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He shook his head gently. Perhaps. But it was also the character of the five men who had elected to come with him and had sustained him. It was Garet Jax, Slanter, Foraker, Edain Elessedil and Helt—come from the Four Lands to this final, terrible confrontation, an enigmatic mixture of strength and courage. Two trackers, a hunter, a Weapons Master, and a Prince of the Elves had traveled different life-paths to reach this day, and none might live to see its end. But here they were. Their bonding to Jair and to the trust that had been given him transcended the caution and reason that might otherwise have caused them to give greater consideration to the obvious danger to their own lives. It was so even with Slanter. The Gnome had made his choice at Capaal when he had turned his back on a chance to flee north to the borderlands and the life from which he had strayed. All were committed, and in that commitment there was a unity that seemed almost indomitable. Jair knew little of his companions. Yet one thing he knew with certainty, and it was enough: whatever was to happen to him this day, these five would stand by him.

Perhaps that was why he was not afraid.

The defile widened again before them and sunlight streamed down from a new broadened skyline. Garet Jax slowed, then dropped into a crouch and eased ahead. One lean arm beckoned them after. Hunched down against the rocks, they crept forward until they were beside him.

“There,” he whispered, pointing.

It was Graymark. Jair knew it instantly without need of being told. The fortress sat high upon a cliff face that curved away before them. It rested upon a broad shelf of rock that jutted sharply outward against the noonday sky. It was a grim and massive thing. Battlements, towers, and parapets rose upward from stone block walls hundreds of feet high, like spikes and blunted axe-heads reaching into the cloudless blue. No pennants flew from the tower standards; no colors draped the casements. The whole of the fortress had a flat and wintry cast to it even in the brilliant light of the sun; the stone had a sullen, ashen tone. What windows there were small, pinched openings covered over with bars and wooden shutters. A single narrow roadway wound upward against the mountainside—little more than a ledge cut into the rock—ending at a pair of tall, ironbound gates that fronted the complex. The gates stood closed.

They studied the stronghold wordlessly. There was no sign of anyone. Nothing moved.

Then Jair caught sight of the Croagh. He could see only pieces of it lifting from behind Graymark, a rugged arch of stone that seemed almost a part of the towers and the parapets of the complex. Curling back upon itself like some suspended stairway, it threaded its way skyward until it ended high upon a solitary peak that rose above those surrounding it.

Jair caught Slanter’s arm and pointed to the peak and the slender ribbon of stones that joined to it.

“Yes, boy—the Croagh and Heaven’s Well.” The Gnome nodded. “All that the King of the Silver River has sent you to find.”

“And the Maelmord?” Jair asked quickly.

Slanter shook his head. “On the other side of the fortress, down within a ring of cliffs. There the Croagh begins its climb, wrapping about Graymark as it passes, then rising on.”

They were silent again, their eyes fixed on the fortress. “Doesn’t seem to be anyone in there,” Helt murmured after a moment.

“What’s in there wants you to think exactly that,” Slanter observed dryly; easing back on his heels. “Besides, the walkers prefer the dark. They rest for the most part during the day and move about at night. Even the Gnomes that serve them here soon begin to live like that and don’t show themselves when it’s light. But make no mistake. They’re in there, Borderman—walkers and Gnomes both. And a few other things as well.”

Garet Jax was studying the mountain trail that wound upward to the fortress entrance. “That is the way they would expect us to come.” He spoke more to himself than to the others. “On the trail or by scaling the cliffs.” He glanced left to where the shelf they stood upon curved down among the rocks and disappeared back into the mountains through a narrow tunnel. “Maybe not this way, though.”

Slanter touched his arm. “The tunnel connects to a series of passageways that leads upward into the fortress cellars. That’s how we’ll go.”

“Guarded?”

Slanter shrugged.

“I’d feel better if we could find a way to climb the Croagh from out here,” Foraker muttered. “I’ve seen enough of caverns and tunnels.”

The Gnome shook his head. “Can’t be done. Only way to reach the Croagh is through Graymark—right through the walkers and whatever serves them.”

Foraker grunted. “What do you think, Garet?”

Garet Jax continued to study the fortress and the cliffs about it. His lean face was expressionless. “Do you know the way well enough to take us safely through, Gnome?” he asked Slanter shortly.

Slanter gave him a dark look. “You ask a lot. I know it, but not well. Went through it once or twice when I was first brought here, before this whole thing began…”

He trailed off abruptly, and Jair knew that he was remembering how he had chosen to come back to his homeland to be with his own people and been sent by the walkers to track the Druid Allanon. He was remembering and perhaps regretting momentarily how he had let things get turned about.

“Fair enough,” Garet Jax said softly and started ahead.

He took them down through the rocks to where the shelf opened into the tunnel that led back under the mountain. There, out of sight of Graymark, concealed within the shelter of a gathering of massive boulders, he beckoned them close.

“Do the walkers always rest during the daylight hours?” he asked Slanter. It was close and hot within the clustered rocks, and there was a fine sheen of sweat on his brow.

The Gnome frowned. “If you are asking whether we should go in now rather than when it is dark, I say we should.”

“If there remains time enough to do so,” Foraker interjected. “Midday is gone, and darkness comes early in the mountains. We might be better off to wait until tomorrow when we have the use of a full day. Another twelve hours or so can’t make that much difference.”

There was a moment’s silence. Jair glanced skyward, his eyes scanning the ragged edge of the cliffs. Another twelve hours? An uneasy suspicion tugged at his mind in warning. How far had Brin gotten? The words of the King of the Silver River repeated themselves once again. “You must reach Heaven’s Well before she reaches the Maelmord.”

He turned quickly to Garet Jax. “I’m not sure we have twelve hours left. I have to know where Brin is to be certain. I have to use the crystal again—and I think I had better use it now.”

The Weapons Master hesitated, then rose. “Not here. Move into the cave.”

They slipped through the darkened opening and groped their way back into the gloom. There, huddled close about, the others waited patiently as Jair fumbled through his tunic for the vision crystal. He had it in a moment’s time, gripping it by its silver chain as he pulled it forth. Cupping it gently in his hands, he wet his lips and fought back against the fatigue that bore down against him.

“Sing to it, Jair,” he heard Edain Elessedil encourage softly.

He sang, his voice low and whispered, wearied by the strain to which he had put it in leading them safely through the Caves of Night. The crystal began to glow and the light to spread…

Brin paused in the gloom of the tunnel through which she stole. She had a sudden sense of being watched, of eyes following after her. It was as it had been on entering the Dragon’s Teeth and again on leaving—as if someone watched her from a great distance off.