The Jackal of Nar (3 page)

“Dinadin!” Richius shouted. “Get the cannon!”

Dinadin glanced at Richius, a horrified expression on his face. Kally was still alive.

“Get the bloody cannon!” Richius repeated, his voice cracking. He was sure Dinadin could hear him, even over the roar of the fallen weapon. Yet Dinadin ignored him, continuing instead to land blow after useless blow on the wolf. When at last Richius reached them he pushed Dinadin aside and brought his sword down upon the creature’s neck. There was a spray of blood as the head fell forward, held to the torso by a hinge of skin. The wolf fell upon Kally, lifeless. Kally too was still. Richius turned and glared at Dinadin. The young man stared back at him, his face twisted in confusion. Richius grabbed Dinadin’s breastplate and shook him.

“What’s wrong with you?” he screamed, ignoring the storm of sparks coming down and biting them like bee stings. “You heard me ordering you to the cannon!”

Dinadin said nothing. Tears ran down his face, leaving clean rivulets on his sooty skin. Richius stopped shaking him.

“Dinadin?”

Dinadin was silent.

“Come on, Dinadin. We have to get the cannon.”

At last Dinadin’s eyes flared to life. He pulled away from Richius, roaring, “To hell with your cannon! What did you want me to do, leave him to die?”

“God’s death!” cursed Richius, pushing past Dinadin. “The cannon is more important! You know that.” He stooped to avoid the flames and grabbed for the weapon, shielding his face with his forearm.

“Richius, stop!”

The voice was Lucyler’s. Richius released the cannon at once, unable to loose the jammed trigger. The Triin was waving at him frantically.

“All right, let’s get out of here,” said Richius, turning away from the cannon. “The trench is lost.”

Dinadin looked helpless. “Richius …”

“Forget it,” Richius snapped, waving for Dinadin to follow. Lucyler jumped into the trench ahead of them.

“Too many,” the Triin called out. “And the warriors are coming.”

“Signal the second trench to cover our retreat,” Richius called back. “Dinadin, get everyone out of here.”

At the other end of the trench, Crodin was struggling to hold back the onslaught of wolves and warriors with his cannon. When Richius barked retreat, Crodin beamed with relief. Richius and Lucyler made their way to him, climbing onto the deck beside him and his lineman, Ellis. All around them men hurried out of the trench. Drol warriors were pouring out of the woods. Only a few precious moments remained.

“One last blast, Cro, then we move,” said Richius, his hand already poised to undo the fuel line. “Lucyler, you and Ellis take the tank. We’ll get the cannon.”

Lucyler put his hands around the fuel tank. Ellis did the same, his back stooped for lifting. A chorus of
Kalak
broke from the ranks of the running Drol.

“Get ready, Crodin,” whispered Richius. “Ellis, give us all you can.”

“Here’s everything,” Ellis answered, loosening the valve that fed the cannon its combustible fuel. There was a hiss as the liquid swam through the line.

Crodin squeezed the trigger, coaxing a blast from the cannon like none Richius had ever seen. It exploded all around them with a concussive boom. Richius fell to his knees, gasping and clasping his ears. Beside him Lucyler and Ellis were running for the rear trenches, the fuel tank in their hands.

“Richius!” cried Lucyler, dropping the tank.

Richius waved him onward. “Get moving!”

He staggered to his feet as Lucyler and Ellis hurried away, the heavy tank dangling between them. A volley of arrows rose from the rear trenches to cover their escape.

“Let’s go, Richius,” said Crodin, wrapping the hot metal cannon in a swaddling of rags. He had already loosened the fittings that kept the cannon secured to the deck. Richius had yet to remove the weapon’s feed line. Cursing, he fumbled to find the metal collar that fixed the line. Crodin shook his end of the cannon.

“Forget the line,” he shouted. “We’ll drag it!”

Richius grabbed the cannon and lifted. He tucked the heavy
weapon beneath his arm and ran for the next trench, Crodin and the still-fastened fuel line in tow. Barret was on its deck, waving and shouting. Behind them, the cover provided by the last blast had dissipated. There was another shower of arrows from Barret’s men.

They were only yards from safety now. Soldiers scrambled out of the trench to meet them. Richius gratefully let the others carry the cannon the few remaining feet. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the deck next to Lucyler.

“You all right?” Lucyler asked quickly.

“Set up the cannon in the center of the trench,” Richius gasped. “Have Dinadin and Ellis man it.”

Crodin was already working to settle the cannon into its new home, propping the weapon into a makeshift stand Ellis had built from two swords. The swords had been driven into the deck and fashioned into a “V,” so that now the cannon rested uneasily in the notch. Dinadin was beside them, cracking the knuckles of his trigger hand.

Richius looked out over the battlefield. Ten yards away, Drol warriors were climbing into the forward trench, digging themselves in for protection. Already Drol archers were sending their own arrows skyward. Fires flickered about the field, some of them as small as the corpses they consumed, others as large as battle wagons. Clouds of bluish smoke floated above them, bearing aloft the stink of flesh and kerosene. And past the smoke, past the infernos and the flying arrows, the birch grove was crimson with Drol.

Crodin erected the cannon in its unsteady cradle. Lucyler stepped back and looked at their handiwork as Dinadin slipped his finger into the weapon’s trigger guard. The cannon swayed without toppling.

“It will work,” Lucyler called to Richius. “Not for long, though.”

“Good enough,” said Richius impatiently. “With three cannons we should be able to hold them off awhile.”

And then what?
wondered Richius.
Throw rocks at them? We’re running out of fuel. Without the cannons …

He stopped himself.
Not now. Work to do.

“Dinadin,” he called. “Get ready. Give them a big blast first, then ease up on the trigger.”

Dinadin had turned an unpleasant shade of gray. He tucked himself behind the flame cannon.

“Take it slow,” encouraged Richius. “That cannon isn’t stable and we’re running out of fuel. If—”

A shout from the rear trenches made Richius stop. He turned and looked behind him. Another shout rose up, high and strangely gleeful.

“What …?”

From out of the distance a mass of galloping horsemen was riding toward them. At their forefront, barely visible against the horizon, flew a banner of green. Though he couldn’t see it, Richius knew that a golden, charging horse was embroidered on the banner. It was the banner of Talistan, the crest of the House of Gayle.

“The horsemen!” cried Crodin.

Richius grimaced, a name coming to his lips like a sickness. “Gayle.”

“Look, Richius,” exclaimed Dinadin. “We’re saved!”

“Seems so,” replied Richius dully.

There were scores of horsemen, enough to best even this many Drol. From his place on the deck Richius could see the Drol already reacting to the coming cavalry. The tide of red robes ebbed a little.

“We should attack,” said Dinadin anxiously. “We could crush them with so many horsemen!”

Richius shot Dinadin a pointed stare. “We’ll hold our position.” He turned to Lucyler and added, “I want everyone ready to defend the trenches. Let’s avoid a fight if we can.”

“Unlikely,” said Lucyler. “Look.”

Across the valley, a cloud of dust rose up. The horsemen were charging.

“Oh, God,” Richius groaned. “They’re going to attack.” He quickly raised his arms over his head and signaled to his men, shouting to get their attention.

“Listen to me!” he called. “The horsemen are attacking. But we still have a position to defend. Nobody gets out of the trenches unless I order it. Barret, make sure all of your men stay put. In the other trenches, too. Dinadin, I want you ready on that cannon. As soon as the Drol see what’s happening they might make a run for us.”

“I’ll be ready,” Dinadin replied, settling himself behind the weapon.

The horsemen were closing the gap quickly. In the forward trench Drol warriors squatted on the deck, gibbering and pointing toward the coming cavalry. The banner of the horsemen was clearer now, shining green and gold in the growing light, carried forward by a charging, armored gelding. Richius grinned. Rivals or not, the sight of so many fine animals was beautiful. These were among the finest horses in the Empire, and the men that rode them rivaled his own kinsmen in skill. But these were not the horsemen of Aramoor.

The riders drew their swords. Ugly, serrated blades. On their heads were helmets forged into the likenesses of demons.

These were the horsemen of Talistan.

“You were right,” Lucyler whispered. “Impressive.”

Dinadin scowled. “Not as impressive as the Aramoor Guard, right, Richius?”

“Hardly,” Richius quipped.

The horsemen galloped faster, shaking the air with the thunder of their attack. Splitting into two groups, they began to flank the trenches. Not even when they reached the bodies did they slow their hellish charge. With a trained sureness they trampled over the loose earth of the graves, and where unburied bodies lay supine, the chargers simply jumped over them. Soon the two teams were galloping past the trenches, hurrying across the battlefield toward the Drol.

Richius had fought from horseback before. He knew the power a man could will into a weapon from the back of a speeding steed. The Drol, however, seemed stunned by the attack. Despite their numbers, the warriors of the valley were helpless beside the horses. They had come out into the open. And the beasts they faced were bred for war. They showed none of the respect for people that their parade-ground brethren felt. Unless the tug of a rein came to stop it, a warhorse paid little attention to the barrier posed by a living being. Within moments dozens of the warriors were crushed beneath hooves.

From atop their armored mounts, where the white heads of the Drol floated at the level of their waists, the horsemen lowered their weapons. Jiiktars collided with broadswords and bare fists with armor, and Richius watched it all with a feeling of utter impotence.
He longed to run out of the trench, to join in the bloodletting and his own liberation. But as Dinadin and the others eyed him hopefully, he barked only one command. “Hold your position!”

A single horseman rode toward the trench. He was grander than the rest, his warhorse gilded with silver, his demon-faced helmet polished and bejeweled. Upon his breastplate pranced an embossed horse of gold, and at his side dangled an unblemished blade. Lucyler pointed his chin at the rider as he drew near.

“Richius, is that Gayle?”

Richius straightened. “It is.”

The rider stopped his horse just shy of the trench. He raised the visor of his helmet and looked down into the trench and the men there watching him. Finally, his black beard parted.

“Vantran?”

Richius raised a filthy hand. “Here.”

Blackwood Gayle laughed. “The valley has been hard on you, Vantran. I scarcely recognized you.”

Richius forced a smile. “You were easy to recognize, Baron.”

“How many gogs are there?”

“As many as you see and more,” answered Richius. “Voris has been pushing us hard.”

“Indeed. Well, we’re here now, Vantran. We’ll take care of them for you.” He lowered his helmet and began to turn his horse back to the battle, calling over his shoulder, “Clear that forward trench, why don’t you?”

Richius cringed in hot anger. He wanted to yell back at Gayle, to hurl an obscenity at him, but he only swore under his breath. To his surprise, he heard Dinadin cursing with him.

“What scum,” Dinadin hissed. “He can’t talk to you that way, Richius.”

“He doesn’t care who we are, Dinadin, you know that. We’re Aramoor and he’s Talistan, and that’s all he sees when he looks at us.”

“What now?” asked Lucyler carefully.

Richius tightened his hand around his sword and sighed. “Now we clear the forward trench.”

I
t was his father who had taught Richius the value of trenches in warfare. The older Vantran, a veteran of numerous battles, had used the ditches and catacombs in his war against Talistan. Though not impregnable, a trench was like a fortress to the men inside it. With a wall of archers on its deck, a trench was difficult to reach and nearly impossible to overrun. They had kept Richius’ company alive during countless Drol raids. Until now, the Drol had never breached them.

The job of clearing the forward trench had been sickening. Refusing to flee or surrender, the Drol who had seized it had chosen to fight, leaving Richius with one dismal option—to go into the ditch after them. So, with shield and sword in hand, he led a brigade into the trench. And the Drol were summarily slaughtered.

The sun was high overhead when the gruesome work was finally finished. Slick with Triin gore, Richius emerged from the trench in a stupor. The field, once teeming with men and wolves and horses, was now awash with bodies. Drol bodies. They were everywhere, some whole, some in pieces, some so trampled by horse hooves as to be only pulp. The mud of the field had turned a ruddy purple. Things that had been men and wolves burned in stinking pockets of fire, and the air was rank with the smell of kerosene. Except for the buzzards, only one thing moved amidst the astonishing carnage.

Blackwood Gayle sat astride his horse, surveying the damage his troops had occasioned. His demon-faced helmet gleamed in the smoky sunlight. At his side hung his still-unblemished sword. His head turned toward the trenches as he noticed Richius.

“Vantran,” he cried, spurring his horse forward. Beneath the helmet’s faceplate the big voice rang like metal.

Richius ignored the baron. He got to his feet and stooped to help Lucyler out of the trench. Behind the Triin came Dinadin,
who whistled when he saw the battlefield. Blackwood Gayle reached them just as Dinadin’s boot came off the ladder.