by John Marco
"My father believed me up to the job, I suppose. And Edgard is too old to be crawling around with the rest of us. Better that he should secure the territory we have than try and take the valley."
"The warlord Kronin already had his land secure," said Dinadin. "And he's the Daegog's man. We all should have ridden against Falindar the moment Tharn seized it. The war would have been over long ago."
"Maybe," said Richius. They had a long trip ahead of them, and he had no desire to spend the journey arguing over things that couldn't be changed. Moreover, the unpleasant idea that his father valued Edgard's life over his had occurred to him, and he wished to bury this painful theory as quickly as he could. He, not Edgard, had been charged with taking the Dring Valley, the "gateway to Lucel-Lor." He would do it if he could.
By late morning they were out of the valley, in the part of Lucel-Lor that no warlord claimed as his own. These were the drier, less arable parts of the Triin nation, and the trees thinned out here, the path disappearing into a rocky terrain. They stopped here for a time, watering their horses beside what they figured to be the last stream they would see for a while. The horses drank thirstily, as grateful as their riders for the chance to stop and rest. Richius, in the old habit of a Guardsman, took the time to check his bags and assure himself that they had everything they needed. Night would fall hard upon them here, and he made sure that he still had the fire rocks Lucyler had given him. These, plus the cloaks they had wrapped and ready in their packs, should see them warmly through the night. He checked his weapons, too, though there were few Triin to threaten them here, and ran his fingers gently over the stock of the crossbow slung at his horse's side. He was a good shot with it, far better than he was with a bow, and any Drol who meant to harm them while they slept might well find a bolt in his chest before he could reach them.
Dinadin had long since become cheerful again, and had been going on about the women he intended to bed when they reached Ackle-Nye. Now, through bites of a small bread loaf, he continued to entertain Richius with his fantasies. Richius only half listened, grateful that his friend had dropped his political talk for a while.
"I want to find a Triin wench," said Dinadin, sighing as he reclined against a tree trunk. "Then I'd really have something to tell Lucyler!"
"Not much chance of that," said Richius, checking his bags and relieved to find his journal still nestled safely in the leather sack. "There isn't a Triin alive who's not more holy than both of us. You'll just have to settle for a broad-hipped Talistan whore."
"You're wrong, Richius," said Dinadin earnestly. "Some of Gayle's men were talking about it. They said they saw Triin women selling in the city." He paused, then added with a laugh, "Their gods haven't been so good to them lately."
As he mounted his horse, Richius turned to Dinadin with a frown. "I don't believe it. Most Triin women are as fanatical as Drol. They could teach our own priests a thing or two about chastity. Why, they won't even look at a man who isn't their master."
"You really have been in the valley too long! What do you think happens to all those people when their houses are burned or the Drol take their village? They have to survive, you know."
"Lord," hissed Richius, giving the reins a sharp snap. "And you want to add to some woman's misery? We're here to help these people, Dinadin, don't forget that."
To Richius' relief, Dinadin ignored him. Instead, the younger man simply snapped the reins of his own horse and followed his leader once again toward Ackle-Nye. They were silent as they rode, leaving Richius free to ponder the ugliness of what Dinadin had just told him. He was more eager than ever to reach the city and see if the rumors were true.
It was afternoon of the next day when they caught up with the Sheaze. They had seen no water since the day before, and the night had been harsher than they had feared. Winter was drawing its mantle back over Lucel-Lor, and the mere sight of the river soothed them, for it told them how near they were to reaching their journey's end.
"We'll follow the river northwest from here," said Richius, hearing the weariness in his voice. He saw that Dinadin too looked haggard, all the bluster of the previous day taken out of him. Richius smiled at his companion and said, "It's not much further now."
Dinadin's face brightened at the news. "Do you think we can make it by nightfall? I wouldn't mind getting a night's sleep this time."
Richius looked carefully around them, surveying the terrain. He didn't recognize this part of Lucel-Lor, but he wasn't troubled. For all the time he had spent in the Triin nation he had seen little of it. He knew only that the river would lead them to its origin in the Iron Mountains, where they would find Ackle-Nye.
"I don't know," he confessed, seeing Dinadin's face darken a little. "It's hard to tell how far west we've come. The Sheaze winds a lot in these parts."
"Then we should be moving. I don't want to spend another night out here if we can help it."
Richius agreed and, after stopping a short time to rest and water their horses, they set out alongside the river. The land here was moist, with patches of moss and water-softened earth where the river bubbled over its banks, and though they wanted to hurry their horses, they knew that to do so would be risky. So they plodded along, navigating the rocky shore of the river with care, and contented themselves in the knowledge that their trek would soon be over.
By late afternoon the western sky finally revealed the landmark Richius was seeking. Past the trees, where the river wound out of sight, towered the Iron Mountains. Though obscured in a blue-gray haze, the range was nonetheless a welcome sight.
"Look there!" cried Richius, thrusting out a finger toward the mountains.
"Oh, thank God," Dinadin said. "I thought we'd never make it."
"You may yet get your wish, Dinadin. If we hurry we can probably make it before dark. The city should be in sight within an hour."
They quickened their pace a little, still careful not to move too swiftly, and watched as the rugged forms that were the Iron Mountains cleared and defined themselves. Behind the mountains the sun was just beginning to mellow, painting the western horizon a hazy crimson. It would not be long, Richius knew, before that pleasant hue vanished into blackness. Richius hadn't seen the Iron Mountains or Ackle-Nye since arriving in Lucel-Lor, and a vision of his home suddenly struck him. On the other side of those monoliths, nestled safely from the war, lay Aramoor.
I could just keep riding, he thought to himself. Another five-day ride through the mountains and I'd be home. He caught himself then, shaking his head to rid himself of the idea. It was insane to think that he could simply leave his men behind and return home. He could never return to Aramoor until his work here was done.
Dinadin was in the lead now, running his horse impatiently along the riverbank, and Richius knew that his friend's mind was filling with thoughts of a warm bed and an equally warm maiden to share it with. Richius realized that he had given no thought to how he would spend the night. He had been so preoccupied with finding out where Aramoor stood in the war that the idea of sharing his bed hadn't even occurred to him. He chuckled to himself, musing over just how old the war had made him.
Before an hour had fallen and the pink of the sun had vanished completely, Richius heard Dinadin cry out.
"There it is! Do you see it, Richius? That must be it!"
Richius did indeed see it. Ackle-Nye, the city of beggars, was like a sparkling pinpoint in the failing daylight. Positioned at the visible end of the Sheaze River, it shimmered with the combined fire of a thousand torches, pulsing and beckoning them forward.
Much of Ackle-Nye was as Richius remembered it. And much of it was worse. Two years ago, when he had first laid eyes on the city of beggars, he had been stunned by it. Weary from his long ride through the Iron Mountains, Ackle-Nye had seemed like paradise. The city was an oasis for a rider from the Saccenne Run, a gateway from the austere wastes of the mountains into the fertile land of Lucel-Lor. This was where the Empire and the Triin nation had met, and thei
r union had fostered a wholly fascinating, if unusual, offspring. Before that time there had been only the traditional Triin woodwork, the subtle curves and soft earth-tones of a simple people. To this the Narens added power. Not content with what their Triin hosts had created, the craftsmen of the Empire came with chisels and hammers to forge a place worthy of Nar. And the Triin said nothing.
In time, Ackle-Nye swelled. The curious people from the Empire, eager to meet their long-silent neighbors, poured through the Saccenne Run. Merchants came, lured by the prospect of new markets and inspired by the city's proximity to the Sheaze. From here, all the southern lands of Lucel-Lor were opened to them, and all the folk who lived there could be sold the goods the merchants hawked. And still the Triin said nothing.
The priests were next. Sure that this was a pagan land, the holy men of the Empire sought to bring the Triin under the dominion of their own vengeful god. In this they were unsuccessful, and it was the priests, more than the merchants or the curious, who brought the Drol back to life.
Such was the history of this place as Richius understood it. The revolution was in its infancy when he had first come here, and Ackle-Nye had yet to suffer under the heel of war. He had left the city then as he had found it, confident in the talk that it would only take a month to subdue the Drol. Tharn, and his warlords like Voris, had shattered that dream, and the hoped-for month had since bloated into two long years. Now, finally returning to Ackle-Nye, Richius could see that something had gone vastly wrong in his absence. There was a conspicuous shroud of misery about the place, and the city now seemed garish and grotesque.
Richius and Dinadin trotted their horses through this malformation. Darkness had fallen hard, and only the lamps in the windows above let them navigate the narrow avenues. The city seemed deserted. They could hear the occasional sounds of merrymaking echoing through the streets, the slurred voices of merchants and Naren workers as they staggered between taverns. They could smell the earthy odor of beer, the sickly sweetness of wine, and the foulness of vomit. They could almost taste the unmistakable stench of urine.
It was among this filth that Richius saw the beggars. They huddled in every corner of every building. The lucky ones had small fires to warm them. As he watched them he recalled seeing beggars when he had first come to Ackle-Nye, but he hadn't been alarmed by the sight of them then. All Naren provinces had beggars. It was said that the Black City was overrun with them. Yet now, seeing them massed together, Richius felt oddly alarmed. There was an absurd amount of them, but that alone didn't disturb him. It was something else about them, something that he had never seen before. Yet he couldn't place the oddness of it until a form came shambling toward them.
Richius could scarcely see in the dimness, but it seemed that this beggar was small and stooped; like an old man. Yes, he remarked silently, an old man with white hair. But then the man was before them, lifting his face and revealing his almond-shaped eyes, and Richius realized that it was blood that had colored the man's hair: Triin blood. Richius and Dinadin brought their horses to a sudden stop.
"Plaey guin min!"
Richius shook his head, regarding the man's grimy, outstretched arm. Even through the heavy dialect the entreaty was plain.
"No," said Richius. "Move away."
The Triin fell to his knees. He clasped his bony hands together and, as if praying to them, repeated his plea more earnestly.
"Guin min, plaey guin min!"
Richius groaned. He wasn't without sympathy, but he had almost no coinage on him, and he knew from past experiences that they would be overrun by the other beggars if he gave to this one.
"Please," said Richius. "We have nothing for you. I'm sorry."
Dinadin unsheathed his sword. "Are you deaf?" he shouted, brandishing the blade above his head. "Out of the way, or I'll cut your ugly white head off!"
The Triin fell back, startled, and in a moment scampered away more quickly than Richius would have thought possible. Other eyes were regarding them now, all Triin, and all from the dirty piles of people.
"Stupid gogs," spat Dinadin, returning his weapon to its sheath. "I come here to find a woman and I have to be pestered by this filth."
Richius looked at Dinadin in disbelief. "What was that about? For God's sake, Dinadin, he's only a beggar. Why threaten him like that?"
Dinadin didn't respond, but Richius could read his drawn expression. A bitterness etched his face, all the terror and anger of life in the trenches. They sat there, unmoving, until at last Dinadin spoke.
"Damn it all, look at all these bloody gogs. You know what this means, don't you?"
Richius said nothing. He knew well what the sight of so many refugees meant, but he couldn't force himself to voice the revelation. Unlike Dinadin, Richius had hoped that the tales of Triin beggars in Ackle-Nye had been exaggerated. Now, seeing so many, all the words Dinadin had ever spoken were washing back over him. He felt trapped, frozen like a mouse seeing the falling shadow of a hawk.
"Well?" Dinadin urged. "Say something."
Richius lowered his head." What do you want me to say? That you were right? Fine, you're right. Happy?"
Dinadin brought his horse alongside Richius'. "Is that it? Don't you see, Richius? The war's lost. All these people know it. Why don't you?"
"But there are no troops here, Dinadin. Do you see any?"
"Richius..."
"No troops! No one's retreating. It was all a lie, a rumor. Would it make any difference if there were a million Triin here? No, it wouldn't. Not to the emperor." Richius put his hands to his pounding head, as if to keep it from exploding. He had ridden miles for an answer, and there was none. All he had now was the long ride back.
"I want to rest," he said weakly. "Let's go into one of these taverns. We'll get a bed for the night. In the morning we will head back to Dring."
He turned from his comrade and snapped the reins, guiding his horse farther down the dirty road. He wanted to say something more to Dinadin, to convince the man that they had no choice but to remain in Lucel-Lor and fight. Yet now, seeing so many devastated Triin, it was hard to convince even himself to continue. Again the sensation of imprisonment seized him, leaving him speechless as he passed the clusters of white-haired beggars.
They rode past several boarded-up inns before coming to one still open for business. This one, on the corner of a particularly well-lit avenue, was big and brass-leafed, and the huge oak door had been left open to accommodate the trickle of patrons.
"We'll try this one," he said to Dinadin. Then, with an almost imperceptible movement, he slipped off his ring and dropped it into the pocket of his tunic. Dinadin shot his companion a troubled look.
"What are you doing?"
"I don't want anyone to know who we are," said Richius. "If anyone asks, make up something. Tell them we're merchants from Aramoor or Talistan." He knew their clothes would do a good job of concealing them, and he could only hope that he had enough of a beard to hide his well-known face.
Quickly agreeing to keep their identities secret, Dinadin dismounted along with Richius. There were horses outside the inn, most of them gaunt from lack of feed, and Richius noticed a small Triin boy tending them. He dug back into his pocket and fished out a coin.
"Do you speak the tongue of Nar?" Richius asked, crouching to face the boy. The boy looked at him in puzzlement, then uttered something unintelligible. Richius turned to Dinadin. "Do you know what he said?"
"No, but it doesn't matter," explained Dinadin. "Give him the coin. He'll look after the horses."
Richius turned back to the boy. "You'll take care of our horses, right?"
The boy nodded eagerly. Certain the boy didn't know what he was agreeing to, Richius placed the coin in the small outstretched hand.
"Don't worry," insisted Dinadin, bobbing his head to peer into the tavern. "The horses will be safe. Let's go inside."
Richius agreed, tying the reins of the horses to a post on the curb. When he was done securing the reins he s
traightened to find Dinadin. His companion was in the doorway of the inn, beckoning him forward. Richius followed Dinadin through the giant oak portal and into the almost-empty tavern. As they entered, a pudgy man greeted them.
"Welcome, welcome!" he cried, forcing his hand into Richius' and giving a vigorous shake. "Come in and warm yourselves."
Richius pulled his hand from the sweaty grip. "Are you the proprietor here?" he asked.
"Yes, I am," the man replied. "My name is Tendrik and I am at your service. What can I do for you? We have wines from all over the Empire and good beer from Aramoor...."
Already weary of the merchant's pitch, Richius stared down at him coldly. "Look, we only want to have a drink and, if you have one, a room to rent for the night. All right?"
"Whatever you want," said Tendrik congenially. "I have some nice clean rooms upstairs. Cheap, too." He paused, then laughed and winked at Richius. "But if you want to share them with one of my ladies that'll be extra."
Richius made to speak, then felt Dinadin nudge him gently from behind. He groaned, then said, "Get us two good beds, separate rooms. We'll take care of the rest ourselves."
"If that's what you want," said the man. "But I have some fine women. Young, too. You might want to think about it."
"Just the rooms," said Richius tersely. "Get them ready. We'll wait for you down here."
He brushed past the innkeeper and headed for the bar. There was a brick hearth beside it, ablaze with a roaring fire. Richius welcomed the heat, letting it work itself into his joints. The comfortable odor of burning cedar filled the room. He looked around at the other patrons, a uniformly seedy lot. Down-at-their-luck merchants sat around one table, noisily playing cards. Several other men caroused in a corner, poking at the prostitutes that passed them by. Dinadin spied the girls and growled. They weren't young as the innkeeper had promised, but they certainly looked experienced.
"Barman!" shouted Dinadin. Another man, not unlike Tendrik in size, looked at him from behind the bar. Dinadin tossed him some coins and ordered, "Get us two beers. And from Aramoor, not that Talistanian swill."