Alan Foster - Krull

"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. Shielding his face, he worked his way toward the back, nearly tripping over a rock.

Except that it wasn't a rock. It was rounder and whiter than the exfoliated fragments he'd stumbled over on the slope outside, and it displayed gaps that had once housed human senses. The skull was also badly charred. He stared at it somberly. Evidently there were occasions when this cavern was less than hospitable. Though it was incapable of threatening him, he edged around it. There were times when the dead could surprise you by fighting back.

Several pieces of ceiling collapsed into the lava basin. He turned away fast, but not quickly enough to avoid the splash of molten material. The several droplets that struck him burned holes in his tunic and he spent a frantic moment beating out the tiny fires.

Keeping himself poised for another rapid retreat, he bent over the bubbling pool. It was thick and shone a bright orange red; yet he thought he could make out something darker lying in the depths. The object was long and narrow, thicker at one end than the other.

He searched the floor of the cavern. There was nothing as useful as a tree limb, and he could imagine how lone the bones of his unlucky predecessor would last if thrust into that hellish vat. He found a broken stalagtite, returned to the pool and reached with it toward the dark shape. The shape moved, confirming his judgment. There was no chance to raise it clear of the lava with the stalagtite. The limestone was already melting away in his hand.

He dropped it and considered how to proceed as he watched it dissolve. The pit continued to boil and froth. There was a distant rumble, as though the mountain were growing impatient with him.

Remember your marriage ceremony, Ynyr had instructed him. Colwyn trembled a little at the prospect thus raised, but it was clear there was only one way he could proceed.

He thought back to the ceremony, worked to assume again the requisite mental posture. Only this time, he had to prove himself to a far less forgiving bride than Lyssa. It should not take long. He would not have long. There could be no uncertainty, no hesitation. Half closing his eyes, he thoughtfully rolled his right sleeve up to the shoulder.

Then he gritted his teeth and plunged his bare right hand into the seething cauldron.

There was no pain. Only a faint tingling, an odd sensation as full of excitement as threat. His arm felt through the molten rock for only a few seconds. Then he yanked it out, blinking in wonder at the object he'd retrieved.

The flattened, starlike glaive sported five curved arms in which blades lay concealed. It was a dull black from years of sleeping untouched in the lava basin. So intent was he on the glaive itself, on this fragment of mythology suddenly become real in his hand, that he ignored the flames that enveloped his arm.

Abruptly the dancing fire vanished into the glaive, sucked up by some unheard call. As it disappeared, the black crust of chilled lava cracked from the surface. Now Colwyn was compelled to turn his eyes aside as the black became gold and the glaive began to burn with a light as strong as the sun's.

Flat and made to fit the hand, it seemed as natural to fling it as it was unnatural to see it return to his hand. His exuberance sent him scrambling and sliding back down the mountainside, and it was as much luck as good sense that enabled him to reach the waiting Ynyr unhurt.

"I have it, Ynyr, I have it! The glaive is real, and I am its master!" He raised the weapon and made as if to throw it over the steep slopes, but Ynyr hurried to forestall him.

"What's wrong? This is the glaive you spoke of, isn't it? I saw no other weapon."

Ynyr eyed him thoughtfully. "And what else could it be? Yes, that's the glaive of legend, as surely as we both stand here examining it."

Colwyn frowned. "Then, what troubles you? Haven't I come safely back with it?"

"You have acquired power, yes. Wisdom is far more elusive and harder to come by. Power used frivolously is power wasted." He nodded toward the gleaming weapon. "I am pleased, but not awed."

This time Colwyn disdained a quick reply in favor of a moment's hard thought, which pleased Ynyr considerably. The prince slipped the glaive into a loop on his belt.

"That's better," said Ynyr. "You're learning. Don't use the glaive until you need it. Then the power will be there when you require it most. It is not a toy. Do not play with it, Colwyn."