“True enough,” Flatfoot said. “The horses were valued to them only as food. I also saw with my own eyes that they eat Saurians after ritually sacrificing them.”
“I see. So…what are you trying to tell us?” Ailric asked. The knight had grown used to Flatfoot’s rambling way of approaching topics, and knew just how to help him get to what he was trying to say.
“The swampbeasts were not at war with the Saurians over control of the marshes,” the gnome said. “The swampbeasts, I do believe, are but wandering raiders. I contend that the Saurians settled in the swamps a long time ago and this group of ‘swampbeasts’ came in only recently and starting preying on them. They took up residence in the ruins, perhaps even evicting the Saurians who may have been living there.”
“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn said from up in front, casting them a sly grin. I don’t know how you can conclude all of that, Sal. Surely you can provide us with reasons in support of these assertions!”
“Ach! Must you, laddie?” Ironhelm groaned under his breath.
“Oh, but indeed I can,” Flatfoot said, pretending not to hear the dwarf. “I have several pieces of evidence to support this belief. First, there is the aqueduct.”
“What of it?” Ailric said.
“It was functioning,” Flatfoot said. “After all those centuries in the swamps, yet it was still functioning perfectly and delivering cool and clean water to the very heart of those marshes. Someone kept up on repairs, kept it clear of debris, and kept the water flowing. Do you think it was those hairy monsters? Before you answer, I ask you to consider their weapons: Crudely formed clubs. I grant you that these weapons are effective given their great bulk, but would you not agree that any creature intelligent enough to keep that aqueduct running over the course of centuries would also be sufficiently smart to develop better weapons to use? Everything about their camp was so crudely-formed that I cannot believe they were responsible for keeping the aqueduct running. No, the swampbeasts came from somewhere else, perhaps the mountains.”
“Their thick fur would serve them well in the high mountains,” Ailric added.
“Indeed. Whatever the case and wherever they came from, they are not – strictly speaking, mind you – swampbeasts,” Flatfoot said. “That leads me to my next question. Namely, are the beasts perpetually nomadic by nature or did someone, or something, chase them out of their ancestral hunting grounds in the mountains and down into the marshes?”
“That’s a fascinating question,” Jorn said.
“You son of a bitch,” Ironhelm muttered, glaring at Jorn.
“I’d hate to see what could chase those things out of the mountains,” Jorn said.
“Ach! It’s all useless talk,” Ironhelm grumbled. “We survived the damned bloody things. I don’t give a gruk’s ass where they came from or why they were there.”
“Well, that’s just rude,” Flatfoot said. “We were merely discussing –”
“What’s that?” Jorn said, interrupting. He pointed off to the right, near the edge of the moors a few miles away. Atop one of the hills was something very tall and straight sticking up above the rolling terrain.
They all stopped, squinting and staring.
“It looks like some kind of structure,” Flatfoot said, his sharp gnomish eyes focusing on the object. “It’s a tower, and an awfully tall one at that. Yes, most definitely.”
Willock studied the object through his spyscope before lowering the instrument and handing it to Jorn.
“Never doubt the eyesight of a gnome,” Willock announced, handing the spyscope to Jorn. “It’s a tower, all right. Damnedest thing to see, so far out here.”
“I am beginning to see tha’ this whole valley was once anything but the wilderness it is now, laddies,” Ironhelm said, shrugging. “Aye, tis true. But I’ll wager it’s nothing more than an old watchtower. Aye, nothing to concern us in the least bit.”
Jorn peered through the scope at the distant tower. He recognized its slim profile as well as the lack of any ornament or windows along its entire length.
“I’ve seen this tower before,” he announced.
“Wha’ do you mean, laddie?” Ironhelm said.
“You’ve seen it, too,” Jorn said, tossing Ironhelm the spyscope. “Go ahead. Take a look. Don’t you remember? Five years ago, on the road from Falneth to Loc Goren. It was across the lake. This tower is identical in every detail.”
Ironhelm took a brief look, handing the spyscope back to Willock.
“It could be a similar tower, laddie,” the dwarf said, shrugging. “Aye, but I doubt it very much. Tha’ tower in Linlund is, um, a good seven hundred miles from here. This is just the ruins of some Guardian watchtower. Aye, tis true.”
“Grang’s balls!” Jorn said. “Come on, let’s take a closer look.”
“Ach! Tha’s a waste of time!” Ironhelm said.
“We are heading sort of that way already,” Jorn said. “Besides, it might give us a little shelter for the night. Don’t tell me you’re not a little curious.”
“Curiosity!” Ironhelm growled loudly. “Ach!”
_____
The sun was low on the horizon as they arrived at the base of the tower. It was at least a hundred feet tall, formed of smoothly-fit slabs of gray stone all the way to the top. The tower was a perfectly-shaped cylinder barely ten feet wide. It looked so thin it might blow over in a strong wind, yet it retained a certain appearance of solidity.
They looked it over carefully as they approached. A single opening at its base was the only marking along its surface except for a series of small window slits going up its entire length. The opening was a man-sized rectangle leading within. It reminded Jorn of a lighthouse, except where the beacon should have been at the top was a flat roof.
Cautiously approaching the silent edifice, Jorn watched for any movement from within. He saw nothing besides its dark silhouette against the setting sun.
“It’s just like the tower in Linlund,” he whispered.
“Indeed, Linlunder,” Ronias said, smirking. “It is exactly the same, down to the tiniest detail.”
The elf rose and began walking through the grass towards the lonely spire. The others paused, glancing at one another. Jorn shrugged his shoulders and set off behind the elf. The rest followed cautiously.
A minute later they stood in front of the tower, Ronias approaching the entrance. The elf paused, running his hand along its edge as he peered within.
“There’s a watcher nearby,” he said. “We can take shelter within the tower tonight. He’ll be along by morning, though, if not long before then.”
“Ach! No damned riddles!” Ironhelm snapped. “Who or wha’ is this, um, ‘Watcher’?”
The elf ignored him, stepping into the tower. The chamber within was plain, with bare walls and a narrow staircase rising upwards along the side of the curved wall. Much of the floor was taken up by a polished bronze disk five feet across. The others entered the chamber behind him, their eyes dazzled by the intricate carvings in the shining metal. Jorn crouched down next to it and ran his fingers along its gleaming surface, smiling. He recognized the basic patterns at once.
“It’s a map of all Pallinore,” he said. “Do you see it? Here is the Great Sea and the coastline of Brithborea. There is Linlund and this is Vandoria.”
“Yes, but what are those stars scattered about?” Willock wondered.
“Each one represents a tower,” Ronias explained. “Over here is the one in your homeland, Linlunder. And this star here, that is where we now stand.”
“This is no ruin, is it?” Flatfoot said, looking around. “It’s kept as clean as the hall in my own house. Not a speck of dust anywhere.”
“It is…well, there is no easy way to explain it to persons such as yourselves,” Ronias said, sighing “Dozens of these towers are to be found throughout Pallinore, as you can see from this map before us. They form a system which wizards use to travel the vastest distances with instantaneous ease. All a wizard nee
d do is ascend any of the towers and, if he knows the correct power words, he can use each tower to transport himself at once to any of the others instantaneously.”
“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn smirked. “That’s impossible.”
“Oh, but it is not.” Ronias shook his head. “One moment the wizard is standing atop the tower here, and the next moment he is hundreds of miles away as he arrives at his new destination. There are always two power words: the first activates the tower, the second selects the tower of the wizard’s choice to which he wishes to go. In a heartbeat, a wizard is at once transported to the chosen tower even if it be a thousand miles away. Once, two thousand years ago, there were scores of such towers scattered about the realms and wizards traversed the globe with ease. Now, barely more than a dozen remain.”
“That explains the comings and goings of wizards in these moors which I have heard tale of,” Willock said.
“Merely wizards using the tower for transport, including the lightning from a clear sky,” Ronias said. “Nothing nearly so nefarious as the men of Glammonfore Keep think. But it keeps the curious away.”
“Astounding!” the gnome said. “Consider the commercial opportunities. What would someone headed for Linlund pay to be instantly brought there? Think of it!”
“It is not that simple,” Ronias said. “These are places of powerful magic indeed, and their owners would not appreciate the likes of you using them for profit. It is precisely because of greedy little gnomes such as yourself that these towers are kept secret.”
“Their owners?” Jorn said.
“Ach. It’s best not to inquire into the ways of wizards, laddie,” Ironhelm said.
Ronias laughed loudly.
“Don’t act as though you do not know, dwarf!” he said. “You speak very little, and yet you say enough. You have traveled from one end of Pallinore to the other, and you know your way around Linlund every bit as well as you know your way around Llangellan. Do you expect me to believe you’ve never seen one of these towers before, and that you’ve never asked Braemorgan about them? You know all about them, including who owns them. Tell me, why are you so anxious to keep their secret?”
“Ach. And why are you so anxious to reveal it?” Ironhelm said. “The business of wizards is -”
“Best left to wizards,” Ronias said. “I know. What do the secrets of the Conclave mean to me? Why should I strive to keep the truth hidden?”
“Now you both speak in riddles,” Jorn said. “Conclave?”
“The Conclave of High Wizards,” Ronias said.
“I have heard men whisper of them,” Ailric said. “I thought it was just a legend.”
“I, too, thought they were but myth,” Willock said. “Am I wrong?”
“Of course you are,” Ronias said. “They promote the notion that they do not exist. But they are very real, woodsman. Ask Braemorgan or, better yet, ask the dwarf.”
“The Conclave of Wizards,” Jorn repeated. “I read once that they were active in Old Luthania, before the coming of Kaas. The old chronicles are full of their doings. But I’d no idea they were still around. It was said that Kaas killed them all.”
“They went into hiding when Kaas came, and have remained there ever since,” Ronias said. “Even after the defeat of Kaas by Mender, they did not emerge from the shadows. But, make no mistake, they exist still and exercise considerable influence upon...events.”
“To what purpose?” Jorn said.
“They guard against the forces of Kaas, laddie,” Ironhelm said, glaring at the elf. “Braemorgan is a member, aye, and so are a set number of very few other wizards. I don’t know where they meet, or how often. But I do know tha’ they’re on our side. Aye, tis true.”
“So why the secrecy?” Jorn said.
“If Braemorgan wanted you to know all this, he’d have told you. Aye, I’ll say again tha’ the ways of wizards are best left to wizards.”
“Grang’s ass!” Jorn said.
Ironhelm said nothing.
“Well, this is all fascinating!” Flatfoot said. “That such a thing still exists! But there remains the question which started this whole conversation. Who is this ‘watcher’ you spoke of?”
“The Conclave usually assigns a wizard to keep guard over each tower,” Ronias said. “Or at least the ones that are still in common use. The watcher maintains the tower, and keeps an eye out for intruders such as ourselves. They always live nearby, usually within site of the tower, even in such a place as this.”
“The hour grows late,” Ailric said. “The watcher is nowhere to be found. Do we make camp?”
“It would keep us out of the weather,” Willock said.
“Then we camp,” Jorn said.
_____
Jorn stood atop the spire, Ronias besides him.
Jorn could see miles in all directions. The Barrier Mountains and the Teeth of Kaas loomed to the west, the Glammonfore Gap somewhere to the east. North lay the black expanses of the Nor Marshes.
He stepped nearer to the edge, leaning over and peering down. A hundred feet below, he could see Willock gathering pieces of wood for a fire from a nearby cluster of low-growing brush. Ironhelm and Ailric seemed to be helping him. Flatfoot, meanwhile, was leaning over a goose Ronias had killed that afternoon, carving it up for roasting.
“Why do they even need towers?” Jorn asked. “Why go to all the trouble of building all of this? Wouldn’t a small hut serve the same purpose? Or no structure at all?”
“A complete answer to all your questions would be far too complicated for you to grasp,” Ronias said, sighing. “Let me simplify it into terms you might understand. In order to leap across the great distances in the blink if an eye, a wizard must access the plane of pure magic entangling everything in our own plane of existence. This magical energy only connects to our world, however, in certain places. It is at these connections that the towers need to be built. Sometimes, these connections are in the middle of a vast swamp. Other times they are found in the middle of a barren desert far from any settlement. Many a time, they occur in the middle of the ocean where no tower can be built.”
“Were it up to the builders, the towers would be in convenient places like Moonstar or Barter’s Crossing. But the conduits openings are random. The gnome, he’d like to use these towers for profit. What he doesn’t yet grasp is that most of the towers are in completely useless places. Look at it, so far inside the wilderness. What a waste.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Why towers? Why build so high above the ground?” Jorn said.
Ronias sighed again.
“Do your questions never cease? It has to do with the nature of the connection to the higher plane. Wizards draw energy from the sky all around them, from the very air we breathe. Solid ground tends to disperse and thus weaken this energy, so structures reaching far above the ground are necessary to function best. It would take one such as yourself decades of study to begin to grasp why this is so, if you ever could.”
“You know, Ronias, you make it hard for a man to like you.”
“What of it?”
“You don’t have the power words to these towers, do you?”
“The power words are known to only a very select few.”
“Does Braemorgan know them?” Jorn said.
“Of course he does,” Ronias said. “Why do you think he is as well known in Llangellan as he is in Linlund? The distance from Barter’s Crossing to your homeland is not weeks to him, but days. He will not reveal the power words, though.”
“There are few who would share such knowledge,” Jorn said, still standing at the edge of the precipice.
“That does not mean we need accept it,” the elf said, starting back down the stairs. He paused, looking back at Jorn. “Mind the edge. It is a long way to the bottom.”
_____
The fog rolled in again during the night, blanketing the moors in a dense coat of white mist which still covered everything at dawn. They ate a breakfast of left-over goo
se and some last bits of cheese in silence. The moors were a quiet place, especially at that hour.
From somewhere out in the fog came a distant thumping noise. Jorn almost leapt out of his skin as it reached his ears. He drew his sword and stood, staring out into the fog.
“Did you hear that?” he said.
“Hear wha’?” Ironhelm said.
“It’s a horse,” Ailric added, drawing his sword.
“Do we hide?” Flatfoot asked.
“Why bother?” Ronias said. “He already knows we are here. Besides, we’re in no danger.”
Whoever it was drew closer cloaked in the early-morning fog. A shadowy form finally emerged upon horseback. Willock aimed his bow at the figure’s chest.
Slowly, the rider continued his slow approach. The horse, they saw, was a wobbly old nag some years past her prime. Sitting atop the aged animal was an odd looking figure also well past his prime.
The man was past seventy at least. Stark white hair still grew upon his head in a few isolated patches, long and unkempt. His face was wrinkled and weathered, a few ragged whiskers on his chin. He was of average height, with a smallish build and a filthy old wool cloak wrapped tightly around him. He rode slowly out of the fog on the old horse, finally stopping when he was right upon them.
“Do you mean to rob me?” he said, his voice surprisingly strong. “I am a wizard, mind you, and if you seek trouble with me you’ll come to regret it.”
“Ach. We’re no robbers!” Ironhelm said.
“Then you’ve no need to brandish that axe at me, dwarf.” The stranger glared at Willock. “Would you mind lowering your bow, please? State you business. Who are you? What do you want? These lands and this tower are my responsibility.”
Willock slowly lowered his bow, but kept an arrow notched.
“I be Durm Ironhelm,” the dwarf said. “We’re scouting these lands for the king of Llangellan and have happened upon a bit of bad luck. Aye, we found this tower and took shelter in it last night.”
“Yes, I know. I saw your fire from my place over yonder beyond that patch of trees,” the old man said. “A bit of bad luck, you say? It looks to me like you’ve marched through hell itself. Have you no horses?”
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 49