by GJ Kelly
Down then, level after level, pausing only occasionally to drink from the water fountains, catch their breath, and to rest screaming calves. Finally, after what seemed an age, they turned left, and stood stock still, stunned into silence.
Vaulted ceilings seemed held aloft by immense pillars of stone, the ceilings themselves studded with orbs fashioned from glowstones which gave off a dull yellow light. The vast gallery with its vaulted colonnades was cavernous, larger by far than Threlland’s great hall. And it was entirely empty.
“Are those doors, over there?” Gawain whispered, squinting, and pointed to a row of shadows along the wall at the far side of the gallery. “Or alcoves?”
“I don’t know,” Allazar whispered, blinking and looking to the left and to the right, “This light is dim and diffuse, like moonlit snow. I think there are portals in all the walls.”
“Where’s Arramin? Give the stick a rap on the floor, it might attract someone’s attention.”
“As you wish.”
And with that, Allazar lifted the Dymendin four inches above the smooth and level rock floor, and brought it down sharply. The sound of the heavy staff rapping against the stone echoed crisply around the gallery, back and forth, confusing their senses, and in the midst of the echoes came the creak of hinges, though from which direction they couldn’t tell.
“My lords! My lords! Oh my lords!” a familiar voice called, and it was Allazar who first spotted Arramin emerging from a far distant corner and waving delightedly as he hurried towards them.
In spite of the chill and the eeriness of their surrounds, they couldn’t help smiling as they closed the gap between themselves and the elderly wizard. Arramin wore the traditional robes expected of the D’ith, but draped about his shoulders was a brightly chequered heavy woollen blanket, all yellows and oranges and greens. A thick green woollen hat sat snugly on his head, a bright yellow bobble sewn on the top, and he wore green woollen gloves, their fingertips cut off so that his bony fingers poked through, the better to turn pages perhaps or to guide the nib of a pen. Brightest of all though, was the smile he wore, as he approached, arms outstretched.
“Oh my dear lords! You have come! Huzzah indeed!” And without a moment’s hesitation, the elderly wizard embraced Allazar as though he were a long lost son not seen for half a lifetime. “Oh Master Allazar, hello and welcome! Welcome!”
Beaming, Arramin managed to rein in his excitement, just, and disengaging from Allazar’s astonished but happy embrace, gave a low bow to Gawain.
“Bah,” Gawain smiled, genuinely warmed by the honest affection glistening from the elderly wizard’s eyes, and reached out his hands to clutch Arramin’s arm in a kingly, but comradely greeting. “I got your letter, Serre wizard, as you can see.”
“Oh my lord yes, word came down the chute of your arrival, I’ve been expecting you all afternoon!”
“Oh,” Gawain blinked. “And now that we’re here, I think I speak for both us when I say this ancient library of yours seems somewhat short of books.”
“Heh, dear me, no, this is just the atrium. Once, a long time ago, this place was used for all manner of things, including as a refuge from catastrophe above. No, no, my lords, the vaults are all around us. Come, come my lords, let me show you where I have been all the days and nights since my arrival here, and where I should most like to end my days. Come!”
And with that, Arramin beamed happily again, and turned, and began walking in quite spritely fashion across the gallery.
Closer to the corner of the far walls they could clearly see the rows of iron-braced portals barring the way to whatever lay in the vaults beyond them, and though there were boards bolted to the doors and writing on them probably indicating what lay within, the writing was in dwarvish, and alien to Gawain.
“Here we are, my lords, here we are, the vault, as you can see by the sign upon the door, containing the archives of Kings Ogrod, Moakes, Lodvorn, and Emrees Blackhammer, through to King Sedrun the Third! Behold…” Arramin turned the iron ring twice, and pushed the heavy door open.
Gawain eyed Allazar, who rolled his eyes. They hadn’t thought to rotate the rings in the doors on their journey down more than half a turn.
Within, a great vaulted tunnel stretched away into the gloom before them, its arched roof gleaming with glowstones. Row upon row of shelves jutted from the left wall, all lined with books, boxes, scrolls and neat stacks of loose parchment. The tunnel, Gawain judged, was at least a hundred yards long.
“Every official document ever created during the reigns of those aforementioned kings of Threlland is here! Can you imagine, my lords? The detail! All the details of life in their times! From births and deaths and marriages, to amounts of ore dug and metals smelted! The journals and ledgers of the exchequers, noting every copper spent and where it was spent! Letters! Treaties! Minutes of Council! Oh my lords!”
Even Gawain was astonished by the sheer volume of documents this one tunnel contained. They stepped into the vault, and Arramin gently closed the heavy door before slowly leading the way again.
“The wondrous scholars of old who laid out these vaults so long ago did so to a system which is remarkable, my lords, and one which I would all libraries had followed. Here, closest to the door, is the freshest of the archives contained here. Here, on these shelves, are all the court documents of Threlland from the reign of Ogrod, who died some nine hundred years ago. It is to the furthest shelves, towards the end of Emrees Blackhammer’s reign, that we must go. But don’t be alarmed, my lords, it’s not too far, and at the end of the tunnel is a comfortable room with many facilities. You’re doubtless in need of a good hot drink. It is a long walk down.”
“And an even longer walk back up, Master Arramin,” Allazar said softly.
“Indeed, Master Allazar, indeed, though I am in no hurry to make the ascent, as doubtless you can imagine. For me, my lords, these vaults contain treasure beyond reckoning. The documents from the time of Sedrun the Third are over fifteen hundred years old, and still legible, such is the nature of the air down here! It is here I found, to my astonishment and great concern, the account I wrote of to you, my lord.”
“I’m surprised there’s any air down here at all,” Gawain grumbled, “Do you know where we are, with respect to the world outside?”
“Ah,” Arramin smiled, lifting a finger and pointing straight up, “By my calculations we are in fact directly beneath the Great Hall, and some two hundred feet below the level of the ground at that splendid hostelry The King’s Hammer.
“The air, my lords, is refreshed by shafts and tunnels cut by the original miners who excavated here. And all about us is the reason for the preserving effect of these tunnels; the walls are thick with rock salt. Met Corax is of the opinion that Crownmount is the remains of an old volcano, which once bubbled up through the salty bed of an ocean floor, but whatever the origins, the presence of salt has a drying effect on the air on its journey here.”
“Corax is here too?”
“In Threlland, yes, but not here in the vaults, my lord. He was bound for this land before the Hallencloister was sealed, in order to study, he said, the origin of rocks and minerals, and what better place for such study than in the deep mines of Threlland? King Eryk kindly allowed me to vouch for Met Corax, and his service to the Kindred at the Battle of Far-gor is well-known. I believe he will have left Crownmount by now though, to commence his studies. If you don’t mind my asking, what day is it? I have lost all track of time down here.”
“It’s the 29th of November, Arramin. Or was when we left Eryk’s table to begin the descent.”
“Oh well, I daresay the precise day and hour is immaterial anyway. Ah, here, here we are. The archives of Emrees Blackhammer. A much more colourful character than his name suggests, my lords, but not a diplomatic one by any means. His reign spanned the period during which that City in the South was destroyed, and it was here,” Arramin led them between two shelves, “Here on this shelf, where I discovered this box
, and on the label, as you can see, the answer to the question that has plagued historians for a thousand years.”
Arramin gently took the box from the shelf, and handed it to Allazar. On the lid, in broad strokes, Allazar read aloud the label: “Culthirken ed skartenhud Kalhanyet, aknuten ob Theo og Smelkmunt, Mestermethaler. EB 31.”
“Concerning the destruction of Calhaneth,” Arramin translated for Gawain, “An account by Theo of Smeltmount, Forgemaster, in the thirty-first year of Emrees Blackhammer.”
Gawain shuddered as a memory came flooding back. Theo! Theo! This way! Run! In Stanas’ name run for your life!
“I have made a translation, my lords, and replaced the original here in its box, as you can see.”
Allazar hesitantly lifted the lid, and showed the neat stack of leaves to Gawain. The handwriting was clear, the ink fading slowly from black to green on the fragile parchment. That such a document still existed was astonishing, that it could still be read, and understood, even more so.
Allazar softly closed the lid, his expression filled with awe and sorrow, and gently handed it back to Arramin, who replaced it almost reverently on the shelf.
“Come, my lords, let me take you the rooms. Some mulled wine and some supper, and I shall to relate to you the account of the destruction of that once great city, and shine a light into the shadows of a dim and distant history, and its horrors.”
oOo
11. Theo of Smeltmount
The chamber off to the side of the far end of the vault’s tunnel was spacious, and surprisingly comfortable. Half a dozen alcoves, three on each side, were carved into the chamber’s rock walls, containing niches for lamps and personal belongings, and beds of stone hewn from the rock on which long sacks of soft hides served as crude but functional mattresses. Simple curtains served to provide a degree of privacy in these somewhat monastic cells.
“Hmm,” Gawain smiled, and glanced towards Allazar, “Someone should feel quite at home here.”
Allazar sniffed by way of reply.
“There are ablutions through that narrow passage there, my lords, through the curtain and turn to the right. They are crude, but functional. Now, hot wine?”
“Thank you, it’s chillier than I thought I might be down here.” Gawain drew his cloak tighter, and put his sword and backpack into one of the vacant bed-chambers before returning to sit at the ancient table in the middle of the main room.
Stacks of papers, notes, and a few books littered one end of the table, Arramin’s work area, and Gawain could imagine the joy the old wizard must have felt on discovering this trove. The seats were comfortable enough, there was fresh water in the pipes from above, and a brazier for warmth and for heating a kettle, or, as Arramin was doing now, heating a pitcher of wine.
“You mentioned a chute, earlier, Master Arramin?” Allazar asked, placing his shoulder-bag on the table and sitting opposite Gawain, the Dymendin propped against the wall behind him.
“Oh! Oh yes, a clever thing. It is set in what I calculate is the south wall of the atrium. It’s really little more than a shaft that runs to the surface, but by some manner of winch mechanism above, it’s possible for supplies and correspondence to be sent down or to go up. How it was bored through the rock in days of yore is quite beyond my imagination. Now, here my lords, be careful, the wine is quite hot. I have prepared a platter of cold cuts and bread, I hope it will do for now?”
“It will do very nicely, thank you Master Arramin, though I expect someone will prefer the frak he carried all the way down here.”
Arramin smiled happily, served the hot spice wine, and took his place at the table.
“Now,” he sighed, and placed his hands on the piles of papers before him. “Where to begin? I have made a translation of the entire document and this time, my lords, I took great pains to remember to write it down in the common tongue, and not in the language of the Brethren as I so foolishly did with my notes in Ferdan, old fool that I am.”
Gawain smiled and waved away the wizard’s self-deprecation.
“But I think,” Arramin continued, “With your permission, I shall give you the bare bones, and then you may read the full document at your leisure, my lord?”
“Good idea.”
“Then, now that we are comfortable, I shall relate to you the events leading up to the destruction of Calhaneth. And I shall begin by acknowledging that I am indeed an old fool, and that, had I the eyes and the wit to understand what they beheld when we were there in that dread place, I should have tried to persuade you to remain there, at least long enough for us to destroy the object in that shattered dome.”
“Indeed?” Allazar gasped, his beaker of wine poised in front of his startled lips.
“Indeed, Master Allazar, indeed. But that being said, let me begin, from the beginning, lest I confuse you both.”
“Take your time, Arramin,” Gawain smiled, “I for one am in no hurry to drag myself up those endless flights of steps.”
“Well then... Theo of Smeltmount was a Forgemaster of no small repute here in Threlland during the reign of Emrees Blackhammer. He was a most diligent fellow, and, I am told, his name still commands respect for his abilities with that most difficult of materials drawn from the mines hereabouts: Morgmetal.”
“The stuff used for the crowns of grappinbows. A bugger to forge, so Karn and others have said. It was also what that surveyor’s spike was made of, Allazar sent you Martan’s drawing of it?”
“Yes, my lord, though I regret that my work on the symbols graven on that spike has been somewhat delayed as a result of my discovery of Theo’s account.”
“I understand. Elayeen has identified one mark, the triskele of Minyorn, girdled by three circles. Please, carry on with the account, we can discuss the Morgmetal spike later.”
“My lord,” Arramin acknowledged, and took a sip of hot wine before leaning back in his chair and eyeing his notes.
“It was in the ninth year of the reign of Emrees Blackhammer that Theo of Smeltmount received a visitor, and that visitor was an emissary, an elf, sent by Thal-Marrahan himself to request and commission the services of the Forgemaster whose reputed skills with Morgmetal had reached interested ears within the Thallanhall of Elvendere.
“In the beginning, and although Theo was flattered to hear that word of his skill had travelled as far as the heart of the great forest, he was quite busy enough with his work here at home, and politely declined the invitation. The emissary, though, was undeterred by this set-back, and enlisted the aid of King Emrees in the Hall of the Fathers of Threlland. Emrees was quite young at the time, but was never slow to spot an opportunity for profitable trade, especially if the profit were his own. He listened to the emissary, and summoned the Forgemaster to court.
“There, in a private chamber, King, Royal Emissary, and humble metalworker met behind closed and well-guarded doors. The emissary explained that the Forgemaster’s knowledge and skill with the hardest of all metals known was urgently needed, not for weapons of war or tools for surveying or the building of bridges, but for the very security of all the kindred races of Man.
“More than this the elf would not say, except of course for giving assurances on behalf of Thal-Marrahan that the need was real and in no wise an exaggeration. Emrees, perhaps pre-possessed of a little more information than the Forgemaster, asserted that with the security of all the kindred at stake, and wishing Threlland to play an important role in that security, he fully expected Theo to accept Thal-Marrahan’s commission, and to go with the emissary at once to Elvendere.”
Arramin paused, and took another sip of wine.
“This would have been long before the destruction of the city?”
“Twenty-two years before the end of that great wonder in the south, my lords. Work was already well under way on the great water road and the city at its end by that time, as I shall explain.”
Gawain nodded, and warmed his hands on the beaker of hot wine. The brazier was glowing in the corner of the cham
ber, but if it was actually giving out any heat, neither Gawain nor Allazar seemed to be feeling it.
“Theo describes his preparations and journey to Elvendere in only one brief paragraph, for in truth it was the events in the city in the south which were the focus of his account, and which, I believe, troubled him greatly to the end of his days. It was by a route with which we are all three of us familiar that he left his homeland and found himself in Ostinath, in the shadow of the marvel that is the Toorseneth.
“There, near the tower, in a large and airy building, he was introduced to elven engineers and smiths and metalworkers and wizards, and later, yes, even to Thal-Marrahan himself. He does not describe ever entering the Toorseneth itself, which at first I found remarkable, until the full horror of his account was revealed to me, and I mention this only to forestall any questions, for I am sure you will have many.”
Gawain nodded, and drew his cloak tighter about him, beginning to envy the elderly wizard’s blanket, gloves, and the hat with its bobble on the top. “One or two, and we have news of our own concerning this not-so-marvellous tower in Ostinath. But please, Arramin, continue, we’ll try not to interrupt.”
Arramin nodded, and his eyes grew distant while he stared through his papers.
“Master Arramin?” Allazar prompted, with a smile for Gawain.
“Eh? Oh dear me, yes. Ostinath… yes,” the old wizard sighed and shook his head, a fleeting look of wonder momentarily brightening his expression, until sadness, like a cloud passing before the sun, stole it away.
“The commission which had drawn Theo of Smeltmount from his home and friends was astonishing, and a challenge of such a technical nature that, for Theo, all consideration of its ultimate purpose was of secondary importance. The elves needed him to produce a sphere, some six inches in diameter, of Morgmetal alloyed with what Theo describes in his account as ‘Argen-vitt’, which is dwarvish for ‘silver-white’. I am not familiar with it, and I haven’t been able to find another reference to it yet. Theo describes it as an alarming metallic material which, if ground to a powder for adding to a melt, will more often than not burst into fire of its own volition!
