The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Tharn with all seriousness. ‘But not before you speak again of your crimes.’ He pressed down on the Daegog’s chest with his boot, forcing the air from the fat man’s lungs. ‘Confess! Confess and get the merciful death you do not deserve!’

  ‘Help,’ wheezed the Daegog. He was crying now, fighting against the ropes. Tharn’s face twisted with fierce disgust. He ground his foot harder against the man’s chest.

  ‘Confess, fat one! Tell these good men who followed you how you meant to betray them!’

  A hush fell upon the gathering. The warlords and their warriors stood and listened with grave anticipation.

  ‘Speak, Nebarazar Gorandarr!’ commanded Tharn. ‘Is it true that you only wanted Nar’s science to defeat the men gathered here?’

  The Daegog wouldn’t answer. He turned his head toward the bound warlords at the foot of the dais, gibbering at them for help. Lucyler felt a rush of nausea at the spectacle, hoping Tharn would end it quickly. Instead the Drol leader stepped off the Daegog’s chest and leaned down. His words were soft, nearly inaudible, but Lucyler’s proximity to his fallen king let him hear every violent word.

  ‘Tell them, Daegog,’ whispered Tharn. ‘Or you will spend the rest of your days in those catacombs, and I will have the rats eat out your eyes.’

  ‘No!’ the Daegog wailed. ‘Spare me, monster, I beg you! Please...’

  ‘Be still!’ roared Tharn, standing up again to tower over the prone man. ‘Be a man in death at least. Nebarazar Gorandarr, is it true that you cared nothing for the people of Lucel-Lor?’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ blubbered the Daegog. ‘Now, spare me, please...’

  ‘Is it true that you are a weak and useless ruler, and that you envy and hate these men who honored you?’

  ‘No, no, I cannot say it, do not make me –’

  ‘Confess!’ roared Tharn, and kicked the Daegog’s face so hard that several teeth flew from his mouth. Lucyler felt a spray of blood strike his face. The Daegog let out an agonized sob. Unable to stand another cry, Lucyler ran up onto the dais.

  ‘Stop it!’ he ordered, dropping down over the Daegog and shielding him from Tharn’s blows. ‘You are killing him! Is that what your revolution is for?’

  Voris sprang out of the crowd, his tame white wolf on his heels. He reached the dais in an instant and grabbed hold of Lucyler, dragging him off the Daegog. He was a giant man, and the snapping jaws of his pet made Lucyler relent. He pulled free of Voris’ grip, cursing.

  ‘Beast!’ he spat at Tharn. ‘Do not torture him like this!’

  ‘You must learn the truth of this man, Lucyler of Falindar. You must hear his confession.’ He looked down at the writhing thing at his feet. ‘Nebarazar Gorandarr, I put it to you again. Speak truthfully, and you will die quickly and without pain. Tell these men why you invited in the devils of Nar. I know the truth already, traitor. You cannot change that. Now speak it and be free.’

  Horrified, Lucyler watched as the Daegog turned to regard the gathered warlords. There was the most unholy expression on his face. Disregard, contempt, avarice, and spite: all the worst of emotions glowed in his defeated eyes.

  A trickle of blood fell from his bulging lips, and when he spoke his voice was a hollow, diseased rasp.

  ‘He says you honored me, but that was never so,’ croaked the Daegog. ‘Dogs, every one of you. I am the Daegog of Lucel-Lor. I am supreme.’

  Voris growled and made to strike the groveling man, but Tharn’s quick hand on his shoulder stayed the blow. Kronin was staring up into his Daegog’s eyes, his face stricken, and Delgar of Miradon began to weep. But the Daegog laughed horribly at seeing his loyal warlord’s tears, and spat a wad of saliva and blood at him.

  ‘All of you are fools,’ continued the Daegog. ‘Nar was not for gold or trade or knowledge. Nar was for weapons. Had none of you the brains to see that?’

  ‘He meant to crush us all with the weaponry of Nar,’ said Tharn. ‘He dealt with their evil emperor so that he could have the means of gaining all your lands.’

  ‘They are my lands!’ said the Daegog. ‘I am the Daegog of Lucel-Lor. Only my blood is fit to rule!’

  Lucyler backed away from the Daegog, horrified and hating himself. He was almost off the dais when he backed into Tharn. The cunning-man took hold of his arm and kept him from leaving.

  ‘No,’ whispered Tharn. ‘You must hear this.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Lucyler weakly.

  The Daegog fought one last time against his bonds, then hurled an inhuman cry into the air. ‘I die,’ he bellowed. ‘And I leave you all to the Drol!’

  Tharn stepped closer to the Daegog. ‘Nebarazar Gorandarr,’ he said softly. ‘Your time is ended.’

  The cunning-man held a hand over the Daegog’s face, merely inches from his nose. And all at once Nebarazar Gorandarr fell silent, and the cruelty of his expression vanished as the muscles in his face slackened. His breathing slowed, ebbed, then suddenly stopped.

  The Daegog was dead.

  Nar

  From the Journal of Richius Vantran:

  Father is dead.

  Nearly a month has passed, and I have hardly said these words at all. They are so strange to me. Until now I have avoided writing them just to keep them from being real. But truly he is gone and I must at last accept it.

  The last month has gone by in a dream, a nightmare from which I am finally awakening. Jojustin has been a blessing. Were it not for him my anguish would have crushed me. He has nursed the sickness in my soul better than any mother could have. It is easy to see why Father always cherished him. He claims that I am to be king now. If so, I can think of no better a steward. It is for his sake that I am trying to be myself again. Aramoor will need a leader when the emperor takes his vengeance on us. Edgard is gone. Only I am left to carry that burden.

  Jojustin has been taking Father’s murder with real mettle. While I have been useless and despondent these weeks, he has ignored his own grief and continues to tend to the needs of the castle. I knowhedoesnot want to worryme, but I can tell how concerned he is for my safety. He tries to keep me indoors and out of the gardens. It is as if we are living in a prison. Through my chamber window I can see the sentries he has posted at the gates, and an uneasy mood has settled over the servants. There is none of their happy chattering in the hallways that I remember so vividly and so looked forward to hearing again. Most of them knew Father since their childhoods, and have been as stricken as I by the news of his death. Still, they were not his kin. There is a part of me I fear may never mend.

  The thought of a Triin killing Father still shocks me. Before the fall of Ackle-Nye I would not have believed them capable of such evil. Never have the Drol seemed quite so wicked. They have shown me a spitefulness to rival that of Nar’s. But they never knew the truth about Father. If they had, Tharn himself would have thought him a hero. Instead we are left with the curse of being enemies, and wait for more assassins to crawl into our gardens and murder us. We are even deprived the satisfaction of justice. I have tried to tell Jojustin that no one could have captured the assassin, but he has never lived among Triin and so does not know how agile and cunning they can be. If only Lucyler were here to convince him. He could scale the garden wall like the assassin and show Jojustin the uselessness of guilt.

  The lands around the castle are finally quiet again. At last the parade of well-wishers has stopped. I know they mean no harm, but their questions about the war are lurid and bothersome to me. They cannot possibly know what we have been through. Even the old veterans of the Talistan war trouble me, they are so curious. I am sick of their stories and comparisons. They are all experts, yet none of them has ever faced a Drol or seen the handiwork of a jiiktar. I listen to their tales, and doubt the House of Gayle was ever as fierce as the Drol of the valley.

  Thankfully, not all the talk has been of war. Sometimes, when they are drunk and melancholy enough, they speak to me of Father. Everyone seems to know something new about hi
m, something he hid or simply never told me. And all of them say how proud he was of me. They leave me with ideas to struggle with. How can a father abandon a son he loved so sweetly? Edgard said it first, and I think Dinadin thought it likely. Now Jojustin says it is true, but I still cannot accept it. Father would never have left me to die, not even to save Aramoor.

  I have had Father’s letter since Patwin gave it to me in the mountains. Jojustin has been urging me to read it. He seems to believe it will solve this riddle for me, but perhaps I do not want it solved. If Father’s own words say he abandoned me, my memory of him will be forever tainted.

  I have been grateful for Patwin’s company since the others returned home. It is good to share time with someone who understands. But he is mending well from his long trip, and it is likely that he too will be leaving. I do not welcome the loneliness his absence will bring. Things are too quiet without Father around. The castle never seemed so large before, and winter is coming. We will have snow soon, and then none of my men will want to journey to the castle. How I wish Lucyler was here. I had always thought he would return with me to Aramoor when the war ended, and he and Dinadin and I would eat and drink like we never could in the valley and let our own tales get taller like the old veterans do. But he is gone, like Father and Edgard, killed for nothing but the vengeance of Voris.

  I suppose I will never know what horrible end he faced in my stead. Gilliam and the others were kind about it, but I know Voris must have had an unholy death planned for me. What a cruel creature he must be. Now we all live with Lucyler’s death in our hearts, and Voris has killed us even so. But if I can I will take my own vengeance some day, and in Lucyler’s name will cut out the Wolf’s heart and feed it to the rats in his damned valley. Dinadin would like that. Were it not for so many Drol in the valley I think Dinadin would yet be there, overturning every rock to find Voris. I never knew how fond he was of Lucyler until now.

  Dinadin has changed since returning home. Maybe it is simply what war does to young men, but we hardly spoke at all during the long ride back with Patwin. I know he bears me ill will, and I suppose it should be that way. Lucyler died because of me, and Dinadin is right to say so. Voris wanted Kalak, but Lucyler suffered his revenge. Dinadin and Lucyler had a strange friendship, and I doubt I can ever make this up to him. He has not been back to the castle since returning home, and I miss him. I need him to stand with me now, to help me face the days ahead. We will all need to stand together if the emperor comes to challenge us. I only hope the grudge he holds softens soon. So many have gone now, that even my memories seem unfamiliar to me.

  And she is gone, too.

  It is as if I have known this girl for years. There is nothing else that quickens love like war. Each night I lie awake to visions of her. I lull myself to sleep with whispered prayers for her. I pray she is not in the mad devil’s hands. I pray she can forgive me for not keeping her safe. But I think God is deaf and does not hear me. Or maybe it is as the emperor’s priests say, that God only answers the prayers of true Narens. If that is so, I will be in His hell forever.

  The storm that took Dyana was a magic, evil thing. Even Dinadin told me I could not have fought against it. Yet regrets still haunt me. I lost so many. Like Jimsin. Like Lucyler.

  What a bloody list I have.

  Tonight is eerily quiet. The servants have all gone to their beds, and Jojustin has long since come by to say his good-nights. Nights like these unnerve me. Through my window I can see the watchful glow of torches and the sentries at the gate, yet they do not comfort me. Home is not what I remembered. Outside the world has turned a watery gray. Winter is coming too fast. I had hoped to see color here, but the autumn leaves have died and fallen away. In the gardens only thorns grow on Father’s roses. And Jojustin says I am to be king of this place.

  By now the emperor has heard of Father’s death. No doubt he does not grieve for him as we in Aramoor do. Only Arkus wanted war with Lucel-Lor, and now I suppose I’ll never know what grand designs he had for the Triin, or why he had us fight their bloody war. Whatever Arkus sought from them, we have lost it for him, and so it is likely he will punish us for that. Perhaps his legions are already on their way. Or maybe it is the Drol who want more vengeance and are planning to come at us through the mountains. I say let them all come. Nothing is as it was anymore, and I see no way to be even a shadow of the king that Father was. Peace escapes me even here. At night I hear wolves howling and see white faces in my dreams. Home still seems so very far away.

  Thirteen

  It was nearly noon when Richius awoke and found that an early snow had fallen. In this part of the Empire, snow was as ordinary as the changing of seasons, but autumn hadn’t gone yet and winter was still weeks away. He quickly splashed his face with the cool water from his washbasin and went to the window, pushing it open. The old iron frame screeched and flecks of rust tumbled down the tower, caught up in a stiff northern breeze. Richius took a long, sweet breath. He could taste the morning, and the brightness of the day forced his eyes into slivers. It was only a light snowfall, more like a sheet than a blanket, but it covered the courtyard and the hills beyond the castle in a brilliant mantle of white. On the horizon, Aramoor’s giant green fir trees were dressed in coats of frost and topped with hats of ice. Below him Richius could see the castle garden and its frozen, dormant rosebushes, and past the place where the courtyard ended, stable hands were milling tracks in the snow and grooming the coats of warhorses. Richius sighed. He had not seen snow for almost two years, and the perfect picture through his window made the word home ring in his head like a church bell.

  Aramoor in late autumn. Home. He smiled and turned from the window just as a snowball clipped the back of his head. The sudden explosion of frost in his hair made him jump and he whirled around.

  ‘Patwin!’

  Far below, Patwin was doubled over with laughter, his guffaws echoing through the courtyard, catching the attention of the stable hands and workers. His face was purple with glee.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ he managed between chortles. ‘You moved.’

  Richius squirmed as the melting ice trickled under his nightshirt. ‘Idiot!’ he called back, more startled than angry. At least Patwin hadn’t packed the snowball too tightly.

  Patwin got unsteadily to his feet, little rivers of tears running down his face. ‘Sorry. I just wanted to frighten you, really. I didn’t even think I could reach!’

  ‘Well you can. And what are you doing back here anyway? I thought you were going riding with Jojustin.’

  ‘It’s almost noon, Richius. We just got back. Have you been sleeping all this time?’

  Richius nodded and looked up into the sky. Somewhere above him the sun was glowing dimly behind a shroud of clouds. He had guessed right about the time.

  ‘Well, come down for breakfast. Jenna’s fixing some eggs and honey bread for Jojustin and me.’ He winked up at Richius. ‘I’m sure she’ll make you some if you ask her nicely.’

  ‘Stop,’ Richius said, lowering his voice so no one else could hear. ‘I told you I’m not interested in her. Did you check the fences by the east ridge?’

  ‘They’re fine, except for some holes where wolves got through. Not big enough for the horses, though, don’t worry. Jojustin told some of the houseboys to see to the fences, and Terril said he’d keep a look out for the wolves. You coming down?’

  ‘Wolves? Maybe Terril should have some of the mastiffs with him.’

  Patwin’s expression filled with sympathy. ‘Don’t worry, Richius. They’re far away on the north acres, probably looking for food. You know the first snow makes them crazy. I’ll take some of the dogs over to Terril later if you like, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. What about breakfast? I’m starved.’

  ‘Let me get dressed and I’ll meet you downstairs. Start without me if you want.’

  ‘We’ll wait. Jojustin wants to talk to you, and Jenna won’t serve us if she thinks your food will get cold. Just try to hurry.’
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  ‘I will,’ said Richius and closed the window, shutting out the draft. The thought of breakfast hadn’t occurred to him until Patwin mentioned it, but now that it did it set his stomach rumbling. He had only picked at his suppers the last few nights, leaving Jojustin to think that a fever had caught hold of him. But Richius knew it wasn’t a fever that kept him from eating. What had suppressed his appetite was more like apathy. Since coming home, food no longer had the importance it did in the valley, and there were no more dreams or long talks of it. Yet this morning, perhaps through the intangible power of snow, his appetite had returned, and it pleased him.

  He hurriedly finished washing, and dressed himself in a finely tailored pair of trousers and a shirt. Jenna had made the shirt for him. She had said it would keep him warm on just such a morning and she’d been right, but as he put it on he began to dread the look of satisfaction she would give him when she noticed him wearing it. Everybody knew how Jenna felt about him, and it was becoming irritating. Worse, there was nothing he could do but endure it. Jenna was far too sweet to explain things to, and Richius guessed she would be mortified if he even tried. So he would wear the warm, well-made shirt and that would be the end of it. Unless Patwin started gibing him again.

  When he was done smoothing down the wrinkles on his pants, he slipped his feet into a stout pair of riding boots and went to the door, careful to check himself in the mirror one last time. Jojustin had been fussing like a mother over his appearance lately, and he didn’t want to give his steward any more reasons to worry. He would eat a hearty breakfast this morning, do his best to be cheerful, and put this talk of fevers and depressions away for good. Today there was important work to do.

  He followed the smell of honey and eggs down the twisting, granite staircase past the kitchen to the small dining chamber where he always took his meals, careful not to let Jenna see or hear him. The young woman, busily occupied with the pans and ovens, took no notice of him as he slipped past. In the dining chamber he found Patwin and Jojustin, both still dressed in their riding gear and sipping mugs of barley beer.