The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  The few patrons in the bar were staring at them now. Even the lovely Triin prostitute was watching them. Richius turned away, embarrassed, putting his elbows on the bar and dropping his head.

  ‘Thanks for not making a scene,’ he said sourly, and closed his eyes against the anger welling up inside him. ‘It’s getting late. Why don’t you find yourself a whore and go to bed?’

  ‘Richius . . .’

  ‘Stop,’ Richius said. ‘We’re not retreating, and that’s the end of it. I won’t discuss it with you anymore.’

  Dinadin said nothing for a long moment. Richius could almost see the waspish frown on his companion’s face.

  ‘All right,’ said Dinadin at last. ‘Are you coming, too?’

  ‘No. I want to stay here a little while longer, see what I can find out.’

  He waited until he heard Dinadin’s gruff good-night before opening his eyes again. It was late, well past midnight, he supposed. His vision was a little misted, and he fought back a yawn. The thought of a soft straw mattress popped into his head, making him smile. It would be warm upstairs, and dry. If there was any to be had, he would bribe the innkeeper out of some good bread and honey in the morning. Then, after they had breakfasted, they would set out again for the valley.

  A sudden churn of his guts told Richius what he already knew. He was afraid. The notion of returning to that hellish place sickened him and made the glass he held tremble. They would be alone now, save for any troops that Talistan might send them. His father, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, had forsaken them all. He was trapped, forced by an emperor he didn’t know to fight for a mystery he knew nothing about.

  An hour and several beers later, the room’s population thinned. Only the drunkest of patrons remained behind, still carrying on like schoolboys as they leered and poked at the prostitutes.

  Richius surveyed the room, searching for the beautiful Triin girl. She wasn’t around. His mood soured a little more. She had been the only thing worth looking at in this filthy place, and now she too was gone. He drained his glass, remembering her perfect skin against the emerald dress. It had been months since he had been with a woman.

  He stopped himself, cursing. She was Triin, and he had sworn to protect these people.

  God save me. Am I no better than Blackwood Gayle?

  And then Richius recalled what Dinadin had said. Whatever else they did, she was already a prostitute. Surely someone would share her bed tonight. Why shouldn’t it be him? He had endured everything the valley could conjure against him. He had gone without food and without clean clothes, and he had slept in mud while rats nibbled at his ears. But he was still a man. Of all the human traits Voris had taken from him, this the Wolf could never steal.

  Not far away, the innkeeper Tendrik was mopping beer up off the floor. Richius went over to the man and took the mop away from him.

  ‘There was a woman here tonight,’ he said evenly. ‘A Triin.’

  ‘A Triin? Oh, you mean Dyana!’

  ‘She’s one of yours?’ asked Richius.

  ‘She is,’ said the man proudly. ‘New to it, but I’m sure she’ll please.’

  Richius put a gold coin into Tendrik’s hand. ‘I want her.’

  Alone at last in her dismal chamber, Dyana collapsed onto her threadbare mattress. Exhaustion had drained her, so that even the simple act of standing seemed impossible. She didn’t bother to peel off the dress, not caring if it got soiled or stained. There was only one thing on her mind now, the precious release of sleep.

  I did it, she told herself as she shut her eyes. I made it through the day.

  But only barely. The other girls she shared the chamber with were off to other beds. She lifted her hand listlessly to her face and fingered the ripe bruise about her eye. It was probably the injury that had kept her from being taken. How bad was it? All she knew was that it hurt. It had throbbed the entire day, sending a knife blade through her temple. It had made even the greedy innkeeper question her value. Dyana closed her eyes again and chuckled. How odd that she had that Naren beast to thank for her spared virginity.

  As the silence of her chamber wrapped around her, Dyana’s thought turned again to Falger and the others. They were still probably plodding their way to this dismal city. They would be heartbroken when they arrived. There was nothing here for any of them, no food or freedom, and no passage to Nar. Unless the women were willing to sell themselves, which Dyana doubted. Falger might even lead them back to Dring. He was a proud man, and wouldn’t take to begging lightly. He would probably die before joining in that chorus of the damned that had greeted her.

  Dyana sighed. Whenever she closed her eyes those huddled forms haunted her. She had arrived in Ackle-Nye exhausted and starving, and the first faces she had seen were theirs, vacant and cold and filthy, pained from exposure and mute from frustration. And Triin. They were everywhere in Ackle-Nye, an army of refugees from every province in Lucel-Lor. And they had all come in search of the same impossible dream – freedom from Drol oppression. What they found instead – what Dyana had found herself – was scorn. The Narens here had their own troubles, and simply couldn’t be bothered. Not unless the Triin had something to barter. And besides her stiletto, there was only one thing Dyana had been able to offer.

  She rolled over pensively, surveying the room. She was grateful to have it to herself, at least for a little while. The two women she shared it with had hardly given her more than a disgusted stare when she’d arrived this morning. The big one, was Carlina her name? She had insisted Dyana take the dingiest mattress. Tendrik seemed afraid of her. But why shouldn’t he be? Carlina was Naren. She had rights. All Naren women had rights, that’s what Dyana’s father had told her. It was why Nar was better for women.

  ‘And when I am a Naren, I will have rights, too,’ she seethed. ‘She-wolf.’

  Dyana nestled her head into the pillow. Tonight she would dream of Nar. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would lose the only thing she had left, but tonight she was intact and she would think on better days.

  ‘I wish you were with me, Father,’ she whispered to the darkness. ‘You would understand why I am doing this. Forgive me.’

  She almost heard her father’s answer in her mind. He would have been proud of her, she was sure. Not of this filthy act, of course. He could never approve of that. But he had taught her to take care of herself, to not depend on the whims of men. Men had stripped her of everything, but she still had one weapon, one way to buy her freedom from Tharn. They were hardly Triin at all, she and her father, that’s what everyone had always said. They were heretics, declared so by the Drol. Now she was selling her body for passage through the Run. She would never be able to return home. Never.

  Of all her father’s daughters she had been his favorite. Only she had believed in his visions of unity with Nar. Only she had let him teach her the Empire’s twisted language. If her sisters were still alive she neither knew nor cared. They hadn’t even bothered to seek her out when their father was murdered. And she hadn’t sought their aid. She had survived the last months on her own, sneaking from one relative to another, always hoping she was one step ahead of Tharn. Today she had reached Ackle-Nye. She had outrun him at last.

  ‘I will beat you,’ she whispered to the darkness. ‘I will be free.’

  A sudden knock jolted Dyana out of her reverie. She sat up, tossing her legs over the side of the mattress. Tendrik the grubby innkeeper pushed the door open and peered inside. He noticed her on the bed and beamed.

  ‘Dyana,’ he said excitedly. ‘You’re still dressed. Good.’ He entered the room without shutting the door and urged her to her feet. ‘Hurry. I have someone for you.’

  Dyana’s mood shattered. ‘What? You want me? But it is so late . . .’

  Tendrik grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door. There was a greedy gleam in his eyes, the same look he’d had when she’d come to him earlier, begging to be let in.

  ‘There’s a merchant waiting for you down the hall,’ he d
irected. ‘A man from Aramoor. He doesn’t seem like a rough customer, so don’t worry. Just do as he asks and make him happy. Close your eyes if you want.’

  Dyana wrenched away. ‘No. Not tonight. I am . . . not ready.’

  The proprietor laughed. ‘No one’s ever ready the first time, girl. But it’ll be over before you know it. He’s so piss drunk he may not even manage it.’

  ‘No,’ declared Dyana. She suddenly regretted ever having come here. ‘I cannot. Tomorrow, please. Not now.’

  Tendrik’s humor evaporated. ‘Listen,’ he said roughly, clamping his hand around her wrist. ‘He gave me a full golden for you. He paid for the whole night and I’m not giving it back. Now you get the hell in there and do it. And if he comes back with any complaints . . .’

  Dyana tried to pull her wrist free, but the fat man’s grip was like iron. ‘Let me go,’ she growled.

  He clamped down harder and pulled her toward him, reaching for her hair with his other hand. The manhandling brought the wildcat out in her and she cried out, lashing at his face.

  ‘Let go!’ she railed as her nails raked across his cheek. Tendrik roared in frustrated pain but did not loose her. He dragged her against the wall and pinned her there until his face was flush with her own.

  ‘You little bitch,’ he hissed. ‘You will do as I say!’

  Dyana gritted her teeth. ‘Get your dirty hands off me, you Naren pig!’ She brought up her knee and drove it into his groin – the greatest mistake she had made since coming here. Tendrik’s eyes bulged and he let out a string of loud obscenities. Dyana bolted for the door, but he was on her, snatching a fistful of hair and dragging her back against the wall. She hit the hard surface with a jolt, knocking the air from her lungs. The next thing she felt was the innkeeper’s sweaty hand around her throat.

  ‘You Triin tramp,’ he seethed, tightening his grip. ‘You will do this!’

  She spat at him. Tendrik laughed.

  ‘No? That’s fine then, girl. You go back and eat garbage with the rest of your kind. Live in the streets. I don’t need you if you won’t perform.’ He pushed her roughly toward the door. ‘Get out. Find your own way to Nar.’

  ‘You bastard,’ seethed Dyana. ‘I have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘So what is that to me, girl? I run a business, not a charity. You said you would do as I asked. That’s the only reason I took you in. If you won’t do it, you’re no use to me.’

  ‘I can do other things,’ Dyana offered. ‘I can cook for you, mend clothes. I will serve downstairs if you want . . .’

  ‘I don’t need a kitchen wench, girl. I need bodies. You have all I need without opening your mouth. Now either go to him or get out. My place isn’t a home for runaways, not unless they can work for their keep. That’s the job. Take it or leave it.’

  He had trapped her. Without him, there would be no passage to Nar, no escape from Tharn. Worse, he was right. She had agreed to do this vile thing. If she didn’t, he would abandon her. Like all the others. And she would be trapped here when the Drol came.

  ‘Do it,’ ordered Tendrik. He jabbed a finger toward the hall outside. ‘He’s waiting for you.’

  Dyana poked her head out into the hall. Down the dark corridor there were several rooms with closed doors. Carlina was in one of them. She could hear the girl’s indifferent moans. A sickening feeling lurched in Dyana’s stomach. But she managed to suppress it, burying it under an instinct to survive.

  ‘Which room?’

  ‘The yellow door. Just knock and he’ll let you in.’

  ‘The whole night?’

  ‘That’s what he paid for. Don’t worry. It won’t be more than once. Just sleep when it’s over. You can leave in the morning before he wakes up.’

  Small consolation. Dyana hovered in the doorway. She wanted to ask the fat man if it would hurt, if she would be with child in the morning or polluted like Carlina. But this sweaty, cruel man wasn’t her father. He didn’t dispense advice to frightened girls. To him, she was merely a shiny gold coin. She survived the first shaky step into the hall, then let her rubbery legs convey her down the corridor. She passed the red door where Carlina’s throaty cries echoed, and passed the silent blue door where the other girl had obviously finished her work. The yellow door was at the end. Dyana stood outside it and listened. She cocked her head back toward her own room and saw Tendrik encourage her with a wave. Inside the chamber she could hear nothing.

  Asleep, she supposed, and considered turning back. But Tendrik squashed the notion.

  ‘Knock,’ the innkeeper insisted.

  Dyana tapped lightly on the door. A sprinkle of yellow paint peeled away. Something inside the chamber stirred. She backed away as the door creaked open. A disheveled young man stood in the threshold, teetering to one side as his bleary eyes washed over her. He was dark, maybe even handsome by foreign standards. His face was thin and haggard and his clothes were filthy, like his breath. A spark of interest lit his eyes.

  But he said nothing. He merely regarded her with his wild gaze. Sudden fear rushed through Dyana and she faltered. His hand was there to catch her. A rough hand, calloused and hot against her soft skin. The faint hint of a smile stirred on his lips. Very gently he drew her into the chamber and closed the door.

  Eight

  In the Dring Valley, rain had been falling steadily for more than a day. It was an unexpected cloudburst, and the men in the trenches were ill prepared for it. The homes they had dug for themselves in the earth were unstable even in the driest weather, and in the copious rains of the valley the trench walls seemed to melt away on top of them, covering them each in an inescapable slick of mud. But storms in Dring were not uncommon, and the men did their best to fight away the damp with cloaks, and the rats with shovel backs. The rats always seemed to multiply in the rain. Worse, it was necessary now to keep the igniters of the flame cannons lit continuously, for it would be impossible to fire up the weapons in such weather. So, when the first raindrops began to fall, Lucyler had ordered that the cannons be kept warm and ready, expending more of the precious kerosene fuel.

  The unanticipated rains had ruined much of the food stores, and what little had been left untouched by water had been gotten at by rats. Unlike the men, the rats were plump now. Already two men were lying near death, and Lucyler thought it likely they had consumed some bread or meat that the rats had crawled over and diseased.

  Lucyler had taken his charge over the company with grave seriousness. Yet he alone couldn’t provide for so many men, and he had already sent a dozen of the soldiers out of the trenches to hunt for game. But Lucyler wasn’t one to shrink from duty, and while he had sent the others into the relative calm of the plains, he had given himself a more difficult task. The plains did have game, but it was the lush forests that were teeming with life. That the birch forests might also be teeming with Drol was of little consequence. They would need meat if they were to survive, and lots of it. Lucyler knew that only the forest could provide game in such abundance.

  He had started out alone, his bow and jiiktar on his back, when Crodin had decided to join him. Crodin wasn’t the best of hunters. Unlike Lucyler, he preferred the devouring blast of a flame cannon to the precision of an arrow. But he was as good as any other at slogging through a muddy forest, and Crodin had decided it best that Lucyler not go alone.

  They had disappeared into the birch grove at the first gray light of morning. Lucyler was grateful for Crodin’s company, but he was more grateful for the serenity he found in the forest. To his great relief, there were no signs of Voris’ warriors, and although they spent their first hours mindful of every sound, they soon settled in to the peaceful rhythms of the forest, and by midday even Crodin had two wild birds slung over his back. Lucyler, more skillful with a bow than his comrade, had been able to land four birds, and after a time they began stowing the fowl under a blanket in a small clearing they had made for themselves.

  The rest of the day was much the same. The hunting was good despi
te the poor weather, and they had seen no evidence of warriors or spies. Since they had landed more game than they could comfortably carry, at dusk they settled down in the tiny clearing. Nighttime in the valley could be treacherous, and both men thought it best to wait until morning before attempting the journey back.

  Crodin was asleep long before Lucyler. Of all the men in the company, it seemed that only Crodin was capable of sleeping anywhere. He had drawn his cloak about his body, rested his head on a particularly smooth stone, and was sleeping before Lucyler had finished storing the last of the birds. When at last Lucyler turned to lie beside his friend, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the snoring. Still, feeling the thousand aches of his own body, he could easily understand Crodin’s weariness. They had hunted almost without rest today, and Lucyler guessed that they were a good distance from camp. At dawn they would return to the others, and they would need all their strength to haul so much game.

  But Lucyler’s sleep was not as sound as Crodin’s. When he was a boy, there had been a Daegog who was the leader of all the Triin, even the warlords, and Lucyler had slept under trees that no man claimed to own. Time and the revolution had changed that. Now, though his blood was still Triin, there were many parts of his homeland in which he was no longer safe. Tonight, under the constant, melancholy rain, these thoughts tormented him. Despite the heaviness of his eyelids, Lucyler lay suspended in that strange state between wakefulness and dreams, listening to the lulling calls of night creatures. He heard them in the canopy of trees above and saw their eyes twinkling like stars. Yet they did not disturb him. Lost as he was in his own troubled thoughts, he paid them only slight regard. Finally, he fell into a fractured sleep of visions and remembrances . . .

  And then he awoke. It seemed to him that nothing in particular had roused him, yet he couldn’t understand why his eyes had opened. He listened, unmoving, to the croaking of wild things, and waited for whatever had disturbed him to come again. But he heard nothing. He glanced over at Crodin. The man lay in a deep slumber, his mouth slung open to the incoming rain. The familiar sight put Lucyler at ease. He sighed, and rolled over onto his side.