The Jackal of Nar (4 page)

“You see, Vantran?” said Gayle proudly. “Nothing to worry about. You make too much of these valley Drol, I think.”

“Really?” asked Richius angrily. “How would you know? You look … uninjured.”

Gayle stiffened. His eyes flashed through the slits in his metal mask. “I killed my share,” he assured Richius. “And I will kill more when we find them. Most of the gog cowards fled. I’ve already sent my troops into the forest after them.”

“What? I didn’t order that!”

“You don’t order my men, Vantran,” said Gayle. The demon helmet bobbed as he looked Richius up and down. “And from the looks of you, I didn’t think you up to chasing them.”

“I don’t want to chase them!” thundered Richius. “Especially not on horseback. If you had bothered to ask I would have told you how stupid that is. There’s hardly enough room for a horse to move on those forest paths. Your men will be lucky not to be ambushed.”

“I waited until you were done to tell you what I’d planned,” said Gayle. “That’s all the courtesy I intend to show you. I will not defer to you more.”

“I’m in command here, Gayle,” insisted Richius. “The valley’s under my authority.”

Blackwood Gayle scoffed. “I brought my horsemen here to fight, and fight they will. You may sit in your holes if you like, letting the real men do battle.”

“You arrogant ass. You can’t fight from horseback in the forest. Those woods are crawling with Drol. If you ride in there they’ll be on top of you before you can draw your sword.”

“Enough,” ordered Gayle. He reined his horse around, turning away from Richius. “You have no dominion over me, Vantran.” Then, spurring his horse into a gallop, Gayle rode back toward the forest.

“That fool,” seethed Richius. “He doesn’t even know his way around the valley. We’ll have to go after him.”

“Why bother?” asked Dinadin bitterly. “Why not just leave him to the Drol?”

“No. I don’t want him stirring up any more trouble.”

The company’s horses were kept on the other side of the
camp, just outside the confining catacombs of the trenches. There were not many of them now, but the horse master did have three geldings for the trio. Ignoring his exhaustion, Richius climbed into the saddle.

“Let’s keep it quiet,” he ordered the others. “There’s no sense in telling the Drol we’re coming.” Then, with a snap of the reins, Richius led Lucyler and Dinadin across the reeking battlefield and into the forest. Though he knew the horsemen had gotten a healthy lead on them, he was hopeful they would find the Talistanians quickly.

The part of the valley through which they traveled was less overgrown than the rest of the land, and its earth was level enough for a horse to tread on. Still, the forest paths were treacherous and narrow, and the trio had to struggle to keep their mounts from stumbling. More than one of their horses had broken a leg in these woods, and Richius was determined not to cause any more of the precious animals to be killed.

To their relief, they found the horsemen easy to track. The rich soil of the valley did a fine job of showing hoofprints, and it was a simple matter for Lucyler to trace the path of the heavily armored horses through the woodlands. They rode slowly, wary of every sound, their eyes constantly in search of crimson robes or the gleam of a jiiktar. But all they saw were the creatures of the forest, the bucks and the birds and the small furry things that shot across their path. So they continued, and it wasn’t until an hour had slipped by that Richius began to worry.

“We should have reached them by now,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible they could get so far.”

“They waste their time,” scoffed Lucyler. “The Drol have disappeared back into the deep forest. Gayle’s men will never find them by staying on the path.”

“Still,” replied Richius, “we have to find them. It isn’t safe to leave them alone here.”

“It is less safe for us,” said Lucyler, peering around the forest. The woodlands had thickened, the path they followed on becoming less defined. “We should head back now, Richius. We’re too far from camp.”

Richius shook his head. “We continue. We must if we’re going to catch up to Gayle.”

“Why?” pressed Lucyler. “The horsemen can look after themselves.”

“I’m not worried about the horsemen, Lucyler.”

Lucyler looked surprised, but said nothing. He merely nodded and continued following Richius through the woods. Dinadin was also quiet, a blessing for which Richius was enormously grateful. They rode like this for long minutes, until finally Richius spoke. A faint, mysterious odor was becoming evident. The aroma, mingled as it was with the perfumes of the forest, was almost undetectable. But it was there, and it clung to the inside of his nostrils with a woodsy sweetness.

“What’s that smell?”

Lucyler and Dinadin both breathed deeply.

“I don’t smell anything,” said Dinadin quickly.

“No,” Lucyler countered, taking another breath through his sharp nose. “I smell it. Like smoke.”

Richius was still sniffing the air. “Are there any villages around here, Lucyler?”

“There could be. There are villages throughout the valley.” Lucyler paused and sniffed again. “But the smell is too strong for cooking fires.”

Richius agreed. The smell was almost acrid. Dinadin could smell it now, too. The young man turned his head away with a jerk when he noticed it.

“Lord!” he exclaimed, bringing his forearm to his nose. “What is
that
?”

Richius gave Lucyler a pointed stare. “You know what it smells like to me, Lucyler?”

“What?”

“Gayle.”

The trio moved with urgency now. Richius forced his horse into a gallop, hoping his mount could negotiate the dangerous ground. Lucyler and Dinadin galloped after him. Before long the smell became a stench. Richius’ eyes began to water. By the time the horses had taken ten more strides, a noise rippled through the forest like the breaking of ocean surf. But Richius knew he wasn’t hearing water. The noise was the dull roar of fire. He continued to charge, his imagination reeling with dismal visions.

They emerged quite abruptly into a clearing. Beneath them was farmland, the soil sprinkled with red tubers. The garden was pitted with hoofprints. Before him, across the torn-up field, was a small village. The place was typically Triin, simple and unadorned, with houses of wood and paper, wet clothing hung to dry on linen lines. Narrow avenues with paving stones ran between the homes. And amidst all this were the horsemen of Talistan.

Richius could see the horsemen clearly, some setting torches to the homes, most gathering the Triin of the village into small groups, gleefully dragging them out of their dwellings while they stripped them of any belongings. At the outskirts of the village, where the stonework ended and the field began, an inferno was coughing black smoke into the air. Horsemen were tossing all manner of items onto the fire. Furnishings and clothing, weapons and farm tools—all going to ashes in the blaze.

“God,” Richius gasped.

Lucyler looked stricken. “We must stop them,” he said quickly, and without waiting for Richius’ order galloped off toward the village. Richius and Dinadin raced across the garden after him. They reached the pyre quickly and flung themselves off their horses. The soldiers gathered there goggled at them.

“What’s going on here?” Richius demanded.

One of the horsemen stepped forward. In his arms was cradled a squealing pig.

“Who are you?” he asked, glaring at Richius over the struggling sow.

“I am Richius Vantran of Aramoor,” declared Richius. “And I asked you a question, soldier.”

The man rolled his eyes.

“Well?” pressed Richius. Other horsemen were beginning to gather around them now, some mounted, some on foot.

“This isn’t your concern,” answered the man at last. “We take our orders from Baron Gayle.”

Richius stepped closer. “Everything in this valley is my concern, Talistanian. I give the orders here, not Blackwood Gayle. Now talk.”

“We’re looking for Drol,” the soldier answered stiffly. “We followed them into the forest but they scattered. Baron Gayle ordered the village searched.”

“And did he order the place burned?”

“This village is full of rebels,” the soldier insisted. “It’s got to be destroyed.”

Lucyler stepped up before Richius could answer. “There are no Drol here. This is just butchery. These people have done nothing.”

“And the pig?” continued Richius, nodding toward the sow in the man’s arms. “Were you going to burn that, too?”

“We’re taking the animals back with us,” said the man. “And any other food the gogs have. Baron Gayle says we’re to bring it all back to the trenches, share it with you.”

“Forget it,” snapped Richius. “These Triin aren’t our enemies. And they’re going to need their animals and food for the coming winter.”

“Any one of these gogs could be a Drol,” said the soldier. “If we let them go they’ll be back at our throats in an hour. Baron Gayle says—”

Richius raised a hand. “Let me explain something to you. I know you’re only a stupid Talistanian, but try hard to understand. See these people in this village? They’re farmers. That means they grow food and tend livestock all damn day. They don’t make weapons for the Drol, and they probably don’t give a hang who wins this bloody war. So now we’re all going to turn around and leave quietly. All right?”

The soldier scoffed. “All the Triin in this valley are under Voris’ control. That makes them all Drol.”

“No,” said Richius angrily. “That makes them all victims. And I won’t have any massacres under my command.” Over his shoulder he called, “Lucyler, you and Dinadin put a stop to this mess.”

The soldier looked shocked. “What are you doing? You can’t just …”

“Quiet, fool. The emperor has given me the power to do as I wish here. Now you order your people to stop their killing at once or I’ll make sure you’re sent back to Nar in chains. Do you understand?”

The emperor’s title made the soldier swallow hard. He stooped and lowered the pig to the ground. The animal scrambled from his arms and ran off into the field.

“I understand, Vantran.”

“Prince,” corrected Richius as he began walking into the village.

“What?”

“Prince Vantran to you.”

He didn’t care to hear the man’s reply. He only wanted the soldier to obey him, to put an end to the carnage his countrymen were causing. And he wanted to find Gayle.

Richius quickly discovered that the villagers were as afraid of him as they were of the horsemen. Most looked away as he strode by, and some of them ran. These were mostly women, doubtlessly afraid of being ravaged by the pillagers. Those whose houses were not yet burning sought refuge in them. All around him Richius could hear the slamming of doors. There were screams, too, and the wailing of children.

As he searched the burning village, Richius could see his companions trying to calm the more distraught villagers. He saw Dinadin fall to one knee to console a small girl. She was hysterical, repeating something again and again in the throaty language of the Triin. Like Richius, Dinadin knew almost nothing of the odd language. He stammered an unintelligible mix of broken Triin phrases as he tried to quiet the girl. And though he silently applauded the efforts of his comrades, Richius didn’t join them in trying to calm the panicked villagers. He walked with determination through the chaos, ignoring the incomprehensible pleas of the children that gathered at his boots. He shooed them away when they came to him. But every child he saw hammered home his outrage.

Outside one of the still-undamaged houses, a single Talistanian stood with his arms folded across his chest. No one else was around, and there was nothing about the dwelling that Richius could imagine being of interest. From within the house he could hear the unmistakable sound of a woman’s screams.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, approaching the man with his sword held at belt level. The man’s cocky expression evaporated at the sight of him.

“Prince Vantran,” the man stammered. “I am under orders to guard this house.”

“Orders? From who?”

The man hesitated before answering. “Baron Gayle.”

“Is he inside?”

“He is. But Prince Vantran, I’m not to let anyone disturb him.”

“Why? So he can rape some old woman? Step away.”

“Please …” the man implored, but Richius shoved him aside and gave the door a kick. It splintered open, revealing a small, dimly lit room. In the corner of the room, under the chamber’s single torch, a polished mound of silver armor moved on the floor.

“Gayle!”

Blackwood Gayle twisted around to face the doorway. An ugly blend of anger and lust flashed in his eyes. He cursed when he recognized Richius. The girl underneath him squirmed to free herself but Gayle pushed her down again.

“Get out of here!” Gayle roared, then added with a laugh, “Get your own.”

The baron turned back to the girl and put his lips to her throat. She roared at the unwanted touch. It was only when he felt the blade at the nape of his neck that Gayle realized Richius was behind him.

“Get up,” said Richius coldly. He pressed the edge of the weapon into the big man’s skin. Gayle froze.

“Vantran,” he hissed. “Remove that sword.
Now
.”

Richius grabbed the man by the hair and pulled. “Arise, Baron!” he said, his sword still kissing Gayle’s skin.

As Richius yanked, Gayle rose to his knees with a howl. The girl scrambled out from beneath him. She balled herself up in the corner, drawing her ruined garments over her breasts.

“I knew you would do something like this,” whispered Richius, bending over Gayle’s shoulder. “You animal.”

“You idiot,” Gayle sneered. He was still on his knees with the sword at his throat. “What do you think you’re here for? This is a war, boy!”

“In this valley I run the war,” said Richius, moving the blade off the baron’s throat. “Now go.”

Gayle rose and turned to glare at Richius. He towered over him by more than a foot, but Richius didn’t back away. Instead, he walked past Gayle to the corner where the girl waited, watching them both with red-hot contempt.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently.