Sword of Caledor

Chapter TWENTY





Teclis and the High Loremaster walked through the vaults of the Tower of Hoeth in silence. They had spent the past half hour discussing Morelian’s researches on the slann inscription and seemed to have said all that was needful. He carried the High Loremaster’s partial translation with him.

They passed cases full of wondrous artefacts dating to an earlier age. Teclis loved this place. It always calmed him. He tried to spend some time there every day when he was at the White Tower.

He passed the Staff of Kaladreon, once borne by the white herald of Bel-Hathor, wound round with spells that generated an aura of calm and peace. It was a beautiful thing, but not much use for it had been found in the modern world. He admired the spell-work as much as the intricate carving of the winged goddess of mercy woven into it.

He glanced at the Oracle of Mammakis, a statue in the shape of a lion which was said to come to life once every ten centuries and answer any question asked of it truthfully although not always to the liking of the hearer. The inscription said it would be another two hundred and twenty years before it spoke again.

Teclis stopped to look upon the War Crown of Saphery. It was beautiful in a way that very few objects were, and it was potent, worked around with mighty enchantments to aid its wearer when casting powerful spells. It was one of the most powerful artefacts possessed by the Loremasters of the White Tower. Whoever wore it would be able to achieve wondrous feats.

His hands itched to pick it up and place it on his head. There was something about it that almost compelled him to do so. He had rarely felt so drawn to any object. It felt as if it belonged to him and had done all his life and always would.

The High Loremaster saw the expression on his face. ‘What is it?’

Teclis wondered whether he should confess his desire to own this object. He hesitated only for a moment and then said, ‘I feel drawn to the Crown. I feel as if it belongs to me.’

‘It is one of the most powerful artefacts in our vaults,’ said the High Loremaster. ‘It was intended for use in battle by a war mage. It helps the wearer concentrate and manipulate the winds of magic, and it protects him from some of the worst side effects of miscasting a spell. It has other powers as well. It is said to amplify the senses and shield the mind from the temptations of Chaos.’

The High Loremaster looked at Teclis oddly. Teclis felt almost embarrassed by his scrutiny. It was as if the High Loremaster suspected him of wanting to steal the helmet. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘one has a feel for certain objects that are involved with one’s destiny. This may be the case with you and the Crown.’

‘It is a beautiful thing but I hope I never have any use for it,’ said Teclis. ‘It is something for a warrior not for a wizard like myself. I do not see myself going to war at any time in the near future.’

‘You can never predict what your fate might be,’ said the High Loremaster. ‘It is not something that even the greatest of wizards has any control over.’

Teclis doubted this, but he did not want to get into an argument with the head of his order.

‘What do you plan to do now?’ the High Loremaster asked.

‘All this talk of the alignment of moons and stars and Chaos gates has made me curious. I wish to do some research of my own in the library.’

‘That is a dark and serious subject. In theory, you need the permission of the High Loremaster to pursue it.’

‘Do I have it?’ Teclis asked.

‘I think it is safe to say that you do.’

‘I thank you for the work you have done on the slann text.’

‘I should thank you, Prince Teclis. It is not often I have had such a fascinating subject to study.’



Teclis walked down the steps into the Great Library. Over the arched doorway was the symbol of the moon, the same symbol that appeared on the War Crown of Saphery and was the mark of the ancient princely realm. Sword Masters guarded the entrance.

Within this place were treasures uncounted: ancient books and scrolls, tablets of forbidden knowledge, palimpsests and metal etchings. It was one of the greatest treasure houses of knowledge in existence.

Of course, the guards were symbolic because it was very unlikely that any thief would even find his way into the tower. Not impossible though, Teclis thought, or else the Sword Masters would be deployed elsewhere. Or perhaps they were there to report on the mages studying within. It was not unknown for them to seek forbidden lore.

He nodded to the guardians as he limped past. They acknowledged his presence and a clerk wrote down his name in the register. If he checked that huge leather bound book he would find the names of the greatest magicians that Ulthuan had ever produced. Out of curiosity he had done just that in the past. It thrilled him to think that he was walking now where once those legends had walked.

He entered the main hall of the library. It was gigantic, eight stories high, with books running all the way to the ceiling. On each level was a balcony that ran around the entire chamber. Steps led up to these balconies. In the centre of the room were many tables at which wizards and scholars sat studying ancient volumes of lore.

At the far end of the chamber was another exit which led to a room very similar to the first. He progressed through a dozen such chambers until at last he came to a room with a much lower ceiling and several exits.

This was where things started to get tricky. In the main chambers of the library, which he had just passed through, nothing ever went astray. It was easy to navigate them and no one ever got lost. Once you passed through this area you were into something else entirely. Soon he would be in the Maze of Books.

From here there was a labyrinth of corridors and tunnels walled with volumes of lore which seemed to stretch off in every direction. He had walked through this place on many different occasions and had come to the conclusion that this part of the library was several times greater than the area of the tower which contained it, impossible as that was.

He knew that some sort of magic was at work but, as with all of the magic connected with the tower, it was infinitely subtle and very hard to detect even if you were looking for it. Occasionally he felt the flicker of some spark of power when he passed from one room to another but he never quite worked out what was happening, which annoyed him, for he was very proud of his skill as a wizard.

When he entered these corridors, he was entering a realm where the normal laws of the world did not apply. He had known other mages to claim that they were in the same room as he had been in at the same time as he was there, but he had never seen them and they had never seen him, even though they had been studying books that were barely a few strides apart on the shelves.

He knew that the Master Librarian of Hoeth kept a catalogue which purported to show the location of every book on every shelf, but that catalogue could not be copied and it appeared different to everyone who studied it. Teclis himself had made notes and drawn sketches but they had never agreed with the notes and sketches of other scholars. Nonetheless, anyone who followed the guidance of the catalogue could find the books he was looking for.

Once, as an experiment, he and a fellow mage had sought the same book using different directions and had walked into the same corridors at the same time. Somehow, without ever realising how it had happened, they had become separated. Teclis could very distinctly remember looking back over his shoulder and discovering that the person he had been talking to just a few heartbeats before was not there.

And yet, when he had arrived at the book he was seeking, his fellow scholar was also there. It was the sort of thing that new students to the tower were always doing out of curiosity and probably always would do until the end of time.

He was looking for knowledge concerning the coming of Chaos, which meant searching all the way back to the time of Caledor. This was located in the deepest section of the Maze. He passed through numerous galleries, in which students of magic studied and library servitors went about their business, and then he entered an area in which fewer living presences were visible. The corridors were dustier, and cobwebs hung in corners even though there were no signs of spiders anywhere. It was as if they were spun by his imagination. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye he even seemed to see them take form.

He went down a flight of stairs he could not recall ever seeing before, and turned a corner and went down another. He was far beneath the tower now, in its very foundations. The place felt old. There was an air of antiquity about it, and the books that surrounded him. The niches in the walls contained small statuettes in an archaic style, depicting elves in garb that had gone out of fashion millennia ago.

He kept walking, feeling that he was getting ever further from his goal. The walls of books seemed to be closing in around him. For the first time in his life, he felt menaced by their presence, and by the library itself. He tried to turn back to retrace his steps, but when he followed the path backwards he could not find the stairs he had entered by, and after what felt like hours he thought he had passed the same statuettes of the goddess of wisdom several times.

What was going on here? Had the library turned against him? Had it decided that he was a threat or had become one for some reason since his return? Was this some variant of the spells that caused people to become lost forever in the woods around the tower. He breathed more deeply and fought against mounting panic. He guessed it was possible to be lost down here forever, if whatever power ruled over the Maze wished it.

He took another turning trying to retrace his steps and he found himself in a chamber he had not been in before. Had he taken a wrong turning, become disorientated, or was something else going on here?

He noticed that the room was lit by a small lantern and contained a table on which were several books. One was a volume of ancient poetry concerning the life of Aenarion and Caledor. The other was a history of Saphery. The last appeared to be a book of spells. It was this he reached for first. Also on the table was a game board that looked as if the squares were inscribed with slann runes. The pieces had already been moved, as if the players had only just left the room and intended to come back.

Weary and seeing nothing else better to do, Teclis sat down at the table. He placed the copy of the High Loremaster’s translation of the slann tablet on the table. He opened the spell book. It contained a number of incantations written in old script. The hand was very fine. There was something familiar about it. Even though he was certain he’d never actually seen this writing before, there was something about it that reminded him of someone.

He turned to the opening page of the volume where he saw a famous mark. It was one that he recognised from the inscriptions on Sunfang, the rune that identified the sword’s maker. This was a volume written in the hand of the Archmage Caledor. It contained spells that he had personally inscribed.

Excitement filled Teclis. This was a treasure he had never hoped to find. He felt sure somehow that no one except himself had ever seen this particular book. He was the one who was meant to find it, even though he was not sure why.

He continued to leaf through the volume, until his eyes came to rest on one particular spell. He could not say why exactly he was compelled to look at it. He was sure that it was not magic that made him do so. He would have felt that. He would have been able to resist the compulsion to read it as well. It was as if this particular spell was somehow intended to appeal directly to him. It was written in slann runes and yet he somehow understood them.

Something about the words embedded them in his mind immediately and set his lips forming them and his hands moving through the gestures of casting before he could even stop himself.

Even as he did so, he felt his eyes grow heavier and his voice grow throatier. His words became slurred and he started to mumble in a way that he had never done when casting a spell before.

Fear filled him. This whole episode was too strange. He felt as if he was caught in some vast intricate trap. This was not supposed to happen. It should not be able to happen. The Tower of Hoeth was supposed to be a safe haven for wizards.

Had he stumbled onto something strange and deadly? Had this happened before to other wizards? Would he simply be the last in a long line of people who had disappeared and were not remembered? He supposed it was possible. After all, the magic of the tower warped the minds of all who came into contact with it.

Even as these thoughts occurred to him, a wave of dizziness overcame him and he slumped forward over the books.



Teclis opened his eyes and wondered where he was.

The chamber was not like anything he had ever seen before. It looked as if it had been furnished by elves, but not any of the sort of elves he knew. The workmanship was crude, although still beautiful and still the product of a fine sensibility. Everything looked hastily made, as if the craftspeople had not taken the time to give it the requisite level of polish.

Scroll racks and bookcases covered the walls of the chamber. On a table in front of him was a game board inscribed with slann runes similar to the one back in the library, but this was the most fantastically complicated game board he had ever seen. Pieces that looked like elves and daemons, and dragons and monsters were strewn across it. One of the pieces even looked like him.

In the centre of the chamber stood a tall, stooped elf. He was almost skeletally thin, with receding hair and an oddly-shaped head. A woven carpet covered in a pattern that looked strangely familiar lay on the floor beneath his feet. He turned to face Teclis and there was nothing in his eyes except flaming light.

‘You should not be here,’ said the figure. Its voice was gentle and soft and very sad. ‘I should not be here either.’

‘And yet we are,’ Teclis said. ‘A strange meeting.’

The stranger’s flesh seemed almost translucent. Tendons and sinews moved visibly beneath it. His face was a mask of strain and his expression was that of someone constantly in pain. Teclis recognised that expression only too well. He had often seen it in the mirror.

‘Stranger than you think and later than you think,’ said the elf. He limped over to the table and slumped down in a chair. He contemplated the game as if he was about to make a move, then he tipped his head to one side and studied Teclis for a moment. ‘You look like him, you know.’

‘Like who?’

‘Aenarion. You are one of his blood, aren’t you?’

Teclis nodded. ‘How can you tell?’

‘Your face and your manner and something else, something about your aura, gives it away. You are a wizard too, aren’t you?’

‘And so are you,’ Teclis said. He knew who this was now and he had a suspicion that he knew where they were. ‘Your name is Caledor.’

‘It was. At least I think it was. I sometimes forget. I sometimes forget everything except the task, and there are dangerous moments when I forget even that. Even now I am neglecting it. My fellows must take up the slack and carry my burden for me. We do not have long here you and I. I must return to my duty. It is all there is for me now.’

The conversation had a strange logic that reminded him of something.

‘This is a dream, isn’t it?’

‘I have difficulty telling dream from reality,’ said Caledor. The muscles on his face twitched a little. Teclis wondered if he was quite sane.

‘I read something. I cast a spell written in slann runes. It was written in your hand,’ Teclis said.

‘That sounds about right. I found the secret of the Vortex written in slann runes. I found it in the burned-out rubble of one of their ancient cities. I saw the pattern of it and I saw the way it tapped into the magical structures that lie beneath the surface of reality. I saw how it could be used to save the world and that is what I tried to do. How long has it been… since I died?’

‘Over six thousand years,’ said Teclis.

‘So long,’ said Caledor, his soft voice sounded wistful. ‘If I’d known…’

Teclis did not dare ask him what he meant. He suspected he already knew the answer. Caledor and his fellow wizards had given their lives to create the Vortex. Would they have done so if they had known what was waiting for them?

What must it be like to spend six thousand sleepless years weaving a spell that was constantly trying to unravel itself, to have to protect it from the forces that would destroy it?

‘We have met for a reason,’ Teclis said. ‘At least, I would like to believe that this has not happened by chance.’

‘It is hard to say what happens by chance and what does not,’ said the first Archmage. ‘Once I thought there was a pattern to everything, that it all made sense somehow and that I could understand it and it would be wonderful. I’m not sure any more. I am not sure of anything.’

‘You’ve spent millennia maintaining a pattern, preserving the order of things.’

‘I think that is what has changed me. If we were not here, if we did not constantly keep re-weaving our spell, there would be only Chaos now. And that is perhaps one of the reasons why you have been called here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The pattern is starting to unravel. It is sliding out of our control. The power of Chaos is growing stronger. The Vortex is becoming tainted by its energy and there are those out there who seek to accelerate the unravelling.’

‘That is madness,’ said Teclis. ‘What possible benefit could be had from doing that? It would destroy Ulthuan and eventually the world.’

‘It is good that you understand this,’ said Caledor. ‘But there are those who do not see things as you do. There are those who see the unmaking of the Vortex as an opportunity. They think that they can control the power of Chaos and remake the world as they want it to be.’

‘Is it possible?’ Teclis asked. It seemed that someone desired to transcend their own mortality, to have power like unto a god.

‘In theory. In practice, I doubt that things would work out the way that Morathi expects.’

‘So it is the Hag Queen that we are talking about.’

‘Yes, and possibly her son, Aenarion’s child, Malekith.’

The scale of the ambition revealed by Caledor’s statement was breathtaking.

‘How would they do it?’

‘Tempted?’

‘Who would not be?’

Caledor’s smile was strange and sour. The complexity of the emotions in it made Teclis feel ashamed. The old wizard spread his hands wide and shrugged. ‘Indeed. Who would not be?’

‘What do you think they are planning?’

‘If the pattern of the Vortex is destroyed, Chaos will overflow into your world. Eventually, matter itself will become mutable, the very structure of reality will become fluid as the powers of Chaos exert themselves. Once that happens, a mage of sufficient power and skill would be able, in theory, to remake the world in an image created by themselves.’

‘Is that really possible?’

‘Truthfully, I doubt it. We are talking about magic on a scale that only gods or daemon princes could work. Nonetheless, possible or not, I think that is what Morathi intends. I think it is what she always intended, even before she met Aenarion.’

‘She must be stopped,’ said Teclis.

‘Indeed she must. You are here because we need a weapon against those who would swallow the world. You will be our sword.’

‘Me?’ Teclis felt suddenly very vulnerable. It was all very well saying that someone had to stop the most powerful sorceress of all time. It was an entirely different matter when you yourself might be the one chosen to do it.

Caledor’s expression was bleak. ‘We all feel that way when destiny taps us on the shoulder. I never thought that one day…’

He looked away and shook his head. The walls of the chamber seemed to fade, and Teclis looked out onto the vast, glittering space beyond. As far as the horizon an enormous pattern of light blazed. At its centre a cancerous darkness was eating away at it. Around that darkness blazing figures, elf-like but sky-tall, worked spells to keep it contained. Even as they did so, the darkness threatened to erupt in a different part of the pattern.

The walls returned. The chamber coalesced around them. Caledor, who had seemed for a moment to be one of those distant gigantic figures, was once more his stooped self, small and infinitely sad. ‘We cannot do it. We are trapped here. We have screamed warnings in the dreams of the Wise. We have woven spells to summon aid to us. You are what we have been sent.’

‘So she must be stopped,’ Teclis said softly. ‘What must I do?’

‘You must return and tell the wizards of Hoeth to prepare for war. And you must prepare for war yourself.’

‘Me? I am not a fighter.’

‘You are of the blood of Aenarion. I doubt you will have a problem with killing.’

‘It’s the being killed I have a problem with.’

‘Everything that lives has that problem.’

You do not, Teclis wanted to say. It was almost as if the old wizard could read his mind. ‘I am no longer alive,’ he said.

‘I am sorry,’ said Teclis.

‘That makes two of us,’ said Caledor. He tilted his head to one side, as if listening to something or someone very far away.

‘Our time here is over.’

He rose from his chair with very great reluctance and walked as slowly as a prisoner going to his own execution towards the door. Every step seemed to take him a prodigious effort of will. He turned when he reached the door, his hand trembling on the handle.

‘Farewell, Teclis, son of Arathion. Make sure your brother stays alive. If he falls, you fall and our world falls with you.’

Teclis did not know what to say. Caledor opened the door. The blazing inferno of the Vortex sprang into being behind him. Blast furnace heat washed across the room. Caledor stepped through the doorway and walked out onto the pattern, every step agonisingly slow. His body started to shrivel and burn as it had burned for over six thousand years. He raised his arms as if to cast a spell, a blazing figure crucified against the light, a weary ghost returning to hell to perform its final duties, of its own free will.

Watching him, Teclis knew he could not ever do that.