The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  The moment his eyes closed he heard the sound again. He was awake now, and so could hear it clearly this time, shrouded though it was in the noises of the forest and the storm. Lucyler sat up and cocked his head to listen. It was a cracking sound, like that of a great animal moving over sticks. A familiar sound. All day long Lucyler had heard that sound as they themselves moved through the woods.

  Lucyler leaned over and put his lips to Crodin’s ear. ‘Crodin, wake up!’ he whispered, giving the sleeping man a jab in the ribs. Crodin only rolled away from him. ‘Damn it, Crodin, wake up,’ Lucyler repeated.

  Still Crodin did not awaken. Furious, Lucyler pinched Crodin’s jaw between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed, shaking Crodin’s head until the man’s eyes suddenly opened.

  ‘What the . . . ?’

  Lucyler quickly put his hand over Crodin’s mouth. ‘Be still,’ he ordered, then dragged his hand away so his friend could breathe. Crodin looked about fearfully.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, watching as Lucyler slowly retrieved his jiiktar from the mud. Lucyler ignored the question, putting up his hand to silence Crodin as he scanned the murky forest. ‘God, Lucyler,’ Crodin repeated. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Quiet!’ Lucyler ordered, then cursed himself for his loudness. If he was right, whatever was out there hadn’t noticed them yet. Slowly, soundlessly, Lucyler got to his knees, all the while focusing his eyes in the darkness, watching intently for any signs of movement. Again he listened, holding his breath so that only the din of rain on leaves could be heard. At last he heard the sound again. Much nearer.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Crodin, scrambling to his feet. Lucyler grabbed hold of the man’s cloak and pulled him back down into the mud.

  ‘Get down!’ he ordered.

  Crodin fell into the mud, then looked about in a terrified daze. To Lucyler’s great relief, though, the man was finally silent.

  For almost a minute the two stayed like this, kneeling in muck with their eyes fastened on the woods. At last a spot of crimson appeared in the dark maze of trees. Lucyler narrowed his eyes to confirm his worst suspicions – warriors. Even in the blackness of the forest, their scarlet robes betrayed them.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ moaned Crodin. ‘Do you think they’ve seen us?’

  Lucyler shook his head. ‘No, not yet. I am sure they do not expect us here.’

  ‘How many of them are there? Can you tell?’

  ‘I cannot see,’ admitted Lucyler. ‘Pick up your sword. We have to warn the others.’

  ‘What? We can’t move. They’ll skin us alive if they discover us!’

  Lucyler turned and glared at Crodin. ‘Those warriors are heading for our camp. They may all be killed!’

  Crodin protested, getting to his feet. ‘How are we going to get back to camp? We can’t even see!’

  ‘Just follow me,’ called Lucyler over his shoulder. He was already moving through the rain. After a moment he heard Crodin’s boots squishing in the mud after him.

  The moon, nearly invisible behind a thick blanket of clouds, lent almost no light to the forest, but as Lucyler ran he kept his jiiktar stretched out before him, letting the weapon guide him. He could feel the jiiktar’s twin blades cutting through the foliage, breaking the branches that strove to pluck out his eyes. Already the branches had torn great rents in his sleeves, so that now they bit into his flesh as he dashed past them. He felt the warm sensation of blood running down his arms. He ignored the pain as he ran, reminding himself that he was a Triin. Like the warriors he raced against, he did not need the light of the sun to run through a forest.

  ‘Slow down,’ came Crodin’s sudden plea from behind. Lucyler slowed just long enough to glimpse his comrade. Barely visible in the darkness, Crodin’s face was red with effort.

  ‘No,’ answered Lucyler quickly. ‘Keep up!’

  ‘I can’t,’ insisted Crodin. His voice was little more than a wheeze. ‘I’m not a goddamned Triin!’

  Cursing, Lucyler stopped and turned to Crodin. Crodin was stooped, his hands on his knees. He looked about to vomit.

  ‘Listen, Crodin,’ Lucyler demanded. ‘Those warriors are headed for our camp. We must warn the others to be ready for an attack. If you cannot keep up with me . . .’

  ‘Just go,’ Crodin interrupted, panting. ‘I will follow as closely as I can.’

  Without a word, Lucyler turned from Crodin and continued on his dash through the forest. He wanted to say something, to call back some apology over his shoulder, but there was no leisure for that. Already Voris’ warriors had a lead on him, and if he was to reach the camp before his enemies he would have to run as quickly as he could.

  He moved as if in a dream. The calls of the night creatures, the scratching limbs, the rain and the mud: all these things were lost to him. He didn’t care what noise he made or if his fellow Triin could hear him. He moved with feline sureness, like a leopard or one of the giant lions of Chandakkar, leaping over fallen trees and ducking under the vines that stretched out to strangle him. Faster and faster he raced, his jiiktar brandished before him, until the world became a dark and manic blur.

  Lucyler ran like this unceasingly, unknowing of time.

  And then he was out of the birch grove, in the clearing where burnt bodies littered the earth. Exhausted, he fell to his knees, and the delicious madness of the run left him as quickly as it had come. Not far away, he could see the sparkling pinpoints of the campfires, the glowing igniters of the flame cannons. Shaking with exhaustion, he rose unsteadily to his feet and, ignoring the burning and pleading of his muscles, ran toward the camp. He could see the trenches clearly now, the huddled men within them oblivious to his approach. The sentries hadn’t sighted him.

  ‘Awake!’ he cried madly. ‘Barret! Gilliam! Awake!’

  At his cry he saw the stirring of the sentries on the trench deck. They raised their bows as they spotted him. Lucyler put up his hands, flailing them wildly as he ran toward the trenches. Still the sentries drew their bowstrings back, and still Lucyler ran to them. Though he half expected an arrow to slam into his chest, he continued on at full speed, shouting his name and waving to the sentries.

  ‘Hold! It is me, Lucyler!’

  Now he was only yards from the first trench. On the deck, he could see the sentries murmuring to themselves, clearly confused as they tried to discern who or what white-skinned Triin charged toward them. Then the man lowered his bow.

  ‘Lucyler?’ shouted the man. ‘Is it you?’

  Lucyler at once recognized the gruff voice of Gilliam. ‘Yes, Gilliam!’ he yelled back. ‘Wake the men. There are warriors behind me!’

  Immediately the other sentries dropped their weapons and peered out into the blackness. Lucyler threw himself onto the deck and skidded across the rain-slicked wood. Before he could fall into the trench beyond, Gilliam caught hold of him. Gasping, Lucyler let the other man support him.

  ‘Warriors,’ Lucyler said. ‘Following me. We have to wake the others, be ready for them . . .’

  Gilliam nodded, then turned to the others in the trench, barking at them to wake the men and make ready for an attack. Soon the air was filled with the ringing of drawing steel and the hot burst of flame cannons coming alive. The deck shook with the heavy load of armored bodies as the men took their positions. When he was finally satisfied with the activity in the trenches, Gilliam turned back to Lucyler.

  ‘Lucyler,’ Gilliam asked. ‘Where’s Crodin?’

  ‘I do not know,’ admitted Lucyler. ‘Behind me, I think. He could not keep up with me, and I had to warn you. I had to leave him.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Gilliam calmly, putting a hand on Lucyler’s shoulder. ‘Crodin’s a good woodsman. He’ll find his way back safely. How many Drol are there?’

  ‘I saw maybe a dozen,’ said Lucyler. ‘But they wore the red of warriors, Gilliam. More of them are coming.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Gilliam. ‘Spies wouldn’t wear the scarlet.’ Gilliam looked Lu
cyler over, inspecting his bloody arms. ‘What about you? You are injured.’

  Lucyler was about to tell Gilliam that he was well enough when a cry from the deck stopped him.

  ‘Here they come!’

  Together Lucyler and Gilliam twisted their heads to look out over the clearing. There, barely illuminated by the meager moonlight, they could see someone running toward them. Gilliam raised his bow again, but Lucyler reached out and pushed the weapon down.

  ‘No! Nobody fire. It is Crodin!’

  Crodin was running like a man being chased by wolves. Again and again he stumbled, looking over his shoulder for whatever terror was trailing him. Even through the darkness Lucyler could see the look of panic on Crodin’s face. Worse, the noise of the wind kept him from hearing what Crodin was yelling.

  And then Crodin stopped running. He stopped so suddenly that Lucyler didn’t know what had happened until he caught a flashing glimpse of red in the forest. Crodin dropped to his knees, hung there for a moment, then fell facedown in the mud. From out of his back a dozen feathered arrows protruded. Behind him the white birch grove turned scarlet with Drol.

  Every dark crevice of the forest was oozing red-robed warriors. They emerged as if from a fog, silent and purposeful, their jiiktars and bows in hand. With them were packs of war wolves. The beasts snarled and fought against their chains, their red eyes glowing. Lucyler watched in horror as the tide of men poured from the woods. He could see them plainly now, some with torches and brands, and in moments all the white of the birches was lost behind a curtain of crimson robes. Yet they didn’t run for the trenches or shoot a single arrow. They merely stood there, letting their numbers swell.

  ‘We’re done for,’ whispered Gilliam. He lowered his bow at the unbelievable sight. Already a defeated moan was rising from the trenches.

  Lucyler’s mind raced, groping desperately for a strategy to save them. But he could find none. His men were sick from starvation and hopelessly outnumbered. Even the flame cannons would do them little good now. The rain would cut the range of the weapons in half, and he was sure there wasn’t enough fuel for a prolonged battle. He turned and glanced out over the trenches. Everywhere his soldiers were frozen with fear, their faces drawn in fright and as white as his own. Like him, they understood the impossibility of victory.

  Richius, Lucyler thought remorsefully. I am sorry, my friend. I have ruined us.

  ‘What are they waiting for?’ said Gilliam anxiously. ‘Why don’t they attack?’

  Lucyler knew why. ‘They know they have us. They want us to surrender.’

  Gilliam sneered. ‘In hell. I’d slit my own throat before submitting.’

  Lucyler focused his attention on the milling warriors beyond. A single man was walking slowly toward them. He was shouting something in Triin, but Lucyler couldn’t decipher the words over the noise of the rain.

  ‘Look at that,’ said Gilliam. A thin, evil smile crossed his lips. He raised his bow again, drawing back on the string so that the arrow aimed straight at the approaching warrior. ‘Good night, gog!’

  ‘No,’ insisted Lucyler. ‘Do not kill him. He is coming to tell us something.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘It’s Triin,’ another soldier on the deck answered. ‘Lucyler, what is it?’

  Lucyler shrugged. The words were still lost under the storm. Then, when the Drol was only yards from the deck, Lucyler understood.

  ‘Kalak! Oonal ni Kalak?’

  A shudder went through Lucyler at the words. The Jackal! Where is the Jackal?

  ‘Lucyler?’ pressed the soldier.

  ‘Richius,’ he said coldly. ‘They are calling for Richius.’ ‘My God,’ said Gilliam. ‘Praise the Almighty Richius isn’t here.’ Turning to Lucyler he said, ‘Please, Lucyler. Let me kill him. Let me kill him before he speaks another word.’

  ‘No,’ answered Lucyler stiffly. ‘We will see what else they want of us.’

  ‘Why? You know what they want. If we surrender . . .’

  ‘Quiet!’ snapped Lucyler.

  The Drol was just outside the trench now. He stood there fearlessly, uncaring about the score of arrows pointed at him, an expression of contempt on his pale face. His body was draped in the same brilliant scarlet robes as all Voris’ warriors. When the Drol stopped outside the deck, Lucyler stepped forward. Only then did the Drol’s expression change. He looked at Lucyler in disbelief.

  ‘Triin?’

  Lucyler answered the man in their shared tongue. ‘I am.’

  The warrior sneered. ‘Traitor.’

  For a moment Lucyler said nothing, frozen into silence by the insult. That this Drol, this zealot who had sided with Tharn against the royal line of Lucyler, should call him traitor . . .

  ‘You have a message for us,’ said Lucyler coldly. ‘Speak it.’

  The warrior smiled at Lucyler, looking him over with arrogant humor. His gray eyes seemed to laugh.

  ‘I bear the words of Voris, warlord of Dring and counsel of Tharn. My master demands that Richius the Jackal present himself for judgment. In return, my master will allow the lives of the imperial invaders to continue.’

  Lucyler silently thanked the gods Richius was safe in Ackle-Nye. ‘You are too late to take your vengeance, Drol,’ he laughed. ‘Richius is dead.’

  All at once the humor left the warrior’s face. ‘Who leads here, then? Who among you stands in the Jackal’s place?’

  Now Lucyler smiled. ‘I do,’ he said proudly.

  The warrior considered this for a moment, then said, ‘Voris is merciful. You may satisfy him, traitor.’

  ‘And these men will be spared?’

  ‘One of you must answer for the crimes against the people of Dring. If my master finds you suitable, he will spare the lives of the other cowards.’

  ‘Back then, Drol,’ said Lucyler. ‘Tell your master that Lucyler of Falindar will gladly die in the Daegog’s cause. Tell him also that if I am not enough for him, he will have to come and kill us, and we will die to a man trying to destroy him.’

  This made the warrior’s eyebrows rise. He looked at Lucyler oddly, then turned and strode back through the clearing. Lucyler walked back to the trench. On the deck, Gilliam and the other soldiers were staring at him.

  ‘Well?’ asked Gilliam. ‘What do they want of us? Surrender?’

  Slowly Lucyler shook his head. ‘Not all of us. Just me. If I surrender myself to Voris the rest of you will be spared.’

  Gilliam’s face was ashen. ‘No, Lucyler. Don’t think it. You can’t. They’ll kill you, torture you . . .’

  ‘Stop,’ interrupted Lucyler. He had already considered the unsavory end Voris had planned for him. It changed nothing. ‘Please, say no more. I must do this. All of you will live if I surrender.’

  ‘And you believe them?’ asked Gilliam. ‘How can you trust their words? They are snakes, Lucyler.’

  Lucyler put a hand on Gilliam’s shoulder. In a gentle, reassuring voice he said, ‘They are Drol. Whatever else I think of them, I know they do not lie. Please, Gilliam, follow this last order. Do not fight them.’

  Gilliam smiled grimly. ‘You ask the impossible of us,’ he said. Then, under the silent gaze of a hundred mournful eyes, he took Lucyler in a strong embrace. ‘Go with God, my friend.’

  ‘And you.’

  Before Gilliam had released his hold on Lucyler, a cry from one of the men on the deck shattered the moment.

  ‘Look there!’

  From out of the darkness a party of warriors approached. They walked with the erect arrogance of conquerors, clearly visible in the light of the torches they bore. Lucyler quickly counted five men, all in scarlet, all with jiiktars in their hands. The group seemed wholly unremarkable, save for the one who walked in the center. That one was taller than the rest, his robes more splendid and trimmed in gold. Atop his head, the usual mane of white Triin hair was gone. Only a bare scalp could be seen shimmering in the torchlight and the paleness of the moon. Two white wolves
walked beside him. Unchained, the beasts moved with the perfect poise of house dogs. Lucyler felt his breath catch. A name slipped from his lips.

  ‘Voris.’

  Voris the Wolf, Warlord of Dring, stopped some ten yards from the trench, near enough for an arrow to pierce his heart. Almost absently he raised a hand. The small gesture brought his party to a halt.

  ‘Lucyler of Falindar!’

  The voice boomed like the thunder of the rainstorm. Lucyler lifted his head at the sound of his name. Ignoring the pleas and outstretched hands of his men, he strode from the deck and into the clearing toward Voris.

  ‘I am Lucyler,’ he called out. He saw Voris give a look of utter disbelief.

  ‘Remarkable,’ said Voris. ‘As often as I see it I am amazed by it. How did it happen to you, traitor? How have you come to side with these barbarians who rape us?’

  Lucyler willed his lips into a grin. ‘I have come for your judgment, butcher. Your words are meaningless, and I do not hear them.’

  Voris reddened with rage. ‘Dare you call me butcher? You, a traitor to your people?’

  ‘And you are a traitor to your Daegog,’ said Lucyler. ‘You have brought this ruin to our land, not I. It is you who have betrayed the royal line of Lucel-Lor.’

  ‘The Daegog is the biggest of traitors, and those who follow him are the biggest of fools. Tharn will show you the truth of things.’

  ‘You are Tharn’s lapdog, Voris. The toy of a usurper.’ From some mad corner of Lucyler’s mind, a laugh erupted. ‘Give me your justice, dog. I am ready for it. But please, spare me your lies.’

  Unable to control his anger, Voris lashed out at Lucyler, striking him on the cheek with the palm of his hand. The blow sent Lucyler reeling. He stumbled, falling backward into the mud. Lucyler shook his head, felt the sting of a crushed lip, then rose unsteadily to his feet. He glared back at the trembling Voris.