Glacier Kings

Chapter One

Midwinter Dina

After a great deal of excess, the king of Burkanta slouched on his cushioned chair, his belly full and his eyes bleary. Outside, sleet shrieked past the tree-city, the dark of midwinter unrelieved by the merest glimmer of light or warmth from the Eye. Many dinas—days, with or without daylight—remained before the sun's return. But in the court, horns and timpani heralded the passing of the old year, the moment when the Eye started its long journey back.

The king smiled, greeting year 1097 of the Fifth Age. When the warriors entered the Great Hall, he felt a slight curiosity as to the reason. When he heard shouting in the gallery and exterior corridors, he sat up a little straighter. But when a warrior drew his sword and took off the head of a lord, Kralius Gedvinas staggered to his feet, knocking over the chair behind him.

What is happening? the drunken king asked, confused.

One of the warriors suddenly held a blade to his neck. He did not recognize the lord threatening him, but even drunk he noted the alfara had the indigo eyes the Sanrimas tribe. Around the room, while he watched, many attending lords of the highest rank were executed—all of them members of the Prudentas tribe, his tribe. A moment later, the terrified ladies, still reeking of puffweed smoke, were dragged from their salons back into the main hall, held firmly by warriors.

What is happening? he demanded again, this time with anger.

Theophantor Malquerias crossed the silent room of horrified alfar lords, stepping over the bodies of his dead friends. She was a corrak, an ancient example of that curious race of scholars and wizards. Though she controlled the jewel in the heart of the tree, Gedvinas seldom had any interaction with her, or any of her kind. Curly black hair, streaked with gray, framed her wizened face. Her eyes frightened him; they should have been green like all corraks, but were almost completely black, and penetrating. Around her neck hung the ruby analeth, the symbol of her office as Theophantor. But beside it was the yellow aletheia, the stone that kept their great tree alive in the frozen wasteland of Daeroth. It belonged in its carved wooden niche in the Kleision; he had never known it to be out of its proper place before.

The crone stared up at him with a contemptuous expression. Your time is over, she rasped, pointing a crooked finger at him, and closed the fingers of her other hand around the yellow diamond.

Though no one physically touched him, Kralius Gedvinas felt himself yanked forward. The ancient corrak merely pointed, using her power to move him like a puppet, dragging Gedvinas to the center of the hall, where she made him kneel. He struggled and fought every inch, but he was unable to prevent the humiliation.

Witch, the king spat, overwhelmed by rage. You are a pestilence. You are excrement. I curse you!

An alfar lord strode forward and took hold of the king's long hair, snapping his head back. Gedvinas recognized him at once.

Valdas Generolas Manvydas, the king snarled, looking up into the face of one of his trusted leaders, a powerfully built alfara of the Sanrimas tribe. You turn on your king like the lowest imp of hel, and trade on your honor! Where is your shame?

The generolas bent to sneer in the king's face, still holding him by the hair. Twenty generations of Sanrimas alfarai have endured nothing but shame. For an age and more. Today is the ending of that.

The king started in surprise. After all this time, ancient tribal distinctions still motivated the Sanrimai? The Prudentai have always treated your people like brothers, he whispered. Like equals. You have all that we have!

We are not equals! the generolas shouted, pushing the king backwards, his face red and spittle flying. You are not our equals, and never were! We are the Sanrimai, the Chosen, the rightful kings of the alfarai! It is our birthright! And we reclaim it now!

You are a fool, the king replied quietly but with heat. He saw that were beyond reason, and his end was near. This is a petty victory. My warriors will avenge me, and kill every one of you. You gain nothing.

Oh, we do, Magnatas, Malquerias wheezed joyously. Observe.

At her signal, the door to the Great Hall opened and another group of warriors entered. Goblins surged forward, their squat, ugly forms so jarringly out of place that it was hard to believe his eyes. Appalled, Kralius Gedvinas stumbled backward and fell to the floor.

You have sided with goblins? Against your own?

With grinning, leering expressions on their faces, the goblins filled the hall. The smell of coalsmoke and poorly-cured leather hit him like a blow. Among them came a tall goblin, dressed in fine robes of red, gold and green, with a tasseled fez, wearing a curved sword at his waist.

Do you remember me, king of the tree? the goblin trilled.

Gedvinas did remember the qan of all the goblins, whom he had bested in battle on two occasions. Go to hel, Bujeg, the king said wearily. Go to hel.

The smile faded from the goblin's face. Bujeg Qan, the goblin corrected him, and stepped forward, drawing his sword.

Chapter Two

Medara

Lysandros and his friends sat in silence in his apartment near the scholia, focused on the faded scrolls and leather-bound books to which they had dedicated their young lives. Pale ghostfire illuminated their texts, emitted by the exposed surfaces of the living tree, carved into a bewildering variety of designs. No footsteps or conversations were heard in the hallways outside, or in the library above their heads; the only sound was the faint creak of the tree, bending almost imperceptibly in the powerful antarctic winds. The interior of the tree was not overwarm, and wisps of steam curled up from five teacups set on the polished table.

Hesperos and Elina sat together on once couch, facing one another, long silk cloaks trailing to the floor. Elikos, the youngest in their group, sat cross-legged on the floor, looking up each time Elina stirred to reach for her tea or push her hair back from her face. Beside Lysandros was Anthea, working her way through an obscure, centuries-old text. She favored him with a warm smile when she noticed him looking her direction. Lysandros smiled back, then turned his attention once again to his own reading.

Lysandros struggled with a scroll written in the old High Corrak language. Theophantor Kadmos expected him to learn it almost to the point of memorization. A tall stack of reading followed the current text, but he was not discouraged or intimidated by the work. He felt he was born to be a scholar, and was happy with the prospect of a life spent studying.

The room was still quiet when he thought he heard something. He snapped his head up, listening, but heard nothing more. He waited for a minute, and had just returned to reading when he heard something again. It wasn't quite a sound, and didn't come from any direction.

What is it? Anthea asked.

Did you hear a noise?

The others listened for a moment. Nothing, Elikos muttered, turning back to his reading.

I don't think anybody's around, anyway, Hesperos added, looking over his book. All of the Fifty were heading toward the Hierosium when I came down from the library.

All of them? Lysandros asked, sitting forward. The Fifty rarely met all together, and he hadn't heard anything about it. I don't know a convocation was planned.

They don't always want a student around, Elina said with a teasing smile.

I suppose, Lysandros replied, and focused once again on his studies. The room was silent.

Lysandros!

He glanced up quickly. Surely that was a voice! But all four of his friends continued with their reading, undisturbed.

Lysandros!

His nearly jumped, and his heart raced. He knew that voice.

I have to go check on the theophantor, he said as calmly as he could manage, standing to edge past the table. Sorry to bother. Keep working.

Anthea took hold of his arm as he passed her. Is everything all right? she asked, her bright green eyes full of concern.

He forced a smile. I'm sure it's fine. I'll be right back.

She held his arm a moment longer before she nodded and let him go.

He almost asked her to come with him, but thought better of it. He was certain it wasn't fine.

* * * * *

Lysandros found Kadmos on the floor of the vestibule outside the Kleision, still in his dressing gown, no cap on his head. How long he had lain there before Lysandros had heard his cries he did not know. None of the clerics were anywhere near, neither the hierophantor nor any of the Fifty.

Oh, gods, Magister! Lysandros exclaimed, kneeling at his side.

You heard me, Kadmos murmured, closing his eyes.

What happened to you? Lysandros asked in shock and disbelief, though the ugly, bleeding gash across his belly told half the tale. He pressed the hem of Kadmos's robe against it, knowing with horrible certainty that it was a mortal injury. The theophantor couldn't survive long enough for him to find the healers.

Kadmos grimaced in pain, then controlled his expression. It was goblins, he whispered. Goblins are loose in the tree. They found me here, and took the aletheia from its place. They carried their own analeth, to be able to lay hands on it. I could do nothing to stop them.

They have the aletheia!

Kadmos nodded.

Lysandros felt dizzy, suddenly light-headed. It couldn't be true, or they were all dead. Without the aletheia, the ghostfire would fade; the nectar would stop flowing; the air would grow cold, and stale; the enormous branches would snap; and the tree itself would collapse.

What should I do, Magister? Should I go for the healers? Or Hierophantor Ariostos?

No! Kadmos said, and then coughed. No, Lysandros, it's too late. Listen to me before I die. He coughed again, struggling to speak. You have made me proud, he murmured at last.

You have been the finest magister a student could hope for, Lysandros managed to reply, choking up, wondering even as he did why they had never said such things to each other before. Why did truth have to wait for tragedy before it could be spoken?

The theophantor's thin white hair floated around his head in an undignified way that shamed Lysandros. He should never have seen this brilliant scholar, this learned wizard, lying in a pool of blood, with no cap or proper robe or signs of his office. Lysandros found a robe to cover him and another to use as a pillow, trying to make the old corrak comfortable.

I am dying, filius, and there is a job undone. Listen to me. His voice, usually rich and deep, an instrument of great subtlety, came out in rasping whispers. You need my analeth. His quivering fingers stretched toward the vestry, where the gem hung out of his reach, on a hook. Lysandros quickly found it and took it down, the silver chain cool in his fingers.

This should go to Hierophantor Ariostos, Lysandros argued.

No! You can't trust Ariostos! The look on his face convinced Lysandros; he put the jewel in his book bag with a nod. Carry it to the prince. You will need it to retrieve the holy aletheia. Take the fast passages. You must go quickly.

His breath failed him for a moment, and Lysandros held a corner of his jacket to the old wizard's mouth where blood trickled into his white and gray beard. Kadmos's cough was weaker than before, and his face was white.

I will go, Magister, Lysandros told him, tears running down his face.

There is a document, in my study, Kadmos continued. In the privy. You will find it in a niche near the overhead. It's very important. I couldn't translate it. Not completely. Lysandros, take the document, and the others with it, and go to Gennadios, at Jovalda. You can trust him. But Ariostos is a traitor! Avoid him, and of Malquerias of Burkanta, at all costs. She betrays us all.

It was impossible to believe so much all at once. Malquerias of Burkanta he knew of only by reputation. But Hierophantor Ariostos, a traitor? His reputation was unimpeachable. Lysandros had taken many seminars with him, and found him difficult, but brilliant. It was unthinkable that they could be traitors.

Magister, why? What is this about? Lysandros had never been outside the tree in his life. The very thought terrified him.

Kadmos's green eyes were bright, his intellect undimmed. It is about the Skeptron, Filius. The Leandra Vellum contains a reference to its location. You must use the document, and anything you you need, to find the Skeptron, to defeat Malquerias and her allies.

Lysandros's blood went cold, and he fell back against the wall. The Skeptron was the most powerful artifact ever possessed by ancient corraks. It had a part in virtually every story and legend. Every ancient writer called it a danger to all of Daeroth, no matter who wielded it. In any case, it was irretrievably lost, and better left that way. Races had been enslaved with it. By his people.

Why, magister? Lysandros asked again, fear stealing his breath to the point that he could hardly speak. To what purpose?

Lysandros, Filius, Kadmos began, his voice only a whisper, those goblins carried the analeth from Burkanta, from Malquerias. At long last, she leads a rebellion; these goblins and the alfarai are just a tool for her.

Why? What does she want? His world had been twisted inside-out, and nothing made sense.

They are Vandrians, lusting for the return of the empire. Now Malquerias seeks the Skeptron, and all the stones of power. You must find it first, and stop her!

I am afraid, magister!

You must go, Lysandros, or we are lost. There are some who can help you; with the Leandra Vellum I left a list of allies in other cities, people you can trust, people who know me and know who you are. But you must tell no one in Medara except the prince. Tell me you understand! With his voice almost completely gone, Kadmos pleaded with his eyes.

Lysandros answered through his tears, through his bitter grief and confusion. Of course, Patris, he said, gripping the old corrak's hand, looking into his eyes.

Kadmos barely nodded. Good, then, the wizard wheezed. He caught his breath and tried to lick his lips. I am at my end, filius, he told Lysandros with deep sadness. Your stone!

Without knowing Kadmos's purpose, Lysandros pulled out his ideoleth, the oval aquamarine that hung around his neck. It was similar to the personal stones worn by all corraks and many of other races as well. Kadmos reached a trembling hand toward the jewel, wrapped his fingers around it, and gritted his teeth. Lysandros felt a jolt; the jewel flared briefly, and for a second Lysandros saw a glowing design superimposed over the room before him; he closed his eyes, and the design flared more brightly in his imagination, a four-sided figure with hundreds of green, curving lines, like copper wires within a frame. The image flared to orange and then white in his mind, then faded. At the same time, Kadmos released his grip, his hand falling to his chest. Then the wizard's breath left him, and, like the image, his eyes faded from shining green to gray.

It was the gray of death.

The Kleision seemed dark when Lysandros rushed in, as if it were in mourning. The ghostfire carvings in the room emitted subdued blues and melancholy purples rather than its normal yellows and whites and greens. He crossed the darkened space in four quick strides, straight to the low pedestal in the far corner where the aletheia had been reverently tended for thousands of years. The pedestal surface, a hand-span in width, was covered with an intricately carved design which glowed a somber red, and at its heart, where the jewel had rested, was an empty, shallow depression.

Chapter Three

Menander Icefield

Ghostlike, the eight high-caste alfarai warriors, young but highly trained, spiraled inward toward their tree-city. Dressed only in white, the scouts were as near invisible as any being on the ice.

Vakare scanned the horizon carefully. The glare off the absolute whiteness of ice and snow forced her to squint behind her goggles. Every direction was clear, for as far as she could see. In the course of their patrol they had seen no sign of the daimonikos. No guide-stakes, no excrement (thank the Eye), no brazier-smoke or dead coals, no refuse.

Straight inward, directly toward the Omphalos, the towering green oval of the great tree-city lay wreathed in mist. It rose from the base of the glacier, encased by a basin of ice, to a height of nearly two thousand feet. Massive branches stretched in all directions, hundreds of feet long, clothed in bright green leaves. Even many miles away, its immensity was impressive and stirring.

The Eye shone off to their left, angling shallowly into the perfect blue sky, pouring brilliant light but little heat on their frozen land. With the longest night about a month past, they would have light for some three hours that day. Travel was easier with the Eye shining on them, and for that she was grateful. But Vakare loved the darkness. It was only then, when the Eye turned its gaze from their world, that the luminous night was awakened by the flames of ten thousand million stars. It was then that the aurora descended the stairs of heaven, arrayed in all the colors of creation.

Donatas marched confidently and smoothly in front of her, graceful in the way only an alfara could be. She was connected to him by a rope tied around each of their waists. The six other warriors ranged on all sides, also roped in pairs. Those in front prodded the snow with long probing sticks, searching for dangerous hidden crevasses. Blowing snow often disguised such obstacles with snow bridges that might or might not bear the weight of an alfara, though they were a small folk. At the rear, the last pair hauled a sled containing most of their supplies. Its ivory skids, carefully iced each dina, whispered over the ice and snow.

Snow crystals crunched softly under her boots. Blowing grit would soon rub their footprints away, leaving only the long wave-like patterns known as sastrugi.

As they drank from their water skins, each of them carefully scanned the entire horizon from one side to the other. On Vakare's right, many days distant inward, the Kalynas Mountains pierced the ice, their gray heads rising out of the blinding white ice and snow, outlines crisp even at that distance in the dry, frigid air. Almost directly in front lay Medara; off to her left, the Ankares Mountains loomed threateningly, the highest peaks in all of Daeroth, barely two days away. At the far end of the Ankares chain, almost directly behind them, the volcano Kereus smoked fitfully. Black ash trickled into the sky and was swept out to sea by the katabatic winds, blowing outward from the Omphalos to the coasts. From Kereus, around behind her, and back to the Kalynas Mountains on her right, there stretched the great Menander Icefield, the land once called the great Menander Forest.

Laurentas called for them to move again.

Soon after, slight movement caught Vakare's eye. Peering through the narrow slits of her wooden goggles, she saw spots that she could not blink away. Five dots she counted, then six, then seven, dark colored and moving away from the tree-city toward their left. Daimonikos, she hissed, and went down on one knee.

In an instant the whole patrol was down low on the ice, scanning all directions again to see if there were other bands in any direction.

What do you see, Donatas? Laurentas asked.

Crouching just to Vakare's right, Donatas removed his goggles. His deep violet eyes, typical of their tribe, shone brilliantly, even in the shadow of his hand.

Five goblins. Two trolls. Traveling light, and moving quickly, Tenantas.

Goblins and trolls! Vakare exclaimed. What are they doing together?

And no alarm raised, Laurentas mused. At twenty-three he was two years older than Vakare, older than everyone except Donatas, who was fully twenty-five. But he was born to lead, raised to it by his warrior parents, and trained in the arts of combat since childhood. Gentle eyes were the only evidence of softness in Laurentas.

Scouts, suggested Vakare.

Laurentas made his decision. Leave your packs here and prepare your weapons. We will pursue at speed. No signal will be given unless and until they sight us.

Vakare strung her ambermetal bow, using a weatherproof twisted-wire string also made of the rare material, and traded mittens for gloves. Then she checked the sword she carried on her back while the sled was staked to the ice and marked with a small flag so that they could find it again later.

The scouts untied their safety ropes and tucked them away. The time for caution had passed.

Quietly, Laurentas cautioned, and they started to run.

They were nearly silent, moving like shadows across the ice, following Laurentas in a ground-covering lope.

Vakare took care, as she had been taught, to fully exhale through the opening in her balaclava. Moisture on her face—especially her cheeks or nose—from her own breath was a frostbite risk. Wisps of vapor trailed from her mouth, dissipating rapidly in the bone-dry air of Daeroth. To her right, an impossibly long shadow kept pace with her.

The daimonikos band gradually slowed to a trot, clearly unaware of the alfarai closing in on them. Soon, Vakare could smell them: coalfire, rotting flesh, and animal musk. It was said they ate carrion, and Vakare found that story easy to believe.

Though a bit wider in the shoulders, the goblins slightly smaller then an alfara, with smallish heads projecting forward from their shoulders. They wore skins on their feet, tied at the ankles, rather than proper boots, and their clothing was composed of raw skins from many kinds of animals, wrapped and belted around them in a haphazard way. For weapons, they carried metal cudgels, but no swords or bows.

The two trolls were almost twice as tall, with lanky arms out of proportion to their bodies. Though fearsome warriors, they were not as clever as goblins. All of this Vakare knew from others; it was the first she had encountered either enemy.

As they closed in, one of the trolls glanced back over his shoulder. His shocking yellow eyes widened in surprise, then he grinned, displaying rows of serrated teeth and alarming tusks. At his shout, the daimonikos stopped and turned, pushing their hoods back from their faces.

The troll's cheeks and scalp were clean-shaven and multihued tattoos stood out vividly on his milk-white skin. Multiple rings hung from his alfar-like ears, each nostril and his lower lip. Most intimidatingly, five-inch yellow tusks grew from his lower jaw, curling back slightly toward his cheeks.

The goblins were more foreign in appearance. They pulled their long, coarse, black hair behind their pointed ears, tying it in a tail. Their foreheads were low and sloping, above a forward-projecting muzzle. With serrated carnivore teeth and seal-like noses, goblins resembled animals more than they did the true people—alfarai and other civilized folk.

Bows ready! Laurentas shouted, still sprinting.

At about twelve paces, Laurentas stopped and nocked his arrow, with the other alfarai immediately arraying themselves on either side of him. He gave the enemy no warning. An instant after his bow sang in the freezing air, seven near-identical bows released their shots.

Laurentas's arrow struck the lead troll as he advanced, piercing him in the shoulder. He grunted, and was driven to one side by the impact, but recovered immediately and charged forward. One goblin, struck by a pair of arrows, fell to his knees, then tumbled over, dead. Some of the goblins, though, had dodged or dropped down to the ice, and three of them moved quickly enough to escape injury entirely.

Gods, they're fast! Vakare exclaimed. The alfar quickness and skill was renowned among Daeroth's peoples. Their archers seldom missed, and never at such close range.

Another goblin, wounded in the arm, was already rising with his cudgel, charging the alfarai with more speed than Vakare would have thought possible. Her own arrow caught the second troll in the gut, buried almost to the fletching, but he also charged along with his companions, moving as if he felt nothing.

Blades! Laurentas shouted, dropping his bow to pull his sword.

The daimonikos were upon them in a second. So fast was the counterattack that the patrol had barely enough time to reach for their swords. Lethal ambermetal blades hummed as they were pulled from each sheath, to face the assault.

Artautas, tragically, struggled momentarily with the sword and scabbard. Before his weapon was free, he was struck down by a goblin's cudgel, his skull crushed. His friend stabbed the goblin under his arm, dealing a fatal blow, but as he placed a booted foot on the goblin's hip to withdraw his sword a troll's cudgel smashed into the side of his head, spraying most of the alfarai in gore.

Watch! Donatas shouted as Vakare ducked under the swinging cudgel of the other troll. She went flat on the ice and rolled, trying to get breath back into her lungs, keeping her sword above her head in an outstretched arm. The cudgel came straight down where she had been, smashing chips from the ice. She rolled to her feet as the troll advanced, swinging his cudgel. Desperate, Vakare leaped forward, under the weapon. She twisted in air and and sliced at the back of his leg, severing his hamstring.

Howling, the troll fell helplessly, first to his knees, and then to all fours, but still crawled forward, continuing to fight.

Laurentas leaped over an awkward blow, then slashed the troll's neck. When he jumped free the huge being fell flat on the ice; blood geysered from the wound, spreading dark red over the white.

I need help! Valeras shouted desperately, facing a goblin that swung the heavy bronze cudgel like it was a stick. The goblin, though wounded, kept him off-balance until he slipped past the alfara's guard and shattered his upper arm with a vicious hammerblow.

Gods! Valeras exclaimed in shock. His sword fell from useless fingers, while he instinctively reached with his good hand toward the injury, half turning away from his attacker. Without mercy, the goblin clubbed Valeras between the shoulder blades, then battered him bloody on the ice. The same goblin turned and clubbed Donatas from behind. Vakare saw but could do nothing. He lay still, his blood adding to the spreading stains.

Donatas! Vakare exclaimed, but he was already gone. It felt like that was her life's blood crawling across the ice.

Enraged, Vakare attacked without thought, and nearly fell to a goblin club. Wounded and dying, Viltautas killed the opponent that would have taken her life, and destroyed one more goblin before falling to the ice himself.

The remaining troll faced off against Laurentas, trying to catch him with his heavy bronze cudgel. The troll's yellow eyes glowed strangely bright from his tattooed face, disturbing in their intensity, almost mesmerizing.

Vakare had been taught since birth to hate the daimonikos—the ugly folk, the underearth dwellers—without remorse or mercy. All alfarai were taught to consider every goblin and every troll a murderer, a thief, a baby-snatcher. But in spite of the fervor of those lessons, it was still just talk. Here, though, facing her on the ice, under the Eye, was a living, breathing fiend, grimacing, vicious and bloody, responsible in part for the grisly death of six of her closest friends. Mere hate was too small a vessel to contain the overflowing emotions that propelled her forward, determined to kill or die in the attempt.

As they circled the troll, the remaining goblin searched for something among his fallen companions. He tore a leather pack off a goblin's body and shouted at the troll in Kalajek, the strangely lyrical language spoken by the goblins and some trolls. Suddenly both turned and ran.

Warn the tree, quickly, Laurentas shouted. Use Donatas's horn! He grabbed his bow and raced after the fleeing invaders.

Vakare found the body of her friend, her love, battered almost beyond recognition, awash in gore. Seeing Donatas's still, lifeless form, his eyes dimmed, his voice silenced, filled her with a despair so profound that it nearly succeeded in destroying what the cudgels of the enemy had failed to touch.

Whispering anguished apologies to her departed friend, she rolled his body over and opened his anorak.

Oh, gods, Donatas, she whispered through her tears. Gods, gods, gods.

She felt like a little alfarlass, out on an adventure too adult for her. It was only with the greatest difficulty that she turned her thoughts from pity and grief to her duty. Still kneeling, still crying, she put the horn to her lips, faced the great tree looming in the middle distance, and sounded the horn.

Ta-taa. Ta-taa.

The horn rang loudly, distinctive in its sound, echoing back from many directions. She waited for a sign—five heartbeats, then ten heartbeats—and