The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  ‘No,’ said Tharn bitterly. ‘It could not get much worse, could it? But where is Karlaz now? Where are the others? Get them, Nagrah. Bring them here. We have to talk.’

  ‘You have to rest, Master. Much has happened you don’t know about. I will explain it all to you, but not now. When you are stronger . . .’

  ‘There is no time,’ Tharn argued. ‘Karlaz is here. We must hurry. The Run . . .’

  ‘I have already told him about the Run, Master. He knows why we are here. He has been waiting for you to awaken to talk with you about it.’

  ‘Will he help us?’

  ‘Master, he will not talk to me. Only you.’

  ‘Then bring him here,’ Tharn demanded. Again he tried to prop himself up. ‘Damn it, boy, stop wasting time. How long have I been here, anyway?’

  Nagrah grimaced. ‘Three days.’

  Tharn’s one eye blinked in disbelief. ‘I have been sleeping for three days?’

  ‘Mostly sleeping. Some dreams. Are you hungry?’

  Tharn realized he was famished. ‘Yes. And thirsty.’

  ‘I will bring you food,’ said Nagrah, getting up to leave.

  ‘Bring me Karlaz!’

  ‘I will tell the others you are awake, Master. If Karlaz can come, he will.’

  Nagrah left the room, exiting through a small door that led out into the daylight. But it was not he who returned with food and drink. A woman entered the chamber minutes later, bearing two steaming bowls. She was older than Tharn, small and hearty looking, with fast, evasive eyes that avoided the cunning-man’s gaze. Her dress was meager, utilitarian, mostly stitched calfskin, and tight-fitting. Tharn thought her appropriate for this plain home. She came to him and set down the bowls, one filled with steaming broth, the other with a thick grain porridge. When she showed him the food he smiled at her.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But I need help.’

  She had already foreseen his need and offered him a spoonful of broth. He sipped it down hungrily, enjoying the heat of it in his throat. She fed him without speaking, and when the bowl was emptied he nodded his thanks and put up his hand.

  ‘You are kind,’ he said. ‘Who are you? What is your name?’

  The woman ignored him. Tharn frowned.

  ‘Do you speak my tongue?’ he asked. ‘I am Tharn.’ He pointed to himself. ‘Tharn.’

  She nodded but still looked away. Tharn could tell she understood him. Next she reached for the porridge and offered him some. It too was a delight, and he swallowed it down greedily. But halfway through he refused the next mouthful.

  ‘Talk to me,’ he pleaded. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am no one,’ she answered. ‘More?’

  Tharn shook his head. ‘No, not now. Are you one of Karlaz’ people?’

  She didn’t answer him. When he refused another spoonful of food, she rose from the floor and left the room, leaving him to puzzle over her silence. Tharn fell back against the mattress, his belly full but his feelings wounded. Clearly she spoke his tongue. There was a dialect difference, but that was all. He sighed, frustrated. Where was Nagrah?

  Half an hour later, a figure appeared in the doorway. Tharn had almost fallen asleep again, but the sight of the man startled him awake. He was a giant, barrel-chested and as broad as a bridge, with a mane of hair that was both Triin white and sunlight gold. Around his shoulders and muscled breast he wore a bandolier of woven silk, green and red and studded with lions’ teeth. A collection of silver rings graced his thick fingers and long ornaments of gemstones dangled down from his ears. Tharn knew at once that this was Karlaz, warlord of Chandakkar. The cunning-man sat up, trying hard to look presentable even in his nakedness. The master of the lions strode into the room, towering over Tharn and looking down with knife-sharp eyes.

  ‘You are Tharn,’ he boomed. ‘I am Karlaz.’

  Tharn nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, Karlaz. I am Tharn. I . . . uh, thank you for coming. And for saving me. My man Nagrah told me what you did for me.’ He blushed a little at his uncovered body, drawing the small blanket over himself. ‘I am grateful.’

  Karlaz was humorless. ‘Nagrah tells me you are well now. Well enough to talk?’

  ‘I am all right now. I can talk. And we must, Karlaz. I must speak with you, ask your help . . .’

  Karlaz silenced him. ‘I know what you are asking. Your men have explained it to me.’

  ‘Then you will help me?’ Tharn asked hopefully. ‘Great Karlaz, I have need of you and your people. All of Lucel-Lor needs you. If . . .’

  Karlaz turned and walked to the door. It was open and the sunlight struck his face. For a long moment he stared outside, then back to Tharn, and then again outside. Curious, Tharn craned his neck to see past the giant, but all he could see was Karlaz.

  ‘What do you know?’ asked the lion master.

  ‘What? I am sorry, I do not understand. I do not remember much, if that is what you mean.’

  The giant’s face was unreadable. He stood staring at the mystery outside the walls, his silence making Tharn ever more anxious.

  ‘Where are my cunning-men?’ asked Tharn. ‘I expected to see them here.’

  ‘They are well,’ replied Karlaz. ‘Do not worry over them.’

  But Tharn was worried. Something about the warlord’s manner disturbed him. He seemed distant, as if his mind were preoccupied with a thousand other things. Tharn cleared his throat to get Karlaz’ attention.

  ‘I would like to see them,’ he said politely.

  ‘No. They are not here because I do not want them here. We will talk alone.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Tharn. ‘But please, come closer.’ He brought a hand to his face. ‘My eyes . . .’

  Karlaz looked at him sharply, then walked over. Tharn felt drowned within his shadow.

  ‘You are Tharn,’ he stated again. ‘Even here in Chandakkar we have heard of the Storm Maker. But I wonder something. Why would anyone with heaven’s touch come to me for help?’

  ‘Great Karlaz, I am not what you think of me. I am just a man.’

  Karlaz gave a skeptical laugh. ‘Not just a man. A cunning-man. You call the clouds. I know these things, Drol. I know what you can do. So why do you not do it?’

  ‘It is not the way of heaven, Karlaz. Not my way. Not anymore. I have the touch, that is true. But I cannot use it to kill. Not even Narens. I did that once.’ Tharn slid the blanket off of him, revealing his entire horrid body. ‘You see the result.’

  A trace of revulsion flashed in the giant’s eyes. ‘You believe this?’

  ‘I know it,’ declared Tharn. ‘The gods have given me this burden. I would destroy the Narens if I could, but I cannot. Not alone. I need you and your people.’ Tharn reached up to the warlord, earnestly offering out his hand. ‘Please, Karlaz. I have traveled a long way. Do not send me back without your help.’

  Karlaz did not accept the offered hand. ‘Until a week ago, you would not have been welcome here, Storm Maker. We are not Drol, and we have no wish to join you. I wonder what you know of us, to have the boldness to make your request.’

  ‘Karlaz,’ said Tharn sternly. ‘I am not asking a favor. It is not just my life that is in peril, but yours as well. All Triin are in danger from Nar, even here in Chandakkar. If we do not take the Saccenne Run, if we do not stop Nar’s men, all that we have will perish. And if you do not believe this, then you are a fool.’

  Karlaz’ eyes lit with fury. ‘Can you walk?’ he demanded.

  ‘No,’ said Tharn.

  Karlaz went to where the holy man’s clothes were waiting. He picked up the cloak and held it out for Tharn. ‘Dress,’ he ordered.

  Tharn grimaced. ‘I cannot. Not without help.’

  ‘Give me your hand,’ said Karlaz. He bent down and stretched out his huge fingers for Tharn, who put out his hand warily. Karlaz took it and yanked Tharn to his feet effortlessly. The cunning-man gave an anguished wail from the wrenching, but Karlaz ignored it. Naked, he stood there propped in the giant’s arms, h
eld up like a doll. Karlaz arranged the cloak over his shoulders like a shawl.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Tharn breathlessly. ‘Karlaz, stop . . .’

  But Karlaz wouldn’t listen. He ignored Tharn’s pleas, lifting him in his arms and going to the door. When they were just outside the threshold, Karlaz lowered Tharn to the ground, keeping one arm wrapped beneath his armpits to steady him.

  ‘Look!’ the warlord demanded. ‘Look and do not lecture me!’

  Now out in the sunlight, Tharn could see the village. He brought up a hand to shield his eye from the light, and through his fingers saw the devastation. Most of the homes were burned and there was litter everywhere, broken sticks and weapons and the ruins of collapsed houses, their roofs caved in with fire damage. Amongst the rubble were others like Karlaz, bronze-skinned Triin with gold-white hair and long, somber faces. Tharn’s eyes widened in horror. At his feet was a mangled flame lance.

  ‘By Lorris,’ he gasped. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You see, Drol?’ raged Karlaz. ‘I know Nar, too.’

  Tharn was stunned. At once he forgot his ailments and aches. ‘Karlaz, what happened here? Tell me.’

  ‘They came,’ said the warlord. ‘In their black ships, with their fire weapons. They found us here, unexpecting. They . . .’ His voice choked off. ‘They slaughtered us. We knew nothing, they just came, too quick for us.’ He closed his eyes and groaned. ‘And I could not stop them. I had no time to call the lions.’

  ‘When was this?’ Tharn demanded. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘They came five days ago. From the sea, at night. When we were sleeping!’

  ‘What happened?’ Tharn pressed. ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘Tell you what, Drol? You still have an eye. Look!’ He swept his free arm over their surroundings. ‘They did all of this. We fought them but they were too many, and we were unprepared. They were in a rage, like a gale storm sweeping over. They were looking for something. I do not know what.’

  ‘But you beat them back,’ said Tharn. ‘How?’

  ‘We fled to the valley of lions,’ said Karlaz. ‘Where I found you. I called the lions, but when we returned the Narens had gone.’

  ‘Gone? You mean they left? Then they will be back, Karlaz. You must –’

  ‘They will not be back,’ said Karlaz. ‘Their ships are gone from our waters.’

  Tharn shook his head. It was aching again. ‘Karlaz, none of this makes sense to me. Why did the Narens leave? What happened to them?’

  ‘Inside,’ said Karlaz. ‘I will tell you.’

  The warlord took Tharn back into the home, one of the few houses unscathed by fire, and roughly set him back down on the mattress. Tharn took a few breaths to steady himself. He was nauseous, probably near fainting, but he fought it back.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘What happened to the Narens? What happened to their ships?’

  Karlaz smiled. ‘There was a man here in the village when we came back with the lions. Strange looking. Thin. Not like you or I. Not like any man I have seen. He spoke the tongue of Nar, I think. There were others with him. Men of the sea. We could not talk to each other, but I understood his meaning.’

  Tharn listened, amazed at the tale. ‘A man? Who?’

  ‘Prakna,’ said Karlaz. ‘He called himself Prakna. He took me to the water, where his ships were. He pointed to where he had attacked the black ships. But his ships were different.’ The warlord’s smile became serene. ‘They were like dragons of gold. Water demons but beautiful. And big. They were Prakna’s ships.’

  ‘Prakna,’ said Tharn, a little bell ringing in his mind. He had heard the name, from the Lissen emissary. Fleet commander of the Hundred Isles of Liss. ‘Gods, they were Lissens! Lissens, Karlaz. Did they say so?’

  ‘I did not understand their words,’ said Karlaz. ‘But they came from the water. They attacked the Naren ships and drove them off. Prakna went after them.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because Prakna did this,’ said Karlaz, then used a flattened hand to mimic a ship on the ocean. When the fingers nose-dived, Tharn understood. ‘He will sink them as he promised,’ Karlaz continued. ‘He had many ships with him. The Narens were afraid and fled.’

  Tharn was overjoyed. In his most hopeful dreams, he had never dared think the Lissens would come to their aid so quickly. He wanted to find this Prakna, to kiss him and fall to his knees in gratitude. They had an ally now, one who might just stem the tide of the invasion.

  ‘Karlaz, listen to me closely. With the Lissens patrolling our shores, the Narens will not be able to land any more troops by sea. They will have to come through the Saccenne Run. That means they will be sending all the troops they can through it. They already own the mountain pass, and Ackle-Nye. We cannot take it alone, not without your help.’ Tharn’s lone eye was imploring. ‘Karlaz, we need your lions.’

  Karlaz’ face was emotionless. ‘A week ago, I would have sent you away, Storm Maker. We had a good life here, free of you and your revolution. But that has changed. My heart is full of vengeance now.’

  ‘Then you will help me?’ asked Tharn.

  ‘We will call the lions, and the warriors from the other villages,’ said Karlaz. ‘But we must have a bargain, Drol. When this is done, you will leave Chandakkar. There will be no Drol here, ever.’

  Tharn nodded grimly. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘You will rest now. It will be days before you can make the journey from here. And days still before the other warriors arrive. Rest, and I will make ready.’

  ‘Then call your lions, Warlord,’ said Tharn. ‘You will have your vengeance.’

  Forty-three

  Athick rain fell steadily through the night. Voris the Wolf crouched in the mud, hiding his white skin and wild eyes behind the curtaining branches. Behind him, Dumaka Jarra and a trio of warriors waited, enveloped in darkness. Voris moved silently, parting the low tree limbs the tiniest fraction. In the road before him was the war wagon, one wheel broken and hanging from its axle, its other wheels mired in soggy earth. Five legionnaires paced impatiently around the wagon, trying to calm the spooked greegan still tethered to it. The men watched the forest for their invisible enemies. One held a flame cannon ready in his grip, sweeping the dark trees with its nozzle. Voris could see their nervous eyes behind their helmets. They were afraid. The warlord smiled. He held up a finger and beckoned Jarra forward. The old man slithered through the mud to kneel down beside his master.

  ‘Five,’ he counted in a whisper. ‘Maybe some in the wagon.’

  Voris shook his head. ‘No. See? It’s open.’ He pointed to a soldier dressed differently from the rest, the one with the flame cannon. ‘He works the machine. It is empty.’

  Jarra gave a slight nod, straining to see. The hatch at the top of the wagon was indeed open. ‘Five of them, five of us,’ he remarked. ‘What now?’

  ‘Now we make them suffer.’

  He dropped his hand and let the branches spring back, closing over his face. Five and five. The odds were good. It was dark and he was Triin and that was good, too. He knew his prey would be blind. He leaned back on his haunches, considering things. First the man with the flame cannon, then the others. As for the beast, they would kill it, too, if they could. Voris wiped mud and water from his forehead. He was exhausted. The fighting had been ferocious, and every day they lost a little more of his precious valley to the horde. He and his warriors had the skill, but they were woefully outnumbered. Even the traps they had laid for their enemies did little to slow their advance. In time, Voris knew, the Narens would clear the traps, allowing the horsemen to come. Then they would fight their last battle at Castle Dring – and they would die.

  But not before the Wolf made his mark. In Dring the animals were vicious, and Voris had a message to send. Quietly, he moved to where his warriors waited. They were three young and eager men, the kind who didn’t mind bloodletting. Voris gathered them into a huddle and spoke.

  ‘You are ready?’ he
asked. Each man replied with a silent nod. Voris smiled. ‘I will take out the one with the cannon first. He will not fire it. He will not see me. When he is down, rush in. We will be too fast for them. Jarra, watch for the acid launcher. There may yet be someone inside.’

  ‘I will watch,’ replied the old man.

  ‘Be quick. Cut the bellows before anyone can see you. If we are killed, I do not want the launcher used again.’

  ‘I will be quick.’

  Voris set his jaw and turned back to the road. He would have to get close. The underbrush cracked and squished beneath his boots, the noise masked by the insistent rain. He held his breath, attuned to every sound. The Narens hadn’t seen him. Jarra and the warriors were gone now, swallowed up in the darkness. Tonight there was no moon, no light at all. Yet Voris could see, and he delighted in his Triin blood.

  When he was sure he had traveled far enough, Voris turned slightly and headed back to the road. Instantly he heard the Narens. His vision focused in the blackness, peering through the trees. The filthy barbarians talked amongst themselves, watching their dark surroundings. A thrill went through Voris as he bent into a hunting stance. He heard the blood rush through his ears, felt the quickening of his heart. Out came his jiiktar, sharp before him, broken into two scythelike swords. He inched his way through the vines and branches. Yards away, the Narens milled around the war wagon, cursing the greegan and their own misfortune. The one with the cannon moved its glowing nozzle nervously. Voris the Wolf licked his lips.

  He was on them in a moment, bursting from the bushes. Screaming, flying, he charged the one with the cannon, flashing his blades. The cannon turned, the trigger squeezed, and a stream of burning kerosene shot across the roadway, lighting Voris for the briefest time as it blew past him. The Wolf howled and brought down his blades, severing an arm and then the neck. The head toppled into the mud. Soldiers screamed in shock and fright. Out of the trees came Dumaka Jarra and the warriors, screaming, their weapons glowing invisibly in the darkness. The Narens scrambled backward. The greegan kicked up its big horn and howled . . .