The Jackal of Nar (10 page)

Edgard didn’t respond to the charge, and his silence piqued the Daegog’s interest. “That is the other matter,” said the Triin leader. “Duke Edgard, why no word from your king? Where are the troops the emperor promised me?”

“It’s not the emperor’s fault, Daegog,” offered Gayle.

The Daegog silenced Gayle with a wave. “Duke Edgard? An explanation?”

“Aramoor is a small country, Daegog,” said Edgard calmly. “We don’t have the resources needed to fight this war. I’m sure my king is sending in everything he can.”

“A lie,” snarled Gayle. “Your king is a coward. He could send more men and supplies if he wanted to, but he’s like a child who can’t stand the sight of blood. Why, as we speak he’s letting his
own son starve to death in Dring! Aramoor controls the Saccenne Run. He is the reason no supplies are getting through. He is a single-minded renegade who has always been trouble for the emperor.”

“You speak very highly of your emperor,” said the Daegog. He sat back and popped a date into his mouth, examining Gayle as he chewed. “Tell me, Baron. Do you like being under Nar’s boot?”

“You mean protection, Daegog,” corrected Gayle. “And yes, I appreciate it. As I’m sure you do.”

“And you do not mind that your emperor is a conqueror, or that he and his underlings kill for pleasure?”

“Your pardon, Daegog, but the emperor wants only to help you. He fears for you, for all Triin.…”

The Daegog closed his eyes and tried to quell his burning temper. “He is a madman, Baron. All the world knows that.”

“Oh?” asked Gayle indignantly. “If he is such a threat, why then do you accept his help so readily, Daegog? May I ask you that?”

“No, Baron, you may not. That business is mine and Arkus’ alone. But know this—I speak your language and I know the truth of things, more than you do. I am not a savage you can outwit.”

“Wise one, I never suggested—”

“Be still!” thundered the Daegog. “And listen to me, both of you. I know the king of Aramoor plays games with me. And I know the emperor’s mind, too. So you may tell Arkus for me that if he wants the thing he seeks from me, he had better start sending in the troops he promised. And not Talistanians or more weaklings from Aramoor. I want Naren soldiers, from the Black City. Because if I fall, he will never get what he wants from Tharn. Never!”

Blackwood Gayle was finally at a loss. He glanced at his colonel for support, but the lanky Trosk merely shrugged and tried hard not to seem concerned, a ruse the Daegog saw through easily.

“No?” pressed the Daegog. “You will not tell him that?”

“Daegog, it is not that simple. The emperor is pressed for men just as we are. He is still at war with Liss, and there are rebellions
in the north of the Empire. I swear to you, he would send his legions if he could.…”

“I do not care about Liss or rebellions,” hissed the Daegog. “I have my own rebels to deal with! Tharn and his Drol could be at the gates of this castle any day. I need men to fight them off!”

“We need support, too, Daegog,” said Gayle. “It is not our fault that the king of Aramoor leaves us to fight alone. Why, Dring itself might fall in days. The warlord Voris may be victorious.”

Kronin perked up at the mention of his enemy. “Voris?” he asked the Daegog in their shared language. “What did the baron say?”

The Daegog laughed ruefully. “You see?” he said to Gayle. “Do you see what I am surrounded by? This fool protector of mine thinks of nothing but Voris. He should be defending
me
, yet all he talks of is killing Voris. Would that be better, Baron? Should I let Kronin loose in Dring to help Vantran?”

“No, Daegog,” said Gayle coldly. “That’s not what I’m suggesting.”

“Then offer me something useful!”

“Daegog,” said Edgard calmly. “It is time for us to talk truthfully.”

There was so much seriousness in the war duke’s tone that the Daegog was stunned. He turned to Edgard and said, “Truthfully? Yes, that would be a good change, Duke. Please …”

“Now I will speak your language,” growled Edgard in Triin, “because Kronin is my friend and he deserves to hear my words.”

“What? What is that you’re saying?” asked Gayle.

Edgard ignored him.

“Plain talk, Daegog. The war is lost, not only in Dring but here in Tatterak, too. You know it. We all do.” Edgard eyed the warlord Kronin, who looked suitably shocked. “Aramoor is not sending any more troops. Maybe they cannot. Maybe they will not. I do not really know or care. But it is not our war anymore. If you have business with the emperor, then let him send his own men to die.” He got up slowly, then turned to address Kronin. “Kronin, my friend, may your gods look after you.”

“Where will you go, Edgard?” asked the warlord.

“Back home, to Aramoor.”

“You will be hung!” exclaimed the Daegog. “You cannot retreat. The emperor will kill you if you do.”

“Probably,” replied Edgard. “But I would rather die with honor at home than die here in your defense. You are a cruel and miserable man, Daegog. I am sorry so many of my countrymen have perished for you.”

Kronin stood up, smiled at the war duke, then embraced him. “You have always been my friend,” said the warlord. “Fighting with you has been my honor.”

Incensed, the Daegog stood up and shook a fat fist at Edgard. “You are a fool!” he raged. “Your emperor will ruin Aramoor for this!”

But Edgard ignored the Daegog’s barb. He turned and walked away, stopping and looking down at the astonished Blackwood Gayle, who had remained seated throughout the entire exchange. “Blackwood Gayle, it’s your war now. You may not believe this, but I wish you and your men well.”

“What?” sputtered the baron. “Daegog, what is this?”

The Daegog snorted with contempt. “It is as you have always said, Baron Gayle. The Aramoorians are cowards. He is retreating.”

Gayle and Trosk both sprang to their feet. “Retreating? Edgard, you cannot! Your troops are needed, now more than ever. What will become of the rest of us?”

Edgard laughed. “You’ll probably fare better than I, Gayle. Don’t worry. You’ll always have a place in the emperor’s heart. If you live, that is.”

“War Duke,” called the Daegog. Then he softened his expression and said, “Edgard, please. Do not do this. We do need you. We can win still, if you stay. If you go …” The Triin’s round face wrinkled. “Tharn will kill me.”

The war duke of Aramoor smiled sadly at the Daegog. “Every man dies, Daegog. And if I may say so, you deserve it.” Then he turned his back on them all and strode out of the chamber, saying, “I leave in the morning, with my men.”

That evening, the Daegog of Lucel-Lor sat brooding on a balcony, overlooking the rough terrain of Tatterak. He sipped absently at a cup of steaming tea and ate sparingly from a tray of sweet biscuits, both Naren affectations he had learned to love.
The moon was full and red behind Mount Godon. Kronin’s granite stronghold cast its dentate shadow across the plain, while moonbeams splashed on the stones and the carved mahogany of the balcony, setting them alight. The Daegog licked at the rim of his cup, mopping up the honey there with his tongue. In the distance he could see the tattered dragon banner of Edgard’s troops, huddled around torches that stirred in the evening breeze. It was late. There was very little movement among the Aramoorians now. The war duke would have them sleeping, the Daegog surmised, resting for their long march back home.

“Coward,” muttered the Daegog. He had always liked Edgard, and the duke’s betrayal was a bitter blow. Now he had only Gayle to protect him, plus whatever warriors Kronin had left. There was still young Vantran in Dring, but he would no doubt be leaving, too, once he heard that his war duke had retreated.

The Daegog let out a little whimper. It had been a long, protracted war, and his allies were dwindling. Every day it seemed more of the Triin warlords sided with Tharn. He was a sorcerer, that one. He could turn men’s minds to slush. Now only Kronin and a handful of others still followed the Daegog, and if the Drol pushed hard enough, they could probably topple them all right into the ocean.

The Daegog poured himself another cup of tea, dashed it liberally with honey from a silver spoon, and sat back to stare at the Aramoorians. They were going home, and he hated them for it. He ached for his own home, the dazzling spires of his usurped Falindar. Kronin was a loyal man but a middling host, and in these days of shortages Mount Godon could only provide modest hospitality. He was accustomed to stretching out each night on a bed of ivory inlaid with rubies, but here he slept on a mattress of scratchy fabric stuffed with straw. In Falindar, there had been scores of servants to attend him, beautiful young women trained to be perfectly servile, who bathed him and rubbed his feet with oil. But here in austere Mount Godon, every woman was engaged in the same bloody business as the men, trying to win the war. There were weapons to sharpen and clothes to mend and food to be harvested. There were shortages of everything now that the Drol had started burning the eastern fields. Day by day, he was becoming less royal, and he despised it.

He was sure Arkus of Nar was having no such problems.
Arkus, his Naren benefactor, was comfortable in his black palace. Arkus the puppeteer, who never showed the world his face but let his golden count—the strange one called Biagio—be his voice. He would send a message to Biagio at once, he decided, to tell him of Edgard’s treachery. He would demand the emperor send his own legionnaires into Lucel-Lor to put down the rebellion. The Daegog ran a chubby finger over the rim of his cup and grinned. He admired Arkus, but age had dulled the old man’s reason, and his obsession with magic had made him reckless.

“Magic!” The Daegog snorted. The Narens were such passionate fools. They had all the science of the world in their hands, had built cities and weapons the Triin could only dream of, yet they were still as superstitious as any Drol. Now only he, the Daegog of all Triin, could pretend to give Arkus what he wanted, and the price was steep indeed.

“Go home, then, Edgard,” whispered the Daegog. “Go home to your death.”

He lowered his glass to the rickety table next to him and let out a giant yawn. It was very late, and he was weary. In the morning he would meet with Baron Gayle again to discuss the defense of Mount Godon, and speaking to the Talistanian always taxed him. It was time for sleep.

Retreating from the balcony, he entered his bedchamber, the plushest one in the entire castle and still smaller than his own in Falindar by at least half. Miserably appointed, the room reminded the Daegog more of his citadel’s dungeon than its bedchambers. But he was too exhausted to dwell on his plight, and as he shut the twin doors leading to the balcony, he took one last breath of the night air and turned to his bed. There was a candle near the bedside and he blew it out, satisfied with the moonlight coming through the glass. He was already in his satiny bedclothes, and as he slid into the bed and drew the sheets over his bulk, his eyelids drooped. It took only a moment for sleep to come.

But it shattered just as quickly.

The Daegog sat up in bed, hearing a noise at the balcony doors. Startled, he pulled the sheets close to his face and peered out toward the balcony. Past midnight, he recalled, past the hour of decent folk. Something outside shimmered, twinkling darkly
in the moonlight. A white and man-sized shadow hovered just beyond the doors. The Daegog made to scream, but lost his voice in terror as the thing moved wraithlike through the glass.

It was a man and yet it was not. It was white and thin and without substance, but it had form and it had eyes, and it watched the Daegog with a wicked humor. The Daegog’s heart seized. His breath came to him in short, painful bursts. And the thing that was not quite alive floated closer on its legless torso and stopped at the foot of his bed.

“Do you recognize me, fat one?” asked the spectre. Its voice was hollow, and it rang in the Daegog’s head like a broken bell. The Daegog studied the thing, examined its determined face and saffron robes, and knew with horrible certainty what the visitation was. His dry lips pursed and a name dribbled out.

“Tharn.”

The ghostly face grinned. “How nice to be remembered. I, of course, remember you, Daegog. I remember you every time it rains and I cannot walk.”

The Daegog backed up against the headboard. “What are you, demon?”

“I have become the sword of Lorris,” declared the Drol, and as he spoke his body shimmered. “The touch of heaven is within me. I am the air and the water. Look upon me, fat one. Look and fear me.”

“I do fear you,” chittered the Daegog. “Spare me, monster. Take what you want but let me live.…”

The Drol laughed. “I go to make your end, Nebarazar Gorandarr. Tonight you are undone.”

“No!” wailed the Daegog. “Tharn, forgive me. I never meant for you to be harmed. It was not my doing, I swear to you.”

“Liar. I remember seeing your face through the blood in my eyes. I remember you there.”

The Daegog held up his palms. “I thought you were a criminal. I … I was wrong. Please, we can talk.…”

“You are the one with crimes to answer for, and I do not talk with devils.” The ghost gestured with his transparent hand toward the balcony and the darkness beyond. “Look to the skies tonight. Wait for the purple mist. Tonight I am Storm Maker.”

And then the image of the Drol faded and dissolved, leaving the Daegog shivering, alone. It was long moments before he
could move, but at last he slid out of his bed and tiptoed toward the doors. He flung them open and stepped onto the balcony. The steam had stopped rising from the teapot on the table. It was colder now, almost wintry. He looked to the bloodred moon hanging like a death’s-head in the sky. A purple cloud floated across the horizon.

E
ven before the war with Nar, the Dring Valley had never been a peaceful place. Voris the Wolf had done his best to live up to his title of warlord, and so the people of his land endured many hardships for his sake, losing sons in battles with their neighbors from Tatterak, the largest of all the Triin territories. Voris was iron-fisted, and his feud with Kronin had dragged on for years, never coming to any conclusion, and never winning the ostensible prize of the Agar Forest. This attrition had drained the coffers of Voris’ castle and had made his people pariahs among the rest of Lucel-Lor, who looked upon the Drol of the valley with suspicion and disquietude.