The Jackal of Nar (12 page)

“You see?” she asked them all. “Those birch trees are like us. They were small, but now look at them. They are tall and strong, and they did not give in to the redwoods. And we will not give in to the Drol. We are leaving now, but we will return someday to take back what is ours.”

The children loved this, and so did the mothers who had overheard Dyana’s story. Falger’s smile was wide and proud, and he slipped a hand into Dyana’s and gave it a thankful squeeze. Dyana smiled. After months of being a shadow, it was good to suddenly be a light.

They all ate sparingly that night, picking up Falger’s lead, and eventually retired to their own corners of the camp, to talk around fires or just to sleep and ready their bodies for the next day’s march. Dyana always slept alone, not too far from Falger, not too close to the other men. She still preferred her solitude. The quiet coolness of night always calmed her, and she enjoyed the music of the river while the others slept. Tonight the moon was full. It was very late, yet despite her exhaustion Dyana found sleep impossible. Soon they would arrive in Ackle-Nye, and the excitement of it rippled through her, setting her imagination aflame. There would be Narens there. Her father had trusted the Narens. Soon she might be free.

Dyana sat up and looked around. Nearby, Falger was asleep, his blanket tangled around his body. A fire crackled at the riverside, waning in the moonlight and sending up smoldering wisps. Crickets chirped and the river babbled over the rocks, and all at once a great feeling of melancholy seized Dyana. This was still her home, no matter what she found in Ackle-Nye. She would miss this land. Unable to sleep, she slipped on her boots and tiptoed away from the camp, following the river in the moonlight until she could barely see the campfires. She found a rock on the bank and sat down on it, dipping her hand into the muddy earth and fishing up a collection of stones. One by one she pitched
them into the moving water, listening to their splashes, and when she finished each handful she gathered another and did the same. It was a pleasant sound, regular and therapeutic, and Dyana lost herself in the simple act.

“Dyana …”

Dyana jumped at the call of her name, springing from the rock and turning to look behind her. For a moment she thought she saw the smoke of the campfire hanging in the air before her, but then she realized it was not smoke at all, but a shimmering aerial figure, half there and half not, its body a loose vapor, its torso false and legless. Dyana gasped and backed away. The thing drifted toward her.

“I have found you,” said the apparition. “I told you I would.”

It was a purple mist, a shroud of murkiness shaped like a man. Dyana stared at it, and knew in a dread-filled instant what it was.

“Tharn …”

“It has been many years, girl. I am pleased you recognize me.”

“Tharn,” she whispered, gesturing at him. “What are you?”

He smiled at her. He did not seem evil at all, only vastly pleased with himself. “Look at me,” he said, brushing his vaporous hands over his body. “I am the touch of heaven. I am what I wanted to be.”

Appalled, Dyana moved in closer, not hiding her disgust. “Tharn, what is this magic? What have you done?”

“I have done what I am meant to do, what heaven has chosen me to do.”

Dyana stared at him and through him. He had left his family to find the science of Nar, then later to search for truth among the Drol. He had become a cunning-man and a revolutionary. But this, his latest incarnation, this astounded her. This was incomprehensible.

“But is this you?”

“This is me and not me. This is my mind without a body. I cannot explain it, Dyana. It is just …” The ghost shrugged. “Me.”

“But why?” she pressed. “What are you?”

“No questions,” flared Tharn, his body breaking for a moment in his anger. “I have no answers. I am the sword of Lorris. I am his herald. Just as I told you I would be.”

Dyana looked at him sadly. “You are mad. And now you play with these arts, and make a monster of yourself. Tharn, you are …”

“I know what I am!” roared the ghost. His image swelled. “I am touched by heaven! I have searched for this all my life, and now I have found it. And I will not be called mad by heretics like you! Can you look at me and say that I am wrong about the gods?”

Dyana didn’t answer.

“Can you?”

“I cannot,” she admitted. “But you were not this way always, Tharn. You were not always a killer. I remember what you used to be. I remember you when you were kind.”

A veil of sadness fell over the ghost. “I am still kind, girl.”

“No,” Dyana argued. “You are not. You have harmed countless people for your cause. You claim you are Drol, and now you break their highest rule. Touched by heaven, you say? Is it hot your way to use these gifts for peace?”

“It is,” Tharn admitted. “Or so I always thought.”

“Then why do you kill? Why all this brutality?”

“It is what Lorris wishes, I think. Dyana, I am not such a villain. I have reasons for this bloody work, things that are beyond you, beyond even me. I have prayed mightily for answers, and I am trusting Lorris to guide me. It is the will of heaven. In time you will see the right in it.”

“I will not,” Dyana insisted. “Because I will be gone. Where I am going, even you cannot follow.”

Tharn shook his head. “I have come to warn you, Dyana. I have almost won this wretched war. When I am done, I am coming for you. You will not resist me.”

“Resist you?” Dyana laughed. “I spit on you! I am no man’s slave.”

“You are my betrothed. Your father’s word binds you. And I am laying claim to you.”

“Your laws mean nothing to me, Drol. Or the bargain of our parents. You were not Drol when we were young. My father would never have promised me to you if he knew the devil you were becoming. I am a free woman.”

“And you go to Nar to be free? Then you are a fool, girl. Like your father. There is nothing for you there. Nar is evil.”

“Liar!” she cried. “I will get to Nar, and I will marry someone else. And I will have children who are not Drol and we will all laugh at your sick revolution!”

Tharn sighed, but there was no breath from the apparition. “Run then, Dyana. But hurry. This thing you see is only the beginning. I grow stronger, and when I am strong enough I will reach out my hand and take you, wherever you are.”

“And you will continue to kill? And children will starve because you burn the grain fields? Is this the love of Lorris and Pris?”

“This is the way of things in our ugly world. There are dangers to us that you do not know, and I doubt could ever understand. When we are together, you will see all the truth.”

“I will never be yours, Tharn.”

“You will be. And listen closely to what I say. When you are mine, I will not seem such a monster to you. I will be kind to you and you will be happy.”

Dyana scoffed. “Is this some Drol prophecy?”

“Not a prophecy. A promise. From me to you. I will not harm you, Dyana. You have nothing to fear from me. I have always loved you.”

“More madness,” said Dyana. Suddenly Tharn seemed like a lovesick boy again, climbing a tree to impress her. “You do not know me. You are in love with a dream. I am not the person you think. Let me go.”

“I cannot. I am a Drol cunning-man, and you are my betrothed. I will not bear that disgrace. I say again—I love you. When I am victorious, I will have this whole nation to give you, and you will see how much I care for you.”

Dyana shook her head. “I do not want a nation, and I do not want you. I will fight you.”

Tharn smiled sadly. “Run, then,” he warned. “Like the wind …”

He was gone as quickly as he had come, vanishing into the darkness until the only shimmering was from the moonlight on the water. Dyana stood staring at the emptiness, at the place where his invisible feet had left no impressions in the soil. He was powerful now. Soon he might be able to take her. She needed to hurry, she needed to get to Ackle-Nye before he was done with his grisly war. And that meant leaving her friends behind.

Silently, she walked back to the camp where the others were sleeping. Careful not to wake them, she collected her few
possessions—her bag of clothing, her waterskin, and some of the bread she had saved from supper. Lastly she took up the little silver stiletto her father had given her. This she tucked into its place in her boot. She was almost out of the camp when Falger awakened.

“Dyana?”

“Shhh,” she cautioned, going over to him.

“Where are you going? What is wrong?”

“I am going to Ackle-Nye, Falger. But I have to hurry. There is no time for wasting, and I cannot go slowly.”

“We will be there in a few days,” said Falger, not understanding.

“No,” said Dyana gently. “I cannot wait.” She wanted to explain it to him, but thought better of it. She was dangerous to them now, and that she couldn’t live with. “Please,” she implored. “Just let me go.”

“Dyana, this is crazy. You cannot make it alone. It is too far, too dangerous.”

“I can do it. I will just follow the river.”

“But what about food? What will you eat?”

“I have some bread in my bag. And I should get to Ackle-Nye in a day or so. They will have food for me there.”

“You cannot go now,” said Falger. “It is too dark!”

“I have the moon. I can see. Please, do not worry about me.” Then she kissed his cheek. “But thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“But how will you get to Nar?” Falger asked. “What will you do?”

“Whatever I have to,” Dyana answered, then started off into the darkness.

W
hen Richius told Dinadin about the trip to Ackle-Nye, Dinadin took the news like a small boy who has been told a holiday was coming. Unlike most of the Naren troops, Dinadin had known where he was going even before he arrived in Ackle-Nye, and so had no opportunity to enjoy the
many pleasures the city offered most men before they went into the war. He had always regretted this, a fact he reminded Richius of nearly every time the subject arose. It seemed to Richius that Dinadin thought he was owed something for missing out on this rite of passage, and Richius took as much glee in the telling of the news as Dinadin took in the receiving. In a small way Richius was excited by the trip, too. Though he had told Lucyler and Dinadin that there were important reasons for making the journey, the idea of leaving the trenches and camps for even a little while pleased him. It had been nearly a full year since he had arrived in the Dring Valley, and almost two years since he had left home. If there were any Aramoorians in Ackle-Nye, he would be grateful to see them.

Over Lucyler’s objections, Richius decided that only he and Dinadin should make the trip. Lucyler himself didn’t want to go, for even he was too pious a Triin to go to Ackle-Nye, but he made the point that his comrades would be more secure if they traveled in greater numbers. Richius had considered this, but finally decided that the security of the men he was leaving was more important than their own, and he wanted every body, should Voris choose to attack again. He explained this to Lucyler, after telling the Triin that he would be in charge of the company. The Triin didn’t argue his leader’s reasoning. But Lucyler wasn’t beyond mothering the men, and before they set out the next morning he had made sure they had packed enough of the dried meat and hard army bread that had been their sustenance for months now to last them well past the two-day ride. Richius allowed this indulgence. Though he was the leader of the men, he knew that Lucyler was more like a father to them even in his sternness, and Richius himself wasn’t unaffected by Lucyler’s almost parental concern.

The morning was as clear as the night and day before. It was, as Dinadin had cheerfully remarked, the perfect day for riding. In the depths of the valley there were thorn patches and choke weeds and mud traps to break a horse’s legs, but where they were going the valley thinned and became passable, and when the horse master had handed the reins of two fine geldings over to Richius, the man had eyed his leader jealously. Being in the valley was a chore for any who had been in the Aramoorian Guard,
and the chance to take a horse out was a privilege for which they always vied.

“Be careful with them,” the horse master had insisted. “If the word comes, we’ll need them to escape.”

Richius had let the man chide him. Whatever else he felt for Feldon, the horse master had kept their handful of mounts alive in the fickle weather of the valley, had seen the beasts through disease and hunger. Unlike the men under Richius’ charge, the horses seemed neither ill nor starved. Richius gave Feldon a courteous smile and his assurance that the horses would be well cared for.

The sun had barely risen when Richius and Dinadin left camp. Lucyler was somber as they wished him good-bye.

“Keep a sentry posted in each trench,” said Richius. “And send out scouts in pairs. If any wolves come, make ready for an attack. And start waking the men up. Voris could hit us.…”

“Stop,” said Lucyler impatiently. “I know what to do. Just come back when you can. We will still be here.”

“Five days, no later,” Richius assured him. “Take care of my men.”

Lucyler nodded but said nothing, and Richius took a long last look at the camp. The thought of staying occurred to him briefly, but an artless nudge from Dinadin shoved the idea aside.

“Let’s go,” crowed the young man anxiously. “I want to get there before the war ends and all the wenches go back home!”

Lucyler rolled his eyes. “Do not bring me back anything incurable,” he remarked.

“We’ll be careful,” laughed Richius, giving the reins of his horse a snap. He waved farewell to Lucyler and was off, disappearing into the woods with Dinadin behind him.

The path on which they traveled was passable, though not well worn, for the recent cessation of supply trips from Aramoor had allowed the prolific brush of the valley to narrow it somewhat. Still, the horses handled the path precisely, and it wasn’t long before both Richius and Dinadin relaxed and let their old instincts take over. Richius felt a familiar peace draw over him and in his hands the reins quickly turned to comforting friends. His stint in the valley had not taken his horsemanship from him. Dinadin was riding smoothly beside him, his own face beaming, It felt to Richius like a lifetime had passed since
he had last experienced the powerful sensation of a horse beneath him. In the trenches he was only a soldier, often so muddied he couldn’t recognize his own reflection in a pool. But when he rode, borne up tall by a proud Aramoorian steed, he was a Guardsman again.