It had taken Galen all morning to relax from the fight at Duren Olan. His hands shook for some time after leaving the outpost, and he still felt jittery, constantly looking back to see if that third Garn had decided to come after them for revenge, or just a meal. He tried his best to relax but it was no use. That encounter had been totally unexpected and wholly unwanted, especially now, and he had trouble coming to terms with why it happened at all. And not just for obvious reasons.
Pilots, like all magic users, learned concentration exercises to help them focus when casting or chanting. A magic user with no focus is no more useful than a miner without a pick, because it’s the single-mindedness of the caster that affects the intensity and power of the spell. The only thing the crystals do is provide the spark for the magic to begin, and they affect the duration of the spell, although that can also depend on skill. But every focus exercise Galen had ever learned was of no help to him now. He was more rattled than he could ever remember. But it was more than that. He also felt vindicated. A part of him opened up when he killed that Garn, releasing a weight on his memories that had been sitting there for a decade now. The whole experience had been a small taste of vengeance for him, and he struggled with the empty sense of triumph he’d experienced in that Happaran building.
Memories flooded back into his mind, unbidden, of sleeping in the mountains with his family after the Breaking, over ten years ago. Half his family had been lost during the Great Journey, dying from either the strain of traveling through the mountains or from disease and starvation. All that remained with him when the Anzarins drove them back into the mountains were his cousin, Gelanir, his father, his uncle and two other cousins, children of another brother who had died. They slept in a small cave that night, hiding from the cold wind that threatened to kill off the rest of them. They had little food and only a few blankets amongst them, all they could take when they were attacked. Galen managed to actually fall asleep easy that night, mostly from fatigue.
Then that moaning sound came. It awoke Galen first, who tried to reason with himself that it was nothing to be frightened of. Then it came again, from somewhere else. He remembered the fear setting in, then the panic as he woke his father. But by then it was too late. A pack of three Garns found them, swinging their large clubs at anything that moved. Galen’s father and uncle fought as well as they could, but they stood no chance. One swing smashed his father’s head and he saw him drop to the ground, lifeless. He heard his uncle, busy grabbing the two younger cousins, yelling at him and Gelanir to run away, and they did. They turned and ran as fast as they could, stopping only for one anguished moment as they heard several cries of agony behind them.
The two of them ran forever, until they finally collapsed from exhaustion. They found some cover from the night and the wind and waited, sure that the Garns would find them any minute, but too tired to run anymore, too dazed from the horror they’d seen to keep fighting. They fell asleep, with Galen convinced that they would never wake back up. But the worst part came when they did. They wandered the mountains for two weeks, cold and hungry, surviving on brittle plants and small bugs before they were found by chance and saved by Wind Riders who'd come west to scout. But Galen’s memory of the fear he felt that night never left him. He thought he'd gotten over it. He thought age and experience had pushed the memory away. But the moment he heard those sounds again at Duren Olan, he became a young boy again, and he remembered every terrible part of that night in excruciating detail.
But even though he'd exacted a small price from that Garn for taking his family from him, it wasn’t enough to overcome the feelings of loss now swelling back up inside him. He never got over all the death he'd seen; he'd always been too busy running, from the White Horsemen destroying his homeland, from the Anzarins forcing them back into the mountains, from the Garns who killed his father and uncle and cousins.
Why had this happened now? Why did he have to deal with all this again, when they were on the most important mission the Wind Riders had undertaken in over ten years? Damn Iago for leading them this way. They never would have run into to the Garns had they taken a normal path. Damn Arigin for not taking the lead and making this trip in his stead. Damn the Tyrans for their treachery and destruction. He spent years trying to put those memories behind him, and damn them all for bringing them back.
* * * * *
They stopped at mid-day to rest, and Iago gave everyone an update on the rest of their journey. They’d reached the northern base of Lharsil, almost to the foothills where the rocky paths and sheer cliffs were giving way to grassy valleys and smoother hills. It would take them another two days at the most to get through the foothills and into the Halaraan Steppes. But that assumed that they didn’t run into any trouble on the way. Bandits, slavers and rogues of all types would be roaming both the steppes and these hills. He didn’t worry about being captured or taken, though. As long as they were careful and sharp-eyed they could avoid the larger groups easily, and the smaller ones would avoid them as long as they saw that four of the group carried weapons. Small bandit groups, or slavers, would avoid parties with armed guards. They weren’t worth the trouble.
Iago also told them that they'd taken a fast pace through the mountains, taking little-used paths that kept them out of sight and avoided trouble. But they wouldn't have that luxury in the foothills or in the steppes. From here on out, they would have to face whatever trouble came their way head on, because there was nowhere left to hide.
Once they reached the foothills, they thankfully spent less time hiking and climbing and more time wandering through the shallow valleys and over low, gradually sloping hills, walking easy and hoping to avoid Tyrans. They made camp in one of the valleys and ate some rabbits they were fortunate to come across that afternoon. The group talked lightly, mostly about Duren Olan since they had the entire day to regain their senses and put words to what they saw and felt that morning. Galen avoided the conversation, though. He ate light and slept early.
The next morning brought another day of travel through the hills, their last before reaching the steppes the following morning. Galen was almost glad to finally see Tyr. He wanted this journey to end, so he could get past the hardships of the trek, and the doubts and fears in his mind. He remembered Iago talking about the lone traveler they encountered on the way here, and how he had said some people prefer unknown dangers to known. He only now felt like he understood what that meant.
After another uneventful morning, they stopped at midday to rest and eat. Before resuming their march, Iago turned to Galen and Margis and gave them a serious look. “Wear your crystals and cloaks for today and tonight, Pilots, but take them off in the morning and don’t put them back on. Don’t give the appearance that you are magic users in any way. You’ll be targets to everyone in the city if you do.”
Galen and Margis both nodded, though reluctantly. Galen would be uneasy without his crystals at the ready, since magic was his only defense against whatever danger came next. But even though the encounter with the Garn was still fresh on his mind, he could be practical and stay anonymous for the rest of the trip. He just didn’t have to be comfortable with it.
The afternoon dragged on much more slowly than the previous one, mostly because the weather had become noticeably warmer as they approached the steppes. The sky was empty save for the sun beating down on them, and a faint wind kicked up dust here and there. At one point, Galen realized he’d been lost in his thoughts for so long that he’d lost track of time. The sun sat on the crest of the mountains to the west, which meant they’d be stopping somewhere soon, but he didn’t know when. Iago was unpredictable that way.
Suddenly, Iago crouched low, motioning everyone else to do the same. They laid flat in the tall, dry grass, as Iago stared at something unseen over the crest of the hill. After a moment Jonir crawled up next to him, then Saalis and Hal. Finally Galen decided to go see what they were hiding from so he too crept along the ground until he reached the others. He looked down into the valley ahead of them, some five or six hundred yards away, where he saw a familiar sight. A long caravan of large, wooden carts, some pulled by horses, some by slaves, moved slowly across the valley. About forty soldiers on horseback, wearing the red and brown garb of Tyran soldiers, rode alongside, some using lashes or whips to keep the slaves moving faster, to keep up with the horse drawn carts.
At least a hundred slaves manned the caravan, chained to each other, pulling what looked to be fifteen carts filled with crystal extraction supplies. They would spend roughly two months in a mine deep in the mountains, pulling everything they could out of the caves. Some of the slaves would die in those conditions, but that's why the Tyrans brought a few extra. When the next caravan arrived, this one would load up the carts with whatever usable crystals they'd found, then head on back to Tyr with the survivors. With the exception of Margis, all of the Wind Riders here had seen this a hundred times. Saalis and Hal had actually been slaves just like the ones they now watched down below.
“Miserable bastards,” Jonir said. “They wipe out half our numbers and now they can bring out mining caravans twice the size they used to. Give me a Karawan right now and we could put some fear back into them. And teach them not to be so brazen.”
“Aye,” Saalis said. “I knew we might see this, but it still boils my blood to know what those people will go through in those mines.”
Hal shook his head. “I never knew people ate more than once a day until I was freed. All we got in the mines was some water and old meat in the morning. Nothing else. Barely even saw the sun during those times either.”
Saalis nodded. “Not times I like to remember.”
“Let’s get to Tyr. We make a deal for purifiers and we can fix this,” Iago said. “We can go back to righting wrongs, again.”
The others nodded, but Galen hesitated. It was strange letting the caravan go, knowing the terrible situation the slaves were headed for, because he had never done it. He was used to seeing the smiles and appreciation on the faces of freed slaves, hearing their heartfelt thanks and seeing the gratitude they had for having a new life. But seeing this made him realize exactly what kind of life those people had before he'd ever found them. This was the first time he'd come face to face with what they went through, and it was also the first time he was powerless to do anything about it.
They moved away from the caravan, taking the long way around, just to be safe. After a few more hours of traveling the group finally made camp between two small hills a good distance from the river. Again the conversation was lively around the campfire and again Galen was not part of it, preferring to spend time working on his journal and going over his notes. He turned and watched the others at the fire, talking, laughing, eating, and he wondered how this trip would end. They had already faced death once, twice if he counted the harrowing trek past the Cliffs, and they had come through just fine. But what would happen at Tyr? Everyone who had ever been there left no doubt about the dangers in that city, and here he was, leading five Wind Riders right into the heart of their enemy.
Galen watched Iago, sitting casually with the others as they traded old tales of Anzarin legends and heroes. He definitely had the look of a fighter, strong but with a weary confidence to him that made him seem both dangerous and humble. Iago seemed to be a solitary person, more so than anyone else he knew in the camp, and people talked on occasion about the secrets he kept. Here was the man who would guide them in that terrible city, yet Galen wondered just how much anyone here knew about him. Galen himself knew nothing about Iago’s history before joining them, only that he had spent a long time in Tyr and Elbasa, working as a Guard among other things. Why did he quit? And what brought him to the Wind Riders?
He remembered the day Iago found them, stumbling into their camp almost a year ago and being taken by Landers to the Pilot’s Council for questioning. He’d met with Idaris for some time in private but no one knew what details passed between them that day, only that Idaris had proclaimed him to be one of their own after that, and to be treated as such. Strange circumstances, but no one thought much of it at the time. Galen knew that Idaris and Iago had been close since then, but when they spoke, they always did so away from prying ears. He wondered how much Idaris’ death in the attack a few weeks back had affected Iago, especially since Iago hadn’t been there when it happened.
Galen’s brow furrowed at that thought. Iago wasn’t at camp when the Tyrans attacked because he had some things to attend to, a trip Idaris had approved. Galen grunted in confusion. Why so many secrets? What was in this man’s past that he could never say? He assumed only Idaris really knew, and with their former Pilot-Captain dead, only Iago held the answers. Perhaps that was fortunate for Iago.
Galen shrugged. Now was not the time to question the trust he had to put into the members of this group. He needed Iago to get them into and out of Tyr safely, something he couldn’t do himself. And even though he was bothered by the lack of control he had over that part of the mission, he trusted Iago, who had shown his loyalty and determination many times over since joining the Wind Riders. But with their entire future now at hand, everything needed to happen just right once they got into the city. He hoped that Iago had the same faith in his contacts that Galen gave to him right now.
* * * * *
Iago wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his wool cloak. He wanted to take it off, so he could cool down, but he knew he was too easily recognizable in these parts, so he kept the cloak on with the hood up over his head. The mild heat combined with the constant walking made him sweat like a stallion, but he ignored it and moved on. He would have to see about getting a Liren cloak in town, though. They were much thinner and lighter than this one, and much more comfortable. Although, he didn’t look forward to dealing with Liren merchants.
The dry, cracked ground and the long tufts of greenish-brown grass that stretched endlessly to the north and east gave no doubt as to their location. They were in the Halaraan Steppes now, one of the more arable areas, too, seeing as they weren’t far from the river. Most of the land here was cultivated for wheat farming, and sometimes corn, but as you traveled away from the river, the land became hard and dry, poor for grazing and impossible for farming.
Iago decided to take their path closer to the river, intending to follow it northwest straight to Tyr, which sat on the east bank. They would see more people coming this way, and pass some small outposts and patrols, but that was no worry. This close to town they looked like nothing more than travelers seeking a place to stay, and if asked, they could simply claim they were refugees from the Outerlands, and no one would think twice. They still had a long day left before they actually reached the city or its outskirts, however. Iago figured that if their water held out and they ran into no trouble on the way, they would reach Tyr by evening, so they had to brave the perils of the steppes until then. He wasn’t worried. They were getting close to the lands patrolled by the guards, and in the steppes, he would rather take his chances talking his way past curious soldiers than running from roving thugs working for bandit-kings in the area.
The first signs of settlements came shortly after midday. They passed a small collection of tents, home to roughly two dozen people herding a small pack of sheep and goats. A few chickens clucked in a pen, and two herding dogs ran around the camp’s edge, chased by four children wearing nothing more than rags for clothing. None of these people were Anzarin, though, and the adults looked tired and haggard, even scared, as the group passed by. When asked about it afterwards, Iago said that they were Outerland refugees, called kirfalla by the locals, escaping to the Lore Valley after losing their homes to the White Horsemen. He guessed that this group came from Neratos, or maybe Aberohn, but he couldn’t be sure. A short time later they saw another camp, farther in the distance this time. It seemed to be set up the same as the first one, only twice as large.
Later that afternoon, they spotted a half-dozen riders on horseback, a guard patrol, Iago thought, headed south at a fast clip. Iago’s heartbeat picked up when he first saw them on the horizon directly ahead, but they angled to the right and passed by, completely uninterested in them. Iago let out the breath he’d been holding, and as he did, he saw the same look of frantic relief on the face of everyone else in the group. Iago just raised his eyebrows, smiled weakly and kept walking.
After another half hour of staring aimlessly at the ground in front of him, Iago stopped when he noticed that the others in the group had slowed down. He glanced back to see everyone’s gaze fixed on something off in the distance, and he turned to finally see the dark outline of the massive city ahead. Tyr, where tens of thousands of people dwelled, worked, slaved and fought. Iago frowned at the four, dark-brown spikes jutting up from the center, just barely visible over the walls - the towers of Ocasha Etyr, the Grand Palace of the Clerics. Just next to them, the reflection of the afternoon sun gleamed from the bronze dome of the Tyran Library. Those were the only structures in the city taller than the outer walls, which were said to be the height of twenty men. With Tyr finally in sight, each of the six men stared, either in awe at the great structure, or in fear of what would befall them inside. Iago felt his nervous energy, which came on shortly after midday, shoot up now that he could actually see the city. He looked at the others, who seemed to be waiting for him to make the first move. Saalis and Jonir had grim looks on their faces, while Galen and Margis gaped wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Hal, though, just looked sad. Iago took a deep breath, trying his best to quell the apprehension in his stomach.
An hour of walking brought them almost upon the great city, which now stretched across the plains before them. Already the largest city in the known world, Tyr had become even more so with the recent influx of refugees. The walls were originally built to protect the city from the Galatae, fierce barbarians from the eastern hills who once roamed the steppes in large numbers. But, the increasing patrols of Tyran guards, and the rise of bandit-kings in the vast stretches between the cities had kept the Galatae from mounting any large scale raids near Tyr in almost a hundred years. As a result of the increased safety near the walls, small towns and villages had popped up all around, the best example being Harbortown.
Harbortown was the name for the collection of warehouses and inns that sprung up around the docks on the banks of the Mirken, just outside the city. Most of the main buildings had originally been guard towers and barracks, built to protect the merchants and shippers when loading or unloading their wares. Once the threat of the Galatae became almost non-existent, though, all the guard barracks were turned into inns and taverns, and houses and huts appeared in between, behind or on top of the existing buildings, stretching from the docks all the way back to the main gates of Tyr.
The group reached the southern edge of Harbortown first, and they stayed near the river bank, moving between the docks on their left and the taverns and warehouses on their right. Very few people were out. A small group of sailors had gathered on the dock next to their ship, while a half-dozen more walked the road just ahead of the group, probably headed to the city. This late in the day, the taverns were already filling up, and the sound of laughing, shouting and music echoed through the thin walls of Harbortown's buildings. Eventually, they reached a cross road that turned to the right, back to Tyr. After passing by two stables, a smithy, and several plain, wooden warehouses, they reached the open area just in front of the city entrance.
Two massive, metal-framed, wooden doors stood before them, half the height of the walls, and easily an arm’s length in thickness. The doors were open, sticking straight out from the walls. Iago led them just past the edge of the right door, and as he did he looked down at the ground in front of it. Leaning up against the outside bottom edge of the huge door, near the back where it connected to the walls, were several large rocks. He never knew how they came to be there but every time he came to this city those rocks sat there, unmoving and untouched, signs that these doors had not moved in a very long time. They would be safe from external threats here, but those weren’t the threats Iago worried about in this place.
Dozens of red and brown-clad members of the Tyran Guard could be seen wandering back and forth along the walls, watching the steady stream of people coming into and out of the city below them, or just chatting with the other guards nearby. Tyr had not been attacked by an army in decades, the last being a weak attempt by Otaro to show it wasn’t afraid of its giant neighbor, so members of the Guard typically had little to do when manning the walls or guard posts around the city other than talk or look bored.
Just through the doors, on either side of the main road into the city, were four-story tall guard towers. The walled ground floor of each tower doubled as a barracks and guard station. On the roof of the barracks, a wide, wooden staircase extended up to the top of the walls, allowing guards to move up and down easily. These were the two biggest guard stations outside the Old City so guards constantly scurried in and out of the barracks, or up and down the stairs. A full squad of eight guardsmen stood lazily outside the ground entrance to the right side guard station.
Iago led the group through the doors and between the two towers, waiting the entire time for a pack of guards to swoop down and arrest them. That was paranoid thinking, he knew, but he couldn’t help it as his heart seemed to be beating about ten times louder than normal. They passed without any notice from the guards, who all seemed more interested in their own conversation, and Iago allowed himself to breathe a cautious sigh of relief as they slowly disappeared into the crowd on the streets.
They’d done it. They’d reached Tyr, the grand city of the Anzarins, and the home of their enemies.
Now, all they had to do was get back out.