by John Marco
The warship sprang to life, lurching forward as the endless yards of silk sails ate up the wind. The Fearless banked gently starboard, still paralleling the Prince. Nicabar knew she had put all her mobile cannons on her port side. She wouldn't waste time trying to turn.
"Renato, you might want to go below," the admiral suggested. "It's about to get damn noisy up here."
Prakna stood amidships on the Prince, waiting near the cannons. His crew had primed the guns with grapeshot and had aimed them at the Fearless' masts, hoping to tear her sails. The Prince was picking up speed, trying to pull away from the dreadnought. Surprisingly, the other two dreadnoughts had kept back so not to join the fight. Prakna considered the move respectfully. Nicabar knew he already outgunned the schooner. Anything more than the Fearless would have been gratuitous, and not really worth bragging about.
"And so we go down," sang Prakna softly, remembering the lines to a sailors' poem. "To the bottom far, far below."
Prakna knew his vessel had no chance at all, but he didn't really care. He was prepared now to die. So was his crew. Today they had struck a blow for Lissen freedom. Today was a good day to go to the bottom. He hoped J'lari would understand.
Because her cannons didn't have the reach of the Naren guns, the Prince would have to fire early, hopefully damaging the Fearless and slowing her. But the Fearless had guns on both sides, while the Prince's were already committed to port. The fleet commander wondered how much damage four good shots could do to the black behemoth.
He gave the order to fire.
The flash from the Prince's deck caught Nicabar by surprise. He hadn't expected it to come so early. But he didn't bother to duck. He knew Prakna's targets were the sails. A great, fiery eruption exploded overhead as the grapeshot from the Prince burned the foremast, chewing at its sails. Nicabar surveyed the damage, impressed with the aim. He knew Prakna's crew were preparing another volley. A few more similar shots would slow the Fearless to a crawl. And the Prince was too quick to let go easily. A piece of burning silk fell down onto his shoulder, singeing his coat. Nicabar batted it away with a growl. Off the starboard bow, he saw the Prince pulling away as her crew worked diligently to cram another round of powder and shot into her guns.
"Lieutenant R'Jinn," shouted Nicabar. "Return fire."
R'Jinn cried the order. The command quickly ricocheted down to the gun deck. Nicabar felt the wood beneath his feet rumble. He stuck his fingers into his ears, waiting for the concussion.
Three long-barreled flame cannons opened up. Fire flew across the water, rocking the Fearless and blowing apart the morning. Nicabar waited for the smoke to clear, then saw the Prince enveloped in flames. She was still moving away from them, burning but intact.
Nicabar ordered continuous fire.
Prakna scrambled across the deck of the Prince, rallying his men. The first blast from the Fearless had torn away the stunsail and a big chunk of the prow. The Prince's cannons opened up again, returning fire and catching the dreadnought amidships. More of the Naren's sails caught flame. Prakna ordered his ship hard about, steering her away to narrow her profile. But even the Prince of Liss couldn't outrun the Naren guns. They opened up in a non-stop volley, one by one hammering at her hull. The whole world turned orange. Prakna's breath burned in his lungs. He choked up a ball of blood, stumbling through the haze. Another shot crashed against the hull, blasting a hole in it. The Prince began listing to port as water flooded her holds.
It was over before it had really begun. Prakna searched the burning chaos for Marus, but couldn't find his friend. He craned his neck to see, forgetting the battle, wanting to die near his first officer.
One more shot from the Fearless blew him off the deck, scattering pieces of him over the ocean.
Richius and Dyana watched the carnage from the deck of the Black City, covering their ears to shut out the bombardment. Dyana huddled close to Richius, her head against his chest, blinking in disbelief as she witnessed the awesome firepower of the Empire. The Prince of Liss was quickly being incinerated. Constant volleys from the Fearless had tattered her sails to burning husks and excavated a giant hole in her hull. She limped over the waves, directionless, letting her giant rival pummel her. It was hopeless for Prakna and Marus and the rest of them. The ship that had been their home and greatest love was suddenly an inferno. The Prince sent up huge plumes of fiery smoke, opaquing the horizon. The Fearless hammered her ceaselessly. Somewhere on the dreadnought's deck, Richius knew, Nicabar was crowing, pleased with himself for finally vanquishing his old nemesis.
And Biagio was with him. Biagio the mystery, who had somehow puppeteered an entire empire into his palm. As Richius watched the Prince of Liss fade to ashes, he thought about the ruthless Count of Crote, and all the fears he had engendered. Biagio had reached across a continent and snatched a baby from its parents. He had somehow convinced his greatest enemy to come to Crote and be murdered. He was a great and powerful enigma, and Richius knew he would never fully understand him, or why he had let Dyana go free. Richius lowered a hand from his ear and stroked Dyana's hair, kissing her. She was a remarkable woman, his wife, extraordinary enough to make any man think twice--even Biagio.
The Prince of Liss slowly began to sink like a burning sun.
FORTY-FIVE
Outcast
Simon ran from Biagio's mansion, racing like the wind. He ran until he thought his heart would burst, seeking cover where he could, and never looking back at the massacre taking place at his master's former home. And when Simon could not go on, when his muscles screamed with fatigue and all his body burned with pain, he stopped running. It was late morning. Biagio's mansion was far behind him, but the news of the Lissen invasion had already swept through Crote. Simon had made it to the town of Galamier, where he had grown up. The fishing village was aghast at the sight of Lissen schooners on their shores. Already fleets of scows were abandoning Crote, desperately fleeing to the mainland. And Simon, who still had his wits about him despite the shocking morning, found his way onto one of them.
The sun was overhead as the little vessel slipped away from Crote, going unnoticed by the Lissen invaders. She was smelly and packed with panicked people, and the owner of the boat urged them all to keep calm, shouting above the sea and the cries of children. But Simon didn't need to be yelled at. He was already perfectly calm. His Roshann-trained mind had focused on survival.
On the horizon he watched Crote float away. Something told him that Biagio had already fled. Richius wouldn't find him. Simon knew it instinctively. Biagio was already safe. Somewhere.
Simon forgot his seasickness. In his mind was a vision of Eris, dancing across her practice floor. The memory was flawless. Eris had been very beautiful. Simon pulled her dancing shoes out of his pocket. A girl standing next to him eyed the shoes curiously. Simon smiled to her, then tossed the shoes overboard. The girl blinked.
"You don't want them," he told her. "They're tainted."
Everything was tainted now. But it was no more than he deserved, Simon supposed. If the fishing boat made it to the mainland, Simon planned to flee to Doria. He would go underground, just as he had hoped to do with Eris. He was still Roshann. There were tricks he could use to avoid being discovered. Even Biagio wouldn't find him.
After a life of spying and assassinations, Simon wondered what it would be like to be a farmer. Perhaps he would work as a stable hand, or try to find employment in a coopery. Dorians often hired mercenaries, but Simon sniffed at the notion. He had already thrown his dagger overboard, too. Convinced that he had spent enough time killing, he decided to forgo such bloody employment. Simon Dark-Heart was dead.
"Hello," he said to the little girl next to him. "What's your name?"
"Numa," replied the child. "What's yours?"
Simon considered the question. "Simon," he told her. "Simon Jadiir."
In the tongue of Vosk, where his mother had been born, the name meant "barrel-maker."
FORTY-SIX
Emperor
After destroying the Prince of Liss, the Fearless waited before returning to the Black City. Because he wanted the protection of additional ships, Biagio arranged a rendezvous off the Naren coast, finally sailing into the city's harbor four days after leaving Crote. Accompanying the Fearless was a contingent of ships recalled from battling the Lissens, including the dreadnoughts Shark and Intruder, and the cruisers Conqueror, Angel of Death and Furious. Together they dominated the harbor, and all Naren eyes fell on them and wondered if the world was coming to an end.
Count Biagio knew he had many enemies in Nar. But he had already annihilated the bulk of them. Kivis Gago, Claudi Vos, and all the others who had so foolishly aligned themselves with Herrith were dead now, fallen under Lissen scimitars. The Naren Empire was leaderless, completely. And the people of Nar, who had never been able to function without a strong ruler, looked on the arriving Count of Crote with apprehension.
Biagio explained to them how Liss, their great enemy, had invaded his homeland during the peace talks, savagely murdering the other Naren noblemen. Because he had barely escaped with his life, there had been no way for him to save the others. And Liss was on the prowl, he told the citizens of Nar, and had sinister designs on the Empire. With the Lissens firmly on Crote, only the Black Fleet could protect Nar City now.
There would be politics and enemies still, Biagio knew--and maybe feeble attempts on his life, which would all certainly fail--but he was home again and immensely happy, and when he sat himself down on Arkus' Iron Throne, an unimaginable thrill went through him.
He was emperor.
He had struggled for the title, as Nar would struggle, still. Herrith had left him a land in strife. Like the rubble of the great cathedral, the Empire needed rebuilding. Goth was a wasteland, and Dragon's Beak was torn by civil war, as ambitious lords scrambled to fill the void left by the twin dukes. All across the fractured land, kings and princes questioned the authority of the capital, wondering what Biagio and his new Black Renaissance might bring. And rumblings out of Talistan were worrisome, too, as King Tassis Gayle made very clear his feelings about the foppish new emperor.
But Biagio had time. Time, at least, to rest. Tomorrow there might be war, but today he had won the Iron Throne. For him, that was enough.
After a week as emperor, Renato Biagio called a meeting of his Roshann agents, a secret gathering that took place in the highest tower of the Black Palace. A winter wind ripped through the walls, chilling the air and sending the great hearth into ripples. A giant, circular table rested in the center of the chamber, seating Roshann members from around the Black City and the outlying Empire, all of whom still adored their master and loudly reaffirmed their pledges to serve him until death. Emperor Biagio thanked them all with gold and kisses, and gave them lands for their loyalty and the beautiful slaves he had purchased with the remains of his private fortune.
After rewarding them, Biagio turned to business. He had only two remarkable orders for them. The Jackal of Nar was never to be hunted again. Neither was Simon Darquis. The peculiar command made the agents murmur, but none of them questioned the edict or looked disapprovingly at Biagio. He was their master; that was all that mattered.
After their meeting, Biagio returned to his quarters. He had set himself up in the old rooms Arkus had enjoyed, with a peerless view of the magnificent city and all the old emperor's clutter around him. The trinkets and baubles connected Biagio to Arkus, and he liked the memories they evoked. At last, his grief was fading. And Biagio thought of Dyana Vantran often too, and the things she had said to him. Her scathing accusations had started the new emperor thinking. He wondered how true it was that the drug had warped his mind.
Biagio sat alone by his window, well past midnight, contemplating these things. The wind howled around the tall tower. There was much for him to do, and Nar needed him sound. It had been over a week since he had taken the drug, and his cravings were enormous. But he knew that Herrith and Vorto had both been able to endure the withdrawal, and he was determined not to be bested.
FORTY-SEVEN
The Jackal at Rest
The Naren dreadnought Black City had indeed returned Richius and Dyana to Crote, leaving them off where the Lissen schooners could not see them. From there they walked across the tiny island, astonished at the things they'd seen.
The Lissens had devoured Crote. It was theirs now, just as Prakna and Jelena had always wanted, the perfect base from which to continue their violent mission against the Empire. The slaughter had not stopped at the mansion, but rather had carried over to the surrounding farmlands and villages, until at last the army of orphans had come to their senses and began occupying Crote without killing it. Richius supposed Shii had something to do with their change of heart. He had seen her before leaving, aboard a Lissen schooner. She looked vacant and afraid and not at all young, and Richius knew she had murdered her youth during the campaign, trading it for vengeance.
A Lissen schooner with the dubious name The Dolphin took Richius and Dyana back to Lucel-Lor. It was an uncomfortable journey. The Lissen sailors mostly avoided Richius, embarrassed that they had betrayed him. Apparently, "Lord Jackal" no longer existed. He was merely Richius Vantran again--not a king, and certainly not a hero. And when at last he and Dyana arrived at Falindar, the world seemed a wholly different place.
Falindar smelled a little sweeter than it had. The winter was cold and the wine was strong, and Dyana and Shani were happy again. And Lucyler had returned from Kes. The master of the citadel was no less preoccupied than when he'd left. There was still trouble brewing between the warlords Ishia and Praxtin-Tar, and Lucyler worried endlessly about the tenuous peace he had arranged. But Richius didn't think about those things. He thought only about being alive and about his miraculous luck, which continued to save him from death. He didn't want to be troubled any longer with talk of war. More than ever in his life, he craved peace. Even Aramoor seemed a distant memory. It was lost to him, that was certain, and he had no plans to break his bargain with Biagio. The Empire was Biagio's now. And Richius had all of Lucel-Lor to occupy him. He would make his life here, among the Triin.
Or die trying.
A week after returning to Falindar, Richius set off with Lucyler to hunt and came upon the place where he and Simon had felled the ancient oak. It was just a stump now. The grass around it was trampled and littered with snapped branches. Richius recalled the tree with melancholy. It had been remarkable. At the time, he had not understood Simon's hatred of it. He lowered his bow as he stared at the stump, wondering about Simon. Prakna had told him that Simon had fled the mansion. Apparently, Eris had been killed. Now no one knew where Simon was, or even if he was alive.
Richius sat down on the stump, forgetting the hunt, and invited Lucyler to sit beside him. His Triin friend relaxed gladly, weary from stalking through the woods. Neither spoke for a very long time. Lucyler had the gift of silence. He hadn't even asked Richius the obvious, impossible questions, like why he'd gone to Liss and abandoned his wife and child, and why he had been so profoundly unhappy in Falindar. And he wouldn't ask, either. Lucyler knew Richius' heart well enough.
Then, after several long minutes, Lucyler finally spoke.
"Cold," he remarked.
Richius nodded. "Yes." The cold felt good. It reminded him of Aramoor.
"Ishia worries," said Lucyler. "I do not know what I should do."
Another impossible question. Richius shrugged. "Is it really your concern?"
"I am Master of Falindar," replied Lucyler. "These things are expected of me." He sighed. The light caught his eyes, revealing sadness. "I am riding a wildcat, and I cannot control it. Praxtin-Tar is a madman."
Richius grimaced. He'd had his fill of madmen recently.
"The warlords need to fight, I think," Lucyler continued. "I am not sure I can stop them."
"If it's their nature to kill, you won't be able to stop them, Lucyler. Don't kill yourself in the process."
The Triin
gave a black laugh. "Is that your wisdom now, my friend? Is that what you've learned? I could use more than silly prophecy."
"That's all I've got these days."
"I was thinking that perhaps you would come with me to speak with Praxtin-Tar," said Lucyler. "He remembers you from the Naren war. He knows that Tharn respected you. If you speak to him, he might listen."
"No," said Richius. "He will not listen."
"You are so sure? You should try, at least."
Richius shook his head. "Sorry."
"You will not do it?"
"Can't do it," said Richius absently.
The promise he had made to Biagio extended past the borders of Nar. It was a promise to himself, really. As Lucyler watched him questioningly, Richius studied the sky, enjoying its grace. Suddenly the sky seemed more important than anything.