John Marco - Tyrants and Kings 1 - The Jackal of Nar

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Book Information:

Genre: Military Fantasy

Author: John Marco

Name: The Jackal of Nar

Series: Book One of Tyrants and Kings

============================================

John Marco

Book One of Tyrants and Kings

THE JACKAL OF NAR

From the Journal of Richius Vantran:

I have been dreaming of wolves.

Sleep has become too precious for us now. The war wolves come almost

every night, and we are all afraid to sleep for fear of waking to that terrible

sound. I've had the men take turns on the flame cannons so that some of

them may rest. We've already lost our best cannoneers to the beasts. It's odd

how they know how to hurt us. But the cannons are still working, and we

have enough kerosene to keep them going for a few more days. Perhaps

Gayle's horsemen will arrive by then.

It seems Voris doesn't care how many of his people die. These Drol are not

like other Triin. They are zealots and die too easily. Even the cannons don't

frighten them. Their bodies are piling up outside the trenches, beginning to

stink. If the wind doesn't shift soon we shall all be sick from it. We've taken

to burying our own dead in the back trenches so they don't rot here next to

us. I don't think the Drol are so concerned about their fallen. I've watched

them leave their comrades to die when they could have easily pulled them to

safety. They don't cry out when wounded, but crawl away alone while we

pick at them with arrows. And when they die they do it silently. Lucyler says

they are madmen, and sometimes I cannot doubt it. It is hard for us from

Nar to understand these Triin and their ways, even with Lucyler's help. He

is not very religious, but there are times when he is as inscrutable as any

Drol. Still, I am always thankful for him. He has taught me much about his

strange people. He has helped me see them less as monsters. If I ever get

home, if this damn civil war ever ends, I will tell my father about Lucyler

and his folk. I will tell him that we of Nar have always been wrong about

the Triin, that they love their children just as we do, and that they bleed red

blood despite their pale skin. Even the Drol.

This valley has become a trap for us. I haven't told the men yet, but I don't

think we can keep the Drol from Ackle-Nye much longer. Voris has been

pushing hard. He knows we are weak. If more men don't come soon we will

certainly be overrun. I've sent a message to Father but have yet to hear a

reply, and I don't think one will be forthcoming. We haven't had supplies

from home for weeks, so we've started hunting for our own food. Even the

hard army bread has spoiled from keeping too long. We've been throwing it

out of the trenches to keep the rats away. Spoiled meat and bread doesn't

seem to bother vermin, and while they feed we are free of them. But we are

also slowly starving, for even in this valley we can't hunt enough meat to

keep us all fed. Perhaps Father doesn't know how bad it is for us, or

perhaps he no longer cares. Either way, if help doesn't come soon we'll be

fighting our final battle in Ackle-Nye and then it will be done. And Voris

will have beaten me.

The Drol of the valley have taken to calling me Kalak. Lucyler told me it's

time for "The Jackal." They are bold about it, too. I can hear them shouting

it in the woods, taunting me, hoping to lure us out of the trenches. When

they attack they yell it like a battle cry, swinging their jiiktars and screaming

Kalak as they fall upon us. But I prefer this battle cry to the one they always

yelled before. To hear them cry the name of Voris reminds me of his loyal

wolves and the long nights ahead.

Lonal died in this morning's raid. No one seems to know how the Drol

who killed him got so close to the cannon, but by the time I saw him it was

hopeless. I had to take the cannon myself, so quickly I couldn't even help

him. He lived for a bit after he was struck, but his arm had been taken off

and the men who dragged him away had left it there, and didn't notice it

until the raid was over. Dinadin and I buried Lonal in the back trench, and

Lucyler said some words neither of us understood. Lonal liked Lucyler, and

I doubt a Triin prayer would have bothered him. But we are bothered that

our friend has been buried like a dead horse in the corner of this foreign

valley. When I return home I'll have to tell Lonal's parents how he died, but

I won't tell them how his body is moldering in a mass grave, and I won't tell

them that a Triin who was his friend said a prayer over him.

Any Triin prayer, Drol or not Drol, would be an insult to them. It is Triin

prayers that have caused all this. We are dying because of their prayers.

Dinadin is quiet now. I've never known him to be so damaged by the

death of a friend. Back home he was always the loud one, but things here

have made him thoughtful. After we buried Lonal, he told me that we

should leave the valley, leave these Triin to slaughter themselves. We've all

done things we're not proud of, things we won't tell our parents when we

return home. Maybe even things we'll have to answer for to our own God.

Tonight I'll let Dinadin mourn, but tomorrow I must have him back. He

must again be the one who makes our regiment want to fight. He must hate

the Drol again, hate Voris and his warriors.

Still, I can't help but wonder if Dinadin is right. I hear the men talking,

and I fear I am losing them all. Worse, there is nothing I can say to them.

Even I don't know why we're fighting. We're propping up an evil man, only

so another evil man can extend his overgrown empire. Father is right about

the emperor. He wants something here. But what he seeks is a mystery, and

while he waits comfortably in his palace, we die. None of the men believe

our cause is just, and even Lucyler has doubts about his Daegog. He knows

the royal line of Lucel-Lor is doomed, that the Drol and their revolution will

sweep away the old order eventually. Yet he and the other loyalists fight on

for their fat king, and we of Nar fight with them, just to make our own

despot richer. I hate the Drol, but they are right about one thing. The

emperor will suck the blood out of the Triin.

But, Journal, I should be quiet about such things. And tonight I need to

rest. This evening is peaceful. I can hear the sounds of the valley creatures

and the stray calls of my name in the woods, but they don't frighten me.

Only thoughts of the wolves that might come keep me from sleeping. Today's

dead are all buried, and I can smell the fatty grease of the roasting wild

birds we've caught. A pipe would be welcome now, or the wines of

Ackle-Nye. If my sleep is peaceful I may dream of them both.

And tomorrow we'll begin again, maybe for the last time. If the Wolf of the

valley knows how weak we are, he'll surely come in force enough to crush

us. We'll do our best to stand, and hope the horsemen promised by Gayle

will arrive in time to save us. We hear little in the valley, and the horsemen

can't travel quickly here. I only wish it were my own horsemen coming to

our rescue rather than those of that rogue. It would indeed be a tale for him

to tell that he had saved me.

If we make it through the fight tomorrow, I'll send another message to

Father. I'll tell him that we've come to depend on the House of Gayle for

survival. I can think of nothing else that will rouse him to our aid. I know he

doesn't want this war, but I'm here and he must help me. If no more troops

are sent, all the valley will fall back into the hands of the Wolf. We'll lose

this war and Father's argument with the emperor will be our deaths. If we

are to survive, I must convince Father this war is worth fighting.

CHAPTER ONE

Richius awoke to the smell of kerosene. A familiar cry sounded in the

distance. He knew what it was before his eyes snapped open.

Oh, God, no...

He was on his feet in an instant. Around him the trench bloomed big and

black. The yellow fingers of a new day's sun had barely begun to scratch at

the horizon. He squinted hard, struggling to see down the earthen corridor.

Dying torches tossed their light onto men in muddy uniforms, a group of

soldiers huddling at the trench's other end. Richius slogged toward them.

"Lucyler, what's happening?" he called, sighting his bone-colored friend.

"It is Jimsin," said Lucyler. "Got him while he slept."

Richius pushed his way into the armored circle. At the center writhed what

only vaguely resembled a man. Though the band of soldiers tried to pin his

flailing limbs, Jimsin's body pitched to the ugly cadence of his screams.

Beside him, lying in a great un-moving heap, was the body of a wolf, its hide

punctured with a hundred stab wounds.

"Took it in the throat," said one of the group, a big ruddy man with the face

of a boy. As Richius bent over Jimsin, the big man knelt beside him.

"Careful," warned another. "It's bad."

The war wolf's teeth had ravaged Jimsin's throat, leaving a wound that ran

all the way up to the jaw. A mangled windpipe blew on tattered flesh. Jimsin's

eyes widened hopefully as he recognized Richius.

"Don't move, Jimsin," ordered Richius. "Lucyler, what the hell happened?"

"My fault," confessed Lucyler. "It was so dark. It was in the trench before I

saw it. Let me help—"

"Get back to the deck," snapped Richius. "Keep an eye out for them. All of

you, get back to the deck!"

The big man passed Richius a soiled cloth. He wrapped it gingerly around

the oozing wound. The muffled echo of a scream escaped the ruined throat

and Jimsin's hands shot up, seizing Richius' wrists. Richius started to pull his

hands free then stopped himself, unwilling to release the pressure from the

wound.

"No, Jimsin," he said. "Dinadin, help me with him!"

Dinadin quickly pulled Jimsin's hands away, holding them down while

Richius worked to secure the bandage. The awful half-scream kept coming,

muffled now by the dirty rag. From the corner of his eye Richius noticed

Dinadin's blond head begin to turn.

"Are they coming?" Richius asked, already beginning to work more quickly.

"Not yet," said Dinadin. There was a note of mourning in his voice. By the

end of the day Jimsin would be lying next to Lonal. "God," Richius moaned.

"He's suffocating." Dinadin still had Jimsin's wrists. He fought to hold his

comrade down as blood gushed from the wound. Jimsin tried to scream

again, each cry sending another bloom of crimson into the bandage. The

high-pitched gurgles grew in urgency. Jimsin closed his eyes. A stream of

tears burst from beneath the lids. "Help him, Richius!"

"I'm trying!" said Richius desperately. If he removed the rag, Jimsin would

surely bleed to death. Leave the bandage, and he would suffocate. At last

Richius reached out and lightly touched Jimsin's tear-streaked face.

"Jimsin," he whispered gently, unsure if the man could hear him. "I'm sorry,

my friend. I don't know how to save you."

"What are you doing?" shouted Dinadin, releasing his grip on Jimsin. "Can't

you see he's dying? Do something!"

"Stop!" cried Richius, dropping down across the wounded man to hold him

still. Dinadin made to undo the bloody bandage, but Richius pushed him

aside. "Damn it, Richius, he can't breathe!" "Leave it!" Richius ordered. The

sharpness in his voice made Dinadin recoil. "I know he's dying. So let him die.

If you take away the rag he'll live a lot longer. Do you really want that?"

Dinadin's eyes were glassy and mute, like a doll's eyes. He sat stupefied as

Richius motioned him closer.

"You want to help him?" asked Richius. "Then hold him still. Be with him

when he dies."

"Richius..."

"That's it, Dinadin. That's all you can do. All right?"

Dinadin slowly nodded. He drew Jimsin into his arms and held him, hugging

him tightly. Richius turned away to find Lucyler, leaving the two soldiers in

their dismal embrace.

The Triin was easy to spot in the dim trench. His white skin was a beacon;

his white hair waved like a flag of surrender. He stood upon the observation

deck built into the trench wall, fascinated with the silent forest of birch trees in

the distance. He hardly stirred as Richius climbed onto the deck.

"Is he dead?" asked Lucyler.

"Almost."

Lucyler's chin fell to his chest. "I am sorry," he said wearily.

"Blame the rebels," said Richius. "Not yourself."

"I should have seen it coming."

"A single wolf in the night? No one could have seen that, Lucyler. Not even

you."

Lucyler closed his eyes. "Why only one?" he muttered. "Voris never sends

only one...."

"To break us. We're not up against honorable men, Lucyler, you know that.

Hell, you're the one who told me that. They're Drol. They're snakes."

"Voris does not lay siege, Richius. It has never been his way. They are out

there. They will be coming."

Richius nodded. When it came to figuring out his rebellious adversary, he

always deferred to Lucyler's judgment. Lucyler wasn't Drol, but he was a

Triin, and there was a perplexing chemistry in all Triin brains, a singleness of

thought that even the most intelligent Naren couldn't decipher. Call it instinct

or breeding, call it the "touch of heaven" as the Drol did; the Triin did indeed

seem more than human sometimes. And Lucyler's mind was like a razor blade.

When this particular Triin smelled fear, Richius never argued.

Lucyler had been somewhat of a gift, an aide sent by the worried Daegog to

make sure the valley war went right. Of them all, Lucyler was the only Triin in

the company, and he did not hail from Dring but from Tatterak, the rugged

region of Lucel-Lor to which the Daegog had been exiled. As a sworn servant

of the Triin leader, Lucyler had one mission—to ensure Richius was

victorious. Though they didn't always agree, Richius was forever grateful to

the Daegog for sending him Lucyler. He was the fastest bowman in the

company, and he could spot a red-robed Drol faster than a hawk.

Richius looked out over the trenches behind them. Barret gave them a wave

from the one his men were stationed in, some ten yards to the rear. Behind

Barret's trench he saw that of Gilliam, and behind Gilliam's the least-seasoned

men in the company sat in their own trench, commanded by Ennadon.

There were those in the company who had quarreled with Richius about the

way he had posted the new recruits. Lucyler had argued that only battle could

teach the new men the things they needed to know. Richius saw no use in

such a tactic. He remembered with painful clarity his first days in Lucel-Lor,

when Colonel Okyle had been in charge of the valley war. Okyle had ordered

Richius and a dozen other "virgins" into a forest on a scouting mission. Like

Lucyler, Okyle believed battle to be a soldier's best teacher, and it only made

things worse for Richius that he was the king's son. Favoritism, Okyle had

told him sternly, was not to be expected. Only when Richius returned from the

forest alone did Okyle start rethinking the way he handled new recruits. But

Okyle was dead now, and Richius had taken over. He was determined to do

everything he could to spare his new men the horrors that would be upon

them too soon anyway.

Keep them in the back and they'll be safe, he told himself as he signaled to

Ennadon. Let Ennadon teach them what they need to know first. Time

enough for fighting.

Still...

If Voris came at them fully it would do the new men no good to be in the

back trenches. There would be no haven in the Dring Valley for any of them.

He supposed that he had three hundred men left, yet he had no idea how many

Voris still had. A thousand? More? Even Lucyler couldn't guess at the

numbers of their enemy. They knew only one thing for sure: the master of the

valley had enough warriors to destroy them.

Only the cannons can save us now, thought Richius fretfully. If the fuel

lasts...

At both ends of the trench, where men gathered in little bunches to talk and

worry, the flame cannons were heated and poised. Wisps of smoke rose from

their tapered noses, their igniters glowing red against the coming dawn. The

sight of their two-man teams forced an uneasy smile from Richius. These

machines had been their salvation. Though a dearth of fuel had forced him to

ration their use, he was grateful to have even a few of the weapons. The

scientists who tinkered in the war labs of Nar had outdone themselves when

they created them.

To the men in the trenches the cannons were worthy of worship. Like the

soldiers of Aramoor, the Triin of the valley had arrows and spears and their

own odd-looking swords, but they had nothing so powerful as the cannons.

Even their magic—the dread of which had long deterred invaders from their

land—had yet to prove a threat. Though many said otherwise, swore in fact

that the Drol leader Tharn was a sorcerer, none of the men had seen Triin

magic, and Lucyler had been vocal in his skepticism. The belief in the touch

of heaven was the one great division that separated the Drol from the rest of

the Triin. It was part of what made the Drol fanatics.

"Richius?" asked Lucyler. "Should I have Dinadin take a cannon?"

"Kally and Crodin can handle them."

"Dinadin's the best cannoneer left. What if..."

"Lord, Lucyler," interrupted Richius. "Look at him." He pointed down the

trench to where Dinadin sat, cradling the limp body of Jimsin. "You want to

tell him?"

Lucyler said nothing. Of the three close friends that remained, Lucyler was

the hardest of the trio. Perhaps it was his Triin blood that made him so

callous, or perhaps it was because he had seen more of the war than any of

them. Whatever its origin, Lucyler's severity was always evident. It was only at

times like these, however, when he had a mind to question decisions, that

Lucyler's hard-heartedness irritated Richius.

And Dinadin had changed. He still followed orders, but there was a

reluctance in his eyes, a kind of sad maturity that had never been there before.

Richius had promised Dinadin's father he would look out for the man, that he

would bring him home alive from this hellish place, and that one day they

would sit again around the hearth in the House of Lotts and laugh about better

days.

"He'll be ready," said Richius with feigned confidence.

"I hope so. We're going to need him if..." Lucyler stopped, his gray eyes

widening. Richius let his own gaze slip back to the birch grove. There, among

the twisted limbs, something stirred. From behind the trees and rocks came a

torrent of crimson. Spots of charcoal with shining eyes dotted the forefront of

the flood.

A knot of terror tied itself in Richius' stomach. "Ignite the cannons!" he

cried. Far down the trench Kally fired up his weapon. The cannon screamed

as it came alive, belching a cloud of spent kerosene into the air. Within

seconds a red funnel of flame poured from its orifice. Next Crodin ignited his

own cannon, trimming its fiery plume into a spear-shaped stream. Other

cannons ignited in the trenches behind them, kerosene pumping into their long

noses and being spit out again as fire. Even in the cold morning, Richius could

feel the heat of the bursts beneath his armor. "Protect the cannons!" Richius

barked. "They're coming!" What had looked at first like a flood of scarlet

water was now plainly a wave of red-robed men breaking toward them.

Wolves were running before the wave. Dozens of them.

"Lorris and Pris," whispered Lucyler. "We are finished." Behind the beasts

came swarms of warriors, each one shouting and brandishing a dual-bladed

jiiktar. Lucyler gritted histeeth and snarled.

"Come then, damned Drol!" he cried, and gave the center of his own jiiktar

a powerful twist. The weapon came apart in his hands, forming two light,

long-bladed swords.

Along the deck the soldiers steeled themselves. There was the snapping of

bowstrings as the air filled with arrows. The missiles landed among the

wolves, puncturing their thick black hides. An arrow caught one of them in the

snout, lodging itself between flaring nostrils. Undeterred, the wolf raced on,

homing for the cannons—just as Voris had trained it to do.

At once the archers at the trench's left flank focused on the pack. Kally

aimed his cannon, his face streaked with black smudges from the weapon's

backblast.

"More fuel!" he barked.

His lineman twisted the valve on the feed hose. Kally squeezed the trigger.

Red lightning erupted. The bolt blew the wolves backward, their coats torn by

the impact of the fire. An unearthly shriek rose above the bellow of the

cannons. To Richius, the sound was like music.

Dinadin climbed onto the deck and peered out into the distance. His face

was flushed from weeping.

"Bloody gogs," he spat, fumbling an arrow to his bow.

"No," said Richius. "Not here. I want you near a cannon."

"They're already manned...."

"By a cannon!"

Dinadin grumbled and started off down the deck, squeezing his big body

past the others. In wolf attacks, cannoneers were always the first to fall.

A shout from Lucyler galvanized the deck. The Triin stretched out one of

his swords, pointing at a black mass closing quickly in on them. The wolf with

the arrow in its snout had somehow made it through the cross fire of the

cannons. Little blazes glowed and smoldered in its coat, sending bits of

burning hair drizzling down in its wake.

The beast leapt, a howl tearing from its mouth, its nostrils snorting bloody

mucus. Lucyler cried out. He dropped to one knee and swung his curved

blade in a blazing arc. Richius stumbled backward, falling off the deck into the

trench below. He felt the shock of pain as his armor was driven into his back

and rib cage. The head with the arrow splashed into the mud beside him.

Quickly Richius got to his feet and dashed to the nearest ladder. But before

he could place his foot on a rung another scream stopped him. He looked left

and saw a wolf on top of Kally. The beast had knocked the cannoneer into the

trench. Already Dinadin had leapt into the ditch after it, smashing his bow

against the wolf's head. Yet it wasn't the sight of Kally being savaged that

frightened Richius; it was the sight of the unmanned cannon. The wolf had

toppled the cannon from its base so that the weapon pointed skyward,

spewing flame upward like a huge orange fountain. And though he was no

longer on the deck to see it, Richius knew the wolves had already sensed the

hole in the Narens' defenses.

"Dinadin!" Richius shouted. "Get the cannon!" Dinadin glanced at Richius,

a horrified expression on his face. Kally was still alive.

"Get the bloody cannon!" Richius repeated, his voice cracking. He was sure

Dinadin could hear him, even over the roar of the fallen weapon. Yet Dinadin

ignored him, continuing instead to land blow after useless blow on the wolf.

When at last Richius reached them he pushed Dinadin aside and brought his

sword down upon the creature's neck. There was a spray of blood as the

head fell forward, held to the torso by a hinge of skin. The wolf fell upon

Kally, lifeless. Kally too was still. Richius turned and glared at Dinadin. The

young man stared back at him, his face twisted in confusion. Richius grabbed

Dinadin's breastplate and shook him.

"What's wrong with you?" he screamed, ignoring the storm of sparks

coming down and biting them like bee stings. "You heard me ordering you to

the cannon!"

Dinadin said nothing. Tears ran down his face, leaving clean rivulets on his

sooty skin. Richius stopped shaking him. "Dinadin?" Dinadin was silent.

"Come on, Dinadin. We have to get the cannon." At last Dinadin's eyes

flared to life. He pulled away from Richius, roaring, "To hell with your

cannon! What did you want me to do, leave him to die?"

"God's death!" cursed Richius, pushing past Dinadin. "The cannon is more

important! You know that." He stooped to avoid the flames and grabbed for

the weapon, shielding his face with his forearm.

"Richius, stop!"

The voice was Lucyler's. Richius released the cannon at once, unable to

loose the jammed trigger. The Triin was waving at him frantically.

"All right, let's get out of here," said Richius, turning away from the cannon.

"The trench is lost." Dinadin looked helpless. "Richius..." "Forget it," Richius

snapped, waving for Dinadin to follow. Lucyler jumped into the trench ahead

of them.

"Too many," the Triin called out. "And the warriors are coming."

"Signal the second trench to cover our retreat," Richius called back.

"Dinadin, get everyone out of here."

At the other end of the trench, Crodin was struggling to hold back the

onslaught of wolves and warriors with his cannon. When Richius barked

retreat, Crodin beamed with relief. Richius and Lucyler made their way to him,

climbing onto the deck beside him and his lineman, Ellis. All around them men

hurried out of the trench. Drol warriors were pouring out of the woods. Only a

few precious moments remained.

"One last blast, Cro, then we move," said Richius, his hand already poised

to undo the fuel line. "Lucyler, you and Ellis take the tank. We'll get the

cannon."

Lucyler put his hands around the fuel tank. Ellis did the same, his back

stooped for lifting. A chorus of Kalak broke from the ranks of the running

Drol.

"Get ready, Crodin," whispered Richius. "Ellis, give us all you can."

"Here's everything," Ellis answered, loosening the valve that fed the cannon

its combustible fuel. There was a hiss as the liquid swam through the line.

Crodin squeezed the trigger, coaxing a blast from the cannon like none

Richius had ever seen. It exploded all around them with a concussive boom.

Richius fell to his knees, gasping and clasping his ears. Beside him Lucyler

and Ellis were running for the rear trenches, the fuel tank in their hands.

"Richius!" cried Lucyler, dropping the tank.

Richius waved him onward. "Get moving!"

He staggered to his feet as Lucyler and Ellis hurried away, the heavy tank

dangling between them. A volley of arrows rose from the rear trenches to

cover their escape.

"Let's go, Richius," said Crodin, wrapping the hot metal cannon in a

swaddling of rags. He had already loosened the fittings that kept the cannon

secured to the deck. Richius had yet to remove the weapon's feed line.

Cursing, he fumbled to find the metal collar that fixed the line. Crodin shook

John Marco - Tyrants and Kings 1 - The Jackal of Nar

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