Chapter Sixteen
Unkabi was a fair city no longer. Even a fool could tell that it had been glorious once, in the days when Varo had conquered the east, or when Anzalan had come north from Huz to conquer Vurun. Its lustre was gone, its splendour a thing of the past. The walls had once been tall and impenetrable. Now they were decaying, with great gaps where some conqueror of old had erected trebuchets to crack the defences of the great city. Still, however, the city stood. There was no gate and nothing to keep anyone in or out. Huge marble columns had fallen and lay beside a broken stone road that led to the crumbling old gate. Statues of kings lined the road there too, many missing arms, heads, or even torsos, a shattered reminder of old glory. A smattering of merchants had constructed makeshift stalls to sell wares between the statues. Clusters of beggars sat along the road with downcast eyes and little bowls to collect money or food. A few other people walked along the road either loitering or browsing the shops. It was not crowded, but nor was the street vacant. Most people moved aside for the horses, and both shoppers and merchants hushed as the 13th passed by. Only one old beggar stood in the road laughing and refused to move aside. The old man was dressed in rags. He had two indigo eyes, the same as Mar’s blind eye. He kept laughing as they approached. As they came close, Dryden could see that the man was missing fingers and toes, and part of his jaw was beginning to rot away.
Dryden pulled on his reins and stopped Rosie, “Ugruz, tell this man to move.”
The big man translated, but the old man just laughed and did a little dance in the street, “He says you’ll have to wait for him to move when he pleases, or ride over him.”
“He’s mad. Tell him we will move him by force, though I do not wish him harm.”
Before Ugruz could translate, Mar interjected, “A moment, sir,” The mage dismounted, walked up to the old man, and waved his hand in front of the man’s face. The man did not react, “He’s blind.”
The man spoke again, this time to Mar. Dryden did not recognise the tongue. It was nothing like the languages he was used to, guttural and all sharp edges, but it flowed easily past the beggar’s decaying lips. Ugruz translated, “He says he smells the god of the earth and sky upon you, warlock.”
“What god?” Mar demanded.
“Tizrun. I told you, that is his mark on your face. He has marked this man too. He is doubly marked. Count your blessings he has only taken one of your eyes.”
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“Why did the god mark him? Ask him that.” Mar demanded, his tone growing hot. Wind swirled through the open street.
The man laughed and danced a little, “He begs you, give him coin and he will tell you,” Ugruz explained.
Mar growled and began to search in his coat. He pulled a silver coin and handed it to the man. The man bit the coin between his molars, then pocketed the coin. The man frowned at Mar and said something, “He wants gold.” Ugruz relayed.
Mar found a gold coin and handed it over, the man tested it again and then laughed and danced strangely again, then spoke, this time for longer, Ugruz translated as he went on, “He says he tried to climb the mountains holy to Tizrun when he was a young man. That is the Shan. It is forbidden to climb the peaks. He says he wanted power. He thought to climb them so he could ask Tizrun for a blessing. He says that the god found him and blessed him, but cast him down and gave him no power. He says the god spared his life, and that was blessing enough. He thanks you for the coin.” The man cackled again, and something in those blind amethyst eyes seemed to twitch and look around strangely as if the man could see something for a moment. Then the old beggar moved from the road.
Ugruz spoke now without translating, “Tizrun is not a god to ask blessings from. He is a god that you beg to spare you and a god you invoke for revenge. That is the god of this land.”
A shiver went down Dryden’s spine as Ugruz spoke. He remembered his curse upon his enemies at Settru Pass. He remembered his plea for survival. Had he truly been heard? He knew he had felt it. Had it been a trick in his mind, or something real lurking in the stone of the mountains? Mar had spoken of feeling a great presence, and furthermore, he was scarred and changed by what he experienced. Mar was much the same man he knew from before, but there was something new about him now too. Dryden knew that he too had been changed by his experiences. Was it having borne witness to all the death, of having survived hardships and privations, or was there something deeper, was it this god of the east, this Tizrun?
Mar hesitated as the beggar hobbled his way out of the road. The old man was mad. Ugruz was a superstitious stranger of lands half a continent away. What did they know? Mar turned, his pale face filled with an uncertainty that Dryden had rarely seen. He mounted back up and said nothing, lost in thought. The road cleared, he kicked his horse, and the 13th began moving again down the road and into the dilapidated city. They rode through the towering marble gate. Once it had been a fine thing, carved and painted with intricate pictures of a prosperous land, at the top Dryden could still see a graven bas-relief image carved in the old stone.
“Who is that?” Dryden asked, pointing to the figure.
“Tizrun. God over all from the Kryval to the Kizil and beyond to the east.”
To Dryden the figure looked less a god and more a demon creature of old, then they were passed beneath it and into the city of Unkabi, “Know you where to find this Shuja?” Dryden asked Ugruz as they rode forward.
“I do. He will be in the upper quarter. He lives in a manse near the great bazaar,” Ugruz answered, his voice grave, “I do not wish to see him again, but I will take you.”
They turned their horses north along an old avenue where only beggars and stray dogs dwelled, and made their way through the crumbling streets of Unkabi, the Jewel of the Kizil.