The Jackal of Nar

by John Marco

  "It sounds like a great deal of trouble," said Richius. "Perhaps the emperor is being too generous. Such extravagance--"

  "No, no," interrupted Biagio. "It is what the emperor wants for you."

  Richius held back a frown. "I am honored," he said simply. "I shall be in Nar on the appointed day."

  "Excellent. The emperor will be very pleased. I will dispatch a messenger to him at once informing him of your coming. Remember, Prince Richius, the thirtieth day of winter."

  "I will be there," said Richius, showing Biagio to the door. "May I bring some attendants with me? It's a long journey, and I will need advisement."

  "Of course," said Biagio. "It's to be a celebration! Bring as many as you wish. The palace has room enough for all of you. And I can arrange transport for you, if you like. Talistan has a port. I can call for a ship of the Black Fleet."

  Richius considered the offer. A ship would certainly be the fastest way, but he rather liked the idea of riding and seeing the rest of the Empire. More, he had no wish to set foot in Talistan.

  "Thank you, no, Count," he replied. "I think we can ride it. We'll take our time, get to know some of the Empire." He turned to Patwin. "What do you say, Patwin? You up for it?"

  Patwin smiled. "If you'll have me."

  "Wonderful," beamed Biagio. He looked over at Jojustin. "I expect you will be there, Sir Jojustin?"

  Jojustin was indifferent. "It is difficult to get away, Count. The castle does not run itself and, as Richius said, it is a long trip. I will come if I can."

  "You really must come," Biagio insisted. "The emperor is expecting you. He would be very disappointed if you were not there."

  "We shall see," said Jojustin. He led Biagio out into the corridor and silently walked him to the castle's muddy foyer, Richius and Patwin close behind. The door to the place was open, and a shrill wind was blowing in, making the torches on the wall flicker and sending their shadows dancing. Outside, the rain had built to a steady drizzle, and the men from Talistan stood awkwardly in the downpour, their uniforms drenched, their faces no longer bearing the arrogant humor they had before. Only the Shadow Angel seemed unperturbed. He watched as his master approached, but he didn't speak a word nor stir a single muscle. Biagio drew his fine cape closer about his shoulders as he spied the inclement night.

  "You should reconsider, Count," said Jojustin. "We have warm beds for both of you."

  "No, thank you," barked Biagio. Then, as if catching the insult, he added more genially, "It's a kind offer, but I really cannot stay the night here. I must return to Talistan. Matters of weight require me."

  "Then be well," said Jojustin stiffly.

  "I will," said Biagio. He turned to Richius and gave a slight bow. "Prince Richius, it was an honor to meet you. I look forward to your coronation."

  "Safe journey, Count," said Richius, and watched Biagio step out into the rain. The count mounted his own horse and smiled one last time before turning away and riding off into the night, the Shadow Angel and the Talistanians close behind. When they were almost out of sight Jojustin gave a great, brooding sigh.

  "It's good to see those Talistanian pigs leaving," he said. "When I saw them ride up with him I nearly died."

  Patwin laughed and gave Richius another slap on the back. "My God! That went well, don't you think, Richius?"

  "I suppose."

  "What?" said Jojustin. "Of course it went well, lad. It's like I told you. You're going to be king! So stop wearing the long face. This has been a great day. A great day indeed!"

  "No," said Richius softly. "It hasn't been." He put his hand to his wounded arm. The punctures in it burned savagely, and he knew the filth of his bandage was working its way into his wounds. Yet still he didn't care to tend to it. Something else was puzzling him.

  "Why would Biagio not spend the night?" he asked Jojustin. "Or even have a meal with us?"

  "Or drink his wine?"

  Richius looked at the old man oddly. "He didn't drink with you, either?"

  Jojustin shook his head.

  "I don't understand," said Richius. "Why not?"

  Jojustin's old face softened. "Make no mistake, lad. Biagio's coming here was a warning. The emperor knows about your father. He wanted us to know that he'll be watching Aramoor from now on."

  "And still he wants to make me king?"

  "It's as I told you. Arkus must make you king, whether he wishes to or not. You saw how Biagio looked when we spoke of Liss. The war with them must be going worse than we thought." Jojustin grinned. "I was right. I knew Arkus couldn't risk a war within the Empire. He's as anxious as the rest of us to keep your father's secret."

  Richius nodded dully. "You were right," he conceded. "But why would he not sup with us? And to travel on such a night..."

  Jojustin laughed. "You are the son of a traitor, Richius," he said. Then, taking Richius in a light embrace, he said, "Be proud of it."

  A knot of emotion clenched in Richius' throat. "I am."

  "Richius," said Patwin, stepping up to him. "Are you ready?"

  "Ready?" asked Jojustin. "For what?"

  Richius was silent, refusing to look at either of them.

  "Come on, Richius," said Patwin sternly. "You have to be looked after."

  Jojustin's face went from cheerful to concerned in a heartbeat. "Tell me what's going on," he demanded. "Richius, is something wrong?"

  "A pack of wolves attacked us on the way to the House of Lotts," said Patwin. "Richius was bitten."

  "Bitten? Lord, Richius, why didn't you say something? Where were you bitten? Let me see."

  "No," said Richius flatly. "Not yet."

  He took the torch from the sconce on the wall and, without even glancing at Jojustin or Patwin, stepped out of the foyer and into the night.

  "Richius!" called Jojustin. "Where are you going?"

  "I have something to do," Richius called back over his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll be back soon."

  The night encircled him, and to his relief they did not follow. By the light of the torch he made his way across the courtyard, his boots sinking deep into the mud, letting the cool rain trickle down his face and soothe the burning of his arm. He went quickly past the castle gardens, past its walls overhung with dormant roses, and past its locked, finely wrought gate. Soon he came to the stables, where only the quiet sound of horses could be heard, and these he walked past, too. His movements were heavy, purposeful, and as he went by the stables the thing he sought came into view.

  It was a tomb.

  It was not very large, and it was not excessive or garish. It was a simple tomb, built by a grieving king for a woman who had been a simple queen. Darius Vantran had found parting with his beloved Jessicane nearly impossible, and so the tomb had been constructed close to the castle, built on a hill so that one could easily see it from any of the castle's three towers. For nearly twenty years the tomb had housed but one corpse. Now it housed two.

  Richius slowed as he neared the tomb, measuring his steps, watching the structure take focus in the torchlight. Two stone faces stared back at him, rising in relief off the doorway. They smiled at him. He stopped.

  "Father," he said to one of them, the one with the steely eyes. And then he looked at the other face, the one whose eyes seemed to be laughing, and he smiled lightly back and said, "Mother."

  He paused for a moment, alone in the rain, as if waiting for an answer he knew would never come. Then he sighed, and reached under his coat to his shirt. His shirt was soaked with rain and stained with blood and dirt, but it was the thick shirt that Jenna had made him, and so it kept him warm and dry and protected the things he put in its pockets. Quickly he found what he was seeking, folded neatly against his breast.

  His hand trembled a little as he pulled it out. He had had this letter for over a month, and despite what he had told everyone, he had carried it with him most of that time, occasionally feeling his breast for it, but never reading it. He regarded it in the torchlight. Its careful creases were wor
n and frayed. Already raindrops were making tiny water stains on it. He swallowed hard and unfolded it, immediately recognizing his father's broad, elaborate penmanship.

  My Dear Son, By now you know what I have done to you. I will not try to persuade you of the Rightness of it. Of all the duties my kingship has forced upon me, none has been so hard as leaving you to fight alone. But the war does not go well, and far too many men have already given up their lives. I can be the emperor's puppet no longer.

  Patwin has told me how desperate the valley struggle has become. So far I have been able to keep this from the emperor. The war with Liss yet preoccupies him, and what little I do tell him does not include the truth of things. Unless the Gayles tell him otherwise, I believe I can go on convincing Arkus of my commitment until the war is lost. By then it will be too late for him to send his legions, and no more of our people need die. I alone will have to answer for the loss, and I will tell the emperor that no one had knowledge of my treachery. My only hope now is that you will survive and return home before I am discovered.

  Perhaps a day will come when you are king and can see the correctness of my actions. The burdens of the crown are many and heavy, and sometimes inconceivable to those unencumbered by them. By the time you read this many rumors will have reached you, but I hope none will tempt you to believe that I have forsaken you for any reason but the saving of lives. I have never cowered from a just war, but this conflict has no graces worth its ruinous toll and so it must be ended. I can think of no other way to end the war and still save Aramoor.

  The emperor's priests tell us that God looks after heroes. If so, He is surely with you. May He bring you safely home, my son, and grant you the charity to forgive me.

  With love and regrets, Father

  Richius folded the letter back carefully and replaced it in the pocket of his shirt. The steely-eyed relief was watching him.

  "I'll try, Father," he said softly, then turned and walked slowly back to the castle.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Alain was only ten, but he already had the family's love for hunting, and Dinadin knew his brother would someday be a fine bowman. The bow he was using had been specifically tailored to his diminutive stature, a gift from his father on his recently passed birthday. It was made of hardwood, like a real bow, and just like a real bow it fired arrows precisely where an archer aimed. If the archer was any good, the target was hit. If not, then lessons were needed. Alain needed lessons desperately.

  "I can pull it back myself!" insisted the boy. He tried to pull loose of his brother's embrace, but Dinadin stood firmly behind him, helping him draw back the string.

  "No," directed Dinadin easily. "You're holding the string wrong again. Don't use your whole hand. Here..."

  Dinadin let the tension out of the string, then folded his brother's little hand around the arrow shaft, using just the top two fingers. He guided Alain's hand back to the string, positioning it and carefully drawing it back.

  "It hurts that way," complained the boy. "I like my way better."

  "You'll lose control over the arrow your way," said Dinadin. "That's why you can't hit the target."

  Alain grimaced as he took stock of his marksmanship, inspecting the target yards away. It was a round bale of hay with a sloppily painted red circle at its center. The center hadn't been hit once, nor had any other part of the bale. The ground around the target was littered with arrows.

  "I can't get it," Alain sighed. "I'm just no good. Not like you."

  "It takes practice, Alain," Dinadin consoled him. "I didn't get good quickly, either. I had to work at it. Del, too. Father taught us both when we were your age. Now it's your turn to learn."

  "I can't," said Alain, tossing his bow to the ground. "And I don't want to practice. I want to be good. Now."

  Dinadin laughed. Alain had always been impatient, even before Dinadin had left for Lucel-Lor. He was glad the boy hadn't changed. Nothing had really changed since coming home, and that helped to quiet Dinadin's restless heart. And whenever he spent time with his brothers or rode with his father, he silently swore he would never leave this place again. He picked Alain's bow up from the ground and offered it to him, but his brother shook his head.

  "I don't want it," said the boy sourly. "It doesn't work."

  "Don't blame the bow, Alain," said Dinadin. "That won't help."

  "It's too small, I can't reach the target."

  "Of course you can. Here, let me show you."

  He pulled another arrow out of the quiver on the ground, notched it into the string of the small bow, and drew back with one eye closed. The red circle took focus immediately, like a Drol's robes, and the world closed around him until all he saw was the target and the distortedly large arrowhead. When he released the string the arrow whistled away and slammed into the bale, just inches off center. Alain screeched happily and clapped his hands together.

  "You see?" said Dinadin, handing the weapon back to his brother. "It's not the bow. It's you. You just have to practice."

  Alain took the bow cheerfully. "You're better than Del. Better than Father, even. Maybe you're the best in Nar!"

  "I'm not," said Dinadin, embarrassed by his brother's praise but nonetheless loving it. He could still make Alain smile. "There's a lot better than me."

  "I don't know any," said Alain.

  "Well, I do. Like Triin. They're the best bowmen in the world. Fast. And always on target."

  Alain stared up at him inquisitively. "Did you know a lot of Triin?"

  "Not a lot," said Dinadin. All at once his mood deflated. "Just one really."

  "Was he a good bowman?"

  "Oh, yes," replied Dinadin. "Come here, I want to tell you about him."

  He took his brother's hand and led him to the shade of a nearby sycamore. Beneath the tree were pillows of fallen leaves that had been kicked into neat piles. The snow that had come earlier in the week had disappeared, and the weather was seasonable again, ripe with autumn dampness. Alain plopped down into one leaf pile and Dinadin into another. Alain's green eyes were wide with anticipation.

  "His name was Lucyler," began Dinadin dramatically. "He was my friend." Then he thought again and said, "No, that's not right. He was more than just a friend. He was like a brother."

  "Like me?"

  "A little taller," joked Dinadin. "But yes, like you and Del."

  "And Richius?"

  Dinadin's smile evaporated. "Let me tell the story, all right? Anyway, he was a great bowman, really the best I've ever seen. I mean better than me, better than Father, just the best. He could notch an arrow, shoot, and have another ready to go before you could even pull an arrow from your quiver." Dinadin sighed. "Lord, he was something else."

  "Father says the gogs are fast because they're part animal," said Alain. "Is that right, Dinadin? Are they like animals?"

  "No, they're not animals, they're people. And don't call them gogs."

  Alain's eyebrows went up. "You called them gogs all the time! I remember."

  "Not anymore I don't," said Dinadin. "And you shouldn't, either. Father doesn't know what he's talking about, so just forget what he tells you about Triin. If you want to know anything, ask me. I'll tell it straight."

  "What happened to your friend?" asked Alain. "Did he die?"

  Dinadin nodded. "Yes."

  "What happened?"

  "Alain," said Dinadin gravely, "I can't really tell you that. If I told you the truth it might upset you, change the way you feel about things. And I don't want that."

  Alain didn't hide his disappointment. "Dinadin, come on. Tell me."

  "I can't," said Dinadin. "Not all of it, anyway. Let's just say he was left behind, and because someone left him behind he was captured by the Drol. They took him away, and... I guess they killed him."

  Alain slid closer to his brother, dragging his rump across the grass. "You miss him?" asked the boy.

  "Yes," said Dinadin sadly. "I miss him. I miss a lot of people."

  He reached ou
t his long arm then and snatched up his little brother, squeezing him with one hand and mussing up his hair with the other. Alain cried out comically and tried to wiggle free, but wound up just dragging his brother over into the patch of leaves. They both laughed and pulled twigs from their hair, and would have broken into a chase if not for a sudden shout from the castle yard. Dinadin heard his name being called and looked up to see a slight, blond-haired figure waving at him from the stone railing of the courtyard. He recognized the small man at once, but Alain squealed the name first.

  "Patwin!" cried the boy, jumping to his feet. "Look, Dinadin!"

  "I see," said Dinadin dully.

  Patwin was waiting to be waved down. Dinadin sighed and put up a hand, gesturing for his friend to come. A certain dread surged inside him. It had been such a bright day. Now a cloud was coming. Patwin sauntered over to them casually, a beaming smile on his face. Alain ran up to him and wrapped his arms around Patwin's legs, dragging him toward his brother. As his friend approached, Dinadin leaned back against the sycamore.

  "Hello," said Patwin. He peeled Alain off his thigh and took the boy's hand.

  "Patwin," acknowledged Dinadin with a nod. "I didn't expect to see you. Is something wrong?"

  "Nothing," said Patwin. "Just a visit."

  "Of course," said Dinadin heavily. "Well, I'm glad you came."

  "Yes, you look it," quipped Patwin. He smiled wryly then looked Alain up and down. "Lord, Alain, you're almost as tall as your brother!"

  "I'm ten now," declared Alain proudly. "And I'm learning to shoot." He picked up his bow excitedly and handed it to Patwin. "Father got me my own bow, and Dinadin's showing me how to use it."

  "Very nice," remarked Patwin, inspecting the weapon. There was the old, characteristic twinkle to his voice, the same magic lilt Richius always had with Alain. "I'll bet you're getting really good, huh? Like your brother."