She lifted Aizarg’s chin. A wave of relief washed over him when he saw her radiant smile return.
Follow her light.
Sarah wiped Aizarg’s face and helped him stand. She placed the end of the leash in his hand. “I will do what I must, but I promise I will do so out of your sight. The only way back is forward. Isn’t that what you told Levidi? I love you, but do not try to save me. I must save you, all of you. For me, it is the only way home.”
***
They walked onto the bridge with Sarah in the lead and Aizarg holding the leash. He wanted to take in the full magnitude of the bridge, but his eyes kept falling on Sarah. Back straight and head held high, she betrayed no fear. Her bravery amazed him.
I am frightened enough for the both of us.
Aizarg made up his mind. He could not permit Sarah to sell her body. He prepared himself to kill the guards if necessary. He didn’t know how he’d do it, but perhaps the staff held the key. The thought of killing another human made his knees weak, but the thought of Sarah sliding back into degradation, especially for his sake, filled him with shame. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was to come.
The first set of gray towers soared high above his head. The support towers on each side of the bridge were composed of four massive tree trunks lashed together with rusted iron bands thicker than a man’s chest. The support towers were joined over the bridge by five crossbeams of heavy timber and lashed into place with more iron bands. Coiled ropes of a material Aizarg didn’t recognize were tied to the tops of each support and then strung the length of the bridge on both sides. These cables were as thick as a man’s leg and drooped gracefully, almost touching the bridge at mid-span. Additional heavy coiled ropes were tied to the long cable at regular intervals, and then tied off to iron loops on the bridge’s sides. Thick, flat boards ran crossways over heavy logs to create a continuous, flat surface.
Aizarg pulled his eyes off the majestic bridge to see Sarah staring at a small, rickety hovel about twenty yards ahead on the left. It obviously wasn’t a part of the original bridge construction. It was a little thing, obviously built by men. A similar shed stood on the opposite side of the bridge, between them a long empty expanse.
Sarah whispered to Aizarg, “Something is wrong. The sentries should have challenged us by now.”
Leading him by the rope, Sarah walked around the side of the shack and peered inside. Other than a rough bench and an empty brass pot, the structure was empty.
Sarah looked around, astonished. “I have never heard of either post being deserted, ever.”
Aizarg let go of the leash and stepped around the shack to the edge of the bridge. He leaned against the rope cable and peered down. The Hur River ran dark and deep, like the Black River they crossed two days ago. The eroding bluffs spoke of a river in violent flood, but the bridge rose so high it felt impervious to its power. Shattered logs and twisted branches piled high against the base of the towers. Aizarg thought he saw chunks of black ice bobbing in the current.
Sarah leaned over next to him and looked down. “The towers never stand in the water, the river always trickles between them. I’ve never seen or heard of it running so high.”
A rumbling to their right, like firewood rolling over a dock, caught their attention.
Sarah looked across the bridge. “Someone approaches!” She placed the leash back in his hand.
The sight of what looked like a large beast alarmed Aizarg at first, but Sarah made no move to run. What he saw was a man grasping two poles, dragging a large object with another man perched on top.
“It is a cart, Uros. You are about to see wheels. Quickly, you must appear haughty and arrogant.”
Aizarg puffed up his chest, crossed his arms and frowned.
Sarah didn’t look impressed. “I guess it will have to do.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a suppressed smile. “Ba-lok would actually be useful right now.”
Aizarg didn’t know if he should take that as a compliment or an insult.
The cart rumbled across the bridge, pulled by a naked young man. Aizarg did everything in his power to not react to the sight of the miserable soul pulling the cart. Gaunt and wiry, with lifeless eyes, the lash marks scarring his back reminded Aizarg of a turtle shell. He wore a thick leather collar with two long reins attached and held by the man sitting on the cart.
So those are wheels. Now the ruts made perfect sense. Wooden spokes radiated outward from a central hub. The outside of the wooden wheels were sheathed in bronze and reminded Aizarg of the sun.
What did Setenay say? ‘The Narim lay waste to entire forests, and then commanded the full moon and sun to descend from heaven to gather the wood.’
Aizarg wanted to further examine the wheels and cart, but he had to keep up the charade.
Sarah whispered to Aizarg, “He is a stump farmer, the lowest caste of freemen in Hur-ar. They farm the lands west of the river. I will do the talking. Follow my lead and do what I say. If I tug the leash once, nod ‘yes’. Twice, shake your head ‘no.’ An occasional grunt might be appropriate, too. Please, Uros, try to look imposing!”
An old man, hard but capable looking, drove the cart. He wore a soiled, roughhewn white shirt and trousers of the same. A plain white kaffiya encircled his head, secured with a black band. He pulled back on the reins and stopped the cart next to Sarah and Aizarg.
His beady black eyes slowly walked up and down Sarah’s body and then threw Aizarg a distrustful glance. Aizarg cringed as the old man snapped back on the reins, jerking the slave down onto all fours. Without a word, the old man climbed down using the slave’s scarred back as a step-stool. He slowly walked to the back of the cart, all the time eyeing Aizarg and Sarah. His slave remained on his hands and knees, heaving for air.
Sarah cleared her throat and bowed to the stranger. “My master and I are on our way to the city to trade. We have spent many days trading on the steppe. Can you tell my master what has become of the bridge guard?”
The old man rummaged through the back of the cart, filled with strange implements and stacked reed baskets.
Those are Lo baskets. Aizarg remembered that Hur traders frequented Ba-lok’s shore camp.
The old man pulled out a wooden mallet and continued to eye them, occasionally glancing at Aizarg’s staff.
“Why can’t your master speak for himself?” the old man said and struck the wheel hub with the mallet. The stump farmer spoke with a strange accent, as if some of his sounds were grinding in the back of this throat. Aizarg had heard this accent very faintly in Sarah’s voice during their journey.
Sarah put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. “My master is a powerful outlander and trader. He reserves his words for those who can afford his wares. I speak to those who can’t.”
The old man harrumphed and threw the mallet back into the cart. “If you say so. My business is among the stumps, where I hope the world is still sane. If your business is in the city, well, good luck. That’s where you’ll find the guards.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sarah.
The old man took a gourd from the cart and walked forward to the slave, still on all fours like a beast. He lifted the slave’s chin and poured water down his throat. The slave greedily gulped it down.
“Don’t drink it all!” the old man chastised and harshly slapped his slave’s cheek. The old man shook the gourd and shot the wretch a nasty look. “Or do you want to have to refill it from that infernal river?” He put the gourd back in the cart and returned his attention to Aizarg and Sarah.
The old man motioned to the east, toward the mountains and the city. “All the warriors are needed in the city to maintain order and keep the market open. Terrible omens have visited the Hur-ar. The people are panicked. It started when the beasts fled the city and fields many days ago, including my ass!
“Now I have to use my field slave to get my grain to market. I should be thankful there is still a market.” The old man scrunched up his face, wr
inkled his nose, and spoke in a high, mocking tone. “‘All is well,’ the king says. ‘Continue to buy and sell!’ he said as the animals stampeded out the gates. The king ordered the city gates closed to keep the rest of the animals from escaping.” The stump farmer spat on the ground.
“Bah! Lot of good that did! The trapped beasts were taken with madness and had to be slain. Not a chicken or a rat remains in Hur-ar. The king’s scouts have scoured the surrounding mountains and steppe for game, but the wild beasts are gone, too. The city still has meat, but not for much longer. Thieves are already raiding the nobles’ fields along the east bank. What the thieves haven’t taken, the river has flooded. Some nobles are harvesting their fields early and burning the rest to keep the prices high, looking for a quick profit. Madness! I’m going to my fields before it gets worse.”
The old man let out a loud, wicked laugh. “Ha! It finally pays to be a lowly stump farmer! My scrabbly fields are still untouched by thief or flood...for now.”
The farmer stepped on the slave’s back and climbed onto his cart. He gave the reins another sharp tug and the slave stood up and grasped the poles.
The stump farmer leaned down toward Aizarg. “Master slaver, did you happen to see any strange sights upon the steppe?”
Aizarg shook his head.
“Hmm, well, is that so? My tale gets worse. For days now the earth has trembled, and two nights ago, thousands of stars fell from the sky.” The old man shook his head and whispered. Aizarg saw fear behind his gruff mask. “The worst omen came when the Narim didn’t open the Black Gate. Never have the Narim refused trade.”
Sarah gasped, and then quickly composed herself.
The stump farmer gazed west. “I do not know what is more expensive these days, gold or food. You can’t eat gold, so I’m off to my fields until the danger passes.” He looked at Aizarg. “Only two things are free in Hur-ar, advice and death. Take my advice. If you know what’s best, you’ll turn around.”
Sarah gave the leash one gentle tug. Aizarg nodded once and grunted.
“You are strange, even for an outlander.” The old man pointed to Sarah. “But even in these dark days she will bring a good price, especially with that hair.” He sighed and sat up.
“If I were younger, I’d pay an honest ounce or two for a night with her. Now I will pay twice as much for another good field hand...or an ass.” He popped the reins and the slave strained against the cart. “Good luck, outlander. May you find profit in these evil times.”
Aizarg watched the cart rumble off the bridge and onto the road. The slave drifted to the side and avoided the deepest ruts.
The wheels amazed Aizarg, but he didn’t think them much good to the Lo. The marsh is too soft for such contraptions. And where would we go in a cart that we can’t go more quickly in a boat?
He turned to Sarah. She looked toward Hur-ar with a worried expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“He said the Narim aren’t trading. That’s how I planned to get us into their fortress.” She looked at Aizarg. “I don’t know what to do now.”
“I thought you said the Narim sealed themselves in and never came out?”
“They don’t come out and no one sees them. The Black Gate has an inner and outer gate. Once a week, the king’s traders load large carts full of wares they buy from the vendors in the market. Oxen pull these carts up the Cliff Road to the Black Gate. The traders ring an iron bell and then the outer gate opens. The traders roll the carts into a holding area between the inner and outer gates and then ring a smaller, brass bell which tells the Narim they have vacated the holding area. The outer gate closes. Soon, the iron bell rings again and the outer gate swings back open. The wares are gone and the carts are filled with gold ore.”
“Ore?”
“Its gold mixed with rock. Gold is sunlight stolen by giants and buried deep in the ground to hide it from the God of the Narim, who wants it back. There are giants in the earth and that is why it sometimes trembles. In the ground, the sunlight mixes with the rock and forms gold ore. It is said the Narim enter the bowels of the earth and do battle with giants to win the gold. The Narim hope to curry their god’s favor by freeing the gold from the mountains. The old temples to the god of the Narim were once covered in gold.”
Aizarg thought about this. “So how do the king’s traders know what the Narim want?”
“The Narim leave clay tablets with the gold. The tablets have magical markings which speak only to traders and tell them what to bring next time.”
Something didn’t make sense to Aizarg. “If the Narim are wise immortals, why would they give the Hur-po the very substance that corrupts them?”
“I don’t know, Uros. Now my thoughts dwell on how we are going to enter the Black Fortress.”
“No one has entered their dwelling before?”
“The penalty for entering the Black Fortress is death. Those who’ve tried are never seen again.”
“Providence has brought us this far. Perhaps the spirit of the mist knows providence will carry us the rest of the way. Come, let us cross the bridge.”
***
The mountains thrust high ahead of them, bright and hazy in the dusty autumn sunlight. The day waned and the shadows lengthened. Sarah and Aizarg walked on the road between two golden fields of grain. Aizarg held his arms out and barely touched the top of the stalks. He remembered another of Setenay’s stories about the Narim.
Food springs from the ground at their very command.
Aizarg wasn’t convinced about the usefulness of the wheel, but vowed to bring the ability to grow food to his people.
“Uros!” Sarah hissed. “Please, get away from the field. They belong to the nobles. They may think we’re stealing grain.”
“Just a few more moments.” Aizarg studied the lay of the land, trying to memorize how the fields looked. Deep canals were cut from the river to the fields, which in turn, divided into smaller channels running between the rows. At regular intervals, small wooden slats controlled the flow of water to individual fields.
Aizarg smiled enthusiastically. “When we get home, I’m going to do this!” He plucked a handful of stalks and stuffed them into his pack.
“We harvest wild grain, but I never thought it could be summoned from the ground.” Aizarg stepped away from the field. “With this ‘farming,’ we will not have to worry so much about fishing or hunting. If they can grow this here, I know we can grow it in the marsh.”
The fields of grain gave Aizarg hope. Maybe that’s why he was led here, to learn this craft.
Sarah smiled weakly. “Yes, of course.” She handed him the leash and pulled him toward the city.
Aizarg looked over his shoulder one more time at the fields stretching along the eastern bank of the river. The lower fields were flooded and the fields to his left were flat and blackened.
The stump farmer’s words aggravated his already growing sense of unease.
If the Narim have turned their back on the Hur-po, why would they help me?
The light brown wall enclosing Hur-ar, taller than five men and as smooth as polished stone, brightly reflected the western sun. Dozens of metal clad warriors stood atop the wall, their long spears glinting in the sun.
I cannot protect her in there. If we enter those gates, I condemn her. If I don’t, I may condemn my people.
The gates were open and Aizarg heard the din of thousands of voices that reminded him of the black river’s rushing waters.
“Sarah?” Aizarg whispered.
“Yes, Uros?”
“Did men or Narim make this wall?”
“Men.”
Aizarg craned his head back and looked up the cliff behind the city. He clearly saw the zigzagging road leading up the cliff, with its dozens of switchbacks. Easily twice as high as the city enclosure, the wall of the Narim appeared black and featureless in the direct face of the late afternoon sun.
Even the Scythians fear this place. I am an ant in the land of giants.
Oh, Great Mother, what are we doing here?
Sarah stepped out ahead of him, whispering as she passed, “I will lead you. Remember what I told you and be strong.”
Aizarg swallowed hard. The only way back is forward...The only way back is forward...The only way back is forward.
He wrapped the leash around his fist and held on.
21. Hur-Ar
The Narim wandered for many years, doing good works until one day they crossed over the mountains and descended into a fertile valley filled with savage men. The Narim took pity on them and taught the valley dwellers many crafts to lift them out of ignorance.
Under the Narims’ tutelage the mortals became a righteous and prosperous people. Pleased with the fruits of their works, the Narim moved on to other lands. However, having come to love the valley, a handful remained.
There came a day when the Narim showed the people a beautiful yellow metal they called hur, or gold.
“Give us more of this yellow metal,” the people told the Narim. “And we shall give you all you need.”
The valley dwellers grew in power and wealth and became known as the Hur-po, the People of Gold. Soon, they coveted gold above all else and took the blessings of the Narim for granted.
One day the Narim said to the Hur-po, “Repent and turn from your evil ways.” Possessed by lust and wickedness, the Hur-po ignored them.
“If gold is what you love, then have your fill,” they told the Hur-po. “You shall drown under its weight.”
The Narim built the mighty bridge and the Black Fortress. They sealed themselves inside and were never seen again.
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
***
Aizarg was drowning in a sea of filthy faces and hands, assaulted by a cacophony of screams and shouts. Dust choked his throat and his chest tightened with anxiety. I am suffocating. Worse than drowning, he couldn’t swim out of the crush of bodies.
“Sarah!” he screamed, with no regard to the charade of being a slave trader. Now his lifeline, he wrapped the leash tighter around his wrist, terrified Sarah would lose him.
Black Sea Gods: Chronicles of Fu Xi Page 27
