The Burning Tower

by Colin Glassey

  When they returned to the camp, Kagne proudly showed off some edible roots he had collected from very ordinary-looking green shoots that grew beside the creek. Basil just grunted. A bit of a rivalry had developed between Kagne and Basil. Kagne’s knowledge of plants and herbs was remarkable, and two of the scouts, Gloval and Wiyat, had begun to follow him and learn his plant lore. Olef and Padan instead looked to Basil and copied his hunting techniques when he let them accompany him.

  Sandun was happy to have both men working on finding food, and the roots Kagne found were a welcome change from the animals they had been eating as they traveled over the high hills beyond Mount Pandion. He himself was more of a fisherman; there was nothing quite so relaxing as setting a line by a lakeshore, under a tree, with a good book to read.

  As they ate Kagne’s boiled roots, Sandun talked about the reflection he had seen up on the cliff face. The early stars were in the deep-blue sky as they looked over the eastern cliff, and they talked about whether it was possible to climb to that spot.

  Basil and Padan debated feasible climbing routes. Padan was skilled at scrambling up and over rocks. Basil had spent many days hunting for wild mountain goats across the scree slopes of the Modrokora Mountains in the north; he had learned early that he could make wonderfully far shots when he was shooting downhill.

  After some time, the two men had agreed upon a route for the next morning. Olef announced she was going with them. “I’ve spent more time climbing on thatched rooftops than rocks, but I’m light and small.”

  Sandun wondered about Olef’s career before she had joined the scouts, but he held his tongue. Basil and Padan agreed, saying that three climbers were better than two.

  All the ropes were taken out of the packs. Sandun thought the ropes were looking a bit dry, so he soaked them for an hour before coiling them up and setting them out on a flat rock. Two products the Kelten traders were justly proud of were ropes and sails. Melnehlanian shipwrights made the best sailboats, and the best war galleys were still made in Akia, but Kelten craftsmen made the best ropes and sails in the Archipelago.

  The next morning, even before the sun rose above the eastern hills, Basil, Padan, and Olef set out. The rest of the group moved down to the second giant, which they called “The Grump” as the face on this giant was, if not unhappy, then at best resigned to holding his great metal rope. They stood in the shade as the sun climbed higher and watched as the other three made their ascent.

  Basil and the other climbers went up the far left, although the “window” was closer to the right side of the cliff. About a hundred feet up, there was a shelf that went horizontally across the face of the cliff. From below, the route looked possible. But once there, Basil found the ledge to be incredibly narrow with sections that were little more than a hand’s width. Below, the drop was nearly straight down. After safely crossing the ledge, Padan took the lead, and then Olef went first. The other two would try to brace themselves in case the leader fell, but in many locations, there was nothing to brace on.

  After several hours, they were nearly underneath the “window” but still about seventy-five feet below its presumed location.

  Basil was again in the lead when suddenly he was attacked—an eagle came at him. Shouts from Olef and Padan below him gave a second of warning, and then the bird had sunk its talons into his outstretched arm and tried to pull him off the wall.

  Basil had seen eagles pull young mountain goats to their deaths, and so he clung to the rock like an oak with one hand, while he grabbed for his hunting knife, which he had pushed behind his back. The other two climbers could do nothing to help Basil; they tried to prepare as best they could if he should fall, and they shouted curses at the eagle. The raptor pecked at Basil’s face, trying to put out an eye, but Basil fended off the attack…and nearly lost his balance in the attempt. He swayed away from the wall and then desperately pushed up with his legs to reach a new and stronger handhold.

  The eagle flew off briefly to try and strike again, to sink its killing talons deep into Basil’s flesh. With his free hand, he yanked at his belt and managed to bring his hunting knife within reach. Pulling it out, he slashed at the deadly bird as it came with its talons out, aiming for his head. Basil’s strike was poorly aimed, but he did graze the creature, and it screeched in pain and dismay. He slashed it again, and this time he cut into its body, near the left wing.

  With a despairing call, the eagle spun away from Basil and fell through the air to land in a heap several hundred feet away from the cliff’s face. Shaking with rage and fear, Basil pulled himself up again and found himself staring at a nest of sticks and dried branches, feathers, and bird droppings. Two large eggs were in the nest. Basil pulled all the of the branches away and threw them down the cliff. With no place to put the eggs where they wouldn’t be smashed, he threw them off the cliff as well.

  He sat in the remains of the eagle’s nest while the other two climbed up and joined him. Olef cleaned away the blood on his face with a bit of the water she was carrying and used some linen to bind up the deep cuts on his arm.

  “It’s strange that we saw no sign of the eagle during the day,” she said.

  “Perhaps it hunted at night, or perhaps it didn’t hunt in this valley,” replied Basil.

  Padan took the lead going up the rest of the way to where the window ought to be. They came to another rock shelf, this one wider than the one below. While Padan rested, Basil edged along to the left while Olef went right.

  After fifteen feet, Basil became aware that he was looking at a suspiciously smooth and almost glassy-looking rock face. He was just about to say, “I think I’ve found it,” when the rock face opened into the mountain and strong hands pulled him inside. It seemed pitch dark inside to his sun-dazzled eyes. He heard the sound of his rope being cut, followed immediately by that of a stone door grinding shut.

  It took some time for Basil’s eyes to adjust to the dim light inside the cliff, so at first, he could see almost nothing. Hard, calloused hands gripped his arms as he was led into the mountain. He was not roughly treated, but his captors were insistent. The corridor they took went steadily up, with occasional landings where other passages joined. Every hundred paces it became very bright; looking up, Basil could make out shafts filled with light. He assumed the shafts reached the surface.

  Looking at the men around him, he was not surprised to find that they looked like the stone giants outside; what was surprising was that all of them were quite short, none taller than five feet, the shortest he guessed at four feet nine inches. They were armed with what seemed to be small swords reminiscent of the old Imperial design: single-edged falchions.

  The corridor went on, they made several turns. Gradually the excitement in his blood vanished, and he found that he was very tired and increasingly out of breath. He finally stumbled and sat down, deliberately, to see what they would do. His guards spoke in their own language, which sounded a bit like birds chirping, and then one gave him some water from a flask he carried on his belt. Another guard offered him a piece of salted, dried meat. The soldiers relaxed their grip on his arms. Perhaps they thought he could not make his way back through the maze of passages they had taken, which was certainly true.

  Basil considered staying where he was and demanding to be released, but there were many, and as they had not harmed him yet, his curiosity won out. So he let them guide him onward. After another hour, they reached an area where people lived. First, he smelled burning wood and cooking. Later, the sounds of people walking and talking were audible. His stomach rumbled, and a different guard fished out a tuber from a bag at his belt and offered it to Basil.

  Basil took it. The tuber smelled a bit like a potato, so he tried a bite. It tasted like a radish, with a sharp, sudden flavor. He ate the whole thing and thanked the man.

  The corridor entered a large and low-ceilinged room, its far wall blazing with light. Basil’s eyes soon adju
sted to the light, and he saw that the far wall looked out over a snow field that rapidly sloped away and out of view. Miles off were more snowy mountains.

  He was conducted up a wide stairway. Other people came into view and when they noticed him, they stopped and stood silently. A few seemed to be female, and they were all bald. His guards now carried themselves differently; Basil suspected that their superior officers, maybe even their ruler, were up ahead.

  At the top of the stairs he was shown into a washroom with a basin of chilly water. The basin could easily be filled with more water by a faucet with an elegant lever. Such water systems were becoming common in Seopolis, at least for the lesser nobility. Basil washed away the bits of dried blood on his face and arms and then rejoined his escort.

  The room they now entered was smaller than the first room he’d seen, but the ceiling was taller, and the windows looking out over the high mountains were of astonishing clarity and great size, with pieces of glass that were much larger and clearer than any Basil had ever seen before. His escort showed him to one of the chairs, which was made of carved wood, the seat covered in white wool. Then they waited. Basil looked at the peaks and valleys outside the glass wall. He knew from the direction of the late afternoon sun that the room looked west, and looming over the lesser hills he saw the giant cone of Mount Pandion, some hundred miles away.

  A new group of richly dressed men and women came up the stairs. One man, wearing a medallion like the one on the final statue, sat on a large chair that was on a dais two steps above the floor. The others took chairs along the wall.

  An old man to the left of the “king” spoke, and then one of the guards spoke, and then there was a general discussion. Basil was feeling very tired and lightheaded, and he stopped paying attention after ten minutes.

  Why couldn’t they have collected Sandun? he thought to himself. I am no diplomat. Sir Ako or even Kagne would be better suited for this task. And how am I even going to communicate with these Piksies?

  For surely that was what these people were. Like all natives of Kelten, Basil had been raised on stories of the little people who lived in the land when the first explorers came over the deep sea from the Archipelago. In the stories, the Piksies were mischievous, small, and very knowledgeable about the land. A few places, such as Lake Tricon, had names that supposedly were given by the little people. They had vanished from Kelten soon after the settlers arrived, more than a thousand years ago, long before the Kingdom of Kelten was founded.

  Basil did not doubt that these little people sitting and talking in front of him were related to the same Piksies from the children’s stories. He smiled and shook his head; it was a wonder to be in the presence of creatures of fable.

  At a signal from the “king,” an older man with thinning hair stood up and approached Basil. He had a tablet and chalk, and he wrote out, “What name?” He held the tablet and the chalk to Basil.

  This came as a relief to Basil; he instantly felt a warm rush of affection for the old man. To think that after all this time there was still someone who had bothered to learn Kelten writing!

  He wrote, “Basil Vono” on the black slate and then said it aloud.

  “Why here?” wrote the man.

  Basil wrote as simply as he could: “Seek road to Serica.”

  The man consulted an old book and found a word; he said what sounded like, Sah-rice. “Where from?” wrote the man.

  Basil wrote, “Kelten.” He said it out loud, looking around the room, wondering if they would recognize the name.

  At the name Kelten, all the Piksies stirred and looked at him with a strange expression on their faces.

  The translator smiled at him, but after some comments from the “king,” he wrote, “Draw map Kelten?”

  Basil was happy to oblige, and he quickly drew out the coast and the rivers and lakes. His drawing was then passed around to everyone in the room. By this point, the sun was setting, and the room was filled with reddish light. Servants appeared, bearing ornate silver goblets filled with a yellow drink. A glass was offered to Basil, and he accepted it. It tasted like mead, which was now rarely made in Kelten. Platters covered with tiny disks of seared meat were brought around to everyone. It was young goat, Basil thought, and delicious. The mead went right to his head, and he felt as though he had drunk four glasses of wine in a row.

  Somehow the guards had his farseer glass in their hands. The old man wrote, “Look?” on the tablet. Basil waved his hand in agreement and ate more of the roasted goat.

  All of the Piksies were fascinated by the farseer glass. The technology had been invented in Melnehlan about fifteen years ago, but the knowledge spread through the Archipelago with astonishing speed. Basil first saw one in King Pandion’s rebel army. Now they were commonly used by ship captains, scouts, and hunters like himself, though good ones remained expensive.

  It penetrated his befogged mind that the Piksies had never seen a farseer before. And, if they weren’t going to just take it from him outright, they might be willing to trade for one. He thought of the story of Rik Witingdon and how the young cabin boy had made his fortune by giving his cat to the King of Ridanos. If I were a proper diplomat, that is exactly what I would do, Basil thought. I would go over and present my glass to their king.

  To his surprise, he found himself doing just that. He walked over to a young Piksie woman who was looking through the glass, and he held his hand out. She, somewhat uncertainly, handed the glass back to him. Then he walked a bit unsteadily to their king and got down on both knees, holding the glass up to their leader.

  The king took the glass from Basil and said something to his advisors. There were chuckles from several. The king, a middle-aged Piksie who was looking a bit fat, stood up and smiled at Basil and shook his hand. Basil now was able to see the design on the king’s medallion: it was a mountain goat, with curled horns, rearing up on its two back legs.

  At a command, Basil was escorted from the chamber and down the stairs to a room off the large hall. The old Piksie with his chalkboard came along half an hour later and inquired, using chalk, if Basil wanted sleep or if he wanted more food and wine. Basil circled the word “sleep,” but they brought him corn cakes and water and as well as a bed. Basil fell asleep within seconds.

  The next morning, Basil woke with a headache that would not go away. He suspected mountain sickness as he was near the peak of a tall mountain and the air was exceedingly thin. After a breakfast made of yesterday’s goat mixed with millet, the old Piksie translator brought him to a nearby room with a window that looked out over a field dotted with white goats browsing on new grass.

  They spent the morning in a struggle of half communication, half flailing around words and concepts. Basil was convinced that almost anyone was better suited for this role than he, and he made an attempt to tell the linguist that he wanted to go back to his friends.

  By now he had discovered the translator’s name: Ruthal of Gate Town. The people called themselves the Dinmos, a name that seemed oddly suggestive of something, but Basil could not put his finger on what it reminded him of. Their king was called Ekmon, but whether it was a title or his name was unclear.

  After lunch, Basil slept for an hour, and then he was awakened by the same group of soldiers. Their armor, which he now paid more attention to, seemed like the armor he had seen on the statue of Saint Hurin in the great temple of Seopolis. He was nearly certain that no one had worn armor like that for a thousand years.

  He returned to the hall of the Ekmon. Different Piksies, even a few children, were gathered. The Ekmon summoned Basil to stand before him and then, after a short speech, he signaled Ruthal to come and translate. Ruthal wrote, “Gift accept,” and then, “Gift give.”

  Now, a strange Piksie came forward. With a thrill of fear, Basil felt his hair on his arms prickle. The Piksie looked as though he did not see what everyone else saw. He jerked his head at odd inte
rvals, and he often stared at the floor. As he got close, Basil could hear him humming or perhaps growling. He held a sword and a dagger on a belt and at the Ekmon’s command, he put the belt around Basil’s waist.

  Basil had learned the word for thanks in the Piksie language, and feeling very embarrassed, he tried it out: “A-Shosh-ee.”

  In turn, Ruthal tried out some Kelten: “Ank-oo.”

  More untranslated words were said, and then Basil was escorted out of the room. He followed his guards downhill, and they walked for hours, likely following a similar route to the one he had taken the previous day. Ruthal accompanied Basil, and following behind were several porters carrying large packs. From the smell, Basil was confident that the bags contained food.

  They did not hurry and stopped to rest at several landings where water was collected in stone, trickling down from above and draining out from a hidden tube at the rear before it overflowed the basin.

  With no warning, they reached a vast hall, a cavern that wound its way far back into the depths of the mountain. Only faint illumination came from shafts cut into the high ceiling. Somehow Basil knew the cave had not been used for lifetimes of men. He wondered what purpose this great empty cave served. Was it for marshalling an army? Was it a quarry? Perhaps the cave was natural? But no, the walls had been carved out.

  The Piksies paid no attention to the vast empty space. They walked up to the wall, which apparently could be opened. Two groups of soldiers went to large wheels on either side of the cavern door. The sound of metal bars clacking against each other echoed through the cavern, and then they began to turn the wheels. At first there was no sign of movement, and the only sound was of a metal cable rubbing against metal rollers above the cave door, nearly hidden in the gloom.

  Then a line as bright as white-hot metal appeared in the center of the door. Gradually the door opened wider and wider. When it was just large enough for the porters with their packs to squeeze through, the soldiers stopped turning the wheels. At a gesture, Basil stepped forward to make his way out of the opening. As he did, he heard faint sounds of surprise and command coming from his friends.