The Jackal Of Nar: Tyrants & Kings 1 Read online

  ‘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 his teeth 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 b
ig 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 his end of the cannon.

  ‘Forget the line,’ he shouted. ‘We’ll drag it!’

  Richius grabbed the cannon and lifted. He tucked the heavy weapon beneath his arm and ran for the next trench, Crodin and the still-fastened fuel line in tow. Barret was on its deck, waving and shouting. Behind them, the cover provided by the last blast had dissipated. There was another shower of arrows from Barret’s men.

  They were only yards from safety now. Soldiers scrambled out of the trench to meet them. Richius gratefully let the others carry the cannon the few remaining feet. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the deck next to Lucyler.

  ‘You all right?’ Lucyler asked quickly.

  ‘Set up the cannon in the center of the trench,’ Richius gasped. ‘Have Dinadin and Ellis man it.’

  Crodin was already working to settle the cannon into its new home, propping the weapon into a makeshift stand Ellis had built from two swords. The swords had been driven into the deck and fashioned into a ‘V,’ so that now the cannon rested uneasily in the notch. Dinadin was beside them, cracking the knuckles of his trigger hand.

  Richius looked out over the battlefield. Ten yards away, Drol warriors were climbing into the forward trench, digging themselves in for protection. Already Drol archers were sending their own arrows skyward. Fires flickered about the field, some of them as small as the corpses they consumed, others as large as battle wagons. Clouds of bluish smoke floated above them, bearing aloft the stink of flesh and kerosene. And past the smoke, past the infernos and the flying arrows, the birch grove was crimson with Drol.

  Crodin erected the cannon in its unsteady cradle. Lucyler stepped back and looked at their handiwork as Dinadin slipped his finger into the weapon’s trigger guard. The cannon swayed without toppling.

  ‘It will work,’ Lucyler called to Richius. ‘Not for long, though.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Richius impatiently. ‘With three cannons we should be able to hold them off awhile.’

  And then what? wondered Richius. Throw rocks at them? We’re running out of fuel. Without the cannons . . .

  He stopped himself. Not now. Work to do.

  ‘Dinadin,’ he called. ‘Get ready. Give them a big blast first, then ease up on the trigger.’

  Dinadin had turned an unpleasant shade of gray. He tucked himself behind the flame cannon.

  ‘Take it slow,’ encouraged Richius. ‘That cannon isn’t stable and we’re running out of fuel. If –’

  A shout from the rear trenches made Richius stop. He turned and looked behind him. Another shout rose up, high and strangely gleeful.

  ‘What... ?�
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  From out of the distance a mass of galloping horsemen was riding toward them. At their forefront, barely visible against the horizon, flew a banner of green. Though he couldn’t see it, Richius knew that a golden, charging horse was embroidered on the banner. It was the banner of Talistan, the crest of the House of Gayle.

  ‘The horsemen!’ cried Crodin.

  Richius grimaced, a name coming to his lips like a sickness. ‘Gayle.’

  ‘Look, Richius,’ exclaimed Dinadin. ‘We’re saved!’

  ‘Seems so,’ replied Richius dully.

  There were scores of horsemen, enough to best even this many Drol. From his place on the deck Richius could see the Drol already reacting to the coming cavalry. The tide of red robes ebbed a little.

  ‘We should attack,’ said Dinadin anxiously. ‘We could crush them with so many horsemen!’

  Richius shot Dinadin a pointed stare. ‘We’ll hold our position.’ He turned to Lucyler and added, ‘I want everyone ready to defend the trenches. Let’s avoid a fight if we can.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Lucyler. ‘Look.’

  Across the valley, a cloud of dust rose up. The horsemen were charging.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Richius groaned. ‘They’re going to attack.’ He quickly raised his arms over his head and signaled to his men, shouting to get their attention.

  ‘Listen to me!’ he called. ‘The horsemen are attacking. But we still have a position to defend. Nobody gets out of the trenches unless I order it. Barret, make sure all of your men stay put. In the other trenches, too. Dinadin, I want you ready on that cannon. As soon as the Drol see what’s happening they might make a run for us.’

  ‘I’ll be ready,’ Dinadin replied, settling himself behind the weapon.

  The horsemen were closing the gap quickly. In the forward trench Drol warriors squatted on the deck, gibbering and pointing toward the coming cavalry. The banner of the horsemen was clearer now, shining green and gold in the growing light, carried forward by a charging, armored gelding. Richius grinned. Rivals or not, the sight of so many fine animals was beautiful. These were among the finest horses in the Empire, and the men that rode them rivaled his own kinsmen in skill. But these were not the horsemen of Aramoor.