The Jackal of Nar (82 page)

“Not too long, I hope. It is dreary.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Richius. For him, the haphazard stonework had a definite warmth. “It reminds me of my own home back in Aramoor. I think I like it.”

Voris began barking orders to his men. One of them broke rank and started down the hill in a gallop. Dyana caught the puzzlement on Richius’ face.

“He is going to tell the others we are here,” she said. “Be ready, Richius. They will be waiting for us.”

“Waiting for us? What do you mean?”

“I do not know. Voris simply told him to make ready.” She smiled mischievously. “Maybe they want to meet you.”

Richius scoffed. “Right. And maybe I should have stayed in Falindar.”

They both laughed, but a little shudder went through Richius anyway. He was in the Dring Valley now, about to step over Voris’ threshold.

“I’ll have to check the front,” he said blackly. “See if Voris’ men have been doing as I asked.”

“Tomorrow,” replied Dyana. “There will be time enough for all of that. Tonight we rest. And in real beds, too.”

“Umm, that does sound nice. Tomorrow then, unless Voris has other plans for me.”

Dyana looked at him sternly. “It is not the warlord’s plans that matter, Richius. What do
you
want? Remember, this is your battle now.”

“But it’s still his valley, Dyana. I don’t want to cross him. Tharn warned me not to.”

“Tharn also wants you to take command here. Do not let Voris intimidate you, Richius. He will if he can.”

Richius chuckled. “Oh? And how do you know so much about him?”

“He is a man,” said Dyana. “That is all I need to know.”

Richius was readying an answer when Voris rode between them. He pointed at the watchtower, speaking directly to Dyana.

“Eeasay. Nobata Kalak hoorensay.”

Dyana nodded and Voris rode off, starting down the slope toward his home. When he was out of earshot, Richius asked, “What was that about?”

“He says you are to follow him.”

Richius stiffened. “Follow him? Why?”

“I am sorry, Richius. He did not say.”

“He’s very secretive, isn’t he? Very well. If that’s what he wants.” He started off after the warlord.

Voris was trotting impassively along the narrow path in front of him. Richius looked into the net of tree limbs above his head, peeking through them to the dapples of blue heaven. The watchtower was almost invisible behind the leafy canopy. Beneath him the road had thinned to a rocky path, strewn with smooth stones and bordered by scarlet wildflowers and dense patches of weedy grass. He heard a brook bubbling in the distance and the throaty honking of waterfowl, and it struck him again how much like Aramoor this was. This wasn’t the monstrous, forbidding Dring he remembered, with its tangles of secretive trees and ever-looming shadows. It was as if he were home again, in a part of Aramoor he had simply never discovered. The air was thick but wonderfully breathable, replete with the mossy scents of nature’s slow processes. A dragonfly winged by his nose, and in the trees squirrels chased each other from branch to branch, frolicking without regard to the strangers invading their primeval home. Cheerful robins sang above him, warbling their melodies, and where the broken trunk of a tree had fallen a hive of industrious wasps busied themselves with the construction of a paper house.

All this Richius imbibed like the sweetest liquor, absently stroking Lightning’s neck. He thought of Dyana in her slow-moving carriage, and wondered what her reaction would be to all this beauty. Dreary, she called it. Richius laughed to himself, sure that she would be regretting her hasty assessment. He wished suddenly that she was here with him, so they could discover the loveliness of the path together.

Then he heard the first wolf cry.

It tore through him relentlessly, stopping him in mid-breath and leaching the color from his face. Off in the distance he heard another and then another still, ghostly howling that pierced the heart of the forest. Richius cocked his head to listen. He had to fight Lightning, who whinnied at the sounds. There were dozens of them, all baying the same melancholy tune. Worse, it was coming from the path before him. He glanced ahead to find Voris and saw the warlord’s crimson tunic swaying nonchalantly as he continued forward, heedless of the doleful wolf-music.

Richius hesitated. Those were war wolves, and they were just ahead of him, waiting on their haunches for a coming meal. A clammy perspiration rose on his brow, and his mouth dried till his gums were like sand. Voris was disappearing behind the veil of trees as he neared the castle. The warlord stopped suddenly and looked over his shoulder.

“Kalak,” cried Voris, waving Richius on. “Eeasay!”

Richius seethed. “Don’t task me, you bastard.”

Voris was still staring at him.

“All right,” conceded Richius softly, “but I’ll get you for this,” and started off again down the path. This time Voris waited for him. The exuberant song of the war wolves grew in volume as Richius approached. Voris’ grin widened. And then the forest parted like a curtain behind him, revealing Castle Dring.

It was like the ruins of some ancient Naren stronghold, a fortified amalgamation of mismatched stone and jagged mountain rock, so poorly thrown together that the place seemed about to crumble under its own gargantuan weight. Its glass panes were frosted with a timeless film of grunge, and its granite foundation listed noticeably eastward, lending the place a decidedly crooked appearance so that the windows and balconies formed the face of a cretin child. The base of the giant watchtower sprang up out of the castle’s side in a leaning spike of crumbling stones, and on every pillar and bowed gable were the artistic imprints of a better time, architectural nuances that had once made the castle a fitting home. Discolored gargoyles with weather-broken claws sat atop rounded turrets, and the headless remains of a leaky water-statue stood in the clearing near the base of the watchtower, her naked feet and calves mired in clinging yellow lichens. There were missing shutters and vine-covered
fences, collapsing catwalks and a stairway that seemed to lead nowhere.

Richius would have laughed but for the serious face of his host. Voris was still staring at him as he approached, his furtive smile growing wilder by the moment. And then Richius saw past Voris to the castle grounds. The warlord made a great sweeping gesture toward his home and the minions there to greet them.

“Bonata, Kalak.”

An army of red-robed warriors stood off to the side farthest from the tower, their shocking manes of white hair oiled and gleaming like the polished jiiktars they held poised beside them. Stone-faced and immaculate, they stared straight ahead, their eyes and jaws set with ceremony. And there too were the war wolves, those howling beasts with the red eyes and yellow fangs, their necks encircled with stout collars and leashed together with chains. There were at least two hundred warriors and a dozen of the wolves, all brought out to greet the return of the lord of this dilapidated keep. A handful of other men stood out before the others, men of rank denoted by golden crests threaded through their robes. They too held jiiktars, bejeweled and leafed with precious metals.

Home again indeed,
thought Richius. They were all like spectres to him these Drol of Dring, creatures of a netherworld he’d hoped long buried. With their long, white faces and gray eyes, they were things both less and more than human. He set his jaw and stared back at them.

“For me?” he asked the warlord sarcastically. “Really, I wish you hadn’t gone to the trouble.”

Voris ignored him and started toward the castle grounds. Richius forced Lightning after him, making the steed obey. The men with the golden crests bowed to the warlord as he approached, then straightened and held up their jiiktars in salute. A crashing cheer broke from the ranks of the gathered warriors.

“Cha Yulan!” they sang each time the jiiktars rose. “Cha Yulan! Cha Yulan!”

Voris dismounted and held up his hands. There was a great, pacific smile on his face. The cheering stopped at once. The warlord dropped slowly to his knees and placed his open palms on the loamy earth and kissed the ground of his homeland. The warriors
cheered again, whistling and shouting and stamping their feet. Voris rose and held up a triumphant fist.

“Jahani!” he shouted madly. “Jahani Dring!”

Dyana’s carriage was finally winding into the clearing with the rest of the caravan. When she saw Richius she ordered her driver to stop, then jumped out of the vehicle, Shani held in a little bundle against her breast. Richius raised his eyebrows.

“This I didn’t expect,” he called to her. “What’s going on?”

Dyana strode over to him, spying the baying wolves and trying to hide the babe in the folds of her dress. “They are greeting their returning lord,” she explained. “It is a custom among the warlords. These are his warriors, his loyal men.”

“And this is all for my benefit, I suppose. God, he really puts on a show. Look there. What’s he doing?”

Voris was climbing onto the massive stump of a long-fallen tree. The warriors hushed as he inspected them, casting an approving eye on each in turn. He took a deep breath and let it out with a satisfied sigh.

“Matusa ben Dring!” he called to the gathering.

There was no cheering this time, just the reverent silence of a captivated army. Even the war wolves had ceased their welcoming cries. They sat back on their haunches like trained house pets, their tails still and their pointed snouts held high for their master. Richius climbed down from Lightning’s back and stood beside Dyana, fascinated by the incredible sight. He had to hold the horse to keep it from bolting.

“What’s he saying?” he asked Dyana.

Dyana started to translate.

“Great men of Dring!” began Voris. “You honor me. I know when I see you that I am home again. When I look at you, I see our power!”

Now, as if they had been waiting for a sign, the men of the Dring Valley let forth a chorus of
Cha Yulan.

Voris struck his fist into the air. “I am the Wolf!” he declared. “And this is my valley!” He lowered his voice and growled, “No one will take it from me.”

This electrified the army. They stamped their feet and beat their jiiktars together, hooting their approval. Richius felt the charge, too. He listened to every translated word of the warlord’s
speech, transfixed by the figure prancing on the tree trunk. Voris bared his pointed canines.

“Nar is at our heels, my warriors. Their cowards are coming for us with their terrible machines. But am I afraid? I am not. Because this dragon that stalks us walks on feet of straw! It is a beast without a soul. It knows nothing of land or loyalty or the power of our living gods.”

A cool breeze stirred through the grasses and Voris licked his lips to taste it. “Our valley is free, my warriors. Now and always it will be so. We are together again, made strong by the will of Lorris, and we will defend our land. We will defy the dragon of Nar!” He lifted his booming voice to the sky and cried, “Do you hear me, Black Ones? We defy you!”

“We defy you!” returned the crowd. “We are with the Wolf!”

“Be still now, and listen,” Voris continued. “We are set a great task. Men of Dring, the time has come to again offer battle in defense of our country. Invaders poise to despoil us. The dragon comes to devour our lives and our honor. And it is strong. They come to us in great numbers, these things from the Black Empire, but I would fight them if they were a million. They have weapons of science to burn us, but I would fight them with my fingernails alone. For this great valley, my home and yours, and for the honor of our wives and sisters, I would fight them to my dying breath.”

An unexpected fervor seized Richius. He had never known this Voris, the orator, and now he was set afire by the warlord’s words. The crowd was still as Voris moved on his wooden stage like a practiced dancer, gesturing to the trees and the sky above, riding the intangible wave of emotion. He stopped speaking and smiled at the crowd, then jerked his thumb in Richius’ direction. Richius stiffened.

“And we are not alone, my friends,” said the warlord. “Heaven is with us. Lorris and Pris guide our hands. They have delivered to us our great enemy—the Jackal.”

Every head in the crowd turned at once toward Richius, who felt a surge of hot color in his face. Their cool gray eyes bored into him, shredding his courage and causing a lump to spring into his throat. Dyana’s hand leapt invisibly to his arm and squeezed.

“Do not worry,” she whispered.

He cleared the dry blockage from his throat and looked back at the men of Dring. Voris was continuing.

“He has been chosen, my friends, picked by the hand of Lorris himself. No, you say? Is he not a heretic? True, a heretic he may always be, but what more proof do you need of heaven’s hand than the humbling of this once-hateful creature? I say Lorris has brought him to us, and so says Tharn himself!”

At the mere mention of Tharn’s name, the heads of the warriors began nodding in agreement. Voris seized the opportunity.

“I follow the Lord Tharn,” he declared proudly. “And I am not too great to refuse his bidding. In his wisdom he has set the Jackal above me, but do I question him? I do not.”

“Ooohh,” remarked Richius, “you are good.” He looked over to Dyana, and watched her face contort.

“He lies,” said Dyana.

Richius shook his head. “No. Don’t you see? He’s making it possible for me to do my job.”

“What do you mean?”

“The men will listen to me now. If they think I’m some delivered villain chosen by Tharn, they will follow me.”

“Tharn has charged the Jackal to save us. We must all help him. You are expected to show yourselves worthy, men of Dring. Be worthy of the women you love. Be worthy of your children’s respect. Be worthy of my faith in you. I follow the word of Tharn, and you shall follow my word. Together we can win back our valley. Strength and valor is what I ask of you. Do not betray me.”

There was a sober silence. Voris let his army bow to him, then stepped down from the tree trunk. No one spoke or even lifted their heads. The warlord strode over to where Richius and Dyana stood, an expression of disgust on his face.