Authors: John Marco
The Jackal of Nar (26 page)
“Is this your mercy, butcher?” spat Lucyler as Tharn led him toward the throne. “Will you make a display of us?”
Tharn leaned into Lucyler’s ear and pointed toward the throne, whispering, “Do you see him?”
Lucyler followed Tharn’s finger. Behind the kneeling warlords, a large, round object squirmed on the dais. The Triin leader was trussed up like a prize turkey, his arms bound behind his back and roped to his tethered ankles. He lay on his side, sweat beading on his forehead, a huge knot of fabric stuffed between his teeth.
Lucyler groaned, pulling free of Tharn’s grip and stopping halfway to the dais. “What have you done?”
The Daegog had been badly beaten. There were scars on his neck from a garrote, and his cheeks were puffed out with bluish
bruises. One eye was closed, forced shut by an oozing contusion, and his white hair was plastered to his forehead by a crust of dried blood.
“You bastard!” cried Lucyler, backing away from the dais. “Is this Drol justice?”
“Hold!” ordered Tharn. Voris stepped out from the line to assist his master, but Tharn raised a hand to stop him. “Choose where you stand, Lucyler of Falindar. You must witness this. Do you stand with your Daegog?”
Lucyler straightened. “I do,” he declared.
“Then come with me to the dais. Stand with Kronin and the others.”
Tharn turned and went toward the dais. Lucyler, unsure what he should do, followed the cunning-man to the throne. When he reached the dais he stopped beside the bound Kronin and stood there, watching as Tharn climbed the dais and hovered over the Daegog. The Daegog whimpered as Tharn put a booted foot onto his chest.
“Warlords of Lucel-Lor,” he cried. “I am Tharn, the Storm Maker. I bear the touch of heaven within me.” He pointed down at the man beneath him. “This thing at my feet is the former Daegog of Lucel-Lor. He is a criminal. He has confessed his crimes to me, and now he will confess them before you all.”
Tharn stooped and pulled the knot of material from the Daegog’s mouth. No sooner had it popped out than the Daegog screamed.
“Help me!” he shouted through the mucus clogging his throat. “He means to kill me!”
“Indeed I do,” said Tharn with all seriousness. “But not before you speak again of your crimes.” He pressed down on the Daegog’s chest with his boot, forcing the air from the fat man’s lungs. “Confess! Confess and get the merciful death you do not deserve!”
“Help,” wheezed the Daegog. He was crying now, fighting against the ropes. Tharn’s face twisted with fierce disgust. He ground his foot harder against the man’s chest.
“Confess, fat one! Tell these good men who followed you how you meant to betray them!”
A hush fell upon the gathering. The warlords and their warriors stood and listened with grave anticipation.
“Speak, Nebarazar Gorandarr!” commanded Tharn. “Is it true that you only wanted Nar’s science to defeat the men gathered here?”
The Daegog wouldn’t answer. He turned his head toward the bound warlords at the foot of the dais, gibbering at them for help. Lucyler felt a rush of nausea at the spectacle, hoping Tharn would end it quickly. Instead the Drol leader stepped off the Daegog’s chest and leaned down. His words were soft, nearly inaudible, but Lucyler’s proximity to his fallen king let him hear every violent word.
“Tell them, Daegog,” whispered Tharn. “Or you will spend the rest of your days in those catacombs, and I will have the rats eat out your eyes.”
“No!” the Daegog wailed. “Spare me, monster, I beg you! Please …”
“Be still!” roared Tharn, standing up again to tower over the prone man. “Be a man in death at least. Nebarazar Gorandarr, is it true that you cared nothing for the people of Lucel-Lor?”
“Yes, all right,” blubbered the Daegog. “Now, spare me, please.…”
“Is it true that you are a weak and useless ruler, and that you envy and hate these men who honored you?”
“No, no, I cannot say it, do not make me—”
“Confess!” roared Tharn, and kicked the Daegog’s face so hard that several teeth flew from his mouth. Lucyler felt a spray of blood strike his face. The Daegog let out an agonized sob. Unable to stand another cry, Lucyler ran up onto the dais.
“Stop it!” he ordered, dropping down over the Daegog and shielding him from Tharn’s blows. “You are killing him! Is that what your revolution is for?”
Voris sprang out of the crowd, his tame white wolf on his heels. He reached the dais in an instant and grabbed hold of Lucyler, dragging him off the Daegog. He was a giant man, and the snapping jaws of his pet made Lucyler relent. He pulled free of Voris’ grip, cursing.
“Beast!” he spat at Tharn. “Do not torture him like this!”
“You must learn the truth of this man, Lucyler of Falindar. You must hear his confession.” He looked down at the writhing thing at his feet. “Nebarazar Gorandarr, I put it to you again.
Speak truthfully, and you will die quickly and without pain. Tell these men why you invited in the devils of Nar. I know the truth already, traitor. You cannot change that. Now speak it and be free.”
Horrified, Lucyler watched as the Daegog turned to regard the gathered warlords. There was the most unholy expression on his face. Disregard, contempt, avarice, and spite: all the worst of emotions glowed in his defeated eyes. A trickle of blood fell from his bulging lips, and when he spoke his voice was a hollow, diseased rasp.
“He says you honored me, but that was never so,” croaked the Daegog. “Dogs, every one of you. I am the Daegog of Lucel-Lor. I am supreme.”
Voris growled and made to strike the groveling man, but Tharn’s quick hand on his shoulder stayed the blow. Kronin was staring up into his Daegog’s eyes, his face stricken, and Delgar of Miradon began to weep. But the Daegog laughed horribly at seeing his loyal warlord’s tears, and spat a wad of saliva and blood at him.
“All of you are fools,” continued the Daegog. “Nar was not for gold or trade or knowledge. Nar was for weapons. Had none of you the brains to see that?”
“He meant to crush us all with the weaponry of Nar,” said Tharn. “He dealt with their evil emperor so that he could have the means of gaining all your lands.”
“They are my lands!” said the Daegog. “I am the Daegog of Lucel-Lor. Only my blood is fit to rule!”
Lucyler backed away from the Daegog, horrified and hating himself. He was almost off the dais when he backed into Tharn. The cunning-man took hold of his arm and kept him from leaving.
“No,” whispered Tharn. “You must hear this.”
“I cannot,” said Lucyler weakly.
The Daegog fought one last time against his bonds, then hurled an inhuman cry into the air. “I die,” he bellowed. “And I leave you all to the Drol!”
Tharn stepped closer to the Daegog. “Nebarazar Gorandarr,” he said softly. “Your time is ended.”
The cunning-man held a hand over the Daegog’s face, merely
inches from his nose. And all at once Nebarazar Gorandarr fell silent, and the cruelty of his expression vanished as the muscles in his face slackened. His breathing slowed, ebbed, then suddenly stopped.
The Daegog was dead.
From the Journal of Richius Vantran:Father is dead.
Nearly a month has passed, and I have hardly said these words at all. They are so strange to me. Until now I have avoided writing them just to keep them from being real. But truly he is gone and I must at last accept it.
The last month has gone by in a dream, a nightmare from which I am finally awakening. Jojustin has been a blessing. Were it not for him my anguish would have crushed me. He has nursed the sickness in my soul better than any mother could have. It is easy to see why Father always cherished him. He claims that I am to be king now. If so, I can think of no better a steward. It is for his sake that I am trying to be myself again. Aramoor will need a leader when the emperor takes his vengeance on us. Edgard is gone. Only I am left to carry that burden.
Jojustin has been taking Fathers murder with real mettle. While I have been useless and despondent these weeks, he has ignored his own grief and continues to tend to the needs of the castle. I know he does not want to worry me, but I can tell how concerned he is for my safety. He tries to keep me indoors and out of the gardens. It is as if we are living in a prison. Through my chamber window I can see the sentries he has posted at the gates, and an uneasy mood has settled over the servants. There is none of their happy chattering in the hallways that I remember so vividly and so looked forward to hearing again. Most of them knew Father since their childhoods, and have been as stricken as I by the news of his death. Still, they were not his kin. There is a part of me I fear may never mend.
The thought of a Triin killing Father still shocks me. Before the fall of Ackle-Nye I would not have believed them capable of
such evil. Never have the Drol seemed quite so wicked. They have shown me a spitefulness to rival that of Nar’s. But they never knew the truth about Father. If they had, Tharn himself would have thought him a hero. Instead we are left with the curse of being enemies, and wait for more assassins to crawl into our gardens and murder us. We are even deprived the satisfaction of justice. I have tried to tell Jojustin that no one could have captured the assassin, but he has never lived among Triin and so does not know how agile and cunning they can be. If only Lucyler were here to convince him. He could scale the garden wall like the assassin and show Jojustin the uselessness of guilt.
The lands around the castle are finally quiet again. At last the parade of well-wishers has stopped. I know they mean no harm, but their questions about the war are lurid and bothersome to me. They cannot possibly know what we have been through. Even the old veterans of the Talistan war trouble me, they are so curious. I am sick of their stories and comparisons. They are all experts, yet none of them has ever faced a Drol or seen the handiwork of a jiiktar. I listen to their tales, and doubt the House of Gayle was ever as fierce as the Drol of the valley.
Thankfully, not all the talk has been of war. Sometimes, when they are drunk and melancholy enough, they speak to me of Father. Everyone seems to know something new about him, something he hid or simply never told me. And all of them say how proud he was of me. They leave me with ideas to struggle with. How can a father abandon a son he loved so sweetly? Edgard said it first, and I think Dinadin thought it likely. Now Jojustin says it is true, but I still cannot accept it. Father would never have left me to die, not even to save Aramoor.
I have had Father’s letter since Patwin gave it to me in the mountains. Jojustin has been urging me to read it. He seems to believe it will solve this riddle for me, but perhaps I do not want it solved. If Father’s own words say he abandoned me, my memory of him will be forever tainted.
I have been grateful for Patwin’s company since the others returned home. It is good to share time with someone who understands. But he is mending well from his long trip, and it is likely that he too will be leaving. I do not welcome the loneliness his absence will bring. Things are too quiet without Father around.
The castle never seemed so large before, and winter is coming. We will have snow soon, and then none of my men will want to journey to the castle. How I wish Lucyler was here. I had always thought he would return with me to Aramoor when the war ended, and he and Dinadin and I would eat and drink like we never could in the valley and let our own tales get taller like the old veterans do. But he is gone, like Father and Edgard, killed for nothing but the vengeance of Voris.
I suppose I will never know what horrible end he faced in my stead. Gilliam and the others were kind about it, but I know Voris must have had an unholy death planned for me. What a cruel creature he must be. Now we all live with Lucyler’s death in our hearts, and Voris has killed us even so. But if I can I will take my own vengeance some day, and in Lucyler’s name will cut out the Wolf’s heart and feed it to the rats in his damned valley. Dinadin would like that. Were it not for so many Drol in the valley I think Dinadin would yet be there, overturning every rock to find Voris. I never knew how fond he was of Lucyler until now.
Dinadin has changed since returning home. Maybe it is simply what war does to young men, but we hardly spoke at all during the long ride back with Patwin. I know he bears me ill will, and I suppose it should be that way. Lucyler died because of me, and Dinadin is right to say so. Voris wanted Kalak, but Lucyler suffered his revenge. Dinadin and Lucyler had a strange friendship, and I doubt I can ever make this up to him. He has not been back to the castle since returning home, and I miss him. I need him to stand with me now, to help me face the days ahead. We will all need to stand together if the emperor comes to challenge us. I only hope the grudge he holds softens soon. So many have gone now that even my memories seem unfamiliar to me.
And she is gone, too.
It is as if I have known this girl for years. There is nothing else that quickens love like war. Each night I lie awake to visions of her. I lull myself to sleep with whispered prayers for her. I pray she is not in the mad devil’s hands. I pray she can forgive me for not keeping her safe. But I think God is deaf and does not hear me. Or maybe it is as the emperor’s priests say, that God only answers the prayers of true Narens. If that is so, I will be in His hell forever.
The storm that took Dyana was a magic, evil thing. Even Dinadin told me I could not have fought against it. Yet regrets still haunt me. I lost so many. Like Jimsin. Like Lucyler.
What a bloody list I have.
Tonight is eerily quiet. The servants have all gone to their beds, and Jojustin has long since come by to say his good-nights. Nights like these unnerve me. Through my window I can see the watchful glow of torches and the sentries at the gate, yet they do not comfort me. Home is not what I remembered. Outside the world has turned a watery gray. Winter is coming too fast. I had hoped to see color here, but the autumn leaves have died and fallen away. In the gardens only thorns grow on Father’s roses. And Jojustin says I am to be king of this place.
By now the emperor has heard of Father’s death. No doubt he does not grieve for him as we in Aramoor do. Only Arkus wanted war with Lucel-Lor, and now I suppose I’ll never know what grand designs he had for the Triin, or why he had us fight their bloody war. Whatever Arkus sought from them, we have lost it for him, and so it is likely he will punish us for that. Perhaps his legions are already on their way. Or maybe it is the Drol who want more vengeance and are planning to come at us through the mountains. I say let them all come. Nothing is as it was anymore, and I see no way to be even a shadow of the king that Father was. Peace escapes me even here. At night I hear wolves howling and see white faces in my dreams. Home still seems so very far away.
