heavens themselves—as if each tried to outgrow the other.
The caravan approached the main gates to the city of Mocley by winding its way through the town outside—the wagon driver named it Gatetown. The sights and sounds overwhelmed Arderi. He found himself dizzy with the commotion. They came to a stop in a large cobblestone-paved area in front of the entrance to the city proper. The gate looked wide enough to accommodate four or five wagons abreast with ease, and tall enough to admit a giant.
He gaped with awe at all the guarders, both afoot and ahorse, who milled about the area. Their tailored uniforms—yellow and blue tabards adorned with a talon clutching a wheat stalk, worn over a mail hauberk—glistened with bits of plate at strategic points around their bodies. All of them wore long swords and dirks about their waists. Some even carried long poleaxes—these being decorated with yellow and blue streamers to match their tabards. Their splendor put the guarders of his home—with their bland brown leather armor and plain shortswords—to shame. After a few moments pause, while those in charge of the caravan spoke with the guarders of the gate, they continued into the gaping jaws of the city of Mocley. So thick were the walls they passed through, everything around them plunged into darkness. Torches burning along the interior created the only light in the passage. In the middle of the tunnel, they rode under two huge iron portcullises.
Like the teeth of the Great Beast, swallowing us whole, wagons and all.
He could not fathom the power it would take to lift such an immense gate. The crossbars alone measured several paces deep and at least one pace thick. Each of the upright bars looked as broad around as any tree. Archer slits lined the entire passageway at two levels, halfway up the arch—some three heights of a man off the ground—and again near the apex. As he passed these death-dealing nooks, he felt the horrifying effect they would have on an enemy who tried to enter uninvited. Holding his breath, he did not release it until the tunnel spit them out into the light of day, thrusting them into the bowels of the city. Sighing with relief, he blinked at the glare of the sun after the darkness of the entry tunnel.
That was the only memory view of the city Alant had imbued on the Memory Crystal. He claimed that upon reaching the Chandril’elian, his instructors immediately pressed him into his studies, never allowing him to leave the school grounds.
Alant called the school the Chandril’elian, as it is named in the Old tongue, yet I had never heard it referred to as anything other than the Academy.
He did describe the city for his family, however. “The city of Mocley, founded by Artimus Mocley, is well over two thousand winters old,” Alant spoke in an intonation like that of a schoolmaster’s. He faced the person who drew upon the Crystal as though standing right in front of them in the same room. “Artimus was a lesser Prince of the Elmorr’Antien people from the Isle of Hath’oolan. The original town makes up the center of the city we find now, encompassing the harbor and dock areas. The common folk refer to it as the Warehouse District, yet shops and homes, hotels and brothels, gambling dens and fish markets all litter the area, as well as the warehouses. It is this place that keeps the Mocley Royal Patrol most occupied.”
Arderi continued to till the dirt of the field, smiling as he recalled how much Alant had sounded like a local, not one describing a city he had arrived in a mere tenday before.
“The Warehouse District also contains the great Millitinia, which houses the might of the Mocley naval strength. The original wall still surrounds this district, as it did when the city called it the outer wall.”
“Several hundred turns of the seasons later, as the city grew, a second outer wall was added. At first, this newly enclosed area consisted of a mishmash of more shops and houses. Over
The caravan approached the main gates to the city of Mocley by winding its way through the town outside—the wagon driver named it Gatetown. The sights and sounds overwhelmed Arderi. He found himself dizzy with the commotion. They came to a stop in a large cobblestone-paved area in front of the entrance to the city proper. The gate looked wide enough to accommodate four or five wagons abreast with ease, and tall enough to admit a giant.
He gaped with awe at all the guarders, both afoot and ahorse, who milled about the area. Their tailored uniforms—yellow and blue tabards adorned with a talon clutching a wheat stalk, worn over a mail hauberk—glistened with bits of plate at strategic points around their bodies. All of them wore long swords and dirks about their waists. Some even carried long poleaxes—these being decorated with yellow and blue streamers to match their tabards. Their splendor put the guarders of his home—with their bland brown leather armor and plain shortswords—to shame. After a few moments pause, while those in charge of the caravan spoke with the guarders of the gate, they continued into the gaping jaws of the city of Mocley. So thick were the walls they passed through, everything around them plunged into darkness. Torches burning along the interior created the only light in the passage. In the middle of the tunnel, they rode under two huge iron portcullises.
Like the teeth of the Great Beast, swallowing us whole, wagons and all.
He could not fathom the power it would take to lift such an immense gate. The crossbars alone measured several paces deep and at least one pace thick. Each of the upright bars looked as broad around as any tree. Archer slits lined the entire passageway at two levels, halfway up the arch—some three heights of a man off the ground—and again near the apex. As he passed these death-dealing nooks, he felt the horrifying effect they would have on an enemy who tried to enter uninvited. Holding his breath, he did not release it until the tunnel spit them out into the light of day, thrusting them into the bowels of the city. Sighing with relief, he blinked at the glare of the sun after the darkness of the entry tunnel.
That was the only memory view of the city Alant had imbued on the Memory Crystal. He claimed that upon reaching the Chandril’elian, his instructors immediately pressed him into his studies, never allowing him to leave the school grounds.
Alant called the school the Chandril’elian, as it is named in the Old tongue, yet I had never heard it referred to as anything other than the Academy.
He did describe the city for his family, however. “The city of Mocley, founded by Artimus Mocley, is well over two thousand winters old,” Alant spoke in an intonation like that of a schoolmaster’s. He faced the person who drew upon the Crystal as though standing right in front of them in the same room. “Artimus was a lesser Prince of the Elmorr’Antien people from the Isle of Hath’oolan. The original town makes up the center of the city we find now, encompassing the harbor and dock areas. The common folk refer to it as the Warehouse District, yet shops and homes, hotels and brothels, gambling dens and fish markets all litter the area, as well as the warehouses. It is this place that keeps the Mocley Royal Patrol most occupied.”
Arderi continued to till the dirt of the field, smiling as he recalled how much Alant had sounded like a local, not one describing a city he had arrived in a mere tenday before.
“The Warehouse District also contains the great Millitinia, which houses the might of the Mocley naval strength. The original wall still surrounds this district, as it did when the city called it the outer wall.”
“Several hundred turns of the seasons later, as the city grew, a second outer wall was added. At first, this newly enclosed area consisted of a mishmash of more shops and houses. Over
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