The Longsword Chronicles: Book 03 - Sight and Sound

by GJ Kelly

  The caisson was rising, slowly.

  Allazar and the two men pressed into service as cooks rushed out from the shell of the hostelry to watch, awestruck, as sheets of water began teeming from the caisson into the pond. Inside the enormous tray, Gawain glanced nervously at the water level, expecting to see the gunwales of the barge slipping down below the rim as water poured out. But none did. The barge floated as quietly and evenly as it had before the great wheel began to turn; if those within closed their eyes, it would probably be impossible for them to judge by senses alone whether or not they were moving.

  But moving they were, the caisson bearings giving an occasional squeal. They found themselves looking down, and Gawain screwed up his courage and moved down the side of the deckhouse, standing on the walkway, arms folded, gazing at the upturned faces perhaps thirty feet below them now. Jaxon stepped forward, and waved both arms above his head, grinning with astonishment. Gawain couldn’t help the sudden snort of nervous laughter that burst from his throat, and he held up a hand to wave back.

  The barge continued to rise, smoothly, seemingly effortlessly, and Gawain watched as the western horizon began slowly expanding away from them, tree tops billowing like green clouds. A quiet ‘my lord’ from Tyrane made him swivel on his hips to look over his shoulder, where he saw the other caisson, filled with water, slowly descending below the horizontal, and beyond it, the vast expanse of forest to the east.

  Spray from the jets of water playing on the main bearing swept over them, cold, like a winter’s mist or the foggy dew of a spring morning blown on a breeze. To the west, the great gash in the forest created by the chasm became more and more apparent, running away to the south-southwest, winding here and there, like a scar in the green skin of the land. Gawain found he couldn’t see the dock below now, they were too high and to do so would mean leaning over the edge of the caisson, something he preferred not to do.

  Minutes seemed to race by, and Gawain glanced up and across at the gated end of the aqueduct jutting from the cliff top, then moved carefully back to lean casually against the front bulkhead of the deckhouse with Tyrane and Terryn. The scout, doubtless used to heights from his earlier life as a woodsman, pointed away to the east.

  “Seems gentler that way, milord, aye it does.”

  Gawain nodded, but with the cliff face obscuring what lay ahead, it was too early to judge the terrain Arramin and his escort would need to cross if everyone else made the ascent in the barge.

  “Few drips from the gate, m’lord,” Tyrane pointed.

  “Aye. At least that means there’s some water the other side of it. How much, we’ll soon find out.”

  A sudden squeal from the caisson axle above them made them all start, but not so much as a ripple registered on the surface of the water below the prow. A glance to the west showed the gorge clearly now, and a glance down, a long way down, showed the dockside, and all those on it still gazing upward.

  Then their attention was drawn to the aqueduct gate, as with great and ancient precision, the caisson reached the apex of its journey, and with an immense clunk which echoed up from the dock below, the wheel locked into position.

  The view north was a little disappointing. Beyond the two gates immediately ahead of them lay the stretch of dull aqueduct, water-filled but of metal, with only a very narrow lip clearly not intended as a tow-path of any kind, but broad enough for man or elf to walk if the need arose. Perhaps fifty yards further north a small lock gate, similar to the one in the caisson, and beyond that, as Gawain had suspected, a broad mooring pool, though perhaps half the size of the one below.

  “There’s the signalling hut Arramin spoke of,” Gawain pointed to the tall and narrow building, identical to the lock control housings they’d become accustomed to on the canal. It was there that barge-men waiting to descend would signal those on duty below of their desire to come down, and to confirm that an ascent had been successful.

  “Easy enough to pole the barge through and test it, I suppose,” Tyrane muttered, perhaps wishing he hadn’t.

  “Why? Once the bearings have cooled or whatever they have to do, Arramin will bring us down. Then we’ll all come up except the wizard and his escort,” Gawain eased himself to the side of the bow and glanced down, giving a wave to Arramin and the others to signal all was well.

  He saw Allazar, Jaxon and Rollaf give a brief wave before they returned to the hostelry and the preparing of the goat, and watched as Elayeen and Kahla turned away to sit once more on the grassy area southwest of the buildings. Suddenly, Arramin began gesticulating, pointing, though at what Gawain couldn’t tell.

  “What’s he want?” Gawain muttered, easing along the walkway to make room for his two companions.

  “He’s pointing at the wall, isn’t he?”

  “Perhaps he wants us to pole the barge through, to test the gates or something?”

  “I don’t know, my lord. Wait, he’s going inside again.”

  Arramin disappeared into the small blockhouse, only to return moments later with his staff, which he started jabbing like a pitchfork in the direction of the cliff face. North.

  “Dwarfspit.”

  “Now what’s he up to?”

  Arramin seemed to be holding the staff like a trumpet now. Then he lowered it, and pointed north again.

  “I think I understand,” Gawain sighed.

  From far below, Arramin’s elderly voice drifted up, barely audible over the sound of the water spraying on the bearing below them. A single word: “Tube.”

  “He wants to talk to us on the signalling device.”

  “Do we pole through the gates, my lord?”

  Gawain pondered. “If we do, we’ll have to go all the way up to the lock by the pool. Then all the way back again.”

  “We have to wait for some time before the wheel can be turned again.”

  “True, Tyrane. But it’d be easier just to nip along the walkway there, and see if this signalling mechanism is functional.”

  “Is that wise? It’s a very a long way down.”

  “I don’t mind, Serres,” Terryn announced, eyeing the sixty feet of aqueduct beyond the gates, between them and the cliff edge.

  Gawain waved at the elderly wizard below, and then all three of them eased along the side of the deckhouse to the front of it. The aqueduct was a much smaller version of the canal they had travelled from the city in the south, a rectangular metal channel, barely broad enough for a single barge, and with grating walkways either side perhaps two feet wide. Perhaps a little less. Of course, sixty feet further on lay the cliff, and perhaps another ninety feet to negotiate before the mooring pool gate and the signalling hut beside it.

  “Thank you, Terryn, but I think the task falls to me.”

  Tyrane looked far from impressed. “Begging your pardon, my lord, I doubt your lady would agree.”

  Gawain shrugged. “She’d probably just say there’s ‘nothing dark’ ahead and then turn her gaze to the east. Besides, it’s only our height above ground that makes the walkways seem narrow. We’ve all walked along the sides of the barge while poling and not fallen overboard. No reason to fret.”

  “My lord…”

  “Trust me, Tyrane. I’ve walked many more dangerous paths than this one.”

  “Really?”

  “Well… I may not be able to remember all of them, off the top of my head.”

  “One example might do, just in case your lady asks, my lord.”

  Gawain blinked, and smiled. “Ah. Well… I once walked around the wall of the Keep at home, which was a bit narrower than that and a lot further. It’s true my mother went berserk, and I thought she was going to wallop my backside all the way to Northpoint and back, but walk it I did.”

  “Then let us hope for the sake of your royal backside your lady possesses a somewhat more phlegmatic disposition when she sees you on the wall of that channel, my lord.”

  “I’ll just have to cross that bridge when we get to it. This one will have to do for now.
”

  Gawain adjusted the sword over his back, scraped his boots across the grating, and with a final smile for the captain and the scout, stepped off the prow and onto the side of the caisson gate. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped onto the side wall walkway of the aqueduct, and studiously keeping his gaze fixed ahead, began walking, and humming to himself under his breath.

  The wheel goes ‘round and ‘round and ‘round,

  Hmm-hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm! Hmmf!

  A quick glance down to his right showed the water in the aqueduct to be clear, almost crystal, the dull gleam of metal shining up from the channel floor. There were scrapes in the side wall to his right which testified to ancient mishaps, barge-men in a hurry perhaps, careless of such minor collisions.

  Hmm-hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm! Hmmf!

  It occurred to him then that the last people through the channel may well have been the elves who had dwelled below, together with the last survivors fleeing the city in the south. In such circumstances, bumps and scrapes along the aqueduct would probably be the last thing on the barge-men’s minds.

  Hmm-hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm! Hmmf!

  North, beyond the staging pool, the canal ran broad, straight and level, but in the distance Gawain could see that in places the ridge rose up either side of the great water road. The channel in which it ran had been cut deep in the rock to keep the water level, rather than relying on locks as had been the case in the south. The forest bubbled up either side of the ridge, but on its rockier slopes trees were sparse, and shrubs more common. Grasses too. The horses would eat as well as any goat which made its home along this route.

  Hmm-hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm! Phew! Gawain’s boots crunched as he stepped off the metal aqueduct wall onto the rock of the ridge, and once on secure ground he quickened his pace to the signalling hut by the lock gate. There, he could see the empty pool clearly, mooring posts forlorn and abandoned. The water either side of the lock gate was level, and to his casual glance all seemed in order. He heaved on the latch-handle and swung back the heavy elven steel door, and was confronted by a curious metal tube fixed to the wall, a bell, and a lever. A faded but legible pictogram on the wall explained all, and he rocked the lever back and forth three times.

  A small puff of dust erupted from the flared end of the tube, and suddenly Arramin’s voice could be heard, thin and tinny, and far off, but audible, coming from the tube.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  Gawain stepped forward and placed his mouth near the opening of the tube as the pictogram instructed and replied. “Hello.”

  “Aha! Oh, dear me! My lord! My lord can you hear me?”

  “I can, Arramin.”

  “Hurrah! Oh my, oh this is splendid! I can hear you too!”

  “Hurrah,” Gawain replied. “What exactly did you want, Arramin? Is it urgent?”

  “Is it what?”

  “Urgent. Is it urgent?”

  “Is what urgent, my lord?”

  Gawain sighed. “What do you want, Arramin? Why did you signal?”

  “Ah! I understand! How is the water in the aqueduct?”

  “It’s good. It all looks functional. Do you want us to test the gates?”

  “Eh?”

  “Do you want us to test the gates?”

  “Do they seem damaged?”

  “No.”

  “Excellent. Test if you wish. Open and close. Wheel will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  “Very well.”

  “Gates must be closed before wheel turns!”

  “I understand!”

  “Wave three times when ready to descend!”

  “Will do.”

  “Goodbye!”

  “Goodbye,” Gawain sighed, and thought he heard delighted laughter echoing up the tube before he stepped out of the hut and closed the door.

  Speaking tubes, he thought to himself, striding across to the lock gate and eyeing the mechanism. Speaking tubes, boat-lifts, canals, barrels of steel that can preserve food and oils for centuries, flameless fires, and all of it made a thousand years ago. What more surprises do elves possess which we know nothing about, or did they abandon it all in the aftermath of Calhaneth? Did they retreat to the safety of tradition after the horror that yet lingers in the city of the south had been unleashed?

  Gawain cranked the handle, watching as the lock gate opened. There was a slight ripple as water moved from the pond into the aqueduct channel, but nothing alarming. He waved at Tyrane and Terryn watching from the prow of barge, then cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled:

  “Testing the gates!”

  He received a wave in return, and continued cranking, watching as the two men in the barge started manhandling the inner caisson gate. He hoped they wouldn’t think it necessary to pole the barge through, but it probably wouldn’t matter one way or the other if they did.

  There was so much he didn’t know about elves, even though he was married to one. And not just any elfin was his bride, but Thalin-Elayeen, daughter of Thal-Hak, Lord and King of Elvendere. He’d spent time in her brother Gan’s province in the east of the great forest, while Elayeen had nursed him back to health. He’d even trespassed into Elvenheth, where no man is permitted to tread, to hack his way through the circle of faranthroth, and also through an elfwizard servant of Morloch, to rescue his dying beloved and carry her to safety.

  And still he knew so little of them and their ways. He and Elayeen had been so wrapped up in each other, and so at the mercy of Morloch-made circumstances, they hadn’t had much time to explore each other’s history. Nor was it possible now, with Elayeen in the grip of the eldengaze.

  Gawain sighed as the gate came to a halt, wide open, and satisfied that all was well, he began cranking the wheel in the opposite direction, closing it. A glance south along the channel showed the prow of the barge in the caisson, both gates wide open there, and the two men of Callodon struggling with a barge-pole to draw the aqueduct gate closed again.

  The trouble with elves is, Gawain thought, they’re too bloody elvish. What was it Allyn and his daughter had said, so very long ago on the Jarn road?

  "Elves! You'll not see them, but you might see their arrows all right, if you set foot in Elvendere! Never was a land so jealously guarded."

  "Everyone knows that to set foot in Elvendere is never to return."

  And yet, Gawain also knew that Morloch had worked long and hard to keep it that way, and much of that elvish isolation was the result of corrupted elfwizards working to keep the kindred races apart, and so perhaps to prevent the Circle of Raheen unleashing its ancient power against the Dragon’s Teeth.

  And yet, Gawain thought, there were few if any elves who cared to dare to defy those elfwizards, and were content to remain hidden and withdrawn from the wider world. Why?

  With a solid clunk the gate locked shut, and Gawain secured the control wheel. He held up a hand, and received two thumbs-up signals and a wave from the men aboard the barge. Their gates were secure again, too. At the signalling hut, Gawain rocked the lever and waited for Arramin’s voice. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  “Is all well?”

  “All is well. All gates are in order.”

  “Excellent. Wheel will be ready shortly. I shall signal when ready.”

  “There are no barges here.”

  “Say once more?”

  “There are no barges here.”

  “No empty vessels in the pool?”

  “Yes. There are no empty vessels in the pool.”

  “I understand.”

  “I shall return to the barge.”

  “Very well! Goodbye!”

  Gawain smiled. “Goodbye.”

  The door secured, and a last look around, and then on a sudden impulse he strode to the lock gate. The channel was perhaps sixteen feet across, the gate somewhat wider since it opened inwards into the staging pool. The gates, two leaves joining at the centre, were about eight inches wide, and of metal. Gawain s
hrugged, and stepped onto the gate, and began walking to the east bank. If, by some unlikely misfortune he should slip and fall, well then he’d get wet. Hardly a catastrophe…

  He didn’t slip, and once on the east bank he strode across the rocky ground surrounding the blue-stone edging of the pool and gazed down at the forest. The slope was gentle enough, and the trees thinned nearer the top, but the growth towards the bottom was lush, and patterns in the canopy spoke of streams, or perhaps broader waterways which would make the ground soft. Too soft indeed to transport massive structures of elven steel. One strange feature stood out immediately though. A mile or two to the north, and near the bottom of the slope of the canal ridge, what seemed to be a large basin-shaped depression, hundreds of yards across, filled with trees certainly, but it seemed as though a vast circular mass of land had subsided, dragging a great bowl of forest with it.

  It might take Arramin and his escort some time to catch up with the barge, but the eastern route definitely looked to be passable for men and horses alike. But Arramin and Tyrane had been right, the simpler way up was the boat-lift, and now they knew it worked, it was simply a matter of employing it. They had no choice, really, with no vessels conveniently moored in the staging pool. In retrospect, Gawain realised it had been foolish to imagine there would be, with elves living below all year around to operate and maintain the boat-lift there’d be no point in keeping surplus vessels above as well as in the pool below.

  Gawain crossed the gate once more, a little cockily he had to admit when his boot skidded on the smooth metal surface, but he kept his footing. For some reason, he preferred to return to the barge along the same route he’d taken from it, though he couldn’t say why. He paused briefly on the aqueduct walkway where the cliff ended and fresh air began, and looked down. Elayeen was standing on the very edge of the dockside looking south down the canal, Kahla beside her of course. There was no sign of anyone else, the horses grazing on the sparse grasses at the tree line to the west. With a deep breath and a sigh, he fixed his gaze on the prow of the barge, and the two men watching him there, some sixty feet away.