was suddenly inside its jaws.

“Conmor!” Reb screamed. “It’s killed Conmor!”

Reb grabbed up a spear and would have run after the wraith, now retreating with its victim.

But the chief caught him and held him with his strong arms. “No, my Reb. It is too late to help him. You would be slain, too.”

“We’ve
got
to kill it! Let me go, chief!” Reb raged.

“No,” Fairmina said. She took hold of Reb’s free arm. “To kill an ice wraith is something that is not easily done. Only two have ever been slain by our tribe—and then at a tremendous cost.”

Reb hung his head and dropped his lance. “He was such a fine guy.”

“Yes,” Fairmina said sadly. “He was a fine warrior.”

Now the chief rested a hand on Reb’s shoulder. “We will all miss him,” he said, “but you fought valiantly. All of you did.” He sighed. “Ice wraiths are more cruel and more deadly than the Yanti. Come. Now we must get our wounded home.”

B
alog, chief of the Yantis, did not have the noble look of Denhelm, the Lowami chieftain. Balog was short, squat, and powerful. He had long, stringy black hair that sometimes hung down over his dark eyes. There was something proud and angry in his expression. He was obviously a man of a quick temper.

Seated on the fur-covered floor with his war council, Balog suddenly struck the ground beside him with a hard fist. “So the Yanti ran away!” he yelled. “That’s the kind of cowards I have to put up with!”

“But, Chief,” one of the council members said, “we were outnumbered.” The particular speaker was pale and had a bandage around his head. He had been one of those caught in the skirmish against Denhelm’s hunting party. His voice trembled a little. He probably knew the wrath of Balog could be deadly.

“Silence!” Balog shouted. “You ran away, and only cowards run away!”

Olah, the wife of Balog, had long light hair, neatly tied behind her. She had dark blue eyes, and there was a gentle spirit about her. She ordinarily took no part in the council. But now, as she brought in food, she said quietly, “Balog, sometimes even the most valiant warrior has to retreat.”

He had captured Olah in a war raid against the Lowamis and, to the surprise of everyone in the tribe, had taken her as his mate instead of one of the Yanti women. If Balog had any gentleness in him at all, it was
directed toward his wife. Now, however, he said impatiently, “You do not understand these things, Olah. These are matters that warriors must decide.”

Seated at Balog’s right was his father, Magon. He was old now, but in his day he had been a fabled warrior. No one could stand before him, and the songs of the tribe included many sagas of Magon’s battles against the enemies of the Yanti. He had passed along his chief’s office to his son some years ago when he was grievously wounded in battle and was unable to go out anymore. He rarely spoke in council. But when he did, everyone listened, for it was well known that Magon never gave bad advice.

“My son, there is truth in what your mate says.”

Balog respected his father, although the two did not always agree.

“But, Father,” he complained, “they ran away!”

“I ran away more than once in my day as war chieftain.”

“Impossible!” Balog said. “I cannot believe it!”

“If I had not run away when the odds were overwhelming, there would not have been another day to fight. From what I understand of Dakar’s news, they were badly outnumbered. As a matter of fact, they were foolish to attack such a large group.”

Dakar nodded eagerly. “I see that now, sire. That was my mistake.”

“Denhelm is a valiant warrior, and his daughter, Fairmina, is the equal of most men,” his father said. “I think no shame has attached itself to our warriors.”

Balog wanted to argue, but truly he had great respect for his father.

“May I say a word?”

Balog turned to the one stranger in their midst. He
knew him. He had spotted him as soon as he had seated himself. The visitor was shrouded from head to foot in a black cloak. The hood shadowed his face, but his voice came clear.

The chief shifted uneasily. “We have a guest,” he said rather grudgingly. “You have heard of him. This is Zarkof, sometimes known as the pale wizard.”

A murmur went around the council, for all had heard of Zarkof. It was known that he had strange powers and was closely allied with the Dark Lord himself. His stronghold had never been taken, and, although there were some rather terrible tales told about the pale wizard, none dared speak of them to his face.

“I am a self-invited guest, Chief Balog. But if I might say one word, I may be of some help to you and to the Yanti people.”

Balog’s eyes ran around the council. He saw apprehension in some eyes, curiosity in others. Taking a deep breath, he nodded. “We will always hear our guests, Zarkof.”

“Thank you, Chief Balog.” Throwing the hood back, Zarkof revealed his face. It was a sharp-featured face with deep-set, murky eyes. The color was impossible to tell. Unlike the others, who were tanned and weatherbeaten by the elements, Zarkof’s face was as smooth as old marble. He had an aristocratic look and something of cruelty as well, although now he spoke gently and politely.

“Those of us in Whiteland live on the edge of the great world,” he said. His voice took on a magnetic quality, almost hypnotic. Though it was not a loud voice, power was in it as he continued. “There are great things afoot in the world today. The struggle that began some years ago is reaching its climax. All of the
opponents of the Dark Lord have been vanquished except for a few ragtag followers of that fellow they call Goél.”

At this word, Balog saw his father narrow his eyes.

Magon said nothing, but his gaze locked with that of Zarkof, and for a moment the two seemed to be engaged in some sort of struggle. It was an emotional and a spiritual clash of wills. More than Balog must have noticed that it was Magon that Zarkof seemed to challenge rather than the chief himself.

“What is your interest in our people?” Magon asked steadily.

“To provide help. It is time for the Yanti to take their place in the sun. Why should you sit here half frozen, fighting with the other tribes for a bit of territory, when, with the help of my friend the Dark Lord, you could rule all of Whiteland.”

An excited murmur ran around the council.

This, Balog well knew, was exactly what most of them desired. He slammed the floor with his fist again. “If we could defeat those blasted Lowami, then no one would stand in our way!”

“That should not be too much trouble, Chief. If you will agree to my proposals and join your forces to those of the Dark Lord, you will see that the Lowami will offer little resistance.”

Zarkof talked on for some time, but then he shrugged. “But you will need to discuss this. I will leave your council. You may call me back to give me your decision.”

Every eye watched as Zarkof left. At once an argument broke out. Everyone tried to talk at once. Finally Balog shouted, “Quiet! You sound like a flock of gabbling geese!”

One of the younger members of the council said, “Sire, it is good that we join ourselves with this man. He promises us power to defeat our enemies.”

But Magon spoke up. “My son, Zarkof’s words are fair, but fair words are one thing, and fair deeds are another.”

“Do you find fault with him, then? Speak it out, Father,” Balog said.

“In truth, there is much secrecy concerning this man. He surrounds himself with those I would not trust. It is whispered that he has many people enslaved in his fortress carved into the mountain of ice.”

“Rumors,” Balog said. “Just rumors. There is no proof of that.”

For some time the argument raged.

“The Dark Lord, my son, is not for our people,” Magon said. “He promises freedom, but I have not heard that those he rules over have it.”

Balog hesitated. Rarely did he overrule his father, but finally he shook his head. “In this case, I believe we will at least listen to the man’s proposal.” He nodded to a servant standing beside the door. “Ask the wizard to come in.”

As soon as Zarkof stepped inside, he looked around the room, his gaze searching. He must have seen the resistance on the face of Magon and the other older men of the council, but he smiled when Balog said, “We will hear more of what you would do for us, wizard.”

“Gladly. You have struggled with your war against the Lowami for years now. It sways back and forth. Sometimes you win; sometimes they are the victors. What you need is something to tip the scale so that, once and for all, you can overcome them.”

“Exactly! And what do you offer?”

“A weapon that will never fail.” The cold eyes of Zarkof glittered. “You will rule the Lowami soon, for the weapon that I offer you neither they nor anyone else can stand against.”

Again, excited murmurs went around the table.

Olah, who had been serving, came to kneel beside her husband. She put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Husband, this man is evil. He will bring grief to all our house.”

But Balog shook her off. “Woman, this is men’s work! Tend to the food!”

Then the chief rose to his feet. “Very well. As a token of good faith, you will give us a weapon. If it is successful, we will heed your words concerning the Dark Lord.”

Zarkof laughed, and something—perhaps triumph?—flickered in his cold eyes. “You and your son will come with me. I will show you the power that I have.”

Beorn, the son of Balog, was tall like his mother. He was so young that he was not actually on the council. So far he had said nothing. He had watched and listened carefully as the council rolled on. Now he whispered to Magon, “I wish you would go along, Grandfather. I am not sure about all this.”

“Keep your eyes open as you go with this man. He is dangerous, and I’m afraid your father is easily swayed.”

The following day, Zarkof, Balog, and Beorn flew over the surface of the snow in a sleigh pulled by oversized reindeer. They wound their way deep into the mountains of ice that ringed the flatlands. And then Zarkof waved a hand toward cliffs that rose high.

“Thus you see the palace of the pale wizard.”

The cliffs were marked with barred windows. At the top glittered a structure that caught the sun. It had walls like white marble, and Balog gasped. “I have never seen anything like it, wizard!”

“It is my palace and my fortress. As you see, it is surrounded by steep walls that cannot be scaled. There is only one entrance, and it is guarded day and night. I do not invite many into my fortress, but since we are to be friends and companions serving under the same master, I think it is well that you see his strength.”

They entered through the single gate, which rose into a recess with a clanging sound. Beorn said nothing as he walked along behind his father and the wizard. He did not trust Zarkof, but he was impressed by the strength of the man’s fortress.

Guards were everywhere, heavily armored and with swords drawn. Each wore a medallion around his neck bearing the same symbol that Zarkof wore around his, except that theirs were silver and his was gold. Beorn could not see clearly what was on the medallions, but he was sure that it was a symbol chosen by the Dark Lord.

“First, Chief Balog, I will give you a tour of the palace so that you can see the magnificence you are joining yourself to.”

His palace was indeed a magnificent structure. It was carved out of the mountain, and there were corridors that turned and twisted into the depths. These were illuminated by both torches and glowing stones that gave off faint light. The strange lighting gave the place a ghostly atmosphere.

The wizard took them all the way to the top, where they viewed his opulent and magnificent private
quarters. Everything was gold and ivory and silver. It was wealth beyond Beorn’s imagination.

“And what do you think of my palace?”

“I have never seen anything like it,” Balog grunted. “It would be hard to take such a place.”

“Hard, indeed. Impossible. I have one more thing to show you.”

He led Beorn and his father down a winding staircase, passing by windows that admitted light. Guards stood at every window, and the lifelessness in their eyes disturbed Beorn.

“Father, have you noticed the faces of the guards?” he whispered. “They’re like dead men.”

Balog waved his son off. “They’re not our servants to worry about. This man is strong. Just come. We must see everything.”

When they reached the lowest level, a huge gate made of heavy black iron barred their way.

Zarkof said, “You will now see the source of my power.” He unbarred the gate and pushed it inward. Then he stepped into the passage beyond, followed by his two guests.