by John Marco
The troops looked away, unable to face him. Richius lowered his sword. They weren’t listening. They were unreachable, full of the same poison that had polluted Shii and Prakna. Richius turned to growl at the commander.
‘You’re a bastard,’ he said. ‘You used me to make an army of murderers. Well, I won’t lead them.’ He tossed his sword down into the dirt. ‘You want a massacre, Prakna? You lead them.’
Prakna stooped and retrieved Richius’ weapon, handing it back to him. ‘Biagio’s in there, my friend,’ he said mildly. ‘Don’t throw away this chance. You’ve come too far. And if you don’t do it, I will’
Richius stared at his sword, then up at Prakna. There was no malice on the commander’s face, just the vast emptiness of the driven. Richius knew he would never dissuade him. In a sense, it was something he’d known all along.
‘Do what you must,’ he said finally. ‘I can’t stop you.’ He turned to Shii sadly. ‘Shii, I expected more from you. You’re not a murderer. You know you’re not.’
‘Lord Jackal,’ Shii whispered. ‘There’s no choice for me.’
Richius shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. You just can’t see that yet.’
‘Lissens!’ came a call from across the yard. They all turned toward the gate. In the morning light stood a figure dressed in robes, an old man with outstretched hands and a fearless look in his eyes. Richius gasped, vaguely recalling the face. Nearly two years ago, this very man had married him to Sabrina.
‘Oh, my God,’ whispered Richius. ‘That’s Herrith.’
‘Who?’ asked Prakna, stunned at the interruption.
Richius was too flabbergasted to explain. Herrith waved at them, within plain shot of a crossbow, beckoning them to listen. The young army broke into a concerned murmur. Prakna swore as he finally realized who had appeared.
‘Herrith!’ he said breathlessly. ‘How?’
The impossible question went unanswered. Richius’ first instinct was that they had blundered into a gigantic trap. But Biagio and Herrith were enemies. Weren’t they?
‘What is this?’ he asked blankly. He took a step toward Herrith. Shii immediately jumped in front of him.
‘No, Jackal,’ she cried. ‘Get back!’
Prakna grabbed Richius’ shoulder, pulling him into the safety of the fold. ‘Easy, boy,’ he cautioned. ‘Shii’s right. You stay back.’
‘Lissens, listen to me,’ cried Herrith. ‘Let me come forward. I want to talk.’
‘No talk, holy man!’ Prakna roared. ‘Today we fight you!’
‘No,’ Richius insisted, pressing past Shii and the others who had gathered to guard him. Akal and Wyle stood by with their crossbows, loading them quickly and beading on Herrith. Prakna held on to Richius’ sleeve as he tried to struggle forward.
‘Let me talk to him,’ Richius pleaded. ‘He knows me.’
‘I want to make arrangements,’ Herrith cried, oblivious to his danger. He held up his hands in a show of peace. ‘Let me come forward.’ He took one careful step toward the army.
‘Not another move, butcher,’ Prakna warned. ‘One more step and you die.’
‘Herrith, it’s me,’ Richius cried. ‘Richius Vantran!’
The bishop paused for a moment, clearly confused. ‘Vantran?’ he called back. ‘King Vantran?’
‘Don’t move!’ demanded Prakna. He let go of Richius and ripped the crossbow from Akal’s hands, aiming it at Herrith. ‘Or I swear to Heaven, I’ll kill you!’
‘Stop, Prakna,’ Richius seethed. ‘Don’t you dare fire!’
‘I will, Richius,’ said Prakna evenly. ‘I’m warning you . . .’
Richius reached out for Prakna’s crossbow, grabbing at it desperately. Prakna howled in anger, bringing up a boot and slamming it into Richius’ belly. The blow knocked the breath from Richius and sent him tumbling backward. He struggled to rise as Prakna took aim. Herrith held up his hands and took one more fateful step.
‘No!’ Richius bellowed.
Prakna shot the bow, putting the bolt into Herrith’s heart. The bishop’s white tunic exploded with crimson. He staggered back, looked down at his punctured chest, then collapsed in a heap. Richius got to his feet and stared at Herrith’s body. He glanced at Prakna, who lowered his crossbow with a resolute nod.
‘A trap,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s a trap.’
‘You fool,’ Richius hissed. ‘You murdering fool!’
Prakna exploded. He grabbed Richius by the lapels and shook him, spittle spraying from his mouth. ‘They murder!’ he hollered. ‘Not me!’ He tossed Richius aside. Turning on his troops, he screamed at them to attack.
‘Take them!’ he cried. ‘Drag this god-damn mansion down to Hell!’
Richius watched, horror-stricken, as all the young men and women he had worked so hard to mold reverted instantly back to the mob he had first met on Karalon. The cry was picked up by the forces on the east and west sides, and all at once they started running toward the mansion, swarming toward the gates in a great, unstoppable torrent. Prakna led the charge to the south gate. He had his scimitar in his hand and he was howling with lust, his blond head shining terribly above the army as they rushed inward. Everyone followed the Lissen hero, leaving Richius standing alone in the garden.
Except for Shii.
The young woman had dropped her weapon and was weeping, her arms folded over her chest, her head slung helplessly low. She didn’t dare look at Richius.
‘Lord Jackal,’ she said desperately. ‘Forgive me.’
The morning erupted in a melee of cries and shattering glass. The Lissens stormed through the gates and the broken windows, their weapons eager for the feast. Richius went to Shii. He wanted to strike her.
‘Shii,’ he gasped, shaking. ‘I could kill you for this.’
‘Forgive me,’ she sobbed. ‘Forgive me . . .’
‘You knew,’ said Richius. ‘Why?’
At last Shii lifted her tear-stained face. She had the same unreachable madness in her eyes as Prakna. ‘Because I want to kill them,’ she said. Then she stooped, retrieved her weapon from the ground, and stalked off after her comrades.
Richius watched her go, utterly appalled. ‘Fool,’ he scolded himself. ‘This is my fault.’
But he wasn’t done. There was one criminal on the island, one man who truly deserved to die. Richius had come this far to find Biagio, and still couldn’t let the count slip away. Like Shii, he picked up his weapon and went in search of his quarry.
Kivis Gago and the other Naren lords had looked out the windows of the west wing and had seen the Lissen army in the growing light. The numbers had stunned them. Gago quickly tabulated the figures and knew they were vastly outnumbered. He called his guardians to surround him and took a sword from one of the suits of armor in the hall. They would make a stand here, they had all decided, and would hold the wing as long as they could. Baron Ricter and his troop of red-caped soldiers lined the windows facing westward. Oridian’s men barricaded one side of the hall, while Claudi Vos’ men took the other, backed up by the troops of Tepas Talshiir. Gago’s own men stayed in the center, readying to aid whoever needed it. And as he waited for the Lissens to descend on them, Kivis Gago’s only thoughts were of Biagio, and how the count had bested them.
‘If I live through this I will kill him,’ the minister muttered. ‘I will make it my life’s work to punish him.’
But Kivis Gago didn’t expect to live, or even to last more than another hour. There were hundreds of Lissens waiting for him, all full of hate from the decade-long war his ministry had overseen. Kivis Gago resigned himself to die with a sword in his hand.
He didn’t have a very long wait.
The windows along the western wall shattered in a violent implosion. Lissen soldiers swarmed inside. Ricter’s men hacked at them, trying desperately to push them back. But the wave kept coming. Kivis Gago ordered his own men into the melee, sure that they’d be shredded.
*
Simon hurried through the familia
r corridors with his sword in his hand, trying to reach Eris’ quarters. He could hear the battle ringing through the halls and knew that Richius’ efforts at peace had failed. That didn’t give him much time. But Simon had expected more resistance. Instead he found the halls empty. Guessing that Biagio had ordered all his sentries against the Lissens, Simon started running. He was in a headlong dash now, very near Eris’ chambers. She would be frightened by the fighting. She might even be hiding.
I’m coming, thought Simon desperately. Hold on, my love.
Near the slave quarters he saw his first group of familiar faces. A gang of servants were huddled together, peering around the corner. They pointed at him as he raced forward.
‘Where’s Eris?’ he cried, coming up to them. ‘Tell me, quickly!’
The slaves were thunderstruck at his appearance.
‘Simon Darquis!’ they said. ‘You’re back!’
‘Tell me where Eris is!’ Simon thundered. He recognized Kyla, one of Biagio’s slaves. Simon grabbed her arm and shook her.
‘Tell me,’ he demanded. ‘Where is she?’
Kyla shrieked, trying to pull free. ‘She’s dead!’ cried the girl. ‘Please, let me go!’
Simon’s iron grip turned to water. He stood in horror, unable to move. ‘What?’ he gasped. ‘What did you say?’
‘They’re close,’ cried one of the slaves. ‘I can hear them.’
‘Dead?’ asked Simon. ‘That’s impossible. Eris . . .’
‘She’s dead,’ cried Kyla desperately. She was about to run when Simon seized her again. The rest of the slaves scrambled, dashing for cover. Simon heard the din of fighting in the distance. He ignored it all, sick with dread.
‘Tell me!’ he demanded. ‘Tell me you’re lying! Eris is alive!’
Kyla shrieked hysterically, breaking into sobs. ‘Please, let me go!’
‘Tell me!’
‘She’s dead! She killed herself! Please . . .’
‘You lie,’ Simon roared. His whole body began to shake. ‘Don’t tell me that. Eris . . .’
Kyla finally tore free of him. She raced away, desperate to be gone. Simon’s brain descended into a fog.
‘Eris,’ he moaned. ‘Eris!’
He broke into a run, dashing through the corridors to Eris’ rooms, screaming her name all the way.
Prakna prowled quickly through the corridors, searching for Richius. He had promised his queen he would protect the Jackal, and he knew that Richius had entered the mansion in search of Biagio. Prakna had left behind the protection of his army. Most of his soldiers were in the west wing, fighting their way through a barricade of Naren soldiers. There had been more guards on the island than they’d thought, but Prakna was confident his troops could best them.
‘Richius!’ he called, scanning every opulent crevice.
No one came out to challenge the commander. He had seen some slaves race around corners, but they hadn’t threatened him. Suddenly, Prakna felt invincible. Liss the Raped was a quickly fading memory. Today, Liss the Glorious was reborn. They were unstoppable, just as he’d always known they’d be. But he had to find Vantran. Vantran was alone, questing for Biagio in this dangerous place. Prakna stumbled through the halls until at last he heard a weeping voice in a room up ahead. He cocked his head to listen.
‘Eris,’ said the voice miserably. ‘My beautiful dancer . . .’
Prakna stopped, recognizing the voice. ‘Darquis.’
Carefully, he inched forward, approaching the chamber. He peered inside and saw Simon Darquis huddled on the floor, weeping. The Naren held a pair of small shoes in his hands. The sight appalled Prakna. For one brief moment, his hate-filled heart softened. The Naren didn’t hear him enter the chamber, so lost was he in grief. Prakna hefted up his sword.
‘Darquis,’ said Prakna softly. ‘Look at me.’
Simon looked up at Prakna. He noticed the sword in the Lissen’s hand and the terrible expression on his face, full of madness. Simon didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He held Eris’ dancing shoes against his chest.
‘Eris is dead,’ he said weakly.
Prakna said nothing.
‘I tried to save her,’ Simon choked. ‘I truly did. Damn me to Hell for failing.’
He knew what Prakna intended. Surprisingly, he didn’t care. He could have exploded up and saved himself, he could have wrestled the scimitar from Prakna’s hand, but he did nothing but wait, weeping like a child while the Lissen hovered over him, blinded by his own enormous wrath. Simon smiled sadly, yearning to be dead.
Prakna held the scimitar, unable to strike. He stared down at the thing at his feet, and the only emotion that came to him was pity. He had never seen anything as broken as Simon Darquis. Not even his ghost-like J’lari seemed so frail.
‘Do it,’ Simon whispered. ‘Kill me.’
He wanted to die, and his longing frightened Prakna. The fleet commander lowered his weapon.
‘I’ll not be your executioner, dog.’
‘Oh, you god-damn coward,’ spat Simon. Tears ran down his face. Angrily he wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Kill me!’
Prakna sheathed his scimitar. All the hatred had gone out of him, replaced by a brooding sympathy. ‘Get up,” he directed.’ Get out of here.’
Simon clutched the shoes closer to his breast. ‘Go where? I have nothing now.’
‘You have your life, Roshann. Be glad for it. Now hurry. Run now, or I will not be able to save you.’
Darquis rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked confused, staring at the world through bleary eyes. The shoes in his hands caught his falling tears. He gave Prakna a vacant glance, wondering what to do.
‘You are not safe here,’ said Prakna. ‘Go as quickly as you can. Find a boat and get off Crote. I will tell Vantran what has happened.’
‘Richius . . .’
‘Go!’
The order shattered Simon’s stupor. Still clutching the shoes, he darted out of the room.
Richius hadn’t been able to stop the slaughter. He hadn’t even tried. The west wing of the mansion clamored with battle as the army of Liss swarmed over the defenders barricaded inside. It would be a massacre. The Lissens certainly outnumbered the Narens. And Prakna had whipped his troops into a frenzy, filling them with blood-lust. It was just a matter of time before the melee was over and the mansion was reduced to rubble. Time was the enemy now, and Richius felt it slipping through his fingers.
He needed to find Biagio.
Instead he found himself in a magnificent hallway, facing down a curious little man with a retiring smile. The man was dressed in silk and gold, and he stood at the end of the hall, watching Richius approach. All around them the sounds of battle rang out, threatening to come nearer. But the man stood unwavering at his post, blocking Richius’ path.
Richius pointed his sword out at him. ‘Stand aside,’ he warned. ‘I won’t let you stop me.’
‘I recognize you, young Vantran,’ said the man. ‘From the Black City.’
‘You’re one of Biagio’s servants,’ guessed Richius. ‘Get out of the way. I mean to find your master.’
‘You won’t find him,’ said the man. ‘He isn’t here. But he left me behind to tell you that he’s waiting for you.’
‘What?’ spat Richius. ‘Where is that monster?’
‘Gone,’ said the man. ‘I am Leraio, Count Biagio’s manservant. The count has left for the Black City. You will not find him on Crote, King Vantran.’
The news was staggering. Richius lowered his sword. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he muttered, not certain if he should believe the slave. ‘Why? Why has he left you here, then?’
Leraio frowned as he considered the question. ‘I suppose it suits his purposes. But I am not done with my message yet. There is more.’
‘Tell me,’ Richius demanded.
‘Count Biagio wanted me to give you this.’ The slave reached into his vest and pulled out something white and unremarkable. Richius squinted to see it better.
�
��What is that?’ he asked angrily.
Leraio came closer, dropping the item into Richius’s hand. It was a lock of white hair, soft and short. Triin hair.
Richius puzzled over it for a moment. ‘Explain this,’ he said. ‘Whose hair is this?’
‘Count Biagio has your wife, King Vantran. He has taken her back to Nar City. He requests that you—’
‘No!’ Richius grabbed the little man and pinned him against the wall. ‘That’s impossible.’
Leraio was remarkably calm, even with Richius strangling him. ‘It is true. She went searching for your child, the one called Shani. She was captured by Naren ships and brought here. I promise you, she is unharmed. For now.’
Richius let go of the slave, staggering backward. ‘You’re lying!’ he spat.
‘I am not,’ corrected Leraio.
The world around Richius swam with doubts. Was it possible? He rummaged over the floor, picking up the bits of hair where he’d dropped them. A quick run through his fingertips revealed the same silky softness as Dyana’s hair. Hardly proof. But with Biagio, anything could have happened.
‘He has her,’ Leraio promised. ‘He left last night aboard the Fearless. And he wants you to follow.’
‘My God,’ Richius groaned. As impossible as the tale sounded, Biagio was capable of anything. He turned and bolted out of the hall, screaming for help.
Prakna was racing back to the west wing when he heard Richius’ cry. Vantran was in a panic, and when he saw Prakna the young man came to a skidding halt, hardly able to breathe. They were not far from the battle and the sounds were deafening. Prakna heard shattering glass and human screams, and the unmistakable din of metal on metal. He wondered desperately how his troops were faring.
‘Richius!’ Prakna shouted. ‘What’s wrong?’
Richius was flushed with sweat. He took great panting breaths as he struggled to speak. ‘Dyana,’ he gasped. ‘He has her . . .’
‘Dyana?’ blurted Prakna. ‘Your wife?’
‘Biagio. He’s taken her.’
Prakna couldn’t understand. ‘Take it easy, boy,’ he directed. ‘Breathe. And tell me what happened.’