When your world needs maintenance and you don’t have the handbook, that’s a problem.
River Spinward Five, Realm of the Stanath
“The problem is dire.” A flick of the Premier Scholar of Builders’ crest conveyed that Premier Artificer could refrain from stating the obvious. No Flock Chief would fold his crest to ask help from the First Flock unless the alternative was worse.
The great portal in the ring wall that normally gushed a torrent of clear water now gave forth only a trickle of muddy water. Where a river which had flowed free in all history suddenly did not, it had dire consequences. Herds migrating elsewhere to seek the water that no longer flowed was only the the beginning of it, and it would get worse quickly.
Neighbouring Flock Chiefs would sense weakness soon enough, and unrest, never far from the surface, would bubble to the top. The weight of the responsibility for preventing that lay upon First Scholar of Builders and Premier Artificer. They sprang into the air and glided on the thermals which sunlight on the matte black of the sidewall material stirred ceaselessly.
To and fro they swept until they found what they searched for, a door in the sidewall, with rough spots to allow someone to perch by them. Such doors had been long known to exist. Premier Scholar of Builders had come to his place by decoding enough of the language of the Builders of the Ring to allow them to be opened.
Possible did not mean easy. From the pouch strapped to his breast, Builder-Scholar drew a book and a mechanical calculating device, sliding pieces of wood with precise markings. His folded wings allowed the dexterous fingers of the hands on his wing joints to manipulate it.
Premier Artificer waited patiently until it should be his turn to fly his measure of this dance. The wind swept through his feathers while he considered whether the question of whether those inscriptions were a test the Builders had set Their creation, to see if they were worthy to know the secrets of that creation, or the remnants of a lost civilisation of the Ard’uinath themselves. Blood had been shed in many a sky duel over that question. The Scholars and Artificers of the Konath preferred to seek facts on the path to knowing the answer. He would fly his leg of that journey and consider this Flight of his existence well spent.
From time to time, shadows swept across them, but neither the Scholar nor the Artificer gave them any heed at all. The daily meat of both of them, inquiring into the workings of the Ring and, at need, setting them right or changing them, was heresy punishable by death in Flocks which followed the Old Way. Their escort of the Ringlord’s Own Guard rode the thermals vigilantly, their weapons ready for instant use. Knowledge was not the only talon by which the First Flock held rulership of the Ring, and each talon guarded the other.
At length, the Scholar’s crest gave an approving flip, and he put the calculating device and the book back in his pouch. Extending one finger, he tapped out a pattern on slightly different patches on the ring wall which only the keen sight of the Ard’uinath and a mind just as keen could see and understand.
The door swung wide to the pushing of both of them. It had not been opened in recorded history, and even the peerless craft of the Builders could be impeded by the accumulation of ages. Perched on the inner rim of the metres thick inner wall of the sidewall, they let their sight adjust to the deep darkness within, broken by sunlight for the first time in recorded history.
The bed leading to the portal held only a trickle of water as far as they could see. Premier Scholar resigned the decision to the First Artificer, who flicked his crest in acceptance and checked the straps on his pouch. At his word they launched themselves into the darkness.
They saw no sign that anyone else had entered here in however many aeons since that door had last been opened. Neither of them had come to their places in the First Flock by neglecting details or making assumptions. The riverbed ended at a huge valve, with in front of it a pool of water and a large dam. The valve itself had been choked with debris, accumulated over hundreds of Turns if the Scholar was any judge.
“Blind Ones.” Premier Artificer beat his wings to gain altitude, and Premier Scholar followed suit without a second’s hesitation. The creatures who dwelt in the pitch black recesses of the Ring’s Wall were the stuff of dark legend. There were Scholars of the First Flock who studied and classified such. Premier Artificer was well pleased to leave such work to them.
They swept a wide turn and stretched their wings back to the sunlit entrance of the door. Perched once more in the welcome warmth of the Lifegiver, Premier Artificer drew out his own book and number rule, sketching out a plan to remedy the problem they had found. “There is no help for it. The Flock Chief of the Stanath will have to turn out his people. The demolition of the dam will require a good deal of powder, and preparing for the setting of those charges will require a lot of hands.”
A shadow heralded the arrival of Fifth Squadron Leader of Ringlord’s Own, commanding their escort. “What news, Scholars?”
Premier Artificer gave him the facts. “A nest of Blind Ones has fouled and blocked the valve. They will have to be found and slain before the work can begin. The Flock of Stanath will have to turn out to do the work of preparing to demolish the dam.”
Fifth Leader ran his hand along the stock of his long rifle. “The slaying will be our business, but the rest will mean trouble. Stanath holds to the Old Way, that one who ventures into the Ring Wall commits sacrilege against the Builders and is forever accursed.”
Premier Artificer did not bother with any but the plainest spoken words. “If they do not, they will go athirst and their nestlings meatless. It is their flight, and their decision.”
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