The Jackal of Nar (73 page)

“Another miserable weapon,” Lucyler said, examining his jiiktar. “Not a weapon for a real man.”

“No? You liked them well enough in Dring.”

“That was different,” said Lucyler slyly. “
We
had them. Voris did not.”

They both laughed, then fell quickly silent as a shadow passed over them. The figure of a bare-chested man was blocking out the moonlight. He walked past them toward the other warlords, a trio of similarly naked warriors trailing close behind him. On each of their pale backs was carved an identical tattoo, a ferocious bird of prey with outstretched wings. They were all bald except for a long, white ponytail sprouting from the back of their heads. Each wore leather armbands around both biceps, and the tallest one, the one who had cast the massive shadow, also wore a studded belt of well-worn buckskin. Their muscled bodies glowed in the flickering orange torchlight, making them seem more like spectres than men.

“Who is
that
?” Richius asked. He had never seen a more savage looking Triin in his life.

“Nang,” Lucyler whispered. “Warlord of the Fire Steppes.”

Nang was like something from another time, a thick-skulled primate with the eyes of a cat and a serpent’s sharpened teeth. He knelt down before the center wreath, bowing his head to the dirt then lifting it with a piercing cry. He sang his monstrous prayer until all the breath was gone from him, and when he was done he undid a tiny bag from his belt and tossed it onto the table.

“Another gift?” Richius asked. Lucyler shook his head.

“Not a gift. A spirit bag. Nang’s people believe the soul of an enemy can be captured in such a thing. The bag holds herbs and stones meant to imprison evil. Nang is giving it to Tharn so that he may capture the soul of his enemy.”

“Who would that be?” asked Richius.

Lucyler grinned at him. “Do you think your emperor has a soul to capture, my friend?”

“I don’t know. But if he does, that bag’s just about the right size.”

There was an easiness to their banter reminiscent of other times, and Richius was glad to be with Lucyler again. Perhaps it was because he was the only friend left to him in the world, or perhaps it was because they were at war again, and war forces men together. Either way, Richius didn’t care. Lucyler was himself
again, open and honest. Now when he spoke, Richius believed him.

A group of robed cunning-men stepped onto the torchlit green, their heads bowed in silent contemplation. They walked past the gathered warlords, sitting cross-legged on the blanketed ground beside the center table. The table was almost full now. Only space for two more remained. Tharn was one of them, of course. The other, Richius presumed, was Voris.

Or Kronin,
he thought with sudden alarm. He glanced around the assembly again, but the painted warlord was nowhere to be seen. Lucyler gestured to the cunning-men.

“Almost time,” he whispered. “Tharn will be coming soon.”

Richius suppressed a nervous flutter at the thought of addressing the warlords. He hoped Kronin would arrive soon. At least his would be a friendly face. Lucyler followed the lead of the other warriors, placing his jiiktar on the ground beside him. A soft breeze stirred the torches and the water of the wells. The conversations were politely muted. None of the foods or wine had been touched yet. Richius reminded himself that none of them had come here to eat.

“I will be glad when this is over,” he said quietly, “and all these warlords go back home.” He sighed and tried to relax, folding his arms over his chest. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed something white approaching slowly. It walked up beside him and stopped. Richius turned to look at it.

A dog? The animal stared back at him, its tongue drooping lazily from its mouth, and sat itself down on its haunches. For the smallest of moments Richius puzzled over it, until he realized that the beast was not a dog at all but a snow-white, smiling wolf.

“God!” he exclaimed, rearing back from the animal. “Lucyler, look at—”

From somewhere behind him a giant hand grabbed Richius’ collar, lifting him off the ground. He sputtered, fighting the iron grip and turning to stare into an enraged white face. He knew at once who it was. Voris stared back at him, his bared teeth menacing. He released Richius’ collar, taking him instead by the lapels and shaking him with wrathful exuberance.

“Kalak!”

Richius panicked. He kicked at the warlord’s legs, landing one powerful blow on his shin before being tossed bodily backward. He landed hard on one of the tables, saw the decanters of wine and platters of food explode into the air. A sharp pain ricocheted through his body and the breath shot from his lungs. He tried to right himself. Lucyler’s panicked shouts mingled with the sudden growling of the wolf. Richius scrambled. Wine covered his face, dripping into his eyes as he rolled over onto his stomach. Voris’ pointed boot thundered into his rib cage. He bellowed in pain, reaching desperately for the only weapon he could find, a sturdy metal decanter sprawled over on the broken table. He grabbed it, sprung to his feet, and swung.

Amazingly, it caught Voris in mid-lunge, crashing against his bald pate with a peculiar, bell-like ring. Voris howled and stumbled backward. Richius staggered to his feet. All around them astonished warlords were staring, their jaws slung open in amazement. The wolf watched also, its muzzle lowered and a baneful growl rumbling from its throat. Lucyler had his jiiktar in his hand. He was dashing toward Voris and crying out a warning.

Voris removed his own jiiktar and in a single blinding movement flicked its long blade at Lucyler, catching him in the wrist. Lucyler cursed and fumbled his weapon. Blood gushed from the wound. Voris barreled past him, knocking him down with a shoulder. Richius readied himself, cocking back the decanter for another blow.

Voris stopped his charge. He held out his jiiktar then dropped it in front of him.

“Jara min, Kalak,” he said through a taunting grin. Slowly he stepped over his weapon.

“You want me?” railed Richius. He threw the decanter at the warlord, who batted it away effortlessly. “Come get me!”

“Richius, stop,” called Lucyler. He was crawling to his feet, nursing his bloodied hand. Voris only had to glance at him. The wolf turned from Richius to Lucyler, stopping the Triin with an angry growl.

“Eesay Voris,” yelled Lucyler. “Hara akka Tharn!”

Voris laughed. “Tharn bena naka tor. Tassa Kalak!”

“Richius, he means to kill you,” warned Lucyler. “Defend yourself.”

It was stupid advice. Richius was already preparing himself
for the tangle. He glanced past Voris to the two jiiktars laying uselessly on the ground. If he could reach one …

But no, they were too far. A torch then. He ran to the nearest one, yanking it free and holding it before him. Voris only seemed amused. He put out a jeering finger, gesturing for Richius to come closer.

“Jara min, Kalak.”

Richius seethed. His side burned with pain from Voris’ kick, and he slumped slightly as he took a step closer. The torch was heavy, too unwieldy to be of any real use. He dropped it and charged forward. Voris danced aside. The warlord’s amused laughter echoed but Richius ignored it, rolling past and snatching up his discarded jiiktar. He jumped to his feet, holding up the weapon triumphantly. A cheer went up from the crowd.

“Now, you big bastard,” he hissed. “I’m ready.”

The jiiktar flashed, raking across Voris’ chest. The warlord fell back. His robe split open in a thin, red rent, exposing his bloodied chest. He cried out and his wolf turned in alarm, just long enough for Lucyler to employ his own weapon. One blade caught a leg, shearing it off. The other finished the beast with a slash to the throat. Voris bellowed with fury. He tried to reach his slain pet, but Richius held him back with the jiiktar.

“Don’t you goddamn move!”

Voris glared at him. He brought up his fist and shook it at Richius, then spit a wad of saliva into his face. Lucyler came up alongside Richius, his own jiiktar held ready.

“Go,” he ordered. “Get back to the citadel. Find Tharn.”

“Like hell I will,” said Richius. He raised the jiiktar, determined to slice at Voris’ throat.

“Stop,” begged his friend, grabbing his sleeve.

Richius halted. “Damn it, Lucyler, why shouldn’t I?”

“Leave,” ordered Lucyler. “Now.”

“No. I can’t, Lucyler. I won’t.”

“You will,” came a scratchy voice behind him. Richius turned to see Tharn standing barely five feet away. He stepped between the two combatants, his broken body trembling with barely contained anger, and put up a hand to Voris. He spoke to the warlord in a slow, measured voice. Voris shook his head briskly.

“Ahda!” he protested. He pointed at Richius, threatening him with a waving finger. “Pogoa isa Kalak.”

“What’s he saying?” asked Richius.

“Back away now, Richius,” said Lucyler. He placed his own weapon on the ground then held out his open hands for Voris to see. Richius stood fast. “Do it,” demanded Lucyler. “Quickly!”

“I won’t,” said Richius. “Not until you tell me what he said.”

Tharn turned to regard him. “He said that you are filth,” he replied blithely. “And that your presence here is a disgrace. Now move away.”

“He attacked
me,
cunning-man,” said Richius. “Let him back away first.”

“You have already drawn blood,” said Tharn. “Be content with that. He cannot yield before these others.”

“It is over, Richius,” Lucyler pressed. “Please …”

Richius stared hatefully at the bloodied warlord, seeing every bit of his ire mirrored in Voris’ eyes.

“If he agrees not to attack me again, I’ll lower the weapon,” he said. “But I want to hear it first.”

Tharn translated Richius’ terms. Voris answered with a sardonic smile and some obviously insincere words.

“Not good enough,” said Lucyler. “Richius, he says he will not harm you while Tharn is here. Tharn, make him say he will not harm Richius at all. Make him swear it.”

Tharn and Voris exchanged more heated words. Finally the warlord nodded and took a step back.

“He did not swear it,” said Lucyler.

“Nor will he,” wheezed Tharn, turning on Lucyler with disgust. “You forget yourself. He is a warlord of Lucel-Lor. Remember that. Richius, give him back the jiiktar. Now, please.”

There was an irresistible quality to Tharn’s voice that made Richius relent. But he would not hand the weapon back to Voris. Instead he opened his hand and let the warlord’s jiiktar fall contemptuously to the dirt.

“Let him get it himself,” he said, then turned and walked away. Lucyler’s loyal footsteps were close behind.

The table they had been sitting at was ruined now, so they found a more conspicuous place closer to the main table and sat down. The closest warlord was the feral Nang, who gave what Richius thought was an approving smile when he looked at them. Lucyler wiped the perspiration from his face, then reached for one of the decanters of wine, pouring himself a liberal glass
of the stuff and drinking it down in a series of unending gulps. He set the cup down with a sigh.

“Lorris and Pris, you are not to be left alone, my friend. Wherever you go someone tries to kill you!”

“Arrogant bastard,” said Richius. Several warriors were already clearing away the mess of the dead wolf. “I should have done it,” he mused. “I should have finished him when I had the chance.”

“You had no chance,” said Lucyler easily. “Voris would have killed you.”

“What? I had the weapon, Lucyler. He had nothing.”

“He would have gotten it away from you, Richius, just as he did from me.” Lucyler raised his bloodied hand and showed it to Richius. “He is big, but he is quick.”

“Oh, Lucyler!” exclaimed Richius. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Carefully he took his comrade’s wrist and examined the wound running across the open palm. The gash bubbled each time Lucyler’s fingers flexed.

“You have to take care of this,” said Richius. “Get a bandage on it.”

“Not now. You need me here.”

“Lucyler, you’re bleeding. Go back to the citadel and get a dressing. Come back when you can.”

“If I leave you will not understand a thing they say,” said Lucyler. “And I do not trust Voris.” He offered Richius his sleeve. “Here. Use my jiiktar and cut off this sleeve. It will do well enough for now.”

Richius took the scythelike weapon and began the clumsy work of removing the sleeve, careful not to slip or move too quickly. The sleeve tore easily under the sharp blade, leaving Richius with a long tube of fabric. He shredded it into strips and gingerly dressed Lucyler’s hand, dabbing at the blood as he worked. When he was done Lucyler tested the bandage with a fist.

“Good. Thank you.”

“It won’t do for long,” Richius warned. “That cut’s pretty deep. You’ll need to get stitched up.”

“After the council,” said Lucyler.

“Lucyler?” ventured Richius.

“Umm?”

“Thanks.”

Lucyler nodded quickly. “It is what friends do, Richius. Now settle down. Tharn is coming.”

The crippled holy man lurched across the sloping ground toward the main table. As he moved, the congregation hushed. Voris walked slowly alongside Tharn, carefully keeping pace with him. The warlord seemed unaware of his own wound, which had soaked his scarlet robes. Electric anticipation charged the air. The incensed breeze was sweet. Ocean surf sounded in the far distance. Tharn made it to the table and raised his clubbed hand to heaven. When he spoke his voice was like jagged lightning. Lucyler leaned close to Richius and translated.

“Lorris and Pris and the powers of earth and sky. Cast down your strength on us, the defenders of your faith. Grant us the might to cleanse your blessed kingdom, so that we may slay those without virtue who defile you.”

Tharn reached for the center candle, pulling it free and igniting its wick with a nearby torch. Orange light danced on his skin. He said a few more words then passed the candle to Voris, who used it to light another of the wreath’s candles and mouthed a solemn oath.

“Death to Nar.”

One by one the candle was passed to the warlords, and each arose in turn to light another flame and speak the same dire oath. When each had taken their turn, only one candle was left unlit.