by John Marco
“Look at him,” said Alazrian in disbelief. “My God, he’s an animal.”
“No,” corrected Richius grimly. “He’s a Triin warlord. He’s not your guard dog, Alazrian. Don’t try to make a house pet of a wolf.”
Aramoor castle had quickly become an armed camp. With the help of Shinn, Elrad Leth had arranged a line of cavalrymen twenty-strong along the outer ward, backed by a small company of soldiers inside the walls. A handful of archers waited on the roof, while servants and slaves made ready with farm tools and kitchen knives, preparing to defend themselves from the Triin savages. Leth himself had a dagger and sword at his belt, and he kept Shinn close by as he hurried through the castle, inspecting his defenses. So far there had been no word from Talistan, and Leth didn’t expect any soon. It was a goodly ride to the border, and he knew Tassis Gayle had his hands full with the Highlanders. But he also knew that Richius Vantran would be a difficult enemy to defeat, for he had the will of the people and an army of Triin behind him. Leth had never really seen Triin, except for his half-breed son. Yet as he dashed through the castle, he remembered what Blackwood Gayle had told him about the Triin. They were devils, vampires who drank the blood of children.
“Get that goddamn dog out of the way!” Leth hissed as he tripped over a mongrel going up the stairs. A servant boy hurried an apology and spirited the animal away. “If I see it again I’ll have it for lunch!” Leth shouted after him.
He was frantic now, his mind going in a million different directions. With Shinn on his heels, he raced up the castle’s main staircase, stopping at his second-floor bedroom. The room afforded an unobstructed view of the grounds. It had also been where Calida had died. But Leth didn’t think about that now. Instead he thought about the chamber’s balcony, with its eastern exposure. Already two lookouts were on the balcony, waiting for the invaders. One had a spyglass to his eye. The other was cracking his knuckles nervously. Leth stepped onto the ledge.
“Well?” he barked. “See anything?”
“Not yet, Governor,” replied the soldier. Like all the troops Gayle had supplied him, this one was young and inexperienced. Not really expecting trouble from the Saints, Gayle had recalled the best of them to Talistan.
“Thanks a lot, you dried up old prune,” Leth muttered.
“Sir?” asked the soldier.
“Never mind.” Leth turned to his bodyguard. “Shinn, I want you to get back on the roof with the archers. Keep an eye out for them and await my orders. If they get close enough, maybe we can ambush them.”
“They’ll be too many,” Shinn argued.
“Just do as I say, will you?”
Shinn obeyed, heading for the roof where his expertise with a bow could best be used. Leth turned his attention toward the eastern horizon. In the yard, his cavalry waited anxiously, sure they would be ripped to pieces by Vantran’s army. Leth wondered how long they could hold out against the Triin, and if he could somehow manage to take out Vantran with an arrow. Or maybe Jahl Rob.
That would be sweet, he thought. To kill that priest …
“Governor, I see something,” said the soldier with the spyglass. “I think it’s them.”
Leth snatched up the glass. “Let me see.”
After twisting the scope, the horizon came into focus. Mostly there were green fields and trees, but then he saw the road leading to the castle. There were riders. Leth’s heartbeat throbbed. A tattered dragon banner flew above them—the flag of Aramoor.
“It is them. Holy mother …”
Richius Vantran rode at the head of the column, looking young and arrogant atop a brown horse. Next to him were Narens—the Saints of the Sword—easily discernible in their ragged, imperial clothing. And behind the Narens, stretching out in a long white line, were the jiiktar-wielding Triin. Some were on foot, others on horseback, and some were even riding Talistanian horses, an insult that made Leth’s insides clench. All had the bone-white skin of ghouls.
“Get ready!” Leth called to his cavalry. “Here they come!” He turned to one of his soldiers. “Tell the others to make ready. Have them wait for my orders. Go now, quickly.”
The man raced off, shouting to his fellow soldiers and the knife-wielding staff. Leth kept his eye glued to the spyglass. The army was approaching quickly, riding unopposed toward the castle. There was no sign of Lieutenant Dary or his lancemen. There were, however, blood stains on the Triin.
Dary’s blood, Leth supposed. Poor idiot.
How stupid Dary had been to obey orders. And how stupid Leth himself felt for falling into this mess. He should have known Vantran would return someday; he should have been prepared for it. Now he would be dinner for Triin savages, and he blamed himself for his fate. He blamed Tassis Gayle, too.
“Demented old bastard,” he grumbled. “If I get out of this, I’m going to roast him alive.”
He waited on the balcony as the army drew closer. The young soldier beside him was breathing rapidly. Leth was about to tell him to shut up when he noticed something strange through the spyglass. There was a figure riding alongside the Jackal, a boy with familiar features. It took Leth a moment to remember his supposedly dead son.
“Shinn, you son of a bitch. You told me he was dead!”
He had never expected to see Alazrian again, and he couldn’t explain it. But it was an interesting turn of events. Leth closed his eyes, trying to think, wondering how to use it to his advantage. A word popped into his mind.
Hostage.
Alazrian rode between Richius and Praxtin-Tar, shaken by the sight of Aramoor castle. He had never really cared for the structure, and seeing it again reminded him of his mother. A line of cavalry blockaded the courtyard, more of the same lance-wielding defenders that Praxtin-Tar and his horde had slaughtered. The warlord gave a low growl when he saw them, then raised his eyes to the archers on the roof, poorly hidden behind chimneys. Except for the soldiers in the courtyard, Aramoor castle was deathly still. Richius slowed his horse, letting his eyes caress his home.
“My God,” he said. “I never thought I’d see this place again.”
“Leth has taken good care of it,” offered Alazrian. “Believe it or not.”
“It looks the same,” remarked Richius with a sad smile.
“Don’t get all goggle-eyed yet,” said Rob. The priest brought his horse up and surveyed the soldiers. “Looks like Leth has a homecoming planned. Parry, how many horsemen would you say that is?”
Parry hooded his eyes as he peered toward the courtyard. “Not many. Twenty, maybe?”
“Twenty.” Rob turned toward Richius. “Twenty men between you and your throne, my lord. And we’ve only lost maybe five in all. I’d say the odds are good.”
Richius didn’t reply. Alazrian could tell he was weary. Witnessing the slaughter at the ranch had made him pensive. He looked old suddenly, like Praxtin-Tar. Just then the warlord reached out and took Alazrian’s hand.
“You will stay back, Alazrian,” Praxtin-Tar said in Triin. “My men will deal with these dogs. Then we will take the castle for you.”
“It’s not his castle, Praxtin-Tar,” said Richius, understanding the warlord’s words. “It’s mine.”
Praxtin-Tar looked at Richius, smiling darkly. Keeping his hand on Alazrian, he said, “I have not forgotten, Kalak. Will you join in the fight for your castle? Or will you let us do your fighting?”
“Praxtin-Tar, stop,” said Alazrian. “Let’s see what Leth has to say first.”
“He will tell us to go to hell,” said Jahl. “He’s just waiting for reinforcements from Talistan.” He said to Richius, “We don’t have time to waste. We must take the castle quickly.”
“I know,” said Richius. “But let’s at least talk to them, try to make them surrender.”
“Richius, they won’t surrender. We have to fight them. Now, while we have the muscle …”
“Jahl,” interrupted Richius, “those are my orders. Now, let’s move out.”
Without another word Richius le
d the company toward his castle. Alazrian stayed close to him, as did Praxtin-Tar and Jahl Rob. Richius didn’t want a battle; that much was obvious. Alazrian wondered how someone so reluctant to fight had stayed alive so long. As they approached Aramoor castle, the archers on the roofs and in the windows came into view, sliding out from behind their hiding places and readying their bows. On the second-floor balcony were figures. One was a soldier in Talistanian garb. The other …
“Oh, Lord,” whispered Alazrian. “There he is.”
“Who?” asked Jahl.
“On the balcony,” replied Alazrian. “Leth.”
Elrad Leth had his hands on the railing and was leaning forward, trying to get a better look at the approaching army. He was well-dressed, as usual, and wore an enigmatic expression.
“What’s he doing?” asked Richius.
“Waiting for us,” said Alazrian. “Waiting for me.”
“He must have seen you by now,” said Richius. He gave a short laugh. Then he waved, shouting, “Surprised to see us, Leth?”
Leth crossed his arms. Jahl and his Saints began jeering, shaking their fists and cursing at the line of cavalry, challenging them to fight. Richius quieted them with a curt order, then brought the army to a halt just before the courtyard. Praxtin-Tar’s warriors fanned out behind them. Still Leth kept a keen smile.
“Welcome home, Jackal,” he cried from his balcony. “I should have known you’d come back.”
“Indeed you should have. But I’ve been told by a friend that you’ve taken good care of my home.” He gestured to Alazrian. “I think you know this young man, don’t you?”
Leth turned a withering scowl on Alazrian. “Greetings, son. I’d say it’s good to see you, but that would be a lie. And you wouldn’t believe it anyway, would you?”
“Not after you told Shinn to kill me,” Alazrian responded. “But look, Father. You failed. I’m still alive.”
“Yes, I must talk to Shinn about that. Vantran, if I were you I’d turn around now. No one wants a bloodbath.”
Richius laughed. “I was just thinking the same thing! Surrender, Leth, while you have a chance.”
“I have this castle,” retorted Leth. “And I have reinforcements on the way. Why don’t you be a good traitor and shoo? And take that band of barbarians with you.”
“Look around, Leth,” said Richius. “We have over two hundred men, and they’ve already slaughtered two companies of your cavalry.” He gestured to the line of horsemen in the courtyard. “Do you want these others to join them? Because I’m sure Praxtin-Tar here will oblige you.”
“Give up,” called Alazrian. “Please. Richius is right. You can’t win.”
“And if I surrender what will happen to me?” asked Leth. “Am I to be supper for those savages? I think not, boy.”
“You’ll have a better fate than you gave my mother!” Alazrian cried. “Now surrender; it’s your only chance.”
Leth seemed to consider the proposal. Along the roof, the archers awaited his word, fixing the army in their sights. The horsemen in the yard gripped their lances warily. Alazrian watched it all with dread. Seeing Leth had awakened something dark within him. Suddenly he was back in that closet again, a little boy crying from too many beatings.
“I will talk only to Alazrian,” said Leth at last. “If I must surrender, I want to speak to my son.”
“Forget it,” shouted Jahl.
“You’ll surrender unconditionally,” said Richius, “or I’ll give the order to attack.”
“And just how long do you think it will take you to win the castle, Jackal? You may outnumber us, but we have the advantage.” He gestured up at the roof lined with archers. “Do you really want to see your comrades die?”
“If any one of those bowmen lets fly, we’ll rush the castle,” Richius warned. “And there won’t be anything left of you to surrender.”
“Alazrian,” said Leth, “Will you come and talk to me?”
“No, he won’t!” cried Jahl.
Leth sighed. “Come on, boy. Don’t be a coward.”
The accusation rattled Alazrian. He grit his teeth. Leth was watching him. Before Richius could refuse the offer, Alazrian turned to him and said, “I want to do it.”
“What? Alazrian, no!”
“I want to, Richius,” Alazrian insisted. “Please let me.”
“Why?” barked Jahl. “Alazrian, don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not being stupid! Let me go up there and talk to him. Maybe I can convince him to surrender.”
“No, Alazrian,” said Richius. “Jahl’s right. He just wants to use you as a bargaining chip.”
“Alazrian?” probed Jahl. The priest’s expression had changed. “What are you thinking?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re planning something, I know it. What is it?”
Alazrian smiled grimly. “Jahl, this is something I have to do. Don’t ask me about it, all right?”
“Alazrian, what the hell are you talking about?” pressed Richius. “We don’t have time for nonsense!”
“You’re right,” Alazrian told him. “We don’t have time. So don’t argue with me. Just let me in there.”
“I won’t!” snapped Richius. “You’re being stupid …”
“No,” said Jahl. “Let him go.”
“What?”
Jahl touched Alazrian’s shoulder. “Are you sure?”
Alazrian wasn’t really sure, but he nodded. “Yes.”
“We’ll explain it to Praxtin-Tar, then. Go with God, my son.”
“Jahl?” Richius sputtered. “What the hell is going on?”
Jahl turned to the balcony and called up to Leth, “All right, you bastard, he’s coming to talk to you. But if you harm a hair on his head, I’m going to skin you alive!”
Elrad Leth laughed. “What a pious thought, Priest.” He waved Alazrian ahead. “Come on, boy. No one will harm you. You have my word.”
Leth’s word was meaningless, but Alazrian went ahead anyway, breaking away from the others and trotting into the courtyard. Behind him he heard Praxtin-Tar’s protest.
Alazrian wondered if he knew what he was doing, but he was driven by a need to face his so-called father one last time. All the memories of his childhood flooded over him as he approached the castle—his mother’s soft voice, Leth’s harsh insulting rasp, the dark recesses of the closet and the sting of the belt—it was all unstoppable suddenly, and it pushed him onward. The horsemen in the courtyard parted, letting him pass. Up ahead, the doors to the castle opened and a servant peered out.
“Get off your horse, Master Alazrian,” a voice directed. It was Barth, Leth’s bookkeeper. “The governor wants no trouble.”
Alazrian dropped from Flier’s back. Leaving the horse in the yard, he approached the doors. Barth hurried him inside.
“Your father is waiting for you upstairs,” said the man, closing the doors again. “Please, don’t do anything to anger him.”
Alazrian went through the entry hall toward the main staircase. Barth followed, chattering nervously, but the bookkeeper stopped talking when they reached the stairs. There at the top of the flight was Elrad Leth, gazing down with a twisted grin.
“Alazrian.”
Alazrian glared up the staircase. “Governor.”
“What? Won’t you call me Father any longer? Or have the Saints of the Sword thoroughly brainwashed you against me?”
“They didn’t have to change my mind,” sneered Alazrian. “I’ve always known what you are.” He glanced around. The entire castle staff seemed to be watching him, hanging on his reply. “You wanted to talk about surrender, didn’t you?” he asked. “So let’s talk.”
“My, but you’ve changed!” laughed Leth. “How forceful you are now. Almost a man! Come upstairs then, little man. We’ll talk in my chambers. I can keep an eye on your rabble from there.”
Leth turned and disappeared down the hall. Alazrian went up the stairs after him, leaving behind Barth and th
e other servants. At the top of the stairs a soldier waited, ready to escort him to the master bedchamber. There was a window in the hall, its glass broken, manned by an archer. Alazrian slipped past and saw Richius and Jahl and the others staring back at the castle. Praxtin-Tar looked furious. Seeing his protector put Alazrian at ease, but his relief was shattered by Leth’s grating voice.
“Alazrian! Get in here, already.”
Leth was in the master bedchamber, looking out past the balcony when Alazrian entered. There were three soldiers with him, all of whom watched Alazrian closely. Leth gestured gruffly to a chair.
“Sit there, away from the balcony.”
Alazrian did as he was told, all the while watching Leth. Though Leth put on a good show, the sight of the Triin had shaken him. He exhaled nervously then went to the bed and sat down on its edge.
“Well?” Leth asked sharply. “You care to explain what the hell you’re doing with those traitors?”
“I came here to talk you into surrendering,” lied Alazrian. “I’m not going to explain myself.”
“I see Jahl Rob and his rebels have taught you to disrespect your elders. Quite a holy man, that one.”
“He’s a good man. He’s twice the man you are … Father.”
The insult rattled Leth. He was about to rise but stopped himself. Alazrian could tell he was afraid—too afraid to strike him.
“They’re going to kill you, you know,” said Alazrian. “You won’t live to see the end of this day.”
“Is that right?”
Alazrian nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell you that myself.”
Their eyes met. A nervousness grew inside Alazrian, and he felt his resolve slipping away. But he had come for a reason, and refused to be afraid. It would save lives, he told himself. And Leth deserved it.
“You’re not my son,” said Leth. “I’ve always known that. And I never wanted you.”
“I know.”
Leth smiled. “Look at you. So cocky. You think because you’ve got an army that you’re powerful. But you’re nothing, Alazrian. You’re just a weak little half-breed.”
“You’re wrong,” said Alazrian. “I am powerful.”
