by John Marco
‘And you go to Nar to be free? Then you are a fool, girl. Like your father. There is nothing for you there. Nar is evil.’
‘Liar!’ she cried. ‘I will get to Nar, and I will marry someone else. And I will have children who are not Drol and we will all laugh at your sick revolution!’
Tharn sighed, but there was no breath from the apparition. ‘Run then, Dyana. But hurry. This thing you see is only the beginning. I grow stronger, and when I am strong enough I will reach out my hand and take you, wherever you are.’
‘And you will continue to kill? And children will starve because you burn the grain fields? Is this the love of Lorris and Pris?’
‘This is the way of things in our ugly world. There are dangers to us that you do not know, and I doubt could ever understand. When we are together, you will see all the truth.’
‘I will never be yours, Tharn.’
‘You will be. And listen closely to what I say. When you are mine, I will not seem such a monster to you. I will be kind to you and you will be happy.’
Dyana scoffed. ‘Is this some Drol prophecy?’
‘Not a prophecy. A promise. From me to you. I will not harm you, Dyana. You have nothing to fear from me. I have always loved you.’
‘More madness,’ said Dyana. Suddenly Tharn seemed like a lovesick boy again, climbing a tree to impress her. ‘You do not know me. You are in love with a dream. I am not the person you think. Let me go.’
‘I cannot. I am a Drol cunning-man, and you are my betrothed. I will not bear that disgrace. I say again – I love you. When I am victorious, I will have this whole nation to give you, and you will see how much I care for you.’
Dyana shook her head. ‘I do not want a nation, and I do not want you. I will fight you.’
Tharn smiled sadly. ‘Run, then,’ he warned. ‘Like the wind...’
He was gone as quickly as he had come, vanishing into the darkness until the only shimmering was from the moonlight on the water. Dyana stood staring at the emptiness, at the place where his invisible feet had left no impressions in the soil. He was powerful now. Soon he might be able to take her. She needed to hurry, she needed to get to Ackle-Nye before he was done with his grisly war. And that meant leaving her friends behind.
Silently, she walked back to the camp where the others were sleeping. Careful not to wake them, she collected her few possessions – her bag of clothing, her waterskin, and some of the bread she had saved from supper. Lastly she took up the little silver stiletto her father had given her. This she tucked into its place in her boot. She was almost out of the camp when Falger awakened.
‘Dyana?’
‘Shhh,’ she cautioned, going over to him.
‘Where are you going? What is wrong?’
‘I am going to Ackle-Nye, Falger. But I have to hurry. There is no time for wasting, and I cannot go slowly.’
‘We will be there in a few days,’ said Falger, not understanding.
‘No,’ said Dyana gently. ‘I cannot wait.’ She wanted to explain it to him, but thought better of it. She was dangerous to them now, and that she couldn’t live with. ‘Please,’ she implored. ‘Just let me go.’
‘Dyana, this is crazy. You cannot make it alone. It is too far, too dangerous.’
‘I can do it. I will just follow the river.’
‘But what about food? What will you eat?’
‘I have some bread in my bag. And I should get to Ackle-Nye in a day or so. They will have food for me there.’
‘You cannot go now,’ said Falger. ‘It is too dark!’
‘I have the moon. I can see. Please, do not worry about me.’ Then she kissed his cheek. ‘But thank you. Thank you for everything.’
‘But how will you get to Nar?’ Falger asked. ‘What will you do?’
‘Whatever I have to,’ Dyana answered, then started off into the darkness.
Seven
When Richius told Dinadin about the trip to Ackle-Nye, Dinadin took the news like a small boy who has been told a holiday was coming. Unlike most of the Naren troops, Dinadin had known where he was going even before he arrived in Ackle-Nye, and so had no opportunity to enjoy the many pleasures the city offered most men before they went into the war. He had always regretted this, a fact he reminded Richius of nearly every time the subject arose. It seemed to Richius that Dinadin thought he was owed something for missing out on this rite of passage, and Richius took as much glee in the telling of the news as Dinadin took in the receiving. In a small way Richius was excited by the trip, too. Though he had told Lucyler and Dinadin that there were important reasons for making the journey, the idea of leaving the trenches and camps for even a little while pleased him. It had been nearly a full year since he had arrived in the Dring Valley, and almost two years since he had left home. If there were any Aramoorians in Ackle-Nye, he would be grateful to see them.
Over Lucyler’s objections, Richius decided that only he and Dinadin should make the trip. Lucyler himself didn’t want to go, for even he was too pious a Triin to go to Ackle-Nye, but he made the point that his comrades would be more secure if they traveled in greater numbers. Richius had considered this, but finally decided that the security of the men he was leaving was more important than their own, and he wanted every body, should Voris choose to attack again. He explained this to Lucyler, after telling the Triin that he would be in charge of the company. The Triin didn’t argue his leader’s reasoning. But Lucyler wasn’t beyond mothering the men, and before they set out the next morning he had made sure they had packed enough of the dried meat and hard army bread that had been their sustenance for months now to last them well past the twoday ride. Richius allowed this indulgence. Though he was the leader of the men, he knew that Lucyler was more like a father to them even in his sternness, and Richius himself wasn’t unaffected by Lucyler’s almost parental concern.
The morning was as clear as the night and day before. It was, as Dinadin had cheerfully remarked, the perfect day for riding. In the depths of the valley there were thorn patches and choke weeds and mud traps to break a horse’s legs, but where they were going the valley thinned and became passable, and when the horse master had handed the reins of two fine geldings over to Richius, the man had eyed his leader jealously. Being in the valley was a chore for any who had been in the Aramoorian Guard, and the chance to take a horse out was a privilege for which they always vied.
‘Be careful with them,’ the horse master had insisted. ‘If the word comes, we’ll need them to escape.’
Richius had let the man chide him. Whatever else he felt for Feldon, the horse master had kept their handful of mounts alive in the fickle weather of the valley, had seen the beasts through disease and hunger. Unlike the men under Richius’ charge, the horses seemed neither ill nor starved. Richius gave Feldon a courteous smile and his assurance that the horses would be well cared for.
The sun had barely risen when Richius and Dinadin left camp. Lucyler was somber as they wished him good-bye.
‘Keep a sentry posted in each trench,’ said Richius. ‘And send out scouts in pairs. If any wolves come, make ready for an attack. And start waking the men up. Voris could hit us...’
‘Stop,’ said Lucyler impatiently. ‘I know what to do. Just come back when you can. We will still be here.’
‘Five days, no later,’ Richius assured him. ‘Take care of my men.’
Lucyler nodded but said nothing, and Richius took a long last look at the camp. The thought of staying occurred to him briefly, but an artless nudge from Dinadin shoved the idea aside.
‘Let’s go,’ crowed the young man anxiously. ‘I want to get there before the war ends and all the wenches go back home!’
Lucyler rolled his eyes. ‘Do not bring me back anything incurable,’ he remarked.
‘We’ll be careful,’ laughed Richius, giving the reins of his horse a snap. He waved farewell to Lucyler and was off, disappearing into the woods with Dinadin behind him.
The path on which they travele
d was passable, though not well worn, for the recent cessation of supply trips from Aramoor had allowed the prolific brush of the valley to narrow it somewhat. Still, the horses handled the path precisely, and it wasn’t long before both Richius and Dinadin relaxed and let their old instincts take over. Richius felt a familiar peace draw over him and in his hands the reins quickly turned to comforting friends. His stint in the valley had not taken his horsemanship from him. Dinadin was riding smoothly beside him, his own face beaming. It felt to Richius like a lifetime had passed since he had last experienced the powerful sensation of a horse beneath him. In the trenches he was only a soldier, often so muddied he couldn’t recognize his own reflection in a pool. But when he rode, borne up tall by a proud Aramoorian steed, he was a Guardsman again.
They rode in silence for a time, content to listen to the creatures of the valley, alert for any unusual or threatening sound. This area of the valley was secure but they knew also that Voris was prone to sending spies into their midst. They could not let the lulling calls of birds make them unwitting. Still, the day was so fair that some peace of mind couldn’t be helped, and both men settled in for the long ride, the light breeze cool but not so cold as to prick under their leather surcoats. It was the kind of weather they were accustomed to in Aramoor – a hearty, rugged morning.
‘Oh, I’ve missed this,’ said Dinadin with a sigh. ‘If we were not such friends I would desert you, I think.’
Richius laughed. ‘Edgard’s men have been using horses in Tatterak, and they have not fared so much better than us.’
‘That’s not the point. They can be the soldiers they were trained to be, but we have to crawl around in the mud like pigs.’ Dinadin shook his head ruefully. ‘Someone should put an arrow in Voris’ head and be done with it.’
‘And you would like that honor, would you?’ asked Richius. They had spent many nights fantasizing about killing the warlord, had dreamed up a hundred ways for their nemesis to die. But it was always a faceless head they severed in their dreams, for none of them had ever seen the Wolf.
‘I would kill him in his sleep if I had to,’ replied Dinadin with a smile. ‘And I would not feel the smallest bit of guilt for it.’
‘Not me. I would rather face him on the field and see if he is as good with a jiiktar as I am with my sword.’
The boast made Dinadin chuckle. ‘If you want to kill him yourself, that’s fine with me. Just so I see him dead. Maybe then we could get out of here.’
‘If we weren’t here we’d be in Tatterak,’ said Richius flatly. ‘And then we’d be facing Tharn.’
‘So? He’s the reason we’re here at all. If he were dead the war would be over and I’d be home with my brothers. Perhaps we should be helping Edgard in Tatterak, and stop bothering with this little warlord.’
Richius made to laugh, then stopped himself. He was accustomed to the young man’s outbursts, and so decided not to say what had popped into his mind – that the ‘little warlord’ had been more than a match for them for almost a year, had in fact almost rid his valley of them without the aid of his master, Tharn. Whatever else their unseen enemy was, he wasn’t little.
‘I’ve known Edgard since I was a boy,’ remarked Richius, trying to sway the talk from Voris. ‘He’s too proud to ask for help. My father has told me many times of how they fought together in the war with Talistan. God, the tales. One would think the old man was immortal.’
‘Edgard got the best of it, if you ask me,’ muttered Dinadin. ‘He’s the duke of war. He should be trying to take the valley, not you.’
‘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.