The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  ‘Am I sick?’

  The question was so ludicrous that Richius didn’t know how to answer. ‘You’re going to be all right,’ he said desperately. He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice, but Dinadin seemed oblivious to it anyway. There was a distant glaze to his eyes, as if he were lost in a dark room and couldn’t find his way out. And each time his heart pumped his insides quivered, reminding Richius just how tenuous a grasp Dinadin had on life. He had to get Dinadin out. Now.

  ‘Voris!’ he called over his shoulder. He saw the warlord’s head twist toward him. ‘Voris, help!’

  The warlord crashed through the water, hurrying to Richius. Dinadin stiffened.

  ‘Voris?’ he hissed.

  ‘Easy,’ crooned Richius. ‘We’re gonna get you out of here. Someplace safe.’

  Voris arrived, gasping for breath. He looked down at Richius and the wounded Dinadin and shot them a confused look.

  ‘Kalak?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Richius quickly. He pointed his chin toward Dinadin. ‘Him. We have to get him out of here. I need your help. He’s heavy. Too big for me. Too big.’

  The warlord seemed to understand. He bent closer and looked at Dinadin’s wounds, then glanced back at Richius and somberly shook his head.

  ‘It’s bad, I know,’ Richius said. ‘But we have to try. You’ll help me, yes? Help me?’

  Voris grunted and started to reach out for Dinadin, but Richius stopped him.

  ‘No,’ he said, putting up his hands. ‘We need a horse. A horse. Lucyler’s getting one. We’ll wait. Wait for Lucyler.’

  Richius was talking so quickly he was sure Voris couldn’t understand a word. But the warlord backed away, dutifully waiting while Richius kept the pressure on Dinadin’s wound, crooning to his friend in a gentle whisper. Dinadin’s breathing quickened. He stared at Voris, shivering and perplexed.

  ‘Voris,’ he mumbled darkly. ‘Voris . . .’

  ‘Quiet, Dinadin. Don’t try to talk. Just take it easy. You’ll be out of here real soon. And we’re going to take you somewhere safe. Safe, all right? Just hang on.’

  Richius heard a commotion behind him and turned to see Lucyler leading a leech-laden horse through the waters, pulling it forward with his good arm. The horse brayed wildly but Lucyler held the reins tight, dragging the animal closer. It was one of Talistan’s huge beasts, the type that followed orders only when given with a crop in hand. The horse reared and flailed its hooves, making Lucyler put up both arms to defend himself.

  ‘Richius,’ called the Triin. ‘Help me with this monster!’

  The horse broke free and Richius cursed. He gently lowered Dinadin’s head into the reeds and splashed toward Lucyler, who was already chasing the thrashing animal. The Triin leapt for the reins and caught them, yanking on the bridle. When Richius finally reached him, the horse had settled into an obstinate stance.

  ‘The damn thing will not move!’ swore Lucyler. He was hunched over, wincing and favoring his wounded arm.

  ‘He’s afraid,’ said Richius. ‘Stop yelling and give me the reins.’

  Lucyler passed him the reins, then stopped in mid-motion, his eyes wide. Richius whirled to see Voris standing in the water, watching them as they struggled with the horse. Behind him was Dinadin – on his feet. Dinadin was stumbling toward the warlord, the grimy broadsword Jessicane raised above his head. The shadow of the weapon fell across Voris’ shoulder. It was moving before Richius could scream.

  ‘NO!’

  The blade came down. Voris’ expression lit with shock. A fountain of blood spurted from his shoulder, a huge gash opening at the base of his neck. Dinadin fell forward, toppling himself and Voris into the water. Richius and Lucyler leapt toward them, forgetting the horse as they half-ran, half-swam after the submerged men.

  ‘Voris!’ Richius cried. He had taken hold of Dinadin and was pulling him off the buried warlord. Lucyler reached into the water and pulled Voris free. The warlord was jetting water from his mouth and blood from the rip in his neck. Voris choked and struggled to breathe, putting his hands to his neck as he shook uncontrollably in Lucyler’s grasp. Dinadin hardly moved. Richius laid him aside and went to Voris.

  ‘Voris,’ he said desperately. ‘Can you hear me? It’s me, Kalak.’

  Voris opened his eyes and looked at Richius. ‘Kalak?’

  ‘I’m here,’ said Richius. Lucyler had Voris’ head in his lap and was holding the flaps of skin closed with his hand. But the blood was pumping through the Triin’s fingers. Each heartbeat sent a new plume of it spraying forth. Voris’ expression was dimming fast.

  ‘Kafife, Kalak,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Kafife. Kafife . . .’

  ‘What?’ said Richius. ‘I don’t understand. What are you saying?’

  And then Voris was gone. His eyes simply closed and he fell limp in Lucyler’s grasp. Richius began to shake.

  ‘Oh, God, Dinadin,’ he moaned. ‘What have you done?’

  Behind him he heard Dinadin’s hysterical laughter. ‘I did it, Richius,’ he said. He retched up a ball of blood. ‘I killed the Wolf. We’re safe now. We can go home . . .’

  Reckoning

  From the Journal of Richius Vantran:

  We found Dinadin’s horse with the other Talistanian beasts. There was a note in his saddlebag to his father. I couldn’t bear to read it, so Lucyler read it for me. If only I had known the misery my poor friend was in, I would have done something, somehow. But he is gone now and all I can do is cherish his note and hope that one day I can return it to his father, and explain my terrible treachery. I know the note could never have been delivered any other way. Even Dinadin knew that. It speaks of Gayle in the worst of terms. Dinadin begged his father to help him, then tucked the note in his saddlebag, never to be seen.

  But I’ve seen it, my friend. I will not forget you. At least you saw Lucyler before you died.

  The statue we found with the note is a sad thing, the last remnant of the girl Dinadin tried to save. It was so like him to hold on to baubles. And what a horror it must have been for him, not to be able to rescue her. His note screams with grief. I’m keeping the statue in my chamber now, and that’s where it will stay until I leave here. I have nothing else to remember Dinadin by. The horses we will keep for our own. There are just a few of us now, but even fewer horses. We will need them if Nar should come again.

  I have not told Najjir how Voris died. She would never have let me bury Dinadin so close if she knew. Even Dyana doesn’t know the truth of things, and I have no plans to tell her. She barely remembered Dinadin, even after I explained how she had met him so long ago in Ackle-Nye. How unjust her lack of memory seems to me. Now he is a mystery to Dyana and Najjir both, just a lump of freshly turned earth out in the garden. Soon the lichens will grow over him and only his grave will remain, hidden. They will forget about him here in LucelLor, but somewhere back in old Aramoor his father will wonder why he hasn’t returned. He will petition the Gayles for an answer, and they will shrug like black-hearted idiots and say that Dinadin was only one of many who died here.

  Like Voris. And Kronin. And maybe Tharn. But not me, and not Gayle. We still live, though God won’t tell me why. If I am charmed then it is a damnable magic, for I know I should be dead like the others, and if justice exists at all Gayle would be lying dead beside me with my fingers around his throat. He is a sorcerer, that one. Each time death comes for him he talks his way free. I don’t know how he managed to slip us, but we tore that swamp apart looking for him, and he’s too big for a snake to swallow. He cheats death as well as I do.

  For me, others take the arrows. It will be hard to live here without Voris. I see the bitterness and blame in Najjir’s eyes. If it wasn’t for you, her eyes say, my husband would still be alive. My children would not be fatherless. I wish you had never come. And what can I say to her? Voris told me to look after them. That’s what he meant when he died. Kafife. Family. Lucyler had to explain it to me. Maybe it’s because Jarra wasn’t around, or maybe h
e simply trusted me in those final moments, but he has left me with a great burden. I know almost nothing of this valley, yet I am its protector now. If it is the honor Lucyler claims I will do my best, but I will make no promises. Najjir still hates me, and there are only a handful of warriors left. This is not the kingdom I was born to rule.

  And Lucyler won’t be here to help me. He has left on fool’s errand to find Tharn. Kronin’s men have left, too, to deliver the awful news of Kronin’s death. If they are lucky they will find Tatterak at peace. We have all taken a great toll, and if there is any more fighting to be done the other warlords will have to do it. Dring has been almost emptied of fighting men, and without Kronin to lead them the warriors of Tatterak may soon lose heart.

  We need Tharn. Our good fortune is temporary at best. Dring is safe, but for how long I do not know. The time to strike the Run is now, but we haven’t the warriors or leaders to accomplish it. Soon fresh troops will be pouring through the mountains, marching out of Ackle-Nye again. I thought we might have victory, but without Tharn all our fighting has been for nothing. This nation bleeds for him. It is a body without a soul, inadequate to the task. He has left on his foolish errand and been killed, leaving us all like orphaned children. I would never tell Dyana how I feel, but I think she already knows my mind. If Tharn still lived he would have told us so by now. He would have sent an apparition to warn us, or some other weird demon. We are alone, as fractured without him as in the days of the revolution.

  So I have only the bleak companionship of my thoughts and this bottle of sour wine that Jarra has found. There are privileges in being the lord of this castle, I suppose, but I would willingly trade the warmth of this drink for Dyana’s touch. If only I could share her faith. I want to believe, as she does, but Tharn was so frail when he left. Even if he did make it to Chandakkar, the lion riders or the trip back certainly killed him. I mourn for him. More, I mourn for the mystery of his death. I need proof of his end to convince Dyana. Without that we may forever be apart, and I will rot in this castle till I die or more Narens come to kill me.

  May I admit something terrible? I am not the man I was. This war has devoured me. I burn for Dyana. She taunts me with words of love, shows me my child, makes me adore them both then keeps me away from them. And I am starting to hate her for it. I hate her strength, for I do not have any of my own left. I hate her fidelity to Tharn. Like a loyal dog she waits at the door for a dead master. And I’m still jealous of that twisted holy man, who even in death keeps Dyana away from me. Heaven burn me, I am so alone.

  Forty-seven

  The knock came as Richius penned the last word in his journal. It was late, past the hour of cordial visitors, and the sudden rapping startled him, making him nearly tip the bottle of wine on his desk. He pushed the bottle aside and groaned. He was drunk, too drunk to hold a proper conversation. The knocking came again, more insistent. Richius drew an unsteady breath.

  ‘It’s late,’ he mumbled. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Richius? It is me, Dyana.’

  Richius straightened. He rose quickly and started for the door, then saw his grizzled reflection in the mirror, with his overgrown beard and disheveled hair. And of course there was his breath. Anxiously he smoothed down his tousled hair and went to the door.

  ‘Dyana?’

  She greeted him with a thin smile. She was not dressed for sleep as would have been customary, but instead wore a dress still stained from laboring in the kitchen. Najjir was with her, her eyes cast solemnly down. Unlike Dyana, she wore a soft shift of jade silk, belted lightly around her waist with a sash embroided with flowers.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Richius.

  ‘May we come in?’ asked Dyana. ‘I will explain it to you.’ Richius stepped aside and gestured them into the room. Najjir kept her eyes focused on her slippers. Dyana’s expression was despairing. She looked at the bottle on the desk beside the open journal, then back to Richius.

  ‘You are busy?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m getting ready for sleep,’ said Richius. ‘It’s very late, Dyana. Is something wrong?’

  Dyana grimaced. He could tell she was getting ready to lie.

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘I only wanted to bring Najjir to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Dyana shifted uneasily. ‘I was hoping Lucyler had explained this to you,’ she said. ‘Did he?’

  ‘Did he what?’

  ‘Tell you about your lordship?’

  Richius felt his patience boiling away. ‘Dyana, what the hell is going on here? Why have you brought Najjir to me?’

  ‘Because she is yours now,’ said Dyana stiffly. Her words seemed to be coming with great effort. ‘You are lord of this castle at Voris’ bequest. He asked you to take care of his family.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So his family is yours now, to do with what you wish. Are you understanding me, Richius?’

  Richius was mortified as the idea slowly came clear. ‘What are you saying? That Najjir is my wife now?’

  ‘Not your wife,’ Dyana corrected. ‘Your property. As is this castle and everyone who serves it. The warriors, the daughters of Voris, everyone. They have been passed to you. You know this already.’ Dyana was near tears, but she held her head high as she continued. ‘Did Lucyler tell you none of this?’

  ‘He told me that I was to look after Voris’ family.’

  ‘And what did you think that meant?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Richius. ‘I’m not a Triin, remember?’

  Dyana remained calm. ‘It means you are lord here. Master of the valley.’

  ‘No,’ said Richius. ‘I’ve not accepted the charge. It was an accident of Voris’ death, Dyana, that’s all.’

  ‘Richius, you do not understand. He passed his family on to you. That makes you warlord.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be warlord!’ cried Richius. ‘Don’t you understand? I’ll look after them if I can, for as long as I can, but I’m no Triin.’ He looked at Najjir, who still did not look up but kept her head dutifully bowed. ‘I can’t have her, Dyana. Lord, it’s immoral.’

  ‘It is the way of things here,’ said Dyana. ‘It cannot be changed.’

  ‘Oh, like hell. Najjir hates me. I know it and so do you. How could you bring her here like this?’

  Dyana’s face was carefully blank. ‘I do this only for her sake. She is Drol. You must understand what that means.’

  Richius took her hand and squeezed. ‘But I don’t understand. Why should she do this to herself? I don’t desire her. I desire you.’

  ‘Drol, Richius. They have customs. She is without a husband now, without a lord to serve. You must be that lord. Najjir cannot live without a master. She would be as nothing without one, like dust.’

  ‘Dyana . . .’

  ‘Hear me,’ said Dyana gently. ‘Take her or do not take her. But do not discard her. It would be her death. She has nothing else, Richius.’

  ‘No.’ Richius took Dyana by the shoulders. ‘I have a family already. You and Shani, you’re my family.’

  ‘I know,’ said Dyana. ‘But I am still Tharn’s wife . . .’

  ‘He’s dead, Dyana. He’s not a threat to anyone anymore, not even our enemies.’

  ‘Richius, you have been drinking,’ said Dyana, her voice shaking. She tried to smile at him. ‘Let go of me. Please.’

  And he did. Richius went to his desk and collapsed in his chair, burying his head in his hands. After a moment he felt Dyana’s touch on his shoulder.

  ‘Will you do this for me? It is not like you think. This is not a gift. Najjir needs you. If other men in the valley hear that you have discarded her they will come and claim her for their own. She will be forced to leave the castle. It must be you, Richius.’

  He could not answer. Dyana pressed a hand to his shoulder, her touch burning as keenly as the acid of the war labs.

  ‘Richius?’ she ventured. ‘Please do not send her away. Ignore her if you wish, but do not put her aside. You
must see what it is like to be a Drol woman. She needs you.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Richius roared. ‘She needs me. Tharn needs me. Voris needs me. All right then, I’m here. Your bloody gods have made a slave of me. So go, leave me to this new duty. I’ll let you know tomorrow how well I perform.’

  ‘Richius...’

  ‘Go!’

  A long moment passed. Deliberately he peeled his hands from his face. Dyana was gone, and Najjir, who had taken on the color of an icicle, was waiting for him. He leaned back in his chair and regarded her. She was surprisingly lovely. A decade older than him at least, but with features not unlike Dyana. Even in her prosaic fear she was artistic, like one of those broken statues in the yard, a neglected masterpiece. He could imagine her as a queen, or a portrait hanging in Arkus’ gallery. Vulnerable. Dutiful. Beautiful.

  ‘I’m drunk,’ he said sluggishly.

  Najjir merely nodded as if his words were meaningful.

  ‘You don’t understand a thing I said, do you?’ he asked. ‘You don’t even know why you’re here. Maybe because one of your nasty gods took away your husband and gave you this filthy barbarian instead.’ He laughed, and the sound of it startled him. ‘Can I tell you something? You’re right. I am a barbarian. A beast. That’s what happens to a man when everything is taken from him.’

  He rose slowly and stared at her. ‘Are you afraid of me?’ he asked. ‘You needn’t be.’ He inched closer. ‘I wasn’t always a beast, Najjir. I used to be a king. Can you believe that? I was civilized once.’

  His voice had taken on volume. Najjir closed her eyes. He closed the gap between them. ‘I came from a country where men didn’t take women as slaves. I had a wife that I respected but I let her die.’

  Then Najjir simply crumbled. She could not look at him, or bear to have him look at her. She sank down on the floor and began to sob, rocking as she mumbled and crossed her hands over her shoulders.