He moved onwards, automatically bounding over the small clear streams set in stone beds that sometimes cut across the cobbles. Familiarity made him blind to the many intricacies that might strike a newcomer, particularly if that newcomer were a Sutherner. The carved outlines of hands, impressed into the walls of some of the houses, or of bare feet, ground into some of the larger cobbles. Wings of eagles, falcons and hawks hanging from the doorways or beneath the gutters. Twin stone pillars that stood close together and seemingly at random on top of some of the roofs. The occasional black cobble, strewn amongst the grey. Semi-circular instruments on some of the walls that a Sutherner might think were sundials, but had only four markings. There was a din coming from somewhere to the messenger’s right and some of the residents were making their way towards the noise, laden with sacks of woven cloth or driving a little flock of geese.
The messenger moved on and presently came to a second wall; another mighty ripple of dark grey granite. Through another gate: another district, this one more pungent. He passed ripe pigsties and sheep-pens; flint and slate but better insulated than the dwellings occupied by their Anakim masters. These gave way to more intense drystone enclosures in which geese and ducks swirled as though draining into the watering hole in the centre. And so far, the fortress had exhibited barely a single piece of wood, with everything worked in unyielding stone.
Next, the weaving-houses received sacks stuffed with wool, loaded onto pallets and craned high into upper windows. Then the tanneries: deer-, ox- and boar-hides piled outside, the air bitter with the smell of tannins and saturated with the taste of brine. After this, were buildings that received cartloads of barrels, but did not smell like breweries. Instead, the sour aroma of curdling cheese wafted from the windows, and the tight-laced barrels were filled with milk. At the end of this district, surrounding the third wall of this enormous hive, were the barracks. Weapons and helmets were supported on racks outside (carved exquisitely from rugged stone, with wood disdained even for this meagre duty) and ale and warm food wafted from the frenetic kitchens situated at the end.
Through another gate in another wall, the messenger crossed another river running through the fortress, this one powering a constantly-chewing water-mill, fed endlessly by wagon after wagon of grain. Then another row of buildings, instantly recognisable for the smell of yeast, wood-fired ovens and baking bread that suffused the air. He went past the brew-houses, the mouth-watering smoke-houses receiving wagons of carcasses into a collective maw and spewing wagons of skins back out to the tanners. All the while, the noise and smell were growing ominously. The air had begun to clang and hiss and ring, and the smell of hot metal and charcoal was all around before the messenger had arrived at the smithies. Swords, spearheads, arrowheads, helmets, armour, horseshoes, axeheads, buckles and more, much more, were pumped out by this rough community. Sparks drifted across the street, and here the messenger was briefly reminded of a story he had once heard, that the Sutherners thought the Anakim were fallen angels. In this ringing place of metal and smoke, it was difficult not to be reminded of hell. To a Sutherner, that might seem to be where this road leads: a pit, or a staircase that leads down, down, down.
Rearing above all this, behind one last curtain wall, were two structures. One was the messenger’s destination: the Central Keep. The other, nearby, was the summit of a vast stepped pyramid, capped by a shining silver eye. It had been visible for some minutes now, watching sleepless over the inhabitants of the fortress.
The messenger passed through that last wall, which was not a single wall but a system of them. Each gate led to a courtyard surrounded by potent weapons of slaughter, though for now they were filled with horses, munching contentedly on a nose-bag apiece. Through all this—defences and resources almost without limit—the messenger came at last to the Central Keep and, hidden until now by the defences, the Holy Temple. The Temple was an upturned cauldron of stone, caulked in acres of lead, and ghoulishly observed day and night by the desiccated corpses of ancient warriors. Sheltered in stone alcoves, the bodies of these old heroes were held erect by armour; one withered hand resting upon the hilt of a sheathed sword; teeth bared by retreating lips. One foot of each corpse was set slightly further forward than the other, as though the cadaver had been caught in the act of advance.
Beside the Temple, the Keep was three hundred vertical feet of tightly laid stone, braced by a dozen external towers and wearing a barbaric crown of crenellations.
Somehow, though it was all built with slaughter in mind, the fortress felt a good place. Throughout, fresh water flowed along custom-made paths, willing in its assistance of Anakim business. It was open and light, with no construction more than two-storeys high save the towers, Central Keep and the
