by C S Marks
No one spoke for a few moments, as Ali and Salastor considered. Then Salastor spoke: “We shall weigh this matter carefully, Gaelen. For my part, I’m convinced that we must prevent the greater evil. Now we must craft our proposal to the people, and convince them it is in their best interests to put aside all their other affairs to build a great wall. That will not be an easy task. Some believe the threat of the Scourge is exaggerated; others wonder if it exists at all. To be frank, there are those who do not trust you or your Company. They wonder whether you have some dark purpose in being here.”
“What dark purpose could we possibly have?” asked Gaelen. “How would building the City’s defenses benefit us? What ulterior motive would it serve?”
“All I can tell you is that some of our people are suggesting it,” said Salastor. “Some have even proposed reasoning with the enemy, and these ideas have followers. They may be difficult to convince.”
“Can you not simply order them?” asked Gaelen, who served a king in the Greatwood without question.
“We are a people dedicated to the free exchange of ideas and respect for the views of others,” said Salastor. “I’m afraid I will have to persuade them.”
“If you will allow it, I will aid you,” said Gaelen. “The time has come for the people of the Silver City to hear of the savagery that will soon approach their gates, and I am one of very few who has seen it with my own eyes.” And I am the only soul in Alterra to have looked at it through the eyes of Gorgon Elfhunter.
The war-council was reconvened and informed of Gaelen’s insight. They reacted predictably; a few scoffed, but most did not. One who sat upon the council was the Citadel’s Master of Numbers. He was very clever at designing structures, and he wondered whether there might be another way. “What about heavy steel bracing, such that the gates cannot break?” he asked.
“Steel may not break, but it will bend,” said Gaelen. “It has to be stone…tall and thick such that it cannot be moved.”
“You say your insight is based on some strange smell you encountered?” said another man, who had been introduced as a master builder. “Ridiculous. What in the world could the enemy be carrying? A stinking battering-ram? We do not have the time to build such a structure. Our people are unused to such heavy labors.”
“Forgive me,” said Gaelen, “but they had better get used to them. They face a long and difficult trial.”
“You ask much of them, She-elf,” said the man darkly. He did not care for her directness, and was of the opinion that she did not show proper respect. “You are a stranger here, and do not understand our ways.”
“I ask only that they not lie down and die,” she replied. “There is no time for debate. You must act, for your enemy draws near. What path will you choose?”
Ali turned to the master builder. “I am not in any way ridiculous,” he said, “and I trust her. Whether the Scourge has a stinking battering-ram or something far more dire, we must be ready. I say we vote.”
“Will you favor this plan, or no?” said Salastor. “Choose now. For myself, I say yes.”
The vote was called, and most stood in favor beside Ali. Yet those who had voted against the plan were muttering about the foolishness of “Ali’s folly.” Ali was undaunted.
He turned to the Master of Numbers. “You are charged with the design of the wall. Remember that it cannot be completely closed until all of our own defenders are back inside.” Then he turned to the others. “We have a new task before us, and the people must agree. You must prepare for it, and you must continue to perform all the other duties with which you are charged.”
With those words the Council disbanded for the day, knowing that they had a monumental task before them and precious little time to achieve it.
Chapter 22: ALI’S FOLLY
Every stonecutter and mason in the Citadel had been summoned and told of the plan, which would require untold hours as well as a small army of laborers. They set about the task of carving heavy blocks of stone from the nearby cliffs and moving them to within easy reach of the gates, but until the design of the wall was completed they could not set them into place. Fortunately, a number of blocks had already been cut and stacked for use in a planned expansion of the library, but the wall would require many, many more. Horses and men worked day and night with little rest.
The Master of Numbers called upon his best builders to help craft the wall. It was a clever design, with blocks set over and around a small, steel-braced doorway through which the mounted defenders could ride. It would be massive—nearly seventy feet tall and over twenty feet thick—and no force of men could have moved it. The Master Builder shook his head, whistling through his dark mustache. “This requires more like three years, not three months,” he muttered.
The wall would be set into the living stone of the cliffs, and it would be well over two hundred feet long. There would be battlements surmounting it where archers could release their arrows in relative safety, even if the gates were breached.
Gaelen stood with Ali, as the Minister of Commerce tried for the last time to convince them that the gates would withstand any attack. “They are crafted from the strongest timber—nearly seven feet thick—as old and strong as the City itself,” he said.
“They are impressive, but they have not been asked to endure such a trial as they will face,” said Gaelen simply.
“And what trial, short of an impossibly large battering-ram, could possibly shatter them?”
“I don’t know, but we had best be ready for it,” she replied, in a voice that was maddeningly sure. They would never convince her otherwise. She quirked a smile at Ali. “If I’m wrong, neither of us will ever hear the end of it.”
“If you are wrong, I shall rejoice anyway,” said Ali, “for it will mean that the Scourge does not wield enough power to smash the Great Gates. No doubt we will both be thrown from the top of our own wall. I have heard them calling it ‘Ali’s folly’ already.” He shook his head in disgust. “So be it, then.”
With the construction of the wall underway, Gaelen had set herself to a new task. She worried that there might be places along the tall cliffs where the Scourge might gain access, and she wanted to scout along them and make certain they could not be easily breached. The ones flanking the City were over two hundred feet tall and nearly vertical—no one could scale them. Any attempt would be met by a storm of arrows. There was no way to gain the top save by flying there, but Gaelen wanted to be certain. She spent the next fortnight in careful examination of nearly four miles of rock formations, both from the top and from along the base. Each night she returned to Rogond, who had been spending his days in training the City Guard, improving their skills with the sword and the spear. Some were quite skilled already, and they would fight well, but there were many in need of improvement.
The forges ran day and night, and the streets resounded with the sound of hammers upon steel. Fletchers and arrow-smiths had little rest, for Lord Salastor had ordered thousands of new arrows. Nelwyn and Galador had been of great help in this, as well as in training the City’s archers.
Hallagond and Estle spent much of their time together. Though the preparations seemed to be going well, Hallagond was worried. “We need more seasoned battle-commanders,” he said. “We can train the rank-and-file, but we need men of experience to direct them. I don’t know where we will find such men in this place.”
Estle shook her head. “I expect that every man of experience has already been called upon,” she said, “and there are precious few of them. I almost wish Azori and his men were here. They would have been of great help, if they had not all been thrown into prison by now.”
Hallagond’s face brightened, as a thought struck him. “Do they even have a prison here?”
“Of course they do. Well…they must have! I don’t know,” said Estle. “Even the enlightened may stray from lawful paths.”
“Let’s find out at once, and then I will want to go there,” said Hallagond. “Where battl
e commanders are lacking, rogues may serve.”
“Oh, the Council will surely be as enamored of that idea as they are of Gaelen’s useless wall,” said Estle. “In my opinion, the effort used in building ‘Ali’s folly’ would have served better elsewhere.”
Hallagond had heard this opinion from her before. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Gaelen, it was simply that she considered the Elves much too driven by visions and vague mysticism. She preferred things she could see and touch. She did not believe it possible that any object large and heavy enough to smash the gates could be transported across hundreds of miles of open desert.
What Estle didn’t know, what no one in the Citadel knew, was that the object was approaching the City under its own power.
The Scourge had indeed been guided by someone who knew the Citadel very well. He had been a citizen once, although he had been born elsewhere. Neither his name nor his situation was of importance, only that he could lead the Scourge right up to the Great Gates. Once the City had been taken, he had been promised a reward and a position of influence there. He had been told that he would want for nothing. Of course, the Scourge’s commanders intended to kill him the moment they reached the City. It was his just reward for betraying his own people, in their opinion.
He had painted a most attractive picture of the prize that lay within the City walls—the spoils would be fine beyond compare! He had warned that the Great Gates were as thick and solid as tree-trunks, and would be very difficult to break down, but this concerned the commanders not at all, for they possessed a thing that no gates made of wood could possibly withstand.
Gaelen had sensed it in the Scourge’s encampment...a stench that, though unfamiliar, had triggered in her an undeniable feeling of foreboding. When she first passed through the City gates, she had marveled at their impressive construction, yet the feeling of foreboding grew. Listening to the war-council had made everything clear—the Scourge would break down the gates, and the City would be defeated by something their forces would not withstand. She did not know precisely what it was, or how she knew of it, but she was certain the City would fall. Without the new wall, all would be lost.
Rogond and Nelwyn wondered how it was that Gaelen, who was not normally given to premonition or to mysterious insight, held such certainty. It was just as well that they did not know, for if Gaelen was right, and the new wall held, the City would have been saved by none other than Gorgon Elfhunter.
When Gorgon had finally confronted Gaelen in the Barrens long ago, he had drawn forth his mirror, hoping to see himself through her eyes. This action had mesmerized and bewildered them both for a few moments, and much had passed between them. Many of the insights and perceptions held by each were given to the other, and though neither was truly aware of them, these thoughts now lay deep within. Therefore, when Gaelen first detected the stench of the thing in the encampment, she perceived its nature, even though she did not truly understand it. She knew these things because Gorgon knew them—this stench was not unfamiliar to him.
There were many foul and oppressive odors in Lord Wrothgar’s black pits, but this one was distinctive. It smelled of rotten meat and sulfur, with a dank undercurrent that reminded Gorgon of the foul musk given off by serpents when they are caught and struggling for their lives.
This made some sense, as the beasts that gave off such a reek were akin to serpents, though they were much, much larger. Even as younglings they would dwarf a horse, and when fully grown they could lay waste to nearly any force of men or of Elves. Yet they grew very, very slowly; the one that moved now with the Scourge was hundreds of years old, and it had not yet come into full maturity.
How dragons had come to be in the lands of the Ravani desert, so far from their usual home, was not known. There must have been others that traveled there, even during the Time of Mystery, and this one was the spawn of their descendants. It was apparent that they had roamed the desert lands for many generations, because they had been altered over time, and were now quite different from their few remaining counterparts in the north. The Great Worm Lokai this one had been named, and he was of masculine gender—a fearsome creature with many weapons, including venom issuing from his tail-spines and teeth.
He was winged, but would never be able to fly, as his leathery grey wings had been reduced to simple-but-effective cooling devices. Normally carried quite flat against the body, they could be extended over the back to provide shade. When the dragon was moving he would sometimes rear up on his hind feet, aided by the huge wings, and raise great air-currents to cool his belly. This was an impressive and fearsome sight, for the animal would stir up a storm of whirling dust and sand about himself, often adding a short blast of fire from his ugly, shovel-nosed snout.
Lokai was mostly a dull grey in color, with scales roughened like those of an adder, but his belly-scales were bright salmon-pink and as smooth as glass, though they were rarely seen. Wisps of fetid steam rose from his mouth and nostrils. Despite the wings and fiery breath, he appeared more akin to a large lizard, and was neither clever nor especially swift. He was, in fact, quite unintelligent when compared with the fire-drakes and winged dragons of the northlands. This was a good thing for the Scourge; otherwise they could never have kept what little control they had.
When Azori, Estle, and Gaelen had gone into the Scourge’s encampment, the dragon had been resting and they had not seen him. He could, by wriggling his body and wings, raise a layer of sand over himself, rendering him nearly invisible. When they observed the butchering and dismembering of the helpless captives, they had assumed from the remarks made by the butchers that the flesh would be consumed by the army. In fact, the Scourge took captives only to feed them to Lokai, whose appetite seemed to wax and wane with the moon. The dragon would not eat for several weeks, and then he would demand daily feedings requiring the sacrifice of at least twenty human lives, sometimes more. The Scourge did not stoop to eating the flesh of their own kind, although that knowledge would have brought little comfort to the Citadel. Lokai would feast very well should the defenses fail.
The Scourge took excellent care of their dreaded weapon, for he was useful in many ways. They used the venom to tip their blades, arrows, and spear-points, such that a small wound would bring agonizing death. Lokai’s immense strength could be harnessed to draw an enormous sledge, upon which countless water-barrels were carried. But perhaps his most valuable talent was in the ability not only to find water, but to burrow deep into sand, shale, or rock to obtain it. It was through the efforts of Lokai that the Scourge had been able to cross the desert wastes, and there were now several new, deep water-holes scattered behind them.
Lokai had been found as a hatchling and raised among evil men—he knew no other master. The Scourge took strength and confidence from the dragon’s presence, even though he often killed their own warriors, for he was ill-tempered and unpredictable. Their war-cry, translated, was: “The Great Scourge comes. Our foes wither in flames!”
The creature was coming into his prime, and no weapon would dent his armor. Even his cruel, yellow eyes were covered with thick, glass-like shields that protected them from the windblown sands. His teeth were as long as sword blades, and his claws were enormous, deadly spades that could tear into solid rock. He appeared to be invincible.
Those unfortunates who drew the unhappy task of caring for Lokai lived greatly shortened lives. Often the dragon would crush them, or snap them in two as they yoked and harnessed him, but by far the most perilous task was the harvesting of venom, either from the tail-spines or from the mouth. Only the rear fangs held venom, and in order to collect it one needed to encourage Lokai to bite down upon a huge wooden pole held by two trembling attendants. This was usually accomplished while the beast was feeding. The post enraged him and he would lash his head from side to side, venom dripping from the fangs in the back of his mouth. At this point, the collector would leap forward, grab the hand-hold on the wooden post, climb in between Lokai’s jaws, and gather the veno
m in a large, copper vessel. Needless to say, this position was not envied. Fortunately, a single collection would treat many weapons. The Scourge had lost many collectors, for if Lokai managed to vent a blast of flame while some unfortunate was still in his mouth, that unfortunate would die horribly.
Without Lokai the Scourge’s army would not have seemed nearly as fearsome, though it would still have been quite fearsome enough for those whose lives it had ended. At any rate, it was a good thing that the people of the Citadel worked day and night to build “Ali’s Folly”, and that Gaelen Taldin had acquired more from Gorgon Elfhunter than an undying hatred of him.
Now the Scourge moved closer to the Citadel, pacing itself according to the whims of Lokai. It was the dragon that decided when they should move on, and how swiftly. Sometimes, when water had been found, Lokai would linger for a time, burrowing beneath the sand during the heat of the day and emerging by night. When he decided that he was ready to move westward, he would rouse himself, dragging the water-sledge, for as long as the darkness lasted. Lokai seemed to know when there would be long stretches of waterless waste, and these he crossed with tireless ease, stopping only to shelter from the worst of the midday sun. Although the Scourge had its own two-legged commanders, Lokai truly led them.
When the winds shifted and came out of the west, the dragon could taste of the air by waving his broad, slippery blue-grey tongue slowly to and fro. The tongue would disappear back into the beast’s mouth, and he would rise from the sand, straightening his massive forelegs and giving forth a loud snort of steam. Lokai was on the scent, and the Scourge’s war-lords contemplated killing their Citadel guide right then, for they guessed that he would no longer be needed. They smiled to his face and grinned wickedly at his back, at last deciding to leave him alive until they actually gained the City, just in case.
