by John Marco
Kello stopped mopping. He cleared his throat, blinked a few times, then picked up his bucket distractedly.
“Looks pretty good in here, eh?” he remarked. He surveyed the galley with a nod. “Yes, I think I’m done in here.”
“Kello, wait,” said Alazrian, perplexed by the porter’s evasiveness. “I didn’t mean anything. I just wanted to talk about your voyages. You don’t have to run out.”
“Lots to do, young master, lots to do,” said Kello. Again he smiled. “We’ll talk again soon, all right? I’m around. We’ll talk before you get back to Aramoor.”
Alazrian shook his head. “You’re hiding something,” he said. “And I bet I know what it is.”
Kello blanched. “Oh?”
“You didn’t sail around Nar at all, did you? You sailed around Lucel-Lor to get to the south. My God, that’s amazing!” The idea of Lucel-Lor set Alazrian’s imagination aflame. “Please tell me about it, Kello,” he implored, leaning forward on the bench. “I really would like to hear. I swear I won’t tell anyone. If Duke Wallach has trade routes around Lucel-Lor—”
Flustered, Kello plunged the mop into the bucket and held up his hands. “I can’t talk about it,” he insisted. “Please, don’t ask me anymore.”
“Kello, I just want to know—”
“No!” Kello snapped. He took a few breaths to steady himself, looked around to make sure no one was around, then whispered, “You keep your mouth shut about these things, boy. Duke Wallach doesn’t like questions, and neither does your father. It’s forbidden. Do you understand?”
Alazrian nodded slowly, totally confused.
“Good. So let’s hear no more talk of it, eh?” Kello scowled, cursed, then picked up his mop and bucket. Walking to the door, he gave Alazrian a final look. “Forbidden,” he repeated, then turned and left.
Alazrian slammed his mug down on the table. “All I did was ask a question,” he grumbled. He’d almost gotten Kello talking. But what about? What was so forbidden? Alazrian considered the ship, sure that it was somehow mixed up with Leth’s scheme. And no doubt Kello was only doing what Duke Wallach commanded. Alazrian didn’t know much about the duke, but he’d heard that Wallach was a resourceful man, and probably had secret trade routes throughout the Empire. If he had any in Lucel-Lor, he would certainly want to keep them to himself. And if Leth was involved, asking questions was dangerous.
NINE
Morning brushed the mountains with a dazzling sunrise, and a breeze stirred through the towering hills, the only sound disturbing the silence for miles. Spring had come early, and the ice on the mountains had thawed, coaxing wildflowers up from between the rocks. It was a perfect morning in the Iron Mountains. The air was sweet, and the view from the highest summits supplied a vista fit for heaven. To the east, Lucel-Lor beckoned, a mysterious riddle yet to be unraveled. To the west was Aramoor, lush and green, its giant pines standing like soldiers, guarding the gateway to Nar. And between them both were the Iron Mountains, the formidable range of cliffs that had separated the two since the infancy of time.
For Jahl Rob, the Iron Mountains were a cathedral. Better than anything built by man, they showcased God and His infinite abilities. They had saved and inspired Jahl. In these awful days of homelessness and despair, the Iron Mountains provided shelter and a hideout. They were his home now, and he worshipped them.
He opened his book and looked out over the group. The little congregation had gathered along with their horses for his blessing. Behind them, the beauty of the mountains unfolded.
“If I fly with dragons, and dwell in the darkest parts of the earth,” Jahl Rob read, “even there will Thy right hand guide me, and Thy light will shine a path for me.”
It was a passage from the Book of Gallion. Bishop Herrith had loved the Gallion writings and had taught their meaning to all his acolytes. This had been one of his favorite verses, and it had stuck with Jahl Rob these many years. In times of crisis, the passage always occurred to him. He looked out over his little crowd of followers and gave them an encouraging smile. Today his Saints of the Sword had a special mission, and he knew they were frightened. Young Alain, Del Lotts’ brother, sat at the front of the group resting cross-legged on the grass looking up at Jahl hopefully. For him, today’s incursion meant everything. Jahl tried to sound encouraging when looking at the boy.
“It’s all in here, my friends,” said Jahl, holding up the book. “God is with us everywhere. He is here in the mountains, He is in our hearts, and He will be with us when we ride today. Have faith and He will protect us.”
The men nodded hopefully. There were twenty-five of them now, not including Alain, and though most of them weren’t particularly spiritual, they dutifully listened to Jahl Rob’s sermons. In fact, Jahl had hardly known many of his Saints before they had joined his crusade. They hadn’t attended services regularly, and they hadn’t given to his church collections. But they were good men and strong-hearted, and Jahl respected them. And now they needed him. Desperate people were like that. When everything else failed, they turned to the Lord.
Jahl lowered the book. There was business to attend to, so he took a step closer to the group and sat down on the grass, the way he always did when discussing plans. The men closed in around him in a conspiratorial circle. Alain sat beside Jahl, his ears perked with interest. Even the horses seemed to listen. There were four of the beasts, one for each of the Saints who would ride into Aramoor today. They had been stripped of almost every heavy burden, making them light and fleet-footed. Two had bows fixed to their saddles. One of these belonged to Jahl.
Ricken, Taylour, and Parry were nearest Jahl inside the ring. Jahl looked at his companions in turn and noted their apprehension. He reached out for Ricken and patted his leg.
“We’ll do it, Ricken,” he said.
“I know,” said Ricken. “I’m not afraid.”
Jahl grinned. None of his men were afraid, or at least they never claimed to be. They were men of honor willing to fight, and that was why they had joined the Saints of the Sword. Like Jahl, they had all been wronged by Elrad Leth. Since the Jackal’s betrayal of Aramoor, all his people had suffered. But some had suffered more than others. Ricken was one of those. His wife had been raped and murdered by Leth’s soldiers, and his horse farm had been confiscated to fill Talistan’s overstuffed coffers. Now Ricken Dancer was a public enemy, one of Jahl Rob’s avenging angels. He was one of twenty-four others that called the Iron Mountains home, fighting an outlaw war for their homeland’s independence.
“You know, we’ll have to be quick,” observed Parry. “Jahl, if you miss Dinsmore, you won’t get a second shot.”
“I won’t miss,” promised Jahl. “Divine Providence will keep my arrow true.”
“What about my brother?” piped up Alain. “Who will rescue him?”
Jahl Rob nodded toward Taylour, who raised a hand.
“Him,” said Jahl. “Once I take out Dinsmore, Ricken will get the axeman. He’ll be so confused he won’t know what hit him until it’s too late.” The priest mussed Alain’s blond hair. “Don’t worry about your brother, boy. We’ll get him back for you.”
“You promise?”
“I promise we’ll do our best,” said Jahl honestly. “That’s all I can tell you.”
Alain looked disappointed. He was afraid for his brother, and had been since arriving in the mountains two days earlier. Jahl took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m just telling you the truth, Alain,” he said softly. “Anything else would be disrespectful. It’s going to be difficult, but we’re going to try.”
“I know,” said the boy. “I know you’ll do your best. And Roice will be there to help you.”
“He’d better be,” joked Jahl, looking at his comrades. “If he isn’t, we’ll all be on the block!”
Once he’d received Del’s message, Jahl had hoped to rescue his friend from the Tollhouse, but it was worse than that now. Last night, Roice had come to their hid
eout with the news of Del’s impending execution. This afternoon Del was to be taken to the block and beheaded. But Jahl Rob wasn’t a man who turned his back on friends, and Del had been his most outspoken ally.
Saving Del from the axe posed some challenges, though. There would be people around, and Leth’s soldiers would be present. According to Del’s note, Leth himself wouldn’t be there, and that was one bright spot, but Dinsmore would, and he would surely be on guard for the Saints. Jahl had worried that the rescue would be impossible.
And then a thought had occurred to him. There would be droves of people at the execution, and emotions would be tense and dangerous. That had seemed like a detriment at first, but it wasn’t. Jahl and his men could hide in the crowd, moving among them as easily as flies. Best of all, Roice and his people would be there, and could cover their escape.
Jahl Rob had started to think his plan might work, but he needed a diversion. He couldn’t just rescue Del. It was time to strike another blow for freedom. It was time for Dinsmore to die.
“You don’t have much time,” remarked one of the men. His name was Fin, and he wasn’t going with the foursome, but he could tell from the rising sun that they needed to be on their way. Jahl looked at the horizon and agreed. It was a long ride into Aramoor, and if they were late, even by a second, Del’s head would roll. The priest rose and swatted the grass from his backside. He had done everything he could to prepare for this raid; he had worked out the details with Roice and the others, had prayed mightily for guidance. God would not abandon them now.
“Let’s make ready,” he told his comrades, turning toward the horses. Ricken, Taylour, and Parry followed close behind, while the other Saints stayed back. They would remain in the caves until their leader returned, and if he did not they would carry on without him. But Jahl Rob had every intention of returning. There was too much unfinished business for him to die today.
When he reached his mount, Jahl paused at the edge of the cliff, looking out over the terrain. They had all been safe here. Jahl Rob had never before seen the hand of God so clearly in anything. The murder of his friends, the rape of his homeland, the river of blood let loose by Leth; it was all a sign to him, a message to stand against tyranny. Leth’s vaunted soldiers couldn’t reach him here because they were terrified of the Iron Mountains, and they were still convinced that the Triin lion riders made their home here. But Jahl Rob hadn’t encountered a single Triin in the entire year he’d been in the mountains. The Triin were gone, and the lions that supposedly guarded Lucel-Lor from Nar’s aggressors were gone with them. The Iron Mountains belonged to Jahl and his Saints alone.
“Look for us before the dusk,” Jahl called to his men. “They might actually follow us into the mountains this time, so be on guard for them. If it’s a fight they want, we’ll give it to them.”
“Good luck,” called Alain, stepping forward. “Bring Del back safe.”
“No promises, except to try,” said Jahl. He mounted his horse. “Have faith, boy. We go with God.”
Then Jahl Rob rode away, not waiting for his three comrades, beginning the steep decent down the mountainside. He had until noon to make it to the Tollhouse, and the sky above promised a favorable day. The priest patted the bow on the side of his horse. Being sequestered in the mountains had given him plenty of time to practice. He had become remarkably proficient with the weapon. He was almost as good as Leth’s lap dog, Shinn.
One hour before noon, Del Lotts waited in his closet-sized cell, staring out through the iron bars of the Tollhouse at the crowd gathering below. His place in the tower afforded him a view of the prison grounds not far from Aramoor’s town square. Near the bottom of the tower facing the growing crowd was a small dais, remarkable only for a round block of oak and a vacant basket laying near it. A handful of Talistanian soldiers stood guard around the dais, keeping the curious gathering in check with halberds. Several horses pranced across the ground policing the flow of onlookers. Del hadn’t expected such a crowd, and the sight of it heartened him a little. He wanted all of Aramoor to see his execution. He wanted it burned indelibly into the minds of the children.
“I’m not a hero,” he whispered, putting his hands on the bars. “I’m just a man.”
Occasionally, someone would look up at his perch, wondering if the prisoner they saw behind the tiny square of bars was him. But Del didn’t wave or call down. They would see him soon enough. He took measure of the sun, gauging its height, and realized noon was near. He closed his eyes and started to pray, a desperate prayer to a God he didn’t really believe in. If he had sinned, he wanted forgiveness; if there was a heaven, he wanted entrance. And if his brother Dinadin was there, he wanted to spend eternity together.
“… and protect Alain, dear Lord,” Del added desperately. “Keep him safe from Leth and his men.”
Del still didn’t know if Alain had made it to Rob safely. As he’d suspected, Dinsmore had sent his soldiers to the House of Lotts. They had arrested Del and dragged him away in manacles and they had thrown him into the Tollhouse, refusing to let him see a single friend. Now, without a trial or the chance to speak his defense, he was going to be executed, and all for the crime of speaking out against slave labor.
“Let my death have meaning,” Del continued. He kept his eyes closed and his hands clasped before him as he prayed, the way he had seen Jahl Rob pray countless times before. “God, if You’re really up there, don’t let all this be for nothing.”
Del opened his eyes, satisfied that any merciful God would willingly grant his requests. He wasn’t really ready to die, but he thought he had enough strength to not start screaming when he saw the axeman. Jahl Rob had promised him that there was indeed a Master of everything, and that this life was merely a doorway into a grander one beyond. It had always seemed like a fine fairy tale while Del was growing up, but now he wanted to believe the priest. More than anything, he wanted Jahl Rob to be right.
“Praying won’t save you now,” said a voice.
Del turned to see Viscount Dinsmore at the gates of his cell looking in with a malicious smile. Del’s heart sank when he saw him. Was it time?
“If you’re here to take me, I’m ready,” said Del defiantly. “But don’t expect a confession. You won’t get it.”
Dinsmore laughed. “It’s too late for that, believe me, Lotts. We’ve already made arrangements, and I would hate to cancel them. Have you looked out the window yet?” His smile sharpened. “Yes, of course you have. Looks like everyone can’t wait to see your head roll into a basket.”
Del folded his arms over his chest. “I’m not afraid. You won’t get me to grovel.”
“Not yet perhaps,” mused Dinsmore. “You know, I’ve heard that a severed head can go on seeing after it’s been chopped off. Do you think that’s true? Tell you what—I’ll hold up your head and show you your decapitated body, and you let me know, all right? How about one blink for yes, two blinks for no?”
“How about you go to hell?” growled Del. “You won’t get away with your crimes forever.”
Dinsmore held out a hand. “Look how I’m shaking.”
Besides the bodyguard Shinn, Viscount Dinsmore was Elrad Leth’s chief enforcer. He was the one who made Leth’s orders a reality and put men to the block. He was in charge of the slave project, the same mysterious enterprise that had gotten Del in so much trouble. It was said that Dinsmore was collecting slaves for some great project near the shore, but neither Del nor his compatriots knew what it was. They only knew that able-bodied Aramoorians were being taken from their homes and farms. And the worst part was that the Talistanians like Dinsmore seemed to love their work. Del supposed it was all part of the long animosity between the two nations. Now that Aramoor was back under Talistan’s boot, they were gleefully taking their revenge.
“There’s not much time for you, my friend,” said Dinsmore. “Less than an hour, actually. Tell me, how does it feel, being so close to death?”
Why don’t you tell me? thou
ght Del. If he knew Jahl Rob as well as he thought, today might be Dinsmore’s dying day, too.
“If I only have an hour, I’d rather not waste it looking at your face,” said Del. The viscount turned purple.
“I can’t wait to see you die, Lotts,” he said. “I’ll be right there with you, watching you squirm.”
Dinsmore stalked off, leaving Del alone again in his chamber. Del watched him go, satisfied to have been such a thorn in the bastard’s side. Even if he did die today, it had all been worth it.
The center of town had been fairly well emptied by the upcoming event at the Tollhouse. The markets were still open in the square, but the avenues and lanes were sparsely populated for the middle of the day and those who did remain behind spoke of the only thing on their minds—the execution of Del Lotts. He had been a popular and well-liked nobleman from one of Aramoor’s finest families, and the shopkeepers muttered to themselves as they arranged their vegetables, lamenting the loss of so decent a man. Women meandered through the square shopping with vacant expressions, desperately trying not to think about the thing that would happen in barely an hour, but their children craned their necks westward toward the prison.
Jahl Rob, alone and on horseback, moved inconspicuously through the square, his face obscured behind the hood of a cloak, his pace easy and unperturbed. He didn’t look at anyone straight on, but he did not look away either. Today, he was merely another of Aramoor’s people, and the pretense came as naturally as breathing. He imagined that Ricken and the others were equally comfortable in their roles. The three of them were already approaching the Tollhouse, hopefully going unnoticed by the hundreds of people. Today he would move like a spirit and strike like a serpent. No one would notice them until it was too late.
At the corner of the avenue ahead stood a row of brick buildings. Near a vacant smith shop was a cart with a single horse and a driver absently studying his fingernails. In the cart was a lumpy collection of bric-a-brac covered by a brown tarpaulin. Jahl trotted toward the cart whistling softly in signal. The cart driver glanced at him and gave a slight nod. Then the driver snapped the reins and drove the cart behind the buildings.
