Krull

'I am willing to make use of any suggestions you might have, old man. What weapons do you speak of?'

Ynyr spoke complacently, as though by the mere act of doing so he could make the extraordinary sound commonplace.

'There is the original from which the symbol on your father's medallion derives.'

Colwyn glanced reflexively down at the metal circlet. 'The arms of the first kingdom of Turold?'

'No, Colwyn. Think on what I have just said.'

He frowned, then a look of amazement came over his face. 'What, the glaive? You are crazy, old man! Or a fool. Go back to your hut and do not toy with my anger. I will find the Black Fortress by myself and assail it as best I am able. I have some poor skills, but I strive not to include absurdity among them.'

'But uncertainty remains. I see it in your face. Come with me, Prince of Krull, and we shall see who is the fool.' He turned and picked his way across the graveyard, there to mount a riderless horse and send it trotting toward the gate.

Colwyn hesitated, then slipped the chain and medallion over his neck and hurried to find a mount with which to follow. Surely the old man was mad, but he had been well-thoought of by the scholors responsible for Colwyn's education. Mystery surrounded his name, but always accompanied by veneration.

Was it possible for wise men to venerate a fool? There was little time to wonder. With a curse he secured a horse and followed in Ynyr's wake. Even an old, foolish ally was better than none. Until better choices presented themselves, he could do worse than listen to the advice of the one man willing to aid him in his search. Whatever his other abilities, Colwyn had to admit that this Ynyr did not quake in terror at the mere mention of the Beast's name. That counted for something.

The mountains Ynyr led Colwyn into were strange to him, their composition different from those of Turold. From these granite blocks had been cut the foundation of the White Castle. He hoped they would be of more help than those easily breeched walls had been.

Here resided strange creatures that were only rumor in far-off Turold: trees that put their heads into the earth and thrust flailing roots at a yawning sky; little furry things with too many eyes; and hard-shelled monsters that disguised themselves with flowers and herbs.

Here also resided Ynyr, be he wise man or fool. At least he seemed to know where he was going. The winding course he chose was as good a road as any to Colwyn, so long as it led eventually to the Black Fortress and his beloved. The medallion bounced coldly against his chest.

He fingered it absently as he spoke. 'The glaive is nothing but an ancient symbol. I was taught in school that symbols are distorted representations of half-remembered realities. It doesn't actually exist.'

'Oh, it exists.' Ynyr pointed toward a confluence of tall peaks. 'Up there. You are partially right, though. It is ancient.'

'I need weanons. not symbols.' Colwvn directed his horse around a huge boulder, keeping his attention on the ground ahead. The rock here was broken and slippery. He would be glad when they came to firmer ground.

'Do not be so quick to disdain the use of symbols, my boy. They have their uses. Once, the glaive was more than a symbol. It was a powerful device, a great weapon. In the right hands it can be so again.'

'In my hands?'

'I wish I knew for certain. I have studied long hours alone and have learned much from our history.'

'Tell me.'

'Not now. This is not the time or place. When it is time I will tell you. Before you can learn the secrets of the past, you must secure the future. For now it is enough for you to know that only a true prince of the mind can successfully make use of the glaive.'

Colwyn frowned. 'Prince of the mind? I'm not sure that I understand.'

'Recall your marriage ceremony. Yes, I know it is painful, but recall. The passing of fire to water is proof that certain abilities have been inculcated in you, among them the ability to utilize your mind in ways alien to the average man.'

'That's a prince's right.'

'No, boy, it is not a prince's right! There's much more to it than that. Some day I hope to make you realize how much more.' His attention turned from Colwyn to a saddle between two crags. 'We are near.'

'If you are so sensitive to such things, and to this glaive you insist is no fairy tale, and to the knowledge that surrounds it, why do you not wield it yourself against the Slayers?'

Ynyr smiled ruefully. 'It is true I am master of much that would startle you. But it is equally true there are things I cannot do. Employing the glaive properly is among them. And there is still an additional restraint.'

'What might that be?'

'I am old, Colwyn. Sad as it is, there are times when knowledge and talent must be supplemented with muscle. I might possibly have made use of the glaive many years ago, but no longer. And at that time Krull was at peace and there was no reason to wield it.'

'Are you so sure that I am the right one?' Sudden responsibility weighed heavily on Colwyn. He was beginning to believe in this old man. 'Maybe you are mistaken in choosing me for this task.'

'Perhaps. Nothing is certain,' Ynyr told him with unsettling candor. 'We'll know soon enough.' He reined in his horse and let Colwyn take the lead. The prince looked back.

'No, boy, I can't go with you. This far and no farther. I would endanger us both by accompanying you farther.'

'Then rest here, old man, and ease your mind. I'll come back with it. If there's anything up there'—he nodded toward the higher slopes, where a wind of hollow voice beckoned mournfully—'to come back with.'

'Oh, it's up there all right,' Ynyr assured him somberly as he dismounted. There was a far-off look in his eyes as he squinted up at the silent rocks. 'It's up there, and if you do not come back with it, you will not come back at all.' His gaze shifted back to Colwyn. 'I am not trying to frighten you. Other men have sought the power of the glaive and have left only bold promises as epitaphs. Be sure of yourself.'

The prince's tone was bitter. 'Do I have a choice?'

'You do. No one else does. You are Krull's last option.'

'And Lyssa's. Wait here for me, Ynyr.' He chucked the reins, urging his horse upward.

Eventually the slope sharpened to such a degree that he had to leave his mount behind. Soon he found himself above the treeline, where only the wind grows. It blew sharply into his face, informing him that he was a trespasser in this rarefied region and that his continued existence came at the whim of the elements. He was hiking the land of quick storms and brutal cold, a place where a man's life was as fragile as the lichen and grass that clung to the rocks. In a few months this whole country would sleep beneath many feet of snow.

Better not to linger here, then, he told himself, forcing his legs to work harder. Anger pushed him from behind, determination drew him from ahead. His thoughts were full of Lyssa and of Ynyr's strange talk.

He was not so preoccupied that he failed to hear the ominous rumbling from above.

The first rocks were mere pebbles, advance scouts for the avalanche to come. The falling stones rapidly became bigger. One just missed crushing his right leg. Frantically he dodged as he sought with his eyes for a place of safety, but the bare, rocky slope was devoid of shelter.

When in doubt, attack, his father had always told him. Instead of trying to flee he held his ground and met each threat while facing it, dodging skillfully. Soon the landslide had to end. He wouldn't let it halt his ascent.

When the last boulder had slid harmlessly past, to crash somewhere oh the slopes far below, he rested only a moment to catch his breath before pulling his way upward once again. The terrain grew steeper and ever more precipitous but, mindful of Ynyr's words, he pressed on, keeping his eyes always on the crags above.

When it seemed he must step out onto the sky itself he reached a dark stain in the sheer cliffs. The stain marked a cleft in the rocks. Steam rose from within, emerging from the belly of the mountain in fitful, uncertain puffs.

What did you expect? he asked himself. To find the glaive resting on a golden cushion out in the open just waiting for you to pick up and slip into your belt? Cautiously, he started into the hissing crevice.

The narrow break in the rock led into the mountain, working its way gently downward. There were false side passages and one place where he had to brace his back against one wall and his feet against the other to shinny down. The chimney opened into a small cave. Steam beaded his face and tickled his throat.

There was water here, and stone that ran like red milk, glowing and bubbling merrily near the back of the cavern. Every time a pool of water overflowed onto the molten rock a burst of superheated steam shot ceilingward.