The Jackal of Nar (88 page)

I am not evil,
Tharn decided.
But I have done evil things. Lorris, help me. Help me with my rage.

As he had been for months, Tharn’s divine patron was silent. The Drol kept his eyes closed, considering the question himself. Voris would kill Richius if he moved against Dyana. He had not ordered it, but he had not had to. It was the way of things between Tharn and the warlord, part of their alliance. Was that evil? Was the murder of Edgard evil? It was all blood for a cause, but sometimes that answer didn’t satisfy Tharn. Lorris was a mystery to him now. Once he had been sure of his god’s desires, so sure he had slaughtered hundreds with his gift. And the act had earned him his wretched body. Sometimes, when he was alone and most in pain, he blamed Lorris, not only for his agony but also for his loneliness. If he were a man and whole like Richius, he might have Dyana for himself.

But it was impossible. She could never love him, and that knowledge broke his heart. He took a deep breath of the clean air and expelled it in a loud sigh. Nagrah, one of the priests he was traveling with, rolled over from his nap and looked at him.

“Master?” said the younger man. “Are you all right?”

Nagrah was barely twenty, a devotee from a good Drol family. Tharn liked him. Usually, he appreciated the young man’s concern. But not now.

“Fine,” he snapped, sure he sounded unconvincing.

Nagrah frowned. Tharn was never short with any of them. “Your pardon, Master, but you are not fine. You have been silent all day. What is it? Are you ill?”

“Look at me,” said Tharn. “Of course I am ill.” But then he softened, saying, “I am really fine. I am just …” He shrugged. “Thinking.”

“Of Chandakkar?” asked Nagrah excitedly. Like the others, Nagrah had eagerly accepted Tharn’s request to go to Karlaz. He was a priest, barely, but he had a boy’s adventurous spirit. Tharn smiled at him.

“No, not Chandakkar. Something far less important. Do not concern yourself.”

Nagrah gestured to the openness around them. “We have all day, Master. Maybe many days. Why not talk?”

“Because I am not in the mood. Now be quiet; let me rest.”

Nagrah looked hurt, but didn’t press his master. He simply
averted his eyes, letting them linger on the beautiful grassland and pretending he was unaffected by the rebuff. Tharn regretted his harshness. They were all good young men. And strong. He had picked them because of their vigor. But they were curious, and curiosity, he had learned early on, shouldn’t be snuffed out. His own father had made that mistake.

“All right,” he said, straightening painfully. “Let us talk.” With his cane he banged on the bench seat in front of him. Raig and Vorn, Nagrah’s Drol brothers, both turned around. Raig had the reins in his hands. “You two, listen to me,” started Tharn. “Young Nagrah wants to talk. And I have things on my mind. Let us exercise our brains a little.”

“Master?” asked Vorn incredulously. Tharn never addressed them so casually. Vorn seemed both pleased and shocked.

“Talk,” said Tharn. “You know what that is, do you not? Our lives need not be all prayers, you know.”

“I know, Master,” replied Vorn. “I pray
and
I talk.”

“Good. Then talk to me. I have a question. Nagrah, listen closely.”

Tharn sat back against the shallow boards and made himself as comfortable as he could. Nagrah and Vorn leaned in closer, keen to hear their master’s question. Raig had turned his eyes back to the road ahead, but he cocked his head to listen.

“I have been wondering something,” Tharn went on. “About cruelty. I am wondering where it comes from.”

The young men puzzled over the question, not really understanding it. Tharn watched with amusement as Nagrah tried to hurry an answer. The aloof Raig beat him to it.

“Evil,” Raig pronounced confidently. “Cruelty comes from evil.”

“Evil,” Tharn echoed, considering it. “Hmm, maybe. Like the Narens, Raig?”

“Yes. The Narens are evil. It makes them cruel. Only evil men could do what was done at Ackle-Nye.”

“Is this a game, Master?” inquired Vorn. He had a suspicious bent that reminded Tharn of himself.

“No, not a game,” said Tharn. “Oh, you three think I have all the answers, but I do not. I wonder things, too. Sometimes it helps me to philosophize.” He poked Nagrah with his cane. “Well? What do you say?”

“I think Raig is right,” said Nagrah. “Evil makes men cruel. Why are you wondering this, Master?”

“I ask the questions. What about the warlords? Are they cruel?”

“No,” replied Raig over his shoulder. “They are warriors.”

Tharn’s smile was precocious. “When Delgar fought Praxtin-Tar at Reen, he buried fifty captured warriors up to their necks on the shore and waited for the tide to come in. Before they drowned the crabs and gulls ate out their eyes. Does that qualify as cruelty to you, Raig?”

It took a long time for Raig to answer, and Tharn watched as his pupil bristled. “Yes, I suppose,” agreed Raig finally. “Maybe Delgar is evil.”

“Delgar is helping us now. He’s fighting with us against the Narens. Does that make us evil?”

“Master, what is this about?” asked Nagrah. “I do not understand. We are not evil.”

“Hush, boy. I never said we were. Raig, tell me. Is Delgar evil, or are you wrong about the cause of cruelty?”

Raig shrugged. “I do not know.”

“I think Raig is wrong,” said Vorn. “Delgar is cruel. Shohar, too. But they are not evil.”

“No,” said Tharn. “I agree with you. They are honorable men, both of them. Brutal, perhaps, but honorable. As are we all.” He looked straight at Nagrah. The young man looked back, clearly troubled. “Right, Nagrah?”

Nagrah could only shrug, and for a moment their minds met. Nagrah knew Tharn was troubled. That was why he had forced him to talk when Tharn was content with silence. The Drol master thought about his question, and how he had been cruel to Richius and Edgard, and how he had kicked the Daegog’s teeth across the throne room. Even Dyana had suffered his cruelty. But Tharn never once considered himself evil. Something else had moved him to such madness. With their eyes still locked, Tharn addressed Nagrah softly.

“Nagrah? Why are men cruel?”

Nagrah’s expression was heartbreaking. “Men are cruel when they are weak, Master. Men are cruel when they have desires and are frustrated.”

And then Nagrah spoke no more. The young man turned
from his master and looked again out over the plains, and there was no more reason for any of them to speak.

Later that day, when the sun was high and full with noon, Tharn awakened from a restless nap. He looked over the side of the rocking carriage and found they were in a swamp of dry grass, higher even than a man’s waist and dotted with ancient, thick-limbed trees with wide, spreading canopies of leaves. He made a quick assessment of the sun’s position and decided it was time to stop. A rap of his cane got Raig’s attention.

“Stop the carriage,” he ordered. “Rest time. And prayer time.”

Raig obeyed at once, drawing the pair of horses to a stop and setting down the reins. He and Vorn both climbed into the back of the carriage for some water and food. Nagrah began digging into the supplies. Tharn, whose back felt broken with fatigue, decided to stretch himself with a walk.

“Eat,” he directed as he got unsteadily to his feet. “Rest. I will be back soon.”

Nagrah looked up. “Where are you going?”

“To pray,” said Tharn. He pointed with his cane into the high grass. “Out there.”

“No, Master. It is too dangerous.” Nagrah got to his feet and took Tharn’s wobbly arm.

“Relax, boy,” said Tharn. “Help me down.”

“The grass is too tall,” Nagrah protested, complying. “We will not be able to see you.”

Tharn sighed. “I have not needed a wetnurse for a long while, Nagrah. Now eat and rest yourself. I will be quick.”

He heard Nagrah’s protests over his shoulder but ignored them, hobbling off into the tall grass, beating down the worst of it with his cane. It was dry here, and the grass beneath his feet hissed as he flattened it. Before long he was almost out of sight of the carriage, thoroughly invisible when he knelt. His knees gave an awful groan as he eased to the ground, setting aside his cane. He drew in a breath of sweet air to cleanse his mind. Above, the sky was cloudless. In the distance he could hear the youthful, argumentative voices of his cunning-men. This he blocked out, too, shutting his eyes and listening to the wind.

And Tharn prayed.…

He spoke to Lorris and to Pris, he asked for guidance and for strength, and for all the usual prayerful things, but he also asked for forgiveness for his cruelty, and he thanked his gods for opening his eyes to what he had become. With help, he would change, he told them. He had almost finished his lament when a sound behind him broke his thoughts.

Tharn muttered a little curse. “Nagrah, please …”

Tharn opened his eyes and turned around, and his breath stopped with a gasp. Six feet before him was the biggest animal he had ever seen, its feline head lowered to the ground, its yellow eyes bright with interest. Tharn froze. The big cat’s ears drew back and for a moment it was invisible in the tawny grass. Tharn reached very slowly for his cane. The huge eyes tracked him, unblinking.

He wanted to flee, but there was nowhere to run. And running wasn’t what Tharn was best at anyway. Carefully, painfully, he brought up one knee, then the other, until he was standing.

“Easy,” he whispered. “Easy …”

The beast’s eyes narrowed and a low growl rumbled from its throat. Tharn put up his hands.

“No, no. Easy. I am nothing. No trouble.”

He took one step backward. The cat didn’t pursue.

“Good,” he crooned. “Good …”

“Master!”

The lion turned in a blur. Nagrah was coming, his face rigid with alarm. Behind him were Vorn and Raig. The lion roared and gathered itself to spring.

“No!” Tharn screamed, swatting at the beast with his cane. Again the lion turned. It opened up its mouth, bared its pointed fangs, and raised a flashing paw.

And the world just disappeared.

A
rkus of Nar was on a ship, sailing.

His hair was black and his limbs were strong, and he was a young man again. Barely twenty, he supposed. From the prow of the warship he could see the great expanse of ocean, and the sky was a deep, impossible blue, the kind of color that only appears in dreams. It was a giant ship, this sister of the fleet, yet he was alone on its deck and his solitude did not frighten him. Because he was young he had only one name—Arkus. It was not time yet for his Black Renaissance: not time to be dubbed the doom of the world.

Far out to sea the coast of Lucel-Lor beckoned, a shimmering break on the horizon. He had traveled far and hard, and had endured the jealous looks of the sailors who had borne him here. Arkus was not a ruler today, and wouldn’t be for years. Today he was only a hunter, sent to behead a mythical beast of Lucel-Lor. He would present the lion’s skull to his father, he decided, and prove his worth. His father would be pleased, and he would see that he had raised a fine and fearless heir.

Curiously, as happens in dreams, the sky began to darken. Arkus looked over the side of his ship. Beneath the keel the sea began to foam and boil, and from its depth arose a reptilian head, and then another, and then two more, all on the smooth torsos of snakes. They towered above the ship and its single passenger, staring down at him angrily. Abruptly the ship ceased its movement. Arkus of Nar gazed up at the serpent and commanded it out of his way.

“I have need of Lucel-Lor, monster,” he shouted. “Do not fight me.”

All the beaked heads scowled. “Who are you?” they asked. “And what is your need?” The heads seemed to speak at once in a hissing chorus.

“I am Arkus of Nar,” he answered defiantly. “Someday master of a continent. Are you the guardian of Lucel-Lor?”

“We have many names,” said the heads together. One smiled a dragon’s smile. “I am Tharn,” it said. Then its brothers joined in.

“I am Liss.”

“I am the Magic of Lucel-Lor.”

“And you?” asked Arkus of the head that was silent. “What are you called?”

The head that hadn’t spoken now loomed higher than the rest. “I am Richius Vantran,” it boomed. “I am the Jackal. The betrayer.”

“We are all who fight you,” said the heads, laughing, and the sea began to pitch so that Arkus could hardly stand. “We are keeping you from living.”

“No,” bellowed Arkus. He went to the railing of the ship and shook his fist at the hellish thing. “I am immortal. I do not fear you.”

“In your youth you were immortal,” said the head that called itself Magic. “And you feared nothing then.”

“But you are old now,” added the head called Vantran. “Old and weak. You are dying.”

“I am not!” Arkus cried. “I fear no one. I am here at my father’s beckoning, to capture and kill a lion and to bring back its head.”

The head called Liss began to howl. “You have killed us! And now we will kill you!”

“No,” Arkus protested. “I must go to Lucel-Lor. You must let me pass. Peace, Liss. I promised you peace.…”

Now all the heads were wailing, and Arkus felt their accusations tearing him, dragging him back to his awful reality. Cold gripped him, and the unspeakable pull of age. He gripped the rail harder to steady himself.

“Stop it!” he cried. “Stop, I demand it!”

And the head that called itself Richius Vantran lowered itself on its prehensile neck and regarded Arkus with all the venom of the world. “You demand nothing from us, old man,” it hissed. “We defy you, for you are weak. You can’t even see us! You are blind.”

Arkus put his hands to his eyes. He knew the dragon spoke true, and the rightness of it shattered him, startling him awake. The sound of his hearth-fire roared in his ears, but he could not see its flames. All was black, as it had been for weeks now, and Arkus of Nar cursed his blindness and screamed an unholy scream.

• • •

It had taken nearly an hour for Biagio to calm the emperor. Since returning to Nar City, Biagio had foregone his usual apartments for a small chamber near Arkus’, so that he could handle any emergencies. He had heard Arkus’ wails even before the monarch’s servants, and had rushed into the chamber to find him delirious with fear, clutching and tearing at his eyes. And though he was far stronger than his emaciated ruler, Biagio had needed nearly all his strength to subdue Arkus, so powerful was his delirium.