Trion, p.1
Trion, page 1
First published in Great Britain in 2022 by
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Copyright © 2022 C. B. Wilde
The right of C. B. Wilde to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
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ISBN 978 1915603 456
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For Rene, Carmo and Sofia: ‘soft Beulah’s night’
‘Fear & Hope are – Vision’
William Blake
Contents
Chapter One
The Blowing of the Horn
Chapter Two
Skirmish on the Plain
Chapter Three
In the House of Images
Chapter Four
The Face of War
Chapter Five
Of Arrows and Images
Chapter Six
Terror at the Gates
Chapter Seven
Taking Stock
Chapter Eight
Tales by Firelight
Chapter Nine
Agon’s Plan Revealed
Chapter Ten
Sogon the Great Warrior
Chapter Eleven
Fidias’s Image
Chapter Twelve
Into the Lion’s Den
Chapter Thirteen
The Dreamer Meets the Warrior
Chapter Fourteen
Council of Despair
Chapter Fifteen
Yan’s Last Charge
Chapter Sixteen
Without the City Walls
Chapter One
The Blowing of the Horn
Daybreak: already many of the citizens of Trion were out working – it was harvest time and there was much to be done. Carts sped out of the main gate of the city, turned left and right off the Great Way and bumped along the rough tracks into the fields. They were empty now, but soon they would trundle slowly back with the fruits of another successful harvest.
Trion was renowned for its agriculture; for centuries its citizens had cultivated the fertile plain which lay between the mountains to the north and the less fertile lands stretching south to the ocean. People came from far and near at harvest time to buy fruit, vegetables and grain crops, for the citizens of Trion produced far beyond their own needs.
To most traders this must have seemed like any other busy harvest day in Trion. But an alert observer might have noticed that the guard on the watchtower, rising high above the city walls, seemed unusually vigilant, straining anxiously to see what the sun’s first rays might reveal on the horizon. They might also have caught murmurings of ‘trouble brewing in the river valleys to the east’. Even so, no one could have foreseen the calamitous events that were to begin this day, events more terrible than any previously recorded in the history of Trion.
***
Out in the orange groves Zeth was loading a cart with other members of his band. He was gazing, trance-like, between the rows of orange trees back towards the city which stood silhouetted against the pale eastern sky. Was that the watchman signalling to someone below?
“Come on, dreamer,” said Zia abruptly, handing him a basket of oranges to load onto the cart. Zia, a tall, slim girl, was the band leader. She resented this job working with the children. She had hoped to be working with the elders now that she had turned fourteen but instead had been given the job of supervising younger children – ‘a responsible job’, they had told her.
Startled out of his thoughts, Zeth hurried over to the cart where Han, the driver, sat nonchalantly chewing an apple. Han was a stocky, rugged-looking man. He was lame and had been given a job usually reserved for older citizens. “Aye, you’ll have no time to stare with that one,” he said, laughing. Zeth grinned in return. He could not help liking Zia. Despite her sharp tongue and surly looks, she treated them well enough, and it was largely due to her that they would finish their work well ahead of schedule and earn some extra free time for themselves.
As Zeth returned with the empty basket, Albo, the youngest member of the band, dropped his basket of oranges on the floor and shouted wide-eyed with excitement: “Look! Look!” Even before Zeth could turn in the direction of Albo’s pointing finger, he heard the Great Horn of Trion calling balefully across the fields: one long, rising note. Two men were holding it chest-high on top of the east wall whilst a third blew. The rising sun caught its great bronze rim, sending streams of golden light into the pale sky. Zeth stood transfixed; for him, this was no horn but a brilliant, weeping star, a portent of doom.
Without a word, Han tossed the remains of his apple to the ground, flicked the reins, and drove off as fast as the old horse would take him.
“What is it? What is it?” shouted Albo, clutching the dwarf rabbit he took everywhere with him.
“Drat!” muttered Zia, looking at the scattered oranges and her only means of transporting them speeding back towards the city. “What are we supposed to do now?”
***
Han pulled up the horse and cart outside the pillared entrance to the Council Chamber and scuttled awkwardly up the steps. He had not sought office; indeed, he had wished to avoid it, but no citizen of Trion could refuse to serve without good reason, and he had none, other than a dislike for meetings and ‘idle chatter’.
As Han took his seat in the chamber, the porters swung the great bronze doors closed, signalling that all were now present and that the meeting could begin. Thea, Leader of the Council, rapped her staff of office three times on the table and began:
“Citizens of Trion, as you have no doubt guessed from the blowing of the horn, our worst fears have been realised. The Lion-men of the eastern valleys have once again risen up against us. Agon, their new leader, has succeeded in gaining the support of most, if not all, of the tribes to attack our city. Even as I speak, he is gathering his forces on the edge of the Plain of Trion less than fifty leagues from here. Our border scouts, who have been watching his movements for several weeks, report that we cannot safely count on more than two days before he is within reach of the city. After many months of secret negotiations, of going to and fro between the numerous valleys, Agon’s preparations have come to a head with alarming rapidity. Even three days ago there seemed no immediate danger. Then, yesterday at dawn, he suddenly appeared on our eastern-most frontier and raised his standard, and like a swarm of bees, his followers came flying out of the valleys to join him.”
Thea paused. A stunned silence fell upon the chamber. Zeth’s father, Tormon, seated at the furthest end of the council table from Thea, turned ashen. He thought of his child out in the fields, unprotected. What if Agon had sent outriders from his main force? What if even now there were Lion-men prowling around the edge of the city watching, learning, seeking easy prey? He had to grip the edge of his seat to stop himself from leaping involuntarily to his feet and running from the chamber.
Han gritted his teeth and cursed inwardly. Why did he have to be sitting on the council at such a time, a time of hard decisions when even the best course of action may lead to disaster? It would be easier to do as one was told. Even so, he could not prevent himself, at that moment, from voicing an opinion: “I have said this before, but I will urge it upon the council once again,” he exclaimed impatiently. “Why do we not send emissaries to this Agon – whoever he is – and ask him what he wants of us? To try to negotiate with him and stop this warmongering before it is too late?”
“Because,” replied the councillor opposite him, “it would be of no use. We know what he wants – he wants the Lion-Image back and over that there can be no negotiation.”
“Back?” repeated Thea. “Back?! I would urge our fellow councillor to be more careful with his words.”
“I beg your pardon, Thea,” replied the councillor, “for slipping into their way of speaking. I meant, of course, the Image of the Lion which they claim was once theirs but which, as we all know, was wrought by the founder of our great city, Los, and blessed with the power to make our city walls impenetrable to all our enemies.”
“Poppycock! Superstitious no
“You may be right,” replied a calmer, smoother voice, “but is it really the Lion-Image that these savages want? Maybe, but they also want our land – the most fertile and easily cultivable land this side of the mountains. They say the Lion-Image was theirs and this gives them a just cause for war. But what really tempts them is our land and our wealth, and they will never be content until we are destroyed, and they reside upon the Plain of Trion. No, the Lion-Image is a pretext; give it to them and they will find another pretext for war. But our people believe in the power of the Image and whilst we have it, they will fight with confidence. Give it away and you undermine our strength; you weaken the resolve of the people and put fear into their hearts. No, I say whichever of you is right concerning the power of the Image, we must keep it and face the worst.”
“I am glad,” said Thea, “that we have such a wide range of opinion in this chamber. It is as it should be for it reflects, as this council should, the opinions that are expressed amongst the people of Trion. But please remember, those of you who doubt the power of the Lion-Image, that yours is a minority opinion and a small minority at that. Indeed, not many years ago, such opinions did not exist, or if they did were never uttered. For this reason alone, there can be no question of surrendering the Image to our enemies. We must therefore move on and determine what is to be done in the little time that is left to us.”
During this discussion, Zeth’s father’s eyes had drifted beyond Thea to the stone pillar behind her upon which the Lion-Image stood. What a small thing this was to cause such a fuss! Small enough, indeed, that a child could lift it from its pedestal and run from the room with it. And yet how beautiful it was! Its face exquisitely carved, expressing such calm, fierce power. It was unlike any lion that he had ever seen, and yet like all of them. Its eyes, carved deep within its head, seemed to fathom the very depths of his soul. How could this be? How could a mere carved object seem to possess such life? Tormon found this almost as mysterious as the legendary power of the Lion to protect the city of Trion. Three times the enemies of Trion had laid siege to the city during its long history, and three times they had been repulsed without breaching the city walls. But was this really due to the power of the Lion-Image or to the courage and resourcefulness of the citizens of Trion? And why was this image – a lion – which was meant to protect them, an image also of their enemies, the Lion-men?
These and other questions often perplexed the otherwise tranquil thoughts of Zeth’s father as he sat beneath the Lion-Image in council meetings, but he did not pursue them. He was a practical man, a soldier, and he usually thrust them aside as idle speculation. Today, however, it was Thea who broke in upon them: “Our Captain of the Guard seems deep in thought – what is his opinion of these matters?”
For an instant he was startled, but he quickly gathered his wits and spoke: “This is not a time for words but for action. You have told us we have at most two days to prepare for an attack upon this city. Very well then – let us prepare for it. Many times have we rehearsed for such a day, and every citizen of Trion knows what he must do. Let us then organise our people to bring within the city walls every morsel of food that time permits and to destroy that which cannot be harvested. Let them prepare our defences both without and within the city walls. When we have set these actions in motion we may return here and debate these issues at greater length – until then we must prepare for the worst and hope for the best.”
A murmur of assent rippled round the Council Chamber; then Thea spoke: “As usual, Tormon, your thoughts are practicality itself. You are right – we must not lose any of the precious time that is left to us. Let us go then from this chamber and set our people upon a war footing. I suggest that we resume our meeting here at noon. Are we all agreed?” There was a murmur of assent. “Then I declare this meeting closed.” Thea rapped her staff upon the table; the great bronze doors swung open; and the councillors sped from the chamber – all, that is, except Han, who limped awkwardly behind, cursing under his breath.
Chapter Two
Skirmish on the Plain
Yan scurried down the grass bank, moving in a zigzag line from bush to bush in order not to be seen by the Lion-men below. They were just visible through the breaks in the foliage around the clearing on the edge of the woods.
Yan and his companion, Dava, had been following this troop of Lion-men for several days now, hoping to learn something of value for their fellow citizens back in Trion. Yan and Dava were scouts detailed to ride the outermost reaches of the Plain of Trion and to report to the city any unusual or threatening movements by their restless neighbours to the east.
If only he could get close enough, without being seen, to hear what they were saying, he might be able to take back some vital information. Then he, Yan, would be a hero amongst the citizens of Trion and confirm his reputation as one of their most cunning scouts. He was almost there now, and he could hear their voices rising and falling excitedly.
The troop which they had been following had met up with a larger group of Lion-men from another tribe and now their leaders were sat cross-legged, surrounded by their men, engaged in urgent discussions. A few more paces now and he would be able to make out what they were saying. His heart beat louder and faster as he drew near; one clumsy move or one chance glance in his direction would reveal him, and then it would be a long run back to where Dava was waiting with the horses, keeping them quiet.
He took a deep breath and, with trembling limbs, stepped cautiously towards the edge of the clearing. Almost as his foot touched the ground, as though it had triggered an alarm, a loud whinny and a cry rent the air behind him. Instantly, every figure in the clearing looked in his direction. He froze in panic – surely, they could see him? But no, they were looking beyond him up the bank towards the thicket where Dava was holding the horses. Something must have happened – Dava must have been discovered.
Without thinking, driven only by instinct, Yan shot to his left, keeping low under cover, gambling that the noise of the startled Lion-men leaping to their feet would cover his noise. He made his way back, stooping as he ran, his left hand tilting his sword away from the ground, his right sweeping vegetation out of his path. He ran in a large arc, avoiding the straight line of vision between the Lion-men and the thicket where his only means of escape – his horse – lay. The Lion-men ran out of the clearing, some carrying spears, others drawing swords, but then stopped, summoned back to mount their horses, their leaders worried that they might run into a force greater than their own. Yan, seeing this confusion, prayed that it might save his life.
So terrified was he of the danger behind that he almost forgot the danger that might lie in wait in the thicket. He pulled himself up just in time – there on the ground lay his friend, his sword half drawn in his hand, a spear sunk deep into his chest. One Lion-man was rummaging through his clothes, another through the bags on the horses. Yan stood for a moment transfixed, then, woken from his stupor by the sound of his pursuers now galloping towards the thicket, he hurled himself in a frenzy of rage and fear at the two Lion-men in front of him. The first scarce had time to turn and face his assailant before Yan’s sword had whipped across his throat, sending a jet of blood spurting in front of his startled face. Then Yan lunged across the thicket, plunging his sword into the second Lion-man’s chest. He fell to his knees uttering two muffled cries, his breath taken away. Frantically, Yan tried to pull his sword out but succeeded only in pulling the Lion-man down onto his face, the sword still buried in his chest. He kicked the man over onto his back; as he did so, a fountain of blood welled up from his mouth and a strange gurgling sound came from his throat. Yan felt sick, but he found the strength to put his foot on his dying enemy’s chest and yank the blade out.
