Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) (25 page)

“Now that was exciting,” Peashot grumbled. “I
don’t know how I’ll sleep.”

“It was educational,” offered Vayle, “I’d always
wondered if the original mayor of Castath looked as foreign as the histories
suggest. Did any of you notice the clearly Orunean nose?”

“Oh yes,” said Peashot. “It was my lifelong dream
to study the snout of a long-dead fat man. What’s with this place? Statues, paintings,
pretty hallways … Marshals seem to have bog-rotten taste in design.”

“Don’t seem to have much sense in architecture
either,” added Aedan. “Who puts a stupid feature like that in a perfectly good
room? The thing wastes so much space.” Suddenly he stopped. The others turned
and looked at him. “It’s not a feature,” he said. “Come on!”

In a riot of confusion and curiosity, they raced
after him into the large room. Aedan ran up to the central structure and began
tapping the surfaces. They were solid. His expression fell slightly.

“What are you doing?” Peashot asked.

“I think it conceals an entrance,” Aedan said. He
stepped back and looked up. “There must be something here that we are just not
seeing. The boys began pacing around, inspecting everything – floor, statues,
furniture, and a mouse that found its retreat blocked and darted between shoes
until it reached a drape that it scaled without any apparent loss of speed.

Lorrimer’s attention soon drifted and he lounged
against a statue. It was a large bronze head wearing an expression so fierce
that the contrast between the lounger and his support could not have been
greater. The statue seemed about to spark into life and raise a storm at the
insolent boy.

“How’s that going to help?” Peashot demanded,
stopping in front of Lorrimer who was pulling abstractedly on one of his large
ears.

“Huh?”

“Wake up and make yourself useful. How about you
just reach up for the top of that thing and we’ll climb you. Lorrimer the
Ladderboy. We could call you Lads for short.”

“How about we throw you up with a rope. You’re
about the right size for a grappling hook.”

Peashot had already slipped the tube from his
sleeve when Aedan’s voice rang out.

“Here! Come help.”

Aedan was standing in front of a coiled mass of stringy
draping.

“What are you doing?” asked Peashot, running up.

“Getting us into trouble, that’s for sure,” said Vayle,
more to himself than anyone in particular.

“I think these are ropes, not drapes. See the long
panels of wooden slats holding the paintings – I think these ropes lower the
slats down so they form a ramp from here to the top of that feature.” The boys
measured the distance with their eyes and slowly all nodded.

“Won’t the paintings fall off?” asked Hadley

“Not if they are meant to be lowered.”

“So what do we do?”

“Well, I think it could be heavy. If it’s just me
holding the end I might shoot up to the roof while the panel comes crashing
down. Once I unhook it, it’s best that we are all holding on.”

“Probably won’t make much difference what
you
do,” Lorrimer mumbled to Peashot.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get that. My ears aren’t big
enough for super-human hearing.”

Lorrimer turned red. He looked like he was about
to stamp on a mouse.

“Everyone take hold.” Aedan released the catch and
sure enough the drapes lurched up from the heap of coils on the ground. They
held tight and released an arm’s length at a time. One of the long, ladder-like
panels that had looked to be part of the room’s furnishings leaned inwards. It
began to descend towards the central feature where it finally touched and came
to rest. They let go. It was a perfect wooden ramp leading to the top of the
centrepiece.

There was no order in the wild dash up the slope,
curiosity driving them. When they reached the top they encountered a flat wooden
surface. It was a stage. Nothing more.

“To think that we almost missed this,” said
Peashot. “The others will never believe us. It actually has a wooden top. Good
job Aedan. We unlocked the marshals’ great secret.”

Nobody was listening. They were watching Aedan who
was moving about, stamping.

“These boards are hollow. We need to lift them.”

“But they are bolted down,” said Vayle.

“I’ll bet they are bolted into something that
lifts, just holding them together. I don’t suppose anyone has any tools here.”

“Maybe me.” It was the new boy from the other
dorm. He began digging in his pockets and drew out a chisel and a few sturdy
nails. “I was helping with my pa today and was forgetting to empty out. He is
going to be mad as spit.”

“I think you mean spitting mad,” said Vayle.

“Oh. Thank you Vayle.”

“How did you know his name?”

“I am knowing of all your names, Aedan. I am
listening the whole time.”

“Impressive. We don’t know yours, though.”

“Kian.”

“Well, Kian, if you’re as good with tools as you
are with your ears, perhaps you can work out how to lift this.”

Kian dropped to his hands and knees, shoved the tip
of a nail and the chisel into the gaps at the end of the boards, and managed to
lever the edge high enough for the others to get their hands underneath and
lift. The boards were indeed secured to a beam that held them together. The
whole panel was hoisted and placed to the side, revealing what Aedan had hoped
to find, a stairway that led down into blackness.

“Lanterns,” he said.

They rushed back to the dorms, snatched their
lanterns and returned at a sprint. The lanterns were empty so they went to the perimeter
of the room which was ringed with oil-burning torches, the kind with a large
iron reservoir and a stout wick. They doused two of them and tipped the oil
into their lanterns, then lit their own wicks from the torches that remained
burning.

With Aedan and Hadley in the lead, they stampeded
back up the ramp and began to descend the stairs. The lanterns were bright but
the stairway itself was made of a very dark stone that reflected little.

“Hold a moment,” Aedan said as they approached a
set of marble pillars. Something shouted a warning in his mind, something he
had once read in a story of a castle siege. He placed his lantern on the ground
and looked at the surfaces of the steps. The step that lay between the marble
pillars was different to the others. It showed no signs of wear and was covered
in an undisturbed layer of dust, as if it had never been used.

“Don’t stand on this step,” he said.

“Why not?” asked Peashot. “Aren’t steps for
standing on?”

“I think it’s the trigger for some kind of trap.”
That produced a respectful silence. They were all careful to avoid the step and
the next two that Aedan pointed out.

The air grew colder as they descended and now held
a touch of dampness.

When they reached the bottom they stepped onto a wide
landing from which two corridors led. The one was broad, the other narrow and
closed off with a heavy chain. Both were dark. Aedan moved a few yards into the
open corridor and lit a torch mounted on the wall.

It was immediately clear in the growing light that
this was architecture from another time. Large blocks of pale stone were fitted
with unerring precision, forming a smooth, arching passage that led into
darkness, a darkness that must have stretched away a bewildering distance
judging by the deep echoes that whispered back at them. The torch that Aedan
had lit was no simple device like the ones in the room above. It was cast from
a clean silvery metal and engraved with intricate details of vines threading
between unfamiliar creatures. Aedan led the way down the wide passage. Above him,
the light of his lantern revealed a ceiling where scores of warriors were
engaged in great battles and mythical beasts fought and frolicked in curious
settings. The very air in here tingled with mystery.

They passed several doors on each side, but
stopped when a massive, arched entrance appeared out of the darkness on their
right. The tall and impressively heavy doors were slightly ajar. Aedan threw his
weight against the dark wood. Nothing happened. The others drew alongside. They
pushed together, and with a groan that rattled their joints, the door swung
back on bucket-sized hinges. They stepped into a vestibule with equally large doors
leading right and left, but they barely noticed these.

Before them, recessed into a high, arching alcove
was a stone dais on which stood four marble statues. Three huge men and a young
woman, hardly more than a girl, faced them. The first man held a sword, the
second a spear, the third a hammer, and the young woman a bow. The first two
men were large and strong, but the third was enormous – well over seven feet
tall, with arms and legs broader than a boy’s torso.

“Wonder why they made him so big,” said Peashot.
“He looks wrong.”

Aedan laughed. “You never heard of Krawm? The
sculptor didn’t do any enlarging. This is the size he was. That war hammer
probably weighed more than you. And he wasn’t just big; he was fast. Used to
run through infantry like a bull. His armour was so thick that arrows bounced
off and even spears broke. There are lots of stories about him. The one I’ll
never forget is the one about his last battle. Heard it?”

The others shook their heads and waited.

“It was when his hometown was attacked. The gate
was torn down quickly and he didn’t have time to put on his armour, so he
rushed to the gate with only his hammer. He stood between the posts of the gate
and smashed everything that tried to come in – horses, spearmen, swordsmen. The
sight of him gave such courage to the townsmen that every one of them was
transformed into a warrior, and that night they turned back a force much bigger
than their own.

“By the time the raiders fled, Krawm was
surrounded by piles and piles of bodies. Killed more than half the raiders
himself. He had about thirty arrows and spears sticking out of him, but he
still stood. As the attackers drew together, the bandit-leader rose up in his
saddle and shouted that he would return and take personal vengeance on Krawm’s
family – his nephew and niece.

“It was a mistake. In spite of the wounds that
painted him red with his own blood, Krawm leapt over the bodies and sprinted
towards the tight band of raiders. They say the ground shook under each giant
stride and that he moved faster than any of them had ever seen a man run. The
leader spun his horse, but the other horses interfered with his escape. Krawm
covered the two hundred yards like a mad thing. He was at a full sprint when he
swung his hammer at the man. The blow crushed his chest, killed him instantly
and hurled him off his horse and into the ranks of men who scattered in all
directions. They say Krawm smiled as he turned and looked at home for the last
time. Then he dropped his hammer, sank to the ground and died.”

The boys all looked up at the towering statue with
a respect too deep to express. Lorrimer finally broke the spell.

“Imagine if there were living men like this.”

“I think,” said Hadley, “this General Osric is not
far off.”

“Direct descendant of the nephew,” said Aedan.
“Saw it on his ancestral scroll.”

“Ah. That explains a lot.”

“Do you know who the other statues are?” Vayle
asked.

“Ulmar, on the left and Hanroc next to him were
the two champions who defended King Athgrim, his queen and daughter against a
squad of assassins. By the time the alarm was raised and reinforcements
arrived, they had killed almost the entire squad of fifteen. Hanroc died of his
wounds, but Ulmar lived and married the princess.”

“And the woman? Is she the princess?”

“That’s Queen Tana, I think. Must be.”

“Why’s she got a bow?”

“Don’t you know the story? These are the stories I
grew up with. Tana was princess when her father, a widower, decided to journey
to Port Breklee – it was called something else in those days. The royal
procession was attacked just west of the Pellamines where the cover is good.
The king was struck by an arrow and died. There were only about two dozen royal
guards and it looked as if they would be overwhelmed. But Tana took her
father’s bow and began loosing arrows around her. It turned the battle. Later
they found that more of the enemy had been felled by her bow than by the sword.
She was only fourteen at the time, but everyone agreed that her courage more
than made up for her age, so she was made queen.”

Though the rest of them stared, entranced, Hadley
was showing symptoms of impatience. He walked to the left door and pushed it
open. What he saw brought him to a standstill. The others gathered around.

Their lanterns lit the space revealing a wide and
lofty chamber whose walls were stacked with every conceivable weapon – lances,
spears, pikes, maces, flails, war axes and hammers, longbows, crossbows,
swords, knives and shields. There was a whole wall lined with statues of men
and horses in the full armour of every order. The finely curved and ornamented
plate armour of Orunea stood first, the jagged and spiked encasings of Fennlor
next, and as the line stretched away, the shapes grew unfamiliar, many of them cruder,
and more fearsome. It looked as if the weaponry of every known empire was
present.

For a long time they could do no more than stare,
drinking in the sights that had only existed in their imaginations. Each husk
of armour was as good as an army of its warriors, each weapon a legacy of
courage and heroism. Here the screams of the dying and the stench of death were
only a distant rumour, a sometime price to be paid for the honour of defending
their own.

With a sense of awe, almost of reverence, they
began to drift to various racks and stands, touching and lifting weapons,
replacing them delicately.

All was going well until Lorrimer’s big eyes
settled on a colossal mace. It was clear that he was in the grip of a
hopelessly enchanting vision: a tall hero – himself – on the field of battle,
whirling the terrible weapon over his head.