by John Marco
Then the weight of the storm was gone. Groggily, he raised his head. A dying breeze stirred the dissipating fog. The world was still. He heard a clamor behind him, near the castle gate. He struggled to his feet and heard Dyana’s call.
‘Richius!’ she cried frantically. ‘Where are you?’
Numb and baffled, Richius rose, tears streaking down his cheeks as he staggered toward the castle. There he saw Dyana calling for him through the fog. She rose when she saw him and ran to him, throwing her arms passionately around him and speaking his name again and again. Richius buried his face in her hair.
‘I’m alive,’ he assured her. ‘I’m alive.’
Slowly the fog lifted around them. Richius embraced Dyana. And then at once the same horrible notion occurred to them. Dyana pulled free of his arms and shrieked.
‘Tharn!’
A hedge of purple mist rolled back from the yard, revealing the cunning-man’s crumpled body. He lay on his back in a twisted heap, his chest rising and falling with desperate breaths, his fingernails scratching up earth as he tried to drag himself onto his side. Richius and Dyana raced over to him, kneeling down beside him. The glamour had abandoned him. Once again he was a mangled creature, deformed and hacking up blood.
‘My wife?’ he said in a shaky whisper. ‘They are dead?’
Dyana lifted his trembling hand and put it to her breast. ‘They are dead, my husband,’ she answered. ‘You have saved us.’
Another plume of blood gushed from Tharn’s mouth. Beneath it swam a crooked smile. ‘Saved . . .’ he gasped. ‘Saved...’
‘Tharn,’ said Richius desperately. ‘Don’t move. We’ll help you...’
‘I am dying,’ croaked the Drol. His body shook as he spoke, enduring every word like torture. ‘Lorris calls me. Your hand, Richius, your hand . . .’
Richius gave Tharn his good hand, placing it with Dyana’s in the cunning-man’s gnarled fingers. Tharn looked up at them with his crimson eyes, and there was something of joy in them before the inner light dimmed. The body seized, the fingers fell away, and the Storm Maker of Lucel-Lor drifted into oblivion.
Fifty-two
Like most events in Nar, the funeral for Emperor Arkus was a thing of scale. Count Renato Biagio, resplendent in crimson, addressed a crowd of over ten thousand mourners before sealing the giant mausoleum that would house the bones of the Great One forever. It had rained all that day and the night before, but Biagio endured the storms with grace. He himself was past mourning now, and there were schemes in his mind that preoccupied him.
All the nations closest to Nar City had sent delegations to the funeral, all bearing wishes for Arkus’ ascent to heaven. The legionnaires of Nar had been assembled at the order of their supreme commander, General Vorto, who stood beside his good friend Herrith on the ceremonial dais, watching Biagio with his cold blue eyes and stupidly betraying his every treacherous thought. On the dais with Biagio was Admiral Danar Nicabar, Vorto’s naval counterpart, who had docked the Fearless in the harbor and who, at Biagio’s order, had recalled the entire Black Fleet from its war in Lucel-Lor. The crowds marveled at the sight of the proud armada, a hundred gleaming warships choking the watery horizon. As Biagio finished his eulogy, his eyes flicked to Herrith. Among the crowds were a thousand of Vorto’s soldiers, religious devotees all. On the sea waited Nicabar’s unflinching armada. Biagio grinned at the fat bishop. He ended his speech and surrendered the floor to Herrith.
Under the shadow of the great Cathedral of the Martyrs, Bishop Herrith stretched out his arms, hushing his flock with the power of his office. He told the throngs of frightened Narens that God was merciful and that He would guide them with His mighty hand by divinely choosing a worthy successor to the Iron Throne. They were a people of morality and faith, said the bishop, and they needed a leader whom God would not shun. Biagio smiled throughout the bishop’s speech, already certain of his nemesis’ plans. The count was not fearful. He was the Roshann, and the Roshann was everywhere. Herrith held no surprises for him.
When the talks were done and the roses thrown, Biagio and Nicabar hurried from the dais, disappearing into the crowd. Swallowed up in the ocean of flesh, Herrith and his lapdog Vorto did not pursue them. A rush of excitement raced through the count as he made his way through the Naren streets. As he had suspected, the awesome sight of Nicabar’s navy had stilled the bishop’s hand. Even Vorto, a man with an army at his beckoning, didn’t dare challenge the cannons of the Black Fleet. Biagio and Nicabar boarded a stout rowboat that was waiting for them at the pier and departed Nar City.
Biagio stood up in the boat as the sailors rowed them toward the fleet, but his eyes were not on the armada. Rather, they lingered long and bitterly on the crowded Black City, on the rows of soldiers who had been ordered to assassinate him, and on the impossibly tall Cathedral of the Martyrs, that garish monument to Herrith’s merciless God. Biagio waved theatrically. Over his shoulder, the long-range guns of the Fearless were trained on the city. The count laughed, happy with himself. The Fearless would take them to Crote. For now, Herrith and Vorto would have Nar City. But power was a fleeting thing.
‘There will be a reckoning!’ Biagio called, sure that no one on shore had heard him. Again he laughed, full of vicious glee. Herrith was a clever man, but he had made some frighteningly stupid oversights. One of them was a midget with a giant brain.
Nicabar, who had been talking with a sailor, came up behind Biagio and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s done,’ said the admiral. ‘They tell me Bovadin is already aboard.’
Biagio gave a terrible smile. Throughout Nar, there was only one man who could synthesize the drug that kept them all alive. Now that the Iron Circle had corroded, it was a fortunate thing indeed that the little scientist had chosen their side.
‘Bad luck for you, Herrith,’ whispered Biagio. Not even Bovadin knew for sure, but he supposed withdrawal from the drug was fatal.
When Lucyler returned to Dring, he went at once to the dilapidated residence of the valley’s former master. Those in the castle had been waiting for him, for he had been seen approaching with the barrel-chested Karlaz, and the word spread swiftly from the watchtower that the two heroes of Ackle-Nye were returning.
Richius heard the news of Lucyler’s return while fitting his horse with a pair of shoes. He told Dyana he would meet Lucyler at Tharn’s gravesite. He was skimming stones off the little stream behind the keep when he saw Dyana and Lucyler emerge from the thickets. Lucyler seemed stricken. His face was creased with lines Richius had never noticed before. Lucyler took three steps before he noticed the marker beside Richius. It was a man-sized gravestone crudely carved by one of the valley’s elders, a farmer with an amateurish talent for masonry. Lucyler slowed as he approached the headstone, almost stopping until Richius bid him forward.
‘Come, my friend,’ said Richius. He went to Lucyler and took him by the hand, guiding him toward the grave beside the stream. Lucyler stared at the inscription for a long moment before his gaze dropped to the ground.
‘I knew when I saw Dyana,’ he said grimly. ‘What happened, Richius? Was it Gayle? I know that scoundrel escaped Ackle-Nye.’
‘He died saving me,’ said Richius. He recalled with regard the cunning-man’s insistence that he live. In the end, they were so much alike. Tharn had wanted to save a stranger. Richius had wanted to save Dyana.
Lucyler sank to his knees and kissed the gray rock bearing Tharn’s name. On the other side of the stream, in a place unmarked and unceremonious, there was another grave, one Lucyler had helped to dig. In the place where Dinadin rested there was no gravestone, only the easy shade of a tree and a handful of poppies Richius had planted when no one was watching. It occurred to him as he watched his broken friend that this bright little refuge had suddenly become a very dim place indeed.
‘It was his choice,’ said Richius. ‘I swear to you I did not ask it.’
‘He was a good man,’ said Lucyler. He looked up at Richius. ‘You know that
now, yes?’
‘They were all good men,’ replied Richius. ‘They all deserved better than what they got.’
Lucyler looked again at the grave marker, grimacing. ‘This is it for him, then? The end?’
‘There is talk in the keep about a proper funeral. Now that all of you are back, we can have a ceremony if you like. Is that what Triin do when a leader dies?’
‘I do not know what Tharn would want,’ replied Lucyler. ‘He was simple in many ways. Perhaps this is enough for him.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I will have to tell Karlaz of his death. He is waiting for me back at the keep. He expected to tell Tharn about our victory.’
‘Tell me about it,’ pressed Richius. ‘A messenger told us that you’d won. Is it true? Did you beat them back? All of them?’
Lucyler nodded as if his mind was a thousand miles out to sea. ‘The lions were unstoppable,’ he replied. ‘Just like Tharn said they would be. Karlaz lost only three men.’
‘And the city? How did the warlords do?’
Lucyler grimaced. ‘I am a slaughterer now, Richius. A butcher. There were thousands of us, and we were out of control. The Narens in the city never had a chance. Shohar ordered his men to take skulls. They hacked the Narens to pieces, made them eat each others’ hearts.’ Lucyler sighed and bit down hard on his trembling lip. ‘I will never be clean again,’ he said. ‘Tharn would be ashamed of me.’
‘Then you did win. We’re safe.’
‘Maybe safer than you know,’ said Lucyler. ‘I have more news for you, my friend. Your emperor is dead.’
‘Arkus?’ asked Richius, astonished. ‘When?’
‘Before the attack on Ackle-Nye. Nang came across a messenger in the Run, on his way to Ackle-Nye. He tortured the man. He wanted to know if more troops were being sent. But Nar City is mourning the loss of your emperor.’
Richius fell back against a tree. ‘Dead,’ he whispered. It was too unbelievable, like a dream. With the old man gone, Lucel-Lor truly was safe. It might be months before they sent more troops, or maybe never. Tharn had gotten his wish. Lucel-Lor was free.
‘He should have died in Falindar,’ said Lucyler bitterly, rubbing a hand over the rugged gravestone. ‘That is where he should rest.’
‘He’ll rest well enough here, next to Voris and the others. It’s quiet here. I think he would have liked it. And people can come and see this place and remember. They won’t disturb Dinadin. They won’t even know he’s here.’
Lucyler smiled bleakly at his comrade. ‘What will you do now, Richius? Will you stay here?’
‘I’ve been wondering that myself. I’m not warlord here anymore. Jarra is master of Dring now. Before he died, Tharn told me he would do that for me. No one has questioned it. Jarra has told us we can stay, but it doesn’t seem right somehow, and I know there are people in Nar who will come looking for me.’
‘Then come with me to Falindar. There will be much to do with both Kronin and Tharn dead. You could help me.’
Richius chuckled. ‘I don’t know anything about being a warlord. If I did, I might have kept the job here. Besides, my work with Nar isn’t done yet.’
‘Oh?’
‘Aramoor, Lucyler. I still have a kingdom to free. If the Lissens go on fighting, I have to help them.’
‘Richius,’ said Lucyler evenly. ‘Aramoor may never be free again. We freed Lucel-Lor. That should be enough for any man. Even you. Do not destroy yourself chasing something that can never be. This is your home now. You must try to forget Aramoor.’
Richius smiled. ‘You know I can’t do that.’
Lucyler nodded. ‘You are welcome in Falindar,’ he said simply. He started back toward the keep then saw Dyana in the trees. Lucyler tossed Richius a grin.
‘She is yours now, then?’
‘We will marry,’ replied Richius. ‘And we will be together. Finally.’
Lucyler winked at Richius, then turned toward Dyana. Richius watched him perform a flourishing bow before disappearing into the trees. Dyana came to Richius, looking over her shoulder after Lucyler.
‘You told him?’ she asked.
Richius nodded. ‘He took it as well as could be expected. He said he knew about it when he saw your face.’
Dyana’s brow wrinkled with puzzlement. ‘He does not seem sad.’
Richius took her hands and brought them to his lips. ‘He is happy for us. I told him we would marry.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Soon. As soon as we can.’
‘We’ll need a cunning-man or some priest. If we go with Lucyler to Falindar we can find one there.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Dyana. ‘Falindar. We will stay with Lucyler and let Shani learn from the wise men there.’
Richius stepped out of her embrace. ‘It might not be for as long as you like, Dyana,’ he warned. ‘I’ve told you that already.’
‘I know,’she said sadly. ‘But for a little time atleast. Time for us to be together.’
‘Yes,’ said Richius. ‘Together.’
He brought her close again and kissed her. They would be together until the storms blew them apart and the shouts of his bloodline called him back to war. But for now, Aramoor was a lifetime away, and her kiss was an eternity.
Peace
From the Journal of Richius Vantran:
The death of Arkus still haunts me. It is like hearing that a god has died. Someday there will be songs about him, the ancient emperor who searched the world for magic so that he might steal another day.
But the real magic of Lucel-Lor is gone now. And I will miss Tharn profoundly. We were not so different, he and I. We both loved Dyana. We both tried to save her. In the end, I think he loved me, too. Not like he loved Dyana, of course, but like he loved Voris and Kronin. He loved the fire in them, the grace. If he saw grace in me, then truly he was a sorcerer. But I have only one life to give, and cannot begin to repay the blood I have made flow. Tharn died saving me, exhausting himself to the point of ruin. Sabrina died for my foolishness, and Dinadin for my blindness. Even Voris and Kronin were swept up in my fate. If there are gods watching me, then I hope they remove this awful curse.
But for now we will have peace. Without the Run, LucelLor will be sealed. Liss continues to prowl our shores, thirsty to sink more Naren ships, and the lions of Karlaz stand guard over us like concerned fathers. Lucyler says they fought bravely and I cannot doubt it, for never have I seen such magnificent beasts as those golden monsters of Chandakkar. Were I Arkus, perhaps I too would have thought them mystical. But like so much of Lucel-Lor they are only flesh and bone. Nothing here is as Arkus believed. I have seen magic and I cannot explain it, but I know it is not the burgeoning thing Arkus thought it to be. There was only one magician here, one man cursed orblessed by nature. Now that he is gone perhaps Nar will leave this land in peace.
But I know there can be no peace for me. Biagio will not suppose me dead. He is the Roshann, and the Roshann is everywhere. There will be assassins coming, and this valley will not be safe for us. Even with Jarra as warlord, Biagio will look here for me. Falindar, too. So we are without a home, my little family, but we will survive. Somewhere in this vast land there is a hiding place for us. Somewhere Shani can grow without Nar’s shadow stalking her.
Yet these are worries for another day. We have weeks yet, my family and I, my beautiful ‘kafife.’ For now I will let the Lissens worry about Nar. The pull of Liss is strong in me, but I yearn for at least a taste of peace. Biagio will have to find us first, and that will not be easy for him. These Triin have made me crafty. I am Kalak. I am the Jackal of Nar.
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