Palaeomacrometer logbooks
The palaeomacrometer is a large, cumbersome but delicate device conceived and constructed by Professor Liben Corrington, founder of the Corrington Sorcerer Academy of the College of Letters, to further his researches. The device took some 18 years to complete, and is said to have over 1 million working components.
At its heart, the palaeomacrometer uses crystal eigenesis (with sulphur banoxide as a microaggressant) to hyper-experience points in space and time. The observer starts from a known point in space and time, and then experiences (through movement in space and/or time, at a vastly accelerated rate) an adjacent point in space and/or time. Depending on the skill of the observer, observation rates of 1,000 to 1 million have been recorded. This means that 1 second of observation can slip through 240 hours (10 days) of time, or 500 km of distance. The observer can stop the spatio-temporal movement at any point, and carefully study the surroundings. This allows for hyper-sensoral input - smell, taste, feeling, etc. of the object being observed, as well as for the time to make notes and drawings of what is observed.
Continued observation with the palaeomacrometer is physically and mentally draining, and not totally without risk. Since there is only one such device, and it has been used by perhaps only two people, safe constraints are not known, and the side-effects or damage potential is likewise unknown.
During the first few years of the palaeomacrometer's operation it was heavily used. None of Prof. Corrington's observations, however, were published. After about a decade of use, the professor stopped using it, for unknown reasons, and the device was essentially abandoned.
Several years later, during a congress, one of the dosents at the College of Letters, Archmage Alfred Gouranis, heard about the palaeomacrometer. He convinced Prof. Corrington to give it a good cleaning and to teach him how to use it.
In short order, A. Gouranis was taking regular observations. Several of his sessions have been published, and are reproduced here. Note that because of concerns about salangrity (temporal calibration of the device) the virtual dates of these recordings are not given, but only the dates on which the observations were made. Further research is needed to determine the former.
Observing logs of Archmage Alfred Gouranis, with the Corrington Palaeomacrometer, CoL.
- Extract 1. The Archmage of Nubanon.
- Extract 2. Following the path of the Moon
- Extract 3. The Lord's Mark
- Extract 4. Gaunt's watch
- Extract 5. A time in Malanthea
- Extract 6. Death in the Swamp
Extract 1, The Archmage of Nubanon. From notes recorded 4688 June 03
The Red Wizard paced energetically up and down the cold rank-smelling corridor, his flowing robe rustling across the well-worn stone. The loud irritable clicks of his metallic boots were instantly reduced to short, sharp sounds, dampened by the invisible energies that flowed from the room he was barred from entering.
He paused outside the great door, and the silence settled over him like a damp mouldy cloak. He shrugged his shoulders, bowed his head and concentrated, and for a moment could hear the sound of ancient dust settling in the corridor. A feeble amber glow sprang from his hands, growing brighter as he clasped them together. For an instant, his featureless face and hollow eye sockets were bathed in light the colour of the dying sun, and then the darkness returned.
Unseen to normal human eyes, a coruscating light flowed around him. Abruptly, he turned to face the door and it swung open slowly. Girding himself, he stepped through the portal and into the vault-like chamber beyond.
The Red Wizard paused. He stood absolutely still, even his breathing was arrested, as he strained to see into the dark. The icy cold lightless room was vast, extending into the black with no discernible ending. Gradually he became aware of a sound, distant and repeating. It was like the dripping of melting snow, tap-tapping from the eaves of a roof at the end of winter.
The memory jolted him and he gasped, instinctively, the cold air searing his lungs. With a gesture he banished the chilling thoughts and allowed himself the briefest of smiles as he strode towards the source of the sound. His footfalls echoed loudly as he approached.
“I have come,” he said, his voice sounding more frail than he intended, yet infinitely loud in the oppressive blackness.
‘Archmage’, came the reply, more a statement than a greeting, and one not heard but instead remembered.
“Is it done?”
‘Yes.’
“So we can begin?”
‘Yes.’
“And the others?”
Silence.
The Red Wizard waited. And then he was suddenly aware that he was alone in the room. Slipping a hand into a concealed pocket of his robe, he turned abruptly and, in the dark, confidently retraced his steps, pausing in front of the great iron-clad door. He stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.
The cramped room was as cluttered and untidy as he remembered, a shambles of broken crates, discarded potion vials and dusty sacks. Even the sunlight beaming in from the small high-set window was dusty. His inborn dislike of untidiness instantly asserted itself and he muttered a brief ancient incantation to remind himself to have it aired out and properly cleaned.
Things need to be in their proper place, he thought, as he stepped into the corridor, locked the old door behind him, and walked purposefully down the short passageway. His sightless eyes blinked in the bright sunlight of the archway ahead, and then the warmth of the late-morning Sun welcomed him again.
Behind him, the crumbled ruins of the old kirk stood dark and lifeless, its stones bleached by centuries of sun, fossilized remains of yet another failed god. The Archmage of Nubanon smiled to himself knowingly. It was good to be alive.
Extract 2, Following the path of the Moon. From notes recorded 4681 November 11
They’d been following the Moon for the past week, moving with an urgency that reminded him of his younger days. The last colour drained from the sky as twilight surrendered to nightfall. He looked up, noting grimly the thick clouds ahead, gathering as if to block their progress. In the distance, the jagged horizon line was suddenly visible as the nearly-Full Moon rose, backlighting the peaks and valleys they would have to cross.
In a short while, the Moon would provide ample light to guide their nocturnal journey, despite the looming clouds. With only a handful of hours rest, they were tired, and wished that things were otherwise. But rest would come later. Now, it was time to press on.
They made their way across the shrub-filled plain, which swept off to the ocean in the west, and as hours became days, felt the ground rising and the mountains approaching almost imperceptibly. Each evening, the Moon rose later and later, frustrating their journey, until they were forced to stop and to idly mark time.
Then, on a cold, windy evening, he sighted the lunar crescent shortly after sunset. They sat in silence, watching it set. It would not be long now.
Now they were making good time, travelling during the hours of sunlight, straining to make up for lost time. They had breached the curtain of mountains the previous day, and for the first time could make out the lands beyond. The valley that was their destination could be made out in the distance.
The Moon was growing each day as they travelled, its waxing form apparently mimicking their sense of anticipation as they closed in on their target. Late in the evening, with the Moon high above them, they could pause and look back, over the terrain they had covered. Anxiously scanning the expansive plains now far below them, they saw no signs of pursuit. With stubborn determination, and a skyward glance at their celestial lightgiver, they picked a route through the treacherous rocky ground ahead, and moved on in silence.
Days and nights passed, sprinkled with fitful sleep and unsatisfactory cold meals. And then, with the gibbous Moon at the zenith, as if to declare their journey over, they stood at the sharp, narrow entry to this final valley. Overhead, oppressive clouds, thick and black, seemed determined to snuff out the Moon and shroud their journey in blackness. But then, the clouds would break and roil, momentarily permitting moonlight to show them the way.
The night air was cold and damp. In the distance, gossamer sheets of the faintest light possible seemed to hug the ground at certain places. In that direction, the sounds of a burbling river could be made out.
They drew together, leaning closer, whispering guardedly. They were standing on a broad, well-travelled but long neglected road, which could be seen cutting a discernible ribbon through the plantgrowth, a vein leading to what one can assume was their final destination. Their huddled cabal, an obscure dark spot on the landscape, would certainly be revealed if anything was paying attention to the old trackway.
If, indeed, something was watching them at that very moment, it would respond with surprise, because the group dissolved into the night, melding into the underbrush.
The sounds of the river guided their footsteps. In not too long a time, they reached its edge. It was more of a stream, really, and in the cold moonlight its rough course reflected a silver pathway, up into the valley. As if beckoned, or perhaps summoned, they followed its route, moving with some speed, any scrabbling footfall masked by the sound of the water.
In short time, they were deep into the valley, the walls closing imperceptably as they made their dogged way. The mountain ridges conspired with the clouds above to dim the moonlight which guided their feet. And then, with attention, unnatural shapes could be made out. Looming up ahead, along the steepening sides of the valley, lurked sharp, angular, outlines, fashioned by the hand of man. They were finally within the city.
They knew that untold centuries had passed, but had not expected that the buildings, temples, and monuments of Anachron had been reduced to a mere patina of brickwork clinging fitfully to the valley sides.
Above them, the Moon was rapidly descending to the horizon, with perhaps an hour of grace left to them. Sensing the urgency, feeling the moment of completion slipping away, they recklessly pushed ahead into the moonlit darkness. More and more decrepit structures, broken by time, came into view as they moved between the once-proud buildings. If this was once the centre of the city, it was now the atrophied heart of a long-dead corpse, desiccated by the aeons. Ruins of potent buildings, now meaningless shapes in the dark, was all that remained of the city.
And then, as if one, they saw it: a single light in the darkness ahead, less than 50 paces away, obscured by the shattered masonry of an battered tower.
It was as if they were robbed of all other senses. Sound shut down, the cold air was as if nothing, only this singular light was salient. As they watched, baited, the glow seemed to flicker, or throb, growing slightly dimmer, then slightly brighter. And it evinced the subtlest of shifting colours, now yellow, now mild blue.
A surge pulsed through them, anticipation, the keenness that dispels reason and urges action. With little care for what may be waiting for them, concealed in the darkness, they rushed closer.
The shimmering glow came from the inside of what must once have been an imposing tower, thick, broad and powerful at the base, with massive doors regulating entry. Now, gaping holes in the walls of the tower rendered it useless as a refuge. The source of this singular light was, for the moment, hidden behind these fragmented walls.
The throbbing of the concealed light, and the cycling of colours from yellow to blue to red, quickened as they rushed up to the decayed structure, searching for the entrance.
As they had long known, a set of double doors, taller than even their mightiest, awaited them. They huddled together in front of the final obstacle. Beyond lay their ultimate goal. At this moment, the clouds momentarily opened, and the comparatively brilliant moonlight, thick and yellow, illuminated the doors. Now was the time for fortitude.
As yet unseen to them, beyond the pair of formidable doors, he lay. Oblivious to the cruel hardness of the cold, black stone which supported him, he waited and watched, eyes closed. Arms raised, fingers curled, as if caressing or grasping, threads of twisted light, some tinged yellow, others coloured blue or red, wove together or unravelled, as his sightless eyes reviewed past and future. What was a gentle pulsing of brightness now became a flickering, like a heart, pounding with excitement or apprehension. With an upwards gesture, his fingers played through the light as the individual strands converged, seemingly inexorably, to a single point. His eyes opened in surprise.
Extract 3, The Lord's Mark. Unknown date of recording
Prelude
In the foothills between Shadowcastle and Nomden, the Black River cut a route through the mountains as it drained into the Grey Plains to the west. At one point, a sheer cliff rose up to the south while a gentle plain fell away to the north. A short distance from the river the Cult of the Red Hand had built a fortified hideout, a safe house for their members who needed refuge while travelling to Keserel, Londesh, and beyond.
The present
The air was warm and scented with summer's pleasant smells: dried grass, sweet malone flowers, and ripe jubu fruit. The babbling stream that flowed through the countryside fed a creaking water wheel. Its peaceful cycle of splashing water measured out a pastoral heartbeat. Now and then, a sheep would bleat, calling for its young. But for the most part, the flock was grazing peacefully in the field.
The boy lay in the shade of the wheel house, munching on a hunk of sweet cheese and juicy berries, staring at the bright blue sky, searching for the thin sliver of the Moon he had seen at sunrise.
These memories swelled in Kahn's mind as he lay dying under a hot summer Sun. He no longer felt pain, nor the sticky wetness of his blood-soaked clothes. Some part of him was worried about this apparent lack of distress. But, all things considered, this was a relief. The gaping wounds in his side and chest, hacked open by powerful blows with a too-blunt sword, had broken bones, ripped his flesh apart, and spilt his blood. The pain had been almost unbearable and he had possibly passed out for a time.
His mind drifted to the events at the brigand's fort. Ricardo perished first, barely a minute into the assault. The flamboyant illusionist was struck from behind, a wickedly sharp blade taking his life. The enemy then swarmed against Pax, the soft-spoken Cleric of Salaah, attempting to disrupt his sustaining incantation. Their violent efforts were thwarted by Sir Kaiden, the formidable knight and leader of their group, who rushed the attackers and flung them back with the sheer force of his charge.
Pax kept up his melodic litany. For a moment the evil-doers wavered, giving Kaiden the opportunity to regain his balance, swing his sword, and cleanly decapitate the nearest villain.
What happened next, Kahn could only guess at. He was suddenly rendered blind. His years-long guild training kicked in as he ducked, rolled for cover, and then listened carefully for the sounds of spell casting. Perhaps the mage had turned her attention to Kaiden; he could certainly hear the fierce warrior's battle grunts as he hacked at their enemy.
Suddenly, Pax's chanting was cut off. Kahn heard his body slump to the ground, and guessed at the wise cleric's fate. He deftly unclipped a small glass bead from his belt and crushed it. Although he couldn't see the result, he knew he was now surrounded by a midnight-black cloud. Gritting his teeth he attempted to staunch the flow of blood, and somehow made his escape.
The sole survivor of the Lord's Mark, as Sir Kaiden had insisted on calling their group, slowly and painfully made his way through the rocky foothills. He headed north-west, for the road, as best as he could estimate. Somehow he survived the night, sustained by a few precious sips from the ornate water skin his wife had given him years ago and whatever edible plants he happened upon. Eventually he made it to the road, and then deliberately kept off the trail, to avoid pursuit. He guessed he was now less than two days from Nomden, where his oldest godson was the innkeeper. It was slow going, and his wounds had started to bleed again. But he was certain the Cult of the Red Hand would be hunting for him, which meant certain death should they succeed.
His paranoia was unfounded. The Cult had given up the chase long ago, knowing that he would die from his wounds. But in Kahn's inflamed mind, poisoned by infection from his wounds, there were agents of the cult of the road, hounding him.
Shortly after midday, he paused to rest briefly, fitfully stuffing a handful of half-ripe but succulent black berries into his parched mouth. A complex expression flashed across his face as he was suddenly taken back to his lazy childhood days, guarding his father's flock of sheep. Some of the dark juice dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, like a trickle of blood. He was snapped back to the here and now by the sounds of talking coming from the road. He froze, holding his breath, listening intently. He could make out several riders, moving slowly in his direction. He leant back against the tree for cover, and waited, trying to suppress his ragged breathing.
The riders were speaking loudly, their horses and equipment making enough noise to frighten the little forest creatures. He was shocked by how brazen these cultists had become. He weighed his options, and made a quick inventory of his remaining equipment and special items. It was looking grim. But the cult's nefarious plan had to be exposed, and with his friends dead, the task was now his alone.
The riders reigned in their horses and dismounted, seeking shelter from the summer Sun beneath the shady boughs of the large tree behind which he sheltered. They were taking a break. He could smell water, and his dry mouth and throat spasmed at the thought of a cool drink. They spoke a strange language which he couldn't understand. It consisted of distorted, stretched out sounds, sonorous and slow. He recited a prayer to Qidra to protect him from their magics.
After a time – he couldn't tell exactly how long because his dizzy spells were increasing – the travellers got back on their horses and turned for the road. He almost collapsed with relief. Keeping to the patchwork shadows, he carefully moved around the tree to catch a glimpse of the cultists. He risked a quick glance, noting three horses with two riders. Unexpectedly, the third, a dangerous-looking female, stood next to her horse, checking the saddlebags. She seemed to be looking directly at him. His heart pounded as he snapped his head back, listening intently. The riders had gone silent. He could sense their minds bent on sniffing him out. His heart was pounding so loudly he could barely hear their approaching footfalls. He froze, the dappled light filtering through the tree hiding him in plain sight.
He watched, mesmerized, as one of the cultists, a lanky bald-headed male, moved towards him, and then erupted into furious movement and assaulted him, landing painful blows that almost made him black out. His last reservoir of adrenaline shocked him into desperate action as he tried first to defend himself, and then to flee. But the cultists ganged up on him.
The dagger followed a perfect trajectory, as if guided by the Seven themselves. It pierced the base of his skull at the exact point where the spinal cord exits the brain. Kahn was dead before he hit the ground, and the dreams of the Lord's Mark died with him.
Extract 4, Gaunt's watch. Date of recording lost
Lord Gaunt pulled the cloak tightly around his broad shoulders and turned to stubbornly face the icy wind. His chiselled features, carved by age and care, seemed to reflect the hard lines of the hostile mountaineous environment he now surveyed through narrowed eyes. Despite being nearly noon, the skies had darkened to deepest twilight. The approaching storm would reach the Keep in less than an hour.
Emergency preparations had been put in place three days ago. Status reports had been sent to Coth-Rom and Daernbeck. Guard posts along the road had been warned and no travellers would dare the treacherous terrain for at least a week. Supplies of water and food had been brought into the Keep and placed in storage.
As Gaunt ran through his mental checklists one last time, the howling of the wind grew fiercer. He turned towards the southern tower and waved. A tall, slim figure in an upper window of the watch tower waved back and then ducked away into the stairwell. Gaunt looked up at the spire of the tower and waited. Moments later, the flag of the Duke of Toreen was lowered. It whipped viciously in the wind, like a wild animal, defiant to the last, and then was gone.
Gaunt turned and ducked into the low entrance of his tower. The cold stone walls seemed warm and welcoming. Outside, the storm raged.