Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  "I'm nothing like the Lord! My mother died because of me, Jahl. I could have saved her but I didn't."

  "No," Jahl argued. "Your mother had a cancer."

  "Cancer," scoffed Alazrian bitterly. "So what? Crinion had worse than that, and look what I did for him."

  "But you told me yourself she didn't want to live. She begged you not to save her. Isn't that so?" When Alazrian wouldn't answer, Jahl grabbed his shoulder. "Well? Isn't it?"

  "It is. But how does that matter? I shouldn't have listened to her."

  "You are wrong," Jahl said. "Everyone dies. Even you'll die eventually, just like Tharn. No magic can save you from God's plan."

  Alazrian looked up at him. "Plan?"

  "It's all a plan, Alazrian. God doesn't make mistakes. And there are no accidents. Your mother died because it was her time, and she died giving you a mission to find out about yourself. Well, here you are."

  "Oh, if only that were true," sighed Alazrian. He sniffed against his runny nose. "But I don't know why I'm here anymore. I shouldn't have come. I--"

  A figure emerged from the pines, startling him. Alazrian sat up and looked straight into the face of Praxtin-Tar. The warlord stood in his bloodied rags, his expression grave. It looked as though he, too, had been weeping. Jahl sprang to his feet, ready to defend Alazrian, but there was no threat from the warlord. Praxtin-Tar merely watched, an inscrutable smile crossing his face. Then he began to speak.

  "What's he saying?" whispered Jahl.

  Alazrian shrugged. "Praxtin-Tar? What is it? What are you saying?"

  Praxtin-Tar grimaced in frustration. Then, gripped by an idea, he fell to his knees before Alazrian and grabbed the boy's hand, clasping it hard and staring into his eyes.

  "No," said Alazrian, trying to pull away. But Praxtin-Tar held on, shaking his hand insistently. Alazrian relented, allowing Praxtin-Tar's mind to reach him, and felt the thunderbolt of the man's passion. This time when Praxtin-Tar spoke, Alazrian understood every word.

  "Yes," gasped Alazrian. "Yes, I understand you. I do!"

  Praxtin-Tar's overwhelming gratitude flooded Alazrian's senses. Crinion was healed, and the warlord was humbled. There was a great satisfaction in Praxtin-Tar, a numinous enlightenment. Alazrian puzzled over it for a moment, wondering what had made the warlord so joyous. There was a name echoing between them, sounding over and over in their shared minds.

  "Tharn," said Alazrian softly. "No, Praxtin-Tar, I am not him."

  But Praxtin-Tar laughed. "Tharn!" he cried. "You are like him. You are the door to heaven, open again!"

  "I am a boy."

  "You are special," argued the warlord.

  "No, I am nothing."

  "You are touched by heaven!"

  "I am . . ." Alazrian paused. "Afraid."

  Praxtin-Tar squeezed his hand. "I will protect you."

  "Alazrian?" asked Jahl nervously. "Are you all right? What's happening?"

  Alazrian laughed. "I can feel him, Jahl! I can hear him. He's talking to me!"

  "Talking? What's he saying?"

  There was so much in Praxtin-Tar's words, it was more like reading a library than a single book. How to distill it all so Jahl could understand? But among the volumes of Praxtin-Tar's soul was one distinct, very clear message.

  "The Jackal," whispered Alazrian, still clutching the warlord's hands. He looked straight into Praxtin-Tar's eyes, and knew that nothing in him was a lie. "He's going to take us there, Jahl. He's going to take us to Vantran."

  THIRTY-TWO

  Kasrin stood on the deck of his damaged vessel. The shadow of the Sovereign's new mainmast fell across his face at an angle as the Lissen shipwrights tried raising it into position. It had taken more than a week to fashion the new mast, work that was performed while the crippled Sovereign was towed to Karalon by barges, and now it seemed the mast was too stout for the warship, and wouldn't marry with the existing fitting. So far, progress had been wretchedly slow, and every day was a new adventure in futility. Despite their excellent reputation as shipbuilders, the Lissens were way behind schedule.

  Once the Sovereign had been dragged ashore, an elaborate scaffolding had been constructed around her. The swampy banks of Karalon had made dry-docking the dreadnought nearly impossible, but Lissen ingenuity had eventually won out. After the barges had towed the wounded warship to the island, Jelena's people wasted no time. They had erected the scaffolding and surrounded the Sovereign with booms and pulleys and armatures in an effort to repair her. But she was a cripple and looked ready for the scrap yard. The Fearless had blown great holes in her hull and deck, providing the carpenters round-the-clock work, and the cracked mainmast was completely unsalvageable. There was practically no rigging left and barely any sails, and the fire that had enveloped the stern had destroyed the upper deck so that a great maw now gaped in the planking, providing a perfect view to the holds below. Put kindly, the Sovereign was a wreck, and Blair Kasrin wasn't certain she would ever sail again.

  Since coming to Karalon, Kasrin had noticed the change in the weather. It was warm now. The days were getting longer, and the grass was already high. The first day of summer was three weeks away. On that morning he was to be in Talistan. He was to open fire on their border and signal Biagio to begin his invasion. And the Jackal would be there, too, if the boy Alazrian had been successful. It was a three-legged stool, this plan of Biagio's, but the stool was already toppling because one of its legs was missing. As he watched the Lissens slowly positioning the mainmast, cursing as they contemplated its oversized girth, Kasrin could only shake his head.

  There was simply too much damage. Even with Lissen know-how, there was no way to make the repairs in time. It would take at least a week to sail to Talistan, and that left maybe two weeks to get the Sovereign seaworthy--an impossible task if ever there was one.

  Like sinking the Fearless?

  Kasrin remembered what Jelena had told him that day on the beach. She had told him that they would rebuild the Dread Sovereign, and Jelena had been true to her word. She had provided craftsmen and materials and her own tireless support, but all of it seemed pointless. The clock was ticking. The Sovereign was in bad shape--much too bad to set sail so soon.

  Still, Kasrin liked thinking about that day on the beach. He had been so afraid. And her lap had been so warm . . .

  He turned away, unable to watch a moment longer. They might get the mast in place today, but then they needed to fit it with yards. After that, they needed to fit the yards with rigging, and the rigging with sails. And when that was done they could finally set to work on the stern. Kasrin closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of hammers. They were earnest workers, these Lissens, and highly skilled, but even they couldn't work miracles.

  I'm not going to make it, he told himself. Sorry, Biagio.

  Somehow, the emperor would have to launch his invasion without the dreadnought's help. There would be no bombardment of Talistan's coast, no softening of Tassis Gayle's troops. The Sovereign's port guns were ruined, anyway. Endless fire against the Fearless had melted their barrels. Now the warship had only three cannons, all on her starboard side. Jelena had suggested salvaging the Fearless' cannons, but that, too, was impossible. Only the tinkerers in the war labs knew how to fit the dangerous weapons. To Kasrin, the lack of firepower was just one more nail in the Sovereign's coffin.

  He opened his eyes and looked over the deck. His crewmen were hard at work alongside the Lissens, patching holes with planks and buckets of pitch. On the horizon the sun was going down, throwing long shadows across the dreadnought. It would be night soon. The setting sun reminded Kasrin he was tired. There had been very little sleep for him the past week. Work had consumed his days, and when he did close his eyes he endured nightmares. He hadn't been eating much lately, either, and his head swam. But just like sleep, there was no time for food. The Dread Sovereign needed him.

  He was about to help with the mainmast when he noticed Laney limping toward him. His first officer wore a serio
us expression as he leaned on his cane, carefully avoiding the pits in the deck. Kasrin tried not to stare. The shark had done a thorough job on Laney. The scar around his thigh would last forever. But Laney was one of the lucky ones. He had only lost a chunk of one leg. Many had lost both legs, or had been bitten in half around the stomach. Kasrin gave Laney a smile, first going to help him but then stopping short. Laney needed to walk on his own. The officer joined Kasrin amidships, staring up at the teetering mast. "You look worried. Don't be. These Lissens know what they're doing."

  "Yes. They're so meticulous, I'm sure we'll be able to set sail by the autumn."

  "I've been going over the drawings for the stern. Thorp and his people are going to start on it tomorrow. He told me Jelena has ordered more carpenters in from the other islands. He thinks they'll have it done on time."

  "He thinks." Kasrin frowned. Thorp was Jelena's chief shipwright, a good and talented man, but not the quickest fish in the lake. "How reassuring."

  "Blair, we're doing the best we can."

  "I know. I also know that it's not going to be enough. The first day of summer is almost here, Laney. We have to set sail in two weeks if we're going to make it to Talistan on time. And look at this wreck." Kasrin gestured to the chaos around them. "There's not enough time."

  "We'll make it," said Laney. "Jelena's ordered more help. Thorp says the sail makers have been making good progress."

  "And once the sails are ready we have to get them on the yards. Oh, but I forgot! There aren't any yards!"

  Laney sighed. "I can't talk to you when you're this way. It's getting late. Why don't you get some sleep?"

  "Because there's work to do."

  "You're no help to anyone like this," said Laney. "Look at you--you can hardly even stand. Go get some rest. I'll look after things. In the morning we'll have the mainmast up and you'll feel better."

  But Kasrin wouldn't go. "Really, I'm not tired. I won't be able to catch a wink until this mast is up." He studied the mast. The Lissens were standing around it, rubbing their chins. "From the looks of it, it's going to be a long night."

  "Then let's get some food at least. I'm starving, and I know you must be, too."

  "Maybe later."

  Laney poked Kasrin with his cane. "Hey, look at me . . ."

  Kasrin glanced at his friend. "What?"

  "Something's bothering you. You've never shut me out like this before."

  "Bothering me? What could possibly be bothering me?"

  "I think I know."

  "Of course. Look at my ship!"

  "That's not it." Laney smiled gently and spoke a name Kasrin hoped never to hear again. "Nicabar."

  Kasrin turned away and stared out over Karalon, pretending the swampy island interested him.

  "That's what's bothering you, I can tell," said Laney. "You haven't even mentioned him since he died."

  "Haven't I?" replied Kasrin. He began walking away, toward the railing. To his dismay he heard Laney's cane thumping in pursuit.

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "Talk about what? Nicabar's dead. I killed him. That's what we came here to do, isn't it?"

  Before Kasrin could reach the railing, Laney moved in front of him, holding up his cane.

  "Don't make me use this," he kidded. "I will if you don't talk to me."

  "Laney," Kasrin said, "I don't know what you want me to say. Nicabar's dead."

  "Yes." Laney looked at him sharply.

  "And I killed him," Kasrin whispered. He heard his voice begin to quaver. "My God, I killed him . . ."

  Laney lowered his cane and put a consoling arm around his captain. Neither of them expected Kasrin to weep, and in fact there were no tears in him for Nicabar. There was only a vast guilt and a confusing sense of emptiness.

  "He was mad," Kasrin said. "I know he was. But . . ."

  He shook his head, unable to finish the sentence. But what? He had rid the world of a menace. To Jelena and the other Lissens, he was a hero. But there was something like patricide in what he'd done, and Nicabar's face had joined the others in his nightmares, taunting him. He knew he would never be free of those sapphire eyes.

  "He trusted me," said Kasrin wearily. "He didn't kill me or take away my commission, because he always wanted me to come back, like some kind of son. And this is how I repaid him."

  Laney guided him to the ship's railing and leaned him against it so that Kasrin's back was to Karalon. The Sovereign's captain had a perfect view of his ruined ship--the ship Nicabar had given him and had even named personally. That had been the proudest day of Kasrin's life.

  "It had to be done," said Laney. "Nicabar was insane. You knew that."

  Kasrin nodded.

  "There was just too much at stake. He would have kept going after Liss. He might have even killed Jelena someday. Have you thought about that?"

  "I've thought about nothing else," said Kasrin honestly. Besides Nicabar, Jelena had been another face in his mind's eye. "I know that Nicabar was mad," he continued. "I know what a threat he was to Liss, and to Biagio's plans. But he was special to me, Laney. I can't explain it, but I can't seem to forgive myself, either."

  "Try," urged Laney. "And you have to stop taking it out on the rest of us. We're all working as hard as we can."

  Kasrin nodded. "I know that."

  Laney gave him a playful jab with the cane. "You look terrible. Get some sleep."

  "No. I've got to start pitching the hull repairs."

  "Blair . . ."

  "Please, Laney, don't argue with me. There's too much to do."

  "I'm not arguing with you," said Laney. He pointed over the railing. "Look."

  Kasrin looked out over the island and saw a figure walking toward the Sovereign, alone. His heart leapt at the sight.

  "Jelena."

  Laney gave him a mischievous grin. "I wonder what she wants. Could it be she's come to see the heroic Kasrin?"

  Kasrin ran his fingers through his hair. He had hardly seen the queen at all since reaching Karalon, and was beginning to think she was shunning him. He watched her from the deck, admiring her golden hair and scarlet dress, and when she was in range he waved down to her. Jelena beamed back.

  "God, she's beautiful," said Laney. He nudged Kasrin with his cane. "Don't you think?"

  "I hadn't noticed."

  "Liar."

  Jelena paused at the edge of the shore. She looked around at all the activity, nodding in satisfaction, and for a moment Kasrin wondered if that was all she had come for--a cursory inspection. His mood sank a notch.

  "Well?" pressed Laney. "Go down and greet her."

  Kasrin looked at his shirt, stained with pitch and perspiration. It was hardly the garb in which to greet a queen, but he supposed Jelena wouldn't mind. She had seen him looking far worse. He strode for the nearest ladder and slid down the Sovereign's hull, splashing into the boggy ground and letting water fill his boots. Jelena was on the shore, waiting for him. Several of her Lissen compatriots had come to offer assistance, but she shooed them away.

  She wants to see me, thought Kasrin happily.

  "Good evening," he called as he climbed the soggy ledge. The noise of hammers sounded behind him, but he knew that not everybody aboard the Sovereign was working. He could almost feel Laney's eyes on his back. "What brings you out here, my lady? No trouble, I hope."

  Jelena waited until he was standing in front of her before replying. "No trouble. I just wanted to see how things were going with the repairs."

  "Oh," said Kasrin. "The repairs."

  The queen smiled. "And with you. It's been a long time since we've spoken. I've been expecting you to come to see me, but all I get is reports from Laney. I was worried about you."

  "I'm sorry, my lady," said Kasrin. "I've been busy. But I'm glad you're here. I want to thank you for all the help you've given us. Your people have been a godsend. They work hard and they know what they're doing. We'd be doomed without them."

  "A promise is a promise," said Jelena.
"I told you we would rebuild her. And help will be coming tomorrow. I've sent word to Haran Island. The barges will bring more timbers and supplies."

  "Yes, I've heard," said Kasrin. "I'm very grateful." He looked her over. "You look very nice. Is there some occasion?"

  "No occasion. I am still queen, remember. I can't always go around looking like a rat."

  Kasrin laughed. "You mean like me?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "It's all right," said Kasrin. "I know what a sight I must be. I haven't had a proper bath in a week, or even a good night's sleep. I could use both desperately." Then he sighed, looking back over his ship. "But there's so much bloody work to do. Even with fresh help, I don't think we're going to make it. We still have so many repairs. And we can't even get the new mast--"

  He felt Jelena touch his hand. He looked at her.

  "Enough," she said. "No more work for you tonight. You must rest."

  "Rest? Now you sound like Laney."

  "He's told me how hard you've been pushing yourself. It won't do, Captain. You need sleep, and a good meal for once. I'm here to see that you get both." Jelena held out her hand for him. "Ready?"

  Without hesitation, Kasrin took the queen's hand. It was so small it seemed to disappear in his own. Now that he was closer he could smell perfume. Oddly, he remembered Meleda back in the fishing village's brothel. Meleda wasn't anything like Jelena.

  "Come," bade Jelena, leading him away. Kasrin stole a glance over his shoulder and noticed Laney grinning at him. His friend raised his cane victoriously. Kasrin didn't say a word as Jelena led the way, far from the Dread Sovereign and toward a bank of buildings that looked as though they'd been hastily constructed. These were the barracks where, according to Jelena, the Lissen "army" had trained for the invasion of Crote. Now the barracks still housed Lissens, but they weren't soldiers. They were sailors and craftsmen and all manner of shipbuilders who had come to work on the damaged Sovereign. Among them still remained a sprinkling of young soldiers, but most of these stayed out of sight and tended to the day-to-day needs of Karalon. Kasrin and the remains of his crew had a barracks to themselves. Jelena and her attendants slept in a structure at the other end of a parade ground that had long ago gone to seed. As he walked toward the dilapidated buildings, punctuated by a flagstaff flying a forlorn Lissen banner, Kasrin realized that he hadn't given Karalon much consideration. He'd been so busy working on his ship that he had neglected his new home. It occurred to him that this abandoned island had lured Nicabar into their trap, in the bloodthirsty hope of slaughtering young Lissens.