The Jackal of Nar (76 page)

When the nurse arrived, Dyana left her chambers and started down the stairs that would take her to her husband’s study. Tharn always rose before the sun and spent an hour in devotion, then whiled away the rest of the morning with his books. He did not care to be interrupted while he read, and more than once had chastised servants for disturbing him. It was his ailments that made him cranky, she knew, and so usually she left him alone, never troubling him until he emerged from his offices of his own choice.

But not today. Today she had business with the master of Falindar, and had nary a care for his precious solitude. She was almost at the bottom of the stairs when the sight of Voris made her halt. The warlord was coming up. He stopped when he saw her.

“Woman,” he said thickly. “I was coming to speak to you.”

Dyana straightened. “That is presumptuous of you. Those are my private quarters, upstairs.”

“What I have to say to you should be said in private.” The warlord gestured for her to turn around. “Back to your rooms. We will talk there.”

“We will not,” said Dyana hotly. “What is it you want, Lord Voris? Have you a message from my husband?”

Voris’ face seized. “What I have to tell you is from me alone, woman. And if you would rather hear my insults in a stairway, so be it.” The warlord ascended another step, so that he was face to face with Dyana. “I am to escort you to my home. I am to protect you there. Have you been told this?”

“I have,” Dyana answered, not hiding her own distaste. “So?”

“I bring you a warning. I know you have feelings for the Jackal. I know that child is his. But let me tell you something. I will not allow you to disgrace your husband with that criminal. Not while you are under my charge. Tharn is sending you with me so that I may protect you, but I will protect him as well. His virtue is in my hands now. I will not let you disgrace him.”

Dyana gritted her teeth. “How dare you?” she seethed. “Do not tell me my mind, Warlord. I am a grown woman.”

Voris laughed. “Yes, this is the fire I have heard of. Oh, Tharn has always been so enamored of you. I cannot see why. To me you are nothing but a wild harlot.”

“Get out of my way,” said Dyana, brushing past him.

Voris seized her arm and pressed her against the wall. “I am not done with you.”

“You are!” spat Dyana, wrenching free. “And you will not ever touch me again.”

“And you will not let that Naren pig touch you, either, wife of Tharn. I will know it if he does. In my valley I know all.”

“Then you should know I have no intention of being with the Naren,” said Dyana. “I know who my husband is.”

“Indeed?” barked Voris. “Tharn is far too trusting of you. I have warned him about you for years, but he would never listen to me. Now he tells me that I do not know you, that you are a good woman. But I do not want to know you, harlot. I do not want to hear your poison, and I do not want you spreading it through my valley.”

“There is no cause for worry,” said Dyana. “I want nothing to do with your followers.”

“Good. Do not prove me right about you. For if you disgrace Tharn, I swear to you I will kill the Jackal, with Tharn’s blessing or without.” Voris fixed his blazing eyes on her. “And I might do the same to you.”

Before Dyana could respond, Voris the Wolf turned and went back down the stairs, leaving her alone. She took one more step downward, then stopped, suddenly unsure what she would tell Tharn. Sometimes she forgot that she was a prisoner, but then things like this happened and the bars became visible again. Tharn wouldn’t care about her complaints. He was a good man. She hadn’t lied to Richius about that. He was kind to her, and gentle. But he owned her, and there was nothing she could ever do to change that.

Slowly, Dyana made her way back up the stairs toward her spacious, gilded cage.

I
n the days prior to leaving Falindar, Richius busied himself with plans for the Dring Valley’s defense. He remained in his chambers for long hours, working well into the night as he scribbled maps by candlelight and thumbed through his journal to recall past misadventures.

Tharn had given him an ambitious project, for neither he nor Voris was willing to speak to the other, and Richius was forced to rely on his memories of Dring as he drew his maps.

It was a slipshod method at best. Having spent most of his time in the trenches just outside the valley’s deep core, he had never seen all of Dring. It was a thick, forbidding place, but more than that he could not say. Castle Dring was in the center of the valley, and he had never been there, and to the south were marshes and swamps, which the Naren forces would certainly avoid. The heart of the valley was absolutely overrun with vegetation, so Gayle’s horsemen and the war wagons wouldn’t pose much of a threat. Richius knew the dense center of Dring would be relatively easy to defend. Voris and his warriors would have the advantage there. It was on the outskirts of the valley, where the land was flat enough for both horse and greegan, that the threat would be the greatest. This was territory they would probably lose quickly.

But they would have to try, and Richius set to work planning an elaborate scheme of trenches and traps for the war wagons and cavalry. There would be long spears to deal with the horsemen, and shields to deflect the fire of the flame cannons. Archers would have to be positioned in every trench so that they could pick off the infantry, and whatever war wolves Voris possessed would have the unenviable task of tangling with the monstrous greegans. Richius set it all down on paper and gave it to Tharn to pass along to Voris. Voris passed it along grudgingly to his men. The warlord of Dring didn’t question the plans, however, but sent his warriors back to his valley with orders to begin the work
Richius had directed. It was an uncomfortable arrangement, and Richius resented it. So too did Voris, and on the eve of their leaving for Dring, the warlord made his feelings plain.

That morning, Richius said his good-byes to Lucyler, who at the direction of Tharn had gathered the remaining warriors in the citadel and set out for the rough outer reaches of Tatterak to find and kill those Narens that had landed on their shores. It was a melancholy farewell, and it soured Richius’ mood. He whiled away that afternoon in his chamber, jotting down notes in his journal and missing home and fretting over how Dyana and Shani would manage on the long journey to the valley. She would be the only woman on the trip and would need to feed the baby. Her privacy was the issue pestering him when he heard the knock on his door.

“Who is it?” he asked, setting aside his pen. There was another knock. Richius got out of his chair with a groan and opened the door. Outside was a grim-faced cunning-man, one of Tharn’s devotees. The man handed Richius a note and departed without a word. The note read very simply,
“Come see me now.”
It was not signed but the nearly illegible penmanship told Richius it was from Tharn.

“Where?” wondered Richius aloud. Stuffing the note into his pocket, he stepped out of his chamber and closed the door. He guessed that Tharn would be in his study, poring over his own collection of maps and books, and he sauntered casually down the narrow hallway, confused by the message but unconcerned. Tharn would be leaving in the morning, too, and probably wanted to know what progress Richius had made in his plans. Richius was sure he had enough to satisfy the Drol.

The Drol priests in the hall outside of Tharn’s study stepped aside when they saw him coming. Since the council, the citadel had been alive with activity, and it was rare to be able to walk the place’s corridors without seeing at least one of the ubiquitous holy men. They encircled Tharn like a shroud now, never letting anyone interrupt him unless they had known business. Richius scooted past them without regard. The door to Tharn’s study was closed. A conversation leaked out beneath it. Richius cocked his head to listen. Tharn’s voice was rasping in Triin. He hesitated a moment longer, wondering who else was in the chamber and hoping it was Dyana. But the cunning-men were watching him,
so he knocked lightly on the door. At once the conversation stopped.

“Tharn?” he asked politely. “It’s Richius.”

Some shuffling noises sounded before Tharn’s voice answered, “Come.”

Cautiously Richius pushed open the door. He spied Tharn seated at his desk behind a pile of parchments and sloppily stacked books. The Drol leader looked up with a frail smile. There was a shadow on his face from the person standing by the window. Richius opened the door wide enough to see Voris’ face. The warlord of the Dring Valley crossed his arms over his chest and made a grimace of contempt as he noticed Richius.

“Come in,” urged Tharn. “Close the door, please.”

When the door closed the room fell under a tense silence. Richius waited for Tharn to speak, chancing a curious glance at Voris. The warlord stared back. Tharn sighed, and gestured Richius toward the small chair by his desk. Richius remained standing.

“Very well,” said Tharn impatiently. He blew back a strand of dirty hair from his forehead and leaned back in his seat. “Richius, do you know why you are here?”

“No,” replied Richius. “Tell me please. I’m already anxious to leave.”

Tharn chuckled mirthlessly. “It gets colder day by day around you. Why not sit? We have business.”

“I’ll stand. Thank you.”

“Then I will sit,” said Tharn. “And you and Voris can be as uncomfortable as you wish. But do not fight, please. I am too tired for it.”

A reluctant smile broke on Richius’ face. Regrettably, he was liking Tharn these days. It made it difficult to stay angry.

“We are all tired, Tharn,” he said easily. “If your friend doesn’t attack me again, I promise not to throw him out the window.”

“If you want to die for something, make it for something valuable.” He gestured to the chair again. “Now please …”

Richius relented, pulling out the chair and sitting down. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned backward, making every effort to seem relaxed. “Now,” he said, pointing his chin toward Voris. “What’s he doing here?”

As if he understood the words, Voris stepped forward and
broke into an angry retort, pushing his finger into Richius’ face. Richius swatted it away and sprang out of the chair, bracing for another fight. He didn’t see Tharn’s cane flash until it crashed against his shin. Before Voris could back away the cane struck again, cracking against the warlord’s leg. Both men fell back with a howl. Cursing, Richius dropped into the chair, rubbing the bone to dull the pain. He scowled at Tharn and the cunning-man grinned.

“Now we can talk,” said Tharn. “You will listen, yes?”

Richius nodded.

Tharn bid Voris closer with his stiffened hand. The warlord sighed dutifully and obeyed. Only when he was satisfied that he had an attentive audience did Tharn continue.

“We all go in the morning,” he said seriously. “And I want things understood. Richius, Voris has made suggestions to me.”

“I’m sure.”

“Hear me now. He is not pleased with your plans for Dring. He disagrees.”

“Disagrees?” Richius sat upright in his chair. “He’s had four days to disagree with me. Why’s he telling us this now?”

“He wants changes.”

“No,” said Richius. “No changes. He was supposed to start ordering the things I asked for. Didn’t he start yet?”

Tharn nodded. “He has already sent some of his warriors ahead. The defenses you asked for are being made.”

“Good. So what’s the problem?”

“There is no attack plan,” replied Tharn. “He wants to see an attack plan.”

“There
is
no attack plan. You asked me to help defend the Dring Valley. So all right, I’m doing it. If you want an attack plan, ask him for one.”

“He has already given me one. I want your ideas on it.” Tharn shifted effortfully in the chair and produced a small map from the desktop. He held it out for Richius to inspect. It was of the Dring Valley. To the west were dozens of blotchy black pen strikes representing the approaching forces of Nar. To the east were a series of vertical lines. Richius guessed these to be his defense trenches. He shrugged and tossed the map back onto the desk.

“So?”

Voris spoke up, addressing Tharn directly. Tharn nodded as he listened.

“Richius, Voris wants to attack the Narens. He says that it would surprise them and that they could be overtaken with enough men. Do you agree with this?”

Richius choked back a laugh. “Attack them? Is he serious? With what? He’d need an army to overcome their forces.”

“He proposes using all his warriors and wolves for the strike. He says the surprise would even out the numbers.”

“He’s wrong, Tharn. They’d be slaughtered. Even if they could surprise them, Nar has too many men ready. Attacking them would be suicide.”

Tharn passed on Richius’ words to Voris. The warlord argued vehemently.

“Voris wants you to know that he has built up his forces since you left the Dring Valley. He says that he has over two thousand men now. Enough, he says, to have destroyed you.”

Richius smiled. “History. Besides, he’s not just up against Aramoor this time. Lord, haven’t you explained that to him? If he fights them on the flats he’ll have to deal with the war wagons and the horsemen.” He glanced mischievously at Voris. “And if we’d used horses we would have beaten him.”

Tharn’s bloodshot eyes rolled back in his head. “Enough, please. Now tell me, will you support this or not?”

“I will not,” said Richius. “It is foolhardy and dangerous. Nothing good can come of it, I promise.”

“Richius,” said Tharn thoughtfully, “before you decide you should consider everything. The horseman you hate will be on the flats. It may not be possible for you to get to him otherwise.”

“I know,” answered Richius. He had already considered his slim chances of reaching Blackwood Gayle in the thick, inhospitable valley. It changed nothing. “I stand by what I’ve said. Will you support me?”

Tharn smiled grimly, addressing Voris over his shoulder. The warlord’s face mottled with crimson as he listened. When his master was done, Voris spoke again, crossing his arms and throwing back his head. Tharn frowned and didn’t translate.