by John Marco
“Biagio!”
• • •
Biagio staggered forward, listening to the soldier calling retreat. Around him, the men of clans Kellen and Grayfin were hacking through the infantry, but now the footmen were faltering, falling back as they heard the captain’s cry. Biagio himself fell back, barely able to hold himself up. His arms ached and his side screamed with pain, and the blood from a head wound trickled into his eyes, blinding him. But he gathered enough wits to call for quarter, waving his sword as he struggled for attention.
“Enough!” he called. “They’re retreating!”
He hardly heard his voice over the sounds of battle. Men were surging out of the river desperate to escape the Highlanders and their beasts, which seemed to be everywhere now, slashing their antlers and bellowing in blood lust. Vandra Grayfin was nearby screaming atop her latapi as she drove it through a collapsing wall of soldiers. Unable to flee the river in time, the men fell beneath its crushing hooves.
“Stop!” roared Biagio. “Enough, I say!”
At last the Highlanders heard him. One by one they ceased their attack and let the Talistanians climb the riverbank to safety. In the distance, Gayle’s archers were fleeing the field. What was left of his infantry began limping after them. And in the center of the scene was Tassis Gayle, still resplendent in his armor, still vainglorious upon his charger. The King of Talistan had a broadsword in his hands and was looking toward the Silverknife—looking, Biagio realized, straight at him.
“Gayle!” cried Cray Kellen. The Lion bolted forward with a raised sword, rushing past Biagio.
“No, Kellen. Stay!”
Biagio’s command stopped the Highlander midcharge.
“Kellen, no more,” he said wearily. “It’s over.”
“It’s not over,” said Grayfin. “Look at him! He’ll never surrender.”
“You’ve lost, Gayle,” Biagio shouted. “Surrender while you still have the chance.”
The king kept his broadsword in both hands. He didn’t say a word, but slowly shook his head. Biagio’s grip weakened
on his weapon. He was unspeakably tired and plagued by a thousand aches; even talking exhausted him. With the Highlanders watching, Biagio trudged toward the riverbank and set foot in Talistan.
“Tassis,” he croaked, “I’m warning you. You don’t have a chance.” He wasn’t sure if the old man realized he’d been deserted.
“You took them from me,” said Gayle. “You took away my son, then you took my daughter.”
“Calida died from a cancer, Tassis. Blackwood died in battle.”
“Because you abandoned him!” Gayle thundered. “You left him in Lucel-Lor for Vantran to slaughter! You killed him. And now I’m going to avenge him.”
“Look around,” Biagio suggested. “What makes you think you can win?”
“All I want is you,” replied Gayle.
“I’m your emperor.”
“Never!”
“I am,” said Biagio. “Pledge yourself to me, acknowledge my claim to the throne, and I’ll let you live.”
“In hell.”
“Say it,” ordered Biagio. “Say that I’m your emperor.”
Gayle refused to lower his weapon.
“Tassis, I’ve changed,” said Biagio. “I’m not the man I was when Blackwood died.”
Gayle laughed. “Men like you never change. You were a demon when you were Arkus’ spymaster, and you’re a demon now. I’m going to kill you, Biagio. I’m going to do what should have been done years ago.”
“Oh, let me kill him!” growled Cray Kellen. “Lord Emperor, please …”
“No,” spat Biagio. Suddenly he knew he had to fight Gayle. “I am the Emperor of Nar,” he declared. “No one will take the Iron Throne from me.”
“Prove it,” challenged Gayle.
Biagio lifted his sword. “Very well, old one.”
Tassis Gayle slipped down from his mount, slapping its rump and sending it galloping off. The king took a stride toward the emperor, his sword held in both hands. He looked remarkably virile, as if his insanity had revitalized him. He held his head high as he removed his helmet and dropped it to the ground.
“I am twice the man you are,” he told Biagio. “You’re not even a man. You are a creature.”
Biagio stalked closer, keeping his weapon raised. In his youth he had studied swordplay as well as the piano, and was deft with his weapon. But he was tired, and his clash with the infantry had given him a hundred minor wounds. Blood still dripped in his eyes. Angrily he wiped it away.
Angrily …
Be angry, he told himself. Use your rage …
As he began circling his foe, he remembered how Bovadin’s drug had once given him strength. He concentrated on that feeling, summoning the drug’s remnants from the dusty corners of his mind.
“Look at you,” taunted Gayle. “You can barely stand. Who is old now, man-girl?”
The insults stung. Biagio’s eyes burned, the way they had during his treatments. His hand tightened around his sword, his fingers growing stronger. As the fury inside him crested, his mind clouded with madness.
“I am the Emperor of Nar,” he declared. “I am your master, Tassis Gayle.”
“You are a murderer and sodomite,” Gayle retorted. “You’re going straight to hell.”
Suddenly Gayle lunged forward, a scream erupting from his throat. His sword slashed down, grazing Biagio. Biagio felt the bite of the steel tear his leather armor, slicing down his arm. Quickly he turned and answered the blow, swiping his sword at Gayle’s legs. Gayle’s broadsword parried the blade easily. Biagio dropped back, breathing hard.
“Weakling!” jeered the armored giant. “Come on, Crotan! Show me what you’ve got!”
Biagio lunged toward him, unleashing a flurry of thrusts, driving Gayle backward. The old man blocked each blow expertly, using his sword and armor to every advantage. Biagio pressed the attack, forcing his spent muscles to their limits.
“I am emperor!” he chanted, trying to stoke his anger. “Emperor!”
Gayle answered his claim with a block and a back-fist, smashing his gauntlet into Biagio’s face. The shot blinded Biagio, sending him reeling. Instinctively he raised his sword to block the coming blows, working his blade through a haze of blood. An enormous pain shot through his skull. He was losing strength, losing the battle.
“No!” he cried. “I will win!”
He’d come too far, fought too many battles with too many petty kings. He wouldn’t lose to Tassis Gayle; not this duel, and not the Iron Throne. And this above all summoned the residual drug from his bloodstream, searing his eyes and flooding his body with power. He charged forward with a new barrage, moving with lightning speed. Gayle backpedaled, desperately trying to absorb the blows, his face twisting with surprise. His big sword became clumsy, too slow for Biagio’s attack. The sword pierced the chainmail at his shoulder. Gayle cried in pain, then turned and let loose a flurry of his own. But the emperor’s blade was everywhere suddenly, blocking and twisting with drug-induced speed. Biagio saw it all in a blur, for once again he was his infamous self and all the guilt of his murderous past fell away.
“Die, you treacherous fossil!” he cried. “Die like your son and daughter!”
He flew at Gayle, ignoring the broadsword and golden armor. His blade danced over the king’s body, slashing at his breastplate then rushing up to score his face. Gayle roared as the weapon tore his chin, nipping out a chunk of flesh and spraying blood down his neck. The opening was all Biagio needed. He brought his sword down on Gayle’s hand, slicing the thin metal of the gauntlet and severing two fingers. Gayle wailed in horror and dropped his sword. Biagio stalked after him, sending him tumbling backward. Like a golden turtle on its back, Gayle stared up at Biagio.
“I win!” declared Biagio. He fell onto Gayle’s chest and put the tip of his blade to his gorget. “How does it feel, Gayle? What’s it like to be so close to death?”
The old man’s expressio
n was resolute. “Look at you,” he said between gasps. “You’re insane. You’ve always been …”
“I’m not insane!”
“You are,” said Gayle. “I can see it in you, like a disease.”
“No.” Biagio pressed on the sword, pushing against Gayle’s windpipe. “I’ve changed.”
“You haven’t,” said Gayle. “You’re still a maniac.”
“Repent, serpent! Acknowledge me as your emperor. Swear it, before all these men!”
Something like pity flashed in Gayle’s eyes. “Send me to my children.”
“Swear it!”
“Maniac,” said Gayle. “A bloodthirsty, girl-pretty sodomite …”
Biagio fell against his sword, plunging it through Gayle’s throat. A spray of blood spouted up. Tassis Gayle gurgled something, barely audible, choking for air.
“Insane…”
Shaking with rage, Biagio watched him die. Blood foamed and bubbled at his gorget. The King of Talistan closed his eyes, shuddered a final gasping breath, then died. Unable to rise, Biagio stared at him. A crowd of Highlanders had gathered, looking at the pair in amazement.
“Emperor,” said Vandra Grayfin. “Are you all right?”
“I’m all right,” gasped Biagio.
But he wasn’t all right. He was trembling. With effort he lifted his head, desperate for air. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he didn’t know why.
Cray Kellen hurried toward him, helping him to his feet. Biagio collapsed against him, unable to stand. He looked at the clan leader imploringly.
“I’m the emperor …”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Kellen. “You are.”
Kellen guided Biagio away from Gayle’s corpse, setting him down in a clear patch of grass. While Vandra Grayfin ordered the other Highlanders back, Kellen knelt next to Biagio.
“We have won, Lord Emperor,” he said. “You have won.”
Biagio nodded dully. “I’m the emperor,” he said again.
“Yes, my lord.” Kellen forced a smile. “Yes, you are emperor.”
FIFTY
For almost an hour, Richius and his army had marched unopposed toward Aramoor castle. The apple orchards and horse farms stretched out alongside him as he navigated the familiar roads. His strange band of refugees and foreigners had not gone unnoticed, and farmers and ranchers ran out to see them as they rode, shocked by the sight of the Triin and their own, illegal flag. Jahl and his Saints waved to the people, announcing the return of King Richius. The reaction among them all was uniform shock. As he rode at the head of his column, enduring the wide-eyed stares of his people, Richius felt remarkably tiny. He hadn’t expected parades for his homecoming, but he hadn’t expected silence, either. In his absence, something had happened to his people—they had been cowed by Talistan’s whip.
“We’re making good progress,” said Jahl.
They were riding through a large field, the ranch of a former Saint named Ogan, who had died from lung disease. Ogan’s widow stood in the porch of her house watching them blankly as they rode through. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, but now she seemed like a spinster.
“Richius, are you listening to me?” asked Jahl.
Richius nodded. Ogan’s widow continued to stare at him.
“I said we’re making good time,” Jahl went on. “We’re unopposed, and we’ll be at your castle in another hour.”
“If my father doesn’t send more troops,” said Alazrian. The boy was riding beside Richius, with Praxtin-Tar close to his right. “He knows by now we’re coming.”
Jahl laughed. “What troops? They’re all in Talistan.”
“We hope,” said Ricken. He and Parry rode close to Jahl. “We don’t know if Biagio has come, remember.”
“I know,” said Alazrian. “I believe him.”
“Good for you, lad,” joked Jahl. “What do you think, Richius? What will Leth say when he sees us coming, do you think?”
“What’s her name?”
“Eh?”
“Ogan’s widow. What’s her name?”
“Richius, stop it,” said Jahl. “Look at me.”
Richius pulled his eyes away from the widow. “What?”
“Forget the woman,” scolded the priest. “Concentrate on the battle. Now, what do you think we’ll be up against at the castle? Alazrian thinks all the troops have probably gone to fight the Highlanders. Do you think so?”
“Uhm, yes. Probably. I don’t know.”
“For God’s sake, Richius …”
“Who’s taking care of her?” Richius looked back at the woman. “I mean, with Ogan gone, what’s she been doing for food?”
Jahl hesitated, not wanting to answer.
“Well?”
“We sent her some food when Ogan died,” said Ricken. “That was all we could do. We couldn’t risk coming back into Aramoor. The soldiers watch her.”
“Watch her? What do you mean …”
But then he understood. A pretty woman with no husband and no way to run her farm; it all made sense.
Praxtin-Tar spoke then, pointing. Across the field, another company of horsemen was approaching, Talistanians with golden-green armor and long lances tucked beneath their arms. Praxtin-Tar sat up, looking pleased.
“You were saying something about being unopposed, weren’t you, Jahl?” asked Richius dryly.
“They’re from the castle,” said Alazrian. “Leth sent them.”
“Well, they’re your people,” said Jahl. “Maybe you can talk to them, tell them to surrender.”
“Look alert,” Richius directed. He looked around the fields for other soldiers, but didn’t see any. “They could be part of a trap.”
“No, it’s no trap,” said Jahl. “Leth can’t spare the troops. These dogs are meant to slow us down, that’s all.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “Well then, we’ll just ride ’em down.”
Praxtin-Tar shouted to his men, readying them. Richius ordered the column to halt as he watched the horsemen approach. He saw their leader come into view, a slightly built man with a youthful face. He was worried; Richius could tell. The young man brought his company to a halt a dozen yards from the horde.
“Jackal,” he called. “Would that be you?”
“Some call me that,” replied Richius. He scrutinized the Talistanians, counting maybe thirty in all. Hardly enough to best Praxtin-Tar’s warriors. “Who are you?”
“My name is Lieutenant Dary,” said the soldier. “Of the Gold Brigade. You’re trespassing, Jackal. You’re an outlaw, like these others. I cannot let you pass. Go back, or …” His voice trailed off as he noticed the boy riding beside Richius. “My God,” he gasped, “Alazrian?”
Alazrian brought his horse forward. “It’s me,” he declared. “Richius, I know this man. I’ve seen him around the castle.”
“I don’t believe it!” sputtered the soldier. “Master Leth? What are you doing with these people?”
“Surrender, Dary,” said Alazrian. “Please. I don’t have time to explain it, but if you don’t surrender quickly you’ll be killed.”
The lieutenant looked at his comrades, all of whom shared his bewilderment. “Alazrian, tell me what’s going on here. Are you a traitor? Did you lead these creatures to us?”
“Watch your tongue,” Richius warned. “These creatures are about to rip your throats out. And none of us can stop them, not even me. Surrender.”
The lieutenant lifted his lance and swallowed. “I cannot,” he said. “I have my orders, Jackal. If you try to pass, we will fight you.”
Praxtin-Tar understood the challenge. He trotted his steed forward.
“The warlord commands these Triin,” Richius explained. “He says he’s looking forward to stealing your lance and impaling you on it.”
The young man went ashen. “I have my orders,” he repeated. “We’ll give you a fight if that’s what—”
“I won’t be able to stop them, so don’t try to threaten me. Drop your weapons an
d get down off your horses. Do it now.”
Praxtin-Tar drew his jiiktar.
“Jackal, I’m warning you …”
“Do it now!”
Lieutenant Dary was quaking. He lifted his lance an inch higher. His horsemen did the same. Praxtin-Tar put the reins in his mouth, twisted the jiiktar to make two short swords, then sat statue-still, not even breathing. They watched each other, one sweating, one smiling.
“God almighty, Dary, don’t,” said Richius. “I don’t want this …”
“Alazrian, say something!” blurted Jahl.
“I can’t stop him,” said Alazrian. “He won’t listen to me.”
A second later, Dary moved, driving his horse forward. Praxtin-Tar let out a shrieking whoop. His horse flew forward; his jiiktar flashed. Dary’s lance rushed toward him. The warlord’s weapons knocked it aside, then shot out and carved the head from Dary’s body.
“Damn it, no!” cried Richius.
Chaos erupted around him. Dary’s head hit the ground, then Praxtin-Tar was roaring, slashing through the stunned lancemen. His warriors surged forward, ignoring Richius’ commands. Richius fought to still his thrashing horse. Next to him he heard Alazrian shouting, then saw the boy fighting to break free from the melee. Jahl and his Saints quickly disbanded as the Triin rushed forward, struggling to get away.
With jiiktars and lances ringing around him, Richius sought refuge from the battle. He forced his mount through the press of bodies. And as he fled he kept telling himself to join the fight, to aid in the liberation of his homeland …
But it wasn’t a battle, really. It was Triin warriors cutting their teeth on rabbits. As he reached Alazrian, he turned and saw the warriors engulfing the Talistanians, breaking over them like a tidal wave. Praxtin-Tar was in the center, trilling a mad howl.
