The Jackal of Nar (31 page)

Patwin took the sword uneasily. “Don’t look, all right?”

Richius nodded.

“Forgive me,” he said, and walked over to where Dragonfly stood. The big horse was still, as if aware of the solemness around him. Richius closed his eyes.

Good-bye, old friend.

And then it was over. Richius opened his eyes. Patwin was running his sleeve over Jessicane. The small man looked at Richius weakly.

“It’s done,” he said. “God, what unholy work that was.”

Slowly Richius walked over to Thunder, looking down at the corpse. Patwin had severed the horse’s head, so that now the body lay in a thick pool of crimson. Little wisps of steam rose from the pool and the horse. The sight sent a wave of nausea rushing over Richius, buckling his knees.

“Oh, God,” he groaned past a mouthful of bile.

“Look away,” Patwin ordered, taking hold of Richius’ shoulder. “I’m sorry, Richius, but he’s gone. That’s it.”

Richius shook off Patwin’s grip. “No,” he said, sinking his face into his hands. “Why did this happen? Why here? I’m supposed to be
home.
”

Patwin dropped to his knees beside Richius. Carefully he pulled Richius’ hands away from his face and stared at him hard. “Listen to me, Richius. You’re hurt. Look at your arm. I’ve got to get you help.”

Richius nodded silently, letting Patwin inspect his wounded forearm. The pain was intense, yet he was scarcely aware of it. As if from a great distance he heard Patwin muttering.

“How far are we from Dinadin’s, Richius? Do you know?”

Richius glanced down at his bloodied arm, then looked back at Patwin.

“Take me home,” he said softly. “Please.”

T
he ride back to the castle was dreary and sullen. Richius, his forearm bandaged in a swaddling of rags torn from his ruined coat, said almost nothing. He was in a kind of shocked stupor, a fog of which he was only scarcely aware, and even the fiery pain of his punctured arm hardly reached his mind.

It took only minutes for Dragonfly to reach the castle. Even with two grown men on his back, the young gelding made the trip effortlessly. The castle came into view just as a rain cloud opened up above them.

“There it is,” said Patwin. “You’ll be all right now, Richius.”

Richius lifted his head, heartened a little by the sight of his home. Past the high stone wall surrounding the castle he could see the three towers reaching skyward, striking in the ebbing light. Already tiny points of candlelight glowed in the castle’s many windows. Richius shivered, once again feeling the cold. He welcomed the idea of his warm bed and Jenna bringing him porridge. She would make a fuss over him, he knew, and suddenly the thought of her attention didn’t bother him. Just now he wanted to be mothered.

Dragonfly got them up the steep tor quickly and came to a stop at the wall’s iron gate. Since the murder of Richius’ father, Jojustin had ordered the gate locked and guarded at all times, and even Patwin didn’t have free access to the castle. He cursed when he reached it, shouting for the sentry. As if out of nowhere the guard appeared, a giant, twin-bladed axe in his fists.

“Who is it?” he asked gruffly, peering at them through the metal shafts.

“Open up!” Patwin demanded. “Richius is hurt!”

“Richius?” The guard’s small eyes narrowed as he looked past Patwin. “Is it you, Prince Richius?”

“It’s me,” Richius called back. “Do as he says, Faren.”

The man dropped his axe and produced a key tethered to his
armor by a thin chain. Hurriedly he fumbled with the lock and pulled open the portal.

“Sorry, my lord,” he said. “Jojustin told me to be careful tonight. We’ve had some strange visitors.”

“Visitors?” Richius asked. “Who?”

The sentry gave a furtive glance toward the courtyard. “From Nar, my lord.”

When they were through the gate Richius noticed the strangers. Two horsemen, both wearing the green and gold uniforms of Talistan, leaned lazily against their horses, unmindful of the drizzling rain. A third horseman was with them, still atop his horse, bearing a standard instantly recognizable by its bleakness. It was a plain field of black fabric without crest or embroidering. It was the flag of Nar, the Black City. As Richius and Patwin rode into the courtyard the two Talistanians looked at them, wry smiles on their faces. The rider from Nar never moved. Richius noticed now that a fourth horse was behind him. Its flanks also bore the black banners of Nar, but its saddle was empty.

“What’s this?” asked Richius, sliding down from Dragonfly’s back. “Who are they, Faren?”

Faren bid Richius closer and, putting his lips near his prince’s ear, whispered, “Biagio.”

Richius’ eyes widened. In good company, the name Biagio was always followed by a respectable silence. It was a name that had a unique power within the Empire. Richius glanced over at the trio of horsemen. The two Talistanians were still watching him. Quickly he pulled his wounded arm under the folds of his tattered coat.

“What does he want? Do you know?”

“He wanted to talk to you, my lord. I don’t know why.”

“Did you take him to see Jojustin?”

“Almost an hour ago. He told the others to wait outside.”

“Thank God for that,” said Richius. At least Biagio had shown the good sense not to let the Talistanians join him inside the castle. It was enough of an insult that they were in Aramoor at all. As for the other man, whom Richius supposed was a bodyguard, Biagio must have thought himself safe without him. Richius grimaced. Aramoor wasn’t much of a threat to anyone these days.

“Biagio,” spat Patwin. “What’s that dog doing so far from home?”

“I wonder,” said Richius. As head of the Roshann, Biagio was one of Arkus’ closest advisers, a member of his so-called “iron circle.” In the tongue of High Nar the term
Roshann
meant “The Order,” and that was exactly what Biagio was charged with maintaining. Every prison, every labor camp, every trial of sedition fell under his jurisdiction, and every public hanging in the Black City happened because he said so. It was rumored that the Roshann had spies in every court of the Empire, even Aramoor’s, and as absurd as that claim sounded to some, Richius secretly admitted to himself that no one really knew for sure. He was certain of only one thing about the Roshann—they were everywhere.

“Faren, take the horse back to the stables,” said Richius. “Patwin, you come with me.”

“Richius, your arm,” Patwin protested. “It has to be tended to. Let Biagio wait.”

“Yes, my lord,” agreed Faren, taking Dragonfly’s reins from Patwin. “I’ll tell Jojustin you’ve returned.”

“No. I don’t want to be announced. And don’t tell Jojustin I’m hurt, either. Don’t tell anyone, Faren. I don’t want a lot of fussing.”

The big man nodded. “I understand, my lord.”

“Damn it, Richius,” grumbled Patwin, mindful of the nearby soldiers. “Biagio came all the way from Nar City. He can wait a little longer while you get a proper bandage.”

“No,” said Richius. “Biagio doesn’t ever have good news for anyone, Patwin. He probably wants to talk about my father. If so, I don’t want Jojustin to have to explain it all. That’s
my
business.” He turned and strode toward the castle. “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” said Patwin reluctantly, following Richius across the courtyard. The Talistanians were still watching them. They both gave a slight, mocking bow to Richius.

“Good evening, Prince Richius,” said one of the soldiers.

Richius said nothing, only glared at the arrogant duo. It had been over twenty years since Talistanian soldiers had stepped on the soil of Aramoor, and Richius reasoned that these two villains were proud of their accomplishment. As for the other horseman,
whom Richius could see clearly now, he seemed to feel no such glee. He was perfectly erect in his saddle, his black armor dazzling. A cape of black with crimson lining was draped over his giant shoulders, clasped around his neck by a golden chain. He only turned his head toward Richius for a moment, long enough to display the death’s-mask helmet he wore. It was the absolute likeness of a skull. Richius gasped. This silent, beautiful spectre was a Shadow Angel.

Bodyguard indeed
, thought Richius. The Shadow Angels were Arkus’ personal protectors, an elite group of soldiers famous for their skill and loyalty. They were the best fighters in the Empire, a hand-picked regiment of zealots, and they never spoke to anyone unless their masters bid it. In all his life, Richius had only seen one of them before, and that was so long ago he could scarcely remember it. Now, face to face with this soldier, he wondered just how long Aramoor really could stand against Nar.

“Come on, Richius,” said Patwin, pulling at his sleeve. “Let’s get inside.”

Richius let Patwin lead him out of the courtyard and into the castle’s foyer, a small room where a traveler could knock the mud off his boots before entering the palace’s more elegant rooms. Patwin looked Richius over carefully, inspecting Richius’ arm again. The bandage was filthy, drenched with rain and stained with earth and blood. Richius flinched as Patwin probed it with his finger.

“Ouch,” he snapped. “That hurts!”

“I’ll bet,” Patwin muttered. “Not too long, all right? You have to get a clean bandage on that.”

Richius snatched his arm back. “Enough. It’ll be fine, believe me.” He slipped the scabbard from his back, then started taking off his coat, peeling the sleeve gently from around his arm. “Give me your coat,” he said to Patwin.

“My coat? Why?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to see my arm. If Jenna knows I’m hurt …”

“Richius!” came a sudden cry.

Richius’ face fell as he recognized the voice. Jenna came
rushing up to him, her expression almost comically fretful. She took one look at his bandaged arm and put her hands to her face.

“Lord!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you?”

“Wolves,” said Patwin. “They got us on the north passage. Richius took a pretty bad bite.”

“And that’s your idea of a bandage?” she asked Patwin sharply. “It’s filthy! You need a fresh dressing fast, and a washing.”

“No!” said Richius. “I need to find Jojustin. Where is he, Jenna? With Biagio?”

Jenna nodded, reaching out for Richius’ arm. “Yes,” she said, carefully examining the wound. “This is bad, Richius. Come with me and—”

“Are they in the council chamber?” said Richius impatiently.

“Yes, but you can’t go in there like this.”

“I have to,” said Richius. “I have to know what’s going on. Patwin?” He put out his hand for Patwin’s coat. Patwin reluctantly handed it to him, and Richius slid it on. It was a snug fit, particularly around the bulk of his bandage. He brushed some of the mud from his knees, grateful that the long coat covered most of his body, then started off down the hallway. Jenna was calling after him, but he ignored her. He could deal with his wounds later.

“Shouldn’t I announce you or something?” asked Patwin anxiously. “I don’t want to just break in on them.”

“This is our house, Patwin, not Biagio’s. We don’t stand on court ceremony here. If Biagio wants courtesy he can go back to Nar City.”

The council chamber was on the ground floor of the castle, down a long, quiet corridor. Like the throne room, the council chamber was seldom used. Darius Vantran had been an unpretentious king, and most of the matters he decided upon could be settled without the need for meetings or grand designs. He had governed a land of horse breeders and farmers, and so the trappings of state had little consequence or interest to him. Though he did have a throne, it was a small one and he rarely sat upon it. It was mostly an object of show, an affectation he could exercise to impress dignitaries on important occasions. There were very few important occasions this far north in the Empire.

When they reached the council chamber they found the door
tightly shut. Richius put his ear to the door. He could hear voices coming from behind it. Soft voices, mannered and disciplined. He breathed a little easier, pleased not to hear any of Jojustin’s hot-tempered shouting.

“They’re in there,” he whispered to Patwin. “Ready?”

Patwin nodded nervously. “Yes.”

Richius gave his friend a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” he said, barely audibly, and lightly pushed open the door.

“…  will retain full rulership over Aramoor, right?”

The voice was Jojustin’s. Startled, the old man turned to the door, at once forgetting his guest across the table. “Richius! I’m glad you’re back. We have a visitor.”

Count Biagio was out of his chair in an instant, staring back at Richius with a pair of brilliant sapphire eyes. He crossed the room in a few quick strides.

“Prince Vantran,” said the count, putting out his hand. “I am honored to meet you at last.”

Richius took the count’s hand and gave it a wary shake. Biagio’s many rings bit into his flesh. “Thank you,” he answered awkwardly.

“I am Count Renato Biagio,” said the count through a dazzling smile. “You have heard of me, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” said Richius, releasing the man’s hand at once. There was an icy coldness to it.

“Forgive my hands, Prince Richius,” said Biagio. “It’s a bitter day, and I have a condition that makes it worse for me. These rugged climes are not kind to us from Crote.”

Richius nodded. Biagio’s homeland of Crote was in the south of the Empire. Like all Crotans, Biagio had rich, satiny skin and an obvious aversion to rugged weather. Long days in the sun had turned his hair the color of amber. Even the way he spoke hinted of somewhere very far away. There was a faint foppishness to his tone, an overfriendliness that made Richius uneasy. And then there were the eyes, like two multifaceted gems—sparkling and pure, like a child’s or a cat’s.

“You are very far from home, Count,” said Richius. The tone of his voice spoke the question for him.
Why?
Jojustin lifted himself out of his chair and strode over to Biagio. There was an unmistakable look of excitement on the old steward’s face.

“The count has news for you, Richius,” said Jojustin. “Why don’t we all sit down so you can tell him? Count?”

“Of course,” said Biagio. “And the prince looks absolutely miserable. He should sit down, perhaps have some wine. Allow me, please.” Biagio walked over to the table and retrieved the decanter of wine resting there. He took his own glass, filled it liberally, and handed it to Richius. “For you, Prince Richius. And we should have a glass for your companion, too. Who is this young man?”