We have called for help. More birds should arrive soon, Kalo.
The maidens had informed him, but Kalo did not answer. There was little he could say. He made a comfortable place in the mass of vines and laid back. He closed his eyes. The chatter and crackling among the vines by the small creatures still trying to achieve the maidens’ dream lulled Kalo softly into slumber.
Chapter 31
The rustling among the vines suddenly stopped, and the silence woke the young Riverman. His eyes opened, and he looked up. The abrupt and rapid rush of all the creatures off the surface, abandoning all their small mending tasks, was followed by unnerving silence. Kalo sat up.
Has help arrived, Kalo?
High in the sky, swirling into a rolling column, came the birds the maidens had requested. Kalo had seen them before, a swarm of a hundred thousand starlings. He had watched them in the sky over the farmlands north of Riverlok, dancing, whirling back and forth until they eventually came to roost in the trees.
Has a murmuration arrived, Kalo?
“Yes,” was all he said.
Do we need more, Kalo?
“No. No, this is plenty,” he answered.
The swarm, the murmuration, as the maidens called it, dove into the canyon the Shimmerstrand had once crossed, splitting into smaller columns. It whirled and rolled and then joined and split apart again. It was an impressive display of power and grace. The force of their rushing was immense, sending all the land creatures and small birds into hiding. The roar of their presence overwhelmed all other sounds. Only Kalo stood before them, his hair and clothing blowing wildly about.
As they danced around him, he felt a calling. It was not from a single starling, or from several starlings. It was from a new entity, the murmuration, the unified motion and spirit of a hundred thousand flying starlings. It was calling him.
“What is your command?” it asked.
As Kalo had spoken to Nikki and to the small birds and creatures mending the Shimmerstrand, he spoke to the murmuration by linking their minds through focused thought. Still, even as the swarm ebbed in and out of the chasm, the fallen ends of the Shimmerstrand lifted into the air. But the force of the murmuration was not enough to keep vines aloft long enough for the creatures to mend the broken ends.
Finally, Kalo asked them to come to roost, and they complied after an impressive display of maneuverability in flight.
After all the starlings had landed, the maidens of the Shimmerstrand sang to the Riverman.
Has the murmuration completed the task, Kalo?
Kalo had just witnessed a display of incredible force and power, but it could not be used to rebuild the Shimmerstrand. He said to the maidens, “The murmuration has dissolved, and the starlings are roosting now on the north side. I’m afraid we are unable to use their capability and skill. What we need is something we don’t have. Someone to connect the two ends together. I’m sorry.”
The maidens did not ask Kalo any further questions. They had presumably accepted the reality of the circumstance. Kalo sat back down among the vines. The day was otherwise pleasant, and Kalo’s mind, for the first time in days, began to focus on what he needed to do next. He was on the north side of the Shimmerstrand. Hopefully, some of his party had made it safely across to the south side and from there journeyed down to Melda. He wasn’t sure of the number, but enough days had passed that if nothing else befell them, they should have reached Melda by now. And what of Ty? Had he made it across? Kalo thought he could search this north side for any sign of Ty. Then he could head east and look for a crossing of the Silvertongue River, perhaps at Twin Bridges, he remembered Hasdel saying. There, he could cross over and head south to Melda. That would be his plan.
Then the Riverman was called. The gentle maiden voices, keeping hope alive, ignored Kalo’s despondency.
Have the big birds come, Kalo?
“No,” answered the weary Riverman, who barely looked up into the sky. But his keen sight caught a moving particle in the clouds. He whirled back and looked hard, and this time he saw giant flying creatures approaching in the distance. There were four of them, two pairs of giant griffons. The magnitude of what he was seeing, the wonder of it, was so astonishing that he remained speechless as they were descending on their approach to the Shimmerstrand. They were huge, the size of a great horse, with massive muscular bodies like a lion and a wingspan as broad as a house. Their heads were like those of eagles, and their legs bore immense talons. Kalo sunk back into the vines, burying himself.
Finally, he spoke. “They’re here—griffons!”
Wonderful!
And just then, one by one, the griffons came to rest upon land. Two landed on the north side of the chasm near Kalo and two on the south side. Without rest, on each side of the chasm, the huge birds walked to the edge and placed their talons into the mesh of vines anchoring the remains of the Shimmerstrand. And one by one, they again took flight.
The griffons immediately set to work rebuilding the torn Shimmerstrand. One of the pairs grabbed a torn end while the other lifted the opposite end. As the massive beasts hovered above the chasm, holding the torn ends together, the Shimmerstrand creatures worked feverishly to connect the ends. They repeated their process on each of the severed main vines until the Shimmerstrand was made whole again.
Kalo had overcome his initial fear and become the overseer for the maidens. When the last torn vine had been repaired, the griffons released the vine bridge and set down on each side of the great chasm. There was stillness in the air. Creatures moved about the Shimmerstrand, but the work had ended. Kalo rose from his observation point on the north side anchor.
The bridge is now repaired, is it not, Kalo?
“Yes, it is connected,” answered the young Riverman, but there was no joy in his voice.
What is wrong, Kalo?
The boy looked across the one-hundred-yard-long bridge of vines that creatures, not men, had reassembled in a day. He could see the incredible number of knots and ties that bound this ancient structure together once again. What man and beasts had torn down, these creatures had rebuilt.
What is it, Kalo?
He began with a great sigh. “I don’t think it will hold up.” He stepped forward at the entrance but not onto the bridge, and he bent down and felt a mass of knots near the anchoring vine. “I don’t want to say this. The creatures of the vine have worked so hard and done such wonderful work. The giant griffons held the main vines together, and the creatures stitched them together—”
But you do not believe it will support a man or an elf. Do you, Kalo?
“No. I’m sorry, that is what I think,” replied the boy.
Kalo, do you believe the hair of elf maidens, tied together and strung across a great gorge, would support an elf?
Kalo did not answer. He continued to look at the mass of knots the creatures had made. They looked comparable to nests a small being like his ferret, Nikki, would have made.
You must believe, Kalo. Our lovers believed long, long ago. And now, so must you.
Inhaling deeply, he slowly stepped out onto the Shimmerstrand. With both hands, he gripped a cluster of the woven vines running along the west rail of the bridge and planted his feet on the massive vines that made up the flooring. The vine bridge was too wide for him to hold the railings on each side, so he cautiously leaned to one side. He inched his way out, away from the north ledge of the gorge and over the water. Light shone through the mesh of vines under his feet, but he could not clearly see the river below. He edged closer to the side to look over the railing. As he leaned over the vines to look straight down, the Shimmerstrand began to twist. The creatures near him darted away for safety. He pushed himself away from the rail, and the vine bridge eased back, swayed gently, and then righted itself. He stood still for a time; his throat went dry. He closed his eyes.
You must believe, Kalo. Run! Run across!
He stepped forward, again holding one hand out along the rail but trying to walk in the center
as best he could. He felt the rhythm of the bridge as he walked and moved quicker and more upright.
Run, Kalo!
He broke into a gentle run. As he neared the midpoint, he could see the hundreds of knots that the vine-dwelling creatures had tied to restore the bridge. He felt their work with his hand on the railing as he passed by and could not help but smile. This was a preposterous happening. The bridge should be breaking in two by the jarring of his run, yet it held firm. He waved to the creature workers lining the banks of the great gorge.
In that moment, the bridge began to glow, slowly at first, and then it grew in radiance so that the light was blinding to him, but he kept on running with his hand gliding along the vine rail. With each step the vines grew stronger in their brilliance, and the swaying of the bridge ceased altogether. Beneath his hand, Kalo felt the railing grow smooth as the fresh ties and knots vanished into a solid structure.
When he stepped off the main vine flooring and onto the south side bridge anchor, he shouted, “The Shimmerstrand is once more!” His voice echoed through the gorge.
Immediately Kalo was treated to the most glorious chorus of joy by the ancient voices of the elven maidens. A celebration broke out among the creatures as they skittered about in all directions. Kalo sat upon the mass of vines anchoring the south end, and food was brought to him. In song, the Shimmerstrand thanked Kalo again and again for his life-saving aid. The voices overflowed with songs, including ones that Kalo had heard during his time in the hold of the Shimmerstrand. He knew these songs now, and so he joined in the singing and his voice rose in the sweet pitch of an elf. Gladness filled him that he had not known before.
After a time, the celebration slowed. The Riverman had eaten well, and he lay comfortably in the mesh of vines.
Then, in Kalo’s mind, he felt the Shimmerstrand speak again.
How can we help you, Kalo?
The Riverman replied, “Can you help me find my companions? They were headed for the Ruins of Melda. Can you tell if they are in peril?”
Chapter 32
The old monk leaned against the cold wall and peered out over the rubble that had once been the courtyard of a magnificent hall of learning. The square was now infested with the ravenous gnolls and massive trolls with their armor-plated bodies. He’d never seen anything like this before in his incredibly long life. Lamus shook his head at what the courtyard had once been; the structure was the centerpiece of the college that had thrived in Melda a thousand years before.
He had been only a small boy at the time, too young to distinctly remember those glorious days. He would join the order of the monk who found him as a child scavenging for food amongst the debris. And he would drink the water of life to become one of the ageless ones—the last of the Monks of Melda—the small one, retaining the same stature he’d had when transformed as a boy into a monk.
In a final act of sanity, his mentor, Xicose, had brought him into the order when he was still a young boy. The two had then returned to the ruins to search for the key to the destruction. The hunt for the source of the devastation was all his teacher could vocalize in his final days. Young Lamus probed; for what, he was not certain. The old one passed on, and the search for knowledge, the search to learn the history of the ages before, became his charge. That quest became Lamus’s being.
It was more than his chosen work, more than an obsession; it was his life. For the next one thousand years, the diminutive Monk of Melda rummaged through the rubble, lifting and reading every piece of paper he uncovered. Slowly, over the centuries, he filled a library of his findings in a cave high in the mountains of the Eastern Rim, five days’ journey from the ruins. Without the aid of another, he carried each book one at a time. Sometimes he would stop and rest for days, reading and studying the document he carried. In the beginning, he was unable to read every paper he found. Not infrequently, he would then spend years researching and learning the language of the text. When he was satisfied that he could understand the wording fully, he would spend weeks or even months reading and rereading a piece until it was virtually memorized. Time had no meaning to the ageless ones.
But now he had been chased into the tower by a horde of gnolls and trolls. Who were these creatures, and why were they here? They had come upon him earlier in the day as he was examining a recently created crater near the tower. He knew every inch of these grounds, and this pit in the ground was new. Its origin was a mystery to him. Perhaps an ancient floor had collapsed. Maybe it had fallen as a result of the quake that had occurred a month earlier.
He had felt a slight jolt in the early morning hours and thought little of it. That morning, he had seen a column of smoke rising above Melda from his mountain home far to the east. From the landing in front of his elevated mountain retreat, he could even make out a thin, straight line in the plains below where the earth appeared to collapse. The line stretched for miles, from the region of the Faxx Clan at the base of his mountain all the way to Melda. He had never noticed it before.
He had set his studies aside, descended from the Eastern Rim mountains, and made the long journey back to the ruins to determine the origin of the smoke. And there he had found this crater. He soon cared little why it had happened, for he was now excited by the findings. There were books everywhere!
The small band of gnolls which found him rummaging through the cavity in the ground had been as surprised to discover him as he had been to see them. They charged him with a fury, and he reacted without thought. The first to reach him jabbed a spear into his leg. He raised his hands in anger and a bolt of power burst forth, slaying the gnolls that reached him. A survivor called for others, and he fled for safety into the nearby tower and bolted the massive doors behind him. They had left their mark on him. Blood trickled down his leg.
Now, from high up in the lone tower of Melda, he looked down upon a sight he could not comprehend. The base of the great stone structure was overrun with enemies: gnolls and trolls. He had never seen them this far south in his long life—and why here? Why were they here among the ruins? Why were they after him? And what, or who, was the black mounted rider who was plainly their master?
His clear and brilliant mind was dumbfounded. There was no logic here, no reason. He needed time to understand—time he would not be granted, he feared. This had never occurred before, nothing even close. The sounds of the beasts below filled the tower.
Then, quickly, a hush fell over the courtyard. The quiet was unexpected and striking. Lamus moved cautiously about the landing he stood upon, listening for a sound, any sound. He stepped lightly, not wanting to make a sound himself. He pressed his ear against the stone wall and held it there. His head suddenly bounced off the bulwark as the tower was jarred with an abrupt shake. That quake was followed by another, and another, until a beating cadence was evident. The wailing of the gnolls returned and overlaid the drumming.
The pitch was growing now and drawing nearer to the portal. He turned and looked directly out the slit opening. He stood on his toes to look over the sill and saw for the first time the mass of gnolls scaling the wall below him. He saw the giant trolls beating systematically and relentlessly on the tower gate below. He stumbled backward at the sight, closed his eyes slowly, and extended his arms. His eyes opened as he stepped forward toward the opening, his arms held straight out before him. He reached the wall, and his arms extended through the cut hole opening in the tower directly over the climbing gnolls. His body began to tremble, and then a glow erupted from his hands and a bright cobalt liquid fog flowed forth. When he stopped, he felt suddenly drained of energy. His knees weakened, and he nearly dropped to the floor but steadied himself against the wall.
There followed a moment of stillness below, and then cries of anguish bellowed up as the blue fog reached the gnolls. He was in a fight. He could not remember ever being in a fight of this magnitude before. He had used his powers sparingly over the centuries, true, but he had never fought such a foe. Nothing like this. He felt strangely invigorate
d. Not old, as he should feel, but younger. He set his jaw and stepped further into the slit in the tower.
And then he saw his true enemy clearly this time. It was not the gnolls or even the mighty trolls, but their master, a shrouded figure mounted on a black skeletal steed. The creature he rode resembled a horse in size and form, but it was not a horse. It appeared to be without flesh, a gaunt structure of bones wrapped in black.
The figure looked up at Lamus as he peered out of the cut window. The dark creature’s one arm straightened, then slowly raised and pointed directly at him. He instinctively leaned away from the window even as he held his arms forward over the sill, delivering the lethal fog to the gnolls climbing up the side of the tower.
Without warning, a blast of light filled the tower chamber. Lamus knew the source of the power, and he instinctively reached within his being and redoubled the force driving his own fatal mist. The shrouded one countered, and the two were abruptly locked in battle. Lamus felt the connection. He gathered his strength again and pushed against the outer force. There was no movement either way. He tried again, and this time he felt a tinge of pain. His arm ached slightly. The weakness in his knees returned, and he stumbled and grasped the sill of the portal to hold himself upright. The loss of blood from his leg was draining what strength still remained. A troubling notion flashed through his mind. Was he truly weakening? Was he losing the struggle? To whom or what was he losing? And why?
His quandary was suddenly interrupted. An arrow flew through the slit window high above him and smashed into the opposite wall. Pieces ricocheted about the chamber and fell to the floor. He looked up, anticipating more arrows. None came. He examined the pieces that had fallen at his feet and saw an object tied to one end. Lamus dropped his outstretched arms, pausing the flow of the deadly mist from the tower window onto the gnolls. He bent down and picked up a ring, noticing that the blood from his leg wound had stained his gray cloak. He removed the ring from its wrapping and turned it over and over in his hands. The absence of the lethal fog flowing from the slit in the tower brought a surge of cries from the gnolls below.
The Ruins of Melda Page 18