Saints of the Sword

by John Marco

  "I'm not too old!" roared Gayle. "I'm not!"

  But Elrad Leth was already out the door. Fuming, he stormed through the hall, pushing aside the servants who were waiting for their king and flying down the staircase in a rage. It didn't mean anything to him that Tassis Gayle wanted to ride into battle--if the old fool died, he wouldn't care a whit. But to be called less than a man was unthinkable. Leth's jaw tightened as he made his way to the courtyard. Outside, he saw Major Mardek and his ranks of green and gold horsemen prancing on the parade ground waiting for Tassis Gayle. They were beautiful and compelling, even frightening in their demon-faced helms. When the battle with the Highlanders finally came, they would easily outmatch them. Beside them rode the hundred soldiers from Vosk, sitting tall in their saddles, ignorant of their mistress' murder.

  Leth lowered his hand, his shoulders slumping. He was glad he wasn't riding into battle. Redburn's people were savages. They would lose, of course, but the clash would be bloody.

  The governor walked quietly to his carriage. When he returned to Aramoor, he would order Zerio to set sail against the Eastern Highlands. Then he would go back to his usurped castle and wait. He didn't expect the battle against Redburn to take very long. And if the Saints of the Sword tried to interfere as Gayle feared, Leth knew he could deal with them. They were only a handful, after all.

  FORTY-TWO

  Inside the tower, Falger waited. A hush had fallen over Mord and the others, who stood very still as their leader contemplated strategies. Falger stooped beside his telescope, his eye fixed to the lens. He had trained the device on the outskirts of the city, and could plainly see what his scouts had reported--a huge mass of men and horses, slowly lumbering toward Ackle-Nye. They wore the grey of Reen and bore the standard of that territory, the hateful flag of Praxtin-Tar. Directly toward the city they moved, hundreds strong, their colors and intent unmistakable. Falger watched them silently, his mind and heartbeat racing. For months he and his people had lived in fear of this day. They had stockpiled food and Naren weaponry against Praxtin-Tar's arrival. Today, at last, their good fortune had run dry.

  "It is him," said Falger. He looked up from the telescope and saw Mord's stricken expression. His friend was barely breathing. "They are still a distance from the city. We have time, yet. Is everyone secure?"

  Mord swallowed. "I think so. They have been told to find shelter and stay inside. But they are afraid, Falger."

  Falger looked around the chamber at his friends. Most of them were dressed as he was, in surplus Naren uniforms and helmets haphazardly mixed with their own traditional Triin garb. Some had jiiktars, others imperial swords and maces. They stood at nervous attention, desperate for Falger's wisdom. Falger wasn't sure he had any. "I know you are all afraid," he told them. "It is all right. We have the cannons to defend us. We will surprise the warlord."

  His friends all nodded, murmuring agreement. The Naren flame cannons gave them confidence.

  "Mord, you and I will stay in this tower, closest to the warlord," said Falger. "We will work the weapon together. The others are ready?"

  "I think so," said Mord. "Tuvus is in the western tower. He says he has the cannon working."

  "And the eastern tower?"

  "Ignitor troubles. But Donaga has gotten it to light. It should work."

  Falger considered this. He would need all three flame cannons against Praxtin-Tar's army. The Naren attack towers rimming Ackle-Nye were their only defense, unless they resorted to hand-to-hand. One look at his ragtag defenders told Falger to avoid that contingency. The warriors from Reen would rip them to pieces. There was no shortage of terrible tales about Praxtin-Tar and his zealots; only the cannons would give them an edge. Mentally, Falger congratulated himself for salvaging them, along with the other Naren weapons. Today, his foresight might save them. But none of them were skilled with the weapons, and that worried him. The fuel was very scarce, and they had never really practiced for fear of wasting the precious kerosene. It seemed like a straightforward design, however, and Falger was something of an engineer. Using only his imagination and his love for tinkering, he had discovered how to light the ignitors and aim the barrels. Now all he needed to do was pull the trigger. Praxtin-Tar and his horde would be burned to cinders.

  At least in theory.

  Falger called to one of his men. "Go down and make sure no one is on the streets. We still have some time before the warriors reach us." He turned to another pair of his comrades. "I want you both to go to the other towers. Tell Tuvus and Donaga not to fire until the warriors are in the city. Mord and I are closest, so we will make the first shots. Go now, quickly."

  The men hurried out of the chamber, racing down the tower's steps. Falger went to the flame cannon and inspected its glowing ignitor. He put a hand over it, feeling its heat. The kerosene from the tank hissed through a gleaming metal line, burning off in a bluish flame. The weapon itself rested on a tripod, with levers and wheels to adjust its aim. It was the long-range type, the kind Falger had heard about in the Dring Valley but had never seen until coming to Ackle-Nye.

  Next to him, Mord put his eye to the telescope and let out a little groan. "They are closer."

  "What of Praxtin-Tar? Can you see him?"

  Mord shook his head. "No. But they are riding straight toward us."

  "Then we shall have a surprise for them."

  Mord looked up from the eyepiece. "We cannot win, you know."

  "We can defend ourselves," said Falger. He ran his hand over the barrel of the flame cannon. "And we will."

  "We are women and children mostly. Lorris and Pris, they will be ruthless. They will punish us for fleeing Lucel-Lor."

  "They will try," said Falger.

  A great weight settled on his shoulders. Everything he had accomplished in Ackle-Nye had been a battle. Finding food, decent shelter, cleaning up the innumerable Naren corpses--these things Falger had done because he wanted a life of his own. Like the rest of his refugee kin, he wanted a place to call home.

  "Make ready," he told Mord. He settled in behind the flame cannon, gingerly testing the trigger. "As soon as they are close enough, we fire."

  In the center of Praxtin-Tar's lumbering horde, Alazrian rode beside Richius Vantran, watching him as he marvelled at Ackle-Nye. It had been a long, arduous day of riding, and the company had kept a brisk pace in hopes of reaching the City of Beggars by nightfall. They had spent the previous night bedded under the stars, just as they had since leaving Falindar, and the thought of decent shelter propelled them forward so that even Praxtin-Tar, who usually ambled proudly atop his horse, rode with smoke in his heels. Using the Sheaze River as a guide and taking clean water from its banks at rest times, they had made remarkable progress. Now Ackle-Nye shone in the distance, its architecture reflecting the hot sun.

  The sight of the city slowed their anxious pace. An expectant buzz burbled up from the ranks of warriors. Alazrian watched Richius Vantran, intrigued by his reaction. It had been nearly three years since the King of Aramoor had been this close to his homeland. Richius Vantran held the reins of his gelding stiffly, nearly motionless as he swayed in the saddle. On the other side of him rode Jahl Rob, a contented smile on his face. The priest nudged his countryman for a reaction.

  "Well, my lord? We made it. What do you think?"

  Vantran took his time replying. When he did, it was more like a shrug than an answer. "I don't know what to think. It's been so long."

  "Look at the mountains," Jahl suggested. "A couple more days and we'll be meeting up with my Saints. Then Aramoor. God in heaven, it's good to be home!"

  Alazrian was still eyeing Richius. "Are you all right, my lord?" he asked. "You look pensive."

  Richius turned. "A lot of memories, Alazrian. It's like hearing voices. I guess I'm just a bit nervous."

  "Don't be. Once we get to Ackle-Nye, we'll be able to rest. Falger will have food for us, and a place to sleep."

  But it seemed Vantran wasn't listening. "Ackle-Nye," he whisper
ed.

  "God, I never expected to be back here again. It doesn't look like it's changed much. You can almost hear the ghosts."

  "You can smell 'em, too," joked Jahl. "I'd advise you to hold your nose, my lord. The place stinks like a Naren cesspool."

  Richius laughed. "Like I said, nothing's changed."

  Alazrian continued to study the Aramoorian, struck by his demeanor. For nearly two weeks they had travelled together, and day by day Richius lost more of his edge, growing increasingly wistful as they neared the Empire. It didn't surprise Alazrian, really. In a lot of ways, Richius Vantran wasn't what he'd expected. The Jackal of Nar was more like a house cat, not the military genius that legend had drawn. He was comfortable with Praxtin-Tar's troops, and he spoke Triin with fluency, yet he wasn't quite Triin and he wasn't quite Naren, and he seemed to recognize this duality. Over the course of their journey, Alazrian had come to like him immensely.

  And Jahl Rob liked Vantran as well. He had told Alazrian of his fight with the king, explaining it as a cathartic, almost religious experience. Now Jahl Rob seemed a changed man. His tongue was still sharp, but there was a lilt in his voice and an eagerness that hadn't been there before.

  Of them all, Praxtin-Tar remained the greatest mystery. Alazrian still couldn't fathom the warlord. He rode all day under the hot sun, sweating in his bamboo armor but never complaining. And every night he would go to Alazrian and sleep near him, so that he could protect him from unseen dangers. The warlord treated Alazrian better than his own son, making certain that Alazrian had all the food and water he could want. And no one ever complained about this lavish attention, not even Crinion. To the warriors of Reen, Alazrian was sacred.

  Alazrian turned to look behind him, seeing Praxtin-Tar. The warlord's face was hidden behind his malevolent bamboo mask.

  But he's not malevolent, thought Alazrian. He glanced at Vantran again, then at Jahl. None of them are evil. Not even Biagio.

  They rode on, and when they reached the outskirts of the city and the first of Praxtin-Tar's warriors crossed into its shadow, Alazrian turned to Vantran. He was about to speak when a sudden bolt of lightning exploded in his eyes. The world erupted in a hot haze and the sky split open, torn with thunder. Blinded and terrified, Alazrian struggled to control his horse. His head rang with the noise and he felt as if the air had been ripped from his lungs. All around him he heard the shouts of Praxtin-Tar's men. Next to him, Richius Vantran was on his horse, tall and unshaken.

  "That's a flame cannon!" he cried. "They're firing at us!"

  Still reeling from the explosion, Alazrian looked at the city ahead. A huge blast mark scorched the avenue, setting it ablaze. Praxtin-Tar's warriors rode in a frenzy, circling, unsure what to do. The warlord was shouting, shaking his fist at the city.

  "The attack tower," shouted Jahl. "Remember, Alazrian? It's Falger's cannon!"

  "Why the hell is he firing on us?" spat Richius. "I thought you said he was your friend!"

  "He is, but--"

  Another glow from the tower silenced Alazrian mid-sentence. The telltale boom made Richius signal for cover.

  "Get down!"

  This time the blast ripped closer, shearing through a crumbling wall. The avenue rocked with the report, sending rubble tumbling down from Ackle-Nye's ruins. A handful of warriors watched as the fist of flame descended. Alazrian screamed at them to run--but too late. The bolt slammed down, shredding their grey robes and setting their flesh aflame.

  "My God!" shouted Jahl. He looked around madly. Praxtin-Tar was roaring, spitting orders and racing past his panicked men toward Alazrian. The warlord brought his horse to a skidding halt, shielding Alazrian as yet another blast flew overhead.

  "Alazrian isya Maku!" he cried. Frantically he pointed toward the back ranks. "Maku!"

  "He wants you out of here," Richius explained. "Ride away!"

  "No," said Alazrian. "It's Falger. He thinks you're invading, Praxtin-Tar!"

  The outskirts of Ackle-Nye sizzled with heat. Two more frenetic shots fired down from the tower, mushrooming before them. Warriors shouted and rode through the avenues, desperate to escape the cannonade.

  "Richius, make him understand," Alazrian pleaded. "Tell him Falger's only protecting himself!"

  "Alazrian, just go!" Vantran ordered. "Get to safety!"

  "Goddamn it, no! Praxtin-Tar, listen, please . . ."

  "Come on, Alazrian," shouted Jahl. He spun his horse around. "We have to get out of here!"

  Jahl was about to gallop off when a coordinated scissor-strike of fire sizzled overhead. Two mammoth booms detonated, turning the air red. Trapped between the blasts, Jahl's horse whinnied, nearly tossing the priest backward. The thunder of the attack rattled Alazrian's teeth. He glanced around in a daze, squinting to see past the glowing smoke, then realized that two more flame cannons had joined the assault.

  "The other towers!" he shouted.

  "All of you, get back!" cried Vantran, waving his arms and riding through the throng. "We can't cross the city! Go back!"

  "Falger!" cried Alazrian. "Stop!"

  His voice disappeared in the noise and fire. Around him, warriors circled, trapped by the narrow avenues and the incessant hammering from the towers. The long-range guns bore down, spewing out their blazing poison. Alazrian's face burned and his eyes gushed tears. Praxtin-Tar was still on his horse, still shielding him, trying to push him toward safety. Alazrian's little horse brayed and shook against its bridle.

  "We're trapped!" shouted Jahl. "We can't retreat!"

  The nearest flame cannon had changed its aim, concentrating fire on the back ranks while its sisters in the flanking towers pommelled the horde's center. Great chunks of bricks fell from Ackle-Nye's frameworks, pelting them with debris while the cannons went on devouring warriors, sending them screaming for cover. The lucky ones retreated into buildings or fled the city through safe streets, but most avenues were choked with men and flaming pits, ensnaring the army in the cross fire of the towers. Richius Vantran cursed and directed the warriors with his arms, trying desperately to herd them out of the killing zone. But they were too many, and their escape routes too few.

  "Jahl, we have to find Falger," shouted Alazrian. He turned his horse toward the central tower, staring down its lethal barrel. "We have to stop him!"

  Jahl Rob didn't argue. He wheeled his mount around and maneuvered through the press of horseflesh. Praxtin-Tar reached out and grabbed hold of Alazrian's horse by the bridle, roaring at him to stop.

  "I have to, Praxtin-Tar," said Alazrian. "It's the only way. Please, let go!"

  Praxtin-Tar shook his head, ducking under the nonstop barrage, refusing to release the horse.

  "Vantran, tell him!" cried Jahl. "Tell him we have to find Falger."

  Richius hurried to explain, mixing his appeal with Naren curses. Still Praxtin-Tar wouldn't relent. Finally, Alazrian took hold of his hand and willed a violent union, almost striking the warlord with the force of his mind.

  I have to go!

  I will come with you, replied Praxtin-Tar. I must protect you!

  No. Falger's afraid of you. I have to go alone. Alazrian squeezed his protector's hand harder. "Please, Praxtin-Tar. Let me go!"

  The warlord released Alazrian's horse, swearing and making a quick shooing gesture. With Jahl close behind, Alazrian galloped off down the narrow street, flying headlong toward the tower. As he rode he kept his head low, calling Falger's name. Jahl, too, cried out for Falger, but their voices were drowned beneath the hoofbeats and the endless streams of fire. The central tower loomed in their view, dominating the deserted streets. At its peak the bluish glow of the flame cannon flashed, tracking the chargers as it drew its deadly bead.

  "It's firing!" warned Jahl.

  Up ahead, the street exploded as the cannon came to life, sending down a plume of flaming fuel. The blast stopped their horses, blinding them and shooting shards of rubble at their faces. Alazrian put up a hand and felt the debris slicing flesh. He screamed and
fell from his horse, hitting the pavement hard. A fog of pain and smoke gripped him. Groggily he lifted his head, trying to locate Jahl in the haze.

  "Jahl!" he cried. "Where are you? I can't see!"

  "Here, boy!" came the priest's reply. "Are you hurt? I can't find you!"

  Another explosion boomed nearby. Alazrian's ears popped with pain. He staggered to his feet, screaming, his hair singed. Nearly in tears, he bumbled toward the shadowy figure of Jahl Rob's horse and collided with a wall instead.

  "Jahl!" he cried. "Help!"

  The smoke grew thicker. The fire licked at his feet. Jahl's voice sounded, but he couldn't find the direction. One more blast and he would die. Alazrian tried to run but tripped and fell face down in the street. His hands reached out into a puddle of fire, scorching them. Riddled with pain and pounded by fear, Alazrian lay in the street, paralyzed, screaming for Jahl Rob to find him.

  Up in the attack tower, Falger looked past the long barrel of the flame cannon, waiting for the smoke to clear. He had delivered a deadly barrage and had damaged the warlord's ranks, but two warriors had broken free of the horde and had ridden for the tower. Falger peered into the smoke lingering in the avenue, wondering what had become of his targets. In his zeal he had squeezed off several shots, but he realized suddenly that their fuel was running low and he didn't want to waste it. Nearby, Mord fumbled nervously with the telescope, trying to see the burning street below. Falger waited impatiently for his report.

  "Well?" he asked. "Do you see anything?"

  "Wait," Mord cautioned. He focused the eyepiece. "I see something," he said. "But the smoke is too thick."

  "Hurry," urged Falger. Past the smoke-filled avenue, he could see the army of Praxtin-Tar still running, caught in the fire of the other cannons. The warlord himself remained out of sight, hidden somewhere in the melee.

  "There!" cried Mord suddenly. "I see them. They are hurt. One is in the street."