The Jackal of Nar

by John Marco

  "But I am dying, I am...."

  "I will save you, my lord," said Biagio. He stroked the old man's hand and stared down at him, amazed and devastated by the ancient husk. "Do you believe in me?"

  "Always," replied Arkus. "You have always been my trusted friend, Renato. I know you will save me."

  "Good. Now rest. Sleep if you can. I will see you again tonight." Biagio bent and kissed the man's fragile face. "Dream of good things, Great One. You will be whole again."

  Colonel Ardoz Trosk was almost a full head shorter than Dinadin, even with his snakeskin boots on, but Dinadin had never met a man who terrified him more. He was the kind of man who pulled the wings off butterflies when he was bored, and he never let an Aramoorian conscript pass without an insult. As colonel of the green brigade, Trosk was Blackwood Gayle's senior military adviser, a duty he relished and expected those beneath him to respect, even those Aramoorians unfortunate enough to serve with him. There were not a lot of them, just Dinadin and perhaps a dozen others, but they were a constant source of amusement for the sardonic colonel, who made sure they were always assigned the most menial details. Dinadin's specialty was picking up after their horses. And he performed his task with the constant hope of placating Trosk enough for the colonel to ignore him.

  You'll be fine, Dinadin told himself as he followed Trosk through the narrow streets of the village. Just do what he says and you'll be fine.

  They were fifteen miles from the Dring Valley, and about to ravage another nameless town. Like so many others they had come across, this town had expected them, and had even chosen a member of their community to speak with them. The poor bastard had only gotten one of Gayle's signatory throat-cuttings for his trouble. Surrender, Gayle had explained weeks ago, was unacceptable. Every time they came across another village Dinadin cringed, for he knew that once it was searched and Gayle was thoroughly satisfied, it would be burned to the ground just like all the others.

  The last few weeks had been the worst of Dinadin's life. He had done things even a priest could never forgive, and he prayed for death every time his eyes closed. He followed orders with blind obedience, numbing himself in the hope that a Triin jiiktar would find him. But the legions of Nar were cutting the Triin down like weeds.

  As always, Dinadin straggled behind Colonel Trosk. Already the familiar cries of panicked villagers filled the air. The legionnaires, those black-garbed imperial heralds, were kicking in the doors of the small houses and dragging out the people inside. Dogs barked incessantly and children wailed. Somewhere ahead of them Blackwood Gayle was at work directing the carnage. Trosk rode ahead of his group, a smile of contentment on his face.

  "Magic," he snarled. "That's what we're looking for, boys."

  The men nodded. There were five of them including Dinadin, each wearing the same boldly colored uniform of a Talistanian horseman, and all handpicked by Trosk to follow him into the village. Dinadin was the only Aramoorian among them. The dubious honor made him ride a good distance behind. In the weeks since joining Trosk and his brigade, Dinadin had been deft in avoiding the colonel. It seemed that Trosk was satisfied simply to have him shovel dung.

  Until today. Each time they reached a village, Trosk picked another of the Aramoorians to accompany him personally. It was, Dinadin surmised, the colonel's way of initiating them. Today was his turn.

  "Lotts!" Trosk growled over his shoulder. "Keep up, goddamn it!"

  The legionnaires and horsemen were gathering the men in the center of the village; the women and children were kept apart. It was the same ghastly ritual as always. First the men would be questioned, then the women, each under the threat that the other would be killed if they resisted. Dinadin tried to look away. He would have cupped his hands over his ears if he could. Triin women were wrestling with soldiers, trying to yank back their stolen children. The men stood stone-faced and mute in the streets.

  Why don't you run? he urged them silently. Don't you know what's going to happen?

  But of course they knew. They knew their fate as well as their murderers did. It was simply unavoidable. Ackle-Nye had tried to fight, and the result had been no less bloody. There was a pathetic kind of hope in the eyes of the Triin they saw after that, a foolish idea that if they cooperated, perhaps they would be spared. It might have been that way if Richius were running the war, but this was Gayle's campaign now. And like everything the Talistan did, it was vicious.

  They slowed as they reached the center of the village. There, beside a well and a wooden bench, a group of legionnaires had assembled a throng of Triin children. Another Triin was talking to them, one who had surrendered in a previous raid and whose passable knowledge of the Empire's language made him worth sparing. There were several of these interpreters now, men who thought it better to live as slaves than to die with their brothers. Whenever the rolling army came to another town or village, the interpreters went to work, trying to coerce the newly conquered people into surrendering whatever magical items or knowledge they might have. So far the effort had proven an utter failure. For Dinadin, that was the one bright note in their whole dismal operation. He watched with sick fascination as the Triin interpreters smiled at the children, trying to calm them. By now Dinadin knew the lines by heart.

  Your parents are safe. Don't worry. Just tell us where the magic is.

  But there wasn't any magic. It was all like Lucyler had told him so many months ago. They could burn down a hundred villages, they could open up a million Triin chests, but all they would discover was blood. Magic wasn't hidden under a child's bed. If it existed at all it was in the air and the soil and, perhaps, the mind. But Gayle and the others were unconvinced and were consumed with their mission to find and bring back anything that could help the emperor.

  "It's here," Blackwood Gayle had told them. "We just have to find it."

  But they never would. Dinadin knew that now. He stopped his mount some ten paces from Trosk's horse and watched as the colonel's freakish smile broadened. Sometimes his love for war was disgustingly obvious. Here he could let his sadism soar, and never be accused of doing anything but his duty. He was the perfect soldier, hard and lean and unspeakably cruel. Dinadin hated him. He hated the way he cocked the brim of his feathered hat and the way he laughed when others suffered and the way he called grown men boys. Given the chance, Dinadin would have killed him.

  "Pin 'em down good, gog," Trosk ordered the Triin interpreter. "Don't let 'em hold nothing back."

  The interpreter spoke in a rush. He was begging the children to listen to him, to quiet down and answer his questions. Dinadin begged silently along with him, waiting for Trosk to explode. The colonel's face went from interest to boredom in less than a minute. He kicked the interpreter in the back with his pointed boot.

  "Well? What's the story?"

  The interpreter swallowed hard. "They know nothing, I think. It is hard to tell."

  Trosk rolled his eyes. "Stupid gogs." He signaled for his horsemen to follow and snapped the reins of his mount impatiently. "All right, let's move it out, boys. We got a lot of doors to kick in."

  Dinadin followed soundlessly, his mouth as dry as the stones beneath him. It would be impossible to avoid the carnage this time. He tried to still his thundering heart, forcing down the wave of nausea. A tiny prayer sprang silently from his lips. He was no murderer, but today the butcher was watching.

  They moved quickly through the streets, avoiding the other swarms of soldiers and the handful of homes already set alight. A woman was screaming, her garments and hair engulfed in fire. Dinadin could hear the insistent flailing of her arms as she tried to bat out the flames. By the time her wailing stopped, they were well past her.

  Trosk's horse stopped abruptly as the colonel jerked back on the reins. One by one the horsemen halted behind him. Trosk sat as still as a pole, his gaze locked onto something in the distance. Dinadin traced the colonel's gaze to a collection of tiny wood and paper houses. There, in the narrow avenue between two of the homes, w
as a small girl of perhaps thirteen, with a shiny metal object in her hand. The colonel's face lit up with a lecherous longing.

  "Mmmm, hello," he rumbled.

  Their eyes met for a brief moment. The girl clutched the object to her breast. Trosk's tongue darted out to wet his lips. The girl gasped, then dashed off into one of the houses, slamming the door behind her. Trosk let out a perverse groan.

  "Oh, my. What a little beauty you are." Then he turned to smile at his troops, his face a perfect mask of mischief. "What do you say, boys? Ready for some fun?"

  Dinadin shut his eyes. It was unthinkable. He tried to speak but couldn't, and the others were already grunting their approval. Trosk laughed and hurried his horse into a gallop. The others rushed to follow him.

  I can't let this happen, Dinadin told himself. Please, God, help me.

  God didn't answer. Dinadin was alone and he knew it. He raced off after Trosk, hoping an idea would occur to him. He would have to reason with the colonel, make him see the horror of his plan. If that didn't work...

  Trosk was at the house. He threw himself off his horse and started toward the door. Dinadin leapt off his horse and scrambled up behind him. The colonel flashed him one of his arrogant grins.

  "Time to make a man of you, Lotts," he said, then smoothed out the brim of his hat and smashed in the door with his boot heel. A sharp scream broke from inside the house. Trosk stuck his head through the doorway.

  "Hello, sweetling," he called. "Ready for Ardoz?"

  Dinadin strained to see past the colonel. He noticed the girl cowering in the corner of the room. The metal object was still wedged in her fist, but what it was Dinadin couldn't say. Beside her was another figure, a very old man with a stooped back and razor-sharp wrinkles. Outstretched before him was a dull-looking jiiktar. The girl clung defiantly to his side. Trosk frowned.

  "Forget about her," Dinadin urged. "It's not worth it. Let's go."

  Trosk glared at him. "Go? What do they bed in Aramoor, Lotts? Sheep? I'll not forget about her because of some old gog."

  The colonel stepped over the threshold, his hands raised plaintively before him.

  "Easy now," he crooned. "No one wants trouble."

  The old man raised the jiiktar higher. Trosk hesitated, then gestured to the others behind him.

  "There's a whole lot of us and only one of you, friend. Put the blade down and no one gets hurt. Simple, right?"

  The old Triin hesitated, clearly seeing the hopelessness of his plight. Trosk took another step forward.

  "Leave it alone, Colonel," begged Dinadin. "He could hurt you."

  "Quiet, you ass," growled Trosk from the corner of his mouth. "He's listening to me, can't you see that?"

  Dinadin saw perfectly. He held his breath as Trosk took another step. The girl whimpered, the metal thing in her grip shaking. It was a statue, Dinadin realized then, a gold and silver rendering of a human figure. Trosk had spied it also.

  "What's that you have?" he asked the girl gently. "Something good? Ooohh, yes, it's very pretty. You're pretty, too. What's your name, darling?"

  He was talking and inching forward, until he was less than two feet from the old man. He was looking right at the girl when his arm shot forward. A spray of blood erupted from the old man's nose and he crumpled, dropping the jiiktar to the floor. Trosk watched him struggle to rise, then put his booted foot down hard on his hand. The old man cried in pain. Trosk ground his heel into flesh.

  "There now," he said happily. "That's much better. I am a colonel of Talistan, in your filthy country to try and save my emperor. Don't you ever threaten me, gog. Ever."

  He punctuated the last ever with a final drive of his foot. The Triin's ancient bones popped under the pressure.

  Now the girl was in a panic. Her eyes darted around the room, but everywhere the men of Nar were closing around her. She kept the statue close to her, and in a moment of mad insight raced for the small space between Trosk and Dinadin. Dinadin started to step aside as the girl came toward him, but Trosk snatched at her skirt and dragged her backward.

  "Where the hell are you going?" he asked viciously. "I've been through a lot for you, you little bitch."

  The girl scratched at him as she struggled to free herself. Trosk caught her hand and yanked her closer, then grabbed a tuft of her hair and pulled her head back. She let out an ear-splitting scream when he licked her face. On the floor the old man was begging Trosk to stop, his nose and jaw covered in blood. Trosk tore open the girl's bodice and dug his teeth into the exposed flesh of her neck. He had her against the wall now, her shoulders flat against the exposed brick. At his feet the old Triin was grabbing for his legs.

  "Damn it!" Trosk spat, kicking the man backward. "Lotts, you idiot. Don't just stand there, get rid of this trash!"

  Dinadin didn't move.

  Trosk stopped molesting the girl at once. The little statuette she'd been guarding fell to her feet. He wrapped his meaty fist around her throat and pinned her to the wall as he turned to scowl at Dinadin.

  "Are you deaf, boy? Kill him!"

  Dinadin slowly shook his head. Trosk's dark eyes flared with rage, then suddenly the colonel laughed.

  "No?" he asked. "Are you refusing my orders, you Aramoorian troll?"

  "I won't kill him," declared Dinadin. He heard the brittleness in his voice. "My God, he didn't do anything. He's just trying to protect her."

  Trosk smiled, ignoring the struggles of the girl as she tried to loosen his grip on her throat. Her breath was coming in desperate rasps. The other infantrymen watched, too frightened or surprised by Dinadin's boldness to move. The colonel's grin was unearthly.

  "You won't kill him?" he asked. "All right. Then let's see what type of men they make in Aramoor, Lotts." He pulled the girl forward by her torn bodice and tossed her to Dinadin's feet, where she collapsed into a sobbing mound. "You don't have to kill the gog, Lotts. All you have to do is take the girl. Now, right here in front of us."

  The girl was on her knees between Trosk and Dinadin, looking from one to the other in a confused panic. Dinadin stared down at her. Trosk pulled his ruby-studded dagger from his boot.

  "I won't," said Dinadin unsteadily. "You can't make me do this."

  "Why not?" asked Trosk. "Don't you like ladies, Lotts? Or have you just been waiting for us to find a fine-looking boy? Is that what you want? A boy?"

  The colonel kicked at the girl, coaxing her toward Dinadin. She yelped and crawled closer, pulling at his pants leg and moaning for mercy. Dinadin moaned, too, trying to brush her away, to be rid of her haunting eyes and pleas. He wanted to run, to leave them all behind in the dingy little house and hide himself where Trosk would never find him. But the girl kept dragging him back.

  "Do it," demanded Trosk. "Take her if you're man enough."

  "No," said Dinadin. "I won't. Do you hear me? I won't!"

  Trosk showed Dinadin his dagger. "You'd better," he warned, stooping to lift the old man's head and putting the blade to his throat. "Or else."

  "Don't," begged Dinadin. "Please don't do this."

  "What's the problem?" asked Trosk angrily. "You're a man, aren't you? She's a girl. Take her."

  "Colonel..."

  "Take her, you weasel, or I swear to God this gog dies!"

  The old man wasn't moving. He was staring up at Dinadin through a slick of blood, Trosk's hand propping up his bruised head. The girl was still at Dinadin's feet, crying and pleading. Dinadin put out his hand to calm her.

  "Stop," he begged her. "Oh God, please stop. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not."

  "Do it, Lotts," urged Trosk. "Now."

  "No!"

  Trosk sighed. "Good Lord, you're a stubborn one," he said. "All right then, have it your way."

  He drew his blade across the wrinkled flesh of the old man's throat. The man's eyes widened in shock. Trosk released his head and he fell to the floor, clutching at the air and reaching for the girl, who was screeching now. Dinadin's nausea spiked. He saw Trosk looking at
him with disgust. The colonel was going for the girl. For one brief second Dinadin thought to stop him, but again that old fear cemented his feet to the floor. Trosk took hold of the girl's hair again and pulled her to her feet, tossing her against the wall.

  "Better now?" asked the colonel bitterly.

  Dinadin couldn't answer. He was choking up bile and trying to wipe away the worst of it with his sleeve.

  "You haven't saved her, you idiot," said Trosk. "In fact, I think maybe we'll all take a turn at her. Except you, of course. You can go find yourself that little boy you want so badly."

  The colonel turned away and went toward the wall. Next to the girl was the object she had tried so hard to protect, the little statue of gold and silver. Trosk picked it up and examined it for a moment, then returned to Dinadin and handed it to him.

  "Here. This might be something useful. Take it outside and give it to the legionnaires. Do you think you can do that?"

  Dinadin could only nod as he accepted the object. He took one last look at the cowering girl, sick with guilt over her coming fate, then down at the Triin with the open throat. The old man had finally stopped thrashing. A river of blood ran along the uneven floor. Dinadin found enough of his voice to speak.

  "Colonel--"

  "Get out of my sight," said Trosk, turning away.

  Dinadin hesitated, then moved slowly backward. His head was pounding as he reached the doorway and stepped into the smoky daylight. Already the girl's pleas had begun anew. Dinadin rushed away from the house, forgetting his horse, his hand clasped over his mouth. He ran to the center of the village, toward the legionnaires with the gathered children and the sobbing mothers and the stricken men. He ran so quickly he did not see the looming figure of the green and gold horseman until they nearly collided. Dinadin glanced up into the rider's face.

  "Baron Gayle," Dinadin stammered. "I'm sorry, my lord. I didn't see you."

  Gayle stared down at him contemptuously. "Lotts, isn't it?"