Michael Foster - She Who Has No Name

A railing and stone path followed this side of the drop, leading the last few hundred paces to the base of the fortress, and there the chasm narrowed significantly. A natural bridge of stone leaned out from the far cliffs, seeming to defy gravity, and a crossing spanned out from the heights of Ghant to meet it, bridging the gap from east to west. Even from this distant vantage point, it was evident that crowds of people were moving across into the citadel, fleeing to the sanctuary of the west.

Theparty of travellersfound themselves now beside a set of stables, all built in tiers, and offset to take advantage of the limited space. A large,cobbled mounting yard filled the remaining flat ground. Imperial soldiers mulled about, caring for the many animals penned there and keeping an eye on the passing civilians. These refugees came streaming past them and continued down towards the nearby town of Shallowbrook without so much as a pause, for the soldiers would not let them stand idle even if they wanted to. The wind was whistling along the canyon,and the gold and yellow pennants that were set along the guardrail flapped wildly.

Orrell signalled for his men to dismount and the wagons came clip-clopping to the front, where some of the fortress-men began unloading them without need of direction. The Koian women stepped down and began eyeing the remarkable terrain around them with interest.

‘Well met, Captain,’ came a greeting, and an officer came striding out of one of the adjoining stable buildings, wiping his chin as if he had just been interrupted from his dinner. ‘We’ve been expecting you. How fared your journey?’

‘Hail, fellow. The journey was fine, but my party is road-weary.’ It was generally polite to return such archaic speech with the same and Captain Orrell was adept at dealing with all manner of men and their habits.

‘We have rooms prepared in the citadel. If you will,’ and with that the man began immediatelyto lead the waytowards the black tower,his sturdy boots crunching on the gritty stones.

Captain Orrell left Lieutenant Valiant in charge of his men, while the rest of the party continued on foot. They followed the cobblestone path along the narrowing ravine, squeezing past the fretful refugees.

‘It’s getting busier,’ their guide announced without slowing his strides. ‘No one wants to be left on the far side when the crossing comes down.’

The entranceway to Ghant led them into a courtyard, where the civilians were being directed down a wide set of stairs that carried them from further up the mountain. With that route being busy, their guide led them instead into a nearby building and,at once,theybegan along a tour of halls and paths that stretched from building to building, with each step leading them higher than the last. They found themselves several times looking down on the stream of refugees from some high narrow path, and other times they trundled along below it. They went from wall to wall, battlement to battlement, each strategically placed with war in mind and designed for squads of men at a time. The interiors of the buildings were entirely functional, with no sign of floor coverings or artistic complements. There was no doubt that this was a construction built entirely for the practical purposes of war.

It was surprising to learn that rather than a single monumental building as it had first seemed, Ghant was actually a series of levels built wherever purchase could be found on the side of the mountain. The only luxury of space that they came upon was several small courtyards. One or two even had a small garden growing within, but most were open and barren, only serving as platforms to observe the eastern side of the ravine. There also seemed to be a considerable network of tunnels that ran like warrens into the mountain, for several times theyhadturned abruptly into dim passages that had been chiselled into the rock and wound their way past rooms and side passages, until bursting out into the open air again, higher up on the next level and looking down pastthecliffs from whencethey had come.

They received some strange looks from the soldiers as they passed, and the Koians and their god attracted the most attention of all, with some of the local soldiers staring in amazement at their alien features and the god- woman’s bizarre costume.

Finally, they reached the innards of Ghant proper.Here they entered a great fortified courtyard with numerous towers and buildings springing up around it. Soldiers were busy at work in all directions, going about their duties. Beside them, the solid tower of polished,black stone began, rising high above them and looking out over the ravine. The other towers beside it were much smaller in comparison, and some were adjoined to it by enclosed bridges at various heights. A number of smiths were in one corner, working away in front of their furnaces, banging on their anvils and sending up plumes of steam as they hammered their steel and quelled their irons. Many of the buildings here seemed to be men’s quarters and they looked full to capacity, judging from the extra bunks and equipment that had been crammed into them.

Ghant seemed like a mighty anthill, ready to erupt with troops at a moment’s notice,and Samuel found it no small wonder that the place had such a reputation for being unconquerable. A gateway was open in the eastward wall via which the civilians were entering. Samuel caught sight of the mountains and the crossing between the people as they hurried through.

‘The stream of those seeking haven is almost endless,’ their guide announced. ‘They come day and night, fearing the Paatin. Many are fleeing this way for the haven of the inner Empire. We try to move them on as quickly as possible. As you can see, this is not a place in which they can afford to linger.’

‘There have been many spies in Cintar. Have you had any problems here?’ Tudor asked.

‘We started by capturing all the traders from the east that came by. We asked them some direct questions, but they had little to say. We threw a few into the chasm, but it did little to loosen their tongues. Now, very few attempt to come this way; whether any were spies or not, I cannot say. They are a confounded lot. We always ignored them before.’

Their guide led them into the solid block of dark stone that formed the central tower of the citadel. That, too, was a labyrinth of passages, but they finally came to a parting of the corridors where a couple of civilian servants were waiting expectantly.

‘These two will escort your ladies and their companions to their rooms,’ the guide announced. ‘General Mar has asked that the rest of you meet him upon arrival.’

Grand Master Tudor briefly explained to the Koians what was happening.They seemed relieved to hear they were going to rest and followed the servants eagerly.

The magicians, Captain Orrell and Sir Ferse,then followed their spry guide along another tour of the fortress, eventually leading to what must have been the highest point, for they found themselves climbing stairway after spiralling stairway, each leading to a floor somewhat smaller than the last as the tower narrowed.

Finally,they ran out of stairsand entered a room that had a sweeping view of the ravine and the mountains opposite. There was space for about thirty men to stand comfortably inside, butatpresent there were only a half-dozen. Their guide left them at the doorway and whispered in the ear of the one who was presumably General Mar: a tall and firm looking man, not great of girth, but well-muscled. He had a brutal scar across his forehead that split one of his eyebrows in two, and his hair, streaked with grey, was tied back firmly.

After the guide had departed, the general beckoned them over. Captain Orrell gave the stiff Turian salute, which General Mar returned with equal Turian vigour.