The Jackal of Nar (97 page)

“Big,” he said.

“But unmanned,” added Lucyler quickly. “At least as far as I can see. If we move quickly we can douse them and be off before anyone can stop us.”

“Yes, quickly,” agreed Kronin. He too stepped out of the bushes. “The launchers have to be taken or they’ll be able to stop our charge. There are not so many of us for surprise to be enough.” He turned to Hakan. “Are your men prepared?”

Hakan nodded. “The skins are all filled. We await your word, Warlord.”

“Do not be heroic,” scolded Lucyler. “Just get the oil on the wagons and get out of there.”

“I will give the signal for the archers to loose when all of us are clear,” Kronin put in. “Lucyler, you will ride with me. We will take the wagon in the center, the one by the man with the hat. If he is important, he might lead us to Gayle.”

There was so much iron in the warlord’s voice that Lucyler couldn’t keep his chest from swelling. They had all ridden hard for the valley once word of Voris’ predicament had reached them, and none of them knew what they would find here. A ruined castle? Richius and Voris swinging from trees? There had been a massacre of sorts, but it had included Triin and Narens alike, and Richius and Voris had both told Hakan that the odds would be even. A final, decisive moment had arrived in Dring’s history, and it seemed odd to Lucyler that he and Kronin should be part of it. But they were all part of a greater brotherhood now, without the rancor that had once dominated their thinking. Tharn would expect no less of them.

And they owed it to Liss, those brave, magnificent mariners whose hatred of Nar had eclipsed everything else in their lives, including reason. The schooners of Liss had kept the dreadnoughts
of the Black Fleet off the shores of Tatterak, so that only those Narens that had already landed were a threat. And there were so few of them now that only a fraction of Kronin’s men could contain them. So they had ridden for the valley with their own land secure, and the peace of mind that if they returned at all, it would be to a land at relative peace. Tatterak was safe for the time being. Dring was another matter entirely.

“Go back, Hakan,” ordered Kronin. “Tell the others to make ready. Come get us again in one hour. We will attack then.”

“And you, Warlord?” asked Hakan. “Will you wait here?”

“With Lucyler, yes,” said Kronin. “I mean to keep an eye open for the criminal Gayle.”

Hakan bowed reluctantly and left them, silently stalking farther up the hill and disappearing. When he was gone and all they could hear was the slow rush of wind and the rustling of leaves, Kronin turned to Lucyler.

“There are still many of them,” he said frankly. “Vantran’s plan is good but risky. This might not work at all. You know that, yes?”

“I know,” answered Lucyler. “But I know Richius, too. He is clever. He has worked this all out, I am sure.”

Kronin settled down on his haunches. He smiled at Lucyler. “You do this for him? Nothing more?”

“I do it for Lucel-Lor,” replied Lucyler. Then he thought for a moment and added, “And for my friend, yes. I owe him for some old wrongs. And what about you, Kronin? To be honest you surprise me. You hate Voris even more than you hate Gayle. Is your faith in Tharn so strong?”

Kronin laughed softly. “Stronger than I would have guessed,” he confessed. “And I too owe the man from Aramoor a debt.” The laughing vanished and a mournful look settled upon the warlord’s face. “Debts are sometimes hard to repay.”

Richius and Voris left Castle Dring under the cover of darkness. Two hundred men followed them. They were without horses or provisions, slogging their way south through the valley’s thickest parts, heading toward the marshlands. It was barely a half-day’s journey, and with only their jiiktars and Richius’ giant
broadsword to slow them they moved like an army of ants through the brush and tangled trees.

Richius held his scabbarded sword at his side as he trotted over fallen trees and under spear-shaped branches. He was near exhaustion, but the ground was starting to soften. They were close now.

But he was so tired. His muscles moved by force of will alone. Sweat poured from his forehead, stinging his eyes, and giant black mosquitoes swarmed around his face, puncturing his flesh with their knifelike stingers. It was a hot day in Dring, the hottest he could recall. Sunlight chewed through the net of trees, bearing down on them mercilessly. Ahead of him, Richius could see the back of Voris’ robe soaked with perspiration. The warlord’s neck was pocked with insect bites. A constrictor moved in the trees, regarding them with its reptilian eyes, and a rotting stump spewed up a foam of white termites. The air took on a tangy stink, the smell of wet decay. Somewhere ahead of them something large splashed through a pond. It might have been a monkey or some giant fish, but Richius ignored it, closing off his mind to the sound. There were enough visible monstrosities to occupy his fears. He didn’t need imagination here. Once again he was in the Dring of his nightmares, the evil, suffocating underbelly of the valley.

But soon it’ll be over,
he assured himself. Lucyler and Kronin were coming. With luck they would reach the swamps by nightfall. The thought put an extra spring in Richius’ step. Soon the valley would be free of Narens, and he could return to the keep and tell Dyana how he had watched Gayle sink to his knees in the bog and beg for mercy, and how he had killed him anyway. Dyana and their daughter would be rid of Gayle’s threat forever. And he would have avenged Sabrina. Finally.

They continued on this way for long minutes, never sharing a word, rationing their energies as they fought their way deeper into the darkening marshlands. And then, at last, Voris stopped. The warlord held up a hand to halt his company. Dumaka Jarra shouted back an order, and man by man the column of exhausted warriors stopped moving. Richius stood next to Voris. Before them was an oozing expanse of muddy earth, so sodden and unstable that only frogs and insects could light upon its surface
without breaking it. Overhead the trees were high, thick with leaves that blocked out the worst of the sun’s cutting rays. The air was perceptibly ranker. Voris tested the ground with the toe of his boot and his foot disappeared. When he pulled it out, it was covered with a slick of green, noxious muck. He grunted, then glanced up into the trees, gesturing toward the high, concealing branches.

“Do o dae,” he said. “Ta, Kalak?”

Richius looked up into the trees and a smile split his face. “Perfect.”

“Lotts! Stop hiding and get over here. We’re talking about you again.”

There was a chorus of laughter as Dinadin stepped out from behind his horse, his grooming brush still in hand. He flicked his colonel a disinterested look, trying to quell the little flutter of terror that always came when Trosk called him. “Colonel?”

“Take a seat, waterhead,” ordered Trosk. “You’re missing some good stories about your king.” Trosk pointed to the empty space on the ground beside him. “Here.”

Dinadin went to where Trosk and the others were huddled around a burned-out campfire. They all gave him the same skeptical look as he sat down beside the colonel. Trosk removed his feathered hat and ran the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away a pool of perspiration.

“Damn. It’s hotter than a whore’s bedroom out here.” He fluffed up the long yellow feather before replacing his hat and cocking it down over his right eye. “You hot, Lotts?”

Dinadin nodded.

“Still not talking to me, huh, you little bastard? Hell, that’s all right. I got other friends.”

The others in the circle flashed menacing smiles. Dinadin grimaced. Even before they had raped the village girl, he could barely stand the sight of them. Now when he looked at them he was sickened. That girl still gave him nightmares. How did these devils dare to look at him so accusingly?

“You’re taking good care of your horse, Lotts,” said Trosk. “That’s just fine. You go on cleaning yourself up. I want you to look real pretty when we ride into the woods to take apart your
king and that dumpy little castle he’s cowering in. I want him to see us all coming.” Trosk looked off into the distance, toward the giant watchtower whose peak could barely be seen bobbing up above the tree line. “You think he sees us now, Lotts?”

Dinadin wouldn’t reply.

“No? Let’s try anyway. Come on, Lotts. Wave to your old friend.” The colonel started waving toward the far-off tower, then quickly turned his gesture into an obscenity. There was more malicious laughter from the soldiers. “Hello, Jackal!” cried Trosk. “We’re coming for you!”

Dinadin felt his mood crumble. They
would
be coming for Richius soon. The word from the infantry was that Voris’ resistance was collapsing. Today or tomorrow, Gayle would give the order to ride for the castle. Amazingly, Dinadin felt a pang at the notion. It wasn’t the reunion with Richius he would have liked. There was a part of him that wanted to sneak off and warn his old friend, to fight by his side once again against these evil men. But he was thinking of another lifetime, a man he was no longer. His eyes lingered a moment on the distant watchtower.

Are you up there, Richius? Would you turn me away?

Trosk turned his attention to one of the small pavilions dotting the camp. There were only two of them. Trosk and ten men shared one. Gayle alone inhabited the other. Trosk stared at Gayle’s tent contemptuously, and his voice dipped to a whisper.

“The baron is going mad, I think. Since seeing Vantran on the barricade he talks about nothing else.” He turned to Dinadin and chuckled. “You might want to send your old king a warning, Lotts. Tell him Blackwood Gayle’s coming for him with a gelding knife!”

“We have to catch him first,” offered one of the men in the circle, a filthy-haired lieutenant. “That castle might not look like much, but it’s no doubt well manned. Vantran’s probably got the whole thing rimmed with traps by now.”

“Gayle thinks the castle will come down in less than a day,” said Trosk. His eyes glinted wildly, the same way they did when he had first glimpsed the peasant girl. “If we’re lucky he’ll let us have some trophies. But not Vantran. He’s to be taken alive. Maybe you’ll come in helpful for that, Lotts. Maybe he’ll trust you.”

“What?” asked Dinadin incredulously.

“Do you think you can do it? Talk him into surrendering? It’ll look good for us all if you do.”

They were all watching him. “I don’t know,” Dinadin mumbled. “Maybe.”

“It’s how such things are done, Lotts,” snapped Trosk. “You’d know that if you were any sort of man.” Then he laughed again. “But I forget myself. You’re not a man, are you?”

Dinadin got to his feet indignantly. “I’ll go back to my grooming now,” he said. “If we’re done, sir.”

“Ooohh, I think I’ve finally said something to make the boy bristle. Is that right, Lotts? You mad at me? ’Cause if you are it’d break my heart.”

More insane laughter. The heat of the day and the insult mingled to make Dinadin’s face boil. For one fleeting second, the thought of kicking Trosk in his arrogant face shone gloriously in his mind. It would almost be worth it. But only almost.

“Whatever you say, sir,” said Dinadin. There was the barest trace of sarcasm in his tone. “You’re always right.”

“Yes,” agreed Trosk seriously. “Remember that.”

Dinadin almost turned to go, but something off on the hillside made him pause. He stared out into the distance, shading his eyes with his hand. Something was moving, something colorful.

Trosk looked up, and every head around the circle followed. Somewhere behind them another soldier was shouting. A confused excitement galvanized the camp. All around, men were springing to their feet. Trosk stood beside Dinadin, snapping up the brim of his hat with a fingernail.

Warriors. Scores of them, thundering down the hillside in a blazing mass, their jiiktars held as high as the screech of their inhuman voices. They poured out of the trees, yelping and kicking up clods of brown earth as they hurried their horses onto the plain, their faces green and horrible, their hair billowing emerald.

“Colonel …?” said the filthy lieutenant. He seemed lost. “What … What’s happening?”

Trosk was speechless. His jaw had dropped open. Around them, the other horsemen had begun to move, scrambling onto their horses or searching frantically for misplaced weapons. Dinadin reached into his mind, trying to find a solid place to anchor himself. His horse. He had to get his horse. But Trosk wasn’t moving.…

“Colonel?” he ventured. “What should we do?”

Before he could answer Blackwood Gayle burst out of his tent. He was more than ten yards away but Dinadin heard his booming voice as if the baron was standing next to him.

“Fires of heaven,” exclaimed Gayle. “That’s Kronin!”

Hurriedly the baron began shouting, ordering his men to find their mounts. He himself dashed for his own black charger, tossing himself onto its back. He scanned the camp, and when he saw the dumbstruck Trosk he swore.

“Trosk!” he bellowed madly. “On your horse, man! Protect the launchers!”

The order snapped Trosk out of his stupor. “The launchers,” he muttered. He turned to Dinadin with all his old menace. “Ready to be a hero, Lotts?”

The furious sound of bloodthirsty men pounded in Lucyler’s ears as his horse hurtled headlong down the hillside. A white heat welled up inside him. The Talistanians in the camp had seen them. Orders were being shouted. Men were clambering onto horseback. It was all wonderfully sloppy, and Lucyler bared his teeth as he joined in the chorus of his companions, screaming like an animal as he charged into battle. Beside him, Kronin was an avenging angel, a long-haired nightmare that sang and moved with a serpent’s speed and a hurricane’s implacable might.

Lucyler lowered his head and held his jiiktar close. The beast beneath him snorted as it stampeded down the hill, toward the little collection of war wagons and the still-dozing monsters tethered to them. The acid launchers atop the iron vehicles were flaccid. The great bellows didn’t stir. Lucyler felt a rush of triumph. If the launchers weren’t manned …

But someone had read their minds—the peculiar man with the hat. He was shouting and pointing at all the wagons. Lucyler cursed.