The Jackal of Nar (89 page)

Arkus slept now, aided by a powerful elixir Bovadin had concocted for just such an outburst. Biagio watched Arkus from a chair by the bedside. He was exhausted. It was well past midnight. The tall tower groaned. A fire roared in the hearth. Biagio fought to keep his eyes open. He had promised Arkus he would stay with him.

It was a bitter thing, the count decided, to watch someone beloved rot away. Even he admitted that Arkus hadn’t much time. Bovadin couldn’t say how long the drugs would sustain him, but Arkus was weaker by the day. His bowels loosed every bit of food he forced down and, except for his occasional rages, he was as weak as a kitten. Even if there were some great magic in Lucel-Lor, Biagio doubted Gayle could bring it back in time.

And that was the terrible agony of it. For those of the Iron Circle, time had always been an ally, a force they could stop when other mortals went on aging and dying. Biagio himself was well past fifty, but he had the appearance and virility of a twenty-year-old. His skin was bronze and he was beautiful even by Crotan standards. He was a vain man with an affinity for mirrors, and seeing Arkus so misshapen horrified him. It was not fitting that a great man should die so.

Biagio closed his drooping eyelids. Arkus had regaled to him his terrible dream, and now the count could see the white dragon, its four heads taunting Arkus, taunting them all.
Liss,
thought Biagio hatefully. They were the cause of this all, them and that bastard Vantran. Liss had single-mindedly destroyed Arkus, had prevented Nicabar’s troop landings at almost every turn. They had come to rely solely on Blackwood Gayle’s ground offensive, and although the baron had done a remarkable
job of slaughtering Triin, Lucel-Lor was simply too vast. Though they held the Saccenne Run securely, it might be months before Gayle broke through completely, months Arkus didn’t have.

“Oh, God, I need more time,” Biagio whispered. “More time, that’s all …”

He could do it if Gayle hurried. If Gayle could reach Tharn, perhaps the holy man himself could save Arkus. Biagio’s mind turned on this for a moment. He would torture Tharn himself if necessary. And when Arkus was safe and alive, he would pull out Tharn’s eyeballs.

“I would love that, holy man. To see you die …”

Arkus stirred. Biagio got up from his chair and went to the bedside.

“Renato …?” gasped the emperor. Biagio had to strain to hear the soft voice.

“I’m here, Great One,” he replied. “I’m right here. Are you all right?”

The wizened head nodded. “Is it morning?”

“Not yet. Not for several hours.” Biagio looked toward the window. Past the thick curtains, all was dark. Only the occasional blast from a smokestack lit the night. “Can’t you sleep? You should try. Bovadin says you need rest.”

“Bovadin is my mother hen,” rasped Arkus. “Like you.”

Biagio smiled sadly and took his master’s hand. The appendage seemed smaller by the day. “We are worried for you, that’s all. We want to see you healthy again.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed Arkus. “I must recover. Work to be done.”

“Much work, my lord. The world still needs you. I need you.”

Arkus’ frail fingers curled around Biagio’s hand. A trace of a grin appeared on the cracked lips. “Thank you for being with me, Renato. You are my truest servant.”

“Always, Great One.”

“Yes, always. It was always you.”

Humbled, Biagio went to his knees at the bedside. He put his chin down on the mattress and stared long and hard at Arkus, aching for more praise. He
was
Arkus’ truest servant. He had always been. It wasn’t the bishop or Nicabar or Bovadin, nor any other of the Iron Circle. Only he was so loyal and steadfast. Only he adored Arkus as a father.

But all fathers died, he supposed. And the sons were left to go
on alone, uncherished. Biagio had a wife and a gaggle of cousins, but they were no more his family than the blood father he had slain. He had heard the call of Arkus and it had pulled him like a religion. It had given his life dimension. Now, as he watched the Great One fade, his existence seemed flat again.

“Great One?” he asked softly.

“Yes?”

“I am doing my best for you. You know that, don’t you?”

There was a long, painful silence. At last the emperor gave a sullen nod. “You are trying,” he said weakly. “I know that.”

“The Lissens are devils, my lord. If not for them, I would have taken Lucel-Lor by now. And you would not be in such pain. But it will end, Great One. I swear it. We will take Lucel-Lor, and you will be whole again.”

Even as he said it, Biagio knew it was a lie. But it was a lie he needed as much as Arkus. It comforted them both.

“I have been thinking, my friend,” said Arkus. The words came with effort and he swallowed hard to continue. “What shall I do first when I recover? Who should be first to taste my vengeance? The Lissens?”

“Nicabar would like that,” said Biagio. “He is anxious to go after their homeland again.”

“We will do that. Yes, we will. When I am well and Lucel-Lor is mine, I will sail to Liss myself and slay their king. You will come with me, Renato. It will be glorious.”

“Glorious, my lord.”

Arkus gave a satisfied sigh, and in his blind eyes Biagio could see the memories skipping backward. Where is Arkus now, he wondered?

“And the Vantran boy,” Arkus continued. “I want him brought to me. Right away. I want to see him swing, Renato. We will have a public execution.”

“Gladly.”

“You will see to it then? Have him brought to me?”

Biagio hesitated. “We are trying, Great One. As I said …”

“Now, Renato! Can’t you do this for me? Do I ask so much of you? He’s but one man.”

“All right, yes. If that is your wish, my lord, we will make every effort to bring him here.”

Arkus reached out and brushed his count’s face with a finger. “Renato, I die.”

“No, Great One. You can never die.”

“Perhaps. But it may be that nothing can stop this. So I want one last thing from you. Find me Richius Vantran, and bring him back to me. I must see this before I’m gone. Now promise me.”

“Yes,” choked Biagio. “I promise. On my own eyes, I will bring Vantran here for you.”

Arkus slackened. “Good,” he said. “Good.”

“Great One?” Biagio probed gently. “May I ask you something?”

“Anything, my friend.”

Biagio licked his lips, fighting down his nervousness. “If you die—and I say
if
—what will become of us?”

Arkus’ face hardened. “What are you asking?”

“It is nothing,” said Biagio, waving it away.

“Do you think I’m dying, Renato?” asked Arkus sharply.

“Great One, you said yourself …”

“I do not expect you to agree. You’re supposed to be saving me!” Arkus trembled. “God in heaven, how can you speak to me like this? I suffer and you think only of your ambition!”

“No, my lord! I’m thinking of Nar, of your Black Renaissance! If you die Herrith will fight me for the throne. Unless …”

“What?”

“Unless you choose your own successor.”

There. He’d said it. The emperor drew a deep, pensive breath.

“You are my truest servant, Renato,” said Arkus softly. “Is that not enough for you?”

“Oh, yes, my lord, it is. I want nothing more than to serve you.”

“Then why do you speak to me of death?”

“For Nar, Great One. That is all.…”

“I will not die!” Arkus thundered. “I will not. Not now or ever!”

Biagio watched, horrified, as the emperor dissolved into tears. Arkus shut his blind eyes and turned away, cursing and shaking. Biagio took Arkus’ hand and waited for the tantrum to pass, and suddenly he knew he would never have his answer. Arkus feared death too keenly to ever pass along his throne.

“I’ll sleep now,” sniffed Arkus. “Stay with me, Renato. I’m afraid of my dreams. Wake me if I scream.”

“I’m here, Great One,” said Biagio. He kissed the emperor’s desiccated forehead. “Rest.”

A few moments passed before Arkus dropped into a fitful slumber. When he was certain his emperor was asleep, Count Biagio arose from the bedside and went to the door. He spared one last look at his master, then, confident that Arkus would not soon awaken, left the room and summoned his Shadow Angels.

“H
ere, Dyana,” said Najjir. “These are the leaves you want.”

Dyana looked over Najjir’s shoulder. The leaves were small but thick, textured with a downy fuzz. Najjir picked one of them from the bush and held it up, then snapped it in two. As she pulled the sections apart, sticky threads of sap ran from the leaf.

“You see? Just like I told you. This will help him.”

Dyana poked at the strings of sap, breaking them like spider-webs. They felt cool on her finger, just as Najjir had said they would. Her mood brightened, buoyed by the thought of helping Richius at last. For four days he had lain in agony, nearly paralyzed with pain from the awful wound. Now it looked like he would finally have some relief.

Since returning from the front, Richius had been in too much pain to allow even the lightest of touches on his flayed skin. But he had rested since, and could probably bear the application of the poultice. He was waiting for her to return with the stuff, as eager as she to know if it would work.

“How many do we need?” she asked, reaching into the bush and starting to pick off the leaves.

“Slowly,” Najjir cautioned. “Do not bruise them or the sap will run out. And do not pick the plant bare. The medicine does not last long, and we will be needing it for others.”

Of course, Dyana cautioned herself.
The others.
There were dozens of them now, many with burns as bad as Richius’. But Najjir had told her there were other plants. Fine. Then this one should be for Richius. She picked off the leaves as Najjir watched, placing them quickly into her collecting basket. Thankfully they were not far from the castle. Surely they wouldn’t spoil before she could use them. Najjir joined in the picking, her hands moving deliberately as she dropped the leaves into Dyana’s basket. Dyana smiled.

“Thank you so much, Najjir. You will not be sorry.”

Najjir gave an embarrassed nod. “I only do what my husband would want me to do,” she answered. “He told me to help you look after Kalak. That is what I am doing.”

Dyana bit back an insult. In less than a week Voris’ wife had gone from being a complete stranger to something like a friend. They shared a room together, and between women that meant sharing secrets. For though Dyana had been silent about her past, she knew Najjir could read her thoughts anyway. She was uncanny that way. Dyana didn’t know if she liked Najjir or not, but as she picked the lifesaving leaves, she knew one thing for certain—she was grateful for the woman’s aid, no matter how grudgingly given.

“When Voris comes back I will thank him for your assistance, Najjir. He should know what a help you have been.”

Najjir puffed a little at the compliment. Like all Drol women she was devoted to her husband, almost to the point of slavery. Voris was the center of her world, and Dyana knew she would do anything to please him. Devoutly religious, Najjir rose every morning at dawn for an hour of prayer with the other women of the keep, readying themselves for a day of servitude. It was an austere life, but Najjir embraced it, because she loved Voris and his love defined her. Three daughters and a son had sprung from her womb, and still she was eager to give her master more children. She was a good mother, and she was always willing to help Dyana care for Shani, but they were the antithesis of each other and they both knew it. Najjir was the perfect Drol woman, and Dyana was, by Drol sensibilities, a harlot.

“My husband will be home soon,” said Najjir. “He may wish to see Kalak when he returns. You may tell him about my help then, if you wish.”

“If he returns tonight, I will tell him gladly,” said Dyana, careful not to shatter the woman’s hope. Voris had been gone for three long days, ever since he had brought back the wounded Richius, and each day the siege of the valley continued, Najjir fretted over her missing husband.

“Tonight he will come,” said Najjir confidently. “I feel it, Dyana. He wants to be near me again.”

“I am sure he does,” replied Dyana. “And I am sure he will return as soon as he can, tomorrow if not tonight.”

Najjir made a sour face. “It has to be tonight. I cannot bear his absence. Pris pity me, I miss him. And I worry.”

Dyana stopped picking and eyed Najjir sympathetically. “Do not worry. He will return.”

“Oh, Dyana, you must think me such a fool. It is not even a week he is gone, and I cry for him like a girl. And you have been without your husband so much longer than that. How do you stand it?”

It was a trap Dyana had been waiting for. She sidestepped it with a shrug. “I do not worry like you do, Najjir. Tharn is very wise. I know he will come back for me.”

“But it has been so long, and he is alone in Chandakkar. Pris pray I am wrong, Dyana, but he may already be dead. Does that not frighten you?”

Dyana had to think before responding. She knew Najjir was baiting her. “Of course I fear for him. But he is stronger than you know. He can look after himself.”

“You are so strong,” remarked Najjir. “It is easy to see why he chose you. A strong wife is important for a man.”

“He did not choose me,” said Dyana sharply. “Our parents arranged our marriage when we were both too young to know better.”

“Still, he is lucky to have you,” said Najjir. She sat back on her heels, kneeling in the soil and watching Dyana intently. “You are very beautiful. I am sure you could have had any man you wished.”

“Perhaps.”

“And you are lucky to have him, too,” Najjir continued. “Have you considered that?”

“He is very kind to me, if that is what you mean. My parents could have done worse.”

“Dyana!” shrieked Najjir. “How could you speak so poorly of your husband? He is the leader of all Drol. The deliverer, touched by heaven. You speak of him as if he were some farmer!”

“He is a fair man. He is gentle with me. There is little else I would ask from a husband. As for being Drol, he knows that I am not and he respects it. For that I am grateful. Are these such terrible things for me to say, Najjir?”