by John Marco
‘And you need me for that?’ asked Rook hopefully.
‘Indeed.’ The warlord regarded him coldly. ‘You are going to build me another weapon.’
‘Oh, no, Master,’ Rook said. ‘That is not possible . . .’
‘I saw what it can do. You will build it, and build it better than the last one. You will build it while Crinion recovers, so that it will be ready when he awakens for battle.’
‘Master, please,’ begged the Naren. ‘I cannot do this. The last trebuchet was my best effort. I used all my knowledge. It failed because I don’t know what I’m doing!’
Praxtin-Tar waved off his pleas. Two years ago, he had spared Rook’s life because it had amused him to have a Naren slave, and because Rook had promised he would be useful. He had knowledge of Naren weapons, he had claimed.
‘You were a legionnaire,’ flared the warlord. ‘You told me you could help me win battles.’
‘Yes,’ Rook sputtered. ‘But . . .’
‘Build me another trebuchet. Make it sound and powerful, and have it ready when my son recovers. Remember the stake, Rook.’
Rook took one final look at Crinion, then offered his master a bow before retreating from the tent. Praxtin-Tar was glad to see him go. He was a disgusting creature, like all Narens, and his devotion to their false religion sickened the warlord. When would the world beyond the mountains realize the truth? Or would they always walk in darkness?
But then he realized that Rook was only a man, and that men had to search the darkness for the truth. Rook was pathetic, certainly. One could, however, learn something from the slave.
‘I am walking in darkness, too,’ Praxtin-Tar whispered. ‘Always searching . . .’
Looking for answers had become a way of life for Praxtin-Tar. Sometimes it was wearying. The warlord of Reen sat down beside his son, ignoring his hunger, and once again began to pray.
Eighteen
When Alazrian and Jahl Rob finally emerged from the Iron Mountains, the first thing they saw was Ackle-Nye. The city of beggars stood at the end of the Saccenne Run, a burned-out husk of a metropolis, bearing the scars of war and neglect. Once she had been an impressive city, a hub of commerce and the gateway to Lucel-Lor, the first stop for soldiers and merchants from the Empire. She had been constructed years ago during the early reign of Arkus, designed in part by Naren engineers eager to make their mark on Triin land. With her ruined arches and collapsed roofs, Ackle-Nye looked like the casualty of a great urban war. Yet even in ruins she was impressive. Alazrian had read about Ackle-Nye and had heard his Uncle Blackwood Gayle speak of her, but nothing had prepared him for this sight. As his horse emerged from the confines of the mountain pass, his eyes widened in astonishment, beholding the forbidding beauty of the dead city.
‘God in heaven,’ breathed Jahl Rob. He brought his exhausted mount to a stop. ‘Will you look at that?’
There in the terminus of the Saccenne Run the two travellers paused, surveying the twisted city in the distance. Ackle-Nye was a weird amalgamation of familiar architecture and arcane design. Informal Triin structures of tattered paper and wood stood abreast of conical Naren spires, all crumbling, and half the city was encased in a wall lined with defensive crenellations. It was mid-afternoon and the sun baked the landscape. The shadows of the Iron Mountains seemed to reach for the broken city with dark hands. The strange marriage of Naren and Triin carried over to every small detail. Alazrian didn’t know how to react. He was glad to be out of the run, but the city of beggars didn’t precisely welcome them, either.
‘There’s the river,’ Jahl Rob noted, pointing ahead. They had known the river would be waiting for them, and the sight of the clear water was tantalizing. According to what little they knew of this area, the river was called the Sheaze. Fed from the ice caps of the Iron Mountains, the river swelled its banks. A small bridge spanned the waterway, leading to Ackle-Nye. To Alazrian’s eye, the bridge looked surprisingly new against the backdrop of the ancient city.
‘See anyone?’ Alazrian asked. He hooded his eyes to block out the sun. There might have been movement in Ackle-Nye’s trash-filled avenues, but he couldn’t quite tell. And he certainly didn’t see any lions.
‘Ackle-Nye is probably abandoned,’ said Jahl Rob. He had already told Alazrian what little he knew about the place; that it had once been a thriving mercantile hold and that it had wound up the last battlefield in the Triin war. Here was where the Triin had finally pushed out the last of the Naren invaders. That had been two years ago, but Ackle-Nye hadn’t given over her memories to time. Every city wall bore the scars of conflict.
‘There could still be Triin here,’ said Alazrian hopefully. ‘It’s still standing, after all. And there’s the river.’
The priest nodded, but there was apprehension in his manner. ‘If so, they won’t be pleased to see us. Keep your wits about you, boy.’
‘We can go around it,’ Alazrian suggested. ‘Give our horses a rest first, fill up our water skins, and be on our way.’
‘No,’ said Jahl Rob. ‘Anyone in the city is bound to spot us, and we can’t avoid the Triin forever.’ He looked at Alazrian. ‘That’s what we came here for, isn’t it? To find Triin?’
‘Yes,’ replied Alazrian, mustering up his courage.
But Jahl Rob didn’t urge his horse forward. Instead he dismounted, taking the reins in his hands and spying his surroundings with a trained eye. It had been days since they had left the priest’s mountain home, leaving behind the other Saints and the relative protection of the keep. So far, they had seen nothing remarkable on their journey – only the occasional hawk and rodent that haunted the run. There had been no Triin, no lions guarding Lucel-Lor; nothing even remotely dangerous. Jahl Rob didn’t talk much, but Alazrian liked the enigmatic priest. He was kind, though mistrustful of Alazrian’s magic, and it gave Alazrian a sense of security to know that a man so handy with a bow was nearby. Now, however, in the shadow of Ackle-Nye, Jahl Rob grew pensive. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders as if he were cold, cocking his head to listen. The sound of the river filled their ears.
‘It’s quiet,’ mused the priest.
A nervousness in his stomach threatened to empty Alazrian’s breakfast, and despite the Triin blood running through his veins, he suddenly had no desire to meet his kinsmen. According to his Uncle Blackwood, Triin were warlike and bloodthirsty, with a fiery hatred of Narens. ‘They’ll cut your heart out and serve it up for dinner,’ Blackwood Gayle had told him once, pointing at the scar ruining his face as evidence.
‘Are we going in?’ asked Alazrian. ‘If there are people in the city, they might have some food. I wouldn’t mind a good meal, would you?’
‘From what I’ve heard about Triin, we’ll be the meal.’
Alazrian frowned, and Jahl, realizing what he’d said, grimaced. ‘No cause for that, boy. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Alazrian. So far, Jahl Rob hadn’t really warmed to him, and for some reason that irked Alazrian. It was one thing to be afraid of his gifts. That was normal, and Alazrian didn’t understand them either. But having Triin blood didn’t seem a good enough reason to shun someone.
‘You’re right about one thing,’ said Jahl Rob at last. ‘We’re not getting any closer standing here.’ He took one last look around, then mounted his horse again. Before urging the beast on, he turned to Alazrian and said, ‘You ready to deliver that message of yours?’
‘I think so.’
‘Then let’s go.’
The Aramoorian urged his horse on, steering the beast toward the narrow bridge. Alazrian followed, his eyes fixed on the river and the city beyond. According to legend, the city of beggars had earned its nickname from the countless Triin refugees that had flooded the city during the long war with the Empire. Most had come looking for passage to Nar, a sad dream that never became real for any of them. Ackle-Nye had been a Naren stronghold, the only place of imperial influence in all of Lucel-Lor, and the Triin who had come to the city h
ad been desperate to escape the fighting and famine ravaging their land. As Alazrian rode warily toward the bridge, he thought about Ackle-Nye’s long, sad history, and because his father had been Triin he felt an odd affection for the place. Eventually, the Triin had vanquished the Narens. But seeing bleak Ackle-Nye, with all its crumbling architecture, made Alazrian wonder if the struggle had been worth it.
‘They fought here,’ Alazrian said. ‘To push out the Narens.’
Jahl Rob nodded. ‘A worthy cause.’
Alazrian chuckled. ‘You would think so.’
‘Men aren’t born to be slaves, Alazrian,’ said the priest sharply. ‘Your real father would have taught you that, I’d bet.’
When at last they reached the bridge, Jahl Rob stopped again before crossing. Rob studied it with care, gazing out over its span toward the city. Ackle-Nye was closer now, and both of them could see its narrow avenues more clearly. There was movement in the streets. Alarmed, Alazrian turned to his companion.
‘Triin?’
Rob nodded. ‘What else? You don’t happen to speak any of their language, do you?’
‘I told you, I’ve spent my whole life in Talistan. I don’t know any more about the Triin than you do.’ Then he shrugged, adding, ‘Except what I’ve studied about them. I tried to find out about my father when I was in the Black City. I read some books. Nothing that will help us here, though.’
‘Pity,’ sighed Rob. ‘Come on, then,’
With his bow on his back, Jahl Rob moved his mount onto the bridge and over the rushing waters of the Sheaze. Alazrian hurried after him. Once over the bridge, they took to the path leading straight ahead, and as they neared Ackle-Nye the city of beggars began to swallow them in its shadow and stink. There was an acrid odor to the place, a perpetual smell of burning. There were three tall towers placed in a triangular pattern around the city all identically cylindrical with battlements along their tops and big cutouts of glassless windows like the arrow holes in a castle – only much larger. The towers dominated Ackle-Nye’s crooked skyline.
Attack towers, Alazrian realized. Similar ones stood on the outskirts of the capital, armed with flame cannons to repel assaults. Such an assault had never come to the Black City, but Alazrian supposed their smaller counterparts here in Ackle-Nye had seen action. Each tower bore the remnants of back-blasts, sooty deposits that had built up from the use of their cannons. As they got closer to the city, they could see that the towers weren’t the only things that had burned. So had the smaller buildings in the city center, some so badly gutted as to be falling in on themselves. Around the ruined structures were people. Each had white hair and white skin the likes of which Alazrian had never seen, and he knew from their unmistakable pallor that these were Triin.
‘They don’t see us yet,’ Alazrian whispered.
‘Oh yes they do,’ said Rob. He gestured with his chin toward the south side of the city. ‘Look.’
A group of riders were coming to meet them, emerging out of a crumbled archway. All were Triin, with white unkempt hair billowing out behind them and tattered clothes that hung loosely about their bodies, making them seem wraith-like and insubstantial. They wore strange weapons on their backs, like spears with long curved blades on both ends. Alazrian quickly counted up their numbers. There were six of them – a good many more than Jahl Rob could deal with alone.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Rob told Alazrian. ‘And don’t look threatening.’
As they moved into the city, the six Triin horseman rode to intercept them, Jahl Rob stopped his horse. Alazrian did the same, waiting while the priest held up his hands to the approaching Triin. The Triin didn’t look like soldiers, but as they drew near two of them took the weapons off their backs. Their entire company slowed a little as they came closer, warily surveying Alazrian and Rob. One took the lead, a smaller man than the rest, the only one in familiar clothing, for along with his Triin trousers and shirt he wore a black jacket cut in the Naren style. When he came even closer, Alazrian realized that it was the jacket of a Naren legionnaire. It was threadbare and filthy, but it was unmistakable from its design and insignia.
‘I thought you said they’d be refugees,’ said Alazrian.
Rob shrugged. ‘I don’t know what they are.’
The priest straightened in his saddle, prepared to greet the Triin. Alazrian struck a similar pose. The Triin riders spied them up and down, the one in the lead seeming most alarmed. With his Naren jacket and Triin skin he was a strange sight, both frightening and comical. He pulled ahead of his companions, then stopped his horse a few yards away. His column halted behind him. Alazrian was about to say something, but Jahl Rob quickly put out a hand to silence him. For a long moment the two groups stared at each other. Finally, the Triin in the lead spoke.
‘Nar,’ he said. ‘You are Nar.’
Rob and Alazrian traded surprised glances.
‘Yes,’ said Rob quickly. ‘That’s right. We’re Narens. How do you—’
‘I speak in Nar,’ the Triin interrupted. He continued studying them. With a wave he beckoned his fellows forward. Confused, Alazrian returned their gaze, wondering if he should speak. But Jahl Rob did the talking.
‘We are from Nar,’ he repeated. ‘From Aramoor, across the mountains.’ He pointed to the rocky cliffs behind them. ‘Mountains? You see? That’s where we came from.’
The Triin in the Naren jacket nodded. ‘I know mountains. I know Aramoor. Why?’
Alazrian understood the question. ‘Why have we come, you mean?’
The Triin scrutinized Alazrian. His eyes were golden-grey, bright and intelligent. Alazrian had never seen such an astonishing creature in his life.
‘Yes,’ replied the Triin. ‘Why?’
Rob hesitated before answering, and Alazrian knew that the priest was wondering how much to disclose. So far, the Triin weren’t at all what they’d expected. Alazrian looked at Rob, shrugging. He didn’t know what to say either.
‘Where are the lions?’ asked Rob finally.
All the Triin began to murmur. Their leader narrowed his gaze on Rob distrustfully. ‘Why have you come?’ he asked again. ‘For lions?’
‘Who are you?’ Rob asked. He was growing annoyed and wanted some answers of his own. ‘What’s your name?’
Again the company of Triin whispered to themselves. Only the one in the Naren jacket seemed to speak the imperial tongue. ‘Mord is my name,’ he said simply.
‘Mord,’ repeated Jahl Rob with a smile. ‘I am Jahl Rob of Aramoor. This is Alazrian.’
Alazrian attempted a friendly face. ‘Hello.’
‘A long way is Aramoor,’ said Mord. ‘Tell me why. For lions?’
‘Are there any here?’ asked Rob. ‘In the city, I mean?’
‘No,’ said Mord flatly. ‘No lions here.’
It was hard to tell if he was lying, but Jahl Rob didn’t push him. Instead the priest put up his hands, demonstrating that he was no threat to the Triin, and said, ‘We’re just travellers. We don’t want any trouble with you or anyone else. Please believe that.’
‘You bring weapons,’ said Mord, pointing to Jahl’s bow. ‘You come to fight? Fighting men?’
‘No, we’re not fighting men,’ said Alazrian. ‘We’re travellers. We’re just . . .’ He paused, considering his words. ‘Looking for someone.’
‘Who is in the city?’ asked Rob. ‘Are there many living here? Triin, like yourselves?’
Mord nodded. ‘Triin, yes. Many like us. None like you.’
‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ grumbled Alazrian. ‘Look, please try to understand. We’re travellers from the Empire, and we’re looking for someone. All we want is to rest in your city.’
Mord shook his head. ‘Tell us why you have come,’ he insisted. ‘I am to bring answers back.’
‘Back?’ asked Rob. ‘Back to who?’
‘Falger,’ replied Mord. ‘The one.’
Alazrian understood. ‘Your ruler? Your . . . Leader, yes? Is that who Falger is
?’
‘Falger leads us.’ Mord smiled at Alazrian. ‘You understand me.’
Rob chuckled. ‘Oh, he understands you. But these others, they don’t speak Naren?’
‘No,’ said Mord. ‘Only I.’
‘And Falger? Does he speak Naren?’
‘Falger does not speak in Nar. Some Triin do, like I. Learned before the war. I am to take you for Falger. He has seen you.’
‘Seen us?’ asked Alazrian. ‘How?’
Mord gestured over his shoulder, pointing to the city’s towers. ‘There. We were sent. Falger fears you.’
‘Do not fear us,’ Rob said. ‘Please believe me, we’re not here for trouble.’