by GJ Kelly
“You are still angry, then, with the makers of sword and circle.”
Gawain sighed. “Yes. Yes, Allazar, I am, and always shall be. They left the job unfinished when Morloch was bound beyond the Teeth. And instead of ending the miserable Dwarfspit when they had the chance, they simply shrugged their shoulders and decided to leave the problem to someone else to deal with in the future. We are the someone else.”
“Perhaps they could no more end Morloch then, than you can end him now. Don’t judge them too harshly, Longsword, none of us can know what obstacles they faced in their own time.”
“Yet they knew enough to create the circles, and the sword, and the immense power that lurked in the depths of Raheen since elder times. If Elayeen is to be believed, they even knew enough to go to such elaborate lengths as tunnelling beneath the farak gorin to prevent his army advancing, and still that wasn’t enough, even with the help of that Sisterhood of Issilene.
“For all their planning and foresight, for all the miserable changes they’ve wrought in the three of us who stood together in their vakin circles, hundreds of good men and women died at Far-gor. Hundreds, Allazar. And how many more have been killed in Goria, thanks to those eldenbeards? They foresaw all this, and instead of preventing this future when they had the chance, they merely shrugged their shoulders, buried a few mystic weapons and said ‘oh well, good luck to the people of the future, they’ll be able to sort it all out when the time comes.’ I’m not just angry with them, Allazar. I despise them. Whatever it is that worried Arramin so much that he asked us to come here, you can bet it won’t be anything good, and it’ll more than likely reek of those eldenbeards and their legacy.”
The following morning, Allazar recommended that they wait until well after daybreak before taking the ‘Mountpath to the summit. It was a miserable day, teeming with rain and blustery, the sky heavy and laden, and since The King’s Hammer nestled at the foot of the western slopes of Crownmount, daylight seemed a long time coming after sunrise.
“How long to reach the summit?” Gawain asked, checking saddle and packs on both their horses in the shelter of the inn’s stables.
“We should crest the path and pass through the gates around noon, perhaps just afterwards.”
“Then we’ve not done too badly for time. Rak said it’d be December before we got here, and it’s still only the twenty-ninth, unless I’ve lost a day or two somewhere.”
“The wind was kinder on our way here than it’ll be on our way back,” Allazar asserted, eyeing the dark and unbroken clouds ruefully. “Well, I doubt it’ll get much brighter than this.”
“Is the path a tricky one, then?”
“It’s broad enough, Longsword, but in places is steep and the rock slippery. Salt is a valuable commodity hereabouts in winter, as you can well imagine.”
Gawain could. If the bare rock of the path was considered treacherous enough in a simple downpour, then covered in ice and snow it might well be impassable without rock-salt to clear the way.
There were no other travellers making their way up the ‘Mountpath, but a few hardy souls were making their way down through the squally weather; a couple of messengers, and several local merchants each leading a train of sad-looking but unladen donkeys. Though the path was broad enough for perhaps four to ride abreast, the rock was indeed steep in places, and slippery; carts would not be a sensible means of transporting goods to and from the summit.
There was no view to speak of, no Sea of Hope to the south glistening like a blanket of diamonds in the sunshine as there was at Raheen. No sunshine, no ocean, and only the dull browns and greys below scarcely visible through the rain, should any traveller be bold enough to stand on the brink and look down in such weather.
By they time they were halfway up they were in the lee on the southern side of the mount, and though the rain was incessant and the drops large and cold, at least they were spared the noise and the chill of the swirling, northerly gusts. It was still raining too hard for any kind of view, and both horse and rider found the going rather depressing.
“You’d think they’d at least cut some resting-places into the rock wall,” Gawain grumbled aloud over the hiss of the rain and the gurgling of streams of run-off spilling down the path. “Or would that be like shooting a favourite aunt, too?”
Allazar smiled in spite of the misery of the journey and their surrounds. “Remember, Longsword,” he called back, “They are a tenacious people that dwell here in Threlland, and for them to pause along the way on such a brief ascent would be considered the height of indolence unless age or infirmity demanded it.”
“I don’t think they ever become aged or infirm, Allazar. Not after what I saw their pensioners achieve at Far-gor,” Gawain mumbled.
“Nearly there now,” Allazar called as they rounded the curve and the wind began whipping at their cloaks again.
Gawain smiled grimly, lowering his head and pulling the hood further down over his eyes. After a minute’s pause he called out “Are we there yet?” and grinned when he saw the wizard grimace and mumble to himself.
It was shortly after noon when they reached the summit, and if Gawain had been expecting to see a vast plateau stretching away before him, flat and verdant as Raheen had been, he was sadly disappointed. There was a low wall, symbolic more than functional, with broad and wide open gates through which they rode at the walk, receiving a wave of acknowledgement from two bored-looking guardsmen sheltering in a stone-built guardhouse off to one side.
Beyond that, a well-trodden track bordered by rocky, vacant ground strewn with tough grasses and shrubs, and in the distance, the Castletown of Threlland itself. The lacklustre Jurian town of Ferdan was probably bigger. Eryk’s Hall was broad and squat, and from the point of view of the gates at the top of the ‘Mountpath, occupied the exact centre of a cluster of buildings, all of stone. The closer they got, the more buildings they noted spreading away behind the Hall, though the freshwater lake or basin Allazar had alluded to on the journey was beyond their sight.
Once the horses had been settled in the royal stables, Gawain and Allazar were escorted by a pair of polite and obviously over-awed guardsmen into the Great Hall itself, where conversation buzzed; rows of tables were occupied by nobles and dwarves of rank, and a large fire blazed from a pit at the very centre of it all.
Beyond the fire, which warmed the entire hall, a raised platform housed an empty throne, and beyond it, a large table at which Eryk himself now stood, beaming at his guests.
“Welcome!” he boomed, “Welcome Raheen, to the Hall of the Fathers of Threlland!”
“Thank you, Eryk, for your welcome and the hospitality of Threlland. Though I could have done without its rain.” Gawain stepped up onto the platform, Allazar close behind, to stand dripping on the marble floor.
“Get yer cloaks off,” Eryk announced, “And come sit and have lunch. You know most here by sight if not by name. It’s cold down there in the library and you’ll need to be warm, fed and dry before you make the descent, or you’ll catch your death.”
Pages took the dripping cloaks and whisked them away to dry near the immense conflagration, while Gawain and Allazar took the offered places at Eryk’s table.
“You know why we’ve come, then,” Gawain stated, pouring a steaming goblet of hot spice wine and passing the jug to Allazar on his left.
“Aye, the wizard Arramin said he’d found something you should see. Relates to your journey far to the south, and so I haven’t pressed for any details. I’ve assumed if it was anything likely to threaten my land or my people, he’d have told me, so I’ve kept my nose out. Besides,” Eryk slid a platter of cold meats towards Gawain’s empty plate, “It’s a long way down to the vaults, and even longer coming back up. No point troubling anyone when it’s not necessary. Perhaps, once you’ve discovered what it is he’s excited about, you’ll stay a few days here in the hall before returning to my niece’s house in Tarn?”
Gawain smiled, and slid the platter to Allaza
r, who helped himself and poured steaming hot gravy over the beef and lamb he’d loaded onto his plate.
“I wouldn’t dream of refusing your hospitality. As long as this time you allow me to be a little more restrained where the dark ale is concerned.”
“Heh,” Eryk chuckled, “Had enough of being ‘tired and emotional’, eh? I don’t blame you. As you can see yonder on the floor beyond the hearth, it’s business as usual now that the celebrations are over. Winter stores to check, supplies to be dispensed where needed, the state of Threlland to be considered now that the battle is over. Books to be balanced, that kind of thing.”
Gawain nodded, remembering the long hours of councils and committees his father and brother had been obliged to attend when winter fell at home.
They ate quietly, all except Gawain of course, who’d been content with frak as usual on the ascent up the ‘Mountpath. Finally, the meal over, Eryk pushed his plate away from him and took a draught of wine before announcing sadly:
“You heard about Willam.”
“Yes. Rider Cherris passed through Tarn. Is she still here?”
Eryk shook his head. “No, you missed her by a day. She remained long enough for me to write a reply to Hellin of Juria, and left next morning.”
“Willam was a good man. I liked him.”
“I did too,” Eryk sighed. “At least he knew his people were safe from Morloch’s hordes before he died. We can take some comfort from that.”
Gawain nodded, and then glanced around the hall. “There are no wizards in Threlland now? Where’s Dakar?”
Eryk grunted, and took a draught of wine. “He’ll be about his business I expect. Dakar is the only wizard allowed to set foot in the Hall, with the exception of Arramin and of course Allazar. The closest any of the others are permitted to the Hall is the Chambers of Council out the back, you may have glimpsed it from the stables. It’s a precaution imposed since news of Juria arrived, and a sensible one at that. Dakar could’ve struck me down at any time in the past year, and didn’t, so he serves as my First Wizard and has dispensation to enter here.”
“These are troubled times indeed,” Allazar sighed, using a hunk of bread to mop up the last of his gravy. “It is sad to think that our civilisation is become so fragile it takes nothing more than rumours to make enemies of once trusted friends, and a single act of treachery to condemn wisdom to outbuildings far from the welcome-hearth.”
“Would that it were just a single act of treachery,” Gawain asserted, “There’ve been two within Threlland’s borders alone that you and I both witnessed, and countless more in Juria too, and we all witnessed events at Ferdan in the summer. That’s without adding Willam’s assassin to the list.”
“True,” Allazar conceded with a sigh.
“And that’s just the treachery of the D’ith, there’s now elfwizards and their treachery to add to the mounting evidence to justify Eryk’s precautions. Speaking entirely for myself and for what was my land, I’ve always found it sad that the lowlands have believed for so long that civilisation required such dependence on wizards and their party-tricks. Though my views are, I suppose, well known to you both.”
“I believe you may have mentioned them,” Eryk smiled. “But come, if you’re both refreshed after your journey, I’ll show you the steps down to the library. Otherwise it’ll be nightfall before you know it and we’ll all end up ‘tired and emotional.’ Your horses will be well tended, and there are rooms below which are well-enough appointed for your comfort. If you wish, we can continue the discourse on the value of wizards in a few days, when you return.”
“A few days!” Gawain gasped, accepting his warm and thoroughly dry cloak from a page.
Eryk blinked, nonplussed. “It’s a long way down to the vaults, y’know. And an even longer way back up again.”
oOo
10. Vaults
A heavy iron door at the rear of the hall gave way to a brightly-lit corridor, and Eryk strode purposefully down it to the large library at its end. Shelves lined the walls and stood in mute ranks, and books lined the shelves, like silent sentries whose covers guarded information on any number of the subjects they contained. Here and there, studious-looking fellows worked quietly at highly polished desks, studying, making notes, or making entries in journals, and Eryk ignored them all.
The King of Threlland led his two guests to the far end of the library, and to a large iron-braced oak door. With a nod for an elderly dwarf, perhaps the head librarian, Eryk grasped an iron ring, turned it, and heaved the door open to reveal a gloomy, vaulted tunnel, sloping gently downwards.
“And there you have it,” Eryk sighed, stepping aside and waving a hand towards the stairs. “You’ll find Arramin in the depths of the vaults. Just keep going down, until you reach the bottom.”
Gawain blinked, and glanced down the tunnel. Glowstone lamps in sconces either side of the steps lit the way, the light fading with distance in the gloomy depths.
Eryk grinned. “You’ll find resting areas along the way if you need them. And you’ll definitely need them on the way back up. And it’s not straight down, either; there are many turns, always to the left, every hundred steps or so. Someone probably counted them, but I never did.”
“Thank you…”
“Bah. Off you go to your work, and I to mine. I’ll see you in a few days, we’ll get tired and emotional together at least once before you head back to Tarn.”
And so into the tunnel and down the steps they went, Allazar leading the way by a step or two, though two could easily walk side by side. Behind them, the door creaked shut with a booming sound Gawain thought had a ring of ominous finality to it. It was suddenly cool in the tunnel, the bare rock walls holding no heat. Ropes, strung through stout metal rings bolted to the walls, served as banisters, and when the boom of the door closing had finished echoing in the tunnel, both Gawain and the wizard immediately made use of them.
“How far down is it likely to go, do you think?” Gawain whispered, the depths seeming to demand a solemn silence.
“Knowing dwarves, to the base of the mount, and beyond,” Allazar whispered back.
“Are you serious? We rode all the way up the ‘Mountpath only to walk all the way back down again inside the mount?”
“Alas.”
“No wonder they invented frak, the lunatics. Ordinary food would go off before it made it to the bottom. Why, by the Teeth, didn’t they simply make the entrance below, in the village at the foot of the mount?”
“I suspect there is more in the vaults down here than old books, Longsword. To put the entrance at ground level at the foot of Crownmount would be far less secure than having it up here.”
“They’re still bloody lunatics,” Gawain mumbled, as they reached the first turn.
There was a small landing, with bench seats either side and a door directly ahead of them, and for the first time Gawain noticed a metal pipe running behind the rope banisters on each side of the tunnel walls. He noticed it because a spur from the pipes led to small stone basins carved in the rock walls.
“Drinking fountains,” Allazar explained, and paused to turn a faucet above the basin. At once, a jet of water spurted up from a hole in the stone. “The water must be piped from the lake. I rather suspect it’ll be needed on our return journey.”
“I rather suspect half a dozen brawny fellows will be needed to carry me on our return journey, Allazar. Can you imagine poor Arramin hiking all the way up these steps?”
“No, now that you mention it, I can’t…”
“Lunatics. They can invent a mechanical wonder like the grappinbow, but can’t come up with an easier means than countless flights of steps for getting into the bowels of their mountains. What do you think is behind that door?”
“Ablutions, perhaps? Facilities for resting, or a store room?”
“Would it be considered rude to look?”
Allazar looked thoughtful for a moment. “It might be.”
“You could always give
it a knock with your stick, see if anybody answers.”
“And if anybody does?”
Gawain blinked. And then shrugged. And they both eyed the door. Then curiosity got the better of them, and Allazar rapped on the door with his staff. The sound echoed down the tunnel, but there was no answer. Gawain reached out and twisted the iron ring that was the door handle, and pushed, but nothing happened. He pulled, and still nothing happened.
“Locked?” Allazar whispered.
“Seems to be.”
“Ah well. Probably just the riches accumulated after countless centuries of mining.”
“Or the bodies of all those that didn’t quite make it back up to the top. Let’s go.”
And go they did. At each landing before a turn to the left, another locked door piqued their curiosity, but Allazar decided their interest was probably because there was nothing else of note to relieve the boredom of their seemingly ceaseless descent.
Down and down they walked, their footsteps settling into the rhythm created by ancient dwarf stone-cutters long ages ago. At the fifth landing of their descent, the door in the wall locked against them as the four preceding others had been, Gawain paused, and eyed the steps.
“Is it me, or are the steps above us much more worn than those below us?”
“I believe you are right, Longsword. It would seem that the lower levels are far less popular than those we have passed.”
“Can’t think why,” Gawain muttered, continuing down another tedious flight. “I wonder what they did with all the rock.”
“Rock?”
“Spoil, from digging this lot out. It would’ve made so much more sense starting from the bottom and working their way up. Then all the spoil would simply go down, and out. Digging down from the top, they’d have to carry all the spoil up and out, somehow.”
“A question best suited for Martan of Tellek rather than for me, I fear. I am content to marvel at the feats of dwarven creation made possible by sheer tenacity and more than a little brute strength. I suspect that what awaits us at the bottom of this staircase will far outstrip the marvel of this simple tunnel and its steps.”
