The Jackal of Nar (43 page)

Arkus nodded. “I never thought the Drol would be a real threat to the Daegog. But by then Aramoor and Talistan were all that were left for us. All our ships were struggling with Liss’ navy, and the loyalists in the Eastern Highlands were rebelling, too. Yet I couldn’t refuse the Daegog. It was the chance I’d waited for all my life. I knew that if the Drol revolution succeeded, I might never have another opportunity to conquer Lucel-Lor.”

“I’m still confused,” said Richius. “I don’t understand why you wanted to go into Lucel-Lor in the first place. You said you knew how vast it was, how dangerous it could be. Why take the risk?”

“Why?” asked Arkus incredulously. “Because of their power! I told you what I saw when I was there. Can’t you imagine how strong that magic could make me? Could make us? If I had the magic of Lucel-Lor, there would be no more Liss, no rebellions in the Eastern Highlands. I would be the emperor of the world.” He looked at Richius sharply. “And you would be one of my kings.”

Richius very deliberately lowered his goblet onto the stack of books.

“But we lost,” he said. He watched the emperor’s face for some hint of recognition. Arkus’ expression remained still as stone.

“Yes, you did,” said Arkus calmly. “Because you were poorly equipped and because the Drol had a weapon none of us could have imagined.” He leaned forward suddenly, and said in a twisted whisper,
“Magic!”

Richius was stricken. Magic. That was what this was all about. He had tried to believe better of this man, but now the chorus of his father’s curses rang in his ears so that all he could feel was shame and the self-loathing that comes from having trusted a thief. He remembered his strange talk with Biagio in Aramoor, how the count had interrogated him about what he had seen in Ackle-Nye, and he recalled with growing dread the countless, idle chats he had had with his men around campfires in the Dring Valley, wondering what single thing Arkus wanted from the Triin.

“What are you saying?” asked Richius.

Arkus watched him implacably. “I can see you are judging me, young Richius. Wait. I haven’t finished my story yet. For you see, not only did I want something from the Daegog, but he wanted something from us as well. He wanted weapons. He wanted to be like a Daegog of old. Powerful. Strong enough to put down not only the Drol, but all the other warlords, too.”

Richius shrugged, hardly surprised at the news. From what Lucyler had told him of the Daegog, he was little better than Arkus himself. “So you made a deal with him?”

“A very poor deal,” replied Arkus. “The Daegog knew by now that I wanted magic from his people. He told Count Biagio he could teach it to me, but only if I crushed the Drol for him, and then helped him ruin the other warlords.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but you agreed to this? Didn’t you know what a snake the Daegog was?”

Arkus looked at Richius harshly. “I should be insulted by that question, but I’m not. You deserve an honest answer. Yes, I agreed. And yes, I knew he was a snake and not to be trusted. But I had already seen Triin magic. No one else believed me, not even Biagio, but I knew it existed. The Daegog told me he possessed it, and I believed him. Maybe because I wished to, I don’t really know.”

“But why would you believe him? If he had magic, wouldn’t he have used it against the Drol?”

“No, he wouldn’t have. I knew something about Triin folkways, and I knew how they felt about using magic to kill. The Drol call it the touch of heaven. But all Triin agree that any gift of the gods is for good, not harm. This is what the Daegog explained to the count. I had no choice but to trust him. For you see, the Drol would never have dealt with me if the Daegog fell.”

“But the Daegog has fallen,” Richius reminded the emperor. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but you were fooled.”

“Was I?” asked Arkus. “By the Daegog, perhaps, but I was correct about the magic. And now that I know that, I won’t be stopped again. I want Lucel-Lor, young Richius. And I intend to have it.”

“No,” said Richius. What he was hearing was ludicrous, and he meant to say so. “You can’t mean it.”

“I do. And I need your help to get it.”

“No!” repeated Richius, rising abruptly from the chair. “I won’t. Lord Emperor, you must listen to me. What you’re suggesting is madness. There’s no way to win against the Drol. You said so yourself.”

“Biagio told me you saw this weapon, Richius. You claimed it was a storm, but you know better, don’t you? The truth now, tell me. You saw magic there. You saw this weapon at work.”

Richius nodded dumbly, unsure what he was agreeing to. Whether the storm he saw devour Edgard was indeed a weapon, a conjuring of Tharn’s ungodly magic, or whether it was some violent, freakish trick of nature he simply couldn’t say. But he had seen it, whatever it was, and he knew that nothing in Arkus’ vast arsenal could stand against it.

“I saw it,” he said. “I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was magic. Maybe not. But whatever I saw, I know it can’t be beaten with horses and swords. This thing can burn us all alive. We can’t win.”

“We must take them,” Arkus mumbled, still not looking at Richius. “We must.”

“But why?” Richius implored. He fell to his knees beside the old man. “I don’t understand. What do you want from them?”

Arkus broke from his trance and smiled at Richius. Slowly he raised a hand and brushed his brittle fingers across Richius’ face. The touch was cold, almost dead.

“You’re so young,” said Arkus. “So beautiful.”

“Please, Your Grace, listen to me.…”

“I have heard you,” said Arkus. “Now you must listen to me. I know you are a man of honor. Because of that I will tell you the truth.” He reached out again and took Richius’ hand, clasping it firmly so that his icy fingers rested in the warmth of Richius’ palm. “Do you feel that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Don’t be polite. Tell me what you feel.”

Richius cradled the decrepit fingers. They were frigid, like two fleshy icicles. He had held the hands of dead men with more warmth than this. Even Biagio’s hands, cold as they were, had been more lifelike.

“Cold,” answered Richius finally. Very gently he placed the hand on Arkus’ lap.

“Yes. That’s the cold of age, Richius. Age and death.”

“No,” said Richius. “That’s not right. I’ve known old men before. I’ve never felt hands as cold as yours. And the count, what about him? Why are his hands also so cold? And why do his eyes shine like yours?” He leaned forward, confronting Arkus squarely. “What are you doing to yourselves?”

Arkus gave a little, mirthless laugh. “Trying to survive.”

“How?” Richius demanded. “Some sort of magic of your own?”

“Not magic. Science. The war labs give us potions to keep us all alive. But don’t look at me and judge this all. I’m not what I want to be. Look at Biagio and the others. You’ve seen how alike we are, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but I still don’t understand. What is this potion?”

“Bovadin discovered it years ago. I don’t really know what it is. I don’t even think Bovadin knows. But whatever it is, it has the power to keep us all alive, to keep us from aging. Only it doesn’t actually do that. It only slows the process.”

“Slows it? How?”

“I don’t know,” said Arkus again. He was growing agitated. “I only know that it’s kept me alive when I should have been dead years ago. Look at me, Richius. I am over a hundred years old! Have you ever known a man to live so long?”

“Never,” Richius admitted. “But what has all this to do with Lucel-Lor? This drug, does it come from there?”

“No,” said Arkus. “It comes from the war labs. But you’re not understanding me. I’m saying the potions aren’t working for me anymore. It was discovered too late. I was too old when I started taking it, and now …” He paused, examining his hands, then held them out for Richius to inspect. “I am dying, Richius.”

Slowly Richius rose from his knees and sat back in his chair. It was all becoming clear.

“And you think the Triin have magic to stop it? Lord Emperor, you are wrong. If I may say so, this is folly. I spent three years in Lucel-Lor. I slept almost nightly beside a Triin who was my friend, and I can tell you truthfully that I never saw magic until that last day.” He sighed, almost pitying the broken old man before him. “I’m sorry for you, really. But there’s no cure waiting for you in Lucel-Lor. And to be honest, there may not be any magic at all.”

“Of course there is,” said Arkus. “What else could have caused that storm to destroy so many men? You haven’t an answer for that, have you? But I do. It was magic. I know it was. It was the sign I’ve waited for all my life. It proved to me I was right about the Triin, that they really do have magic. We must go back, Richius. We
will
go back.”

“And how will we beat them? If you’re right, if this is some sort of magical Drol weapon, how can we defeat it? We barely escaped with our lives the last time. Even the survivors from Talistan will tell you that.”

“Ah, but this time you will have all of Nar behind you! No more waiting for your father to send troops that never come. No more fighting without enough fuel to keep the cannons alive. I promise you, Richius, you will have all the forces you need to conquer these Drol. My own legions will be under your command. And you won’t have the Gayles of Talistan meddling with you. They won’t be part of this at all.”

Richius shook his head, exasperated. Clearly he wasn’t convincing Arkus of the senselessness of his plan. Even if they went in with a thousand of Nar’s best troops, how much good could they really do against the Drol? All of Lucel-Lor was certainly under their control by now, and that meant a brutal, bloody campaign just to gain a foothold. He remembered Edgard, and how the old war duke had warned him of Tharn’s magic. Yet Richius hadn’t believed him. Even now he was unsure of it. No man could control the skies. It was impossible.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I wasn’t prepared for this. It’s all such a shock.”

“It’s the way it must be,” said Arkus. “But I don’t ask this for myself alone. Think of what this could mean to you. You’re one of us now. I’ve told you things today I’ve never shared with anyone, because I want you to join me. Together we can make Nar
invincible. Aramoor can be the power your father always wanted it to be, stronger than Talistan or any other nation of the Empire. And you will be its king. Think of it!”

Richius did. For less than a moment he considered Arkus’ proposition and knew it was insanity. Join him? He hated him. In that instant he hated Arkus more than Blackwood Gayle or Voris or even Tharn himself. Vet something kept him from flatly refusing the emperor, something more than the sheer absurdity of saying no to this man. Very clearly, very suddenly, he remembered Dyana, and that he had never actually seen her die. He knew it was irrational, that it was a hope born of pure desperation, but he couldn’t stop the idea from taking shape. She might yet be alive, in the clutches of the very Drol bastard Arkus wanted so desperately to destroy. He might yet be able to save her.

Thoughtfully he bit his lower lip, rolling the preposterous idea over in his mind. There were a hundred problems to consider, any number of ways for the plan to fail. There were supply lines that needed to be opened, horses and men to train. Worst of all, there was the matter of Arkus’ current war.

“What about Liss?” asked Richius pointedly. “Won’t they interfere? They’ve kept you from Lucel-Lor before. What about now?”

“Liss won’t be a problem very much longer,” said Arkus coolly. “By the time we attack Lucel-Lor, Liss will be finished. Then we can use our dreadnoughts against the Drol.”

“And when do you intend for us to strike? I’ll need time if I’m to arrange this, Your Grace. Aramoor is poorly conditioned. We lost most of our soldiers in the last war, and have almost no horses left.”

“You’ll have the time you need, Richius. For you see, I need time, too. First we must defeat Liss, and that is still months away. I want you to remain in Nar for a while and rest. Then you will return to Aramoor and begin preparing your troops. By then Liss will be crumbling and the dreadnoughts will be ready to sail for the coasts of Lucel-Lor.”

“All right,” said Richius. A knot of nausea tied itself in his stomach. This nightmare was really happening, and he was powerless to stop it. Listlessly he drained the remaining brandy from his goblet. Arkus was watching him sharply, his face twisting into a look of sour disapproval.

“You don’t really understand what I’m saying, do you?” asked the emperor. “This means as much for you as it does for me. I’m offering you the chance to share our potion, Richius, to be a part of my Circle.”

“I understand what you’re offering, Your Grace. But why me? There are others who would be more eager to help you. Why not ask the Gayles to do this thing for you?”

“Because they are fools and I don’t trust them.”

“And because Aramoor borders Lucel-Lor and Talistan doesn’t.”

“Of course,” said Arkus. “I won’t lie to you, Richius. You’ve already figured out why I’ve chosen you to do this. I need you. If this is to be done quickly, it must be done by someone with experience fighting the Drol, someone who knows his way around Lucel-Lor. But I also want you to be one of us. The House of Gayle could never be trusted with the Drol magic. But you …”

Are young and stupid
, thought Richius bitterly. But Arkus said no such thing. The old emperor sat back and gave Richius a long, languid smile.

“You can be trusted. I know how loyally you served me in Lucel-Lor, Richius. You alone did not betray me. You won’t do it now.”

Richius said nothing. He had been proud of his service in Lucel-Lor, proud that he hadn’t dishonored himself by running from the fight. But he had done it for the sake of Aramoor, not to please this greedy old devil. Arkus’ approval sickened him.

“I won’t betray you,” he said softly.

“I know you won’t. And don’t worry. You’ll be well rewarded for your loyalty. You’ll be able to live forever in that beautiful body.”

“No,” said Richius firmly. “I’ll fight your war because I must to save Aramoor. But I have no wish to live forever.”

Arkus stared at him crossly, the thin, white brows knitting above his eyes. “That would be a foolish decision. Don’t refuse this. I won’t offer it to you again.”