The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  Lucyler nodded. ‘It is called a heart fruit. They only ripen a few days a year. But when they do . . .’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Try it.’

  Richius sniffed at the half-eaten fruit. ‘Smells nice,’ he commented, and took a bite. His eyes lit up as he mumbled, ‘Good.’

  ‘I thought you would like it,’ said Lucyler. ‘I can get you some if you like.’

  ‘No,’ said Richius. ‘Save them for the others. We have fruit enough in Aramoor.’ He handed the heart fruit back to Lucyler. ‘Here, you finish it.’

  Lucyler took it and set it back down. ‘Richius,’ he asked carefully, ‘will you tell me what you have decided?’

  Richius looked away distractedly. ‘He’s not going to change his mind, is he?’

  ‘No,’ answered Lucyler. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Why not, Lucyler? He knows I love her. He knows she doesn’t love him. Why is he keeping her from me?’

  ‘It is not like that exactly,’ Lucyler explained. ‘It is not that he wants to keep you apart. He wants to keep her with him. He loves her also.’

  ‘Do you know that for certain?’

  ‘She is very beautiful, Richius. And he is . . . well, less than beautiful. It is like that for men here. A beautiful woman is important for men like Tharn. Others follow him. They strive to be like him. And yes, I think he does love her.’

  ‘Then he will take care of her? And the baby?’

  ‘I have no doubt. You should see him with her, Richius. He glows when she is around. He is more obsessed with her than you are, I think.’

  ‘Dyana told me,’ Richius admitted. ‘She said that he has always loved her, even before they were betrothed. I guess I was hoping she was wrong.’

  Lucyler shook his head. ‘She is not wrong. His love for her is a strange thing. It is something fierce. And his sickness makes him love her even more. She is very beautiful. I think he feels less monstrous around her. But he is good to her. And that is all you should worry about.’

  Richius seemed satisfied. He nodded to himself, as if in deep thought, saying, ‘All right then. I will leave in the morning for Aramoor.’

  ‘Will you speak to Arkus for us, Richius?’

  ‘You know I will. I have no choice. I can’t let this war happen if Dyana and Shani are here in Falindar. But don’t deceive yourself, Lucyler. Just being here is treason. When Arkus learns of it, he won’t be in a mood to talk. I’ll be lucky if I get out of the Black City alive.’

  ‘I know. That is why I am going with you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I cannot ask you to do this without taking the risk myself. And I have already told Tharn I am going. It is done.’

  ‘Then undo it. You’ll have a lot less chance of surviving this than me, Lucyler. What do you think goes on in Nar? Arkus will have you locked up in one of his war labs before you know what’s happening. He’d just love to get his hands on a Triin.’

  ‘I am prepared for the worst,’ replied Lucyler calmly. ‘We will face this together.’

  ‘Then you might as well say your farewells now, Lucyler. You won’t be coming back.’

  Lucyler merely shrugged. He had expected Richius’ argument, and had already reached all the same conclusions. It changed nothing. He would either die in Nar trying for peace, or he would die in Lucel-Lor fighting a war. Death came to everyone. What really mattered was how it came.

  ‘I’ve told Tharn not to expect too much from us,’ he said. ‘But I doubt he was listening. He has faith in us, I fear.’

  ‘Faith,’ spat Richius. ‘Then he is a fool. He should put his faith in Liss. He should fight with them like they’ve asked. With their help Lucel-Lor might stand a chance. Unless of course he uses his power.’

  ‘You do not understand,’ said Lucyler. He was tiring of this argument, of trying to explain the subtleties of Drol life to Richius. Not everyone could grasp it, he knew, particularly non-Triin, but he had hoped Richius was smarter than that.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Richius. ‘I don’t understand. I wish I could see him as you do. This would all be easier for me.’

  ‘You will see the truth of him in time, Richius. Just like I did.’

  Clearly, Richius disagreed. He rubbed thoughtfully at his beard, his eyes darting with the passing seabirds. They sat there together a long moment, their legs perched over the sea wall, and a gust of ocean air blew back their hair. White-capped waves shimmered in the distance, tossing up tasty trophies for the hovering gulls. The song of the sea was crisp on the mountain and they lost themselves in it, swaying slightly to its constant, iambic rhythm.

  Tomorrow, thought Lucyler sadly. It was too soon. He had missed Falindar terribly during his long excursion to Aramoor. He wasn’t eager to say farewell again – and this time it might be for good. He flicked the rind of the heart fruit off the cliff edge, mindful that it would likely be his last. The fruit plummeted downward and disappeared.

  ‘Will you see him again before we go?’ asked Lucyler.

  Richius shrugged indifferently. ‘Why should I? He’s made his decision and I’ve made mine.’

  ‘What about Dyana and the little one?’

  ‘Tonight I’ll say good-bye to them both,’ said Richius. ‘If Tharn lets me, that is.’

  ‘Of course he will,’ said Lucyler. ‘You need only ask. I’ll tell him myself if you like.’

  ‘No,’ said Richius. ‘I’ll do it.’ He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Am I a fool, Lucyler?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Am I a fool?’ asked Richius again. ‘I feel like one. I should never have come back. I don’t know what I expected to find here.’

  ‘I think you know,’ said Lucyler gently. ‘You expected to find Dyana willing. You imagined she would be waiting for you, did you not?’

  Richius opened his eyes and stared at his friend. ‘God, I’m stupid, aren’t I? She hardly even knows me. And I hardly know her. Yet I love her, Lucyler. I can’t explain it, but I do. I’ve loved her since I saw her. She was enough to make me leave Aramoor. And I never thought anything could drag me back here.’

  ‘Love is a mystery, my friend,’ offered Lucyler. ‘Sometimes it takes years to grow. Other times an instant is enough.’

  ‘And sometimes it never grows at all,’ Richius concluded.

  Lucyler started to speak but abruptly broke off, cocking his head toward the citadel. Someone was calling his name, barely audible over the rushing breeze. He stood up at once and scanned the distance. A man was coming toward them, a warrior of Kronin’s, racing down the sloping hillside.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Richius, getting to his feet. He followed Lucyler’s gaze until he himself sighted the running man. The warrior moved with purpose along the rocky ground, his arms and legs pumping furiously. Lucyler felt his insides ice.

  ‘Trouble,’ he whispered blackly.

  ‘Loocylr!’ came the echoing cry, rolling down the mountain like an avalanche. The man was waving now, frantically waving a hand above him as he ran. Lucyler waved back, then motioned to Richius.

  ‘Follow me,’ he called over his shoulder, dashing madly to meet the warrior. Richius was close on his heels.

  Together they thundered up the slope to where the warrior in blue and gold had halted, his face flushed with exertion and dripping perspiration. He spoke in a flustered croak, his words disjointed. Lucyler listened, piecing together what he could as the man rambled and pointed, first to Richius and then to the towering citadel over his shoulder.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ asked Richius.

  Lucyler said shakily, ‘There is someone for you in the citadel. Tharn wants you to come at once.’

  ‘Someone for me? Who?’

  ‘He does not know,’ Lucyler explained. The man was still talking. ‘He only knows Tharn wants to see you, in the banquet room. Something important.’

  They began the long, winding journey back to the citadel, leaving the bewildered warrior behind. Richius easily kept pace with Lucyler, digging into the rocky earth
with his hard boots and sending shards of gravel into the air. Panic energized them, propelling them up the hill and into the relatively flat yards around the castle. The grounds were empty. They looked at one another cautiously.

  ‘No trouble,’ said Richius. ‘What is this?’

  Lucyler shrugged, then started off again into the covered court of the citadel. They didn’t run now but rather walked briskly, taking notice of the people they passed and seeing nothing unusual. The banquet room, the warrior had said. Lucyler peered down the hall. All was quiet. Whatever was happening apparently wasn’t common knowledge. Several people passed them on their way, hardly sparing them a glance. Lucyler tossed Richius a confused look, then started off down the great hall that led to the banquet room, with Richius on his heels. Their boots echoed ominously through the cavernous hall as they walked. Richius was breathing heavily. A nervous sweat had erupted on his forehead and he licked his lips impatiently as his eyes scanned for trouble. They paused as they neared the closed doors of the banquet room. Lucyler put his ear to the ornate portals and held his breath. Inside he could hear an occasional, unrecognizable voice, but it was too muffled to be distinguishable.

  ‘Someone is inside,’ he whispered. ‘I do not know who.’

  ‘Open it,’ Richius directed.

  Lucyler rapped twice on one of the doors, then pulled it slowly open. At once he saw Tharn. The cunning-man’s face was dreadful. He nodded slightly as he recognized Lucyler. Other heads turned toward the door; Kronin and two of his warriors, all standing with their jiiktars held loosely at waist level. And then Lucyler saw another man as he pulled the door wider, an unknown figure in shining black leather with a gilded cape and a helmet of silver. He was tall and lean, and when he turned to the doorway his masked face displayed a horrible death’s-head, the perfect likeness of a human skull rendered in metal. A long, thin sword dangled from his belt. Lucyler faltered. Richius pushed past him. His friend recoiled when he noticed the soldier.

  ‘My God,’ whispered Richius. He stopped in the doorway. Lucyler came up alongside him. Both men’s eyes fixed on the malevolent figure.

  ‘Who is he, Richius? Do you know?’

  ‘Come,’ ordered Tharn. His voice resonated with angry power in the hollow chamber. His expression was tight, even bitter, and his blistered lips twisted in the semblance of a snarl. He was watching the odd man closely, doing nothing to hide his contempt. Kronin and his warriors watched the soldier, too, their jiiktars poised. It was then that Lucyler noticed the box at the soldier’s feet.

  It was the size of a small chest, forged from battered irons and barely large enough for a modest collection of books. A stout lock dangled from a web of chains wrapped around its lid and casing. The soldier, seeing Lucyler regarding the chest, stepped aside so he and Richius could view it clearly. He inclined his gruesome head to one side, and the silver skull seemed to smile.

  ‘Who is he?’ Lucyler whispered.

  Richius was too stunned to answer.

  ‘Come in,’ said Tharn again. His gnarled walking stick shook in his feeble grip.

  ‘Is this King Vantran?’ asked the golden voice from behind the silver mask.

  Tharn looked at the soldier contemptuously before saying, ‘Richius, this thing is here to speak with you. Do you know who he is?’

  ‘Not precisely,’ answered Richius in a shrinking voice. ‘But I know what he is.’

  Lucyler was lost. It seemed that everyone knew what was happening but him. ‘Well?’ he asked impatiently. ‘What is he then?’

  ‘He is a Shadow Angel. A messenger of Arkus of Nar. And I’m certain he has business with me.’

  Now Lucyler stepped forward, moving between the strange soldier and his friend. ‘What business have you with the king?’

  The Shadow Angel gestured to the chest at his feet. ‘I am the emperor’s humble herald. I bring a gift for the king of Aramoor.’

  Richius moved to get closer, but Lucyler held out a hand. ‘What is this gift?’ he asked. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘To the first question, it is a gift between the great Lord Arkus and Aramoor’s king. I know not what it is. To the second, I have come by ship to deliver His Majesty’s present.’ The Shadow Angel slipped a hand into his black vestments, moving slowly so as not to alarm the armed warriors. Kronin eyed him coldly but didn’t stop him. An envelope of crisp parchment appeared in the messenger’s hand. He held it out past Lucyler for Richius. ‘For you,’ he said, bowing his head slightly. Lucyler snatched the envelope away.

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Richius rigidly.

  ‘No. It is nothing good, Richius, I am sure.’

  Richius touched his friend’s shoulder. ‘Please,’ he said softly.

  Lucyler thought to argue then stopped himself, seeing the determination in his comrade’s eyes. He passed the envelope over.

  ‘You will find a key inside,’ offered the Shadow Angel. ‘It will open the lock for the chest.’

  They all watched as Richius slid his finger under the wax seal of the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper and the promised key. He held the key in one hand and the letter in the other as he read.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lucyler anxiously. Richius dropped the letter. It floated to the floor. ‘Richius,’ Lucyler pressed. He was agitated now, near panic. ‘Richius, tell me.’

  Richius walked past Lucyler to the chest. The Shadow Angel backed away. Kronin and his warriors moved to subdue him, but a terse order from Tharn stopped them.

  ‘Leave him,’ spoke the cunning-man in Triin. He struggled to his feet, balancing himself precariously on his cane. ‘Not yet.’

  Richius knelt before the chest, fumbling with the key and finally fitting it into the lock. The mechanism sprang open. Richius pulled the chains away. He was shaking visibly now, his hands hardly obeying him as they worked the latches. Sweat beaded on his forehead and cheeks and his breathing came in great, labored pants.

  The box creaked partially open, revealing a sliver of its dark recesses. Lucyler craned his neck over Richius’ shoulder. He could see nothing.

  ‘Dear heaven,’ Richius whispered. ‘Oh, heaven, no . . .’

  He flung open the chest, the lid flying backward and crashing against the floor. Lucyler tried to see but Richius was standing. His hands went to his head and his voice rose from his throat in a tortured cry.

  The cry became a scream. Richius collapsed, scrambling backward away from the box, his legs flailing, trying desperately to be away from the thing in the chest.

  Commotion erupted in the chamber. Kronin raised his jiiktar. The Shadow Angel straightened for the blow. Tharn lurched toward Richius, his palsied hand outstretched. Lucyler looked into the box.

  A face he barely recognized stared back at him, mottled with decay and topped with a filthy mass of blond hair. Its eyes were open in perpetual death, blue and horror-stricken. Lucyler felt a rush of nausea. He reached down and grabbed the open lid, slamming it shut and roaring out to Kronin, ‘Kill him!’

  Kronin’s jiiktar flashed. The Shadow Angel’s helmeted head toppled from his shoulders. And Richius’ screams went on and on.

  When Richius had at last quieted and had been escorted from the banquet chamber by Lucyler, Tharn stepped over the decapitated body of the soldier from Nar and painfully stooped to retrieve the strange letter from the floor. Kronin and the warriors watched him inquisitively, as curious as their master about the contents of the correspondence. Tharn’s crimson eyes squinted as he read the scratchy penmanship.

  To the Jackal of Nar,

  The girl was everything I’d hoped. Sleep lightly. We are coming for you.

  With great hate,

  Baron Blackwood Gayle, Governor of Aramoor Province.

  Warlords

  From the Journal of Richius Vantran:

  We were married by a church neither of us believed in, on a wintry but beautiful day. Sabrina was the loveliest bride in the Empire. Her white gown had been specially made for her by the d
ressmakers of Countess Elliann, and when she first appeared in the cathedral everyone fell in love with her. I was a lucky man that day. She was perfect. But I never told her so.

  Count Biagio stood in for Sabrina’s father. I remember how proud he was to do it. I don’t know if he has children of his own, but Sabrina didn’t mind and it seemed to make Biagio happy – something we all agreed was a good idea. Arkus wasn’t there, and I was glad for it. Except for Biagio, his wife, and the bishop, only my friends witnessed our wedding. Patwin stood by me the whole time, and though I missed Dinadin it was good to have Patwin so near.

  After the wedding, Sabrina told me she wished her father had been there to see her married. I don’t know why she always cared so much for that cold bastard, but his absence affected her deeply. She was right, of course. He should have been there to see his daughter wed. Now he’ll never see her again.

  I have been wondering how Arkus will explain all this to Sabrina’s father. He is not such an important duke, nor is Gorkney a very important place in the Empire. Perhaps Arkus will simply say nothing, or perhaps her father just won’t care. He never cared for her while she lived, and I doubt her death will impress him. But does Arkus have heart enough to realize what he’s done? For some reason this question perplexes me. I am in awe of his brutality now. He is not a man to me anymore.

  But it’s not Arkus who has ruined me. Would I have ever believed it possible before? It seems so obvious now, I cringe to remember my blindness. Jojustin’s story never made sense, yet I suppose I loved him too much to question it. The garden gate was locked, that’s what he had told me, and the assassin had climbed over the wall to reach Father. But the garden gate was never locked. Father wouldn’t have it that way. To him it was everyone’s garden. He would open it to the servants and the stableboys. Not even the threat of a Drol assassin would have made him lock those gates.

  So I am left only with Jojustin to suspect. Only he would have dared speak of my journey here. Only he was so enamored with Aramoor as to see my love as treachery. And only he loved Aramoor enough to kill its king. I would hate him for it if I could, but I think I have no hatred left in me. We have all killed for stupid ideals, and all our murdering only makes us suffer more. If my uncle still lives, then he is already punished beyond anything I could do to him. He is living in an Aramoor he always dreaded – one ruled by Gayles.