The Jackal of Nar (13 page)

They rode in silence for a time, content to listen to the creatures of the valley, alert for any unusual or threatening sound. This area of the valley was secure but they knew also that Voris was prone to sending spies into their midst. They could not let the lulling calls of birds make them unwitting. Still, the day was so fair that some peace of mind couldn’t be helped, and both men settled in for the long ride, the light breeze cool but not so cold as to prick under their leather surcoats. It was the kind of weather they were accustomed to in Aramoor—a hearty, rugged morning.

“Oh, I’ve missed this,” said Dinadin with a sigh. “If we were not such friends I would desert you, I think.”

Richius laughed. “Edgard’s men have been using horses in Tatterak, and they have not fared so much better than us.”

“That’s not the point. They can be the soldiers they were trained to be, but we have to crawl around in the mud like pigs.” Dinadin shook his head ruefully. “Someone should put an arrow in Voris’ head and be done with it.”

“And you would like that honor, would you?” asked Richius. They had spent many nights fantasizing about killing the warlord, had dreamed up a hundred ways for their nemesis to die. But it was always a faceless head they severed in their dreams, for none of them had ever seen the Wolf.

“I would kill him in his sleep if I had to,” replied Dinadin with a smile. “And I would not feel the smallest bit of guilt for it.”

“Not me. I would rather face him on the field and see if he is as good with a jiiktar as I am with my sword.”

The boast made Dinadin chuckle. “If you want to kill him yourself, that’s fine with me, Just so I see him dead. Maybe then we could get out of here.”

“If we weren’t here we’d be in Tatterak,” said Richius flatly. “And then we’d be facing Tharn.”

“So? He’s the reason we’re here at all. If he were dead the war would be over and I’d be home with my brothers. Perhaps we
should be helping Edgard in Tatterak, and stop bothering with this little warlord.”

Richius made to laugh, then stopped himself. He was accustomed to the young man’s outbursts, and so decided not to say what had popped into his mind—that the “little warlord” had been more than a match for them for almost a year, had in fact almost rid his valley of them without the aid of his master, Tharn. Whatever else their unseen enemy was, he wasn’t little.

“I’ve known Edgard since I was a boy,” remarked Richius, trying to sway the talk from Voris. “He’s too proud to ask for help. My father has told me many times of how they fought together in the war with Talistan. God, the tales. One would think the old man was immortal.”

“Edgard got the best of it, if you ask me,” muttered Dinadin. “He’s the duke of war. He should be trying to take the valley, not you.”

“My father believed me up to the job, I suppose. And Edgard is too old to be crawling around with the rest of us. Better that he should secure the territory we have than try and take the valley.”

“The warlord Kronin already had his land secure,” said Dinadin. “And he’s the Daegog’s man. We all should have ridden against Falindar the moment Tharn seized it. The war would have been over long ago.”

“Maybe,” said Richius. They had a long trip ahead of them, and he had no desire to spend the journey arguing over things that couldn’t be changed. Moreover, the unpleasant idea that his father valued Edgard’s life over his had occurred to him, and he wished to bury this painful theory as quickly as he could. He, not Edgard, had been charged with taking the Dring Valley, the “gateway to Lucel-Lor.” He would do it if he could.

By late morning they were out of the valley, in the part of Lucel-Lor that no warlord claimed as his own. These were the drier, less arable parts of the Triin nation, and the trees thinned out here, the path disappearing into a rocky terrain. They stopped here for a time, watering their horses beside what they figured to be the last stream they would see for a while. The horses drank thirstily, as grateful as their riders for the chance to stop and rest. Richius, in the old habit of a Guardsman, took the time to check his bags and assure himself that they had everything they
needed. Night would fall hard upon them here, and he made sure that he still had the fire rocks Lucyler had given him. These, plus the cloaks they had wrapped and ready in their packs, should see them warmly through the night. He checked his weapons, too, though there were few Triin to threaten them here, and ran his fingers gently over the stock of the crossbow slung at his horse’s side. He was a good shot with it, far better than he was with a bow, and any Drol who meant to harm them while they slept might well find a bolt in his chest before he could reach them.

Dinadin had long since become cheerful again, and had been going on about the women he intended to bed when they reached Ackle-Nye. Now, through bites of a small bread loaf, he continued to entertain Richius with his fantasies. Richius only half listened, grateful that his friend had dropped his political talk for a while.

“I want to find a Triin wench,” said Dinadin, sighing as he reclined against a tree trunk. “Then I’d really have something to tell Lucyler!”

“Not much chance of that,” said Richius, checking his bags and relieved to find his journal still nestled safely in the leather sack. “There isn’t a Triin alive who’s not more holy than both of us. You’ll just have to settle for a broad-hipped Talistan whore.”

“You’re wrong, Richius,” said Dinadin earnestly. “Some of Gayle’s men were talking about it. They said they saw Triin women selling in the city.” He paused, then added with a laugh, “Their gods haven’t been so good to them lately.”

As he mounted his horse, Richius turned to Dinadin with a frown. “I don’t believe it. Most Triin women are as fanatical as Drol. They could teach our own priests a thing or two about chastity. Why, they won’t even look at a man who isn’t their master.”

“You really have been in the valley too long! What do you think happens to all those people when their houses are burned or the Drol take their village? They have to survive, you know.”

“Lord,” hissed Richius, giving the reins a sharp snap. “And you want to add to some woman’s misery? We’re here to help these people, Dinadin, don’t forget that.”

To Richius’ relief, Dinadin ignored him. Instead, the younger man simply snapped the reins of his own horse and followed
his leader once again toward Ackle-Nye. They were silent as they rode, leaving Richius free to ponder the ugliness of what Dinadin had just told him. He was more eager than ever to reach the city and see if the rumors were true.

It was afternoon of the next day when they caught up with the Sheaze. They had seen no water since the day before, and the night had been harsher than they had feared. Winter was drawing its mantle back over Lucel-Lor, and the mere sight of the river soothed them, for it told them how near they were to reaching their journey’s end.

“We’ll follow the river northwest from here,” said Richius, hearing the weariness in his voice. He saw that Dinadin too looked haggard, all the bluster of the previous day taken out of him. Richius smiled at his companion and said, “It’s not much further now.”

Dinadin’s face brightened at the news. “Do you think we can make it by nightfall? I wouldn’t mind getting a night’s sleep this time.”

Richius looked carefully around them, surveying the terrain. He didn’t recognize this part of Lucel-Lor, but he wasn’t troubled. For all the time he had spent in the Triin nation he had seen little of it. He knew only that the river would lead them to its origin in the Iron Mountains, where they would find Ackle-Nye.

“I don’t know,” he confessed, seeing Dinadin’s face darken a little. “It’s hard to tell how far west we’ve come. The Sheaze winds a lot in these parts.”

“Then we should be moving. I don’t want to spend another night out here if we can help it.”

Richius agreed and, after stopping a short time to rest and water their horses, they set out alongside the river. The land here was moist, with patches of moss and water-softened earth where the river bubbled over its banks, and though they wanted to hurry their horses, they knew that to do so would be risky. So they plodded along, navigating the rocky shore of the river with care, and contented themselves in the knowledge that their trek would soon be over.

By late afternoon the western sky finally revealed the landmark Richius was seeking. Past the trees, where the river wound out of sight, towered the Iron Mountains. Though obscured in a blue-gray haze, the range was nonetheless a welcome sight.

“Look there!” cried Richius, thrusting out a finger toward the mountains.

“Oh, thank God,” Dinadin said. “I thought we’d never make it.”

“You may yet get your wish, Dinadin. If we hurry we can probably make it before dark. The city should be in sight within an hour.”

They quickened their pace a little, still careful not to move too swiftly, and watched as the rugged forms that were the Iron Mountains cleared and defined themselves. Behind the mountains the sun was just beginning to mellow, painting the western horizon a hazy crimson. It would not be long, Richius knew, before that pleasant hue vanished into blackness. Richius hadn’t seen the Iron Mountains or Ackle-Nye since arriving in Lucel-Lor, and a vision of his home suddenly struck him. On the other side of those monoliths, nestled safely from the war, lay Aramoor.

I could just keep riding
, he thought to himself.
Another five-day ride through the mountains and I’d be home.
He caught himself then, shaking his head to rid himself of the idea. It was insane to think that he could simply leave his men behind and return home. He could never return to Aramoor until his work here was done.

Dinadin was in the lead now, running his horse impatiently along the riverbank, and Richius knew that his friend’s mind was filling with thoughts of a warm bed and an equally warm maiden to share it with. Richius realized that he had given no thought to how he would spend the night. He had been so preoccupied with finding out where Aramoor stood in the war that the idea of sharing his bed hadn’t even occurred to him. He chuckled to himself, musing over just how old the war had made him.

Before an hour had fallen and the pink of the sun had vanished completely, Richius heard Dinadin cry out.

“There it is! Do you see it, Richius? That must be it!”

Richius did indeed see it. Ackle-Nye, the city of beggars, was like a sparkling pinpoint in the failing daylight. Positioned at the visible end of the Sheaze River, it shimmered with the combined fire of a thousand torches, pulsing and beckoning them forward.

• • •

Much of Ackle-Nye was as Richius remembered it. And much of it was worse. Two years ago, when he had first laid eyes on the city of beggars, he had been stunned by it. Weary from his long ride through the Iron Mountains, Ackle-Nye had seemed like paradise. The city was an oasis for a rider from the Saccenne Run, a gateway from the austere wastes of the mountains into the fertile land of Lucel-Lor. This was where the Empire and the Triin nation had met, and their union had fostered a wholly fascinating, if unusual, offspring. Before that time there had been only the traditional Triin woodwork, the subtle curves and soft earth-tones of a simple people. To this the Narens added power. Not content with what their Triin hosts had created, the craftsmen of the Empire came with chisels and hammers to forge a place worthy of Nar. And the Triin said nothing.

In time, Ackle-Nye swelled. The curious people from the Empire, eager to meet their long-silent neighbors, poured through the Saccenne Run. Merchants came, lured by the prospect of new markets and inspired by the city’s proximity to the Sheaze. From here, all the southern lands of Lucel-Lor were opened to them, and all the folk who lived there could be sold the goods the merchants hawked. And still the Triin said nothing.

The priests were next. Sure that this was a pagan land, the holy men of the Empire sought to bring the Triin under the dominion of their own vengeful god. In this they were unsuccessful, and it was the priests, more than the merchants or the curious, who brought the Drol back to life.

Such was the history of this place as Richius understood it. The revolution was in its infancy when he had first come here, and Ackle-Nye had yet to suffer under the heel of war. He had left the city then as he had found it, confident in the talk that it would only take a month to subdue the Drol. Tharn, and his warlords like Voris, had shattered that dream, and the hoped-for month had since bloated into two long years. Now, finally returning to Ackle-Nye, Richius could see that something had gone vastly wrong in his absence. There was a conspicuous shroud of misery about the place, and the city now seemed garish and grotesque.

Richius and Dinadin trotted their horses through this malformation. Darkness had fallen hard, and only the lamps in the windows above let them navigate the narrow avenues. The city
seemed deserted. They could hear the occasional sounds of merrymaking echoing through the streets, the slurred voices of merchants and Naren workers as they staggered between taverns. They could smell the earthy odor of beer, the sickly sweetness of wine, and the foulness of vomit. They could almost taste the unmistakable stench of urine.

It was among this filth that Richius saw the beggars. They huddled in every corner of every building. The lucky ones had small fires to warm them. As he watched them he recalled seeing beggars when he had first come to Ackle-Nye, but he hadn’t been alarmed by the sight of them then. All Naren provinces had beggars. It was said that the Black City was overrun with them. Yet now, seeing them massed together, Richius felt oddly alarmed. There was an absurd amount of them, but that alone didn’t disturb him. It was something else about them, something that he had never seen before. Yet he couldn’t place the oddness of it until a form came shambling toward them.

Richius could scarcely see in the dimness, but it seemed that this beggar was small and stooped, like an old man. Yes, he remarked silently, an old man with white hair. But then the man was before them, lifting his face and revealing his almond-shaped eyes, and Richius realized that it was blood that had colored the man’s hair: Triin blood. Richius and Dinadin brought their horses to a sudden stop.