The Jackal of Nar (57 page)

Lucyler tossed back his white head and laughed. “
Lorris
and Pris,” he corrected. “And those are Drol gods, anyway.”

“Drol gods, Triin gods … It’s all the same to me. Maybe you should think of simplifying your religion. You Triin have more deities than a dog has fleas.”

“True, there are many,” agreed Lucyler. “But only a few important ones.”

“Are Lorris and Pris important ones?” asked Richius. Lucyler had always been notoriously tight-lipped about. Triin folkways, and Richius was in the mood to be pushy. He watched his friend’s face crinkle.

“They are important to the Drol,” said Lucyler tersely.

“Just the Drol?”

“Not many others worship them. Just Drol, mostly.”

“Why not?” pressed Richius. “What’s the difference?”

Lucyler looked at him crossly. “Why so many questions? You never cared about these things in the valley.”

Richius shrugged. “We were pretty busy back then. And I just want to learn what I can about Tharn. You haven’t been very willing to talk about him. What’s it mean to be a Drol? How come they worship Lorris and Pris?”

Lucyler sighed. “I am no scholar, Richius. Ask Tharn yourself when you meet him.”

“That’s no good,” said Richius. “I want to know these things
before
meeting him. Tell me about Lorris and Pris.”

“If I tell you, will you ride?”

Richius nodded.

“Then let us go.”

They snapped their reins and started off again, Lucyler telling the tale like a father soothing a restless child. Richius listened intently, at once forgetting the hot chafing of the cloth about his face.

“Thousands of years ago,” began Lucyler dramatically, “Lorris and Pris were born in a city far in the south of Lucel-Lor.”

“What city?”

“Chatti. It no longer exists. Anyway, they were twins, brother and sister. Lorris was the boy, and Pris was his beautiful sister. It is said that she was as lovely as a goddess. The two were orphaned at an early age, and had to fend for themselves. They looked after one another, and grew to love and cherish each other beyond all else.”

“What happened to their parents?” asked Richius. Lucyler glared at him.

“Are you going to keep interrupting me? Let me tell the story my own way. Now, they lived on their own for many years, taking care of each other as they grew to be adults, and the legend says that the great god Vikryn took pity on the two and protected them, making sure no harm ever befell them.”

“I’ve heard of Vikryn,” offered Richius.

“He is the supreme god,” said Lucyler, “the god that most Triin worship. He is said to be kind and loving, and that is why he pitied the orphans and protected them. Eventually he saw Lorris made king of his homeland, Chatti.”

“Together Lorris and Pris ruled Chatti for three years. Lorris was king, and Pris was an adored princess. The people loved them both, for Lorris protected them and Pris nurtured and cared for them. That is why they are thought of as the gods of war and peace. The Drol believe that the spirits of both dwell in all people. Lorris gives men strength, say the Drol, while Pris teaches people how to love. And sometimes they grant their followers special abilities.”

“The touch of heaven, right?”

“Right. Tharn has the touch of heaven. He was chosen by Lorris to free Lucel-Lor. But the touch is very rare. Lorris usually grants strength, and his sister grants love.”

“Lorris is probably the favorite of most Drol, I’d bet,” quipped Richius. “I don’t remember much love coming from Voris.”

“Drol warriors do favor Lorris,” admitted Lucyler. “Men like Voris pray to him for strength and courage. The legends say that Lorris was a great warrior, perhaps the greatest ever, and all Drol warriors strive to be like him. Their wives are to follow the example of Pris. They are to be loving and attentive, just as Pris attended to her brother. And they are to be loyal, not only to their husbands but also to their villages and towns.”

“Most Triin women are like that,” said Richius. “Go on. What happened next?”

“As I said, they ruled Chatti peacefully for three years, but then another city rose to threaten them. This city was called Toor, and the people there were worshipers of Pradu, the lord of the dead. Now understand, Pradu and Vikryn have been enemies from the beginning of time. One is the creator, the other the taker of life, and it is said that Pradu hated Lorris and Pris, for they were favored by his enemy Vikryn. But each time Pradu tried to destroy the two or tear them apart, Vikryn stopped him.”

“So Pradu started a war between Toor and Chatti,” said Richius with disgust. It wasn’t unlike something Arkus would do.

“That is what the Drol believe,” Lucyler went on. “Remember, to Pradu a war meant more souls to fill his coffers. It did not matter to him if some of those who died came from a city that worshiped him. But the armies of Toor were unable to defeat Lorris’ city. Neither was Lorris able to rid the world of the Toors. They fought to a bloody standstill for five years.”

Lucyler suddenly stopped, frowning at Richius.

“Go on,” urged Richius. “What happened then?”

“Chatti and Toor had both lost many men, and Lorris and Pris were desperate to put an end to the fighting. But there was nothing they could do to stop it. The Toors were as evil as their patron Pradu. They ignored all attempts by Chatti for peace. Then one day, while Lorris was out alone in the woods hunting, an animal appeared to him. The animal was a jackal.”

Richius grimaced. “A jackal. That sounds familiar.”

“Yes, but this was no ordinary jackal. It was the god Pradu, and it spoke to Lorris. It told him that it was actually Vikryn, and that it had a great gift for Lorris, one that would allow him to end
the war with the Toors by destroying them all with a magical chant. Once spoken, the chant would wipe away the city of Toor forever.”

“Did Lorris speak the chant?”

“Of course he did. He believed this animal was Vikryn and he trusted him.” Lucyler’s expression grew dark, and his voice thinned to a reedy hiss. “He spoke the words, and a great fire erupted in Toor, destroying the city and scattering its people.”

“The spell worked?” asked Richius. “I don’t understand. You said the jackal was Pradu, not Vikryn. What happened?”

“It was Pradu, and the lord of the dead had not lied to Lorris about the spell. The spell worked. It destroyed Toor. But Pradu knew something Lorris did not, for earlier that day his sister Pris had been captured by spies from Toor, and they brought her back to their city so they could ransom her.”

Richius let out a low whistle. “So she was killed by the spell.”

“She was killed. And Lorris, heartbroken over her death, took his own life upon hearing the news. The legend says that he lived in a giant tower, and that he flung himself out of it that very day. Without the leadership of Lorris and Pris, Chatti was plunged into chaos, and invaders from other cities swarmed in and burnt it to the ground. And Pradu got what he had always wanted. He had killed the beloved of his enemy Vikryn, and he had brought death to thousands.”

“And that’s why I am called the Jackal in the Dring Valley,” added Richius grimly. “Because the Drol hate that animal. Why did you never tell me this?”

“Would it have mattered?” asked Lucyler. “It is just a legend anyway. But there is more to it. It goes on to say that upon their deaths, Lorris and Pris ascended into the sky to dwell with the gods, and that Vikryn still looks after them. Today they are worshiped by the Drol as the gods of war and peace.”

Richius smiled with satisfaction. Legend or not, it was a fine story. “It’s so sad, though,” he mused. “They must have really loved each other.” At once his thoughts turned to Dyana.

“Yes, it is sad,” said Lucyler. “But they are remembered. Each year the Drol celebrate Casadah, their highest holy day. It is a time for remembering the lives and deaths of the twins. There is feasting and music, and the cunning-men tell stories
about Lorris and Pris, so that the young children will grow to understand.”

“The cunning-men? Who are they?”

“Drol holy men,” said Lucyler. “Like priests in Nar. Tharn is a cunning-man. He is the highest cunning-man in the Drol sect. And this will be the first Casadah since he came to power. It is only a week away. We might even reach Falindar in time for it.”

“You sound excited,” said Richius, almost accusingly. “I thought you said you weren’t a Drol.”

“It is a celebration, Richius. A time for welcoming spring. Not only the Drol appreciate it.”

Richius snorted disdainfully. He hadn’t counted on arriving during a Drol holy day. “Well, I for one wouldn’t mind missing it. Let’s not forget my business in Falindar, Lucyler. I’m only going for Dyana.”

Lucyler turned to Richius, his eyes flashing. “
You
asked me about the Drol, remember?”

“I remember. But I don’t want this Casadah to preoccupy Tharn. I have business with him. I want him to attend to me.”

“He will attend to you,” assured Lucyler. “Believe me, you will not be ignored. Kronin himself will probably want to meet you. He has lived in the citadel with Tharn since the end of the war. He knew that I was leaving Falindar to speak to you.”

“And what about him? Does he worship Lorris and Pris now?”

“Kronin is not a Drol,” said Lucyler. “He does not have to be. He follows Tharn now, like I do, but he has his own beliefs. It is all part of the peace, Richius. Tharn makes no demands on the warlords. That is why he let Kronin keep Tatterak, instead of giving it to Voris in the Dring Valley. I tell you, he forgives like no man I have ever met. Kronin was spared, just like me and all the others who fought against Tharn. Even Voris has accepted Kronin.”

Richius raised his eyebrows, suitably impressed. The warlords of the Dring Valley and Tatterak had been bitter enemies since anyone could remember. Even the Narens knew that. To think that Tharn had forged an alliance between the two was indeed remarkable. Still, it remained to be seen. Though each passing day made Richius trust his Triin companion a little
more, the claims Lucyler made were still only words, and Richius was determined not to be swayed by hope or past friendships. The day he saw Voris and Kronin together would be the day he was convinced.

“I still can’t believe Kronin is alive, not after what happened in Tatterak. Blackwood Gayle himself was forced to flee, and almost all his men were killed. How could Kronin possibly have survived? Those storms …”

He stopped, noticing the way Lucyler sealed his lips. The Triin looked away furtively, as if intrigued by the lifeless landscape. Richius groaned. It was so sickeningly obvious.

“He never used his magic against Kronin’s warriors, did he?” asked Richius hotly. “He only used it against Narens!”

Lucyler’s silence answered the charge.

“God in heaven, what a fool I’ve been! Of course Kronin is still alive. Why shouldn’t he be? Tharn would never use his magic against his own people. Oh, no, that would be unthinkable. He’s a Drol, right? But slaughter a bunch of barbarians from Nar, that’s fine.”

Lucyler raised a warning hand. “That is not it,” he said carefully. “Tharn wanted only to rid Lucel-Lor of Naren influence. That was what the revolution was about, remember.”

“So he goes ahead and burns everyone, except the Triin that are fighting against him. That sounds all right to you?”

“Of course not,” snapped Lucyler. “But in the end it won the war for him, and showed the other warlords that he wanted peace. By sparing the warlords loyal to the Daegog …”

“Stop it,” said Richius hotly. “I’m not going to be convinced.”

Lucyler shrugged noncommittally. “We shall see.”

They rode in silence for more than an hour, and while Richius fumed he watched the landscape change as they drove into the heart of Tatterak. The rocky plains were falling behind them, giving way to rocky hills. A perfect orange orb shone high overhead, painting the landscape with a peculiar glow, and along the uneven path pockets of twisted shrubbery buzzed with eager honeybees. An unexpected feeling of melancholy pricked at Richius. There was such a bloody history to this place. Four years ago, Tharn had just conquered Falindar and ousted the Daegog from his throne, and Kronin and his warriors were desperate to stem the Drol tide. And though they were
ordered to do so by Arkus, many of Richius’ countrymen were more than willing to help put down the revolution they saw as a threat not only to Lucel-Lor but perhaps eventually to Nar itself. How many people had died here, wondered Richius silently. Like the violent campaign of the Dring Valley, Tatterak had been the stage for a dozen bloody showdowns, battles that tore the fabric of Triin life apart. But now there was no evidence of its sanguine past. Across the rolling hills there was only the indomitable blooming of spring. There were villages in these hills, filled with hearty people who had somehow endured the tragic hardships of civil war. Just how well they had actually fared was something Richius was suddenly eager to find out.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Dandazar, Richius and Lucyler were talking again. Lucyler pointed to the unmistakable outline of the place, its wood and clay buildings all too regular against the backdrop of the mountains. More a town than a city, Dandazar was nevertheless the only important place for miles, a battered and weathered beacon for weary travelers. Like Ackle-Nye, Dandazar had been a key location for the forces of Aramoor and Talistan, a place where the troops could purchase the food and other supplies they needed to survive in the harsh countryside. But unlike Ackle-Nye, Dandazar had none of the trappings of Naren influence. There were no twisted buildings here, no stone monoliths reminiscent of the Black City. There was only the architecture of the Triin, simple and pragmatic. Even from their great distance, Richius could glimpse the whitewashed roofs and smooth, sandy masonry, and on the breeze drifted the piquant scent of animals and cooking fires. It was as if some gypsy bazaar had come along and made this place its home, for Dandazar was widely known in Tatterak, and travelers from all about came to the bustling town to sell their wares and barter for needed goods.