by John Marco
He’d come too far, fought too many battles with too many petty kings. He wouldn’t lose to Tassis Gayle; not this duel, and not the Iron Throne. And this above all summoned the residual drug from his bloodstream, searing his eyes and flooding his body with power. He charged forward with a new barrage, moving with lightning speed. Gayle back-pedaled, desperately trying to absorb the blows, his face twisting with surprise. His big sword became clumsy, too slow for Biagio’s attack. The sword pierced the chainmail at his shoulder. Gayle cried in pain, then turned and let loose a flurry of his own. But the emperor’s blade was everywhere suddenly, blocking and twisting with drug-induced speed. Biagio saw it all in a blur, for once again he was his infamous self and all the guilt of his murderous past fell away.
‘Die, you treacherous fossil!’ he cried. ‘Die like your son and daughter!’
He flew at Gayle, ignoring the broadsword and golden armor. His blade danced over the king’s body, slashing at his breastplate then rushing up to score his face. Gayle roared as the weapon tore his chin, nipping out a chunk of flesh and spraying blood down his neck. The opening was all Biagio needed. He brought his sword down on Gayle’s hand, slicing the thin metal of the gauntlet and severing two fingers. Gayle wailed in horror and dropped his sword. Biagio stalked after him, sending him tumbling backward. Like a golden turtle on its back, Gayle stared up at Biagio.
‘I win!’ declared Biagio. He fell onto Gayle’s chest and put the tip of his blade to his gorget. ‘How does it feel, Gayle? What’s it like to be so close to death?’
The old man’s expression was resolute. ‘Look at you,’ he said between gasps. ‘You’re insane. You’ve always been . . .’
‘I’m not insane!’
‘You are,’ said Gayle. ‘I can see it in you, like a disease.’
‘No.’ Biagio pressed on the sword, pushing against Gayle’s windpipe. ‘I’ve changed.’
‘You haven’t,’ said Gayle. ‘You’re still a maniac.’
‘Repent, serpent! Acknowledge me as your emperor. Swear it, before all these men!’
Something like pity flashed in Gayle’s eyes. ‘Send me to my children.’
‘Swear it!’
‘Maniac,’ said Gayle. ‘A bloodthirsty, girl-pretty sodomite . . .’
Biagio fell against his sword, plunging it through Gayle’s throat. A spray of blood spouted up. Tassis Gayle gurgled something, barely audible, choking for air.
‘Insane . . .’
Shaking with rage, Biagio watched him die. Blood foamed and bubbled at his gorget. The King of Talistan closed his eyes, shuddered a final gasping breath, then died. Unable to rise, Biagio stared at him. A crowd of Highlanders had gathered, looking at the pair in amazement.
‘Emperor,’ said Vandra Grayfin. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m all right,’ gasped Biagio.
But he wasn’t all right. He was trembling. With effort he lifted his head, desperate for air. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he didn’t know why.
Cray Kellen hurried toward him, helping him to his feet. Biagio collapsed against him, unable to stand. He looked at the clan leader imploringly.
‘I’m the emperor . . .’
‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Kellen. ‘You are.’
Kellen guided Biagio away from Gayle’s corpse, setting him down in a clear patch of grass. While Vandra Grayfin ordered the other Highlanders back, Kellen knelt next to Biagio.
‘We have won, Lord Emperor,’ he said. ‘You have won.’
Biagio nodded dully. ‘I’m the emperor,’ he said again.
‘Yes, my lord.’ Kellen forced a smile. ‘Yes, you are emperor.’
Fifty
For almost an hour, Richius and his army had marched unopposed toward Aramoor castle. The apple orchards and horse farms stretched out alongside him as he navigated the familiar roads. His strange band of refugees and foreigners had not gone unnoticed, and farmers and ranchers ran out to see them as they rode, shocked by the sight of the Triin and their own, illegal flag. Jahl and his Saints waved to the people, announcing the return of King Richius. The reaction among them all was uniform shock. As he rode at the head of his column, enduring the wide-eyed stares of his people, Richius felt remarkably tiny. He hadn’t expected parades for his homecoming, but he hadn’t expected silence, either. In his absence, something had happened to his people – they had been cowed by Talistan’s whip.
‘We’re making good progress,’ said Jahl.
They were riding through a large field, the ranch of a former Saint named Ogan, who had died from lung disease. Ogan’s widow stood in the porch of her house watching them blankly as they rode through. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, but now she seemed like a spinster.
‘Richius, are you listening to me?’ asked Jahl.
Richius nodded. Ogan’s widow continued to stare at him.
‘I said we’re making good time,’ Jahl went on. ‘We’re unopposed, and we’ll be at your castle in another hour.’
‘If my father doesn’t send more troops,’ said Alazrian. The boy was riding beside Richius, with Praxtin-Tar close to his right. ‘He knows by now we’re coming.’
Jahl laughed. ‘What troops? They’re all in Talistan.’
‘We hope,’ said Ricken. He and Parry rode close to Jahl. ‘We don’t know if Biagio has come, remember.’
‘I know,’ said Alazrian. ‘I believe him.’
‘Good for you, lad,’ joked Jahl. ‘What do you think, Richius? What will Leth say when he sees us coming, do you think?’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Eh?’
‘Ogan’s widow. What’s her name?’
‘Richius, stop it,’ said Jahl. ‘Look at me.’
Richius pulled his eyes away from the widow. ‘What?’
‘Forget the woman,’ scolded the priest. ‘Concentrate on the battle. Now, what do you think we’ll be up against at the castle? Alazrian thinks all the troops have probably gone to fight the Highlanders. Do you think so?’
‘Uhm, yes. Probably. I don’t know.’
‘For God’s sake, Richius . . .’
‘Who’s taking care of her?’ Richius looked back at the woman. ‘I mean, with Ogan gone, what’s she been doing for food?’
Jahl hesitated, not wanting to answer.
‘Well?’
‘We sent her some food when Ogan died,’ said Ricken. ‘That was all we could do. We couldn’t risk coming back into Aramoor. The soldiers watch her.’
‘Watch her? What do you mean . . .’
But then he understood. A pretty woman with no husband and no way to run her farm; it all made sense.
Praxtin-Tar spoke then, pointing. Across the field, another company of horsemen was approaching, Talistanians with golden-green armor and long lances tucked beneath their arms. Praxtin-Tar sat up, looking pleased.
‘You were saying something about being unopposed, weren’t you, Jahl?’ asked Richius dryly.
‘They’re from the castle,’ said Alazrian. ‘Leth sent them.’
‘Well, they’re your people,’ said Jahl. ‘Maybe you can talk to them, tell them to surrender.’
‘Look alert,’ Richius directed. He looked around the fields for other soldiers, but didn’t see any. ‘They could be part of a trap.’
‘No, it’s no trap,’ said Jahl. ‘Leth can’t spare the troops. These dogs are meant to slow us down, that’s all.’ He took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘Well then, we’ll just ride ’em down.’
Praxtin-Tar shouted to his men, readying them. Richius ordered the column to halt as he watched the horsemen approach. He saw their leader come into view, a slightly built man with a youthful face. He was worried; Richius could tell. The young man brought his company to a halt a dozen yards from the horde.
‘Jackal,’ he called. ‘Would that be you?’
‘Some call me that,’ replied Richius. He scrutinized the Talistanians, counting maybe thirty in all. Hardly enough to best Praxtin-Tar’s warrio
rs. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Lieutenant Dary,’ said the soldier. ‘Of the Gold Brigade. You’re trespassing, Jackal. You’re an outlaw, like these others. I cannot let you pass. Go back, or . . .’ His voice trailed off as he noticed the boy riding beside Richius. ‘My God,’ he gasped, ‘Alazrian?’
Alazrian brought his horse forward. ‘It’s me,’ he declared. ‘Richius, I know this man. I’ve seen him around the castle.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ sputtered the soldier. ‘Master Leth? What are you doing with these people?’
‘Surrender, Dary,’ said Alazrian. ‘Please. I don’t have time to explain it, but if you don’t surrender quickly you’ll be killed.’
The lieutenant looked at his comrades, all of whom shared his bewilderment. ‘Alazrian, tell me what’s going on here. Are you a traitor? Did you lead these creatures to us?’
‘Watch your tongue,’ Richius warned. ‘These creatures are about to rip your throats out. And none of us can stop them, not even me. Surrender.’
The lieutenant lifted his lance and swallowed. ‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘I have my orders, Jackal. If you try to pass, we will fight you.’
Praxtin-Tar understood the challenge. He trotted his steed forward.
‘The warlord commands these Triin,’ Richius explained. ‘He says he’s looking forward to stealing your lance and impaling you on it.’
The young man went ashen. ‘I have my orders,’ he repeated. ‘We’ll give you a fight if that’s what—’
‘I won’t be able to stop them, so don’t try to threaten me. Drop your weapons and get down off your horses. Do it now.’
Praxtin-Tar drew his jiiktar.
‘Jackal, I’m warning you . . .’
‘Do it now!’
Lieutenant Dary was quaking. He lifted his lance an inch higher. His horsemen did the same. Praxtin-Tar put the reins in his mouth, twisted the jiiktar to make two short swords, then sat statue-still, not even breathing. They watched each other, one sweating, one smiling.
‘God almighty, Dary, don’t,’ said Richius. ‘I don’t want this . . .’
‘Alazrian, say something!’ blurted Jahl.
‘I can’t stop him,’ said Alazrain. ‘He won’t listen to me.’
A second later, Dary moved, driving his horse forward. Praxtin-Tar let out a shrieking whoop. His horse flew forward; his jiiktar flashed. Dary’s lance rushed toward him. The warlord’s weapons knocked it aside, then shot out and carved the head from Dary’s body.
‘Damn it, no!’ cried Richius.
Chaos erupted around him. Dary’s head hit the ground, then Praxtin-Tar was roaring, slashing through the stunned lancemen. His warriors surged forward, ignoring Richius’ commands. Richius fought to still his thrashing horse. Next to him he heard Alazrian shouting, then saw the boy fighting to break free from the melee. Jahl and his Saints quickly disbanded as the Triin rushed forward, struggling to get away.
With jiiktars and lances ringing around him, Richius sought refuge from the battle. He forced his mount through the press of bodies. And as he fled he kept telling himself to join the fight, to aid in the liberation of his homeland . . .
But it wasn’t a battle, really. It was Triin warriors cutting their teeth on rabbits. As he reached Alazrian, he turned and saw the warriors engulfing the Talistanians, breaking over them like a tidal wave. Praxtin-Tar was in the center, trilling a mad howl.
‘Look at him,’ said Alazrian in disbelief. ‘My God, he’s an animal.’
‘No,’ corrected Richius grimly. ‘He’s a Triin warlord. He’s not your guard dog, Alazrian. Don’t try to make a house pet of a wolf.’
Aramoor castle had quickly become an armed camp. With the help of Shinn, Elrad Leth had arranged a line of cavalrymen twenty-strong along the outer ward, backed by a small company of soldiers inside the walls. A handful of archers waited on the roof, while servants and slaves made ready with farm tools and kitchen knives, preparing to defend themselves from the Triin savages. Leth himself had a dagger and sword at his belt, and he kept Shinn close by as he hurried through the castle, inspecting his defenses. So far there had been no word from Talistan, and Leth didn’t expect any soon. It was a goodly ride to the border, and he knew Tassis Gayle had his hands full with the Highlanders. But he also knew that Richius Vantran would be a difficult enemy to defeat, for he had the will of the people and an army of Triin behind him. Leth had never really seen Triin, except for his half-breed son. Yet as he dashed through the castle, he remembered what Blackwood Gayle had told him about the Triin. They were devils, vampires who drank the blood of children.
‘Get that goddamn dog out of the way!’ Leth hissed as he tripped over a mongrel going up the stairs. A servant boy hurried an apology and spirited the animal away. ‘If I see it again I’ll have it for lunch!’ Leth shouted after him.
He was frantic now, his mind going in a million different directions. With Shinn on his heels, he raced up the castle’s main staircase, stopping at his second-floor bedroom. The room afforded an unobstructed view of the grounds. It had also been where Calida had died. But Leth didn’t think about that now. Instead he thought about the chamber’s balcony, with its eastern exposure. Already two lookouts were on the balcony, waiting for the invaders. One had a spyglass to his eye. The other was cracking his knuckles nervously. Leth stepped onto the ledge.
‘Well?’ he barked. ‘See anything?’
‘Not yet, Governor,’ replied the soldier. Like all the troops Gayle had supplied him, this one was young and inexperienced. Not really expecting trouble from the Saints, Gayle had recalled the best of them to Talistan.
‘Thanks a lot, you dried up old prune,’ Leth muttered.
‘Sir?’ asked the soldier.
‘Never mind.’ Leth turned to his bodyguard. ‘Shinn, I want you to get back on the roof with the archers. Keep an eye out for them and await my orders. If they get close enough, maybe we can ambush them.’
‘They’ll be too many,’ Shinn argued.
‘Just do as I say, will you?’
Shinn obeyed, heading for the roof where his expertise with a bow could best be used. Leth turned his attention toward the eastern horizon. In the yard, his cavalry waited anxiously, sure they would be ripped to pieces by Vantran’s army. Leth wondered how long they could hold out against the Triin, and if he could somehow manage to take out Vantran with an arrow. Or maybe Jahl Rob.
That would be sweet, he thought. To kill that priest . . .
‘Governor, I see something,’ said the soldier with the spyglass. ‘I think it’s them.’
Leth snatched up the glass. ‘Let me see.’
After twisting the scope, the horizon came into focus. Mostly there were green fields and trees, but then he saw the road leading to the castle. There were riders. Leth’s heartbeat throbbed. A tattered dragon banner flew above them – the flag of Aramoor.
‘It is them. Holy mother . . .’
Richius Vantran rode at the head of the column, looking young and arrogant atop a brown horse. Next to him were Narens – the Saints of the Sword – easily discernible in their ragged, imperial clothing. And behind the Narens, stretching out in a long white line, were the jiiktar-wielding Triin. Some were on foot, others on horseback, and some were even riding Talistanian horses, an insult that made Leth’s insides clench. All had the bone-white skin of ghouls.
‘Get ready!’ Leth called to his cavalry. ‘Here they come!’ He turned to one of his soldiers. ‘Tell the others to make ready. Have them wait for my orders. Go now, quickly.’
The man raced off, shouting to his fellow soldiers and the knife-wielding staff. Leth kept his eye glued to the spyglass. The army was approaching quickly, riding unopposed toward the castle. There was no sign of Lieutenant Dary or his lancemen. There were, however, blood stains on the Triin.
Dary’s blood, Leth supposed. Poor idiot.
How stupid Dary had been to obey orders. And how stupid Leth himself felt for falling into this mess. He s
hould have known Vantran would return someday; he should have been prepared for it. Now he would be dinner for Triin savages, and he blamed himself for his fate. He blamed Tassis Gayle, too.
‘Demented old bastard,’ he grumbled. ‘If I get out of this, I’m going to roast him alive.’
He waited on the balcony as the army drew closer. The young soldier beside him was breathing rapidly. Leth was about to tell him to shut up when he noticed something strange through the spyglass. There was a figure riding alongside the Jackal, a boy with familiar features. It took Leth a moment to remember his supposedly dead son.