The road, which had steadily climbed for so many days, began to descend, narrowing and becoming rougher and less reliable underfoot until it became a mere rugged path. A little stream, black in the shadow of the mountain wall, trickled along beside the trail for many miles.
It was the afternoon of the fourth day since Kivik had made up his mind to head for Tirfang, and for the first time since he and his army left the foothills and began their slow ascent of the mountain slopes, the Prince saw something that had clearly been created by men: a tall, finger-shaped stone, wondrously carven, though not of the native rock.
As he rode a little nearer and pulled up before the milestone, he could see that the carvings were not the ordinary triskeles, mazes, and cup-and-ring marks, but flowing, sinuous figures, scarcely weathered for all their enormous age, so rounded and smooth-looking he could not forbear to reach out with one hand and run his fingertips over them.
“It is not much farther,” said one of his captains. “By all accounts, this stone marks the beginning of those lands anciently known as Tirfang, and from here it’s only a few hours’ ride to the Old Fortress.”
A few miles more and the walls of the mountain fell back; the way before them began to open up, as though they had reached the gate of some high mountain valley. The light grew stronger, the water in the stream began to sparkle, and the wind brought with it a strong scent of green, growing things.
The valley in which the first of Kivik’s horsemen eventually found themselves was long and narrow, not even a mile across, though it was impossible to see how far ahead it extended. Long, green grass covered the valley floor, but the steep slopes on either side were dark with forest. The trees were great pines and spruce and firs, and if the height and girth of the largest were any indication, this was a very ancient wood. Crows called out from among the shadowy branches, and every now and then a flock would rise up and wheel in the air like a black whirlwind just above the treetops.
After another few miles, something far greater than any of the trees loomed up in the distance: a castle—no, an immense fortress, larger than any Kivik had ever imagined, all built of shining white stone. Though the dark wooded slopes rose up and up behind a large central mass that must be the keep, many of the towers and turrets rose higher still, until the very highest flamed out white against the pale blue sky. There were so many of those slender, needle-sharp towers clustered together that the fortress—no, this great city—must have housed thousands, even tens of thousands of souls in its time.
“I don’t ever remember,” said Skerry, who was riding beside him, “that anyone ever told me the place was beautiful.”
“Nor I,” said Kivik. Yet for all that, it was perfectly true. If some of the towers had lost their roofs, if some of the spiraling outside staircases ended in midair, still the Old Fortress was exquisite, enchanting, even in decay.
And he thought, If this is how it looks now, what must it have been like when it was whole? With banners waving and trumpets sounding, with statues on some of those empty ledges, and those faded roof tiles shining out in fresher colors?
Only perhaps that was the wrong question. Perhaps the fortress was more lovely now, with everything gross, or gaudy, or commonplace stripped away, until only the beautiful bones remained.
As he came closer, it was possible to see that the outer walls were not, after all, the legendary thirty ells high, though still of a dizzying, impressive height, and that the fortress was indeed inhabited. Tiny antlike men and women ran back and forth along the walls, behind an embattled parapet. And while he could not make out any faces at such a distance, he knew that they were Skyrran, for the sunlight gleamed off hair that was every conceivable shade of blond from wheaten pale to golden brown.
Then, remarkably, the sun went behind a massed bank of dark grey clouds, the light failed, and snow began to fall. At first, it was only a scattering of big damp flakes. But the air went from mild to frigid in the space of minutes, and the snow came whirling down in ever denser clouds.
“This is impossible,” said the Prince, feeling the sting of ice on his cheek, experiencing a chill that had nothing—and everything—to do with the sudden bite in the air. “We are well below those peaks where the snow lies unmelted—and even there I doubt they have blizzards at the beginning of summer!”
Skerry nodded his agreement. “Particularly not when the weather was so fine only moments ago!”
Even the horses had grown uneasy; some whinnied and fought the bits until foam flew; they would have bolted if not for the firm hold their riders kept on the reins. Others sidestepped nervously, with eyes rolling, and nostrils flaring.
Then Kivik heard voices of those to the rear rise shrill in alarm—faint with distance at first, but growing louder and louder as others took up the cry.
Pulling hard on the reins to turn the reluctant gelding and see what was happening, the Prince gazed in horror as six or seven gigantic figures came roaring out of the crow-haunted pinewoods, charging toward the back of the line. The reason for this freakish weather was all too apparent.
“Ice giants! They will go right through the women and the children if we can’t cut them off!” Whipping out his sword, he began to shout orders to those around him.
Within seconds, those in the vanguard had separated from the rest and were gaining speed in a great wheeling charge, hoping to reach the wagons and those who traveled on foot before the giants did.
Meanwhile, Winloki found herself at the very heart of a whirling maelstrom of men and horses. She had been riding farther toward the front than usual, eager to get a glimpse of the fabled fortress, and now, as one company of riders after another turned their horses and went peeling off, following the Prince, she realized that she was very much in the way.
At the same time, her four guards had gathered around her, shouting something she could barely hear over the uproar. At last Haakon managed to edge in his bony gelding a little closer and catch hold of her chestnut mare by the harness.
“Princess, we must ride on ahead to the fortress,” he shouted in her ear. “This is just the sort of situation where Prince Kivik meant us to take you out of danger. And you promised not to resist our efforts to keep you safe.”
She was by no means certain she had promised any such thing. Though she had always gone where they told her before, that had always been with the healers and the other women. To desert those same comrades now when they were in terrible danger, to allow herself to be whisked away to some place of greater safety, leaving the rest to be almost certainly slaughtered—that was too much like cowardice. She shook her head emphatically “no.”
“Princess—” Haakon was beginning again, when she reached out and struck at his hands until he loosed his hold on the harness, and she was able to haul the mare around and see what was happening behind.
Her first steady look at the ice giants nearly took her breath away. They were manlike in form but many times greater, with skin of a bluish-leaden hue, pockmarked and craggy as mountains. They had eyes like deep black pits. And if their movements were awkward and somewhat slow, still they covered ground with their long, sturdy legs, and their pale hair streamed out behind them like blue flame on the wind of their passage. Each carried on his arm a mighty buckler, set with ice-blue crystals, and brandished an immense war hammer that looked capable of crushing great boulders into dust.
Then one of the giants veered off from the others, heading her way. His empty black eyes met Winloki’s across the distance, and she felt a sudden, shuddering jolt of recognition.
These creatures will be attracted to me, she thought, her blood turning to ice water and her heart to a frozen lump in her chest. Just as I am attracted and repelled by them. And if I do not put some distance between myself and everyone else, whoever is by me will share my danger.
Winloki wheeled the panicking chestnut around again, laid heels to flanks, and felt the mare surge into a dead run. If the mare was running away with her, just at the moment that hardly mattered. The gates of the fortress lay straight ahead, and if someone opened them in time, she might yet be safe. If not, regaining control of her horse was the least of her problems.
There came a pounding of hooves behind and to both sides, and Winloki realized that her guards were catching up to her on their more powerful mounts. “No,” she screamed, as one of the men drew abreast of her, riding low in the saddle and spurring his horse along. She did not want to see any of them die for her.
Then thunderous footsteps sounded behind, and a stinging gust of snow and wind struck her. The mare, still running hard, flattened her ears and squealed a warning as a tremendous dark shadow went hurtling on ahead, blocking their path to the fortress.
The chestnut would take no more. She reared up on her hind legs, raking the air and screaming in terror. Winloki felt herself falling, landing with bruising force on the icy grass; then all the air was knocked out of her lungs, and for a moment she saw and felt nothing.
She came back to herself just in time to avoid being crushed under the hooves of the dancing mare. Though she could still barely see for the snow and the dizzy grey sparks of light whirling before her eyes, Winloki managed to scramble to her feet.
The giant loomed up before her, snarling. His mouth opened on a row of broken yellow teeth, and a blast of burning cold air hit her so hard that she nearly fell. Then his war hammer passed over her head, only barely missing her. It made the air whistle, and the breath of the nearest horse turn to ice.
I ought not to be still standing after that, she thought, remembering the men she had revived, and the one she had not been able to revive, in Lückenbörg. But as she clenched her hands together, Winloki felt the great ring of bone on her right thumb. It was, she suddenly realized, both her peril and her salvation.
Two of her guards hurled themselves between her and the giant, and Haakon was suddenly there on foot beside her. The boy’s strong hands encircled her waist, and he was lifting her up to the back of the piebald gelding, which stood solid as a wall while she tried to mount. She reached out, caught ahold of the cantle and a handful of dust-colored mane, then managed to throw a leg over Lif’s broad back and settle into the saddle. She saw that Arvi was there on the other side, where she had not been able to see him before, still mounted, and holding the gelding’s reins.
He threw her the reins, she nodded her thanks, and a moment later they were riding along, side by side, as fast as the horses would go. Lif, she realized, was every bit as good as Haakon said he was; he moved like the wind, in long, effortless strides.
Just as she saw the massive gates swinging open before her, she could hear the ice giant come loping along behind her. Arvi fell back a little, to defend her at need, and Lif, without any urging, managed an extra burst of speed.
Then she was riding under the arch of the gate, clattering through the dark tunnel inside the gatehouse, then out the other side into an overgrown courtyard, where Lif’s hooves struck violet fire from a broken marble pavement. She pulled in and looked back over her shoulder, just in time to see Arvi emerge from the tunnel behind her and hear the gate slam shut. Then she leaned forward, resting her face on the gelding’s sweaty, bristly neck, while she struggled to catch her breath.
A moment later there were running footsteps, a babble of voices high and low. When she looked up, the courtyard was a sea of curious faces. A host of ragged men and women had gathered around her, shivering in the chill air and asking excited questions.
“It is the Lady Winloki,” panted Arvi. “She is a great healer, but I think—I think she should be looked after herself just now.”
She took a great gulp of air and shook her head. “I am well enough.”
“No you are not, Princess,” he retorted. “You can’t see your own face to see what that creature did to you, but look at your hands: they are blue with cold.”
Holding up one hand, Winloki saw that he was right. She had not, after all, been entirely immune to the wind of the ice giant’s hammer.
As she slid down from the saddle and stood unsteadily on the marble paving, two tall women put their arms around her and supported her across the courtyard, then through another gate. She felt somebody drop a rough woolen shawl over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” Winloki whispered, feeling weak tears rise in her eyes at the thought of one of these ragged women sacrificing her own inadequate protection against the cold in order to warm her.
But as she emerged into the next snowy courtyard she could see and feel the shadows all around her: faint and tenuous, yet quite unmistakable, lurking wherever the light was dimmest, prowling in the shrubbery, sliding from one dark alley between the buildings to the next. Fear settled into her bones then, and stayed there.
And she thought, For all the good intentions of the people here, the kindness of these women—for someone like me, the Old Fortress at Tirfang is no safe place.