The Jackal of Nar (24 page)

“How can it be? No one can conjure the weather. It’s impossible.”

“It is Tharn,” insisted Dyana. “He is coming for me!”

“Be still,” said Richius. “No one’s going to harm you, I promise. I won’t let them.”

“It’s like Edgard told us, Richius,” said Dinadin. “Just like he said! It’s Tharn.”

“It’s not Tharn!” roared Richius. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not Tharn.”

Dinadin stepped up to Richius, his expression furious. “Get your things together. We have to get out of here, leave the city before the storm comes.”

“We’ll head for the Run,” agreed Richius. “There are caverns in the mountains that will shelter us. Dinadin, hurry downstairs and get our horses. Mine should be there waiting with the Triin boy. We have to move quickly.”

“What about Edgard?”

“Don’t worry about him. I’m sure he’s already seen that thing coming. He’ll know enough to ride for the Run, too. Hurry now!”

Without another word Dinadin bolted out of the room, and soon Richius could hear his heavy boots hammering against the stairs. Outside the sky continued to darken. Richius released Dyana and picked his boots off the floor.

“Come on, Dyana,” he said as he slid his feet into his boots. “If we hurry we’ll be able to beat the storm to the mountains. We can wait it out there until …”

Richius turned to see Dyana frozen in place, staring out the window in disbelief.

“It is too late,” said Dyana bitterly. “Lorris and Pris, that bastard has found me.”

Richius snatched her hand and pulled her to the doorway. “Come on!”

He dragged her out into the hall. “I won’t argue with you,” he said as he raced down the steps. “I told you, I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Richius, stop,” said Dyana. She had paused halfway down the staircase and would not follow him further. “It is Drol magic! He is using it to look for me. I cannot get away. You must leave me or he will kill you, too!”

Richius looked at her hard. “Dyana, stop this rubbish. You’ve run this far. So keep on running. Don’t let this bastard get you.”

Dyana gritted her teeth, and her eyes flared with new determination.

At the bottom of the stairs they found the tavern empty. Even Tendrik was gone. The door to the place was flung open and a stiff wind was blowing in. Outside they could hear the roar of the approaching storm and the voices of those gathered in the streets to watch it.

“Listen to me now,” said Richius. “The place I know of in the mountains will keep us safe until the storm passes. It’s well hidden and no one will find us there. Not even Tharn. But we have to move fast.”

Before she could answer Dinadin ran into the tavern. “The horses are ready.”

“Let’s go,” said Richius, coaxing Dyana toward the door. Outside he saw the two horses waiting. Dinadin was already climbing on his horse.

“The storm’s getting closer,” said Dinadin. “We have to leave now.”

Richius nodded. He could see the gray-black crown of the thunderhead over the roofs of Ackle-Nye. The thing was already much closer than it had been a minute ago, and fog was just beginning to roll through the streets. He could feel the cobblestones beneath him vibrating with the storm’s extraordinary power. Beside him, Dyana watched as the storm extended its reach over the city. Gently, Richius’ hands encircled her waist.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be able to outrun it with these horses.” Richius tossed himself onto the horse and took hold of the reins. “Come on,” he ordered, stretching out a hand for Dyana. She took his hand and swung herself onto the beast’s back. Dyana’s arms closed about Richius’ waist. The horse came to attention immediately, snorting and eager to be commanded. In a moment they were off, racing through the narrow streets of Ackle-Nye, the hooves of their mounts echoing off the ancient stonework. They rode past throngs of worried merchants and Triin beggars, all with their eyes fixed on the mysterious giant rolling out of the east. But Richius did not look back as they galloped westward. They were already on the outskirts of the city. It would take them only minutes to reach the Run and the safety of
the Iron Mountains. No storm, magic-born or otherwise, could move as quickly as they were.

Soon they came to where the streets of the city ended. They could see the mountains clearly now, unobstructed by the looming towers of Ackle-Nye. Richius grinned. They had only to cross the bridge over the Sheaze before they reached the Saccenne Run.

“Richius!” cried Dinadin suddenly. “Edgard’s camp!”

Richius glanced over his left shoulder. He could see the war duke’s encampment far off in the distance. Unlike before, however, he could only see it through a haze. The fog of the coming storm had enshrouded the camp in a glistening mist. Though he thought he saw movement in the fog, Richius knew with sudden alarm that Edgard’s men were trapped.

“My God!” he exclaimed, reining his horse to a stop. “What’s happening?”

Dinadin brought his horse to a stop beside Richius. All through the camp the lights of unnatural fires twinkled in the fog. Men and horses darted through the mist, scrambling aimlessly under the shadow of the looming thunderhead. The whole of the cloud was visible now, and its anvil-like crown seemed to swell and darken as it rolled on legs of smoke toward the camp of the war duke.

“What should we do?” asked Dinadin anxiously.

Richius bit his lip. A sickening feeling of impotence seized him. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“But Edgard—”

“I know!” cried Richius. “God help them.”

The storm was just above the camp. The glowing fog thickened, obscuring the camp behind a vaporous curtain. Richius ignored Dyana’s insistent tugging at his shirt, ignored too the fog that was creeping over the grasses toward them. He was frozen, torn between fleeing and rushing headlong into a vain attempt to rescue his countrymen. Yet in his heart he knew the doom that faced them. So he stayed, refusing to turn his back on them, and watched as the sky cracked like an eggshell.

A sound like a thousand detonating flame cannons ruptured the air. Fingers of blue lightning discharged from the thunderhead’s crown, exploding into the camp and sending clumps of earth and shards of wood and fabric shooting skyward. Dyana
flinched at the burst, taking her hands from Richius’ hips and cupping them over her ears. Richius and Dinadin did the same, but though the flash was blinding, neither man was able to look away. Soon another, more intense blast arrived. Richius felt the jolt of a shock wave blow by them as countless bolts of electricity showered out of the thunderhead, igniting the earth behind the foggy veil.

“Go, Richius!” Dyana urged. “Hurry!”

Richius could scarcely move. He knew he had to get them to safety, but all he could think of was Edgard. He was almost sobbing when Dinadin called to him.

“Richius, come on! The fog’s getting closer. We have to move now!”

Richius slowly turned his back on the war duke’s camp. “Forgive me, my friend,” he said softly, then spurred his horse back to a gallop. Beneath him, the cobblestones of the city had given way to sandy earth and he raced across a well-worn path toward the bridge, Dinadin charging behind him. Within moments the bridge was in view, its long, Naren-built stringers forging the wide river. Richius could hear the racing waters of the Sheaze over the rumbling thunder and noticed at once that the concussive booms of lightning had stopped. Curious, he glanced over his shoulder to where Edgard’s camp had been. The bizarre fog still clung to the earth, but now he could see the eerie glow of fires burning in the haze. Ghostly wisps of black smoke struggled skyward. Nothing moved within the mists, and a frightening calm blanketed the ruined camp. And over it all, buoyed forward by ever-growing winds, the storm was moving toward them.

Richius cursed and spurred his horse again. The bridge was only yards away. He glanced over his shoulder at the behemoth stalking them. The thunderhead had turned a dusky burgundy. It shimmered and shifted as it rolled onward, reaching out for them with fingers of purple fog. Already the hooves of their mounts were hidden in a shallow lake of vapor.

“We’ll make it!” he cried. “God damn it, you nag! Run!”

But as the thunderhead spread out over them, Richius knew they couldn’t outrun it. They reached the bridge just as it descended, ensnaring them in its mists. There was a thick, smoky
stench and a rush of air. Dyana gripped his waist tighter. Behind him, Dinadin was shouting something that sounded like his name. He turned to find his friend but saw only the foamy, purple mists around them. Unable to go farther in the fog, his mount reared and whinnied. Richius fought to still the horse, snapping and tugging on its bridle to make it obey, but another rush of air knocked him from the saddle. He only barely saw Dyana ripped from the saddle after him. She fell into the fog and disappeared.

“Dyana!” Richius screamed, stretching out his arms like a blind man. He heard a cry and scrambled after it, groping wildly for any signs of the girl. Again she cried out his name and he knew that she was close, but the winds had stiffened so that he could barely stand against them. He moved as if in a nightmare, his feet leaden, his breath short, his muscles straining. At last he caught a glimpse of her. She lay stomach-down on the bridge, her hands scraping and scratching to get a grip between the bridge’s wooden planks. It looked as if some giant hand had seized her legs, pulling her into the abyss.

“Help me, Richius! Something has me!”

Richius lunged for her, landing on the deck with a crash. He caught hold of her fingers just as they slipped out of the groove.

“Hold on!” he shouted. “I’ve got you!”

“I cannot!” she cried, struggling to maintain her grip.

Richius wrapped his leg around a trestle, anchoring himself and stretching out his other hand. She reached for it, straining to make contact. He tried to stretch out more but couldn’t. Cursing, he closed his grip tighter around her fingers. The fragile bones within popped but he ignored the ugly sound and Dyana’s shriek of pain, fighting to free her. Again she tried to reach his other hand, but always the breadth of a hair separated them. The storm surged and gave a violent bellow. Richius could feel the sweaty oil of their hands forcing them apart. He had only her fingertips now.

“Richius!”

“No!”

The grip broke and Dyana slipped into the mists. Richius screamed and stumbled to his feet. Amazingly, the storm was already lifting. He watched it roll off the bridge and into the sky. Panicked, he blundered after it, sure that somehow Dyana still
lived within it. But the thing moved too quickly for him, and at last he fell to his knees, exhausted and weeping as the thunderhead disappeared into the sky. Behind him Dinadin was shouting his name. Richius ignored him.

Dyana was gone.

T
he tickle of a spider startled Lucyler awake. His eyes flicked open just before the insect entered his mouth. Cursing, he sat up and batted the thing away. It scurried across his lumpy mattress, but Lucyler’s palm thudded down on it with an unpleasant splat. He looked at its creamy remains before wiping the residue on the side of the bed. In the catacombs beneath Falindar, spiders were a plague.

Lucyler looked up at the filth-encrusted ceiling of his cell, at the myriad of webs burdened with egg sacks. He had already been here long enough to see an entire family of the pests born. He had even studied them, idling away the hours as he watched the young pull themselves free. Their plump mother hadn’t assisted them, but had instead busied herself wrapping a centipede for their first meal. She was a big thing, probably the terror of her tiny world. With broad yellow stripes, she looked to Lucyler like some sort of eight-legged tiger, and when she moved, which was seldom, she danced gracefully across her dewy web, racing in to kill the unlucky things that fell into her domain. Oddly, Lucyler had grown accustomed to her. She was the only constant company he had.

Lucyler had served in Falindar all his adult life, ever since he could wield a jiiktar with some skill, but he had never seen the catacombs. He was one of the Daegog’s warriors: proud, clean, and above the deeds that went on beneath the citadel. For that the Daegog had others. They were men with dark minds, and they went unseen by the people in the palace, going about their work in secrecy. The Daegog’s warriors saw only what they chose to see, and though he had known that a sprawling prison existed
beneath the home of his royal master, Lucyler never cared to learn the sordid details. It was simply not his place to question.

But now, caught in its depths, time had lost all meaning. From his beard growth he could tell that it had been days since Voris imprisoned him, but exactly how many he didn’t know. It might have been a week, or it might have been more. He could only gauge time’s passing by the occasional meal slipped between the bars, but these seemed so irregular as to have little or no timekeeping value. The little spiders had been born in the morning, that he knew for certain. He had overheard one of his Drol captors remarking about the sunrise. Lucyler remembered Falindar’s sunrises. They were magnificent.

But there was no sun down here, and no moon or stars, either. There was only the feeble light of a torch hung on a wall just out of reach. Sometimes his jailers extinguished the torch, leaving him alone in the deepest, maddening blackness. The cell became smaller then, the darkness oppressive and suffocating. There were others down in the catacombs. Lucyler could hear their distant mumbles, but they were far off in the twisting labyrinth, and they didn’t answer when he called. So he had only the mother spider to converse with, and she watched him back with cold curiosity, her multifaceted eyes black and omniscient. Unlike Lucyler, she could easily leave the cell but she never did. She was wholly satisfied with her squalid home.

It had been a long ride from the Dring Valley. Lucyler had only seen Voris that once. Afterward he had been blindfolded, bound, and stuffed into the back of a wagon for the long and rocky ride to Falindar. They had not even undone his blindfold long enough for him to see the spires of his former home, but it hadn’t mattered. He knew the smell of the citadel. The air here had a unique taste, ripe with the salt of the nearby ocean. And he had known he was being taken to Tharn.