The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  The riders drew their swords. Ugly, serrated blades. On their heads were helmets forged into the likenesses of demons.

  These were the horsemen of Talistan.

  ‘You were right,’ Lucyler whispered. ‘Impressive.’

  Dinadin scowled. ‘Not as impressive as the Aramoor Guard, right, Richius?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Richius quipped.

  The horsemen galloped faster, shaking the air with the thunder of their attack. Splitting into two groups, they began to flank the trenches. Not even when they reached the bodies did they slow their hellish charge. With a trained sureness they trampled over the loose earth of the graves, and where unburied bodies lay supine, the chargers simply jumped over them. Soon the two teams were galloping past the trenches, hurrying across the battlefield toward the Drol.

  Richius had fought from horseback before. He knew the power a man could will into a weapon from the back of a speeding steed. The Drol, however, seemed stunned by the attack. Despite their numbers, the warriors of the valley were helpless beside the horses. They had come out into the open. And the beasts they faced were bred for war. They showed none of the respect for people that their parade-ground brethren felt. Unless the tug of a rein came to stop it, a warhorse paid little attention to the barrier posed by a living being. Within moments dozens of the warriors were crushed beneath hooves.

  From atop their armored mounts, where the white heads of the Drol floated at the level of their waists, the horsemen lowered their weapons. Jiiktars collided with broadswords and bare fists with armor, and Richius watched it all with a feeling of utter impotence. He longed to run out of the trench, to join in the bloodletting and his own liberation. But as Dinadin and the others eyed him hopefully, he barked only one command. ‘Hold your position!’

  A single horseman rode toward the trench. He was grander than the rest, his warhorse gilded with silver, his demon-faced helmet polished and bejeweled. Upon his breastplate pranced an embossed horse of gold, and at his side dangled an unblemished blade. Lucyler pointed his chin at the rider as he drew near.

  ‘Richius, is that Gayle?’

  Richius straightened. ‘It is.’

  The rider stopped his horse just shy of the trench. He raised the visor of his helmet and looked down into the trench and the men there watching him. Finally, his black beard parted.

  ‘Vantran?’

  Richius raised a filthy hand. ‘Here.’

  Blackwood Gayle laughed. ‘The valley has been hard on you, Vantran. I scarcely recognized you.’

  Richius forced a smile. ‘You were easy to recognize, Baron.’

  ‘How many gogs are there?’

  ‘As many as you see and more,’ answered Richius. ‘Voris has been pushing us hard.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, we’re here now, Vantran. We’ll take care of them for you.’ He lowered his helmet and began to turn his horse back to the battle, calling over his shoulder, ‘Clear that forward trench, why don’t you?’

  Richius cringed in hot anger. He wanted to yell back at Gayle, to hurl an obscenity at him, but he only swore under his breath. To his surprise, he heard Dinadin cursing with him.

  ‘What scum,’ Dinadin hissed. ‘He can’t talk to you that way, Richius.’

  ‘He doesn’t care who we are, Dinadin, you know that. We’re Aramoor and he’s Talistan, and that’s all he sees when he looks at us.’

  ‘What now?’ asked Lucyler carefully.

  Richius tightened his hand around his sword and sighed. ‘Now we clear the forward trench.’

  Two

  It was his father who had taught Richius the value of trenches in warfare. The older Vantran, a veteran of numerous battles, had used the ditches and catacombs in his war against Talistan. Though not impregnable, a trench was like a fortress to the men inside it. With a wall of archers on its deck, a trench was difficult to reach and nearly impossible to overrun. They had kept Richius’ company alive during countless Drol raids. Until now, the Drol had never breached them.

  The job of clearing the forward trench had been sickening. Refusing to flee or surrender, the Drol who had seized it had chosen to fight, leaving Richius with one dismal option – to go into the ditch after them. So, with shield and sword in hand, he led a brigade into the trench. And the Drol were summarily slaughtered.

  The sun was high overhead when the gruesome work was finally finished. Slick with Triin gore, Richius emerged from the trench in a stupor. The field, once teeming with men and wolves and horses, was now awash with bodies. Drol bodies. They were everywhere, some whole, some in pieces, some so trampled by horse hooves as to be only pulp. The mud of the field had turned a ruddy purple. Things that had been men and wolves burned in stinking pockets of fire, and the air was rank with the smell of kerosene. Except for the buzzards, only one thing moved amidst the astonishing carnage.

  Blackwood Gayle sat astride his horse, surveying the damage his troops had occasioned. His demon-faced helmet gleamed in the smoky sunlight. At his side hung his still-unblemished sword. His head turned toward the trenches as he noticed Richius.

  ‘Vantran,’ he cried, spurring his horse forward. Beneath the helmet’s faceplate the big voice rang like metal.

  Richius ignored the baron. He got to his feet and stooped to help Lucyler out of the trench. Behind the Triin came Dinadin, who whistled when he saw the battlefield. Blackwood Gayle reached them just as Dinadin’s boot came off the ladder.

  ‘You see, Vantran?’ said Gayle proudly. ‘Nothing to worry about. You make too much of these valley Drol, I think.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Richius angrily. ‘How would you know? You look . . . uninjured.’

  Gayle stiffened. His eyes flashed through the slits in his metal mask. ‘I killed my share,’ he assured Richius. ‘And I will kill more when we find them. Most of the gog cowards fled. I’ve already sent my troops into the forest after them.’

  ‘What? I didn’t order that!’

  ‘You don’t order my men, Vantran,’ said Gayle. The demon helmet bobbed as he looked Richius up and down. ‘And from the looks of you, I didn’t think you up to chasing them.’

  ‘I don’t want to chase them!’ thundered Richius. ‘Especially not on horseback. If you had bothered to ask I would have told you how stupid that is. There’s hardly enough room for a horse to move on those forest paths. Your men will be lucky not to be ambushed.’

  ‘I waited until you were done to tell you what I’d planned,’ said Gayle. ‘That’s all the courtesy I intend to show you. I will not defer to you more.’

  ‘I’m in command here, Gayle,’ insisted Richius. ‘The valley’s under my authority.’

  Blackwood Gayle scoffed. ‘I brought my horsemen here to fight, and fight they will. You may sit in your holes if you like, letting the real men do battle.’

  ‘You arrogant ass. You can’t fight from horseback in the forest. Those woods are crawling with Drol. If you ride in there they’ll be on top of you before you can draw your sword.’

  ‘Enough,’ ordered Gayle. He reined his horse around, turning away from Richius. ‘You have no dominion over me, Vantran.’ Then, spurring his horse into a gallop, Gayle rode back toward the forest.

  ‘That fool,’ seethed Richius. ‘He doesn’t even know his way around the valley. We’ll have to go after him.’

  ‘Why bother?’ asked Dinadin bitterly. ‘Why not just leave him to the Drol?’

  ‘No. I don’t want him stirring up any more trouble.’

  The company’s horses were kept on the other side of the camp, just outside the confining catacombs of the trenches. There were not many of them now, but the horse master did have three geldings for the trio. Ignoring his exhaustion, Richius climbed into the saddle.

  ‘Let’s keep it quiet,’ he ordered the others. ‘There’s no sense in telling the Drol we’re coming.’ Then, with a snap of the reins, Richius led Lucyler and Dinadin across the reeking battlefield and into the forest. Though he knew the horsemen had gotten a healthy lead on them, he
was hopeful they would find the Talistanians quickly.

  The part of the valley through which they traveled was less overgrown than the rest of the land, and its earth was level enough for a horse to tread on. Still, the forest paths were treacherous and narrow, and the trio had to struggle to keep their mounts from stumbling. More than one of their horses had broken a leg in these woods, and Richius was determined not to cause any more of the precious animals to be killed.

  To their relief, they found the horsemen easy to track. The rich soil of the valley did a fine job of showing hoofprints, and it was a simple matter for Lucyler to trace the path of the heavily armored horses through the woodlands. They rode slowly, wary of every sound, their eyes constantly in search of crimson robes or the gleam of a jiiktar. But all they saw were the creatures of the forest, the bucks and the birds and the small furry things that shot across their path. So they continued, and it wasn’t until an hour had slipped by that Richius began to worry.

  ‘We should have reached them by now,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it possible they could get so far.’

  ‘They waste their time,’ scoffed Lucyler. ‘The Drol have disappeared back into the deep forest. Gayle’s men will never find them by staying on the path.’

  ‘Still,’ replied Richius, ‘we have to find them. It isn’t safe to leave them alone here.’

  ‘It is less safe for us,’ said Lucyler, peering around the forest. The woodlands had thickened, the path they followed becoming less defined. ‘We should head back now, Richius. We’re too far from camp.’

  Richius shook his head. ‘We continue. We must if we’re going to catch up to Gayle.’

  ‘Why?’ pressed Lucyler. ‘The horsemen can look after themselves.’

  ‘I’m not worried about the horsemen, Lucyler.’

  Lucyler looked surprised, but said nothing. He merely nodded and continued following Richius through the woods. Dinadin was also quiet, a blessing for which Richius was enormously grateful. They rode like this for long minutes, until finally Richius spoke. A faint, mysterious odor was becoming evident. The aroma, mingled as it was with the perfumes of the forest, was almost undetectable. But it was there, and it clung to the inside of his nostrils with a woodsy sweetness.

  ‘What’s that smell?’

  Lucyler and Dinadin both breathed deeply.

  ‘I don’t smell anything,’ said Dinadin quickly.

  ‘No,’ Lucyler countered, taking another breath through his sharp nose. ‘I smell it. Like smoke.’

  Richius was still sniffing the air. ‘Are there any villages around here, Lucyler?’

  ‘There could be. There are villages throughout the valley.’ Lucyler paused and sniffed again. ‘But the smell is too strong for cooking fires.’

  Richius agreed. The smell was almost acrid. Dinadin could smell it now, too. The young man turned his head away with a jerk when he noticed it.

  ‘Lord!’ he exclaimed, bringing his forearm to his nose. ‘What is that ?’

  Richius gave Lucyler a pointed stare. ‘You know what it smells like to me, Lucyler?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gayle.’

  The trio moved with urgency now. Richius forced his horse into a gallop, hoping his mount could negotiate the dangerous ground. Lucyler and Dinadin galloped after him. Before long the smell became a stench. Richius’ eyes began to water. By the time the horses had taken ten more strides, a noise rippled through the forest like the breaking of ocean surf. But Richius knew he wasn’t hearing water. The noise was the dull roar of fire. He continued to charge, his imagination reeling with dismal visions.

  They emerged quite abruptly into a clearing. Beneath them was farmland, the soil sprinkled with red tubers. The garden was pitted with hoofprints. Before him, across the torn-up field, was a small village. The place was typically Triin, simple and unadorned, with houses of wood and paper, wet clothing hung to dry on linen lines. Narrow avenues with paving stones ran between the homes. And amidst all this were the horsemen of Talistan.

  Richius could see the horsemen clearly, some setting torches to the homes, most gathering the Triin of the village into small groups, gleefully dragging them out of their dwellings while they stripped them of any belongings. At the outskirts of the village, where the stonework ended and the field began, an inferno was coughing black smoke into the air. Horsemen were tossing all manner of items onto the fire. Furnishings and clothing, weapons and farm tools – all going to ashes in the blaze.

  ‘God,’ Richius gasped.

  Lucyler looked stricken. ‘We must stop them,’ he said quickly, and without waiting for Richius’ order galloped off toward the village. Richius and Dinadin raced across the garden after him. They reached the pyre quickly and flung themselves off their horses. The soldiers gathered there goggled at them.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Richius demanded.

  One of the horsemen stepped forward. In his arms was cradled a squealing pig.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, glaring at Richius over the struggling sow.

  ‘I am Richius Vantran of Aramoor,’ declared Richius. ‘And I asked you a question, soldier.’

  The man rolled his eyes.

  ‘Well?’ pressed Richius. Other horsemen were beginning to gather around them now, some mounted, some on foot.

  ‘This isn’t your concern,’ answered the man at last. ‘We take our orders from Baron Gayle.’

  Richius stepped closer. ‘Everything in this valley is my concern, Talistanian. I give the orders here, not Blackwood Gayle. Now talk.’

  ‘We’re looking for Drol,’ the soldier answered stiffly. ‘We followed them into the forest but they scattered. Baron Gayle ordered the village searched.’

  ‘And did he order the place burned?’

  ‘This village is full of rebels,’ the soldier insisted. ‘It’s got to be destroyed.’

  Lucyler stepped up before Richius could answer. ‘There are no Drol here. This is just butchery. These people have done nothing.’

  ‘And the pig?’ continued Richius, nodding toward the sow in the man’s arms. ‘Were you going to burn that, too?’

  ‘We’re taking the animals back with us,’ said the man. ‘And any other food the gogs have. Baron Gayle says we’re to bring it all back to the trenches, share it with you.’

  ‘Forget it,’ snapped Richius. ‘These Triin aren’t our enemies. And they’re going to need their animals and food for the coming winter.’

  ‘Any one of these gogs could be a Drol,’ said the soldier. ‘If we let them go they’ll be back at our throats in an hour. Baron Gayle says –’

  Richius raised a hand. ‘Let me explain something to you. I know you’re only a stupid Talistanian, but try hard to understand. See these people in this village? They’re farmers. That means they grow food and tend livestock all damn day. They don’t make weapons for the Drol, and they probably don’t give a hang who wins this bloody war. So now we’re all going to turn around and leave quietly. All right?’

  The soldier scoffed. ‘All the Triin in this valley are under Voris’ control. That makes them all Drol.’

  ‘No,’ said Richius angrily. ‘That makes them all victims. And I won’t have any massacres under my command.’ Over his shoulder he called, ‘Lucyler, you and Dinadin put a stop to this mess.’

  The soldier looked shocked. ‘What are you doing? You can’t just . . .’

  ‘Quiet, fool. The emperor has given me the power to do as I wish here. Now you order your people to stop their killing at once or I’ll make sure you’re sent back to Nar in chains. Do you understand?’

  The emperor’s title made the soldier swallow hard. He stooped and lowered the pig to the ground. The animal scrambled from his arms and ran off into the field.

  ‘I understand, Vantran.’

  ‘Prince,’ corrected Richius as he began walking into the village.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Prince Vantran to you.’

  He didn’t care to hear the man�
�s reply. He only wanted the soldier to obey him, to put an end to the carnage his countrymen were causing. And he wanted to find Gayle.

  Richius quickly discovered that the villagers were as afraid of him as they were of the horsemen. Most looked away as he strode by, and some of them ran. These were mostly women, doubtlessly afraid of being ravaged by the pillagers. Those whose houses were not yet burning sought refuge in them. All around him Richius could hear the slamming of doors. There were screams, too, and the wailing of children.

  As he searched the burning village, Richius could see his companions trying to calm the more distraught villagers. He saw Dinadin fall to one knee to console a small girl. She was hysterical, repeating something again and again in the throaty language of the Triin. Like Richius, Dinadin knew almost nothing of the odd language. He stammered an unintelligible mix of broken Triin phrases as he tried to quiet the girl. And though he silently applauded the efforts of his comrades, Richius didn’t join them in trying to calm the panicked villagers. He walked with determination through the chaos, ignoring the incomprehensible pleas of the children that gathered at his boots. He shooed them away when they came to him. But every child he saw hammered home his outrage.

  Outside one of the still-undamaged houses, a single Talistanian stood with his arms folded across his chest. No one else was around, and there was nothing about the dwelling that Richius could imagine being of interest. From within the house he could hear the unmistakable sound of a woman’s screams.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, approaching the man with his sword held at belt level. The man’s cocky expression evaporated at the sight of him.

  ‘Prince Vantran,’ the man stammered. ‘I am under orders to guard this house.’

  ‘Orders? From who?’

  The man hesitated before answering. ‘Baron Gayle.’

  ‘Is he inside?’

  ‘He is. But Prince Vantran, I’m not to let anyone disturb him.’