by John Marco
"CHA YULAN!" he howled. "CHA YULAN TA!"
The Wolf lives.
Jarra had made it onto the war wagon. The frenzied greegan bucked. Two warriors went to it and worked their blades on its windpipe, hacking as if at a tree trunk. The monster fell with a crash, wailing like the storm. Four more soldiers remained, all blind, all fearful of the white wraiths around them. Voris heard the hiss of steel swinging for his head. He ducked and let the blade whistle past, rolling and then springing up to meet his attacker. Two more times his jiiktar slashed, two more arcs of blood. Leather and chain mail buckled open under the quick blades, slicing into vital veins. The Naren stumbled, horrified at his own open throat. He put up his hands and fell to his knees, gasping as a waterfall of blood cascaded down his chest. Voris drove a boot into his metal face, denting the helmet and forcing him backward.
On the war wagon, old Jarra roared as he tore open the bellows with his weapon. The acid launcher groaned. The bellows swelled with a rush of air. Alarmed, Jarra jumped from the wagon just as the bellows exploded. The fabric bag popped like thunder and a cloud of yellow acid spewed up into the sky. The warriors instinctively protected themselves, diving into the mud. Voris looked up into the sky. He tried to run and found he couldn't. The Naren soldier had a hand wrapped around his ankle. Down came the acid in the rain. Voris kicked at the man and broke free. But the acid was on him. It chewed into his shoulder, cutting through his clothing even as the rain began washing it away. Voris bit back the pain and grabbed hold of the Naren who had seized him, lifting him in a rage and tossing him bodily into the upturned horn of the dead greegan.
"Kill!" shouted the warlord.
His warriors charged the Narens at their master's order. Dumaka Jarra joined the fray, leaping on one from behind and wrestling him into the swampy earth. Voris went to his aid, stomping the man's face with his heavy boot until the body stopped moving and the helmet oozed brains. They were all screaming now, drunk on blood. Voris heard the wails of the two remaining Narens. His warriors were already on them, cutting them down. The Wolf fell back against the wagon, his shoulder on fire with pain. He tore off his shirt and howled so that every Naren on earth would hear him.
"I am the Wolf!" he roared. "Dring is mine!"
When the rain finally slackened, the clouds parted to reveal a brooding moon. The insects had come out again to sing. The camp buzzed with their music. Up high in the birches nocturnal animals hunted, shaking the leaves with their movements. Voris sat back against a tree trunk, staring at the moon through the white limbs. Exhaustion had settled over the camp. It was very late now and only lookouts were awake. Voris ran a soiled cloth over his soiled jiiktar, polishing away the gore. Tired beyond words, he still found sleep impossible. Like the moon, he brooded.
Black thoughts soaked his brain. This part of the forest was peaceful, but not far away the legions gathered, soon to force another battle. Voris groaned at the idea of morning. They had clashed with the Narens in a dozen melees and he had lost scores of men. He had killed scores, too, but their numbers seemed unending. In time, Nar would deplete them. Despite its vastness, the Dring Valley had limited bodies to throw against the Empire, and every day that number dwindled bit by bit. The legionnaires clearing the forest of traps continually advanced. Too soon, they would be at the doors of Castle Dring. Voris made a monumental push to stifle his emotions. Najjir was home, waiting for him. Home.
"You do not sleep?" came a voice. Dumaka Jarra dropped down beside Voris, ignoring the wet ground. "Why?"
Voris shrugged. He wasn't in the mood for company. "Restless. Things on my mind."
Jarra leaned back against the tree trunk with his friend. Together they stared at the moon, exchanging sighs. The war master had a subtle way about him. Voris knew he would have to wait for his advice. Wraiths of clouds skirted across the sky, gray things with wings of vapor that looked to Voris like doves. Jarra smiled at the sight of them. It was always this way in Dring. The gods had been good here.
"I think you should sleep," said Jarra at last. He did not look at Voris but kept his old eyes fixed on the moon. "We need you strong. Tomorrow they will come again."
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and the tomorrow after that," said Voris. "They will never stop. They are like the moon, without end."
"We have won battles. It is not so hopeless."
Voris scoffed. "How many battles have we won? We lose ground every day."
"The acid shooters, they are not so many anymore."
"And that is why the Narens are keeping the rest of them out of the trees," reminded Voris. "They are waiting for the armored ones to sweep the traps. After that, they will charge in here with the horses. They will force us back to the castle."
"We are still many."
"Not so many."
"We are strong," argued Jarra. "We have the heart. The Narens do not."
"I would trade my heart for another hundred men," said Voris. "I would give anything to save this valley. This is my land. To lose it to these barbarians..." It was a thought so sickening Voris couldn't speak it. He put down the weapon he was polishing and brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. "I would rather lose Dring to Kronin."
Jarra laughed. "Ah, now that is a big boast!"
"It is true. I cannot bear this loss, my friend. I cannot allow it. There are too many depending on me." Again he thought of Najjir. She had been a fine wife. The Narens would violate her, he was sure. Just as they had Kalak's wife. Even Tharn's wife would suffer, a thought that made Voris curiously sad. He had never cared for the heretic, but time and battle had softened him to her. And he was supposed to protect her. Tharn was expecting that, at least.
Tharn.
Another giant loss. Dead, probably, and this Voris couldn't bear, either. The weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders, threatening to snap him.
"I am so tired," he said softly. "So tired..."
"Sleep now," urged Jarra. "I have set up watchers on the borders and in the trees along the road. They will warn us of any trouble."
Voris didn't reply. He didn't want to sleep, not if it meant waking up to all of this. In his boyhood he had dreamed of war. They were good dreams, full of victories. No one important ever died in them. Wives weren't raped and murdered. Or daughters. If the Narens had any humanity at all, they might spare his youngest. Pris and her precocious smile popped into his mind, making him smile.
"When they see what I have left them, they will fear me," said Voris.
When Voris and his men had killed their opponents, they had skinned them and hung their remains from the trees with their sword belts. Voris hoped the Narens would see what he had done.
"They will call you a savage and a madman," replied Jarra. "That is all. The Narens do such things themselves. They will not be so dissuaded by it."
"Then I will do it to their generals," hissed Voris. "To that big one, Blackwood Gayle. I would like that, to peel off his skin. I would give it to Kalak as a reward."
"Kalak would rather do the skinning himself, I am sure," laughed Jarra. The old man looked at Voris curiously. "You are thinking of Vantran a lot these days. Why?"
"Am I?"
"I can tell you are thinking of him. You change when I mention him."
"Kalak has done me a service," said Voris. "I am grateful for it, and that is all. You imagine things, old man."
"Kalak has done well for you. You were wrong about him. You see that, and it bothers you."
"You bother me, Jarra," said Voris. "I was fine until you sat down. Leave me now. I am thinking."
The old man looked back up at the moon. Voris relaxed. He hadn't expected Jarra to go. And Jarra wouldn't go, not until he had his answer.
"You want to be right?" asked Voris. "You are. Kalak is better than I thought. And yes, I have been considering him. And yes, it does bother me. Should it not?"
"I suppose. You still grieve for Tal. But Tal died defending Dring. Now Kalak might do the same. So maybe they
were not so different."
Voris shrugged. "Maybe." He didn't want Kalak dying for Dring. For some reason, the young king seemed to have lost too much already. He was without a home, nearly friendless. He didn't even have a woman, a luxury all Triin men took for granted. If Kalak died, Voris knew he would grieve for him.
"We cannot keep them back forever," said Voris. "A week more. Maybe less. We will have to make plans for the defense of the keep. Kalak can help with that. It would be good to put his brain to use."
"He knows these Narens well," Jarra admitted. "Tharn was right about him."
"Yes. He was right."
"And Tharn's woman? What of her?"
"She will die, like the rest of us," said Voris. He closed his eyes. "Tharn, forgive me."
"Do not talk so among the others," scolded the war master. "Most think Tharn is still alive. If you do not, they will not, either. Then they will not fight as well."
"Jarra, you are pestering me," snapped Voris. "Leave me alone now."
It always took such sharpness to shoo Jarra away. The war master left, his feelings uninjured. Voris watched him go. He loved Jarra. The old man was like a father to him. He had been war master in Dring since Voris had taken the valley. The Wolf simply couldn't imagine life without him. To Voris, Jarra was the Dring Valley, old and forever. He had thought Tharn would be like that, too, but then the gods became fickle and crippled him. Now, just like Dring without Jarra, Voris couldn't comprehend Lucel-Lor without Tharn.
He thought of Dyana, and how he had always warned Tharn against her. But she had been too beautiful for his friend to resist. Voris crinkled his forehead. She was lovely, in a sort of undomesticated way. He supposed he could understand the attraction. And Dyana had made Tharn happy in his last days. For that, the warlord was grateful. He had never thought the girl capable of such kindness.
It was just one more thing he had been wrong about.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Richius healed quickly over the subsequent days, anxious for word from Voris and receiving none. He whiled away the hours sitting up in bed, waiting for Dyana to make her appointed visits with food and more of the cooling medicine that had made the skin of his back supple once again. After a few days of the ointment he could tolerate a shirt and short walks outside to get some air. He ate well, devouring everything Dyana brought to him, scribbled furiously in his journal about the Naren siege, and entertained himself with violent fantasies of revenge against Blackwood Gayle. Maps had become a hobby, and he regularly drew pictures of the Dring Valley and the marshlands to its south, planning for the time when Kronin and his warriors would come to their aid and help push the Narens into the wetlands for a sodden demise.
But he was frustrated, too. It wasn't so much the war he missed, but he hated the horror of the unknown. Like everyone in Castle Dring, he had no idea how close the Narens were to the keep, or how many of the valley's defenders remained. Voris and his warriors might be turning the tide, or they might be pressed against a wall with blades at their throats. And here he was, stuck in a prison, ignorant and comfortable while others fought to defend Dyana and their child.
Only the time he spent with Dyana made him forget their predicament. She had a way of making hours speed away. She came to him daily with his meals and little bits of gossip about what was being said, how the wounded were telling stories of their small victories, and how the Narens had never seen such fierce fighters--all the usual bravado of dying men. She talked in hushed tones about Najjir and the other women of the keep, and occasionally even mentioned Tharn. And she always left the door to his chamber open when she came to him.
She had taken her mission to teach him her language seriously, and set about the task with alarming vigor. For an hour each day she kept up a cool exterior while she taught him the most rudimentary of Triin sayings and extolled the virtues of the Triin alphabet. He soon found that he was only a fair student. Triin was unlike the languages of the Empire, which to his thinking were far more fluid. Everything he uttered in Triin sounded like little more than baby dribble. But Dyana was patient with him, gently coaxing each word off his tongue with determination, and by the end of a week he was sounding more like a Triin and less like a troubled infant.
Best of all, Shani was often nearby to encourage him. For some reason, Dyana had become less wary about bringing their child to see him. She would shrug off the oddness by saying that Najjir was too busy to tend the infant, but Richius could tell by the way she encouraged him to hold their daughter that there was something more to it.
Weeks had passed since any of them had heard from Tharn. Once, in the thickness of his pain, he thought he had glimpsed Tharn speaking to him in a dream, but when he awoke the apparition had gone, and he remembered how long it had been since the cunning-man had left for Chandakkar. He had grieved for Tharn that night, sure his old adversary had died. In the morning his fears had abated, but like everyone else he still wondered where the lord of Lucel-Lor had vanished to. Chandakkar was remote and dangerous, and Tharn might already be a stomach-souring lump in the belly of a lion.
But Richius never voiced any of these fears to Dyana. She and Tharn were not lovers, but they were man and wife, and Richius guessed that most of Dyana's sadness grew from worries over her husband. So they avoided the subject and enjoyed what time they had together, while outside the castle wall the war for their lives raged on, and more men died telling foolish stories of foolish bravery.
And then at last Voris returned to Castle Dring. It was one night when the rain was falling hard, the thunderous release of a hot day's humidity. Richius was in his chamber when the knock came. It was Dumaka Jarra, the war master. Richius had been clearing the debris of his evening meal, chewing on a bone as opened the door. Jarra made a disapproving face.
"Jarra," said Richius. He put the bone down, embarrassed be eating in the presence of the gaunt war master. "What is it? Has Voris returned?" He pointed out into the hall. "Voris?"
"Voris," answered the old man with a nod. He turned and gestured for Richius to follow him. "Gomin easa ar, Kalak."
"He's waiting for me? Just wait a moment," said Richius. He hurried over to where his boots were lying and slid one onto his foot, then hopped toward the door as he slid on the other. The haggard war master bid him to follow, leading him out of the chamber and into the hall. There he saw a congregation of people, wide-eyed and eager for news of their lord. The Dumaka put up a hand to part them, growling at them to step aside.
Richius trailed the Dumaka through the hall toward the back of the keep. It was quieter here, darker, with few windows and only a handful of torches to light the way. Richius had never been in this area of the castle before. He suspected it was where Voris had his own chambers and those of his family, and he never wanted to chance running into the precocious little Pris again. Several wooden doors hung crookedly on the western wall, and the ceiling was high and sooty from years of burning torches. An elaborate spider's web clung to an out-of-reach corner. Jarra came to one of the doors, rapped on it twice, then pushed it open. Richius peered over the old man's shoulder. Inside the chamber was a low circular table with green pillows strewn around it. Soft fabrics decorated the walls. A candelabra burned serenely in the center of the table, casting its glow on two silent figures. Voris sat cross-legged and long-faced at the far side of the table. Beside him knelt Dyana, her head dutifully bowed. She hardly stirred as Richius entered.
"Voris?" he ventured.
The warlord forced a smile. Dumaka Jarra stepped into the chamber and sat down on the floor beside Voris. Both men eyed Richius mournfully. Unsure if he should sit or remain standing, Richius waited for Voris to speak. At last he did, and his voice was thin and brittle.
"The warlord asks you to sit," explained Dyana, keeping her head bowed as she spoke. Richius felt a queer uneasiness inch up his spine.
"What is it?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"
"I do not know," answered Dyana. "Sit, please."
&
nbsp; Richius did as Dyana asked, lowering himself to the floor between her and Voris. He tried to make her look at him, but she wouldn't. Voris' expression was vacant. Beside him, his Dumaka wore a stony mask.
"I'm listening, Voris," said Richius. "Tell me what's wrong."
Dyana translated, and Voris gave a bitter laugh. He pulled up a sleeve and stretched out his forearm for Richius to see. The scars crisscrossing his skin were a violent shade of purple.
"Acid launcher," remarked Richius. "Yes, I understand. Have you stopped them yet?"
The warlord's reply was short. Richius struggled to piece together the snippets he understood. What he heard didn't make sense.
"He has not," said Dyana. "He wishes to know how you are, Richius."
"Me? Who cares how I am? Come on, Dyana, ask him what's happening."
"The warlord wishes you well, Richius," chided Dyana mildly.
"I'm much better," he said. Then, "Easa, Voris. Fine. Thank you. Shay sar."
Voris seemed pleased by the answer. Then his eyes grew melancholy, and he pulled down his billowy sleeve to cover his wounds. He sighed so loudly his breath stirred the candle flames. When he spoke, he did so directly to Richius.
"Voris wants you to know that our time is short," said Dyana. "He says the Narens are very near now. Soon the horsemen will be coming, and he will not be able to stop them." Her voice caught for a moment before she could right it. "He says we have only days left."
Richius was stunned. He had seen the numbers massed against them, had witnessed the carnage Gayle and his henchmen could occasion, yet he had never really considered that Voris would utter such words. His throat constricted. If he was lucky he would die anonymously with the others. If he were not, he would be dragged to Nar City in chains. He thought of Dyana and Shani, and the horrors they might be forced to endure.
"Days," he whispered breathlessly. He would never let Gayle take his family. He would have them all drink poison first.
"Richius?" said Dyana. "Are you all right?"
