“Kids. Get down here!” Lena shouted in a whisper.
The three children descended the ladder with precision movements, veterans of many drills. Their mother gathered them near her in the center of the house. Russell got off his stool and doused the fire with the wash water.
Darkness enveloped them. No one spoke. Outside, the crickets stopped chirping. The frogs fell silent an instant later. The animals continued to shift and stomp. Another pig bolted. Hadrian heard its little feet skitter across the dirt floor in the direction of the door. Beside him he felt Royce move; then there was silence.
“Here, someone take this,” Royce whispered. Tad crawled toward the sound and took the pig from him.
They waited.
The sound began faint and hollow. A puffing, thought Hadrian, like bellows stoking a furnace. It grew nearer, louder, less airy—deep and powerful. The sound rose overhead and Hadrian instinctively looked up, but found only the darkness of the ceiling. His hands moved to the pommels of his swords.
Thrump. Thrump. Thrump.
They sat huddled in the darkness, listening, as the sound withdrew, then grew louder once more. A pause—total silence. Inside the house, even the noise of breathing vanished.
Crack!
Hadrian jumped at the loud burst that sounded as if a tree across the common exploded. Snapping, tearing, splintering, a war of violent noise erupted. A scream. A woman’s voice. The shriek cut across the common, hysterical and frantic.
“Oh dear Maribor! That’s Mae,” Lena cried.
Hadrian leapt to his feet. Royce was already up.
“Don’t bother,” Esrahaddon told them. “She’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do. The monster cannot be harmed by your weapons. It—”
The two were out the door.
Royce was quicker and raced across the common toward the little house of Mae Drundel. Hadrian could not see a thing and found himself blindly chasing Royce’s footfalls.
The cries stopped—a harsh, abrupt end.
Royce halted and Hadrian nearly plowed through him.
“What is it?”
“Roof is ripped away. There’s blood all over the walls. She’s gone. It’s gone.”
“It? Did you see something?”
“Through a patch in the canopy—just for a second, but it was enough.”
CHAPTER 5
THE CITADEL
Royce and Esrahaddon left at first light, following a small trail out of the village. Ever since they had arrived in Dahlgren, Royce had noticed a distant sound, a dull, constant noise. As they approached the river, the sound grew into a roar. The Nidwalden was massive—an expanse of tumultuous green water flowing swiftly, racing by and bursting against rocks. Royce stood for a moment just staring. He spotted a branch out in the middle, a black and gray fist of leaves bobbing helplessly against the current. It sped along, riding through gaps in the boulders, ripping over rocks, until it vanished into a cloud of white. In the center, he saw something tall rising up, most of it lost in the mist and tree branches that extended over the water.
“We need to go farther downriver,” Esrahaddon explained as he led Royce to a narrower trail that hugged the bank. River grass grew along the edge, glistening with dew, and songbirds sang shrill melodies in the soft morning breeze. Even with the thundering river, and the vivid memory of a roofless home and bloodstained walls, the place felt tranquil.
“There she is,” Esrahaddon said reverently as they reached a rocky clearing that afforded them an unobstructed view of the river. It was wide and the water rushed by with a furious strength, then disappeared over the edge of a sudden fall.
They stood very near the ridge of the cataract and could see the white mist rising from the abrupt drop like a fog. Out in the middle of the river, at the edge of the falls, a massive shelf of bedrock jutted out like the prow of a mighty ship that ran aground just before toppling over the precipice. On this fearsome pedestal rose the citadel of Avempartha. Formed entirely of stone, the tower burst skyward from the rock shelf. A bouquet of tall, slender shards stretched upward like splinters of crystal or slivers of ice, its base lost in the billowing white clouds of mist and foam. At first sight it looked to be a natural stone formation, but a more careful study revealed windows, walkways, and stairs carefully integrated into the architecture.
“How am I supposed to get out there?” Royce asked, yelling over the roar, his cloak whipping and snapping like a snake.
“That would be problem number one,” Esrahaddon shouted back, offering nothing more.
Is this some kind of test, or does he really not know?
Royce followed the river over the bare rocks to the drop. Here the land plummeted more than two thousand feet to the valley below. What stood before him was a vision of unsur-passed beauty. The falls were magnificent. The sheer power of the titanic surge was hypnotizing. The massive torrent of blue-green water spilled and sparkled into the billowing white bejeweled mist, the voice of the river thundering in his ears, rattling his chest. Beyond it, to the south, was an equally breathtaking vision. Royce could see for miles and marked the remaining passage of the river as it wound like a long shiny snake through the lush green landscape to the Goblin Sea.
Esrahaddon moved to a more sheltered escarpment farther inland and behind a brace of upward-thrust granite that blocked him from the gusting wind and spray. Royce climbed toward him when he noticed a depressed line in the trees running away from the river. A course of trees stood shorter than those around them, creating a trench in the otherwise uniform canopy. He made his way down to the forest floor and found that what he thought might be a gully was instead a section of younger growth. More importantly, the line was perfectly straight. Old vines and thornbushes masked unnatural mounds. He dug away some of the undergrowth and swept layers of dirt and dead leaves back until he touched flat stone.
“Looks like there might have been a road here,” he shouted up to the wizard.
“There was. A great bridge once reached out across the river to Avempartha.”
“What happened to it?”
“The river,” the wizard told him. “The Nidwalden does not abide the efforts of man for long. Most of it likely washed away, leaving the remains to fall.”
Royce followed the buried road to the river’s edge, where he stood looking at the tower across the violent expanse. A vast gray volume rushed by him, its speed concealed by its size. The dark gray became a swirling translucent green as it reached the edge. The moment it fell, the water burst into white foam, billions of flying droplets, and all he could hear was the thundering roar.
“Impossible,” he muttered.
He returned to where the wizard stood and sat down on the sun-warmed rock, looking at the distant tower that rose up in the haze where rainbows played.
“Do you want me to open that thing?” the thief asked with all seriousness. “Or is this some kind of game?”
“It’s no game,” Esrahaddon replied as he sat leaning against a rock, folding his arms, and closed his eyes.
It irritated Royce how comfortable he looked. “Then you’d better start saying more than you have so far.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything—everything you know about it.”
“Well, let’s see, I was here once a very long time ago. It looked different then, of course. For one thing Novron’s bridge was still up and you could walk right out to the tower.”
“So the bridge was the only way to reach it?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. At least, it wouldn’t make any sense if that were the case. You see, the elves built Avempartha before mankind walked on the face of Elan. No one—well, no human—knows why or what for. Its location here on the falls, facing south toward what we call the Goblin Sea, suggests perhaps the elves might have employed it as a defense against the Children of Uberlin—I believe you call them by the dwarven name, the Ba Ran Ghazel—goblins of the sea. But that seems unlikely, as the tower predates them as we
ll. There might have even been a city here at one time. So little is left of their achievements in Apeladorn, but the elves had a fabulous culture rich in beauty, music, and the Art.”
“When you say the Art, you mean magic?”
The wizard opened a single eye and frowned at him. “Yes, and don’t give me that look, as if magic is dirty or vile. I have seen that too many times since I escaped.”
“Well, magic isn’t something people consider a good thing.”
Esrahaddon sighed and shook his head with a stern look. “It is demoralizing to see what has happened to the world during my years of incarceration. I stayed alive and sane because I knew that one day I would be able to do my part to protect humanity, but now I discover it’s almost no longer worth the effort. When I was young, the world was an incredible place. Cities were magnificent. Your Colnora wouldn’t even rank as a slum in the smallest city of my time. We had indoor plumbing—spigots would pump water right into people’s homes. There were extensive, well-maintained sewer systems that kept the streets from smelling like cesspools. Buildings were eight and nine stories tall, and some reached as high as twelve. We had hospitals where the sick were treated and actually got better. We had libraries, museums, temples, and schools of every kind.
“Mankind has squandered its inheritance from Novron. It’s like having gone to sleep a rich man and waking up a pauper.” He paused. “Then there’s what you so feebly call magic. The Art separated us from the animals. It was the greatest achievement of our civilization. Not only has it been forgotten, it is now reviled. In my day, those who could weave the Art, and summon the natural powers of the world to their bidding, were considered agents of the gods—sacrosanct. Today they burn you if you accidentally guess tomorrow’s weather.
“It was very different then. People were happy. There were no poor families living on the streets. No destitute hopeless peasants struggling to find a meal, or forced to live in hovels with three children, four pigs, two sheep, and a goat, where the flies in the afternoon are thicker than the family’s evening stew.”
Esrahaddon looked around sadly. “As a wizard, my life was devoted to the study of truth and the application of it in the service of the emperor. Never had I managed to find more truth or serve him more profoundly than when I came here. And yet, in many ways I regret it. Oh, if only I had stayed home. I would be long dead, having lived a happy, wonderful life.”
Royce smiled at him. “Wizards aren’t a font, I thought.”
Esrahaddon scowled.
“Now, what about the tower?”
The wizard looked back at the elegant spires rising above the mist. “Avempartha was the site of the last battle of the Great Elven Wars. Novron drove the elves back to the Nidwalden, but they held on by fortifying their position in the tower. Novron was not about to be stopped by a little water, and ordered the building of the bridge. It took eight years and cost the lives of hundreds, most of whom went over the falls, but in the end, the bridge was completed. It took Novron another five years after that to take the citadel. The act was as much symbolic as it was strategic and it forced the elves to accept that nothing would stop Novron from wiping them off the face of Elan. A very curious thing happened then, something that’s still unclear. Novron is said to have obtained the Horn of Gylindora and with it forced the unconditional surrender of the elves. He ordered them to destroy their war agents and machines and to retreat across the river—never to cross it again.”
“So there was no bridge until Novron built one? Not on either side?”
“No, that was the problem. There was no way to reach the tower.”
“How did the elves get there?”
“Exactly.” The wizard nodded.
“So you don’t know?”
“I’m old, but not that old. Novron is farther in the past for me than my day is to you.”
“So there is an answer to this puzzle. It’s just not obvious.”
“Do you think Novron would have spent eight years building a bridge if it was?”
“And what makes you think I can find the answer?”
“Call it a bunch.”
Royce looked at him curiously. “You mean hunch?”
The wizard looked irritated. “Still a few holes in my vocabulary, I suppose.”
Royce stared out at the tower in the middle of the river and considered why jobs involving stealing swords were never simple.
The service they held for Mae Drundel was somber and respectful, although to Hadrian it felt rehearsed. There were no awkward moments, no stumbling over words or miscues. Everyone was well versed in his or her role. Indeed, the remaining residents of Dahlgren were about as professional about funerals as mourners could be without being paid.
Deacon Tomas said the only customized portion of the service, when he mentioned her devotion to her late family and her church. Mae was the last of them to pass. Her sons had died of sickness before their sixth year and her husband had been killed by the beast less than five months earlier. In his eulogy, Tomas publicly shared what nearly everyone was thinking—that even though Mae’s death was terrible, perhaps for her it was not so bad. Some even reported that she had left an inviting candle in her window for the past two nights.
As usual, there was nobody to bury, so they merely drove a whitewashed stake into the ground with her name burned into it. It stood next to the stakes marked DAVIE, FIRTH, and WENT DRUNDEL.
Everyone turned out for the service except Royce and Esrahaddon. Even Theron Wood made a showing to pay his respects. The old farmer looked even more haggard and miserable than he had the day before and Hadrian suspected he had been awake all night.
After the service ended, the village shared their midday dinner. The men placed a row of tables, end to end, across the village common, and each family brought a dish. Smoked fish, black pudding (a sausage made from pig’s blood, milk, animal fat, onions, and oatmeal), and mutton were the most popular.
Hadrian stood back, leaning against a cedar tree, watching the others form lines.
“Help yourself,” Lena told him.
“There doesn’t look like there is a lot here. I have provisions in my bag,” he assured her.
“Nonsense—we’ll have none of that—everyone eats at a wake. Mae would want it that way, and what else is a funeral for if not to pay respects to the dead?”
She glared at him until he nodded and began looking about the tables for a plate.
“So those are your horses I have up in the castle stables?” a voice said, and he turned to see a plump man in a cleric frock. He was the first person who did not look in desperate need of a meal. His cheeks were rosy and large, and when he smiled, his eyes squinted nearly shut. He did not look terribly old, but his hair was pure white, including his short beard.
“If you are Deacon Tomas, then yes,” Hadrian replied.
“I am indeed, and think nothing of it. I get rather lonely up on the hill at night all by myself with all those empty rooms. You hear every sound at night, you know. The wind slapping a shutter, the creak of rafters—it can be quite unnerving. Now at least I can blame the noises I hear on your horses. Being way down in the stables, I doubt I could hear them, but I can pretend, can’t I?” The deacon chuckled to himself. “But honestly, it can be miserable up there. I’m used to being with people, and the isolation of the manor house is such a burden,” he said while heaping his plate full of mutton.
“It must be awful for you. But I’ll bet there is good food. Those nobles really know how to fill a storehouse, don’t they?”
“Well, yes, of course,” the deacon replied. “As a matter of fact, the margrave had put by a remarkable amount of smoked meats, not to mention ale and wine, but I only take what I need, of course.”
“Of course,” Hadrian agreed. “Just looking at you, I can tell that you’re not the kind of man to take advantage of a situation. Did you supply the ale for the funeral?”
“Oh no,” the deacon replied, aghast. “I wouldn’t dare pillage
the manor house like that. Like you just said, I am not the kind of man to take advantage of a situation and it’s not my stores to give, now is it?”
“I see.”
“Oh my, look at the cheese,” said the deacon, scooping up a wedge and shoving it in his mouth. “Have to admit one thing,” he spoke with his mouth full, “Dahlgren can really throw a funeral.”
When they reached the end of the tables, Hadrian looked for a place to sit. The few benches were filled with folks eating off their laps.
“Up, you kids!” the deacon shouted at Tad and Pearl. “You don’t need to be taking up a bench. Go sit on the grass.” They frowned but got up. “You there, Hadrian is it? Come sit here and tell me what brings a man who owns a horse and three swords to Dahlgren. I trust you aren’t noble or you’d have knocked on my door last night.”
“No, I’m not a noble, but that brings up a question. How did you inherit the manor house?”
“Hmm? Inherit? Oh, I didn’t inherit anything. It is merely my station as a public servant to help in a crisis like this. When the margrave and his men died, I knew I had to administer to this troubled flock and watch after the king’s interests. So I endure the hardships and do what I can.”
“Like what?”
“What’s that?” the deacon asked, tearing into a piece of mutton, which left his lips and cheeks shiny with grease.
“What have you done to help?”
“Oh—well, let’s see … I keep the house clean, the yard maintained, and the garden watered. You really have to keep after those weeds, you know, or the whole garden would be swallowed up and not a single vegetable would survive. And oh—the toll it takes on my back. I’ve never had what you would call a good back as it is.”
Theft of Swords Page 40
