The Jackal of Nar (99 page)

“Are they coming?”

Voris gave a disquieting nod, then drifted backward into the branches and silently disappeared.

Dinadin urged his horse through the muck, forcing the steed deeper into the swamps. His armor had become an oven. Ahead of him, barely visible through a slick of perspiration, Gayle led the procession of horsemen into the darkness. The baron was cursing, screaming at them to hurry. Behind them they could hear Kronin’s warriors closing in. They had battled the raging Triin until they could stand no more. That’s when Gayle had called retreat. But the baron had led them into something far worse.

“Go on, damn you!” Dinadin shouted at his horse. The beast snorted and plowed on, already knee deep in green ooze and sinking fast. Black leeches swarmed over its legs and underbelly. Dinadin kicked his heels into the horse’s side. He didn’t want to die here.…

Behind him he heard branches snapping. The warriors were closer now. They were on foot. It had all been a trap and they had followed Gayle into it. Dinadin cursed himself, cursed Gayle and Trosk, too. He pulled out his sword again and craned his
neck to see behind him. The water was moving, the trees starting to waver. They were coming.

“All right, you gogs,” Dinadin snarled. “No more running!”

He had no sooner drawn his sword than he heard a scream in front of him. He whirled around and saw a giant red creature drop from the trees onto the horseman he’d been following. Soon another fell and then another, toppling the Talistanians off their mounts into the stinking waters. Dinadin panicked. He looked up into the trees just as one of the red-robed men fell on him. There was a blackness and a wind-knocking jolt. Dinadin felt the reins slip from his grip. He tried to shout but something thick and warm ran into his mouth, choking him.

He was under water.

In a raging panic he twisted, knocking the man off him and bursting out from beneath the swamp. His sword was gone. The red man was charging toward him.

“No!” he cried, pulling off his helmet and swinging it wildly. The helmet collided with the Drol’s head and sent him careening backward. Dinadin tried to run but was waist deep in viscous filth. It sucked at him, drawing him down even as he fought to move forward. Breath was coming now only in gasps. Panic seized him. Weaponless, he pushed himself through the melee. Drol warriors still dropped from the trees. The horsemen were screaming, swinging blindly at the red phantoms. And there was Gayle, off his horse and on his belly in the water, skulking through the carnage and darkness so that only his silver mask could be seen.

“Gayle!” Dinadin cried. “I see you, you bastard. I see you!”

He hurried toward the escaping baron, forgetting the Drol falling all around him and the warriors of Tatterak on his heels. He would die here, he was sure of it, but there was one more score to settle before that happened.

“Coward!” he shouted. “Come back!”

But Gayle had a healthy lead. Dinadin lunged after him, lumbering from side to side, brushing away watery scum with his hands. He could catch him, catch him and kill him.…

Another red shape fell from the skies, clipping Dinadin’s shoulder. He spun, slipping and dropping to his knees. Foul water flowed into his mouth. He tried to right himself, get back onto his feet, but this Drol was huge. He caught hold of Dinadin’s
neck and dragged him backward into the water. Beneath the foam everything was a blurry green. Dinadin twisted his eyes skyward to see the struggling ribbons of sunlight and the bubbles of his own breath breaking the surface.

The fighting lasted barely an hour.

When it was over, Richius collapsed against the trunk of a tree and sank to his knees. Bloodied water ran around his shoulders. He was covered with leeches again. So were the bodies that floated facedown about him. Across the swamp he saw Voris cradling a warrior in his arms, carrying him to a muddy bank. He saw the exhausted men of Tatterak falling into the supporting arms of the Drol. Dusk had fallen, bringing with it a peculiar heat, and the stink of decay and rotting flesh. Next to Richius a water snake was feeding on the open wound of a Talistanian corpse. A giant insect crawled into the frozen mouth of a severed Triin head. Men splashed by, made mute by the carnage and their own unspeakable exhaustion, and the cheerless victors set about the grim task of pulling out their dead.

Richius could hardly move. The acid wounds on his back were screaming. A Talistanian sword had nicked his forehead, and a trickle of blood ran down his face. The insatiable mouths of a hundred leeches sucked greedily at his flesh. He swayed, almost falling face-first into the mire, then righted himself and emptied his stomach into the water next to him. He would have collapsed again if not for the sound of a familiar voice.

“Richius!” came the call from across the swamp. Richius managed to raise his head just enough to see Lucyler coming toward him. The Triin’s face was scarred with soot, and his garments hung from him in tatters. A scarlet bloom of broken blood vessels ran the length of his arm and shoulder, and he moved with the uncertainty of a drunkard, panting as he trudged through the ooze.

“Lucyler,” Richius gasped, going to meet his comrade. They met on a swale, knee deep in filth, and Richius fell into Lucyler’s arms, all the strength drained away from him.

“We did it,” said Lucyler. “Richius, we did it! They are beaten.”

“Beaten,” echoed Richius. He could hardly speak, but the power of the words bolstered him. “God, I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it, my friend,” said Lucyler. “But you are wounded. We have to get you out of here.”

“No,” said Richius, pulling away from his friend’s embrace. “I must see Kronin, him and Voris together. Where is he, Lucyler?”

Lucyler’s expression paled. Richius closed his eyes.

“Oh, no,” he moaned. “Dead?”

“Back on the plain. Flame cannon.”

Richius reached out for Lucyler’s damaged arm, almost touching the wound but stopping short. “Is that what happened to you?”

“We were both on my horse. I did not see the cannon until too late. I am sorry, Richius. But you should know he did this for you. He told me so.”

“Voris is the one who should know,” said Richius. “I want him to know Kronin died saving him, too.”

Lucyler smiled grimly. “Time enough for that later. Now we have to get you out of this swamp.”

“I can’t leave yet, Lucyler. I need to find Gayle. Is he dead? Have you seen him?”

Lucyler looked around at the ghastly collection of bodies. “I do not know,” he said. “I do not remember seeing him at all, not after coming to the moors.”

Richius clenched his fist. “Don’t tell me that, Lucyler. He has to be here. He has to.…”

“If he is, we will find him,” Lucyler assured him. “He could not have escaped us. But the leeches …”

“Forget the leeches,” Richius snapped. “I want to find Gayle!”

He started off through the maze of bodies, prodding at every Talistanian corpse with the tip of his sword. The bodies rolled over effortlessly, regarding him with their dead eyes. Those that still wore helmets had them unceremoniously removed, as one by one Richius tossed the demon helms angrily over his shoulder.

“Richius, calm down,” chided Lucyler. “He wore no helmet. Just his mask.”

“He’s not here, Lucyler,” Richius growled. “Damn it all, he’s not here!”

But there were more cadavers to inspect, scores of them. Richius left Lucyler behind, trudging back out to the deeper water. There was a large body there, large enough to be Gayle, half-hidden under a web of mossy reeds. Richius splashed toward it, ignoring Lucyler. He was consumed with the idea of Gayle’s escape. When he reached the body in the reeds he grabbed hold of its booted ankles and pulled, dragging it toward him.

“Gayle, you whoreson,” he roared. “Tell me it’s you!”

But it wasn’t Blackwood Gayle. Rather it was a younger man—a boy really—with hair turned brown by the swamp’s filth and skin stippled with insect bites. A great crack had been dealt to the armor around his belly, exposing his swollen innards to the wet poisons of the swamps. The man groaned as Richius yanked at him, opening his eyes to stare at Richius with a delirious gaze. There was only the barest hint of life left in that stare, and a weird, speechless recognition. Richius let go of the ankles.

“Sweet almighty,” he whispered. He staggered back, clutching his own belly in sympathy and horror. “Lucyler!” he called. “Lucyler, come quick. It’s Dinadin!”

Dinadin blinked, and a peculiar smile appeared on his face.

“Richius?”

It was nightmarish. Dinadin was barely alive, his skin like ashes, his belly torn open and spilling blood. Richius hurried over to his comrade, dropping Jessicane down next to him. He forced his hand onto the wound, pushing back the distended innards. He put his arm under Dinadin’s head and cradled it, forcing himself to look again into the insane gaze.

“It’s me, Dinadin,” Richius stammered. “It’s me. I’m here.” He turned and called again, “Lucyler, get the hell over here!”

Lucyler was hurrying toward them. Dinadin’s smiled widened.

“Lucyler’s here, too?” he asked weakly. “Lucyler’s dead.…”

“No, Dinadin. He’s alive. We’re all alive. The three of us together.”

“Like old times …”

“Hang on, Dinadin. Please. Just hang on. I’m going to get you out of here.”

“We’re in Dring.…”

“Yes,” said Richius, pushing gently on Dinadin’s stomach.
His friend was babbling, talking nonsense, and all he could think to do was agree and try to calm him. Lucyler hurried up to them, panting, and looked at Dinadin, his gray eyes widening in shock.

“Gods,” Lucyler gasped. “What happened?”

Dinadin flashed his crooked grin. “You’re alive,” he croaked. “Lucyler …”

“He’s delirious,” explained Richius hastily. “We have to get him out of here. Fast. Help me with him.”

Lucyler looked at Dinadin’s wound and blanched. “Richius,” he said gently. “There is no way—”

“Help me with him, goddamn it! He’ll die in this hole if we don’t get him out of here.”

“Richius, he is dead already. Lord, just look at him!”

“Oh God, Lucyler,” Richius moaned. “Just help me with him. Please.” He tried to lift up the swaying head but Dinadin hardly budged.

“I’ll get Voris,” said Lucyler. “He’s strong enough to lift him.”

While Lucyler darted off into the swamps, Richius stayed with Dinadin, cradling his head and trying to keep his insides from gushing out. Dinadin’s expression broke as he glimpsed Lucyler leaving.

“Where …?” he gasped. “Lucyler?”

“He’s going for a horse to get you out of here,” said Richius easily. “Don’t worry, Dinadin. Just hang on, all right? We’re going to get you someplace safe.”

“Am I sick?”

The question was so ludicrous that Richius didn’t know how to answer. “You’re going to be all right,” he said desperately. He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice, but Dinadin seemed oblivious to it anyway. There was a distant glaze to his eyes, as if he were lost in a dark room and couldn’t find his way out. And each time his heart pumped his insides quivered, reminding Richius just how tenuous a grasp Dinadin had on life. He had to get Dinadin out. Now.

“Voris!” he called over his shoulder. He saw the warlord’s head twist toward him. “Voris, help!”

The warlord crashed through the water, hurrying to Richius. Dinadin stiffened.

“Voris?” he hissed.

“Easy,” crooned Richius. “We’re gonna get you out of here. Someplace safe.”

Voris arrived, gasping for breath. He looked down at Richius and the wounded Dinadin and shot them a confused look.

“Kalak?”

“Not me,” said Richius quickly. He pointed his chin toward Dinadin. “Him. We have to get him out of here. I need your help. He’s heavy. Too big for me. Too big.”

The warlord seemed to understand. He bent closer and looked at Dinadin’s wounds, then glanced back at Richius and somberly shook his head.

“It’s bad, I know,” Richius said. “But we have to try. You’ll help me, yes? Help me?”

Voris grunted and started to reach out for Dinadin, but Richius stopped him.

“No,” he said, putting up his hands. “We need a horse. A horse. Lucyler’s getting one. We’ll wait. Wait for Lucyler.”

Richius was talking so quickly he was sure Voris couldn’t understand a word. But the warlord backed away, dutifully waiting while Richius kept the pressure on Dinadin’s wound, crooning to his friend in a gentle whisper. Dinadin’s breathing quickened. He stared at Voris, shivering and perplexed.

“Voris,” he mumbled darkly. “Voris …”

“Quiet, Dinadin. Don’t try to talk. Just take it easy. You’ll be out of here real soon. And we’re going to take you somewhere safe. Safe, all right? Just hang on.”

Richius heard a commotion behind him and turned to see Lucyler leading a leech-laden horse through the waters, pulling it forward with his good arm. The horse brayed wildly but Lucyler held the reins tight, dragging the animal closer. It was one of Talistan’s huge beasts, the type that followed orders only when given with a crop in hand. The horse reared and flailed its hooves, making Lucyler put up both arms to defend himself.

“Richius,” called the Triin. “Help me with this monster!”

The horse broke free and Richius cursed. He gently lowered Dinadin’s head into the reeds and splashed toward Lucyler, who was already chasing the thrashing animal. The Triin leapt
for the reins and caught them, yanking on the bridle. When Richius finally reached him, the horse had settled into an obstinate stance.

“The damn thing will not move!” swore Lucyler. He was hunched over, wincing and favoring his wounded arm.

“He’s afraid,” said Richius. “Stop yelling and give me the reins.”

Lucyler passed him the reins, then stopped in mid-motion, his eyes wide. Richius whirled to see Voris standing in the water, watching them as they struggled with the horse. Behind him was Dinadin—on his feet. Dinadin was stumbling toward the warlord, the grimy broadsword Jessicane raised above his head. The shadow of the weapon fell across Voris’ shoulder. It was moving before Richius could scream.

“NO!”

The blade came down. Voris’ expression lit with shock. A fountain of blood spurted from his shoulder, a huge gash opening at the base of his neck. Dinadin fell forward, toppling himself and Voris into the water. Richius and Lucyler leapt toward them, forgetting the horse as they half-ran, half-swam after the submerged men.