The Jackal of Nar (101 page)

“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.

“Voris,” she moaned. “Voris …”

Richius staggered away from the broken woman, backing into his desk. The wine bottle tipped and rolled onto the floor. Najjir’s cries jangled in his ears. He looked at her, unable to console her, and simply let her grieve.

In a corner of Ackle-Nye, in a ramshackle tavern with its roof partially collapsed, Baron Blackwood Gayle of Talistan sat staring at his atrocious reflection in a goblet of wine. He was on his sixth glass, and thoroughly enjoying the dull intoxication. It was a hot night. The humidity pricked the tender skin beneath his silver mask, causing an ungodly itch, and because he was alone he slid a slender fingernail under the precious metal to scratch.

Alone. There was a time when he relished solitude, but recently
there had been too much of it. All his horsemen were dead, killed by that Aramoorian devil, and the only company he had now were the accusing stares of the legionnaires. He heard what they were calling him, the whispered slurs exchanged when he passed. Gayle the coward. Gayle the fool, who couldn’t capture Vantran even with an army. He had ridden back to Ackle-Nye without his vaunted horsemen, and the Naren garrison in the city were understandably suspicious—too suspicious to believe his tale. He should have died with his men. That’s what a real commander would do. Even Cassis, the puppet commanding the garrison, had dared to look cross-eyed at him.

“Piss on you, Cassis,” he mumbled. A pair of legionnaires seated across the room turned to stare at him, then abruptly looked away. Gayle thought to rise, then stopped himself. There was nothing he could do but endure their mirth. He was a baron of Talistan, but that title was meaningless now. When word of his failure reached Nar, they would oil the gallows for him.

And that was the hell of it. He really had
tried.
He had slipped the noose around Vantran’s neck, yet somehow the Jackal had outwitted him. And everybody knew it. There were even some who were calling Vantran a genius, a military mastermind. He had routed the legionnaires in Tatterak, destroyed the horsemen in the Dring Valley, even managed to work some charm on the seafaring devils of Liss. He had become a sorcerer like his new master Tharn. Some said he was unbeatable.

But Blackwood Gayle knew better. Every man could be defeated, especially a pup like Vantran. The Jackal had been lucky, but luck invariably ran short. And when it did, Gayle planned to be there waiting. Furiously he scribbled down notes on his map of the Dring Valley. All he needed was a chance, and enough men to follow him. If Vantran was still holed up in that dismal castle, then he was vulnerable. The Drol of the valley might have beaten back his horsemen, but they had paid a terrible price. They were too few to protect Vantran against another assault. All he had to do was sneak back in.

Somehow.

“Do you think you’ve seen the last of me?” he rumbled. Again the soldiers glanced at him. Gayle raised his head. “What the hell are you staring at?” He got to his feet and put his hand on
his sword pommel. “I’m not so drunk I can’t grind both of you into pulp. And if you think I’m joking, why not find out? Because I would love it!”

The legionnaires put down their drinks, got up very slowly, then turned and left the tavern. Gayle gave a hoarse laugh.

“Yes, yes,” he called after them. “Who’s the coward now, eh? You’re too good to sit with me but not good enough to fight me? Get out of here, you craven bastards! Go back and lick Cassis’ boots!”

He dropped back into his chair and laughed, pouring himself another glass of wine. It was good to know he could still intimidate. At least he had that. In the morning he would write to his father, asking him to send more troops. He hated to grovel but there wasn’t a choice. He had already failed Nar, and would probably hang for it. But before he did there was a vendetta to settle. For that he needed troops.

Since returning to Ackle-Nye his command over the legionnaires had evaporated. General Cassis had begun questioning his every order. Now every member of the garrison was waiting for word from Nar, like dogs waiting for their owner’s whistle.

The door to the tavern hung open on its creaking hinge. Blackwood Gayle felt the lazy hand of sleepiness graze him. He was very tired, but sleep had eluded him lately, so he decided to remain in the tavern, at least until he finished his current bottle. Without realizing it, he lowered his head to the table, setting it down on the wet ink of the map. Within a few moments his eyes closed, dragging him off to sleep.

But soon he awoke out of an unpleasant dream. Someone was standing over him, prodding his shoulder with a gloved finger. Alarmed, Gayle bolted upright.

“What …?” he sputtered, staring into a helmeted face. A shining metal skull looked back at him. Gayle’s insides seized.

“Baron Blackwood Gayle of Talistan?” came the voice behind the helm.

“I am he.”

The Shadow Angel reached into a pouch at his gilded belt and pulled out a small piece of paper. Handing it to Gayle he said, “I am a messenger from Count Renato Biagio.”

Gayle fought to steady his hands. Though his eyes were
blurry from sleep, he could see Biagio’s wax seal on the letter, the crest of his island home of Crote. He broke the seal, hesitated, then opened the letter and read.

Gayle stared at the page for a moment, trying to keep the giddiness at bay. “When was this letter sent?”

“I rode from Nar City four weeks ago,” replied the Shadow Angel.

“Four weeks?” Gayle scratched at his mask thoughtfully. “And what news have you heard since coming here?”

“I do not listen to gossip as a woman. I am under orders from my count. I was to seek you out and deliver this message. Now I have done that.” The soldier inclined his head. “I await your bidding.”

“My bidding? Explain.”

“Baron,” began the soldier impatiently. “In three days’ time my brothers will arrive in this city. You are to take us to find Richius Vantran. We will capture him alive and bring him back to Nar. To do this we are to follow your orders.”

“Just how many of you are there?”

“One hundred,” replied the soldier. “Enough.”

Oh, yes,
thought Gayle.
Enough indeed.

“These men,” Gayle continued, “do they know of their mission?”

“They know only that they are to meet you here and follow your orders. I will be here to explain the rest to them.”

An inward smile broke beneath Gayle’s silver mask. “What’s your name, Shadow Angel? The rank on your cape says captain.”

“I am Odamo, a captain of the count’s guardians.”

“Your accent sounds Crotan. Are you?”

“Proudly so, Baron.”

Gayle leaned back and got comfortable, putting his feet up on the rickety table. “Well then, Captain. I have a service for you. I want you to set out for Nar in the morning. There’s a message I want delivered to your count.”

The Shadow Angel watched as Gayle sipped at his drink, then took up his pen again and began writing, jotting quickly in the margins of Biagio’s letter, concealing his scribblings with a cocked shoulder.

He began.

He signed it politely,
Your devoted servant, Blackwood Gayle.

“There,” he said cheerfully, folding the letter and handing it to the soldier. “Now make all haste with it. And don’t read it, or I’ll know. That letter is for the count only. You may stay the night to rest but I want you to leave by dawn. This note must be delivered by your hand alone. Take a ship or a horse, I don’t care how you get there. Just see that he gets it. Do you understand?”

The skull helm was still for a long moment. Finally a voice issued forth. “Baron, the men that are coming are under my command.”

“They are under my command now,” corrected Gayle. “Did the count not tell you to follow my orders?”

“He did.”

“And are you not sworn to die if the count bids you?”

“I am. But …”

“Captain,” snarled Gayle. “You are a Shadow Angel. You will do exactly as I tell you. These matters are not for a brain your size. Trust your master. Trust me. Do you hear?”

“Yes, Baron. I will obey.”

“Good. Now go. And don’t worry about your men. I will be here when they arrive. Everything will be explained to them.”

When the dawn finally broke, Dyana was still awake. Najjir had not returned.

She would not have expected it from Richius. Still, she had only herself to blame. She had rejected him, then handed him another woman. How could she condemn him for being a man?

“So he is lost to me,” she said softly, spying Najjir’s empty bed. She wondered what it had been like for her, lying with him, enduring his kisses. He had been tender with her, of course. He was always tender. Soon he would desire her nightly. She would go to his bed willingly the next time, and they would have a child and he would forget about Shani.…

Abruptly she stopped herself. Such thoughts would only drive her mad. But she would not be here when Najjir returned. That she simply couldn’t face.

The floor was cold on her bare feet, speeding her along as she dressed and pulled on a pair of soft leather boots, the ones that reached to her thighs and were good for walking through tall grass. She had a destination in mind, someplace Richius had thought very special. She wanted to see it again before he shared it with Najjir.

Outside the chamber she found the hall empty and silent. Shani was asleep in a nearby room, carefully tended to by the nurse that looked after all the warlord’s children. Not even a whimper issued from beneath the door. Dyana shut the door to her own chamber and tiptoed through the hall. The sun was just rising, burning off the chill of night. Blessedly, the yard was empty.

She hurried down the stairs, through the dingy hall, and out
of the iron gates without seeing another soul. Since the siege of the valley there were only a handful of warriors left, and these were mostly wounded men, tended by the widows of the castle. The dearth of men made maneuvering the castle grounds oddly convenient. When she reached the yard she headed for the rear of the castle, passing the huddle of neglected sculptures. The sky was still gray, and she had to work to locate the path in the dimness, but she soon found it hidden in the shade of an elm. Then, satisfied no one was watching, she disappeared into the woods.

The darkness made navigating the narrow path difficult. Dyana kept her eyes on the ground and one hand stretched out before her. Above her, the thick cradle of tree limbs blotted out most of the sun’s rays, but she reminded herself that it wasn’t far and soon she heard the burble of running water. Before long she saw the break in the trees and the little alcove where the stream bubbled merrily in the light. She moved toward the clearing eagerly, but stopped as she noticed a figure nestled against the backdrop of trees. It was Najjir, sitting with her head bowed on the smooth rock, tracing her fingernail over her name. Dyana halted behind a tree and watched Najjir, watched the little river of tears dripping onto the cold rock and the way the breeze rippled her tired strands of hair. She was still dressed in the silk shift she had worn to Richius’ chamber. It clung defiantly to her body against the morning chill. There was a vacant expression on her face as one by one she spelled out the letters with her fingers, finished, then repeated the process. Dyana stepped out from behind the tree.

“Najjir?” she asked anxiously. As she approached the older woman’s head tilted slowly up. Dyana hurried up to her side and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. The silk and skin beneath it were like ice.

“What are you doing out here?”

“See my name?” asked Najjir blankly, gesturing to the letters carved into the rock. “Voris wrote it for me.”

“Najjir, you are freezing. Let me take you inside.”

“It is pretty here. Voris used to take me here when we were young. I am comfortable here.”

Dyana reached down and took Najjir’s hand. “You are not dressed to be out here, Najjir. Come with me. We will go inside and get you changed.”

Najjir jerked her hand away. “I want to stay.”

“Najjir, what is wrong with you? Have you been out here all night?”

“All night, yes. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to get away from Kalak. And you.”