The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  When he awoke, many hours later, the sunlight had stopped pouring in from the garden window. Richius lifted himself groggily from the mattress, surprised by the heaviness of his head. He rubbed his eyes and strained to see in the dim chamber, remembering suddenly that there was a dinner waiting for him downstairs. Hungrily he patted his stomach, eager to fill it. He was growing curiously accustomed to the odd cuisine of Lucel-Lor, and the thought of it no longer sent his insides pitching. There was a mirror on the wall farthest from the bed. He went to it, running his hands through his hair and inspecting the red creases the mattress had made on his face. It was then that he noticed the clothing.

  While he slept, someone had deposited a new outfit in his chamber. It consisted of a plain white shirt and a pair of doeskin trousers, simple Triin clothes like those worn by farmers. He picked up the shirt and admired it. It was wonderfully clean, and his own shirt was soiled beyond recognition. The trousers were well-made, too, comfortable looking, with a drawstring front that made a belt unnecessary. Eagerly he stripped off his filthy clothes and pulled on the trousers, sucking in his breath while he did up the drawstrings. It was a reasonable fit, and the soft fabric felt marvelous against his skin. Then he grabbed the shirt and put it on, too, fastening each button slowly as he watched himself in the little mirror, laughing gleefully at his reflection. In the strange outfit he looked neither like a Naren or a Triin. Rather he seemed an odd mix of both. He decided the look suited him.

  Downstairs, the main hall of the castle was almost deserted. He skirted along its perimeter looking for Dyana and hoping Voris would not find him first. Outside he could see the sky darkening through the octagonal windows. Dyana should be waiting for him. He turned a corner and started down another corridor, empty except for a man and a woman he didn’t know, just beginning a passionate kiss. They both started at his appearance, and the man straightened in embarrassment as he recognized Richius. Richius smiled at him awkwardly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he offered. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  The warrior sort of shrugged. ‘Ja coca vin?’

  ‘Hmm, maybe. I don’t understand a word you’re saying. And you don’t understand me, either, do you? Never mind. I’ll find her myself.’

  He left the corridor quickly, going back the way he had come, trying to find the little staircase he had descended and deciding to wait there for Dyana. But when he slipped by a small door he stopped. Behind it he heard a tiny voice talking to itself. Curiously he cracked open the door and stuck his head into the chamber. A small girl sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a book by candlelight. Reading, to Richius’ great astonishment, in Naren. When she saw him she stopped and looked up, and he knew instantly that she wasn’t frightened.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked directly. The girl seemed amused by the question. She was barely ten years old, but the face she made was decidedly adult.

  ‘I live here,’ she answered. Then she looked him up and down and said, ‘You do not. You are an Empire man.’

  Richius grinned. Hearing his own language come from the lips of this waif was utterly fantastic.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, inching into the room. ‘I’m an Empire man. My name is Richius.’

  ‘You are Kalak,’ she said. ‘Father told me you were here.’

  Richius shook his head, trying to be gentle. ‘My name is Richius,’ he repeated. ‘Not Kalak. Who’s your father?’

  ‘Father is warlord,’ replied the girl.

  ‘Well, you can call me Richius, anyway,’ said Richius, unsure if he should even continue the conversation. But the girl had entranced him. ‘What’s your name?’

  The girl pointed to herself proudly. ‘I am Pris.’

  ‘Pris? Like the goddess?’

  ‘Yes. Father says I am beautiful like her. Strong like her, too. She is my patroness.’

  Richius squatted down beside her and pointed to the book in her hands. ‘You’re a very good reader,’ he said. ‘What is this book?’

  ‘Bhapo’s book,’ said Pris. ‘He gave it to me. I learn from it.’

  Bhapo, Richius knew, was a Triin term of affection. It usually meant an uncle or some male cousin. He peered into the open book lying in her lap, trying to read its upside-down print.

  ‘Who’s Bhapo?’

  ‘Bhapo Tharn,’ replied Pris. She looked at Richius excitedly. ‘You know Bhapo?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Richius. ‘He’s not my bhapo, but I know him. Did he give you this book?’

  Pris nodded. ‘To teach me.’

  ‘It’s a very nice book. Can I hold it?’

  Without hesitation Pris gave the book to Richius. ‘You read Empire words, too, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Richius, thumbing through the pages. It was a book of Naren poems, very old and probably very valuable. It was plain to see why the girl cherished it.

  ‘You read for me?’ asked Pris. ‘You read good?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I could read these poems as well as you, Pris,’ said Richius with a smile. ‘You have such a pretty voice. How did you learn to speak Naren? Did Tharn teach you?’

  ‘Bhapo teach me before big war,’ said Pris. ‘He gave me book before going away. He say I best student, learn fast.’

  Apparently, thought Richius. He skimmed the text of some of the poems, amazed that a child so young could comprehend such complex sentences. Even Naren children her age couldn’t read at her level. Obviously Tharn had seen some genius in her and had chosen to encourage it. And clearly Voris had been indulgent.

  ‘Your father doesn’t mind your reading about Nar?’

  ‘Father wanted me to learn, to be smart and strong like my patroness.’ Then the little girl’s face darkened. ‘But he made me stop for Tal.’

  Richius froze. ‘Tal, your brother,’ he whispered.

  Pris’ gray eyes lost their twinkle. ‘Father says you killed Tal. Blamed Empire men for Tal dying. Made me stop reading then. But I kept book. I still read and learn.’

  ‘Is that why you’re hiding in here?’ asked Richius. ‘So your father doesn’t see you?’

  ‘Father would be unhappy,’ said Pris. ‘I get no more books from Bhapo.’ She flashed a furtive smile. ‘But I learn anyway. You can help me. Read for me, yes?’

  Richius got up and closed the door, suddenly worried they would be discovered. ‘I’m sorry, Pris,’ he said to her gently. ‘I don’t think I should. Your father would be very angry with both of us if he knew.’

  ‘Just one,’ she implored. ‘You read one for me. Here, I show you.’

  She grabbed the book and rifled though the pages. When she found the poem she was looking for she handed the book back to him with a grin. Richius accepted the book regretfully and glanced at the poem. Predictably, it was a love poem, the type of old-fashioned verse that had become all too rare in militaristic Nar. Pris leaned back attentively, waiting for him to begin.

  ‘Pris, I can’t read this for you. I don’t want to get your father mad.’

  ‘I am not afraid of Father,’ replied Pris. ‘Are you?’

  ‘It has nothing to do with that. I’m just trying to respect his wishes, that’s all.’

  Pris clearly didn’t believe him. ‘Read for me,’ she said sweetly. ‘Please.’

  He was about to relent when he heard his name being called. Dyana’s voice held a distinct note of concern. Pris wrinkled her nose in disappointment. Richius went to the door and opened it. He saw Dyana down the hallway, searching for him, and he called her over with a wave.

  ‘Dyana, over here.’

  Dyana’s expression went from relief to puzzlement. ‘Richius, why are you hiding in there? I have been looking for you. It is time to see Voris.’

  ‘I’m not hiding,’ said Richius. ‘Come in. I want you to meet someone.’

  Dyana stepped inside and saw Pris sitting on the floor. The little girl smiled at her precociously. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ replied Dyana. She turned quickly to Richius. ‘Who is this?’


  ‘This is Voris’ daughter,’ said Richius. ‘Her name is Pris. Say something to her in Naren.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on,’ Richius urged. ‘Anything.’

  Dyana looked at Pris suspiciously, then said very softly, ‘Hello, Pris. My name is Dyana. How old are you?’

  ‘I am almost ten,’ replied Pris. ‘You are a pretty lady.’

  Richius laughed. ‘Isn’t that amazing? She speaks better than some Talistanians I know!’

  Dyana knelt down next to Pris and examined her, as if unsure she were truly Triin. ‘Remarkable,’ she whispered. The compliment made Pris sit up straight.

  ‘Are you Kalak’s woman?’ asked the girl.

  ‘No,’ said Dyana. There was a touch of sadness in her tone that Richius approved of. ‘I am not.’

  ‘She is your bhapo’s wife,’ explained Richius. ‘She’s here to help us. Dyana, isn’t she something? She learned Naren from Tharn, and from reading this book he gave her. It’s just a bunch of poems, but she picked it up.’

  ‘Here,’ said Pris to Dyana, patting the floor beside her. ‘You sit. Kalak is going to read for us.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Dyana. ‘How wonderful.’

  Richius flushed. ‘It’s just a poem she likes, Dyana. She wants me to read it for her.’ He looked at Pris. ‘And I never said I would.’

  ‘Please,’ begged Pris.

  ‘Yes,’ chimed Dyana. ‘Please, Richius. Read it for us.’

  Richius glanced down at the book. For some odd reason he wanted to read it for Pris, and now that Dyana was here he wanted to read it even more. They both watched him, and they were too compelling to refuse.

  ‘This poem doesn’t seem to have a title,’ he began haltingly, ‘so I’ll just start.’ He cleared his throat and waited for Pris and Dyana to settle down. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pris happily.

  But Richius had no sooner opened his mouth when a frantic cry erupted. A woman bolted into the chamber, startling them all. Pris jumped to her feet. The woman was screaming in pure panic. She rushed over to Pris and grabbed her, pulling her close and cradling her head against her legs. Her face lit with anger as she cowered in the corner of the room with the girl, speaking so quickly that her words ran together in a babbling, incoherent stream. Richius drew back.

  ‘Dyana, what the hell is this? Who is she?’

  ‘Shhh,’ ordered Dyana. ‘This is Najjir, Richius. Voris’ wife.’

  Pris was protesting through her mother’s skirt, but her mother didn’t hear. She continued berating Richius. Dyana stepped between them, trying to calm the woman. Richius still had the book in his hand. He stood there mute, unsure if he should stay or go, wanting to help and not knowing how.

  ‘Kalak!’ cursed the woman, spitting at Richius. ‘Kalak!’

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Richius, backing toward the door. ‘Tell her, Dyana.’

  ‘I think you should leave,’ said Dyana carefully. ‘Now.’

  ‘Dyana, I didn’t do anything wrong. Make her understand.’

  ‘Just go, Richius,’ said Dyana sharply. ‘I will explain it to her when she calms down.’

  ‘God damn it.’ Richius turned to leave and saw a shadow in the doorway. Voris was staring at him. His bald head was red with rage.

  ‘Nogiya asa?’ asked Voris hotly, looking at his hysterical wife. The woman pointed to Richius and said the hateful word.

  ‘Kalak!’

  Voris’ eyes bulged from their sockets. He stepped aside and gestured to the door. Obediently his wife departed, dragging Pris, who gave Richius an apologetic look before disappearing into the hall. Dyana hurried to defend Richius, firing off a flurry of explanations to the warlord. But Voris would hear none of it.

  ‘Kalak!’ he thundered, barely controlling himself. Richius guessed easily what was the matter.

  ‘Tell him I didn’t hurt her,’ he told Dyana calmly. ‘Tell him I only came in to talk to her.’

  Dyana tried to speak, her voice all but inaudible against the warlord’s bellows.

  Richius held up his hands, finally shouting, ‘Enough!’

  Voris stopped yelling. He scowled at Richius.

  ‘Enough,’ said Richius again. ‘Voris, listen to me. I didn’t do anything to your daughter. I never would.’ He held up Pris’ little book. ‘Here, this is all we were doing. Just reading some poems.’

  Voris snatched the book away from him, listening to Dyana’s translation of his explanation. The warlord waited until she was done, nodded, then looked directly at Richius and spoke.

  ‘He says that Pris is not to read this language,’ said Dyana. ‘He wants to know if she told you this.’

  ‘She told me,’ confessed Richius. ‘Tell him I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone against his wishes.’

  Voris took the apology badly.

  ‘That is not good enough,’ said Dyana, translating Voris’ furious words. ‘You are in my house now. You will follow my ways.’

  Richius nodded. ‘Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry.’

  Voris went on, his voice still shaking with ire. He paused and waited for Dyana to translate. Dyana did not.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Richius. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I am sorry, Richius, I do not understand him. He says you are to stay away from his children. If he sees you near them again he will kill you. He says that you will not take another of his children away.’ Dyana looked at Richius questioningly. ‘Do you know what that means?’

  Richius nodded gravely. ‘I do. Tell Voris he has nothing to worry about. I will stay away from his family. Tell him also that I’m sorry about Tal.’

  ‘Tal? Who is Tal?’

  ‘Just tell him.’

  Dyana did as he requested, passing on the cryptic message to Voris. The warlord scowled at Richius, the pain of his loss was clearly evident. When Voris spoke again there was a slight unevenness in his tone.

  ‘Voris says that he hates you, Richius,’ said Dyana, clearly confused by the exchange. ‘He does not know if he can do what Tharn asks of him.’

  ‘Tell him I understand. We must both do our best. I’ll do my best to prove myself to him. And I won’t go near his children again. Promise him that for me, Dyana.’

  Dyana made the promise. Voris simply nodded.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Richius. ‘And be careful how you tell him this. I don’t know if I had anything to do with Tal’s death, but if I could bring him back I would. Tell him that, Dyana.’

  ‘Richius, I do not understand any of this,’ said Dyana. ‘Who is Tal?’

  ‘Voris’ son. I’ll explain it to you later. Just tell him, Dyana. Please.’

  Reluctantly, Dyana agreed. They both watched Voris for a reaction, but his face never changed. Instead he glanced down at the book of poems in his hand, shaking his head ruefully.

  ‘Did you tell him?’ Richius whispered.

  Dyana nodded. ‘Everything.’

  But Voris seemed disinterested. He sighed wearily and stuck the little book in his sash. He did not look at Richius again, but spoke directly to Dyana only briefly before leaving the room. Dyana raised her eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘He still expects us for the meal,’ she said. ‘He wants us to hurry.’

  Richius didn’t answer. Dyana gently touched his arm.

  ‘Richius,’ she asked carefully. ‘Did you kill Voris’ son?’

  Richius shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘Is that what this was all about?’

  ‘He wants me to stay away from his children, and I don’t blame him. Go to dinner without me, will you? I’m really not very hungry anymore. I will see you in the morning. Maybe we can start my studies then.’

  Dyana’s voice was soft in the half-light. ‘I will have a servant bring some food to your chamber. Sleep well. We will be busy tomorrow.’

  ‘Good night, Dyana,’ he said, and left the chamber. Nearby, Voris’ voice echoed down the cavernous halls, and Richius quickly decided to
go in the opposite direction, toward the main gate. He stepped out into the cool spring evening, savoring the earthy fragrance of the air. To the west the sky was a peculiar purple, to the east a violent vermilion. The infant night was ripe with stars. Moonlight rested on the broken statues in the abandoned garden. In the trees, nocturnal hunters readied to take wing, rustling and preening for the night’s work. An illusory peace had settled on the valley like a blanket.

  Richius spied the watchtower, gazing up to its twisted peak so far above him. That was where the real peace was, he decided. The structure was connected to the rest of the castle, but it had its own entrance, a narrow slit cut into stone. There was a guard stationed there, a young man in the typical garb of a Dring warrior. He bowed to Richius as he approached.

  ‘I’m going up,’ said Richius. He pointed his index finger toward heaven. ‘Up. All right?’

  The guard nodded. ‘Doa trenum.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Richius, squeezing past him. ‘Whatever.’

  Inside, the watchtower seemed much smaller. Darkness soaked every corner, held at bay only by a single torch hanging defiantly against a wall. Except for the torch and the formidable staircase spiraling ever upward, the tower was empty. Richius grabbed the torch from the wall and began ascending. The stone risers were gritty beneath his feet, and his boots crunched on untold layers of filth as he mounted the steps, keeping his arm outstretched before him. The world had dropped away, and all he could hear was the scrape of his feet and his own labored breathing. Stale air filled his lungs, making him cough. Ahead of him, the stairs unfolded endlessly out of the blackness. He thought to turn around, go back down and forget the peace he might find at the pinnacle, but he was sure he was closer to the top now than he was to the bottom so he continued his climb, hoping each step would be the last. Finally he saw the end of the staircase, bathed in the unmistakable glow of moonlight.

  ‘Thank God,’ he said, and the sound of his voice startled him.

  He heard other voices in the dark, then stepped up into the pinnacle of the tower, into a chamber surrounded by glass and awash in the pale light of heaven. Two more red-robed warriors were inside, staring out through the glass in boredom and talking between themselves. They started when they noticed Richius.