Athas on Foot: My Stop in Tyr

Part I — Arriving Under the Shadow of the Tyrant

I’ve finally reached Tyr, a city that has stood for over a thousand years. Most places would take pride in such longevity, but here that millennium has been spent beneath the oppressive eye of Kalak, the Tyrant of Tyr. His defiling magic is said to hang over everything, and after seeing the place myself, I believe it. Tyr has grown from a small oasis settlement into a sprawling, corrupted giant of a city.

People like to boast of Tyr’s wealth and power—and yes, the city is known for its iron, even if the production is meager at best. But what strikes me more is how decadent the place feels. Life here seems to be worth almost nothing, “less than a drop of water,” as the locals put it. If someone has the coin, they can buy anything. If they don’t, they can suffer just about anything.

Slavery is woven into every street and courtyard. Only the poorest Tyrians go without slaves, and the nobles run vast plantations by the lash. I was told that slaves outnumber freemen two-to-one, and once you enter the city, you don’t question that number.

Approaching Tyr means passing through plantation lands that are startlingly lush. The crops get more water than the countless slaves who tend them. These plantations belong to the noble families and provide nearly all of Tyr’s food, guarded by standing armies that take their work seriously.

Stepping through the city gates is like being thrown into a whirlwind. Odd caravans push past each other, exotic foods carry unfamiliar scents, and strange dialects collide in the air around you. Every Athasian city-state has its own laws and customs, and Tyr’s seem especially quick to punish outsiders. Anyone who doesn’t understand the place can easily find themselves face-to-face with its templars, or worse, Kalak himself.

Kalak goes by many names—King, Lord, Tyrant—but Tyrians who feel bold (or foolish) call him Kalak the Diminutive. They only do it when they’re certain he can’t hear, of course, since his psionically heightened senses are the stuff of constant whispers. People describe him as wizened, gaunt, and puny, but despite the frailty of his form, his power keeps the entire city in an iron grip. More than one person insisted his mind roams the streets, ready to deal death for even the smallest offense.

As is common in most cities ruled by sorcerer-kings, the everyday running of Tyr is left to the templars. You can spot them easily: black cassocks, rigid posture, and a way of walking that clears a path whether people want it to or not. Their authority is immense, held in check only when it risks angering Kalak, a higher templar, or a noble. Tyrians avoid them, and from what I’ve seen, that’s wise. A templar can imprison a slave or a freeman on little more than a whim.

For nearly twenty years now, all templar roads—figuratively and literally—have led to one place: Kalak’s ziggurat. It’s a massive, square-stepped tower that dominates the center of the city and looms over the surrounding slums. After two decades of construction, it’s finally nearing completion. Lash-striped slaves have carried stone blocks into place and mortared them with what many claim is their own blood.

If you walk through Tyr’s markets long enough, you’ll hear the same rumor again and again: Kalak has ordered the templars to finish the ziggurat before the end of the month. Why he’s building it remains a mystery, and judging by the looks people give you if you ask, it’s best not to be curious.

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