by John Marco
“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 had 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 horsemen rode to intercept them. Jahl Rob stopped his hor
se. 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 weapon 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.”
“Just you?” Mord asked. “Or more?”
“No,” replied Alazrian quickly. “There are no more Narens coming. We came alone. Just take us to Falger.”
“I am here for that,” said the Triin. He turned his horse around and started trotting back toward Ackle-Nye.
The other Triin waited for Jahl Rob and Alazrian to follow after Mord, then fell in behind them, surrounding them as they rode toward the city. Together they rode along the dusty avenue toward Ackle-Nye while the high sun beat down. Except for the Sheaze River, Lucel-Lor seemed a bleak and barren place. Beyond the city rolled an expanse of nothingness, a hardscrabble plain that swallowed up the snaking river and went on endlessly to the horizon where it terminated in a range of hills an incalculable distance away. The sight of the terrain disheartened Alazrian. He wished that he had brought a map along, or at least some books about Lucel-Lor to tell him what to expect, but the only books he knew were a lifetime away, hidden in the shelves of Nar’s library. So Alazrian took a breath, steeling himself, and let Mord lead them into the city of beggars.
At the outskirts of the city, the same acrid stink that had already greeted them now rose up in a palpable wave, pouring out of the filthy streets to choke them. Alazrian and Rob both put a hand to their mouths to ward off the stench and looked through the broken archway to the city. Every foot of road was strewn with debris; broken glass and twisted metal and crumpled balls of paper that bounced through the streets like tumbleweeds. The once-proud buildings had fallen in upon themselves, either leaning or entirely collapsed, while their smaller siblings, the simple houses and structures built by Triin, were barely recognizable, routed by fire and standing like mute skeletons. Occasionally, what looked like a skull or bleached bone occupied a dark corner, gnawed clean by the rats that scurried between the crevices.
“God Almighty,” whispered Rob.
“Unbelievable,” said Alazrian. “It’s hard to imagine anyone living here.”
If Mord heard them, he did not acknowledge it. The Triin merely kept his pace as he led them into the center of the city, straight for one of the attack towers Alazrian had seen from the bridge. And as they reached the heart of Ackle-Nye, more of the desperate-looking Triin were evident, peeking out of broken windows or simply stopping in the streets to gape at them. None of them bore weapons, but all shared the same wasted appearance, dressed in rags or in mismatched Naren remnants like Mord, their white hair laced with the filth of the city.
“Quite a place you have, Mord,” said Rob dryly. “Maybe get a fountain, a few sunflowers; it could really be a paradise.”
“What we have is what we have,” Mord replied, never turning his head. “And you of Nar have fault.”
“This isn’t our fault,” said Alazrian. “We had nothing to do with it.”
“Aramoor, you said,” snapped Mord. “Aramoor fighting men.”<
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“But not us,” Alazrian pointed out. “We didn’t—”
“Don’t argue with him,” said Rob. He put out a hand, trying to settle Alazrian down. “We’ll explain it when we meet his ruler. Mord, how much farther to Falger?”
Mord pointed at the attack tower looming just ahead. “Falger.”
“Falger lives in the tower?” Alazrian asked. It suddenly made sense. The towers were relatively intact, the best strongholds in the city, and afforded an easy view of the surrounding area. “Why does he want to see us?”
“Falger has questions,” replied Mord. He guided the band to the tower, which now rose up high above them, greeting them with a spiky portcullis. The iron grate had been lifted. A few other Triin milled around the entrance, along with some horses, but none of these threatened the Narens as they approached. One hastened up to Mord, stopped his horse and spoke to the man.
“Down,” directed Mord. He slid off his horse and let the Triin who had greeted him take the reins. When Rob and Alazrian didn’t dismount, he repeated, “Down. Falger is here.”
Rob complied, urging Alazrian off his horse. Both men stood uneasily, not wanting to surrender their horses. Mord sensed their trepidation and tried to put them at ease.
“Your horses. Worry not for them.”
Alazrian peered through the portcullis. The interior of the tower was lit by torches and had a surprising number of doors and corridors, like a tall, cone-shaped castle. There were men and women inside, and even a handful of children, who giggled and pointed at Alazrian when they noticed him. Alazrian made a funny face at them and waved. His antics elicited happy squeals.
“Let’s give them the horses,” he suggested. “I don’t think they’ll harm us.”
Rob handed his mount over to one of the Triin, saying to Mord, “Tell him not to take anything out of the packs, you hear? If he does, I’ll know it. Stealing is a sin. Now, take us to Falger.”
Mord straightened his Naren jacket. “Falger is waiting,” he said stiffly, then disappeared into the gateway. Alazrian and Rob followed, and Alazrian was struck by the strangeness of being inside again. It had been many days since he had entered anything but a cave, and the warmth from the torches comforted him. Jahl Rob, too, looked pleased. The priest rubbed his hands together, blowing into them the way he did when he was nervous or excited. He even returned some of the children’s smiles. Ahead, the most prominent feature of the tower beckoned—a wide staircase spiraling upward along the rounded walls of the tower. Mord took the first two stairs, waved at them to follow, then began climbing.
