by GJ Kelly
As we watched, hoping against hope that we had not been seen disembarking, a staff-bearing elf wizard strode to the fore, and using his staff, cremated the remains of our travelling-companions. Baden told me it was one of the two wizards who had, by their treachery, destroyed Calhaneth, but my eyes were too full of tears to make such an identification.
At length, while these ‘Toorsengard’ idled back to the lock gates near the Wheel, Baden took stock of our location, and we slithered down the rocky western slopes of the canal ridgeway. We had to back-track, he said, on foot, towards the south, and then climb the slope once more to cross the canal to the eastern side well clear of any possibility of being seen by the assassins at the Wheel.
We walked through the night, never knowing how many barges of survivors had passed us on the canal above in the darkness, though we knew when we left the docks that there was a growing crowd upon the quaysides clambering into the vessels behind us there. When at last Baden judged it safe to do so, we ascended to the canal, and there Baden told me to swim across the channel, and head due east to the plains, and thence home, and not to stop. He had elected to remain on the western bank, there to give warning to any other survivors who might yet be upon the great water road, being propelled to their deaths by those relentless chains. After that, he said, if he lived, he would return to his home, a small glade in a place he called Minyorn, or perhaps flee the forest to the lands in the west.
It was a sad parting, and nothing I could say would change his mind or persuade him to join me. He bade me remember all he had told me of the treachery of the Tau, and to return directly to my home, and to warn all I encountered along the way once out of the forest, never again to trust elfkind, either with their lives or with their security.
I took my leave of Baden of the Elven Viell and swam the canal, pausing at the far side to wave farewell. He was sitting, when last I saw him, gazing to the south, hoping perhaps for other survivors from Calhaneth, hoping to spare them the horror that lurked in wait at the Wheel of Thal-Marrahan.
It took many months and the many kindnesses of those I met along the way in Jurya and Arrun and Dawnland before I found myself, in the chill of winter, here in the friendly hills of my homeland. Here I was able to present my account of the Orb of Arristanas, and the destruction of Calhaneth, to his Majesty, in a private chamber, in the Hall of the Fathers of Threlland.
His Majesty commanded I make a written accounting, and this is it, the ink drying this 8th day of January, EB 31.
There is no doubt in my mind that the two wizards of the Tau, from Ostinath, are responsible for the calamity which destroyed the city of Calhaneth and all its people, and wrought ruin upon what might have been the greatest of all Thal-Marrahan’s works. Whether they understood that the damage they caused to the Orb would result in the utter destruction of the city, I cannot say. That they proceeded with their foul plan regardless of that knowledge or in ignorance of it is beyond question.
The Orb, if it survived the conflagration as well it might have done, will remain an object of great of danger. It was known from trials of much smaller devices before a successful model was created that only in complete darkness may the energies within the Orb decay safely. Even moonlight or starlight is sufficient to activate the Orb such that it commences to emit its deadly emanations, though the full light of day is needed to elevate its power to its greatest levels. It is safest when contained in the casket designed for the purpose of transporting it, lead lined, and of impenetrable Morgmetal.
I was not permitted to visit the regions where earlier trials were conducted, but my friend, who saved my life, Baden of the Elven Viell, spoke of lifeless areas in the forest where only shadows lurked, and where not even the bravest of wizards would trespass to recover the remains of failed experiments. I do not believe, after the atrocity I witnessed at the Wheel of Thal-Marrahan, that any will approach Calhaneth; nor should they. The Orb, made for the protection of all life, destroyed all life in that city. The radiance I saw penetrating the smoke of Calhaneth’s destruction was entirely malevolent. Surely no good shall ever come of it. Never go there.
Theo og Smelkmunt, Mestermethaler. EB 31
oOo
13. Concerns
Arramin gave a shuddering sigh, the final leaf of Theo’s account amplifying the elderly wizard’s trembling hand as he laid the page, neatly and almost reverently, on the stack of leaves before him. He did so with such care, one might have thought it the thousand year-old original rather than his own recent translation.
There was a long silence, Gawain clasping his beaker of hot wine for warmth, staring at the steam rising from the surface of the liquid, seeing instead a whirlwind of smoke and recalling the horror of the sounds of Calhaneth. Sounds of events Theo had witnessed and described. It was Allazar who finally broke the silence, speaking softly and with great solemnity.
“The treachery of Toorsen and those of his creed defies all belief and imagination. The noblest of endeavours twenty years in the making destroyed on the very brink of its success… I… it is beyond all comprehension, beyond all reason…”
Gawain closed his eyes, and felt a familiar ire beginning to stir deep within him, like soup in a pan slowly swirling as the heat from a cooking fire moves it towards simmering. He drew in a breath, and opened his eyes, and his voice was edged with anger when he spoke.
“The whitebeard bastards destroyed an entire city, and all its people, and all those who might have survived to bear witness against them.”
“It is possible, my lords, that others did survive,” Arramin suggested, his voice tremulous. “Though the atrocity contained in Theo’s account explains why no-one ever learned the cause of the city’s annihilation. There were none left alive in Elvendere to make a record of it.”
“None left alive at all, Master Arramin, save for Theo, a dwarf, who by great good fortune and by dint of his own courage and tenacity, managed to make his way home, alone and without supplies. All the way from the forest and back here to Threlland.”
“Yes, Master Allazar, but remember, the Viell Baden remained at the canal to warn others. And therein lays much of my concern, my lords, and the reason why, if I had possessed the wits to understand what we beheld at that city and along the canal, I would have begged you to remain, and to destroy the object.”
Gawain eyed the elderly wizard. “Tell us your concerns, Arramin, before my anger at those traitors becomes a rage and the pounding of my heart deafens me to your words.”
Arramin nodded, and in spite of his garishly coloured garments, he cut a small and distinctly worried figure at the end of the table.
“It is not so much the deadly device itself, my lords, which concerns me. If it were only true that no-one ever goes to Calhaneth then I would be less disturbed by Theo’s account of events in spite of the horror which it contains. But, my lords, consider, I beg you… At the time of that great city’s destruction, the lands we now know as the Old Kingdom were in friendly hands.
“If there were survivors upon the great water road and Baden persuaded them to abandon their flight to the north, he would have led them down the western slopes of the ridge, and south, away from the Toorsengard and certain death waiting at the Wheel of Thal-Marrahan. He would have taken them south and west, then, to the free lands which came to be called Pellarn.”
“That makes perfect sense,” Gawain agreed.
“And once there, my lords, perhaps other accounts similar to Theo’s would have been made. Who better to make to such a documented history of events than the very elfwizard whose task it was for more than twenty years to record in writing all aspects of the Orb’s design and construction?”
Something else began gnawing at Gawain’s innards, and he caught his breath as some long forgotten worm began wriggling up through his anger.
“My lords,” Arramin continued, “It isn’t true that no-one ever goes to Calhaneth. We ourselves went there. And someone, as you will recall, had been there before us.”
Realisation burst upon them like a slap in the face.
“Morloch’s agents!” Allazar gasped, “Who deployed there the Razorwing, and the Kiromok!”
“To keep all others away from the dome,” Gawain agreed, disgusted with himself for allowing more recent events to have dulled his wits.
“Indeed, my lords, indeed. I cannot be certain, of course, but it is entirely possible that Goria’s invasion of Pellarn was not from some desire for conquest or expansion…”
“…But an excuse to bring dark wizards to the very borders of the forest, there to claim the Orb once Morloch’s northern forces advanced into Juria,” Gawain finished Arramin’s sentence, and thumped the table, standing up and pacing angrily while Arramin continued:
“Even if Gorian forces were unaware of the Orb before they invaded Pellarn, it is very likely they discovered word of its existence once they had overrun the land. Some record or book perhaps, or even simple curiosity concerning the local folk mantra that no-one ever goes to Calhaneth.”
“Dwarfspit! I had thought the lack of wildlife in that part of the forest down to those wizard-made creatures being there for centuries!”
Allazar grimaced. “It would now seem far more likely that the lack of animals is the result of some poisonous effect of the Orb in and around the city, and we encountered the Kiromok at the baths because they needed to range a good distance for their food.”
“My lords,” Arramin interjected. “The Orb cannot be allowed to fall into the enemy’s hands. Should its casket be closed, in the dead of a night obscured by cloud, it would, according to Theo’s account, be safe to transport. And then, if borne into a castletown or citadel and opened… Baden too would have known this. If his knowledge survived…”
Allazar’s shoulders slumped, and he covered his face with his hands, trying hard not to imagine a fresh horror of a second Calhaneth.
Gawain let out a huge sigh, and sat heavily in his chair. “We have to go back,” he whispered, “We have to go back to Calhaneth.”
And though he waited a long time, neither wizard uttered a word to gainsay him.
oOo
14. A Kind of Madness
Gawain retired to his alcove to sit wrapped in a blanket fetched by Arramin from a large chest in the corner of the main chamber. There, leaning back against the cold stone wall, he read the translation of Theo’s account, cover to cover, while the heat of anger ballooned in his stomach and flooded through his veins.
All his life, or so it seemed to Gawain’s recall, he had distrusted wizards, regarding almost all of them with the utmost contempt. Now, with Arramin and Allazar talking quietly about the copying of Allazar’s book, and with that familiar anger warming his innards, the King of Raheen knew he had always been right so to do.
An entire city destroyed in an hour, perhaps a little longer, its people smoke and ashes thanks to the treachery of wizards. For Gawain, it mattered not what creed or faction or any other Dwarfspit flavour of wizardry the traitors had subscribed to, it all amounted to the same thing. The dreams and visions of wizards are always purchased by the blood of good men and women. This he knew. So too did Theo of Smeltmount.
Theo had gone to great lengths to make certain that his account of events contained nothing which would avail today’s crop of stick-wielding mumblers and chanters in the recreation of that failed Orb. There were only the vaguest of references to fluxes, forges, crucibles, Morgmetal and the unknown material ‘Argen-vitt’, silver-white, probably a metal known only to the elven engineers of Thal-Marrahan’s golden age.
The knowledge of how to create the Orb of Arristanas, if it still existed anywhere at all, would likely be sealed in the vaults of the Toorseneth. And there, if the ToorsenViell continued to hold sway over the lives of all in Elvendere, it would remain. And that set the worms to wriggling again, which, Gawain thought, was really rather annoying.
Surely, he mused, gazing at the heavy curtain sealing his alcove against the wizards at the table without, surely if the ToorsenViell served Morloch, then the Orb or the secrets of its manufacture would have been passed into the hands of that foulest of evil centuries ago? It would have made ruins of the castletowns of all lands within a day of it being exposed to daylight…
Such a simple thing, for a merchant in a wagon or cart to enter a town, laden with innocent boxes and caskets. Such a simple thing, in the dead of night, to open one of those plain-looking metal caskets in a high place and leave the Orb exposed, waiting for the sun to rise for its activation. Such a simple thing, to retrieve it in the dead of night after ashes and embers cooled…
Gawain sighed, and stood, and still wrapped in his blanket, pushed through the curtain to hand Theo’s account back to Arramin, who passed it directly to Allazar.
“They should have stopped when the first attempt devastated the slopes of Medthorn,” Gawain glowered, sitting heavily in his chair at the table. “Instead, the whitebeard vakin imbeciles continued. Worse, they made each attempt bigger and more destructive than the last. What in sight of the sun possessed them to loose such destruction in their own lands? You’re both wizards, tell me, what kind of madness would possess people to create something capable of destroying an entire city, and then loose it in their own homeland, over and over again?”
“Alas, my lord,” Arramin sighed, “The endeavour was at first noble, the intentions of the purest, and the desire for success all-consuming. I fear, though, that once the failure at Medthorn revealed to those who witnessed it the power and possibilities their efforts represented, the urge to overcome the engineering and technical challenges became a goal in and of itself.”
Allazar nodded sadly, pushing his open notebook a little further from him to make way for Arramin’s translation of Theo’s account. “For them, the risks were far outweighed by the astonishing benefits to all the kindred races should they have succeeded.”
“And once again, it is we, here now and far in their future, who have to pick up the pieces and clean up the mess they left behind. Is this to be our lot, Allazar? Are we doomed to spend our lives putting right the wrongs and catastrophes wrought by long-dead whitebeards?”
“The Orb must be destroyed, Longsword. Now we know of its existence, we have no choice.”
“Which brings us neatly to the question of how.”
Arramin blinked. “My lord?”
“How is this thing to be destroyed? Surely if it were as easy as just saying ‘it must be destroyed’ it would’ve been, centuries ago.”
“Oh dear, yes, I understand,” Arramin nodded, the bobble on his hat wobbling. “Yet, I fear these ToorsenViell did too fine a job of prohibiting all passage to the ruins. Only they and those loyal to them would likely have ventured there in the aftermath.”
“And then only to hunt down and destroy any survivors, most likely,” Gawain scowled. “Allazar has told you of my lady’s revelations concerning the treachery of the ToorsenViell?”
“Yes, my lord, he has,” Arramin nodded, his eyes filled with sorrow.
It suddenly occurred to Gawain that for the elderly wizard, clad in his gaily-coloured blankets and woollens, the astonishing truth of Calhaneth and its destruction, and the loss of all the wonders of elven engineering which followed the city’s ending, were bereavements which were hard for the old fellow to bear.
History, Arramin’s beloved study and the work of his lifetime, had finally betrayed the old historian. Here, deep below a mountain in Threlland, a trove of magnificent history had been discovered. And here, contained amongst the jewels and priceless artefacts of that vast store of documentary treasure, had been found the crushing evidence that all the marvels Arramin once held dear had been betrayed, proscribed, destroyed and buried in the dust of centuries by his brothers-in-robes, elfwizards.
All the wonders of elven engineering Arramin had declared and avowed as representing the pinnacle of kindred endeavours from an age of shining reason were now tarnished, blighted, smeared and corrupted. And the great
punctuation mark in the most remarkable chapter of Arramin’s life, as the wizard himself had described it at that final dinner in Ferdan, had been blotted and stained by the ink of long-dead treachery, the age of reason obliterated by dogma and the cloaked agenda of all of Toorsen’s creed.
Gawain drew in a breath, and let it out slowly. “So. How can this relic be destroyed?”
“It would seem simple enough, my lord. On a dark and moonless night, the casket must be closed, and brought out of the tower, and then placed in darkness forever.”
“Perhaps,” Allazar suggested, “Thrown into that fresh-opened canyon? Or perhaps dwarves could be persuaded to dig a shaft deep into the bowels of the world here, below Crownmount, and the casket buried far from all knowledge of its existence?”
Gawain shook his head. “And then with the passage of time have it emerge to afflict future generations, just as it has now? No. Whatever else happens, there must be no possibility of its return.”
“Indeed, my lords,” Arramin agreed. “And it cannot simply be tossed into that great canyon to the north and forgotten. There may be none now who might venture into the roaring flow of the river at the foot of the gorge, but who is to say that some future adventurer might not possess the means to explore and subsequently find it? Besides, the slightest crack in the casket to admit light, and who is to say what effect the Orb’s emanations might have on the waters, which are the source of Avongard?”