The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger
Page 13
The first few hundred yards were almost deserted. I only saw a few Alka working or meditating or hunting. They seemed to take little notice of us, as if humans and horses dropped by every day.
Then we came to the first big clearing and I learned the true meaning of beauty.
In my previous encounter with the Tree People, in the jungles of Farise, they had aided us and supplied us, but we never got close to their hidden cities. Oh, they invited us into the treehouses that they set up at various points in the jungle, small, elegant affairs that looked hardly strong enough to hold one of them but were quite capable of supporting two or three heavy humans in armor. They used these shelters as lookout posts, hunting cabins, and travelers’ huts. But we never saw where the Alka Alon really lived.
“Behold,” Zagor said, motioning to the display in front of us, “The Hidden City of Amadia.”
I was speechless. I always considered the Alka Alon to be primitive, yet sophisticated. Amadia convinced me that the Tree People only affected to be primitive, out of choice.
The towers at the edge were made of living trees, soaring a hundred feet in the air, with bridges running between them at various levels. The trees near the interior supported large, globe-shaped structures like wasps’ nests or beehives, made of a natural-looking material that I couldn’t identify. Round windows let in the sun at various points and small balconies jutted out from the bulbs, allowing tree-top gardens in clay pots to add even further to the green.
In the very center I saw one huge tree, at least a hundred and fifty feet tall and at least fifteen feet thick, upon which was the most massive ball of all. Obviously a last line of defense and a central civic building, this central globe dwarfed the others by many orders of magnitude. Around the edge of the whole urban grove was a swiftly running stream that seemed to flow from one side of the circle to the other without the interference of gravity.
And the whole place was so tightly enchanted that I had to drop the magesight lest I be blinded.
“Come, gentlemen. I will lead you to the Hall of Welcoming,” Ardrey said, gently. We followed dumbly, awed by the majesty of the place.
He led us over the moat, across an elegantly arched bridge and suddenly, as if a door had opened, we heard the singing that some spell kept contained from the outside world. It was glorious, thousands of voices singing hundreds of melodies all at the same time. It was better than a symphony of flutes and harps. It mimicked and improved upon the songs of birds, the tinkle of streams, the laughter of children.
Ardrey led us to a stairway that climbed the trunk of one of the interior trees, bidding us to leave the horses to their own devices. I had no problem doing that. There was no way that they could get into trouble here, unless they took a liking to one of the trees that someone was living in. We climbed the mighty stair and entered the underbelly of one of the globes, and I was surprised to find it almost as bright inside as we had been in the morning sun outdoors. The walls were translucent, and the windows were more for ventilation than illumination. To add to the light there were luminous globes, like lamps with a dozen wicks, set every few yards.
We finally came to the Hall of Welcome, where we were attended by several Alka Alon, mostly females, who provided us with sweet water, juices and tasty baked morsels for which my father would have traded one of his children (probably my sister Urah) to get the recipe. There were exactly three human-style chairs there made of simple wood yet more comfortable than any chair I could remember. And there was a fire in a central stone pit that warmed the place slightly, provided little light and less smoke, yet made the whole place seem friendly and alive.
“I shall leave you here now to refresh yourselves while I return to my post. Do not worry— Ameras will be along presently to escort you to the Aronin.” With an elegant bow, he departed.
“Damn,” I said, under my breath. “I had no idea . . .”
“Few mortals do,” agreed Zagor. “The Tree People treasure their privacy and go to great lengths to bar any incursions into their realm. Mortals who wander into their forest are rarely seen again.”
“But you did it,” accused Tyndal.
“Aye, lad, and I was but a year or so older than you. I lived here for almost a year, though it seemed but a day. They kept me as a pet to be coddled and played with before they returned me to Malin. They let me return, at need, but to do so only makes the longing worse. The music, the laughter, the magic of this place makes the other places in the world seem dull. But that is why they do not tolerate mortals for more than a few months, at most. You can grow addicted to this, need it so badly that you would do anything to get it. Yet if you did live here all the time, you would soon go mad because of your own mortality. No amount of magic can make you into one of them.”
“Who is this Aronin that we are going to see? Is he a priest, a mage, or a king?”
“All of these and more,” the hedgemage answered. “The Aronin founded this colony thousands of years ago, and he has nurtured and protected it. All the Tree Folk have one to look to. He is the master of their magic, a kind of embodiment of the forest itself. He is ageless and a great master of wisdom. He sees into the past, the futures, and into the realms of darkness and light.”
That last bit was straight from one of the Alka Alon epic poems I remembered studying in school. The Realms of Darkness and Light were where the Alkan culture-hero Amioril traveled to gather allies against the demons of legend. I guess Zagor picked that up here – to my knowledge, he was illiterate.
We sat a while in silence, staring at the fire, drinking from wooden cups and nibbling the wonderful confections. I almost felt like going to sleep when a very tall (over five feet) Alkan woman came in. Unlike the Watcher and the attendants we had seen before, she had long golden hair and a body that seemed more mature, less child-like. In fact, her body so reminded me of a female human that I became suddenly uncomfortable with the naked display of her nipples. I had never felt arousal associated with a nonhuman. I’ve heard rumors of those who have, but I also have heard rumors that Goodman Silao’s sons take their pleasure more with their sheep than their wives.
Ameras was achingly beautiful, her long and graceful neck supporting her glorious face like a slender tree trunk. I swallowed hard and realized my heart was pounding as I jumped to my feet.
“Welcome, gentlemen. I trust you have been well treated?”
We all nodded like dumb animals. “Excellent. I know your errand to our realms must be urgent for you to have traveled so far. The Aronin has foreseen this and is expecting you. Come,” she commanded, and beckoned us to follow. She looked pretty human from behind, as well.
The path we took was circuitous, and Ameras explained that it was partially for defense, partially for enjoying the view that the paths between houses were made so. What was odd was the fact that we never seemed to climb us – no stairs or inclines that I could see – but several times I made the mistake of looking down and, after the vertigo passed, I realized just how far up in the city we were.
We passed homes and workshops and balls full of happy, squealing children on our way to the central palace. I was not surprised to see the entrance flanked by two serious-looking Alka Alon, carrying bows and spears, who eyed us with suspicion and watchfulness – the first negative emotion I had detected here. I was surprised that I didn’t see more, to be honest – they were, after all, guarding the embodiment of the forest. The bowed low before Ameras as we passed.
The interior of this ball was huge, enough for a great gathering of Tree People. I’d almost say that it was empty, except that there were several dozen Alka Alon running around on errands or conversing quietly, or just singing. I looked around for a throne or some other sign or symbol of authority, but I saw none. I guess the Tree Folk didn’t do things that way.
“He will be with you in a moment, gentlemen. He is in his inner chamber, preparing. Tell me, is it true that our cousins, the gurvani, have attacked again?” she asked, sadly, as if she were
hoping that it wasn’t true.
“Aye, milady Ameras,” I said in my best Court voice. “They raided my village, Minden Hall, two nights ago. It is largely about them that we come. But you called them ‘your cousins.’ What do you mean by that?”
She smiled and answered as if indulging a child. I didn’t mind; her smile was beautiful enough to forgive a thousand insults. “It is a pity that your people are so short-lived, Master Spellmonger. Else they would have remembered the truth. But it is a long story.”
“I can think of nothing more important than listening to your beautiful voice, milady. I would love to hear the story of your people.”
She smiled at the flattery – some things go beyond species. “Very well. Many, many centuries ago, as it is measured among Men, and long before you were spawned by the Void, there were only three peoples in the world who were Callidore’s Children: the Alon, the Vundel, whom you call the Sea People, and the Delioli, the ones your people called giants, before they hunted them to the brink of extinction. This was long, long before Man came to these shores.
“The Alon were the lords of the land. Over time our great cities went to war with each other, and the very land was split and divided, and divided again, until the peoples of the Alon were sundered from one another. Thus parted, their paths diverted, and across the millennia the Alon became several peoples. The Alka Alon, of course, remained the truest to the old Alon in both form and culture. But the others strayed far from their roots.
“The far northern mountain tribes of Alon grew less in stature and in lifespan as they endured many hardships, though their numbers increased. They were sundered from most of the other Alon. They took their name from their ancestral spirit, a famous Alon general named Gurvos, who had led their people out of the southern wars and into the safety of the mountains.
“They hid from their enemies in caves, and lived in rude huts, and learned the secrets of metal from their neighbors, the Alon Dradrien, those you call the Iron Folk. That was to prove the Dradrien’s undoing, for the gurvani, went to war with them and drove them deep under the earth. Only a few clans of them still hide in the roots of the mountains, and they breed slowly, though they are long-lived.
“Then there are those Alon who survived the cataclysms by abandoning the old ways and instead hugged the riverbanks, the Tal Alon. You call them the River Folk or the Hill Folk, and they are small, simple creatures who farm and are eager to adopt the ways of Man. There are the Hulka Alon, who roam the Great Valley of the North, and the Gora Alon of the deserts. And there are still others, races yet unknown to your people. But they were all Alon, once. Therefore the gurvani are our cousins, though they are poor relations.”
All this was news to me, but I nodded my head like I understood what she was saying. Trolls, I had thought, were legend, despite the number of tales I was told as a child about them. The Sea Folk I had seen myself, for they still swam in great numbers around the coasts and harbors and traded with us. I also knew about the near-mythic Karshak and Dradrien kingdoms deep in the Kuline Range, to the East, because they aided my ancestors against the Magocracy before fading back into the impassable mountains. To my knowledge no one had seen a living dwarf in two generations.
The River Folk were well known to me. Sometimes derogatorily called “Rat Folk” or “Rabbit Folk,” they clung to the banks of rivers and hilltops, living underground or in crude little thatched huts. There was a village of them just a few miles downriver of Talry. Some of them were civilized, and they were quick to adopt the ways of humans, when allowed to. They were great vegetable farmers. They would also steal anything that wasn’t nailed to a tree. They had a reputation for petty thievery that was only half deserved, and were often found “borrowing” stuff from peasants. Dad used to trade his extras to them occasionally for nuts and berries, which they excelled at collecting.
And the others? There were rumors, legends and myths. I’d never heard of the Hulka Alon or the Gora Alon, but then my experience was limited to Alshar and Castal, with a little Farise and six weeks I spent with a classmate on her estate in the East. From anyone else I would have insisted on proof of their existence, but if Ameras wanted to tell me that she had a cow that gave wine instead of milk, I’d believe her and buy a cup.
“I see,” I nodded sagely.
“Bide, the Aronin arrives,” she said, her eyes pointing the way. My eyes followed, if for no other reason than to keep hers company. They lighted on the tallest Alka Alon I’d ever seen, taller than Ameras by five or six inches. He, too, had long golden hair tied into an impressive pony tail, and on his head he wore a garland of tiny white flowers. His face was stern and wise and as handsome as Ameras’ was beautiful. The Aronin wore a wide belt around his waist and a dark red cloak of some material I couldn’t identify. He carried an ornate spear like a staff of office.
“My lord,” Zagor said, bowing low. I did the same, as did Tyndal. “I thank you for seeing us.”
“I have been expecting you,” said the Aronin. His voice sounded deeper than the others, and a bit gruff, but no less full of grace. “Young Zagor, you and I shall speak later. Right now my attention needs to be with the Spellmonger.” With that he motioned to me to follow him, which I did. Tyndal, thankfully, took the hint and stayed put. In fact, the way he was looking at Ameras told me it was unlikely that he would leave her side for anything.
The Aronin led me up a narrow ramp and into a much smaller chamber. It had the same simplicity of design that the others shared, but there were boxes and bags of leather and cloth scattered about, and there was a large area full of cushions off to one side, where he led me. We were seated and he poured two glass goblets full of some potent but soothing liquor.
“I foresaw your arrival here, Spellmonger,” he began, after staring at me for a few moments. “It bodes ill for my people that you have come, but I will give what counsel I may.”
“How does it bode ill for your people, my lord?”
“Our cousins have risen in their might, once again, having discovered their strength. This time they will not be easily defeated. They will come, and come, Spellmonger, until the Valley below is a black sea of their faces.”
“It was only a raid,” I protested. Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true.
“The gurvani do not raid so and never into this valley. It is sacred to them.”
“Sacred? I’ve noticed a few artifacts . . .” I said, remembering the Goblin Stone Alya showed to me.
“Among the gurvani there is no more sacred place. Gurvos was born here, millennia ago, and blessed by their gods. That is why they come.”
“Uh, if they wanted it so badly, why haven’t they come before now? Man has been here since the end of the Goblin Wars.”
“A long time to you, a short time to us. But the gurvani, they have waited and prepared for generations for this day. They will drive your people from the valley, for they have grievances with you for past wrongs. They will remake the valley into a mighty fortress from which they will war on all humankind. So I have foreseen. And when they do so, they will war on my people, for they forget our ancient kinship, and they will drive my people from this place of refuge and force us to once again be part of the outer world.”
That was an appalling notion. Not only did I not want to see this beautiful place destroyed, as well as my adopted home in Boval, but I also didn’t want to see the valley turned into a staging area for an invasion of the Duchies. I couldn’t see them standing against the combined might of all Five, but it would take months, if not years, to organize a decent resistance and bring that kind of military might to play.
“My lord Aronin, how can the gurvani come against us in those kind of numbers? The attack on Minden Hall was nearly two hundred strong, and those were defeated. Surely they have neither the numbers nor the organization to do so much damage?”
“The war-party that attacked your huts was a mere test of their power, not intended on invasion as much as destruction and terror. Our cou
sins have been planning this for a long, long time, Spellmonger, since long before you were born. They have hollowed out breeding pits in their warrens, and they have made huge smithies deep underground to prepare. Their numbers are once again high, though crowded, and they are led by a war-leader long dead.”
Now that took me aback.
He proceeded to tell me a long tale about how my ancestors, after they had conquered the Magocracy, had turned their eyes West.
Back then, the present-day Duchies of Castal and Alshar were settled by humans only along the coasts, while the interior was dominated by the Alon races – notably the gurvani. Their settlements in the interior were small, and they didn’t like us as neighbors, so they fled from the fertile lands we sought, for the most part. Year by year we forced them back, taking over lands and hunting them like animals, until they had only a few “civilized” refuges in the mountains – Boval Valley being one.
It was from here that their last, desperate counter-attack had been organized under two brothers: a war-leader named Grogror and a mighty shaman named Sheruel. Grogror was a great leader who united the gurvani tribes under his kingship, while Sheruel tapped into the forces of Irionite and unleashed horrible plagues and magical beasts on human kind. They gathered their forces for one final push, and about two hundred years ago they came streaming forth from the Valley and their other warrens to strike at the major strongholds of Alshar.
It was a nasty, brutal war, with quarter neither asked nor given. The nocturnal gurvani made every night a hell of screams and flames, and every day the gleaming steel of the men and their thundering horses hunted down the goblins and destroyed them utterly when they found them. Shaman and magi strove for the upper hand and caught many innocents on both sides in the crossfire. Rarely were pitched battles fought. Mostly it was a series of bloody skirmishes against isolated settlements on both sides.