The Jackal of Nar (94 page)

“You want to be right?” asked Voris. “You are. Kalak is better than I thought. And yes, I have been considering him. And yes, it does bother me. Should it not?”

“I suppose. You still grieve for Tal. But Tal died defending Dring. Now Kalak might do the same. So maybe they were not so different.”

Voris shrugged. “Maybe.” He didn’t want Kalak dying for Dring. For some reason, the young king seemed to have lost too much already. He was without a home, nearly friendless. He didn’t even have a woman, a luxury all Triin men took for granted. If Kalak died, Voris knew he would grieve for him.

“We cannot keep them back forever,” said Voris. “A week more. Maybe less. We will have to make plans for the defense of the keep. Kalak can help with that. It would be good to put his brain to use.”

“He knows these Narens well,” Jarra admitted. “Tharn was right about him.”

“Yes. He was right.”

“And Tharn’s woman? What of her?”

“She will die, like the rest of us,” said Voris. He closed his eyes. “Tharn, forgive me.”

“Do not talk so among the others,” scolded the war master. “Most think Tharn is still alive. If you do not, they will not, either. Then they will not fight as well.”

“Jarra, you are pestering me,” snapped Voris. “Leave me alone now.”

It always took such sharpness to shoo Jarra away. The war master left, his feelings uninjured. Voris watched him go. He loved Jarra. The old man was like a father to him. He had been war master in Dring since Voris had taken the valley. The Wolf simply couldn’t imagine life without him. To Voris, Jarra was the Dring Valley, old and forever. He had thought Tharn would be like that, too, but then the gods became fickle and crippled him. Now, just like Dring without Jarra, Voris couldn’t comprehend Lucel-Lor without Tharn.

He thought of Dyana, and how he had always warned Tharn against her. But she had been too beautiful for his friend to resist. Voris crinkled his forehead. She was lovely, in a sort of undomesticated way. He supposed he could understand the attraction. And Dyana had made Tharn happy in his last days. For that, the warlord was grateful. He had never thought the girl capable of such kindness.

It was just one more thing he had been wrong about.

R
ichius healed quickly over the subsequent days, anxious for word from Voris and receiving none. He whiled away the hours sitting up in bed, waiting for Dyana to make her appointed visits with food and more of the cooling medicine that had made the skin of his back supple once again. After a few days of the ointment he could tolerate a shirt and short walks outside to get some air. He ate well, devouring everything Dyana
brought to him, scribbled furiously in his journal about the Naren siege, and entertained himself with violent fantasies of revenge against Blackwood Gayle. Maps had become a hobby, and he regularly drew pictures of the Dring Valley and the marshlands to its south, planning for the time when Kronin and his warriors would come to their aid and help push the Narens into the wetlands for a sodden demise.

But he was frustrated, too. It wasn’t so much the war he missed, but he hated the horror of the unknown. Like everyone in Castle Dring, he had no idea how close the Narens were to the keep, or how many of the valley’s defenders remained. Voris and his warriors might be turning the tide, or they might be pressed against a wall with blades at their throats. And here he was, stuck in a prison, ignorant and comfortable while others fought to defend Dyana and their child.

Only the time he spent with Dyana made him forget their predicament. She had a way of making hours speed away. She came to him daily with his meals and little bits of gossip about what was being said, how the wounded were telling stories of their small victories, and how the Narens had never seen such fierce fighters—all the usual bravado of dying men. She talked in hushed tones about Najjir and the other women of the keep, and occasionally even mentioned Tharn. And she always left the door to his chamber open when she came to him.

She had taken her mission to teach him her language seriously, and set about the task with alarming vigor. For an hour each day she kept up a cool exterior while she taught him the most rudimentary of Triin sayings and extolled the virtues of the Triin alphabet. He soon found that he was only a fair student. Triin was unlike the languages of the Empire, which to his thinking were far more fluid. Everything he uttered in Triin sounded like little more than baby dribble. But Dyana was patient with him, gently coaxing each word off his tongue with determination, and by the end of a week he was sounding more like a Triin and less like a troubled infant.

Best of all, Shani was often nearby to encourage him. For some reason, Dyana had become less wary about bringing their child to see him. She would shrug off the oddness by saying that Najjir was too busy to tend the infant, but Richius could tell by
the way she encouraged him to hold their daughter that there was something more to it.

Weeks had passed since any of them had heard from Tharn. Once, in the thickness of his pain, he thought he had glimpsed Tharn speaking to him in a dream, but when he awoke the apparition had gone, and he remembered how long it had been since the cunning-man had left for Chandakkar. He had grieved for Tharn that night, sure his old adversary had died. In the morning his fears had abated, but like everyone else he still wondered where the lord of Lucel-Lor had vanished to. Chandakkar was remote and dangerous, and Tharn might already be a stomach-souring lump in the belly of a lion.

But Richius never voiced any of these fears to Dyana. She and Tharn were not lovers, but they were man and wife, and Richius guessed that most of Dyana’s sadness grew from her worries over her husband. So they avoided the subject and enjoyed what time they had together, while outside the castle walls, the war for their lives raged on, and more men died telling foolish stories of foolish bravery.

And then at last Voris returned to Castle Dring. It was on a night when the rain was falling hard, the thunderous release of a hot day’s humidity. Richius was in his chamber when the knock came. It was Dumaka Jarra, the war master. Richius had been clearing the debris of his evening meal, chewing on a bone as he opened the door. Jarra made a disapproving face.

“Jarra,” said Richius. He put the bone down, embarrassed to be eating in the presence of the gaunt war master. “What is it? Has Voris returned?” He pointed out into the hall. “Voris?”

“Voris,” answered the old man with a nod. He turned and gestured for Richius to follow him. “Gomin easa ar, Kalak.”

“He’s waiting for me? Just wait a moment,” said Richius. He hurried over to where his boots were lying and slid one onto his foot, then hopped toward the door as he slid on the other. The haggard war master bid him to follow, leading him out of the chamber and into the hall. There he saw a congregation of people, wide-eyed and eager for news of their lord. The Dumaka put up a hand to part them, growling at them to step aside.

Richius trailed the Dumaka through the hall toward the back of the keep. It was quieter here, darker, with few windows and
only a handful of torches to light the way. Richius had never been in this area of the castle before. He suspected it was where Voris had his own chambers and those of his family, and he never wanted to chance running into the precocious little Pris again. Several wooden doors hung crookedly on the western wall, and the ceiling was high and sooty from years of burning torches. An elaborate spider’s web clung to an out-of-reach corner. Jarra came to one of the doors, rapped on it twice, then pushed it open. Richius peered over the old man’s shoulder. Inside the chamber was a low circular table with green pillows strewn around it. Soft fabrics decorated the walls. A candelabra burned serenely in the center of the table, casting its glow on two silent figures. Voris sat cross-legged and long-faced at the far side of the table. Beside him knelt Dyana, her head dutifully bowed. She hardly stirred as Richius entered.

“Voris?” he ventured.

The warlord forced a smile. Dumaka Jarra stepped into the chamber and sat down on the floor beside Voris. Both men eyed Richius mournfully. Unsure if he should sit or remain standing, Richius waited for Voris to speak. At last he did, and his voice was thin and brittle.

“The warlord asks you to sit,” explained Dyana, keeping her head bowed as she spoke. Richius felt a queer uneasiness inch up his spine.

“What is it?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

“I do not know,” answered Dyana. “Sit, please.”

Richius did as Dyana asked, lowering himself to the floor between her and Voris. He tried to make her look at him, but she wouldn’t. Voris’ expression was vacant. Beside him, his Dumaka wore a stony mask.

“I’m listening, Voris,” said Richius. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Dyana translated, and Voris gave a bitter laugh. He pulled up a sleeve and stretched out his forearm for Richius to see. The scars crisscrossing his skin were a violent shade of purple.

“Acid launcher,” remarked Richius. “Yes, I understand. Have you stopped them yet?”

The warlord’s reply was short. Richius struggled to piece together the snippets he understood. What he heard didn’t make sense.

“He has not,” said Dyana. “He wishes to know how you are, Richius.”

“Me? Who cares how I am? Come on, Dyana, ask him what’s happening.”

“The warlord wishes you well, Richius,” chided Dyana mildly.

“I’m much better,” he said. Then, “Easa, Voris. Fine. Thank you. Shay sar.”

Voris seemed pleased by the answer. Then his eyes grew melancholy, and he pulled down his billowy sleeve to cover his wounds. He sighed so loudly his breath stirred the candle flames. When he spoke, he did so directly to Richius.

“Voris wants you to know that our time is short,” said Dyana. “He says the Narens are very near now. Soon the horsemen will be coming, and he will not be able to stop them.” Her voice caught for a moment before she could right it. “He says we have only days left.”

Richius was stunned. He had seen the numbers massed against them, had witnessed the carnage Gayle and his henchmen could occasion, yet he had never really considered that Voris would utter such words. His throat constricted. If he was lucky he would die anonymously with the others. If he were not, he would be dragged to Nar City in chains. He thought of Dyana and Shani, and the horrors they might be forced to endure.

“Days,” he whispered breathlessly. He would never let Gayle take his family. He would have them all drink poison first.

“Richius?” said Dyana. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” said Richius distantly. “Fine …”

“The warlord wants you to know that you have honored him. He asks your forgiveness that he has failed you.”

“No,” said Richius. “I won’t hear it. We aren’t beaten yet. There’s still time for Kronin to reach us. Go on, Dyana, tell him about my plan.”

Dyana raised her head. “Richius …”

“Tell him.”

Reluctantly Dyana explained Richius’ plan to Voris, who listened attentively before smiling at Richius and shaking his head. Dumaka Jarra chuckled.

“Voris says Kronin will not come,” said Dyana. “He says Kronin is probably enjoying this as much as your horsemen.”

“No,” said Richius sternly. “I don’t believe that. Voris, listen to me. Kronin will come, he will.” Frustrated, Richius tried to make the warlord understand with a flurry of hand signs and a string of fractured Triin phrases. At last he gave up and fell back into Naren. “I know Kronin better than you do. He’s not the man you think he is. He has honor, like you. Honor. Yaaso, Voris. Kronin yaaso. He will come to help us. When he does we can push the Narens into the swamps. We just have to hold on until he gets here.”

Voris put up his hands, not waiting for Dyana’s translation. Dyana listened then translated for Richius.

“Voris wants you to stop being so foolish,” she said. “He says you are too young to believe this, but there is a time when every warrior dies. You must accept it.”

“Maybe,” said Richius. “But I won’t accept it until I know for certain. If we give up now, we’ll never know how long we could have held out. Maybe long enough for Kronin to come or Tharn to return.
Maybe.
”

Voris seemed exasperated. He looked to his companion for guidance, but Jarra merely tossed off one of his cavalier shrugs. “Kalak oahnal benagray,” said the Dumaka.

“The Dumaka thinks you are brave but stupid, Richius,” said Dyana. Then she stole a glance at him and added, “But I am with you.”

“Then convince them, Dyana. Please. I don’t have the words. How can I make them see that it’s only a matter of time? Kronin will come, I know he will. He’ll come because he’s dedicated to Tharn—just like Voris and the rest of them.”

“Richius,” said Dyana cautiously. “Tharn may be dead.”

“So what if he is? Does that mean Kronin will just let Voris and his men be slaughtered? I don’t think so. He’s devoted to Tharn’s ideals, not just the man. He’s just like Voris. Loyal.”

Voris interrupted, telling Dyana to explain it all to him. Dyana complied, and the warlord’s face once again dimmed with doubt. This time when he spoke, he was very firm.

“You do not know him as well as you think you do,” said Dyana for Voris. “He is a serpent. If he thinks Tharn is dead he will happily let us be murdered.”

Richius got to his feet and stood before Voris. “No. I no more believe that than I believe you would let Tatterak fall under Nar’s
heel. You’re so blinded by hate that you can’t see that. But I put it to you, Voris. Would you let Kronin and his men fall? Would you not help them?”

Voris waited a very long moment before replying. His answer was more like a grunt than a sentence.

“The warlord says he would not let them die,” says Dyana. “He would save them for Tharn’s sake, and the sake of all Triin.”

“Of course,” said Richius. “That’s the only real answer a warrior of Lucel-Lor could give. Why would you think Kronin would give any other? Believe me, Voris, I beg you. Fight on. Don’t just let Arkus and his bastards take your valley. It isn’t over yet. I swear it.”

Voris listened to Richius’ appeal with interest, a wan smile brightening his face. Dyana translated it all.