The Longsword Chronicles: Book 03 - Sight and Sound

by GJ Kelly

  “We have your lady, Longsword,” Allazar remarked gently, leaning on his staff.

  “Who without Kahla serving as guide would walk into the first statue, wall, or hole in the ground which blocks her path. There are many more things to worry about than dark wizard-made creatures, Allazar, and I won’t have everyone reliant entirely on Eldengaze. We have our own eyes and senses, and responsibilities to ourselves and each other.”

  “It would be nice to know what to expect,” Tyrane muttered, his poor imagination failing him again.

  Gawain shrugged. “After a thousand years? Trees, mostly. Fallen walls, toppled statues. The city was destroyed by fire, any buildings left standing after that would’ve had thick walls and deep foundations, but even those would likely be overcome by the power of trees and their roots.”

  “Agreed,” Allazar sighed. “Perhaps it is the sorrow of the loss of what was once a great centre of civilisation that prevented elves returning here. Such destruction would be hard to bear, particularly since they built so few cities of stone.”

  “That we know of,” Gawain mumbled through a slice of frak. “In truth, even Elayeen seems to know nothing of Calhaneth beyond that highly annoying mantra of no-one ever travelling here. Elves have been so insular in their self-imposed exile from the world, the very word ‘elvish’ is used to describe anyone with such introverted qualities. They could have built a dozen stone cities and who would know?”

  “I hardly think elves would give up their culture and traditional way of life any more than your people would have willingly become fishermen on the shores of the Sea of Hope, Longsword. Besides, they are masters of their domain and have no need of walls to protect them. Calhaneth was a magnificent gesture on their part, an attempt at bringing reason to the world of men.”

  “A pity it failed,” Gawain sighed. “Perhaps fewer people would have succumbed to the Ramoth and their nonsense if it hadn’t.”

  “Indeed. But given what we know of events in the Empire, perhaps we should count our blessings where the Ramoth are concerned. Whatever we do or do not know of elven history, we do know that history has brought us all here.”

  Gawain pondered Allazar’s words for a while, and then took a deep breath. “Well. Here is Calhaneth’s doorstep. Let’s get the horses fed and saddled, and wait for a little more light before we step over the threshold.”

  An hour or so later, and with Rollaf securing the last of the feed-bags on the packhorses, they gathered on the avenue, Elayeen standing off a little and gazing into the city.

  “We must be careful where we step, my lords,” Arramin asserted, his staff over his shoulder and his fresh-bandaged hands clasped lightly in front of him. “The city, being of stone, was possessed of rare works of engineering in addition to the buildings. We have seen the baths in the south, and wondered at the clever system of drainage and supply of water from the subterranean hot springs which supply them. Here too, in Calhaneth, they would have had such things, and it is possible that underground pipes and channels may be in a parlous condition.”

  “So the ground might collapse underfoot, Serre wizard, is that what you’re saying?” Gawain asked.

  Arramin shrugged apologetically. “Alas. I had hoped… I think I had hoped to find the city better preserved, my lord. But the trees grow strong, and have deep roots. The walls of sewers and pipes would succumb as easily to roots as the walls of buildings to trunk and bough.”

  “How far do you think we are from the canal?”

  “The city is not large by our standards, my lord. But in order to prevent the possibility of an enemy using the great avenue to charge straight through the centre of Calhaneth and onward along the canal’s route to Ostinath, each block of buildings forming the concentric rings of the city was offset from those of neighbouring circles. Thus the path we must take is not straight, but stepwise, first to the west, then north, then to the east, and so on. In plan, it is much like a child’s toy, of the ball-in-a-maze kind.”

  “How long do you estimate?”

  Arramin shrugged apologetically. “In its hey-day, the city could be crossed in perhaps two hours on foot. The streets were broad but alleys were narrow, a fact which helped speed the catastrophe, I fear.”

  “Well. It will take as long as it takes. Rollaf, Terryn, to the fore if you please, the rest close behind. I’ll take the rear with the horses. Lady Kahla, remain close to my lady and take care, there may be openings and obstacles underfoot concealed by countless years of leaf fall. Questions?”

  There were none.

  “Then we shall proceed. With luck, we’ll lunch at the canal. Move quietly, and with great caution as Arramin has advised.”

  And thus it was they entered Calhaneth where the great avenue from the south had ended so abruptly, blocked by trees, and its gates, if there had ever been any, long since fallen and buried. It wasn’t long, either, before they were obliged to turn to the west, the way ahead blocked by a cracked flint and mortar wall, leaning perilously towards them under the pressure of a silently striving siege-engine that was the giant darkwood on its other side.

  Statues, dotted here and there, some pointing this way and some that, told of a broad street under the leaf litter of centuries. Occasional limbs thrust up from the decaying humus, some of them arms with hands clutching books or instruments, like drowning men desperately attempting to preserve precious possessions from a flood, some of them legs, with or without feet, bizarre and more than a little unnerving.

  There was an oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional flapping of pigeons’ wings or the raucous calls of crows, and all of them knew there should be far more sounds than there were. Even the songbirds, it seemed, heeded the warnings of elves and the Old Kingdom, and did not venture here.

  It grew steadily brighter as the sun rose higher, which seemed to bring the promise of a more cheerful passage through the ruins, but in truth it merely heightened the lack of happy twittering and other sounds of life that should be teeming around them. Even the insects seemed to maintain a respectful, or fearful, silence.

  Once, while Gawain was gazing at a massive bough growing clean through what was once a window in what was once perhaps someone’s home, they had to turn back; a collapsed sewer or pipe such as Arramin had described had left an enormous trench blocking their way, and Allazar considered it far too risky for Elayeen to attempt a crossing.

  So Gawain had stepped aside, and waited while the others moved back through the horses and retraced their steps and then continued onwards to the next northbound crossing between blocks of ruins. It was taking a lot longer than he’d imagined. For some reason, he’d pictured in his mind’s eye three simple rings of buildings, mimicking the three circles of runes in the Great Hall of Raheen. Arramin had implied as much, describing an outer circle of dwellings, then hostels, then colleges.

  But, of course, there were many circles of ruined buildings to negotiate; the dwellings alone had needed to accommodate all those who lived and served in the city, from the magi who taught in the great halls of learning down to the humblest of apprentice stable hands. Butcher, baker, tinker, tailor, homes for all those who provided services for student and master alike, and services also for themselves.

  It was easy to understand Arramin’s disappointment. In its days of splendour, Calhaneth must have seemed a jewel, to be admired by all who set foot here, a benchmark of civilisation few could aspire to. The lowland castletowns Gawain had seen would seem pitiful and archaic to those who once dwelled here. Even in centuries-old ruin, enough survived to speak eloquently across the ages, testifying to the glory that had been the pinnacle of elven stone-masonry.

  Yet still an air of great unease pervaded the place, as though all the trees which had done battle with the white-stone paving and won the struggle for sunlight were holding their breath in expectation of some dread retaliation.

  Even the statues which had survived seemed mute in trepidation rather than simple stony silence. Gawain had deduced the
statues were more than ornamentation, but also street-guides, pointing to or marking places of interest. Distinguished-looking statues holding a book in one hand and pointing with tools or instruments doubtless showed the way to the school which taught the subjects represented by those tools or instruments. Statues of happy-looking portly gentlemen clutching tankards and platters may have stood outside taverns or dining rooms, or pointed the way to them… the variations on themes were many, and as they neared the area of the city set aside for the students of all lands, became more frequent.

  Of the fire which had ended Calhaneth’s splendour, there was of course no sign. It was impossible to tell whether walls had been rent and tumbled by trees growing long after the conflagration, or by the heat of the flames during it. But such is the nature of catastrophe that on occasion, even in the midst of some immense earthquake, deluge or fire, one or perhaps some few buildings escape as if spared by the mighty hand of providence, and so it was here, in the middle of the circle wherein had dwelled students and visitors. Before them, rising majestic and almost pristine, a wall of white-stone, sharp-cornered, one side of a great building, the one broad structure facing them almost entirely intact. Standing within vaulted niches in that wall, unharmed except by time and weather, small statues testifying as to the nature of the building; actors in classical pose, singers likewise, musicians, and orators. This had been a theatre, or a hall of entertainments.

  With great excitement, Arramin had scurried forward, weaving through the trees as if expecting to find the entire building intact. Yet even Gawain at rearguard saw the elderly wizard’s shoulders sag. That one wall with its stubby corners like broken bookends was all that remained, and trees grew where once a stage might have been, and where once audiences might have laughed and applauded.

  On, then, winding their way back and forth like the shuttle of a loom, weaving their quiet way towards the centre of the city, and all the while the tension and unease rising, little by little, for this far from the outskirts even the pigeons and crows seemed reluctant to tarry, much less to roost.

  There was a brief period of confusion from the head of the group, and Gawain left his position to advance to discover the cause. It was simple enough; there seemed to be no ruins at all here, nothing but trees and the forest floor. Arramin explained that this was a great circular way which lay between the circles of college and hostels, and sure enough, thirty yards or so further north they discovered a row of stone columns, intricately carved, rising up or slumbering half-buried alongside the trees of the woodland around them.

  It was while they were passing through the remains of some cloistered way that Gawain gave a loud click and called a halt. He eased through the horses and found the rest of them anxiously awaiting his arrival.

  “It’s brighter here. The trees are thinning,” he whispered.

  All except Elayeen gazed up and around.

  “I believe it is, my lord,” Tyrane agreed.

  “And I’m starting not to like it very much,” Gawain added. “Do you see anything, Eldengaze?”

  “Trees. Nothing dark.”

  “Nothing light?”

  “Trees. Thinning.”

  “Wait here. The scouts and I will advance. There’s something here which is making me feel nervous.”

  Gawain crept forward, Rollaf and Terryn on the flanks, heading in the general direction of the centre of Calhaneth. They’d only gone about twenty yards when Gawain squatted down on his haunches, and the scouts halted, eyeing him nervously. He drew his boot knife, stuck it gently in the humus at his feet and flipped over a lump. Nothing, just the dark black of decaying litter slowly becoming new soil. Rollaf and Terryn followed suit, digging small holes with their knives.

  “Anything?” Gawain signalled.

  “Nothing,” were the two gestures he received.

  Not even insects or worms were burrowing here. Gawain sheathed his knife, loosened the longsword in its scabbard, and signalled the advance again. The light grew brighter, the trees thinner, not just spaced further apart but thinner of girth, becoming gnarled and spindly, almost sickly in appearance, and then Gawain froze, and the scouts likewise.

  He blinked, and shifted his head a little, gazing through the sparse growth before him. Then he advanced slowly, stepping over a fallen statue and its plinth until he found himself at the tree line. A tree line which should not have been there.

  Before him, across a hundred yards of pristine white- and blue-stone paving slabs, scorched black in places and weather-beaten but otherwise as it had been on the day of the catastrophe a thousand years earlier, stood the very heart of Calhaneth. Massive colonnades rested atop a plinth of glazed blue-stone steps, surrounding the roundtower which the wizard Arramin had described at the beginning of their journey. The immense dome which crowned the tower was broken and jagged, looking for all the world like some vast boiled egg decapitated by a giant spoon.

  “Dwarfspit,” Gawain gasped, as Rollaf and Terryn drew alongside, gaping.

  Pristine statues of sparkling white-stone stood atop the colonnade’s entablature at intervals, each holding aloft a representation of the sun in their right hand, and holding out their left hands as if beckoning the viewer to step forward into the light.

  There were two smaller buildings flanking the colonnades and roundtower that they could see, though there might be others beyond sight to the rear of the squat and broad roundtower.

  “Rollaf, bring the others forward please, tell them to advance with great caution.”

  “Aye milord.”

  Gawain gazed in unabashed awe at the spectacle before him.

  “Ain’t right,” Terryn whispered.

  “No, it ain’t,” Gawain agreed.

  “Oh dear me! Oh dear me!” a familiar voice whispered from behind Gawain several minutes later.

  “Astonishing,” Allazar muttered, “And quite impossible.”

  They formed a line at the edge of the forest, where the bleached paving slabs lay cracked and jagged, exposing the knotted roots of twisted saplings which had forced their way up through the stone.

  “This is the heart of Calhaneth, my lords,” Arramin sighed, eyes wide in disbelief. “There, the roundtower, college and library of natural magycks, where wizards and elfwizards studied together. Here, the blue and white way known as the Wheel of Thought, where scholars and magi would walk, talking, listening, teaching and learning, or merely conversing upon the day! There! There, the two buildings either side of the tower, refectories where food and wine was served day and night, where master and pupil would sup and dine together, sometimes working through the night and through the next day! Oh dear me... Oh dear me!”

  “How can this be?” Tyrane muttered, seeing but not believing the spectacle before them.

  “It can’t be. It shouldn’t be,” Gawain muttered.

  No-one, not even Arramin, seemed anxious to advance or step onto the blue and white paving where not so much as a leaf blew in the breezes. The heart of the city lay still, silent as a crypt, an image of past splendour and majesty, specks of mica in the blue-stone glittering in the late morning sunshine like a sea of jewels surrounding the broken crown of the roundtower.

  “Eldengaze, do you see anything?” Gawain whispered.

  “Shapes in a mist of grey. There is nothing light here. Nor dark.”

  Gawain shuddered.

  “You can still see where the fire raged through the windows and doors,” Arramin choked, and pointed towards the refectory, east of the tower and its elevated colonnades.

  It was true. The white-stone lintels topping the once wide and airy openings in the refectory walls were stained dark where smoke and flame had licked a thousand years before.

  “Did an Emperor live there?” Jaxon gasped, blinking against the brightness after the gloom of the forest.

  “No,” Arramin sighed, wiping away a tear with a bandaged hand. “No, Serre Jaxon, it was a school, of a kind, a great school where the greatest minds of the era gathered t
o share their wisdom. The statues upon the colonnades, they are of Arristanas, an elfwizard of elder times and myth, who left the forest of his birth to take the light of reason into the world, and banish superstition to the shadows. It was much later, long after his death, Calhaneth was built to allow those seeking the light of reason to find it.”

  “There’s no reason here that I can see,” Gawain announced, echoing the thoughts of the scouts standing beside him. “Nature should have reclaimed this place long ago with the rest of the city. Come, we’ll go around, and seek out this canal. Let’s hope it’s as well-preserved.”

  Cautiously they went, skirting the vast circular expanse of paving Arramin had called ‘the Wheel of Thought.’ Here at its outer edge, the paving was broken and uplifted through the sparse leaf litter. When they met larger obstructions, they took a path deeper into the woodland rather than step onto the bleached stone.

  But even after skirting those obstructions, some unseen force seemed to draw them back to the rim of the Wheel once more to gaze upon the lofty columns of the colonnade and the loftier roundtower girdled by them.

  “The tower has no windows,” Jaxon remarked as they walked, his voice hushed, still in awe of the scale of the buildings. “It must’ve been dark inside.”

  “Ah,” Arramin whispered back, “Those five rows of narrow slits you see ringing the tower? They are called ‘loophole light-wells’. Though the slits seem narrow on the outside of those thick walls, within, the aperture is cut very much wider, narrowing towards the slit. Thus, light may enter the tower from a great range of angles, not just directly from in front of the slit.”

  “Why didn’t they just make bigger windows?” Jaxon puzzled aloud.

  “Because larger windows would weaken the structure of the tower. The stone walls are very thick, and so are very heavy. And besides, it being the college and library of natural magycks, the magi and scholars there also had other means of lighting which would not rely upon mere daylight. Thus, the college was never closed, and wizard and elf could work at whatever hour and for whatever duration they wished.”