The Jackal of Nar

by John Marco

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When Renato Biagio was a boy, he lived in splendor on the southerly island of Crote, a tiny nation renowned for its wine, its love of art and food, and its temperamental inhabitants. For nearly two centuries the Biagio family ruled Crote, growing fat on its olives and the sweat of its peasants, and ruling their dominion from a sparkling villa of marble and gold, a palace surrounded by beaches and crystalline seas and hung with giant windows that drank in the island's hot sun and turned the skin of the royal family amber.

  The young Renato enjoyed a regal existence in his ancestral home. His every need was met instantly, and his every curiosity was satisfied by his father's many servants. When he grew to manhood, there were slaves to pacify his lusts. Like most Cretans, Renato Biagio's tastes were varied, and keeping himself from boredom was always a challenge. He had books and music rooms to occupy his mind, men and women to please his body, and all the wealth of a Cretan nobleman with which to explore the world. But he was landlocked in those days, for in his youth the world beyond the seas was dangerous. The Black Renaissance was sweeping the continent, and little Crote was soon to be caught up in Arkus' grand design. Ever restless, Renato Biagio watched the Black Renaissance swallow nations, watched the ideals of Nar and its passionate emperor with youthful longing, and hoped for the day when it would reach the untouchable shores of his island prison. His father, a man of meager imagination, was quite incapable of foreseeing the military giant his foppish son would become.

  Talistan wasn't Crote. It was cold and rugged, and the people here had the skin tone of cadavers. But it was quiet in the House of Gayle, and the inactivity afforded Biagio time to consider things. Since Blackwood Gayle's departure to Lucel-Lor, some weeks ago now, the castle had seemed deserted. The absence of the baron and his army had given Biagio time to plan. Only occasionally was he interrupted here, usually by servants seeing to his numerous needs, and he never once saw the ailing king of Talistan, Blackwood Gayle's decrepit father. Like his son, Tassis Gayle had always been loyal to Nar, and he had given his blessing to let the head of Arkus' Roshann use his home as a command base.

  And command he did. Biagio had worked wisely these past weeks, hurrying Blackwood Gayle and his horsemen into Lucel-Lor to find a cure for the emperor. He had conscripted the fools of Aramoor, enslaving them to Talistanian masters, and he had sent the Lady Sabrina to the citadel of Falindar in search of her wayward husband. Sure that he was doing all he could to aid his beloved Arkus, Biagio was moderately satisfied. He had even summoned an old friend to the House of Gayle.

  This morning Biagio awoke at the same time he always did, just past dawn. As was customary, the house slave assigned to him provided him with a light breakfast of tea and biscuits and a little jar of jam. Biagio dressed before pouring himself a cup of tea, then took his steaming drink to the giant window and opened it, stepping out onto a sizable balcony. His chambers provided a magnificent view of the cold ocean, and though he usually shunned the cool morning air, Biagio decided to rest a moment outside and let the sea remind him of his far-off Crote. He dragged a chair out onto the balcony and sat down, sipping at his hot beverage as his sluggish blood thawed. A slight tremor rippled through his hand, making his teacup shiver. The count put a palm to his forehead and felt the skin. Freezing, he decided with a frown. He would need another treatment soon. It was a small matter really, since he never traveled anywhere without his life-sustaining drug, but the treatments were uncomfortable and bothersome, especially when he had things on his mind. Tonight, perhaps. Or definitely tomorrow...

  The count stopped fretting when an object on the horizon snared his gaze. His sharp eyes focused out across the sea. A ship was approaching. A very large ship. Count Biagio smiled.

  "Hello, my friend," he said, getting to his feet. "Welcome to Talistan."

  It took the Fearless almost an hour to reach the coast. The giant flagship of the Black Fleet crested the seas like a leviathan, parting the waves effortlessly under its enormous keel. Its triple masts and dozen dark sails swelled with the ocean air, bearing the warship toward land at a speed that seemed impossible for such an immense craft. At its center mast, flying high and proud, was a single flag of black.

  Count Biagio greeted the arrival of the Fearless with glee. It had been far too many months since he had seen the proud vessel, and the sight of the beautiful war machine heartened him. She was the pride of the Black Fleet, the terrible messenger of Arkus. Rimmed with flame cannons and stout with fighting men, she was unequaled in all the world's navies. Just like her commander.

  Admiral Danar Nicabar stepped lightly from the dinghy that brought him ashore, his polished boots sinking fast into the wet sand of Talistan. When he saw his old comrade, a devious grin cracked his rocky face. He was a tall man, and only rarely did his countenance change to express pleasure. Like his flagship, Danar Nicabar was peerless, the most excellent naval commander the Black Fleet had ever produced. Because he was a member of the Iron Circle, his eyes shone the same narcotic blue as Biagio's, a trait all who used the drugs shared. He was crass and terrible, and Biagio counted him among his closest friends.

  "Danar," said Biagio with exuberance. The delicate count waited for Nicabar to step out of the mud before going to meet him. They embraced. Biagio kissed the admiral's cheek, ignoring the inquisitive stares of the sailors that had brought the officer ashore, then took Nicabar's giant hand and led him away.

  "You've come quicker than I expected," said Biagio. "I'm glad."

  "I am not," said Nicabar harshly. "Renato, what am I doing here?"

  Biagio smiled. He had expected the admiral's poor reaction to his summons. "When did you get my message? Where were you? Near Liss?"

  The admiral shook his head. "Off of Casarhoon. We were on our way back to Nar City when your message arrived. I had news I wanted to bring Arkus." Nicabar looked up at the looming House of Gayle in the distance. "Renato, what is all this? What's happened?"

  "It's a very long story," sighed the count. He put his arm around Nicabar's shoulders and directed him toward the castle. "Come. There are too many ears here."

  Nicabar didn't protest, but let his fellow Naren guide him along. As they walked, Biagio explained the recent happenings in Aramoor and Talistan, how Richius Vantran had betrayed them and how Blackwood Gayle had been tapped to take up the mission. Nicabar listened without interrupting, nodding severely when he heard of Arkus' dire state.

  "This is why I'm going to Nar," the admiral explained. "I've heard about the emperor's state. I thought my news from Liss would hearten him."

  Biagio's eyebrows went up. "They are beaten then? Finally?"

  "Very nearly," declared Nicabar with pride. "They haven't been resisting us or attacking. I think their schooners are finally finished."

  Very diplomatically, Biagio looked away. "My friend, don't take offense...."

  Nicabar stopped walking and scowled. "I'm not wrong, Renato. Not this time. I tell you, I have them. Liss will fall within the month. That's my promise. I only need the emperor's word to finish them. If he gives it to me, I will take him myself to see their death." .

  "Is that why you're going to Nar?" laughed Biagio. "To prove yourself to Arkus? The emperor cannot travel, Danar, you know that. Really, what an asinine idea."

  "Is it? I thought Arkus could do with the news. Maybe it would do more to revive him than these damned drugs."

  Biagio held up a finger. "Listen now," he cautioned. "I haven't called you here to argue. I need you, Danar. Arkus needs you."

  "For what?" asked Nicabar impatiently. "I have work...."

  "Stop. Your mission in Liss is ended, at least for now."

  Danar Nicabar went ashen. "What...?"

  "I need your ships, Danar. It's important."

  "What for?" growled Nicabar. "Liss is down, I tell you. Another month and--"

  "Another month is too long," snapped Biagio. "I need your ships now. They have to begin landing troops in Lucel-Lor."


  "No," roared Danar. "My dreadnoughts aren't cargo barges! They're warships. I won't allow it."

  Biagio struggled for patience. "Blackwood Gayle is riding for Lucel-Lor with his horsemen. I've already summoned a legion from Nar City to follow him in. But they're on foot, Danar. They'll have to take Ackle-Nye, and then the Dring Valley. It could take them forever to subdue Lucel-Lor that way. We need to land troops throughout the territories, deal with the warlords one by one. I need ships to do that."

  "I already have a mission, Renato," said Nicabar defiantly. "To take Liss."

  "I'm changing your mission."

  "You're not admiral of the fleet! Who are you to change my mission?"

  The question was absurd, and Biagio could tell Nicabar regretted it. "You're a good friend, Danar. I will forget that question."

  Danar Nicabar inclined his head in deference. He was the head of the Black Fleet, one of the highest military men in all of the Empire, but that title was nothing to the sway Biagio had over Arkus. Except for the Bishop Herrith--a man whose influence over Arkus was almost magical--Renato Biagio was clearly the emperor's favorite, and didn't need an imperial seal to change the direction of the navy.

  "I don't ask this lightly, Danar," continued the count. "I know you think your honor is in the balance. But if you're right about Liss, they will wait for you."

  Nicabar closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. "They may rebuild. Without the blockade..."

  "They will wait. And this mission in Lucel-Lor is more important. The Triin land is too vast to take through the Saccenne Run alone. We need your navy, Danar. We need to land troops throughout their continent if we're to find the magic in time for Arkus."

  "We all die, my friend," said Nicabar. "Even Arkus."

  "No. Arkus cannot die. He is immortal. He will go on forever. Like his Black Renaissance." Count Biagio smiled sadly. "We will see to that, Danar. You and I, and Blackwood Gayle."

  "Gayle is a coward and a clown," sneered Nicabar. "You shouldn't have trusted him with something so important."

  "I had no choice. The Vantran boy betrayed us, and Blackwood Gayle was our only option."

  Nicabar tapped his fingertip against Biagio's skull. "You're slipping, old man. Didn't I warn you about Vantran?"

  "You did," admitted Biagio. "And I tried to warn Arkus. But it was too late."

  "And now he's made a fool of you," laughed Nicabar. "My poor Renato. How will this look to Arkus, I wonder? And to Herrith? Oh, the bishop is having a good laugh at your expense, I'm sure. Don't you think?"

  Biagio closed his eyes and in his keen mind summoned up a picture of Richius Vantran. "The boy may have won a battle, Danar, but not the war. I've already sent his wife to him with a message. When he gets it, he will learn what it means to trifle with Count Biagio."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Three days after Casadah, Richius was still waiting for Tharn.

  He passed the long hours exploring the citadel and its mountain, and writing in his journal about his frustrations. On the night of the holy day he had been given his own quarters, a sparsely furnished room in the north tower not far from Lucyler's room, with a window that overlooked the ocean and let him write by moonlight. Lucyler was gone most of the time, off on errands or some other mysterious business, leaving Richius to wander through Falindar unchaperoned.

  The citadel had been remarkably quiet since the holy day. There were no more pilgrims swelling the halls, just the usual homeless peasants and their flocks of children, all of whom stayed on the ground floor, never venturing high enough for Richius to hear them. What little he did hear from the warriors and servants he couldn't understand anyway, but occasionally he caught snippets of the name "Tharn" and wondered how the master of Falindar fared.

  It had been blood he had seen on the woman's clothes, he was sure of it. Lucyler denied it, but it didn't matter. Something was terribly amiss in the citadel, something grave enough to keep Tharn from making his address to the people who had ventured to Falindar to hear him. Richius could only assume it was Dyana who ailed. He had begged Lucyler to tell him more, but his friend only offered him transparent lies, telling him that nothing was wrong. So Richius was left to worry, alone and terrified for Dyana and wondering just when Tharn would finally keep his promise to speak to him. It would have to be soon, Richius reasoned. War was brewing. Tharn would have to act quickly if he truly hoped to stop it.

  On his fourth morning in Falindar, Richius awoke to the usual breakfast of bread and honey, a welcome treat that Lucyler always placed silently near his bedside while he slept. Each morning he devoured the food hungrily, hoping that soon he would be eating Jenna's fine cooking again and smoking a pipe at the hearthside with Jojustin. Bread was frighteningly scarce in Falindar, and what little there was was rationed. But Richius was a guest here, Lucyler had explained, and since he found everything else unpalatable he was given as much as he wanted, a privilege Richius tried not to abuse. When the night finally came he was always starving again, and his sleep was punctuated by thoughts of breakfast.

  This day he wrote while he ate. Careful to make his bread last, he tore off tiny bits from the round loaves, dipping them liberally in the small crock of honey just as he dipped his quill in the inkwell. Fresh morning light poured into the dull chamber as he lay on his soft bed, his breakfast tray poised neatly on a chair beside him. Since coming to Falindar he had written more than in all the few weeks prior. Time had been sparse for writing when they were traveling through Lucel-Lor, and what little notes he had jotted in his journal had been written by moonlight just as weariness was overtaking him. Now he had all the time needed, and made use of it by describing the changes he had seen in Lucel-Lor.

  Today's entry began with a bleak confession.

  Lucyler was right, he penned at the top of the page. There is peace in Lucel-Lor, a kind I would never have imagined. They follow their madman with love.

  He paused. Was Tharn a madman? Richius still wasn't sure. Tharn was a murderer, certainly, but his sanity remained in question. Perhaps when they spoke he would learn the truth....

  There was an unexpected knock on the door. Richius raised his head curiously, startled by the intrusion. Only Lucyler had visited him since coming here, and Lucyler never knocked. Richius lowered the quill and set his journal aside, going to the door and pulling it open carefully. On the other side was Kronin, looking wholly unfamiliar without his usual face paint. He wore no jewelry, either, and his shirt was sorely wrinkled. The warlord's eyes were dull from lack of sleep. He bowed to Richius as the door opened.

  "Tharn," he stated simply. He pointed to Richius, then down the empty corridor.

  "He wants me now?" asked Richius. Kronin looked at him with puzzlement. "Yes, of course." Dashing back into the chamber, he sat down on the bed and pulled on his long boots, then tore off a great chunk of bread and stuffed it in his mouth as he did up the laces. Kronin watched him indifferently, shaking his head when Richius offered a loaf for sharing. Before they left the room Richius tucked his journal neatly in his bag, hiding it beneath the dress he had purchased for Dyana. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, patting down his cowlick as he followed Kronin from the chamber.

  All was quiet as they moved through the empty hall. At just past dawn, very few of the citadel's inhabitants were awake, and Richius walked as soundlessly as possible, careful not to disturb those still asleep. He trailed Kronin down the endless staircase until they came to another passage halfway down. Narrow and gloomy, the passage led them to yet another flight of spiral stairs, which they began to ascend.

  The south tower, Richius guessed. It was where Lucyler had told him Tharn was quartered. Most likely he would find Dyana here. A schoolboy excitement rippled through him. He could almost feel her presence as he neared her, and the faint memory of her sweet-smelling hair ignited in his mind. At last, he told himself silently. At last.

  But he would have to speak to Tharn first. He steeled himself as they reached the top of th
e stairs.

  Like the hall that led to his own chambers, this one was furnished in the new style of Falindar, its bare walls decorated only by an occasional lamp or candle. It had as many doors as its sister tower, too, all presumably leading to poorly appointed apartments. He listened intently for a familiar voice as they strode down the hall, cocking his head slightly at each passing door. Only an occasional snore reached him.

  Up one more small flight of stairs, they came at last to a partially open door. Dusty sunlight and the sound of labored breathing leaked from the bottom of the portal. Kronin knocked once, then pushed the door open and stepped aside for Richius. The room was larger than the other chambers, though no more spacious, for it was cluttered from floor to ceiling with shelves and stacks of books and papers. Across the room, near one of its three windows, was an ancient desk, also covered with papers. As Richius stepped into the room the man seated at the desk looked up.

  "Come," croaked Tharn listlessly. He looked tired, his skin all the more hideous in the sunlight. Kronin walked away without dismissing himself and Richius stepped into the room. There was an empty chair beside the desk, the only furniture not burdened by a load of manuscripts. Tharn bid Richius to sit.

  "Thank you," said Richius uneasily, taking to the chair. Tharn no longer wore his cowl, but instead let his scalp shine in the morning light. Scars of red and yellow boiled up from his skull where the hair had died away, and what hair there was grew in spotty patches, long and unmanageable and lacking the customary Triin sheen. Richius studied him. He had seen victims of such awful diseases before. Leprosy was common in the Empire, and among the Naren beggars who once filled Ackle-Nye. His own troops had battled terrible, flesh-rotting foot ailments in the moist Dring Valley. But Tharn's case was shockingly severe, and Richius could only imagine the unendurable pain of it. He recalled with morbid irony his audience with Arkus, and how the emperor and his fiendish circle had all taken drugs for years to sustain themselves. How laughable that they thought this broken man owned the secret to eternal life. Tharn was in far more need of their narcotics than they were of his useless magics.