The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  ‘I can’t leave now, Dyana. I can’t. They’re depending on me. They need me. Please. Go back to the castle and wait for me there. Have one of the warriors ride with you. I have to think of a way to stop the launchers.’

  ‘And what if you cannot?’

  ‘Then the perimeter falls and I’ll join you back at the castle. Now go, Dyana. Hurry.’

  It seemed forever before she relented, her lips brushing his lightly in an unexpected kiss. ‘Be safe,’ she said.

  He let her hands slip away. ‘I will.’

  She left him, and as he watched her go Richius heard a commotion behind him. In the trench men were shouting, taunting their Naren adversaries to advance. Very deliberately, Richius undid the clasp of his scabbard. He drew Jessicane slowly as he turned toward the trench. Flame cannons erupted ahead of him. He saw smoke and fire, smelled the cooked flesh.

  Voris helped him into the ditch. In front of them a wooden shield trembled with the impact of cannon fire. The warlord ignored it.

  ‘Nobata acana toss, Kalak,’ he said proudly.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re saying,’ said Richius, ‘but if you’ll have me I’m here to fight with you.’

  Voris laughed. ‘Kalak es Cha Yulan,’ he declared, pointing between the two of them. There was more incredulous laughing. ‘Kalak es Cha Yulan!’

  Richius beamed. ‘The Jackal and the Wolf!’ he said. ‘Yes, I understand.’

  And for the first time Richius could recall, the Wolf of the Dring Valley smiled at him. Not a sinister smile, but a warm, genuine one. Together they climbed onto the narrow planks lining the inside of the trench and looked out over the battlefield. Every muscle in his back raged but Richius put the pain out of his mind, holding Jessicane out before him as he watched the flames sizzle and explode against the shields. Across the field he saw the infantry charging toward them, free at last of the wolves. Only a few greegans still pulled war wagons, and these were mostly far away, while behind them all, waiting for their chance to run the defenders underfoot, were the horsemen of Talistan, their grotesque demon masks shining in the sun.

  Voris was shouting at his warriors, ordering them to continue shooting. The infantry was so close now that the Triin arrows had little trouble penetrating their leather gorgets. Wave after wave of soldiers rushed forward, swinging their weapons and screaming wildly. Two acid launchers popped in the distance, sending cannisters into the trees beyond the trench, while Triin bowmen stood recklessly on the catwalks, daring the acid to reach them as they picked off the attackers.

  Yet despite their efforts, Richius knew it would all be over soon. Without the wolves there was no way to stop the war wagons, and the shields that had withstood so much punishment were starting to shudder under the cannon fire. Soon they would collapse, leaving them defenseless. From the trench they might be able to withstand the infantry indefinitely, but the cannons and launchers would ruin them. He searched for an idea, a way of slowing the handful of greegans still slogging toward them. Arrows certainly couldn’t do it. Most of the monsters already looked like pincushions. They needed another option, and they didn’t have one.

  ‘Damn,’ he spat bitterly. ‘It’s over.’

  Voris seemed to understand him. He called over to Jarra, who immediately passed the order to retreat. Warriors began pouring out of the trench, while in the trees their comrades covered their escape, focusing their fire on the nearest infantrymen, who were now only yards from the barricade of sharpened spears. Jarra herded the men out of the ditch, funneling them into the narrow path leading to the woods. And as they moved they dropped their bows to the ground and held out jiiktars. It was time to take the fight to the forest.

  ‘Come on, Voris,’ urged Richius. ‘We have to get out of here.’

  Voris shook his head, gesturing toward his men. Clearly he was determined to leave last. The shields were buckling as the force on them increased. Already a seam was opening in the log wall nearest them, letting through lashing tongues of flame. Close by, another shield was engulfed in flame, sending up a torrent of gray smoke. The periodic thump of acid launchers grew ever louder. Richius peered out across the field, blocking his eyes from the glow of burning kerosene. The soldiers were fighting their way through the barricade, slowly squeezing past the spears and spikes as the barrage of arrows pressed down on them. Bodies littered the battlefield, corpses with throats torn open and heads blasted away, and wounded greegans moaned in distress as they pulled themselves aimlessly through the tangle of ropes, their legs gnawed to tatters by the wolves, who now lay in mangled heaps about the perimeter. It was a nightmare of carnage. Richius started to look away, but saw instead a green and gold standard waving through the haze.

  Baron Blackwood Gayle sat imperiously atop his black charger, flanked by his standard bearer and a man with a peculiar, feathered hat. He was unmistakable in his silver mask and long, braided ponytail. Behind him waited his cavalry and infantry. Patiently the baron surveyed the field, waiting for the barricade to come down before ordering his own men to charge. Even from such a distance Richius could discern the arrogant smile splashed across his disfigured face.

  ‘Gayle,’ Richius whispered, climbing back onto the narrow deck. He moved as if possessed. He barely flinched as flames shot by, and all the agony of his burnt skin was gone, submerged by a consuming hate. Voris was yelling at him, beckoning him down, but he ignored the warlord’s order. Like a bare-chested savage he hoisted Jessicane over his head and howled across the battlefield.

  ‘Gayle, you whoreson, I’m here!’

  Soldiers tumbled through the barricade. Acid cannisters whizzed overhead, drizzling poison. Richius twisted to avoid the deadly spray. Behind him, he heard Voris calling.

  ‘It’s me!’ he cried. ‘Kalak!’

  Off in the distance, Blackwood Gayle’s head tilted. The bright mask turned curiously to the trench. Richius lifted Jessicane higher.

  ‘Kalak!’ he shouted again. ‘Look here, you bastard! It’s me!’

  Gayle’s body seemed to twitch. He sat up in his saddle, then suddenly put his fist in the air and shook it.

  ‘Yes,’ cried Richius madly. ‘You see me.’ He waved his sword like a flag, yelling his Triin nickname over and over. Gayle flicked his reins and started charging. Richius let out a triumphant howl.

  Without thinking he crawled out of the trench, into the space between the ditch and the barricade. Gayle was covering the distance with incredible speed. Richius staggered to his feet. Ten yards away he could see the snarling, shocked faces of the legionnaires, hacking their way through the barricade as they struggled to reach him. A flame cannon leveled a shot, destroying a section of a wall behind him. Incensed, he held out Jessicane and cursed.

  ‘Come to me, you clumsy murderer!’

  ‘Kalak!’ came an insistent voice from behind. Richius turned to see Voris slogging toward him. The warlord stretched out both of his hands and took hold of Richius’ arm.

  ‘No!’ Richius barked, twisting out of Voris’ grasp. ‘Leave me be. It’s Gayle!’

  Voris roared something and wrested Richius’ sword away. Enraged, Richius tried to reclaim it, but Voris struck him hard across the face. The world blurred. Voris wrapped an arm around Richius’ waist and started dragging him backward. The pain of the embrace was unspeakable.

  ‘No,’ he moaned. ‘You don’t understand. It’s Gayle, it’s Gayle.’

  Through the gauzy smoke he caught sight of Gayle still charging the barricade. The soldiers broke through. Shouts rose in his ears. Then he was in the trench again, still being dragged by Voris. The warlord was calling for help. Richius could hear the man’s labored breathing. Seconds later, dozens of white hands were on him, pulling him away.

  ‘No,’ he said again. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing . . .’

  Then the skin of his back ruptured with a pain as hot as fire, and the world blackened. And as he faded out he heard Voris’ angry voice, cursing him.

  Thirty-nine

>   When the harsh mountains of Tatterak had faded away and the terrain had flattened into yellow savanna, Tharn knew they were approaching Chandakkar.

  It had been a sickening journey, one that had depleted him, and he was glad their trek was nearly over. He could smell it. Like a hunter, he could taste the change in the air. Chandakkar wasn’t rugged like Tatterak or lush like Dring. And it wasn’t hot like the Fire Steppes, or cold like Ishia’s mountain. It was simply Chandakkar, the separate and defiant land of Karlaz. Here, among the grasses, there was nothing familiar to give them comfort. For two days now the land had been sloping gradually downward. They were in a valley now, a vast plain overrun with tall, amber plants that bent like wheat in the wind. Without really knowing why, they had all slipped into a contemplative silence.

  Tharn took a small sip from a waterskin and leaned back in the carriage. Unable to steer the horses himself, he always rode in the back while his cunning-men took turns driving. It was a warm day, sticky and close, and his boils itched madly. So far, water hadn’t been a concern, but they conserved it anyway. They had no maps to follow, no idea of what lay ahead. A desert, perhaps, and that meant water would very quickly become precious. So Tharn capped his skin after the tiniest sip, burying it under his seat to keep it cool. Their conveyance had a canvas top that could be pulled overhead and shield them from the sun, but Tharn didn’t like the feeling of confinement. He wanted to see Chandakkar, to experience it like he had Nar.

  Besides, watching their surroundings was all any of them could do. Tharn had brought three young men with them, all full of youthful vigor, and all cunning-men devoted to his Drol ideals. But they were equally devoted to Tharn himself, and knew that their master appreciated silence. So they spoke only rarely, and let their leader linger in the back of the carriage.

  Tharn appreciated every moment of the silence. For now at least, he was no one again, without the pressures of Falindar or war. With the easy slipping of day into night, it seemed that none of his torments existed, and that Nar was only a nightmare. Surprisingly, he thought little of his mission. Karlaz would help them, or he would not. The logic of it put Tharn at ease. He felt powerless, an innocent at the mercy of fate, and the simplicity of it was wonderful. He was enjoying something he had not known since his boyhood – peace.

  Only the memory of Dyana made him restless. He ached for her, more now than he ever had before. Part of him regretted the night he had spent with her. It had been so sublime, like heaven but better, he was sure. She had treated him as a man, had seen past his monstrousness, and had set his skin on fire with her touch. It had crushed him to leave her.

  And of course, he thought of Richius.

  She was starry-eyed for him; he had always known it. When she carried Shani she had cried for him, for the absent father of the thing growing inside her. He had thought it would pass, that it was only the natural yearning a woman has for any man who has impregnated her. In time, he had hoped, she would forget Richius and see him as the child’s father. But now Richius was in Lucel-Lor. There could be no stopping the fire between them. Tharn sank down a little in the carriage. It had been pity that had made her lie with him, he knew that. He looked at himself, studying his malformed body in the sunlight and hating it. Richius was nothing like him. The Naren was perfect – except for being Naren, but Dyana had never minded that. She was still the heretic she had always been, enamored with the Empire and its astute barbarians. And Richius was a young man, with all the normal hungers. He could satisfy her. The thought tightened Tharn’s jaw. He didn’t hate Richius, or at least he didn’t want to. He had used him horribly, though, and he wondered now as he watched the clouds overhead if there hadn’t been some vengeance in his design.

  I am not evil, Tharn decided. But I have done evil things. Lorris, help me. Help me with my rage.

  As he had been for months, Tharn’s divine patron was silent. The Drol kept his eyes closed, considering the question himself. Voris would kill Richius if he moved against Dyana. He had not ordered it, but he had not had to. It was the way of things between Tharn and the warlord, part of their alliance. Was that evil? Was the murder of Edgard evil? It was all blood for a cause, but sometimes that answer didn’t satisfy Tharn. Lorris was a mystery to him now. Once he had been sure of his god’s desires, so sure he had slaughtered hundreds with his gift. And the act had earned him his wretched body. Sometimes, when he was alone and most in pain, he blamed Lorris, not only for his agony but also for his loneliness. If he were a man and whole like Richius, he might have Dyana for himself.

  But it was impossible. She could never love him, and that knowledge broke his heart. He took a deep breath of the clean air and expelled it in a loud sigh. Nagrah, one of the priests he was traveling with, rolled over from his nap and looked at him.

  ‘Master?’ said the younger man. ‘Are you all right?’

  Nagrah was barely twenty, a devotee from a good Drol family. Tharn liked him. Usually, he appreciated the young man’s concern. But not now.

  ‘Fine,’ he snapped, sure he sounded unconvincing.

  Nagrah frowned. Tharn was never short with any of them. ‘Your pardon, Master, but you are not fine. You have been silent all day. What is it? Are you ill?’

  ‘Look at me,’ said Tharn. ‘Of course I am ill.’ But then he softened, saying, ‘I am really fine. I am just . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Thinking.’

  ‘Of Chandakkar?’ asked Nagrah excitedly. Like the others, Nagrah had eagerly accepted Tharn’s request to go to Karlaz. He was a priest, barely, but he had a boy’s adventurous spirit. Tharn smiled at him.

  ‘No, not Chandakkar. Something far less important. Do not concern yourself.’

  Nagrah gestured to the openness around them. ‘We have all day, Master. Maybe many days. Why not talk?’

  ‘Because I am not in the mood. Now be quiet; let me rest.’

  Nagrah looked hurt, but didn’t press his master. He simply averted his eyes, letting them linger on the beautiful grassland and pretending he was unaffected by the rebuff. Tharn regretted his harshness. They were all good young men. And strong. He had picked them because of their vigor. But they were curious, and curiosity, he had learned early on, shouldn’t be snuffed out. His own father had made that mistake.

  ‘All right,’ he said, straightening painfully. ‘Let us talk.’ With his cane he banged on the bench seat in front of him. Raig and Vorn, Nagrah’s Drol brothers, both turned around. Raig had the reins in his hands. ‘You two, listen to me,’ started Tharn. ‘Young Nagrah wants to talk. And I have things on my mind. Let us exercise our brains a little.’

  ‘Master?’ asked Vorn incredulously. Tharn never addressed them so casually. Vorn seemed both pleased and shocked.

  ‘Talk,’ said Tharn. ‘You know what that is, do you not? Our lives need not be all prayers, you know.’

  ‘I know, Master,’ replied Vorn. ‘I pray and I talk.’

  ‘Good. Then talk to me. I have a question. Nagrah, listen closely.’

  Tharn sat back against the shallow boards and made himself as comfortable as he could. Nagrah and Vorn leaned in closer, keen to hear their master’s question. Raig had turned his eyes back to the road ahead, but he cocked his head to listen.

  ‘I have been wondering something,’ Tharn went on. ‘About cruelty. I am wondering where it comes from.’

  The young men puzzled over the question, not really understanding it. Tharn watched with amusement as Nagrah tried to hurry an answer. The aloof Raig beat him to it.

  ‘Evil,’ Raig pronounced confidently. ‘Cruelty comes from evil.’

  ‘Evil,’ Tharn echoed, considering it. ‘Hmm, maybe. Like the Narens, Raig?’

  ‘Yes. The Narens are evil. It makes them cruel. Only evil men could do what was done at Ackle-Nye.’

  ‘Is this a game, Master?’ inquired Vorn. He had a suspicious bent that reminded Tharn of himself.

  ‘No, not a game,’ said Tharn. ‘Oh, you three think I have all the answers, but I do not. I wonder th
ings, too. Sometimes it helps me to philosophize.’ He poked Nagrah with his cane. ‘Well? What do you say?’

  ‘I think Raig is right,’ said Nagrah. ‘Evil makes men cruel. Why are you wondering this, Master?’

  ‘I ask the questions. What about the warlords? Are they cruel?’

  ‘No,’ replied Raig over his shoulder. ‘They are warriors.’

  Tharn’s smile was precocious. ‘When Delgar fought Praxtin-Tar at Reen, he buried fifty captured warriors up to their necks on the shore and waited for the tide to come in. Before they drowned the crabs and gulls ate out their eyes. Does that qualify as cruelty to you, Raig?’

  It took a long time for Raig to answer, and Tharn watched as his pupil bristled. ‘Yes, I suppose,’ agreed Raig finally. ‘Maybe Delgar is evil.’

  ‘Delgar is helping us now. He’s fighting with us against the Narens. Does that make us evil?’

  ‘Master, what is this about?’ asked Nagrah. ‘I do not understand. We are not evil.’

  ‘Hush, boy. I never said we were. Raig, tell me. Is Delgar evil, or are you wrong about the cause of cruelty?’

  Raig shrugged. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘I think Raig is wrong,’ said Vorn. ‘Delgar is cruel. Shohar, too. But they are not evil.’

  ‘No,’ said Tharn. ‘I agree with you. They are honorable men, both of them. Brutal, perhaps, but honorable. As are we all.’ He looked straight at Nagrah. The young man looked back, clearly troubled. ‘Right, Nagrah?’

  Nagrah could only shrug, and for a moment their minds met. Nagrah knew Tharn was troubled. That was why he had forced him to talk when Tharn was content with silence. The Drol master thought about his question, and how he had been cruel to Richius and Edgard, and how he had kicked the Daegog’s teeth across the throne room. Even Dyana had suffered his cruelty. But Tharn never once considered himself evil. Something else had moved him to such madness. With their eyes still locked, Tharn addressed Nagrah softly.

  ‘Nagrah? Why are men cruel?’

  Nagrah’s expression was heartbreaking. ‘Men are cruel when they are weak, Master. Men are cruel when they have desires and are frustrated.’