Where the few gaps allowed, it was possible to see sumptuous cherry wood panelling behind. Indeed, the very ceiling was so panelled and from which hung many candle holders. Their many candles were now beginning to sputter and hiss into life. Before long, the whole room glowed most welcomingly, its warm golden light certainly revealing far more clutter.
There were well-worn chairs and, in a corner, a large desk, beautifully fashioned from ages-old oak but with a leg missing and replaced by a stack of books. The desk itself was awash with parchments and papers, variously yellowing, with writing implements and all manner of scripting tools. There was an eyeglass there too, no doubt to aid Nephril’s sight, and umpteen ring stains from centuries of spilt mugs and goblets.
Falmeard’s own rooms weren’t a patch on it, far more simple and uncluttered, used mainly as lodgings and little else. What few things he had he carried within his robes. He left behind little of real worth; some victuals, a newer robe he’d one day press into service but, otherwise, little he’d really miss were they lost.
As to reading? Well, in truth, he’d long since lost the inclination. He did often draw on his earlier vast reading but usually only to make sense of some plaque or inscription. From what he saw of Nephril’s chambers, it was evident his old friend had a far keener interest in the word, and certainly a greater love. It had, therefore, left all his manuscripts and tomes well thumbed, closely annotated and literally littered with bookmarks.
It was only then that something struck him as somewhat odd. It dawned on him that, in all the years they’d know each other, they’d never once been to the other’s abode. It was the only time in … well … centuries of friendship that Falmeard had been there, at Nephril’s chambers, and had seen into his private life.
Until that moment, in Nephril’s friendly, warm room, his mood had been mellowing but he then felt nervous once more. He’d seemingly recognised yet another change the north wind had blown in. A gust of it now swirled through the room, making the candles flicker and some to gutter out.
It had blown in through the doorway Nephril had opened and through which he’d also vanished. Falmeard quickly darted after him and found himself in a surprisingly airy chamber, flooded with the clear blue light of a fine afternoon. Before him stood a wall of that same light, punctuated by seven marble pillars, beyond which clouds floated majestically by upon a half warmed wind.
There, Nephril was busy throwing open cabinets and cupboards, from which he procured two crystal goblets and a gleaming casket of blood red wine. As Nephril fussed, Falmeard surveyed the room with renewed wonder and awe.
Along one wall stretched a ponderous bed, covered and heaped with pillows and cushions of innumerable sizes and shapes. Facing it, and against the wall, stood a table laid out for two, with stately chairs drawn up. All the walls were hung with large and beautifully woven tapestries of which the largest depicted a dazzling red lake. Upon it, two snowy white swans languished, both serenely floating before a strange, round island. About the lake grew verdant trees whose foliage was be-speckled with fruits and blossoms, yet all diminished beside the one that grew there, at the centre of the island. It bore rich harvest of ripened red fruit and had, about its bole, a golden serpent.
Falmeard had little need to ask its meaning and so, instead, turned to a wall upon which hung various arms, great lances and shields to be hefted only by the strongest of men. Miscellaneous helms and helmets, gauntlets, codpieces and hauberks all filled it to overflowing and all boasting, in triumphant display, the very crest of Dica.
Upon the stone floor lay skins of twenty great beasts, some with long flowing hair precarious to the foot and others with short stubbly bristle. As the less turbulent north wind played through the seven pillars, and around the chamber, the floor fair shimmered and swayed with their myriad colours.
Breaking free from the spell, Falmeard received a proffered goblet and watched as Nephril took up his own. Nephril turned to the tapestry of the red lake, with its island charge, stood as straight as his ageing frame would allow and cried, in one breath of reverence, “Dica!” and then downed the lot in one.
Falmeard followed suit, out of respect, but then stood immobile, eyes glued to the tapestry, as shards of glass seemed to cascade, in slivers, down through his stomach. Face burning and eyes afire, he hazily saw Nephril recharge their goblets before sitting at the table. Falmeard had to allow a few moments for his head to clear before he could do the same.
Falmeard, unaccustomed to lavish eating, only picked unenthusiastically at the cold meat Nephril had piled on his platter. Nephril, on the other hand, attacked his with relish. Whether it was the food or not, but Nephril seemed to have lifted himself from his earlier distraction and even attempted to chat between mouthfuls.
Falmeard had been rattled by their encounter with the shadow and was less inclined to talk, only managing the odd grunt or brief reply. After a while, Nephril noticed his abstraction and took the opportunity to study the ring on his now motionless hand, a hand more usually held within the folds of his robe.
Inevitably, Nephril’s protracted silence stirred Falmeard who then watched new and deeper lines begin to crease his ancient friend’s brow. “The dark shape? The one I saw before we entered, what was it, Nephril?”
A spell seemed to have been broken, studied disinterest now chasing inner torment from Nephril’s face. “More wine, mine friend?”
“No thanks, Nephril. The shape, what was it?”
Nephril rose, in some agitation and with his meal forgotten, and wandered over to the wall of arms where he toyed with a blade’s razor-edge. “I know not what or why they are, only that they come and go, at will, but with no seeming aim. Sometimes they follow me and I am unable to lose them, but always the air is chill when they are near and the light dims. Even under the bright sun, the air about will seem less bright.” He then moved to the window opening, his aged and weather-beaten hand sharply contrasted against the grainy whiteness of the marble pillar, and stared out at the distant Strawbac Hills.
He was silent for a while, gathering his thoughts, but did eventually explain. “They came many years ago, slowly and unnoticed, but I felt them and have felt their numbers grow. Only of recent have I seen them but on each occasion they have drained the warmth from me, plumbed and dredged mine mind. The cold I can endure, for it is no new thing, but the memories drawn do sting and hurt as like salt upon an open wound.”
Falmeard came and stood by him, as he too looked out at the distant Strawbac Hills. “I have also felt them, Nephril. That’s probably why I’m here, unknowingly drawn to find you. I fear, though, it’s only part of the reason. I didn’t realise until earlier, when I caught sight of that shadow in the gloom, and felt its chill.”
Nephril turned to answer but was distracted by a glint of reflected sunlight, a flash from something at the edge of the forest.
It was rare now for aught to be seen moving on that landscape and rarer still to espy hint of forged metal upon its natural spread. With everything forgotten, Nephril strained to see more and by it alerted Falmeard who then peered that same way.
It wasn’t long before there were more flashes, many more. Where the Lost Northern Way appeared to kiss the forest, a speckle of reflected sunlight could readily be seen. They were still trying to make out what it was when a great cloud of dust slowly began to rise, the kind thrown up by many marching feet.
Clearly, there were newcomers in their ancient, untroubled land and ones who were making good speed along the old disused road, south towards Dica. Caught by the remnants of the early morning winds, the dust was blown aside, out across the Eyeswin River. It exposed a large mass of men steadily marching, as one, towards the Ambec village.
Even Falmeard’s younger and keener eyes couldn’t see much, not in detail. He was about to ask Nephril what he reckoned when he heard him gasp. There was a swish of robes, as he quickly turned from the sight and yanked open a nearby cupboard. Falmeard watched items spill from it as Nephr
il frantically pushed into its depths. Finally, he triumphantly cried out, and then stepped away with some sort of tube held firmly in his hands.
Completely occupied, he quickly placed the thing on the window sill, squatted to bring his eye near one end and then, with his hand, twisted a band near his eye. His behaviour would normally have intrigued Falmeard but now it brought impatience. “Nephril? I don’t know what you’re up to but surely what’s happening out there’s more important?”
Nephril stopped squinting into the tube, darted a look at Falmeard and then grasped him by the arm. “Be very careful not to move the spyglass but look thee through it and tell me what thou see.” He moved away, to allow Falmeard to mimic his position and so bring his own eye up to its end. “If does appear blurred to thee then hold the spyglass very still and turn that ring … there.”
Falmeard knelt on the floor, as Nephril had done, and looked into the tube. At first he was confused for the small image he saw there seemed to hover or move contrarily, making him feel quite dizzy. He noticed it held truer the nearer he got and so brought his eye almost up against it. Then, he gasped.
Filling his vision was a somewhat blurred and upside-down view of the Lost Northern Way. Fainter than of real and lacking any appreciable depth, it presented a somewhat confusing aspect with the perspective lessened and its border hemmed by a dark and cloudy ring. It was its nearness that really shocked him and made him forget to breathe.
When he’d eventually fumbled for it, he tentatively twisted the ring, as another glint of reflected sunlight flashed a haze of rainbow hues across the view. He hadn’t spun it far when everything snapped into exquisite sharpness and there, seemingly but a mere furlong away, were some half score of men.
Their sun-darkened skins were heavily hooded by wide-brimmed salades, from which yet more haloed flashes were thrown. Around their mouths and noses were wrapped cloths of green that swept about their shoulders and fell behind as cloaks. Underneath, brightly polished copper breastplates gleamed and, below them, stout black boots continued to throw up great clouds of red dust.
Even then, after each having taken turns to watch the inverted image, for some time, they still stared in blank disbelief. It was so hard to grasp that an army of men could be marching there, upon the fields and roads of Dica, for the first time in centuries, nay, but in millennia.
It was Falmeard who finally remained at the spyglass, his hushed voice forming narrative to his witness for Nephril’s sake, as he followed the unfolding events. Eventually, the army came almost within arrowshot of the Ambec village where it then halted, set to arranging itself defensively and there remained for some time.
Presently, there was further activity for, from its head, a single figure slowly strode out. As it did so, a small body of men fell in behind. Once they were a short distance ahead they halted and seemed to be hailing but it was a long while that nothing more happened.
Falmeard began to wonder what the Ambecs were making of it all but, from what little he knew of them, it seemed unlikely they’d be taking it at all calmly. They were a suspicious and unforgiving lot, the Ambecs, coarse of thought and action with little education of any real kind. They lived a simple and brutal existence, clearly formed of black and white, and, being poor of wealth, they’d developed riches of violence and hatred. Like starving dogs, they took little to provoke and were vicious and tenacious in their bite.
Time seemed to remain frozen and even the birds of the air had quit the land. Nothing stirred. The north wind had abated and all the trees of the forest, the grasses of the fields and plains, and the very clouds in the sky remained still. A heavy foreboding settled on their world as though a great storm were brewing, as though the tense air would soon be cut apart by lightning and the ground pounded by torrents of rain. Of course, it couldn’t last and so it only seemed natural it should be the Ambecs who were the first to break that tension.
From somewhere before their village, out of Falmeard’s line of sight, he could make out a dark speck arcing through the air, a rock hurled impotently at their threat. The presaged storm that then broke wasn’t of water, however, but of stone, the distant air filling with petrified raindrops falling from abbreviated arcs.
Naturally, they all fell well short. With that quick shower over, the Ambec’s supply no doubt exhausted, they were then reduced to their stock-in-trade – brute force. Suddenly, the road swarmed with them, running at the enemy full pelt but totally disorganised.
The army began to advance, swallowing its own vanguard on the way, as it sharply bristled and let lose a lethal cloud. The haze of arrows soon vanished into the Ambec horde leaving very few still standing, even less so once a second volley had driven home.
The oppressive air seemed to lighten, the trees and grasses once more swaying and rippling in the wind. When birds returned to circling in the warm air, Nephril was the first to break free. He wheeled upon Falmeard with his voice strangely taut. “The king! The king must be told! Hurry! To the court!”
5 Laixac
A deep sea of grey dust lay across the floors of the Star Tower’s many storeys, untouched by breeze for a thousand years and more. On one of its middling levels, sealed within the stagnant air, a small ball of dirt-grey fur scampered about. It squatted upon short pink legs, as its quivering nose poked into this and that hole.
In a blink, it would be off, scurrying along battered skirting, darting between tumbled legs of broken chairs until, as suddenly as it had started, it would halt. Then, it would squat again, raise its pointed nose to the air and sniff, sniff air that hung there as still as it now did above the forest’s canopy more than a thousand feet below.
In those rooms the silence was ingrained, in no need of momentous tension. Even the cry of hawks failed to soak through its solid walls. It was only the ever-present damp, when it occasionally found body enough to drip from ceiling or lintel, that would disturb it with tiny thuds.
Undisturbed in its isolation, the mouse foraged beneath a window, above which still hung the remnants of once brown velvet curtains, long bleached white by the sun. One of those rare drips of stale, massed moisture suddenly let go and descended to the rodents head, sending it darting away, startled. Little did it know or care that the rooms above became progressively drier, as they rose hundreds of feet above the castle.
At the very top, a large round chamber opened its secrets to the heavens through a crystal dome, within which great banks of instruments lay mouldering, forgotten beneath monumental mounds of desiccated dust. Nothing more had moved there than the rays of the sun, and of the moon and stars, in the millennia since its last use.
The mouse, untroubled by any of that, had already resorted to gnawing frantically at the already well gnawed leg of an oaken table. The tiny scratchings could hardly be heard in that dust-lagged place but an altogether different sound was soon to fill it well enough.
What had once been a stout wooden leg finally submitted to the centuries of incessant rodent attention. The huge and heavy table that it helped support fell victim to its decrepitude and finally snapped with a resounding crack. The table groaned and creaked, the remaining legs protesting at the increased burden. The table came crashing down, deafeningly, throwing a colossal cloud of dust into the stagnant air.
The mouse, eyes ablaze in terror, was already two floors below, only just keeping ahead of the dust and debris dislodged by its panicked passing. It was furiously scampering down a labyrinth of holes and tunnels, its heart rapidly pounding as it finally lost purchase and began to slip, slide and tumble.
At last, it issued forth into yet another desolate chamber. There, it finished its decent with a soft plop as it hit unyielding stone floor. Its following scree fell after it, steadily pouring down and burying its tiny prone and panting body.
Had its entry, into that dimly lit room, been more conventional, then, no doubt, it would have sensed something amiss. It may even have noticed, in a darkened corner, two faint, white orbs. While the mouse gathered
its wits, pulled itself from the small mound and sprang to its haunches, two unblinking eyes steadily grew larger.
The mouse was plainly stunned for it forwent its usual caution. It certainly missed the quiet rasp of spittle-laden breath that accompanied those eyes, now looming above it. With terminal suddenness, the mouse vanished into the powerful grasp of gnarled and bony fingers.
Before it really knew anything, it was crushed firmly and irrevocably within a grimed and pallid palm. It was held so firmly the tiny beads of its eyes protruded from what remained of a blood-oozing head. Peremptorily, it was tossed to a saliva filled mouth, the dripping and loose head hanging, pendant-like, against the stubble of a weak chin.
The mouse was off, carried through an inky black opening and onto a steep flight of steps. Lifted upon deft feet, nimbly avoiding a plethora of debris and rotting carcasses, they passed floor upon floor of identical chambers before bursting forth onto the platform that girded the tower’s crystal-domed eye.
Naked white limbs flailed in mid-flight before filthy, bare feet slapped the floor as they landed and tripped. The rolling tumble brought them against the pediment of a statue, where the mouse was spat to the sun warmed flags.
Freed of mouse, the mouth crooned. “Mouse and mice and mice and mouse, and mouse no more, murdered, mangled and never no more. Mouse and mice and mouse no more.” It was then gingerly lifted by its tail, held firmly between filthy finger and thumb, and brought close to one of those manic eyes, where it was slowly spun. The meagre blood of its body now glinted in the sunlight, from where it had coalesced at the tip of its pink nose. “Mouse and mice and mice and mouse, and mouse no more, murdered, mangled and never no more. Mouse and mice and mouse galore.”
Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1) Page 4