The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  ‘We are doomed!’ insisted Richius. ‘Doomed to hell. What does Tharn expect me to do? Build him a navy? Start some war labs so he can make flame cannons? The only reason we lasted so long in the Dring Valley was because we had Naren weapons to hold back Voris’ warriors. Now imagine thousands of Naren troops all armed with those same weapons. What kind of chance do you think these people would have? That’s what your husband is up against, Dyana. It’s hopeless.’

  ‘It is not hopeless,’ countered Dyana desperately. ‘This is a big land, Richius. It has many, many people to defend it. Even your emperor cannot kill them all.’

  ‘Couldn’t he?’

  ‘There are still reasons to fight. I cannot believe you would give up so easily. You came all the way here just for me, and now you will not give Tharn or Lucyler just a little help? You are not the same person, Richius.’

  ‘That surprises you? I’ve lost everything I was fighting for: my country, my friends, everything. This is not my war anymore.’

  ‘There’s nothing for you here to fight for?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But Aramoor had things you cared about?’

  ‘Of course. My father for one thing, and my uncles. They were my family.’

  Dyana smiled at him, and watched the color drain from his face. She reached into his arms and pulled away Shani, who gave a petulant cry at leaving her father. Then she rose and turned to go, saying but one word over her shoulder as she left.

  ‘Kafife.’

  Thirty-two

  The siege of Ackle-Nye lasted barely a day. When it was over, best estimates put the number of Triin casualties at over three thousand. Naren deaths totaled less than fifty.

  Ackle-Nye, the city of beggars, fell to an overwhelming force that poured out of the Iron Mountains and did not stop the slaughter until everything alive was dead. It was a meaningless victory, for everyone in the imperial ranks expected to annihilate their foes, but the shockwave it sent rippling through Lucel-Lor galvanized the Triin. They had not thought the blow would come so soon, or that it would be delivered with such deliberate hate. They could not imagine that the walls of a city could be pulled down so quickly, or that the nozzle of a flame cannon could be aimed at a child. In the deserted territories surrounding Ackle-Nye, travelers claimed that the city’s fires and choking plumes of smoke could be seen for miles, and on that night when Ackle-Nye crumbled and lit the sky like another setting sun, the city of beggars earned a different name – the burning city.

  Nar had begun its war of terror. In the great tradition of Arkus and his lineage, they started by eradicating the starved and desperate, those Triin refugees that had flooded Ackle-Nye in the closing days of the war in the hope of scratching out a life. Nar had come with its armored horses and spiked machines, lumbering into the city at dawn with their flame cannons glowing. They were fueled and armed for a long fight, and they had come prepared to slaughter. The war wagons rolled in first, nightmarish vehicles of iron pulled by primeval, horned monsters and armed with a single long-range flame cannon poised perilously on their roofs. Capable of pumping a stream of burning kerosene two hundred feet or more, the war wagons were the pride of Nar’s arsenal. They were the heralds of Ackle-Nye’s destruction, and painted on their sides in bold Triin lettering was the genocidal message ‘After today, there will be no more of you.’

  And so it was as the dark message predicted. Three thousand Triin were dead by twilight, burned or hanged or mutilated, their corpses left in gigantic piles outside the smoldering city as food for rats and carrion birds. Not a single child was spared, not a single woman was taken into slavery. All were killed, for this was Arkus’ warning to all Triin – that no mercy would be found. The old, wicked glory of Nar burned bright and terrible that night. And at the forefront of his legions was a man with a silver mask and half a face, a giant whose standard was a charging horse and whose voice boomed like thunder as he cried out for his nemesis the Jackal. Those who saw him thought him a resplendent demon in his armor of green and gold. Those who knew him thought even worse.

  This was the story of Ackle-Nye’s fall, or at least a reasonable telling of it. By the time the tale reached Falindar, no one in the citadel knew for certain how accurate it was. They only knew what Richius told them: that Nar was easily capable of such an atrocity.

  Richius himself had not been shocked by the news of Ackle-Nye’s fall. He had expected it to be fast and brutal. What he had not expected was to hear from Blackwood Gayle so soon. The baron of Talistan was wasting no time in finding him. He was Arkus’ favorite again, with all the resources of Nar at his disposal, and he was using them to raze Lucel-Lor in search of one man. Richius had no illusions about the baron’s agenda. To be sure, Gayle wanted vengeance on Tharn, but he wanted the Jackal more.

  And perhaps it was this more than anything else that convinced Richius to help Tharn. He told himself it was for the sake of Dyana and the baby, but he knew a more sinister reason lurked in his heart. Blackwood Gayle was coming for him. He no longer had to plot a furtive mission into Talistan to find him. He wanted to run a blade along the baron’s throat, and he didn’t care if he was caught doing it. It was as if he had sworn one of those serious Triin oaths, that he would exact his revenge at any cost, even his own life – which, despite Dyana’s kind words to the contrary, had become meaningless. Dyana and Shani would live or die without him, but the death of Blackwood Gayle was an irresistible temptation. He craved it.

  When word of Ackle-Nye’s destruction reached Falindar, Tharn disappeared into his chambers to grieve. He did not emerge again until the warlords of Lucel-Lor began arriving at the citadel. Boawa of Sheaze was first. The River Snake, as he was fondly dubbed, arrived with an entourage of leather-clad warriors and a gift of steel for the master of Falindar, a gleaming jiiktar forged by a master smith and engraved with runes that read ‘Death to Nar.’ Because he had arrived before any others, he was favored with one of the citadel’s largest rooms, and in the manner befitting a warlord he quickly declined the ostentatious chamber so that he might stay with his men.

  Soon after Boawa others began arriving. Almost every day saw another proud caravan entering the citadel. There was Delgar of Miradon and Praxtin-Tar of Reen, who traveled to Tatterak together despite their former rivalry. From the mountain keep of Kes came Lord Ishia, and out of the dreary eastlands came Shohar, dragging behind him his own tribute to Tharn, a collection of Naren skulls he had gathered in his first war against the Empire. There were over one hundred of the gruesome trophies, each one lovingly polished to an ivory sheen.

  Others came with less remarkable gifts, gold and weapons and wives, all of which Tharn accepted gracefully, though he freed the women to become house servants and handed the weapons out to Kronin’s warriors. He greeted each warlord with measured respect, never thanking them too profusely nor honoring them with too deep a bow. And each warlord he met returned his aloofness with profound regard, displaying their belief that he was touched by heaven and that he alone could deliver them.

  The last to come was Gavros of Garl, and upon his arrival Tharn ordered the war council to begin. Preparations were made on the greens, for it was explained to Richius that the council must be held out of doors, where the gods of the sky could look down upon them and shroud them in protective moonlight. There were torches erected on the slopes and tables set with foods and wine and offerings of leopard teeth and snake venom. Braziers of incensed coal were readied so that their scented smoke could rise to heaven and awake the sleeping deities of the air, and wells were dug around the tables so that blessed water from the ocean could be brought nearer and ensure that the immortal lords of the sea would have a place to rest and hear the prayers of the faithful.

  For Lorris and Pris, patrons of this Drol ritual, a very special wreath was laid on the center table. Woven from wildflowers and thorny vines, it was as large as a wagon wheel and its circular shape was meant to symbolize the unending devotion shared by the sibling gods. Go
lden candles were set along the ring, and were to be lit one by one by each of the gathered warlords. Richius watched the preparations in fascination, and while he watched and asked naive questions, he waited for Voris the Wolf. He waited until nightfall, when the ceremonial torches on the greens were lit and the moonlight played down on the gathered faces. But the Wolf never came.

  ‘Will he be here, do you think?’ Richius asked Lucyler. They were seated beside each other on a blanket spread out on the ground near one of the short-legged tables. The other warlords were starting to gather, waiting for Tharn to arrive. The war council would begin when the cunning-man lit the candle in the center of the wreath. Already the braziers were smoking, sending up their mystical signals. Lucyler caressed his jiiktar nervously, polishing its twin blades with a cloth so that both were unblemished. So enamored was he with his reflection in the steel that he hardly glanced at Richius.

  ‘Tharn seems to think so,’ he said without moving.

  Richius looked around. The odd Boawa had just arrived with his train of warriors, and was kneeling in prayer before the wreath on the center table. Shohar and Ishia were already here, as were most of the others, but Voris was conspicuously absent. So too was Kronin, a coincidence that Richius found immediately disheartening.

  ‘He should have been here by now,’ said Richius anxiously. ‘The Dring Valley’s not that far away. And where’s Kronin? Shouldn’t he be here?’

  The mention of Tatterak’s warlord caught Lucyler’s attention. He finally raised his head and surveyed the assembly of armed warriors, clearly puzzled by Kronin’s absence.

  ‘Perhaps he is with Tharn,’ he offered.

  ‘Maybe,’ mused Richius. He was growing more uncomfortable by the moment, doing his best to ignore the astounded stares of the warlords. He watched Boawa and his men kiss their jiiktars as they finished their prayers, seating themselves near the center table. The warlord’s expression did a particularly comic twist when he sighted Richius. Richius looked away.

  ‘I wish he’d hurry. These warlords make me nervous.’

  ‘Be calm,’ said Lucyler. ‘Nothing is going to happen to you.’

  ‘Do you think Tharn will want me to speak?’

  ‘That is why you are here. Tharn wants the warlords to know what we are facing. Nobody knows better than you, Richius. Do not be afraid. Just tell me what you want to say, and I will translate. If they have any questions, answer them directly. Do not look away from them. You would appear weak.’

  Richius groaned. He had just done a fine job of appearing weak to Boawa. He looked again at the warlord, trying to make eye contact. The man from Sheaze ignored him.

  ‘Are these all the warlords of Lucel-Lor?’ he asked.

  ‘Just about. Except for Voris and Kronin. And Karlaz, of course.’

  ‘Who’s Karlaz?’

  ‘From Chandakkar,’ said Lucyler. ‘The leader of the lion riders. He is not a warlord really, just a clan head. Tharn sent a messenger to him, asking him to come here. The messenger was sent away.’ Lucyler snorted. ‘Tharn should never have bothered.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Richius. ‘Those lions could be useful against Gayle’s horsemen.’

  ‘Richius, it would not matter if Tharn got down on his knees and begged them to come.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because they want to be left alone. When the Daegog asked them for help against Tharn, they ignored him. Now they are ignoring Tharn. They are a selfish lot that have no loyalties to anyone but themselves.’

  Richius merely nodded, remembering his violent clash with the lion rider in Dandazar. He had been such a fierce man, almost paranoid. It was easy to understand why Lucyler disliked them.

  ‘If they’re so bad why did Tharn want them here?’ he asked.

  ‘Because he wants all of Lucel-Lor united. That’s why he has called this council, to ensure the loyalty of all the warlords and to organize our defense.’

  ‘He’ll need their loyalty to even have a chance of stopping Arkus this time,’ said Richius. ‘I told you he would use everything he has. He’s already sent in the war wagons.’

  Lucyler sighed. ‘War wagons. Even their name is terrible. What did you say those creatures are called?’

  ‘Greegans,’ said Richius. ‘They come from the north of the Empire, near Gorkney. They’re raised from birth to pull those wagons.’

  ‘Tharn says they are almost unstoppable. Is that true?’

  Richius shrugged. Despite what they all thought of him, he was hardly an expert on Naren armaments. ‘That’s what I’ve heard. I’ve only seen them once, when I was in Nar City.’ He glanced around at all the jiiktars, wondering how many blows it would take to crack the armored hide of a greegan. ‘They don’t actually fight, they just pull the wagons. The flame cannon does the damage.’

  ‘Another miserable weapon,’ Lucyler said, examining his jiiktar. ‘Not a weapon for a real man.’

  ‘No? You liked them well enough in Dring.’

  ‘That was different,’ said Lucyler slyly. ‘We had them. Voris did not.’

  They both laughed, then fell quickly silent as a shadow passed over them. The figure of a bare-chested man was blocking out the moonlight. He walked past them toward the other warlords, a trio of similarly naked warriors trailing close behind him. On each of their pale backs was carved an identical tattoo, a ferocious bird of prey with outstretched wings. They were all bald except for a long, white ponytail sprouting from the back of their heads. Each wore leather armbands around both biceps, and the tallest one, the one who had cast the massive shadow, also wore a studded belt of well-worn buckskin. Their muscled bodies glowed in the flickering orange torchlight, making them seem more like spectres than men.

  ‘Who is that?’ Richius asked. He had never seen a more savagelooking Triin in his life.

  ‘Nang,’ Lucyler whispered. ‘Warlord of the Fire Steppes.’

  Nang was like something from another time, a thick-skulled primate with the eyes of a cat and a serpent’s sharpened teeth. He knelt down before the center wreath, bowing his head to the dirt then lifting it with a piercing cry. He sang his monstrous prayer until all the breath was gone from him, and when he was done he undid a tiny bag from his belt and tossed it onto the table.

  ‘Another gift?’ Richius asked. Lucyler shook his head.

  ‘Not a gift. A spirit bag. Nang’s people believe the soul of an enemy can be captured in such a thing. The bag holds herbs and stones meant to imprison evil. Nang is giving it to Tharn so that he may capture the soul of his enemy.’

  ‘Who would that be?’ asked Richius.

  Lucyler grinned at him. ‘Do you think your emperor has a soul to capture, my friend?’

  ‘I don’t know. But if he does, that bag’s just about the right size.’

  There was an easiness to their banter reminiscent of other times, and Richius was glad to be with Lucyler again. Perhaps it was because he was the only friend left to him in the world, or perhaps it was because they were at war again, and war forces men together. Either way, Richius didn’t care. Lucyler was himself again, open and honest. Now when he spoke, Richius believed him.

  A group of robed cunning-men stepped onto the torchlit green, their heads bowed in silent contemplation. They walked past the gathered warlords, sitting cross-legged on the blanketed ground beside the center table. The table was almost full now. Only space for two more remained. Tharn was one of them, of course. The other, Richius presumed, was Voris.

  Or Kronin, he thought with sudden alarm. He glanced around the assembly again, but the painted warlord was nowhere to be seen. Lucyler gestured to the cunning-men.

  ‘Almost time,’ he whispered. ‘Tharn will be coming soon.’

  Richius suppressed a nervous flutter at the thought of addressing the warlords. He hoped Kronin would arrive soon. At least his would be a friendly face. Lucyler followed the lead of the other warriors, placing his jiiktar on the ground beside him. A soft breeze stirred the torches and th
e water of the wells. The conversations were politely muted. None of the foods or wine had been touched yet. Richius reminded himself that none of them had come here to eat.

  ‘I will be glad when this is over,’ he said quietly, ‘and all these warlords go back home.’ He sighed and tried to relax, folding his arms over his chest. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed something white approaching slowly. It walked up beside him and stopped. Richius turned to look at it.

  A dog? The animal stared back at him, its tongue drooping lazily from its mouth, and sat itself down on its haunches. For the smallest of moments Richius puzzled over it, until he realized that the beast was not a dog at all but a snow-white, smiling wolf.

  ‘God!’ he exclaimed, rearing back from the animal. ‘Lucyler, look at –’

  From somewhere behind him a giant hand grabbed Richius’ collar, lifting him off the ground. He sputtered, fighting the iron grip and turning to stare into an enraged white face. He knew at once who it was. Voris stared back at him, his bared teeth menacing. He released Richius’ collar, taking him instead by the lapels and shaking him with wrathful exuberance.

  ‘Kalak!’

  Richius panicked. He kicked at the warlord’s legs, landing one powerful blow on his shin before being tossed bodily backward. He landed hard on one of the tables, saw the decanters of wine and platters of food explode into the air. A sharp pain ricocheted through his body and the breath shot from his lungs. He tried to right himself. Lucyler’s panicked shouts mingled with the sudden growling of the wolf. Richius scrambled. Wine covered his face, dripping into his eyes as he rolled over onto his stomach. Voris’ pointed boot thundered into his rib cage. He bellowed in pain, reaching desperately for the only weapon he could find, a sturdy metal decanter sprawled over on the broken table. He grabbed it, sprung to his feet, and swung.

  Amazingly, it caught Voris in mid-lunge, crashing against his bald pate with a peculiar, bell-like ring. Voris howled and stumbled backward. Richius staggered to his feet. All around them astonished warlords were staring, their jaws slung open in amazement. The wolf watched also, its muzzle lowered and a baneful growl rumbling from its throat. Lucyler had his jiiktar in his hand. He was dashing toward Voris and crying out a warning.