Chapter 2
Into the Mist
- Part the First -
The thunderous roar of the waterfall filled the air, unsettling a swallow that flitted nervously before landing upon the right bank of Gérlod. There, in the shade of a towering beech with a bluish trunk, she perched near a stone bridge that all but vanished into thick, swirling clouds of mist above the river’s waters.
Al slid nimbly from the bird’s back and ran a hand over her sleek wing in gratitude for the shared journey. With a hurried flutter, the swallow soared back into the air. The elf-boy stood for a while, watching her tiny form grow ever smaller in the distance.
She’s just like Jay, he thought suddenly, surprised by the notion. Delicate and skittish.
A sharp gust from the northwest sliced through him like an icy shard, and Al pulled his father’s woollen cloak tighter about his frame. He had little love for the cold; it brought forth memories he had long thought buried.
Jay.
Adjusting the bundle and bow on his back, he set off toward the bridge. It was a noble structure, simple yet weighty in its sturdy gnomish craftsmanship. Its usual gleaming whiteness — like the froth of waterfall spray — was dulled that day by the clammy grey haze of mist and the gathering gloom of a prematurely darkening sky, such as ofttimes befell the Season of Rains.
The few townsfolk and wandering travellers who still crossed the river emerged from the fog suddenly, like moths flitting from the blinding glare of a lantern. Even Al’s keen eyes discerned their forms only at the last possible moment amidst the damp vapours. Thus, it was the sharp command “Halt!” that reached his ears ere his gaze could catch sight of who had issued it.
Startled, Al stopped in wary anticipation, his eyes darting toward the left parapet whence the voice had come. Soon enough, he beheld a tall guard clad in black iron armour and helm, his grey woollen cloak embroidered with the sigil of the Master of Stones.
Gnomes , Al laughed inwardly. They see through mist as wolves through darkness. And since when do they armour themselves as if for an interstellar war?
The guard, it seemed, did not share his amusement. As he strode up to Al, his gaze was dour, near to wrathful.
"Who are you, and what do you seek here?"
"Since when may travellers not freely come inside the Gates in search of lodging?" Al returned, arching his brow with an air of disdain.
"Elves rarely tread upon our lands. And when they do, their intentions have grown less friendly of late," the guard replied, his eyes raking Al from his boots to the tip of his willow-embroidered hat. "Speak now — who art thou?"
A mischievous glint flickered in Al’s eyes as he reached beneath the folds of his cloak. From an inner pocket, he drew forth a tightly rolled missive. The seal of the Druid Council, wrought from emerald-hued beeswax, gleamed nobly even in the murk of mist and waning daylight.
"I am Algén, son of Alén the bard and Pola the meadow dancer. I come as envoy to the Master of Stones Ferlo, under command and by decree of the High Druid of the Eastern Peninsula, Nol," he declared.
The guard’s gaze shifted from the seal to Al's face. To the boy’s surprise, the man’s stern expression softened into a crooked, oddly indulgent smile. There was something in it that instantly unsettled Al, rekindling his wariness anew.
"You are an envoy, bearing the seal of the Council, so I must let you pass," said the guard. "Yet your news is stale. Master Ferlo passed with the waning of the Chestnut Month, and two weeks ago the Stone Sages chose a new Master."
"Who?" asked Al, his brow furrowing. But before the guard could reply, the boy grasped what had earlier puzzled him. So that's why the guards, the armour, the spears...
"Gerod," the guard said, more to confirm Al's guess than to inform him.
The thought struck Al's mind like a war-drum: I'm too late. Gerod will not even hear me out, and a quarrel with the Druids will suit him just fine.
The rush of the waterfall grew louder in his ears, swelling into the roar of collapsing walls. The mist before his eyes thickened and darkened, twisting into graphite swirls of smoke.
He only came to himself when the guard's question cut through his vision:
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
"What do you hide beneath that cloak?"
The vision dissolved; torchlight replaced again by the wary glint in the gnome's yellow eyes. Al's wit, ever nimble, returned as if it had never faltered.
"A secret weapon," he quipped. Fit to plunder alone Grod Gérlod, the Capital of Thieves, he finished inwardly, whilst reaching beneath his cloak to produce a lute.
The guard smirked faintly.
"Well then, sage bard, may your songs soften Gerod’s heart — for your sake and for the tidings you bear. But mark my words — and keep your guard up. They may greet you less kindly at the gates of the Master’s Grotto than I have here."
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The bridge ended at a broad, flat shelf of rock, serving as the entry courtyard to the city. As Al set foot upon it, the massive gates loomed out of the mist like the gaping maw of a dragon. The raised portcullis, which usually gleamed silver-bright like the shimmering waves of Gérlod, was now shrouded in the gloom of the approaching dusk, its beech-leaf wroughtwork fading like the real branches during the waning days of the Oak Month.
The Gates of Gérlod, Al mused, lifting his gaze to the iron adornments of the portcullis. They were beautiful, though wrought as if from some vast sorrow. They had always fascinated him on his visits to the gnomish capital — much like the sorrow itself, a thing he neither knew nor understood, merely glimpsed sometimes in his bardic imaginings.
Despite the wary glances cast his way, none of the guards halted him as he passed beneath the gateway, and soon Al stood within the city.
Grod Gérlod was a vast cavern, hewn long ago by the relentless waters of the Silver River. Its countless nooks and crannies harboured thousands of gnomish dwellings. Through the cavern’s heart wound the city's main thoroughfare, twisting like a serpent of amber hue between subterranean lakes and at times arching above them, transforming into humped bridges with ornate balustrades. Alongside the road, lanterns grew from stalagmites, unevenly spaced and shaped like poppies. Within their blossoms, cosmic crystals caught the light filtering through the city's cracks from the sun and moons, casting a dim but enchanting radiance over the cavern.
After walking several yards*, Al paused beneath one of these lanterns, at a point where the road rose high above the cavern floor. From here, the view of the city's other quarters unfolded before him. The bustle of foot traffic had grown thicker, prompting Al to pull up his hood — a common enough sight in this city of nocturnal ways and shadowed alleys, drawing far less attention than his distinctly elf-like features. Adjusting his bundle and leaning against the balustrade, he cast his gaze downward toward a limestone plateau stretching above the shimmering violet waters of a nearby lake.
There, upon the forecourt of the entrance to the Master’s and the Stone Sages' dwelling, hidden behind a curtain of ornate draperies, sprawled the gnomish market — a veritable mine of the city's murmurs, rumours and moods. Al smiled faintly to himself. At this hour, the hum from that place was like the drone of a beehive, growing only louder in his keen ears as he turned left along the main road and began descending towards it.
The merchant stalls burst with colour and fragrance, and Al suddenly realised that he had eaten nothing since morning, when he and the swallow had set forth from the sandy bluffs of the swallow settlement. He reached into the inner pocket of his cloak, fingers seeking out a coin. Tossing it carelessly in his palm a few times, he pulled his hood snugly over his head and melted into the bustling throng like a shadow.
As he had expected, much was being whispered about Gerod's bold schemes for complete independence from the Council’s authority, and the looming spectre of war — but nought beyond what Al had already deduced himself. Only one conversation caught his attention for longer. He lingered by a baker’s stall, listening keenly as an elder gnome in an unfastened copper-hued doublet spoke to a younger, ruddy-haired one clad in a tattered cloak.
“Nol won’t suffer such an insult,” the elder declared. “I saw him once, many cosmic circuits agone, as he came to the Gates to see old Ferlo. Rode in on a black raven, with a cloak blue and gleaming like cobalt. A true sylph-king from the land of ice, and proud as a sylph too, though he's nought but an elven druid, for all that they say he’s of elf blood… Mark my words, there’ll be war out of this.”
“Blast it all, to the Likho with it!” spat the ruddy-haired one in fury. “For some cursed Fortress, to tangle in war with the Forest Folk and their druids? May Gerod be damned! Ferlo may've been a doddering old puppet, but at least there was peace under him…”
Here he hesitated, seemingly lost in thought, calculating something in his mind, ere speaking in a calmer, hushed tone:
“But tell me, sage birder, you who know so much, who’ve seen so many things and hold secrets aplenty — what is it about that Fortress?”
“Ah, who’s to say?” The older gnome shrugged. “Folk talk differently, most of it making no sense at all. The best I can reckon is that there's some ancient secret hidden within, from the time of the very first Master, Nélchod — a key, they say, to great power and vast riches. And supposedly, a dragon guards it, with eyes in which a man can see himself reflected… But that part smells like hogwash to me.”
At the mention of “riches” the ruddy-haired gnome’s narrow eyes gleamed with curiosity and greed. He looked as though he wanted to press further, to wheedle out more about the matter, but just then his gaze shifted and landed on Al, who stood nearby. Their eyes met briefly, and the ruddy one’s face tensed as he strained to make out what lay beneath the folds of the hood.
“And what are you gawping at?” he snarled.
Al smirked.
“Buying something, masters, or just loitering about, taking up space at the stall?”
“None of your business, stray,” growled the ruddy gnome, feigning menace, though his eyes glinted uneasily.
Your tongue’s too long, gnomish scoundrel, far too long, Al mused, still smiling to himself. Throwing curses at whoever you will — when the Gates are crawling with Gerod’s spies.
“Hey!” The stallholder barked from behind his counter of bread. “No brawling near my wares, y’hear?”
The elder gnome, the birder, raised a hand towards the stallholder in a gesture of reassurance.
“Peace, baker. We’ll take our leave — rightly said, lingering here without purpose does no good. Come, Osgod, it’s time we were off.”
The ruddy-haired Osgod shot Al one last baleful glance but, without further quarrel, followed obediently after the birder. Al awhile watched them go, until the baker’s voice drew his attention.
“What’ll it be?”
Al turned towards the stall. The baker’s brown eyes, as two hazelnuts, regarded him with weary indifference. Al fished a coin from his pocket and placed it upon the counter.
“A sweet crescent roll. And a pumpkin seed.”
Dragon, the birder’s words echoed in his mind as he chewed the roll, ambling slowly towards the gate that led to the Master’s Grotto. With eyes in which one can see himself reflected...
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* This pertains to human yards — one yard measures just over 90 centimetres.