The Jackal of Nar by John Marco

“No. You do not know her. You have not seen her. She is …” The Drol master closed his eyes. “A dream.”
    “A dream,” scoffed Voris. “You have been bitten by a snake, Tharn. This Dyana is the daughter of a heretic. She would make you a very poor wife. Forget her father’s pledge.” The warlord’s tone softened. “I know you. A woman like this will not make you happy.”
    “There is no other woman for me,” said Tharn softly. “She is part of my curse. I want no one else.”
    “She can never love you. If that is what you want—”
    “She is mine,” Tharn railed. “She was betrothed to me, and I will have her!”
    “I say again—she will not love you. Ever. She runs because she fears you. She saw what you did to her father.”
    Tharn’s dark eyes smoldered. “Her father broke his word to me.”
    “You were pledged at twelve, Tharn. He did not know the man you would become. If you were Drol then, he would never have offered you his daughter.”
    “And is that how followers of the Daegog keep their word? When it is convenient to remember the giving? Her father deserved his death. I would behead him again if I could.”
    “This is why she hates you, my friend. This is why she will always hate you. Whatever you believe you had is dead. Find another.”
    “I cannot,” admitted Tharn. “When you see her, you will know why I am so possessed.”
    Voris looked profoundly sad. “Then I will find her for you, if I can. Now come. Your men are packed and ready.”
    Voris opened the door for the Drol master, and the two of them stepped out into the quiet hallway. A pair of Voris’ warriors were waiting there for them, their red robes perfect against their hard bodies, their twin-bladed jiiktars slung ready over their backs. They fell into step behind Tharn and the lord of the valley, following them through the dark hall, past the main entrance to the castle and out into the courtyard where five horses waited for them among the broken statues. Atop two of the horses were cunning-men, Tharn’s Drol priests dressed in the saffron robes of their station. They were silent as their master approached, not even tilting up their heads to regard him. Voris’ warriors went directly to their own horses, mounting them quickly and leaving the warlord and Tharn room for a private farewell.
    “It is a long way,” said Voris. His expression had softened with concern. “You take care of yourself, my friend. And do not fret. What you are doing is right.”
    Tharn tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “Right or wrong, I expect to be damned for it.” He went to his own horse and started to mount when he heard a cry echoing from inside the castle.
    “Bhapo! Wait!”
    Tharn pulled his foot out of the stirrup and looked toward the castle gate. From out of the darkness came Pris, Voris’ youngest daughter. She was running toward them, her arms outstretched.
    “Do not leave yet, Bhapo,” she cried. She tried to run past her father but Voris caught her by the collar.
    “Daughter,” he scolded. “Get back to bed.”
    Pris tried to squirm free of her father’s hand, but Voris held her tight. “I want to say good-bye,” she pleaded. “I saw Bhapo leaving from my window. Please …”
    “All right,” agreed Voris. “But be quick. Bhapo has to leave.”
    Tharn went over to the little girl and dropped to his knees. The pain of the gesture blew through him but he ignored it, staring into the girl’s face with a smile. “I am not going to be gone forever, Pris,” he said gently. “Do not worry. I will come back as soon as I can. I have things to do first, though.”
    “What things, Bhapo?” asked the girl. “War things?”
    Tharn loved to hear her call him Bhapo. It was a term of endearmentmeaning “uncle,” and Tharn always smiled when he heard it. “I have to go and stop a bad man, Pris. I have to go help some people. But I will be back, I promise. And things will be good then. All