by John Marco
"NO!"
The blade came down. Voris' expression lit with shock. A fountain of blood spurted from his shoulder, a huge gash opening at the base of his neck. Dinadin fell forward, toppling himself and Voris into the water. Richius and Lucyler leapt toward them, forgetting the horse as they half-ran, half-swam after the submerged men.
"Voris!" Richius cried. He had taken hold of Dinadin and was pulling him off the buried warlord. Lucyler reached into the water and pulled Voris free. The warlord was jetting water from his mouth and blood from the rip in his neck. Voris choked and struggled to breathe, putting his hands to his neck as he shook uncontrollably in Lucyler's grasp. Dinadin hardly moved. Richius laid him aside and went to Voris.
"Voris," he said desperately. "Can you hear me? It's me, Kalak."
Voris opened his eyes and looked at Richius. "Kalak?"
"I'm here," said Richius. Lucyler had Voris' head in his lap and was holding the flaps of skin closed with his hand. But the blood was pumping through the Triin's fingers. Each heartbeat sent a new plume of it spraying forth. Voris' expression was dimming fast.
"Kafife, Kalak," he said breathlessly. "Kafife. Kafife..."
"What?" said Richius. "I don't understand. What are you saying?"
And then Voris was gone. His eyes simply closed and he fell limp in Lucyler's grasp. Richius began to shake.
"Oh, God, Dinadin," he moaned. "What have you done?" Behind him he heard Dinadin's hysterical laughter. "I did it, Richius," he said. He retched up a ball of blood. "I killed the Wolf. We're safe now. We can go home...."
RECKONING
From the Journal of Richius Vantran:
We found Dinadin's horse with the other Talistanian beasts. There was a note in his saddlebag to his father. I couldn't bear to read it, so Lucyler read it for me. If only I had known the misery my poor friend was in, I would have done something, somehow. But he is gone now and all I can do is cherish his note and hope that one day I can return it to his father, and explain my terrible treachery. I know the note could never have been delivered any other way. Even Dinadin knew that. It speaks of Gayle in the worst of terms. Dinadin begged his father to help him, then tucked the note in his saddlebag, never to be seen.
But I've seen it, my friend. I will not forget you. At least you saw Lucyler before you died.
The statue we found with the note is a sad thing, the last remnant of the girl Dinadin tried to save. It was so like him to hold on to baubles. And what a horror it must have been for him, not to be able to rescue her. His note screams with grief. I'm keeping the statue in my chamber now, and that's where it will stay until I leave here. I have nothing else to remember Dinadin by. The horses we will keep for our own. There are just a few of us now, but even fewer horses. We will need them if Nar should come again.
I have not told Najjir how Voris died. She would never have let me bury Dinadin so close if she knew. Even Dyana doesn't know the truth of things, and I have no plans to tell her. She barely remembered Dinadin, even after I explained how she had met him so long ago in Ackle-Nye. How unjust her lack of memory seems to me. Now he is a mystery to Dyana and Najjir both, just a lump of freshly turned earth out in the garden. Soon the lichens will grow over him and only his grave will remain, hidden. They will forget about him here in Lucel-Lor, but somewhere back in old Aramoor his father will wonder why he hasn't returned. He will petition the Gayles for an answer, and they will shrug like black-hearted idiots and say that Dinadin was only one of many who died here.
Like Voris. And Kronin. And maybe Tharn. But not me, and not Gayle. We still live, though God won't tell me why. If I am charmed then it is a damnable magic, for I know I should be dead like the others, and if justice exists at all Gayle would be lying dead beside me with my fingers around his throat. He is a sorcerer, that one. Each time death comes for him he talks his way free. I don't know how he managed to slip us, but we tore that swamp apart looking for him, and he's too big for a snake to swallow. He cheats death as well as I do.
For me, others take the arrows. It will be hard to live here without Voris. I see the bitterness and blame in Najjir's eyes. If it wasn't for you, her eyes say, my husband would still be alive. My children would not be fatherless. I wish you had never come. And what can I say to her? Voris told me to look after them. That's what he meant when he died. Kafife. Family. Lucyler had to explain it to me. Maybe it's because Jarra wasn't around, or maybe he simply trusted me in those final moments, but he has left me with a great burden. I know almost nothing of this valley, yet I am its protector now. If it is the honor Lucyler claims I will do my best, but I will make no promises. Najjir still hates me, and there are only a handful of warriors left. This is not the kingdom I was born to rule.
And Lucyler won't be here to help me. He has left on a fool's errand to find Tharn. Kronin's men have left, too, to deliver the awful news of Kronin's death. If they are lucky they will find Tatterak at peace. We have all taken a great toll, and if there is any more fighting to be done the other warlords will have to do it. Dring has been almost emptied of fighting men, and without Kronin to lead them the warriors of Tatterak may soon lose heart.
We need Tharn. Our good fortune is temporary at best. Dring is safe, but for how long I do not know. The time to strike the Run is now, but we haven't the warriors or leaders to accomplish it. Soon fresh troops will be pouring through the mountains, marching out of Ackle-Nye again. I thought we might have victory, but without Tharn all our fighting has been for nothing. This nation bleeds for him. It is a body without a soul, inadequate to the task. He has left on his foolish errand and been killed, leaving us all like orphaned children. I would never tell Dyana how I feel, but I think she already knows my mind. If Tharn still lived he would have told us so by now. He would have sent an apparition to warn us, or some other weird demon. We are alone, as fractured without him as in the days of the revolution.
So I have only the bleak companionship of my thoughts and this bottle of sour wine that Jarra has found. There are privileges in being the lord of this castle, I suppose, but I would willingly trade the warmth of this drink for Dyana's touch. If only I could share her faith. I want to believe, as she does, but Tharn was so frail when he left. Even if he did make it to Chandakkar, the lion riders or the trip back certainly killed him. I mourn for him. More, I mourn for the mystery of his death. I need proof of his end to convince Dyana. Without that we may forever be apart, and will rot in this castle till I die or more Narens come to kill me.
May I admit something terrible? I am not the man I was. This war has devoured me. I burn for Dyana. She taunts me with words of love, shows me my child, makes me adore them both then keeps me away from them. And I am starting to hate her for it. I hate her strength, for I do not have any of my own left. I hate her fidelity to Tharn. Like a loyal dog she waits at the door for a dead master. And I'm still jealous of that twisted holy man, who even in death keeps Dyana away from me. Heaven burn me, I am so alone.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The knock came as Richius penned the last word in his journal. It was late, past the hour of cordial visitors, and the sudden rapping startled him, making him nearly tip the bottle of wine on his desk. He pushed the bottle aside and groaned. He was drunk, too drunk to hold a proper conversation. The knocking came again, more insistent. Richius drew an unsteady breath.
"It's late," he mumbled. "Who is it?"
"Richius? It is me, Dyana."
Richius straightened. He rose quickly and started for the door, then saw his grizzled reflection in the mirror, with his overgrown beard and disheveled hair. And of course there was his breath. Anxiously he smoothed down his tousled hair and went to the door.
"Dyana?"
She greeted him with a thin smile. She was not dressed for sleep as would have been customary, but instead wore a dress still stained from laboring in the kitchen. Najjir was with her, her eyes cast solemnly down. Unlike Dyana, she wore a soft shift of jade silk, belted lightly around her waist with a sa
sh embroided with flowers.
"What's this?" asked Richius.
"May we come in?" asked Dyana. "I will explain it to you."
Richius stepped aside and gestured them into the room. Najjir kept her eyes focused on her slippers. Dyana's expression was despairing. She looked at the bottle on the desk beside the open journal, then back to Richius.
"You are busy?" she asked.
"I'm getting ready for sleep," said Richius. "It's very late, Dyana. Is something wrong?"
Dyana grimaced. He could tell she was getting ready to lie.
"No," she answered. "I only wanted to bring Najjir to you."
"Why?"
Dyana shifted uneasily. "I was hoping Lucyler had explained this to you," she said. "Did he?"
"Did he what?"
"Tell you about your lordship?"
Richius felt his patience boiling away. "Dyana, what the hell is going on here? Why have you brought Najjir to me?"
"Because she is yours now," said Dyana stiffly. Her words seemed to be coming with great effort. "You are lord of this castle at Voris' bequest. He asked you to take care of his family."
"So?"
"So his family is yours now, to do with what you wish. Are you understanding me, Richius?"
Richius was mortified as the idea slowly came clear. "What are you saying? That Najjir is my wife now?"
"Not your wife," Dyana corrected. "Your property. As is this castle and everyone who serves it. The warriors, the daughters of Voris, everyone. They have been passed to you. You know this already." Dyana was near tears, but she held her head high as she continued. "Did Lucyler tell you none of this?"
"He told me that I was to look after Voris' family."
"And what did you think that meant?"
"I don't know," said Richius. "I'm not a Triin, remember?"
Dyana remained calm. "It means you are lord here. Master of the valley."
"No," said Richius. "I've not accepted the charge. It was an accident of Voris' death, Dyana, that's all."
"Richius, you do not understand. He passed his family on to you. That makes you warlord."
"But I don't want to be warlord!" cried Richius. "Don't you understand? I'll look after them if I can, for as long as I can, but I'm no Triin." He looked at Najjir, who still did not look up but kept her head dutifully bowed. "I can't have her, Dyana. Lord, it's immoral."
"It is the way of things here," said Dyana. "It cannot be changed."
"Oh, like hell. Najjir hates me. I know it and so do you. How could you bring her here like this?"
Dyana's face was carefully blank. "I do this only for her sake. She is Drol. You must understand what that means."
Richius took her hand and squeezed. "But I don't understand. Why should she do this to herself? I don't desire her. I desire you."
"Drol, Richius. They have customs. She is without a husband now, without a lord to serve. You must be that lord. Najjir cannot live without a master. She would be as nothing without one, like dust."
"Dyana..."
"Hear me," said Dyana gently. "Take her or do not take her. But do not discard her. It would be her death. She has nothing else, Richius."
"No." Richius took Dyana by the shoulders. "I have a family already. You and Shani, you're my family."
"I know," said Dyana. "But I am still Tharn's wife--"
"He's dead, Dyana. He's not a threat to anyone anymore, not even our enemies."
"Richius, you have been drinking," said Dyana, her voice shaking. She tried to smile at him. "Let go of me. Please."
And he did. Richius went to his desk and collapsed in his chair, burying his head in his hands. After a moment he felt Diana's touch on his shoulder.
"Will you do this for me? It is not like you think. This is not a gift. Najjir needs you. If other men in the valley hear that you have discarded her they will come and claim her for their own. She will be forced to leave the castle. It must be you, Richius."
He could not answer. Dyana pressed a hand to his shoulder, her touch burning as keenly as the acid of the war labs.
"Richius?" she ventured. "Please do not send her away. Ignore her if you wish, but do not put her aside. You must see what it is like to be a Drol woman. She needs you."
"Yes, yes," Richius roared. "She needs me. Tharn needs me. Voris needs me. All right then, I'm here. Your bloody gods have made a slave of me. So go, leave me to this new duty. I'll let you know tomorrow how well I perform."
"Richius..."
"Go!"
A long moment passed. Deliberately he peeled his hands from his face. Dyana was gone, and Najjir, who had taken on the color of an icicle, was waiting for him. He leaned back in his chair and regarded her. She was surprisingly lovely. A decade older than him at least, but with features not unlike Dyana. Even in her prosaic fear she was artistic, like one of those broken statues in the yard, a neglected masterpiece. He could imagine her as a queen, or a portrait hanging in Arkus' gallery. Vulnerable. Dutiful. Beautiful.
"I'm drunk," he said sluggishly.
Najjir merely nodded as if his words were meaningful.
"You don't understand a thing I said, do you?" he asked. "You don't even know why you're here. Maybe because one of your nasty gods took away your husband and gave you this filthy barbarian instead." He laughed, and the sound of it startled him. "Can I tell you something? You're right. I am a barbarian. A beast. That's what happens to a man when everything is taken from him."
He rose slowly and stared at her. "Are you afraid of me?" he asked. "You needn't be." He inched closer. "I wasn't always a beast, Najjir. I used to be a king. Can you believe that? I was civilized once."
His voice had taken on volume. Najjir closed her eyes. He closed the gap between them. "I came from a country where men didn't take women as slaves. I had a wife that I respected but I let her die."
Then Najjir simply crumbled. She could not look at him, to bear to have him look at her. She sank down on the floor and began to sob, rocking as she mumbled and crossed her hands over her shoulders.
"Voris," she moaned. "Voris..."
Richius staggered away from the broken woman, backing into his desk. The wine bottle tipped and rolled onto the floor. Najjir's cries jangled in his ears. He looked at her, unable to console her, and simply let her grieve.
In a corner of Ackle-Nye, in a ramshackle tavern with its roof partially collapsed, Baron Blackwood Gayle of Talistan sat staring at his atrocious reflection in a goblet of wine. He was on his sixth glass, and thoroughly enjoying the dull intoxication. It was a hot night. The humidity pricked the tender skin beneath his silver mask, causing an ungodly itch, and because he was alone he slid a slender fingernail under the precious metal to scratch.
Alone. There was a time when he relished solitude, but recently there had been too much of it. All his horsemen were dead, killed by that Aramoorian devil, and the only company he had now were the accusing stares of the legionnaires. He heard what they were calling him, the whispered slurs exchanged when he passed. Gayle the coward. Gayle the fool, who couldn't capture Vantran even with an army. He had ridden back to Ackle-Nye without his vaunted horsemen, and the Naren garrison in the city were understandably suspicious--too suspicious to believe his tale. He should have died with his men. That's what a real commander would do. Even Cassis, the puppet commanding the garrison, had dared to look cross-eyed at him.
"Piss on you, Cassis," he mumbled. A pair of legionnaires seated across the room turned to stare at him, then abruptly looked away. Gayle thought to rise, then stopped himself. There was nothing he could do but endure their mirth. He was a baron of Talistan, but that title was meaningless now. When word of his failure reached Nar, they would oil the gallows for him.
And that was the hell of it. He really had tried. He had slipped the noose around Vantran's neck, yet somehow the Jackal had outwitted him. And everybody knew it. There were even some who were calling Vantran a genius, a military mastermind. He had routed the legionnaires in Tatterak, dest
royed the horsemen in the Dring Valley, even managed to work some charm on the seafaring devils of Liss. He had become a sorcerer like his new master Tharn. Some said he was unbeatable.
But Blackwood Gayle knew better. Every man could be defeated, especially a pup like Vantran. The Jackal had been lucky, but luck invariably ran short. And when it did, Gayle planned to be there waiting. Furiously he scribbled down notes on his map of the Dring Valley. All he needed was a chance, and enough men to follow him. If Vantran was still holed up in that dismal castle, then he was vulnerable. The Drol of the valley might have beaten back his horsemen, but they had paid a terrible price. They were too few to protect Vantran against another assault. All he had to do was sneak back in.
Somehow.
"Do you think you've seen the last of me?" he rumbled. Again the soldiers glanced at him. Gayle raised his head. "What the hell are you staring at?" He got to his feet and put his hand on his sword pommel. "I'm not so drunk I can't grind both of you into pulp. And if you think I'm joking, why not find out? Because I would love it!"
The legionnaires put down their drinks, got up very slow then turned and left the tavern. Gayle gave a hoarse laugh.
"Yes, yes," he called after them. "Who's the coward now, eh? You're too good to sit with me but not good enough to fight me? Get out of here, you craven bastards! Go back and lick Cassis' boots!"
He dropped back into his chair and laughed, pouring himself another glass of wine. It was good to know he could still intimidate. At least he had that. In the morning he would write to his father, asking him to send more troops. He hated to grovel but there wasn't a choice. He had already failed Nar, and would probably hang for it. But before he did there was a vendetta to settle. For that he needed troops.
