The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  ‘I will if I can,’ said Richius. ‘But he has to listen to me. Voris is wrong about attacking the Narens. If you don’t believe me yourself –’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Tharn. ‘I only wanted to be sure of your answer. Voris is a man of strong will. He always feels he must act. You are asking him to do nothing.’

  ‘Not nothing. I’m asking him to defend his valley. And to use his head for a change. Even he must know how foolish his idea is. He just wants to look like he’s still in control.’ Richius shrugged indifferently. ‘If it’s that important to him, maybe he should be.’

  ‘No,’ said Tharn. ‘It must be you. Only you know what Dring will be up against.’

  ‘I’m no expert, Tharn. I grew up in Aramoor, remember? And when it comes to the Dring Valley, no one knows it better than Voris. Really, maybe you should reconsider.’

  ‘No need. You have shown me what I wanted to see.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘You are strong, like Voris, but smarter. I worried you would want to attack the Narens so you could get to the Baron Gayle. You surprised me. I am pleased.’

  Richius lowered his gaze to the floor.

  ‘You take good news badly,’ said the cunning-man. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sabrina,’ said Richius. ‘She deserves to be avenged. Maybe Voris was right about me. Maybe I am afraid.’

  ‘We are all afraid, Richius. We would not be men otherwise.’

  ‘Voris isn’t afraid. You told me so yourself.’

  ‘I lied. He is afraid. He fears for his valley and his family. He fears for his pride, too. You think he is mad but he is not. He is simply unknown to you.’

  ‘But at least he’s willing to go after Gayle. And Gayle didn’t kill his wife.’

  Tharn waved the remark away. ‘These doubts you have are nonsense. A real man protects the people he cares about. That is all Voris is trying to do, and that is what you want, too. I have asked you to protect the Dring Valley. By doing so you are protecting Dyana and the little one. You are right not to attack the horseman. He and his brigands would slaughter you.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Richius. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘Good.’ Tharn grinned. ‘And do not worry. The time may come when you can get to the horseman. When it comes, you will know it.’

  Maybe, thought Richius. I just hope I’m ready for it.

  Tharn was pushing papers across his desk again, using his good hand to rummage under the stacks of books. ‘I want to show you something,’ he said. ‘Very interesting.’ At last he found a tattered parchment and his eyes lit up as he handed it to Richius, who inspected it with half-hearted interest. It was no bigger than a page torn from his own journal, and the Triin writing jotted across it was faded and runny. The parchment had that peculiar, warped texture paper always gets when it has been wet.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Richius, studying the foreign words. There were not many of them, but the sparsity made the paper no easier to read.

  ‘See the signature?’ Tharn asked.

  ‘I don’t read any Triin, Tharn. I’m sorry. What does it say?’

  Tharn stretched forward and ran his yellow fingernail along the signature. He said very slowly, ‘Cha Yulan.’

  ‘Cha Yulan?’ asked Richius. ‘What’s that mean?’

  But suddenly he knew what it meant. The old battle cry of the Dring Drol. Cha Yulan. The Wolf.

  ‘This is from Voris, isn’t it?’ he asked. Tharn didn’t answer. Richius dropped the parchment onto the desk. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

  ‘That letter came to me two years ago,’ said Tharn. ‘When the war was not yet over. You were in the Dring Valley then.’

  Richius picked up the letter again, wondering which word was Kalak.

  ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘It says: ‘‘My son is dead. I will kill the man from Nar.” ’

  Richius shut his eyes. The letter trembled slightly in his hand. ‘My son?’ he asked. ‘Whose son? Voris’?’

  ‘His name was Tal,’ said Tharn. ‘He was fourteen when he died. A warrior, just made. It was in the valley.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Richius groaned. ‘Please don’t tell me that. His son was killed? I didn’t even know he had a son.’

  ‘One son. Three daughters. They are all still alive. Tal is dead.’

  ‘Damn!’ Richius hissed, balling his fist around the note and slamming it down on the desk. ‘Is that why he hates me so much? Because he blames me for killing his son? God’s death, how was I supposed to know? I killed a lot of people, Tharn. Too many.’

  ‘Think not of it. Anyone could have killed him. I doubt it was you.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. Doesn’t anyone know how hard I worked to protect the people in the valley? I could have massacred them like Gayle would have, but I didn’t. And now to hear this . . . It’s a nightmare!’

  ‘What did you think?’ asked Tharn. ‘That only old people die in wars? Tal was a warrior. He died a hero.’

  ‘That’s not how Voris sees it.’

  ‘That letter was written long ago. He was in grief. And I did not show it to you to upset you. Nor to help you understand Voris, either. You miss something.’

  Richius threw the letter onto the desk. ‘What?’

  ‘Can you not see? Voris is like you. He hates you, but he works with you. He knows it is best.’

  ‘He’s nothing like me, Tharn,’ argued Richius. ‘He’s a beast.’

  ‘But he is like you,’ Tharn insisted. ‘He hates you for killing his son. You hate me for killing your Edgard.’

  There was a childlike innocence to the words that made Richius falter. He realized suddenly that his hatred of Tharn had all but evaporated. Tharn smiled, his crooked grin full of warmth.

  ‘You understand,’ he said knowingly. ‘Now we work together. You and Voris, too. We learn.’

  ‘That’s a lot to learn, Tharn. Voris lost a son. He has a reason to hate.’

  ‘Hate and hate. No more hate!’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Richius.

  ‘Your very best, or Voris will not trust you. And you must learn our language, too. Listen to Dyana and study. It is important you understand us.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Richius. ‘But there may not be time for much study. Things are going to get pretty busy, you know.’

  ‘Dyana will teach you and you will make time. I have told her this is her duty. She understands.’ A melancholy veil drifted over Tharn’s face then and he looked away. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘She understands.’

  The pensiveness in the Drol’s voice nudged Richius’ curiosity. ‘Tharn? What is it? What are you thinking about?’

  ‘About Dyana,’ Tharn confessed. ‘She seems troubled. She has been . . .’ His face wrinkled as he searched for a word. ‘Distant, I think. She will not speak to me now.’

  ‘She’s probably just worried about you, that’s all. She’s afraid you won’t make it back from Chandakkar. That’s the way women are.’

  ‘Worried?’ asked Tharn. ‘About me?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Richius. ‘That surprises you, doesn’t it?’

  Tharn looked away. ‘I am not much of a husband.’

  ‘Neither was I,’ said Richius. ‘It doesn’t make them care about us any less.’

  Tharn lifted his clubbed hand and stared at it, turning it slowly as he studied the pits and scars bubbling his skin and racing up his forearm. A questioning horror dawned on his face.

  ‘I’ll tell Dyana not to fret so much when I see her,’ Richius hurried to say. ‘I’ll tell her the warriors will protect you. She’ll believe that.’

  ‘No,’ said Tharn. ‘No warriors.’

  Richius stared at him for a long moment. ‘No warriors? You mean you’re going to Chandakkar alone?’

  ‘Not alone. Cunning-men are coming with me. Three of them.’

  ‘You’re going to Chandakkar with these priests? Oh, no, Tharn. You need warriors with you. It’s too dangerous not
to take them.’

  ‘All warriors are needed here in Tatterak,’ said Tharn. ‘I will be fine without them.’

  ‘But Chandakkar could be overrun with Narens by now. You can’t go there unprepared. You could be killed!’

  Tharn put up his hand. ‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘It is decided. Falindar cannot be left unguarded. Now speak no more of it, please. I am going to Chandakkar with my cunning-men. We will convince Karlaz of the lions to help us.’

  Richius chanced an honest question. ‘What if you can’t, Tharn? What if the lion people won’t listen to you? Do you have another plan?’

  The light in Tharn’s eyes dimmed a little. ‘They must listen. We need them. There is no other way to take the Saccenne Run. Only the lions can do that.’

  ‘There is another way,’ said Richius cautiously.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You,’ Richius said. ‘You can stop them at the Run or anywhere else. You know you can. All you have to do is try.’

  Tharn stumbled to his feet. ‘How can you say this? Do you not see me? Look!’

  Richius struggled to keep his voice level. ‘I’ve seen you, Tharn. You are ill, that’s all.’

  ‘Ill? I am cursed! Look at me, man. I am grotesque!’

  ‘A skin disease,’ said Richius. ‘Leprosy, maybe. I don’t know what it is but it’s not a curse. You’ve not been damned to live like this, not by your gods.’

  Tharn’s face went blank. ‘You do not understand,’ he said. ‘I have used my touch to kill.’ He made a sweeping motion over his body. ‘This is the consequence.’

  ‘No, not a consequence,’ said Richius. ‘A coincidence. Your power isn’t a curse. You saved Lucel-Lor with it once. You can do it again.’

  ‘No,’ said Tharn wildly, collapsing into his chair. ‘Never say so! I am punished. It is true.’ He buried his chin in his chest and his voice became a broken whisper. ‘I am a freak. Unlovable to any woman.’

  Richius went over to the cunning-man, kneeling down beside him. ‘Tharn, there are medicines that can help you. It doesn’t have to be this way. You don’t have to be in pain all the time.’

  ‘It is what the gods want,’ said Tharn. ‘Have you no belief? What more proof do you need than my wretched body?’

  ‘But these medicines –’

  ‘These medicines are Naren. There is no way to get them. And I would rather suffer than beg aid from the likes of the Empire. This I deserve. To deny the gods their vengeance on me would just be another crime.’

  Richius stood up. ‘You are wrong,’ he said. ‘You could save Lucel-Lor with your powers.’

  ‘No,’ replied Tharn. ‘You are wrong. You have much to learn about being Triin. The gods do exist, and they give men burdens. Listen well to Dyana, Richius. She never believed, but she does now. She will teach you these things.’

  Richius nodded slowly. ‘If you say so. But I’ll need more than your word and your disease to make me believe it. Be well on your journey, Tharn. And good luck.’

  Tharn’s eyes welled with sadness. ‘Richius,’ he said softly. ‘Remember what I have told you. Prove yourself to Voris. Be careful around him. He is a good man. Try to believe that.’

  Thirty-four

  Past the midnight hour, when the moon was at its apex and the lingering moans of far-off surf drifted through the air, Tharn wandered alone through the splendid halls of Falindar, his face awash with candlelight. The stone floors tapped out his shuffling progress as he moved, slowly and with effort. The candle dish trembled in his hand, spilling burning wax onto his thumb, yet in all his pain it was but one more tiny torment, and the master of the citadel hardly noticed it. His mind was feverish. A rush of thirst and fascination pushed him on, making him drag his palsied leg ever closer to Dyana’s chambers.

  She would be asleep. She might even be angry with him. But Richius’ words had kept him awake all night, and he could not leave his wife on the morrow without one last audience. He was afraid, fearful of the death he might find in Chandakkar, and terrified that he might never again look upon the woman who held his heart. He was a monster and he knew he was, and the thought that someone so lovely feared for him had humbled him to tears. Sleep was impossible. Tonight he craved the warmth of human flesh.

  Dyana’s flesh. The flesh that had always been denied him since his boyhood. When they met, so many years ago now he could barely recall, he had not been of an age to understand his yearnings. But they were deep and relentless even then, and they haunted him at night or when he was alone. It had been his greatest joy to hear their parents had betrothed them, and he had waited for her to come of age, enduring the hungers of his manhood without lying with another so that on that day when he tasted her at last he would be unspoiled. Unpolluted.

  He thought of her often in those days while he waited for her to flower. He took her memory with him to Nar and thought of her as he watched the imperial ladies rouge themselves until their faces were red and drug themselves incoherent. And upon his return he thought of her still, and told his Drol tutors of the lovely wife awaiting him. He had bragged on her, and when she broke her father’s vow she had given him only one choice. So he hunted her.

  Tonight, he hunted her again. She was his wife now, and that meant he owned her. If his body would allow he could have forced himself on her anytime he wished it. But he no longer wished it. Perhaps this was love.

  She shared the hall with her nurse and handmaidens, he reminded himself, and so moved as quietly as possible to her door. Carefully, he tucked his cane under his armpit and reached for the latch. She never locked her door, for he did not require her to do so as many husbands would. It was a small token of trust, and he supposed she appreciated it. His useless hand turned the knob slowly, losing its weak grip before finally twisting it open. A telltale creak whined from the hinges as the door swung open and the light of his candle swept inside.

  Nervously Tharn entered the room, closing the door behind him with the weight of his shoulder. The latch shut with a quiet click. He surveyed the bedchamber. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, lighting Shani’s crib. The baby was sleeping soundlessly under her swathe of blankets. Dyana’s bed was against a far wall. He could see her dozing, unaware of his intrusion, her arms bare, her hair falling around her. An aching thundered in his breast, setting his skin aflame. The candlelight flickered on her white flesh, exposing her perfection.

  He lingered in the moonlight. He felt ashamed and juvenile, like a curious boy kept forever from manhood. Yet he could not leave her, and he thought again of Richius Vantran, and how he too suffered under the same bewitchment. But Dyana knew she was his wife, and that gave him title over her and dominion. Even with his broken body, she was his forever. He wondered darkly if she were his reward for delivering his land, or just another of his patron deities’ cruel jests.

  Quietly, he stalked to the bedside. Dyana stirred, her eyelids flickering against the candlelight. Quickly he shielded the flame, blocking it from her sight. He had thought she had settled back to sleep when her eyes popped open. Tharn took a hurried step away from the bed. Dyana started with a shallow cry and drew back against the headboard.

  ‘No,’ Tharn whispered. ‘Do not be afraid, Dyana. It is me.’

  Dyana’s eyes narrowed. ‘Husband?’ she ventured. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘It is,’ admitted Tharn, embarrassed. ‘I am sorry I frightened you.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Dyana, sitting up. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing is wrong,’ answered Tharn. He could see she was confused and stepped back to the bedside. She squinted at him, dazed and maybe a bit frightened, and he wondered just how ghastly he appeared in such murkiness. Dyana pulled the sheets closer around her body as she stared at him.

  ‘Husband? What is it?’

  Tharn could hardly answer. All the courage that had taken him this far vanished in a flash, abandoning him to the same puerile anxieties he always felt around his wife. He started to stammer a response, but abrup
tly stopped himself.

  ‘It is nothing,’ he said finally. ‘I just wanted to see you before I left. Be well, Dyana.’

  As he started back toward the door Dyana called after him.

  ‘Husband, wait,’ she pleaded. ‘Tell me what is wrong.’

  Tharn hovered near the door, watching his wife’s impossibly deep eyes. He put the candle down on a dresser and inched closer to her bed. Dyana had dropped her fearful look and now seemed only concerned.

  Concerned, thought Tharn. Like Richius had said.

  ‘I am leaving in the morning,’ he said. ‘For Chandakkar.’

  Dyana nodded uncertainly. ‘I know.’

  ‘I am your husband,’ said Tharn. His lip began to tremble. ‘Have I been a fair one, Dyana?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dyana quickly. She waved him closer and took his hand. Her touch burned. ‘More than fair. You have been a gentle husband.’

  Tharn frowned. Gentle was not what he hoped for tonight.

  ‘And you are happy here?’ he asked. ‘And is the baby happy?’

  ‘I am happy,’ said Dyana. There was enough sadness in her tone to tell she was lying. ‘Shani is healthy and growing. Yes, husband, we are both well.’

  ‘In the morning I will be leaving,’ he said again desperately. ‘Maybe for a long while. It is a bad road to Chandakkar . . .’

  Dyana stared at him, clearly puzzled by his words. ‘You must take care of yourself. Be wary. Listen to your cunning-men, and do not ride too hard. Rest often.’

  ‘I will miss you,’ he managed to say. ‘I will miss looking at you. You are beautiful, Dyana. Have I ever told you that?’

  Dyana looked away. ‘No,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I am glad I please you.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Tharn sadly. ‘Very much.’

  And then she looked up at him, and a sudden understanding dawned on her face. Terrified, he thought to leave, but she was staring at him in silent amazement, comprehending the thing he was hinting. Yet there was no revulsion in her eyes, only the endless mercy of womanhood.

  ‘I am your husband, Dyana,’ he stammered. ‘I . . . I care for you. I . . .’

  Dyana did not let him finish. She rose from the bed and drifted closer, putting her finger to his lips. Tharn hushed. Anticipation roiled through him, quickening his heart and drumming in his temples. He watched as her lips curved into the most serene smile.