The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1

by John Marco

  ‘He says you are to follow him.’

  Richius stiffened. ‘Follow him? Why?’

  ‘I am sorry, Richius. He did not say.’

  ‘He’s very secretive, isn’t he? Very well. If that’s what he wants.’ He started off after the warlord.

  Voris was trotting impassively along the narrow path in front of him. Richius looked into the net of tree limbs above his head, peeking through them to the dapples of blue heaven. The watchtower was almost invisible behind the leafy canopy. Beneath him the road had thinned to a rocky path, strewn with smooth stones and bordered by scarlet wildflowers and dense patches of weedy grass. He heard a brook bubbling in the distance and the throaty honking of waterfowl, and it struck him again how much like Aramoor this was. This wasn’t the monstrous, forbidding Dring he remembered, with its tangles of secretive trees and ever-looming shadows. It was as if he were home again, in a part of Aramoor he had simply never discovered. The air was thick but wonderfully breathable, replete with the mossy scents of nature’s slow processes. A dragonfly winged by his nose, and in the trees squirrels chased each other from branch to branch, frolicking without regard to the strangers invading their primeval home. Cheerful robins sang above him, warbling their melodies, and where the broken trunk of a tree had fallen a hive of industrious wasps busied themselves with the construction of a paper house.

  All this Richius imbibed like the sweetest liquor, absently stroking Lightning’s neck. He thought of Dyana in her slow-moving carriage, and wondered what her reaction would be to all this beauty. Dreary, she called it. Richius laughed to himself, sure that she would be regretting her hasty assessment. He wished suddenly that she was here with him, so they could discover the loveliness of the path together.

  Then he heard the first wolf cry.

  It tore through him relentlessly, stopping him in mid-breath and leaching the color from his face. Off in the distance he heard another and then another still, ghostly howling that pierced the heart of the forest. Richius cocked his head to listen. He had to fight Lightning, who whinnied at the sounds. There were dozens of them, all baying the same melancholy tune. Worse, it was coming from the path before him. He glanced ahead to find Voris and saw the warlord’s crimson tunic swaying nonchalantly as he continued forward, heedless of the doleful wolf-music.

  Richius hesitated. Those were war wolves, and they were just ahead of him, waiting on their haunches for a coming meal. A clammy perspiration rose on his brow, and his mouth dried till his gums were like sand. Voris was disappearing behind the veil of trees as he neared the castle. The warlord stopped suddenly and looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Kalak,’ cried Voris, waving Richius on. ‘Eeasay!’

  Richius seethed. ‘Don’t task me, you bastard.’

  Voris was still staring at him.

  ‘All right,’ conceded Richius softly, ‘but I’ll get you for this,’ and started off again down the path. This time Voris waited for him. The exuberant song of the war wolves grew in volume as Richius approached. Voris’ grin widened. And then the forest parted like a curtain behind him, revealing Castle Dring.

  It was like the ruins of some ancient Naren stronghold, a fortified amalgamation of mismatched stone and jagged mountain rock, so poorly thrown together that the place seemed about to crumble under its own gargantuan weight. Its glass panes were frosted with a timeless film of grunge, and its granite foundation listed noticeably eastward, lending the place a decidedly crooked appearance so that the windows and balconies formed the face of a cretin child. The base of the giant watchtower sprang up out of the castle’s side in a leaning spike of crumbling stones, and on every pillar and bowed gable were the artistic imprints of a better time, architectural nuances that had once made the castle a fitting home. Discolored gargoyles with weather-broken claws sat atop rounded turrets, and the headless remains of a leaky water-statue stood in the clearing near the base of the watchtower, her naked feet and calves mired in clinging yellow lichens. There were missing shutters and vine-covered fences, collapsing catwalks and a stairway that seemed to lead nowhere.

  Richius would have laughed but for the serious face of his host. Voris was still staring at him as he approached, his furtive smile growing wilder by the moment. And then Richius saw past Voris to the castle grounds. The warlord made a great sweeping gesture toward his home and the minions there to greet them.

  ‘Bonata, Kalak.’

  An army of red-robed warriors stood off to the side farthest from the tower, their shocking manes of white hair oiled and gleaming like the polished jiiktars they held poised beside them. Stone-faced and immaculate, they stared straight ahead, their eyes and jaws set with ceremony. And there too were the war wolves, those howling beasts with the red eyes and yellow fangs, their necks encircled with stout collars and leashed together with chains. There were at least two hundred warriors and a dozen of the wolves, all brought out to greet the return of the lord of this dilapidated keep. A handful of other men stood out before the others, men of rank denoted by golden crests threaded through their robes. They too held jiiktars, bejeweled and leafed with precious metals.

  Home again indeed, thought Richius. They were all like spectres to him these Drol of Dring, creatures of a netherworld he’d hoped long buried. With their long, white faces and gray eyes, they were things both less and more than human. He set his jaw and stared back at them.

  ‘For me?’ he asked the warlord sarcastically. ‘Really, I wish you hadn’t gone to the trouble.’

  Voris ignored him and started toward the castle grounds. Richius forced Lightning after him, making the steed obey. The men with the golden crests bowed to the warlord as he approached, then straightened and held up their jiiktars in salute. A crashing cheer broke from the ranks of the gathered warriors.

  ‘Cha Yulan!’ they sang each time the jiiktars rose. ‘Cha Yulan! Cha Yulan!’

  Voris dismounted and held up his hands. There was a great, pacific smile on his face. The cheering stopped at once. The warlord dropped slowly to his knees and placed his open palms on the loamy earth and kissed the ground of his homeland. The warriors cheered again, whistling and shouting and stamping their feet. Voris rose and held up a triumphant fist.

  ‘Jahani!’ he shouted madly. ‘Jahani Dring!’

  Dyana’s carriage was finally winding into the clearing with the rest of the caravan. When she saw Richius she ordered her driver to stop, then jumped out of the vehicle, Shani held in a little bundle against her breast. Richius raised his eyebrows.

  ‘This I didn’t expect,’ he called to her. ‘What’s going on?’

  Dyana strode over to him, spying the baying wolves and trying to hide the babe in the folds of her dress. ‘They are greeting their returning lord,’ she explained. ‘It is a custom among the warlords. These are his warriors, his loyal men.’

  ‘And this is all for my benefit, I suppose. God, he really puts on a show. Look there. What’s he doing?’

  Voris was climbing onto the massive stump of a long-fallen tree. The warriors hushed as he inspected them, casting an approving eye on each in turn. He took a deep breath and let it out with a satisfied sigh.

  ‘Matusa ben Dring!’ he called to the gathering.

  There was no cheering this time, just the reverent silence of a captivated army. Even the war wolves had ceased their welcoming cries. They sat back on their haunches like trained house pets, their tails still and their pointed snouts held high for their master. Richius climbed down from Lightning’s back and stood beside Dyana, fascinated by the incredible sight. He had to hold the horse to keep it from bolting.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ he asked Dyana.

  Dyana started to translate.

  ‘Great men of Dring!’ began Voris. ‘You honor me. I know when I see you that I am home again. When I look at you, I see our power!’

  Now, as if they had been waiting for a sign, the men of the Dring Valley let forth a chorus of Cha Yulan.

  Voris struck his fist into the air.
‘I am the Wolf!’ he declared. ‘And this is my valley!’ He lowered his voice and growled, ‘No one will take it from me.’

  This electrified the army. They stamped their feet and beat their jiiktars together, hooting their approval. Richius felt the charge, too. He listened to every translated word of the warlord’s speech, transfixed by the figure prancing on the tree trunk. Voris bared his pointed canines.

  ‘Nar is at our heels, my warriors. Their cowards are coming for us with their terrible machines. But am I afraid? I am not. Because this dragon that stalks us walks on feet of straw! It is a beast without a soul. It knows nothing of land or loyalty or the power of our living gods.’

  A cool breeze stirred through the grasses and Voris licked his lips to taste it. ‘Our valley is free, my warriors. Now and always it will be so. We are together again, made strong by the will of Lorris, and we will defend our land. We will defy the dragon of Nar!’ He lifted his booming voice to the sky and cried, ‘Do you hear me, Black Ones? We defy you!’

  ‘We defy you!’ returned the crowd. ‘We are with the Wolf!’

  ‘Be still now, and listen,’ Voris continued. ‘We are set a great task. Men of Dring, the time has come to again offer battle in defense of our country. Invaders poise to despoil us. The dragon comes to devour our lives and our honor. And it is strong. They come to us in great numbers, these things from the Black Empire, but I would fight them if they were a million. They have weapons of science to burn us, but I would fight them with my fingernails alone. For this great valley, my home and yours, and for the honor of our wives and sisters, I would fight them to my dying breath.’

  An unexpected fervor seized Richius. He had never known this Voris, the orator, and now he was set afire by the warlord’s words. The crowd was still as Voris moved on his wooden stage like a practiced dancer, gesturing to the trees and the sky above, riding the intangible wave of emotion. He stopped speaking and smiled at the crowd, then jerked his thumb in Richius’ direction. Richius stiffened.

  ‘And we are not alone, my friends,’ said the warlord. ‘Heaven is with us. Lorris and Pris guide our hands. They have delivered to us our great enemy – the Jackal.’

  Every head in the crowd turned at once toward Richius, who felt a surge of hot color in his face. Their cool gray eyes bored into him, shredding his courage and causing a lump to spring into his throat. Dyana’s hand leapt invisibly to his arm and squeezed.

  ‘Do not worry,’ she whispered.

  He cleared the dry blockage from his throat and looked back at the men of Dring. Voris was continuing.

  ‘He has been chosen, my friends, picked by the hand of Lorris himself. No, you say? Is he not a heretic? True, a heretic he may always be, but what more proof do you need of heaven’s hand than the humbling of this once-hateful creature? I say Lorris has brought him to us, and so says Tharn himself!’

  At the mere mention of Tharn’s name, the heads of the warriors began nodding in agreement. Voris seized the opportunity.

  ‘I follow the Lord Tharn,’ he declared proudly. ‘And I am not too great to refuse his bidding. In his wisdom he has set the Jackal above me, but do I question him? I do not.’

  ‘Ooohh,’ remarked Richius, ‘you are good.’ He looked over to Dyana, and watched her face contort.

  ‘He lies,’ said Dyana.

  Richius shook his head. ‘No. Don’t you see? He’s making it possible for me to do my job.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The men will listen to me now. If they think I’m some delivered villain chosen by Tharn, they will follow me.’

  ‘Tharn has charged the Jackal to save us. We must all help him. You are expected to show yourselves worthy, men of Dring. Be worthy of the women you love. Be worthy of your children’s respect. Be worthy of my faith in you. I follow the word of Tharn, and you shall follow my word. Together we can win back our valley. Strength and valor is what I ask of you. Do not betray me.’

  There was a sober silence. Voris let his army bow to him, then stepped down from the tree trunk. No one spoke or even lifted their heads. The warlord strode over to where Richius and Dyana stood, an expression of disgust on his face.

  ‘Utumbo toobay isa, Kalak,’ he said to Richius. ‘Do toobay bis.’ Then he turned and walked back toward the castle. Richius looked inquisitively at Dyana.

  ‘Voris says that he has done his part,’ Dyana explained. ‘You must now do yours.’

  The congregation started to disperse, and a small man stepped up to Richius and Dyana. From his dress and serious features Richius knew he was one of Voris’ lieutenants. Older than Voris by far, he reminded Richius at once of Jojustin. He bowed to Richius courteously, and then to Dyana, careful not to stare at either of them. When he spoke his voice was rough but polite.

  ‘His name is Jarra,’ said Dyana. ‘He is Voris’ Dumaka.’

  ‘Dumaka?’ asked Richius. ‘What’s that?’

  Dyana puzzled over the question for a moment. ‘I do not think there is a word for it in your language, Richius. He is like a teacher. He schools the other warriors. You might call him a war master.’

  ‘A war master, huh?’ said Richius, openly impressed. ‘I’ll have to remember that. So what’s he want with us?’

  ‘He says he has been ordered to take care of us.’

  Richius laughed. ‘Just like Jojustin. Very well then. Please tell the war master I’m very tired. I would like a bed.’

  Dyana made the request and the Dumaka nodded, walking away and beckoning them to follow. But when he noticed Richius leading Lightning, he stopped and pointed at the animal.

  ‘He wants you to leave the horse, Richius,’ said Dyana.

  ‘Leave him? Where?’

  Jarra explained some more.

  ‘The Dumaka says your horse will be looked after with the others. Please, Richius, leave him.’

  Richius frowned.

  ‘This is about trust, Richius,’ said Dyana. ‘If you cannot trust them with your horse, how can they trust you with their valley?’

  The war master stared at Richius inquisitively, waiting for his reply. At last Richius shrugged.

  ‘Tell him to be careful. Lightning has breeding. He’s not like these other bone-bags.’

  ‘I will tell him,’ said Dyana. She explained it all to the war master, who made a disgruntled face but seemed to comply, calling over one of the warriors and giving him a list of explicit instructions. Dyana smiled at Richius. ‘All right?’

  ‘I suppose,’ replied Richius. ‘Now let’s find those beds.’

  They followed Jarra across the grounds, careful to stay as far as possible from the war wolves still leashed in the yard. Shani gurgled as they neared the looming castle. Dyana rocked her gently to quiet her. There was a huge gate of wrought iron to greet them. They passed through it silently and entered the keep. Inside they found the same careless architecture that marked the castle’s exterior. The walls bulged with uneven brickwork and a few broken chandeliers hung crookedly from the ceiling on chains of tarnished gold. What sparse furnishings there were consisted mostly of wooden chairs and tables, all plain and utilitarian, strewn haphazardly throughout the hall. The floor was irregular and tiled with cracked blue stones, and dirtied sunlight poured into the room from an odd collection of octagonal windows cut into the walls in lopsided trios.

  Yet despite all the antiquity of the place, it was not dreary. Activity sounded in the halls, and above them the warped ceiling thumped with movement on the upper floor. A coursing excitement permeated the keep and the air was fresh through the open windows. Smiling warriors pushed by them, and eager children clung to the hems of their mothers’ dresses. Dogs barked and wolves howled, and it was all like a carnival to Richius, who had never guessed his nemesis capable of fostering such emotion in his people.

  Jarra led them up a small flight of stairs leading to a sunny wing of the castle decorated with tall, multipaned windows and a reasonable view of an overgrown garden. A warped wooden door stood at t
he end of the hall leading to a sunlit chamber. This, Jarra explained, was where Richius would be staying. It was a small room but well appointed, with a desk and some chairs and, most importantly, a thick-mattressed bed. On the desk was a tablet of writing paper and several maps, and beside these someone had placed a decanter of water and a basket of bread and fruit. Richius chose a perfectly ripe apple from the basket and handed it to Dyana, who accepted it gratefully.

  ‘This is fine,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just fine. But what about you, Dyana? Where will you be?’

  ‘The Dumaka says that I am to stay with Voris’ wife,’ said Dyana angrily. ‘I do not think the warlord trusts me.’

  ‘Oh, he trusts you,’ said Richius. ‘It’s me he wants to keep an eye on. Don’t worry. You can come down here to instruct me.’

  Dyana shook her head. ‘I cannot. Richius, we spoke of this already. We must not make others suspicious.’ She cocked her head slightly toward the listening Jarra. ‘We will find a more open place for your instructions.’

  Richius smiled at her. ‘Of course. I’ll see you later then?’

  ‘At the evening meal. The Dumaka says we are both to attend. It is Voris’ wish. It will be at sundown.’

  ‘I’ll probably be asleep by then,’ said Richius. ‘Will you come down to get me?’

  ‘No. I will meet you in the hall where we came in.’ With her face hidden from Jarra, she flashed Richius a smile. ‘Sleep well. I will see you tonight.’

  Richius watched them disappear down the hall, then shut the door to his chamber behind them. He went back to the basket of fruit and selected a piece for himself, a fist-sized citrus with dimpled skin and the scent of a powerfully ripe melon. A spray of juice erupted as he peeled back its pithy skin. There had been precious little good food on the long journey to the castle, and far less privacy. Now he was enjoying both with equal vigor. He sat down on the bed and leaned back against the wall, watching the trees sway outside his window as he ate.

  In less than a minute he was asleep.