The Jackal of Nar (6 page)

Richius lowered his quill into the hinge of his journal. He was grateful to be free of the confines of the trenches, to feel the fickle sunlight of Lucel-Lor on his face. Unperturbed by the rough bark of the tree at his back, he smiled up at the sun. Its warmth caressed him, as welcome as the touch of any woman.

Across the mountains, they never spoke of Lucel-Lor’s beauty. This place was a mystery, a puzzlement to be shunned. Richius had never even seen a Triin before coming here. But like all children of the Empire, he had heard the tales of the white-faced vampires, the magicians who were quick as a breeze and as inscrutable. When he had reached an age to understand, he had asked his father about Lucel-Lor. Darius Vantran, ever pragmatic, had told his son that the Triin were different from other humans, that they enslaved their women and were more violent even than Nar’s princes.

“Like Talistan?” the young Richius had asked. The question had troubled his father.

Since then, Richius had learned about the Triin. They were not the beasts the Empire portrayed, nor were they cannibals. Even the Drol, zealots though they were, showed moments of humanity. They did not torture their prisoners as did the Narens in the Black City, and they did not enslave their women—not precisely. Richius had seen far worse in the brothels of Nar, where an impoverished woman’s only sustenance came from the sale of her body.

A slight breeze stirred the poppies, tickling the underside of Richius’ bare feet. The sensation forced a schoolgirl giggle from his lips. Embarrassed, he looked to where Dinadin and Lucyler sat close by, a game board on the grass between them. Dinadin was studying the ornate wooden pieces intently, but he raised an eyebrow at the sudden sound of Richius’ mirth.

“Happy?”

“Yes,” said Richius. “For the first time in a long time.”

A yawn welled up in him and he let it out, stretching like a cat. The bright warmth was making him sleepy, and his thoughts turned lazily to a nap. He chuckled again, amused at the idea. It had been almost a week since the raid on the village, and all they
had done since returning was sleep and eat. The respite provided by Gayle had been put to good use, and the fair weather had cooperated in their hunting. There had been no wolves or warriors to bother them, and each man who left in search of game had come back with a stout bird or even a buck with which to feed the company. Richius patted his stomach. The heaviness in it felt fine.

“Who’s winning?” he asked. Dinadin had taken a red peg from its hole and was chewing on its end while he contemplated the board.

“Who do you think?” he replied. “I can never win this damn game.” Quickly he placed the piece into a new hole. Lucyler groaned.

“Because you do not concentrate,” said the Triin, pulling the piece from the board. He shoved the peg under Dinadin’s nose. “The red pieces are your footmen. You cannot jump with footmen.”

Dinadin snatched the game piece from the Triin.

“All right,” he snapped, and without even glancing at the board stuffed it into another hole. “Better?”

“Play correctly,” replied Lucyler, his anger thickening his accent, “or not at all.”

“It’s just a game, Lucyler.”

Lucyler scoffed, already starting to pull the game pieces from the board. “You could learn from Ejai, boy,” he said. “It is about strategy and wits. A game like this could help keep you alive.”

“We do a fair job of keeping ourselves alive without
Triin
help,” replied Dinadin. “Why, you’re the only Triin I’ve ever seen fight alongside us. All the rest of you are Drol, I think.”

“If you believe that, you are a fool, Dinadin,” said Lucyler, getting to his feet. “We have lost more people than all the nations of your Empire together. You are trapped here in the valley and you think this is the entire war. But I have seen Kronin’s warriors fighting in the north. I have been to Tatterak and I was there when Falindar fell.” He jabbed a finger into Dinadin’s face. “Where were
you
?”

“Enough,” ordered Richius. “I want to rest, not fight. Sit down, Lucyler.”

Lucyler hesitated for a moment, then finally lowered himself back onto the grass, muttering. Richius turned to Dinadin.

“You should know better than to say such things, Dinadin. Edgard has told me about the fighting in Tatterak. If you want to see Triin fighting for the Daegog, that’s the place to go.”

“I know,” Dinadin conceded. “I’d just like to see some of those warriors here. We could use their help, especially with Gayle’s horsemen gone.” He gestured broadly at the serenity around them. “This won’t last, you know.”

Richius grimaced. What Dinadin said was true, but he had no wish to think of it. He could scarcely remember the last time they had been able to doff their armor and escape the trenches for even a few hours, but he didn’t want to squander the precious tranquillity with talk of war.

“Kronin cannot help us,” said Lucyler. “He would send warriors if he could. He hates Voris as much as any of us.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Richius. “Edgard told me about it once. They’ve been feuding for years.”

“Years on top of years, since before I was born. Kronin is not Drol, and never was. And he supported the Daegog from the start. But Voris was born Drol, one of Tharn’s own clan. That alone makes them hate each other.”

“Like us and Gayle, Dinadin,” said Richius with a grin. He had always found the animosity between the warlords of Lucel-Lor intriguing. Just as political rivalries had brought the Houses of Vantran and Gayle to war, those same bitter feelings were now tearing the Triin apart. In the end, though, the Vantrans and the Gayles had put aside their malice, forming an uneasy alliance under the banner of Nar. And though he knew his ruthless emperor had designs to bring Lucel-Lor under his rule, Richius still thought it unlikely that the Triin warlords would ever be at peace again.

“It’s that kind of thinking that started this war, you know,” said Richius. “In the Empire we don’t fight among ourselves.”

“No,” said Lucyler. “Your emperor would not allow that.”

“The emperor has kept the peace in Nar for nearly twenty years,” replied Richius coolly.

“By attacking other lands? Nar is at war throughout the world. How can you say Arkus has kept the peace when you are sitting here?”

Dinadin jumped in before Richius could answer. “You don’t seem to mind us being here, though, do you, Lucyler? If it wasn’t for Nar, you and your Daegog would be in a Drol prison camp.”

“Your emperor only helps the Daegog because he wants something from him,” countered Lucyler. “You are like these game pieces, being moved around by a master player.”

Richius stifled an angry reply, mostly because his comrade was right. No one knew for certain why Arkus was so eager to help the Daegog of Lucel-Lor. The emperor and his vast appetites were a mystery to everyone in Nar. He supposed that not even the Daegog himself knew why Nar was here. But it was the same question that had vexed Naren kings for decades. Arkus was never satisfied. He was a machine, a devourer of nations. And no one really questioned the emperor’s motives anymore; they simply did his bidding.

“And what about you, Lucyler?” asked Dinadin hotly. “Do you think it’s not the same for you? When your Daegog pulls a string, you dance. Arkus may be a bastard, but the Daegog’s no better.”

Lucyler started to his feet again then stopped himself. “You are probably right.”

“Don’t let it bother you,” said Richius. “It’s just the way it is for us all. And we won’t need Kronin’s help anyway. Patwin should be back from Aramoor with word soon. If he’s told my father how grave we have it, we’ll be sent the troops we need.”

“Really?” asked Dinadin. “Do you think so? Or are you just telling us what you think we want to hear?”

“What’s this?” said Richius. “Is some homesickness making you doubt me?”

Dinadin looked away. “I’m sick for home, that’s true enough.”

“Is it my father you doubt, then?” Richius pressed.

“I’m honor bound to our king, and I won’t speak ill of him,” answered Dinadin. “Especially not to you. It’s just that we …” He stopped and thought for a moment, choosing his words with care. “We hear things.”

“What things?”

“Perhaps it’s nothing,” said Dinadin. “Or just the same things you’ve heard yourself. We all know how badly the war’s going. But we’re not all privy to the messages your father sends you. It makes me wonder what you write in that book of yours.” He pointed his chin toward the journal in Richius’ lap.

“My journal? There’s nothing worth your knowing here, believe
me. I tell this book the same things I tell you, and nothing more terrible than what you already know.” Richius lifted the book and offered it to Dinadin. “Read for yourself if you like.”

Dinadin smiled weakly. “Just a learned man’s ramblings, huh? Maybe you should be back in Aramoor, Richius, writing war croons for us on the line. If you say there’s nothing I should know in that book, I believe you.”

Relieved, Richius set the journal back in his lap. “So? Tell me. I know something’s bothering you. What is it?” He watched Dinadin closely, his eyes narrowing into slivers. “Do you think the king has forsaken us?”

“Maybe,” answered Dinadin. “It’s been a long time, and you’ve asked for troops before and not gotten them. Why should this request be so different?”

“Because we’ve never been so close to losing,” said Richius. “My father has too much faith in me, I fear. He probably thinks we can take this valley with the trickle of men he sends us. But now that I’ve made it plain to him …”

He stopped suddenly, seeing Dinadin glance sideways at Lucyler.

“What?” asked Richius.

“Let us change this talk,” said Lucyler, fidgeting with the game pieces he had gathered from the board. “You are right, Richius. We should be enjoying the peace, not arguing.”

“No,” Richius insisted. “You’re sharing some secret. What is it?”

“Richius,” said Lucyler calmly. “It is no secret your father sent you here against his will. And why should it be? No one thinks poorly of him for wanting to keep Aramoor out of our war.”

“Oh, come now,” said Richius. “I know my father wasn’t eager to send us here, but he listens to the emperor. He’s sent hundreds of men into Lucel-Lor.”

“True,” agreed Dinadin grudgingly. “But he hasn’t been so forthcoming with the men and supplies lately.”

“If your father has heard how badly the war is going he may think it lost,” Lucyler added. “The news from the north is not good, and if we have heard that here in the valley, then surely your father has also.”

Dinadin agreed. “I’ve heard Tharn has Kronin’s warriors
on the run. Even some of our own kinsmen are talking about retreating.”

Richius laughed. “Oh, sure. Where did you hear that, Dinadin? From Gayle’s men?”

“Yes,” said Dinadin sheepishly.

“And you believed them? Think about that for a moment. If any Aramoorians were retreating, I’m sure I would have heard of it myself. It may be true that Tharn and his Drol are doing well, but winning? I doubt it. And Kronin’s land is big, bigger even than Voris’. We can’t expect him to keep it all free of Drol.”

Dinadin shook his head. “Tharn is gaining, Richius. If Tatterak falls we’ll be stuck in this valley with Tharn above us and Voris all around us. We’ll be trapped. We have to do something.
You
have to do something!”

“Kronin’s men can hold off Tharn,” insisted Richius. “Don’t you think, Lucyler?”

Lucyler shrugged. “Kronin has many warriors,” he admitted. “But so does Tharn. Voris is not the only warlord to pledge himself to Tharn, you know. There is Nang and Shohar and Gavros.…” He hesitated, wrinkling his brow and counting on his fingers. “All the warlords of the east, I think. Since Falindar fell there has been little of the east that Tharn has not taken.”

“He doesn’t have the Dring Valley yet,” boasted Richius. “And he won’t as long as we hold on, whether Voris the Wolf has pledged himself to Tharn or not.”

“You know what I think?” said Dinadin. “I think Tharn is planning a final assault on us, all the Naren troops and loyalists. Now that we’re weak he can finish us.” Dinadin’s voice became hushed. “Now he can use his magic.”

“Magic,” Lucyler scoffed. “Do you know how foolish you sound, Dinadin?”

“Why foolish?” Dinadin fired back. “I know the stories, Lucyler. They say Tharn’s a sorcerer. Hell, he’s a Drol. He’s just been waiting for his chance to crush us.”

“Tharn is no sorcerer,” said Lucyler. “He is a Drol holy man. You Narens should stop believing everything you hear. To you, all the Drol are sorcerers.”

“They worship evil gods,” said Dinadin. “I know these things, Lucyler. I’m not as stupid as you think. They believe their gods grant them powers.”

“Yes, and they are as stupid as you for believing that.” Lucyler shook his head in disbelief. “Do you know why the Drol believe they are touched by heaven? Because they are fools. They believe in myths. They are devoted to an ancient religion of nonsense.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” countered Dinadin.

“Tales to frighten you, Dinadin. It is the same thing the Drol want the Daegog’s followers to believe. But even if Tharn does have some great magic, which he does not, he would never use it to kill.”

“Oh?” Richius asked indignantly. He was unaccustomed to his men defending his enemies, and it irritated him. “Why not? What makes you think that mad devil wouldn’t use sorcery if he could?”

“Because no Drol would,” said Lucyler flatly. “They believe their magic is divine. Magic or sorcery—or whatever you call the touch of heaven—the Drol say all these things must be used to heal, not harm. The Drol may be zealots, but they hold the old ways of our people sacred. They, above all Triin, know the price of misusing the favors of their gods. Whatever his cause, Tharn would be damned if he used his blessing to destroy.”

“But he took Falindar,” said Richius.

“True. But by blade, not by sorcery. Understand me, Richius. Tharn is a demon. I saw his butchery at Falindar. But he is also a Drol. No Drol, no matter how evil, would use the touch of heaven to kill. If he is pushing troops back to Ackle-Nye, he is doing it with men and jiiktars only.”