The Jackal of Nar (93 page)

“Karlaz, listen to me closely. With the Lissens patrolling our shores, the Narens will not be able to land any more troops by sea. They will have to come through the Saccenne Run. That means they will be sending all the troops they can through it. They already own the mountain pass, and Ackle-Nye. We cannot take it alone, not without your help.” Tharn’s lone eye was imploring. “Karlaz, we need your lions.”

Karlaz’ face was emotionless. “A week ago, I would have sent you away, Storm Maker. We had a good life here, free of you and your revolution. But that has changed. My heart is full of vengeance now.”

“Then you will help me?” asked Tharn.

“We will call the lions, and the warriors from the other villages,” said Karlaz. “But we must have a bargain, Drol. When this is done, you will leave Chandakkar. There will be no Drol here, ever.”

Tharn nodded grimly. “Agreed.”

“You will rest now. It will be days before you can make the journey from here. And days still before the other warriors arrive. Rest, and I will make ready.”

“Then call your lions, Warlord,” said Tharn. “You will have your vengeance.”

A
thick rain fell steadily through the night. Voris the Wolf crouched in the mud, hiding his white skin and wild eyes behind the curtaining branches. Behind him, Dumaka Jarra and a trio of warriors waited, enveloped in darkness. Voris moved silently, parting the low tree limbs the tiniest fraction. In the road before him was the war wagon, one wheel broken and hanging from its axle, its other wheels mired in soggy earth. Five legionnaires paced impatiently around the wagon, trying to calm the spooked greegan still tethered to it. The men watched the forest for their invisible enemies. One held a flame cannon ready in his grip, sweeping the dark trees with its nozzle. Voris could see their nervous eyes behind their helmets. They were afraid. The warlord smiled. He held up a finger and beckoned Jarra forward. The old man slithered through the mud to kneel down beside his master.

“Five,” he counted in a whisper. “Maybe some in the wagon.”

Voris shook his head. “No. See? It’s open.” He pointed to a
soldier dressed differently from the rest, the one with the flame cannon. “He works the machine. It is empty.”

Jarra gave a slight nod, straining to see. The hatch at the top of the wagon was indeed open. “Five of them, five of us,” he remarked. “What now?”

“Now we make them suffer.”

He dropped his hand and let the branches spring back, closing over his face. Five and five. The odds were good. It was dark and he was Triin and that was good, too. He knew his prey would be blind. He leaned back on his haunches, considering things. First the man with the flame cannon, then the others. As for the beast, they would kill it, too, if they could. Voris wiped mud and water from his forehead. He was exhausted. The fighting had been ferocious, and every day they lost a little more of his precious valley to the horde. He and his warriors had the skill, but they were woefully outnumbered. Even the traps they had laid for their enemies did little to slow their advance. In time, Voris knew, the Narens would clear the traps, allowing the horsemen to come. Then they would fight their last battle at Castle Dring—and they would die.

But not before the Wolf made his mark. In Dring the animals were vicious, and Voris had a message to send. Quietly, he moved to where his warriors waited. They were three young and eager men, the kind who didn’t mind bloodletting. Voris gathered them into a huddle and spoke.

“You are ready?” he asked. Each man replied with a silent nod. Voris smiled. “I will take out the one with the cannon first. He will not fire it. He will not see me. When he is down, rush in. We will be too fast for them. Jarra, watch for the acid launcher. There may yet be someone inside.”

“I will watch,” replied the old man.

“Be quick. Cut the bellows before anyone can see you. If we are killed, I do not want the launcher used again.”

“I will be quick.”

Voris set his jaw and turned back to the road. He would have to get close. The underbrush cracked and squished beneath his boots, the noise masked by the insistent rain. He held his breath, attuned to every sound. The Narens hadn’t seen him. Jarra and the warriors were gone now, swallowed up in the darkness.
Tonight there was no moon, no light at all. Yet Voris could see, and he delighted in his Triin blood.

When he was sure he had traveled far enough, Voris turned slightly and headed back to the road. Instantly he heard the Narens. His vision focused in the blackness, peering through the trees. The filthy barbarians talked amongst themselves, watching their dark surroundings. A thrill went through Voris as he bent into a hunting stance. He heard the blood rush through his ears, felt the quickening of his heart. Out came his jiiktar, sharp before him, broken into two scythelike swords. He inched his way through the vines and branches. Yards away, the Narens milled around the war wagon, cursing the greegan and their own misfortune. The one with the cannon moved its glowing nozzle nervously. Voris the Wolf licked his lips.

He was on them in a moment, bursting from the bushes. Screaming, flying, he charged the one with the cannon, flashing his blades. The cannon turned, the trigger squeezed, and a stream of burning kerosene shot across the roadway, lighting Voris for the briefest time as it blew past him. The Wolf howled and brought down his blades, severing an arm and then the neck. The head toppled into the mud. Soldiers screamed in shock and fright. Out of the trees came Dumaka Jarra and the warriors, screaming, their weapons glowing invisibly in the darkness. The Narens scrambled backward. The greegan kicked up its big horn and howled.…

The legionnaires of Nar were blind in the melee. Voris fell upon one, driving his blades against his armor before the soldier even saw him. The Naren sword went up uselessly. The jiiktar met it and slid down its shaft, cleaning off the fingers holding it. The soldier screamed in agony. Voris grabbed his head. He pulled off the helmet, rolled the man into the mud, then sunk his teeth into his nose, tearing off a chunk of flesh. Horrified and blinded with blood, the soldier cried out, begging for mercy. Voris swallowed the man’s fear whole, loving it. He balled up a fist and drove it repeatedly into the soldier’s skull until it cracked.

“CHA YULAN!” he howled. “CHA YULANTA!”

The Wolf lives.

Jarra had made it onto the war wagon. The frenzied greegan bucked. Two warriors went to it and worked their blades on its
windpipe, hacking as if at a tree trunk. The monster fell with a crash, wailing like the storm. Four more soldiers remained, all blind, all fearful of the white wraiths around them. Voris heard the hiss of steel swinging for his head. He ducked and let the blade whistle past, rolling and then springing up to meet his attacker. Two more times his jiiktar slashed, two more arcs of blood. Leather and chain mail buckled open under the quick blades, slicing into vital veins. The Naren stumbled, horrified at his own open throat. He put up his hands and fell to his knees, gasping as a waterfall of blood cascaded down his chest. Voris drove a boot into his metal face, denting the helmet and forcing him backward.

On the war wagon, old Jarra roared as he tore open the bellows with his weapon. The acid launcher groaned. The bellows swelled with a rush of air. Alarmed, Jarra jumped from the wagon just as the bellows exploded. The fabric bag popped like thunder and a cloud of yellow acid spewed up into the sky. The warriors instinctively protected themselves, diving into the mud. Voris looked up into the sky. He tried to run and found he couldn’t. The Naren soldier had a hand wrapped around his ankle. Down came the acid in the rain. Voris kicked at the man and broke free. But the acid was on him. It chewed into his shoulder, cutting through his clothing even as the rain began washing it away. Voris bit back the pain and grabbed hold of the Naren who had seized him, lifting him in a rage and tossing him bodily into the upturned horn of the dead greegan.

“Kill!” shouted the warlord.

His warriors charged the Narens at their master’s order. Dumaka Jarra joined the fray, leaping on one from behind and wrestling him into the swampy earth. Voris went to his aid, stomping the man’s face with his heavy boot until the body stopped moving and the helmet oozed brains. They were all screaming now, drunk on blood. Voris heard the wails of the two remaining Narens. His warriors were already on them, cutting them down. The Wolf fell back against the wagon, his shoulder on fire with pain. He tore off his shirt and howled so that every Naren on earth would hear him.

“I am the Wolf!” he roared. “Dring is mine!”

• • •

When the rain finally slackened, the clouds parted to reveal a brooding moon. The insects had come out again to sing. The camp buzzed with their music. Up high in the birches nocturnal animals hunted, shaking the leaves with their movements. Voris sat back against a tree trunk, staring at the moon through the white limbs. Exhaustion had settled over the camp. It was very late now and only lookouts were awake. Voris ran a soiled cloth over his soiled jiiktar, polishing away the gore. Tired beyond words, he still found sleep impossible. Like the moon, he brooded.

Black thoughts soaked his brain. This part of the forest was peaceful, but not far away the legions gathered, soon to force another battle. Voris groaned at the idea of morning. They had clashed with the Narens in a dozen melees and he had lost scores of men. He had killed scores, too, but their numbers seemed unending. In time, Nar would deplete them. Despite its vastness, the Dring Valley had limited bodies to throw against the Empire, and every day that number dwindled bit by bit. The legionnaires clearing the forest of traps continually advanced. Too soon, they would be at the doors of Castle Dring. Voris made a monumental push to stifle his emotions. Najjir was home, waiting for him. Home.

“You do not sleep?” came a voice. Dumaka Jarra dropped down beside Voris, ignoring the wet ground. “Why?”

Voris shrugged. He wasn’t in the mood for company. “Restless. Things on my mind.”

Jarra leaned back against the tree trunk with his friend. Together they stared at the moon, exchanging sighs. The war master had a subtle way about him. Voris knew he would have to wait for his advice. Wraiths of clouds skirted across the sky, gray things with wings of vapor that looked to Voris like doves. Jarra smiled at the sight of them. It was always this way in Dring. The gods had been good here.

“I think you should sleep,” said Jarra at last. He did not look at Voris but kept his old eyes fixed on the moon. “We need you strong. Tomorrow they will come again.”

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and the tomorrow after that,” said Voris. “They will never stop. They are like the moon, without end.”

“We have won battles. It is not so hopeless.”

Voris scoffed. “How many battles have we won? We lose ground every day.”

“The acid shooters, they are not so many anymore.”

“And that is why the Narens are keeping the rest of them out of the trees,” reminded Voris. “They are waiting for the armored ones to sweep the traps. After that, they will charge in here with the horses. They will force us back to the castle.”

“We are still many.”

“Not so many.”

“We are strong,” argued Jarra. “We have the heart. The Narens do not.”

“I would trade my heart for another hundred men,” said Voris. “I would give anything to save this valley. This is my land. To lose it to these barbarians …” It was a thought so sickening Voris couldn’t speak it. He put down the weapon he was polishing and brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “I would rather lose Dring to Kronin.”

Jarra laughed. “Ah, now that is a big boast!”

“It is true. I cannot bear this loss, my friend. I cannot allow it. There are too many depending on me.” Again he thought of Najjir. She had been a fine wife. The Narens would violate her, he was sure. Just as they had Kalak’s wife. Even Tharn’s wife would suffer, a thought that made Voris curiously sad. He had never cared for the heretic, but time and battle had softened him to her. And he was supposed to protect her. Tharn was expecting that, at least.

Tharn.

Another giant loss. Dead, probably, and this Voris couldn’t bear, either. The weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders, threatening to snap him.

“I am so tired,” he said softly. “So tired …”

“Sleep now,” urged Jarra. “I have set up watchers on the borders and in the trees along the road. They will warn us of any trouble.”

Voris didn’t reply. He didn’t want to sleep, not if it meant waking up to all of this. In his boyhood he had dreamed of war. They were good dreams, full of victories. No one important ever died in them. Wives weren’t raped and murdered. Or daughters. If the Narens had any humanity at all, they might spare his youngest. Pris and her precocious smile popped into his mind, making him smile.

“When they see what I have left them, they will fear me,” said Voris.

When Voris and his men had killed their opponents, they had
skinned them and hung their remains from the trees with their sword belts. Voris hoped the Narens would see what he had done.

“They will call you a savage and a madman,” replied Jarra. “That is all. The Narens do such things themselves. They will not be so dissuaded by it.”

“Then I will do it to their generals,” hissed Voris. “To that big one, Blackwood Gayle. I would like that, to peel off his skin. I would give it to Kalak as a reward.”

“Kalak would rather do the skinning himself, I am sure,” laughed Jarra. The old man looked at Voris curiously. “You are thinking of Vantran a lot these days. Why?”

“Am I?”

“I can tell you are thinking of him. You change when I mention him.”

“Kalak has done me a service,” said Voris. “I am grateful for it, and that is all. You imagine things, old man.”

“Kalak has done well for you. You were wrong about him. You see that, and it bothers you.”

“
You
bother me, Jarra,” said Voris. “I was fine until you sat down. Leave me now. I am thinking.”

The old man looked back up at the moon. Voris relaxed. He hadn’t expected Jarra to go. And Jarra wouldn’t go, not until he had his answer.