The Jackal of Nar by John Marco Page B

before him and he batted it away, spilling the fruit to the floor.
    “Get out,” he snapped at the woman, who quickly obeyed. Next to him he could feel the warlord Kronin bristle, but he didn’t care. He was tired of living in this hovel of a castle, tired of being the warlord’s guest. He wanted to go home, and he blamed the others in the room for keeping him away from his beloved Falindar. One-armed Edgard, the Aramoorian war duke, rubbed the stump of his shoulder distractedly and gave Kronin a furtive wink. The Daegog cringed inwardly, sure that they thought him an idiot.
    “I want to start,” he said to Kronin. “Where is this fool baron? Go and find him.”
    Kronin, warlord of Tatterak, stifled a grunt and got up from the floor. Mildly annoyed, he started toward the open archway before noticing Baron Blackwood Gayle. The baron pushed past him without regard, strode into the chamber, and bowed deeply to the Triin leader. He was a giant man, the epitome of a Naren barbarian, and when he moved, his leather armor stretched and groaned. Behind him followed another Talistanian, the ubiquitous, weasel-faced Colonel Trosk, who never removed his feathered hat for anyone, not even the Daegog.
    “Daegog,” said the baron with a flourish. “Forgive my lateness. Matters of weight occupied me, and I only just arrived.”
    “It is a disservice you do me, Baron, to keep me waiting. What do you think I do all day that I have such time to waste? Sit.”
    Gayle cocked his head deferentially, and he and his colonel sat cross-legged on the floor, fighting to maneuver the silk pillows under their buttocks. They made no attempt to speak to Duke Edgard, nor did the Aramoorian pay them any attention. Kronin returned to his place beside the Daegog without a word.
    “Woman!” cried the Daegog in his own tongue, directing his voice out into the hall. “Bring us some food. More dates, and drink.”
    Seconds later the serving woman returned, bearing with her a tray of fruits and a tall silver decanter. She placed the tray on thetable and nervously poured some tokka, the Daegog’s favorite liquor, into her master’s outstretched glass. When it was filled, she attended to the others.
    “Now,” said the Daegog haughtily, “may we begin?”
    “Of course, wise one,” said the baron through one of his insincere smiles. “If the others are ready …”
    “We were waiting for you,” said Edgard. The war duke looked contemptuously at Gayle. “I think you do this on purpose, Baron.”
    “Just like an Aramoorian to speak out of turn,” countered Gayle. “You talk boldly for a man with one arm, War Duke. Reconsider your tone.” His eyes flicked toward his silent colonel, who was stroking the handle of his saber. “It’s not just a jiiktar that can take off an arm.”
    Edgard started to rise. The Daegog brought a fist down on the table. “Enough!” he cried. “Sit, Duke Edgard. And do not bicker around me again. I am tired of you all!”
    The Aramoorian sat back down. The Daegog knitted his fingers and rested his elbows on the table, glaring at each of them in turn. Gayle and Colonel Trosk merely grinned.
    “I warn you, I have no patience for this,” said the Daegog. “Baron Gayle, Kronin tells me the rebels are gaining ground in the south. He says that soon they may even be able to reach us here on Mount Godon. You are supposed to be securing that land, yes?”
    “Yes, Daegog,” replied Gayle. “And I am doing so, to the best of my ability.”
    “Your best is very poor, Baron.”
    Gayle made a face. “I have been away in the Dring Valley, Daegog. Young Vantran needed my assistance.” The baron glanced at Edgard. “He had to be pulled from the fire. We arrived just in time.”
    “And he is strong again?” asked the Daegog.
    “Strong? Oh, no, Daegog, he’s never been strong. He is a whelp, and it is all too much for him. As I’ve always said, the valley war should be mine to conduct.” He sighed. “Frankly, I