There was silence.
“You do know which is which?” asked Osric.
“Not yet,” said Fergal.
“Can we guess?”
“If we get it right, a door opens somewhere. If we get it wrong, the levers jam and the door is sealed. I also suspect there will be something more serious, like a hail of pig-sized rocks. These statues are more than they appear.”
“So we must wait for light?”
“Just a little should be enough. Already I think the statues are a touch less inky.”
As if in response to Fergal’s observation, a barbet chattered nearby. Culver sent Merter and Senbert up the stairs to the giant’s foot, the heel of which reached to their shoulders. The two smaller statues were man-sized.
After brushing away a thick carpet of dead moss and inspecting the shoulder joints, Merter called for help. “These joints will not turn easily. Dust, rain and time have done a lot. It will take more than two of us.”
Osric and Tyne joined them.
They waited for the light to grow, for the details of the statues to emerge. The two stone forms may have looked alike in shadow, but as the morning crept in, they were seen to be markedly different. The one on the left was of a man with an open, smiling face. One hand was at his side and the other was held out in a gesture of welcome. The statue on the right was of a hunched woman, hook-nosed and ragged. Everything about her was vulgar from her crooked bearing to the snarl which twisted her face into a grotesque mask. Both her arms were held out in front of her, bent fingers splayed. There was no welcome here.
Culver and Fergal climbed the stairs and halted before the statues, locked in thought. After a silent contemplation, they returned to the base of the stairs and stared up at the giant that towered over a hundred and fifty feet above them. A few centuries of weather had left stains, fractures and even craters in the stone. Broken pieces lay at the base, tangled in deep grass. But the size of the statue was so great that the damage did not obscure the overall form.
This was not just an oversized man – the heavy-boned limbs, swollen hands, piggy little eyes and cavernous mouth were unmistakable. This was a true giant of legend. Yet he was smiling – not a wicked, hungry smile, but kind and respectful. Though he had the obvious strength to shatter a tower, his open-handed gesture was one of peace. Aedan almost felt kindly towards this simple, benign creature.
All waited in tense silence as the two scholars discussed what they saw, comparing the giant with the man and woman. It was clear to Aedan that the woman was the one at odds with the others. Her manner and actions falsely represented the situation. He was not surprised when she was declared to be the liar, solving the riddle. While the others prepared to shift the arms, he decided to walk around to the back of the giant statue.
Something bothered him. It had been too easy. Any puzzle deserved to be seen from a few angles. Skeet had often encouraged him to nurture his desire to look at things in a way others had not considered. Climbing onto the roof for a better view, Kalry had once called it. A walk would give him a different perspective here.
The stone foundation was considerable, and it took some time to reach the other side. When he did, he looked up, and what he saw caused him to halt in mid stride.
“Wait!” he yelled, slipping in the dewy grass as he sprinted back to the others. He glanced up, fearing a dreadful hail of rocks. “Fergal, wait! Wait! It’s wrong! It’s the other way round.”
Everyone stared at Aedan as he scrambled around the corner. The men who were straining at the arms stopped.
Culver glared, but Aedan persisted. “The giant has a huge spiked club tucked into his belt, held against his back. Nobody would carry a club like that unless they were trying to hide it briefly. The woman is telling the truth – the giant is not to be trusted. It’s the man who is lying.”
Nobody spoke as they comprehended how close they had come to tragedy, and in the stillness they now heard a sound that caused the blood to drain from every face – a long, searching howl.
“They are on the north side of the fortress,” Merter said in reply to the questioning glances. “The wind carries towards them. They may not know of us yet, but I wouldn’t give it long. They will be here soon.”
Fergal turned to Aedan. “Are you sure of what you saw?”
“Yes. I could see the spikes pressing into the giant’s back. It looks uncomfortable.”
Fergal exchanged a look with Culver who nodded. “Do as he says,” Fergal called. “Lift the man’s right arm up and turn the woman’s left arm back.”
They set to work, but the rigid joints defied them still. Another howl filled the air, louder, closer. Osric and Thormar joined in. Even the two scholars climbed the stairs and added their weight to the effort.
“There!” cried Liru, who was standing watch nearby.
A stream of grey and white fur coursed around the western slopes of the central hill. At first it looked as if the wolves would run past, but then they stopped, noses to the ground.
“The scent of horsemeat,” said Merter. “It won’t be long before they see us.” He threw his weight against the stone arm, heaving and shaking with the effort.
Tyne stopped him. She drew a long, slender dagger and drove it into the joint, wriggling the blade along and dislodging a shower of natural cement and dust; then she did the same in a few more places around the joint. Osric understood and followed her example on the other statue.
“They’ve seen us,” Liru called.
The plain was large and the pack still a few miles distant, but they moved with bewildering speed.
“Together!” said Osric. The men heaved and the woman’s arm ground slowly back until it pointed to the fortress. The man’s arm had further to go, but after two concerted shoves, it pointed to the sky.
Nothing happened.
All eyes turned to Culver and Fergal. They were looking around. Liru, standing at the base of the other foot ran towards them but as she reached halfway she screamed and tripped, falling hard on the stone.
“What happened?” asked Tyne, rushing up.
“I don’t know. It was like the flagstones gave way under me.”
Culver and Fergal were there in an instant, walking back in the direction she had come. The stone was grooved, hiding any cracks in the floor, so nobody was expecting it when the surface on which Fergal stood gave way and he began to descend on a long ramp that was flush with the flagstones on one end and tilted downwards into the earth at the other. He turned around, pressed on the rising edge of the ground with his hands and pulled himself up again. The stone ramp lifted as he took his weight from it.
“It’s counterweighted,” he said. “Get the horses and mules. The slope should be gradual enough to take them down. Merter, light a torch. It will be black as a dungeon down there. Aedan, bring his horse.”
Aedan was surprised to see how Fergal took charge without even consulting Culver. Obviously he was given many responsibilities and was required to act as speaker in these non-academic settings.
As he ran back down the stairs to the horses, Aedan glanced across the plain and almost lost his footing. The wolves were close enough now that the wind could be seen rippling their coats as they surged over the grass, pulling the ground beneath them, ears flattened, eyes eager.
He seized the horses’ reins and led the unwilling animals, clattering and snorting, up the stairs. They knew something was amiss. Merter had already descended, lit a torch, and found a way to secure the ramp in a downward position.
The horses did not descend willingly. Some had to be pulled down. The danger of hurrying beasts that were stamping and rearing was not lost on anyone, but the approaching tide presented a far greater danger. The area cleared until only Osric, Thormar and Aedan stood at the lip of the ramp, shoving the last stubborn horse, while Tyne hauled the reins from below.
Then the sea of fur reached them.
Growling and yapping filled the air as a mass of bodies, about fifty strong,
swirled around the base of the statue and began leaping up the stairs. Their natural caution had diminished with the size of the party. Osric and Thormar drew their swords while Aedan tried to shove the horse without putting himself in the line of a kick.
“You two,” Osric shouted. “Get down below. I’ll cover.”
“Ramp’s blocked,” said Thormar, holding his ground.
Two snarling wolves crept towards Osric. They lurched and snapped simultaneously. His sword sliced into the neck of one, but the other sank its teeth into his leg. Thormar’s boot thudded home and launched the animal over the heads of its fellows while his sword swept across a line of approaching muzzles. The wolves backed away a little, but showed no intention of running. They began to circle.
Aedan saw there would be no winning this fight. The horse was frantic now as it kicked and plunged, blocking the ramp. Those hooves were as dangerous as the jaws grinning around him. With a sudden inspiration, he drew his short sword, yelled for Tyne to get out of the way, and stabbed the horse in the rump. It twitched, screamed, and rushed down.
“Clear,” he yelled. “Let’s go!”
No further invitation was needed. All three leaped onto the ramp and backed into the comparative darkness below. They hurried off the slope and Merter released the latch, but the ramp did not lift as it should have. A glance made it clear why not. Several wolves were creeping down, cautious, but not timid.
“Everyone lift, now!” Osric called, ducking under the stone slab and heaving upwards. All those who were not obstructed by horses joined in and the stone began to rise. The weight suddenly increased and it dipped again. A forest of muzzles appeared at the edges, wrinkled and snarling.
“More hands!” Osric grunted.
Culver, Liru and Tyne joined the effort and gradually the slab rose again. One of the muzzles was pinched in the shrinking gap and there was a yelp of pain.
“Aedan, Liru,” said Osric, “it’s too high now for you to reach. Find something to use as a brace.”
They scurried about in the shadows, pushing between restless horses to search the walls and corners, but there was nothing. On the way back Aedan nearly had his head removed by a panicking mare that kicked out behind her, striking another horse in the ribs with a loud smack. It was so close that Aedan felt the rush of wind on his face and smelled hoof. By the time he returned empty-handed, the ramp had risen and become part of the ceiling.
“Wolves love to circle their prey,” said Merter. “Once enough of them had got off the ramp to do so, it rose by itself. I don’t think they will push it down again. No animal likes the feel of unstable ground. Every wolf that tips the ramp will scramble off at the sensation.”
They did not have to wait long for the slab to dip. There was a frantic clicking and scratching of claws, and the little wedges of light disappeared again. Fergal was sure that there would be some lever to reset the positions of the arms and secure the slab, but it could not be found.
Osric made no secret of his concern. “I don’t like leaving this to chance,” he said. “Uncertainty ahead and danger behind make a poor prospect.”
“And a wound on your thigh,” said Tyne. “Would you like me to take a look at that?”
“It’s nothing,” said Osric, “Teeth barely pierced the skin.”
He spoke too quickly. Aedan noticed, and wondered why Osric looked like he was blushing. Then he understood that a wound on the thigh would require removing his trousers to have it tended. He grinned at the big general’s embarrassment.
Tyne raised her eyes from the bloody patch on his leg and was about to argue when she caught herself, and there was no mistaking the blush this time.
After oiling and lighting branch-and-cloth torches that had been made at the last camp, they prepared to leave the chamber. There were two exits. One was a narrow stairwell leading up, apparently through the giant’s leg to what Fergal suspected was a network of tunnels within the statue. The other was a broad slope leading down.
The downward incline was steep, but not too steep for horses, and the ceiling was high enough for a mounted rider. It was as if the tunnel had been made with that in mind.
Their torches were not the best. They produced as much smoke as light, arguably more, but it was enough to reveal the precision with which the stone masons had built this tunnel. The blocks met perfectly – no fringes of mortar had been used to compensate for inaccurate measurements. There were neither dripping leaks nor powdery cracks, but the passing of time was clearly displayed in an orange fungus that spread out over the walls. Its shapes, down to the minutest details, were such perfect imitations of the branches of a tree that it seemed to be a painting. Aedan found the air surprisingly fresh. He guessed that there was a through-draft, not enough to cause the flames above his torch to flap and toss, but enough to continuously change the air over the centuries.
They travelled in single file and in silence – apart from the clopping of hooves which filled the long passage with a series of multiplying echoes and sounded like the tread of a hundred horses or more. After covering about half a mile, they reached an upward slope that led into another chamber, this one far larger. Here were racks of weapons and mounted torches. Osric found a sealed pot of tar which he opened. The seal was good, but much of the tar had hardened. The gummy centre was barely enough to supply half a dozen of the torches.
After consulting with Culver, Fergal spoke up. “We will need to leave the horses here,” he said. “It is our hope to reach the archives as quickly and silently as possible. At least two must remain with the animals.”
Captain Senbert and Holt, the only remaining soldiers, volunteered quickly, and at a look from Osric, Thormar said he would support them. He would be more than capable of preventing any cowardly desertion tricks. He came over to Aedan and Liru, knelt in front of them and put a big, calloused hand on each of their shoulders.
“You be careful, now. Young eyes and ears are sharp. Make good use of them and keep those library-dwellers safe.” He angled his head towards the two academics with a grin. “If it was certain that you’d be safe here, I’d request for you to be left with us, but there are no certainties in this place. Staying with the group is probably best.”
Aedan gripped the Commander’s forearm. “We’ll be back,” he said.
“I know you will.” Thormar hid it well, but in the clenching of his teeth, the truth was plain. He was deeply worried for them.
Fergal and Culver turned away from the broad passage that sloped upward and, instead, took a narrow stairway, tightly coiled and steep. Aedan noticed how Osric had to turn his shoulders to prevent them from scraping, and he thought kindly of his own small stature as he passed through the narrow opening.
It was a long climb – very long. Breathing became heavy, especially from the front. After more turns than Aedan could count, they finally reached a doorway. The stairs continued upwards, but Culver led them out into a large room, similar to the one they had left beneath them. Fergal remained to drop a white pebble at the entrance to the stairs.
“If we need to make a hasty retreat,” he said, “we don’t want to be arguing over directions.”
They passed through a series of passages and doorways, marking each turn with a pebble, and found their way into a different section of the buildings where the passages were wider and the ceilings higher.
A heavy gate, rusted off its hinges, gave them access to a cavernous hall, well over a stone’s throw across and almost as much in height. It was clear that it had once been richly adorned, but now silk tapestries hung in grey rags and thick brown carpets promised to bury any shoe in dust. A fire pit nearby held a few mounds of powder that would never burn.
Down the centre of the hall, there was a long table, partly collapsed and riddled with decay. At its far end, another table at right angles to the first, stood on a dais. It could only be the royal table. Being made of more delicate wood, this one had been eaten away to a crumbling ruin. The chairs here had all collapsed
except one. In the light of the burning torches, pure, untarnished gold shone from under this chair’s layer of dust, and Aedan knew that they were the first to enter this place since its abandonment. That metal would not have been left behind.
He wondered what else might be lying around.
But theirs was a quest for knowledge, and neither Culver nor Fergal gave the precious metal a second glance.
Along the hall, windows looked out over a large courtyard. The light outside was still weak, the chilly blue-grey shadows of a day awaiting sunrise. They peered out, searching for anyone or anything hostile. Apart from the unnaturally large arms of the creeper that hung from the central tower, the only signs of life were streaks of pigeon dung on the walls. But even these looked to be old stains of long-abandoned roosts, stains that no weather could remove.
“There’s something unnatural here,” said Osric. “I can’t name it, but something is wrong with this place.”
“No birds,” said Merter, bringing gradual realisation to the others. “Very strange for abandoned buildings. They make perfect rookeries.”
Culver led them away from the hall, through an arched passage, into a wide foyer. A grand staircase with marble steps and brass rails led up, presumably to the royal chambers. On the other side, there was a colossal oak door, now rotten and splintered and held together by its iron bracings like a pile of leaves in a gardener’s arms.
“This is the part that concerns us,” said Fergal. “We need to reach the central tower on the other side of a courtyard just beyond this door. It requires exposing ourselves. We will need to move quickly and silently.”
“This door will not open silently,” said Osric.
“Can we not get out through a window?” Aedan asked.
Fergal held his palms on either side of his belly, indicating his size. “The windows that would admit such dimensions are only to be found five storeys up.”
Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Page 58