The Jackal of Nar (87 page)

He landed heavily on the far side of the deck, his weight splintering the platform. Voris’ foot went through the weakened wood and he stumbled. Richius sprawled headlong across the deck. Quickly he turned, his scorched back throbbing as he stretched out a hand for Voris and pulled him out of the hole. Behind him he heard Jarra begging Dyana to leave.

“Go,” Richius ordered her. “Go! We’ll follow.”

Dyana obeyed, hurrying down the ladder. Jarra waited a second longer, then descended himself. Next came Richius. He could hardly control his muscles, but he managed with Voris’ help to slip onto the swinging ladder. Beneath him Jarra was close behind, waiting and guiding his every step. When he was halfway down the ladder Voris followed, and one by one they dropped gratefully to the ground. Above them, the deck collapsed.

Amidst the falling rubble, Richius fell breathlessly to his knees, doubling over in agony. Dyana rushed up behind him and inspected his back.

“How is it?” he asked, almost unable to speak. Dyana was silent for a very long moment. Richius could see her worry reflected in Voris’ face.

“Richius, we have to get you back to the keep,” she said carefully. “Your back is … bad.”

“I can’t leave, Dyana. Not yet. But I want you to go. Have one of the warriors take you back before the shields fall.”

“I am not going without you,” she said. “And there is nothing left for you to do here. Your back needs tending.”

“No, I’m needed here!” Richius glanced up at the ruined platform, then searched the trees for another reasonable vantage point. “I have to see what’s happening.”

Voris said something harsh, making shooing gestures at Richius.

“He says you should leave, Richius,” said Dyana. “You are hurt. You have to go now.”

“No. We have to stop those acid launchers. The line won’t hold if we don’t. I have to get to the trench.”

He was on his way to the line when Dyana grabbed his arm. “Richius, listen to me, please. It’s over. The trench is lost. There’s nothing more to do. We have to go, call retreat and fight from the forest like you planned.”

But Voris was already heading toward the trench, with Dumaka Jarra on his heels. Richius had to follow.

“Dyana, go back to the castle,” he said. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

“Richius, you promised. There is nothing you can do. You will only be slaughtered like the rest of them.”

“I can’t leave now, Dyana. I
can’t.
They’re depending on me. They need me. Please. Go back to the castle and wait for me there. Have one of the warriors ride with you. I have to think of a way to stop the launchers.”

“And what if you cannot?”

“Then the perimeter falls and I’ll join you back at the castle. Now go, Dyana. Hurry.”

It seemed forever before she relented, her lips brushing his lightly in an unexpected kiss. “Be safe,” she said.

He let her hands slip away. “I will.”

She left him, and as he watched her go Richius heard a commotion behind him. In the trench men were shouting, taunting their Naren adversaries to advance. Very deliberately, Richius undid the clasp of his scabbard. He drew Jessicane slowly as he turned toward the trench. Flame cannons erupted ahead of him. He saw smoke and fire, smelled the cooked flesh.

Voris helped him into the ditch. In front of them a wooden shield trembled with the impact of cannon fire. The warlord ignored it.

“Nobata acana toss, Kalak,” he said proudly.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” said Richius, “but if you’ll have me I’m here to fight with you.”

Voris laughed. “Kalak es Cha Yulan,” he declared, pointing between the two of them. There was more incredulous laughing. “Kalak es Cha Yulan!”

Richius beamed. “The Jackal and the Wolf!” he said. “Yes, I understand.”

And for the first time Richius could recall, the Wolf of the Dring Valley smiled at him. Not a sinister smile, but a warm, genuine one. Together they climbed onto the narrow planks lining the inside of the trench and looked out over the battlefield. Every muscle in his back raged but Richius put the pain out of his mind, holding Jessicane out before him as he watched the flames sizzle and explode against the shields. Across the field he saw the infantry charging toward them, free at last of the wolves. Only a few greegans still pulled war wagons, and these were mostly far away, while behind them all, waiting for their chance to run the defenders underfoot, were the horsemen of Talistan, their grotesque demon masks shining in the sun.

Voris was shouting at his warriors, ordering them to continue shooting. The infantry was so close now that the Triin arrows had little trouble penetrating their leather gorgets. Wave after wave of soldiers rushed forward, swinging their weapons and screaming wildly. Two acid launchers popped in the distance, sending cannisters into the trees beyond the trench, while Triin bowmen stood recklessly on the catwalks, daring the acid to reach them as they picked off the attackers.

Yet despite their efforts, Richius knew it would all be over soon. Without the wolves there was no way to stop the war wagons, and the shields that had withstood so much punishment were starting to shudder under the cannon fire. Soon they would collapse, leaving them defense-less. From the trench they might be able to withstand the infantry indefinitely, but the cannons and launchers would ruin them. He searched for an idea, a way of slowing the handful of greegans still slogging toward them. Arrows certainly couldn’t do it. Most of the monsters already looked like pincushions. They needed another option, and they didn’t have one.

“Damn,” he spat bitterly. “It’s over.”

Voris seemed to understand him. He called over to Jarra, who immediately passed the order to retreat. Warriors began pouring out of the trench, while in the trees their comrades covered their
escape, focusing their fire on the nearest infantrymen, who were now only yards from the barricade of sharpened spears. Jarra herded the men out of the ditch, funneling them into the narrow path leading to the woods. And as they moved they dropped their bows to the ground and held out jiiktars. It was time to take the fight to the forest.

“Come on, Voris,” urged Richius. “We have to get out of here.”

Voris shook his head, gesturing toward his men. Clearly he was determined to leave last. The shields were buckling as the force on them increased. Already a seam was opening in the log wall nearest them, letting through lashing tongues of flame. Close by, another shield was engulfed in flame, sending up a torrent of gray smoke. The periodic thump of acid launchers grew ever louder. Richius peered out across the field, blocking his eyes from the glow of burning kerosene. The soldiers were fighting their way through the barricade, slowly squeezing past the spears and spikes as the barrage of arrows pressed down on them. Bodies littered the battlefield, corpses with throats torn open and heads blasted away, and wounded greegans moaned in distress as they pulled themselves aimlessly through the tangle of ropes, their legs gnawed to tatters by the wolves, who now lay in mangled heaps about the perimeter. It was a nightmare of carnage. Richius started to look away, but saw instead a green and gold standard waving through the haze.

Baron Blackwood Gayle sat imperiously atop his black charger, flanked by his standard bearer and a man with a peculiar, feathered hat. He was unmistakable in his silver mask and long, braided ponytail. Behind him waited his cavalry and infantry. Patiently the baron surveyed the field, waiting for the barricade to come down before ordering his own men to charge. Even from such a distance Richius could discern the arrogant smile splashed across his disfigured face.

“Gayle,” Richius whispered, climbing back onto the narrow deck. He moved as if possessed. He barely flinched as flames shot by, and all the agony of his burnt skin was gone, submerged by a consuming hate. Voris was yelling at him, beckoning him down, but he ignored the warlord’s order. Like a bare-chested savage he hoisted Jessicane over his head and howled across the battlefield.

“Gayle, you whoreson, I’m here!”

Soldiers tumbled through the barricade. Acid cannisters whizzed overhead, drizzling poison. Richius twisted to avoid the deadly spray. Behind him, he heard Voris calling.

“It’s me!” he cried. “Kalak!”

Off in the distance, Blackwood Gayle’s head tilted. The bright mask turned curiously to the trench. Richius lifted Jessicane higher.

“Kalak!” he shouted again. “Look here, you bastard! It’s me!”

Gayle’s body seemed to twitch. He sat up in his saddle, then suddenly put his fist in the air and shook it.

“Yes,” cried Richius madly. “You see me.” He waved his sword like a flag, yelling his Triin nickname over and over. Gayle flicked his reins and started charging. Richius let out a triumphant howl.

Without thinking he crawled out of the trench, into the space between the ditch and the barricade. Gayle was covering the distance with incredible speed. Richius staggered to his feet. Ten yards away he could see the snarling, shocked faces of the legionnaires, hacking their way through the barricade as they struggled to reach him. A flame cannon leveled a shot, destroying a section of a wall behind him. Incensed, he held out Jessicane and cursed.

“Come to me, you clumsy murderer!”

“Kalak!” came an insistent voice from behind. Richius turned to see Voris slogging toward him. The warlord stretched out both of his hands and took hold of Richius’ arm.

“No!” Richius barked, twisting out of Voris’ grasp. “Leave me be. It’s Gayle!”

Voris roared something and wrested Richius’ sword away. Enraged, Richius tried to reclaim it, but Voris struck him hard across the face. The world blurred. Voris wrapped an arm around Richius’ waist and started dragging him backward. The pain of the embrace was unspeakable.

“No,” he moaned. “You don’t understand. It’s Gayle, it’s Gayle.”

Through the gauzy smoke he caught sight of Gayle still charging the barricade. The soldiers broke through. Shouts rose in his ears. Then he was in the trench again, still being dragged by Voris. The warlord was calling for help. Richius could hear
the man’s labored breathing. Seconds later, dozens of white hands were on him, pulling him away.

“No,” he said again. “You don’t know what you’re doing.…”

Then the skin of his back ruptured with a pain as hot as fire, and the world blackened. And as he faded out he heard Voris’ angry voice, cursing him.

W
hen the harsh mountains of Tatterak had faded away and the terrain had flattened into yellow savanna, Tharn knew they were approaching Chandakkar.

It had been a sickening journey, one that had depleted him, and he was glad their trek was nearly over. He could smell it. Like a hunter, he could taste the change in the air. Chandakkar wasn’t rugged like Tatterak or lush like Dring. And it wasn’t hot like the Fire Steppes, or cold like Ishia’s mountain. It was simply Chandakkar, the separate and defiant land of Karlaz. Here, among the grasses, there was nothing familiar to give them comfort. For two days now the land had been sloping gradually downward. They were in a valley now, a vast plain overrun with tall, amber plants that bent like wheat in the wind. Without really knowing why, they had all slipped into a contemplative silence.

Tharn took a small sip from a waterskin and leaned back in the carriage. Unable to steer the horses himself, he always rode in the back while his cunning-men took turns driving. It was a warm day, sticky and close, and his boils itched madly. So far, water hadn’t been a concern, but they conserved it anyway. They had no maps to follow, no idea of what lay ahead. A desert, perhaps, and that meant water would very quickly become precious. So Tharn capped his skin after the tiniest sip, burying it under his seat to keep it cool. Their conveyance had a canvas top that could be pulled overhead and shield them from the sun, but Tharn didn’t like the feeling of confinement. He wanted to see Chandakkar, to experience it like he had Nar.

Besides, watching their surroundings was all any of them
could do. Tharn had brought three young men with them, all full of youthful vigor, and all cunning-men devoted to his Drol ideals. But they were equally devoted to Tharn himself, and knew that their master appreciated silence. So they spoke only rarely, and let their leader linger in the back of the carriage.

Tharn appreciated every moment of the silence. For now at least, he was no one again, without the pressures of Falindar or war. With the easy slipping of day into night, it seemed that none of his torments existed, and that Nar was only a nightmare. Surprisingly, he thought little of his mission. Karlaz would help them, or he would not. The logic of it put Tharn at ease. He felt powerless, an innocent at the mercy of fate, and the simplicity of it was wonderful. He was enjoying something he had not known since his boyhood—peace.

Only the memory of Dyana made him restless. He ached for her, more now than he ever had before. Part of him regretted the night he had spent with her. It had been so sublime, like heaven but better, he was sure. She had treated him as a man, had seen past his monstrousness, and had set his skin on fire with her touch. It had crushed him to leave her.

And of course, he thought of Richius.

She was starry-eyed for him; he had always known it. When she carried Shani she had cried for him, for the absent father of the thing growing inside her. He had thought it would pass, that it was only the natural yearning a woman has for any man who has impregnated her. In time, he had hoped, she would forget Richius and see him as the child’s father. But now Richius was in Lucel-Lor. There could be no stopping the fire between them. Tharn sank down a little in the carriage. It had been pity that had made her lie with him, he knew that. He looked at himself, studying his malformed body in the sunlight and hating it. Richius was nothing like him. The Naren was perfect—except for being Naren, but Dyana had never minded that. She was still the heretic she had always been, enamored with the Empire and its astute barbarians. And Richius was a young man, with all the normal hungers. He could satisfy her. The thought tightened Tharn’s jaw. He didn’t hate Richius, or at least he didn’t want to. He had used him horribly, though, and he wondered now as he watched the clouds overhead if there hadn’t been some vengeance in his design.