Greyfax Grimwald

  They Dared Cross Calix Stay, the Great Water Guarding the Nether Realms.

  Otter. Bear. Dwarf. Three wayfarers on a journey to the fabled World Beyond Time, where glowed the ageless Circle of Light

  Little did they dream when they set out of the fair kingdom of Lorini . . . of the chill borders of the Northerland . . . of the perverse Palace of Darkness where green fire grimly glowed ... of the dread town where the mysterious Humans lived . . .

  They had yet to meet such gallant friends as Greyfax Grimwald . . . General Greymouse . . . Froghorn Fairingay . . . Cephus Starkeeper . . . and such fearsome foes as Dorini, sovereign of the sinister . . . and Cakgor, son of Suneater and Fireslayer . . .

  Their great adventure had only just begun.

  Books by Niel Hancock

  Dragon Winter

  THE CIRCLE OF LIGHT SERIES

  I Greyfax Grimwald

  II Faragon Fairingay

  III Calix Stay

  IV Squaring The Circle

  THE WILDERNESS OF FOUR SERIES

  I Across The Far Mountain

  II The Plains Of The Sea

  III On The Boundaries Of Darkness

  IV The Road To The Middle Islands

  Published by Warner Books

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  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1977 by Niel Hancock

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  666 Fifth Avenue

  New York, N.Y. 10103

  A Warner Communications Company

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Warner Books Printing: December, 1982

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  ePub by Orannis 2011

  To My Grandparents

  Meetings

  Beyond

  Calix Stay

  Bear

  On the morning of his leaving, he erased all his tracks from that part of heaven, carefully stacked new star branches in a neat pile behind the entrance in the dark mouth of the universe, and sadly began the thousand-year trip down the side of the sky that closely resembled a large mountain. If you looked at it that way. If you didn’t, it might seem very much like walking out your own front door and down the steps.

  The Bear was leaving in the last part of September, and the wind was still fresh with the old summer, and only the faintest trace of winter was evident. Of course, it was always that time of year in those parts, and he had not seen a winter in many ages, so he decided to travel down to the World Before Time to find out what it was like there now, and to see again the snow they spoke of sometimes when they traveled through. He had crossed many lifetimes before, and was happy with his home. However, he’d promised himself he would go, and the strange unknown feeling that was in him said he must. So he packed a hat of new strawberries, two handkerchiefs, his ancient book of Beardom, and a map of the World Before Time safely in his pockets, and set out to seek the snow kingdom, so far away he could only see the top of its elephant’s hat nodding above the cloud fields between. On his way, he began whistling a cheery tune about bears, big and brown and only sometimes gruff, chuckling to himself when he came to those parts that all bears know, and frowning at others when the music described what all his kind knew to be serious business. He smiled more often than he frowned, because all bears are very jolly fellows unless disturbed, and he had not been disturbed in quite a few centuries—except lately, when all the travelers began coming through his side of the woods with distressing tales and sad songs he had never heard before and which made him very sad.

  Turning for one last look at his old home, he set off in the direction of the Meadows of the Sun, where he hoped he would be able to rest for a while on his long and weary journey, and perhaps find an acquaintance or two to dance with or sing to. The last time he’d been that way he’d met a querulous old goat from down below the Great Water, and they’d spent many nights telling of green-coated hippogrifs and flying tortagans. He wasn’t too sure what the stories would be this time, and an uneasiness stirred briefly, but the day was fine and bright, and he began thinking of other things—cool streams full of salmon, and tingly, frosted bark-brewed .tea, or a good glass of blackberry juice, such as his mother used to give him in the days when he was only a cub. Yes, there were too many fine things on this fine day to listen to that small voice inside that would make him forget what a grand day it was, and how nice to be trotting easily along with the sun’s golden fingers scratching your back in just the right places.

  That was best of all, to feel the warmth touching your fur in delightful, soft glowing movements, and in a little while the thought of a nap occurred to him, beneath some grass green trees grown over with shade.

  Only a little nap, for an age or two, before moving on.

  Dwarf

  Broco, the dwarf, lived far under a mountain in a secret place. Only the river ever came near his home, so fast and deep was his dwelling. He’d found his way there after the great time of trouble. He lived alone except for his friend, the river, and never spoke of anything but mending and music. The two friends would often sit together exchanging songs. Broco sang his ancient dwarfish tunes, and the river newer ones, because his tale came down from different parts, bringing some odd bit of new now and then, and he remembered banks from his small beginning high atop another range of mountains miles and miles away to the south. It was in this way that Broco remembered the strange song that was repeated by the river, and it was this strange song that at last brought him forth from under his mountain.

  He had hummed it and sung it and played it on one of the fine tiny reed pipes he’d spent hours over—carving minute scenes of woodlawns, or of his old home, with sometimes deer or fauns beneath the perfectly still trees—and it seemed to him a perfectly hummable, singable song, one of the best he’d heard, as far as he could remember. Dwarf memories stretch back to the coming of the First Age, when life once more crept forth from the night into the light of the living.

  It was vaguely familiar, the way songs sometimes are, and slowly, so slowly it took what to others might seem years, the song became a sudden memory of his father, bent and old, his beard snow-white and reaching below the ornate gold belt buckle he wore, given to him as a token of affection by the High Master of Lore many ages before.

  The memories of that time were unreal, when he had come to make his home under the mountain, with chores and a dozen other things to keep him busy. But on that day the song opened that faraway and long-forgotten door, all the other pleasures he’d so long pursued became empty, wearying tasks he could not keep his mind upon.

  A motion had started somewhere, like a ripple far out to sea that slowly builds into a wave, and Broco became more and more restless, unable even to listen to the new songs or stories the river brought him.

  As he sat working a molten piece of iron into a broad ax head one particularly long afternoon, with lunch done and supper far away, the thought of remaining longer became so acutely dreary, he huffed a bit, and began packing a traveling kit, not really knowing why, or where he was off to. All he knew was that something w
as calling him from across Calix Stay, and that for whatever reason, he must obey.

  He prepared the last supper he would enjoy in his home under the mountain, and took particular pleasure in it, as a fellow might, not knowing when or if ever he would be back.

  A decision had been made, and the restless feeling that had troubled him so long was gone. Only the thoughts of the coming journey filled his head, and the excitement of it all made it hard to sleep because of dreams and visions, until at last he rose, murmuring to himself those words he’d heard his father use when he was going to be away on his travels for a long time: “Well, best be about it now as later. A mile won’t wait to be walked, and the road won’t nap until my foot is upon it.”

  And humming the old song once more, it seemed to him it was a traveling song after all.

  Otter

  Otter, sleek gray coat covered with mud, peered over the water rushes at the figure that trotted down his riverbank, an Odd creature he’d never seen before, curiously dressed in red and green, with pointed-toed shoes and a bright yellow hat with a forest-green brim.

  His muzzle barely cleared the rushes, and nothing was visible to Broco but a pair of dark brown eyes and a huge set of whiskers on either side of a shining black nose.

  “Hello, friend. I’ve lost my way. Can you tell me how to get from here to the World before Time?”

  Otter stood a little higher until his paws were visible to the stranger, and he pointed in a general direction where he remembered the dwarf’s destination to be. Try as he might, he couldn’t help asking, “Why are you going there? It’s only trouble now. You’d be much better off if you’d stay here with me. We can fish, and swim, and play games.”

  “I have urgent business there,” replied Dwarf, puffing up his chest and standing on his tiptoes. Dwarfs sometimes feel very important, and when they do, they blow up like toads, or balloonfish, or prime ministers, or presidents.

  “Begging pardon, but what business, might I ask?”

  Otter was terribly curious, and dying to know what made such a stranger travel all the way to that place, and what he could possibly do once he got there. He was more than pleased to do his chores, find food to keep him full, and spend his leisure hours constructing mud slides to scamper down, or simply to swim his river from one place to the next collecting stories or exchanging them with whoever might be about.

  Then Broco hummed the tune, the song given him a long time before by his father. It stirred all the old feelings his soul remembered from his past. Otter stood suddenly, gray fur hackling all up and down his long back. His eyes were still open, his body still there, but he suddenly felt himself transported back to unordered places in his past, where he tumbled about in some awesome labyrinth full of loud noises and where no river ran. And was he in a different form?

  It felt that way. Visions of all this flashed by him like lightning, feelings exploded inside him like thunder. As Broco watched, he turned several shades of gray lighter, his eyes slowly closed, and he trembled violently.

  Broco stopped humming and ran over to the small, delirious creature.

  “It’s all right, little fellow, it’s just a song and I’ll sing it no more right now. Come on, now, it’s all right.”

  Otter’s fur relaxed, his eyes opened, his trembling ceased, and soon he was able to speak with only a little tremor in his voice.

  “Where ... how ... that song ... it is so disturbing ... please go now, I have shown you what direction ... and leave me here in peace with my river and trees and friends.”

  Broco stooped, only a little, for he was just slightly taller than Otter, and looked deeply and directly into the gray fellow’s eyes. He spoke, quietly and gently.

  “They will all be here when you return, and when you return they will all be different. You will really know them for the first time, and speak your first real hello to them. Then you will know, I think.”

  Dwarf’s words trailed off, and he was quite taken by the beatific sound of his own voice.

  Starting to protest, Otter looked again at Broco, beginning to understand, knowing that he had been waiting to leave for a long time, and that the time was here. He also knew that if he once left, he would not likely return again to this river.

  Otter shuddered, but had to believe the little man.

  “But must we leave this moment? Can’t I say goodbye to my friends? I could go pick some wild berries, or plums, and we could all sit and eat, and sing, or tell stories.”

  Dwarf thought of how he had hated leaving his own home after spending such a long time there, and how the feeling of never returning had saddened him. There would be enough time for this simple request, and he wondered, even as he spoke, if it were not truly better simply to stay by Otter’s river.

  “Of course. You should have a chance to say goodbye, and I’ve had no fresh plums in ever so long. I’ll I come along and help you.”

  “Oh good,” said Otter dancing. “There’s a big berry bush just across the river there. I’ll go get them.”

  Dwarf and Otter hurried to the river, where the I Otter slipped noiselessly under the water. Broco waded in with such a splash that the fish a mile away were filled with terror. Surfacing, Otter raised a pair of angry eyes and twitching whiskers and glared over at Dwarf, whose brightly colored hat from a distance looked like a great yellow river rock.

  “I’m a little rusty at my swimming, I guess,” He murmured apologetically, feeling a bit guilty at “taking the small gray creature from his home.

  But they found and picked many dusky blue wild berries, and rich purple plums, and golden peaches heavy with nectar, and a wonderful feast was held, full of great laughter and stories, taller than even the oldest trees, and at dawn, both were fast asleep around the remnants of a fire.

  Meadows

  of the Sun

  It was where the Meadows of the Sun met the Gilden Tarn, right at the outlying edge, that Otter first caught the scent. Looking where he pointed, Broco stared, motionless, at the strange sight several yards in front of them.

  They agreed on three things: whatever it was, it was big, it was brown, and it was breathing. And it was dressed most unusually for an animal in this part of the Meadows. A brilliant orange cloak was draped over its back, and a hat of unusual design sat between its ears.

  They came even closer.

  “It’s a bear,” said Broco.

  “It’s sound asleep,” said the always curious Otter, who proceeded to crawl up onto the big animals lap.

  “It’s been reading,” mused Broco, “and gone to sleep.”

  The snoring of the big animal stopped, and one great red eye opened.

  Otter scrambled behind Broco, who immediately let out a startled squeak.

  “In the name of the Ancient Oak,” boomed the Bear, “I command thee to disappear.”

  The great animal raised a paw skyward, and the orange cloak fell askew. The big animal held up his paw until Broco stopped his squeaking and fell into a puzzled silence. The Bear lowered his forepaw, rear ranged his cloak, and shut his eye.

  Otter moved forward to ask a question.

  Bear opened his eyes to a small squint to see if what he had seen had gone away as he had commanded. Seeing Otter and Dwarf still there, he slammed the heavy book shut and flung his hat down before him.

  “Drat, and bear curses on it all,” he mumbled, and immediately began to snore again.

  Otter sat quietly on his haunches, his head turned to a curious angle.

  Broco suddenly turned one cartwheel, landing noiselessly beside the great animal. Giving his friend a knowing wink, he began to hum the melody very gently, very soothingly, until the Bear once again opened his eyes.

  “Hello,” said Dwarf, his eyes dancing.

  “Hello,” said Bear, remembering.

  They all made their way to the stream which marked the boundaries of the Meadows of the Sun. All were thirsty, especially Bear, who completely submerged his head for such a long time it made Otter div
e and swim over to see if he was still alive. Bear’s eyes blinked underwater at him. Otter blinked back, and returned to the surface. The water felt so good he began to swim and dive and fly out of the water headfirst, then feet first, finally giving his companions a display of water acrobatics such as they had never seen.

  Later Bear led them into the forest, deep into the darkness, until finally they came upon the entrance to a large cave.

  “This is my camp. Come in. You are welcome to my meager hospitality.” Bear entered, then Broco, with Otter dripping and draped on his back recovering from his sudden surge of energy. The cave was very big, with walls that receded past the flickering shadows cast by the huge candle in the center. Along the walls were hundreds of books covered with cob webs and cave dust, many bearing strange and mysterious titles. Broco studied them for a long time. Bear finally raised himself and came over to stand beside the dwarf, who came barely up to the huge brown animal’s knee.

  “You’ve read all of these?” inquired Broco.

  “I’ve either read them or should have read them,” he answered, confronting the shelves as one would an. old and respected opponent. “Maybe even written a few of them, I don’t know.”

  “All three,” mumbled Broco in Dwarfish.

  “What’s that?” asked Bear, whose ears were very sensitive.

  “What I said, as for me, books are not my cup of tea,” replied the dwarf quickly.

  “Mine either,” mused Bear. “When I found this cave, all these were here, and once in a while I pick up one of them and try to read, but either my concentration wanders until I fall asleep, or I stay up all night and read with such feverishness that I don’t remember a word.” Bear shook his head sadly. “I don’t think I used to be like that.”