Chapter Thirty–Nine
It was nearly noon of the same day when Jair and his companions emerged once more from the Caves of Night and found themselves on a broad shelf of rock overlooking a deep canyon between the mountain peaks of the Ravenshorn. The peaks were so close that they shut away all but a narrow strip of blue sky far above where the company stood, lost in a gathering of shadows. The shelf ran left along the mountain face for several hundred yards and then disappeared again into a cut in the cliffs.
The Valeman stared upward wearily, following the lift of the mountains against the noonday sky. He was exhausted — drained physically and emotionally. He still clutched the vision crystal in one hand, its silver chain dragging against the shelf rock. They had been in the Caves since sunrise. For a good part of that time, it had been necessary to use the wishsong to project the light of the crystal so that they might find their way clear. It had taken every ounce of strength and every bit of concentration that he could muster to do that. In his mind, he could still hear the sound of the Procks, stone grating on stone, a whisper now of what had been left behind in the darkness of the caves. In his mind, he could also still hear Stythys’ final scream.
«Let’s not stand where we can be so easily seen,” Garet Jax said softly and motioned him left.
Slanter caught up with them, glancing about doubtfully. «I’m not sure this is the way, Weapons Master.»
Garet Jax did not turn. «How many other ways do you see?»
Silently, the members of the little company edged down along the rock shelf to the cut in the cliff face. A narrow defile stretched away before them, twisting into the rock and disappearing into shadow. They moved through it in a line, their eyes darting upward guardedly along its roughened walls. A draft of icy air brushed against them, blown down from the heights. Jair shivered with its touch. Numbed by the horrors of the Caves, he welcomed even this unpleasant feeling. He could sense that they were now close to Graymark’s walls. Graymark, the Maelmord, Heaven’s Well were all near at hand. His quest was almost ended, the long journey done. He felt a strange compulsion to laugh and cry at the same time, but the weariness and the ache in his body would let him do neither.
The defile wound on, slipping deeper into the rock. His mind wandered. Where was Brin? The crystal had shown them her face. But it had shown them nothing of where she might be. Gray mist and gloom had surrounded her in a dreary and desolate place. A passageway, perhaps, similar to their own? Was she, too, within these mountains?
«You must reach Heaven’s Well before she reaches the Maelmord,” the King of the Silver River had warned. «You must be there for her.»
He stumbled and nearly went down, his concentration drifting from the task at hand. He righted himself hastily and shoved the vision crystal back into his tunic front.
«Watch yourself,” Edain Elessedil whispered at his elbow. Jair nodded and went on.
Anticipation began to build within him. An entire army of Gnomes guarded Graymark’s battlements and watchtowers. Mord Wraiths walked its halls. Things darker still might lie in wait within, sentinels against intruders like themselves. Their company was but six in number. What hope had they against so many and such power? Little, it would appear; and yet, while it should have seemed altogether hopeless to the Valeman, it did not. Perhaps it was the faith that the King of the Silver River had shown in choosing him for this quest — a demonstration of the old man’s belief that he could somehow find a way to succeed. Perhaps it was his own determination, a strength of will that would not let him fail.
He shook his head gently. Perhaps. But it was also the character of the five men who had elected to come with him and had sustained him. It was Garet Jax, Slanter, Foraker, Edain Elessedil and Helt — come from the Four Lands to this final, terrible confrontation, an enigmatic mixture of strength and courage. Two trackers, a hunter, a Weapons Master, and a Prince of the Elves had traveled different life–paths to reach this day, and none might live to see its end. But here they were. Their bonding to Jair and to the trust that had been given him transcended the caution and reason that might otherwise have caused them to give greater consideration to the obvious danger to their own lives. It was so even with Slanter. The Gnome had made his choice at Capaal when he had turned his back on a chance to flee north to the borderlands and the life from which he had strayed. All were committed, and in that commitment there was a unity that seemed almost indomitable. Jair knew little of his companions. Yet one thing he knew with certainty, and it was enough: whatever was to happen to him this day, these five would stand by him.
Perhaps that was why he was not afraid.
The defile widened again before them and sunlight streamed down from a new broadened skyline. Garet Jax slowed, then dropped into a crouch and eased ahead. One lean arm beckoned them after. Hunched down against the rocks, they crept forward until they were beside him.
«There,” he whispered, pointing.
It was Graymark. Jair knew it instantly without need of being told. The fortress sat high upon a cliff face that curved away before them. It rested upon a broad shelf of rock that jutted sharply outward against the noonday sky. It was a grim and massive thing. Battlements, towers, and parapets rose upward from stone block walls hundreds of feet high, like spikes and blunted axe–heads reaching into the cloudless blue. No pennants flew from the tower standards; no colors draped the casements. The whole of the fortress had a flat and wintry cast to it even in the brilliant light of the sun; the stone had a sullen, ashen tone. What windows there were small, pinched openings covered over with bars and wooden shutters. A single narrow roadway wound upward against the mountainside — little more than a ledge cut into the rock — ending at a pair of tall, ironbound gates that fronted the complex. The gates stood closed.
They studied the stronghold wordlessly. There was no sign of anyone. Nothing moved.
Then Jair caught sight of the Croagh. He could see only pieces of it lifting from behind Graymark, a rugged arch of stone that seemed almost a part of the towers and the parapets of the complex. Curling back upon itself like some suspended stairway, it threaded its way skyward until it ended high upon a solitary peak that rose above those surrounding it.
Jair caught Slanter’s arm and pointed to the peak and the slender ribbon of stones that joined to it.
«Yes, boy — the Croagh and Heaven’s Well.» The Gnome nodded. «All that the King of the Silver River has sent you to find.»
«And the Maelmord?» Jair asked quickly.
Slanter shook his head. «On the other side of the fortress, down within a ring of cliffs. There the Croagh begins its climb, wrapping about Graymark as it passes, then rising on.»
They were silent again, their eyes fixed on the fortress. «Doesn’t seem to be anyone in there,” Helt murmured after a moment.
«What’s in there wants you to think exactly that,” Slanter observed dryly; easing back on his heels. «Besides, the walkers prefer the dark. They rest for the most part during the day and move about at night. Even the Gnomes that serve them here soon begin to live like that and don’t show themselves when it’s light. But make no mistake. They’re in there, Borderman — walkers and Gnomes both. And a few other things as well.»
Garet Jax was studying the mountain trail that wound upward to the fortress entrance. «That is the way they would expect us to come.» He spoke more to himself than to the others. «On the trail or by scaling the cliffs.» He glanced left to where the shelf they stood upon curved down among the rocks and disappeared back into the mountains through a narrow tunnel. «Maybe not this way, though.»