Juanita Coulson - The Death God's Citadel

I

The Bazaar of Couredh

AS THE CARGO VESSEL ROUNDED THE PROMONTORY, her

seamen scurried to reef the sail and adjust its braces. The steady wind off

the North Clarique Sea dropped to a good breeze as the ship entered

Couredh's harbor. Familiar with these winds and waters, the helmsman

anticipated his orders and steered clear of the treacherous outer shoals

without trouble. Safely past those and a breakwater, the ship headed

directly for the western shore.

Couredh's harbor was busy with fishing craft and many cargo ships. A

few military vessels, outfitted to patrol the coast and hunt for pirates or

any unlikely sign of invasion, waited at the quay or were rowing out past

the incoming ship from Sersa-Ornail. Losing way at a planned rate, the

new arrival made her way through the roads. She was in shallower waters

now, and her lookouts stood to the rails, crying warnings when she bore

close to obstacles or smaller boats.

Two men who had earlier been helping work the lines left the task to

those who knew the port better and went forward to watch the final

approach to the docks. Couredh's capital was built upon a small estuary.

The harbor was embraced by rocky arms which protected the city from

invasion and severe storms. Its realm was also blessed by a warm southern

current which held back the worst weather of this extreme northern

region. A pocket of greenery at the edge of perpetual ice, Couredh was

basking in the return of spring and the lengthening days. Trees and vines

lined her shores and river banks, and flowers dotted the soiling hills

beyond the city walls.

The captain roamed the deck, supervising his crew, but he stopped to

chat with the two passengers near the bow. "Here we are, lads. Did I not

promise my Wave-Walker would bring you safe to Couredh in good time

for Hetanya's festival?"

"Very good time," the taller young man agreed politely.

"Ai. And never a danger from those pirates we spotted yesterday." The

captain glanced seaward and scratched his beard, puzzled. "The gods

must have made them look the other way. I cannot guess how they did not

spy us and come chasing to plunder us."

"Indeed?" The passengers smiled slyly at one another, a secret

exchanged between them. Then the tall, fair-haired man said, "Hetanya's

festival. You say that goddess is much revered in Couredh?"

"She is hie to them, as to the Irico, for she brings the warmth to melt

the snow." The captain studied them and asked, "Do you not worship

Hetanya on your island?"

"Oh, she is honored by us, of course, but… Gros-Donaq's sons are more

in our thoughts."

"You fear storm and raging seas, as we do, eh?" the captain said

jovially. "Here in the north, you must learn to pray to Omaytatle as well,

the great Irico god, Lord of Blizzards. Ah, but now is the time of Hetanya. I

would guess where you came from, it was warm every season and no need

to beg Mother of Earth to send the sun back in the spring."

Again the younger men smiled cryptically, letting him believe what he

would. "When we land, may we go ashore free, Captain? Have we worked

our passage?"

The captain blinked at the shift of topic. "Ai, certain you have, lads.

And any time you take ship, welcome to sail with me. Are you sure you are

not seamen?" Like questions about their home island, this was a query he

had made often throughout the voyage, only partly in jest. The captain

knew they were not members of the sailors' guild, for neither passenger

bore the ritual scar of the crescent moon demanded by all such. Yet they

had known their way around a slüp most skillfully, arousing his wonder. "I

vow, you spelled my helmsman past a bad chop or flaw as cannily as can

be. And you, you climb to the yard so quick we can scarce see ye move…"

The second man shrugged and sat on the bow rail. "It is a skill I have.

Acrobats must."

"And I am a simple conjurer, no more," the other added. "Erejzan and I

are not seamen, though we thank you for the compliments. Just…

amusers. No more. No more." His gaze was distant, his hand curved as if

using a tiller, a man raked by longing to rule a ship as of old. "There way a

time…"

"Tyrus," came softly, in warning. The captain waited, hoping to learn

more. But the mood which had loosened Tyrus' tongue had been broken by

his friend's reminder.

Disappointed, the captain turned, intending to go aft. Tyrus suddenly

held up a hand to detain him a moment and said with feigned worry,

"Your pardon, but if audiences are not generous here, are there ports

north?"

"Oh, a perilous cove or two, perhaps, fit only for a ship running from

death in the ice or storms. But for any chance of provisions, Couredh is the

last landfall. Forget any plan to go further north, lads. Couredh is the end

of the world!"

As he left them, Tyrus sat on the rail opposite Erej-zan. He watched the

dark waters, warm with southern current, curling into a froth and rolling

along Wave-Walker's well-weathered hull. Salt tang and ocean smells were

being replaced by those of city and harbor traffic and the heady scents of

flowers and young grass. A quay and a series of wooden piers extended

from the river banks and the stone wharves near the city walls. The docks

teemed with tradesmen and laborers and seamen. Rafts of Irico logs, come

down the thawing river, bobbed among the barges and ships. Vessels flew

the flags of nearby Clarique islands and the cities southward along the

coast; but the banners with the crossed pikes of Couredh dominated all

the rest. Gay pennants fluttered from watch towers and battlements and

poles, signs of the on-going festival. Together, Tyrus and Erejzan surveyed

this scene with tangled emotions —anticipation of journey's end and

apprehension of what they might discover when they disembarked.

The captain and crew of Wave-Walker must have known they were not

seamen, even without the proof of their scarless foreheads. Their speech

had an out-lander tinge and their shabby cloaks and tunics were cut in the

fuller south island style. Erejzan wore a breechclout, as did many seamen,

it was true. But Tyrus dressed in trousers, like a landsman, though he did

not bind these in the local fashion. Besides their accents and clothes, there

were other differences as well. Tyrus was taller than most Clarique.

Long-limbed and very fair, he was handsome in face and body, and his

humble attire did not disguise a regal manner. Even among Clarique's tall

blond peoples, he drew attention by his height and demeanor. Erejzan was

of more ordinary stature and commoner features, muscular, with coarse

reddish hair that had earned him many a friendly teasing. He had the

easily burned skin that often accompanied such coloring. Both men were

bearded, Tyrus' whiskers neatly trimmed and Erejzan's as tousled as his

hair tended to be.

"You should not have said that," Erejzan remarked after some minutes

of silence. He kept his voice low. "About remembering. You were going to

mention when you commanded the fleet."

With a sigh, Tyrus admitted, "I was. Riding a far better ship than

Wave-Walker, besting pirates. I wonder what the captain would think if

he knew I blinded his pirates to his presence and that is why they did not

chase him?"

Erejzan frowned and surreptitiously indicated several sailors working

nearby. "Care. They might hear us."

"They suspect nothing, mai fiyel. Besides, street entertainers and

amusers out supposed to talk strangely and posture like lords."

"Or like princes?" Erejzan said chidingly. His knuckles whitened where

he gripped the rail. "Or like outcasts. Playing a scheme they were not born

to, pretending to be amusers, and pretending we cannot remember…"

Tyrus took his shoulder, shaking his friend lightly. "If they will be

avenged, we dare not yield to our grief and sorrow."

That dangerous glint in Erejzan's green eyes faded. "You are right." He

grew sheepish. "I chide you for remembering, and I dwell upon the past

myself. Yet…" He noticed Tyrus looking toward the city and asked

hopefully, "Vraduir?"

Tyrus was intent on a search few mortals could comprehend. He

touched his breast, feeling a hidden magic glass he had bound close to his

heart—a thing of sorcery which linked him with their long-sought enemy.

Erejzan busied himself shaking splinters and water droplets off a frayed

little pack. It was the only baggage either of them owned. The pack had

been sitting on the deck; now he offered it to his friend. Absently, Tyrus

took it and slung the tiny satchel snugly under his right arm and then

draped his cloak to cover it. It was filled with possessions far more

important than spare clothes or bright metal, with more tools of Tyrus'

arts. After a long moment, he met Erejzan's unblinking gaze and said, "He

is close, now. I can easily touch the fringes of his sorcery."

Erejzan clenched and unclenched his fists and exclaimed softly, "He

must be in Couredh. He can run no farther, surely."

"Patience. There is Irico to the west. And to the north is the region of

darkness, the Death God's forbidden realm." Tyrus did not like to dash

Erejzan's hopes, for these were his own. Yet he was compelled to deal

honestly with what they faced-.

Erejzan's voice fell to an aching whisper. "I… I think I sense his

presence, too, perhaps because of what he did to me. I pray the gods this

is the end of the hunt. Do not let Couredh suffer as Qamat did." At that,

they both stared shoreward, searching for a volcano. This was the

mainland, however. There were no cones with plumes of fire and smoke or

showers of fine cinders, none of the potential disaster that had been

branded on their minds and hearts. The hills beyond Couredh's walls were

low and green, not broken by volcanic peaks. The sky was cloudless and

almost hurtfully bright. Iesor-Peluva's golden burden shone down warmly

on the land. But Tyrus' eyes were drawn to an ominous line of darkness on

the northern horizon. The gray curtain seemed, to him, to portend sorcery.

Wave-Walker nudged her way into a berth, out-maneuvering other

ships. The losers' crews shouted obscenities, but the arguments did not

come to blows or weapons. With a sodden smack, Wave-Walker

fetched up against the pilings. Sailors scrambled up to the pier and

secured her. The captain and his men sent prayers winging to Gros-Donaq

and his sons, thanking the gods of sky and sea for the calm waters and

good winds that had aided their voyage. That ritual thanks given, the

sailors began unshipping the cargo of exotic foodstuffs and delicate

pottery from the famous kilns of Sersa-Ornail. Merchants came to the

dock's edge and struck up a lively conversation with the captain. Similar

loud bargaining was taking place all along the docks and quay. The

merchants' big-sleeved cloaks flapped and the captains swore and

everyone dickered for the best price or barter.

Tyrus and Erejzan climbed up to the dock and paused to wave a

farewell to their former shipmates. "Good trade, and a safe journey back

to your island," they called.

"And much coin to you, amusers. Be sure not to trust these

Couredh-yan overmuch. Many are from the Rasil tribes, and they are half

Irico, not true Clarique like us Lorit clans. And watch out for the women!

Those Irico and Rasil-yan keep several wives and are murderous jealous.

Hai! Bite the silver, but the gold you can spend free…!"

"As they constantly told us," Erejzan muttered. He and Tyrus left the

shouted advice behind, heading toward the city gates. "Gold and grir fur.

All they could talk about on the voyage, getting the best pelts and gold…"

"When I was a boy," Tyrus said, "I wondered where that luxurious grir

fur came from. Now I am here. And their gold is supposed to be the purest

in Clarique. A rich little realm, this Couredh. We have much to learn in a

hurry—how they divide that gold into coin, how long they count a measure

of distance, tools to help us find Vraduir, once we know the local customs."

They wended their way through a jumbled open-air storehouse of bales

and boxes and heaped grir furs. The merchants dealing in these were

tended by well-armed bodyguards and private police. These eyed Tyrus

and Erejzan with suspicion. The newcomers opened their cloaks to show

they carried no blades bigger than the harmless eating knives at their

belts, but the guards kept staring at them, just the same. "They are

looking at us as if we were robbers or cut-purses," Erejzan grumbled. He

squinted at the sun and mopped his brow.

"Which suggests the wares they guard are precious indeed, if they

worry about every stranger in port," Tyrus said. He sighed and went on, "I

hoped if I wore no sword, the authorities in Couredh would ignore us.

Going weaponless has served us well in other realms."

"Well, we have turned and landed on our feet in many a realm. We shall

here, too." Erejzan unpinned his cloak and knotted it loosely about his

waist. "If we act like harmless fools, they will forget about us."

Tyrus stared up at the city's watchtowers, noting the fluttering

standards. "It seems the monarch is in residence, and many of Couredh's

nobility are here as well. It must be for the festival."

"Amusers would drool with greed to think of such wealthy patrons. I

would not mind earning a few coins to buy better fare than we got on

board…"

Tyrus murmured an agreement, continuing to look around. "The

monarch of Couredh is fortunate. Goods ships and much trade, a thriving

and prosperous people…"

"That describes Qamat," Erejzan said somberly.

Nodding, Tyrus walked on toward the gates. It was plain Couredh had

little fear of attack, for her gates stood open wide, inviting the travelers

and seamen newly arrived in port. Guards were posted at the portal and

patrolled the walkways of the towers and walls.

But these soldiers had that relaxed air of men whose realm had not

known serious war for many seasons. At the gates, the guards inspected

Tyrus and Erejzan casually, asking them only a few harmless questions

before waving them on through. Less easy to please were uniformed men,

not soldiers but police hired by the merchants' guilds. They were stem and

suspicious and wore an impressive array of weapons. For several lengths,

three of these policemen stalked Tyrus and Erejzan, past the city walls and

through the inner defenses. They lost interest in the newcomers slowly and

at last turned back to the gates, apparently intent on spotting more likely

prey.

The two friends behaved as if they did not know they were being

followed by these uninvited attendants. But as soon as the police left,

Tyrus and Erejzan peered over their shoulders, their thoughts the same.

The redhead muttered, "Those must be the local thief-takers."

"Then they should not trouble us. We are not thieves."

"That did not prevent the guild police on Bendine and Tor-Nali and

Atei from stinging us with their questions.!" Erejzan had been watching

the departing policemen and lagging far behind Tyrus. Hurriedly, he took

two steps for every one of his friend's, saying, "Thief-takers would pay us

less attention if you did not march along like a visiting Sirin or lord."

Apologizing, Tyrus slackened his pace. "Old habits! As to thief-takers,

we will avoid them, this time, by being more careful, mai fiyel. We must

gauge well who we ask about the enchanted ship or strangers seen

prowling near the island's treasures…"

"Remember, Couredh is on the mainland, Tyrus. Hai! And the sailors

were right! This city is half Irico blood, and some of these men do keep

several wives," Erejzan said, gawking.

Tyrus was equally fascinated. Two provinces and their tribes touched

and mingled in Couredh. He remembered studying maps of Clarique and

noting absently that Couredh was little more than a tiny mark, almost off

the charts. Couredh was a wedge of the island province separating Irico

from the last open waters of the sea, at a place where Irico's border ran

very near the ocean. So closely linked, these peoples had intermarried to

some degree, with striking results. The yellow hair and fair coloring and

height of the Clarique joined with Irico's snowy manes and pallor and still

greater stature. There were dark-eyed and dark-skinned folk in the busy

port, though. Tyrus saw men and women with Krantin's heritage in their

blood. As yet, he had noticed no Sarli but he would not have been

surprised if some of those small, curly-headed people from that far land

had made their long way north to Couredh. The coastal kingdom seemed a

crossroads, its population further swelled by the spring festival. The crowd

was diverse but seemed affable for the most part. There were a few

inevitable squabbles over prices and trading and differing customs among

them. However, such noisy encounters settled quickly, without need for

summoning the merchants' police. In fact, Couredh struck Tyrus as

remarkably civilized for a frontier realm on the edge of nowhere.

There was a bewildering jabber of dialects. At first, Tyrus feared he and

Erejzan would sound too much like outlanders. But now he forgot that

worry. With so many varying tongues and accents here, no one was likely

to remark on two newcomers speaking with the distinctive lilt of

Clarique's southern reaches. Tyrus listened, but he heard no other speech

quite like his and Erejzan's. That likely meant their quarry lay further

afield. Captain Drie and his crew—and their powerful master!—could not

have lost all trace of Qamat's sweet tongue in a scant year. They must

search until he and Erejzan found that familiar accent, and the men who

owned it.

"Sometimes I wish… how simple it would be if I could drop our

protection and ask openly if any had seen a man who looked like me,

except older in years," he said wearily.

"Vraduir does not look like you," Erejzan countered, watching him

sidelong. "Not any more." Tyrus remained somber and his friend pressed

the matter gingerly. "Once, it is true, you much resembled each other. Evil

has changed him past all recognition."

"To you and me, perhaps. To one who had just met him, it would be

obvious blood called to blood," Tyrus said with great bitterness. "I cannot

deny the life he gave me."

"And tried to take from you," Erejzan finished with a growl.

"We must find him soon, mai fiyel. I dread what he means to do. He

lost on Qamat. But his ambitions… it terrifies me, Erejzan. I know what

skills he commands, what a lust for rule he has…"

"We will find him," Erejzan said. Then, to distract his comrade from

such gloomy thoughts, he went on, "What a place is this Couredh. I think I

like it. Nobility in grir fur and pearls and peasants wearing untanned

motge hides! Stone axes and swords! Did you see those thin blades the

merchants' police were carrying?"

"That is the Irico sword," Tyrus said, and Erejzan listened with interest.

"It is as deadly as a thicker Cla-rique weapon or the double-edged

Krantin-yan steel, I am told."

They had come abreast of a wool trader, who was haggling over fleeces

beneath the archway opening into the city's central square. A noisy bazaar

lay beyond. But for the moment Tyrus and Erejzan were intent on the

discussion the wool merchant was having with a group of peasants. They

pretended annoyance at being delayed by a pack train of ponies and

eavesdropped. The merchant was displeased with the low count the

peasants had brought. One of the country folk said, "If ye want the fleece

of the mountain woolbacks, ye can go fetch it yerseF, dwelter-man. We go

no more north!"

"Ai!" another put in, nodding vigorously. "Demons up there has taken

whole clans away, into the Death God's realm beyond the Ice Forest…"

"Superstitious babbling!" the merchant scorned them. His guards

nudged each other and laughed at the peasants' wide-eyed fear. "In truth,

you are too lazy to make the hunt up into the hills. I have warned you, if

the fleeces are not gathered in early spring, they are worth less. By fall

their coats will be ruined by brambles…"

"Dwelter-man, pay us our measure," the peasants' spokesman insisted

stubbornly. "We go no more north." There was a flurry of yelling and arm

waving and many curses. But Tyrus and Erejzan had no excuse to linger

now. The caravan was past. Since talk of happenings in Couredh's

northern regions had been buried in haggling, they had no further

curiosity in the talk, anyway. Wondering if these tales somehow involved

their enemy, they crossed under the arch.

To others in the throng, Tyrus and Erejzan seemed to wander the

bazaar at random. They appeared to be studying their competition among

the amusers, no more. But they were searching, each man hunting in his

own fashion. A bond of the soul, forged amid holocaust, linked and guided

them.

They watched jugglers and dancers vie for the crowd's attention.

Animal tamers displayed caged golhi and ecar and other wild beasts.

Merchants brayed the worth of their offerings. Gamblers tried to lure the

gullible into their games. A few fur-clad barbarians, those from the more

peaceable of the Couredh tribes to the north, mingled amiably with the

townsfolk. Jades prowled, looking for clients. One comely harlot accosted

Tyrus and Erejzan and flaunted her charms invitingly. With courteous

regret, they explained they had as yet earned no coin to purchase her

wares. Sighing, she went away, seeking other buyers. Slowly, the friends

went on through the bustling marketplace, now and then whispering to

one another regarding their hunt, or chuckling over something they had

witnessed.

When the priests paraded by, business and entertainment paused to do

reverence to Mother of Earth. The, holy men, too, seemed happy as they

displayed He-tanya's sacred relics, the Adril-Lur, for all to admire. The

citizens cheered, and Tyrus and Erejzan willingly joined in the ritual cries

of, "Hai! Niyah! Hai-yan He-tanya!" The phrase was prayer and battle

shout to enemies who would dare challenge Couredh's patron goddess. In

the southern realms Tyrus and his friend had left, Mother of Earth was

called Ethania and was less powerful than the nature lord, Arniob. Here,

in Hetanya's region, they did not hesitate to hail her as supreme. Mortals

must honor the gods of the realm. It was so everywhere, lest humans earn

the holy ones' anger. They had learned many a new praise to gods and

warlords unknown to them ere Vraduir destroyed their home. Yet in none

of their travels had Tyrus felt more at ease than among these merry

celebrants of the far north.

Erejzan was in agreement. "How they revel!" he exclaimed.

"Perhaps it is to forget rumors of kidnapped peasants," Tyrus said,

growing solemn.

"That merchant did not believe the tales. Do we?"

"Stranger things have been known," Tyrus said. "A ship that sails

Juanita Coulson - The Death God's Citadel

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