The Jackal of Nar

by John Marco

  "It is a long way," said Voris. His expression had softened with concern. "You take care of yourself, my friend. And do not fret. What you are doing is right."

  Tharn tried to smile but couldn't quite manage it. "Right or wrong, I expect to be damned for it." He went to his own horse and started to mount when he heard a cry echoing from inside the castle.

  "Bhapo! Wait!"

  Tharn pulled his foot out of the stirrup and looked toward the castle gate. From out of the darkness came Pris, Voris' youngest daughter. She was running toward them, her arms outstretched. "Do not leave yet, Bhapo," she cried. She tried to run past her father but Voris caught her by the collar. "Daughter," he scolded. "Get back to bed." Pris tried to squirm free of her father's hand, but Voris held her tight. "I want to say good-bye," she pleaded. "I saw Bhapo leaving from my window. Please..."

  "All right," agreed Voris. "But be quick. Bhapo has to leave." Tharn went over to the little girl and dropped to his knees. The pain of the gesture blew through him but he ignored it, staring into the girl's face with a smile. "I am not going to be gone forever, Pris," he said gently. "Do not worry. I will come back soon as I can. I have things to do first, though."

  "What things, Bhapo?" asked the girl. "War things?" Tharn loved to hear her call him Bhapo. It was a term of endearment meaning "uncle," and Tharn always smiled when he heard it. "I have to go and stop a bad man, Pris. I have to go help some people. But I will be back, I promise. And things will be good then. All right?"

  Pris nodded. "Yes, Bhapo. Will you bring me back another book when you come?"

  "I will try. But here, let me show you something. You will like this."

  With Pris and her father watching, Tharn picked up a stick from the ground, a gnarled, dry branch that had fallen from one of the courtyard's birch trees. Quickly he pulled off the twigs studding it, then began to crack the stick into pieces. Each piece he laid on the ground in turn, until he had formed what looked like a figure, a wooden man with a branch for a torso and tiny sticks for legs and arms.

  "There," said Tharn. "Do you know what that is?" Pris didn't hide her disappointment. "Nothing," she said sourly.

  "Not nothing. That is a man."

  The girl cocked her head inquisitively and studied the stick figure. "It is?"

  "Yes!" Tharn waved his hand over the twigs. "Look." The sticks quivered for a moment, and then the little wooden man stood up, teetered on his blunt feet, and began to move. Pris squealed with delight, clapping her hands. Tharn laughed and looked up at Voris, whose eyes were wide with a sort of horrified fascination. As Pris clapped, the little wooden man began to dance, and soon even the cunning-men, who had slowly been growing accustomed to their master's bizarre abilities, began to chuckle.

  "Keep clapping, Pris," directed Tharn. He got up from his knees and headed back to his horse. "He will dance for you a little longer."

  So enthralled was the girl with her new toy that she hardly noticed her beloved Bhapo leaving. Voris walked past her and helped Tharn onto his horse. His white face still bore a look of utter shock.

  "What was that?" asked the warlord.

  Tharn shrugged. "Ask Lorris," he replied, then snapped the reins of his horse and rode away. Moments later, when he had disappeared into the green forest, the little man he had made of sticks stopped dancing and fell broken to the ground.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  His is name was Nebarazar Gorandarr, but no one ever called him that. He had a royal pedigree longer that of most Naren kings, save for perhaps the emperor himself, and he could trace his bloodline back a thousand generations, to the time when the Triin were gatherers of plants and the first troublesome Drol had yet to worship a mythical god. Because of his lineage and the twistedness of his name, his people had long ago settled on a title for those of his once powerful clan.

  They called him Daegog.

  It was an ancient word meaning "leader," and the Daegog Lucel-Lor took pride in the title. He was not Daegog Nebaraza Gorandarr, he was simply the Daegog. His wife called him thus as did his dozen children, and to speak his full name while in his presence was to commit the highest heresy. Those who serve him did so not out of love, but the deepest, inbred loyalty. His family had been revered throughout Triin history, and though he had been the weakest of his clan, he still commanded honor, at least among those who had not fallen under the spell of the Drol. Some thought him petty. He knew this and generally did not mind the insult. He was vastly wealthy, or at least he had be before losing his citadel to Tharn, and he always considered mere jealousy that those with less should call him mean or tight with his riches. In his mind he had earned every bauble simply by virtue of who he was, the latest descendant of a venerabe family.

  Today the Daegog of Lucel-Lor was in a particularly foul mood, and he intended everyone to know it. He drummed pudgy fingers on the meeting table, so that his stout rings rubbed together. Of all the things the Daegog hated, he despised waiting above all else. In better days, keeping a Daegog waiting would have been a crime. But those days had passed, and even he knew he couldn't expect the Naren savages to understand such complicated etiquette. So he waited, seething, on pillows of less than quality silk. A serving woman placed a bowl of dates before him and he batted it away, spilling the fruit to the floor.

  "Get out," he snapped at the woman, who quickly obeyed. Next to him he could feel the warlord Kronin bristle, but he didn't care. He was tired of living in this hovel of a castle, tired of being the warlord's guest. He wanted to go home, and he blamed the others in the room for keeping him away from his beloved Falindar. One-armed Edgard, the Aramoorian war duke, rubbed the stump of his shoulder distractedly and gave Kronin a furtive wink. The Daegog cringed inwardly, sure that they thought him an idiot.

  "I want to start," he said to Kronin. "Where is this fool baron? Go and find him."

  Kronin, warlord of Tatterak, stifled a grunt and got up from the floor. Mildly annoyed, he started toward the open archway before noticing Baron Blackwood Gayle. The baron pushed past him without regard, strode into the chamber, and bowed deeply to the Triin leader. He was a giant man, the epitome of a Naren barbarian, and when he moved, his leather armor stretched and groaned. Behind him followed another Talistanian, the ubiquitous, weasel-faced Colonel Trosk, who never removed his feathered hat for anyone, not even the Daegog.

  "Daegog," said the baron with a flourish. "Forgive my lateness. Matters of weight occupied me, and I only just arrived."

  "It is a disservice you do me, Baron, to keep me waiting. What do you think I do all day that I have such time to waste? Sit."

  Gayle cocked his head deferentially, and he and his colonel sat cross-legged on the floor, fighting to maneuver the silk pillows under their buttocks. They made no attempt to speak to Duke Edgard, nor did the Aramoorian pay them any attention, Kronin returned to his place beside the Daegog without a word. "Woman!" cried the Daegog in his own tongue, directing his voice out into the hall. "Bring us some food. More dates, and drink."

  Seconds later the serving woman returned, bearing with her a tray of fruits and a tall silver decanter. She placed the tray on the table and nervously poured some tokka, the Daegog's favorite liquor, into her master's outstretched glass. When it was filled, she attended to the others.

  "Now," said the Daegog haughtily, "may we begin?"

  "Of course, wise one," said the baron through one of his insincere smiles. "If the others are ready .

  "We were waiting for you," said Edgard. The war duke looked contemptuously at Gayle. "I think you do this on purpose, Baron."

  "Just like an Aramoorian to speak out of turn," countered Gayle. "You talk boldly for a man with one arm, War Duke. Reconsider your tone." His eyes flicked toward his silent colonel, who was stroking the handle of his saber. "It's not just a jiiktar that can take off an arm."

  Edgard started to rise. The Daegog brought a fist down on the table. "Enough!" he cried. "Sit, Duke Edgard. And do not bicker around me again. I am tired of you all!"


  The Aramoorian sat back down. The Daegog knitted his fingers and rested his elbows on the table, glaring at each of them in turn. Gayle and Colonel Trosk merely grinned.

  "I warn you, I have no patience for this," said the Daegog. "Baron Gayle, Kronin tells me the rebels are gaining ground in the south. He says that soon they may even be able to reach us here on Mount Godon. You are supposed to be securing that land, yes?"

  "Yes, Daegog," replied Gayle. "And I am doing so, to the best of my ability."

  "Your best is very poor, Baron."

  Gayle made a face. "I have been away in the Dring Valley, Daegog. Young Vantran needed my assistance." The baron glanced at Edgard. "He had to be pulled from the fire. We arrived just in time."

  "And he is strong again?" asked the Daegog.

  "Strong? Oh, no, Daegog, he's never been strong. He is a whelp, and it is all too much for him. As I've always said, the valley war should be mine to conduct." He sighed. "Frankly, I sometimes wonder why the Aramoorians are here at all."

  The Daegog watched unhappily as Edgard swallowed the insult. Of the two, he preferred the mild Aramoorian to the brassy baron. Edgard was certainly honest, even if he wasn't as bold as Gayle, and his counsel had always proved useful. But he did wonder, as he watched Edgard shifting, if the baron was correct. The Talistanians were crude but rugged, and they obeyed their emperor without question, something the Aramoorians did only grudgingly. In fact, the only man the Daegog trusted at all was Kronin. Kronin was Triin. A fool, of course, like all the warlords, but more than a match for any Naren.

  "Tell me about Dring first," directed the Daegog. "What is happening there?"

  "It goes poorly, wise one," replied Gayle. "The boy doesn't know what he's doing."

  "That is not what I have heard from my man there," countered the Daegog. "Go on."

  "Well, what can I say? He is not a good military strategist. He lacks experience and will. You should see his men! They look half-starved. They're dressed in rags and they're running out of everything." Gayle shook his head ruefully. "I really don't know how much longer they can last."

  "To be honest, though," added Colonel Trosk, "we are not doing much better. We lack for everything, too."

  "Yes," agreed Gayle, "but it's more than that. They're becoming demoralized, and it's Vantran"s fault."

  "I'm sure Richius is doing his best," rumbled Edgard.

  "I'm not talking about your precious prince, Edgard. I mean Darius Vantran, his father. He's not sending in any fresh troops or supplies. You haven't had any yourself, have you? Your king has abandoned you."

  Edgard didn't respond to the charge, and his silence piqued the Daegog's interest. "That is the other matter." said the Triin[w>> uiuiiu, >>ciiu me irnn] leader. "Duke Edgard, why no word from your king? Where are the troops the emperor promised me?"

  "It's not the emperor's fault, Daegog," offered Gayle. The Daegog silenced Gayle with a wave. "Duke Edgard? An explanation?"

  "Aramoor is a small country, Daegog," said Edgard calmly. We don't have the resources needed to fight this war. I'm sure my king is sending in everything he can."

  "A lie," snarled Gayle. "Your king is a coward. He could send more men and supplies if he wanted to, but he's like a child who can't stand the sight of blood. Why, as we speak he's letting his own son starve to death in Dring! Aramoor controls the Saccenne Run. He is the reason no supplies are getting through. He is a single-minded renegade who has always been trouble for the emperor."

  "You speak very highly of your emperor," said the Daegog. He sat back and popped a date into his mouth, examining Gayle as he chewed. "Tell me, Baron. Do you like being under Nar's boot?"

  "You mean protection, Daegog," corrected Gayle. "And yes, I appreciate it. As I'm sure you do."

  "And you do not mind that your emperor is a conqueror, or that he and his underlings kill for pleasure?"

  "Your pardon, Daegog, but the emperor wants only to help you. He fears for you, for all Triin...."

  The Daegog closed his eyes and tried to quell his burning temper. "He is a madman, Baron. All the world knows that."

  "Oh?" asked Gayle indignantly. "If he is such a threat, why then do you accept his help so readily, Daegog? May I ask you that?"

  "No, Baron, you may not. That business is mine and Arkus' alone. But know this--I speak your language and I know the truth of things, more than you do. I am not a savage you can outwit."

  "Wise one, I never suggested--"

  "Be still!" thundered the Daegog. "And listen to me, both of you. I know the king of Aramoor plays games with me. And know the emperor's mind too. So you may tell Arkus for me thi [. - . - <.u:-- v, ,,,,,,!,,, fi.nrn rne jje jja(j better start sen]

  "in the north of the Empire. I swear to you, he would send his legions if he could...."

  "I do not care about Liss or rebellions," hissed the Daegog. "I have my own rebels to deal with! Tharn and his Drol could be at the gates of this castle any day. I need men to fight them off!"

  "We need support, too, Daegog," said Gayle. "It is not our fault that the king of Aramoor leaves us to fight alone. Why, Dring itself might fall in days. The warlord Voris may be victorious."

  Kronin perked up at the mention of his enemy. "Voris?" he asked the Daegog in their shared language. "What did the baron say?"

  The Daegog laughed ruefully. "You see?" he said to Gayle. "Do you see what I am surrounded by? This fool protector of mine thinks of nothing but Voris. He should be defending me, yet all he talks of is killing Voris. Would that be better, Baron? Should I let Kronin loose in Dring to help Vantran?"

  "No, Daegog," said Gayle coldly. "That's not what I'm suggesting."

  "Then offer me something useful!"

  "Daegog," said Edgard calmly. "It is time for us to talk truthfully."

  There was so much seriousness in the war duke's tone that the Daegog was stunned. He turned to Edgard and said "Truthfully? Yes, that would be a good change, Duke. Please..."

  "Now I will speak your language," growled Edgard in Triin, "because Kronin is my friend and he deserves to hear my words "

  [war ,, ,,,, ,,,,, only in Dring but here in Tatterak, too. You know it. We all do." Edgard eyed the Triin ~" "" i""v""lv' "-"-' ;JU "^"jvv we an uo. +-iagara eyed me"mackwcSd] Gayle was finally at a loss. He glanced at Kronin, who looked suitably shocked. "Aramoor is not [colonerfT]support, but the lanky Trosk merely shrugged [a, *>dmg] any more troops. Maybe they cannot. Maybe they will [nSardn^^^' "Nor' oressed] the Daegog "You will not tell him that?" ['en to die-"] He got up slowly, then turned to address Kronin.

  ["SaeJe"?t ifnot thaufmple.] The emperor is pressed for time. Kronin, my friend may your gods look after you."

  just as well. He's still at war with Liss, and there are rebellion. Where will you go, Edgard?" asked the warlord.

  "You will be hung!" exclaimed the Daegog. "You cannot retreat. The emperor will kill you if you do."

  "Probably," replied Edgard. "But I would rather die with honor at home than die here in your defense. You are a cruel and miserable man, Daegog. I am sorry so many of my countrymen have perished for you."

  Kronin stood up, smiled at the war duke, then embraced him, "You have always been my friend," said the warlord. "Fighting with you has been my honor."

  Incensed, the Daegog stood up and shook a fat fist at Edgard. "You are a fool!" he raged. "Your emperor will ruin Aramoor for this!"

  But Edgard ignored the Daegog's barb. He turned and walked away, stopping and looking down at the astonished Blackwood, who had remained seated throughout the entire exchange. "Blackwood Gayle, it's your war now. You may not believe this, but I wish you and your men well."

  "What?" sputtered the baron. "Daegog, what is this?"

  The Daegog snorted with contempt. "It is as you have always said, Baron Gayle. The Aramoorians are cowards. He is retreating." Gayle and Trosk both sprang to their feet. "Retreating. Edgard, you cannot! Your troops are needed, now more than ever. What will become of the rest of us?"

/>   Edgard laughed. "You'll probably fare better than I, Gayle. Don't worry. You'll always have a place in the emperor's heart, if you live, that is."

  "War Duke," called the Daegog. Then he softened his expression and said, "Edgard, please. Do not do this. We do need you. We can win still, if you stay. If you go..." The Triin's round face wrinkled. "Tharn will kill me."

  The war duke of Aramoor smiled sadly at the Daegog." Man dies, Daegog. And if I may say so, you deserve it." Then he turned his back on them all and strode out of the chamber saying, "I leave in the morning, with my men."

  That evening, the Daegog of Lucel-Lor sat brooding on a balcony, overlooking the rough terrain of Tatterak. He sipped absently at a cup of steaming tea and ate sparingly from a tray of sweet biscuits, both Naren affectations he had learned to love. The moon was full and red behind Mount Godon. Kronin's granite stronghold cast its dentate shadow across the plain, while moonbeams splashed on the stones and the carved mahogany of the balcony, setting them alight. The Daegog licked at the rim of his cup, mopping up the honey there with his tongue. In the distance he could see the tattered dragon banner of Edgard's troops, huddled around torches that stirred in the evening breeze. It was late. There was very little movement among the Aramoorians now. The war duke would have them sleeping, the Daegog surmised, resting for their long march back home.

  "Coward," muttered the Daegog. He had always liked Edgard, and the duke's betrayal was a bitter blow. Now he had only Gayle to protect him, plus whatever warriors Kronin had left. There was still young Vantran in Dring, but he would no doubt be leaving, too, once he heard that his war duke had retreated.

  The Daegog let out a little whimper. It had been a long, protracted war, and his allies were dwindling. Every day it seemed more of the Triin warlords sided with Tharn. He was a sorcerer, that one. He could turn men's minds to slush. Now only Kronin and a handful of others still followed the Daegog, and if the Drol pushed hard enough, they could probably topple them all right into the ocean.