by John Marco
‘Why are you doing this to me?’ Richius asked. ‘I’ve been nothing but loyal. I’ve given all I can to –’
‘Enough,’ ordered Tharn. ‘Karlaz will leave with his men the day after tomorrow. They will ride for the Run and they will take it, and the other warlords will take Ackle-Nye. You and I will have no part in this, Richius.’
Tharn turned to Jarra and began gibbering in Triin, obviously explaining it all to the old war master. Jarra took the news poorly, but did not question. When Tharn was finished, Jarra turned to Richius and spoke.
‘He wants to know if he may leave now,’ explained Tharn. ‘I have told him everything and said we are done here. He awaits your dismissal.’
‘Yes,’ said Richius in Triin, waving at the Dumaka. ‘You can go now, Jarra.’
Jarra stood, bowed deeply to Richius and Tharn, and left the room. Then Tharn turned to Karlaz and, very cordially, dismissed him, too. The lion man seemed unperturbed by the request, taking his food with him before going. Lastly Tharn spoke to Dyana.
‘Will you leave us, too, my wife? I wish to speak to Richius alone.’
Dyana chanced a sideways glance at Richius, sighed, then vacated the chamber. Richius leaned back and scowled at Tharn.
‘I want an explanation,’ he said. ‘Why are you keeping me out of this? I have just as much right to fight as anyone. More even.’
‘And you deserve to know my reasons,’ said Tharn. ‘I am not going because I am sick. You are not going because you are not sick.’
‘Oh, Lord. Is it back to your riddles already? Please, Tharn, a straight answer for once. Why won’t you let me go?’
‘Because you are not Triin, and because you still have your life ahead of you. Richius, understand me. I asked you to defend the Dring Valley. You have done that for me. Your task is finished here. There is no reason for you to fight for us anymore, and I will not let you die needlessly. I can save you now, and I will. You will stay here, and you will live.’
The way the cunning-man was trying to save him infuriated Richius. But then he realized how similar it sounded. Once, he himself had tried to save Dyana.
‘Tharn, don’t try to save me. I want to defend Lucel-Lor. Is that so different from what Lucyler and the others are doing?’
‘They are Triin and you are not. They must die if the gods call them to defend this land. But the gods do not call you, Richius. Perhaps they have used you, brought you to us for your help, but they are done with you now, and you are still alive. I will make sure you remain so.’
‘But I have nothing! Why should I live?’
Tharn gave a sympathetic smile. ‘I have met Narens like you before. Always they speak of having nothing. But your heart still beats, yes? You still have breath? You have life, Richius. If you were infirm and cursed like me, I would grant your request. But you are healthy and young. I cannot let you risk that anymore. I needed you once, but no longer.’
‘Then I am needed nowhere,’ said Richius bitterly. ‘Aramoor is gone, and Dring doesn’t need me. My lordship here is a farce.’
‘It is not a farce,’ said Tharn sternly. ‘It is the way things have always been done. Voris passed his family on to you. They have need of you.’ Then his expression softened and he added, ‘But if you do not wish to remain here as lord, you do not have to. I have the authority to change it. You may pass the lordship to Jarra if that is what you want.’
‘That’s exactly what I want,’ said Richius. ‘As quickly as possible.’
Tharn nodded. ‘It shall be done. But you should think on it first, Richius. This castle could be a new home for you, a new life. If you leave here, you will be a stranger wherever you go. You can, of course, come back to Falindar with us. You may live there as long as you wish, and will not be held to our laws. I ask only that you do not question the way we live our lives as Drol.’
Richius bit his lip. His life was slipping away from him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Tharn was alive. He had lost Dyana forever.
‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I will have to think about it. Don’t mention anything to Jarra or Najjir until I give you my decision. I’ll need some time to think.’
‘Take time,’ said Tharn. ‘Consider everything, and know that to us in Tatterak you are a hero.’
Richius uncrossed his legs and rose. ‘Wonderful,’ he said bleakly. ‘But if you ask the people in Aramoor I’m sure they’ll tell you differently.’
‘Richius,’ said Tharn. ‘There is something else.’ The cunning-man’s gaze hit the floor evasively. ‘This is difficult for me. But you and Dyana . . .’ Tharn sighed. ‘She has been true to her vow to me. I can tell. I should thank you.’
‘Tharn, don’t,’ implored Richius. ‘I can’t speak of it. You’re back now. I’ve lost her. I know that.’
Tharn smiled. ‘I did not trust you when I left for Chandakkar. I am glad you are better than my fears.’
Forty-nine
On a balcony overlooking Nar City, on a morning brisk with a northern breeze, Count Renato Biagio sat alone among the flowers, his eyes swollen red from a night of tears and prayers. The sun was new and yellow, and he could see it burning defiantly past the nebulous smoke of the war labs. Beside him was a holy book, an heirloom from his father, its pages dog-eared from generations of devotion. He had spent the entire night out here, fasting and praying with the book to his forehead, staining it with frustrated tears as his emperor lay dying.
Biagio had never been a religious man. Though Arkus had bid all of the Iron Circle to submit to the one God – the God of Bishop Herrith – Biagio had never really had the faith. He was a defiant man, like the sun he was watching, determined to burn away the darkness with the power of his own intellect. But when he was desperate, when he felt small, he sometimes turned to heaven. This night he had prayed mightily, and somehow he knew his pleas had failed. Bovadin hadn’t come out to tell him of any miracles, and Biagio knew in his tortured heart that his most beloved was perishing.
Arkus wouldn’t survive the day, that’s what Bovadin had said. The old man’s mind was gone now, unable to even distinguish a friendly voice. Like Biagio’s. The count closed his eyes. At last the tears had stopped. He wasn’t mournful anymore, he realized, just angry. He even felt abandoned, and this new emotion puzzled him. He resented the old man for leaving him. What was he without Arkus, after all? He was the head of the Roshann, he had allies, but he had consigned his life to the ideals of Nar, and now those ideals were breathing their last and coughing up blood. Within hours, the world would be a very different place.
And Arkus was himself to blame for this, at least in part. Stubborn to the last, the emperor still refused to believe the inevitability of his own demise. Already the Iron Circle began to hover around like buzzards. Herrith was with Arkus even now, chanting his nonsense about heaven. There would be a struggle for the throne, maybe a bloody one, and for such an insightful man Arkus had foolishly allowed it to happen. Biagio shuddered, sick with the thought of Bishop Herrith’s prayers. Praying to a God that didn’t exist.
‘Damn you!’ Biagio raged. He rose from his chair and picked up his book, flinging it off the side of the balcony. The book plummeted from sight. When it was gone Biagio reached for his chair, smashing it against a statue of a woman. The chair shattered against the marble. Biagio fell to his knees, shaking and sobbing. He raised his face to the sky and spat, imagining the missile striking the face of God.
‘I hate you!’ he screamed. ‘You deaf monster, I hate you!’
God had failed him, just as he had failed Arkus. There was no magic in Lucel-Lor. There was only death and solitude and revenge. He had promised Arkus life and delivered only ruin. He had not even captured Vantran. Vantran. Biagio smoldered. That boy would suffer someday.
‘Do you hear me, God?’ Biagio cried. ‘You can take Arkus, but you’ll never save Vantran! I will burn every church, I will kill every priest to get him. You’re protecting him, I know. But you’ll never save him!’
‘Renato!’
Biagio looked up to see Bovadin standing at the entrance of the balcony. The little scientist wore an expression of shock.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Bovadin. He hurried over to the count and offered a hand. Biagio growled and batted it away, rising to his feet without aid.
‘Leave me,’ he roared. ‘I told you, I don’t want company!’
‘Listen, you fool. Arkus is asking for you. You should come inside now, be with him.’
‘He’s calling for phantoms, Bovadin. He doesn’t even recognize me.’
‘He’s dying,’ snapped Bovadin. He grabbed Biagio’s cape and pulled him around. ‘Are you listening to me? He’s dying!’
‘I know!’ cried Biagio. Again he was on the verge of sobs. ‘So let him die! Let him leave us to war.’ Bitterly, Biagio turned away and went to the edge of the balcony. ‘If there’s a hell, I swear he’ll be in it, and all of us after him. All but Herrith.’
‘Renato,’ called Bovadin. The midget padded over to the count and slid a tiny, consoling hand onto his back. ‘You’ll regret this. Please, come with me. Before it’s too late . . .’
‘It is too late. He’s already dead.’
‘But Herrith is with him. Maybe Arkus will speak and Herrith will hear . . .’
Biagio laughed mirthlessly. ‘Arkus won’t say it. Even now he can’t admit his dying. He’ll never pass the throne to me.’
‘Then you must make him,’ urged Bovadin. ‘If you demand it, he may listen. Please, Renato. For all our sakes. Won’t you try?’
‘It’s impossible. You know him as well as I. He’ll never give up the throne. It will be up to us to fight for it.’ The count fell to one knee and put both hands on Bovadin’s small shoulders, staring into the insectlike face. ‘I’ll need you with me,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve already spoken to Nicabar and some others. They’ve already agreed to join me. What about you?’
‘Don’t make me choose. Not yet. Not while there’s still a chance.’
‘With me or against me, Bovadin. Which is it?’
Bovadin locked blue eyes with the count. ‘With you. If you try to talk to Arkus.’
‘Bovadin, it’s no use...’
‘Try,’ insisted the scientist. ‘Or I’ll stand with Herrith.’
Biagio stood and towered hatefully over the midget. ‘Stand with Herrith and I’ll have you killed. You know I can do it.’
‘Talk to Arkus, or no more drugs,’ countered Bovadin.
An expert interrogator, Biagio quickly scanned Bovadin’s face and concluded he wasn’t lying. And without the drugs to keep them vital, they would all soon wither.
‘Very well,’ agreed Biagio. ‘I’ll try.’
He let Bovadin lead him back into the palace. Grim-faced slaves, all attired in black, lined the hallways to Arkus’ bedchamber. Candles and incense burned on the walls, more of Herrith’s holy nonsense, and a handful of the bishop’s acolytes knelt in the halls and prayed loudly for the emperor’s soul. Biagio passed them disdainfully, carelessly stepping on their flowing robes as he moved through the palace. A pair of Shadow Angels stood at the open door of the emperor’s rooms. Quickly they stepped aside as Biagio and Bovadin approached. Biagio paused at the threshold and steadied himself. He was sure his request would send the emperor into a rage. Very slowly he stepped into the room. Bishop Herrith was poised over Arkus’ bed, cradling the emperor’s hand in his own. Arkus lay unmoving in the sheets. When he saw Biagio, Herrith flashed a spiteful smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the bishop. ‘You’re too late, Count. The emperor is gone.’
All the world fell upon Biagio in a sudden avalanche. Beneath him his knees buckled. He reached out for Bovadin and the midget fought to prop him up. Herrith raced over and seized an arm before Biagio could faint. Insistently the bishop conveyed him toward the bed. There on the mattress was Arkus, static and breathless. Renato Biagio closed his eyes, anguished by the sight.
Arkus of Nar was dead.
Fifty
The host of Lucel-Lor gathered on a hill overlooking the fortified city of Ackle-Nye. The morning was bright, and the glare from the sun set the city of beggars alight so that it glowed with Naren ugliness. Two thousand strong, the warriors waited impatiently for their leaders to hand down the word. Each had traveled from a different corner of the vast Triin land, eager to taste imperial blood. Horses snorted unhappily and dug at the dirt with their hooves, ready to charge down the hillside, while unmounted warriors talked uneasily amongst themselves and fiddled with their arrows. A pall had settled over the city, a lack of movement that bespoke apprehension. Ackle-Nye was closed up tight. The warriors had been seen and they knew it, and not a man of them feared the lack of surprise. The warlords had told them of the gun emplacements in the towers and the well-armed garrison stationed in the city. Drunk on bloodlust, nothing would deter them.
Near the top of the hill three men waited apart from the rest, their eyes fixed intently on the city at their feet. Mounted on heavy horses, their white hair blowing, they watched as the growing sun filled the world with light and made the shadows of the mountains smaller. Lucyler of Falindar shifted uneasily in his saddle. Unlike the others, he had no love for what was coming nor for the burden Tharn had handed him. Of the two thousand men gathered, nearly seven hundred were his own to command: the blue-jacketed warriors of Tatterak, who had been left masterless by the death of Kronin. Tharn had promised Lucyler that they would follow him and they had done so without question, yet Lucyler still felt uncertain. He wasn’t a warlord. Neither was he a general.
But he had done his best, and this morning’s martial meeting was the result. Praxtin-Tar and Shohar had followed him loyally, as had Karlaz and Nang. Lucyler’s eyes moved past the city to the mountain passage winding in the distance. At his orders, Karlaz and his hundred lion riders were waiting there, invisible amongst the rocks. Behind them, near the end of the Saccenne Run, was Nang. The savage from the Fire Steppes had also come to Ackle-Nye for the appointed rendezvous, as eager as the rest to fall upon the city. He had brought two hundred men, the most he could gather from his tiny territory, and had forcibly marched them over the mountains to take up position in the Run. Whatever the lions didn’t devour, Nang would.
Lucyler waited atop his horse. Dreadfully sure the Narens would say no to his terms, the little note he held seemed ridiculous. But he had to try. He supposed there were nearly a thousand soldiers in Ackle-Nye, and though he had them outnumbered, Lucyler hoped to avoid a bloody conflict. He wanted them to retreat, to leave their weapons and go home. Then he could close up the Run forever, and they could all return to their families. Lucyler glanced down at the parchment. On it were Naren words he had written himself.
Garrison Commander –
Surrender. Leave your weapons and retreat. If not, you will die.
He hadn’t signed it, because he knew the commander of the garrison had never heard of him, and the fool need only to look out his window to see what he was facing. It was probably a hopeless gesture, but Lucyler had to try. Nearby on the hillside, the warriors of Kronin watched him curiously, hoping his plan would fail. They followed him without question, because it was the will of Tharn, but they grieved for their fallen master and hungered for revenge.
Nang did, too, and Praxtin-Tar. Shohar, always eager to fight, had simply shrugged at Lucyler’s plan. Clearly, he thought Lucyler’s chances slim. He had traveled farther than any of the warlords, and his thin face looked paler than usual. In Lucel-Lor, they called Shohar the ‘Skull-Taker.’ It was said his throne was built of them. As for Praxtin-Tar of Reen, Tharn had said he was a trustworthy but vicious man. Good in a fight. Not so good at peace.
Of all the warlords who had come to Ackle-Nye, only Karlaz seemed reasonable to Lucyler. The master of Chandakkar had suffered under Nar, too, but he seemed less eager than the others, more humane somehow. He had told Lucyler that he only wanted to do this thing and then go home. Lucyler liked Karlaz.<
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‘The light has grown enough,’ said Lucyler. ‘They should see us all by now.’
‘Surprise would have been better,’ argued Praxtin-Tar. ‘You have ruined that.’
The warlord from Reen was a tall, intimidating man, and when he sat on his horse he looked like a centaur. He had powerful eyes that bore down hard, and long, spidery fingers that twitched when he spoke. His banner was a raven, and all of his men had one tattooed on their cheek. Praxtin-Tar’s was black and oddly animate.
‘It is what Tharn wanted,’ Lucyler explained. ‘For all of us. If they leave peacefully, the outcome is the same.’
‘The outcome perhaps,’ said Praxtin-Tar. ‘But not the glory. My men traveled here for battle, as did Shohar’s.’ He looked to Shohar for support. The smaller warlord merely shrugged.
‘We will do it my way,’ said Lucyler firmly. ‘Your way if I fail. That garrison is heavily armed. Why take the chance?’
Praxtin-Tar leaned closer. ‘Because it is what they deserve.’ He scoffed with disgust. ‘If you were Kronin –’
‘I am not Kronin,’ said Lucyler sharply. ‘And you are not my superior, Praxtin-Tar. This is my army today. You joined it. You will do as I say.’
Lucyler’s venom quieted the warlord. Praxtin-Tar grunted unhappily and said no more. Lucyler steeled himself.
‘I will take the letter myself,’ he said. ‘I will have my men follow me in. You both stay on the hill and watch. If anything happens, come down. Not before. Understood?’
Praxtin-Tar nodded. ‘Understood.’
‘I do not agree,’ said Shohar. He had a shrill voice that reminded Lucyler of a bell. ‘Lucyler, you should remain here. You are the leader. If you are attacked, you might be killed. Let me take your letter. It will do no good, anyway.’
