Stone. Fearsome gray stone built up so high that the very top scraped the underside of the white clouds above and which cast a shadow so long that, arriving from the east as the sun set in the west, one might have forgotten it was day. A marvel of the works of man, built an aeon ago with secret magics long lost to time.
Stopping to ease his aching legs, Lukas smiled in a way only the elderly could. It had been a dream of his to visit the Tower of Victory before his death, and now, despite his presence here being against his will, he was happy to see it with his own eyes.
“Incredible,” Amadou muttered. “The texts mentioned it was tall, but this… I can’t believe it’s real.”
Lukas laughed, giving Amadou a hard, reassuring pat on the back. “It’s real, all right. Almost as tall as the heavens and as thick as any fort in the world, all built with enchanted stone by mages we’ll never see the equal of in our lives. Majestic, isn’t it?”
“Terrifying, is what it is,” Simon said. The boy was shivering even harder than Lukas was, despite having thicker furs and the grace of youth. Cold was not Simon’s ally. “Fills you with a sort of dread, doesn’t it, master? A sort of… jealousy?
“That it does, Simon. That it does.” There was no better way to describe it. To see the visage of the Tower of Victory, which at its most base was a menacing structure of enormous magnitude, instilled in one an unmatched awe at the wonders of magic. That, and the most primal sense of inadequacy one was likely to feel in their life.
“Come,” he said, urging his horse forward. “Let us announce ourselves.”
The Tower, which sat alone in an empty field of knee deep snow, was, at a glance, undefended. Yet as one approached they began to see the host of impressive defenses that all but made the tower unapproachable. Dotting the Tower’s walls at every height and in every direction were narrow slits, through which a host of archers could lay in wait, bows at the ready and completely unseen. Then, as one looked higher up, near the very top of the Tower, there lay an extended terrace from which, he imagined, there were a great many stones and pots of oil ready to be set alight and tossed down upon the heads of potential invaders.
But the tower’s greatest defense was plain to see from miles off no matter the direction one cared to attack from. At the very top of the tower, above the terrace, encased in a lattice dome of metal and glass, was an object of incredible radiance. Burning bright with orange-yellow light was the Stone of Azphine. A veritable furnace of magical power, Lukas could feel the prickle of mana from a mile off. The sensation only grew stronger as they approached.
It’s ecliptic. Even he does not compare. The giant mage in Licester, whose image was burned into his mind, had been power incarnate, magic in human form. But this…
This is truly the work of the Gods.
“Why are there so few people, Master?” Amadou asked. Before him were the lights of his magic. The Tower, large as it was, contained within only a smattering of dots, each representing a single person.
“It is the Stone,” Lukas replied with confidence, pointing to the Towers top. “The power of the God of Victory himself, some say. Its very power nullifies the magic of those outside the Tower. You can feel it, can’t you? The mana radiating off of it?”
Amadou nodded. “It…hurts.”
“That it will. Attuning ourselves to mana comes at a cost, and that cost is an inability to withstand the might of superior beings. That being the Gods. With time the pain will lessen.”
Despite his words, Lukas himself felt the intensity of the Stone’s mana grow as they approached, reaching its precipice just outside the Tower’s dark doors.
“Who arrives at the Tower of Victory?” came a shrill, yet distinctly male, voice from above the massive doors. Just above the door was a narrow slit, from which Lukas saw a glint of light. The speaker’s eyes, he imagined.
“I am Lukas Merveillo, Master of the Magehead and leader of this retinue. I have come on behalf of the Cardinals of Highharrow to deal with the recent invasion of refugees.”
There was a quietness as he waited, then a stir of whispers, barely heard. “Please wait,” the shrill voice said.
Lukas gave a displeased grunt. They waited for moments, then the moments became minutes. Hurry up, will you. It’s damned cold out here.
Simon was amidst a fit of constant shivers and sniveling by the time the shrill voice reappeared. “Laurent of the Tower, Head Servant to the God of Victory, has graciously allowed your entrance to the Tower.”
The great dark doors opened with a groan and the heavy clunk clunk clunk of metal, revealing within a number of men and women in white and gray robes. Most were old, of age with Lukas or older. The youngest of them, a group of six men wearing plain robes of gray, worked open the doors, three to a side as they pushed, their faces red with effort.
Behind them were great chains of black iron, stemming from large spindles on either side; they spun as the doors opened, unleashing the chains with the raucous clanking of thick metal on metal, their wooden levers spinning round and round. Further past, lining the great Tower’s walls, were a number of wooden shanties, their floors line with hay and soil and dirty cloth. Stables.
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Above the doors Lukas could see the underside of a stone platform that wrapped all the way around the tower's base. On the far side of the platform was a wall that sloped upward, from which another series of narrow slits could be seen.
As he entered the Tower the six young men ran to the winches and began to push once more, the great black chains pulling the massive doors close behind them and, for once, diminishing the cold.
“Your horses, please,” an elderly man in white robes said. “Laurent will meet you upstairs.” Lukas dismounted, his legs and hips thanking him. His knees, however, cursed him with a familiar ache. But pain was at the back of his mind as, looking to the upper platform, he saw that there was no way up.
“How do we get upstairs?” Maxime asked.
“There.” The old man pointed up to the platform’s shadowy underside. Studying it closely, Lukas made out several squares darker than their surroundings.
Hatches, he thought. As if on cue one opened. Then, from above, a ladder descended. It just had to be ladders.
“You all climb these?” Lukas asked. He regretted the question immediately. A quick look around revealed that the wooden shanties were not merely stables and storerooms, but makeshift homes. Homes for the Towers attendants who, at a look, were afflicted with the worst curses of age.
“We do not,” the old man said. “Most of us don’t, anyway. That honor is reserved for the able folk. The rest of us serve down here in the ways we can, whether that be tending the animals or tossing out waste.”
“I see.” Even in the holiest of places there is dirty work to be done, Lukas thought. Still, the interior of the Tower of Victory did not impress upon him the same majesty he had felt as a student all those years ago, when Lukas had first stepped foot in the Tower of the Magehead. Half as tall and lacking anything on par with the Stone, the Tower of the Magehead should have been half the sight. And yet…
Ascending the ladders only added to his frustration; the ladder’s rungs were narrow, and beneath his feet they felt barely capable of withstanding his own weight. Cautious, Lukas moved slowly. His arms and legs burned from the effort.
Rowena and her retinue of knights came after, and the issue of weight reared its ugly head once more; leaving their armor in the care of the Tower’s attendants, they ascended one by one, waiting patiently until each knight was safely on the platform above before the next would attempt to ascend.
Then Maxime attempted the climb, and with a single step the bottom rung split with such a noise that it stunned all to silence.
“Stay, Maxime,” Lukas said.
“Come again?” Maxime replied, cupping a hand to his ear.
“I SAID, STAY!”
Lukas seethed and ached, hot with embarrassment. You miserable, obese lout. How dare you shame us! Here, of all places! He would have torched the man.
“It is fine,” said the shrill voice that had first greeted them. A man in green and purple robes approached, his eyes darting to and fro. He settled on Lukas and smiled.
“You are Master Lukas, I presume?” the man asked.
“I am. With whom do I have the courtesy of speaking with?”
The man bowed. “I am Mathias, Head Attendant of the Lower Tower. It is an honor to meet with you, Master Lukas.”
“You’ve heard of me?” Lukas asked. The Tower of Victory was far and away from the seat of Hilva’s power. And politics. That Lukas’s name might have reached this far was a pleasant thought.
“I have not myself,” Mathias replied, to Lukas’s disappointment, “though I believe Laurant knows you. Or, at least, knows of the Magehead. It is not so often that he allows strangers into the Tower so readily. Often as not he makes them wait outside in the chill for a day or two.”
There’s a dangerous thought. Despite the comforting warmth of the Tower’s air, Lukas’s body still felt the remnant fingers of cold. And, as his body warmed, his limbs tingled with burning pain.
“I apologize for my bluntness, but I must ask. When may we meet with Head Servant Laurant?” Lukas asked.
Mathias’s countenance shifted at the question, his already pallid complexion becoming a shade whiter. “Ah, that…that will not be possible, at the moment. Part of my greeting was to inform you that Head Servant Laurant is preoccupied. As such, any meeting will have to wait.
“In the meantime, I would gladly show you and your compatriots to the guest rooms. I do apologize, however. We have not had visitors in quite some time, so the maintenance of the guest rooms has not been… ideal.”
“Anything you can offer will be adequate,” Lukas replied. “Any lodgings at all will seem a luxury to us, I’m sure, and it is we who impose upon you.”
“Splendid,” Mathias said.
Leading them up the stone stairs, which to Lukas’s relief were more than solid enough to withstand his weight, they passed several floors of interest.
The first was an open room dominated by an open expanse of sand, dirt, and gravel. A training room, its walls were dominated by a series of weapons, ranging from wooden training tools to sharp steel. The floor above that was a library of sorts, filled with a series of towering bookcases that spanned from floor to ceiling, with each shelf packed to the limit. Beyond that was a section split into two, one labeled ‘Men’, the other ‘Women’, the air around them dominated by a moist heat. Baths, he surmised. And how dearly I need one.
By the time they reached the guest rooms, which rested three more floors above the baths, pain wracked Lukas’s body from his clicking knees to his aching back. Pride alone kept him upright as Mathias turned to them, waving with the grandiosity of an enthusiastic innkeeper.
“Your lodgings, dear friends,” he said, bowing. “The entire floor is yours to use, as well as the baths below. Food and water will be brought to you shortly; I’m certain you all are tired from the long trip.”
“Yes, quite, and much thanks,” Lukas said. His stomach growled at the mention of food. He was sick of dried, leathery meat, and the thought of freshly cooked beef or pork set his mouth to watering.
Mathias bowed again. “If there are no further questions, I must bid you adieu, sadly. You have come at an unusual time, and there are matters that beg my attention.”
“I have but one question, though forgive me for prying further. As you have already said, Head Servant Laurant is preoccupied, but I must inquire as to his soonest availability? There are matters that beg our attention as well, and for the safety of Hilva it is best that I meet with the Head Servant as soon as possible.”
Mathias flashed an uneasy smile. “‘Soon’ is all the answer I can give you, Master Lukas. Soon. The Head Servant is not one to dally, so have no fear, it will be soon.”
Mathias left, and Lukas’s trio of pupils surrounded him, waiting. An oddity of theirs, when all three had the same question.
“Keep your mouths shut and your ears open,” Lukas said.