The Jackal of Nar

This edition contains the complete text of the original trade paperback edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED
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THE JACKAL OF NAR
A Bantam Spectra Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam trade paperback published March 1999
Bantam paperback edition / February 2000

SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

Copyright © 1999 by John Marco.
Map by James Sinclair.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-36117
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.

ISBN 0-553-57887-1
eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-5266-2

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

v3.1

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 Triin 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 I 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.