The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  ‘You’ve killed a king of Nar,’ said Biagio quietly. ‘That is always death.’

  Jojustin seemed not to hear. He fell to his knees, gasping through his severed windpipe. His eyes flared. Biagio watched him with wonder, so defiant even in dying. They bred them strong in Aramoor.

  Then Jojustin collapsed, and the floor quickly pooled with blood. Biagio wiped his blade on the steward’s vest while his bodyguards watched implacably. He did not hear the approaching footfalls until it was too late.

  ‘Jojustin?’ queried a young voice. The door opened and an apologetic face peered inside. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .’

  Biagio stood up with his bloodied dagger in hand and smiled at the fair-haired intruder. ‘Uh-oh. Now you’ve caught me.’

  The young man’s face went ashen. He stared at Biagio in frozen horror. Biagio shrugged like a little girl.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ offered the count. ‘I’ve made a mess of your steward. Have you any towels?’

  Bewildered, the young man remained unmoving in the doorway, his eyes drinking in the scene without comprehension. Biagio stepped toward him, gingerly avoiding the corpse. ‘You’re Patwin, aren’t you? Richius’ friend? Be a dear and tell Lady Sabrina I’d like to talk to her, would you?’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Patwin exclaimed. His eyes darted from Biagio to Jojustin, then back again. He began to sputter a question, then ran from the chamber yelling, ‘Sabrina!’

  Biagio cursed and stalked after him, watching the young man disappear up a flight of stairs. He gestured for his Shadow Angels to pursue. The dark duo drew their swords and charged after Patwin. Biagio followed close behind.

  ‘Now, Patwin, don’t make this more difficult than it must be,’ he sang out as he climbed the stairway. ‘I really hate the way things are going so far!’

  When they reached the top of the stairs they heard a door slam down the hall. The Shadow Angels went to it and stood outside, waiting for their master’s orders. Downstairs Biagio heard the servants clamoring, heard Jenna’s scream as she discovered the murdered Jojustin. Exasperated, he went to the door and gave it a vigorous knock. Inside he heard a woman’s astonished cry and Patwin’s insistent urgings for silence.

  ‘Lady Sabrina?’ called Biagio. ‘Hello. Listen, would you come out here for a moment? I really need to talk to you.’

  There was something about the moment that struck the count as deliciously funny, and he giggled as he gave the order to kick in the door. A Shadow Angel drove a booted foot into the lock, splintering the wood. The Lady Sabrina gave an anguished shout as the assassins stormed her bedchamber. Patwin stood unarmed before her, staring down the bladed Angels with bare fists. Behind him, Sabrina of Gorkney looked horror-stricken. Biagio waited a moment before entering the room, and when he did he stretched out his arms in mock surrender.

  ‘All right now, everyone calm down. Patwin, be a good man and let me talk to the lady, hmmm?’

  ‘In hell!’ snapped Patwin defiantly.

  ‘What do you want?’ cried Sabrina. ‘What did you do to Jojustin?’

  Biagio furrowed his brow. ‘Ah, well, that does make me look bad, doesn’t it? Forgive my rudeness, but I killed him. And I really would rather not do the same to both of you. My lady, I have need of you. It’s about your husband, you see.’

  ‘Get out!’ Sabrina flared. ‘Leave us alone!’

  ‘Alas, I cannot,’ said Biagio with sadness. ‘Patwin, step aside, please.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Biagio rolled his eyes. ‘Good lord,’ he sighed.

  With a snap of his dainty fingers the Shadow Angels moved, flicking their swords in a flash and pressing Patwin against the wall. While one seized the lady, the second Angel wrapped a gauntlet around Patwin’s throat and pinned him to the wall, positioning the tip of his sword in the young man’s mouth. Patwin gave a frightened moan as the blade slid past his lips and bit into his tongue. He held up his arms in surrender. Biagio strode over to him.

  ‘Look at you now,’ said the count. ‘Stupid boy. Like your king.’

  ‘Let him go!’ cried Sabrina. Her own captor had sheathed his sword and had his python arms coiled about her, pinning her arms and pressing the breath from her lungs. She tried to struggle but the Angel only squeezed harder, making her scream from the pressure in her chest.

  ‘Easy, my friend,’ Biagio bid his servant. ‘She’s a delicate flower. Let’s not pull her petals off yet.’ The count put out his cold hand and brushed his fingertips over her cheek. Her skin was perfect and warm. Biagio envied her. ‘My lady, I need you. You’re going to deliver a message for me to your husband.’

  ‘I won’t!’ Sabrina choked. ‘You bastard . . .’

  ‘Oh, my ears,’ chuckled the count. ‘And from such a well-bred bitch. You know, it always amazes me how many people need convincing of my seriousness. Perhaps it’s my easygoing manner. Well, watch closely, Lady. Then make up your mind.’

  The count turned his attention back to Patwin. ‘Young fellow, I’m really sorry about this. This is your unlucky day.’ Biagio made another small gesture to his servant. The Shadow Angel pushed against his sword and drove its length through Patwin’s mouth, shattering the back of his skull.

  Lady Sabrina’s anguished wail was the loudest thing Biagio had ever heard.

  The House of Gayle stood on a green and rolling tor overgrown with weedy wildflowers and surrounded by a sluggish moat that reminded Biagio of the famous Gayle paranoia. It was an unremarkable place, neither large nor excessively appointed, and it bespoke solitude and a certain serious foreboding. At the bottom of the tor was a well-trampled parade ground, a huge expanse of grass where the horsemen of Talistan pranced and drilled, and near the back of the castle was a giant stable to accommodate the many beasts of the Gayle militia, a rambling structure of ramshackle wood that gave off an evil stink on hot summer days. The House of Gayle had a twenty-foot drawbridge spanning the moat and leading into a dusty courtyard. Inside the courtyard, servants and slaves attended to the castle’s needs, while on the many catwalks guardians in green and gold paced their watches and made the stout wood creak with their heavy boots. Even in the smallest hours of the night they could be heard, incessantly walking and waiting for an invasion that would probably never come.

  Biagio liked the militant house. He had visited it many times over the years and always stayed in the same room, a chamber the king of Talistan had built just for imperial guests like him. When he had business in this part of the Empire, Biagio always looked to the Gayles for hospitality, and they always offered it graciously. Suspiciously, too, of course, but that was the nature of politics and Biagio never faulted them for it. The Gayles were loyal, mostly, and always spoke well of Naren ideals. Until very recently, they had been one of Arkus’ closest allies.

  The Baron Blackwood Gayle leaned back theatrically in his chair so that its two front legs lifted off the marble floor. Pensively, he stared out the window. A shaft of sunlight struck his half-mask, making it glimmer. On the table was a decanter of wine and some food his slaves had hurriedly served up upon the count’s arrival. Biagio, surprisingly hungered by the morning’s events, sandwiched a piece of meat into a chunk of bread and ate silently as he regarded the baron. He had expected Gayle’s melodrama, and was waiting as patiently as he could for it to end. Behind him, his Shadow Angels stood silent, staring at Gayle through their own death masks.

  ‘This is such a surprise,’ said Blackwood Gayle. He feigned offense terribly, but Biagio let him continue. ‘My father and I had thought you’d forgotten about us, frankly. And now to hear you need us again, well . . .’ Gayle sighed loudly. ‘What can I say?’

  Biagio shrugged and poured himself a goblet of wine. He drained the glass slowly, making Gayle wait, then even more slowly poured himself some more. Despite the temperature outside, it was cold in the castle, and Biagio despised the cold. Gayle knew this and had deliberately opened the window so that a summer breeze blew in.

  ‘You m
ust know the emperor meant no offense, Baron,’ said Biagio finally. ‘But only Aramoor borders the Saccenne Run. Aramoor was the natural choice for staging the invasion.’

  ‘Bah,’ Gayle scorned. ‘I think Arkus was enamored with the boy. I saw the coronation the emperor arranged for him. It is always like that for the Vantrans. They have charisma, but people don’t see their treachery. I hope Arkus sees now.’

  ‘It is regrettable,’ Biagio conceded. He had explained what little he knew to Blackwood Gayle, and the baron had glowed at the news of the young Vantran’s treachery. But like his ailing, ancient father, this Gayle was a viper, and wouldn’t bend so easily to Nar’s rule, not without something valuable in return. It was true what people said about the House of Gayle – that all the gold in its coffers was plundered.

  ‘Regrettable?’ said Gayle. He turned his chair around to face the count. ‘Is that all you have to say? My family has been loyal to you and Arkus for years. We were offended, Count, I don’t mind telling you that. I traveled to Nar in good faith, not only to attend that miserable whelp’s coronation but to ask for Lady Sabrina’s hand. And Arkus gave her to him instead!’

  Gayle was growing louder by the moment, his big voice booming through the chamber. Perhaps he truly was offended, Biagio thought. To court the anger of the Shadow Angels was certain death. But Biagio held his bodyguards in check merely with his silence, and flashed Gayle one of his malevolent smiles.

  ‘Baron,’ he said musically. ‘Relax.’

  Gayle seemed to find himself. ‘Yes. Of course,’ he said mildly. ‘But understand what I’m saying, Count. We should have been your first choice. If you had bothered to ask me, I would have told you Vantran couldn’t be trusted. Lord, I’m surprised Arkus didn’t know that after what happened in Lucel-Lor.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s all very interesting, Baron. But now we have a problem, you and I.’

  ‘You, perhaps. Not I.’

  You’re getting bold, aren’t you? thought Biagio. He stared coldly at the baron.

  ‘Can we forget the past, my old friend?’ he said with practiced charm. ‘Both of us have an important charge now. Arkus is very old. It pains me to say so, but I don’t know how much longer he has left. Richius Vantran was to go to Lucel-Lor to find its magic. He was to bring back its secrets to save the emperor. Now you must do this, Blackwood Gayle.’

  Gayle scoffed. ‘You make it sound like an honor. It might have been had I been chosen first. I would have made Nar and the emperor very proud. I would have shown you what a real man could do, instead of a blasted boy.’

  ‘Now’s your chance, then,’ said Biagio. He had known the best way to reach the brooding baron was through praise, and began to heap it on. ‘Truly, my friend, we all knew you would have done a splendid job. Certainly you would have been the emperor’s first choice, but Aramoor borders the Run. And the Aramoorians would never have allowed your troops on their soil, not even to get to the mountain passage. It’s politics, after all.’

  ‘Politics,’ the baron spat. ‘And what if the emperor dies? What political moves will you make, I wonder? You will have your own hands full, and Talistan may be without an ally in Nar.’

  ‘The emperor will not die, Baron. You will make certain he doesn’t. I have come here with a gift, after all. Aramoor is returned to Talistan as of today. I thought that would make you happy.’

  ‘If the emperor died, Aramoor would be ours anyway,’ countered Gayle. ‘His will was the only thing keeping us from taking it back forcibly.’ The eye behind the silver mask gleamed with mischief. ‘Answer my question, Count. What if the emperor does die? What will you do to fend off Herrith and the others of the Iron Circle?’

  Biagio smiled dispassionately. ‘I’m not used to being on this side of an inquisition. I must say, I don’t care for it. Not at all.’

  Blackwood Gayle smiled back at him. ‘You would be wise to think on it. No one lives forever. Not even the emperor. I know Arkus is very dear to you, but you should consider the possibilities. Not only for my sake, but for your own. After all, Herrith is no friend of yours. If you do vie for the throne, he will challenge you.’

  ‘The bishop is not my concern, Baron. Arkus is. You will see to it that he does not die. You will go to Lucel-Lor and find a magic to save him. And if you find Richius Vantran, you will bring him back. Alive.’

  ‘And what do I get for this grand crusade, Count? I’ve already lost men questing for Arkus against the Triin. Why would I want to do it again?’

  It was the question Biagio had been waiting for. Very slowly he baited his hook. ‘Aramoor isn’t enough for you?’

  ‘As I said, Aramoor will be Talistan’s again eventually. And I can be a very patient man.’

  ‘Well, then, perhaps I can sweeten the bargain,’ said Biagio. He made a quick shooing gesture to one of his guardians, sending the Angel out of the room. Blackwood Gayle watched questioningly as the soldier departed, then looked back at the count. Biagio merely steepled his fingers under his chin and grinned.

  ‘Where’s he going?’ asked Gayle.

  ‘I have another gift waiting in my carriage for you. Show me some of your famous patience.’

  The insult silenced Gayle instantly. He got up and went to the chamber door, peering out into the hall beyond and waiting for the Shadow Angel to reappear. Delighting in the baron’s puzzlement, Biagio laughed and urged him back into the room.

  ‘Sit down, Baron, please. This might take a few moments.’

  Blackwood Gayle did as advised. He didn’t query again. Instead he waited with Biagio for the soldier to return, and drummed his fingers on the tabletop as the minutes ticked by. At last the Shadow Angel returned – with a woman in his arms. Blackwood Gayle stopped breathing when he saw her. Despite the ropes binding her wrists and ankles, despite the wad of cloth stuffed into her mouth, he recognized her at once. Count Biagio could hardly contain his glee at the baron’s astounded expression. Both men rose as the Shadow Angel dumped the struggling woman at Gayle’s feet.

  ‘Blackwood Gayle,’ said Biagio. ‘I present to you the Lady Sabrina of Gorkney, former queen of Aramoor.’

  ‘My God,’ groaned Gayle. He stared down at the frightened woman, nearly mute with lust and amazement. When she saw his face, Sabrina began to cry.

  ‘Call it righting an old wrong,’ said Biagio. ‘Does this change your mind, my friend?’

  Unable to pull his eyes from the girl, Gayle asked, ‘You mean she’s mine?’

  ‘For a little while. You see, the lady is going to deliver a message for me to her darling husband. But until then, yes, she’s yours. If you agree to do this thing I ask.’

  ‘What do you mean, for a while? Have someone else deliver your bloody message. If she’s going to be mine –’

  ‘Now, now,’ interrupted Biagio. ‘Don’t get greedy, Blackwood Gayle. The lady is the only one Richius Vantran will listen to. But I don’t need to send the message today, not even tomorrow. Take her until then. She is yours. Do we have a bargain?’

  The most inhuman grin cracked Gayle’s face. ‘We do.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Count Biagio went over to Gayle and wrapped an icy arm around the giant’s shoulder. Then, putting his lips to the baron’s ear, he began to whisper. ‘Now you listen to me. If Arkus dies, you die. If you fail to find the magic, you die. If Richius Vantran escapes you, you die.’ He released the baron from his cold embrace and added sweetly, ‘If I am displeased with you in any way, Blackwood Gayle, you die. Do you understand me clearly?’

  The big baron nodded.

  ‘Fine,’ smiled Biagio. ‘I am the Roshann, Blackwood Gayle. Don’t ever forget my power again.’

  Twenty-five

  Near the border of Tatterak, the land stretched endlessly in great, rugged steppes. Tatterak was Lucel-Lor’s ugly jewel, the bulk of the Triin nation and its most implacable territory. A man could lose himself forever in its desolate folds, and never know how close he was to the sea or another living being. Unlike the Dri
ng Valley, Tatterak was a craggy, colorless land, where the frost of winter grew thick and the summer sun could scorch the skin of a salamander. Here were the salt wastes of Lucel-Lor’s northern shore, stained white by eons of surf. It was the land of the snow leopard, those ravenous cats with a taste for human flesh, who came out of their mountain lairs to feed when other beasts had the sense to hibernate. At night Tatterak was a place of endless, starry skies and prowling, wide-eyed creatures, where soldiers rarely slept without a dagger by their bedrolls. And far away on the ocean shore was Falindar, the usurped home of Tharn, the birthplace of Lucyler, and the prison of Dyana.

  Richius expelled a tired sigh as he scanned the hostile expanse before them. For more than three weeks they had ridden for this place, following the narrow tributaries of melting ice from Tatterak’s warming peaks. He was weary from ceaseless riding, and when he saw the limitless nothingness of Tatterak he felt a wave of despair. He swore to himself, bringing his horse to a stop. Lucyler did the same.

  ‘Tatterak,’ declared the Triin. There was a happy ring to his voice, as if the imposing sight actually heartened him.

  ‘Tatterak,’ replied Richius dully.

  Even the name was hideous. In the time of the war, hundreds of men had poured into this desolate land, fighting side by side with the warlord Kronin. It was here the war had been bloodiest, where Aramoorians died in droves. Now Richius watched the landscape struggle into spring, recalling what Lucyler had been saying; Lucel-Lor was at peace.

  ‘I need to rest,’ said Richius. ‘I’m tired and my back’s aching. Let’s break for a while.’

  Lucyler frowned, then looked up into the hazy sky. The sun had yet to reach its zenith. They still had many hours of traveling left.

  ‘Could you go on a little? It is not much further to Dandazar now that we have reached the border. We will spend the night there, and you can get as much rest as you need.’