The Jackal of Nar (17 page)

“Kalak! Oonal ni Kalak?”

A shudder went through Lucyler at the words.
The Jackal! Where is the Jackal?

“Lucyler?” pressed the soldier.

“Richius,” he said coldly. “They are calling for Richius.”

“My God,” said Gilliam. “Praise the Almighty Richius isn’t here.” Turning to Lucyler he said, “Please, Lucyler. Let me kill him. Let me kill him before he speaks another word.”

“No,” answered Lucyler stiffly. “We will see what else they want of us.”

“Why? You know what they want. If we surrender …”

“Quiet!” snapped Lucyler

The Drol was just outside the trench now. He stood there fearlessly, uncaring about the score of arrows pointed at him, an expression of contempt on his pale face. His body was draped in the same brilliant scarlet robes as all Voris’ warriors. When the Drol stopped outside the deck, Lucyler stepped forward. Only then did the Drol’s expression change. He looked at Lucyler in disbelief.

“Triin?”

Lucyler answered the man in their shared tongue. “I am.”

The warrior sneered. “Traitor.”

For a moment Lucyler said nothing, frozen into silence by the insult. That this Drol, this zealot who had sided with Tharn against the royal line of Lucyler, should call him traitor …

“You have a message for us,” said Lucyler coldly. “Speak it.”

The warrior smiled at Lucyler, looking him over with arrogant humor. His gray eyes seemed to laugh.

“I bear the words of Voris, warlord of Dring and counsel of Tharn. My master demands that Richius the Jackal present himself for judgment. In return, my master will allow the lives of the imperial invaders to continue.”

Lucyler silently thanked the gods Richius was safe in Ackle-Nye. “You are too late to take your vengeance, Drol,” he laughed. “Richius is dead.”

All at once the humor left the warrior’s face. “Who leads here, then? Who among you stands in the Jackal’s place?”

Now Lucyler smiled. “I do,” he said proudly.

The warrior considered this for a moment, then said, “Voris is merciful. You may satisfy him, traitor.”

“And these men will be spared?”

“One of you must answer for the crimes against the people of Dring. If my master finds you suitable, he will spare the lives of the other cowards.”

“Back then, Drol,” said Lucyler. “Tell your master that Lucyler of Falindar will gladly die in the Daegog’s cause. Tell him also that if I am not enough for him, he will have to come and kill us, and we will die to a man trying to destroy him.”

This made the warrior’s eyebrows rise. He looked at Lucyler
oddly, then turned and strode back through the clearing. Lucyler walked back to the trench. On the deck, Gilliam and the other soldiers were staring at him.

“Well?” asked Gilliam. “What do they want of us? Surrender?”

Slowly Lucyler shook his head. “Not all of us. Just me. If I surrender myself to Voris the rest of you will be spared.”

Gilliam’s face was ashen. “No, Lucyler. Don’t think it. You can’t. They’ll kill you, torture you.…”

“Stop,” interrupted Lucyler. He had already considered the unsavory end Voris had planned for him. It changed nothing. “Please, say no more. I must do this. All of you will live if I surrender.”

“And you believe them?” asked Gilliam. “How can you trust their words? They are snakes, Lucyler.”

Lucyler put a hand on Gilliam’s shoulder. In a gentle, reassuring voice he said, “They are Drol. Whatever else I think of them, I know they do not lie. Please, Gilliam, follow this last order. Do not fight them.”

Gilliam smiled grimly. “You ask the impossible of us,” he said. Then, under the silent gaze of a hundred mournful eyes, he took Lucyler in a strong embrace. “Go with God, my friend.”

“And you.”

Before Gilliam had released his hold on Lucyler, a cry from one of the men on the deck shattered the moment.

“Look there!”

From out of the darkness a party of warriors approached. They walked with the erect arrogance of conquerors, clearly visible in the light of the torches they bore. Lucyler quickly counted five men, all in scarlet, all with jiiktars in their hands. The group seemed wholly unremarkable, save for the one who walked in the center. That one was taller than the rest, his robes more splendid and trimmed in gold. Atop his head, the usual mane of white Triin hair was gone. Only a bare scalp could be seen shimmering in the torchlight and the paleness of the moon. Two white wolves walked beside him. Unchained, the beasts moved with the perfect poise of house dogs. Lucyler felt his breath catch. A name slipped from his lips.

“Voris.”

Voris the Wolf, Warlord of Dring, stopped some ten yards from the trench, near enough for an arrow to pierce his heart. Almost
absently he raised a hand. The small gesture brought his party to a halt.

“Lucyler of Falindar!”

The voice boomed like the thunder of the rainstorm. Lucyler lifted his head at the sound of his name. Ignoring the pleas and outstretched hands of his men, he strode from the deck and into the clearing toward Voris.

“I am Lucyler,” he called out. He saw Voris give a look of utter disbelief.

“Remarkable,” said Voris. “As often as I see it I am amazed by it. How did it happen to you, traitor? How have you come to side with these barbarians who rape us?”

Lucyler willed his lips into a grin. “I have come for your judgment, butcher. Your words are meaningless, and I do not hear them.”

Voris reddened with rage. “Dare you call me butcher? You, a traitor to your people?”

“And you are a traitor to your Daegog,” said Lucyler. “You have brought this ruin to our land, not I. It is you who have betrayed the royal line of Lucel-Lor.”

“The Daegog is the biggest of traitors, and those who follow him are the biggest of fools. Tharn will show you the truth of things.”

“You are Tharn’s lapdog, Voris. The toy of a usurper.” From some mad corner of Lucyler’s mind, a laugh erupted. “Give me your justice, dog. I am ready for it. But please, spare me your lies.”

Unable to control his anger, Voris lashed out at Lucyler, striking him on the cheek with the palm of his hand. The blow sent Lucyler reeling. He stumbled, falling backward into the mud. Lucyler shook his head, felt the sting of a crushed lip, then rose unsteadily to his feet. He glared back at the trembling Voris.

“Your judgment, warlord,” he said calmly. “Your judgment for these men.”

“I will spare the dogs of Nar,” said Voris. “Because I have said I would, and because Tharn wishes it. But it is not my judgment you will face, traitor. It is his.”

“Take me, then,” said Lucyler. “Take me to this ‘Storm Maker.’ I welcome death now that he has won.”

Voris grinned. “Not Storm Maker,” he corrected. “Peace maker. But if you live long enough, you will see the storm he brings.”

M
orning came to the dingy room as a single ribbon of light. Richius watched it pass through the cloudy window, illuminate a fleet of dust motes, and gently strike the white, unmoving face of the woman in his bed. The light did not disturb her. She stayed asleep, lost in the exhausted slumber she had fallen into after their coupling. Richius was careful not to stir though he had been awake for nearly an hour, lying still and naked beneath the covers. He wanted her to go on sleeping, after what he had done to her.

He reached out a finger and barely touched her cheek. She was beautiful—more lovely than any woman he had ever seen, Naren or Triin. But she was less than perfect now. Her face was still bruised, but that wasn’t all. Blackwood Gayle had done that, not he. What he’d done was more despicable. Worse, it was irreversible. A bruise on the face would purple, swell, and then be gone. A small nastiness, completely forgettable. But maidenhood, once given or taken, would never return.

These thoughts needled him. It did him no good to try and convince himself he wasn’t responsible. He hadn’t been drunk enough for that. Lust was the only true answer, and the realization disgusted him. She was a Triin, one of those he had sworn to protect, and he had forsaken her. He couldn’t even remember her name, though he was sure the innkeeper had told him. And now, with the heat of passion expelled, it all struck him as absurd. He vaguely recalled his ecstatic convulsion, then the awful stab of guilt. But he was tired, so tired …

And she hadn’t protested. He had paid the innkeeper for a whole night with her, and she, like he, must have been weary beyond words. Now she slept, amazingly still and silent and, he hoped, peaceful.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, tracing his finger around her eye, not quite touching the skin. “Poor girl.”

Richius let his finger drop. His eyes fell on the red stain on the sheet.

She must remember me
, he thought.
Why else would she have endured it? She has rewarded me with the only thing she had to give. And like a Talistanian dog I took it.

He bent his head and pressed his lips lightly to her cheek. Her eyes sprang open. For a moment she lay still, half-asleep and dazed. But then she noticed him and the dingy room and she jumped out of bed with a cry, dragging the sheet with her as she tried to cover her naked body. Forgetting his own nakedness, Richius leapt out of the bed after her.

“Wait,” he cried. She ignored him, her eyes darting around the room. Quickly finding her dress, she retrieved it from the floor.

“No,” he begged, going to her and grabbing her hand. “Please …”

The girl pulled her hand away. She dropped the sheet and scurried toward the door, then noticed he was blocking it. Motionless, she stood and watched him, her eyes burning, her dress held up like a curtain over her bosom.

“Please,” Richius said. “I won’t hurt you. Really, no more. I’m sorry about what happened. But I can help you.” He pulled his trousers closer with a foot, then squatted and dug his fingers into the pocket, pulling out several silver coins. Standing, he held out the coins. “Money.”

The woman looked at the coins for a moment, then spat into Richius’ face. “No more money!”

Richius’ hand dropped, the coins tumbling out of his palm onto the floor. Slowly he wiped the spittle from his face. “You understand me.”

“I speak the tongue of Nar,” she said, still clutching the dress.

“Then you heard what I told you. I won’t hurt you.” He stooped and picked the coins off the floor. “Please, take this money. I want you to have it.”

“No,” she said angrily. “Unless Tendrik orders me, we are finished.”

“The innkeeper? Oh, no. You misunderstand. I want nothing more from you. This money is …” He grimaced. “An apology.” The girl’s gray eyes turned a shade darker.

“I’ve taken something irreplaceable from you,” Richius continued. He gestured toward the sheet on the floor, the stain of her blood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice until this morning. Had I known …” He hesitated, considering how best to explain the awkwardness he felt. “Had I known you were a maiden I wouldn’t have done it. Forgive me. I’m no better a man than that savage I saved you from.”

“Saved me?”

“Don’t you remember me?”

“I don’t know you. I am not a whore. You are the first man I have been with since coming here.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m not a
customer.
I only just arrived here. I’m Richius. From the village, remember? You were being attacked by a soldier. I pulled him off you.”

A look of horror froze the young woman’s face. “No. Oh, no, no.” She slumped to her knees and the dress fell away, but she seemed not to notice as she cried, “You are Kalak!”

Richius was thunderstruck. How had she not known? He went to her, falling to one knee before her. “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t hurt you. You’re safe.”

“You are Kalak!” she said again, the shock of it reddening her face.

“Why won’t you listen?” pressed Richius. “I’m not your enemy.”

“You are!” she flared, fumbling with the dress and drawing it back over herself. “You are the greatest of them. Kalak. Jackal. Murderer!”

Richius drew back. “How can you say that? All I’ve ever tried to do is help your people.”

The girl stormed toward Richius and tried to push him aside, but he wouldn’t move.

“Stop,” he pleaded. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, I swear. I’m here to help you.”

“Help?” said the girl. “I know you. I know what you have done. I have seen it! And now I have diseased myself with you.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Richius. “But you’re wrong to think I’m your enemy. Only Drol should believe that.” He looked into her eyes. She looked away. “I’m telling you the truth. What I did to you last night I will regret for the rest of my life.”

The girl scoffed and Richius went over to her. But as he leaned close she lashed out, clawing him across the face. Her painted nails dug deep into his cheek and he staggered backward with a shout.

It was all the chance she needed. She sprang to her feet and headed for the door, still clutching her dress. Richius tried to snare her wrist but she was too quick. The door opened and she darted out of the chamber.

“Wait!” Richius called. He went out into the hallway and watched her disappear down the rickety stairs. A bold breeze stirred down the corridor, reminding him that he was naked also. His face burning, he went back to his dingy room and closed the door. Blood trickled down his cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Her green slippers lay on the floor where she had kicked them off last night. He closed his eyes and cursed. The bed still smelled like her. He let her scent climb up his nostrils. Unbearably sweet. Her hair had been like that. Fine and soft, he had buried his face in it. His skin still tingled where it had touched her, so raw that it burned. It was all like a flood coming back to him; the way she had lain back and let his clumsy hands do the work, the way she had whimpered just at that moment. Then darkness, and utter, complete exhaustion.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, burying his filthy face in his hands. “Why does she hate me so?”

Because I am Kalak
, he told himself.
And because I don’t belong here.

But he wasn’t her enemy. How, he wondered, could he make her see that?