The Wishing Tree

By Bevan Knight

When a sorcerer’s apprentice locks a powerful spirit in a tree, the nomadic tribes of the arctic face a bleak future. Supplies of game and fish dwindle, and young men desert their families on a quest of illusory dreams. Included in the expedition to deal with the vengeful tree spirit are young Dorno and the woman he rescued, Sheena. He is seeking high adventure; she is in search of her foster parents. Neither of them is aware of the far more terrible foe that lurks in the shade of the tree.

This first volume of a trilogy weaves together elements of science fiction and fantasy to produce an exploration of human needs and values.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Nov 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781499099034

Bevan Knight

As a retired librarian, Bevan Knight has spent a lifetime working with books and people. He has also been a book reviewer, a technical writer, and a database administrator. The Wishing Tree is his first novel.

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The Wishing Tree

BEVAN KNIGHT

Copyright © 2016 by Bevan Knight.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/07/2016

Xlibris

NZ TFN: 0800 008 756 (Toll Free inside the NZ)

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www.Xlibris.co.nz

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To my dear wife Naomi (for her words of wisdom)

to my friend Robert (my first reviewer)

and to the Xlibris staff: Dennis, Cherry, Mary and Joel

for their support and encouragement

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1     The Beluga

Chapter 2     Celebration

Chapter 3     The Bear

Chapter 4     The Foundling

Chapter 5     Sheena

Chapter 6     A Tunnel through the Dark

Chapter 7     The Visitors

Chapter 8     Communion

Chapter 9     The Cauldron

Chapter 10   How Man Lost His Coat

Chapter 11   Into the Storm

Chapter 12   The Barricades Fail

Chapter 13   Pickup

Chapter 14   The Gathering

Chapter 15   Travellers’ Tales

Chapter 16   Disappearing Acts

Chapter 17   Spirited Away

Chapter 18   Gateway to Hell

Chapter 19   The Edge of Darkness

Chapter 20   The Great Cold

Chapter 21   Dreams and Illusions

Chapter 22   Tragic Journey

Chapter 23   The Capture

Chapter 24   I Will Be Your Eyes

Chapter 25   Council of War

Chapter 26   The Oracle

Chapter 27   Anywhere but Here

Chapter 28   Cat and Mouse

Chapter 29   Monster in the Box

Chapter 30   The Legend of Thror

Chapter 31   Silent Depths

Chapter 32   The Weakest Link

Chapter 33   The Seal Hunter

Chapter 34   Zac’s Big Idea

Chapter 35   The Little Girl Who   Wanted the Moon

Chapter 36   A Bleak North Wind

Chapter 37   Seeing the Light

Chapter 38   Keeper of the Fort

Chapter 39   Advancing Shadows

Chapter 40   An Illusory Landscape

Chapter 41   Human Resources

Chapter 42   The Guardians

Chapter 43   A Riddle

Chapter 44   Sweet Darkness

Chapter 45   The Death Light

Chapter 46   Into the Vortex

Chapter 47   The Shortest Possible Route

Chapter 48   Home Thoughts

Chapter 49   Picking up the Pieces

Chapter 50   Chamber of Secrets

Chapter 51   Recovery and Loss

Chapter 52   Paradise Lost

Chapter 53   The Serpent and the Gnome

Chapter 54   Some Nonsense about Swans

Chapter 55   The Reckoning

Chapter 56   Betrayal

Chapter 57   Hominoids Don’t Do Sampling

Chapter 58   Homecoming

Chapter 59   Reconciliation

Chapter 60   The Blessing

Epilogue

I n the little village of Lam Tsuen, in the Tai Po district of Hong Kong, there are two special trees, and people still come by the thousands to see them, and to make paper wishes. Once the joss paper was thrown high into the branches of the trees, and the higher the paper could go, the more effective the wish was believed to be. Now the trees are protected from so much paper, and wooden racks bear the burden of so many wishes.

On another planet, circling a remote star very like our sun, there is a tree that needs no such protection. One cannot say the same about that planet’s inhabitants.

Prologue

The Great Desert, Southern Arkland, mid-autumn, 478

R oricon became aware of a slight scuffling noise. He opened one eye. In the darkness, he could just discern a pale light from the tent flap as a black shadow moved forward and nudged his shoulder.

Yes, master?

Shh. Come.

He rolled over, his body sore from weeks of gruelling training. Cursing under his breath, he groped about in the dark for hat, jacket, and boots. Away from the camp, he grumbled.

It is very late, Master.

Not at all. It is very early. Wait for it … He held up his hand in a characteristic gesture. The dawn wind.

Now Roricon heard the soft, soughing rustle through sparse vegetation, and in a moment the breeze was upon them. He greeted the cooling air with relief, but the wizard pulled his hooded cloak more firmly around himself.

Come, little one. We have a journey to make.

Felsing? queried the dwarf.

No, this is for your eyes only. The wizard chuckled. And your ears only. Say nothing to your brother.

Yes, master.

What you are about to learn will complete your training. It will be your crowning moment.

But master, have I not finished my apprenticeship?

Yes, my dear Roricon—for an ordinary wizard, yes! For your brother, for example. But this… this will be our secret.

Without further speech, they began their upward climb through a wilderness of barren rock. Dawn broke through a dark canopy of scudding clouds, and the rising wind tugged out the wizard’s grey locks from under his hood.

Roricon, who barely reached the wizard’s waist, scowled as he ran to stay abreast of his master. In spite of the endearments and special treatment, he was far from pleased. He had expected to relax that day, and so when they reached a high plateau at last, he threw himself down and lay stubbornly upon his back.

Not far now, the wizard called as he continued to march forward. Silently cursing, Roricon rose again and ran to catch up. The old man paused. Then he whispered, Make no sound. Watch carefully now! They moved cautiously onward for a time and then crouched low behind a concealing rock. Ahead lay a landscape of stones and windblown sand. Some thirty paces ahead, a slender shrub bobbed and swayed in the wind. Roricon looked quizzically at the wizard and was about to speak, but the old man raised a finger to his lips. Keep watching! he hissed. Something was happening. A dark, amorphous shape, like a pall of black smoke, emerged from the plant. First came fine tendrils that waved in the wind, twisting and turning one way, and then another, as if to test its strength.

As Roricon watched, fascinated, the smoke thickened, flowed faster, and then formed into a compact little cloud. The wizard leaned across and whispered in Roricon’s ear, The world’s most deadly spirit in cohabitation with the world’s most dangerous tree. We are fortunate indeed that these spirits are mostly interested in trees.

Master, what is so special about this little plant?

See how it grows, here in this arid place where little else can grow? When it needs to feed, it emits a scent that attracts insects and small animals. It feeds directly on the body fluids of its prey, or it lets them rot to fertilise the ground.

Roricon studied the sapling with renewed interest. It was a plain little plant: its slender, mottled stem branched into clusters of twigs and a pale green fuzz of minute leaves. At the foot of the shrub, there was indeed the dried-out pelt of some small creature. And what of the tree spirit? Why is it here?

They both benefit by sharing each other’s energy. Look! It’s withdrawing.

It was presently standing alongside the tree, pulsating, as if breathing. Roricon could faintly see a structure inside the murky form, and as he watched, the creature sent a thin filament directly into the stem of the shrub. Through this connection, the cloud collapsed and sucked back from view.

What can it do? Roricon whispered when the creature had disappeared.

Whatever it wants, the wizard whispered back. It would probably try to destroy us if it knew we were here.

Then why did you bring me here, master?

When the spirit leaves the tree, it will be very powerful. We are here to capture some of that power. The wizard glanced around. Right now, it is dangerous for us to be here, but I need you to stay on watch while I gather fresh lichen for the spell. Alert me at once if the spirit leaves the tree.

What’s the spirit’s name, master? Does it have a name? But the wizard shook his head, put his finger to his lips, and quietly slipped away.

The apprentice watched until his master was out of sight, and then he turned back and found his gaze was trapped upon the tree. The way it swayed to and fro drew him from the shelter of his rock. He walked forward ten paces, trembling all the while. Nothing happened, but in growing terror he retreated behind the rock. He lay prone, heart pounding, but once his fear had subsided, he found an unbearable temptation to return. Once more he stood up and walked towards the tree, without fear now. It was as if he was walking in a dream, and the whole world seemed to hold its breath. His hand touched the flimsy, silver-green leaves. So fragile, so delicate, he thought. Suddenly, very focused and resolved, he set to work. He drew mystic marks on the ground and softly chanted magic words. He moved to the right, repeating the mark and spell again and again until he had circled the tree. Lastly, he drew from his tunic a shining blue stone, held it over the tree while chanting an incantation, and pressed it on the point where the spirit had entered the trunk. There came a flash of blue flame, a sharp cracking sound, and a sickening smell. Roricon wrinkled his nose in distaste. Then a smile spread across his face, starting slowly at the corners of his mouth but gathering pace until his lips, teeth, cheeks, eyes, and indeed his whole body radiated glee. He gave a whoop of triumph and danced around the tree. Tiring quickly, he returned to sit proudly on top of the rock where he and the wizard had hidden. It was time to call his master. Roricon blew ever so softly into a little wooden tube.

Hurrying back, the wizard saw Roricon reclining on the rock, and he rushed forward in horror. What have you done?

I’ve dealt with the spirit! I’ve dealt with the old spirit! Roricon was positively crowing with a defiant, cocky undertone to his words.

The wizard examined the tree. His face was haggard. You used the closing spell?

Roricon’s smile was beatific. Spirit and tree are married for life. Neither can ever leave the other.

Have you any idea what you’ve done? The wizard crouched on the ground, his head bent forward and shaking slowly from side to side. Have you any idea what you’ve done? he repeated, his voice hushed and shaking a little. After a short silence, he spoke slowly and decisively. I will have to destroy the tree now, while it is still possible. That may harm the spirit, and the spirit will of course try to kill us both. There is no choice. I will need your help. Even now, it may be difficult. His voice sank to a whisper, his head still shaking slowly under the big peaked hood.

Roricon looked thoughtfully at him, and then back at the tree. What would happen? he whispered back. What would happen if we leave the tree alone?

What would happen? What would happen! Don’t you see you have created a monster? Anything could happen! It will do terrible things. No power on earth can withstand it. The wizard’s voice sank to a whisper once more at his last comment. Terrible things, he repeated in a voice where fear mingled with awe. He raised his head and sent his disciple a venomous look. But what’s the use of talking? he added, his anger subsiding. The spirit and tree combined will be far more powerful than either acting alone, invincible to all but God. Quiet, now—I must think. This thing will be terrible, terrible … It must be destroyed, and we will have only one chance.

Roricon watched the wizard bow his head once more and bury his face in his hands. The dwarf glanced again at the tree, and a cunning expression filled his eyes. He quietly slid from his perch, circled behind the old man, and slowly and softly approached with a slab of rock in his hands. Up close behind the wizard’s bent back, he paused a long moment, trembling in every limb. Then, raising this weapon, he brought it down with terrible force onto the head of his master. The wizard pitched forward without a sound. Roricon rolled him over with his foot; his nose wrinkled at the sight of blood running down his master’s face and matting into his beard. Roricon disliked messes.

He turned, and looked this way and that. Noon was approaching, but the sky had darkened. The air was now still and hot, yet Roricon shivered. He climbed the rock once more, scanning the land from ground to horizon. Nothing moved in this wilderness of rocks and stones. The larger rocks stood black and shadowless, strangely disquieting.

Roricon turned back to the body of his master. Carefully and with reverence, he removed the wizard’s cloak and laid the body out, smoothing away small stones. He spread the cloak over the body with the hood across the face and the edges weighted down with evenly spaced, carefully chosen stones.

Completed at last, he stood up and bowed. Farewell, master, he whispered. As an afterthought, he took the little wooden tube used for making signals and placed it gently on top of the wizard’s chest.

His next task took longer. With the little ceremony for his master completed, Roricon visibly relaxed, and now he looked for a suitable stone, one with a good digging point, to excavate a trench around the tree. By dint of much careful hacking, he managed to dislodge it, roots and all. Propped against a rock, it looked so astonishingly frail that he wondered for a moment if his master had been making a fool of him. He stared contemptuously at the exposed roots and gave a little bow. Pleased to meet you, oh mighty tree. What, I wonder, would happen if I was to take a rock and chop you up? Oh, no, that would be unthinkable. I may as well have let the master destroy you. Don’t worry, little one. You will not be harmed. Wrapping it in his jacket, he carried it away. It seemed to weigh almost nothing at all.

Ah, there you are, said Roricon,s brother when he finally reappeared. Where have you been, and where is Master Helvet?

Roricon bowed his head. I’m sorry, Fel, he said in a low and trembling voice. We went to gather lichen in the hills, and I have the most awful news. It was while he was showing me a poisonous tree spirit. It got out of control and gave him a fatal sting. Roricon sobbed.

Felsing moved towards him, remembering as he did so his father’s last words: Look after Rory. He won’t grow any more. Now, awkwardly (for there had always been tension between them) he wrapped his arms about his younger brother. I should have been there, he said. Oh, Rory, this is tragic, truly terrible! Tell me more of how it happened. But Roricon’s face was anguished, and he could not speak. The brothers stood silently and wept.

The tree was not mentioned at this time. Felsing noticed his brother potting it carefully in his master’s old cauldron, worrying about its roots and moving it about. Eventually he remarked, It must be very special. What are its name and properties? Roricon waved this query aside with a muttered explanation that he was caring for the tree in memory of the wizard.

Later in the day they set out again with the other acolytes, back up the mountain to find and bury their master. Felsing’s eyes narrowed when he saw the wizard’s grievous wound, but his brother explained, He was dying in agony. I had to act. His suspicions were further allayed by Roricon’s obvious grief during the simple ceremony and internment. Then there was the nice, tidy way the master had been laid out; it was so like Rory to do that.

Some days later as the camp was breaking up, Felsing watched his brother carefully pack the tree, and he decided on a little provocation. Sniffing dubiously at the delicate plant, he remarked, I don’t have your herbal skills, Rory, but that is a useless-looking plant.

Refusing to be drawn, Roricon replied, You never can tell. He finished his packing.

The oxen were harnessed, and the wagon was loaded. The brothers, wrapped in their cloaks and perspiring in the shimmering heat, climbed up to sit beside their worldly goods. They joined the procession of robed figures moving away on laden wagons. Now to get out of this cursed country, said Felsing.

Roricon appeared disinterested in their journey. He was curled against the box containing his precious tree. Poor master, he sobbed. Poor, poor master.

Felsing was pleased to leave. The camp had not been a great success for him. Helvet had taught basic principles—the doctrines of likenesses and signatures, and some herbal lore. Use willow for protection, he had said, handing out pieces of river willow, which the acolytes all dutifully carried about with them.

When can we hear about deeper mysteries? Felsing had asked timidly.

Helvet had scowled. When you are ready. You are a long way from ready, boy.

Apart from some exhausting excursions, the main thrust of the course had been on showmanship and trickery. Enhance the effect of what you do by a little sleight of hand, said Helvet. It sets the mood wonderfully. If you are a healer, get your patient amazed at what you do. He will practically heal himself.

Felsing wanted to be a healer, but not by such means.

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The first sign he had that the journey was nearly over was the smell of the sea. The road wound down between shell-encrusted banks. Had the sea been here? What magician had lifted the land so high? he wondered. The sea itself appeared shortly after, a great expanse of blue-green winking in the late afternoon sun. After another bend in the road, the trading town spread out below them. Tall, masted sloops, their red and white striped sails flapping, clustered about the jetties, and long, low white stone buildings stacked up the sides of the adjoining hills.

The sounds of the market rose to his ears: the cries of the vendors and the raised voices of hagglers. With the group’s arrival, and the hired vehicles paid off, Felsing forgot his brother and wandered about the market. In one place twenty-four rabbit skins were being traded for a sack of grain. The man in the stall counted them out slowly, a sour look or cynical remark punctuating each movement of his hands. They are good pelts, well cured, insisted the buyer. So it went on.

In another stall, bone and ivory figurines were on display. Beyond, men were throwing dice, and farther back, musicians were performing while women danced and a gathering audience called out encouragement.

Felsing reluctantly turned away. Their ferry was waiting. Several people accosted Felsing and the now cheerful Roricon as they made their way to the boat, wheeling the bags and boxes that were their sole property in the world. Morgan! Felsing cried, and the old friends embraced."

May I present you with Belzic," said Morgan cheerily, and Felsing turned to a rather rotund young man, barely a head taller than Roricon, who offered him a soft handshake and a thin smile.

I will be travelling with you.

You are a wizard? Felsing asked.

Call me an observer, said Belzic cryptically. Felsing, not realising how fateful this meeting would be, welcomed him warmly.

Thus the gathering dispersed with masters and pupils going their separate ways—shamans, healers, conjurers, and travelling entertainers, each according to his bent. With this dispersal, the tree, which had already brought about a murder and was to bring so much more suffering, vanished for a time into obscurity.

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Ornicon Valley, Central Ifflune, spring equinox, 487

Far in the north, on a high mountain ridge, a snow bunting chirruped in the early sunlight. His little white chest puffed out in joyful song as he hopped about, showing the world his fine plumage of soft green feathers topped by a little grey head.

As the light strengthened a joyful sound arose; the blowing of many trumpets echoed from the darkness in the valley far below. Soon a procession of men, some bearing torches, could be seen moving nearer. These men were in richly jewelled costumes that gleamed in the early dawn like a line of luminous beads.

Presently the leading marchers reached a wide plateau encircled by many tents. Their leader, a broad, strong fellow wearing a reindeer jacket, turned to his dark companion.

Well, Thror, Prince of Darkness? he said, drawing out his hunting knife.

Well, Truna, Prince of Daylight? came the sardonic answer. I think it’s your game now. He looked hard at Truna, his eyes glinting in the light of flickering torches.

I keep my word, rasped Truna. Let others break theirs if they will. He raised the knife and cut the thongs that bound Thror’s arms and hands. Go free, and in return, we take the little tree.

A circle gathered around the men as a wooden box was produced, its lid raised to display a small green sapling. The plant had changed little in the past nine years. It was perhaps a little larger, but it had the same slender trunk that was mottled grey and cream, and the silvery green fuzz of minute leaves winking in the torchlight. Thror stared at it for a moment and then laughed and turned to leave with his companions. Come, my noble attendants. We are free at last. Silent as ever, the young men shouldered their burdens, and the group moved away. When they had gone a short distance, Thror stopped and looked back. Much good may it bring you! he shouted, and he gave a mocking wave before finally turning away from the curious onlookers.

Now more people, adorned in festive finery, formed a new circle as the first rays of sunlight touched the tents. The trumpeters blew their horns. A drumbeat began, sonorous and compelling. People sang and danced while others clapped encouragement. This was the auspicious time—the time when daylight hours predominated over darkness. The equinoctial festivities had begun and were set to last for days.

This festival signified more than the return of daylight. For several years, the little nomadic communities had been troubled by a different kind of darkness. Old men had looked at the sky and frowned, noting the strange behaviour of birds or clouds. There was a mysterious feeling, a strange tension in the air. Young children had woken during the night sobbing or screaming, and they spoke of dark wings swooping down from the sky.

It was trying to get me, Mummy sobbed a wee girl. It was trying to steal my heart.

It’s just a nasty dream, the mother responded, and she sang a soothing lullaby. Later the shaman came and hung a talisman over the bed.

In the depths of winter, when the sun did not rise at all, the hunters had set out. Swaddled in furs, they dragged sleds and carried spears. Their guide was a blind man of ancient years, and their quarry was the sorcery that now afflicted their lives. Periodically the guide bade them stop. He would point his nose into the howling wind, as if to smell the way, and then resume the trek. On the third day, they left the tundra and followed a ravine down to the desolate shore of a large, murky lake. The storm had passed and the black waters stirred in silent, oleaginous ripples under a slit moon. The encampment they sought was in a slight hollow against the hills. As they crept forward in the still, oppressive silence, numerous humps in the snow revealed themselves as wolves—not asleep but in some deep trance. The others drew back, but the blind man walked on without hesitation through this circle of enigmatic guards. He approached a wooden door and gently pushed it open.

The hunters cautiously moved forward to crowd round the entrance. A fire glowed softly in a central stone hearth, and a ring of silent figures sat around it. Only one man seemed awake, and he regarded their intrusion with amused tolerance. Richly dressed in fine black robes adorned with sparkling jewels, he made no protest as the intruders bound his arms. You need no spears, he murmured. I am Thror, Prince of Darkness.

Inside the hut, the hunters found a wooden box containing a pale, delicate plant of unknown species. What is this, Thror? they asked. Thror only smiled. As they began to lead him away, Thror’s seven companions rose to their feet. Moving like sleepwalkers, they gathered their belongings and followed him. Although lightly but richly dressed in the manner of kings, they seemed quite indifferent to the cold.

Now, on this day of festivities, the tree was brought into the circle of elders.

It has an evil smell, said the one called Truna. Perhaps it’s the source of our bad dreams.

The shaman held a gemstone pendulum over the tree, where it swung gently to and fro. The tree shimmered, and the leaves appeared to lift slightly, even without a breeze.

It may have powers we could use, said the shaman.

Then a woman, the tribal matriarch, stepped into the circle of the male elite. This tree should be destroyed, just as those men should have been, she insisted. It comes from an evil place. I know it will bring us harm!

We are hunters of game, not killers of men, responded Truna. We do not kill even animals except through necessity.

A man with pale skin and red hair, a traveller from a distant land, now stepped into the ring. It is a wishing tree, he said. I have heard them described but never seen one before. It is said that should this tree grow to maturity, one who steps under its shadow may make any wish he cares to, and it will be granted.

Discussion about the tree spread from the original group out to the many who had come to celebrate. Instead, they found themselves caught up in heated arguments. The blind man stepped forward in front of the tree and raised his hand in a familiar gesture, and all speech ceased as everyone craned forward to listen. He had been the tribal guardian and leader for so long that no one could remember a time without him. Now, although age had rendered him blind, this disability seemed only to enhance his skills.

He stood for a time, contemplating the tree before he spoke. Plant the tree, he said at last. Plant it on the brow of that hill. May it be destroyed by the powers of wind and snow if it means to bring us harm.

The tree was taken to the crest of a nearby hill, where a hole was hacked into the frozen earth. No tree can survive here, spoke the man who dug the hole.

Why not? said another.

Look around you. Where are the trees? There’s nothing growing for as far as the eye can see. Now, this tree. Have you ever seen a more fragile-looking plant?

It looks fragile, but perhaps it’s tougher than it looks. Anyhow, I reckon they want it killed. Why plant it up here in the blasting wind rather than down in the hollow? He chuckled. I reckon Blind Hob knows what he’s doing. If we’d destroyed the tree, we may have all been cursed.

In the months and years that followed the planting of the tree, the weather became unseasonal. Many of the polar tribes moved south. After the death of Blind Hob, Truna also led his people southwards. The man who carried the little tree from the sorcerer’s hut, and later helped to plant it, found that these episodes continued to prey on his mind. After the death of his wife, he set out with some companions to find what had become of it. They were beset with intense cold such as they had never known. When a blizzard struck, the other members of the group beseeched their friend to turn back, but he lowered his head and disappeared into a world of whirling snow. He was never seen again.

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Jahland Peninsula, Southern Ifflune, late autumn, 498

About as far south from the tree as a man on a donkey might travel between one full moon and the next, a peninsula juts out into a perilous sea, and its bleak headland marks the southernmost extension of the northern landmass. A group of seven were making their way towards this very headland—not on donkeys, although two were with them, encumbered with baggage and stoically plodding. The ice had yet to reach this extremity, but the wind that howled the year round about this rocky mass threw handfuls of sleet into the faces of the travellers.

Are you sure this is the way, Fel? called one, shouting to be heard above the commotion of wind and sea. The track narrows, and it’s slick! We can’t take the donkeys much further!

It’s all right, Morgan. We won’t need them now. Here, get them under the lee of this rock. We climb here, unless I’m much mistaken. Here, Em. Give me your hand.

An angry exclamation interrupted the leaders. How can I climb if my hands are tied!

All right. Untie Rory’s hands, Morgan. Just keep him on the rope; we’ll pull him up after us!

Thus with the aid of shouts and gestures, the travellers continued on their way. The track was difficult but unmistakable. There were occasional signs of steps, long since eroded into suggestive humps on the face of the rock. Fel’s questing hand encountered some structure that might once have supported a rail, but it broke away at once and fell alarmingly close to the other climbers.

Careful, Fel! Do you call this a sacred place? I’m not impressed!

They moved at last onto a wide ledge. On either side were columns of broken stone, luminous grey against the darkening sky, leading back to a cavity that held the remains of a door. The short day was almost over.

This was the Temple of Mene, and was a centre of power in the ancient world. There was another in the Willow Valley. But this temple, dedicated to the Divine Mother, is the more important, and it will surely help us now. Indeed, I see it as our last and best hope, for a terrible evil threatens our world … Help me please, Lufika, Felsing said as these two moved to the temple entrance. They dragged aside the wooden remnants of the door, and the whole group made their way down a flight of steps into almost complete darkness. Em, kneel beside me while we make our appeal.

Four knelt in a semicircle. Lufika, standing to one side, looked gloomily around the ruins. Fel, are you sure this is all trustworthy? We don’t even know if the titular deity of this temple … if Mene still resides here.

Farther back, Rory, his hands bound once more, leaned against a block of stone and scowled at the gathering. Morgan stood upright alongside him, still holding the rope that connected the pair of them. Lufika produced incense, a little bowl, and flint. Set up on the cracked altar, the bold yellow flame threw shadows up the walls of the ruined temple, towards a patch of sky that was now almost completely dark. With Felsing officiating, the supplication commenced. The darkness around them deepened.

Em clutched Fel’s arm and whispered an aside. Fel, I think the floor beneath us is trembling.

A terrible shudder, accompanied by the sound of breaking rock, interrupted their prayers. A moment later the entire floor collapsed, pitching all into a deeper cavity. Lufika lay dying, his head crushed by a flagstone. The remainder lay where they fell, in a state that was neither life nor death, but rather a paralysis that held them in perfect balance between the two: their bodies warm but without breath or heartbeat, their eyes open but without sight.

Through the long days ahead wind, rain and hail swept in though the openings of the ruined temple. In time snow came, and icicles hung all about, bestowing an enchantment it had lacked in all the days of its use. But nobody came there, and there was no movement from within.

Finally, on a midwinter’s day when the light at noon was no more than a dim twilight, and the wind at its most savage, a lone traveller staggered through the temple doorway, tripping and slipping down the ice encrusted steps with many curses. In the dark interior, he stumbled and fell into a deeper pit, where finally, coming upon the comatose figure of the prisoner, he cut the rope that still bound him and hauled him—with still more curses—back up the way he had come.

Once back in the wind and biting cold, Belzic began to work in earnest, slapping the face of his inert charge and shouting in his ear. Rory! Rory, wake up! Wake up!

Eventually, the supine figure stirred and stood with assistance. Belzic! The others are down below. We should go down and kill them!

Rory, you mad fool! They are under an enchantment. Touch them at your peril! Come away from here, before the cold kills us both!

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The climate was changing. Glaciers grew and began their work of reshaping the land. Animals fled south or starved. The seas froze, allowing desperate herds of caribou and musk oxen to trek south in search of food. Many of the remaining tribes followed them into strange new lands. The ancient Temple of Mene passed out of the knowledge of all the tribes of men. However, the story of Thror, Prince of Darkness; the strange men dressed as kings; and the little tree became the stuff of folklore for Truna’s descendants. One story in particular was popular among the children. It was said that in the far north, there grew a tree where nothing else could grow. Those who could find it and stand beneath its branches would be granted whatever they desired.

Grandpa, tell me the story of the tree and those strange men, a child would demand. Were they really kings? Then grandpa would search his mind for titbits that might be worked into a good story.

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The Great Cold, as it came to be called, continued for almost five hundred years. Much of the northern world becoming a frozen desert where nothing ventured save the tempestuous raging of the winds and imperceptible shifting of the glaciers as they moved on their majestic and relentless course to