The Jackal of Nar by John Marco

Triin could only dream of, yet they were still as superstitious as any Drol. Now only he, the Daegog of all Triin, could pretend to give Arkus what he wanted, and the price was steep indeed.
    “Go home, then, Edgard,” whispered the Daegog. “Go home to your death.”
    He lowered his glass to the rickety table next to him and let out a giant yawn. It was very late, and he was weary. In the morning he would meet with Baron Gayle again to discuss the defense of Mount Godon, and speaking to the Talistanian always taxed him. It was time for sleep.
    Retreating from the balcony, he entered his bedchamber, the plushest one in the entire castle and still smaller than his own in Falindar by at least half. Miserably appointed, the room reminded the Daegog more of his citadel’s dungeon than its bedchambers. But he was too exhausted to dwell on his plight, and as he shut the twin doors leading to the balcony, he took one last breath of the night air and turned to his bed. There was a candle near the bedside and he blew it out, satisfied with the moonlight coming through the glass. He was already in his satiny bedclothes, and as he slid into the bed and drew the sheets over his bulk, his eyelids drooped. It took only a moment for sleep to come.
    But it shattered just as quickly.
    The Daegog sat up in bed, hearing a noise at the balcony doors. Startled, he pulled the sheets close to his face and peered out toward the balcony. Past midnight, he recalled, past the hour of decent folk. Something outside shimmered, twinkling darklyin the moonlight. A white and man-sized shadow hovered just beyond the doors. The Daegog made to scream, but lost his voice in terror as the thing moved wraithlike through the glass.
    It was a man and yet it was not. It was white and thin and without substance, but it had form and it had eyes, and it watched the Daegog with a wicked humor. The Daegog’s heart seized. His breath came to him in short, painful bursts. And the thing that was not quite alive floated closer on its legless torso and stopped at the foot of his bed.
    “Do you recognize me, fat one?” asked the spectre. Its voice was hollow, and it rang in the Daegog’s head like a broken bell. The Daegog studied the thing, examined its determined face and saffron robes, and knew with horrible certainty what the visitation was. His dry lips pursed and a name dribbled out.
    “Tharn.”
    The ghostly face grinned. “How nice to be remembered. I, of course, remember you, Daegog. I remember you every time it rains and I cannot walk.”
    The Daegog backed up against the headboard. “What are you, demon?”
    “I have become the sword of Lorris,” declared the Drol, and as he spoke his body shimmered. “The touch of heaven is within me. I am the air and the water. Look upon me, fat one. Look and fear me.”
    “I do fear you,” chittered the Daegog. “Spare me, monster. Take what you want but let me live.…”
    The Drol laughed. “I go to make your end, Nebarazar Gorandarr. Tonight you are undone.”
    “No!” wailed the Daegog. “Tharn, forgive me. I never meant for you to be harmed. It was not my doing, I swear to you.”
    “Liar. I remember seeing your face through the blood in my eyes. I remember you there.”
    The Daegog held up his palms. “I thought you were a criminal. I … I was wrong. Please, we can talk.…”
    “You are the one with crimes to answer for, and I do not talk with devils.” The ghost gestured with his transparent hand toward the balcony and the darkness beyond. “Look to the skies tonight. Wait for the purple mist. Tonight I am Storm Maker.”
    And then the image of the Drol faded and dissolved, leaving the Daegog shivering, alone. It was long moments before hecould move, but at last he slid out of his bed and tiptoed toward the doors. He flung them open and stepped onto the balcony. The steam had stopped rising from the teapot on the table. It was colder now, almost wintry. He looked to the bloodred moon hanging