Blood of Jackals Read online

  BLOOD OF JACKALS

  By Todd M. Moreno

  Books by Todd M. Moreno

  Lords of Legan

  House of Jackals

  Blood of Jackals

  Crown of Jackals

  Blood of Jackals

  Lords of Legan

  Copyright © 2017 by Todd M. Moreno

  All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration by Kele Todd

  Cover design by Todd M. Moreno

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, psychic or non-psychic, is coincidental. No jackals were harmed in the writing of this material (though it might be noted that jackals are not vegetarians).

  For my Parents

  Jose A. & Consuelo C. Moreno

  Grandparents of my Daughter

  Catherine Elizabeth Moreno

  Their love of her as grandparents, and her love of them as their granddaughter, has been beautiful to behold.

  Prologue

  Ashincor, Duke of Linsea, looked out the window of his study to the dark open ocean. Fittingly, a storm had roused the sea’s fury, its electrical flashes and threatening rumbles in counter-point to the tempest that savaged his thoughts.

  From the window’s reflection, the Lord of Linse Castle could see those gathered behind him. Like he, most wore modest garb, comfortable and well made, but without undue ornamentation. They all knew their relative rank, and thus had no need to proclaim it by their dress. All except for the one person who held no rank. Ashincor stared at his brother’s friend, sweating in his ostentatious silks and greatcoat as he fiddled with his bejeweled fingers. His brother’s pet weasel was always the more careful of the two. That was why his brother sat in a cell for their latest scheme, and not the fidgeting friend. That was why, despite his charge to speak for Ashincor’s jailed brother, the man stood silent, shifting his weight between his feet, and unwilling to say anything that might put him at risk. It was only his brother’s equal blame for bringing down House Linse that stopped Ashincor from sending the quiet coward to the gallows.

  Ashincor glanced to his black lacquer desk, balefully eying the marriage document that would formally unify his House with that of the planet Legan’s Royal House of Possór. It was an alliance detested by those loyal to House Linse. No matter what was proclaimed for the public media, its terms reflected more of a military surrender than a political merger. Ashincor turned back to the window.

  His fool brother, with his middle-aged body and teenaged mind. Every time he and his lackey friend were in trouble, his noble birth would shield him from all but his father’s verbal reprimands, which were stoically endured and then forgotten. Until now. And after this marriage arrangement, all that would save him would be whatever favor Ashincor’s daughter might have with her husband-to-be, Seffan Possór, and Seffan’s father, the Count-Grandee of Legan. Ashincor wondered how long it would take for his brother to call upon it.

  “Your Grace,” one of Ashincor’s advisors began, “perhaps there is still some other legal argument our defense counsel might put forward?”

  Ashincor appreciated the man’s sympathy, knowing that contesting the matter would be a poor gamble. His brother had finally involved the wrong people in an investment venture that even touched the coffers of the Crown, making his fraudulent financial reporting and stock price manipulations crimes against the Crown, and, in a word, treason. For that he now faced death.

  Perhaps rightfully so, Ashincor almost muttered, knowing his brother’s guilt. Ashincor’s decision on the marriage offer was all that delayed an indictment being issued. That was what delayed his brother having to enter a plea, one which would commit him to a path leading either to exoneration or execution. For expecting his brother to be honorable and plead guilty was unreasonable. While it would spare his family the spectacle of a trial, and the punitive costs for a guilty verdict following a claim of innocence, death would surely await him at a penal colony.

  But it would be Justice, thought Ashincor, berating himself for giving into the hope that his older brother had finally made something of himself, and for still feeling guilty over taking the ducal crown. Having backed his brother’s deal, its initial gains led Ashincor to grant his brother authority as agent to House Linse. Suspicion over his brother’s management however led him to withdraw from the investment prior to its collapse, and before other investors realized their own paper gains. For this, House Linse was held responsible for the debacle, resulting in government-imposed fines would bring financial ruin, guilty plea or no.

  The fool was probably entrapped, Ashincor concluded, suspicious of how fast a marriage was proposed to save both his brother and House Linse. His brother was certainly an easy target, always looking for fast and easy ways to enrich himself temporarily after his squandering. No family fortune would have been enough to survive his excesses. But entrapment was a losing argument.

  His question unanswered, Ashincor’s advisor looked down. Having served Ashincor’s father, it was not the first time he had seen House Linse pay the price for the actions of Ashincor’s brother. Never however had the price been so dear.

  “Ashincor,” said his sister, Lady Monika, as she stepped forward. “It is his only chance.” Since the death of his wife, she had not only stood by him, but had also taken on a maternal role for his daughter, Cassand. Her position was thus surprising. “You promised Father you would take care of him.” She left the rest of it unsaid. That was the price of you being given the title instead of him.

  “Not at such sacrifice,” Ashincor replied to her reflection, her high-necked black gown making her face appear ghost-like against the room’s darkness.

  “Father would have given everything to save him.”

  “He nearly did. That is why more fines will impoverish us. Fortunes rise and fall, but our brother has outdone all conceivable investment disasters. He has taken enough to feed his indulgences.” Ashincor bit off his words.

  “Would you really choose money over family?” asked Lady Monika, aghast.

  Our brother did, Ashincor thought, every time he put us at risk for his own financial gains. “His deliverance requires my daughter, which he expects me to provide. I can only imagine what Cassand’s mother would have said. Would the ‘everything’ that Father would have given to save our brother have included you?”

  “I would give myself willingly for his sake. In fact, I would insist upon it. Just like Cassand is doing. But our brother asks for nothing, Ashincor.”

  “He knows me too well to dare. Better to sit quietly at my mercy than have such gall risk my anger.” Lord Linse grunted. “Ever has he acted in reliance on the good nature of those who would save him, ever preying on their decency.”

  “Does Cassand becoming the Countess-Grandia of Legan mean nothing?” his sister asked. “By her, your descendants will be grand peers of the Imperium.”

  “While my House is absorbed by House Possór and ceases to exist.”

  “Its legacy will not be entirely forgotten. Under the contract, the Possór heir will hold the title Archduke of Linsea.”

  “So, the memory of our family goes back into the land from which it came. How fitting. And once our home is no longer our own,” Ashincor said, lifting his hand to encompass the room, “will you too live at the sufferance of the Possórs?”

  “I have the annuity Father left me. And if I become too bored, surely Cassand will let me serve as a lady-in-waiting. The real question is, what will you do?”

  “Of what value is my fate in your equation?” he asked, annoyed at the mention of her subsidy, one that held her harmless of a
ny hardship. “If it meant me living as a local lobsterman, you would still have it of me for our dear brother.”

  “He would do it for you. Without hesitation. Without thinking.”

  “Yes, as he does all things. And then just as quickly renege, bored, with his carefree lifestyle beckoning to him once more.”

  “Why this joke about you becoming a laborman anyway?” Monika breathed. “His very life dangles in the breeze, and the worst that can happen to you is having to renew your Imperial military commission, if you get bored.”

  Ashincor saw another man look up at him, Baulios Poothe. He and Baulios had been friends since their days at the Imperial Academy. A second son, with no financial expectations, Ashincor had initially pursued a military career. In the years they had campaigned together, they had saved each other’s life many times. After the Old Duke’s deathbed declaration that made Ashincor heir to the ducal throne over his older brother, Baulios left Imperial service to join Ashincor on Legan. Baulios had been with Ashincor ever since, but though he was Cassand’s godfather, he had yet to offer his own thoughts on what Ashincor should do.

  “Life as an Imperial combat commander lacks the appeal it had in my youth, Monika,” Ashincor said. “I have no desire to leave Legan. Or Cassand. Besides, Baulios over there has grown accustomed to a warm bed and flavorful food.”

  “And less people aiming to kill me,” the man added.

  “I am sure it was almost never personal, Baulios,” Ashincor remarked, an automatic jest from years of friendly banter. But his face was serious as Ashincor turned to his most trusted friend. “I know you have been waiting for me to ask, Baulios. I am asking you now.”

  “In battle, Your Grace,” began Baulios, without pause, “I have seen you risk your life for men you barely knew.”

  “They were under my command, and would have done the same for me. They were soldiers whose danger came from the honorable exercise of their duty, not thieves caught in a swindle of their own poorly wrought design.”

  Baulios nodded and breathed. “If it were you in your brother’s place, and if it might make any difference in the outcome, I would give my life for you.”

  Ashincor swallowed. “That is not quite the same thing, Baulios,” he whispered.

  “Certainly, Your Grace. But if you will forgive my familiarity, you are the only brother I have ever known. Even forgetting the oaths that you and I have taken over the years, my decision would be the same.”

  “Thank you, Baulios,” Ashincor sighed, before a telepathic channel he had established with his friend years ago opened to his thoughts.

  “The better question though, is what you would do if it were me?”

  Ashincor stepped back in surprise.

  “I need no answer,” Baulios assured him. “Answer for yourself. Then ask if you could do anything less for your real brother.”

  “You are a far worthier man.”

  “You have saved me from my own foolishness on many occasions. And if shaving a little off my taxes is stealing from the government, far be it from me to cast stones at your brother.”

  “But you have never cheated me, Baulios.”

  “Has your brother ever really set out to steal from you? I do not mean the ‘loans’ you had every reason to know that he would never repay, or petty tricks he thought of after you had already entrusted something to his care. I mean an act with malicious forethought.”

  “My brother has never been malicious,” Ashincor admitted. But then, he never had much forethought either.

  Baulios said nothing more. Glancing at the others, Ashincor could see that they knew he and Baulios had been talking. Now they waited, also knowing that he would come to his own decision. Ashincor walked to his desk, bent down, and signed his name to the document, committing his House’s future to his only daughter, and to the children she would hopefully bear. As he straightened, the advisor who spoke earlier carefully took the document and exited the room. The Possórs would have his acceptance of their terms within moments.

  Oddly, Ashincor felt relieved. His responsibilities as a regional lord being lifted, his life was his own again. It was a strange feeling. Looking at his sister, he saw her smile for the first time in months. It was a sad smile, though one with gratitude. For her sake, he found the will to smile in return.

  The mournful smile Ashincor had now from the memory of thirty years past mirrored the old one. But this smile held a wistfulness that the earlier one could not have imagined. Most of those in that room who witnessed his capitulation were gone. His sister. Baulios. Even his brother. All gone. Much had changed.

  His daughter Cassand’s marriage to Seffan Possór had given him a grandson, Derrick. But at his son-in-law’s ascension to Legan’s planetary throne, their relationship had deteriorated. Perhaps it was only as grandee that Seffan felt free to reveal his true regard for his father-in-law, his resentment surfacing whenever Ashincor happened to offer a suggestion which affected the rule of the Linse archduchy, or worse, an occasional remark on how Derrick was being treated.

  In the end, Ashincor found self-imposed exile preferable to the retaliatory humiliation inflicted upon him while at any of the royal residences, and so he retreated to a life of learned contemplation within the Holy Orders. Through his intelligence and dedication, he mastered the Deeper Training, became a patér, and even taught at Ferramond University. From there he watched his daughter and grandson, unharassed by his son-in-law.

  But his daily life soon revolved around his students and meditations. Even when Cassand was found murdered in her bed, he did not leave Ferramond, knowing that he was still not welcomed at The Palace. Yet he remained eager for reports on his grandson, however tinged they might be by the poison that Seffan fed Derrick over the years.

  Thus it was that Ashincor admitted his satisfaction when Seffan Possór was indicted for crimes against the Imperium. Seffan’s guilty plea, and subsequent suicide, even brought hope that Ashincor might renew his relationship with his grandson. Yet a truthseer, Soror Barell, had urged caution. Derrick would need his aid against the challenges facing him, but he also needed time to adjust, and to let his wounds heal. Understanding, Ashincor had given Derrick his space.

  But now the time had come for him to see his grandson once again. He only hoped that there was still time to save him.

  - - -

  I

  Although Ashincor Linse wanted to speak with the Patér Rector about taking leave to see his grandson, Derrick, the sudden summons from his religious superior was unexpected. It was as if the other man knew his thoughts.

  And he just might, Ashincor admitted. His superior had ways of keeping watch over his charges, and could read the true significance in the most seemingly innocent of actions.

  Walking a narrow corridor in Ferramond University’s main administration building, Ashincor worked out a stiff shoulder muscle. Age had found him. Just how long had he been at Ferramond? Was it really twenty years? Who would have thought a part-time teaching position would lead to a department chair, and even a possibility at being the next archchancellor?

  Drawn by the special psychic training reserved for those in Holy Orders, his daughter’s death had made his decision to remain in religious life an easy one. Hearing of Seffan Possór’s reported involvement in her death had only spurred him to greater study of the Disciplines. To the extent he had any thought to use his augmented psychic abilities to achieve his revenge then, it was a pity that Seffan’s suicide had ended any chance of it.

  Turning a corner, Ashincor reached the final grand stairway and made his ascent. Given the religious designs and scenes depicted on the tiled floor, colored windows, and painted ceiling, few visitors failed to realize that they were on hallowed ground. Ornate and beautifully detailed, this hall was doubly famous. It was here that Torran Possór killed his chief rival for becoming Legan’s first grandee. From young acolytes to senior members of the Order however, this was also the “last mile” on one’s way to see the Patér Rect
or.

  Ashincor clenched his teeth, annoyed by his sudden apprehension. The Patér Rector was a formidable man and, in his way, more powerful than Ashincor had been as a regional lord. But his fear really came from the Patér Rector granting him leave. While Seffan’s orders might still bar him from The Palace, the real question was whether Derrick would even see him.

  Situated between a pair of haloed statues, a large timepiece to his right tolled the quarter-hour. It was later than he thought. Reaching the last doors leading to the Patér Rector’s offices, Ashincor took a deep breath, and entered.

  The young man behind an old oak desk rose to his feet. “Good morning, Patér Linse,” he said with a bow, his robe one of a junior adept. “The Patér Rector is expecting you.” Ashincor nodded back as the adept opened the room’s opposite door. Ashincor stopped two steps in as the adept closed the door behind him. At first, he did not know if the Rector’s chair faced him or the window, so strong was the contrast of the shadows cast by the morning’s rays.

  “Come forward, Patér Linse,” the Rector rumbled. Seemingly by themselves, lamps slowly came to life as the windows tinted to soften the light from outside. The change revealed the Rector to be looking up at Ashincor from his large chair.

  “I came at your bidding, Reverence,” Ashincor said formally, waiting for an invitation to sit. The older man nodded and looked to an empty chair in front of his desk. Ashincor obeyed the silent direction as something drew his attention to one of the stone-carved busts in the room. Ashincor recognized the likeness. It bore the face of the Rector’s predecessor at Ferramond.

  “I understand you wish to take leave of us and renew your ties with your grandson,” the Rector said as Ashincor settled in his chair.

  Ashincor swallowed his surprise. The Rector was not known to play games.