The Jackal of Nar (104 page)

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 insect-like 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.

T
he 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.

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.

“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.”

Lucyler thought for a moment, considering the option. It was true he could see far more from up here. Wasn’t that what generals did? He thought of Richius, and wondered what his friend would have done. The answer came to him in an instant.

“No. I will take it down myself. One leader to another. It might impress them.”

Praxtin-Tar laughed. “If all of us on this hill do not impress them, do you really think you will? Do not be a fool. Shohar is right. Let him take the letter. You are needed more than he is.” He smiled evilly at Shohar. “No offense.”

Shohar smiled back. He wore golden silk robes and might have been handsome if not for the insanity in his eyes. “Agreeing with you makes my stomach turn, Praxtin-Tar. Stand back a little. I might get sick on you.” Shohar went to Lucyler and stuck out his hand. “Give me your message. I will take it down for you. An army is useless without a leader.”

Reluctantly, Lucyler handed over the paper. “All right,” he conceded. “But just give them the letter. Do not say or do anything else.”

“Of course not,” said Shohar dryly. “I am not as dumb as some, you know.” He took the letter and stuffed it into his robes. “Praxtin-Tar, if you see us in trouble, try not to take your time.”

“I will ride as fast as I can,” joked Praxtin-Tar, “in the other direction.”

Shohar laughed shrilly and drove his horse away, down the slope a little toward his men. He began gathering them for the ride toward the city. Lucyler watched him go, fearful of the response he would get.

General Cassis, commander of the garrison of Ackle-Nye, stood at the end of his balcony, craning his neck to see. The building he used for his office stood obliquely to the hillside, but he could make out enough to know he was in trouble. His expert eyes counted fifteen hundred Triin, maybe more, some on horseback, most on foot. They were arranged in colored regiments the way Triin do, each group no doubt belonging to a separate warlord. Behind them in the eastern sky the sun was rising, throwing their shadows ominously down the hillside. Scouts had sighted them days ago but had put their numbers at far less. Now gathered, they looked like an entire legion.

Cassis put his hands on the balcony’s railing and gripped it hard, keeping himself steady as he leaned forward. The narrow streets had fallen silent. The highest buildings in the city had long-range flame cannons in position, and a platoon of hand-helds had been dispatched at the city’s mouth, a first line of defense Cassis knew would buy him some time. At last count he had 653 men under his command—not including Blackwood Gayle, who had abandoned them some days earlier. Cassis had been over the math several times. Even with their weapons and the security of the walls, their chances were terrible.