He was about to pursue it further when, having turned from their narrow alley onto a wide and pleasant avenue, he saw, over Pettar’s shoulder, the rise of a vast yet low mound. It was topped by a featureless and smooth grey wall that ran as far as the eye could see, away to their left and right.
As they drew nearer a broad moat appeared at its base and, carrying the avenue across it, a drawbridge. On the far side, a moderate gatehouse - turrets to either side - cut down through the mound to meet the avenue, its way barred by a portcullis. Falmeard had seen such things before, elsewhere within Dica, but set there, amidst the diminutive and homely character of Bazarral, it looked anachronistic, alien and somehow threatening.
It was also busier here, with people moving along the avenue. Some carried packs, some bags or tools, but all wore jackets and breeches of a thick woven fabric. They passed purposefully to and fro, along the avenue and on the road beside the moat, but none crossed its drawbridge or entered in through that gate.
On the dull, grey leaden wall, bright orange-robed figures passed back and forth, winking from dark merlons into the sky-filled crenels of its battlements. Bald headed, tall and angularly thin, when not leisurely pacing about they were either chatting or looking out across the roofs of Bazarral, or down into its warren of ways. On the gatehouse, two stood to attention, long spears erect at their sides with heads shaded by highly vaulted canopies.
Being so low down, Falmeard could see nothing of what lay beyond the wall, certainly no hint of the vast area it enclosed. He was about to ask Pettar when he realised he’d dropped back and was now standing, stock-still, facing the gateway. Pettar stood there, within the shadow of the last of the avenue’s buildings, with his eyes rapt, mouth set thin and strained, and hands tightly clasped before him.
He sharply instructed, “Speak not a word unless you’re spoken to, and then keep your answers short and to the point. Stay behind me, and close in, and Falmeard?” Falmeard started and then stared, like a frightened rabbit. “Do not ask any questions. Is that clear?”
He held each in his gaze, in turn, until they’d nodded. “Very well! I’m ready. May wisdom drive our feet.” Purposefully, he stepped out from the shadow and led them smartly towards the drawbridge. Falmeard and Nephril jostled at his heels, as their lengthening shadows slanted the way ahead, pointing them at the gateway – at Galgaverre.
As they approached the gate the sentries on its gatehouse snapped to keener attention and followed their progress across the wooden planking of the bridge. The hollow footfall filled Falmeard with nervous apprehension, making him feel exposed and vulnerable. Pettar’s sudden halt caught him unawares and he only narrowly missed running into him. He was now so close in it made it hard to tell from where the hailing voice then came.
“Declare your business, you who are gathered at our gate. State your names, your precinct and your business.”
Pettar lifted his face to the red robed figure that Falmeard then saw as he peeped around Pettar’s broad back. It stood beside one of the sentries. In an even and carrying voice, Pettar answered, “I am Pettar, a son of Galgaverre, of the family Garradish.”
He paused, briefly. “I am come home attended by two companions, both respected citizens of Dica, and for whom I vouchsafe their good intents.”
He was about to announce Nephril and Falmeard when a further, more relaxed voice called down, “Enter by the gate, Pettar, and bring your companions with you. I’ll meet you below once you’re in.”
Falmeard saw that the owner of the new voice was also robed in red but had a gold sash across his chest. Whoever he was, he strode out of sight with great authority and confidence. Pettar turned to them, his face full of surprise, before striding forward, across the remaining span of the bridge, and on between the retaining walls of the gateway’s cut. Falmeard and Nephril followed closely on.
As they neared them, the gates began to swing open, but Falmeard was surprised to see that they and the walls were both fashioned from the same dull and lustreless metal. More wall came into view within, revealing a cut straight into Galgaverre, but only as far as another identical gate. Once through, however, the gates began to close, with a faint and distant whirring, before they softly thudded together with a hiss of escaping air. They were now trapped in a metal trench, between impregnable metal gates.
Falmeard was greatly relieved when he saw a previously unnoticed door silently slide open. From it, over its high threshold, stepped the red robed and gold sashed figure from the wall. “Hello Pettar, we were expecting you, but not so your companions, I must admit.” He leisurely approached them, closely appraising Nephril and Falmeard with astute and intelligent eyes. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to introduce us.”
Pettar guardedly returned the hollow greeting with his own, but then continued, “Sentinar Drax? May I present Nephril, the King’s Master of Ceremonies and his aide, Master Falmeard.” Sentinar Drax nodded curtly to them both, in turn. “My good companions, may I introduce Sentinar Drax, the esteemed Captain of this installation’s accomplished Guard.” Nephril nodded his head whilst Falmeard bowed low.
With introductions over, Sentinar Drax soon let his fixed smile dissolve. He turned an only slightly disguised condescending look at Pettar. “We did wonder if you’d be resolute enough to steal yourself back to the fold, and here you are, proof of the faith some seem still to have in you. So, I stand corrected. There are some here who seem to see gain in your arrival, so, I suppose it’s fair to say you’ve succeeded in denting your reputation somewhat.”
“It was always a joy to hear your words, my dear Drax, and you continue to satisfy. It gives me great comfort to find that nothing changes within Galgaverre, that it still firmly believes in its own eternal truths. However, despite the opportunity for scintillating discussion, I’m saddened instead to have to request an urgent indulgence.”
Drax grinned as acid entered his voice. “We’re fully conversant with your objectives, Pettar. We’re not quite as insular as you like to think. You see, even here in the far south, out in the sticks so to speak, we’re not as removed as you might think.” He looked jubilant then. “We know of the invasion. In fact, I imagine the whole damned castle’s buzzing with it by now.” Pettar was genuinely taken aback and it showed. “I’d further hazard that your urgent indulgence is to see the Guardian.”
“Sentinar Drax? Your knowing is most accurate and your prescience impressive. Yes, we’ve come with news that’s plainly fleeter of foot than we are, and yes, we’d like to speak with the Guardian.”
For a few seconds, the air between them became charged. Drax, though, finally turned a genial face to Nephril and Falmeard. “Then it would be my utmost pleasure to escort you all to the Guardian’s Residence.” Without waiting, he turned and strode back through the doorway into its brightly lit interior, as they all filed dutifully after him.
The room within shone with a strange and flat, blue-white light, its source somehow hidden. It flickered slightly, and lit all things equally. By casting no shadows, their faces lost much of their relief, making of them something other than who they were.
To their right as they entered, a counter ran the length of the short room and behind it, on the wall, an array of instruments and dials glimmered and winked. Between the wall and the counter stood yet another robed figure, but this time in grey. Drax explained. “A little formality, I’m afraid, so, if you’d indulge this attendant, he has a few questions.”
Falmeard was nearest and so turned and stood before the counter and its impassive attendant who, in a flat, monotonic and measured voice, asked, “Your name?”
“Err, well, Falmeard, that’s my name.” The attendant’s fingers quickly flitted over the counter’s surface. “Irwell Falmeard, is that correct?”
Falmeard looked lost and turned to Pettar. “No, his name’s just Falmeard.” Pettar then cautioned, “Try to be clear and concise, Falmeard, and avoid hesitation.”
Falmeard nodded, somewhat unconvinced, and tur
ned back to the attendant who asked, “Your name is Falmeard?”
“Yes,” Falmeard replied, after pausing to remove yet another hesitation. There then followed, with increasing fluidity of replies, a further list of barked enquiries until, at last, the attendant finished with a curt, “Thank you for your details. Next!”
Having sanguinely endured the same, Nephril stepped away from the counter and joined the others, where they stood by an inner door.
Drax then said, “I must impress upon you not to wander from the way, nor touch anything as we go. Do you understand? Nothing! Have I made myself perfectly clear?” Falmeard earnestly nodded whilst Nephril waved a relaxed assent and then the door slid silently back.
Inside, they entered a long corridor lit dimly, at intervals, by glowing red lights. All the walls ran with pipes and shelving, carrying strange tubes and threads, whilst the walls, floor and ceiling were all of the same dull, leaden metal. Their footfall echoed around them but other than that, the swish of robes and an almost inaudible hum, all was silent.
Occasionally, they’d turn from one corridor to another but with no real relief from the monotony. Here and there, they could make out small hatches, into which some of the pipes vanished, or into small black boxes affixed to the walls. Otherwise, they passed on through an unchanging world for almost half an hour before finally reaching another door, one already ajar. Beyond it, Falmeard could make out the reddening sky of yet another day’s close.
What met his eyes, as they swept through, amazed him. They’d come onto a broad walkway, unsurprisingly of the same leaden metal, but which looked out into the enormity of Galgaverre. It wasn’t simply its sheer size that Falmeard had trouble with but the rich tumble and juxtaposition of its vast collection of strange structures.
There were large spaces of open but cloistered ground - some flagged, others grassed over - and a disarray of hipped roofs and canted or barrelled vaults, in all manner of colours. There were an inordinate number of narrow and excessively tall spires, crisscrossed by spars and beams, all tipped with strange and varied shapes. Some jaggedly reflected the reddening sky whilst others vanished into silhouettes, but nearly all were grouped into close gatherings of twenty or so. Various sizes of domes were also dotted about, nearly all of the same silvery sheen, but some slashed by a black segment.
Throughout it all, and quite often across the tops of other things, pathways and roads streaked their straight lines in amongst a plethora of walls. The whole presented a chaotic confusion, with no seeming rhyme nor reason, laid out flat on a part of the huge plain the castle had long since stolen from the Eyeswin Vale.
Sentinar Drax had stopped, anticipating the impact, and patiently bided his time. He wore a slightly bored but indulgent look on his cocky face. Nephril came beside Falmeard and leisurely looked out at the seeming chaos. His face displayed its usual impassiveness as he gazed at the unnatural confusion.
He drew his eyes along the broad defensive wall, seeing its half league width and fifty mile rectangular bound as the truly defensive structure it was. He knew better than anyone that its safeguarding purpose wasn’t to protect those within but the world without.
Falmeard remained enthralled, unable to grasp anything he saw. His jaw had long since dropped, leaving his tongue absently lolling from his mouth. Had Drax not coughed, more than once, it were likely Falmeard would’ve remained there indefinitely, eternally transfixed. It was, in fact, the tug at his elbow and Nephril’s calming words that broke much of the spell.
“Falmeard? Falmeard? Come on, old friend, we cannot hang around here all day. For one thing, we be cluttering the place up and, for another, the day fast draws to a close. We are nearly at journey’s end, not far to go now. Come along, eh?” Nephril reached his arm around Falmeard’s shoulders and gently drew him close. “Just walk with me, eh? Follow my lead and hold close. I wilt see the way for us both, fear thee not.” He turned to Pettar and nodded that they should now press on.
Despite himself, Drax couldn’t help but be a little touched by Falmeard’s reaction. New visitors to Galgaverre were infrequent and far between, in fact, he could probably count the number he’d welcomed on one hand. He therefore showed a little more allowance and so led the way less hurriedly. Unfortunately, as that way continued along the wall, Falmeard found the unworldly view remaining to pull at his sight.
As the sky reddened to scarlet they steadily walked northwards towards a lone tower set at the inner edge of the wall. Its silhouette loomed ahead until it began to vanish slowly against the rapidly darkening sky. The view to their right, set deeply now into velvet blackness, contained only silvery spires and domes. When night finally fell, as they drew near the tower, Galgaverre seemed to float within its own faint, ghostly glow.
At long last, and with some relief, Nephril was able to bundle Falmeard out of the open and into the tower’s stairwell, down which Drax and Pettar were already clattering. Nephril heard their steps halt at the bottom, and so took advantage of being out of sight.
He propped Falmeard against the wall, and peered astutely, and with some alarm, into his swimming eyes. He couldn’t draw their attention and was soon worried by their erratic darting. He quickly fumbled in his robes and found a leather pouch from which he carefully drew out a long, thin strip of dull metal foil. He reached down and pulled Falmeard’s limp hand to chest height, folding back his sleeve to expose the dully throbbing ring on his finger. Deftly, he wrapped the foil about it, whereupon its throbbing slowly subsided.
When he looked back into Falmeard’s eyes, he saw some welcome relief, their darting drawing to a slow halt and their focus once more finding Nephril’s own face, so close to his. Nephril whispered, “Make not a sound. Try to gather thy wits whilst I help thee down these steps, and make no mention of what hast happened here.” He paused as he watched Falmeard’s eyes. “Art thou well enough to carry on?” Falmeard’s nod was enough, that it was now safe to press on.
They both descended with some difficulty, Nephril having such need to support him made all the harder by the close confines of the stairwell. By the time they’d joined Drax and Pettar on the next landing, there was a definite air of impatience about Drax.
“If I may impress upon you, please do try to keep together.” He dwelt for some time on Falmeard before turning once more and leading the way down the next flight.
Their descent to further landings was repeated a number of times until there were no more. There, at the very bottom, was yet another door and, when Drax opened it, revealed nothing beyond but pitch darkness. It was clear Drax had no intention of stumbling along an unlit way for, as he stepped through, the pavement upon which he then stood slowly glowed dull red at his weight. Not just the one flag, either, but a whole line of them in both directions, waning as they became more distant. By now, Falmeard’s wits had returned, more or less, so that fresh piece of magic fascinated him anew.
They followed Drax, forever at the centre of a moving glow, always able to see where they trod but blinded to what lay beyond. They were low down now, on the floor of the plain, and so had little chance to see far at all, even had it been broad daylight. It was only the occasionally lit spire or tall building’s windows that distantly relieved the void.
After some four or five miles, the path’s light before them stopped creeping ahead, shortening as its tail caught up. When there were only a few lit flags left, they could then see yet another door, but one plainly set at the base of a huge and windowless building.
Sentinar Drax halted there and turned to them all. “Here I must leave you to another’s care for this is the Guardian’s Residence. Your arrival is awaited from within and so I must trust to the Guardian’s own household to deliver you in.”
At that, he nodded, curtly, took a final sideways look at Pettar and then smartly marched off, back along the glowing path. The line of light he retraced shone out against the darkness, like a shooting star slowly streaking its way across a starless sky.
13 An In
conclusive Reconnoitre
The king sat, red faced and puffing, on the top step of the longest flight he’d yet encountered in his dash to the Eastern Gate. Had he had enough strength, after all the previous flights, he’d have counted every step, just to know exactly how foolhardy he’d been.
He couldn’t remember having had such difficulty on any of his previous journeys. Granted, he’d not been in such a hurry before, but it still mystified him how his health could have deteriorated so much in such a short space of time. ‘Oh well!’ he thought. ‘Time to press on, after all, can’t be having our council overtaking us, now can we?’ He wearily pushed himself to his feet and then stumbled on into the closer confines of an upper gallery.
It had once been the battlements of one of the castle’s older walls. When the Great Wall had been built, further north, to encompass the new Park of Forgiveness, the old wall’s embrasures had become windows under a newly added pitched roof.
It hadn’t been long before the monarch of the day, the vainglorious and ambitious King Shewtin, had taken it as his own. He’d named it the Long Gallery and ostentatiously displayed his vast collection of art along its miles of walls. Despite his fervent insistence, it had quickly become known as the Shooting Gallery and the name had stuck.
Now, though, it was bare of hangings, of any ornamentation at all, not a stick of furniture, not even a chair, for example, on which to rest awhile. No, taking a rest would have meant sitting yet again amidst the dust and detritus the years had seen amass. No, he’d push on, but perhaps at a gentler pace, take the last few miles down the gallery more sedately and thereby arrive the fresher. Yes, that was more sensible. “Phew!” But he did feel queasy, and a bit shaky of leg. “A quick stop, eh, to get the old breath back.”
Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1) Page 12
