“There she is,” Esrahaddon said reverently as they reached a rocky clearing that afforded them an unobstructed view of the river. It was wide and the water rushed by with a furious strength then disappeared over the edge of a sudden fall.
They stood very near the ridge of the cataract and could see the white mist rising from the abrupt drop like a fog. Out in the middle of the river, at the edge of the falls, a massive shelf of bedrock jutted out like the prow of a mighty ship that ran aground just before toppling over the precipice. On this fearsome pedestal rose the citadel of Avempartha. Formed entirely of stone, the tower burst skyward from the rock shelf. A bouquet of tall, slender shards stretched upward like splinters of crystal or slivers of ice, its base lost in the billowing white clouds of mist and foam. At first sight it looked to be a natural stone formation, but a more careful study revealed windows, walkways and stairs carefully integrated into the architecture.
“How am I suppose to get out there?” Royce asked yelling over the roar, his cloak whipping and snapping like a snake.
“That would be problem number one,” Esrahaddon shouted back, offering nothing more.
Was this some kind of test, or does he really not know?
Royce followed the river over the bare rocks to the drop. Here the land plummeted more than two thousand feet to the valley below. What stood before him was a vision of unsurpassed beauty. The falls were magnificent. The sheer power of the titanic surge was hypnotizing. The massive torrent of blue-green water spilled and sparkled into the billowing white bejeweled mist, the voice of the river thundering in his ears, rattling his chest. Beyond it, to the south, was an equally breathtaking vision. Royce could see for miles and marked the remaining passage of the river as it wound like a long shiny snake through the lush green landscape to the Goblin Sea.
Esrahaddon moved to a more sheltered escarpment farther inland and behind a brace of upward thrust granite that blocked him from the gusting wind and spray. Royce climbed toward him when he noticed a depressed line in the trees running away from the river. A course of trees stood shorter than those around them, creating a trench in the otherwise uniform canopy. He made his way down to the forest floor and found that what he thought might be a gully was instead a section of younger growth. More importantly, the line was perfectly straight. Old vines and thorn bushes masked unnatural mounds. He dug away some of the undergrowth and swept layers of dirt and dead leaves back until he touched on flat stone.
“Looks like there might have been a road here,” he shouted up to the wizard.
“There was. A great bridge once reached out across the river to Avempartha.”
“What happened to it?”
“The river,” the wizard told him. “The Nidwalden does not abide the efforts of man for long. Most of it likely washed away, leaving the remains to fall.”
Royce followed the buried road to the river’s edge where he stood looking at the tower across the violent expanse. A vast gray volume rushed by him, its speed concealed by its size. The dark gray became a swirling translucent green as it reached the edge. The moment it fell, the water burst into white foam, billions of flying droplets, and all he could hear was the thundering roar.
“Impossible,” he muttered.
He returned to where the wizard stood and sat down on the sun-warmed rock, looking at the distant tower that rose up in the haze where rainbows played.
“Do you want me to open that thing?” the thief asked with all seriousness. “Or is this some kind of game?”
“It’s no game,” Esrahaddon replied as he sat leaning against a rock, folding his arms and closed his eyes.
It irritated Royce how comfortable he looked. “Then you’d better start saying more than you have so far.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything—everything you know about it.”
“Well, let’s see, I was here once a very long time ago. It looked different then, of course. For one thing Novron’s bridge was still up and you could walk right out to the tower.”
“So the bridge was the only way to reach it?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. At least it wouldn’t make any sense if that were the case. You see the elves built Avempartha before mankind walked on the face of Elan. No one—well, no human—knows why or what for. Its location here on the falls facing south toward what we call the Goblin Sea suggests perhaps the elves might have employed it as a defense against the Children of Uberlin—I believe you call them by the dwarven name, the Ba Ran Ghazel—goblins of the sea. But that seems unlikely, as the tower predates them as well. There might have even been a city here at one time. So little is left of their achievements in Apeladorn, but the elves had a fabulous culture rich in beauty, music, and The Art.”
“When you say The Art, you mean magic?”
The wizard opened a single eye and frowned at him. “Yes, and don’t give me that look, as if magic is dirty or vile. I have seen that too many times since I escaped.”
“Well, magic isn’t something people consider a good thing.”
Esrahaddon sighed and shook his head with a stern look. “It is demoralizing to see what has happened to the world during my years of incarceration. I stayed alive and sane because I knew that one day I would be able to do my part to protect humanity, but now I discover it’s almost no longer worth the effort. When I was young, the world was an incredible place. Cities were magnificent. Your Colnora wouldn’t even rank as a slum in the smallest city of my time. We had indoor plumbing—spigots would pump water right into people’s homes. There were extensive, well-maintained sewer systems that kept the streets from smelling like cesspools. Buildings were eight and nine stories tall, and some reached as high as twelve. We had hospitals where the sick were treated and actually got better. We had libraries, museums, temples, and schools of every kind.