by John Marco
"That much is obvious. But why?"
"Because they're all we have," said Jelena angrily. She pulled her hand away from him. "They're our only hope, Richius. The only fighters we have to give you. We protect them here because we can't afford to fight Nar again, not on our own soil."
Suddenly Richius understood. If Nar were to come back as Queen Jelena feared, there was no way they could reach her precious army, not here in remote Karalon. Even the big guns of dreadnoughts would be useless in this rugged terrain of rivers and lagoons. They were probably far from any Lissen city or major waterway, deep inside the folds of the Hundred Isles, where no Naren could ever hope to find them or destroy their last hope for revenge. Richius gave the queen a sympathetic smile, conveying his understanding. They were indeed a beautiful race, these Lissens. And desperate beyond imagining.
"So you keep the men here to protect them," he said.
"Not just men. Women, too. Anyone old enough and willing to serve. This is where we house them. This is where you will train them, make an army out of them. We've brought them here for you, Jackal."
Richius shook his head. "God, the lengths you've gone to, Jelena! First you bring me across the world. And now . . ." He shrugged, unable to find words. "All this. I don't know what to say."
"Say that you were wrong," said Jelena. "Say that we do indeed have an army for you, and that I would never lie to you."
"I'm sorry," Richius offered. "I've been harsh with you. But I was afraid. And now I don't know what to think! This is all so astonishing. All of Liss. It's been so strange for me."
"Stranger than you imagined, I would think," agreed Jelena. "But now there is work to do. And if we're to succeed against our enemies, we must trust each other." Her gaze bore into him. "Can you do that, Richius?"
"I can try," said Richius. "I've already promised I would do my best for you, Jelena. Do not doubt me on that. Now . . ." He looked around. "Where is this army of mine?"
"It's a bad way," Timrin answered unexpectedly. "We have to go slow or we'll bottom out."
"We're not far, Richius," counseled Jelena. "Be patient."
Patience was a virtue Richius had never possessed, but he settled down as best he could, scanning the watery horizon. Around him, he could see only obscure shapes in the darkness, the vague outlines of thin rivers and blowing batches of water grasses. The rowers had stowed their oars and now were propelling the boat through the narrow lane with long, muck-covered poles. The steady sucking sound of mud and water filled the night. Up ahead, barely lit by lantern light, was the growing outline of an island. It was tall and sturdy-looking, with a beach of jagged rocks infested with cattails and sand dunes.
"Is that where we're going?" Richius asked, dreading the answer.
"That is Karalon," replied the queen.
Richius' heart sank. What kind of army could possibly be hidden here? But despite his dismay, the boat continued toward the island. Timrin leaned out over the prow, his arm wrapped around the sternpost, and guided them in. The expert sailors of Liss bested the treacherous shore, slowly piloting in the craft. Beneath them, the hull screeched and groaned as rocks and sand dunes scraped the boat's bottom. Men on both sides of the vessel fought off the encroaching dangers with their poles, snaking their queen safely through. At last the boat came to stop, beaching itself with a lurch. The world fell eerily quiet.
"What now?" asked Richius. "Do we get out?"
Jelena's expression was wicked. "Welcome to Karalon, my hero."
Richius stood up, then helped Jelena to her feet. Timrin and his men shuffled along the deck, spilling out onto the marshy beach and lowering the gangplank for the queen. Other sailors grabbed lanterns from the boat, preparing for the trek in the darkness. Timrin grabbed one, too, and went to his queen.
"My queen, stay close to me," he advised. He was older than she by far, and there was real concern in his voice. For the first time Richius noticed an unhealthy-looking scar across his face, and, remarkably, only one ear. "I don't want anything happening to you," he continued. He put a hand out for his queen. "The way is rocky, so watch your step."
The three departed the vessel, Timrin and Jelena leading the way, Richius following close behind. The air was thick and brackish. Tall patches of cattails tore at them as they walked, hindered by the unstable ground and the constant, gnawing cold. Timrin's lantern shined out a path, guiding them up and over the dune. And when at last he reached the top, he and Jelena paused, looking out over the island. Richius moved to stand with them at the peak. A flat meadow greeted him, dotted with tents and ramshackle structures and burning bright with torches. In the center of the meadow stood a flagstaff, a tall, slightly bowed tower bearing at its zenith the proud, sea-serpent standard of Liss. A giant barracks with a scissor-trussed ceiling stretched in a line toward the horizon, while on the other side of the field was a training ground, flattened to pulpy earth by a thousand booted feet.
Richius stood on the dune, letting the wind lash him, amazed at the encampment.
"This is incredible," he whispered. "This is . . ."
"Your army, Lord Jackal," answered Jelena.
Richius took a deep breath of the brackish air. He saw figures moving through the encampment, men in Lissen garb and women with helmets and long hair. Mostly the fields were deserted, but there was stirring in the camp, faces looking toward them. A buzz was growing. People were pointing toward the hill.
"I want to see them," said Richius. "Right now."
He didn't wait for Timrin or Jelena to lead. He was drawn inexorably down the hillside, stumbling toward the torchlight. The ground sucked at his boots, but he fought the soft earth, part running, part stumbling down the hill. Jelena and Timrin hurried after him. Jelena called out to Richius, bidding him to slow down, but it was as if he were in a tunnel and could not hear her, so spellbound was he by the encampment. Only when he reached the bottom of the giant dune did he finally pause. A figure was coming toward him. A woman. Dressed in a long, ragged coat, she wore no covering over her head, and her hair fell loosely around her shoulders. She was tall and sturdy-looking, with muscled arms and a lean face that stared back at Richius across the night, awed and bewildered. Her wild eyes jumped between Richius and the queen, and then finally came to rest on Richius again, wide with shock. She stopped walking toward him, tried to speak and couldn't, then dropped to her knees in the dirt, bowing deeply.
"It is you," she said over the wind. "Lord Jackal." Richius stood motionless. Jelena had made it down the slope and was standing next to him, but the strange woman seemed to pay her sovereign no homage at all. The devotion, Richius knew, was all for him. As she knelt before him, she didn't raise her head or risk insulting him with eye contact. When she spoke her voice was thin, almost shaking.
"I prayed you would come, Lord Jackal. I prayed to almighty God you would lead us." "Lord Jackal?" Richius whispered. Jelena leaned closer to him, saying in his ear, "That is what they call you here. It's your title. Don't make them change it, I beg you."
The young woman stayed on the ground, keeping her face hidden. She was barely twenty, but her demeanor bespoke [something] older. Richius studied her uncertainly, unsure now to address her. Behind her, milling around the field, were others like her, young men and women both, all pointing and staring at Richius and their queen. The grounds were quickly swelling with noisy interest.
"Rise, girl," Richius ordered. He went and stood before her, staring down at her. The girl-woman looked up hesitantly. She had the oceanic green eyes of her race and that same, troubled look as Jelena. She was pretty like Jelena, too. Rougher, less coddled-looking than the queen, but attractive nonetheless. "Who are you?" Richius asked. "Tell me your name."
The girl licked her wind-dried lips nervously. "My name is Shii, Lord Jackal. Now leader of Karalon."
"Leader?"
"Forgive me, Lord Jackal," she stammered. "I correct myself. You are leader here. I'm just . . ." She struggled for the right word. "Someone who looks
after the others."
"On your feet, Shii of Karalon. No more bowing to me."
The girl looked at him uncertainly. Richius gave her a smile, then offered his hand.
"Take it," he insisted.
She did, and her callused hands were like sand in his fist. This wasn't the pampered touch of a queen anymore. Shii had farmer's hands, the kind of hands that had worked hard. Richius could read her rough history in the leanness of her face. But she rose to her feet with pride and stood before him. Others like her were gathering in the distance. Too shy to step forward, they kept back a good pace, watching their "leader" greet their arriving lord. Some bowed to Richius, some to the queen, but all were amazed at the unexpected visitation. One by one lanterns and candles blinked awake in the buildings. There were dozens of them, then hundreds, all of them young and looking at him with wonder.
"They're so young," Richius remarked softly. "Jelena, why?"
"They are the children of Liss, Richius," said the queen. She didn't come forward to share the adoration, and when she spoke she spoke retiringly, letting him enjoy the moment. "They're here for you, to serve and follow you. Today you are Lord Jackal."
"How many?"
When Jelena didn't reply, Richius turned to Shii. "How many are you?"
"Nine hundred," answered Shii proudly. "Maybe more.
Richius blinked at the number. "That many? Here? On Karalon?"
"Some are still arriving, but yes, Lord Jackal." Shii smiled, pleased at his pleasure. "We've come to follow you. To avenge Liss."
"Oh, but you're children," sighed Richius. He turned and looked at her bright face, so earnest and full of broken promises. "Shii, you're but a girl. You're not over twenty, I can tell."
"I'm almost seventeen," said Shii defensively. "Not such a child, Lord Jackal. And I can fight. I'm not afraid."
"I'm sure you're not," replied Richius. None of them were afraid. Ten years of siege had stripped from them anything remotely like fear. They were bloodthirsty now, carelessly vengeful. "Seventeen," he chuckled. "Like your queen. But where are the older people? I expected grown men here."
Shii looked hurt. "The men who are older serve in the navy. We are what is left to form your army, Lord Jackal. But we are not children. We're grown. We volunteered for this."
"Some of them could have joined Prakna," said Jelena. "There are young men here old enough for that duty. But they chose to fight with you, Richius. They do you honor."
Richius smiled sadly. "They do indeed. Shii, I am honored by you. I am honored by you all." He looked at her with iron eyes. "And I'll do my best for you."
"We need to hear that, Lord Jackal," said Shii. "We have waited so long to greet you. Please don't turn us away."
He put his hand on her shoulder, like he had so many comrades in the past. "You have my promise. And you'll help me keep my vow. I'll need you, Shii. If you're the leader here, there's a lot of work for you to do. I'll need things. And I'll need them fast."
"Tell me anything," said Shii. "I'm yours to command."
"All of them are yours," echoed Jelena. "Look at them, Richius."
Richius looked. He stared past Shii with her eager face, toward all the others like her, gathering quickly in the cold night to glimpse the stranger from Nar. And all Richius could think of was their youth, and all he could feel was their awe. In their eyes was the passion for vengeance that had left them hollow of anything but anger. Like Jelena. Like Prakna. The great disease of all Lissens.
Without waiting for Jelena or the others, Richius walked toward the encampment. He moved into the midst of his waiting army, unsure what to say. As he approached, the gathered fell to their knees. And all at once the night filled with the wondrous sound of a thousand young voices chanting his name.
THIRTY
The Battle of Dragon's Beak
High in a tree, Cackle the raven waited, watching the goings-on below. He had left his mistress Nina long days ago, and had come to this perch to await the duke, his true master, and to do the duke's bidding. It had been a long and arduous siege, but Cackle had been trained from a hatchling to obey, and he moved from branch to branch only to find food for himself, and never to indulge in the normal things a raven might, like breeding. His brain, small though it was, was fixed on a single purpose.
Nina was, the raven supposed, still alone where he had left her. Part of his mind wondered about her. In his many cold hours of idleness, Cackle had flashes of her face, and in that way animals have of worrying, he considered going back for her, to see if she was all right or if the other ravens had harmed her. But his mission was more important. Duke Enli would return, and would be expecting to find him. So Cackle waited, perched not far from where the jaw of the Dragon's Beak split and became two forks, for this he knew was where his master would return from, and Cackle was very dutiful about seeing the duke arrive. For days he had sat atop the tallest tree he could find, enduring the lashing wind and snow, until at last his sharp eyes saw something, large and black, moving toward him and shaking the forest. But the bird still didn't move, not yet. He was still unsure until he saw their fires, which were big and bright. Part of Cackle's primitive brain told him that this was the duke coming home, and he took wing to investigate.
Now that it was nighttime, Cackle had found a new perch. Unobtrusively, he had alighted in a fir tree over the camp of soldiers. They were so numerous, they covered the forest floor like ants, and they had brought machine-things with them, strange and frightening. The other birds and animals had sensed the danger and had fled. Cackle had watched them go. He was not in Dragon's Beak anymore, but rather right on the border, and the river that fed the homeland of his duke was wide here and clear, a gathering place for elk. Men usually avoided this thick part of the woods, but these metal men were without fear. Cackle's eyes narrowed, searching until he found his red-haired master. And when he did, the bird felt satisfaction.
Duke Enli was near one of the great blazes, putting his hands up to the flame. Great puffs of steam drifted from his mouth in the cold. He was eating. There were other men around him, the metal men with their shiny skin. Cackle was right above them now. The raven never took his eyes from his master. And then at last it happened--Duke Enli acknowledged him.
It was only for a moment, but it was enough for the bird to know he had been noticed. Something like a smile crossed the master's lips. And Cackle, cold and satisfied, settled down with a ruffle of his feathers and patiently waited for the duke's summons.
Duke Enli sat by the fire, warming his frozen hands and doing his best not to gaze upward and betray his raven. When he saw Cackle, he smiled to himself. The bird was close by, low enough in the trees to be easily seen. It was late now, and the day of riding had exhausted Enli. All around him, Vorto's legionnaires went through the usual rituals, tending fires and making food, and rolling out beds for the night. The column of soldiers stretched far down the road, disappearing into the dark. Campfires burned all along the roadside. Horses and greegans drank from the river, sating their enormous thirst, and animal tenders covered the steeds with blankets and oiled the leathery hides of the greegans to stave off the skin-cracking cold. On the other side of the road, Enli could see war wagons burdened down with rocket and acid launchers. And the wagon of the poison--the stuff Vorto called Formula B--was positioned safely away from the fires, under heavy guard, patrolled by teams of sword-bearing legionnaires. Without wanting to, Enli's eyes flicked up at Cackle, acknowledging his pet with a blink. Now that the bird was here, Enli could finally relax. Things were going perfectly.
He picked up his plate full of beans and bits of meat and started eating. He was famished from the day's ride and the dreary food was delicious to him. Around him, Faren and the other men ate, too, oblivious to the bird in the trees and listening with disinterest to General Vorto. Vorto had already eaten and was now shaving his head with a straight-razor, dipping the blade periodically into a helmet full of river water. His gleaming scalp froze over with ice cr
ystals in the ungodly wind, but Vorto ignored what should have been painful, carefully cutting down every hair as he spoke. ". . . by afternoon," he bragged. "And then on to Gray Tower."
Enli sighed as he ate, barely hearing the general. For weeks now he had endured the same arrogant predictions every night, of how they would first roll into the north fork, taking down Eneas' troops before storming the tower. Vorto was supremely confident of victory, and now, on the eve of battle, he was jubilant. His head shaving, he had explained, was a ceremony.
"I always shave my head before battle," he explained. "It makes me look bigger."
Bigger was one thing the general didn't need to worry about, but he kept up with his ritualistic shave, slowly drawing the razor over his head until it was completely bald and gleamed in the moonlight. As he ate, Enli snickered at Vorto. Over the past month he had grown to hate the general, and was looking forward to killing him. If all went well, Vorto would be dead by this time tomorrow. Enli would be back in Red Tower, and all of Dragon's Beak would be his to rule. Biagio's grand design was coming together flawlessly.
"So, Enli," barked Vorto as he rinsed his head with icy water. "Why so glum? I thought you'd be the most talkative of us all tonight."
The duke swallowed his mouthful of food, trying to think of something to say. He didn't like talking to Vorto. Just looking at him was effort enough. "I think we should be very careful about getting cocky," he said at last. "We're still not in Dragon's Beak yet, General. Who knows what we'll find over the border?"
"Bah," Vorto scoffed. "You worry like an old fishwife, Enli. You should be happy to be home."
The general dried his head with a towel handed to him by his aide, the stoic Colonel Kye. Throughout the journey, Kye had said almost nothing. Of all the legionnaires, Enli liked Kye best. There was something contemplative about the colonel, something genuine. And he wasn't at all like his superior, always spouting holy writ. Kye stood dutifully beside Vorto, waiting for the towel to be handed back. He never ate until the general did. And never did he have a cross word or say anything to hint at his feelings. He was an enigma, this Naren colonel, impossible to read. Still, Enli thought he looked troubled.
