by John Marco
"You have a message for us," said Lucyler coldly. "Speak it."
The warrior smiled at Lucyler, looking him over with arrogant humor. His gray eyes seemed to laugh.
"I bear the words of Voris, warlord of Dring and counsel of Tharn. My master demands that Richius the Jackal present himself for judgment. In return, my master will allow the lives of the imperial invaders to continue."
Lucyler silently thanked the gods Richius was safe in Ackle-Nye. "You are too late to take your vengeance, Drol," he laughed. "Richius is dead."
All at once the humor left the warrior's face. "Who leads here, then? Who among you stands in the Jackal's place?"
Now Lucyler smiled. "I do," he said proudly.
The warrior considered this for a moment, then said, "Voris is merciful. You may satisfy him, traitor."
"And these men will be spared?"
"One of you must answer for the crimes against the people of Dring. If my master finds you suitable, he will spare the lives of the other cowards."
"Back then, Drol," said Lucyler. "Tell your master that Lucyler of Falindar will gladly die in the Daegog's cause. Tell him also that if I am not enough for him, he will have to come and kill us, and we will die to a man trying to destroy him."
This made the warrior's eyebrows rise. He looked at Lucyler oddly, then turned and strode back through the clearing. Lucyler walked back to the trench. On the deck, Gilliam and the other soldiers were staring at him.
"Well?" asked Gilliam. "What do they want of us? Surrender?"
Slowly Lucyler shook his head. "Not all of us. Just me. If I surrender myself to Voris the rest of you will be spared."
Gilliam's face was ashen. "No, Lucyler. Don't think it. You can't. They'll kill you, torture you...."
"Stop," interrupted Lucyler. He had already considered the unsavory end Voris had planned for him. It changed nothing. "Please, say no more. I must do this. All of you will live if I surrender."
"And you believe them?" asked Gilliam. "How can you trust their words? They are snakes, Lucyler."
Lucyler put a hand on Gilliam's shoulder. In a gentle, reassuring voice he said, "They are Drol. Whatever else I think of them, I know they do not lie. Please, Gilliam, follow this last order. Do not fight them."
Gilliam smiled grimly. "You ask the impossible of us," he said. Then, under the silent gaze of a hundred mournful eyes, he took Lucyler in a strong embrace. "Go with God, my friend."
"And you."
Before Gilliam had released his hold on Lucyler, a cry from one of the men on the deck shattered the moment.
"Look there!"
From out of the darkness a party of warriors approached. They walked with the erect arrogance of conquerors, clearly visible in the light of the torches they bore. Lucyler quickly counted five men, all in scarlet, all with jiiktars in their hands. The group seemed wholly unremarkable, save for the one who walked in the center. That one was taller than the rest, his robes more splendid and trimmed in gold. Atop his head, the usual mane of white Triin hair was gone. Only a bare scalp could be seen shimmering in the torchlight and the paleness of the moon. Two white wolves walked beside him. Unchained, the beasts moved with the perfect poise of house dogs. Lucyler felt his breath catch. A name slipped from his lips.
"Voris."
Voris the Wolf, Warlord of Dring, stopped some ten yards from the trench, near enough for an arrow to pierce his heart. Almost absently he raised a hand. The small gesture brought his party to a halt.
"Lucyler of Falindar!"
The voice boomed like the thunder of the rainstorm. Lucyler lifted his head at the sound of his name. Ignoring the pleas and outstretched hands of his men, he strode from the deck and into the clearing toward Voris.
"I am Lucyler," he called out. He saw Voris give a look of utter disbelief.
"Remarkable," said Voris. "As often as I see it I am amazed by it. How did it happen to you, traitor? How have you come to side with these barbarians who rape us?"
Lucyler willed his lips into a grin. "I have come for your judgment, butcher. Your words are meaningless, and I do not hear them."
Voris reddened with rage. "Dare you call me butcher? You, a traitor to your people?"
"And you are a traitor to your Daegog," said Lucyler. "You have brought this ruin to our land, not I. It is you who have betrayed the royal line of Lucel-Lor."
"The Daegog is the biggest of traitors, and those who follow him are the biggest of fools. Tharn will show you the truth of things."
"You are Tharn's lapdog, Voris. The toy of a usurper." From some mad corner of Lucyler's mind, a laugh erupted. "Give me your justice, dog. I am ready for it. But please, spare me your lies."
Unable to control his anger, Voris lashed out at Lucyler, striking him on the cheek with the palm of his hand. The blow sent Lucyler reeling. He stumbled, falling backward into the mud. Lucyler shook his head, felt the sting of a crushed lip, then rose unsteadily to his feet. He glared back at the trembling Voris.
"Your judgment, warlord," he said calmly. "Your judgment for these men."
"I will spare the dogs of Nar," said Voris. "Because I have said I would, and because Tharn wishes it. But it is not my judgment you will face, traitor. It is his."
"Take me, then," said Lucyler. "Take me to this 'Storm Maker.' I welcome death now that he has won."
Voris grinned. "Not Storm Maker," he corrected. "Peace maker. But if you live long enough, you will see the storm he brings."
CHAPTER NINE
Morning came to the dingy room as a single ribbon of light. Richius watched it pass through the cloudy window, illuminate a fleet of dust motes, and gently strike the white, unmoving face of the woman in his bed. The light did not disturb her. She stayed asleep, lost in the exhausted slumber she had fallen into after their coupling. Richius was careful not to stir though he had been awake for nearly an hour, lying still and naked beneath the covers. He wanted her to go on sleeping, after what he had done to her.
He reached out a finger and barely touched her cheek. She was beautiful--more lovely than any woman he had ever seen, Naren or Triin. But she was less than perfect now. Her face was still bruised, but that wasn't all. Blackwood Gayle had done that, not he. What he'd done was more despicable. Worse, it was irreversible. A bruise on the face would purple, swell, and then be gone. A small nastiness, completely forgettable. But maidenhood, once given or taken, would never return.
These thoughts needled him. It did him no good to try and convince himself he wasn't responsible. He hadn't been drunk enough for that. Lust was the only true answer, and the realization disgusted him. She was a Triin, one of those he had sworn to protect, and he had forsaken her. He couldn't even remember her name, though he was sure the innkeeper had told him. And now, with the heat of passion expelled, it all struck him as absurd. He vaguely recalled his ecstatic convulsion, then the awful stab of guilt. But he was tired, so tired....
And she hadn't protested. He had paid the innkeeper for a whole night with her, and she, like he, must have been weary beyond words. Now she slept, amazingly still and silent and, he hoped, peaceful.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, tracing his finger around her eye, not quite touching the skin. "Poor girl."
Richius let his finger drop. His eyes fell on the red stain on the sheet.
She must remember me, he thought. Why else would she have endured it? She has rewarded me with the only thing she had to give. And like a Talistanian dog I took it.
He bent his head and pressed his lips lightly to her cheek. Her eyes sprang open. For a moment she lay still, half-asleep and dazed. But then she noticed him and the dingy room and she jumped out of bed with a cry, dragging the sheet with her as she tried to cover her naked body. Forgetting his own nakedness, Richius leapt out of the bed after her.
"Wait," he cried. She ignored him, her eyes darting around the room. Quickly finding her dress, she retrieved it from the floor.
"No," he begged, going to her and grabbing her hand. "Pl
ease..."
The girl pulled her hand away. She dropped the sheet and scurried toward the door, then noticed he was blocking it. Motionless, she stood and watched him, her eyes burning, her dress held up like a curtain over her bosom.
"Please," Richius said. "I won't hurt you. Really, no more. I'm sorry about what happened. But I can help you." He pulled his trousers closer with a foot, then squatted and dug his fingers into the pocket, pulling out several silver coins. Standing, he held out the coins. "Money."
The woman looked at the coins for a moment, then spat into Richius' face. "No more money!"
Richius' hand dropped, the coins tumbling out of his palm, onto the floor. Slowly he wiped the spittle from his face. "You understand me."
"I speak the tongue of Nar," she said, still clutching the dress.
"Then you heard what I told you. I won't hurt you." He stooped and picked the coins off the floor. "Please, take this money. I want you to have it."
"No," she said angrily. "Unless Tendrik orders me, we are finished."
"The innkeeper? Oh, no. You misunderstand. I want nothing more from you. This money is..." He grimaced. "An apology."
The girl's gray eyes turned a shade darker.
"I've taken something irreplaceable from you," Richius continued. He gestured toward the sheet on the floor, the stain of her blood. "I'm sorry. I didn't notice until this morning. Had I known..." He hesitated, considering how best to explain the awkwardness he felt. "Had I known you were a maiden I wouldn't have done it. Forgive me. I'm no better a man than that savage I saved you from."
"Saved me?"
"Don't you remember me?"
"I don't know you. I am not a whore. You are the first man I have been with since coming here."
"No, you don't understand," he said, stepping closer. "I'm not a customer. I only just arrived here. I'm Richius. From the village, remember? You were being attacked by a soldier. I pulled him off you."
A look of horror froze the young woman's face. "No. Oh, no, no." She slumped to her knees and the dress fell away, but she seemed not to notice as she cried, "You are Kalak!"
Richius was thunderstruck. How had she not known? He went to her, falling to one knee before her. "Don't worry. I promise I won't hurt you. You're safe."
"You are Kalak!" she said again, the shock of it reddening her face.
"Why won't you listen?" pressed Richius. "I'm not your enemy."
"You are!" she flared, fumbling with the dress and drawing it back over herself. "You are the greatest of them. Kalak. Jackal. Murderer!"
Richius drew back. "How can you say that? All I've ever tried to do is help your people."
The girl stormed toward Richius and tried to push him aside, but he wouldn't move.
"Stop," he pleaded. "Nothing's going to happen to you, I swear. I'm here to help you."
"Help?" said the girl. "I know you. I know what you have done. I have seen it! And now I have diseased myself with you."
"I'm sorry about that," said Richius. "But you're wrong to think I'm your enemy. Only Drol should believe that." He looked into her eyes. She looked away. "I'm telling you the truth. What I did to you last night I will regret for the rest of my life."
The girl scoffed and Richius went over to her. But as he leaned close she lashed out, clawing him across the face. Her painted nails dug deep into his cheek and he staggered backward with a shout.
It was all the chance she needed. She sprang to her feet and headed for the door, still clutching her dress. Richius tried to snare her wrist but she was too quick. The door opened and she darted out of the chamber.
"Wait!" Richius called. He went out into the hallway and watched her disappear down the rickety stairs. A bold breeze stirred down the corridor, reminding him that he was naked also. His face burning, he went back to his dingy room and closed the door. Blood trickled down his cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Her green slippers lay on the floor where she had kicked them off last night. He closed his eyes and cursed. The bed still smelled like her. He let her scent climb up his nostrils. Unbearably sweet. Her hair had been like that. Fine and soft, he had buried his face in it. His skin still tingled where it had touched her, so raw that it burned. It was all like a flood coming back to him; the way she had lain back and let his clumsy hands do the work, the way she had whimpered just at that moment. Then darkness, and utter, complete exhaustion.
"Oh, God," he moaned, burying his filthy face in his hands. "Why does she hate me so?"
Because I am Kalak, he told himself. And because I don't belong here.
But he wasn't her enemy. How, he wondered, could he make her see that?
He retrieved his own clothes from the floor and pulled them on. Dinadin would be awake by now. Hopefully he would be alone. Still barefoot, Richius went back out into the hall. The red door to Dinadin's room was closed. Richius put his ear to it and listened, Dinadin's familiar snores rumbled through the wood. Very carefully he pushed open the door and peered inside. There, tangled in the wrinkled sheets, was his friend, blessedly alone in the small bed. Richius tiptoed inside and shut the door behind him.
"Dinadin," Richius said lightly. "Wake up."
Dinadin grumbled and rolled over, turning his back to Richius.
"Just so you can bed this girl again? Lord, Richius, I wish you could hear yourself. What's wrong with you? We have to get back."
Richius sat back down on the bed next to Dinadin and gazed down at the floor. "I don't know if I can explain this, but I have to see her again. She knows who I am. Remember when we chased Gayle out of that village? She was there. I found her in one of the houses. Gayle was trying to rape her and I pulled him off her."
"And that's why she hit you?"
"I don't really know why she hit me. But she called me Kalak. You had to see her, the rage in her eyes. She hates me, Dinadin. And I don't want her to."
"She's from the valley, Richius. They all hate us."
"But they shouldn't," said Richius. "She should know the truth."
Dinadin's face crinkled. "You know what it sounds like to me?"
"What?"
"It sounds like you want to rescue her."
Richius made a face, but Dinadin held up his hands. "No, really. I know what you're thinking. You're wondering how you can take care of her. But you can't, Richius. She's here because she's trying to survive, and unless you're going to rebuild all of Lucel-Lor for her, there's nothing you can do. She's doomed."
"Please, don't say that."
"It's true. You were right about what you told me last night. We're just adding to these people's misery. The faster Nar gets out of Lucel-Lor, the faster the Triin can start building a new country for themselves."
"Even if it's under Tharn?"
"Yes, even then. You and Lucyler don't think I'm smart about these things, but I see clearly enough. And I know that you're being foolish over nothing. This girl hates you for a reason. To her you're just Kalak. You're the Jackal who kills people in her valley. Don't think for a second that you're going to change that, because it won't work."
"I have to try," Richius sighed. "I have to see her again. And I need a favor from you."
"What?"
"I want to do something special for her tonight to make up for what I did to her."
"And you need money, right?"
"Yes," admitted Richius sheepishly. "Do you have any? All I have is a few coins. But you, well..."
"I still have the dagger," said Dinadin. "Carlina wasn't worth a tenth of it, so I gave the innkeeper a silver instead. You can have the dagger if you want it."
Richius beamed at his comrade. "Thanks. I'll give you back whatever I don't spend, I promise. I'll make a good bargain with the innkeeper."
"Don't expect there to be much left over," said Dinadin. "We'll need these rooms another night, and once the innkeeper knows you're soft on the Triin girl he'll hike up her price."
"I'll do my best," said Richius. "If there's anything left it's yours.
"
"Actually it's all mine," said Dinadin. He got out of bed, yawned like a lion, and went to the window. "It's bright out. It must be past dawn by now. The innkeeper..." His voice trailed off and he pressed his nose up against the murky glass. Richius watched him curiously. "What is it, Dinadin?" "Richius, come here."
Dinadin stepped aside and let Richius have the window. The panes were caked with years of filth but Richius could see the barren horizon that stretched to the east of the city. And there, off in the distance near the Sheaze, was a huge mass of men and horses. There were tents and giant pavilions, smoke from cooking fires and the distinct sight of a tattered blue banner flying high above the assembly. Richius blinked and looked again. There was a crest embroidered into the banner, the streaking symbol of a yellow dragon.
Richius stepped away from the window. Dinadin was staring at him in amazement.
"Richius," said Dinadin softly. "Do you know whose flag that is?"
Richius said nothing. Of all the flags he thought he might see when he came to Ackle-Nye, it had never occurred to him that this one might be flying here. It was the flag of Aramoor's duke of war. It was Edgard's flag.
With the morning light breaking through the hazy sky, Richius and Dinadin trotted their horses through the camp of the Dragon Flag. They moved slowly through the host of men and animals and, just as Richius didn't recognize the young horsemen under the charge of the duke, so too did they not realize that their prince rode among them. Busy with the work of setting up camp, few of the soldiers turned to look at the strangers, and those who did glanced at them without interest before returning their vacuous eyes to their work. Despite their numbers, the men made little sound, and it seemed to Richius that they rode through an encampment of ghosts. Only the uniforms of black and gold lent the horde any resemblance to Aramoor Guardsmen, and even these were tattered and grimy. The garments, now too big to fit their malnourished bodies, gave them the look of children playing in their father's wardrobe.
Battered tents and pavilions were strewn throughout the camp, each marked and weathered by the harsh climate of Tatterak. The air was stale, acrid with the filth of men and animals and ripe with the scent of distant Ackle-Nye.
