by John Marco
And then Nagrah spoke no more. The young man turned from his master and looked again out over the plains, and there was no more reason for any of them to speak.
Later that day, when the sun was high and full with noon, Tharn awakened from a restless nap. He looked over the side of the rocking carriage and found they were in a swamp of dry grass, higher even than a man’s waist and dotted with ancient, thick-limbed trees with wide, spreading canopies of leaves. He made a quick assessment of the sun’s position and decided it was time to stop. A rap of his cane got Raig’s attention.
‘Stop the carriage,’ he ordered. ‘Rest time. And prayer time.’
Raig obeyed at once, drawing the pair of horses to a stop and setting down the reins. He and Vorn both climbed into the back of the carriage for some water and food. Nagrah began digging into the supplies. Tharn, whose back felt broken with fatigue, decided to stretch himself with a walk.
‘Eat,’ he directed as he got unsteadily to his feet. ‘Rest. I will be back soon.’
Nagrah looked up. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To pray,’ said Tharn. He pointed with his cane into the high grass. ‘Out there.’
‘No, Master. It is too dangerous.’ Nagrah got to his feet and took Tharn’s wobbly arm.
‘Relax, boy,’ said Tharn. ‘Help me down.’
‘The grass is too tall,’ Nagrah protested, complying. ‘We will not be able to see you.’
Tharn sighed. ‘I have not needed a wetnurse for a long while, Nagrah. Now eat and rest yourself. I will be quick.’
He heard Nagrah’s protests over his shoulder but ignored them, hobbling off into the tall grass, beating down the worst of it with his cane. It was dry here, and the grass beneath his feet hissed as he flattened it. Before long he was almost out of sight of the carriage, thoroughly invisible when he knelt. His knees gave an awful groan as he eased to the ground, setting aside his cane. He drew in a breath of sweet air to cleanse his mind. Above, the sky was cloudless. In the distance he could hear the youthful, argumentative voices of his cunning-men. This he blocked out, too, shutting his eyes and listening to the wind.
And Tharn prayed . . .
He spoke to Lorris and to Pris, he asked for guidance and for strength, and for all the usual prayerful things, but he also asked for forgiveness for his cruelty, and he thanked his gods for opening his eyes to what he had become. With help, he would change, he told them. He had almost finished his lament when a sound behind him broke his thoughts.
Tharn muttered a little curse. ‘Nagrah, please . . .’
Tharn opened his eyes and turned around, and his breath stopped with a gasp. Six feet before him was the biggest animal he had ever seen, its feline head lowered to the ground, its yellow eyes bright with interest. Tharn froze. The big cat’s ears drew back and for a moment it was invisible in the tawny grass. Tharn reached very slowly for his cane. The huge eyes tracked him, unblinking.
He wanted to flee, but there was nowhere to run. And running wasn’t what Tharn was best at anyway. Carefully, painfully, he brought up one knee, then the other, until he was standing.
‘Easy,’ he whispered. ‘Easy . . .’
The beast’s eyes narrowed and a low growl rumbled from its throat. Tharn put up his hands.
‘No, no. Easy. I am nothing. No trouble.’
He took one step backward. The cat didn’t pursue.
‘Good,’ he crooned. ‘Good . . .’
‘Master!’
The lion turned in a blur. Nagrah was coming, his face rigid with alarm. Behind him were Vorn and Raig. The lion roared and gathered itself to spring.
‘No!’ Tharn screamed, swatting at the beast with his cane. Again the lion turned. It opened up its mouth, bared its pointed fangs, and raised a flashing paw.
And the world just disappeared.
Forty
Arkus of Nar was on a ship, sailing.
His hair was black and his limbs were strong, and he was a young man again. Barely twenty, he supposed. From the prow of the warship he could see the great expanse of ocean, and the sky was a deep, impossible blue, the kind of color that only appears in dreams. It was a giant ship, this sister of the fleet, yet he was alone on its deck and his solitude did not frighten him. Because he was young he had only one name – Arkus. It was not time yet for his Black Renaissance: not time to be dubbed the doom of the world.
Far out to sea the coast of Lucel-Lor beckoned, a shimmering break on the horizon. He had traveled far and hard, and had endured the jealous looks of the sailors who had borne him here. Arkus was not a ruler today, and wouldn’t be for years. Today he was only a hunter, sent to behead a mythical beast of Lucel-Lor. He would present the lion’s skull to his father, he decided, and prove his worth. His father would be pleased, and he would see that he had raised a fine and fearless heir.
Curiously, as happens in dreams, the sky began to darken. Arkus looked over the side of his ship. Beneath the keel the sea began to foam and boil, and from its depth arose a reptilian head, and then another, and then two more, all on the smooth torsos of snakes. They towered above the ship and its single passenger, staring down at him angrily. Abruptly the ship ceased its movement. Arkus of Nar gazed up at the serpent and commanded it out of his way.
‘I have need of Lucel-Lor, monster,’ he shouted. ‘Do not fight me.’
All the beaked heads scowled. ‘Who are you?’ they asked. ‘And what is your need?’ The heads seemed to speak at once in a hissing chorus.
‘I am Arkus of Nar,’ he answered defiantly. ‘Someday master of a continent. Are you the guardian of Lucel-Lor?’
‘We have many names,’ said the heads together. One smiled a dragon’s smile. ‘I am Tharn,’ it said. Then its brothers joined in.
‘I am Liss.’
‘I am the Magic of Lucel-Lor.’
‘And you?’ asked Arkus of the head that was silent. ‘What are you called?’
The head that hadn’t spoken now loomed higher than the rest. ‘I am Richius Vantran,’ it boomed. ‘I am the Jackal. The betrayer.’
‘We are all who fight you,’ said the heads, laughing, and the sea began to pitch so that Arkus could hardly stand. ‘We are keeping you from living.’
‘No,’ bellowed Arkus. He went to the railing of the ship and shook his fist at the hellish thing. ‘I am immortal. I do not fear you.’
‘In your youth you were immortal,’ said the head that called itself Magic. ‘And you feared nothing then.’
‘But you are old now,’ added the head called Vantran. ‘Old and weak. You are dying.’
‘I am not!’ Arkus cried. ‘I fear no one. I am here at my father’s beckoning, to capture and kill a lion and to bring back its head.’
The head called Liss began to howl. ‘You have killed us! And now we will kill you!’
‘No,’ Arkus protested. ‘I must go to Lucel-Lor. You must let me pass. Peace, Liss. I promised you peace . . .’
Now all the heads were wailing, and Arkus felt their accusations tearing him, dragging him back to his awful reality. Cold gripped him, and the unspeakable pull of age. He gripped the rail harder to steady himself.
‘Stop it!’ he cried. ‘Stop, I demand it!’
And the head that called itself Richius Vantran lowered itself on its prehensile neck and regarded Arkus with all the venom of the world. ‘You demand nothing from us, old man,’ it hissed. ‘We defy you, for you are weak. You can’t even see us! You are blind.’
Arkus put his hands to his eyes. He knew the dragon spoke true, and the rightness of it shattered him, startling him awake. The sound of his hearth-fire roared in his ears, but he could not see its flames. All was black, as it had been for weeks now, and Arkus of Nar cursed his blindness and screamed an unholy scream.
It had taken nearly an hour for Biagio to calm the emperor. Since returning to Nar City, Biagio had foregone his usual apartments for a small chamber near Arkus’, so that he could handle any emergencies. He had heard Arkus’ wails even befo
re the monarch’s servants, and had rushed into the chamber to find him delirious with fear, clutching and tearing at his eyes. And though he was far stronger than his emaciated ruler, Biagio had needed nearly all his strength to subdue Arkus, so powerful was his delirium.
Arkus slept now, aided by a powerful elixir Bovadin had concocted for just such an outburst. Biagio watched Arkus from a chair by the bedside. He was exhausted. It was well past midnight. The tall tower groaned. A fire roared in the hearth. Biagio fought to keep his eyes open. He had promised Arkus he would stay with him.
It was a bitter thing, the count decided, to watch someone beloved rot away. Even he admitted that Arkus hadn’t much time. Bovadin couldn’t say how long the drugs would sustain him, but Arkus was weaker by the day. His bowels loosed every bit of food he forced down and, except for his occasional rages, he was as weak as a kitten. Even if there were some great magic in Lucel-Lor, Biagio doubted Gayle could bring it back in time.
And that was the terrible agony of it. For those of the Iron Circle, time had always been an ally, a force they could stop when other mortals went on aging and dying. Biagio himself was well past fifty, but he had the appearance and virility of a twenty-year-old. His skin was bronze and he was beautiful even by Crotan standards. He was a vain man with an affinity for mirrors, and seeing Arkus so misshapen horrified him. It was not fitting that a great man should die so.
Biagio closed his drooping eyelids. Arkus had regaled to him his terrible dream, and now the count could see the white dragon, its four heads taunting Arkus, taunting them all. Liss, thought Biagio hatefully. They were the cause of this all, them and that bastard Vantran. Liss had single-mindedly destroyed Arkus, had prevented Nicabar’s troop landings at almost every turn. They had come to rely solely on Blackwood Gayle’s ground offensive, and although the baron had done a remarkable job of slaughtering Triin, Lucel-Lor was simply too vast. Though they held the Saccenne Run securely, it might be months before Gayle broke through completely, months Arkus didn’t have.
‘Oh, God, I need more time,’ Biagio whispered. ‘More time, that’s all . . .’
He could do it if Gayle hurried. If Gayle could reach Tharn, perhaps the holy man himself could save Arkus. Biagio’s mind turned on this for a moment. He would torture Tharn himself if necessary. And when Arkus was safe and alive, he would pull out Tharn’s eyeballs.
‘I would love that, holy man. To see you die . . .’
Arkus stirred. Biagio got up from his chair and went to the bedside.
‘Renato . . .?’ gasped the emperor. Biagio had to strain to hear the soft voice.
‘I’m here, Great One,’ he replied. ‘I’m right here. Are you all right?’
The wizened head nodded. ‘Is it morning?’
‘Not yet. Not for several hours.’ Biagio looked toward the window. Past the thick curtains, all was dark. Only the occasional blast from a smokestack lit the night. ‘Can’t you sleep? You should try. Bovadin says you need rest.’
‘Bovadin is my mother hen,’ rasped Arkus. ‘Like you.’
Biagio smiled sadly and took his master’s hand. The appendage seemed smaller by the day. ‘We are worried for you, that’s all. We want to see you healthy again.’
‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Arkus. ‘I must recover. Work to be done.’
‘Much work, my lord. The world still needs you. I need you.’
Arkus’ frail fingers curled around Biagio’s hand. A trace of a grin appeared on the cracked lips. ‘Thank you for being with me, Renato. You are my truest servant.’
‘Always, Great One.’
‘Yes, always. It was always you.’
Humbled, Biagio went to his knees at the bedside. He put his chin down on the mattress and stared long and hard at Arkus, aching for more praise. He was Arkus’ truest servant. He had always been. It wasn’t the bishop or Nicabar or Bovadin, nor any other of the Iron Circle. Only he was so loyal and steadfast. Only he adored Arkus as a father.
But all fathers died, he supposed. And the sons were left to go on alone, uncherished. Biagio had a wife and a gaggle of cousins, but they were no more his family than the blood father he had slain. He had heard the call of Arkus and it had pulled him like a religion. It had given his life dimension. Now, as he watched the Great One fade, his existence seemed flat again.
‘Great One?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes?’
‘I am doing my best for you. You know that, don’t you?’
There was a long, painful silence. At last the emperor gave a sullen nod. ‘You are trying,’ he said weakly. ‘I know that.’
‘The Lissens are devils, my lord. If not for them, I would have taken Lucel-Lor by now. And you would not be in such pain. But it will end, Great One. I swear it. We will take Lucel-Lor, and you will be whole again.’
Even as he said it, Biagio knew it was a lie. But it was a lie he needed as much as Arkus. It comforted them both.
‘I have been thinking, my friend,’ said Arkus. The words came with effort and he swallowed hard to continue. ‘What shall I do first when I recover? Who should be first to taste my vengeance? The Lissens?’
‘Nicabar would like that,’ said Biagio. ‘He is anxious to go after their homeland again.’
‘We will do that. Yes, we will. When I am well and Lucel-Lor is mine, I will sail to Liss myself and slay their king. You will come with me, Renato. It will be glorious.’
‘Glorious, my lord.’
Arkus gave a satisfied sigh, and in his blind eyes Biagio could see the memories skipping backward. Where is Arkus now, he wondered?
‘And the Vantran boy,’ Arkus continued. ‘I want him brought to me. Right away. I want to see him swing, Renato. We will have a public execution.’
‘Gladly.’
‘You will see to it then? Have him brought to me?’
Biagio hesitated. ‘We are trying, Great One. As I said . . .’
‘Now, Renato! Can’t you do this for me? Do I ask so much of you? He’s but one man.’
‘All right, yes. If that is your wish, my lord, we will make every effort to bring him here.’
Arkus reached out and brushed his count’s face with a finger. ‘Renato, I die.’
‘No, Great One. You can never die.’
‘Perhaps. But it may be that nothing can stop this. So I want one last thing from you. Find me Richius Vantran, and bring him back to me. I must see this before I’m gone. Now promise me.’
‘Yes,’ choked Biagio. ‘I promise. On my own eyes, I will bring Vantran here for you.’
Arkus slackened. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’
‘Great One?’ Biagio probed gently. ‘May I ask you something?’
‘Anything, my friend.’
Biagio licked his lips, fighting down his nervousness. ‘If you die – and I say if – what will become of us?’
Arkus’ face hardened. ‘What are you asking?’
‘It is nothing,’ said Biagio, waving it away.
‘Do you think I’m dying, Renato?’ asked Arkus sharply.
‘Great One, you said yourself . . .’
‘I do not expect you to agree. You’re supposed to be saving me!’ Arkus trembled. ‘God in heaven, how can you speak to me like this? I suffer and you think only of your ambition!’
‘No, my lord! I’m thinking of Nar, of your Black Renaissance! If you die Herrith will fight me for the throne. Unless . . .’
‘What?’
‘Unless you choose your own successor.’
There. He’d said it. The emperor drew a deep, pensive breath.
‘You are my truest servant, Renato,’ said Arkus softly. ‘Is that not enough for you?’
‘Oh, yes, my lord, it is. I want nothing more than to serve you.’
‘Then why do you speak to me of death?’
‘For Nar, Great One. That is all . . .’
‘I will not die!’ Arkus thundered. ‘I will not. Not now or ever!’
Biagio watched, horrified, as the emperor dissolv
ed into tears. Arkus shut his blind eyes and turned away, cursing and shaking. Biagio took Arkus’ hand and waited for the tantrum to pass, and suddenly he knew he would never have his answer. Arkus feared death too keenly to ever pass along his throne.
‘I’ll sleep now,’ sniffed Arkus. ‘Stay with me, Renato. I’m afraid of my dreams. Wake me if I scream.’
‘I’m here, Great One,’ said Biagio. He kissed the emperor’s desiccated forehead. ‘Rest.’
A few moments passed before Arkus dropped into a fitful slumber. When he was certain his emperor was asleep, Count Biagio arose from the bedside and went to the door. He spared one last look at his master, then, confident that Arkus would not soon awaken, left the room and summoned his Shadow Angels.
Forty-one
‘Here, Dyana,’ said Najjir. ‘These are the leaves you want.’
Dyana looked over Najjir’s shoulder. The leaves were small but thick, textured with a downy fuzz. Najjir picked one of them from the bush and held it up, then snapped it in two. As she pulled the sections apart, sticky threads of sap ran from the leaf.
‘You see? Just like I told you. This will help him.’
Dyana poked at the strings of sap, breaking them like spiderwebs. They felt cool on her finger, just as Najjir had said they would. Her mood brightened, buoyed by the thought of helping Richius at last. For four days he had lain in agony, nearly paralyzed with pain from the awful wound. Now it looked like he would finally have some relief.
Since returning from the front, Richius had been in too much pain to allow even the lightest of touches on his flayed skin. But he had rested since, and could probably bear the application of the poultice. He was waiting for her to return with the stuff, as eager as she to know if it would work.
‘How many do we need?’ she asked, reaching into the bush and starting to pick off the leaves.
‘Slowly,’ Najjir cautioned. ‘Do not bruise them or the sap will run out. And do not pick the plant bare. The medicine does not last long, and we will be needing it for others.’
