The Jackal of Nar (91 page)

“What is that?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. There are marshes in the south of the valley, right?”

“Those are marshes?”

Richius looked at her scornfully. “I’ve been sick. Anyway, I’m right about the marshes, aren’t I? I’ve heard the whole area between the bottom of the valley and the start of the Sheaze is covered with them.”

“Najjir would know better. But yes, I think so. Why?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out a way to beat back the legionnaires now that they’ve made it into the forest.” He looked at her, as if suddenly remembering his usual question. “There’s nothing new to tell me, is there?”

“No,” she assured him. Even at his sickest he had asked how things were going, always trying to get involved. “Voris has not come home yet. Neither has Dumaka Jarra. But the wounded keep saying they are holding on. You were right about the forest traps. They have slowed down the soldiers. The warriors are saying they have lost only a little ground.”

“What about Kronin? Has anyone heard from Tatterak yet?”

“Richius, it has not even been a week.”

He nodded bleakly. “Voris and his men won’t be able to hold out forever. Gayle’s going to let the legionnaires clear the traps for him. Once he finds a way of getting his cavalry into the forest, there won’t be a way to stop them from reaching the castle. I know his tactics, Dyana. He’ll secure the areas around the forest path, then he’ll come charging in. We have to think of a way to defeat them before that happens.”

“Is that what you have been working on?” she asked. “A plan to defeat them?”

“Yes, and it all has to do with these marshes. Think about it. We can’t fight the horsemen because they’re in the open grasslands. What we need to do is push them into the forest before they’re ready. Or …” He pointed to the squiggles at the bottom of the page. “Get them into the marshes. We could ambush them there. The horses would be stuck, and even the legionnaires wouldn’t be able to move. We could beat them there, fighting on our own terms.”

He smiled at her, and his expression told her he was waiting
for a reply. But an obvious question nagged at her, dampening her exuberance.

“Yes, it is very good,” she said reservedly. “But how can we get them into the marshes?”

“
We’re
not going to,” said Richius slyly. “Kronin will.”

“Kronin? Oh, Richius, you should think more on this. It may not be a good idea.”

“But I have thought about it,” said Richius. He pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “I have it all worked out. I know it can succeed. Gayle won’t be expecting any more warriors to come at him. With that kind of surprise we can have him heading south before he knows what’s happening. And when he gets into the swamp, the rest of us will be waiting for him, in the trees and everywhere, just like now. Only they’ll be stuck. They won’t be able to retreat. We’ll have them, Dyana.”

“Easy,” said Dyana. “All I am saying is that you should not be sure Kronin will come. He may feel the same as Voris does. And if he thinks—”

She caught herself then, snagged on her thought.

“If he thinks what?” pressed Richius.

“No, nothing,” said Dyana quickly. “I am sorry. It is unimportant.”

“I can always tell when you’re lying,” he said with a grin. “Tell me. What were you going to say?”

She hesitated. “Kronin might not come, because he might think there is no need to come.”

“No need? Why would he think that? If the messenger Voris sent tells him how many Naren soldiers are here, he’ll know we need his help.”

“That is not what I am saying,” corrected Dyana. She looked down at the ground as she spoke. “Kronin and Voris only stopped their war because Tharn told them to. But no one has heard from Tharn for many weeks.” She closed her eyes. “Kronin might not help us if he thinks Tharn is dead.”

There, she’d said it. She braced herself, waiting for the room to erupt with Tharn’s lightning. Najjir would have said she was wishing for it. A dark feeling of shame writhed in her. Maybe she was. Beside her she heard Richius’ sweet, reassuring voice.

“Dyana, look at me.”

She opened her eyes. He was smiling at her, the way he always did when she needed him.

“Don’t grieve for a man who’s not dead,” said Richius gently. “Tharn is alive, Dyana. I’m sure of it.”

“Are you?” she asked. Sometimes he was right about the worst things.

“Yes. I can feel it. He’s too strong and stubborn to die while Nar is in Lucel-Lor, believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you,” she said. “I believe you.” She swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat. “Yes, you are right. Of course you are. Forgive me. I am a fool.”

“You are just concerned about him, that’s all. To be honest, so am I. But we’ll hear from him soon, as soon as he is able. Don’t worry.”

She tried to smile. “I will not. But I am still not wrong, Richius. Najjir has told me others are starting to wonder about Tharn. If Kronin thinks Tharn is dead, he may not come.”

“He’ll come,” said Richius. “If he can. He’s a man of honor. And I think he’ll feel he owes it to me. But it all depends on the coasts. If the Naren fleet is still landing troops, he may not be able to help us. We’re blind here, Dyana. We don’t know what’s happening. For all we know Tharn could have already sent word to Falindar, or the Lissens could be beating back the Black Fleet.…”

“Stop,” said Dyana firmly. “You have to rest. You might feel well but you’re not. The pain will be back.”

“But there’s more medicine, right? I can just put more on.”

“Yes, but it will not help you heal. For that you need rest, at least another day in bed. Tonight I will come back to see you. If the pain has returned we’ll use the medicine again. But you must not try to do too much. And put that book away. Try to sleep.”

“Yes, sleep,” he said dreamily. It had been days since he had slept for more than an hour. The word worked its charm on him and his eyelids started to droop.

Then in the doorway she saw the shadow of Voris. She gasped, startling Richius, who sat up at once.

“Voris,” sputtered Richius.

Dyana felt a wave of color rush into her cheeks. She lowered her head and greeted the warlord.

“Welcome home, Lord Voris.”

Voris nodded at her wearily. In his hands was his jiiktar, covered with mud and splattered along its braided hilt with red blotches. His eyes were dim and haunted, and his soiled clothes hung from his big body like limp rags. A filthy bandage wrapped one forearm, while along the other ran scars like those tracing Richius’ back. The warlord moved into the room with heavy steps, so exhausted he seemed about to drop. But he mustered up just enough strength to cast Richius a crooked smile.

“How is he?” asked Voris.

“He has been resting. Your wife has been helping me with him.”

Voris stepped up to the bed and examined Richius’ wounds. “Where is my wife?”

Richius straightened. “Dyana, what’s he saying?”

“In the woods around the keep, gathering more leaves for the burned,” said Dyana to Voris. “She is very eager to see you again.”

“And I her.” Voris was still looking at Richius. “Now that he is awake, tell this boy what a fool he is. Tell him I should have killed him for trying to save me.”

There was nothing but good humor in the warlord’s tone. Dyana smiled at Richius. “The warlord thanks you, Richius,” she said. It wasn’t entirely true but she was sure neither of them would care. “He says what you did was brave.”

“That’s not all he said, I can see it in his eyes. But you may tell him he is welcome. He did, if I recall right, do the same for me.”

“His color looks bad,” remarked Voris. “And why so thin?”

“He has been unable to eat from the pain. Do not worry. I will see he eats a full meal tonight.”

“Yes, take care of him,” said Voris, gazing down at Richius with tired, laughing eyes. “We will need him again as soon as he is able. Not too soon, mind you. Just when he is able.”

“Ask him what’s happening, Dyana,” said Richius eagerly. “What’s going on? Why’s he back here?”

Dyana smiled. “He has many questions, my lord.”

“He will have his answers later,” replied Voris. “I have only just returned. I am tired and hungry and 1 wish to see my wife.” He headed for the door. “See that he eats soon. He needs strength.”

“What did he say, Dyana?”

“Later, Richius,” said Dyana. “Rest now.”

“But I want to tell him about my plan.”

“He has only just returned, Richius. And he needs rest, too.”

As if understanding Richius’ anxiety, Voris took a step again toward the bed. “Things are going well enough, Kalak. And you are not the only one I have come home to see. Family, Kalak. Kafife.”

“Kafife, Richius. Remember? He wants to see his family.”

Richius nodded.

“Kalak should rest now,” said Voris to Dyana. His face made a peculiar expression and he directed her with his eyes toward the doorway. “Come outside with me. I want to talk.”

Dyana froze.
Najjir,
she thought blackly.
You have betrayed me already.

But no. Voris hadn’t seen her yet. What could he want? She nodded and headed toward the door, tossing off a reassuring smile to Richius. “I will come back tonight with food,” she told him. “Sleep.”

Richius watched them go, then she closed the door to his chamber. Once in the hall, she had the courage to look at Voris again. He was staring at her. Wearily he gestured for her to proceed him down the hall. She did as he bade, taking small steps to prolong the trip as she tried to determine what the warlord might want of her. She had reached the end of the hall when he stopped her.

“You have been taking good care of Kalak, I see.”

“I have done my best.”

“Good. Tharn would want that. It is our duty to see that no harm comes to him, both yours and mine. You know this, yes?”

Dyana stiffened. “Of course.”

The warlord’s eyes became two shrewd slivers. “You are a bold one, aren’t you? Fine. Then tell me the truth about something. I have seen you and Kalak together. I have seen the way you look at each other. Do you think your husband dead, woman?”

Horror. Dyana fought to keep the shock from her expression. “Dead, my lord? Why would you ask me that?”

“I am very tired, woman, and in no mood to play with you. Do you think Tharn is dead? The truth now. I will know if you lie.”

“My lord, what are you accusing me of?”

“Do not lie to save Kalak,” declared Voris simply. “This is not the threat you think it is. I want to know if you are craving for the Naren. I have accused you of this before. I must know if it is so.”

Dyana looked away, feigning disgust. “Really, my lord. You should be careful what you say to me. If Tharn were here would you speak so to me?”

Voris gave her a terrible look. “I have known Tharn almost as long as you have, woman. Do not think to threaten me with his name.”

Dyana didn’t back down. “Then why do you ask me such criminal things? If you know so much about us, why not let us be?”

Voris didn’t answer, but there was an inscrutable twinkle in his eyes, almost like a laugh. He simply stared at her for a long moment, blinked, then turned and left her, going off toward the castle entrance where the woods were and where, presumably, he would find his wife.

A sick feeling coiled around Dyana’s mind, and she cursed herself for her indiscretion. She leaned back against the cold stone and stared dumbly at the cracked ceiling. What, she wondered, would Voris do now?

T
harn awakened to the sound of his own unpleasant wheezing. He was in a room, or what looked like a room, in a home of primitive canvas. His head swam. An amazing knife of pain sliced across his face as he opened his eyes. The room spun for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the blurriness.

No,
Tharn realized.
Not eyes. Eye.
He brought a shaking hand to his face and felt the bandage covering its left side, blotting out half his vision. As he touched the flesh the pain roared anew.

He was alone in the dim chamber. A soft mattress of woven grass cradled his aching body. Over him was a soft blanket, while on the ground next to him sat a bowl of water and a cloth, both bloodied. An uneasy feeling gripped him, as though he had been gone for a very long time.

“What …?”

He tried to speak but his voice was a croak. When he tried
again it hurt. He hurt. Quickly he took stock of his pains. It wasn’t just his head that burned. So did his arm and chest. It wasn’t just the usual pains that plagued him, either. These were new agonies, clawing into his flesh like a thousand wasp stings. Where was he? Where were the others? He had been in the carriage, and then he was here.

The memory of the lion awakened. The lion had attacked him?

“Oh, Lorris,” he choked. “Help me.…”

Again he tried to move, but all he could do was roll helplessly onto his side. His atrophied arm had been bandaged, too. As he moved the blanket slid off him, and he realized he was naked. Except for the fresh strips of cloth over his chest and arm, he was exposed to the world, and the sight was horrifying. His eyes darted around the room, at once spotting his clothes. Someone had washed them and laid them neatly over a chair. Near the chair were his boots, the special ones that fit his malformed feet. These too were tidied up, all the mud scraped from them so that the brown leather shone. Frustrated, Tharn tried to crawl toward them, dragging himself across the stone floor. He made it barely a foot before exhaustion overtook him.

“Damn it,” he cursed. Already he was breathing hard. The small effort set his head to pounding. His body collapsed to the floor, and again he could feel the darkness of unconsciousness approaching.

“Help me!” he cried. “Raig, Nagrah, help!”

As if he had summoned a servant, Nagrah hurried into the room. The young man gasped when he saw Tharn sprawled across the floor.

“Master!” cried Nagrah, rushing to Tharn’s aid. “Stop! What are you doing?”

Tharn could scarcely answer. “Nagrah … where …?”

“Do not talk,” ordered the priest. He slid his arms under Tharn and gently pulled him back onto the mattress, doing his best to arrange Tharn’s mangled limbs. Weary beyond words, Tharn closed his eyes against the pain of the manipulation. Finally Nagrah put a hand to his forehead and felt the diseased skin. Tharn sighed at the touch.