The Jackal of Nar (20 page)

Edgard sat back, and Richius could see his eyes glaze over in
recollection. His breathing slowed, and he let out a weary sigh. “It’s much as I have told you. Tharn’s warriors had been gaining ground for months in Tatterak. My men were being slaughtered. Gayle’s and Kronin’s, too. Gayle didn’t call retreat, but he had his men hidden where the fighting was light. Kronin and I were taking the brunt of it.”

“No surprise there,” quipped Richius. “Go on.”

“Well, I’d had enough. I’d asked your father for help and not gotten any. The Drol were handing us our heads in every battle. They were overwhelming us, there were so many. I knew Mount Godon would fall soon, so I told the Daegog I was taking my men out of Tatterak. That was a week ago, before the storm came.”

“Storm?” asked Richius. “What storm?”

“Nothing like you’ve ever seen. Like the winter gales in Aramoor, but so much worse. It came over the horizon the night before we were going to leave. Winds so strong we couldn’t stand against them. I thought the whole of Mount Godon was going to be picked up and dropped into the ocean.”

Edgard’s voice was growing shrill, but Richius made no effort to calm him. The war duke’s face was white and terrible.

“Is that it?” asked Dinadin. “Just wind?”

“If only,” said Edgard. “The winds were just the start. It was as if he knew the winds alone weren’t enough to crush us. That’s when he sent the lightning.”

“Who?” asked Richius, suddenly confused. “Who sent the lightning?”

“Tharn,” growled the duke. “It was all his doing, I’m sure of it. The Triin in Tatterak call him ‘Storm Maker’ now, or something like that. He can control the skies!”

Richius saw Dinadin’s brow crease in disbelief, and felt his own doing the same. Even in the valley they had heard the legends about Drol magic, but the stories had always been no more than a way to amuse themselves around a campfire.

Richius put on a gentle face. “Uncle, surely it was no more than a rainstorm. Maybe the change of season …”

“No!” cried Edgard, pounding his fist on the table so that the glasses shook and spilled. “Don’t tell me what I saw! I lost a third of my men in one bloody hour. Tharn brought the lightning down on us, and the winds. The storm thought for itself, and
never did the lightning strike an empty place. It always felled a man or a horse or a wagon when it struck. Always.”

“All right,” conceded Richius, still unconvinced. “But how can you explain that? I’ve never seen a Triin do magic, and neither has anyone else I know. Even if Tharn is some great holy man, no man can command the elements.”

“Tharn can.”

Neither Richius nor Dinadin spoke a word as they watched the weird grin twisting Edgard’s face. In the soft light he looked like a madman. Certainly the tale he was regaling them with was mad. If Tharn was such a wizard, why would he have waited until now to show what he could do? No, Richius reasoned. A man as powerful as that would have ended this war long ago.

“You know I can’t believe you,” said Richius finally.

Edgard nodded. “I know. But I’m not lying. And I’m not as drunk as you think I am. I called retreat that very night. The storm was dissipating, and we spotted Tharn’s warriors on the horizon. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands. I didn’t wait around to find out how many.”

“My God, Edgard. You left Kronin and the Daegog alone?”

“And Gayle,” said Edgard. “And they’re all probably dead by now, God save ’em. And you know what else? I’m not a damn bit sorry.”

Richius got up from his seat. “No? Well, you should be. What kind of war duke are you? Kronin needed you. He trusted you.”

Now Edgard rose and towered over the table. “Kronin knew why I did it. I think he even agreed with me. And how dare you tell me what’s best for my men? You don’t even know what we were up against.”

“What do you expect me to say? You come to Ackle-Nye with some crazy story about Drol magic, and you expect me to believe it? Do you think Arkus will believe it? Kronin trusted you, damn it. And now he’s probably dead. The Daegog, too. Without Tatterak, only the Sheaze and the southern lands will be left.”

“And you in the valley,” said Edgard gravely. “You say you have Voris on the run there?”

“Probably not for long. When word reaches Voris that Tharn has taken Tatterak, he’ll attack again. And likely in numbers strong enough to defeat us.”

“Then you must leave now,” Edgard insisted. “Escape while
you can. Otherwise you’ll be trapped in the valley with no way home.”

“Retreat without the emperor’s word? I can’t.”

Edgard looked at him sharply. “The war is over, Richius. The Daegog’s dead.”

“Maybe,” said Richius. “But maybe not. If you had stayed with him we’d know for sure.”

“And then I’d be dead, too. Is that what you would have preferred?”

“Of course not.”

Edgard’s expression softened. “I’ve sent word to the king that I’m retreating from Lucel-Lor. Now you must do the same. Don’t be like Gayle, doing the emperor’s bidding at all costs. Save yourself.”

“And then what?” Richius asked. “Be hanged for a traitor? Haven’t you thought of what Arkus will do to you? Arkus would never agree to us leaving. It won’t matter to him if the Daegog’s dead. He’s got us here for something else. And what about Aramoor? He’ll take Aramoor completely if we retreat.” He shook his head, exasperated. “You’re so like my father, Edgard. When will you realize Aramoor isn’t ours anymore?”

Edgard seemed unperturbed. “I have a responsibility to my men, Richius. Just like Darius bas a responsibility to the people back home.”

“My father? How can you say my father is prepared for any responsibility? This mess is his fault. We might be winning the war if not for him.”

“You think so?” asked Edgard. “Would you really have your father send still more men into this hell? Haven’t you seen enough death?”

“You and my father live in the same dreamworld,” cried Richius. “It doesn’t matter what I want. All that matters is the emperor’s will. He’s running Aramoor now, whether you know it or not. By defying him, you and my father will bring about its destruction.”

“Your father is trying to save Aramoor,” insisted Edgard. “You are right to say Arkus will crush Aramoor if the king calls for retreat. That’s why he’s not sending more troops. He wants to lose the war without declaring it lost.” Edgard gave Richius an imploring look. “If I’m right, then your father’s willing to die to
keep more of us from coming here. Can’t you see that, Richius? He’s trying to save lives.”

“Don’t talk to me about saving lives!” Richius shouted. “That’s all I’ve been doing since I got here, no thanks to my father. I’m up to my knees in blood every day while he sits in Aramoor and waits for the war to end itself.”

“No,” argued Edgard. “I’ve known your father since I was a boy, and I know how he thinks. If Darius calls retreat, the emperor will crush Aramoor. But if he simply lets the war be lost, then maybe he can keep our country whole.”

Richius laughed sourly. “Surely Arkus is not as dumb as that. He’ll know why the war’s been lost, and he’ll have all of us answering for it.”

“Not all of us,” said Edgard. “Just the king.”

Richius frowned. “That seems like a dangerous gamble to me. To let us all die like this …”

“Why die?” thundered Edgard. He towered a good head over Richius and the sight of the angry man gave Richius a start. “Haven’t you been listening to me? If you pull out now maybe you can save yourself. If not, you’ll only be dying for pride, because I swear to you this war is over.”

Richius lowered his eyes. He could feel Dinadin’s nervous stare burning into him, begging him for an answer he didn’t have. All that his mind was filled with now was a string of fractured questions. How could he leave without the emperor’s order? Edgard was being too kind in his assessment of Arkus’ mercy. His father would certainly hang, but if they pulled out without the emperor’s consent, he and Edgard would hang with him.

“What’s to consider?” asked Edgard easily, putting his hand on Richius’ shoulder. “Death on the gallows might be in store for us, but if you stay here Tharn or Voris will certainly kill you. Take your chances with me and you may yet live.”

Richius sighed ruefully. “So it’s a choice of deaths now, is it?” He let his eyes fall on Dinadin’s. “What do you think, Dinadin? Shall I die a traitor’s death? Or would a jiiktar in the back suit me better?”

Dinadin shifted awkwardly. He stammered something meaningless, then fell silent.

“We’re not as tired as your men, Edgard,” concluded Richius.
“We can last awhile longer, maybe long enough for aid to arrive from the Black City. When Arkus hears of this he’ll probably send his own troops in, and then we’ll be able to fight Tharn, magic or no.”

“You can’t win, Richius.”

“Neither can you, Edgard. But at least this way Aramoor may be spared the worst of the emperor’s wrath. You’re wrong to think Arkus will only blame my father if we pull out. If we retreat there won’t be an Aramoor anymore, and there won’t be any dukes or princes, either.”

Edgard seemed astonished. “I can’t believe you’d die for Arkus, Richius. Why would you give your life for a man that has a boot on the throat of your homeland?”

“Not for Arkus,” Richius corrected. “For Aramoor. Get your men home safely, Uncle. And when you see my father tell him I will go on without his help.”

Edgard’s face was like granite. “I will tell him.”

“Let’s go, Dinadin.”

Dinadin sprang to his feet and went to Richius’ side. As they turned to leave the pavilion Edgard’s voice called softly after them.

“There’s a reason he’s doing it, Richius,” said the duke. “You have to try and understand.”

Richius stopped. He closed his eyes. “I don’t care why he’s doing it,” he said bitterly. “I’m his goddamned son.”

Then, without waiting for the duke’s reply, Richius stepped out of the pavilion, Dinadin on his heels. He looked around for Conal, and when he didn’t see the captain he headed directly for the stable where he knew their horses were boarded. Will alone kept him from breaking into tears. Edgard had been his mentor and friend and uncle. Now that old friend, like so many old friends, was leaving him. Dinadin grabbed at his shoulder. Richius shrugged it off.

“Richius,” Dinadin said sharply. “Wait.”

Richius stopped. He turned to face his comrade and saw Dinadin’s face twisted and confused.

“Say it,” he ordered. “I know you want to.”

Dinadin swallowed hard. “Edgard’s right, Richius. You know he is. And …”

“And what?”

“I want to go with him.”

The grief Richius had tried so hard to check overtook him. “Are you going to leave me, Dinadin? Is that what you’re saying?”

“God, Richius, open your eyes. The war’s over. It’s like Edgard said. The Daegog’s dead.”

“Edgard doesn’t know that. Nobody knows that! We’re not done here.”

Dinadin shook his head. “I am. I’m done helping the emperor get richer. I’m not going back to Dring with you, Richius. I’m going home.”

“You’ll abandon all of us, just like that?”

Dinadin grabbed hold of Richius’ lapel. “We’ve already been abandoned by your own father! Lord, isn’t that enough for you? Or won’t you be satisfied until all of us are dead? Lonal’s gone, Jimsin’s gone. Almost half our company is gone! And it’s your goddamned fault!”

“It’s not!” cried Richius, shaking off Dinadin’s grip. “It’s not my fault. I’ve done my best.”

“Well, your best stinks. And I’m not going to be your next victim.” He reached into his belt and pulled out his silver dagger, the one he’d promised to Richius earlier. Roughly he shoved it into Richius’ hand. “Here. Take this and pay for your precious whore. Have a good time tonight. Because when you go back to the valley, you’re going to die.” Dinadin’s lower lip began to tremble. “And I don’t want to be there to see it.”

“Don’t, Dinadin, please …”

But Dinadin was already walking away. Richius started after him, then stopped himself as his friend put up a hand. He could tell Dinadin was weeping.

“I’m going home,” the big man choked. “I’m going.”

Richius let him go.

T
he noonday sun was high overhead when Richius returned, alone, to Ackle-Nye. The city of beggars was awake now, and stirring up a noxious smell. Triin refugees lined the streets like living garbage, and in the sky above a family of buzzards coasted on the thermals, looking down on the starving with cool anticipation. In the light of day Richius could see the city for what it was, and the former glory of what it had been. Urine stained the pretty cobblestones. Fire had gutted some of the works of the Naren architects. Broken mosaic windows hung in the unused church, the only house of worship in the city, and everywhere the desperate Triin huddled with their hands out, politely hassling the few Narens still in the city.

Richius hurried past it all, driving his mount back toward the little tavern. He arrived and found the same little boy from the night before, patiently waiting for a horse to tend. The boy beamed when Richius handed him a small coin. He took hold of the horse’s reins and carefully tied them to the post. Then he smiled reassuringly at Richius.

“Look after him,” said Richius, “and I’ll have another coin for you in the morning.”

Inside the tavern, Richius immediately sighted the innkeeper, Tendrik. The place was deserted but Tendrik was behind the bar anyway, stacking up a row of cloudy glasses. He brightened when he saw Richius.

“Afternoon, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Welcome back.”

Richius approached the bar, trying to smile. “Can I speak to you a moment?” he asked. “I need something from you.”

“I’m here to please,” said the innkeeper. “Especially for you, Prince Vantran.”

“You know who I am?”

“I do,” said the man secretively. “Dyana told me, the girl you spent the night with. She was very upset to have been deflowered by Kalak!” The man broke into a hearty laugh. “I didn’t know
they called you that in Dring, Prince. She said it means ‘jackal.’ Frankly, I’m not sure it suits you.”

“It’s not something I care for,” said Richius sharply. He watched with satisfaction as the humor on Tendrik’s fat face drained away. “And there’s no need for anyone else to know who I am, understand?”