Caerlon
Sean Matthews
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Sean Matthews
A darkness was coming. An army of grotesque and broken souls, marching on towards the West. Blackened and battle scarred, they travelled mostly by night, crushing and destroying all that lay in their path, sparing only those lives that were of strength and use enough to join with them.
At their head marched their fearful leader, Dracus; a distorted abhorrence commanding a deathly power. Horrific in form, yet with the strength of twenty men, he ruled his band with a grip of fear and destruction. Staring dead ahead, through eyes that burnt with a fire of hatred, he was a being set strong with purpose.
By the light of the cold, empowering moon, his army powered on. They were coming and let nothing dare stand in their path...
~Chapter One~
A Hard Day’s Work
Moorlock was tired. He'd been working away in the old, dusty study for what seemed like days now, yet the piles of books spread across the floor in front of him didn't seem to be getting any smaller. Row upon row of aged tomes and yellowing manuscripts lined every inch of the study's walls, each page filled with the history of the great city of Caerlon. Clouds of dust filled the air all around him as he worked, finally finding its way up his poor nostrils, causing him to emit a violent sneeze.
'Wha... wh... who's there?' From behind a particularly large stack of books in the far corner of the room, came a startled cry, followed by a large crash that sent another plume of dust up into the air.
'It's only me, sire.' Moorlock called at the cloud, followed by a resigned sigh to himself, 'it's always me.'
'Ah, right,' the dust spoke, 'Me-lock, huh? Ah. Moorlock rather. Yes quite.'
The mistake somewhat amused him and was followed by a gleeful chuckle. As the dust settled, the owner of the voice picked himself up off the floor from where he had tipped himself, his chair and much of the contents of his table. He cast a rather comical figure as he did so. Smaller in stature than the young Moorlock, he was very much older. His face and most of his body were obscured from view by a long flowing beard. So long in fact, that it easily reached to the floor and he was forced to roll it up into one hand as he walked. His eyes, though pretty much the only part of his face not covered with this white silken fur, were none the less hidden behind a pair of thick rimmed spectacles, that gave the impression of being made for somebody with much larger features than their present owner. His cumbersome appearance was not helped by the large blue ink blot that was feeling its way along his beard, after being so unceremoniously upended from its usual place in the jar on the table.
Climbing onto an un-upended chair next to Moorlock, he smiled to him , 'My, my, we have been busy today, young Moorlock, yes, haven't we just.'
'Oh yes Sire,' said Moorlock, avoiding the urge to point out that they hadn't been busy at all. As far as he could tell, he had done all the work, whilst his master slept, or concentrated as he insisted on calling it. 'Although, there does still seem to be rather a lot to sort through.'
'Well of course there is, young lad,' the old man spoke, lowering his glasses slightly, so his tiny peppercorn eyes came into view, 'that's the thing with history, it does always take such a long time, I'm afraid. There's simply no rushing it.'
'It's just,' started Moorlock, then caught himself, as he wondered whether it would be sensible to give voice to his thoughts, 'it's just, when I was given the task of helping you to compile the towns records, I did wonder that it might have been a little more, well... exciting.'
'EXCITING,' roared the beard, in a voice that far belied the stature of its owner, 'Why, if it's excitement you're after, there's every smallest detail of every smallest event in Caerlon's history in this very room in which we stand,' he cried. 'Every harvest ever reaped, every battle ever fought.' Sparkling into life he emphasised this point with a twirl of an imaginary sword and then danced around the young student, thrusting his invisible weapon towards him and swishing his arms through the air.
'Every saviour of our city, every treaty ever signed, every day of sunshine and celebration.' Abandoning his make-believe lance, he climbed onto the tabletop and began to dance and spin around. 'Every single detail, from the smallest of the Timin, to the grandest of the Giant folk that have ever passed our way. Be it the most seemingly smallest point; here you'll find it...'
He was interrupted by the crash of a gong to alert those close at hand of the oncoming of dinner, closely followed by the sound of far off bugles calling the workers in from the fields beyond the great stone walls of the city, ready for the night's feast.
'Ah, great sorrow, it seem,' he sighed, rather disappointed to have been cut off so abruptly, in full flow. 'I suppose that means it's time for us to call it a day, I'm afraid. Come on now, let's be off with you.'
Moorlock certainly didn't need telling twice. The thankless toil of the day’s work, the dry, dusty air and the sheer weight of many of the study's volumes, meant he didn't need a gong, a bugle, or anything else for that matter to tell him when it was time for dinner. The grumbling complaints from his long since fed stomach told him all that he needed to know.
~Chapter Two~
Return of the Hands
It was the beginning of autumn in the great walled city of Caerlon. Although the season was still young, already the greens, yellows and blues of the summer months, were turning to the browns and reds of the time. The fields beyond the walls were teeming with life, as the villagers set to bringing in their crops, filling basket after basket to bring back into the city, replenishing the stores and cellars, ready for the onset of winter. Young and old worked the lands tirelessly, preparing the harvest in the knowledge that these provisions would be the lifeblood of the city during the colder months and that, come tonight, the great gates would be closed, once more, until the warmer days of the spring.
This was always a joyous time for the people of Caerlon. As far back as memory served, the harvests had been blessed. Year upon year, the produce of the surrounding lands was more than enough to sustain a comfortable way of life within the walls for all and this year was certainly to prove no exception. Tonight, the celebratory feast would be great. Life in the township was good.
Two of the many workers were having a happier time than most. For Daneby and Godlin, this was the first harvest since their coming of age and, as such, the first time that they had been allowed outside of the walls. The same age as Moorlock, yet almost half as tall again, just at the stage where the level headiness of adulthood was still much overcome by the giddy dreams of youth, they had spent today, as the previous few, enjoying the feelings of work and freedom from their stone built constraints.
As the strains of the buglers carried across the fields, a great cheer rang out amongst the throng of workers. Daneby and Godlin embraced and danced around each other, knowing that they had proved themselves more than a match for the more seasoned workers. Filling their baskets for what would be the final time that autumn; they loaded them onto the waiting carts and turned toward the city.
'You two boys not coming along for the ride, then?' The cart's driver, a pair of reins in each hand, called down to them. 'There's plenty of room on the back if you're a little too tired for the walk after all your toils.' Without exchanging a word the two friends knew each other's answer. Daneby spoke for them both.
'No fear, Talib, there's plenty of life left in us yet, you know.' He stretched and flexed his muscles as he spoke, as if to prove his point to the stout driver. 'Were it not for the bugle call, we could easily go on for many hours yet, well into the night.'
'And far into tomorrow, I'll wager,' Talib chuckled. 'Well don't be stalling for too long on your way back, else I'll have eaten my share of the banquet and yours too, by the time you arrive.'
With a crack of the reins, the cart drew off towards the City. The few workers who had little to prove, save to their stomachs, sat clinging on with one hand, whilst waving to the rest as they disappeared into the distance.
'I believe him about eating it all, too,' Godlin said to his companion as they started the walk back to the city gates, 'though I'm sure I could give him a fair run for his money tonight. I'm as famished as surely ever I've been.'
Daneby nodded. For all his bravado in front of the cart driver, his young muscles ached from his first harvest. Working dawn till dusk out in the fields was a far cry from the classrooms of Caerlon, where he and Godlin had spent all the previous summers of their young lives. Not that the two friends minded at all. Tonight was the great banquet and for the first time they could take their place at the main tables within the Great Hall of Caerlon, rather than with the younger villagers to the back, under the watchful eye of the children's guardians.
Oh how they looked forward to the evening ahead, sharing stories of the harvest with the elder folk, now as true field hands, like themselves, whilst sampling all the delicious ales that the City had to offer to two such thirsty workers as themselves. No more sneaking a half empty flagon underneath the table, to be shared out amongst the more daring youngsters. Tonight they were welcome to their share. Tonight they were certainly going to celebrate. They sang joyfully to themselves as they walked,
'A drink for the workers fresh from the field
A glass for the worn hands, soon to be healed.
A cry of hurrah for the fruits of the land,
A quench for the thirst of the working man'
At the cry of 'Hurrah', many of their fellow workers joined their song and it was a very happy group that made its way back to Caerlon in the fading light of the evening.
It was a beautiful city that awaited their return. Many ages old, her great stone walls rose before them, clean and crisp as in the days they first were built, Within the walls lay a varied collection of dwellings; a schoolhouse, an old tavern (which Daneby and Godlin were looking forward to visiting now that they were of age), a strange arboretum, filled with all the magical flowers and plant life that had been gathered by the villagers over many centuries, and many other buildings of all shapes and sizes, safe behind the protection of the walls.
These all led steadily uphill towards Caer Keep, a large tower fortress that stood at the far side of Caerlon, erected long before even the walls and the city themselves began to spread outwards from it. Rising high above the city and the surrounding lands below, it shone out as a beacon of friendship from the people of Caerlon, offering a safe haven for any that should ever seek it.
By far the largest of the buildings in Caerlon was the Great Hall. The founding structure of the outer city, it was a grand and remarkable place. Built in the same white stone as the city walls, it was fronted by a pair of dark oak gates that led into a huge inner room, large enough to seat the people of Caerlon two or three times over on occasions of celebration, such as that evenings feast. From the rear of the Great Hall, a maze of corridors led off to smaller rooms and stores, but none even came close to the grandeur of their host, especially on an evening such as this.
As the field hands approached the gates of the outer city, a friendly voice called to them from above;
'Hurry on now, it will soon be time for the feast and I've to close the gates in plenty of time to take my place at the table.' As with the approaching group, the gatekeeper was in high spirits. Indeed tonight the whole of the City was in a joyous mood. 'Come along, else you'll be sat on your hands out there until the spring, I won’t be opening up for anybody, I can tell you. '
As if to prove his point he leant on the winch that controlled the movement of the iron giants that closed off the yawning entrance to the City. The huge gates groaned as they were called into life from the slumber they had sat in since their spring opening.
'You just be holding them back until we're all through,' called back a voice from near the front of the merry throng, 'there's a roasted ham with my name on it tonight, for sure.'
A great laughter passed through the crowd and they all entered safely through the gates and made their way to their various houses to prepare for the evenings celebrations.
Once the various checks and double checks were done and every last one of the City's residents were back safe and accounted for, a great peal of bells rang out. This was the last warning for any stragglers that may have been overlooked to return back to the winter safety of the walls and for the last of the array of travellers that visited Caerlon, but did not wish to stay there until spring, to depart, before, finally, the gates were closed with a final creak and boom that reverberated around the City. All within knew what that noise signalled. The great City was closed. There would be no more trading with outsiders, no more crops to grow, no more journeys to make to the far off villages and lands. Caerlon was shut for the winter and the great feast was about to begin.
~Chapter Three~
A Special Celebration
Moorlock hurried through the corridors towards the Great Hall. He had stayed much later in his master Dunain's study than he would have wished and so had found himself in a rush to prepare for the feast in time. His first autumn banquet since coming of age, he didn't share the excitement of his two friends from the fields. Always small for his age, for as long as he could remember, he knew that tonight, though he would be sat at the top tables, he would still be conscious of the fact that whilst the others had been allowed out to gather the harvest, he was deemed still not strong enough for the laborious task and had been left to the care of the old Caerlon historian instead. He cut a strange figure as he rushed on. He was dressed in the dark blue, flowing robes of acceptance, marking his transition into Caerlon adulthood. Yet, due to his small size, he found he had to pull them up with a hand at each side, to stop himself from stumbling over them as they dragged on the ground beneath his feet.
Though Daneby and Godlin were bursting with excitement at the thought of the approaching celebration, still Moorlock anticipated with dread the moment when the newly aged would have to stand in front of the Elder Council to be welcomed as full adult citizens of Caerlon and given the brass winged clasp that all the people of the city wore to mark them out as such.
He had seen the ceremony many times before, of course, but always from the safety of the back tables, secretly hoping that by the time his turn came, he would have grown in size to match that of his friends. Although their coming of age ceremony was meant to be a time that most young men looked forward to, Moorlock knew how out of place he would look, stood alongside his taller, grander peers. Why, even amongst the tables of the youngsters, there were few, but the very young that were not a match for his lowly height.
As he entered the doors of the Great Hall, he caught sight of his two friends, Daneby and Godlin, huddled with the other blue-robed guests as they awaited the Elder Council and they eagerly ushered him across to them.
'We were beginning to think you had fallen beneath a pile of Old Dunain's books,' grinned Daneby, as he grasped his friends hand warmly, 'still, we’re all here now.' Moorlock tried to force a smile to match his friend’s enthusiasm, but struggled with the effort. Sensing his unease, Godlin offered his support.
'Feeling the nerves, eh?' He too shook Moorlock's hand before embracing him with a grip that felt to his smaller companion as if it could crush him with just a little more pressure. Expressing a cough of pain, he hinted to his friend to release his hold and he duly obliged with a toothy smile.
'Come,' grinned Daneby, as the three of them laughed together, then, with a pompous tone and outstretched arms, to mock the Elders, added, 'for tonight, we feast.'
Moorlock feigned another smile and, releasing his hold on his robes, looked down and watched as the bottom end fell to the floor. He dared not lift his head, for he knew that all eyes within the hall would be on the small group in blue.
Had he chosen to look upwards, he would have been greeted with a most marvellous sight indeed. It seemed as though the whole of Caerlon, as always, had turned up for the autumn feast. Table after table spread backwards from where the group now stood, each lined with body after body, come to celebrate the occasion. Only the nearest table to the huddled group appeared to offer up any room. A sprawling bench down each side was left free, ready for the newly aged to take their rightful seats at the high table.
Just as Moorlock thought his pounding heart would burst out of his chest, all his thoughts, along with the chatter of his friends, were abruptly ended by the crash of the Great Hall's gong. The seated patrons of Caerlon fell silent and stood.
'Here we go,' whispered Godlin, through gritted teeth and Moorlock felt his heart sink through his weakly legs and fall to the floor. The hunger he had felt earlier that evening had long since left him and been replaced by an ever growing knot in the pit of his stomach at the event that the gong signalled.
He hardly had a chance to compose himself before, with the gong still reverberating, through a large door behind the party, the Council entered. Like the waiting group, they too wore long, flowing robes, but theirs were of a deep purple, that shimmered and sparkled like the surface of a lake caught in the moonlight.
At their head came Callees, Leader of Caerlon and the surrounding lands. Like many of the city's people, including Moorlock and his two companions, he was of Kinnan origin. A race renowned for their great strength and workmanlike spirit, his broad shoulders easily filled out the robes he wore. It was the Kinnan who were usually set to work the fields outside the walls as, with their strong arms and unwavering stamina, they were able to work twice as fast as the other townsfolk.
To his left came Ortor of the Timin. Barely half the size of his Kinnan leader, he looked somewhat out of place as he clumsily picked his way along beside him. The original inhabitants of the lands in which Caerlon stood, the Timin were a peaceful race, known for their scholarly ways. Their capacity and desire for knowledge was greater than any of the other creatures of the city and it was they who researched and wrote much of the works that now lay in the study of Moorlock’s master, Dunain. They had kept great records of the lands, reaching back further even than the city itself and, as such, were held in regard enough for creatures of double their size.
Finally, in came Dayluck, the head of the Bonani, perhaps the strangest of the people of Caerlon. The Bonani had sought the sanctuary of the city many generations earlier, after being forced from the Northern forests that had long been their home. As tall as the Kinnan, yet not as broad, their bodies were perfectly adapted for living in the wild lands. A thin layer of greyish fur covered the Bonani from head to toe, offering warmth and protection from the elements. Their paw-like hands and feet ended with sharp claws, ideal for climbing the trees in which they once made their homes and for foraging the ground for herbs and plants. These they used, not only for food, but for mixing up an array of medicines and ointments, the secrets of which they had brought with them to the city. The arboretum within Caerlon's walls was left solely to the care of the Bonani people and here they were able to grow rare and exotic plants that they used to heal the sick and ailing of the city.
The three members of the Council came to stand at the front of the Great Hall, where Moorlock and his friends waited, all eyes still fixed upon them. An air of silence enveloped the room, as the Elders, as one, raised their arms towards the group.
Finally, Callees spoke, giving the same well worn speech that he had made many times over in years gone by.
'People of Caerlon,' his old, yet forceful voice boomed out, 'I give this season, as for all seasons, this year, as for all years, this life, as for all lives, thanks for our blessings. Tonight, we not only celebrate the harvest of our fields, but also of our people, as we receive what once were our children, as they complete their blossoming into adulthood.
He paused, allowing a ripple of applause and praising murmurs to pass around the Hall, before raising his hand for quiet.
'This evening,' he continued, 'these children of our great city, become our newest and most honoured citizens. From this day forward, may they, each and every one, wear their winged badge of Caerlon with pride, to be displayed throughout the lands as a symbol of friendship to all her friends and allies.'
He broke off again, allowing the clapping and cheering to die down, this time waiting for total silence before continuing. Callees stood a while, allowing all attention to fall on the young group. All present seemed to hold their breath, as the Kinnan Elder allowed the tension in the room to build. After a spell that seemed to Moorlock to last a lifetime, Callees continued,
'People of Caerlon,' he said, barely audible in the thick tension of the air, 'I give you... OUR FUTURE KINDRED.' His arms dropped to his side and a great beam spread across his face, immediately bursting the bubble of tension in the room and releasing celebration. Cheers rang out around the Hall and the feast could officially begin.
The newly aged party were led to their seats as the Council took their place at the head of the tables. Awaiting each of them at their table was a red silken bag, containing their true sign of citizenship, the winged clasp. Cast in brass, the simple badge, depicting a pair of outstretched wings was truly a mark of honour and respect for the people of Caerlon. Eager hands reached towards the bags and within moments, the blue robes were adorned with the symbol of acceptance.
The gong sounded once more and the first of many courses that evening was served. A swarm of waiters appeared, each straining under the burden of the heavily laden trays that they carried. Before long, all the tables of the room seemed to groan with the weight of succulent pink hams and tender roasted pork. A myriad of aged cheeses and freshly baked apples stretched from one end to the next, along with shining ripe tomatoes and tasty pickles.
No sooner had these begun to clear, than great vats of steaming vegetable broth were ladled out into deep bowls for each of the guests, which they devoured hungrily, wiping the sides with chunks of newly baked breads that sent a sweet smell through the hall. Even Moorlock felt his nerves disappear as he sated his rediscovered hunger.
The hours quickly passed for the three friends as they swapped stories of their work in the fields and Moorlock's efforts in Dunain's study. Through mouthfuls of strawberry pudding, buried under mounds of whipped cream, washed down with tankard after tankard of sweet cranberry ale, the evening was spent in the high state of celebration in which the coming of age rituals always were.
By the time the last course had been served and the last of the ales had been sunk, the streets of Caerlon outside the Great Hall had long since descended into darkness. At length, though, it was time for the gong to sound one final time, a last speech of welcome to the newly aged and then the hall slowly began to empty as the many townsfolk returned to their homes.
A thunderstorm had broken over the city, relieving the unpleasant stickiness of the air outside. It brought with it a fresh, damp wind that blew through the streets, cooling the faces of those leaving the hall so late into the night.
Moorlock, Daneby and Godlin linked arms together, as they made the short journey home through the Caerlon streets. Full of joyous glee, and feeling the non-too small effects of a little too much cranberry ale, once more their voices rose in song.
'A drink for the workers fresh from the field
A glass for the worn hands, soon to be healed.
A cry of hurrah for the fruits of the land,
A quench for the thirst of the working man'
'Oh a quench for the thirst of the work...' Godlin's voice and feet stopped as one, as he stared at the hurriedly approaching figure of Dunain. Never one to rush anything, as a rule, immediately the panic on the old Timin's face told them that something was wrong. As he came closer, Dunain recognised that it was his apprentice, Moorlock and his two friends that he neared. His voice shook almost to breaking point as he cried out to them.
'It's the moon, Moorlock, the moon is broken.'
~Chapter Four~
Troubles in the Night
A little while later and the four of them were sat in Dunain's study. The three friends had been unable to get any more from the old Timin and were now watching him pace back and forth between his rows of books, stopping every few moments to reach one of the yellowing volumes down from its shelf and rifling through the pages, before casting it back onto the floor behind. He then scoured the archives for his next tome before the exercise, all the time muttering to himself in anguished tones.
'Do you think he has overdone the celebrations perhaps?' whispered Daneby to his two friends, 'how can you break a moon?'
Godlin laughed, after his initial shock at meeting Dunain in such a manner, he had relaxed more than a little and he too was happy to put the episode down to that strange mixture of advancing years and cranberry ale.
Moorlock, alone, remained worried; not least at seeing his Timin master crash through and disrupt the study he had spent so many recent hours organising. The young Kinnan knew Dunain much better than his two friends, perhaps better than anybody else in the city and his behaviour now was unsettling him.
He approached Dunain, calmly, yet cautiously, not wishing to frustrate him further.
'But, how do you know the moon is broken?' he asked, as the old historian continued his frenzied search.
Finding his question left unanswered, he altered his tack a little.
'Dunain, it looks fine, we all saw, it looks just as it always has.' Indeed, on their hurried journey back through the darkened streets, the three had cast more than one uneasy glance up to the silvery light above. Far from being in any way damaged, the lateness of the hour only served to emphasise her glistening, milk white presence in the skies over the city.
'No, no, no!’ cried Dunain, as much to the walls and the leather bound books as to any of the three Kinnan, 'it's the moon, the moon, the moon.'
The two larger companions cast a knowing glance to each other, ever more certain that cranberry ale was the source of the historian's ills. Moorlock, too, was beginning to suspect that there may be rather too much drink addling Dunain's thoughts. Certainly something had the old man in a state of panic, yet Moorlock had seen the moon quite clearly, fuller and brighter than ever.
'Oh bother my whiskers,' said Dunain, again to nobody and everybody at once, 'how can I think, how can I think?'
He paused here and came to an abrupt halt from his ardent pacing and disturbing of the room. He stroked his hand down his long, flowing beard and remained silent, deep in thought, apparently calming from his earlier excess.
That's it!' He burst back into life with a cry that passed a jolt around his startled friends. 'A strong glass of Corin juice, that'll get the mind in order.'
Once more, the knowing looks passed between the Kinnan, only this time, Moorlock was relieved to share in them. Even he was now happy to put his master's distress down to over indulgence
Dunain again began rushing around the room, only this time, rather than the exasperated search seen earlier, it was with a more certain purpose. He began to fill a large silver tankard on his writing table from a wide assortment of bottles dotted around the study. A dash of this, a pinch of that and soon the cup was full to overflowing with a dark, frothy mixture that emanated a rather worrying wisp of smoke.
'Heh, heh, laughed the historian, 'this'll do the trick, you'll see!’ With a hop into his chair he lifted his tankard in both hands and raised it to his lips. 'Over the gums and here it comes!' He cheered and, without pausing for further breath, he drank the whole lot down in one gulp.
The effect was startling. Dunain's face, or what could be seen of it behind his beard, turned a rather strange shade of purple, his eyes bulged and the smoke from the ale began to pour from his ears and nostrils. With a loud bang that seemed to come from deep within him, he flew backwards, chair and all and, with a crash, burst into one of the larger heaps of books that covered the study floor. They came crashing down upon him, until all that the three Kinnan could see of him were two stockinged feet protruding from underneath the pile. They rushed to Dunain's aid and within just a few moments, were looking down upon his flattened form, eyes shut tight and the remnants of steam still spilling from out of his ears.
As they stood over him, hardly daring to breathe, once more he sprang into life with a start, jumping to his feet in a flash. His beard, singed by his fiery brew, still smoked at the edges, as he spoke.
'Now then,' he said to the three Kinnan with a smile, 'where exactly were we?'
'The moon,' Moorlock coaxed, his heavy eyelids beginning to tire of the night's excitement, 'you said the moon was broken.'
Dunain's smile fell once more.
'Ah yes,' he said gravely, 'the moon.'
Turning to the jumbled shelves of books, that now looked rather sorry for themselves following his earlier frenzy, he walked this time to an exact spot along them and took down one of the few texts that remained undisturbed. Tucking it, unread, under his arm, he turned to Moorlock.
'Now,' he said, 'please follow me at once.'
Daneby and Godlin stole inquiring looks his way. 'Yes, yes,' scolded Dunain, grabbing an unlit candlestick from a nearby bench,, 'you too, of course.'
He led them back out into the streets, still lit by the phosphorous moonlight above. Far behind at the highest point of the city, stood Caer Keep, where the Council of Elders now rested. Dunain paused, casting it a momentary look, before shaking his head to himself and turning back down towards the city gates, the three young Kinnan following. He knew that the Council would have to be informed, but first he needed to make sure, absolutely sure of the facts. Although, in his heart, he was certain of the truth..
A few blocks from the gates, the group turned and headed west towards the city's arboretum. As they approached, Dunain's pace quickened. Though, the Timin elder was a good deal shorter than the others, including Moorlock, they soon found themselves struggling to keep up with him.
'Come, come,' he called to them, 'you must see this, you must see...' Again, the three Kinnan were confused by the historian. They knew that no sooner would they pass inside the arboretum, than the moon would disappear from view, save for a few stolen angles through the glass roof. Still, Dunain bade them follow and for now they lay their doubts aside and gave him their full trust, following him into the building.
The gardens of Caerlon were famed throughout lands far distant to the city. Over many generations, the Bonani people had cultivated plants and trees from far afield, creating a wonderful haven within the city walls. Though not nearly as big as the Great Hall, the building that housed the gardens was still impressive enough. Like most of the major structures within Caerlon, it was built of the same smooth, white stone as the walls themselves, though the roof was mainly glass, to allow in sufficient light to nourish the life inside.
The arboretum itself was split into many different gardens, each supporting a different array of trees, plants and herbs, many grown from seeds that the many traders brought to the city each spring; carefully nurtured by the Bonani, most soon flourished, turning the gardens of Caerlon into a magical haven of tranquillity that also provided for many of the Bonani potions and healing medicines.
By far the most important of the gardens was at the far end of the arboretum and was dedicated to Caerlon's founder. The Garden of Greybrook paid homage to the Kinnan warrior, a strange mixture of historical fact and legend. It was said that Greybrook had travelled to the lands many ages earlier, befriending a mystical order of beings, known only as the Brotherhood of Ahmen. With their help, Greybrook founded Caer Keep, a welcome beacon of friendship in those, more desperate days. This, in time, led to the building of the great city in which the gardens now lay.
Dunain stopped to light the candle he carried from a torch at the head of the gardens. As the group entered, a high pitched screaming sound became audible in the otherwise silent building. Dunain led them quickly past the lesser displays and towards the furthermost garden of Greybrook. As they went, he noise increased steadily, until it reached a level that made it hard for the four to converse with each other. As they came near to the place of their founder, the old historian paused and raised his light in an outstretched hand towards the far wall.
'The moon,' he uttered, 'look at the moon.'
The three friends followed the direction of his arm and found their eyes resting upon the painted scenes on the stonework of the far wall. Beneath the fading inscription of 'The Garden of Greybrook,' it depicted the story of the Kinnan legend, first leaving his mother and family to seek his destiny, followed by his initial encounter with the Ahmen.
Moorlock shivered as his gaze caught the scene. The Brotherhood had always seemed to him strange and fearful creatures. According to legend, they were almost as old as the lands themselves. Permanently cloaked in black, with a hood that stretched down over their features and right to the floor, the Brethren were said to have lived and breathed almost as one being, able to communicate without the need for speech. Not seen or heard of for many centuries in the city, today, the story of the Brotherhood of Ahmen had, along with Greybrook, passed into the realms of storytelling and legend. Many generations heard the tales passed down of the aid they offered to Greybrook and, for their sacrifice, they too were said to wear brass clasps upon their cloaks. These though, took the form of joined hands, rather than the wings of the Citizens, to show their eternal links with the city, whilst still accepting their place as free spirits of the land.
The young Kinnan quickly turned his attention to the next scene on the wall, representing Greybrook's solitary exile in the Forest of Crippen. Then came an indistinguishable section of whiteness and light, before the final piece, showing Greybrook laying the first stone of the city in which they now stood.
It was the painting of the forest towards which Dunain beckoned. This showed Greybrook on his knees, hands towards the heavens as he searched for help. Following the founder's gesture, Moorlock ran his eye upwards to an elaborately decorated nameplate, worn down over the years to now read, 'Th arden of Greyb ok', then, further up, a rounded window, shining like a moon over the forest scene.
Tonight, though, where the window should have been, was simply an empty stone hollow. The window appeared to have shattered, sending the remnants of the glass deep into the trees and plants below, a myriad of shards, far beyond repair. It was this hole that was shrieking at the party, as the wind, swirling in the conclave outside, blew through with a screech that sounded in their ears. Godlin was the first to break the silence.
'A broken window,' he laughed with relief, as the chill of the moment passed, 'you had us worried there, you know, Dunain.'
Daneby shared his amusement, as he, too shook off the hollow feeling brought on by the darkness.
'Come,' he said, 'I feel it's more than time for us to retire.' The two friends turned to leave. Only Moorlock and his master stayed where they were, staring up to the empty space.
'Don't you see,' Dunain whispered, 'look at the inscription.'
They gazed once more, looking for some meaning that they perhaps had missed, but still nothing of concern struck them.
Pushing them out of the way as he stepped backwards, Dunain knelt down and lay the book he carried on the sandy floor of the arboretum. Skimming through the pages, running a bony finger down each line, he came to a stop and looked up at the group.
'Here,' he cried, 'read what it says.'
Moorlock looked to where the historian pointed. On the worn page that Dunain indicated, was an age old passage, predicting the fall of Caerlon. Written in an intricate hand below, was a short verse. The Kinnan read it aloud to his companions;
'When the moon over Arden is broken
And the wind outside whistles with fear
Look for the farewell unspoken
And reach for the breach in her tear.'
Moorlock suddenly grasped a little of what had shaken Dunain so, but still he failed to realise what some old legend had to do with the four of them, now stood around the book.
Again Dunain pointed to the wall beyond them.
'Read it, Moorlock,' he said calmly, 'read the inscription.'
His apprentice read again, the large plaque on the wall ahead, worn down to 'Th arden of Greyb ok'. Only now did he see that the broken 'arden', lay directly below the broken moon-like window.
He turned back towards Dunain and the historian nodded as he saw the look of realisation in his pupil's eyes.
'It's the moon over Arden, Moorlock,' he said, clutching his hand, as he did so. 'Tonight the moon is broken. The fall of Caerlon is upon us.'
~Chapter Five~
A Meeting with the Elders
It seemed hardly a moment, before the four of them were stood, once more, in the Great Hall. They had been joined by the Council of Elders, who, having been roused from their chambers and quickly brought up to speed on Dunain’s discovery, had experienced the same range of emotions the three young Kinnan had passed through earlier that evening. First disbelief and then gradual, understanding encompassed them. There was little doubt among them that the ancient scripture was to be taken seriously. The people of Caerlon paid great heed to the writings of the Timin and knew that to disregard them would be foolhardy indeed.
The three Elders now stood with grave concern etched across their faces. Initially, the Council had deemed the matter much too serious for the presence of the three, newly aged Kinnan and advised their dismissal to a secondary room, but having found this idea met with cries of despair from the three, as well as encouraging a kindly word from Dunain on Moorlock's behalf, the seven of them now gathered around the book that Dunain had held tightly within his grasp since their trip to the arboretum.
Written within the very earliest days of Caerlon, it had initially been kept in the library within Caer Keep. For all of its early years, only the wisest of the lands, once elected to the Council that sat within, were allowed access to the writings, in an attempt to decipher any ‘hidden codes’ the books may contain.
When Dunain became the semi-official historian of Caerlon many ages later, he had transferred much of the Timin writings to his own personal study within the outer walls of Caerlon. Here, he could peruse them at will, whilst also allowing any of the townspeople who wished to read them sufficient access. According to an inscription above the passage in the book, Greybrook himself had ordered its writing, containing nought but the words that a young soothsayer had spoken to him in a dream during his self-imposed exile in the Forest of Crippen. Till his last breath he had declared that the riddle must be solved, for he believed that the soothsayer had foreseen the destruction of Caerlon and her people and the very salvation of the city could lie in the four simple lines written below.
Moorlock repeated them over and over, as he tried to make sense of them in his aching head;
'When the moon over Arden is broken
And the wind outside whistles with fear
Look for the farewell unspoken
And reach for the breach in her tear.'
'Are we sure?' Ortor asked, scarcely able to believe that after so many years, so many centuries, the book could well be predicting events still to come, though he little doubted the truth of the matter.
Dunain nodded slowly.
'I can see no reason to believe otherwise,' he advised the Council, 'it appears that the wording, the message, the prophecy, whatever you may wish to call it, is finally happening, right here and right now, this evening. The foretold end of Caerlon, it begins tonight'
Callees closed his eyes and he too nodded. Although he was the ruler of Caerlon, he was happy to trust in the knowledge of his subjects and Dunain, especially, was more learned than any other, both in the city and for many leagues around. He paused for a moment to reflect as the full gravity of the situation encompassed him.
'So many years,' he uttered, 'have my people spent, seeking out this 'Moon of Arden,' my forefathers' people before me. Philosophers, astronomers, every learned soul from here to the Craters of Gallon, have looked out to the stars and beyond to find such a place. Yet here I stand, tonight, with the realisation that it may have been looking out from Caerlon that was their grave mistake. Those who sought to find her would have been better served to look within.'
He looked down to his feet, shaking his head. 'How could I have been so ignorant as to miss so obvious an answer?'
Dayluck relieved his leader's burden.
'My honoured Council, my learned friends, as leader of the Bonani, I have spent more time within the Arboretum than most, yet, I can tell you from my understanding, that the very flowers and trees themselves had not seen such an answer as that which passed you and us by.'
He paused and lowered his head, allowing Ortor to lay a soothing hand on his shoulder.
'Dunain,' he addressed his fellow Timin, 'though I have no cause whatsoever to doubt you, my friend, how can we be sure?'
Dunain paused, head bowed. for all of his earlier certainty, he now appeared to display a nagging doubt about the nature of the book’s 'warning.
Of all the great minds there present, it was Moorlock who came out with the answer they sought.
'It's easy,' he said, stretching himself up to as grand a height as his small frame could manage, 'do as the book tells you.' Finding the eyes of the Elders upon him, he quickly shrank back down again.
The others gestured agreement, as a wry smile began to play across Dunain’s lips. He conceded to the innocent, yet shrewd intelligence of the youngster’s mind. They had little need to read the verse over, they had each memorised it until it seemed imprinted onto their minds. The answer was clear; they must ‘Look for the farewell unspoken.’
~Chapter Six~
Making Plans
Dunain had returned to his pacing of the study.
'Farewell unspoken,' he repeated for the umpteenth time that night, as though trying to force his inner mind to listen, 'how does one unspeak a farewell?'
The Council of Elders had retired to their bedchambers to rest, before meeting afresh the following morning. Instructing Dunain to return home, they had offered him all the help he required to crack the riddle; he requested nought but the aid of his three friends.
Moorlock, already within the historian’s care, was happy with any task that would keep him from another day of sorting books. Daneby and Godlin, with the harvest now collected, had only been required for repairs, painting and general duties within Caerlon until the spring and jumped at what they saw as a chance to prove their heroism in saving the city.
Dunain and Moorlock, ever the mindful type, were overcome with a thousand ideas and were hopeful that, now the book had given up the first of her secrets, the rest would soon follow. They returned to the study to spend the night in deep thought together.
Their two friends, much too excitable at the nights turn of events to sleep, came along too, though after the first few ideas had been blurted out and soon exhausted, the nights exertions and the cranberry ale caught up with them and they had soon fallen sound asleep where they sat.
For Dunain and Moorlock though, attempting any sleep that night would surely be fruitless.
'How can it be?' Another length of the room covered and still no answer presented itself to the aged Timin.
There came a rap at the door. 'Enter,' said Dunain. A stout Bonani woman strode in, bearing an enormous tray, laden with a variety of cakes, bread and cheeses, along with a large steaming pot of a thick green liquid.
'Hemlock tea, nothing better for the mind and soul,' announced Corlien, Dunain's elderly maid, before adding, 'now stop your idle wittering n' get it down your throat, less I'll be holding you down to do it myself.' She flashed a wink at Moorlock and he smiled. He had grown used to her severity of tone in the few weeks he had been under Dunain's wing. With no real family, certainly none that he could ever remember, he enjoyed having a female influence around him. Although, at first sight, the huge Bonani women hardly gave out the impression of a motherly touch, underneath the gruff exterior, a more kindly soul than the historian’s helper surely could not be found.
Dunain, who even fully refreshed and fired could no more win a battle with his keeper than fly from the city walls, admitted defeat with little resistance and sank back into his chair. Corlien cleared a space for the tray on the table beside him and laid it down.
'And I want that polished off clean, every last crumb,' she said with a smile. 'Now if you don't mind, Ill wave you goodbye for the night.'
Dunain leapt from his chair as though a spring had pierced the seat; a fresh cup of hemlock tea splashing down his beard and to the floor as he rose. Taking the, for once, speechless Corlien by both hands, he danced around, spinning her till she was dizzy.
'That's it, you see!' he cried, 'The farewell unspoken. A wave, A WAVE.'
Corlien broke free from the old Timin's grip.
'Silly old fool,' she scolded and continued her mutterings as she left the study and retired to bed for the second time that night. Daneby and Timin, roused from their slumber by the sudden noise, needed no bidding before making hasty work of the bread and cheese, whilst Moorlock told them of the reason for Dunain's excited explosion.
'Come, come, have cheese and tea, wont you,' busied Dunain, sparked into life once more. 'Wave, wave, now where to find a wave...' For once the conclusion was none too hard to reach. The place for waves was where it had always been; the sea.
'But how could anything of the ocean be of any help to the city,' puzzled Godlin, 'it must be ten days journey from here on foot, at least’'
'More,' said Moorlock. Due to his stature, he had often shied away from playing outside as much as he would have otherwise liked as a child and therefore spent much of his hours with his nose pressed into a book of study.
From an early age, Dunain had encouraged him and Moorlock became one of the few children allowed access to his inner study. Moorlock had come of age as one of the most well read inhabitants of all of Caerlon and by far the most educated of his age. He knew only too well just how far off the ocean lay from the city walls. Yet, if the future of the city really did depend on the secrets of those shores, somebody would surely be set to go there as soon as the spring should come.
The council met at noon the following day. Though the four friends had been desperate to meet as early as possible to tell of their discovery, the lateness of the night caught them by surprise and, waking late, they were rushed to arrive at the keep even by that hour.
It took little time to go over the events of the previous night and the Elders were soon in full agreement as to the way to proceed. A party must be set up, prepared to leave as soon as spring arrived and Caerlon opened her gates to the world once more.
A group of three was decided upon, with both Daneby and Godlin to be a part. Although the Council had initially dismissed the idea of ones so young taking on a task of possibly vital importance to their city, even they could not deny that two stronger specimens of both vigour and eagerness would be very hard indeed to come by.
The plan to include the two was furthered by the desire, for now, to keep the possible danger facing Caerlon a closely guarded secret. The other member of the expedition would be, it was unanimously agreed by the Council, one of the Bonani, for their esteemed knowledge of medicines and creatures could prove invaluable beyond the relative safety of the City walls.
For the coming winter months then, the two Kinnan would stay, as already arranged, relieved from their general city duties. This time, they would spend under the tutorship of both Dunain and a selected Bonani elder, to feed them with as much knowledge as possible to aid them on their, possibly perilous, journey. For two who had never ventured beyond the gates of Caerlon, save for during this year's harvest, Daneby and Godlin relished the adventure that awaited them.
'I reckon I could make the journey single-handedly, you know,' Daneby announced to his two Kinnan friends later that afternoon, as they prepared for their first lesson in Dunain's study.
'Never!' cried Godlin, in mock indignation, 'you'd be lost before you reached the gates, or run through by your own sword, more likely.'
Daneby rose to the bait cast to him beautifully. Leaping from his chair, he grabbed a rolled up map from Dunain's table and, branding it like a lance, lunged at his accuser.
'Hah,' he cried, 'I'll wager I'd make a far better swordsman than you, should the opportunity to prove it arise. Any foul creature dares to challenge me and I'll have his head on a stick and still be home in time for tea.'
'SILENCE,' roared Dunain, entering the room to their surprise, 'there'll be time enough to learn to fight, before the time comes to leave. But,' he added, taking back Daneby's makeshift sword and returning it to the table, 'I pray, you never have need nor chance to use your weapons and, if the time does come, it shall only be in self-defence.'
The two would-be warriors returned to their newly put-up desks and tried to look humbled at the Timin's outburst. Secretly, though, they both eagerly awaited a chance to show off their not yet acquired fencing skills.
'Now,' started Dunain, 'I have word from the council as regards your Bonani companion.' Godlin released a groan, louder than he would have wished. He felt that the two Kinnan alone were certainly more than a match for anything their journey may throw at them. Besides, he and Daneby, had quickly grown accustomed to the idea of becoming the sole saviours of the city, and were less than excited about the prospect of further company. Dunain was both accurate in placing Godlin's thoughts and quick in cutting them down.
'The knowledge of the Bonani will grant you in far better stead than a your friend’s paper sword,' he growled, 'outside of these walls lies a whole landscape full of enemies and pitfalls you can scarcely imagine. And,' he continued, addressing the room as a whole, 'should your duelling skills not provide adequate protection, who but the Bonani are better equipped to heal your wounds?'
This time, Dunain's scolding had its desired effect, striking a blow far cleaner than any sword, and the Kinnan sank back into their chairs in resigned acceptance.
'Now then,' said Dunain, in a tone much softer towards his two pupils, 'May I introduce your supplementary teacher and let it be known that you are certainly honoured as Kinnan, to receive such a noble master.'
The door through which Dunain had entered opened once more, this time to welcome Dayluck of the Council of Elders. By his side came a newly aged Bonani, whom the two Kinnan recognised as Mayweather. He was known between the two for his youthful expertise in his craft.
Dunain's grand introduction was no exaggeration. For a member of the Council to spend time tutoring the newly-aged, more so those not of the same origin, was unheard of within the township. For the first time, then, the true graveness of the situation and the seriousness in which the Elders regarded it, became clear.
Dayluck addressed them.
'Sirs,' (again, this title to the newly-aged from an Elder member caught the two by surprise) 'may I, on behalf of the Council of Elders and the citizens of Caerlon give thanks for the undertaking of the journey which you now face. Many obstacles indeed, stand in your way of reaching the Western ocean and with no guarantees that you will find the answers that you seek, indeed, no clue as to what form those answers may take.'
Daneby' shuddered visibly. In all the excitement, it had failed to occur to him that, should they even reach the waters, how then were they to find the breach in her tear that they sought? Many from the shores, in fact, had visited the city each spring, yet none had mentioned anything that may be found in those distant parts that gave any further clue to the book’s meaning. Suddenly, the aid and knowledge of the Bonani looked very appealing indeed.
'I stand before you,' furthered Dayluck, 'to impart any knowledge I can that may aid you on that journey. The future of this, our noble city, our home, may well depend on it.'
And so, their first day of tutorship began. Yet none of the five people there present, had any idea that, as far as preparation went, it would prove to be their last.