The Jackal of Nar

by John Marco

  "I'm going to turn them red. The men will be hauled out to sea for shark food, but the women and the babes will be bled until every channel in Liss runs scarlet."

  Biagio howled with laughter and slapped Nicabar on the shoulder. So amused was he by the admiral's plans that little tears began to trickle down his cheeks. He pulled a brightly colored handkerchief from his vest and daintily blotted his eyes with it.

  "Oh, I love to hear you tell that story, Danar," said Biagio. "Isn't that a delicious vengeance, Prince Richius?"

  Richius said nothing. It was plain to him now why Biagio had wanted him to meet Nicabar, and he felt like a fool for being led into it. He shifted uncomfortably under the admiral's stare, cringing inwardly as Biagio put a long cold arm about his shoulder.

  "The prince looks overwhelmed," said the count. "Perhaps I should take him to his seat now, let him get some food. Enjoy yourself, Danar. We will speak later."

  The admiral inclined his head, letting Biagio lead Richius away from the table. There was a brief silence in their wake and then a round of poorly hidden chortles that made Richius' jaw tighten. When they were safely out of earshot, Biagio put his lips to Richius' ear and asked softly, "Well, Prince Richius, what do you say now?"

  "That wasn't necessary," snapped Richius. "I told you that I know what Nar is capable of. I didn't need him to explain it to me."

  "Forgive my bluntness, but I thought you should hear it from someone else. Danar has quite an imagination, and he wasn't at all pleased when he learned about your father losing the war in Lucel-Lor. He went on for days about what he would do to Aramoor, given the chance." Then, suddenly serious, Biagio added, "So let's not give him the chance, agreed?"

  Richius only nodded. There were many things he would be able to do as king, but defying Nar and its Iron Circle would not be one of them. He walked soberly beside the count, and wondered how his father would have reacted to it all. Darius Vantran was a stallion, fiery and stubborn and unbreakable even under the whip of Nar. Richius had always imagined that he too would be a stallion wlien the time of his reign came, but now Biagio had pulled out a gelding knife. Miserably, he lifted his goblet and tilted the rest of the wine down his throat. Today, he knew, happiness would come only from a bottle.

  Across the room, not far from the Iron Throne, a long table ran along the wall. Though it was large enough to accommodate a score of hungry celebrants, only four men were seated at it, their heads partially obscured behind heaps of sliced meat and fruit baskets. Richius let out a long-held breath as he recognized Patwin waving at him. Little drips of gravy fell from the mutton joint in Patwin's fist. Beside him, Barret reclined lazily in his chair while a pair of giggling maidens tossed grapes into his mouth. Next to Barret, Ennadon was hard at work constructing the largest plate of food Richius had ever seen. So high was the pile of treats that Ennadon had to balance it expertly in both hands to keep it from toppling while he spied the table for additional delicacies. Gilliam too was making good use of Nar's hospitality. He sang along with the chorus, though he clearly did not know the song. Empty beer mugs were strewn out before him like captured game pieces. It was a scene reminiscent of Aramoor, when they used to come home from a good day's hunting and gorge themselves on venison steaks, and Richius was pleased to see his men enjoying themselves. This, at least, he had accomplished.

  "I will leave you to your men for a while, Prince Richius," said Biagio. "The ceremony won't begin for some time yet, so enjoy yourself. Be careful with the drink, though, and remember what we spoke about."

  "All right," grunted Richius, walking away from the count. Barret shooed away the girls, and he and Patwin got to their feet as Richius approached.

  "Where've you been, Richius?" asked Barret. "We've been waiting for you. You'd better hurry to the beer before Gilliam drinks it all."

  "Sadly, I've been told to go easy on the drink," said Richius.

  "Who said that?" asked Patwin. "Biagio?"

  "Yes. It seems everyone here has got their eyes on us. Biagio told me to be careful, not to say anything to offend anyone."

  "Well, then," said Ennadon. "Just take a seat and don't talk." He put the plate down and held out a chair for Richius. "Here, sit."

  "With pleasure," groaned Richius, practically falling into the chair. At once the steward assigned to their table placed another goblet before him. Richius sighed and stared down into the wine. A wavy reflection stared back at him, and it seemed to him that he didn't know the oxblood face in the glass. But he lifted the goblet anyway and took a deep pull of the wine, hoping Biagio was watching.

  To hell with you, Biagio.

  He lowered the glass to the table with a determined thud, turning suddenly to Patwin.

  "Do you know who's here?"

  "Who?"

  "Gayle. They actually invited that scoundrel to my coronation!"

  Every head at the table turned. Ennadon's jaw dropped open in disbelief, displaying a mouthful of half-chewed food.

  "What?" erupted Patwin. "Did you see him?"

  Richius shook his head. "No, but Biagio told me he's here."

  "But why?" asked Patwin, pushing away his plate as if the news had robbed him of his appetite. "I can't believe he'd even want to come here, not for this occasion."

  "I know," said Richius. "It's unthinkable, isn't it? How dare that bastard ruin this day for us?"

  "Oh, my Lord," interrupted Gilliam's pale voice. He pointed his fork toward the crowd. "There he is."

  Worse, he was coming toward them, sauntering through the crowd like some green and gold golem, the buttons on his uniform straining to contain the fabric stretched across his chest. A sword hung loosely from his leather belt, slapping against his tree-trunk thigh as he walked, and his oily jet hair was pulled back in a tail and knotted with a fashionable braid of gold. Despite the warmth of the room he wore a cape of emerald wool trimmed with wolf fur. But most remarkable of all was the mask. It was just as Richius had heard, a silver facade covering the left half of Gayle's face. The eye behind it blinked, bloodshot red.

  "Look at that," whispered Patwin softly. None of them had seen Blackwood Gayle since Lucel-Lor, but they had all heard the story of his maiming. A low, expectant murmur passed among them as they watched him approach the table. His blistered lips twisted into what barely passed for a grin. The beard was gone now, and his clean-shaven face showed the damage of fire. Even the skin not covered by the mask was pocked with poorly healed scabs, and the flesh on his forehead seemed to be rupturing and peeling backward along his scalp. He looked more monstrous than he had before, like a well-dressed corpse that had somehow escaped its own burial.

  "Vantran," called the baron in his booming voice. "I have come to welcome you."

  Richius hardly stirred. "Welcome me? How so?"

  "I have come to welcome you into the family of Naren Lords," answered Gayle. "The emperor has asked me to extend my good graces."

  "I see. And was it also the emperor's idea to have you come all this way to give me that message? You could have just as easily sent me a letter."

  There was some chuckling at the insult. Gayle squared his shoulders and stepped closer to the table.

  "You flatter yourself, Vantran," he said sharply. "Do not think you are so important to me. I have other business that brings me to the Black City."

  "Oh? And what would that be?"

  Gayle's broken face made a hideous smile. "Do you know how old my father is, Vantran?"

  "Truly, I have no idea."

  "Almost seventy. Even older than your own father was when he died, God have mercy on him." Gayle did an obscenely insincere heartcrossing. "And he's not in the best of health. When he dies Talistan will need a new king, and I am next in the royal line."

  "So?"

  "If I am to be king I will need an heir to follow me. And I must have a wife if I am to have an heir."

  Good luck, thought Richius dryly. The only thing that had so far stopped this particular Gayle from breeding was th
at no woman had yet been dumb or desperate enough to accept him. Of course it was just a matter of time, Richius knew, but he thought poorly of Gayle's chances here. Better that he should look for a wife in a stable than in this roomful of ladies.

  "So you've come all this way to find yourself a wife? Well, take your pick. I'm sure one of these ladies is willing to go back to Talistan with you. Perhaps you should take off your mask first, though, let them see what they're getting into."

  "I have already found my woman," retorted Gayle coolly. "And she's a fine-looking wench, too. Perhaps you know her. She's here now."

  "Perhaps," said Richius. "Who is she? Show her to me."

  Gayle looked over his shoulder, scanning the room with his one remaining eye. He quickly pointed a gloved hand toward the doors.

  "There, the one in blue."

  "I don't see anyone," said Richius, straining to see past Gayle's bulk but refusing to rise from his chair. "Blue, you say? All I see is--"

  Richius gasped, and Gayle burst into laughter.

  "I told you she was a beauty. Her name's Sabrina. She's Duke Wallach's girl, from Gorkney." The baron's eye lit up lecherously. "And she's just of age. What do you say to that?"

  "She's agreed to marry you?"

  "Not yet, but it doesn't matter. Her father's put her on the market now that she's sixteen, and I hear he's eager to be rid of her. I have but to ask the emperor for her and she'll be mine." Gayle smacked his blistered lips, turning back to look at Sabrina. "Take a good look at her hips, Vantran. I'd wager she gives me a dozen sons."

  The thought made Richius cringe. Not only did more Gayles mean trouble for Aramoor, but to think of such monsters springing from such an innocent womb made him want to retch. Yet what Gayle said was probably true; Sabrina would have almost nothing to say about whom her father and the emperor married her to, and that made it all seem even more criminal. If it happened, Richius knew, her life would be little better than hell. He glanced over at Patwin and saw that his comrade's face was white with dread.

  "Maybe you should reconsider your choice, Baron," said Patwin. "You're a bit big for her, don't you think? A girl like that might easily die giving birth to your sons. Perhaps you should look for someone more sizable."

  "Ridiculous," rumbled Gayle. "She'll take care of herself, I'll see to that. And if any of you whelps have your eyes on her, forget it. She's mine."

  There was a finality about the word mine that made Richius' patience snap. He glared at the baron, saying, "Is that all you've come for? Really, Gayle, you're gloating over nothing. I certainly wouldn't choose a wench as frail as that. And she's a throwaway, you say? My lord, if her own father doesn't want her, why should you?"

  "Enough," said Gayle. "I have come at Arkus' behest to give you my good wishes. Take them or do not."

  "I do not," said Richius. "And I don't appreciate having you here. You may tell the emperor for me that I have no wish at all to get along with you, Blackwood Gayle. Nor do I share his hope, if that is what it is, that Aramoor and Talistan should be allies."

  "You may tell him yourself," came a curvaceous voice from behind Gayle. Biagio stepped out from behind Gayle's cape, a secretive smile on his face. "Are you ready, Prince Richius?"

  "Ready?" Richius asked. "For what?"

  "Why, to meet the emperor, of course." The count took the goblet from Richius' hand. "I hope you haven't been drinking too much."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Arkus of Nar was known by a thousand different names.

  When he was young, so long ago now he could scarcely recall, Arkus had relished the names the vanquished gave him. They were good names, strong and full of fear. And each land that fell to his machines gave him another to tie on his armor like a ribbon, so that all the others could see him coming, brightly dressed and ready to conquer. Upon the siege of Goss he was called the Lion, and at the fall of Doria the women of that ruined city anointed him Child-Slayer. In the tongue-twisting speech of the Eastern Highlands he was the Bear; and the Cretans, who went to their knees almost without a struggle, called him the Bull. In the tall, cold hills of Gorkney he was the Ram, and in the deserts of Dahaar he was the Adder. He was the Conqueror in Casarhoon, the Plague in Criisia, and the Beast in Vosk. The twin dukes of Dragon's Beak called him Lord Protector, and the Gayles of Talistan called him Father. In Liss he was the Devil.

  But of all these fanciful names, Arkus himself preferred only one--Emperor. He was old now, and he thought he had earned the simple dignity of the title. Long since tired of his ferocious nicknames, there was a part of him that acknowledged the quiet desire for recognition. He had forged the Empire out of a hundred warring cities, had led the continent into the greatest age of enlightenment it had ever known, yet no one called him Arkus the Great the way they had his grandfather, and he supposed that only rarely did anyone thank his war labs for the medicines they discovered. A century ago there had been no oil to keep the lamps alive at night, no simples to cure the blood cough, and no roads to reach the northern lands. There had not even been the day-to-day order of things that so many took for granted. All these things existed now because he had willed them into being. He was, in his mind at least, a visionary.

  But they never see that, he thought bitterly. He leaned back in his chair and watched the liquid swim into his veins. It was bluer than usual, like indigo or ink. Twice the dose of a normal treatment, that's what Bovadin had said. Arkus felt a small shudder go through him. Even he, as emperor, had been hard pressed to obtain such a dangerous dosage of the drug. Biagio was always watching, making sure no harm came to him, and the count was very vocal. No one really knew what such a strong blend could do, not even Bovadin. But in the end the scientist's macabre curiosity had won out over Biagio's motherly concern, and the count had peevishly relented. Arkus was the emperor and his word was law, no matter how self-destructive some of his edicts might be.

  The overturned vial that held the concoction was nearly empty, so Arkus forced himself to settle down and endure the last of it. His treatments were always so much worse when his moods were bad, and he had a throne room full of guests not to vomit on today. But he was in a melancholy mood, and restfulness would not come easily. It was the thirtieth day of winter. The chill outside his high tower was wretchedly bitter. Of late his body had become a rebellion, requiring ever more of the potion to keep it together and make it obey him. That every king in Nar might see him like this enraged him. But if this potion worked the way Bovadin supposed...

  He closed his eyes, suddenly feverish with hope. Just enough to look strong, that was all he wanted. For the past two decades he had endured an ordeal like this almost daily, puncturing his wrist with a needle to feed himself the life-sustaining potions. He was addicted to it now. They all were. But he was so much older than the others of the Circle. Bovadin certainly looked younger than he should, and Biagio would likely have his golden beauty forever. Only he, the one who made it all possible, the one whose vision had given birth to the labs, was forced to live in the body of a mummy. It was almost the body he had had when Bovadin first discovered the potions. But only almost. Absently he ground his teeth together. Old teeth, no longer good for chewing the meats he set out for others.

  "Time," he muttered. "How I hate you."

  Quickly he stopped himself. He needed to relax. The young prince would be coming soon, and it would be best to have his wits about him. A little smile cracked his face. At least his mind was still sound. That, Bovadin had assured him, would probably never deteriorate. There was something about the way the potion worked on the brain. It kept the tissues vital, even when the rest of the body continued to creep toward death. And that was the problem, the damnable mystery of it all.

  Across the dim chamber Lady Pennelope played lovingly on her harp. Arkus settled into the leather grip of his chair, letting her music tranquilize him. It wasn't at all like the piercing arias of the chorus. He loved those, too, but this was different. This was intoxicating. Lady Pennelope had a g
ift like none he had ever heard, and it was always she who soothed him and saw him through his treatments. He had no use for physicians when she was around. The chamber was cold, but she didn't seem to mind it. Like him, she was lost in her music, and she stroked the strings of her silver instrument as if she were alone in the room, the firelight of the hearth dancing on her face.

  Nearly every afternoon was the same, and they played out the horrible ritual like two venerable actors. He would sink down in his heavy chair and fix the shiny needle to his wrist. The vial of whatever powerful concoction Bovadin had prescribed would start dripping into his veins, sometimes forcing him to cry out before it took him in its narcotic embrace. The lamps would be dimmed, the little pitcher of water would be iced, and they would be alone while she played for him and tried to make the treatment endurable. She would have seen him like no other ever had, twisted and in pain, greedily claiming more life that wasn't his, life he had no right to anymore. She would have seen the translucent light of his eyes start to twinkle again as the potion snatched him from whatever grave he should have fallen into. But Lady Pennelope could see none of this, for a blessedly tragic thing was amiss with her.

  She was blind.

  Never to tell of the things she saw in Arkus' chamber, she was his quiet, trustworthy slave, and he adored her for it. She alone had the power to make the gruesome act of resurrecting himself bearable. Her music carried him off to a place where the nausea of the drugs didn't exist, a place where he was young again. And she had a marvelous gift for playing to his moods. Today it was one of his favorites, a dark, somber melody whose name he could not recall in his maudlin state of mind. Arkus of Nar listened to the beautiful music and wept.

  It was the potion, he knew, yet he couldn't stop himself.

  Memories flooded into his brain, as if a great wind were blowing the dust off all the portraits of his life. His boyhood in Nar City, the great, violent campaigns of his youth, comrades dead and missing--it was all a red, unstoppable torrent. Flashes of rainbows danced on his eyelids, a cabaret of dizzying colors with faces both familiar and terrifying. He saw a father in the fractured mirror of his mind: Dragonheart, the first king of Nar to call himself emperor. He saw a mother whom he'd hated with a brother whom he'd killed, and countless, begging cousins who would have slaughtered cities to ingratiate themselves to him. Trophies taken in brutal battles screamed at him, heads on pikes and the wailing of the crucified beyond the city gates.