by John Marco
‘They might look benign,’ said Lucyler as they rode out of the town, ‘but they do not trust Narens, believe me. That fellow Cavool would never sell a room to you.’
‘And the lion rider? What about him? I thought those people were outcasts. Do they trust him more than they do me?’
‘He is a Triin. Even this far away from Chandakkar, he is more welcome than a Naren.’
Richius shrugged, still awed by the thought of the giant cat. ‘I never thought I’d see one,’ he said. ‘And this far north! Why would he travel so far from Chandakkar?’
Lucyler looked mischievously at his comrade, a slight smile twisting his thin lips. ‘I told you, my friend, it is the peace. This is not the Lucel-Lor you remember.’
‘I’m starting to think you are right about that,’ said Richius. ‘And incidentally, since you’re coming back tomorrow, there’s a dress I saw in the market . . .’
Twenty-six
Dinadin Lotts squeezed his big body past the throngs of people and stared in mute horror at the poster tacked to the market wall. He had ridden hard and fast for Aramoor’s square, for news of a commotion had reached him, and an unbelievable tale was being told. Now, out of breath and surrounded by shouting hundreds, he read the artless scribblings on the posted paper. It said simply that Richius Vantran was a wanted man. Count Renato Biagio’s signature rambled in runny ink along the bottom. Dinadin stumbled backward into the crowd. Around him rang the astounded accusations of farmers and the bitter wails of women, and the word traitor was on the lips of children too young to know its meaning.
‘Traitor,’ whispered Dinadin. It was being said that Richius had left Aramoor, that he had gone to Lucel-Lor to bargain with the devil Tharn. Dinadin’s brothers had heard it first on the road back from Innswick. And though Dinadin could scarcely believe it, here he was, staring at a poster that declared his friend and king a criminal. ‘My God,’ he moaned. ‘What have you done, Richius?’
‘He has betrayed us!’ answered an old woman beside him. She poked at him with her cane, angry tears streaking her face. ‘He bargains us away to the Triin, that’s what he does.’
‘No!’ roared Dinadin, batting the cane away from his ribs. ‘This is wrong. A trick!’
‘A trick? Are you one of his foolish men, then? We are betrayed, boy! It’s the truth.’
Dinadin shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it. I cannot!’ He shifted his gaze through the crowd, hoping to spot a familiar face. Amazingly, he found one. Gilliam was wearing the uniform of the Aramoorian Guard, bold and black against the dreary backdrop of farm garb. Though Dinadin hadn’t seen his fellow soldier since returning home, he raced toward him like an old friend, shouting his name. ‘Gilliam!’ he cried, pushing his way through the crowded square. ‘Over here!’
Gilliam’s face turned toward him, dawning with recognition. ‘Dinadin!’ he called back. The two locked hands. ‘Thank God you’re here. Have you heard?’
‘Not everything,’ said Dinadin. ‘Why are you wearing your uniform? What’s going on?’
Gilliam grabbed the lapel of Dinadin’s jacket, tugging it with a disgusted snap. ‘What do you mean, why? What’s this you’re wearing? Why don’t you have your own uniform on?’
‘Why should I?’ asked Dinadin angrily. ‘What the hell is happening?’
Gilliam stared at him for a long, silent moment. ‘You haven’t heard, have you?’
‘Heard what? God damn it, Gilliam, tell me!’
‘The emperor has declared Blackwood Gayle governor of Aramoor. His troops are already at the castle.’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Dinadin. ‘It’s true about Richius, then?’
Gilliam nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s not the whole of it. The Talistanians are saying he betrayed us, but if he went to Lucel-Lor he had good reason, I know it.’
‘We have to get to the castle,’ said Dinadin hurriedly. ‘Help Patwin and Jojustin.’
‘It’s too late,’ said Gilliam darkly. ‘They’re already dead. Patwin was killed defending the Lady Sabrina. And Jojustin . . .’ The soldier’s voice choked off, and he shut his eyes to compose himself. ‘I heard he was executed by Biagio. I don’t know what happened to the lady.’
‘Patwin’s dead?’ asked Dinadin, his own resolve crumbling. It hadn’t been so very long ago that he had spoken with his gentle comrade.
‘He wouldn’t renounce his vow to Richius,’ said Gilliam. ‘That’s what Gayle and his dogs are demanding. Anyone staying loyal to the Vantran House is to be killed.’ He drew his sword and kissed its silver blade. ‘By God, they’ll have a lot of killing to do today!’
‘They’re on their way here?’ asked Dinadin.
‘That’s the word. And it looks like we’re the only ones to stand against them.’
Dinadin felt his face flush. ‘Don’t be mad, Gilliam. We have to leave now, while we have the chance to get our men together . . .’
‘There are no other men, Dinadin. Most were killed at the castle. Everyone else is looking after their homes. It’s up to us to fight for these folks here. We’re still Guardsmen of Aramoor. We have a duty.’
Dinadin nodded but said nothing. Duty or no, they were only two, and clearly no match for whatever troops Blackwood Gayle was rolling in. If the Talistanians were on their way, they would notice the brashly dressed Gilliam in an instant, and that meant a fight. Dinadin suppressed a moan. Everything was happening so quickly. Richius was gone, that much he accepted, but the rule of Talistan was no less astonishing. The House of Vantran had governed Aramoor since its founding, and there were many who would gladly die to defend its continuance. Like Patwin and Gilliam, men followed the Vantrans to their graves. It was an inexplicable fact of life in Aramoor, one that Dinadin had found increasingly unbelievable lately. His expression soured. There would be blood let today, buckets of it. He grabbed an apple from a cart beside him and took a bite, chewing it ponderously as he thought. The grocer seemed not to notice the pinching, or if he did he simply didn’t care. Matters of greater weight preoccupied them all, and the commerce in the square had ground to a halt. Gilliam was talking to somebody, a young fellow with blondish hair who greedily clutched a loaf of bread to his breast. The teen seemed enthralled by the soldier and all his bold words. A crowd had gathered around Gilliam, all asking desperate questions – questions which Gilliam was hard put to answer. But despite the cacophony of voices the questions were uniformly similar – what will happen to us now?
What indeed? Dinadin asked himself. He would be told to renounce his loyalty to Richius, and his father and brothers would also. The House of Lotts would not be spared today. Dinadin’s clan had a long and bellicose history with Talistan, and were as well known to the Gayles as the Vantrans were. It would take some fancy thinking to maneuver out of this one. Dinadin nibbled the apple to its core and tossed its remains over his shoulder. Gilliam was still at work fielding questions and trying to rally the group, but he was getting almost nowhere. There was real hostility among the crowd, the kind of bitterness that always grows from betrayal. These were mostly farmers, not soldiers, and it seemed that Gilliam’s explanations were falling on deaf ears.
‘He has not abandoned us,’ cried Gilliam. ‘He will be back. I swear it.’
Some believed him. Others didn’t. And while they argued Dinadin backed away. Without the might of Vantran leadership, Aramoor was little more than this ragged group of workingmen. Their army was all but gone, destroyed in Lucel-Lor, and what soldiers did remain would surely be questioning their loyalties by now. Like Darius Vantran before him, Richius had cut them loose, and the realization flooded Dinadin with rage.
‘Why, Richius?’ whispered Dinadin to himself. It was just one more of his friend’s inexplicable actions. Just then, the familiar thunder of hooves entered the square. Ten or more horsemen, all in the green and gold of Talistan and sporting the masks of demons, brought their beasts to a snorting halt before the rowdy assemblage. Dinadin’s hand dropped to his sword. A handful of the sold
iers dismounted as their commander spoke. He was a lean man who wore no helmet but instead adorned himself with a peculiar, wide-brimmed hat that sprouted a tail-like feather.
‘Folk of Aramoor,’ boomed the commander’s slick voice. ‘I am Ardoz Trosk, colonel of the green brigade. By now you have heard of the treachery of your king. It is the order of Nar that your land has become forfeit. From this moment on, Aramoor is no more. You are a province of Talistan now, and are subject to the laws and decrees of your new governor, Baron Blackwood Gayle!’
There was the expected murmur of shock before the colonel continued. ‘Be cooperative, obey us, and you will not be harmed.’ A wave of his hand brought his entourage’s swords rising from their scabbards. ‘Defy us, and you will be punished.’
‘I defy you!’ came a hate-filled voice. Gilliam stepped out of the crowd, his own sword held ready in two meaty fists. ‘I’ll not denounce my king, dog! And neither will many others!’
Colonel Trosk was unimpressed. A sigh very like a yawn leaked from his lips. ‘All must renounce their loyalty to the Vantran blood. Such is the will of Arkus, soldier. Lower your weapon. You will not be permitted to carry it any longer.’
‘Come and take it yourself,’ dared Gilliam. He stepped closer to the circle of gold-plated soldiers, taunting them with his giant blade. Dinadin felt his breath catch, and took his hand off his own weapon. No one was coming to the aid of this brave fool.
‘You’ll only give us a show,’ warned Trosk. ‘Put it down . . . now!’
‘In hell!’ growled Gilliam, then dashed toward the nearest Talistanian. The soldier had his guard up in an instant, but the force of Gilliam’s overhead blow shattered the defense and the huge blade came crashing down, shearing off the soldier’s arm. An astounded cry went up from the crowd as Gilliam spun to meet the onrushing Talistanians. His sword swept around, catching another in the guts and breaking through his golden armor with the precision of a scalpel. For one brief instant it looked as if Gilliam could win . . .
But of course he could not. The remaining soldiers charged him at once, surrounding him in a circle of sharpened steel. Already the big man was breathing hard. He danced about, twisting his head and fencing away the swords that pricked and taunted him. They lunged at him, nipping at his back and thighs the way wolves do, until a hundred rents in his uniform ran red. Gilliam fell to his knees, cursing and urging them on, ignoring the men who wept for him and the mothers who buried their children’s faces in their skirts.
‘Dinadin!’ screamed Gilliam, looking about in horror as the noose of soldiers tightened. ‘Where are you? I need you, boy. Help me!’
Dinadin stood, paralyzed with fear. Again and again Gilliam called out for him, the voice barely a sob when at last it disappeared. A clammy wetness soaked Dinadin’s brow. He was shaking uncontrollably, as though a winter wind had set his teeth to chattering. The crowd around Gilliam backed away as the soldiers from Talistan sheathed their weapons. Gilliam lay in a crumpled mass at their center.
‘Now then,’ said Trosk, scanning the crowd. ‘Who is Dinadin?’
Dinadin mouthed a silent prayer. There were people in this crowd who knew him, surely, and would point him out if pressed. He worked up his courage and stepped forward.
‘I am Dinadin, of the House of Lotts,’ he said with mustered confidence. The colonel’s head reared back with recognition.
‘Lotts? Wonderful! Then you shall be the first, boy.’ Trosk pulled out his own sword and dangled it at his side. ‘Come closer.’
Dinadin complied, inching cautiously toward the horseman. When he was face to face with the snorting warhorse he stopped. ‘Do it,’ he said harshly. ‘Just make it quick.’
Trosk smiled sardonically. ‘You know the law now, Lotts. Will you obey it?’
The question hung in the air with the heaviness of an anvil, and all watched Dinadin for his reaction. The offered sword lay loosely at the horse’s flank, awaiting an answer. A twitch of the hand could bring it to his throat. Dinadin was silent.
‘Will you renounce your loyalty to the House of Vantran?’ asked Trosk impatiently. ‘Swear all your allegiance to Nar?’
Hot tears were coming in streaks now. Embarrassed, Dinadin wiped them away, burying his face in his sleeve. The eyes of the masses burned into him, waiting and wondering what they would see. And as they watched him his every thought was of Richius. Richius, dear friend and betrayer. It had been far too long, he decided in that moment. Perhaps if he hadn’t shunned his king, things would have turned out differently.
Slowly he reached out and touched the blade. The thought of running his wrist over its edge briefly raced through his mind. But what shame was there in this, truly? What unworthy cause had Gilliam died for? They had all been duped into loving a clan of traitors. Perhaps the price of stupidity was a nation’s sovereignty.
In grief and anguish, he leaned forward and kissed the sword from Talistan.
Twenty-seven
On the eve of Casadah, the great holy day of the Drol, Richius and Lucyler arrived at the citadel of Falindar. They had made it to the north of Tatterak, where the cold sea lapped against the rocky earth and the mountains were tall and secretive. On such a mountain the citadel towered, precariously poised near a sheer cliff face bleached white by the violent surf a thousand feet below. Only one passage led to the citadel, a well-built road wide enough to accommodate the royal processions of the citadel’s former master, and studded along its length with monolithic torches so that the way to the place was both lit and shadowy even in the smallest hours of the night. Like the awesome constructs of Nar, the citadel of Falindar dominated the horizon, its cleanly formed spires at once bleak and beautiful, hued an eerie pink by the crescent moon.
The wind was sighing as Lucyler brought his mount to a halt. A haunted smile cracked his tired expression.
‘We have made it,’ he said solemnly. There were seabirds in the distance, drifting wraithlike in the moonbeams, and the torches stirred fitfully in the breeze.
‘Welcome home,’ said Richius. He stared up at the citadel in reverence, awed by its unnatural beauty. He had heard stories of this place since the time he first came to Lucel-Lor. It was the birthplace of the revolution, and in the hearts of all who struggled here the name ‘Falindar’ had a certain infamy. He watched Lucyler’s eyes glow, and wondered if he had looked the same upon seeing Aramoor again.
‘Did I not tell you it was beautiful?’
‘It’s more than I expected,’ answered Richius. ‘No wonder Tharn kept it for himself.’
‘No, Richius, please,’ Lucyler implored. ‘Let us not have that argument again. Not now.’
Richius agreed, but the little tugging at his conscience wouldn’t be ignored. Falindar had fallen on the first night of the revolution, victim of a Drol attempt to free their leader from the citadel’s prison. The attack had forced the Daegog into exile, and had thrown Lucyler and the other men loyal to the Triin leader into chaos, scattering them to the corners of Lucel-Lor. Just how Lucyler had come to forget his plight was a mystery to Richius. But then he looked again on the magnificent citadel and he understood. The place was a diamond, shimmering darkly in the night. It was perhaps the finest man-made thing Richius had ever seen, so much more holy than the Cathedral of the Martyrs in Nar. For all its science and superstructure, the Black City had nothing to rival the beauty of Falindar.
‘I’m envious of you,’ he said quietly. ‘Come, let’s go quickly. The sooner I’m done here, the sooner I can return home myself.’
‘It is late, Richius. I doubt you will be seeing Tharn tonight.’
‘Late? I’ve traveled for three weeks to get here. I’m sure your lord can endure the inconvenience of some lost sleep.’
Lucyler made to speak, but the sudden appearance of an approaching rider silenced him. The horseman blazed out of the darkness, unmistakably Triin in his militant ensemble. His hair didn’t gleam white, but instead was dyed cucumber green, and half the wild face beneath t
he shocking mane was green, too, smeared with greasy paint. A jacket of indigo covered him to the loins, girthed by a brilliant sash of gold. Around his head was belted the narrow skin of an animal, and doe-hide boots with long, looping laces rose up the length of his shanks. He was a picture of madness as he raced through the night, his loose clothes streaming out behind him like the tail of a comet.
‘One of Kronin’s,’ Richius remarked. He had seen this ilk before, many times. ‘A messenger?’
‘A herald,’ replied Lucyler. ‘We have been seen.’
The rider drove his horse furiously down the winding road, the obligatory jiiktar glimmering on his back. When he reached the newcomers he pulled back on the reins, bringing the lathered beast to a snorting stop. A great smile stretched across his painted face as he regarded Richius. Richius stared back at him.
‘Joaala akka, Loocylr,’ said the warrior, tipping his head in respect. Lucyler returned the greeting with the same slight bow.
‘Joaala akka, Hakan.’
The warrior then turned to Richius, and this time his bow was slow and deep. He did not look upon Richius as he spoke, but kept his eyes fixed to the dark earth as he extended a long, incomprehensible greeting. When the stream of words finally ended the head stayed bowed. Richius looked questioningly at Lucyler.
‘This is Hakan,’ said Lucyler. ‘One of Kronin’s warriors. He welcomes you to Falindar and says he is pleased to meet you . . . great king.’
Richius warmed to the man at once. ‘How should I answer him?’
‘You can simply say thank you. Say shay sar.’
‘Shay sar, Hakan,’ said Richius, wrapping his tongue the best he could around the strange words. Hakan at last lifted his head. There was a disquieting awe to his expression, as though he expected something more. Richius had to look away.
‘Why is he looking at me? Did I say it right?’
‘I warned you, my friend,’ chuckled Lucyler. ‘You are a curiosity here. Yes, you said it right. Hakan is merely amused to see you.’ Lucyler turned to the warrior and spoke a few more words, to which Hakan replied with laughs and nods.