The Jackal of Nar (80 page)

“Oh, Renato,” breathed Arkus unsteadily. His voice quivered. “Renato. I knew you would come; I knew it.”

“Of course I came,” said Biagio. “I came as soon as I could.”

He motioned for Nicabar to remove himself from the bed and quickly took his place, picking up the emperor’s brittle hand. Biagio studied his sickly features, gazing into his dim eyes. The shimmering, preternatural blue was gone, replaced by a murky glaze of cataracts. A network of veins striped his face, and he seemed not to notice the viscous stream of spittle dripping down the desiccated skin of his jaw. Biagio swallowed and mustered up his strength.

“My lord, how are you feeling?”

“I am in hell itself,” replied Arkus. “But I am better now that you are here, Renato. Oh, so much better.”

“Bovadin told me you fell ill. I was in Talistan when I heard the news. Forgive me, my lord. I made the journey as quickly as I could.”

Arkus attempted a smile. “You are here. That is what matters. You can stay with me now.”

“Yes, Great One. Whatever you wish. You know I will do it.”

Arkus tried to clasp his hand more firmly, but the muscles of his fingers only quivered. He let out an irate groan. Biagio stroked his hair to quiet him.

“Do not try to move,” he said. “You are very weak. Bovadin says you must rest. Lie still. I am with you.”

“Danar?” called Arkus weakly. “Are you still here?”

“I am, my lord,” said Nicabar, coming to the bed.

“Danar, tell Renato what we’ve been talking about. It will interest him. Listen, Renato.”

Biagio looked up at Nicabar and the admiral shook his head. He understood at once.

“Great One, this is not the time for such talk. You must rest. Danar and I will speak later.”

“I am not an infant,” said Arkus roughly. “And I am still emperor. Do not treat me as if I were already dead. Danar, tell him.”

The admiral cleared his throat and said, “It may be nothing, really. You already know we’ve broken off our siege of Liss.”

“Yes,” said Biagio. “So?”

“Well, I think we’re not through with them yet. I’ve had some interesting reports while you were traveling, Renato. It seems the schooners of Liss are on the move.”

“What?” Biagio sputtered. “That’s impossible! You told me the schooners were destroyed.”

“Not all of them, apparently. My dreadnoughts have sighted them. They were heading for Lucel-Lor.”

Biagio felt a desperate tightness in his chest. He glanced at Arkus, who was nodding dumbly. Nicabar shrugged, unable to explain the odd phenomenon.

“You hear, Renato?” asked Arkus. “Even as I die those Lissen pirates torment me!”

“But Lucel-Lor?” said Biagio, looking to Nicabar. “Why? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Obviously the Triin have found allies,” said Arkus. “Common cause against us, you might say. What matters now is not why, Renato, but what we shall do about it. Danar claims there are at least a dozen of the schooners.”

“Probably more,” added Nicabar. “A dozen is all we’ve seen so far.”

“And they’re faster than our dreadnoughts,” Arkus continued. “They could keep us from landing more troops on the Triin shores.”

“They mustn’t,” said Biagio. “Danar, you have to stop them.”

“We will try,” said Nicabar. “But it won’t be easy. Our lord is
right. They are much faster than our own ships. Catching them will be difficult.”

Biagio wanted to argue, but he held his tongue for his emperor’s sake. If Liss was allowed to aid the Triin, the conquest of Lucel-Lor could become a slow, protracted stalemate. And that meant no cure for Arkus.

“Danar, you must do your best,” directed the count calmly. Then he laughed and said, “These Lissens are a distraction we don’t need!”

“You spare me,” said Arkus darkly. “They are more than a distraction. They could ruin us. You must not let them, either of you. Do everything you have to, but stop them, do you hear?”

“We won’t fail you, my lord,” came Nicabar’s reply. He seemed eager to leave, licking his dry lips as he spoke. “If there are only a dozen of them, they should pose little threat.”

“A dozen ships,” said Biagio, tossing off the notion as if it were nothing. “And how many dreadnoughts do you have, Danar? At least that many, yes? And the old war barges, too? These Lissens will be nothing to you. Really, Great One, you worry needlessly. We are already on the ground in Lucel-Lor. Let the Triin look to Liss for help. They will be but a petty annoyance.”

Arkus smiled, appreciating his count’s elaborate lie. “Renato, I will hold you to that,” he said. “And you, too, Admiral.”

Nicabar blanched. “I should leave you now, my lord,” he said, backing away. “You and the count should talk. I will come to you again this evening. If you need anything—”

“I will send for you,” said Arkus. “Thank you.”

Nicabar bowed to the blind emperor, shot Biagio an insulted look, then turned and left the chamber. Arkus waited until the admiral closed the door before he moved again. He took hold of Biagio’s hand with a grip as weak as water and closed his blind eyes.

“Oh, Renato,” he sighed, breathing the name like a prayer. “I am so happy you are with me. I get nothing but lies from the others. The truth now, my friend. What news from Lucel-Lor?”

It was the question Biagio had been dreading. He forced up a sunny voice and lied. “Good news, Great One. We have the Triin on the run.”

Arkus waited a moment for the count to continue, frowning with impatience. “And?”

“Well, Gayle has been doing a fine job,” answered Biagio evasively. “I’m sure you’ve heard about Ackle-Nye. It was a complete success, and Gayle’s men are on their way to the valley.” He patted the emperor’s hand. “Your legions are with him, and Nicabar’s navy has started to land men on the coasts. By summer—”

“Renato!” demanded the emperor. “What news?”

Biagio faltered. “I’m sorry, Great One,” he stammered. “We’ve found nothing yet.”

Arkus’ hand stilled, then the lips curled around the awful word, and it came out of his throat in a small, terrified whisper. “Nothing.” His hand started to tremble, and he looked toward Biagio. “Nothing?”

“No, Great One. Not yet. But we’ve only just begun our search. Surely in the Dring Valley, or in Chandakkar—”

“It’s there, Renato. Look for it!”

“We
are
looking, Great One. We’re doing everything we can. Gayle is tearing Lucel-Lor apart for you. If there is a cure, he’ll find it.”

“He must hurry. There is no time to waste.” Arkus shut his eyes and a tiny tear squeezed out from under a lid. “Lord in heaven, save me. I cannot walk, Renato. I am blind. My heart is next, I know it.”

“No, Great One,” soothed Biagio. “You will walk again. It is probably nothing more than some rheumatism. Your eyes, too. Bovadin will have another potion for you. Soon we will be walking in the garden together.”

“I love your optimism,” said Arkus. “But I am dying. And I swear to God I cannot stand the terror of it.” The tears were dripping onto the perfumed pillows. “Help me, Renato. I am afraid.”

“Do not be,” said Biagio firmly. “I won’t let you die, Great One, I swear it. If there is a magic in Lucel-Lor to save you, I’ll find it. I will rip it out of Tharn myself.”

“Yes, find it,” begged the emperor. “Quickly now. God, that bastard boy has ruined me. Don’t let him get away with it, Renato.”

Biagio’s eyes narrowed. “No. That I promise you, no matter what happens. I will bring you back his skull.”

“Why, Renato? Why did he betray me like this? I gave him everything, a wife, a kingdom, his whole damn inheritance. I
could have taken his worthless life, but I didn’t. Why has he done this to me?”

“It is in his blood, my lord. Some sort of gross disease. Don’t blame yourself. He duped us both. It is true what the Triin say of him. He is a jackal.”

“I want him,” said Arkus. “Before I die I want him brought to me.”

“We will have a greegan suck out his eyeballs for the blindness he has caused you, Great One. But do not talk of death. You are Arkus of Nar. You cannot die.”

“But I am dying, I am.…”

“I will save you, my lord,” said Biagio. He stroked the old man’s hand and stared down at him, amazed and devastated by the ancient husk. “Do you believe in me?”

“Always,” replied Arkus. “You have always been my trusted friend, Renato. I know you will save me.”

“Good. Now rest. Sleep if you can. I will see you again tonight.” Biagio bent and kissed the man’s fragile face. “Dream of good things, Great One. You will be whole again.”

Colonel Ardoz Trosk was almost a full head shorter than Dinadin, even with his snakeskin boots on, but Dinadin had never met a man who terrified him more. He was the kind of man who pulled the wings off butterflies when he was bored, and he never let an Aramoorian conscript pass without an insult. As colonel of the green brigade, Trosk was Blackwood Gayle’s senior military adviser, a duty he relished and expected those beneath him to respect, even those Aramoorians unfortunate enough to serve with him. There were not a lot of them, just Dinadin and perhaps a dozen others, but they were a constant source of amusement for the sardonic colonel, who made sure they were always assigned the most menial details. Dinadin’s specialty was picking up after their horses. And he performed his task with the constant hope of placating Trosk enough for the colonel to ignore him.

You’ll be fine,
Dinadin told himself as he followed Trosk through the narrow streets of the village.
Just do what he says and you’ll be fine.

They were fifteen miles from the Dring Valley, and about to
ravage another nameless town. Like so many others they had come across, this town had expected them, and had even chosen a member of their community to speak with them. The poor bastard had only gotten one of Gayle’s signatory throat-cuttings for his trouble. Surrender, Gayle had explained weeks ago, was unacceptable. Every time they came across another village Dinadin cringed, for he knew that once it was searched and Gayle was thoroughly satisfied, it would be burned to the ground just like all the others.

The last few weeks had been the worst of Dinadin’s life. He had done things even a priest could never forgive, and he prayed for death every time his eyes closed. He followed orders with blind obedience, numbing himself in the hope that a Triin jiiktar would find him. But the legions of Nar were cutting the Triin down like weeds.

As always, Dinadin straggled behind Colonel Trosk. Already the familiar cries of panicked villagers filled the air. The legionnaires, those black-garbed imperial heralds, were kicking in the doors of the small houses and dragging out the people inside. Dogs barked incessantly and children wailed. Somewhere ahead of them Blackwood Gayle was at work directing the carnage. Trosk rode ahead of his group, a smile of contentment on his face.

“Magic,” he snarled. “That’s what we’re looking for, boys.”

The men nodded. There were five of them including Dinadin, each wearing the same boldly colored uniform of a Talistanian horseman, and all handpicked by Trosk to follow him into the village. Dinadin was the only Aramoorian among them. The dubious honor made him ride a good distance behind. In the weeks since joining Trosk and his brigade, Dinadin had been deft in avoiding the colonel. It seemed that Trosk was satisfied simply to have him shovel dung.

Until today. Each time they reached a village, Trosk picked another of the Aramoorians to accompany him personally. It was, Dinadin surmised, the colonel’s way of initiating them. Today was his turn.

“Lotts!” Trosk growled over his shoulder. “Keep up, goddamn it!”

The legionnaires and horsemen were gathering the men in the center of the village; the women and children were kept apart. It
was the same ghastly ritual as always. First the men would be questioned, then the women, each under the threat that the other would be killed if they resisted. Dinadin tried to look away. He would have cupped his hands over his ears if he could. Triin women were wrestling with soldiers, trying to yank back their stolen children. The men stood stone-faced and mute in the streets.

Why don’t you run?
he urged them silently.
Don’t you know what’s going to happen?

But of course they knew. They knew their fate as well as their murderers did. It was simply unavoidable. Ackle-Nye had tried to fight, and the result had been no less bloody. There was a pathetic kind of hope in the eyes of the Triin they saw after that, a foolish idea that if they cooperated, perhaps they would be spared. It might have been that way if Richius were running the war, but this was Gayle’s campaign now. And like everything the Talistan did, it was vicious.

They slowed as they reached the center of the village. There, beside a well and a wooden bench, a group of legionnaires had assembled a throng of Triin children. Another Triin was talking to them, one who had surrendered in a previous raid and whose passable knowledge of the Empire’s language made him worth sparing. There were several of these interpreters now, men who thought it better to live as slaves than to die with their brothers. Whenever the rolling army came to another town or village, the interpreters went to work, trying to coerce the newly conquered people into surrendering whatever magical items or knowledge they might have. So far the effort had proven an utter failure. For Dinadin, that was the one bright note in their whole dismal operation. He watched with sick fascination as the Triin interpreters smiled at the children, trying to calm them. By now Dinadin knew the lines by heart.

Your parents are safe. Don’t worry. Just tell us where the magic is.

But there wasn’t any magic. It was all like Lucyler had told him so many months ago. They could burn down a hundred villages, they could open up a million Triin chests, but all they would discover was blood. Magic wasn’t hidden under a child’s bed. If it existed at all it was in the air and the soil and, perhaps, the mind. But Gayle and the others were unconvinced and were
consumed with their mission to find and bring back anything that could help the emperor.

“It’s here,” Blackwood Gayle had told them. “We just have to find it.”

But they never would. Dinadin knew that now. He stopped his mount some ten paces from Trosk’s horse and watched as the colonel’s freakish smile broadened. Sometimes his love for war was disgustingly obvious. Here he could let his sadism soar, and never be accused of doing anything but his duty. He was the perfect soldier, hard and lean and unspeakably cruel. Dinadin hated him. He hated the way he cocked the brim of his feathered hat and the way he laughed when others suffered and the way he called grown men
boys.
Given the chance, Dinadin would have killed him.