by John Marco
John Marco has worked in various industries including aviation, computers and home security. He now writes full time. He lives on Long Island in the USA.
Also by John Marco
in Victor Gollancz/Millennium
The Grand Design
The
Jackal
of Nar
John Marco
A Gollancz eBook
Copyright © John Marco 1999
All rights reserved.
The right of John Marco to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 1999 by
Orion
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London, WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
This eBook first published in 2010 by Gollancz.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
eISBN: 978 0 5750 9905 0
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This ebook produced by Jouve, France
www.orionbooks.co.uk
For Deborah,
the light of my life
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
Also by John Marco
Acknowledgements
Map
Kalak
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Nar
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Phantoms
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Warlords
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Reckoning
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Peace
Acknowledgements
Like all first novels, this one was completed with the help and encouragement of some very special people. I would like to express my enormous appreciation to them all.
First, to my wife Deborah, to whom this book is dedicated. She is my greatest inspiration and my truest love.
To my family – Mom, Dad, Christine, Donna, and Grampa – for always being there and for always believing in me. Thanks, gang.
To my editor Anne Lesley Groell, for her insight and guidance, and for just being open to new writers.
To Russell Galen, Danny Baror, for sharing my vision of this book and for helping to make it a reality.
To Kristin Lindstrom, for being there at the beginning.
Lastly, to my dear friend and fellow writer Ted Xidas, for convincing me it could be done, This book simply would not exist without him.
Many thanks to you all. I am tremendously grateful.
Visit John Marco on the web at .
Kalak
From the Journal of Richius Vantran:
I have been dreaming of wolves.
Sleep has become too precious for us now. The war wolves come almost every night, and we are all afraid to sleep for fear of waking to that terrible sound. I’ve had the men take turns on the flame cannons so that some of them may rest. We’ve already lost our best cannoneers to the beasts. It’s odd how they know how to hurt us. But the cannons are still working, and we have enough kerosene to keep them going for a few more days. Perhaps Gayle’s horsemen will arrive by then.
It seems Voris doesn’t care how many of his people die. These Drol are not like other Triin. They are zealots and die too easily. Even the cannons don’t frighten them. Their bodies are piling up outside the trenches, beginning to stink. If the wind doesn’t shift soon we shall all be sick from it. We’ve taken to burying our own dead in the back trenches so they don’t rot here next to us. I don’t think the Drol are so concerned about their fallen. I’ve watched them leave their comrades to die when they could have easily pulled them to safety. They don’t cry out when wounded, but crawl away alone while we pick at them with arrows. And when they die they do it silently. Lucyler says they are madmen, and sometimes I cannot doubt it. It is hard for us from Nar to understand these Triin and their ways, even with Lucyler’s help. He is not very religious, but there are times when he is as inscrutable as any Drol. Still, I am always thankful for him. He has taught me much about his strange people. He has helped me see them less as monsters. If I ever get home, if this damn civil war ever ends, I will tell my father about Lucyler and his folk. I will tell him that we of Nar have always been wrong about the Triin, that they love their children just as we do, and that they bleed red blood despite their pale skin. Even the Drol.
This valley has become a trap for us. I haven’t told the men yet, but I don’t think we can keep the Drol from Ackle-Nye much longer. Voris has been pushing hard. He knows we are weak. If more men don’t come soon we will certainly be overrun. I’ve sent a message to Father but have yet to hear a reply, and I don’t think one will be forthcoming. We haven’t had supplies from home for weeks, so we’ve started hunting for our own food. Even the hard army bread has spoiled from keeping too long. We’ve been throwing it out of the trenches to keep the rats away. Spoiled meat and bread doesn’t seem to bother vermin, and while they feed we are free of them. But we are also slowly starving, for even in this valley we can’t hunt enough meat to keep us all fed. Perhaps Father doesn’t know how bad it is for us, or perhaps he no longer cares. Either way, if help doesn’t come soon we’ll be fighting our final battle in Ackle-Nye and then it will be done. And Voris will have beaten me.
The Drol of the valley have taken to calling me Kalak. Lucyler told me it’s Triin for ‘The Jackal.’ They are bold about it, too. I can hear them shouting it in the woods, taunting me, hoping to lure us out of the trenches. When t
hey attack they yell it like a battle cry, swinging their jiiktars and screaming Kalak as they fall upon us. But I prefer this battle cry to the one they always yelled before. To hear them cry the name of Voris reminds me of his loyal wolves and the long nights ahead.
Lonal died in this morning’s raid. No one seems to know how the Drol who killed him got so close to the cannon, but by the time I saw him it was hopeless. I had to take the cannon myself, so quickly I couldn’t even help him. He lived for a bit after he was struck, but his arm had been taken off and the men who dragged him away had left it there, and I didn’t notice it until the raid was over. Dinadin and I buried Lonal in the back trench, and Lucyler said some words neither of us understood. Lonal liked Lucyler, and I doubt a Triin prayer would have bothered him. But we are bothered that our friend has been buried like a dead horse in the corner of this foreign valley. When I return home I’ll have to tell Lonal’s parents how he died, but I won’t tell them how his body is moldering in a mass grave, and I won’t tell them that a Triin who was his friend said a prayer over him. Any Triin prayer, Drol or not Drol, would be an insult to them. It is Triin prayers that have caused all this. We are dying because of their prayers.
Dinadin is quiet now. I’ve never known him to be so damaged by the death of a friend. Back home he was always the loud one, but things here have made him thoughtful. After we buried Lonal, he told me that we should leave the valley, leave these Triin to slaughter themselves. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, things we won’t tell our parents when we return home. Maybe even things we’ll have to answer for to our own God. Tonight I’ll let Dinadin mourn, but tomorrow I must have him back. He must again be the one who makes our regiment want to fight. He must hate the Drol again, hate Voris and his warriors.
Still, I can’t help but wonder if Dinadin is right. I hear the men talking, and I fear I am losing them all. Worse, there is nothing I can say to them. Even I don’t know why we’re fighting. We’re propping up an evil man, only so another evil man can extend his overgrown empire. Father is right about the emperor. He wants something here. But what he seeks is a mystery, and while he waits comfortably in his palace, we die. None of the men believe our cause is just, and even Lucyler has doubts about his Daegog. He knows the royal line of Lucel-Lor is doomed, that the Drol and their revolution will sweep away the old order eventually. Yet he and the other loyalists fight on for their fat king, and we of Nar fight with them, just to make our own despot richer. I hate the Drol, but they are right about one thing. The emperor will suck the blood out of the Triin.
But, Journal, I should be quiet about such things. And tonight I need to rest. This evening is peaceful. I can hear the sounds of the valley creatures and the stray calls of my name in the woods, but they don’t frighten me. Only thoughts of the wolves that might come keep me from sleeping. Today’s dead are all buried, and I can smell the fatty grease of the roasting wild birds we’ve caught. A pipe would be welcome now, or the wines of Ackle-Nye. If my sleep is peaceful I may dream of them both.
And tomorrow we’ll begin again, maybe for the last time. If the Wolf of the valley knows how weak we are, he’ll surely come in force enough to crush us. We’ll do our best to stand, and hope the horsemen promised by Gayle will arrive in time to save us. We hear little in the valley, and the horsemen can’t travel quickly here. I only wish it were my own horsemen coming to our rescue rather than those of that rogue. It would indeed be a tale for him to tell that he had saved me.
If we make it through the fight tomorrow, I’ll send another message to Father. I’ll tell him that we’ve come to depend on the House of Gayle for survival. I can think of nothing else that will rouse him to our aid. I know he doesn’t want this war, but I’m here and he must help me. If no more troops are sent, all the valley will fall back into the hands of the Wolf. We’ll lose this war and Father’s argument with the emperor will be our deaths. If we are to survive, I must convince Father this war is worth fighting.
One
Richius awoke to the smell of kerosene. A familiar cry sounded in the distance. He knew what it was before his eyes snapped open.
Oh, God, no...
He was on his feet in an instant. Around him the trench bloomed big and black. The yellow fingers of a new day’s sun had barely begun to scratch at the horizon. He squinted hard, struggling to see down the earthen corridor. Dying torches tossed their light onto men in muddy uniforms, a group of soldiers huddling at the trench’s other end. Richius slogged toward them.
‘Lucyler, what’s happening?’ he called, sighting his bone-colored friend.
‘It is Jimsin,’ said Lucyler. ‘Got him while he slept.’
Richius pushed his way into the armored circle. At the center writhed what only vaguely resembled a man. Though the band of soldiers tried to pin his flailing limbs, Jimsin’s body pitched to the ugly cadence of his screams. Beside him, lying in a great unmoving heap, was the body of a wolf, its hide punctured with a hundred stab wounds.
‘Took it in the throat,’ said one of the group, a big ruddy man with the face of a boy. As Richius bent over Jimsin, the big man knelt beside him.
‘Careful,’ warned another. ‘It’s bad.’
The war wolf’s teeth had ravaged Jimsin’s throat, leaving a wound that ran all the way up to the jaw. A mangled windpipe blew on tattered flesh. Jimsin’s eyes widened hopefully as he recognized Richius.
‘Don’t move, Jimsin,’ ordered Richius. ‘Lucyler, what the hell happened?’
‘My fault,’ confessed Lucyler. ‘It was so dark. It was in the trench before I saw it. Let me help –’
‘Get back to the deck,’ snapped Richius. ‘Keep an eye out for them. All of you, get back to the deck!’
The big man passed Richius a soiled cloth. He wrapped it gingerly around the oozing wound. The muffled echo of a scream escaped the ruined throat and Jimsin’s hands shot up, seizing Richius’ wrists. Richius started to pull his hands free then stopped himself, unwilling to release the pressure from the wound.
‘No, Jimsin,’ he said. ‘Dinadin, help me with him!’
Dinadin quickly pulled Jimsin’s hands away, holding them down while Richius worked to secure the bandage. The awful half-scream kept coming, muffled now by the dirty rag. From the corner of his eye Richius noticed Dinadin’s blond head begin to turn.
‘Are they coming?’ Richius asked, already beginning to work more quickly.
‘Not yet,’ said Dinadin. There was a note of mourning in his voice. By the end of the day Jimsin would be lying next to Lonal.
‘God,’ Richius moaned. ‘He’s suffocating.’
Dinadin still had Jimsin’s wrists. He fought to hold his comrade down as blood gushed from the wound. Jimsin tried to scream again, each cry sending another bloom of crimson into the bandage. The high-pitched gurgles grew in urgency. Jimsin closed his eyes. A stream of tears burst from beneath the lids.
‘Help him, Richius!’
‘I’m trying!’ said Richius desperately. If he removed the rag, Jimsin would surely bleed to death. Leave the bandage, and he would suffocate. At last Richius reached out and lightly touched Jimsin’s tear-streaked face.
‘Jimsin,’ he whispered gently, unsure if the man could hear him. ‘I’m sorry, my friend. I don’t know how to save you.’
‘What are you doing?’ shouted Dinadin, releasing his grip on Jimsin. ‘Can’t you see he’s dying? Do something!’
‘Stop!’ cried Richius, dropping down across the wounded man to hold him still. Dinadin made to undo the bloody bandage, but Richius pushed him aside.
‘Damn it, Richius, he can’t breathe!’
‘Leave it!’ Richius ordered. The sharpness in his voice made Dinadin recoil. ‘I know he’s dying. So let him die. If you take away the rag he’ll live a lot longer. Do you really want that?’
Dinadin’s eyes were glassy and mute, like a doll’s eyes. He sat stupefied as Richius motioned him closer.
‘You want to help him?’ asked Richius.
‘Then hold him still. Be with him when he dies.’
‘Richius...’
‘That’s it, Dinadin. That’s all you can do. All right?’ Dinadin slowly nodded. He drew Jimsin into his arms and held him, hugging him tightly. Richius turned away to find Lucyler, leaving the two soldiers in their dismal embrace.
The Triin was easy to spot in the dim trench. His white skin was a beacon; his white hair waved like a flag of surrender. He stood upon the observation deck built into the trench wall, fascinated with the silent forest of birch trees in the distance. He hardly stirred as Richius climbed onto the deck.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Lucyler.
‘Almost.’
Lucyler’s chin fell to his chest. ‘I am sorry,’ he said wearily.
‘Blame the rebels,’ said Richius. ‘Not yourself.’
‘I should have seen it coming.’
‘A single wolf in the night? No one could have seen that, Lucyler. Not even you.’
Lucyler closed his eyes. ‘Why only one?’ he muttered. ‘Voris never sends only one . . .’
‘To break us. We’re not up against honorable men, Lucyler, you know that. Hell, you’re the one who told me that. They’re Drol. They’re snakes.’