Galaphile, p.17
Galaphile, page 17
At once, Galaphile knew. This was meant to be the space on which his citadel would be constructed.
Eagerly, accompanied by the cat, he climbed its great height, then stopped on the open plateau and just gazed at it, filled with a mix of wonder and excitement. He could see the fortress rising in his mind. He knew exactly how it would look, how it would function, how it would dominate the entire clearing. He would find men and women to fill its ranks, to aid him in his quest to free the lands of violence.
With a sudden grin, he knew what the paper and writing implements were for. Spreading the paper open on a nearby rock, he feverishly began to sketch—walls and towers and gates, defensive capabilities and sight lines. How many stories above, and how many basement levels hollowed into the rise. He filled several pages with the plans, his excitement rising. It would be both a formidable fortress and a place of learning, with weapons stores as well as libraries.
And wonderfully defensible, on its isolated peak.
It would be magnificent.
When he had finished drawing, he paused for a moment to savor the triumph. Of course, he would need to find someone to convert his rough sketches to architectural drawings—to tell him what was possible and what was not. That was when the practical questions crowded in. How long would all this take? How long and how far would he have to travel to find the architects he needed, let alone the help to construct the place? He was alone, without coins or valuables. He had no helpers and no plans for finding—or funding—any. Beyond his dreams, he had almost nothing practical.
So how could he possibly make this real?
He sighed deeply and tucked the nascent plans away in his pack. A journey was taken one step at a time, and he was racing ahead of himself here. What should his next step be?
Walk the rise and look out to what lies below.
The voice of the King whispered in his mind, sharp and clear. He caught his breath in response, and a fresh rush of excitement surged through him. Their connection wasn’t lost; it was still there.
Obediently, he rose and walked forward. He wasn’t questioning anything by now; he was only responding.
This was what was meant to happen. This was what he had to do.
The mountain cat was lying in the grasses ahead of him but did not move as he passed it. He might have questioned its placid acceptance of what was happening if he had given thought to it, but there was no time. The cat was a fact of life but at that moment not a consideration.
When he reached the nearest edge, he slowed and looked back. The broad plateau stretched away for a considerable distance—almost five thousand yards at its longest. Beyond, to the west, south, and east, the forests dropped down into the rugged cradle of the Dragon’s Teeth.
He began to walk the perimeter, as instructed, then stood in shock and wonder as he reached the northern side.
There, a broad gravel-laced dirt roadway wound downward through a series of twists and turns into and out of forested hills to eventually exit through the northern pass. The roadway had been there all along; he just hadn’t realized it, because he had climbed the forbidding walls of the cliffsides that faced east.
Had he made a better effort at finding his way, he might have found that road. But was he ever even meant to? Had the King of the Silver River purposely positioned him so that he was forced to ascend to this place the hard way? Was it a trial that he must undergo?
He couldn’t be sure. Much of his new life was like the beginnings of a mystery to him.
Then, from his perch atop the rise, a fresh surprise surfaced with a suddenness that was by now growing all too familiar.
On the roadway he had just discovered, wagons pulled by donkey trains and tended by copious numbers of Dwarves were just beginning to come into view, ascending in a long, twisting line that stretched down toward the valley until it was out of view.
Eighteen
“My name is Sanitov Scallawen,” the leader of the Dwarves announced after the first of the wagons had pulled up to the end of the road and Galaphile had walked down to meet them. “I am a master builder among my people, and if your name is Galaphile Joss, then I am your willing servant in undertaking whatever tasks you require of me.”
Galaphile stared at him. “You’ve come here to build my fortress?” he asked in disbelief. “By whom were you sent?”
The Dwarf shrugged. “By the same fellow who sent you, I suppose. He said you would be waiting. He also said you would be surprised by our presence.”
That was an understatement, Galaphile thought as he studied his new companion. Sanitov was big for his lineage—about a head taller than Varisol, though still far shorter than Galaphile himself—his burly form, muscular arms, and sturdy body a testament to a life spent as a workingman. His bushy beard and thick head of hair were a deep burnt orange in color, and his bright-blue eyes held a twinkle. There was no reason to question his claim, but every reason to wonder at his decision to undertake this project, because…
“I have no money to pay you,” Galaphile confessed. “I am without coin and means. Did you come all this way with no guarantee that you would be fairly compensated for your effort?”
Sanitov laughed—a big, booming rumble. He clearly found his host amusing. “No guarantee? Shades, man! Do I seem the sort of fellow who would cross the flippin’ street if he thought he might not be paid? Of course I would insist on payment—not only for myself but for all my fellow builders and the families who depend on them. For the materials and tools and transport as well. Why would I do anything else? Do I look insane?”
Galaphile shook his head at once. “Hardly. But…I still don’t understand.”
“The only thing to understand is this,” the Dwarf persisted. “We have already been paid in full—me and all my fellow workers. We were hired, paid more than adequately, and dispatched with sufficient additional funds to procure any other materials and tools we might need. We are fully prepared to undertake the construction. We even have the plans for what we are expected to build.”
Sanitov had pulled out a roll of plans from his pack, and he handed them over. “The ones on top are the rough sketches of your vision. The ones below are the actual building plans. We had to change a few things around—you know, for load-bearing walls and suchlike—but I feel like we captured the essence of your vision. Let me know if not, and I will be happy to modify things as needed.”
Feeling bemused, Galaphile unrolled the plans, only to find the drawings he had just sketched—but now looking much more wrinkled and well used—lying on top. Below that, Sanitov’s plans were revealed in intricate layers.
Were they any good? Galaphile studied them and shook his head in wonder. They were a miracle of meticulous detail, capturing everything that had been in his head and on the scratch sheets that had somehow ended up here. The work was so thorough that it left him astonished.
“These are perfect,” he admitted. “Everything I had hoped for and more. This is beautiful work. I am pleased with every inch. Thank you.”
Sanitov grinned. “I’m rather pleased with them myself, I admit. But then, your vision was remarkably clear. This is going to be a magnificent place once we’ve finished building it.”
Galaphile agreed—but he could not resist surreptitiously checking his pack while Sanitov was occupied with rolling the plans back up again. He wasn’t sure if he was delighted or alarmed to find that the drawings he had completed mere minutes ago were nowhere to be found.
Still, he had expected that he would have to find and organize the builders and have the building plans created all on his own. He had also expected that he would have to pay for everything, from materials to laborers and beyond. That he was wrong on every count left him stunned by the magnitude of the help he was being provided.
Galaphile shook Sanitov’s hand warmly, welcomed him to the construction site, and took the time to introduce himself to all the newly arrived workers and examine the materials that had been hauled to the site.
“It is an enormous task that you have undertaken, my friend,” Sanitov declared. “What I have here is only the first load of what will be required. This is a five-year build we are undertaking. All we do now is begin construction on the lower floors—on the basements and underground storage chambers. In other words, we begin with clearing the site and undertaking an excavation so we can set the foundation.”
Galaphile had no trouble believing this, and he assured his building chief that, however long it took, it would be worth the time and effort—and whatever support he could provide was at their disposal. Sanitov grunted and accepted the assurance, but Galaphile knew the man doubted his skills. After all, he knew nothing about what had been planned, had no means to pay for anything, and lacked any familiarity with the building process. The plateau was not heavily forested, but the roots ran deep, so clearing the necessary trees alone would be a terrific undertaking. That he was to become the leader of this endeavor was one thing. But to expect that he was useful in any practical sense was another. At best, Galaphile realized, it was a case of wait and see.
The remainder of the day was spent walking the building site and discussing the ways in which the construction would begin, where the walls and buildings would be placed, and how the finished citadel would eventually look. The locations of the three central towers, the six courtyards, the connecting walls, and the massive front and concealed rear gates were crucial to the invulnerability of the citadel, and as they walked the site, Galaphile again saw it rising in his mind.
Near the end of the day, Galaphile began considering something else that he hadn’t even thought about before. If this was a five-year project, as Sanitov had indicated, it would eventually attract attention. Not just from the curious but from the rapacious as well. Attempts at theft were inevitable. This was a mean and lawless part of the country, with warring bands of Humans and Gnomes and no doubt some varieties of raider camps still scattered throughout this bowl.
“Thieves and cutthroats of every sort will inevitably attack us and the site, in search of materials at the very least,” he advised the Dwarf commander. “So sentries, guards, and more than a few traps will be needed as we proceed.”
Sanitov nodded, understanding the issue as well as he did. Would some who located them take advantage of what they had to offer? No doubt. And would others seek to pillage and burn and kill these intruders? Again, no doubt.
So was there anything Galaphile and those standing with him could do to stop it? The King of the Silver River had told him he had been transformed by his visit to the Gardens of Life. But what did that mean? How exactly had that transformation changed him? He looked the same, thought the same, felt the same—mostly. As far as he could determine, he was acting the same. What had changed? How would he be able to withstand the power that would be brought against himself and his helpers and this as-yet-unrealized fortress? How was he to survive the fury and the savagery that would one day come for him?
He didn’t know. But he knew he was going to have to find out—fast. He resolved to immediately begin recruiting and building up a protective force for the day he needed one. Which he did not think would be all that far away.
* * *
—
As it happened, it took much less time than he had anticipated and came with a suddenness that was shocking.
Over the course of four months, the building of the citadel had begun in earnest. Already, the lands on which it would be constructed had been prepared. The trees had been cleared from the rise, and the footings where the structure’s main towers and gates would lie had already been placed. Massive belowground basements and storage areas were being excavated and their walls shored up, awaiting stone blocks and mortar. Hundreds more Dwarves had arrived to carry out the heavy work required, summoned from the Dwarf cities of the east by Sanitov, who apparently had significant connections with the entire building community.
Certainly, the guarantees of up-front pay brought help more quickly than anything, but even so there was a real sense of excitement about the work that caught Galaphile by surprise. That the Dwarven people were so invested in this project spoke volumes and made Galaphile hope anew. He had never been shy about explaining the fortress’s purpose—a way to help unite a fractured land—and his workers’ enthusiasm for the cause made him realize that this project had value even to the more settled Races.
This was perhaps the most significant structural undertaking since the construction of Tyrsis and its massive walls, but it had even greater purpose.
Then one day, not even six months after the start of the project, the first attack came.
Galaphile had established a series of watch lines right from the start so that he would not be caught off guard. He knew that, sooner or later, his efforts would be discovered and his strength tested. So when the first of his sentries rushed in to announce that a sizable force of heavily armed raiders from one of the larger camps was coming up the road, he was quick to act. Strapping on his weapons and ordering everyone to stay back, he departed to stand alone against the intruders. Whatever was going to happen, he wanted it to happen to him first.
The first rule of engagement, he believed, was to create a false impression of vulnerability. The second was to set an example of what others could expect if they persisted in their efforts. The answer to any threat must be significant enough to discourage not only the attacking force but any future attackers as well.
He had thought about his choices ever since he had realized this day was coming. He had come up with a plan and rehearsed his role so many times that he was almost glad to finally get a chance to do it. After today, everyone would know what he could do if he was threatened.
When he sensed the raiders’ arrival was imminent, he took up position on the roadway leading downhill, perhaps three hundred yards from where the foundation of the fortress was being excavated, and he waited. Already, he could hear the sounds of the approaching attackers, which were both raucous and threatening. What happened here on this day, he knew, would go a long way toward determining the future of his project, and Galaphile was not about to let anything threaten that.
When the raiders—about a hundred strong, he guessed, and men and women both—were perhaps fifty yards away, they paused, and he heard the first sharp twangs of longbows releasing their arrows. With a quick sweep of one arm and a few uttered words, he released a broad swath of magic and every last arrow—all that were being aimed at him—fell out of the air as if a wind had knocked them down. Some among those advancing cursed and looked about at their fellows. A few broke ranks and turned back. But the larger part came on. Their leaders called for shield men with spears to take the vanguard and form a phalanx that would sweep him aside.
Still, he held his ground.
When the leading ranks of the phalanx were within twenty yards, he ordered them to stop—his voice a booming explosion of sound. The phalanx didn’t even slow, and when their forward movement continued unchecked, he again swept his arm before him, his fingers pointed toward the roadway as he drew an invisible line between himself and the interlopers. In response, the earth rose into a thick whirl of dirt and rocks six feet high, blocking the road entirely.
This time, everyone halted where they were. Through the swirling barrier, he could see them staring in disbelief.
“Come no farther!” Galaphile commanded, again using his volcanic voice. “If you do—if even one of you dares—I will tear up the earth you walk upon and drop all of you straight down into a hole that will become your graves!”
Harsh mutterings met his words, but still he faced them. From within the masses before him, a few voices rose in challenge, instructing those assembled to take the head off this impudent fool.
In a sudden rush, his attackers came for him. In response, he used his magic to take hold of the earth beneath them and rip it open like paper. The entire roadway split apart, widening in seconds into a crevasse ten feet wide and fifty feet deep, exposing a cavern that dropped away for hundreds of feet.
The men and women charging at him were moving too fast to stop themselves, and half the company vanished into the crevasse, screaming and howling in helpless despair.
The panicked cries of the stricken mostly died swiftly as their bodies struck the rocks at the bottom and their voices went silent. Only a few, somehow alive after their fall, began sobbing and crying out for help. Those who remained standing on the far side of the split, their faces frozen in horror, stared down into the gaping pit filled with the bodies of their dead and dying companions.
With another gesture, Galaphile drew the ruptured earth together. The ground rumbled and shook like a dragon rolling over, and the edges of the crevasse snapped shut with a muffled boom, silencing any that remained inside.
A long, eerie hush settled over the road. The opposing company stood as if frozen by magic—though he knew it was only horror that held them in place. A sluggish, ugly guilt stirred inside him. Had he gone too far? But they had refused to heed him, and an example needed to be made.
His enhanced voice exploded through the sudden silence. “Turn around! Go back to where you came from and don’t come back!”
As added emphasis, he set the air in front of them and overhead on fire, until it looked as if the entire sky was burning.
