Authors: John Marco
“Will he take care of us?” asked Pris.
“You know he will,” said Richius. “He’s a good man, and your father trusted him. He will take the best of care of you, I’m sure. And I’m sure it’s what your mother would want. I’m not Triin, after all. You should have a leader that’s of your own people.”
Pris dropped her head. “I am afraid for you,” she said.
“Bhapo told me you would be safe now, no more fighting for you. If you go to fight you may be killed. Like Father.”
“Pris,” said Richius gently. He slipped his arm around her tiny shoulders. “This is something I have to do. Your father died defending his home. That’s what I’m going to do. If I’m killed doing it then at least my death will have some meaning. But my life won’t have meaning if I stay. I have to try. Can you understand that?”
“No.” She raised her head and focused her sad eyes on him. “I do not. I do not understand why Father died. Or the others. All the women cry now. Mother cries. Why, Kalak?”
Richius was silent for a long moment. At last he sighed and said, “Because they miss people they love, that’s why. But I like to think the dead see us crying, wherever they are, and know we miss them.”
Pris looked dazzled by his answer. “I miss Father,” she said.
“And I will miss you.”
“Oh, Pris,” said Richius. “I’ll miss you, too.” He bent forward and placed a delicate kiss on her head. “I’m not leaving for another day or so. I’ll see you before I go. Tell your mother for me what’s happening. Tell her I’m sorry about everything. She’ll know what you mean.”
“I will tell her.”
“Good,” said Richius, rising from his seat. “I’ll see you later, when we sup.”
Pris said nothing more and he left her, steeling himself as he walked back toward the castle. Next was Tharn. He supposed he would find the cunning-man in the quarters he had selected for himself, habitually huddled over papers and maps. Since Karlaz and his lion riders had left, there had been almost nothing for Tharn to do but rest and occupy his mind with the few books he could wrestle away from Pris. They were so much alike, thought Richius. She was more Tharn’s daughter than Voris’. But Pris had taken the news of his departure surprisingly well; he expected Tharn to put up more of a struggle. Not that it mattered.
Tharn could easily stop him from fighting in Lucel-Lor, but the seas and the Lissens were under no one’s dominion. Richius had made up his mind to be as stubborn as Tharn.
He entered the castle quietly, passing under the iron gates. That’s when he heard the scream, like the braying of a lamb. But then it took on volume and definition, and he knew at once it was Pris.
He ran back toward the courtyard, dashing through the hall and passing under the gate. There in the yard was Pris, held aloft in a massive, gauntleted fist. The fist connected to a broad-shouldered body hung with a black cape and capped with a maniacal, masked face.
Blackwood Gayle, grinning like a madman, lifted Pris by the hair and held her up like a prize turkey. Behind him rode a brigade of skull-faced soldiers, sitting like statues upon their giant warhorses. The baron’s one eye twinkled as he saw Richius skid into the courtyard.
“Good morning, Vantran,” came the devilish voice. “Did you miss me?”
Richius stood stupefied, staring slack-jawed at his nemesis.
“Why so shocked?” asked Blackwood Gayle. “You should have known I’d come back for you. Or did you think I was dead?”
Richius chanced a small step toward Gayle. There were only a few yards separating them. Behind Gayle the Shadow Angels sat in mute abeyance, awaiting word from their master. Richius’ eyes darted up to the watchtower.
“Your man up there is dead,” said Gayle, reading Richius’ mind. “You forget what a Shadow Angel can do. You should have been better prepared for us.” Gayle hefted Pris and laughed. “Or was this the best you could do?”
“Let her go,” commanded Richius. “Now.”
“These gogs always meant so much to you,” chuckled Gayle. “I will let her go.
If
you agree to my terms.”
“You’re a coward, Gayle. Hiding behind a child. A coward, like your father.”
Gayle’s face did a horrible contortion. The gauntlet opened and Pris dropped to the ground. She scrambled toward Richius.
“I am not a coward,” Gayle growled. He folded his arms and watched as Pris wrapped herself around Richius’ legs. “One of yours?” he taunted.
Richius pried Pris’ arms away. He took her hands and knelt down to face her.
“Go inside,” he ordered, “quickly,” and shooed her toward the castle. Pris disappeared, crying wildly for help. Richius could hear a commotion brewing inside the castle.
Don’t come out here, Tharn,
he thought.
Please.
“Now we talk,” said Gayle. He hoisted a thumb toward the soldiers over his shoulder. “Recognize them?”
Richius nodded. “Shadow Angels.”
“Compliments of our friend Biagio,” said Gayle with a smirk.
“You know what they can do. And I know you don’t have the means to stop them. So listen to me very carefully. I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening,” said Richius. With only a handful of warriors left in the castle, the Shadow Angels would have no trouble reaching Dyana and Shani. It would be a massacre. “What’s your proposition?”
Gayle grinned. “I’ll bet there are people in there you care about, eh? People you wouldn’t want to see harmed?”
Richius wouldn’t reply.
“Where’s Voris? I expected to see him here, protecting you.”
“He’s dead,” said Richius. “Like your horsemen. What’s your proposition?”
The insult erased Gayle’s smile. “Simple. You and me. Here and now.”
Richius laughed. “Oh, yes. That’s a wonderful idea. Very generous of you, Baron. I’m sure your friends behind you won’t help you at all.”
Blackwood Gayle began to answer, then saw a small group of warriors rushing out of the castle. “Ah, here come your own friends. Pretty meager, I’d say.”
The warriors swarmed into the courtyard with their jiiktars raised. Richius put up a hand to halt them and they obeyed, stopping just short of Blackwood Gayle.
“Call them off,” ordered Gayle. He made no move to reach for his own weapon. “You’ll be sorry if you don’t.”
“They don’t understand a word I say,” said Richius wickedly.
“They may cut your throat by accident.”
Gayle’s face was stone. “If they do, then every one of these Shadow Angels will ride down on your little castle. Those are the
orders I’ve given. Kill me, and all of you die.” He laughed.
“These Angels are such fanatics, you know.”
Richius ordered the warriors back. Dyana came racing out of the castle.
“Richius,” she cried, running up to him. She glared at Blackwood Gayle. “What is happening? Who is this?”
I’m glad you don’t remember,
thought Richius as he pulled her arm away. Gayle leered at her menacingly.
“I am Blackwood Gayle, baron of Talistan. And who are you, woman? The whore Vantran came to save?”
Richius scowled.
“Oh, yes,” crooned the baron. “I’ve heard that story. Biagio told me himself. And guess who told him? Who do you think betrayed you, Vantran?”
“Baron …”
Gayle laughed. “You don’t know, do you? It was the old man! Your dear Jojustin. Pity, don’t you think? You can’t trust anyone these days.”
It was the news Richius had dreaded, and it ate at him. But it was also part of Gayle’s tactics. “Get inside, Dyana,” he said.
“No,” said Dyana. “I will not leave you!”
“Go!” shouted Richius, grabbing her arm and pushing her roughly toward the gate. “And tell your husband not to come out here.”
“Have her bring you a weapon,” thundered Gayle. “We have a score to settle, you and I.”
Dyana hovered by the gate, waiting for Richius’ order. He held up a hand to stop her as he faced Gayle.
“A duel?” he asked. “Why would I fight you?”
“I’m getting impatient,” rumbled Gayle. “Your time is running out. Tick tock, tick tock …”
“Dyana, bring my sword,” Richius called. “And tell everyone to stay inside. Everyone, do you hear?”
She didn’t answer but sped into the castle. The warriors kept their eyes trained on Gayle.
“Now,” said Richius, “answer my question. Why should I fight you?”
“I’m giving you a choice, Vantran. Fight me, or everyone in this castle dies, including that lovely thing that just left.” Gayle licked his lips. “Lovely. Just like your wife.”
Richius leapt forward, balling his fingers into a fist and driving it into Gayle’s astounded face. Gayle stumbled backward, too slow to avoid the attack, and the fist collided with his mask, driving it into his flesh. The mask buckled and Gayle howled, felled by the blow. The Shadow Angels began to move, but Gayle ordered them back.
“No!” he cried. He put his hand to his bloodied face and rose to his feet, hissing. “No one will have you but me, Jackal. You’re mine!”
“Then come and get me, you murdering bastard. I’m ready for you!”
Gayle laughed and took off his mask, flinging it over his shoulder to reveal his hideous visage. Blood dripped down his forehead into his blind eye. “Not yet,” he said. “I want to do this right. Man to man, Aramoorian to Talistanian, once and for all!”
“And what assurance do you give me, monster? I’m fighting for the lives in this castle. How do I know you won’t deceive me?”
Gayle raised a hand to the soldiers behind him. “Lieutenant,” he called. A single Shadow Angel trotted out of the lineup. “This pup and I are going to duel. If I am killed, you will turn around and ride back to the Empire without harming anyone inside this castle. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Baron,” answered the soldier.
“Repeat it for me.”
“If you are killed we will ride back to the Empire. We will harm no one inside this castle.”
“They’re Shadow Angels, Vantran,” said Gayle. “They follow orders to the letter. You know that.”
Richius was stupefied. “Why?” he asked. “What’s the point of all this, Gayle? You have the men to take the castle. Why not just do it? You’re a bloody bastard, I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”
“Indeed I would. But then I might not get the chance to fight you myself, and I do so want that. It’s part of my sad tale, you see. My men are all dead. You killed them. And now the Narens are calling me a coward. They think you’ve beaten me, Vantran. But you never could beat me. I was always your better. Now I’m going to prove it.”
“That’s a big boast. And if I lose?”
“Fight well,” advised Gayle. “Your friends are depending on
you. If you lose they will die, quite horribly I assure you. Particularly that pretty one.”
Richius swallowed his ire. “I’ll fight you. But only if you leave this castle alone, even if I lose.”
“No chance,” said Gayle. “I want your best, Vantran. You need something more than your own wretched life to fight for. The lives in the castle for your best duel, those are my terms. Consider your situation. I think my offer is quite generous.”
Dyana came through the gate then, bearing Jessicane. She had taken it out of its scabbard so that the old blade glimmered in the sunlight. She handed it to Richius.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“I will fight him,” said Richius softly.
“No,” she gasped, clutching his hand. “Richius, you are still weak. He is too big. He will kill you.”
“He will kill us all if I don’t fight him,” said Richius. Gayle was waiting impatiently, tapping a foot on the grass. Richius ignored him and walked Dyana toward the door. “Get inside,” he said. “Order the warriors inside, too. Close the gate and get ready for a fight. And whatever you do, don’t let Gayle see Tharn.”
“No,” begged Dyana. She would not let go of his hand. “Do not do this. Run inside. We can fight them.”
“We can’t win, Dyana. There are too many. Do as I say. Take Shani and hide somewhere in the castle.” He put his arms around her. “I love you,” he whispered.
“And I you. Live for me.”
“Hurry up, Vantran,” said Gayle. “I’m ready.”
“Dyana, get inside. Order the others in for me. Tell them it’s what I want.”
Quickly Dyana told the warriors to follow her inside. Each flashed Richius a pleading look, but Richius waved them to go. They surrounded Dyana and escorted her through the gates. Richius waited until the iron gate closed before turning his attention back to Gayle, holding out his broadsword for the baron to see.
“Do you know this sword?” he asked. “You should. It killed your uncle. And now it’s going to kill you.”
An insane fire burned in Gayle’s lone eye. “I hope your father taught you well, whelp,” he said, and drew his own sword, a long, thin blade with a serrated edge and jewel-encrusted hilt. With his
other hand he unclasped his cape and let it fall to the ground. “I was always better than you, Vantran. Always.”
Richius hefted Jessicane in two hands and stepped forward.
“Prove it, murderer.”
They began to circle each other, Gayle dancing gleefully in a wide arc while Richius kept his steps short and light. He knew the baron’s bulk could easily exhaust him, and without any armor it would take only a single blow to bring him down. But Gayle wore only leather himself, and Jessicane’s toothy edge could easily bite through it.
As they squared off, Richius’ eyes kept darting back distractedly to the castle. The gate remained closed, but concerned faces stared down at him from the dingy windows. He forced them out of his mind and concentrated on Gayle, who was closing the gap between them.
“Your wife was a tasty bit,” he taunted. “She called for you when I killed her.”
Richius felt his legs turn to water.
A trick,
he told himself.
Don’t listen.
But Sabrina’s image flared in his memory, clouding his mind. He fought to suppress it, struggling not to hear her distant screams. He glimpsed Dyana’s worried face pressed against a windowpane. She would be next if he didn’t win.
Gayle screamed and charged forward, thrusting with his sword. Richius skidded aside, batting the blade away. Jessicane rang out as the two swords collided, driving Richius to a knee. Gayle howled and hammered down again and again, raining blows on Richius, who kept his blade extended like a metal roof against the vicious onslaught.