The Jackal of Nar

by John Marco

  They continued on this way for long minutes, never sharing a word, rationing their energies as they fought their way deeper into the darkening marshlands. And then, at last, Voris stopped. The warlord held up a hand to halt his company. Dumaka Jarra shouted back an order, and man by man the column of exhausted warriors stopped moving. Richius stood next to Voris. Before them was an oozing expanse of muddy earth, so sodden and unstable that only frogs and insects could light upon its surface without breaking it. Overhead the trees were high, thick with leaves that blocked out the worst of the sun's cutting rays. The air was perceptibly ranker. Voris tested the ground with the toe of his boot and his foot disappeared. When he pulled it out, it was covered with a slick of green, noxious muck. He grunted, then glanced up into the trees, gesturing toward the high, concealing branches.

  "Do o dae," he said. "Ta, Kalak?"

  Richius looked up into the trees and a smile split his face. "Perfect."

  "Lotts! Stop hiding and get over here. We're talking about you again."

  There was a chorus of laughter as Dinadin stepped out from behind his horse, his grooming brush still in hand. He flicked his colonel a disinterested look, trying to quell the little flutter of terror that always came when Trosk called him. "Colonel?"

  "Take a seat, waterhead," ordered Trosk. "You're missing some good stories about your king." Trosk pointed to the empty space on the ground beside him. "Here."

  Dinadin went to where Trosk and the others were huddled around a burned-out campfire. They all gave him the same skeptical look as he sat down beside the colonel. Trosk removed his feathered hat and ran the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away a pool of perspiration.

  "Damn. It's hotter than a whore's bedroom out here." He fluffed up the long yellow feather before replacing his hat and cocking it down over his right eye. "You hot, Lotts?"

  Dinadin nodded.

  "Still not talking to me, huh, you little bastard? Hell, that's all right. I got other friends."

  The others in the circle flashed menacing smiles. Dinadin grimaced. Even before they had raped the village girl, he could barely stand the sight of them. Now when he looked at them he was sickened. That girl still gave him nightmares. How did these devils dare to look at him so accusingly?

  "You're taking good care of your horse, Lotts," said Trosk. "That's just fine. You go on cleaning yourself up. I want you to look real pretty when we ride into the woods to take apart your king and that dumpy little castle he's cowering in. I want him to see us all coming." Trosk looked off into the distance, toward the giant watchtower whose peak could barely be seen bobbing up above the tree line. "You think he sees us now, Lotts?" Dinadin wouldn't reply.

  "No? Let's try anyway. Come on, Lotts. Wave to your old friend." The colonel started waving toward the far-off tower, then quickly turned his gesture into an obscenity. There was more malicious laughter from the soldiers. "Hello, Jackal!" cried Trosk. "We're coming for you!"

  Dinadin felt his mood crumble. They would be coming for Richius soon. The word from the infantry was that Voris' resistance was collapsing. Today or tomorrow, Gayle would give the order to ride for the castle. Amazingly, Dinadin felt a pang at the notion. It wasn't the reunion with Richius he would have liked. There was a part of him that wanted to sneak off and warn his old friend, to fight by his side once again against these evil men. But he was thinking of another lifetime, a man he was no longer. His eyes lingered a moment on the distant watchtower. Are you up there, Richius? Would you turn me away? Trosk turned his attention to one of the small pavilions dotting the camp. There were only two of them. Trosk and ten men shared one. Gayle alone inhabited the other. Trosk stared at Gayle's tent contemptuously, and his voice dipped to a whisper. "The baron is going mad, I think. Since seeing Vantran on the barricade he talks about nothing else." He turned to Dinadin and chuckled. "You might want to send your old king a warning, Lotts. Tell him Blackwood Gayle's coming for him with a gelding knife!"

  "We have to catch him first," offered one of the men in the circle, a filthy-haired lieutenant. "That castle might not look like much, but it's no doubt well manned. Vantran's probably got the whole thing rimmed with traps by now."

  "Gayle thinks the castle will come down in less than a day," said Trosk. His eyes glinted wildly, the same way they did when he had first glimpsed the peasant girl. "If we're lucky he'll let us have some trophies. But not Vantran. He's to be taken alive. Maybe you'll come in helpful for that, Lotts. Maybe he'll trust you."

  "What?" asked Dinadin incredulously.

  "Do you think you can do it? Talk him into surrendering? It'll look good for us all if you do."

  They were all watching him. "I don't know," Dinadin mumbled. "Maybe."

  "It's how such things are done, Lotts," snapped Trosk. "You'd know that if you were any sort of man." Then he laughed again. "But I forget myself. You're not a man, are you?"

  Dinadin got to his feet indignantly. "I'll go back to my grooming now," he said. "If we're done, sir."

  "Ooohh, I think I've finally said something to make the boy bristle. Is that right, Lotts? You mad at me? 'Cause if you are it'd break my heart."

  More insane laughter. The heat of the day and the insult mingled to make Dinadin's face boil. For one fleeting second, the thought of kicking Trosk in his arrogant face shone gloriously in his mind. It would almost be worth it. But only almost.

  "Whatever you say, sir," said Dinadin. There was the barest trace of sarcasm in his tone. "You're always right."

  "Yes," agreed Trosk seriously. "Remember that."

  Dinadin almost turned to go, but something off on the hillside made him pause. He stared out into the distance, shading his eyes with his hand. Something was moving, something colorful.

  Trosk looked up, and every head around the circle followed. Somewhere behind them another soldier was shouting. A confused excitement galvanized the camp. All around, men were springing to their feet. Trosk stood beside Dinadin, snapping up the brim of his hat with a fingernail.

  Warriors. Scores of them, thundering down the hillside in a blazing mass, their jiiktars held as high as the screech of their inhuman voices. They poured out of the trees, yelping and kicking up clods of brown earth as they hurried their horses onto the plain, their faces green and horrible, their hair billowing emerald.

  "Colonel...?" said the filthy lieutenant. He seemed lost. "What... What's happening?"

  Trosk was speechless. His jaw had dropped open. Around them, the other horsemen had begun to move, scrambling onto their horses or searching frantically for misplaced weapons. Dinadin reached into his mind, trying to find a solid place to anchor himself. His horse. He had to get his horse. But Trosk wasn't moving--"

  "Colonel?" he ventured. "What should we do?"

  Before he could answer Blackwood Gayle burst out of his tent. He was more than ten yards away but Dinadin heard his booming voice as if the baron was standing next to him. "Fires of heaven," exclaimed Gayle. "That's Kronin!" Hurriedly the baron began shouting, ordering his men to find their mounts. He himself dashed for his own black charger, tossing himself onto its back. He scanned the camp, and when he saw the dumbstruck Trosk he swore.

  "Trosk!" he bellowed madly. "On your horse, man! Protect the launchers!"

  The order snapped Trosk out of his stupor. "The launchers, he muttered. He turned to Dinadin with all his old menace. "Ready to be a hero, Lotts?"

  The furious sound of bloodthirsty men pounded in Lucyler' ears as his horse hurtled headlong down the hillside. A white heat welled up inside him. The Talistanians in the camp had seen them. Orders were being shouted. Men were clambering onto horseback. It was all wonderfully sloppy, and Lucyler bared his teeth as he joined in the chorus of his companions, screaming like an animal as he charged into battle. Beside him, Kronin was an avenging angel, a long-haired nightmare that sang and moved with a serpent's speed and a hurricane's implacable might.

  Lucyler lowered his head and held his jiiktar close. The beast beneath hi
m snorted as it stampeded down the hill, toward the little collection of war wagons and the still-dozing monsters tethered to them. The acid launchers atop the iron vehicles were flaccid. The great bellows didn't stir. Lucyler felt a rush of triumph. If the launchers weren't manned...

  But someone had read their minds--the peculiar man with the hat. He was shouting and pointing at all the wagons. Lucyler cursed.

  "Kronin!" he shouted over the din of hammering hooves. With the blade of his weapon he gestured toward the trio of wagons. Kronin glimpsed the man and frowned.

  "Faster!" ordered the warlord. "Faster now!"

  And they went faster, Lucyler and Kronin, speeding toward the center wagon as Hakan and the others broke rank and dashed toward the flanking vehicles. Behind them, still hidden in the trees, a score of archers awaited the outcome of their mission. Lucyler let his hand drop to the deerskin sack bouncing against his horse's side. Hakan and his men were similarly burdened. Even Kronin's horse was slowed by a bulging bag. And if they should split...

  No, Lucyler corrected himself. The skins were strong enough. Their plan would work if they were quick.

  They were on the plain now, the war wagons clearly in sight. Talistanian steel scraped out of scabbards. And then, as if a great, dark sun had risen in the center of the camp, Lucyler saw the maniacal figure of Blackwood Gayle atop his ebony horse, one gauntleted fist throttling the hilt of his sword. A long tail of braided hair trestled off his head, and a shining mask of silver glinted on his face, so that only one scarlet eye blinked with life. He was surrounded by mounted horsemen, defiantly calling out to the men of Tatterak even as they rushed toward him.

  The horsemen were organizing. It would be a battle then. But Lucyler was sure they would win. The Talistanians were outnumbered, and their protective fence of legionnaires was a mile away, still fighting in the forest with the rest of Voris' zealots. Without the infantry of Nar to bolster them, the horsemen were too few to stand against the indigo wave crashing toward them. They would have to retreat.

  The wagon was only yards away now. The man with the hat seemed perplexed. He drew his saber and started off toward the wagons, calling after another man behind him. Lucyler grinned. They would never make it.

  "Come!" urged the warlord as he prepared to leap from his saddle. Hakan and the other teams were close behind, while behind them hurried the wild fighting men of Tatterak. A greegan sleeping near its wagon opened a bleary eye at the commotion. Suddenly another of the beasts awoke, the one chained to the center wagon. It saw the oncoming army and howled in alarm, lumbering clumsily to its feet.

  But Kronin was too close now. The warlord brought his horse to a skidding halt beside the monster and swung the blade of his jiiktar against the greegan's throat. The blow glanced off. Kronin screamed in rage, then stabbed at the beast with all his might, forcing the point of his blade through the thick skin. Amazingly, the blade snapped. There was a gush of dark blood and the creature bellowed, thrusting up its horn. Its front legs buckled and its huge head thrashed, and Kronin climbed off his mount, narrowly escaping the sweeping horn as he snatched the sack of oil from his horse. The horse whinnied and drew back, and as it reared the greegan's horn plunged into its belly.

  Kronin staggered back, horrified. A fountain of blood splashed against his face. Lucyler reached him and brought his own horse to a halt. The warlord's mount gave an anguished cry as the greegan withdrew its horn, pulling with it a knotted mass of entrails. The horse fell twitching to the ground. The greegan whirled, blinded by the blood. Lucyler heard men shouting. He grabbed hold of Kronin's arm and pulled, directing him onto the roof of the war wagon, which pitched as the beast that pulled it thrashed.

  "Go!" Lucyler called. Kronin lost his footing, slipped, then quickly righted himself, still balancing the skin full of flammable liquid. When he reached the roof he tore open the drawstring with his teeth and inverted the sack, pouring out the viscous contents and soaking the wagon.

  "Now yours!" cried the warlord, reaching out for Lucyler's oil skin. He did the same as before, dousing the vehicle with its contents, careful to make sure the wooden parts of the wagon were well coated. The pitching of the greegan only helped slosh the oil about, and when he had nearly emptied the second sack he took the last of its contents and tossed them onto the animal itself. As the warlord worked, Lucyler hazarded a look behind them. There in the hills he could see the archers, peeking out from their verdant hiding spots with their bows held ready. A glowing brazier of coals sent up a reed of thin smoke.

  "No more," Lucyler shouted. "The soldiers are coming. We have to go."

  Kronin jumped from the top of the wagon as Lucyler hurried to his horse and tossed himself onto the beast's back. The man with the hat was coming toward them, waving his saber and cursing. The other man with him seemed in a daze. He had clamped a helmet over his face and followed the hatted man haphazardly, a good ten paces behind. Lucyler smiled to himself. They would never reach the wagon in time. He extended out a hand and helped the warlord climb onto the horse. Kronin had dropped his broken jiiktar and was staring in disgust as the wounded greegan trampled it into the bloodied dirt, splintering it.

  "The others are done," said Lucyler, watching Hakan and his fellows race away from the camp. Lucyler jerked the reins and spun his horse toward the hill. All they needed now was a signal.

  As they began their escape, Kronin cupped his hands around his mouth and let out an ear-splitting shriek. Up in the hills the archers dipped their arrow tips into the burning brazier, Lucyler let out a giddy laugh. They would get Kronin another mount, then they would join the others on the battlefield. They would find Blackwood Gayle and they would gut him. He laughed louder, and saw the archers tip their flaming arrows skyward.

  And then he saw something else, another bright object twinkling in the corner of his eye. He turned his head. It was a young man, hardly more than a boy, garbed in the uniform of a Talistanian horseman. But he wasn't on a horse. He had fallen to one knee and was staring at them, a huge, metallic nozzle balanced precariously on his shoulder. The nozzle smoked and sparked, as if ready to explode. Beside the man was a cannister with a spiderweb of lines running to the metal nozzle.

  Lucyler cursed. Up in the hills the archers drew back on their bowstrings. The man with the flame cannon trembled as he heard the thunder of approaching warriors. He pulled the trigger.

  There was a roaring blast. The world turned orange.

  Trosk watched the arrows climbing skyward. The buzz in his brain had settled to a low hum, but he still didn't know what the hell was happening. Gayle was behind him, shouting incomprehensibly, and the idiot Lotts was bumbling after him, talking to himself. The colonel followed the arrows through the sky, unsure what to do. He was near the war wagon and knew the giant vehicles were the targets of the incoming arrows. The Triin scum had covered the wagons with something, no doubt explosive.

  "Lotts!" he cried over his shoulder. "Hurry up, you fool. We have to get the wagons to safety."

  The big Aramoorian clamored forward, stopping yards away from the wounded greegan. Trosk held up his hands to the animal.

  "Easy, you big idiot. I just want you to move."

  If the creature heard him it did not obey. It merely wailed in pain, pulverizing the dead body of the horse as it thrashed about. Trosk stole a glance toward the sky. Mere moments remained.

  "Move, damn you!" he shouted, then backed quickly away from the targeted animal. Dinadin arrived next to him just as the shower of flaming arrows came down. The wagon erupted in flame, its huge bellows expanding in an instant. The licking flames caught the rump of the greegan and ignited the oil smeared across its back. The greegan wailed and lunged forward. Trosk yelled and stumbled. Blackness filled his vision as the greegan rumbled forward, then collapsed, its two front legs crumbling beneath its gargantuan weight. Trosk twisted, trying to jump clear of the falling beast. His face and chest hit the ground and he clawed madly at the dirt, cursing. He saw a shadow dropping
over him, saw Lotts' horrified face, then more blackness and a pain so indescribable he thought his lungs would burst.

  The greegan had fallen. It lay across his crushed legs, slobbering blood and dragging itself over him, grinding him into the ground and shattering his bones.

  "Lotts!" he screamed. Blood filled his mouth, gushing up from his insides. "Lotts, help me!"

  The Aramoorian didn't move. He merely stood there, his face hidden behind the grotesque demon mask, and watched as Trosk reached out for him. Trosk felt an icy panic seize him. He couldn't move.

  "Lotts, you idiot, help me! My legs are caught. Help me, goddamn it!"

  And still Lotts didn't stir. Trosk twisted his neck and saw the wagon immersed in smoky fire. The greegan had stopped moving. But now the bellows of the acid launcher were moving, blowing up like an enormous balloon.

  "Lotts, please!" Trosk cried. Hysterical tears were running down his face. The bellows made a weird, unhealthy screech. "Please!" he screamed again. "Lotts, I'll give you anything! Anything!"

  The Aramoorian took a small step forward. Trosk's heart leapt with hope.

  "Do you remember the girl?" came the inhuman voice beneath the helmet. "There's only one thing I want, Colonel. And I'm getting it right now."

  Then, without another word, Lotts turned and walked away. Trosk twisted again and saw the groaning bellows through the flames, stretched to an impossible size. A trickle of yellow steam rose from a pinprick in its surface. The hole widened with a shudder, vomiting up a cloud of corrosive vapor.

  It was the last thing Trosk saw before his eyeballs burst.

  The first thing Lucyler saw when he opened his eyes was the sky. There was an insistent pounding in his temples, and the sky was bright, burning his skin with its heat. His face hurt. His arms hurt, too. Men were calling after him. He heard his name as if from a great distance. And he heard Kronin's name.