The Jackal of Nar

by John Marco

  "That was pretty," she said. "What was it?"

  "Just a song from Aramoor. I think my mother used to sing it to me when I was young, but I can't remember. I didn't know her very well."

  And I do not know you very well, thought Dyana. There was a sudden tightness in her chest. But I want to.

  "Did she die when you were young?"

  Richius frowned. "I was about five when she died. She had a cancer. My father didn't tell me much more than that, but I remember waiting for her to come back. She never did."

  "It must have been terrible for you."

  "It was. But I think it was worse for my father. Friends of his told me he was never the same after she died. He wanted to have lots of children of his own, but she was too sick to have more after I was born. It's not good for a king to have only one son, you know. He always tried to protect me, but when the war came in Lucel-Lor, he had to send me." Richius' face tightened. "He was a good father," he said softly. "Not perfect, but I know now that he did his best."

  "I am sorry for you, Richius," she said. "You have had such loss. I grieve for you." She hesitated, then added quickly, "And your wife."

  Richius looked up from Shani and stared at her. She could hardly stand the burning emotion in his eyes, and yet she was glad she had spoken the word. Wife. There was so much to know about this dead woman. Curiosity seized her. She didn't even know the woman's name. Before she could stop herself she was speaking.

  "What was she like, your wife?"

  Richius seemed stunned by the question. He reared back, his eyes widening.

  "That's an odd thing to ask," he said. "But I'm happy to answer, if only so people can remember her. Sabrina was the most wonderful girl in the world. I didn't know it, but she was. And the worst thing that ever happened to her was marrying me."

  "Was she very beautiful?"

  A smile stretched across Richius' face. "Beautiful beyond words. Every man who saw her loved her, and would have married her if they had the chance. She had blond hair and deep eyes, and her face was like something from a portrait. Yes, beautiful."

  "Did you love her?"

  "Ah, well, that's a difficult question."

  "Did you?"

  "She was easy to love," said Richius. "I think I loved her as if she were my sister, someone who needed my protection. Obviously I wasn't any better at protecting her than I was at protecting you. But I did care about her. Maybe not as much as she deserved, but I did."

  "You are like your father then. You did your best."

  "I failed her, Dyana. Just as I failed you. It's what I'm best at these days. Is there a Triin word for failure?"

  "I will not tell you it," said Dyana. "I will tell you a better word. Say neensata."

  "What?"

  "Neensata," repeated Dyana more slowly. "Neensata. Say it."

  Richius grimaced. "Ninshata." Dyana chuckled.

  "Neensata," said Dyana, pointing at Shani. "That means daughter. Shani is your neensata." She pointed at herself, then to Richius. "Jayato and dayator."

  "Mother and father?" guessed Richius.

  "Yes. You are good at this, Richius. You know more Triin than you think. One more," she said, and made a circular gesture that included all three of them. "Kafife," she said. She was disappointed when she saw his eyebrows knit.

  "I don't know," he said. "Something that means all of us?"

  "Yes. All of us. Mother, father, and daughter."

  He puzzled over it a moment more before his face collapsed with sadness. "Family."

  Dyana nodded. "Family. We are a family, Richius."

  "No," argued Richius. "We are not. You're married to Tharn."

  "That changes nothing. Shani is our daughter. We are family. Kafife."

  "Dyana--"

  "You think you are alone here, Richius, but you are not. I am here for you. I will do what I can for you. Lucyler, too. He is your friend, no matter what you think of him now. He cares about you. He worries as I do. We are all kafife."

  Richius smiled lightly. "You are kind to me, Dyana. I appreciate it. I didn't know how much I needed to talk to you until now."

  "You can come to me whenever you want," said Dyana. "Tharn has not forbidden me to see you. Just do not come to my chamber unannounced. If you send word to Lucyler, he will arrange it, and I will tell Tharn you are coming."

  "He's not like other men, is he?" asked Richius. "Drol, I mean. He doesn't guard you like other Drol guard their wives."

  "He trusts me," replied Dyana. "Or he does not want to offend me by treating me poorly. I have told you, Richius, he is good to me."

  "I see that. I'm pleased."

  Dyana glanced away then. She remembered why she was here, and she was sure her face was coloring with guilt. There was still the ugly matter of Tharn's plans to discuss. She would have to broach it carefully. But she was too ashamed to continue the farce, and didn't want to complicate it with lies. She loved the honesty he had shown her and wanted desperately to reciprocate.

  "Richius," she said weakly. "I must tell you something. You will be angry with me."

  Richius looked at her. "What is it?"

  "I have not come here just to show you the baby," she confessed. "I must have words with you about something important."

  "What is it?"

  "I am here for Tharn. He has asked me to speak to you for him. He wants your help, Richius, and he thinks I can get it from you."

  Richius gave a short laugh. "Your husband is persistent. He's already had Lucyler try to enlist me, and he's come to me twice himself. Now you? Lord, he never quits, does he?"

  "He believes what you know of Nar will be valuable to him," said Dyana. "Are you angry?"

  "No," answered Richius easily. He looked down at Shani. "I'm still glad you've brought the little one to see me."

  "There is something else," said Dyana. "Tharn is organizing a war council. He has summoned all the warlords to Falindar to talk of the coming battle with Nar. All of the warlords, Richius."

  Her words didn't seem to register. He toyed with the baby, putting his finger under the blanket and tickling her gently. Shani, who was awake now, bubbled at the attention, her little face twisting with dimpled smiles.

  "So?" asked Richius.

  "You're not listening," she said anxiously. "Voris is coming here."

  The mere mention of the Dring warlord erased all the pleasure from Richius' face. He slowly retracted his finger from beneath Shani's blanket.

  "Voris," he whispered. She could see his apprehension. Apart from Tharn, there were few names that had engendered such fear in the loyalists of the Daegog.

  "He will be here within the week," said Dyana. "Tharn told me so himself. When he comes, you might be in danger. You must be careful, Richius. If he bears you grudges Tharn may not be able to protect you."

  "Voris coming here," said Richius incredulously. "It's astounding. I can't believe he'd risk entering Tatterak, not with Kronin still alive."

  "Kronin will do nothing to him, and while he is here Voris will be polite to Kronin. They are at peace now because of Tharn, and will do nothing in front of him. But you are different. Voris has no reason not to quarrel with you. You are not Triin. Even if Tharn forbids it he might try to harm you."

  "Then I will be very content to stay far away from him," said Richius. "Maybe he doesn't even know I'm here. Frankly I see no reason to tell him."

  Dyana frowned. "But you do not understand. Tharn wants you at this war council. Voris will see you there."

  "I know what Tharn wants, Dyana. I won't be there."

  Disappointment surged through her. She reached out and touched his arm. "You will not go to help them?"

  Richius shook his head. "I cannot."

  "But I thought--"

  "What did you think, Dyana? Did you think your coming here would change my mind? Well, you're wrong. I'm glad you brought the baby to me, I'm glad we spoke, but it changes nothing. I can't help Tharn, and I'm not sure I would even if I could."
r />   "Richius, please listen to me. Tharn has told me there are already troops gathering in the Saccenne Run. Soon they will be ready to attack Ackle-Nye, and after that there may be no way to stop them. But you know things. You might be able to save them. Without your help they will certainly die."

  Richius looked at her ruthlessly. "Understand something. They're all going to die with or without my help. I've already told Tharn he doesn't have a chance, but he's too stubborn to listen to me. The best he can do is gain the help of Liss and prolong the end. Lucel-Lor doesn't have the power to stop Nar this time. Arkus will come here with everything in his arsenal, and they're going to roll through here and kill everyone, including you and me and our little girl, and there's not a damn thing I or anybody can do to change that."

  Dyana was horrified. "Do not talk like that, or we are doomed."

  "We are doomed!" insisted Richius. "Doomed to hell. What does Tharn expect me to do? Build him a navy? Start some war labs so he can make flame cannons? The only reason we lasted so long in the Dring Valley was because we had Naren weapons to hold back Voris' warriors. Now imagine thousands of Naren troops all armed with those same weapons. What kind of chance do you think these people would have? That's what your husband is up against, Dyana. It's hopeless."

  "It is not hopeless," countered Dyana desperately. "This is a big land, Richius. It has many, many people to defend it. Even your emperor cannot kill them all."

  "Couldn't he?"

  "There are still reasons to fight. I cannot believe you would give up so easily. You came all the way here just for me, and now you will not give Tharn or Lucyler just a little help? You are not the same person, Richius."

  "That surprises you? I've lost everything I was fighting for: my country, my friends, everything. This is not my war anymore."

  "There's nothing for you here to fight for?"

  "Nothing."

  "But Aramoor had things you cared about?"

  "Of course. My father for one thing, and my uncles. They were my family."

  Dyana smiled at him, and watched the color drain from his face. She reached into his arms and pulled away Shani, who gave a petulant cry at leaving her father. Then she rose and turned to go, saying but one word over her shoulder as she left.

  "Kafife."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The siege of Ackle-Nye lasted barely a day. When it was over, best estimates put the number of Triin casualties at over three thousand. Naren deaths totaled less than fifty. Ackle-Nye, the city of beggars, fell to an overwhelming force that poured out of the Iron Mountains and did not stop the slaughter until everything alive was dead. It was a meaningless victory, for everyone in the imperial ranks expected to annihilate their foes, but the Shockwave it sent rippling through Lucel-Lor galvanized the Triin. They had not thought the blow would come so soon, or that it would be delivered with such deliberate hate. They could not imagine that the walls of a city could be pulled down so quickly, or that the nozzle of a flame cannon could be aimed at a child. In the deserted territories surrounding Ackle-Nye, travelers claimed that the city's fires and choking plumes of smoke could be seen for miles, and on that night when Ackle-Nye crumbled and lit the sky like another setting sun, the city of beggars earned a different name--the burning city.

  Nar had begun its war of terror. In the great tradition of Arkus and his lineage, they started by eradicating the starved and desperate, those Triin refugees that had flooded Ackle-Nye in the closing days of the war in the hope of scratching out a life. Nar had come with its armored horses and spiked machines, lumbering into the city at dawn with their flame cannons glowing. They were fueled and armed for a long fight, and they had come prepared to slaughter. The war wagons rolled in first, nightmarish vehicles of iron pulled by primeval, horned monsters and armed with a single long-range flame cannon poised perilously on their roofs. Capable of pumping a stream of burning kerosene two hundred feet or more, the war wagons were the pride of Nar's arsenal. They were the heralds of Ackle-Nye's destruction, and painted on their sides in bold Triin lettering was the genocidal message "After today, there will be no more of you."

  And so it was as the dark message predicted. Three thousand Triin were dead by twilight, burned or hanged or mutilated, their corpses left in gigantic piles outside the smoldering city as food for rats and carrion birds. Not a single child was spared, not a single woman was taken into slavery. All were killed, for this was Arkus' warning to all Triin--that no mercy would be found. The old, wicked glory of Nar burned bright and terrible that night. And at the forefront of his legions was a man with a silver mask and half a face, a giant whose standard was a charging horse and whose voice boomed like thunder as he cried out for his nemesis the Jackal. Those who saw him thought him a resplendent demon in his armor of green and gold. Those who knew him thought even worse.

  This was the story of Ackle-Nye's fall, or at least a reasonable telling of it. By the time the tale reached Falindar, no one in the citadel knew for certain how accurate it was. They only knew what Richius told them: that Nar was easily capable of such an atrocity.

  Richius himself had not been shocked by the news of Ackle-Nye's fall. He had expected it to be fast and brutal. What he had not expected was to hear from Blackwood Gayle so soon. The baron of Talistan was wasting no time in finding him. He was Arkus' favorite again, with all the resources of Nar at his disposal, and he was using them to raze Lucel-Lor in search of one man. Richius had no illusions about the baron's agenda. To be sure, Gayle wanted vengeance on Tharn, but he wanted the Jackal more.

  And perhaps it was this more than anything else that convinced Richius to help Tharn. He told himself it was for the sake of Dyana and the baby, but he knew a more sinister reason lurked in his heart. Blackwood Gayle was coming for him. He no longer had to plot a furtive mission into Talistan to find him. He wanted to run a blade along the baron's throat, and he didn't care if he was caught doing it. It was as if he had sworn one of those serious Triin oaths, that he would exact his revenge at any cost, even his own life--which, despite Dyana's kind words to the contrary, had become meaningless. Dyana and Shani would live or die without him, but the death of Blackwood Gayle was an irresistible temptation. He craved it.

  When word of Ackle-Nye's destruction reached Falindar, Tharn disappeared into his chambers to grieve. He did not emerge again until the warlords of Lucel-Lor began arriving at the citadel. Boawa of Sheaze was first. The River Snake, as he was fondly dubbed, arrived with an entourage of leather-clad warriors and a gift of steel for the master of Falindar, a gleaming jiiktar forged by a master smith and engraved with runes that read "Death to Nar." Because he had arrived before any others, he was favored with one of the citadel's largest rooms, and in the manner befitting a warlord he quickly declined the ostentatious chamber so that he might stay with his men.

  Soon after Boawa others began arriving. Almost every day saw another proud caravan entering the citadel. There was Delgar of Miradon and Praxtin-Tar of Reen, who traveled to Tatterak together despite their former rivalry. From the mountain keep of Kes came Lord Ishia, and out of the dreary eastlands came Shohar, dragging behind him his own tribute to Tharn, a collection of Naren skulls he had gathered in his first war against the Empire. There were over one hundred of the gruesome trophies, each one lovingly polished to an ivory sheen.

  Others came with less remarkable gifts, gold and weapons and wives, all of which Tharn accepted gracefully, though he freed the women to become house servants and handed the weapons out to Kronin's warriors. He greeted each warlord with measured respect, never thanking them too profusely nor honoring them with too deep a bow. And each warlord he met returned his aloofness with profound regard, displaying their belief that he was touched by heaven and that he alone could deliver them.

  The last to come was Gavros of Garl, and upon his arrival Tharn ordered the war council to begin. Preparations were made on the greens, for it was explained to Richius that the council must be held out of doors, where the gods of the
sky could look down upon them and shroud them in protective moonlight. There were torches erected on the slopes and tables set with foods and wine and offerings of leopard teeth and snake venom. Braziers of incensed coal were readied so that their scented smoke could rise to heaven and awake the sleeping deities of the air, and wells were dug around the tables so that blessed water from the ocean could be brought nearer and ensure that the immortal lords of the sea would have a place to rest and hear the prayers of the faithful.

  For Lorris and Pris, patrons of this Drol ritual, a very special wreath was laid on the center table. Woven from wildflowers and thorny vines, it was as large as a wagon wheel and its circular shape was meant to symbolize the unending devotion shared by the sibling gods. Golden candles were set along the ring, and were to be lit one by one by each of the gathered warlords. Richius watched the preparations in fascination, and while he watched and asked naive questions, he waited for Voris the Wolf. He waited until nightfall, when the ceremonial torches on the greens were lit and the moonlight played down on the gathered faces. But the Wolf never came.

  "Will he be here, do you think?" Richius asked Lucyler. They were seated beside each other on a blanket spread out on the ground near one of the short-legged tables. The other warlords were starting to gather, waiting for Tharn to arrive. The war council would begin when the cunning-man lit the candle in the center of the wreath. Already the braziers were smoking, sending up their mystical signals. Lucyler caressed his jiiktar nervously, polishing its twin blades with a cloth so that both were unblemished. So enamored was he with his reflection in the steel that he hardly glanced at Richius.

  "Tharn seems to think so," he said without moving.

  Richius looked around. The odd Boawa had just arrived with his train of warriors, and was kneeling in prayer before the wreath on the center table. Shohar and Ishia were already here, as were most of the others, but Voris was conspicuously absent. So too was Kronin, a coincidence that Richius found immediately disheartening.