| |
The ruins of Lycealia
––––––––
Having spent the night in the relative safety of the mercenary camp, the party bid their farewells to Sedge at dawn. The mercenary commander planned to pursue the stragglers of the ambush and make a wider sweep beyond the park for more troglodytes infiltrating the foothills of Mount Mars. The sun climbed bright in the east, melting off the prairie frost from the budding catclaw bushes and tufts of willow grass.
An hour of riding behind them, Achelous succumbed to his duty to collect intelligence and prodded Ogden into conversation. “So what brings a blacksmith out here to shepherd a couple of traders?”
“Blacksmith? Ha! I leave the blacksmithing to my apprentices. They make the nails, hinges, and latches. Sure, some of the work is intricate and technical. So I'll help the lads with the design and process, but I reserve the bulk of my time for weapons and armor. Armor saves lives, and, oi, I make some of the best.”
The way Ogden said the last so simply and without airs, Achelous took him at his word. “Oh,” he apologized. Seeking common ground, he went on, “I trade in weapons; armor is bulky and expensive to transport. Plus, as you know, the best armor is custom fitted. The weapons market, for me, is more lucrative. Not as profitable per piece, but I sell more. Warriors and bravos tend to collect weapons, but they can usually only afford one set of armor.”
“Oi, I forge weapons too, and you’re right about them. What’s the first thing a man buys to defend himself, a shield or a sword?”
“If she’s an archer, she’ll make her own bow, skip the shield, and shoot her enemies long before they come in arm’s reach.” Lettern, riding behind Ogden, smiled brightly when the two turned to look at her.
“Right,” acknowledged Ogden, “But a bow takes more skill. A farmer defending his livestock from thieves will pick up the sword first.”
“Or pitchfork,” interjected Lettern, grinning mischievously. As a member of Ogden's Second Ward, she knew the armorer well. He loved to say, “Pitchforks are for hay, and hay is for eenus.” So he left the pitchforks to his journeymen.
“Because,” Ogden continued unfazed, “the threat of injury dealt by the sword is as good a defense as the shield or hauberk. And,” he emphasized, “you can attack with the sword.”
“The sword only defends on its edge. Don't miss the parry.” Commented Achelous.
Ogden nodded, his beard rubbing on his chest, “After you’ve traded a few sword blows, then you appreciate a good shield. And because a man has only two arms, he needs a helmet. And because he can only look one way, he needs pauldrons, and so it goes. But that's why a good armorer always has a ready stock of weapons because the bravos come looking for weapons first and buy your mail later. And, oi, if the sword you sold them breaks or takes a nick when it should have cut, they'll not be buying your armor. So you can't sell them any old piece of sharp tin.” Turning, he glanced at the handbolt holstered on the trader's hip. “You can tell a lot about a man, or...” he winked at Lettern, who appeared not to notice but smiled nonetheless, “a woman, by what kind of weapon they carry and what kind of weapon they want. Those two are different.”
Achelous began to appreciate Ogden’s sense of business. “So you use weapons to bring the bravos into your shop where they will appreciate your armor, and if you did a good job on their sword, they’ll buy your chain mail.”
“Well, that’s a bit harsh but not too far off the mark. Fine chain mail is the most expensive item in my shop. A full chain mail hauberk costs as much as twenty good swords.”
“He doesn't need to lure them, trader,” Lettern said. “Any fool on Mount Mars or leagues around knows there is only one forge to trust your life to, even if I am an archer.”
Ogden grunted. “Now that crossbow of yours, interesting design—where did you get it?”
Achelous casually glanced down and suddenly remembered he’d failed to clean the burnt blood off the fore stock. As long as it stayed in the holster, no one would notice. “I traded for them at a bazaar in Saphinus. Why do you ask?”
“Oi, because until we met at the park, I thought Baryy’s was unique. One-of-a-kind. Some lost Ancient design I'd suspected. But now I see yours, and your lad Outish has one, and even that merc captain, Ivan, had one. Makes me think they can be manufactured in quantity. May I look at it?”
Not for the first time did Achelous consider it ill-advised that so many CivMon agents armed themselves with the handbolt. But the weapon was well-designed, passed ULUP certification for in-country use, and efficiently concealed the deadly little laser. Abruptly he pulled Echo out of line, “Baryy, can I see your handbolt? I’m curious if it is the same exact design as mine. I thought perhaps it was different.”
Baryy, immediately on alert, rode to him, “Yea, sure,” he leaned down to pull it free, “What’s up?” he whispered.
Achelous held out his hand, counting on Baryy to trust him and follow his lead. He inspected Baryy’s handbolt. “Hmm, they’re identical, though yours is cleaner; mine is dirty, has blood on it.” Baryy’s eye’s flickered, getting the message. “Og is curious about their design. Ogden, want to try it?"
Ogden signaled to Lettern to keep going, and they fell in behind. “Oi, you read my mind. It's heavy!" He examined the cocking and spanning mechanism that set the handbolt apart from other crossbows. Rather than made of wood, the limbs were made of layers of spring steel. Little did he know, the steel accounted for only some of the extra weight. The laser power cell the primary culprit. The cocking lever nested along one side of the forearm and stock. “May I?” asked Ogden.
Achelous handed him a quarrel. Riding his eenu, Ogden ratcheted the lever forward, pinioned on the front of his forearm. He cranked it back, watching as the twin cams pulled the bow and cable tight in the process. He set the quarrel and took aim at one of the huge anthills that dotted the park and pulled the trigger. The dart sprang away with a satisfying twang. Ogden grinned, seeing the quarrel buried in the anthill. “Oi, those oblong wheels are ingenious. That's why you can lever it with one hand! And all from eenuback. I didn’t have to dismount.” He eyed the weapon appreciatively.
And the fifty-shot pulsar laser concealed in the stock is a bonus, thought Achelous. Should the stock become damaged, exposing the internal casing to air, oxygen would activate nano-dissemblers in the casing and immediately consume the laser componentry turning the hollow stock into a gooey mess.
“We could make these. It would take some doing, but I think we could devise the casts necessary to make most of the parts. And I can forge the steel limb sheaves, though I admit, I admire whoever built these. Those limb sheaves are fine, fine work." He looked up, "Saphinus, you say?" A look of concern and professional jealousy crossed his countenance.
Achelous ignored the question. “Do you have a blast furnace?” An idea he'd been nurturing, a grand idea, something with so many challenges he couldn't know them all, suddenly had an ally. Unwitting, perhaps, but an ally, nonetheless.
Ogden peered at him quizzically, “I don’t know about a blast furnace, but we have a furnace. I have a design for a bigger one. Large enough to produce five hundred pounds of molten iron per day.”
Achelous gave the weaponsmith credit. Erecting a large foundry in Wedgewood without the supporting infrastructure of a big city like Tomis, Zursh, or even Tivor was a huge undertaking. Unfortunately, he’d have to grow it considerably larger in both capacity and capability for what Achelous had in mind.
Ogden interrupted his thoughts. “What did you mean by a blast furnace?”
Achelous arched an eyebrow. Don’t they have blast furnaces on Dianis? I thought they did? He tried to remember foundry capabilities across the globe, but without the aid of his multi-func, he couldn't run a query. He decided to risk bending ULUP. “Ah, well, it's just what the name implies. It builds on what a bellows does but makes the entire process continuous. Instead of smelting pig iron in small batches, you get a steady output stream of molten metal.”
Taken aback, Ogden asked skeptically, “Ula. How does it work?”
“Well, I'm no expert, but I know coal, iron ore, and limestone are continuously dumped into the top of the furnace while an air-compressor of some sort, could be from a water wheel, pumps air into the bottom of the furnace. The outflow of the furnace is driven by the amount of fuel and ore dumped in the top and the volume of air pumped in the bottom. If you can keep the firebox hot enough with the jet of air, you basically have a stream of molten iron. There is a gating mechanism you open periodically to let the molten iron flow out.”
Ogden nodded slowly at first and then became animated. “Oi! I can see how it could be done. You can have a stone cauldron with a sluice gate to moderate flow—” and he launched into a monologue conversation with himself, working through the details of how to build such a furnace.
Listening to him ramble about conveyors and lifts and a steel-frame fan, Achelous grew impressed by the weaponsmith's agile mind and his infectious can-do attitude. He decided to offer him a deal, more of a test, but a deal, nonetheless. “I tell you what, if you can convince me you can make the parts and build fifty of these handbolts, I’ll give you one to disassemble and copy. We can talk about the terms of the partnership later.”
Riding behind, Baryy eyed Achelous. What is he up to? Why would he go out of his way to have non-laser handbolts manufactured in-country? He’ll have to place a requisition to Field Outfitting to make a handbolt without the laser components. And with our departure from Dianis coming, why?
“Oi, outstanding! Let me take a peek at the one you have when we get to Wedgewood, and I’ll make any part you want. That should convince you.” Ogden beamed and clasped Achelous on the shoulder.
They rode further along. The trail, a hard-packed course wide enough for a wagon, wound higher and higher into the foothills, the sage and chaparral growing thinner, giving way to varied grasses and patches of a low ivy with tiny orange buds. Stands of olem, firs, and now pines intermixed amongst hidden parks. Ahead in the distance, Mount Mars loomed, snow draped its flanks.
“There's still snow in Wedgewood?” Achelous asked. They had most of a day’s ride left and a solid climb ahead of them. Snow in any quantity would slow them, forcing another camp.
“Oi.” Ogden pointed to a notch in the mountain’s left shoulder. “There be our dale, sheltered from much of the bad weather that roams about the mountain. We get our fair share of snow, though, to be sure. We still have piles of it under the eaves, but else it’s mostly gone.”
Achelous let his head bob with the easy gate of Echo. “You never did tell me what brought an armorer out here to the low-lands as an escort. Surely you have enough work to do managing your foundry.”
“Oi. I’m a warden in the clan militia. We’ve never forgotten the loss of Whispering Bough. With loglards spreading further west and higher up, the clan council decided we needed to organize better. Instead of just sounding the gong and expecting every able-bodied Timber to come with axe in hand – which we still do—the council, at Sedge’s advice, thought it good to muster out wards and assign each ward a set of patrol duties and watches. I be the warden for my ward. I have forty fighters, men and women, drawn from my foundry, Erv’s stables, Morgat’s tanning operation, and a few other businesses along our stretch of road. Sedge organized the entire militia, and the clan appointed him as the commander of the garrison. He has what he calls an ops officer that runs the duty roster, watch rotation, and patrol schedule. It was my ward’s turn to patrol the main road all the way down to the park, so here we are. Though now I wish we‘d brought more troopers.” He didn’t mention the pain he felt at returning home with a dead Timberkeep, one badly injured, and three dead mercenaries. There would be a grief to pay. Erv would sorely miss his wrangler, as would the lad’s mother. He thanked Mother the lad wasn’t married and with younglings. The loglards were becoming a problem.
Achelous sensed the unspoken. “You have our gratitude for your protection.”
It was simply said, simply offered, and simply accepted.
Ogden stared at the trail, then raised his eyes to the horizon. “If we didn’t run patrols, the loglards would choke off our trade. And that be no good. Oil for our lamps, flour for bread, hops for ale, and all manner of supplies come by wagon. If the loglards...” he let it go without saying. They’d have to abandon Wedgewood. It would be devastating. He had no idea where they would go. Wherever they went, the clan would be forced into a vassal role, renting land, becoming holden to landlords, and no longer true stewards of the forest or their own fate.
Achelous pondered the predicament. “Do the trogs know they are that much of a threat? I mean, do you think they are marshaling in such a way as to purposely force you out?”
Ogden pursed his lips, then shook his head. “Noi, their raids are more of a nuisance.” He clamped his jaw. The fact was the foothill raids were an increasing nuisance, and the higher into the foothills they came, the more the nuisance became a disruption. Already the clan was forced to pay gold from their mine to Sedge and his mercenaries. Regardless of the youngling’s age, Mergund’s earlier comments echoed in his ears: Why now, after sixty years, are they clawing our trees with their crude obscenities?
Ahead, Outish and Mergund rode beside each other. The similarities between the two drew them together. Each was a young Doroman apprentice in their master’s business, and each had a firm idea of how they would manage things should they be put in charge. Mergund yearned to forge his own axe but complained to Outish, “I spend so much time stoking the forges, shoveling coal, and clearing the water wheel of debris that I can only practice at castings and work on the anvil at the end of the day when most of the contract work is finished. By then, my arms ache, and my eyes burn.”
After a silence, Outish realized Mergund was staring at him. “What?”
“Huh? Oh.” Mergund turned away and pretended to stare off into the distance.
“What is it?” prompted Outish. This was his first time in-country and the first opportunity to interact one-on-one with a provincial, and he was nervous. Navigating the culture and norms of Doromen was tricky. He couldn’t tell when something was normal or amiss, and it weighed on him.
Mergund turned back quickly, happy to be prodded. “I was just wondering; can you hear better with them?”
Outish blinked several times, attempting to fathom what Mergund meant. Then, aghast, “What do you mean?!”
“Those,” Mergund stared, “your ears.”
Outish started. He desperately refrained from reaching up and covering them. “What do you mean? They’re normal!”
Mergund laughed, “For a rabbit, maybe.”
Outish glared and was about to offer a scathing retort when he remembered from injection learning it was the custom amongst young Doroman males to find a physical fault with others in their peer group. It signaled acceptance and established the mechanism by which each would tease the other. If a Doroman were a cripple but had largish lips, his friends would tease him about his lips, studiously avoiding the more obvious and painful detriment. The trick was, in return, finding the physical abnormality of the antagonist to use in the by-play. Failure to find the same type of flaw meant exclusion until you did. Most young males got around this by waiting to hear how other people teased the person. On the trail, Outish didn’t have that convenience. However, Mergund’s physical oddity stared him in the face. “Well, I’d rather have rabbit ears and hear my enemies sooner than have that peach face of yours. Is that a naked baby’s butt? I'd freeze on a summer’s day. Honestly, how do you survive?”
Rather than look crestfallen, Mergund reached into a saddlebag and proudly pulled out a striped scarf that matched his knit cap. “I don’t ever freeze, winter or summer,” and he shoved the scarf back in the pack. “But those ears—do you tie yourself down in a gale? You could take flight!”
“No, I tuck them under my cap; it keeps them from flapping. I can see with your peach face that you at least don't have to shave, but does your nanny get confused about what end she needs to wipe?”
"You hide them under your cap? What is it, a tent?"
The trail came to a crossroad where it met a larger way. A stout sign pointed in two directions; the "Wedgewood" arrow pointed at the north road angling uphill through thickening pines and firs. The other arrow, pointing east, read “Lycealia.”
As Lettern, on point, was about to go north, Achelous called out, “Hold up a minute.” He turned to Ogden, “I’ve been to Lycealia before, but Baryy and Outish have never seen it. I think it’s about an hour from here. Do you mind if we take a short detour?” It would indeed be good for the two other CivMon agents to see the site, and Achelous had been apprised of new activity there, so he had ulterior motives.
“Oi. You want to?” Ogden offered.
“Yes.” Registered on the federation’s Galactic List of Protected Historical Sites, Achelous considered it one of the best surviving examples of Loch Norim culture on Dianis.
“Good. We can be there and back and still make town before dinner.”
“You sure? I’d not want to make it much of a bother.” He glanced back at Baryy, who said, “I’d like to see it too, for all my time up here; I’ve never made it there."
“No bother,” said Ogden. “Been there enough times myself, but I can always stand to see it again. A mysterious place it is. I always get a feeling of being watched while I'm there. Can't quite explain it, but it is grand, truly different.”
“Grand? How so?” asked Baryy. He suspected Ogden felt watched because, as a protected site, it was under IDB surveillance.
“The Ancients, of course; they built it. Though, why they would build it out of marble and not concrete like they built everything else is a mystery. And there’s not a nail in the place. It’s not as if it were scavenged, either. There’s none of the usual damage you see in old ruins, like bolt holes torn loose or rusting studs staining the stone.” He scratched his beard. “The Ancients loved their metal too, yet there’s not a brace or bolt to be seen.”
“Excellent, an enigma.” Achelous smiled at Ogden.
Behind him, Baryy smiled inwardly at his chief’s ability to act the role. He wears the cover of a trader like his own skin. Dianis was a sociologist Nirvana. Where else could I go to study the interacting complexities of four layered civilizations? He wondered. What Ogden was confused by was there were two builders of ancient structures on Dianis: the Loch Norim and the Ancients. The ITA engineers, whom the provincials called Ancients, built with concrete and iron, and steel. The Loch Norim, the old Ancients, built their shrines of marble and albaminia. Diunesis Antiquaria encouraged this confusion by labeling all heritage sites as Ancient. Lycealia belonged to the Loch Norim, the progenitors of all Humanity.
They rode the distance to Lycealia until the marble edifice began to emerge from the surrounding forest.
“The Paleowrights have set up camp here now,” grumped Ogden, slowing his mount. “Lettern, hold,” he trotted ahead, and Achelous followed him. The warden desired to take the lead and be the first to meet the new occupants of the site.
“Why are the Paleowrights here?” asked Achelous coming up beside Lettern and Ogden. Video and satellite surveillance had detected their presence, but he'd not had the time to send a team to assess the visitor's intent. If they'd come and gone, CivMon would have ignored them, but they'd apparently taken up permanent residence. Not that the IDB could do anything; the rights of provincials under ULUP trumped any federation protection of historical sites. The Paleowrights could even, if they wanted to, raze the ruins. It had happened. The most CivMon could do was watch and record the event.
“Oi,” he spat, “Their high and mighty archbishop in Hebert declared it a mission. Built a priest’s hovel with a guard shack. There’s a priest that will probably demand a tithe from us.” Uncharacteristically Ogden scowled. He stood in his stirrups, scanning ahead.
“Oh—I can pay the tithe for all of us,” Achelous offered.
Ogden shook his head. “Noi. I won’t pay it, nor will I let you. The ruin has been here long before them. I wandered through it when I was a youngling. Who are the Paleos in their hubris to think they can just move in and claim it for their own? And demand a toll! They have no right. No Church hand-shaped those blocks nor set those stones. Bah, no Scarlet Warrior could ever build such magnificence; the stones fit so tight a blade of grass will not grow between them. It is a work of art that has become part of the land itself. Would you charge to view a mountain? Lycealia has been here so long its bones are those of the world. No man can claim ownership.”
Ogden struck a deep chord, and Achelous couldn’t agree more. The Paleowrights, on the other hand, held a deep-seated belief they were the protectors of all things Ancient and fervently asserted that without their stewardship the rich heritage and history of the Ancients would be lost to scavengers, antiquity traders, and fading memories. A point Achelous couldn’t argue either. However, what he could argue against were the methods the Paleowrights used and the dogma they propagated to bolster their image and coffers. However, control of Lycealia was strictly an indigenous issue. The IDB could intervene against extrasolars but was powerless against provincial desecrators.
Ogden spurred his mount forward and trotted into the clearing surrounding the ruins.
Outish halted in the line abreast formed as the travelers came out of the forest. “Incredible,” he breathed to no one in particular, but Mergund heard him and nodded, mute. Like Outish, this was the Timberkeep’s first visit.
Out of the surrounding forest, the marble structure rose six stories in its white-turned-grey height. There were two parts to the site. A large, open-air amphitheater was dug into the earth, facing the soaring rise of Mount Mars; the pine and fir forest framed the view. The marble seats were deep-set so a spectator could rest their back as they gazed upon a raised stage. The construction was a perfect semi-circle, the depth of the seating allowed for the seating of five hundred spectators. The second and grander feature of the site gleamed brightly in the sun. Compared to the sublevel amphitheater, the marble sanctorum bulked like a perfectly symmetrical glacier. Crowned with a gleaming white dome—half of the edifice's total height—the structure resembled a temple, though no statues or religious icons adorned its facade. “What’s in it?” asked Outish. History, in general, was his weak point, except when it came to genetic evolution.
“An indoor theater,” replied Lettern. You want to go look?”
Outish shifted uneasily in his saddle. Darting off with a Doroman, a female no less, without Baryy or the chief's guidance, unnerved him. But before he could frame his reply, Mergund said, “Oi, come on, Floppy Ears, let’s go look,” and Mergund spurred his eenu into the clearing and onto the marble apron surrounding the site.
Lettern dismounted with her bow, passing her reins to the Timberkeep beside her. Stepping softly onto the apron, she paused, glancing back to Ogden.
The warden simply nodded.
Not to be out done, Outish slid out of his saddle and made to join Mergund, who was now dismounted and peering into an open door.
“Outish, take your weapon.” Achelous and Baryy dismounted and drew their handbolts. “You coming?” he asked Ogden.
“Noi. My lads and I will stand guard. I’m waiting for that priest to show himself.
Achelous nodded sagely. He swept his cloak open so he could reach his quarrels and cautiously walked forward. He saw Lettern had an arrow notched. The video monitors back in Central Station were probably recording their actions, though he couldn't remember the camera angles. Certainly, one of Gail's big birds had a lens fixed on them.
“Your first time here. What do you think?” Achelous asked Baryy.
“It’s beautiful. Perfectly architected to fit the dale. It’s as if it belongs here. Like it has always been here and forever shall be. The carvings on the edifice even draw out the harmony of the wilderness.”
Achelous peered at the carvings that adorned the header just below the dome. Woodland sprites, pirogies, toadstool gnomes, and dancing dwarves cavorted amongst marble ferns, forest lilies, and regal spruces. Achelous casually glanced about, ensuring they were out of earshot. Referring to the carvings, he said, “Only the trees are native to Dianis; the rest is from off-planet.” Achelous smirked, and Baryy nodded vigorously. “You'd have thought the Locks would have been more parochial, respect the local culture. It’s like—”
“You are trespassing on holy ground! This land is under the protection of Diunesis Antiquaria, and none shall pass without my permission!”
Achelous pivoted, and from behind the amphitheater stage, a priest shuffled into view leaning on a staff of gnarled wood.
Outish froze in place, but Mergund gave the priest one look and ducked mischievously into the theater.
“You there!” The priest brandished his staff, “I’ll have you out of there, you miscreant blasphemer!” Changing from a shuffle to an urgent stride, he stalked up to Outish. The priest jabbed the intern in the chest with the staff, “You are trespassing. Leave at once!”
“Hey, you old geezer, watch your stick!” Outish backed away from his antagonist, whose unshaven, sunken cheeks and pale skin reminded him of a cadaver raised from the dead. His priest’s vestments were stained various shades of grey with wood ash. Around his waist was a red sash that matched his cap.
“You dare to chide me!” The priest’s eyes flared, and he raised his staff to strike.
Outish instinctively stepped further back. “Whoa, grampy, you off your meds?”
Achelous blanched. Baryy mouthed to him, “Meds?”
The priest lunged forward, neither age nor infirmity impairing his step. He swung the staff, aiming its gnarled handle straight at the apprentice’s head.
A loud “thwack” sounded. Lettern parried the staff with the arch of her bow.
The priest, seeing her for the first time, glared incandescently and drew back.
Lettern's other hand held an arrow, and she sprang forward, jabbing it at the priest’s neck. The honed edge of the broadhead stopped just at his jaw. She held it there, the steel point drawing blood.
The priest stood rooted, his glare turning to shock as he stared at her. Danger lurked in Lettern’s brown eyes. She didn’t waver.
Achelous came forward. “I’d be careful, priest. She has no problem killing. Lower your staff, slowly.”
Anger flared anew on the priest’s visage, but when he tried to face this new speaker, Lettern thrust harder, keeping the arrowhead firmly under his chin. The trickle of blood seeped down his neck.
“That’s my apprentice you tried to bash the brains out of,” Achelous said in a calm but firm voice. "And he was doing you no harm. After you lower your staff, you can tell me how we are trespassing.”
Slowly at first, the priest let the staff fall to his side.
Shiren, that geezer belongs in a bio processor,” Outish mumbled.
Achelous signaled to Lettern, and she stepped back, knocking the arrow.
The priest had no doubt she could draw and release before he could get to her. “You’ll pay for this,” he hissed. “My guards will be back soon, and then you will pay.”
Having quite enough of the drama, Ogden rode his eenu forward and looked down on the priest. “Then bring on your guards so we can be done with this farce, priest. Tis a free land, and no one has claim to Lycealia.”
“A Timmy are you,” the priest sneered. “I should have seen it right away.”
“That’s because you were too busy whaling at me with your stick!” exclaimed Outish.
Achelous darted him a warning look, and Outish pouted. He grumped something unintelligible and walked away, heading toward the theater.
“I’ll have the Saviors on you, I will,” called the priest. “I’ll have the lot of you arrested for defiling an Ancient site.”
Achelous hooked his thumbs in his belt. “How much?”
The priest shook his head, “Huh?”
“How much to let him have a look?” and he tilted his head towards Outish.
“No. We shall not pay,” blurted Ogden. “I came here when I was a lad. There were no,” and he fairly spat the word “Churchmen then, and there should be none now. Lycealia belongs to all.”
The priest’s expression hardened, and he was about to launch a new tirade when Achelous rolled his eyes and interrupted. “Fine, how much for some information?”
“Information?” The priest paused, then rested his staff on the ground.
“Yes, information. I want to buy information. That’s why you are out here, right? To earn money for the bishopric back in Hebert. Let me guess, they’re banging the pulpits of the temples proclaiming that Antiquarian faithful should go on a pilgrimage to Lycealia and worship. And when they get here, you levy a tithe. Or does the Church have something grander in mind? Hmm, let's see, there is both an outdoor and indoor amphitheater... a perfect place for indoctrinating the ignorant masses.”
The priest began to look wary, his jaw working.
While Achelous interrogated the priest, Baryy took the opportunity to drift away. He casually inspected the façade of the dome, marveling at the perfect hairline joints between the marble blocks.
When the priest turned to rail at Baryy, Achelous pulled a coin out of his purse and thumbed it into the air. “This is a Lamaran Durket.” The silver caught the sun’s glare and flashed as it spun back down. Achelous caught it and showed it to the priest. It was newly IDB-minted, not a nick on its pristine silver surface.
Baryy slipped into the massive building through a side portal, the columned archway open. He was looking for something in particular. Running his hand over the smooth, cold, polished stone, he could not help but admire the shrewd and intricate inlay. He counted gold, silver, and copper in the scrollwork. Like many Loch Norim ruins scattered across the human reaches of the galaxy, this ruin had been saved from depredations because of the low human population. No wars had been fought in this part of Isuelt, and both humans and reptiles had ignored Mount Mars until, of course, the Timberkeeps settled Wedgewood. He examined the scenes depicted by the inlays. They were important clues as to how the Loch Norim regarded Isuelt. Did the stylistic renditions of woodland lore, fairies, will-o-the-wisps, and prancing unicorns represent their attitude toward the entire planet or just Mount Mars?
The sound of voices came from a passageway. Through it, he found what amounted to an auditorium. A concourse, ten paces wide, encircled the chamber. In the center, marble seats stepped down to the floor where Mergund and Outish loitered on a stage. There was a circular balcony above with more seating. High above, at the center of the dome, a glass iris impervious to thirteen-hundred years of weather let glorious sunlight flood the chamber. I wonder what material the Loch Norim used—
“Whahoo!” Mergund tested the perfect acoustics.
Achelous held the coin. “I’m surprised your guards are not here, with all the trogs roaming about.” He deduced the value of the durket to be substantially more than the tithe for the entire party. The priest’s clutching hand proved it. Every time the priest reached for the coin, Achelous asked another string of questions.
Ogden’s original distaste at paying the tithe turned to bemusement as he witnessed the trader at work.
“Ack. We don’t have troubles with troglodytes,” the priest waved his wrinkled hand dismissively. “They know better than to bother us.”
“Oh?” Achelous wondered if the priest was more than just an obdurate old fool. “We had a skirmish with them yesterday, no more than a half-day’s ride from here. Must have been a good sixty of them.”
The priest leaned hard on his staff and gave him a piercing, knowing stare. “If you were riding with the Timmies, I’d not be surprised. Tis well known the trogs want Timmy blood,” he smirked at Lettern.
“Yes,” noted Achelous, “but what’s to stop a band of them from killing you and your guards just for sport or, better yet, food?”
The priest shook his head, religious fervor powering his words, “They’ll not bother us. Of that, I am sure.”
So even the Paleowright priests know the Church has power over the troglodytes. But do the priests know how? Achelous considered the ramifications. If the Western nations learned the Church controlled the troglodytes...
Baryy walked through an archway to the outside. In front of him was a large marble patio bordered by a stone balustrade. In the center of the patio, he saw two perpendicular lines of black marble that quartered the open space. Another circle of black marble overlaid it as a bull’s-eye. He instantly knew the significance of the circle. Moving to the balustrade, he surveyed the forest beyond. In the millennia the site had sat abandoned, storms, erosion, and the continual frost-thaw cycle had attempted their work, but the foundations of Lycealia were little moved. There were cracks in the paving stones, and the polish of the external marble was etched and degraded, but the place was eerily unchanged.
“Is that true?” Achelous asked in mock surprise, noting Ogden and Lettern paying close attention.
“As true as this be the work of the Ancients!” retorted the priest.
Achelous smiled at the priest's choice of metaphors. The Ancients, in the Paleowrights frame of reference, did not build Lycealia. “Fine.” He flipped the durket to the priest.
A clattering of hooves turned Baryy's attention to the road. Achelous and Ogden waved to him. Outish led Baryy’s mount, followed by the rest of the Timberkeeps.
Baryy hurried down a set of steps and caught up with the party.
“Quite the place, isn’t it?” Ogden said, reining in his mount. “As if Mother herself carved it from the stone of the mountain.”
Baryy climbed into his saddle. Even knowing the truth about Lycealia, he agreed with the warden. Softly, he asked Achelous, “Where do you think they quarried the marble from? I'm surprised none of it has been scavenged for building materials.”
Achelous answered, “The Paleowrights in Hebert would consider it sacrilege.” Then, as the party began to move out, he said louder so everyone could hear, “What do you think, Ogden, are there any marble quarries hereabouts?”
“Oi, there is an old quarry on the back side of the mountain, but that’s nigh on forty miles from here.”
Achelous nodded to Baryy. Forty miles to the Loch Norim was trivial; it came down to energy, something the Loch Norim had plenty of. He waved the rest of the Timberkeeps to ride past so Outish, Baryy, and he could ride at the rear.
As a gap opened in the column, Baryy said, “The patio was the landing zone. No tool, burn, or skid marks on the pavement, so they used anti-grav. The stone was definitely laser cut.”
Outish chimed in, “Why would the ‘Norim build it in the first place? It’s out here in the middle of nowhere.”
Achelous let Echo’s comfortable gait massage his body; the carpet of pine needles lent a spongy quality to the hoof steps and muffled the sound. “We believe there were different Loch Norim factions on Dianis. Some of them of different religions. They liked to build sanctuaries and retreats, maybe for visitors from off planet. But I think there is an even more important Loch Norim site up there,” he pointed to the top of Mount Mars. Snow was blowing off the peak in a long contrail. The white contrasted starkly against the royal blue of the sky.
“Why, what’s up there?” asked Outish.
Achelous stared at the peak, watching the jet stream scour snow from the high crag. “Just a hunch. But forty miles would put the marble quarry on the backside of the peak. Solar Surveillance has confirmed there are ruins up there, near the peak. CivMon currently has them listed as Loch Norim-possible in origin, but no one has been up there to confirm.”
Outish perked up. “Another Loch Norim site? Do you know what that would mean for my astrobiology certification if I did the bio—”
Baryy smacked him on the shoulder, “Not so loud,” he hissed.
“Ouch! You didn't have to hit me.”
Mergund turned in the saddle at the fuss, hoping he could join in.
Baryy smiled sweetly, “Got a keep the youngins in line.”
Achelous let his mount crop the fresh spring shoots as the gap opened further. He said softly, “It would be the seventh Loch Norim discovered site on Dianis. They could have used the same quarry to build the facility on the mountaintop. And yes, it would look good on a list of credits to be on the discovery team.” He rode for a moment. “What I want to know is what role Dianis served for the Loch Norim. Zursh was an outpost of the colony. There are findings to support it was a surveyor’s base for resource exploration in the northern polar regions.”
“Was it a big colony?” Outish asked.
“Probably less than thirty million for the whole planet, maybe as low as a million. Dianis was established late in the Loch Norim expansion, but it is important as we think Dianis was the principal colony in this reach of the galaxy.”
“Do you think we will ever find them?” Outish asked, reverence in his voice.
“You mean if the Turboii didn’t get them?” Baryy grumped, giving him a sidelong look.
And so goes the debate, thought Achelous. What happened to the Loch Norim? And did the appearance of the Turboii with their minions mean they had destroyed the Loch Norim along the way, or did it mean the Loch Norim were driving the Turboii back, forcing them into this sector of the galaxy? Either way, the advent of the Turboii offered plausible explanations for what some speculated was a temporary, albeit a millennium-long retreat of humanity’s progenitors. “We've found no evidence the Turboii and Loch Norim ever met each other. It's pretty clear the Turboii have come after, long after, the Loch Norim.”
“In our arm of the galaxy,” said Baryy. “We don't know what happened beyond here, but we do know the Loch Norim and Turboii came from the center of the galaxy.”
Achelous' reply came well worn, honed from centuries of debate. “The colonization path of the Loch Norim in our galactic arm points back to the core, but only so far as we've measured it. What, ten thousand light years?”
Where Baryy and Achelous’s two sciences came together, sociology and cultural anthropology, was in the Theory of Reverse Colonization. Modern history provided all the evidence needed. The Avarian Federation spawned from the planet Avaria, the first Loch Norim world in this galactic arm to become star-faring. As Avaria began its galactic exploration, that expansion followed in reverse order the previous Loch Norim colonization route, planet by planet. Just as the Loch Norim expanded out from the center of the galaxy, leaving steppingstones of colonies and outposts along the way, now did Avaria expand inward toward the core of the galaxy. The journey discovered and continued to discover the ruins of what amounted to an ancient star network leading from solar system to system. Along the way, explorers encountered worlds populated with humans ignorant of their past, most believing that they were the only humans in the galaxy.
Baryy thought, I’m glad I’m not a cosmologist because some of their questions would drive me nuts: Who came before the Loch Norims? How long had the tidal ebb and flow of galactic civilization occurred? Of all the evolutionary ceilings that doomed civilizations to stagnation and death, which was the greatest threat to Avaria? And the big one, What caused the fall of the Loch Norim?
