Trinian

by Elizabeth Russell

When at last the tale came to an end, Trinian took a deep breath and waited. The men near the fire were entirely quiet and only the sounds of the night whispered around them – crickets and toads and cicadas. The bandit too was silent.

  “Now that’s a different tale than ye told Hedger,” he said at last, “but it holds with a ring of truth that his did no’. If you’re lying about even one fact of all this, you’re never going home alive.”

  “It’s not a lie,” said Trinian evenly. “It’s the grim, awful truth.”

  The other nodded slowly. “I do believe it is, though I wish it weren’t.” Then, to Trinian’s surprise, he gasped softly, letting out a hiss through his teeth. “I warned ya,” he snarled quietly.

  Trinian peered into the darkness. His eyes had grown accustomed to the night, and in the pale half-moon glow, he made out a figure standing behind the bandit: of slight build, whose hair was shaggy and light.

  “Kett?” he asked.

  “Your majesty, what should I do with this cur?”

  The bandit hissed again, and Trinian realized the boy had a knife to the villain’s back. The king sighed, unsure if the boy had done right. The outlaw seemed inclined to believe the danger of the gorgans and possibly willing to do something about it, but threatening him was not the way to win his help. At this point, Trinian was not picky about his allies. He told Kett to release him.

  “Your majesty?” asked the boy hesitantly, and even in the darkness, Trinian could feel both pairs of surprised eyes on him.

  “Yes,” said Trinian firmly. “Release him, Kett.”

  Slowly, expecting the outlaw to turn and stab him at every moment, Kett withdrew his blade and stepped across to the king, as if thinking that if he could not hold the villain at bay, perhaps he could intercept a blow to his master.

  The bandit stood tall, sizing up Trinian. “I do fully believe,” he said at last, “you must be the bravest man I ever met. You surprise me, king of Drian. Ya journey across the forsaken world when your own home is nigh to fall to the enemy. You have me in your grasp, and ya let me go. I could kill you, your home could be destroyed by the god, but you choose the risky, dangerous path – I don’t understand you, but I do think I like ye.”

  “If I don’t get your help,” said Trinian honestly. “My home will fall, and I’m as good as dead anyway. Do you have a family?” he asked.

  The man nodded. “Aye, I do. Two daughters and their mother of them. Them, and the families of all my men, are my responsibility.”

  “And what would you do if gorgans came to kill them? Could you hold them off?”

  “I ain’t never seen gorgans, but I heard rumors of ‘em. From the north a bit, and mostly south. We’re a wandering band, you know, and we cover much ground. But from what I hear, we wouldn’t stand a chance. We won’t never return to South Drian – the towns there are all gone – demolished and wiped clean. No, I don’t bet we could ward them off.”

  Trinian nodded. “More land will fall to this god if we do not band together against him, and no part of Minecerva will be safe. I’ve driven them away, held them at bay once before, but I need your help to do it again.”

  The man held out his hand suddenly, gleaming palely in the dim light. “My name is Tarfan, King Trinian. And I and my men will fight beside ye.”

  Trinian shook his hand.

  “And,” the bandit added wryly, “I’ll vouchsafe Hedgar’s men will fight for ye also. I’ll see to that.”

  71

  Approaching the Kara Mountains

  King Trinian had been traveling for four weeks, making his way from desolate, isolated village to desolate, isolated castle. He and his men journeyed from ancient families who had assimilated modern towns to modern towns that had grown from ancient families. Some were gracious, some suspicious, and some downright hostile, so that they never knew if they would be received with fanfare or driven out by angry mobs. By the time his small host had traversed all the wilderlands of Drian and was approaching the western mountains, Trinian had developed crow’s feet wrinkles around his eyes.

  His heart ached to return to Drian, and each mile that put him further from it stretched him thinner, as if his city were tugging hard at his chest, a line stretching taut between it and him. A little part of himself he left in each hamlet, a heartfelt plea that took a bit from his heart and stayed behind in ungrateful hands. Talking about action without taking it, meeting strangers and being driven out by them, traveling for days on end without sight of civilization until finally stumbling upon them as if by chance – all this siphoned his strength from his bones. And though he did not know it, he felt it in the depths of his heart – that he was almost as far from his wife as he could get on the continent.

  When Trinian heard the screams as he approached Tyre, a town nestled at the foot of the Kara Mountains, his gut wrenched. Mixed with the cries of men, women, and children, he recognized a familiar animal roar.

  Phestite glanced at him significantly, his brows drawn low. “Gorgans.”

  “Yes,” said the king.

  “We don’t know how many.”

  “It does not matter,” Trinian shook his head, his blood beginning to pump with anticipation for battle. “We fight.” He raised his sword arm. “Men!” he cried loudly. “To arms! We ride!”

  Hoofs thundering, they made their way toward the fallen gates of the city.

  These were the same gorgans from the valley of Kazeel. They had fled South Drian, depleted as it was of food, and roamed their way along the Kara mountain ranges before descending into Tyre. They had refused to journey to Drian, left behind by the rest of the host, for they were mad, the chill and fire of their blood driving them into ungoverned rapacity and fury, leaving them useless to obey orders or follow commands. It happened sometimes with Power’s forces – there were those spawned who ate and killed and pillaged without thought, and Power let them have free reign against the mortals. Since enough gorgans maintained their pack instinct and fought for him, he only smiled gleefully over the terror these ones caused, for it aided his purposes for them to inspire fear wherever they went.

  Trinian and his men galloped into the city, roaring battle cries, glistening in the sunlight, clutching their bright, sharp spears. The gorgans looked up without fear; snarling and blind with insanity, they galloped on all fours to meet the riders, and rose up upon their rear feet, towering above the horses, just before the two sides met.

  Trinian and his men were not daunted. They had fought these beasts before, and they knew what to expect. They met them in close quarters and mowed them down, killing ten in the first rush. Many of the Drinians were unhorsed, but none were killed. They slashed with sword and knife now, stabbing neck and stomach.

  Trinian was elated with the battle fury of his men, and he gloried in their skill. Surely, saving the city would bind the citizens of Tyre to their side, and he would recruit more men to lead to battle in Drian. But in the rush, he did not notice a maddened gorgan descending silent upon him from behind. It had lost three legs, cut off by a villager before the Drinians arrived, and did not stomp like the other monsters. A silent demon, it made no noise as it loped on leg and arm toward the king, raising the other arm to fell Trinian with a single blow of its blade. Phestite tried to warn the king; he yelled with his deep, mighty voice, but Trinian was locked with another monster, and heard and saw nothing about him.

  In a great act of love for the king he followed so faithfully, Phestite threw his mighty body before the blade and with one clean swipe, his head was severed from his neck. Trinian turned at the same moment, his own beast felled, and stumbled back on instinct and horror. Then blindly, with an unseeing rage, he fell upon the one-legged monster, and did not emerge from the battle until every last gorgan lay hacked in pieces at his feet.

  Turning around – drunk on anguish – to take his fill of the sight, he stood still and gazed at the body of his loyal general. His blessing, the blessing of the kingship, his destiny to overcome Power – none of these h
ad been enough to prevent his friend vanishing like a bug smashed by a mad boar. Trinian’s breath came fast and ragged, and silently, his men gathered about him. Gorj stood at his elbow, and the tears came to them all, regretting the loss of a general who had led them in strength and courage long before their king had come to them. But after a time, Gorj put a hand on the king’s arm and brought him back to himself.

  “Sire,” he said softly, “the town’s people were watching, and they approach us now.”

  Trinian saw an assembly from Tyre approaching, and he stepped toward them, numb and hollow-eyed.

  He communed with the mayor of Tyre, who thanked him profusely. In his overflow of gratitude, the mayor also gave thanks to their town’s natural goddess, Mercy, whose home he indicated as he bowed in its direction. “She told us you would come!” he cried as he turned enthusiastically to Trinian, telling him of her prophecies and care of their people, but the king heard little of his words. Trinian waited until the man stopped speaking, then recited his own speech accurately, as he had grown used to do, and the Mayor of Tyre professed his people’s allegiance, unaware that Trinian was not himself. Only Kett, who stood close behind his master, knew how far Trinian’s mind, heart, and soul had fled from this interview.

  “We must bury our dead,” the king said at the end, when the Mayor invited them to come to the Mead Hall for a meal and lodging.

  “Of course. So do we. Please come to my home when you are finished.”

  They left them in peace then, and Trinian and his men buried Phestite with full military honors. After planting him in the ground, surrounded by shoots of spears and his enemies’ weapons, they chanted the Warrior’s Death Dirge, the deep voices of men blending in deep, heart-breakingly beautiful harmony.

  Unto the dreadful ground you lie below

  We hand over the warrior we know

  And to its grateful arms you-ou bestow-ow

  Your might and brightest glory on earth show-own.

  Of you the deadful keeper mourns

  For you the final victor is born

  No man the final conflict scorns

  All final fight array is worn

  We hand over the warrior we knew

  Unto the dreadful ground will you be true.

  Your might and brightest glory on earth shew-ewn.

  And blood and bones and flowers are betstrewn.

  The men filtered away after that, one by one, making their way to the mead hall to take their dinner and their rest. At last, only Trinian remained, faithfully shadowed by loyal Kett.

  “Shall we return?” asked the boy gently after a long while, concern for his master and the rumble of his own stomach prodding him to speak.

  Trinian shook his head. “I know not – I know nothing. And that is the problem.”

  “Sire?”

  “I don’t know how to kill Power – or even if he can be killed. But he must be, to stop this – he must be killed.” He glanced toward the home of Mercy, and gestured pitifully. “This was why I came. To find her. I’m going to find my answer.”

  72

  In the House of Mercy

  Trinian stomped toward the house of Mercy. It was a sharp-gabled three story house, with flowering vines growing along the walls and round, pleasant windows seeming to blink out into the world, and from the chimney issued a pleasant curl of light gray smoke. Kett followed quickly, stumbling over the stones and ridges of the direct route that Trinian confidently trod, for the king was too impatient to go by way of the road.

  He pounded on the door peremptorily until a lovely young maiden opened it, peering out into the dusk.

  “Can I help you, Trinian?” she asked.

  He blinked in surprise, but only for a moment, and then pushed past her into the interior. He hardly saw the comfortable living space, full of green plants and the woody smell of fir, pine, and eucalyptus. “I want to know if I can kill the god of Karaka. Power, the high god. Can I kill him?”

  Water was boiling on the stove and she went over to it, taking it off the heat and pouring it into three waiting tea cups. The warm scent of lemon and ginger wafted through the house, tickling Kett’s nose where he was standing in delighted wonder with his mouth open; he smiled gratefully when she put a teacup in his hands.

  “Sit down please, Kett. I have been waiting for you.”

  “For me?” said Kett in astonishment, as he settled on the bottom steps of a small, winding staircase that wrapped around one of the walls

  “Yes. For your king, and you. You are my favorite.”

  Kett blushed up to his ears and hid his face in the teacup.

  Trinian sat impatiently on the edge of a narrow sofa and Mercy perched on a low, cushioned footstool. She turned to him and studied the king with cool eyes.

  “Why do you want to know?” she asked, blowing gently on her tea.

  “Can I kill him?”

  “I can tell you the prophecy, but it will do little good. You know most of it already, anyway.”

  “You must tell me,” said Trinian, glaring at the golden wood of the floor. “You told Power, didn’t you?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I told him. At the beginning of the eleven hundredth year. He came to me and my sister, and we had to tell him what we knew, and he has used it as an excuse ever since.” She sipped her tea sadly, and Kett watched her wonderingly. She looked so normal, prettier than most girls, but just like a real human person. He had never seen a natural god before, and always thought they would be unapproachable. But she was just like anyone else he had ever met. Only very good, and very prompt with tea.

  Trinian still stared at the ground. “You must tell me what you told him.” He was afraid of Mercy, though she was not revealing herself in her full might. He knew that she was shading herself for their benefit, but it was not her power that frightened him – it was her truth. And yet he needed to know.

  “Oh, no,” she said gently, “I cannot do that. His message, his future, was for him alone. You have a different message, if you want to hear it. But you really do not have to,” she added, though she knew it was useless to urge him against it. “I have seen far too much misery for people who knew their fate. It will not be what you want to hear – it is never so clear as that. And you will drive yourself mad trying to understand it.”

  But Trinian was desperate and stubborn, and finally met her eyes. “Tell me.”

  She stood up. “Ask the question then.”

  He stood too. “Will I kill Power?”

  Then her full glory shone forth, and she was so beautiful that Kett fell off the stairs and huddled on the ground. He looked up at her in awe, and forgot to rise. Trinian, true to his birthright, stood his ground as her words rolled out and disappointed him.

  “Beware the god of Power, mortal man,

  For shall he take thee to himself for own

  Never more king royal ye shall stand.

  Beware the land of Power, mortal king

  For shall you enter the brownish land

  A death toll for your family will ring.”

  Trinian turned pale as paper, whether from anger or fear, he did not know. He trembled and clenched his fists as she seemed to cloak herself again, her light and beauty dimming, and Kett took his place again, tremblingly, on the stairs.

  “That’s it? I came to you for answers, not a riddle.”

  “I warned you. That is all I can tell you – all I have. I said you already knew it.”

  “But he thinks I will kill him! Why would he think that? He learned it from you!” He took a step toward her, but she stared him down scornfully.

  “Are you blaming me for the message?” she asked haughtily. “Or are you going to accept the knowledge that has been given? I have done what I can, now you make your choice about how you will act. Leave my home, if you are so ungrateful.”

  At the door, Kett hazarded to look at the goddess, and found that she was once again the simple, beautiful maiden, and he smiled when she nodded kindly at him.

&n
bsp; “I will not tell you your future,” she said, “I will not be so unkind. But just know that your faithfulness is your greatest asset. You are blessed to treasure it.”

  Blushing again, Kett ducked out and she turned to the king, who still hung back. He was frowning, and struggling with himself, but finally found the grace to say, “I was wrong to blame you, please forgive me. But I do not believe you. You said your sister had a prophecy as well, and I will ask her. Perhaps she will tell me what I need to know.”

  She stepped toward him, and laid her hand upon his brow. “You are a brave man, Trinian. But you are lonely and stubborn – you must learn to accept that you are weak, and forgive yourself for it. There is more to life than defeating Power.” She sighed sadly, then added, “My sister is the goddess of Kara. You will find her above the mountain city. May the King go with you.”

  Trinian left Tyre in deep sadness, his heart clenched like a sealed vault, torn between blind belief in the future and fear of losing all that he loved.

  XI

  DEATH

  “Where, oh death, is your victory? Where, oh death, is your sting?”

  - St. Paul, 1st Letter to the Corinthians

  73

  The Poison of Passion

  Waiting for Lavendier to recover enough to travel, they spent four days beside the cave. Howls could be heard from the gorgans at times, and Garrity could do nothing but hope that, defenseless and broken as they were, they would go undiscovered.

  The morning after her fever, Lavendier awoke and saw Garrity sleeping with his head against the cave wall. She tried to sit up, but groaned with pain, and that slight noise brought him swiftly to her side.

  “Don’t move,” he told her. “You’ll make it worse.”

  Suddenly, realizing she did not see anyone else, her eyes widened in fear and she gripped his arm. “The prince, my sisters, did she kill them?”