The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  By late afternoon Simon had made it through most of the valley. He had almost reached its end when the smell of something dangerous alerted him. Simon stood as still as a cat, and quickly determined the source of the smell.

  ‘Fire,’ he whispered.

  Nearby? He cocked his head to listen, heard the breeze and the chirping of birds. Up ahead was another line of trees – big pines a mile deep. Guessing the smell was coming from the forest, he approached it warily. Then he caught the first sight of smoke. White and thin. And close by. A campfire, certainly. Simon steadied himself. He would go around, he decided, and avoid whoever was here. But when he turned to go he saw a man with an arm full of firewood.

  Simon froze.

  The man dropped the firewood and stood gaping at him. Not Triin. Simon didn’t move.

  Not bloody Triin!

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ barked the man. He was shorter than Simon but broader in the shoulders, dark-haired, and as he spoke he surged forward, one arm reaching for his blade. Simon put up his hands, his mind groping for his pretext – the one he’d rehearsed so long.

  ‘Don’t you move!’ the man roared. He had his broad-sword drawn and held it out in both hands. Simon raised his hands higher above his head.

  ‘Easy,’ he urged. ‘Take it easy . . .’

  The man was dressed like a Triin, but was unmistakably Naren. Simon stopped moving backward and let the stranger approach.

  ‘I’m unarmed,’ he said loudly. ‘Just a dagger, in my belt. A dagger, all right?’

  ‘Don’t you move,’ repeated the man. He had the tip of his sword at Simon’s throat now. ‘Or I swear to God I’ll cut your miserable throat!’

  ‘I’m not moving,’ said Simon. ‘Not a hair.’

  The man looked him up and down, then his hand flashed out and grabbed hold of Simon’s collar. He dragged Simon to his knees, then flung him down. Simon’s chest hit the ground with a painful thud. The man put his foot on his neck and leaned.

  ‘Stop!’ Simon gasped.

  ‘Shut up!’ snapped the stranger. He bent down and fixed his knee into Simon’s back, pressing down hard and putting the edge of his sword to Simon’s throat. With his other hand he grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked back Simon’s head.

  ‘Who the hell are you? Tell me quick or I’ll break your neck.’

  Simon calmed himself, retreating into his training. ‘My name is Simon,’ he said calmly.

  ‘Simon what?’

  ‘Simon Darquis. From Vosk.’

  ‘Liar!’ flared the man. He slammed Simon’s face into the ground. At once Simon felt blood gushing from his nose. He cried out and the man jerked his head back up. ‘Tell me the truth, you Naren pig! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I . . . I’m a deserter,’ Simon stammered. ‘From the Naren legions. Like you?’

  This caused another outburst from the stranger. ‘Now you listen to me, you dirty little weasel. I’m no deserter. And you’re not either, are you? Are you?

  Simon could hardly breathe. ‘I am,’ he gasped. But inside he laughed. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. ‘I swear it. My name is Simon Darquis. I’m a lieutenant.’

  ‘With whom? What regiment?’

  ‘They’re gone. I told you . . .’

  ‘With the Naren legions?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘I’ll snap your neck if you move,’ whispered the man. ‘Now you tell me everything. Why are you here? Who sent you?’

  ‘No one sent me,’ Simon managed to croak. ‘God! You’re killing me!’

  Enraged, the man Simon supposed was Vantran violently rolled Simon onto his back and put the tip of his sword under his chin.

  ‘I’ll run you through if you don’t tell me what I want to know,’ he growled. His eyes were wild, like a rabid dog’s. Simon was breathing hard. Suddenly he wasn’t sure if he could convince Vantran.

  ‘I swear to God I’m no one,’ he gasped. ‘Please, I swear it. I’m just a deserter. I left my regiment behind. A year ago. More, maybe. I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’ barked Vantran. ‘Why did you desert?’

  Simon shrugged as though he was too afraid to answer. ‘To be free. To get away. I wandered here. That’s all . . .’

  There was a softening in Vantran’s face. Simon relaxed a little. It was working.

  ‘I meant no harm,’ he added. ‘I swear it. If this is your land—’

  ‘Quiet,’ snapped Vantran.

  ‘Let me go,’ Simon begged. ‘I’ll leave; go back the way I came. Please . . .’

  ‘I said be quiet!’ Vantran pulled the blade away, but only slightly. ‘Tell me the truth,’ he ordered again. This time his voice was almost desperate.

  ‘What can I tell you?’ Simon cried. ‘I’m a deserter. I’m Simon Darquis!’

  ‘If you’re lying I’ll find out about it, Simon Darquis. I will, and then you’ll be sorry.’ Vantran didn’t move his boot from Simon’s chest. ‘Did Biagio send you?’

  Inside, Simon’s smile widened. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘This is a game, I know it is. All right then, don’t tell me.’ He took the blade from Simon’s neck. ‘You’ll come back with me,’ he declared. ‘Or I’ll cut you down. Do you understand?’

  ‘Back with you? Where?’

  ‘Stop with your questions,’ said Vantran. He rose to his feet, careful to keep the sword near his prisoner. ‘Get up.’

  Simon got up very slowly. Vantran reached over and pulled the dagger from his belt, sticking it in his own. He gestured toward the trees where his campfire burned.

  ‘That way,’ he ordered. ‘Move.’

  ‘Why? Where are we going?’

  ‘Just move.’ Vantran seemed nervous. Simon struggled to keep his glee in check. The bleeding of his nose made it easy to look helpless. He walked toward the trees and the smell of smoke, Vantran’s sharp blade at his back. There was a distinct tremor in the young man’s voice. Good. Vantran would be easy to keep unbalanced. And that wildness in his eyes – he was restless.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Simon asked again. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Your camp is nearby. I smelled it. That’s why I was coming this way. I am hungry.’

  ‘And you’re going to get a lot hungrier, my friend.’

  They walked on until at last they reached Vantran’s campsite. It was a pleasant place, well worn, as if Vantran had spent some time there. Next to the campfire was a blanket and some utensils, and there was a horse tethered to one of the pine trees – a strapping, tawny creature that turned its eyes on them as they approached. Simon moved close to the fire. The heat felt good against his skin.

  ‘Sit,’ ordered Vantran.

  Simon did as directed. Vantran remained standing, staring down at him. The sun was sinking quickly. Vantran’s face was lit with worry, and he didn’t speak for a very long time, but instead simply watched his captive. Simon returned the stare, mustering up all his contempt. He ran a sleeve over his nose and found that the wound was worse than he’d thought. Pain shot through his face and a dull throbbing hammered his ears.

  ‘You broke my nose, you bloody bastard.’

  Vantran sighed. He rested the sword point on the ground and leaned on its pommel. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  Simon nodded. ‘I think I do. You’re Vantran, aren’t you?’

  ‘You answered that quickly.’

  ‘Who else would you be?’ Simon’s eyes surveyed the young man. ‘Look at you, all dressed up like a Triin. I guessed who you were when I saw you.’

  ‘I bet you did. After all, you were looking for me, weren’t you?’

  ‘Vantran, I’ll tell you something. All this time in Lucel-Lor has made you crazy. I can see it in your eyes. Now I don’t know who the hell you think I am, and I don’t really give a damn. I just want to be on my way. Would that be all right with you?’

  ‘Stray from that spot, and I’ll cut your head off
. Do you understand?’

  ‘Piss on you.’

  Vantran scowled. ‘You lousy assassin. Don’t you lie to me. I know who you are. Biagio sent you!’

  ‘Biagio!’ Simon railed, half laughing. ‘Like I said. You’re insane.’

  ‘Yes, insane. And you’re just some poor wandering deserter, who just can’t stand the thought of going back home to Nar, right? You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘Believe whatever you want,’ said Simon. ‘I really don’t care. Frankly, I’m enjoying your fire.’

  ‘You’re from Vosk?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘A lieutenant?’

  Simon nodded. ‘I was with the regiment sent to help Blackwood Gayle find you.’

  The mere mention of Gayle made Vantran twitch. Simon watched him, reading his expression, and for the smallest instant he pitied the man. What Blackwood Gayle had done to Vantran was legendary. Amazingly, Vantran lowered his sword, almost dropping it from his fingers. He slid down onto the ground in front of Simon, his shoulders slumped, his eyes dim and clouded.

  ‘I don’t know what to believe. Are you who you claim? Maybe. If you’re not, then I’m dead already, aren’t I? If you’re an assassin, then Biagio knows where I am.’

  Simon scoffed. ‘Do I look like an assassin?’

  ‘I’ve seen the count’s handiwork. I know how clever he can be.’

  ‘Clever enough to turn starving deserters into killers, then?’ Simon jabbed a finger at himself. ‘Look at me. I’m a rag. All the grain fields from here to Ackle-Nye were burned. I’ve been living in bloody caves, eating anything I can catch or pull off a tree. You think I’m one of that bastard’s pampered Roshann? I should live so long!’

  Vantran gazed into the sky, considering the sinking sun. ‘I have to take you back with me to Falindar, but it’s getting dark. We’ll stay here tonight and leave in the morning.’

  ‘Falindar?’ croaked Simon. ‘Oh, no. I’m not going to that god-cursed place.’

  ‘You’re going. You’re my prisoner now.’

  ‘In Hell,’ spat Simon. ‘What if I say no?’

  Vantran shrugged. ‘I’ll just drag you there.’

  Simon grimaced. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Are you just going to let me starve?’

  The young man looked at Simon. The harshness in his face began to ebb. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  The sun dropped behind the mountains; night blanketed the valley. Richius Vantran sat stretched out on the ground near his fire, his face awash in dancing firelight. On the ground near him was a plateful of half-eaten game bird. Simon watched the young man pensively. They had shared a meal together in utter silence. Simon had devoured his portion instantly. Now he felt full and satisfied. More, he was surprised at how quickly he was wearing Vantran down. The fool had even untied his hands so he could eat. When the meal was over he had tied them again, but the simple act of trust told Simon he was already winning.

  It was late now, and the gray day had given up to a clear night with a bright moon. The cold fingers of autumn crept up to the campsite, held at bay by the glowing fire, and the trees in the valley moved with the stirrings of night creatures. Richius Vantran ate his supper slowly, pensively, occasionally raising his eyes to look across the campfire to where Simon was sitting. It was necessary, Vantran had explained. He didn’t trust his prisoner, especially in the dark, and wouldn’t have been able to sleep any other way. Simon had protested but only just enough to look convincing. Too weak in appearance to fight Vantran, he had let the young man bind him again after eating. Simon tried vainly to get comfortable against a tree trunk, his booted feet outstretched toward the warming fire. His wrists ached and his head swam. His nose still throbbed but the bleeding had stopped and Vantran had taken the care to wash some of it away with a damp cloth. The gesture had made Simon wonder about the man. How old was he now? Nearly twenty-seven? Not so young anymore, yet he sometimes acted like a boy. Simon liked his muddled innocence. He watched Vantran through the flickering fire, his brown eyes full of questions. Simon was safe now; he knew it. Vantran was no killer. And the way he had wiped Simon’s face had betrayed a dangerous sympathy. Already his skepticism was eroding.

  ‘I’m still hungry,’ Simon said finally. ‘You gonna eat all that bird?’

  ‘You’ve had your share,’ said Vantran.

  ‘I’ll need more food if you’re going to march me to Falindar. I might collapse on the way.’

  ‘It’s not that far.’

  ‘I won’t be able to make it, I tell you. Let me share your horse.’

  ‘Tell you what – you tell me who you really are and I’ll think about it.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you, you bloody fool? I’ve told you everything. You’re just not listening.’

  Richius Vantran yawned and stretched his arms into the air. ‘I’m too tired for this. In the morning we’ll talk more.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Simon railed. ‘You’re just going to leave me tied up all night? I’m a legionnaire of Nar, damn it! I want some respect!’

  ‘A legionnaire? Oh, yes, sir!’ Vantran wrapped his arms around his knees and grinned. ‘You have the nerve of a bull, my friend. Legionnaire, indeed. Even if you were one, you’re a deserter. A traitor.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Simon. ‘And you’d be an expert on spotting traitors, wouldn’t you, Jackal?’

  The smile vanished from Vantran’s face. ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘Why not? That’s what they were calling you in Nar. You know that, don’t you? Frankly, I think it suits you.’

  ‘I’m Richius Vantran, King of Aramoor. Call me king or Vantran or anything else, but don’t call me Jackal. I won’t allow it.’

  ‘King,’ scoffed Simon. ‘There is no Aramoor, Vantran. Not anymore. How much do you know about the Empire anyway? Blackwood Gayle’s family took over your country. It’s a province of Talistan now.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘What do they call you here?’ Simon asked. ‘Do they call you king?’

  ‘No,’ the young man admitted. ‘They don’t.’

  ‘No. Because you’re not a king. Even the Triin know that, Jackal. They call you Kalak here, don’t they. That’s their word for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘You are an obnoxious creature,’ Vantran declared. ‘Be quiet and let me sleep.’

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ Simon pressed. ‘Why are you alone?’

  Vantran rolled his eyes. ‘Lord, you talk too much.’

  ‘Do you live in Falindar?’

  ‘I live with my wife.’

  Simon smiled wickedly. ‘Yes, your wife. You left your kingdom for her, didn’t you? We all knew the story. Blackwood Gayle told us what you’d done. She must be something, eh?’

  ‘Fellow, I’m going to tell you this one more time. I don’t want you talking anymore tonight, all right? And I don’t want you ever speaking about my wife. I don’t trust you, and I’m not going to tell you a blessed thing. So save your breath and go to sleep.’

  Simon leaned in closer. ‘Who do you think I am? Really now, tell me? You think I was sent to kill you?’

  He watched Vantran grimace at the question.

  ‘I have enemies,’ said the man. ‘You might be one of them. I don’t know. But I can’t take any chances.’

  ‘Biagio sent us all here to find you, to bring you back alive. That was part of our mission. We were supposed to find magic to save the emperor, but Gayle and Biagio wanted you captured. I admit that. But that was a long time ago, Vantran. And a far as I know, I’m the only Naren left in Lucel-Lor besides you.’ Simon offered a gentle smile. ‘You’ve been hiding for a year now, I can see that. You’re unbalanced, fearful. I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘Are you a mystic too?’ asked Vantran sarcastically.

  ‘I don’t need mysticism to see you’re afraid. Maybe you should be, I don’t know. But not of me. I swear this to you, Vantran. I’m just a deserter.’
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  Vantran looked at him skeptically. ‘That’s impossible. Legionnaires are loyal’

  ‘So are kings,’ chided Simon. ‘Yet here you are.’

  There was a contemplative silence. Vantran’s hard eyes softened with understanding, and Simon watched him coolly, reading his weakening defenses. The young man buried his chin in his knees and stared into the fire, and suddenly he was miles away. When he spoke it was out of a fugue, his tone emotionless.

  ‘So why did you desert, then?’ he asked softly. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Nar happened to me, Vantran. Nar and its misery. I never belonged in uniform. I joined because I had nowhere else to go, and I needed to eat. But when they sent me here, I realized I didn’t belong with them.’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’ The young man was still distant, staring blankly into the flames. ‘What made you leave?’

  Simon looked into the fire too, recalling his pretense. He had expected these questions. ‘Ackle-Nye,’ he said softly. ‘Do you know what happened there?’

  Vantran merely nodded.

  ‘It was butchery, plain and simple. When we came through the mountain pass, the Triin there tried to defend themselves against us, but they had nothing. We burned the city to the ground. We killed everything. I . . .’ Simon paused theatrically, choking on false emotion. ‘I murdered children. Little ones no taller than my knee. I was ordered to do it but that didn’t make me feel better about it. And when we were done we set the whole place on fire.’

  ‘The burning city,’ Vantran echoed. It was what Ackle-Nye was called that night of the massacre. It was said the flames of the city could be seen across the world.

  ‘That’s right. They were beggars and refugees and old women, and we killed them. I will never be the same again, Vantran. So don’t you lecture me about being a traitor. What I did took courage. I can never go back to the Empire. I’m stuck here.’