The Jackal of Nar (105 page)

“Goddamn gogs,” he muttered. “Should have wiped them out the first time.”

The first time, Cassis had been in Nar. He was a career soldier, a move he was regretting more by the minute, and had spent his life guarding god-forsaken hellholes like Ackle-Nye. When he was younger his father had told him that soldiering was the only real profession for a man. He hated his father now, and he hated the advice even more. He hated being garrison commander. It was a rotten position that granted title without advantage. While Naren lords lounged around plush apartments, he slept in filth and made what home he could out of abandoned
buildings. They were all fops, the Naren lords. Cassis spit over the side of the balcony, imagining a royal head beneath him. Now he was surrounded by Triin savages ready to pull his fingernails out, and it was all thanks to Arkus. Cassis gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t die for that bastard. Not here.

Cassis turned to his aide, who had been standing some paces back on the balcony. Colonel Marlyle’s face was the color of milk. Curdled. “Colonel, I want you to tell the cannoneers in the towers not to open fire until we’ve drawn them in. Each burst has to count. You’ve got good men on them?”

Marlyle nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Enough fuel?”

“Yes, sir. I think so.”

“Don’t think so, Marlyle. Make goddamn sure. All three of them. I don’t want any of them running short.”

Marlyle grimaced. “Two, sir.”

“What?”

“There’s only two long-range guns, General. They can’t get the third one working. Broken fuel line, I think. No spares.”

Cassis put his hand to his forehead. “Colonel, get that bloody thing working. I don’t care how, and I don’t want excuses. Do it, or I’ll throw you to that horde myself.”

“I’ll try, sir,” said Marlyle, blanching. It was an impossible order and Cassis knew it. Despite the commitment the Black City had promised, the Saccenne Run was a long route. Spare parts, like food and medicines, ran out quickly. And no one had foreseen their current situation. Cassis had already sped messengers to Talistan, but he knew reinforcements would never arrive in time. When they got here, they would all be hanging from trees.

“Colonel, I want you nearby. Things are going to get ugly fast unless we keep communications open. Don’t run off on me. And don’t engage the enemy yourself. Have a guard of horsemen around us. Get them ready in the city center. I’ll be down soon.”

Marlyle nodded again, his gaze shifting to something over Cassis’ shoulder.

“They’re coming,” said Marlyle. He pointed to the hillside.

“Look.”

“I see,” said Cassis calmly. A large group had broken off from the rest and were riding toward the city. All in gold, they looked to
Cassis like a sunrise. They didn’t ride hard but kept a casual gait.

A single horseman rode before the others, his head held high.

“Terms?” suggested Marlyle hopefully.

Cassis frowned. He had never heard of a warlord offering terms. And even if they did, he could never accept them. More Naren nonsense. The general tried hard to look confident.

“Colonel, carry out my orders. Get that cannon operational. And arrange the horsemen in the city center. Meet me there.”

“How many, sir? A dozen?”

“Fifty,” said Cassis.

“Fifty? Sir, if I recall that many men to—”

“Do it!” flared Cassis. “Go. And get my own horse ready.”

Marlyle obliged, leaving Cassis alone on the balcony. The general looked back over the approaching warriors. The one in front seemed to be smiling. Even at such a distance, Cassis made out the flash of teeth. The message would be for him, he knew, so he straightened his uniform, mouthed a little prayer, then followed Marlyle out of the chamber.

Shohar the Skull-Taker rode purposefully toward the city of beggars. Behind him, his four-hundred-strong force of warriors kept pace, their faces frozen. The warlord was a small man and tried very hard to sit tall in his saddle. His immaculate golden robes of silk fell daintily around his chest and thighs, and his long hair flowed neatly around his shoulders, kept in place with azure ribbons. Neither strong nor muscular, he had a reputation for skill and cleverness that made him proud. Being so slight of build, some said he looked like a woman. These were dead men, mostly.

Shohar thought very carefully, reining up his horse so that it ambled at a snail’s pace. Ackle-Nye loomed large in front of him. He could see soldiers milling in the streets, so many black dots. He caught a glare out of one of the towers and knew the reflection was a cannon. Long-range, the kind that could pick him off from here. If he listened very closely he could hear voices echoing through the streets, the anxious sound of shouted orders.

Shohar had always liked Lucyler of Falindar. And he had always honored Tharn. But neither of them were warlords. They simply couldn’t understand. It was different for him and
Praxtin-Tar. They were men of war, born and bred. To ask them to change was like asking a river to shift directions.

The Skull-Taker brought his warhorse to a halt, turning it so that it faced his troops. They stopped with their master. On the hillside Shohar could see Lucyler looking down on him. Praxtin-Tar was there, too, and all the warriors who were waiting to see the outcome of his mission. A delicious tremor went through him. Shohar reached into his robes and took out the note Lucyler had given him. He couldn’t read Naren but he knew what it said, and the words nauseated him. Smiling like a madman, he held it up and showed it to his warriors. Then, making sure Lucyler saw clearly, he closed his fist and crumpled the letter, letting it fall to the ground.

“Take skulls!” he shrieked. “Today we are avenged!”

Lucyler watched the goings-on at the bottom of the hill in a moment of frozen incredulity. Shohar was saying something; Lucyler didn’t have to read his lips. The warlord had dropped the note to the ground. Even now it tumbled away in the breeze. His warriors were shouting, cheering, making ready to charge. Lucyler groaned. Next to him, Praxtin-Tar was chortling. Lucyler shook a fist at him.

“You!” he flared. “You planned this!”

“I did not,” laughed Praxtin-Tar. “By Tharn, I swear it!”

“What is he doing, Praxtin-Tar? Tell me!”

“I do not know,” answered the warlord. “Again, I swear.”

Lucyler didn’t know what to believe. Already a ripple of uncertainty was passing through the men on the hill. They looked to him for guidance. Even Praxtin-Tar stared at him questioningly. Down below, Shohar was screaming and charging toward the city, his oversized jiiktar slicing the air. A clarion sounded inside of Ackle-Nye. Two towers glowed menacingly. Shohar’s troops had broken formation and now followed their leader, horses thundering, footmen running their hearts out.

“Damn you, Shohar,” hissed Lucyler. “Damn you!”

“Your orders,” demanded Praxtin-Tar. “We join them?”

A beam of fire tore from a tower, exploding among the charging warriors and setting the earth aflame. Seconds later another
cannon detonated. Three horsemen behind Shohar fell, the ground ripped away beneath them. Shohar continued as if nothing in the world would stop him.

“Lucyler?” shouted Praxtin-Tar. “We must join them. Now!”

Lucyler shut his eyes, trying to subdue the worst of his ire. “I hear you, Praxtin-Tar. I hear you.” He wanted to let them die, he wanted to let Shohar’s own skull be taken, but there was still an objective to be won, and so he gave the order.

Karlaz of the lions waited atop his giant battle-cat, his bronze skin and the beast’s tawny fur camouflaging him among the rocks. He was high up in the Iron Mountains with the meandering Saccenne Run far below, and the sun was hot against his flesh. With him were fifty other lion riders, all atop their own mounts, all belted and ready for war. Across the divide of the passage were fifty more such warriors, but they were as well concealed as Karlaz, and the warlord had trouble spotting them among the rocks. To his east, farther down in the Run, waited the warlord Nang, a creature who reminded Karlaz more of a monster than a man. Like himself, Nang had been given the job of taking and holding the Run—a mission that seemed particularly well suited to the hearty, naked men of the Fire Steppes. Karlaz and his lions had borne Nang’s warriors over the worst parts of the mountains, but no doubt they had made the rest of the way themselves, barefooted.

From his rocky perch Karlaz watched the city. It was an ugly place, gutted with fire and unbalanced by strange architecture. Karlaz had never seen structures so tall. He had heard of Falindar but he had never seen it, and he wondered if the palace of the Daegog looked as atrocious as this thing from Nar. Anaka, his lion, let out a low growl. The beast could sense the coming battle and the anticipation of blood made it restless. Karlaz leaned forward and pushed his fingers roughly through Anaka’s mane, calming him. Anaka was a male, more powerful than most riding lions, but despite his size, the beast responded better to an easy touch. The lion ceased his rumbling and settled down, lowering his head a bit. He too watched the city.

Then his ears perked up as he heard a sound. Along the mountainside, every lion and rider raised their heads in turn. Karlaz
listened closely. Voices. Shouts. He set his jaw, sorry to see that Lucyler’s plan had failed. An orange bolt sliced across the horizon, followed by another and a far-off concussion. The lions roared, grateful for the noise. Karlaz stiffened, holding Anaka firmer. It was the signal he had dreaded. He ordered Anaka out from behind the rocks so that all his comrades could see him, then reluctantly shouted the order to attack.

General Cassis found his horse in the center of the city. As ordered, his aide Marlyle had assembled fifty horsemen to protect him. From here he could watch and conduct the battle safely, at least for a time, and he would be in plain view of the men he asked to die for him. Up in the towers the long-range cannons had opened fire, but there were only two of them. Cassis looked around for Marlyle. He spotted the colonel on a street near the front of the city, desperately shouting orders to a platoon of infantry guarding the road. They had only two handheld cannons and Marlyle was apparently telling them how to use the weapons. Cassis could almost read his mind. Short blasts, he would be telling them. Conserve fuel and set up a diagonal crossfire. He saw the two cannoneers take their positions on opposite sides of the streets. Cassis trotted his horse toward the colonel.

“Marlyle! I told you to stay close. Get over here now!”

His aide hurried over, pushing through the crowds of legionnaires hurrying toward the city entrance. His face was flushed and his eyes jumped fearfully.

“Report,” Cassis ordered.

“The first wave is at the city entrance,” gasped Marlyle. “I’ve sent a platoon of cavalry out after them. The—”

A rushing blast tore from the nearest cannon tower, making Marlyle duck. Cassis looked at him impatiently.

“And?”

“The cannons have already taken out some of the first wave.”

“What about the third cannon?”

“It’s still down. I’ve got some engineers working on it, trying to cannibalize a fuel line from some of the broken handhelds. It might take time.”

“We don’t have time!” roared Cassis. “Get some archers in the tower instead. Do it now. And place a battery of archers near
the western street. Make sure they block it off. I want it barricaded so the gogs don’t overrun it. If they do it’ll be bloody hand-to-hand. Go!”

Marlyle grunted and rode off. Cassis steered his horse over to the group Marlyle had been working with. He looked down the street and could see the armies clashing as the gogs pushed their way into Ackle-Nye. Behind the first wave the rest of the warriors were pouring down the mountainside. Another blast from the flame cannons detonated in their ranks. The charging horses split into two directions as they came for the city. Archers along the western barricades pumped arrows into the battlefield. Triin bowmen returned fire, their whistling shafts raining down into the city. Soon the streets would glow with fire as the hand cannoneers opened up. Cassis trotted toward the relative safety of the city center, into the protective folds of his guardians.

Lucyler hurried his horse into the melee. He was chasing Shohar, but the wild warlord was already into the city streets, hacking off armored heads even as flames erupted around him. In the mere minutes since attacking, Shohar’s zealots had made stunning progress, pushing back the first line of defenders and crushing the small cavalry brigade sent out to stop them. The warriors of Tatterak and Reen had joined the battle and fought side by side with Shohar’s own, an irresistible horde sweeping over the city outskirts. Lucyler had ordered a line of bowmen to concentrate fire on the barricades, to try and soften them and make the advance easier, but the guns in the towers had trained fire on the bowmen and were decimating their ranks. This wouldn’t be a battlefield war, Lucyler realized. This would be like fighting in a stone jungle.

Hakan and the other warriors of Tatterak had taken positions near the western barricades and were fighting their way into the city. Lucyler had broken away to chase down Shohar. He spotted the warlord galloping down a narrow street. Two handheld cannons were spitting flames toward him. Shohar ignored the fire as if it were rain. He had twenty horsemen with him, their bloody jiiktars ready to chop down the defenders.

“Skulls!” the warlord screamed. “Skulls for Lucel-Lor!”

Blinded with rage, Lucyler hurried after him. The street erupted with an orange glow. Shohar’s big horse jumped to the side, avoiding the blast even as it took down three of his own men. The soldiers at the other end of the street braced themselves. They raised their swords and pulled their triggers. Again they missed Shohar, who galloped into the middle of the street, raised his jiiktar high, and watched in glee as his men engaged the legionnaires. The cannoneers fell in an instant, hacked to pieces by the blades of the warriors. Kerosene leaked from severed hoses as the weapons dropped to the stone roadway. Shohar laughed as if someone were tickling him.

“Shohar!” Lucyler cried. “Damn you!”