The Jackal of Nar (109 page)

“There will be a reckoning!” Biagio called, sure that no one on shore had heard him. Again he laughed, full of vicious glee. Herrith was a clever man, but he had made some frighteningly stupid oversights. One of them was a midget with a giant brain.

Nicabar, who had been talking with a sailor, came up behind Biagio and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s done,” said the admiral. “They tell me Bovadin is already aboard.”

Biagio gave a terrible smile. Throughout Nar, there was only one man who could synthesize the drug that kept them all alive. Now that the Iron Circle had corroded, it was a fortunate thing indeed that the little scientist had chosen their side.

“Bad luck for you, Herrith,” whispered Biagio. Not even Bovadin knew for sure, but he supposed withdrawal from the drug was fatal.

When Lucyler returned to Dring, he went at once to the dilapidated residence of the valley’s former master. Those in the castle had been waiting for him, for he had been seen approaching with the barrel-chested Karlaz, and the word spread swiftly from the watchtower that the two heroes of Ackle-Nye were returning.

Richius heard the news of Lucyler’s return while fitting his horse with a pair of shoes. He told Dyana he would meet Lucyler at Tharn’s gravesite. He was skimming stones off the little stream behind the keep when he saw Dyana and Lucyler emerge from the thickets. Lucyler seemed stricken. His face was creased with lines Richius had never noticed before. Lucyler took three steps before he noticed the marker beside Richius. It was a man-sized gravestone crudely carved by one of the valley’s elders, a farmer with an amateurish talent for masonry. Lucyler slowed as he approached the headstone, almost stopping until Richius bid him forward.

“Come, my friend,” said Richius. He went to Lucyler and
took him by the hand, guiding him toward the grave beside the stream. Lucyler stared at the inscription for a long moment before his gaze dropped to the ground.

“I knew when I saw Dyana,” he said grimly. “What happened, Richius? Was it Gayle? I know that scoundrel escaped Ackle-Nye.”

“He died saving me,” said Richius. He recalled with regard the cunningman’s insistence that he live. In the end, they were so much alike. Tharn had wanted to save a stranger. Richius had wanted to save Dyana.

Lucyler sank to his knees and kissed the gray rock bearing Tharn’s name. On the other side of the stream, in a place unmarked and unceremonious, there was another grave, one Lucyler had helped to dig. In the place where Dinadin rested there was no gravestone, only the easy shade of a tree and a handful of poppies Richius had planted when no one was watching. It occurred to him as he watched his broken friend that this bright little refuge had suddenly become a very dim place indeed.

“It was his choice,” said Richius. “I swear to you I did not ask it.”

“He was a good man,” said Lucyler. He looked up at Richius. “You know that now, yes?”

“They were all good men,” replied Richius. “They all deserved better than what they got.”

Lucyler looked again at the grave marker, grimacing. “This is it for him, then? The end?”

“There is talk in the keep about a proper funeral. Now that all of you are back, we can have a ceremony if you like. Is that what Triin do when a leader dies?”

“I do not know what Tharn would want,” replied Lucyler. “He was simple in many ways. Perhaps this is enough for him.” He rose to his feet. “I will have to tell Karlaz of his death. He is waiting for me back at the keep. He expected to tell Tharn about our victory.”

“Tell
me
about it,” pressed Richius. “A messenger told us that you’d won. Is it true? Did you beat them back? All of them?”

Lucyler nodded as if his mind was a thousand miles out to sea. “The lions were unstoppable,” he replied. “Just like Tharn said they would be. Karlaz lost only three men.”

“And the city? How did the warlords do?”

Lucyler grimaced. “I am a slaughterer now, Richius. A butcher. There were thousands of us, and we were out of control. The Narens in the city never had a chance. Shohar ordered his men to take skulls. They hacked the Narens to pieces, made them eat each others’ hearts.” Lucyler sighed and bit down hard on his trembling lip. “I will never be clean again,” he said.

“Tharn would be ashamed of me.”

“Then you did win. We’re safe.”

“Maybe safer than you know,” said Lucyler. “I have more news for you, my friend. Your emperor is dead.”

“Arkus?” asked Richius, astonished. “When?”

“Before the attack on Ackle-Nye. Nang came across a messenger in the Run, on his way to Ackle-Nye. He tortured the man. He wanted to know if more troops were being sent. But Nar City is mourning the loss of your emperor.”

Richius fell back against a tree. “Dead,” he whispered. It was too unbelievable, like a dream. With the old man gone, Lucel-Lor truly was safe. It might be months before they sent more troops, or maybe never. Tharn had gotten his wish. Lucel-Lor was free.

“He should have died in Falindar,” said Lucyler bitterly, rubbing a hand over the rugged gravestone. “That is where he should rest.”

“He’ll rest well enough here, next to Voris and the others. It’s quiet here. I think he would have liked it. And people can come and see this place and remember. They won’t disturb Dinadin. They won’t even know he’s here.”

Lucyler smiled bleakly at his comrade. “What will you do now, Richius? Will you stay here?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself. I’m not warlord here anymore. Jarra is master of Dring now. Before he died, Tharn told me he would do that for me. No one has questioned it. Jarra has told us we can stay, but it doesn’t seem right somehow, and I know there are people in Nar who will come looking for me.”

“Then come with me to Falindar. There will be much to do with both Kronin and Tharn dead. You could help me.”

Richius chuckled. “I don’t know anything about being a warlord. If I did, I might have kept the job here. Besides, my work with Nar isn’t done yet.”

“Oh?”

“Aramoor, Lucyler. I still have a kingdom to free. If the Lissens go on fighting, I have to help them.”

“Richius,” said Lucyler evenly. “Aramoor may never be free again. We freed Lucel-Lor. That should be enough for any man. Even you. Do not destroy yourself chasing something that can never be. This is your home now. You must try to forget Aramoor.”

Richius smiled. “You know I can’t do that.”

Lucyler nodded. “You are welcome in Falindar,” he said simply. He started back toward the keep then saw Dyana in the trees. Lucyler tossed Richius a grin.

“She is yours now, then?”

“We will marry,” replied Richius. “And we will be together. Finally.”

Lucyler winked at Richius, then turned toward Dyana. Richius watched him perform a flourishing bow before disappearing into the trees. Dyana came to Richius, looking over her shoulder after Lucyler.

“You told him?” she asked.

Richius nodded. “He took it as well as could be expected. He said he knew about it when he saw your face.”

Dyana’s brow wrinkled with puzzlement. “He does not seem sad.”

Richius took her hands and brought them to his lips. “He is happy for us. I told him we would marry.”

“Yes,” she said. “Soon. As soon as we can.”

“We’ll need a cunning-man or some priest. If we go with Lucyler to Falindar we can find one there.”

“Yes,” agreed Dyana. “Falindar. We will stay with Lucyler and let Shani learn from the wise men there.”

Richius stepped out of her embrace. “It might not be for as long as you like, Dyana,” he warned. “I’ve told you that already.”

“I know,” she said sadly. “But for a little time at least. Time for us to be together.”

“Yes,” said Richius. “Together.”

He brought her close again and kissed her. They would be together until the storms blew them apart and the shouts of his bloodline called him back to war. But for now, Aramoor was a lifetime away, and her kiss was an eternity.

From the Journal of Richius Vantran:

The death of Arkus still haunts me. It is like hearing that a god has died. Someday there will be songs about him, the ancient emperor who searched the world for magic so that he might steal another day.

But the real magic of Lucel-Lor is gone now. And I will miss Tharn profoundly. We were not so different, he and I. We both loved Dyana. We both tried to save her. In the end, I think he loved me, too. Not like he loved Dyana, of course, but like he loved Voris and Kronin. He loved the fire in them, the grace. If he saw grace in me, then truly he was a sorcerer. But I have only one life to give, and cannot begin to repay the blood I have made flow. Tharn died saving me, exhausting himself to the point of ruin. Sabrina died for my foolishness, and Dinadin for my blindness. Even Voris and Kronin were swept up in my fate. If there are gods watching me, then I hope they remove this awful curse.

But for now we will have peace. Without the Run, Lucel-Lor will be sealed. Liss continues to prowl our shores, thirsty to sink more Naren ships, and the lions of Karlaz stand guard over us like concerned fathers. Lucyler says they fought bravely and I cannot doubt it, for never have I seen such magnificent beasts as those golden monsters of Chandakkar. Were I Arkus, perhaps I too would have thought them mystical. But like so much of Lucel-Lor they are only flesh and bone. Nothing here is as Arkus believed. I have seen magic and I cannot explain it, but I know it is not the burgeoning thing Arkus thought it to be. There was only one magician here, one man cursed or blessed by nature. Now that he is gone perhaps Nar will leave this land in peace.

But I know there can be no peace for me. Biagio will not
suppose me dead. He is the Roshann, and the Roshann is everywhere. There will be assassins coming, and this valley will not be safe for us. Even with Jarra as warlord, Biagio will look here for me. Falindar, too. So we are without a home, my little family, but we will survive. Somewhere in this vast land there is a hiding place for us. Somewhere Shani can grow without Nar’s shadow stalking her.

Yet these are worries for another day. We have weeks yet, my family and I, my beautiful “kafife.” For now I will let the Lissens worry about Nar. The pull of Liss is strong in me, but I yearn for at least a taste of peace. Biagio will have to find us first, and that will not be easy for him. These Triin have made me crafty. I am Kalak I am the Jackal of Nar.

Like all first novels, this one was completed with the help and encouragement of some very special people. I would like to express my enormous appreciation to them all.

First, to my wife Deborah, to whom this book is dedicated. She is my greatest inspiration and my truest love.

To my family—Mom, Dad, Christine, Donna, and Grampa—for always being there and for always believing in me. Thanks, gang.

To my editor Anne Lesley Groell, for her insight and guidance, and for just being open to new writers.

To Russell Galen and Danny Baror, for sharing my vision of this book and for helping to make it a reality.

To Kristin Lindstrom, for being there at the beginning.

To Douglas Beekman, for his magnificent cover art.

Lastly, to my dear friend and fellow writer Ted Xidas, for convincing me it could be done. This book simply would not exist without him.

Many thanks to you all. I am tremendously grateful.

Visit John Marco on the web at
www.tyrantsandkings.com

T
HE
J
ACKAL OF
N
AR
T
HE
G
RAND
D
ESIGN
T
HE
S
AINTS OF THE
S
WORD

J
OHN
M
ARCO
lives on Long Island, New York, where he was born and raised. He is a fan of military history and a long-time reader of fantasy literature. Since the publication of his first novel,
The Jackal of Nar,
he has been writing fiction full time.

Visit John Marco on the web at
www.tyrantsandkings.com

BY JOHN MARCO

AN INFAMOUS WARRIOR IS ONCE AGAIN CAUGHT BETWEEN TWO IRRESISTIBLE FORCES, AND HIS CHOICE MAY CHANGE THE WORLD.…

In the wake of Arkus’ terrible war, Prince Richius Vantran—the Jackal of Nar—has fled into exile with his wife, Dyana, and their young daughter, Shani. Meanwhile, with the emperor’s death, Nar has exploded in civil war. Now a new conflict is being waged between the religious fanatics of Bishop Herrith, who follow the Light of God, and the ruthless followers of Count Biagio and his Black Renaissance. Each man believes he has been chosen to lead, and as the terrifying slaughter mounts, fueled by the development of hideous new war machines, Vantran is offered the chance to ally with a third faction and take his revenge against his ancient enemy Biagio.